Desperate Housemen

Desperate Housemen

Desperate Housemen

Did you hear of Desperate House wife Series coming to Africa courtesy Mo’ Abudu’s Ebony Live TV? The audition took place between last week Thursday and Saturday and I, Zibah represented. No, no I did not go to audition for a role, I tagged along with a buddy who was interested.

Venue: Protea Hotel, lekki penisular
Main character: Zibah, Chic and Kenny


Minutes after Kenny was through with his audition and we were making our way out of the venue, I made the mistake of telling him that I fancy one of the “usher” ladies. The lady is question had on a white sweat-shirt, a loose jean trouser and flat sandals. She looked like a girl that doesn’t pay attention to how she appears and isn’t conscious of how gorgeous she is. She was using a Sony xperia Z so well, she isn’t totally clueless. My brain had taken her stats when I first set eyes upon her.

Dressing: Loose and a tad ill-fitting
Inference: She isn’t conscious of how she looks.

Physical: Lovely eyes, easy smile. Warm disposition, slightly weird posture. Buttocks-a tad small, blame shapelessness on ugly jeans.
Inference: She is definitely not a bi*ch

Gadget/Accessory: Zero make-up, no accessory. Mac book and an Xperia Z
Inference: Geek

Conclusion: Kindred spirit

Before I let my stalker tendency scare you off let me get to the point.

Kenny: *eyes sizing up the chic like a mosquito eyeing exposed healthy skin* oh! you like her? ehn! no dulling, go over na

Zibah: I like her but not like like her. I had noticed how my buddy’s foolish eyes were glowing. He was going to challenge me. I wasn’t wrong…

Kenny: for sh*t sake you chicken, go over there and get her pin jor

“she uses an android” i tried to counter. bbm no dey android shey he curtly responded. *sighs*

No guy worth his onion wants to back down from a challenge like this especially when he is caught between the deep blue sea and his evil wingman. So with my pulse racing, my mind hurling insults at Kenny’s family tree for producing a moron and sweat trickling down my back I approached cool babe and the following conversation ensued.

Me: Hello, I cant act to save my life, I’m unhappy. my bank acc isn’t very healthy but still I cant help but ask you to marry me (trust me, I’ve no idea where all that BS came from either)

cool babe: huh!! what are you saying?
did I mention she has an American accent and sounds like hot sinful chocolate? #MajorTurnOn #Swoons

me: i move closer to her Sorry….erm…er…..look over my shoulder at that foolish boy in a brown shirt by the door.

Cool babe: frowns the dude you came in with?
woah! she noticed when I walked in

Me: Yeah. He said if I don’t come over, talk to you and tell you that you have lovely eyes and leave with your pin, he was going to nag all the way home….and he nags like a brittle old woman on a normal day even with putting effort.
Score one for Zibah…. smooooth operator

cool babe bursts out laughing, jumps and hugs me and pretends like she is whispering something in my ears then she slips her right hand into my back pocket and squeezes my ass.
I was stunned and just stood there. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. I had expected one or more of the following reactions;
1) A long hiss that ends with her walking away (a la mgbeke Lagos chics)
2) A slap. ‘Em ladies like to slap
3) Laughter but no BBM pin

Oh well, I’m in a venue were acting-appropriately or strangely is the norm. Cool babe proceeded to give me her number and pin before walking away. She stopped a short distance ahead, turned, fluttered her eyelids and said Nita.. It took me a few seconds to realise she was telling me her name, I guess I was still stupid from the effect of the PDA. Good thing I had my back to Kenny. I guess Kenny’s jaw at this point would have shattered on the linoleum….the jealous bastard. Evil glee in my eyes, bbm pin and phone number stored in my phone and a satisfied grin on my face, I turned and strode confidently towards Kenny.

PS: The above story did NOT happen. I did meet a super hot babe but instead of walking up to her, I veered off left…. right into the men’s room. WHAT? don’t judge me.


Oya: The Rise of the Orisha


Before you ask, no she isn’t Storm (X-men) she is Oya, the Orisha of change and it isn’t cigarette smoke but er….wind coming out of her hand. I stumbled upon a video online made by the production team and I was totally psyched. It’s no secret that I am a closet geek; sci-fi movies, books, porn…whatever has telepaths, pyros, elementals etc I will consume. Below is a summary of the proposed film Oya: Rise of the Orisha.

“Rise of the Orisha focuses on a young woman named Adesuwa who has the unique ability to transform into the fearsome warrior goddess, Oya, the Orisha of change. When she changes, she gains amazing abilities. We follow Adesuwa as she goes on a head-stomping mission to keep the doorway between the Orisha and humanity closed. Be prepared for an action packed , mystical adventure as we explore the world of the Orisha.

I did a little research into Yoruba folklore to better understand who Orishas are.

Orishas are a collective of charismatic deities with specialized supernatural gifts, powers and responsibilities. Tradition has it that these supernatural beings once walked the earth with humanity. Some example includes; Obatala. Orunmila, Ozain, Lemanja etc”.

Yeah, so they are like the Nigeria equivalent of Zeus, Hades, Demeter, Poseidon etc.

Oya is a female warrior deity; divinity of the wind, sudden change, hurricanes, and underworld gates, a powerful sorceress and primary lover of Sango. I bet she would take storm down in a fight.

Anyway the production team was sourcing for fund for the project; about £5,000 but was able to raise £4,056. I really don’t know what stage they are in production but I hope at the end of the day they release something super impressive.

Click here to know more about the crew.


Nice hips Oya, me likey *winks*



Map of Africa

They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day. “It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.” Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist. “My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat. I told him mine with a precautious smile. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Zambia.” “Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.” “Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.” “But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.” My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S. “I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.” “Are you still with the IMF?” I asked. “I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.” “No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …” He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.” Quett Masire’s name popped up. “Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.” Continue reading