God As I Dey Talk To You Na Garri Remain For House Mp3 Download

While some people might be able to jet out of the country and cry on a luxurious holiday, or relocate to start a new life elsewhere, others may be confined to their little corner of the world, crying into a bowl of garri.

Kasparov tried to organise another world championship match under a different organisation, the World Chess Association (WCA), with Linares organiser Luis Rentero. Alexei Shirov and Kramnik played a candidates match to decide the challenger, which Shirov won in an upset. But when Rentero admitted that the funds required and promised had never materialised, the WCA collapsed. Yet another body stepped in, BrainGames.com, headed by Raymond Keene. After a match with Shirov could not be agreed by BrainGames.com and talks with Anand collapsed, a match was instead arranged against Kramnik.[79]

But before the gushing endorsement from the fuji maestro, a staccato of branding upgrades had been hitting the modest garri. It used to be that you could only find the thing in open markets, measured for sale with repurposed paint buckets. Thanks to handy, see-through bags, however, supermarkets soon began to carry it on their shelves, too.

The story of how he got to this point is a bit of a long story but the short version is that between 2010 and 2012, while studying at the Osun State University, Apoeso sourced and sold good quality garri to friends.

Skiribo was my friend and the first person that try to teach me how to steal garri at Ile Epo market where they nearly catch me. As the whole market is making noise, he tell me that what oga look out for in tiff apprentice is agidi and obedience to the rules of tiffing.

I allow him to follow me because I think that if he follow me and he tell oga how good I do, I go become better apprentice. As we reach the trader, one fat woman, Skiribo pretend to be buying derica of rice. He has already tell me to steal anything from the shop, even if it is one cube of Maggi. But my tiff eyes was not on Maggi, but on her Ijebu garri. I imagine myself drinking the Ijebu garri with cold water after we have finish the mission.

Skiribo now move to the woman. He used style to tell me to stay at his back so that he will price with the woman. I shift my body forward. I wear oversized dansiki with big big pocket for front where I planned to keep some of the garri. As Skiribo is talking with the woman, I begin to codedly push the basin and I begin to feel the dry garri pouring straight inside my pocket. Bad luck catch me when one small girl see what I do and begin to scream a scream I have never in my life hear before. I imagine her olele dangling as she is screaming. Skiribo whose ears has quickly hear the alarm, and knowing that the market reserve jungle justice for tiff like us, run away, leaving me to my fate.

I had looked inside, but I see no special talent except for my fat tummy, which always come out from under my undersize polo. Or is it being someone that does not sleep deep? Or is it that I always bow down on the ground when I greet? No special talent, no uniqueness, nothing. I am just a 16-year-old boy orphan whose only relative kick out of their house in Lagos because I tell her how her husband is touching me.

No one will understand, not even Skiribo because to get a name is just easy for them. I wish someone will just name me, just like my father name me James, the name of his oyibo headteacher when he was in Standard 2.

The day I meet the oga who become the man I must look up to now as my father and leader was the day I learn some more rules. That day was a Tuesday.

He was a slim man, mid-thirty, but he command plenty respect. His office space was an abandon warehouse, near some paraga shops build in a popular big man area, roof-to-roof with aluminum sheet. He speak like he own my heart, and when he speak, another gang member will add word to whatever he say last.

I notice that the school principal is not careful with his BlackBerry, and this was why he become my target. Apart from coming every month to service his car, he sometimes drive in every week on Friday to chat with Alfa, and discuss my school plans with him. On this Friday, when he came and he and Alfa was busy talking about life and everything, I quietly sneak where he parked his car, behind the abandon house, and open the door, searching where he left his phone. After a few searches, I see it on the passenger seat, under a newspaper. I push it inside my boxer after I try to put it on but it did not on, so I know it is dead. The phone inside my boxers give me a mini hard-on, and I went back to working on the brake for another customer.

These are valid questions, especially if I were talking with young women who needed tips on how to jostle work and family. I often also find myself chirping in talks about having a supportive partner. But it was different this time. This journalist felt the priority was not what I had to say about my works, but my family.

The Igbo man climb the ceiling and hide. The wife say, when they come to the compound, the wife say he is not there then somebody outside the compound, one man say, ah, I saw this man just now now and the woman is telling us that he is not there. The next thing, they enter inside the house. They start to look on the ceiling. They saw a hole there. Some of them want to enter inside the hole. The man just bust the zinc and drop. When he drop down, he begin to dey run along the street. From there, they follow him and hit him with stick there. They hit him with stick at the head. He fall down and die.

Yes, after killing that man, I was standing there. I saw when they kill the man. Then I later go back to the house. From there, the killing is going on inside the town. For Doka there, inside Doka. They kill so many people and most of the Igbos, some of them Hausa hide them inside the compound, because I know many wey they hide. They [some of the Igbo people who hid] are still with us now.

Inside the box there is garri, tinned garri, tinned sugar dey. Matches dey. Small stuff dey. Very small like this. Beans dey. Rice dey. Cooked one. So if you want to eat the rice, you light the stove, you put the rice on top, the thing on top. If that fire of that stove off, that shows that the rice, e don done. When you throw away that stuff, there is so many of the stuff inside the carton.

Eh, we eat, when we see plantain, we do eat plantain, banana, garri, most of the Igbo, when we meet there, like that river, that Bakana, Degema, Buguma, Abonnema, there is no one of them inside their village. All of them enter inside the sea and go and hide themselves.

No, not difficult [to capture Port Harcourt] because we met a stronghold in Eneme. That is where we fight for complete a month with the Chinese people before we overpower them. Hence we overpower them, we enter Port Harcourt easy. I think from Eleme to Port Harcourt is twenty miles. No firing. Nothing. So when we enter Port Harcourt, we started to dey hear fire, when some houses inside Port Harcourt, e get some Biafran wey hide themselves inside. They go dey fire one, one, one, one in the night like that. One by one.

We have good ones. E get some, some of them good. They enter inside Igbo house, keep on looting, packing this and that, but we asked them say where are you taking this all to? Remember you are fighting oh. Where are you taking them?

He was frying garri. The Igbo man was hearing wetin I talk. The staff say make I enter the compound, I say no. That is not how they teach us. If you want to enter inside the compound, one man will enter, and another will stay outside. The Igbo man write am down. Then, after the staff enter, I brought a cigarette from inside my pocket.

Because they said if I move, they go fire me. I was told they are not Nigerian soldiers, so I stopped. They come and meet me. The next man wey he go talk to me na one Hausa man, one officer. A captain.

That was 1970. I say yes I want to marry her. I talk to her. She said I should follow her to her village. Around Febru- ah. Around March. War was over. Then I take her to the village. I talk to the father. He said no problem.

The yard was still; the dust had settled and the walls and the corrugated roofs of the houses nearby were now coated with a fresh reddish film. The neighborhood noise returned again, the melodious symphony of the voices of the young and the old, and clangs of objects. Someone was singing an Igbo song of praise in the compound next to mine, Mama Nkechi, her voice deep and quavering, as if the song rose from the pit of her stomach. I sat still on the edge of my seat, my stomach rumbling, wanting to tell Ngozi that I did not know what to do with this information, that I had never worried about what happened after death, where I would go afterward. All I ever longed for was to see her again. That was enough for me.

I froze on my seat, felt my pounding in my head that drowned out all sounds. Every nerve inside my body twisted into a painful knot and it suddenly hurt to breathe. I looked at Ngozi, but she stared blankly ahead. Her face had morphed into a wooden mask. Those pursed lips, the stubborn set of her jaw. Perhaps if my mother had not resumed talking, I would have thought this was all in my imagination.

A crowd began to gather. Mama Nkechi rushed into the yard, past us and into the house, clutching at her wrapper which was wound loosely wound around her waist. Other women soon followed, raising a cloud of dust in their haste.

When I completed my TB treatment and was fully recovered, I decided to become a volunteer and went every day to the DOTs centre to cultivate the garden. After some time I was asked to become a DOTs centre supporter and for the past two years I have been helping TB patients with periodical house-to-house visits, to ensure that they complete their treatment. I also educate family members and their communities on TB. 5376163bf9

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