Sister Vanilla


The sisters from Our Lady of Fatima convent walked into the church shortly before benediction began. Sister Vanilla was a novitiate and a young beautiful one at that. I call her Vanilla because she scented of vanilla. Unlike the other sisters who were frocked in the traditional habit, Sister Vanilla and four others were garbed in a dowdy white shirt and an ill-fitting dark skirt which was gathered at the waist – the uniform of novitiates I reckon. But no amount of hideous clothing could’ve concealed Sister Vanilla’s true beauty. The outlines of her hips and full bum kind of managed to show despite the skirt and the extra extra-large blouse couldn’t screen her enormously endowed bust. She’d a face that could hold anyone’s gaze a second or two longer than necessary and a figure that could get the beholder to think things; those things.

My heart rose and fell when Sister Vanilla stopped next to the row where I sat engrossed in wondering thoughts and asked if she could join me. Sure why not? I could even give up my space for her. But the church wasn’t filled and such display of chivalry was uncalled for.

Sister Vanilla sat next to me and my tummy swarm with butterflies. Throughout benediction, I thought of nothing else but how closely I was sitting to the world’s most fetching sister. Her voice was as lovely as her face and when she chanted those Latin hymns, she sounded like Lark the song bird. I’d no hymn book so we shared hers. We shared her prayer book and bible too. But I’d my own bible.

Was Sister Vanilla feeling the same way I was feeling sitting next to her? Was I having the same effect on her like she was having on me? Most certainly! Else why did she choose to sit next to me of all the spaces in the church? Why didn’t she stick with her fellow Sisters?  She was developing a thing for me, I was sure and I felt duty bound to tell her the feeling was mutual. I’d walk right up to her after benediction and tell her I feel the whole world about her. She would tell me she’d been waiting for me to say that all her life. We would hug and kiss and tears would spill down our cheeks then I’d slip a ring on the middle finger of her left hand. Two weeks later we would wed in the same church and my! I’d save her the sorrows of living a celibate life.

When benediction was over, Sister Vanilla joined her Sister friends once again. I’d hesitated about telling her how I felt about her when I’d the chance, now it was kind of late for presently she and the other sisters were waiting for the mother superior by the bus which would convey them back to the convent. A seminarian joined the sisters by the bus and was making small talk. He must have said something funny for the sisters all burst out laughing. Sod him! It should’ve been me, see? I was watching the sisters from a distance but I can swear Sister Vanilla was giving the seminarian ‘the eye.’ Or was I just imagining things? Perhaps it was me she was giving ‘the eye’ after all. But I won’t know; I was far off.

The moment I summoned the courage to walk up to the gay Sisters and request an audience with Sister Vanilla was the same moment mother superior chose to show up. Soon enough, she was behind the wheel and before long the bus cranked into life. The mirthful sisters waved gaily at the seminarian, then boarded the bus. I watched heart brokenly as the bus drove pass me; out of my sight. Why was I thinking of Sister Vanilla after all? I should’ve known she was already taken – God sure takes the good ones.

© Pever X 2012. All rights reserved.










Papa is a bloody cop. The Police Band is his life. Mama
left because he loved the band more than her. Now I’m
stuck with him. The judge thought it will be best for me
– I’m worse for it.
Today is school day but Papa whisks me along to the
County Jail, wants me to watch the band play for the
Police Chief, who is visiting. He didn’t bother about
breakfast. Rather spoke to the jail cooks who served
me this horrible beans when I complained of hunger.
Can’t wait to see Papa play. There’s devil beans in his french horn.



Orteri used to live on our street. He loved singing. After High school, he grew dreads, bought a guitar and set out to pursue his musical dreams. He couldn’t be convinced to study further, get a college degree and a decent job.

Sometimes, especially when Orteri perfected a song, he would go from house to house and play for anyone who would listen. His songs were very nice and each time he strummed his guitar and sang along in his rich baritone, there was always a look of satisfaction on his face and a smile that always lurked at the corners of his lips.

Other times he wouldn’t sing, but just talk about his music and how close he is to hooking a big deal. He would talk about starting a band and becoming popular like Cool and The Gang. He was always positive.

Fifteen years later, Orteri wasn’t anywhere close to realising his dreams. No deal was in sight. He infact started a band, which didn’t last long enough to make any impact. He now plays at the Ritz, one of the bars downtown. Its not a big affair but he makes money enough to buy his meals and change his clothes and guitar strings. He still wears that smile on his face whenever he plays. Twenty years after, he still would. He is working his dream, he is happy. That’s all that matters to him.

My Traffic Warden

The innocence of her face was what struck me the
first time I saw her. She was dark and her eyes were
sad. She didn’t exactly look sad but she didn’t
exactly look happy and groovy either. She was a
Police Officer; a traffic warden. Every day, I will spend
hours at Tara junction just to watch her face as she
commandeered traffic. She was beautiful and looked
smart in her black uniform. Sometimes I noticed fear
besides sadness in her eyes. But her beauty had a
way of trifling those sore emotions mirrored in her
eyes. Every night I will dream I and the traffic warden
are walking down the aisle, only to wake up to the
futility of it all. Then I will walk to Tara junction yet
again and there I will see my traffic warden in all her
regal beauty and splendour.
She wasn’t there when I came to Tara junction
yesterday. I reckoned she was moved to another
station. I vowed to find her anywhere she has been
moved to on the face of this planet.
This morning, I am watching the news and the
newscaster is reading out a sad story of a lady
beheaded in her apartment two days back. Then the
picture of the unfortunate lady comes up on screen.
It is my traffic warden.
Pever X 2013 (All rights reserved)

Memoirs Of Sokoto I

“Farufaru” was how I pronounced Farfaru. It makes me chuckle ceaselessly now; my great expectations. In my visualizations before I got to camp, GTC Farfaru was a grand and impressive orientation camp with stately ultramodern buildings and facilities and not one grubby helluva place with tons of flies, terrible pit toilets already brimming with shit and make shift bathrooms. Christ, it was so demeaning to have to do the essential part of your toilet in the full glare of all and sundry, even the girls did it.
At this rate, camp would have been loads of fun for guys who had no compunctions about peeping. Just imagine watching all those cuties strip and wash like in the movies. I personally had no qualms with putting scruples behind me and becoming a peeping Tom. But the gentlemen corps members were admonishing for bathing outside rather than in the muddy, dirty, makeshift bathrooms, sadly they stopped. Whatever was the camp director’s problem with ladies being so generous? “Busy body”, “I Too Know,”Shey?
Cutting short the peeping fun was ominous, an augury that camp wouldn’t be heaps of fun and so it turned out to be. Despite so, I was determined to salvage the tedium of camp. That was when I began to seek the company of pretties. But it was a pretty dumb move in itself I must say because those girls were bent on debiting my pocket money, transport allawe, bicycle allawe and federal allawe. Haba, what will I have again chikita’s when fried rice and chicken was going to empty my pocket.
As a sharp guy, it wasn’t long before I sensed my wrong move and locked up. Many guys got smart like me. So the chicks that would rather die from ulcers than spend their own money to buy fried rice and chicken began to hustle food from the kitchen together with the impecunious guys. You won’t believe it cos it may not happen elsewhere but it happened in Farfaru. Trust me the girls pushed guys – I don’t mean small guys like me, I’m talking of huge and powerfully built guys – out of the queue to get their meals.
Man O’ War training was little fun compared to parade, especially when something funny happened. There was this day I laughed until my sides ached. A girl was climbing Jacob’s ladder when we heard “praaaah.” I thought she farted but no, it was her trousers torn at the groin, along the seam. It was hot so she wore no undies and we all saw it, dark and all… God she was horribly mortified. She would have been saved this shame if NYSC doesn’t go for inferior kits after collecting seventy five thousand naira for each one.
On the day of endurance trek I got a girl without buying the requisite fried rice and chicken. In fact, Linda bought things for me that day for a change: Gala, Coke, Fanta awara and all. All I did was encircle the small of her back with my arm as we trudged along to steady her because she was so exhausted. Sometimes I allowed my arm to wonder even beyond her waistline, savoring the sensual feel of her wide hips and mind boggling butt, all in the name of steadying her. She didn’t complain, was rather thankful and I kept up with my game, rest assured I would see the fruitful end of it. But no; Linda didn’t recognize me afterwards. I no carry last sha. As a sharp guy, I had done quite some touching at the right places. Sometimes I threw my arm across her shoulders and guess where my hand rested; on her chest. Sometimes it probed the soft orbs there on. That’s enough for my trouble aint it?
Finally, camp came to an end. It wasn’t loads of fun like I had come expecting but I was yet to face something real remote from fun. It was when our posting letters arrived. Kebbe was the local government I was posted to – the end of Sokoto State. But my PPA wasn’t even in Kebbe headquarters. It was in Kuchi, a good one hour and half drive from Kebbe, approximately three hours’ drive from Sokoto town. Kuchi is situated in the heart of Kebbi state and I would later discover to my horror that it is the home of snakes; you can call it Snake Island.

© Pever X 2012. All rights reserved.

Lettered For The Other Me











Lettered For The Other Me:
By Major R. T. Agee

Broken, shattered, joy cloys.

Forced, out, defaced, smiles vex!

They scatter, you gather, on and on…

Angom you make my laugh happy!

On the deep of a tidal mind joy buoys.

Thus i swear! to make your vex smile

For together,my brother,on and on,

We will share many happy laughs!

[*Angom-my brother]
Agee Tertsegha{2012}

Memoirs Of Sokoto II


New Year Resolutions of a Sokoto Corps Member.

Okay, I won’t be talking of the snake in Kuchi. I’ve had no recent rendezvous in Gidan Baki so needless to bore you with what you already know. As for that brother of mine from the other mother who calls himself Jeff or is it Eugene? He isn’t worth sparing a cursory look for the queer write up which apparently alluded to me. He’s got a cheek alright, as well as the lips and lips do nothing but flap.
We really enjoyed Christmas in Kuchi. You guys missed out on the imaginary fried rice, chicken and salad we ate that day as well as the beer we drank in our dreams.
But I believe you enjoyed yourselve sat home too. And when you were having nice times, I guess it never crossed your minds you’d have to return to the humdrum of Kuchi. Well, here you are, back with us again. For the Batch B’s, you better not be feeling like a batch A cos you’ve got five grim and dreary months to spend in this helluva place with the snakes.
Oh I’ve forgotten I promised not to say a word about the snakes and yes Gidan Baki. But wait, have you seen the fair one since she returned? You’d be stunned. The break did her tons of good; she is looking radiant. Did you see her coiffure? Now you would agree I’m a real guy, spending tons of my local allawe on my heart throb, I’m not a skin flint. We spoke yesterday; I mean the fair one and me. She told me her New Year resolutions. Top most on the lengthy list was her resolve to love me even more than her Mama – I’m a lucky dude.
So what are your own resolutions? Some corpers said bollocks about saving and returning home with N 120,000. But I held my sides from laughter when one of the Batch A’s with just the requisite minimum balance of N 500 was thinking of going home with N 50,000. In just two months? Please don’t starve yourself to death o; ‘I no wan hiya sey.’
On a more serious note, I think some corps members are driving themselves too hard. You can’t hama during service year in a place like Kuchi with a niggardly allowance of N 15775, where at least N 6000 is on insha allahu basis.
You didn’t ask of my own New Year resolution. Simple; to do the things I used to do ten times more. So it means if I will love my girl – the fair one – ten times more and that guy I dislike, I will hate him ten times more. I will spend money on my girl ten times more and if I didn’t spend a dime on my home boys, then I won’t do it ten times more. Quite weird but those are my resolutions. Have you made yours? You have to cos resolutions make us better people. Access yourself, make a good resolution this year and stick to it like a leech would stick to its host. Observe it as though your very existence depends on it.
Lastly I think I owe you an explanation over our exodus from Asibiti. It’s not about the snakes like most of you think, I’m not scared in the least of our string-like friends and you all know it. I left to Gidan Baki cos that’s where love reigns supreme and rapture is unbounded.
Wishing Nkasi sound health and you my fellow corps members all you wish yourself this year 2010.

© Pever X 2012. All rights reserved.

Same Old Song

For the umpteenth time I saw her staring at me from where I sat at the choir stand, playing away on the keyboard with my nimble fingers which I think God created especially for the purpose of glorifying his exalted name.

Nedoo was worshipping with us for the first time I was most certain for she was the type that could be spotted among a million. I should’ve noticed if she’d worshipped with us even once. I couldn’t have missed those dark slit-like eyes that gazed at me under long lashes.

After service, Nedoo walked up to me, smiled expansively then introduced herself.

‘Kaun.’ I raised a hand to her and she shook it warmly, almost reverently.

‘You’re the musical director?’

‘Yes.’ I smiled smugly. ‘And today is your first time here, right?’

‘Right.’ Nedoo’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Do you always know when someone is worshipping here for the first time? The congregation is fairly large.’

‘If that someone is pretty like you. Yes.’

‘I don’t know that, Kaun.’ Nedoo’s eyes shone brightly at the compliment.

‘Don’t tell me you’re hearing that for the first time.’

‘No I’m not. People tell me that all the time, but a Music Director has never been one of them.’

I grinned broadly. Nedoo wasn’t only pretty, she was smart like hell.

‘So what brings Nedoo before the Music Director?

‘Nedoo wants to join the church choir, please.’

My heart danced Swange at Nedoo’s request. What was she saying please for? I’d have said yes to anyone who asked to join the choir even if they couldn’t sing a note. As the Music Director of a not so big church, I couldn’t afford to be picky. But Nedoo’s voice was music itself, having her on the choir would be an asset.

Just within minutes of meeting for the first time, Nedoo and I began bantering like age old chums. I realized we’d quite in common. She was an avid reader, so was I. Both of us had the ear and voice for music, though hers was a mezzo soprano, mine a baritone. We were going to be fresh men in Bensu after a week or so. With this, I felt like I already knew Nedoo as much as I know me. I reckoned she felt the same way about me too because, though she didn’t as much as say so, her eyes did. They gleamed with affability and something akin to ardor.

Nedoo was different from all the other girls I’d encountered. When she looked at me, it wasn’t with the sympathetic eyes I’d by now become inured to. With her, I wasn’t just an invalid strapped to a wheelchair. I was a friend, a soul mate, a confidante and everything. I didn’t feel dependent and burdensome like I felt with others. Nedoo was ever ready to help and eager to please.

While with Nedoo I felt happy and larger than life itself, I couldn’t say same about her family. Thought the Hamation’s weren’t exactly uncivil, they lacked the warmth and affection possessed by Nedoo or was it just where I was concerned? Perhaps so, only I didn’t dwell much on this disheartening possibility.

Three years later we were in our final year and still an inseparable pair; always together, in school, in church, everywhere. The bond between us grew even stronger over the years and it seemed like our very existence depended on it.

Though I hadn’t popped the big question yet, everyone supposed I did and couldn’t wait for the big day. On the flip side of the coin, it was glaring to me Nedoo’s family didn’t share the same good wishes and it didn’t seem like they would give their blessing for the much anticipated union. This I was quite sure of. There were also those times I feared I was perhaps deluding myself about the possibility of getting hitched to Nedoo. She was a great friend, yes. But that may be all that there was to it.

I didn’t quite understand why Nedoo burst into tears when I eventually asked her to marry me a week before our finals. It was my birthday and we were having a quiet time together at my place. She’d been in high spirits until I proposed to her. Was that why she was crying? I tried to console her but like the Niobe, she refused to be consoled. It felt quite strange trying to make her feel better when I didn’t exactly know why she was crying in the first place. I was so perplexed she was crying. It would’ve made more sense if she’d rather hurled a truckload of invectives at me.

‘I need to go home,’ Nedoo said after having a good cry. But that wasn’t an answer to my question. She left me that night as befuddled as never before. Nedoo began to avoid me afterwards. A couple of times I arranged for us to meet but she rather stood me up. On Sunday, none of the Hamation’s was in church either. That was when it registered. So much for thinking love is magical.

© Pever X 2012. All rights reserved.