THE TRIBAL MAN

THE TRIBAL MAN
By @McChimeFrancis
In my life I have never felt tribalism until this moment, and it didn’t just come in a fold, it came in two folds which I fell victim twice. Personally I felt the second time I shouldn’t be a victim because in the first time I accepted I was a victim in the case. I know you didn’t understand these first few lines. Let me explain.
I was in a commercial bus in Lagos, I was heading home. The bus I entered was a straight bus, a straight bus in the sense that it wouldn’t stop along the way until it got to a certain destination, because of this the driver took in an armed personnel of the Nigerian force which actually is a tradition in Lagos when you are plying such routes. The bus was calm and peaceful until suddenly the armed man began exchanging words with a female passenger. I personally didn’t have an idea about what ensued prior to their argument. All I knew was that the armed man decided to highlight from the bus, telling the young lady who was Igbo to come down which she refused so the armed man decided to look for another bus. The driver was not happy with the development, everyone in the bus weren’t happy too. The story is quite complicated but I just have to be brief and tell you a bit of it.
This recent development, lead to abuses raining on the poor young lady who also didn’t hesitate to reply the other people in the bus-word for word. I already had issues with the lady on my side who was Yoruba because of the way she talked to me like I was one secondary school boy (you how my size is now-small). She insulted the hell out of this young Igbo lady, in fact she insulted the whole Igbos in general, and saying all sought of crude things. There and then I knew tribalism was real. Well when I came down from the bus I wasted no time in telling her that she should go and learn how to talk. It was quite an awful experience. I accepted I was a victim in this one because I was Igbo.
Remember I said it happened in two folds, my second experience happened here in the east where I stay with my course mate. We stay in a compound that consisted of Igbo people who spoke Nsukka-thick Nsukka language which I personally have found it hard to come to term with. so due to this reason the first day the elderly woman in the yard asked me where I was from I claimed to be a Yoruba boy, so that at least this Igbo speaking people who had so much love for their language would at least try and communicate with me in pidgin or English. Well it didn’t turn out that way. I always sang songs with Yoruba lyrics anytime I was moving around the compound or going to have my bath.
The landlord of the yard came around sometime when I wasn’t around and the next day, whole and behold I was summoned by the caretaker of the house and the bombshell was unleashed on me. I was told to leave the yard immediately, because I wasn’t Igbo, because I was Yoruba.
Imagine, An Igbo man telling a fellow Igbo man to pack out of his compound, just because he claimed to be Yoruba. That was the height of tribalism. The man was tribal. I had to correct the impression that I was Igbo and not Yoruba.
Many people today still have deep issues with the phrase “where are you from?”, and they don’t ask themselves the simple question “can you survive without their existence?”
Man is very tribal in nature and we must pray for enlightenment. I cry when I see people in the frontiers of tribal actions, it pains my heart. Even the one Nigeria slogan now sounds like mockery to a certain tribe from another tribe. Can this nation be one? I don’t think so because the hatred for one another is enormous. It is a very deep cut that even when it heals, there exists a big scar. Mcchimefrancis.blogspot.com

THE MAN UNCENSORED

THE MAN UNCENSORED
By @McChimefrancis

Mondays were always hectic days for Rita at her place of work, she would always wake up very early in the morning, and always returned very late at night too. She was fortunate to cope with this lifestyle because she was single.
On this particular day she returned home stressed out, the traffic along Mile2 to Festac gate was much; she had her lunch and Supper while in the bus thanks to the young boys who hawked gala and bottled soft drinks. She was tired today and there was no single energy to make food. She picked up her remote control and turned on the TV set, thanking God that there was power that night. It has been a while her estate had power, as she scrolled through the list of channels she slept off. Rita always put off her phone before she slept but this time tiredness didn’t let her perform her usual ritual. Exactly 12.30am her cell phone rang and she woke up, one eyed closed and the other half-open. She looked at the number that was calling, it was Peter. “Why would Peter be calling at this time?” she asked herself. It was very unusual, she went back to sleep. She was used to so many guys calling her at night though.
Rita had a very long history with male counterparts. She lost her virginity to Yemi, few weeks after her 21st birthday celebration. It all happened with a rush. She didn’t enjoy the sex and flex anyway. It was her first time and it wasn’t to be remembered, because it wasn’t fun at all that night. All she could remember was too black bodies entangled in darkness, Yemi thrusting hard and she laying on her back asking herself when would all this end. She even faked her moaning that night. Rita gave out her body for no cost, she made love to anyone she felt like making love to, she wasn’t a lesbian though, she didn’t get paid for sex too. She was the kind of lady who wasn’t ready to be committed to any guy, all her life she tried committing to three guys but to no avail, she didn’t find commitment worthy.
Rita was very popular in school because she was a good orator, and she was also into public speaking. Her voice on the microphone had this melody that could turn one on. So many guys loved her. Guys also loved her because she was beautiful, she was fair as the moon, bright as the sun,  she had pink lips and curved hips. Her buttocks were round. She had a good fashion sense. There was no nudity in her dressing, she never showed her cleavages, and neither did she put on miniskirts to show her yellow laps. She had a hot body.
Rita never missed church activities, she was always involved in the planning of many events and she was in the dramatizing wing of the church. All this she was while she was a student of the only university in Nigeria, the University of Nigeria, Nsukka.
Rita was now 24, working at a PR firm. Her body got her the job anyway. She didn’t have to sleep with the manager to get the job; her seductive nature and trickery paved the way for her-let’s say she fooled the manager. She was also suited for the job, she ticked all the boxes, and as a graduate of UNN, she was naturally ahead of the other applicants. This was the job that really didn’t give her time for herself; the job played a part in curtailing her excesses a little bit.
Rita woke up again, this time it wasn’t a call that woke her up, but her body. It was acting up. She just had a wet dream. She felt a rising urge in her, filling voids in the upper and lower regions of her body, she didn’t hesitate. She knew what was going on. She was horny. She left the sitting room and got to her bedroom. She dialed Victor’s number. The time was 2.30; she knew victor would help satisfy her through the phone with his calming voice and sweet choice of words to suit the moment. Victor was good at it, these days she always had throwbacks about such experiences than her first sex anyway. She loved the online satisfaction.   
She liked her lifestyle, she always liked standing out of the crowd, she never dreamt of marriage. She wanted to be single all her life. She believed in 50-50. She was a feminist. She was different. Her favorite colour was purple. As she hung up, the urge has died down as usual; she went back to sleep and that day she swore not to go to work even if it did cost her losing her job. She was a man uncensored.  She was a free being.
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