mountain-lion-1143576_1280“These are the most beautiful of God’s creatures,” she said, as she tickled the crown of the cub’s head.
Clarence narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t travel all this way to play, Miss.”
She threw back her mane and stared at him with dark eyes. “Your pet will meet up with you in two weeks. We have a lot of paper work to do.” She straightened. “Once we clear your check of course.”
He smirked. “That is the least of the problem.”
She tossed her long dark hair again, and caught his attention. She looked as wild and beautiful as the animals she cared for.
Clarence felt an attraction. Of course he had no intention of following up on it. He wasn’t into humans, if one could put it that way.
“You’ve come a long way, and paid a fortune.”
“She’s worth every cent.”
She smiled, and the hard lines around her mouth softened, putting her age between twenty and thirty. He wondered how long she’d worked here, in the reserved jungles of Argentina. Her skin was a dark tan, and he couldn’t decide if she was mixed race or sun-burnt. The color suited her though.
“Ah.” Clarence didn’t notice women unless he had use of them for some reason no one termed normal.
She arched an eyebrow. “Did you say something?”
He scowled. “Two weeks. I want my new pet with me.”
“You will.” She walked away from the caged cub. “This way.”
Clarence stared at the baby lion. She would do. A replacement for Bla, his murdered tiger-cub, was long overdue.
He didn’t think he wanted a replacement for the woman who killed Bla though, so why were thoughts of this lion-woman trailing him even after he traveled back to Lagos?


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PROMISE TOMORROW (Eiba Family Saga Book 2)

promise-cover-for-blogCHAPTER 11


She watched him leave, his limp less conspicuous than before. She was impressed with his dressing and carriage. Maybe he’d had money before. People like that didn’t lose the air around them easily. She wished she knew what his story was, especially why he limped. She could ask him anyway. Just that she wasn’t sure how close she would want to get to him.

“Can a lonely man sit with a lonely lady,” a man said softly and took the seat beside her.

Modele jerked her head up. Only one person had that voice. Could she ever forget it? Could she ever forget him?

“I’m not lonely, and you should be with your wife!” she said, her voice rose a pitch higher than she would have wanted.

He took the seat beside her. “Loneliness brings out the worst in people and my dear you seem to be coping very badly.” He looked at her. “You knew I’ll be here, you also knew I love this dress.” He eyed her, in a shamelessly provocative way.

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to you.” She lurched to her feet. He pulled her back into her seat roughly.

“Why did you cut your hair?” He cupped the back of her head. “Though you’re not looking bad with a scraped scalp.” He smiled teasingly.

She pushed her head out of his grip. “Where is your wife?”

“At home, sick. I didn’t know she would catch on so quickly. I’d hardly touched her before she started having morning sicknesses.” He emptied the glass of wine he had been holding in one gulp and belched. “Thank God you were not so susceptible.” He patted her cheek and she slapped his hand.

Buki approached with a waiter bearing a tray with assortments. As soon as Modele saw him, she stood and pulled him into a partial hug. Buki stiffened.

“Darling, I want you to meet my ex-beau, Jude Anja.” She placed a light peck on his cheek and looked lovingly into his eyes.

“Really,” he mumbled in his most sarcastic tone and dashed Jude a nasty look. “Keep that on the table,” he told the waiter who responded promptly. He dragged Modele’s seat to the other side where another empty chair was and they both sat facing Jude. “So how’s married life, Mr. Anja? Is the Mrs. well?” His voice dripped of mockery.

“I see you got yourself something. No wonder you had the guts to come to this party dressed to kill,” Jude said angrily, ignoring Buki.

“Jude was just telling me how pregnant-ly sick his wife is,” she said, brushing something off Buki’s face, and smiling contentedly.

“I bet you rushed into his arms dying for comfort,” Jude said, still addressing her.

“I see marriage has turned you into a philosopher, Jude. What the…”

Buki patted her hand gently, and turned to Jude. “You walked, Mr. Anja. Be responsible for your decision.” His voice was as cold as ice. Jude groaned. “He asked you to cut your hair? Modele, who’s this guy? Can he ever be what I was to you?”

Buki took advantage of the situation to satisfy his lust; that’s what she thought. He pulled Modele’s head gently to rest on his shoulder, and scratched her scalp, tickling the back of her ear

Jude sat up rigidly, and clenched his fists on the table.

“Mr. Anja, please excuse us,” Buki drawled. “This conversation is over.” He looked at Modele, his eyes aglow. “We’d like to eat in private, right?” She nodded.

Jude snickered and stood. “You won’t last. Modele is still mine. I’m back, girl.”

Modele waved him off, making no attempt to raise her head from Buki’s shoulder. “Oh go away, Jude. You’re married.”

Jude stomped off.

Modele raised her head slowly and straightened her dress. “Thanks for the drama.”

“My pleasure.” He didn’t lose the coldness in his voice.

They picked at the small chops on the plates quietly, both making no attempt at conversation.  The waiter brought drinks for them and they finished what they could. Both scarcely ate anything.

Modele breathed deeply. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“Ok.” He helped her out of her seat and after saying the goodbyes, they left.

The drive home was in complete silence. Buki stopped the car in front of the house and she got out without a word.

He got out of the car and followed her.

She didn’t object though it was strange. He was supposed to go and park the car and then go into his own room. They’d spent only an hour at the party and the night was still young.

At the lobby, she turned and almost bumped into him. “I want to thank you for putting up that act…”

Buki cupped his hand on the back of her head and pulled her into his arms. He bent his head and took possession of her lips. Slowly, as though with utmost care, he grazed her mouth with his, breathing in her scent, trembling in the act. It went on for a long moment. He didn’t quite kiss her; just teasing, luring, holding back. His second hand lay limp on the small of her back, supporting him rather than her.

Suddenly, he pulled back. Shakily, he let go of her, and stumbled back.

He heaved. “I’m sorry I did that.”

“It’s okay.”

His eyes searched hers. “Is it?”

She shrugged. “We’re both very tired, I guess.”

“You’re a beautiful woman.” His voice was low, and hoarse. “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

“Goodnight, Mr. George.”

“Call me Buki, please.”


She turned round and walked off.


He had played with her in Jude’s presence, fulfilling his fantasy. He wondered what Modele had ever liked in this man. He wasn’t even handsome.

He stood there for a long while after she left, gazing at nothing.


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PROMISE TOMORROW (Eiba Family Saga Book 2)

promise-cover-for-blogCHAPTER 10


Buki wore a plain olive green cotton shirt with a mix of African print in lemon and army green hues gracing the collar and cuffs, over black trousers. It was a carefully selected outfit. One that attracted a lot of compliments each time he wore it. It was also the best shirt in his wardrobe.

He had taken two good shirts along with him in anticipation of such a thing as this even though he had speculated the Eibas would be the host. The high quality fabric stretched taut along the muscled expanse of his chest, hugging his physique. His black trousers fit perfectly and the shiny black boots he wore added class to his appearance. The shirt, buttoned to his throat gave a little glimpse of his expansive neck and jutting Adam’s apple.

He had showered, clean-shaved and brushed his low cut hair into shiny waves. When he looked at his hair, he remembered Modele’s, a little longer than his, and wondered why she would do that to herself; cutting her hair just because her ex liked long hair. She would be striking with long hair, he knew.

He remembered the way she had looked with the wig; beautiful, mature, arresting. But then the short hair gave her another personality he found appealing; pretty, innocent, young and fresh. He scratched his head to remind himself those thoughts were forbidden, while waiting in her lobby just as another thought crossed his mind. What would it be like to scratch her head?

“Same colour,” she said behind him, startling him.

He turned round to face her and sucked in his breath. She was a sight to behold, and that was putting it mildly. She was exquisite in the green evening gown. Her short hair had been oiled and brushed so finely that it now shorn in soft, cascading waves. Her lips were tinged with a shade darker than their original colour, and left shiny and glossy. Her eyes lined with a teasing shade of green made her look like a goddess. Her long slender neck looked vulnerable and exposed to his hungry assessment of them, endowed with a beautiful gold chain and emerald pendant. He noticed the same emeralds graced her ears. The dress fitted her like a glove, clinging yet decent. Buki swallowed hard, short of words.

“Let’s go if you can move your legs.”

She smiled triumphantly, her perfume over-powering his senses as she sashayed past. Hugo woman, he guessed! He knew perfumes though he didn’t use the designer labels. He closed his eyes for a second to gain control, pulled himself together and followed her. He cautioned himself, remembering she had lost her cool just a few hours earlier.

Contrary to her usual behaviour, she sat beside him in front, smiling at him as she did. Was she trying to apologize? Was she not taking it too far? If only she knew the effect she was having on him. She clutched her small black bag, matching the stilted black sandals she wore, while holding on to the silk shawl he noticed matched her dress. He reminded himself he was just an employee as he moved the car, but his heart raced almost as fast as the machine he controlled.

Maxwell’s Victorian mansion swarm with guests. Buki stopped for Modele in front of the house before following directions to the parking lot. He didn’t think he would also be her companion and after parking the car, lounged on the trunk of the car. A uniformed guard approached him and directed him to a shed where other drivers waited. He gratefully headed in the direction, passing the front of the house. He was surprised to notice she still stood where he’d dropped her.

“Mr. George,” Modele called out. “Come,” she whispered. “You are my guest,” she added. He approached her, and without a word, accompanied her in.

Uniformed butlers directed them through the bar to the magnificent garden where the party was in full throttle. Modele located Maxwell at once and strode over to where he was, merely to register her presence.

Maxwell, a stringy-looking dark complexioned man, stood at Modele’s height. His face was squeezed in concentration as he listened to the guests around him. Even when he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes. His dark eyes looked intent and serious.

“Max, good evening,” Modele said softly, breaking up the group. Standing quietly behind her, Buki admired the extensive grounds of the beautiful, well-lit garden.

“My my my!” Max turned to her. “See who’s here,” he drawled. “Modele, the queen of hearts. Come, come. I have so many people anxious to meet you. Excuse me.” He turned briskly away from the other guests and took Modele by the elbow.

“Meet Buki George,” Modele introduced, short of any other words to speak about her escort.

Max glanced at Buki and the two exchanged a curt nod. Buki assumed he was the host but Modele made no further introductions. As Max whisked her away, Buki followed, putting distance between them yet keeping her in his view. They walked to a group of people drinking and laughing and joined in. He stood apart, his eyes never leaving his responsibility. Someone pushed a glass into his hand and he mumbled ‘thank you’ to the receding form of the waiter. He took a whiff, discovered it was Champaign, and carefully sloshed it out on the grass.

“Bad. Waste,” he muttered to himself.

Sonny Nneji played live from one end of the garden. The music was good and some people danced. Some of the guests stood around talking, others sat on tables eating, drinking and generally having a lot of fun. Glamour, class, and sophistication displayed full-fledged.

“Hello,” a female voice purred behind Buki. “Are you expecting someone?”

He resisted the urge to turn around and waited for the intruder to come to. She did. A petite woman, Buki was a full head and shoulder taller than her, wearing a small black dress with a strangling choker round her throat, stood looking up at him, straining her neck. Her hair was piled high on her head, her make-up loud.

“No, actually,” Buki said curtly.

She pressed her red lips together. “Then you are un-escorted?”

“Again, no. I’m with Miss Eiba.”

“Oh.” Her voice dropped a pitch, and then she brightened up. “Wow. Well, my name is Titi Timi-Jones. You know The Joneses?” she asked wistfully. Buki nodded. He didn’t. “My family owns the business, sha! We make over 5 million naira every month. Can you believe that?”

Buki nodded absently. “Really?”

“Oh I know Modele’s family makes like hundred times that,” she laughed nervously, “but we…”

“Please excuse me.” Buki cut in and turned to leave.

“What’s your name?” She called after him.

“Oh forgive me.” Buki turned back in feigned politeness. “Buki George.”

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “The Georges of the Fountain Finance Corporation?”

Buki waved her off and strolled away as fast as his limp could carry him. He stood in the shadows a few feet away and tried to look round to locate Modele. He had almost forgotten her.

“I see Titi has been entertaining you,” Modele said behind him.

He turned. “She seems like a nice person. Are you having fun?”

“Yes.” She paused. “Did she tell you how many times she changes her wardrobe in a year?”

“She? Who? Oh no. We didn’t talk that long.”

“Let’s get a table,” she said, “and don’t let me look for you again!”

She led the way to a vacant table at the backside of the garden. Few people were in the area. Buki took note of the stiff rebuke quietly.

At the table, he settled them both. “What would you like to take?”

She shrugged. “Snacks maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’ll see what they have.” He made to leave.

“No sugared popcorn.”

“No sugared popcorn.” He caught her eyes for a moment before he walked away.


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exit-onlyOkay my dear fellows, this is awkward but I’m gonna say it anyway.

#SEXTALK is going to be on my blog on impulse. Just as today’s post came to me suddenly, lol, I’ll speak as led.

The privates of a woman has three passages. The wee-wee place, the poo-poo place, and #theotherplace. There are two “exits only” (wee-wee and poo-poo places) and #theotherplace is a “thorough fare.”


During sex/intercourse/love-making, only the “thorough fare” can “give and receive.” Just as it is insane, and impossible, weird, unthinkable to receive a man in the wee-wee place, it also is (insane, and impossible – well now people do it, weird, unthinkable, oh and painful!) for the poo-poo place.

Does this answer your question about “anal sex?”

It’s a no-no. Even nature itself teaches us these things.

Okay, said and done, I’m out!

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PROMISE TOMORROW (Eiba Family Saga Book 2)

promise-cover-for-blogCHAPTER 9


Modele sat on her window pane, and gazed out into the garden at Toro and Mr. George. She felt guilty about her conduct earlier after knowing it was Toro’s fault and not his. But she was making up for it. If he didn’t see her invitation as such, there was nothing more she could do. She knew she had hurt him, but she was hurt too. She had taken out her aggression on him and that was not right but she couldn’t control much of these emotions.

Ever since Jude left her, she had not been able to concentrate on anything significant. Her job as a freelance legal editor had been on hold for several months. Already, she had lost one of her favourite columns in a law students’ magazine. Being a prolific and talented writer had gained her a lot of respect in her field but now her private life was interfering with the next most important thing in her life… after Jude. Even her hobby of writing children’s stories was suffering. Her latest novel was halfway through yet she couldn’t find the words to move on. Or the spirit.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek, partially blurring her vision of the duo. She swatted it away with steam. She had promised herself Jude was not worth a single tear drop if he could be so callous. But her heart ached desperately. Jude had taught her everything she knew. She remembered the first time he kissed her… touched her tenderly…

She hugged her waist and turned away.

“Oh!” A sob escaped from her lips as another tear rolled down, and another. “I won’t weep for you, Jude. I will never weep for you.”

She walked resolutely to her walk-in wardrobe. It was a tiny apartment with shelves and hangers and drawers. She looked through her collection. She had changed it twice in the few months since her dilemma. Most of the clothes had never been worn before. She wanted to wear something stunning. Something which when she entered the hall, had enough energy to turn heads.

The party was organized for one of her friends who’d just returned home after graduating from Cambridge University with distinctions. Maxwell had been described by his dean as a genius, and brains ready to explode. His proud parents had organized the home-coming party.

Max, as most of his friends called him, had been a mutual friend of Jude and Modele. Even though he had tried to win Modele’s heart before she met Jude, the trio had hung out together as undergraduates at Cambridge. Max had stayed on to continue with his Masters degree, and then a doctorate.

Shortly after he came home, he had called to sympathize with Modele over Jude and then asked her for a date. She had politely refused. She wasn’t ready to remain in that circle. Some of their old friends had also made passes at her with no luck. She had tried to detach herself from her old company, wildly making new ones. If today had not happened with Mr. George, she would not have even imagined herself going for the party. She knew Max would be surprised to see her even though he had personally invited her.

“I don’t need anybody,” she whispered as she spotted a leaf-green off-shoulder silk dress. She had worn the dress only once before when she was still with Jude and had sentimentally kept it. It was the only item in her wardrobe that survived the overhaul. It was a stunner alright, and she pulled it out and laid it on her bed.

She groaned. “Jude may be at this party…”

She didn’t think it was such a good idea to attend. He would disapprove of her short hair. She looked at the wigs she had purchased shortly after she cut her hair. Maybe she should wear one. She pulled a brown dread-locks wig from its stand and wore it. She looked just like Jude would have liked.

“I am not Jude’s wife!” She flung the wig from her head and across the room, covering her face with shaking hands. Heaving, she decided. She would attend. It was the only way to purge herself of these feelings. She would go with Mr. George. If he was presentable, she could even flirt with him a little. In public!

She chided herself. “I can’t believe I’m thinking this.” Flirt with a gardener in public? Had she gotten so desperate? She thought of all the young men who wanted to have a relationship with her, including the ones in church. Her Youth Fellowship swarmed of them, brothers who wanted more to do with her than exchange Bible verses. Many of them were sons of prestigious men. She wondered what they would think if they saw her flirting with her gardener. Though he didn’t look all that much like one.

She giggled. “They’ll think I’m backsliding in all respects.”

She wanted more to life than what she was getting. Not the money, not the fame, not her possessions, her cute cars, her big house. She wanted a man. A good man. A Christian. A God-fearing, dependable fellow who would love her with everything especially a promise for the future. Not for what she had but for who she was.

She went back to her window and gazed out at Mr. George, now alone. He was sweating as he worked. Modele noticed the way his muscles shifted as he moved his hands. He looked up then toward her window. It was far from him but it seemed just as though he was there in the room with her. She froze. What was in that look on his face? She stared back.


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PROMISE TOMORROW (Eiba Family Saga Book 2)

promise-cover-for-blogCHAPTER 8


Buki woke up by 4.30a.m and did his press-ups as usual, a hundred of them. 5a.m was morning devotion. 6a.m was quiet time. 7a.m, personal hygiene and clean-up, and 8a.m, work starts. He had followed the schedule for two months without fail. Like every other thing he did, it had become a part of him.

Along the line, he had moved into his room in the servant’s quarters, which was almost as comfortable as the room he’d been in. He had a television set, howbeit a smaller one. He also had air-conditioning and a small refrigerator. The mattress however was not as hard as he would have liked, so he slept on the floor. Still, he was very grateful to God and his employer. Throughout the period he stayed in the main house, he noticed the way Modele avoided him. He had respected her attitude and kept out of her way.

During morning devotion, he noticed Modele’s melancholic mood. Toro presided over the one hour routine, before they all dispersed to their different duties. While the others went in for breakfast, Buki resumed work. He had stabilized the garden and now set out to work on the fruit orchard. He had gotten the piece of land cleared at the back of the house the previous day.

He was half-way through with the nursery mid-day, when Toro walked over from the kitchen.

“Miss Modele asked that you should buy popcorn for her,” she said handing him some money and the key to Modele’s Mercedes CE240.

He wiped sweat off his face. “Anywhere in particular?”

“The Palms. That’s where she likes her popcorn from.”

“Ok. Give me a minute and I’ll just change up.” He straightened and mopped more sweat from his face.

Since he started work, utility man had been added to his work description. He did all the shopping for the house, sometimes with Toro or Modele, many times alone.

The Palms, in all its glory stood in the heart of Lekki. It was a new mall recently opened and the success of it was tremendous. Buki walked smartly to an ice-cream stand where popcorn was also being sold. In all the weeks of working for Modele Eiba, this was his first time of running this sort of errand. He had never even seen her eating popcorn before.

“I need popcorn for N500,” he said, looking at the plump sales girl who chewed noisily.

“Salt or sugar? Color or plain? Honey, spice, flavour? With peanuts?” She bombarded Buki who stood numb.

“Ur, I don’t know.”

“You have to decide. A queue is forming behind you.” She blew a big bubble and made a loud ‘clonk’ with it.

“Ok. Sugar, ur and with peanuts,” he said.

The girl served him so fast, he was impressed. Within seconds, he was back on the road with hot sugared popcorn mixed with sugar-coated peanuts.

Modele was on the patio when he got back, dressed in pink flowing v-neck caftan with frivolous v-shaped sleeves, her face bare of any make-up, she looked even more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She stood by herself, gazing out into empty space, lost in thought. It took a second or two for her to realize he was there. He couldn’t help but wonder why she was so absent-minded. He cleared his throat and she stiffened.

“The popcorn, Miss,” he said. He had looked to hand it over to Toro but had not found her nearby when he came in.

“Put it on the table,” she said without looking at his direction.

He did as she bid and turned round to leave, hoping to find out what was disturbing her from Toro. He had hardly left the private sitting room when he heard her shriek.

“How dare you buy sugared popcorn?” Modele screamed at the top of her voice and stomped into the beautifully furnished room with a rage he had never seen before. “I hate popcorn with sugar. I hate peanuts. Peanuts stink!” she yelled.

Buki stopped in his tracks and turned to face her in time to get a direct hit in the face as Modele flung the popcorn bag right at him. The contents spilled out and fell to the floor. Toro ran in, Buki guessed, from the laundry where she had probably been monitoring the progress of the washing machine.

“I sent for salted, salted, salted popcorn. Does that sound like sugar or peanuts?” She faced him, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“I’m sorry.” Buki stood dumbstruck, humiliated. “I must have heard wrong,” he stammered.

“You don’t hear wrong when I send instructions to you. If you’re tired of this job, I will not hesitate to relieve you of it. Get out!”

Buki blinked once. “I’ll get another one for you.”

“I don’t need any popcorn from you. Get out of my house!”

“Yes, Miss,” he said quietly, visibly hurt and embarrassed. He turned to leave.

“Pack this popcorn out of here, Mister,” Modele snapped, breathing heavily.

Buki turned and bent over to pick the popcorn splattered on the floor. He had to pick the sticky thing one at a time. Modele stood, arms akimbo, watching him, a strange expression on her face. When he was through, he stood, and slowly limped away with the pack.

Buki dropped the offensive popcorn in the waste bin in the kitchen on his way out, still dazed. He had never seen anyone so angry. And for what? He went back to tending the fruit nursery and about an hour later, looked up to see Toro staring down at him.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“I feel like such a jerk, keeping quiet there while she berated you.”

“You did exactly what I would.” He sat back on his bent knee and looked up at her.

“Thank you for covering up for me,” she said solemnly. “I’m really sorry. She did specify salted popcorn. I should know, anyway. It’s the only way she eats popcorn,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m sorry for the humiliation… I do admire the way you comported yourself. And for… for covering my error.”

He smiled easily. “Let’s take it as one of those things that come with the job description. I should not be offended.”

She refused to catch on. “Ever since the break-up, she’s had these occasional tantrums. Most directed at others, not me really. She knew I never really liked Jude. The feeling was mutual.” She sat down on the low garden stool Buki sometimes used when resting.

“You can help her by doing the right thing as much as possible,” he reprimanded softly, resuming his work.

Toro moaned. “I try. The anger is always just below the surface.” She sighed. “You see, she has never mourned that relationship. Never allowed herself the liberty that comes from crying.” She shook her head. “She tries to show the whole world she can cope and she doesn’t miss him. In actual fact, she’s dying inside.”

Buki stopped his motions and looked at her. “She could be in trouble. Does she have friends? I haven’t noticed any around.”

“Lots. Frighteningly. She parties now like her life depends on it. Every night, Modele drives out to town and only God knows…” She sighed. “I didn’t know how to tell you, I never sleep till she comes in after midnight most days.”

“That’s careless of you, Toro. She’s ruining herself. You could tell her parents or someone, just to stop her,” he said. “It’s my job to keep her from harm for goodness’ sake.”

“I guess you’re right. Thanks anyway.” She stood. “She asked me to tell you she wants you to escort her tonight to a friend’s party. Be ready by 7.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised. Toro was almost as queer as her mistress. “Any other info? Dress code? Anything I should know?”

Toro smiled. “Just look as nice as you can. I won’t make the same mistake twice today.”

“Look as nice as I can.” Buki chuckled, pondering on what that could mean.

Toro squeezed her face. “You have what to wear don’t you?”

Buki smiled. “I’ll find something.” He resumed his work. “Help your mistress let out the steam.”

“She feels she can put it behind her. I know she can’t. Right now, it’s only another man in her life that can help her. But she’s blocking every man from getting close.” Toro gazed into space, oblivious that Buki had frozen in reaction to her analogy.


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Before I jump into this my deep thinking, let me establish here that I am not a woman-rights activist, neither am I a feminist. My views on these issues are purely Biblical. God created man and woman in His image, and gave us roles.

Now, I listened to the interview of Mrs. Aisha Buhari (though I don’t understand Hausa language, I needed to watch the video to understand exactly what was going on.) Watch here!

To my amazement, shortly afterward, Mr. President responded to that video, and provoked the kind of support I never had for his beautiful wife within me. I mean, how could he say that to anyone’s hearing?

Anyway, this is what I saw when I watched the interview:

  • I noticed her facial expression, her hand gestures, her posture. She was not being confrontational in the least.
  • I noticed a depressed woman. A worried woman. A concerned woman.
  • Her words taken out of “meaning” were deep and for the first time, I sympathized, and identified with this woman. (May I say here they were not my candidate in 2015.)
  • What I understood from her body language, merged with her words, was that she was expressing frustrations at the way the intentions of her husband had been overridden by mean-spirited politicians who had no good plans for Nigeria.
  • She was campaigning for her husband, crying out to all to hear that the man couldn’t do a quarter of what he intended.
  • She was pleading with the heartless politicians to let go of the machinery and let Mr. Buhari move forward.
  • And her conclusion was that if things continued like this, she would not encourage her man to return to Aso Rock or vie for that office.
  • Note the word IF, conditional, prayerful, purposeful, IF. She would not be a part of such a murder of the conscience she could see being displayed in the party.

I would have expected Mr. President to applaud her courage to speak her mind, and assure her to Nigerians and the whole world, that she will see the Nigeria she prayed for.