Nigerian Senators Earn More Than Barack Obama

According to Daily Post, Nigerian Senators are said to earn more than the president of the U.S, Barack Obama and his counterparts in other countries, click Here for the full list of allowances they get in comparison to lawmakers and presidents in other parts of the world.

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Playing With Fire

     If you didn’t know Oranmuyiwa, seeing him in red robe coming up the hills that leads to the Agu river you would nearly think he’s gone mad but who doesn’t know him in Agu, he has consulted for Oranyi for over three decades, long before I was born and according to him Oranyi has blessed him beyond curse. His house is one of the most beautiful houses in the whole of Agu village; the roofs are finely woven together with palm fond and the entrance doors to the house are made from dried planks but the house stands out still, the walls are painted with cow’s dung and beautiful decorations are hanged at the entrance of the house, the goat horns are most visible, then an empty calabash suspended with tiny white rope in between the little corridor between the house where Oranmuyiwa spends his whole day, consulting Oranyi, the god of fire.

  Since mom told me Oranmuyiwa was my father, I have found it so bitter to swallow, as bitter as the first kolanut I was offered when we first visited him. ‘How could this old tattered man be my father?’ I would ask myself quietly and when he embraced me that day, I could only perceive the scent of smoke and wet leaves all over him and as long as his black strong hands held me tight to his red robe, I choked.

Mother had told me of my father so beautifully that I thought I was going to see a man that would look as handsome and lanky as father Roland who often comes to the house to pray with us and joins us for dinner most nights. According to my mother, Oranmuyiwa won her hands in marriage when at the Buwa festival he beat all the young men in the village at the Omo ekun contest which made him the strongest man in Agu and eventually became the toast of every girl in the village, my mother must have been very happy with Oranmuyiwa’s interest in her and I could still see the green in her when she told me about him, she looked into my eyes and then faced the ground and sighed. I wished my father was man enough to go to Lagos, that beautiful city Father Roland has always talked about, Oranmuyiwa doesn’t look like a man for the city of Lagos, he looks like the biological son of Oranyi.

Oranmuyiwa had married my mother without paying a dime and had married her outside his home in the neighbourhood village of Agbongbon  because he already had two other wives in the house and I have not for once set my eyes on him since I was born because Oranyi had said I was a bastard so he stopped seeing my mother and therefore never sets his eyes on me nor me him. But Oranmuyiwa must disobey the god now that he’s getting old and none of his wife had given him a male child so he sent for us.

He was very happy when he saw me and after he had embraced me and took my breath out of me from his scent of smoke and wet leaves, we all sat down on a dismantled mat and I spent the rest of the day listening to the issues with Agu village, from the new religion the king is courting to the six corrupt scrupulous king makers who had come to Oranmuyiwa to demand for seven white cows, twenty one big chickens and seven kegs of palm oil from the king to appease the god for sacrilegious act so it could serve them round. I slept and woke up and he was still talking and my mother was still listening, so I slept back till dinner was ready and served with small calabashes, and water was palm wine.

The next morning, Oranmuyiwa woke up early and went to the back of the house to appease Oranyi with palm oil and hundred naira note,I stood behind the door peeping to see what Oranyi  would do with the money but nothing happened, even when Oranmuyiwa left I was there still, peeping and when nothing happened, I left. We left Oranmuyiwa that evening and when we got home Father Ronald was already waiting at the door with a little frown on his face, I greeted him but he hardly answered, ‘he must be having one of his bad days’ I thought to myself, while I opened the door, everything was quiet at my back, he wasn’t talking with mother also, so when we entered; I dropped the cocoyam and unripe oranges Oranmuyiwa gave us and ran down the busy street of Agbongbon to get myself some extra notebooks from the hundred naira Oranyi had refused to accept, indeed the gods don’t answer all prayers I thought within.

I got home quite late and bumped straight into mother’s room leaving every door behind me unclosed, the scene I behold was gory, perhaps Oranyi was right, Father Ronald must be my father, and as my mother trembled on the bed, biting hardly at her loosened robe, and as Father Roland picked up his black pant from the floor I stirred speechlessly at nothing in particular, heartbroken.
‘Children of the gods play with fire’ I thought deep within

Glitz And Glamour Of The 2012 London Olympics (PHOTOS)

Pictures and lots of pictures

Goetze in-DICK-ted

Mario Götze (born 3 June 1992) is a German footballer who plays as an attacking midfielded for Borrusia Dortmund in the German Bundesliga and the German national team got sensationally excited while on holiday with his super model girlfriend,all efforts to get his 'pride' down proved abortive...poor lad lol

Heroes Of Colorado Shooting

Bullets. Bullets. More Bullets. And even more bullets. One shot. Two shot. Three shot. More shot. Screams of agony. Cries of babies. Yells of children. the dark night.

Out of breathe. We grab those around us.  We run to red lights of exit signs amid the darkness. We lay prone on the floor.  We pretend to be dead hoping someday we will breathe again. We jump on top of those we love hoping that if one more bullet comes our way, it hits us and not them. hoping. Truly hope that the bullet hits me. a strange thought. A thought that we never thought we would have thought.

We walk gently through life never imagining moments like these. There is no practice. No manual. No preparation. We rely purely on our instincts. Purely on the connection between our thoughts and the movements of our bodies. There is no time for contemplation.  No time for reason. No time for time itself. Only time for hope and prayers.

Deep prayers. Deep breaths. One breath. Two breath. Three breath. No breath. Three men. Three men jumped on top their girlfriends as bullets flew through Theater Nine at Century Cinemas in Aurora, Colorado on Friday morning. Amidst chaos. Amidst gunfire. Amidst tear gas. These three men thought of the women they loved and used their bodies to protect them. They threw them to the floor. Under the seats. They held them tight. They held onto their beautiful women as tight as they possibly could. Lying on top of their bodies in case a bullet came their way.

All three of their girlfriends survived this unfathomable early morning massacre. Jansen Young, Samantha Yowler and Amanda Lindgren made it out of the theater that night to breathe another breath. The breaths are hard to finish because the three men, the three boyfriends took bullets. They took bullets to save their ladies.
Jansen had the courage to recall those last moments, "There was kind of a break in between each gunshot. Every gunshot, I was like, ‘This is it . . . I’m done for.’ Jon gave me one good push against that concrete again and then . . . I didn’t really feel his arms against my back anymore but I knew he was still there.” When the gunshots went quiet, Jansen realized her boyfriend was shot. “I started shaking him and saying, ‘Jon, Jon, we have to go . . . it’s time for us to get out of here." But he didn't move. His breath was gone.

However, his heroic act will forever be remembered. And so will the bravery of the other two men.
These were the last moments of three heroes.
Jon Blunk, Matt McQuinn and Alex Teves.
Remember these names.
~Michael Skolnik

                                                    Jon Blunk and his girlfriend, Jansen Young

                                                Alex Teves and his girlfriend, Amanda Lindgren

                                               Matt McQuin and his girlfriend, Samantha Yowler

HOW TO MAKE ANY BLOKE FALL FOR YOU

As it all comes down to the wire, blokes have four natural relational cravings when the need to find the right mate to settle down arises. Fortunately women are born with the innate ability to satiate these needs, even without trying too hard.
The Desire to Protect, for freedom, to shine and to comfort are Bloke instincts that drive him towards the big ‘L’ and providing the avenues for any or all of these four to be met may see you firmly planted in his heart like no other.
Here, I will explain.

BLOKE INSTINCT 1: Man in Charge
I know it’s not the ‘stone age’ but sheltering you from harm makes him feel sturdy and like the Alpha male, which makes him feel good. Not that you should act helpless, but letting him see your vulnerable side will bring him closer because it unlocks his instincts to take care of you. So give him chances to take charge, and thank him after he does.
Ask for his help on little physical tasks or even mundane things like opening a bottle of water. Ask his opinion about a car issue or the best travel sites, it telegraphs that you value his brain as much as you do his brawn.
Wear soft materials. Delicate textures like rayon, silk, and fur trigger an intense response in men. These fabrics accentuate your softer, feminine nature, which heightens his amorous instincts.

BLOKE INSTINCT 2: Mr. Independent
Blokes crave romantic liaisons where the identities will not suffer a huge blow. Giving the impression that you truly understand him and you are not a threat to his sense of self, gives him grounds to commit.
The following stealth moves let him know you’re not trying to ensnare him.
I’ve got an exciting life too – Blokes hate the idea of being tied down socially, so turn down occasional plans. He’ll not only feel easier — and open up more — around you, but he’ll also start to wonder what you’re doing and pursue you more.
I’m not in a hurry to change my last name – Blokes often hold back because they think most chicks are ‘baby-hungry ring-hunters’. So if you feel nervous about committing, let him know. He’ll be reassured that you’re navigating new waters too, not trying to trap him.
I’m much more than what you see – Little changes in your appearance now and then — say, hair up in a ponytail one day, down the next, etc. — remind him that you’ve got zillions of facets to your personality too. Read: no rut risks.
I respect your privacy dude -  A physical space that’s totally his is a huge symbol of independence to a man. Signal that you respect that by, say, staying out of desk drawers and not peeking at his caller ID when his phone rings.

BLOKE INSTINCT 3: Man in the Spotlight
Maybe he’s cocky, but he’s still insecure. Trust us, blokes need to know that they’re respected and appreciated. When being around you increases a guy’s self esteem, both internally and in the eyes of others, he’ll naturally want to be attached to you.
Here, things that show your high value and nudge him toward love.
Make him happier. Laugh when one of you loses balance during sex. Go to stupid movies. Drag him out when he’s crabby. If you can keep things light, even during stressful times, you’ll become indispensable.
Play mind games. Activities that require mental prowess — like Scrabble, puzzles, and chess — can prod his passion. It sounds nuts, but proof of your problem-solving abilities subconsciously shows him you’re a desirable choice for carrying on his genes.
Act like the grand prize. Seeing you through other people’s eyes reminds him how special you are. Invite him to an event where you’ll excel (whether it’s karaoke or a fun run), or have him stand between you and another man you think is getting too close at a bar.

BLOKE INSTINCT 4: Man Attached
Falling in love is a process of developing attachment, which happens when oxytocin floods the brain, you can unleash those love hormones by making him feel like you two just “fit.” When he’s so comfortable with you that he stops thinking about your relationship and simply enjoys it, he’ll find himself nudged into love territory.
Take these tips.
Goddess in Waiting – Grooming in front of him enhances intimacy because it’s something other guys don’t get to witness. Just keep it goddess-like (applying lipstick or powder), not gross (bleaching your moustache).
Cooking up more than a meal – Do you know that the aroma and taste of food spikes oxytocin levels in males? The more often you prep dinner à deux, the more he’ll associate you with the good feelings he gets from eating it.
Mi Casa, su casa – When buying groceries you don’t have a preference on, get a brand he uses. He’ll subconsciously feel at home at your place. Sleep with him. Catnap near him or let yourself doze off in his arms so he sees you in your most trusting, completely relaxed state.
Now that I have told you how to get him to fall, go get your dream bloke!

*culled from Ynaija

GOODBYE KANDAHAR

The sounds of sporadic gunshots grow intense like a chorus. The continuous refrain of 'Allah Akhbar' by people dashing lemming-like, shows the palpable fear. They flit across the Bahlk Street, through the Nangathar Hospital that leads to the Army Barrack-the only place of refuge when the city is in chaos or under siege by the western soldiers. My hiding place is in the wardrobe; it’s adjacent the backyard and the gate leading to the backyard is usually locked. I feel safe spending hours in the wardrobe and when everyone crawls out of their hiding places and return to the neighbourhood, I still stay there crooning melancholic songs. It's good to die singing a song, like in the movies. It would be a backdrop for the sun as it slowly fades into the crawling cloud, with a hopscotch of images-people screaming and begging you to stay back. At the least, it would signal an end to the days, of Christmas treats gobbled in secrecy because you live in a country stocked with religious extremists.It is quiet now after the explosion and normalcy is restored. I quietly step out of the wardrobe and lie on the bare floor, facing the ceiling-lost in thoughts of what it would be like to live outside the vibrations of Afghanistan. People hardly think of the future here where every second brings fear and almost amputates ones conscience-the future is the present. It is the perfect picture when you just sit at a corner in the house or lie on your bed and think of a time-when gun shots would stop being a culture, when you could actually take the bus or train without the fear of an explosion. 


My woolgathering is halted by a piercing scream and sobbing sounds from outside. I rush out and run into Rabat. Her face is strewn with tears, she looks lost.
 I grab her and hold her firm to my chest. She is crying, hard and loud. My heart beats faster. I have never seen Rabat that broken and uncontrollable, dwelling in a pool of her own tears.
 ‘Hamid is dead’ she screams.
Her voice comes out in metal plates, right to my chest, penetrating my heart; breaking it. I am starved of words and soberly rub her hair and pat her back. Slowly it sinks in and with realization, I lose my strength and crumble to the floor. Rabat is between my arms and tears slowly drop down my cheek, moistening her black long hair. Rabat is slapping the floor and screaming Hamid’s name in a continuous refrain.
I know a chord has been broken from the family; Hamid was the pillar that held the family after father died during the post 9/11 attack by the Western Army. Hamid is...oh! was a brother, a father.
                                                           ***
 The entire neighborhood now gathers outside the house. Even though they are used to death, they still come out to give condolences to bereaved families. Mother sits on the floor in the living room and the crowd filters in one by one. They fill the condolence register and reminisce on the bright spots of Hamid’s life.
 Some of the women sit just by her, holding her hands. Others sit on the leather sofas, the geyser of tears hidden by their black veils, evident only from their voices when they talk. Sometimes I wonder how comfortable it feels under the veil; seeing people who can’t see your face. ‘How can I ever trust the face behind the veil’, I think deep within, as I leave the living room for Rabat’s room. Rabat is sitting helplessly beside her bed, her head buried in the mattress and   sobbing quietly. I move close to her and sit on the bed, putting her head on my thighs and gently pat her back. I clean off fresh tears from my cheek, but not from my voice.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay’’ I say, in a broken and torn voice as I try to console her.
   Lost in thought myself, as I try to reminisce on the last moments with Hamid, his deep voice and loud laughter that woke me up that morning , the indifferent look on his face before he left the house, when he asked me to look over mother and Rabat till he returns. I thought it was one of those days when he takes to the street to back late in the night when everyone would have gone to bed, we would only wake up to see him getting ready to go out to the street, how I wish he never took to the street, joining the Taliban and forgetting the love and warmth that used to keep the family together.
                                                        *** 
        Kandahar is one of the most beautiful places in the country, but you can't see its beauty because of the blood on its streets and buildings. Its people are respectful and humble, but you can't see these on their sleeves when their hearts are full of vengeance and desperation. Hamid had become a Taliban, unlike us he was always outside fighting for the evacuation of the Americans from Kandahar. He had a better life before the invasion, working as a presenter at Radio Kabul. That was before Father’s death…murder. Father's death had brought out the anger in him and he had summoned everyone to defend their motherland even if it meant laying down their lives. Everyone thought he was going insane, so they never listened but the loss of friends and relatives made them rethink.
  One fateful day, they took to the streets. Most of them did not return back home. They became suicide bombers, laid down their lives for the survival of their families. Rabat had always said Hamid would do the same someday. No one agreed with her. See, Hamid loved life, he loved life before 9/11.


A month has gone since we lost Hamid. Everything has changed in the family. Mother has visited the psychiatric home on more than two occasions. Rabat has started spending more time outside the house and taken many characteristics of Hamid. I try to talk to her on several occasions. Every time I look into her eyes, she has a fire burning inside of it. These days, I look more into the eyes of mother, which has no light or fire, no spark nor life-her eyes have been clouded with silence-like a city without a soul. She quietly watches the day break out from the night and watches it go back to sleep, she shuts her starless eyes without a goodnight. Sometimes she bursts into sudden laughter and starts talking to her new friend, a portrait of Hamid. In that portrait, he is in his graduation gown, shinning his glittering white teeth. In that portrait, Hamid looks like he would reply mother someday with the way he looks so delighted in the picture.


Kandahar has been on the news all around the world. The sufferings of the people in it are stranger than fiction. Something has changed on the home front, Rabat is now frequently indoors. It gladdens my heart seeing her inside where I can watch over her, one of my many responsibilities since we lost Hamid. She is just nineteen and barely knows happiness, born into a city in chaos and a broken family trying to assemble the pieces that once made it whole. When away from mother’s room, I sit in my room looking through my photo album, reminiscing on the faces of departed friends. Here, memories make one sob. Sometimes I put pictures underneath my pillow, hoping to see the occupants somewhere in my dreams. I barely dream these days or maybe I just do not want to remember. Father said everyone has two dreams or more every night they sleep, but it's only the dullards who don't remember theirs. I push hard to remember my dreams, I guess I’m a dullard. 
It is the first day of the week and someone knocks on our door at dawn; brisk, sharp knocks.
  Two men are outside, two men in dark caftans. Their heads are shrouded in a veil. They smell like newly born babies-that smell of baby lotion.
‘Salaam alaikum’ says one, in a soft voice.
‘Salaam alaikum’, I reply, bowing without taking my eyes off them.
‘We seek Karim’, the other says, in a rather more confident tone and foreign accent
‘I am Karim, what can I do for you?’
‘We were friends of Hamid and he made us promise to give you this when he departs’ added the second one, stretching out his hand to give me a big brown envelope. I collect it rather hesitantly and quietly search its contents. I raise my head in surprise, they are gone. I look outside, but can only see the dark morning coming out brightly, slowly but with no traces of our guests. I run down the Bahlk Street, looking right and left, then towards the Mabbah groceries to the far right but I see no traces of them. I turn to go back home, holding the envelope close to my chest.
*** 
I run towards Rabat's room. Surprisingly, she is up already, reading. She tries to hide it but I snatch it from her, it’s The Holy Quran. She looks unfazed and determined about her new found faith. I stare at her helplessly and drop the brown envelope on her mattress, refusing to start an early morning quarrel.
‘See what they brought us’
‘Who?’ she asks in disbelief, upturning the envelope’s contents on her mattress
‘Some guys, said they were Hamid's friends and he made them promise to give us the money’
‘How much is it?’She asks, gaping
‘One million Afghanis’
 Silence
‘Where on earth did Hamid get that from?’ She breaks the short lived silence
‘I wouldn't know’ I reply, packing back the money into the envelope.
I leave for Mother's room and replay the story of the strangers bearing gifts. She stares at me, like the portrait of our western imposed president on the campaign billboard.
                                                 ***
We decide to leave Kandahar for the far North East in China .We spend the next couple of weeks packing our things, and helping mother with hers. Rabat has more bags, packing all her things with some of Hamids’ and Father, she just doesn’t want to leave anything behind, she would put the whole house in one of her big bags if possible. We leave behind memorabilia of our past happiness. We set for our journey in the morning of December-four, five weeks after we received the brown envelope. I leave Kandahar with an insane mother and a sister who has lost her soul. As the cab man drives through the streets of Kandahar, many things go through my mind. I hold close to my heart memories of the past. I can think of a beautiful future in China, I can forget about gun shots and grenades. I can forget about spending hours in the wardrobe, seeking solace in-between clothes, throwing myself on the bare floor, lost in hopeless thoughts.
‘Karim can be a stronger pillar’, I murmur to myself, ‘I can be the peace that everyone seeks in Kandahar, the tranquility that would descend when the western soldiers pack their bags.There are lots of military barricades on the road that slow down our journey. We are subjected to constant questionings, by foreign soldiers-asking us where we are coming from, where we are going to and the reason for our migration, checking all the contents of our bags, pockets and asking why mother wouldn’t reply their questions.
The Airport can now be seen from a distance, the booming sound of planes taking off from the airport coupled with the sight of planes disappearing into the thick cloud above could only add to our excitement. Rabat’s mouth widens, unable to hide her smile. She holds my hand tightly. Together we stare at mother, who is looking through the window, smiling sheepishly and waving at the campaign billboard of the President. I murmur deep within, ‘Goodbye Kandahar’.

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