Archive for September, 2012

Thursday from Hell

Been unable to write.
Still unable to write.
Not for lack of ideas, nay Ser.
I. just.can’t.write.

So decided to try writing on how my wonderful day went.

It began with waking up at an awkward angle, elbow tucked in a position i can hardly remember now. With careless ease, i tried changing sides and that was when it hit.
Exquisite pain.
I left my mortal body and came back.
After whimpering like a wounded goat, finally got out of bed and managed to shower.
Had to get to work.
I debated staying home, but nay.
Pay day Thursday.
Took me forever and some minutes to dress up and leave the house.
No breakfast. Painkillers, i assumed were in my bag.
Walked to an offlicense shop that sells chinchin.
It is my drug.
Judge if you like.
Missed my bus just for that.
Went to shelf.
No chinchin.
I whimpered inside.
Pieces of my life crumbled away as i bought the driest sandwich i ever ate, ass I would find out on the bus.
The bread is still stuck in my throat somewhere.
Jump two buses to get to work.
Hit my hurting elbow hard..several times.
Suffice it to say by the time i got to work, i was a blubbering, sobbing mess.
Settled down. Had lunch.
Check bag for painkillers.
Left it on the bed.
Work mode.
I suspect my boss forgot whatever medication he takes for his ‘whatever’.
Everything was a scream.
My elbow was driving me mad.
He was sitting so close and screaming so loud.
My old scars began itching.
Yes, several times, i contemplated smashing the talking old man’s face in.
Only the pain would have upset my elbow.
Closing time couldn’t have come any faster.
Waited for bus.
Began raining.
No umbrella.
Waited in the little shelter the bus stop provided.
Got in one.
Should have remained in the rain.
I entered a bus going to hell.
My headphone were stuck to my ears.
Music at its loudest.
I sat (unknowingly) in between the devil and his first born child.
The devil was in front, screaming into his phone.
Yes, i could hear him over my loud music.
Someone was owing him money.
I was ready to pay him whatever amount to shut him up.
He quieted.
I whispered hallelujah.
The the devil’s first born began coughing.
Again, i could him over my music.
The noise startled me.
Elbow hit board.
Bit my lip hard to stifle my scream of pain.
Bloodied lip.
As i was praying for the bus to get to my bus stop, the devil’s father revealed himself.
Someone farted on the bus.
Noxious, disgusting, choking smell that brought tears to my eyes.
The father of Satan didn’t wait for the smell to disperse before releasing another one.
At this point, I was ready to stand up and address my fellow travellers.
For the love of God! Make una moderate una mess na!
I didn’t.
I am a wimp.
Yes, i was on a highway to hell.
Bus finally got to stop, my next bus was just in front.
Wanted to run for the bus.
But oh no.
The devil’s grandmother was before me, reliving her wedding day, waddling slowly like it was a FUCKING WEDDING MARCH!
Missed bus.
No bus at the station.
Sitting right here, getting cold, thinking about life.
Thinking about the second dry piece of sandwich in my bag.
I should bin it.
Or wait..
Might just be hungry enough soon.
Listening to Chris Brown, asking me to look at him.
Something niggling the back of my mind.
I open my bag.
Left my paycheck at the office, on my desk.

Pandora’s Box

Dionysus is back!
You know what that means.


He would sit up from the bed where he lay, watching the clock tick; each monotone like a hammer driving nails into every brain cell, puncturing it, pouring out the slithering juice of static into his nervous sytem.
One second felt like hours.
One hour felt like a day.
One day felt like a century.
This hadn’t been a feeling strange to him. Back then, he could get by just watching porn. The moans of the actresses seemed the only thing that could distract him for a short while. When the blood left his head and flowed south to his cock, he felt liberated from the voices forever tormenting him inside his head.

These voices never shut up.
They feel the need to analyse everything.
He found that the only time he could numb these voices was when he was doing something taboo. Something so stimulating and so wrong that it aroused dormant animalistic parts of the brain normally repressed by everyday life; repressed by society, religion & convention.
Those parts that are involved in the raw carnal expression of the human soul.
He found that it was only when he was high that he could actually control his thoughts and channel them to a particular direction. Sober, his thoughts were sporadic like the waves of the caspian sea but on drugs, they came out like water pouring from a tap.

Jeremy never liked what everybody liked. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was born sick, born with what the doctors called Asthma. This had caused him to spend most of his childhood in the hospital.
This, coupled with the tauntings of his siblings, making fun of him while he was sick and gasping for breath, made him develop a subconscious disdain for humanity at an early age.
The wickedness; the cruelty.
He saw this done to a child born blind, forced to live the rest of his days forever being less than his peers.
He saw this done to an innocent child born with HIV from his parents and dying at the age of 6.
He saw this done to someone born with a handicap and everyone pretending like they didn’t see the shriveled atrophied limbs, always keeping a grotesque plastic smile on their faces.
Even the way able-bodied people treated others like themselves.
Kill or be killed; take or be taken from…
All this made him loathe humanity and he swore he would never end up like them. He promised himself that he would do whatever it took to not end up like humanity.
He wanted to overcome humanity. To become larger than it.
To become better, more grandiose than it.
“Insecurity isn’t mine to feel. Fear isn’t mine to feel. I would do whatever it takes to not feel it. I will take whatever it takes to not feel it”.
This was Jeremys motto.
This is the secret code of anyone who ever created anything in this world.
They distance themselves from their peers, think in solitude and do something about their thoughts. Success is a lonely path filled with lots of distractions usually labelled as ‘friends’.
Jeremy decided to create a blog at the age of 13.
He called it Pandora’s Box, the title based on the myth. Whoever opened the ‘box’ would have seen something so maniacal and sinister that their minds would forever be scarred – they wouldn’t be able to return to how they were hitherto before they opened it.
He kept posting the most diabolical, evil content he could find on the web on that blog.
He also nested his writing ability with the blog, giving some pictures captions, writing short stories, uploading evil documentaries like the Columbine shootings, Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, and clips from horror movies as well as previews.
Five years later, his blog was getting so much attention with 105,932 hits, averaging 400 hits per day. The likes of Stephen king, Wes Craven, John Carpenter visited his blog. He got a deal from one of them and they used his story to make a blockbuster horror movie called Phantasmagoria. It stayed number 1 at the box office for about a month, something no present day horror movie can do. With this, the attention his blog was getting skyrocketed to about 20,000 hits per day. Also, with the money Jeremy got for the storyline of Phantasmagoria and the royalty paid to him, he became rich.

I said earlier that Jeremy never liked what everybody liked. He bought a 16th Century Gothic mansion, a Ferrari and got himself sexy female workers, hiring them basically for their looks not for their qualifications.
Right from the security team to the drivers, to the maids where girls dressed in sexy costumes to fill the role.
It all looked like a scene from a pornographic or a raunchy techno video.

His obsession with the occult grew as more people visited his blog. He had to keep the content interesting. He had to keep it new and if he wanted to do that, he had to delve deeper into the occult. He soon started organising costumed orgies in his mansion. Everyone gathered around in a room he called the ‘Sin Chamber’.
They all wore  masks.
The purple cape was optional, their genitalia exposed. What he did was burn a large dose of the hemp plant, letting it pass through the air supply as the orgy went on. This heightened their senses and lowered their inhibitions making them fuck like rabbits, groping, moaning like hungry wolves. He read somewhere that a room filled with sexual activity stored that energy and that room was a perfect medium to perform black magic.
Whether all this was fact or fiction, Jeremy had a strong belief in the occult so all this stuff was real to him. He performed certain rituals in the room when no one was around. He needed only his female staff to stand around him nude in the room as the ritual needed him to have an erection.
This was an agreement on their contract.
They were told they would be paid extra for ‘extracurricular activities’ if they ticked a certain box. Many of them ticked the box.
He claimed that these rituals gave him enlightenment. Enabled him to see beyond the normal scope. Whether it was true or not, nobody knows. He posted the orgies on his blog and still got more hits. People could only access the videos of the orgy if they were registered as premium users on his blog thus, generating even more income.
He was voted FreaKY Magazine Scariest Man Alive.
He now donned a mysterious look like the pope with a black/purple robe.
His obsession with the occult still grew deeper and that was when he took a trip to Mexico.
Like a junkie, even though he believed his room filled with the nectar and the aura of sexual activity gave him power, he still wanted more. A shaman sold to him a very powerful potent psychedelic plant. He burned it at the next orgy.

As the plant was burned, the usual wanton sex and the low moans had already begun although, something about the mood seemed darker. As the fumes permeated the air, the people started getting more violent and instead of moans, they were laughing so hard with tears rolling down their cheeks.
The men started thrusting harder, the women started scratching. As more smoke filled the room, wails were heard as punches started occuring; biting, kicking. They were rutting violently, tearing flesh off each others’ skins.
The drug leached their brains and one by one, they began to die of blood loss.
The ones that were still alive placed their index and middle fingers right through their eyeballs before banging their head repeatedly on the floor till they bled to death.
The whole room was covered in blood and dead bodies.
His next ritual was that he lay with dead bodies for 7 days straight, no food, no water. By the fourth day, the bodies started to stink real bad but that was of course, part of the ritual.
It was said that if he inhaled the stench of their rotten corpses, he would absorb part of their souls, ‘mana’ they called it. The whole ritual was to give him extra powers, clairvoyance, spiritual knowledge etc. The massacre also went on tape but it wasn’t put on his blog. It was sold to a very rich collector in Yugoslavia for a very high price. Nobody knew whether the rituals were working or it was just Jeremies strong belief in them but by then, Jeremy looked very sinister, like the Devil himself.
He had dark circles surrounding his eyes, a skin head and a thick beard like a knife. His voice sounded like a frog when he spoke, Very slowly and with every word and every syllable enunciated properly. He always looked people straight in the eye and seldom blinked, seldom moved his head but only moved his lips as he spoke. This was to put whoever was speaking to him in a sort of hypnotic trance. Who would have thought a sick asthmatic nervous child could go this far? People who made fun of him in the past were now scared shitless of him as well as in awe and admiration of him. This wasn’t enough though. His hatred of mankind made him want to destroy it.

The final ritual was that he sacrifice his phallus for godhood. If he did this, the ritual claimed he would be able to move through time, alter people’s perception with just his stare, cause a mass genocide with a snap of his finger and be impervious to any form of attack. He decided to cut his dick off, afterall, he had had sex with every woman he ever lusted for both for ritual & non ritual purposes. He had grown tired of sex. Darkness and the occult was more of a release for him than the 20 minute pleasure he felt from an orgasm. He recited his incantations, put the knife at the base of his dick and sawed it off, back and forth.
Unfortunately, he bled to death.
People got aware of his violent orgies, killing a total of 643 people. People who came to the orgies were never allowed to tell anyone so missing people came up in the news but nobody knew their whereabouts.
Jeremy was labelled the Scariest & Most Evil Man Ever by some.
A label he would have cherished if he were alive.
The greatest desire of any weak man on Earth was to make those who made him feel weak afraid and envious of Him.
A feat Jeremy achieved.


Dionysus is just one helluva disturbed dude.

Bits and Bobs

I have been kinda scarce, I know.
Writer’s block, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
This is a collection of an edited version of the short (very short) One Tweet One Story i did for the African Short Story Day.
All I have done is expand some of stories.
Do enjoy.


Her Long Neck

She had a graceful neck. Naturally slim, her neck tapered smoothly, melding to her jaw line. Sometimes, he would stand to the side and talk to her, just to watch her turn her neck gracefully, to watch the mucles beneath her skin ripple and glide smoothly to guide her head towards his direction.
He knew he had to marry her.
He loved her; her neck anyway. It made no difference to him.
He courted her and he was glad to see how much she loved him stroking her neck.
She would purr most delicately when his lips gently left wet trails of kisses on her ebony neck. It was a match made in heaven.
That is, until after they got married.
She was too demanding.
She was a nag.
How had he never noticed how awful her banga soup tasted?
He had been deceived and it was her neck’s fault.
He still loved her; her neck anyway.
A different kind of love perhaps.
Because one day, he discovered how deliciously good it felt, wrapping his thick callused hands around that lovely neck he admired so much and squeezing till its owner died.
He had no remorse.
She didn’t deserve the neck anyway.
It was too beautiful for her.

Baptism of the Heart

Biodun was a man who loved his life.
He loved his family; his wife and his precious daughter.
What devil drove him to do what he did then?
“Daddy! What are you doing?”
“Giving mummy a baptism”
“But mummy’s shaking. Stop Daddy”
“No Princess, she’s enjoying it. See? She’s stopped shaking”
“Ohh. Daddy I want one too.”
“I know Princess. You’re next.”

Her Precious

Don’t touch it.
She had warned him several times.
Her gilded mirror was the only thing she had left of her husband.
He took her husband away from her, her son did.
He was driving too fast to get to the hospital at his delivery.
Her husband died just as she brought his son-his image- into the world.
You cannot blame a baby for your husband’s death.
She knew it but did it matter?
Her husband’s people took everything.
All she had left of her love was the gilded mirror he gifted her.
Her Precious.
Her only link to him.
Don’t touch my glass, she warned him.
He probably didn’t understand her.
He was smiling at her, drooling from his toothless mouth.
He was a baby, afterall.
He couldn’t understand speech.
He smeared his food on her glass.
He was learning how to crawl.
He used his tiny hands to leave prints on her Precious.
Now she has to clean it.
Clean his food off her glass.
Clean his blood off it too.
She has no idea what to do with his body yet.

The Industrious Woman

Aunty come and taste my boli!
Yes, i give samples o!
No one can refuse samples of my boli.
We all like free thing abi no be so?
Taste my prowess in handling plantain and fire, with my fan to stoke the heat to just the right temperature.
My boli is succulent.
I even have a secret ingredient.
It’s sweet abi?
You will soon know my secret ingredient.
Ah! You’r shaking. You’re falling.
Are you sleepy?
“Baba Sule come! Come and carry this fine Aunty inside. Put her with the rest of the other long throat people.”
Business is booming today.
Body parts sells more than my boli.
Business is booming because nobody can resist.
Everybody loves free boli.

The Son that Mother forgot

“Mummy do i have a brother?”
“Ayo where is this question coming from”
“Well, my friend said you’re his mother too”
“Your friend? What’s your friend’s name?”
“He said you didn’t give him a name before you sent him away”
“Ayo are you ok? Where is this talk coming from? Who is this your friend? School?”
“Not school. He came two weeks ago. He said he had been looking for you”
“Came? Where??”
“In my room when I was sleeping mummy. He tapped me and said he was your son.”
“Come here. You’re running a temperature. I think you’re having a fever.”
“Mummy. I’m fine. He said i should tell you he’s back. He said you removed him from your belly when you were young at a bad hospital but he loves you so much. He wants to come back to you”
“He says you must bring him back o. Mummy please bring him back”
“Oh mummy. He’s behind you. Say Hello”


That’s it for now.
Two things
1. I would appreciate it if you all could nominate this blog, Phantom Pages to be shortlisted at the Nigerian Blog Awards under the Best Book, Poetry or Writing blog and Best New Blog.
All you have to do is this:
Go to

1. Your name and email
2. Beside the Best Book, Poetry or Writing Blog and Best New Blog,  type in my blog address
3. Fill up the rest to suit your reading taste. (Please consider voting for Best Group blog, for Best Humour blog, for Best Fashion or Style blog, for Best Topical Blog, for Best Designed Blog, for Best Tutorial Blog, and   for Nigerian Blog of the Year)

I am not asking too much am I?
Well maybe a little but on the bright side, I am not asking you to marry me.

Thank you in advance!
I love you all…


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