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For the love of Pomo, Dodo & The Risk of Burning a house…

Recently, I felt sorta sick or ‘strong’ in Christian parlance. While I haven’t taken-up a bed space in a clinic the symptoms were evident in my body functioning. Like many of you—or, unlike you. When I feel sick I indulge myself in little pleasures of life. The pleasures of life are only felt by the tongue…[I wonder why the craze for material possessions]. Noodles and Pomo, Fried Plantain [Dodo] and sauce, Okpa and cold garri, Banga and Eba, Ofe Onugbu and Fufu and the king of all meals, Ekuru. My stock of Pomo finished mid-week but my crave became heighten by the weekend. I visited the local market and got me some but that is where my agony began….  The Pomo got burnt after I was carried away by Twelve Years a Slave movie.

Burnt Cooker
Burnt Cooker
My Dogs Feasting on my pomo
My Dogs Feasting on my pomo

Last night I slept on a stomach filled with countless cubes of ChocoMilo and my dogs had a nice desert for the night. That put an end to my craving for noodles and pomo. One would have thought there were sympathetic spirits to my cause the next day but respite seems far away… Dodo was the next on my mind and Jango, the gateman, was kind enough to get me some plantain. Alas! the groundnut oil was adulterated with some % of water…so, the frying pan spewed out its content once it became hot. What a mess the kitchen is, I tried on red-oil [shebi oil na oil], I just must eat Dodo this afternoon… but before you could say Jack Robinson…I ate the unfried plantain like that and I am just on my way to my parents house to have a decent meal befitting the sick.

The pot is on fire!
The pot is on fire!
alchemist in the house
alchemist in the house

If you are out there reading this, please for the love of pomo and dodo and at a high risk of burning my apartment get me a wife.

Someone who can be conscious enough to remember what’s on fire while the family watches premiership matches, whose skills of frying dodo is second to none and who talks only when spoken to…

Friday Fictioneers


Copyright – Rich Voza
Copyright – Rich Voza

Dean is opinionated.

That’s the first point of conflict in our three-week old relationship.

It felt like heaven sharing those precious moments with him, but who doesn’t want to be respected for their worth?

To him, life is choosing between white and black. Either we agree on his points or we don’t.

If he were here on this solitary lawn, he would probably choose the between white and red. But then, there’s the blue.

Through summer’s peep, autumn fell in flecks of grey upon the meadows. I smelt the winds and knew where I belong.




We are again for the Fictioneers’ Cafe, many thanks to the good anchor Rochelle Wisoff Fields who makes it possible for our weekly gathering. Go here, to read more fictions

For the Love of Words


Let’s meet at the crossroad

Where sacrifices are offered in alphabets

Let’s capture whisper

And mooch out a syllable

Let’s sew syllables

In seamless similes

Let’s plough paragraphs

And pry on phrases

Let’s wring wordiness

For a punch of punctuation

Let’s clothe nouns in gerunds

Adorned in adjectives, flowery verse

Perfumed metaphors and chaperoned by prose

And, maybe, just maybe

We would understand the science of semantics