story for the gods


The child is born, all neighbours on me, to my friend’s place in eight days for the naming and celebrations! Time whizzes by though, the child grows beard, lays opposite sex, bears children, and before we count seven to ten, he’s already old and ripe to die. There was a girl I knew back in secondary school, she never buttoned her topmost buttons, and even teachers would not say “cover it up” for inarguably, the sight was food for the soul. Her dorsal view too, like abstract honey borne of corporeal perfection was a geography every surveyor would be willing to review free of charge, but what happened to those features (that were) assuredly imagined naked by all male classmates after the girl died (during a holiday)? Story for the gods!

To rise in politics you grind foetus with soap, uses albinos’ heads for cream and hunchbacks for talismans sewn into your dresses, and at last you win and are adored by the people. So what? I ask you, do you not travel by car or by plane? Don’t they crash? The window between death and life is seconds. This morning, Honourable Gbadegesin was hale and hearty they would say, he didn’t look at all like someone who would die today, but now he’s dead, how unbelievable! Everybody is a prospective corpse do you understand? The mighty Professor, the unchallengeable Dr. (Mrs.) fating subjects as desired, the king, the slave and the loyal dogs; prospective corpses in fancy caskets! Sefinni!

The innocent sweetie stood by her mother at the cemetery and watched as they degraded the coffin into the grave.

“Mummy,” she whispered to her mum. “They’re lowering her into the hole. Is she going to wake up soon?”

“Yes darling,” replied her mum in ridges of sobs as she managed to sniff back her uninvited phlegm.

“When will she wake up?” asked the child concernedly.

“Soon darling, she’ll wake up soon.” She drew her closer and rubbed her hair absentmindedly.

“But why does she have to sleep out here? I’m getting scared mum! Why is everybody crying?”

“Come here sweetheart, they’re not cr—okay, look… she’s not coming back again, do you understand? She’s dead, and when someone is dead, no coming back. Now let’s go.”

“What do you mean she’s dead? Our teacher told us that old people die, not young people, and that sinners alone die, not nice people. Aunt Flora was very nice to me, she gave me cheese balls and biscuits every time she came to our house, how can she die?”

“Child,” she crouched to her face, “death knows no age. It has no respect for anyone. Flora is dead and that’s why everybody is crying. She’s not coming back, she’s gone.”

“Then…” she swallowed her saliva gently, “did our teacher lie to us then?”

“No, not completely.”

“What do you mean not completely?”

“Let’s go now dear, let’s go home, people are leaving already.”

They both looked up as thunders rumbled up above and a couple of striking silvers flashed in the sky, in long branches of threatening lines.

“I’m not leaving Aunt Flora here alone,” she began to cry. “She was beautiful. She even wore nice dresses and played with me many times. How can you leave her alone outside after putting her in that small box? It’s not fair mum, I want to play with Aunt Flora again, let’s take her to our house.”

“Ehn, stop it! Olohun maje! Oku oni wole temi loruko Jesu o. Oya, jialo, ojo ti su.”

She swept her off the ground and carried her against her chest. Aunt Flora has become oku niyen papapa, not even her parents would want her in their house again. It was over for her and that was the end.

Dear readers, sadly, it’s so scary to know that Aunt Flora did not expect it. She did not have an auto crash, neither was she poisoned. On the morning of that day, no prophet or seer saw a likeliness of her death as close as she was to them. In her evergreen beauty and flamboyant smile she was just receiving a call while charging as always and the phone just exploded in her face, turning a side of her face cum her left breast into some oily barbecue. When they took her body to the hospital after unapologetically intruding into her bodily privacy, she was put in a fridge among other once upon a time our friends, neighbors, colleagues, and so on. She had the greatest nipples any man would claim to have ever seen and her breasts were so full and upright you would want to use them as your phone wallpaper. But when she froze up there and looked pale on the morgue table, nobody noted how great her body was or how romantic her features were, she was just another dead body. Her eyes which were once appealing were shut. The left side of her face was burnt. Her flat sexy tummy was nothing but a cover for rotting intestines and nothing of note. And as beautiful as she was, nobody would want to mount her even on the promise of recompense. Her eyes were closed, and that was it, closed forever.

Any moment from now, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, it might even be ten years, fifty, sixty or seventy years from now, those lips you turned into a painter’s canvass, that body you care for so much you buy expensive body lotions, those boobs, that six packs, that huge monstrous cock every lady reveres, everything will be buried, buried forever, are you feeling me?

How it would’ve been better if we were born old, in goggles. We would just grow to muscular days of our youth, becoming attention of ladies. We would smoke weed, fight over women, explore life, abuse drugs, go to parties or probably be opposite of all these. Then we would become kids, hate going to school and not watching cartoons 24/7, play with sands, video games and care about nothing but food, and then become babies, cared for and breastfed. Then become foetuses, floating in our mothers’ wombs. Then when our parents have sex, the sperms will go into our fathers’ testicles and return to being cells, peacefully. Okay, fuck it! If not that, do you enjoy this current method? Do you enjoy dying? How could good people just die and gorgeous bodies rot wastefully away in the ground as the bad people and their bad minds? How could young people just die without having explored the world yet? The crazy teachers and the great good Santa Claus ending up as corpses, and both sharing the same fate. Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck the method! All our PhDs and Masters, our BScs and shits, ending up as dead men’s useless papers! I don’t know who to send my petition to. This is just another ranting; another story, another useless story for the gods.

-Lord eBay (and his thoughts)

6 Comments Add yours

  1. Oza says:


    I wish to know more about you… There is something about your name or your writing which attracts me the most, yes I am being honest 😛 will try to read all your posts 🙂


    Liked by 1 person

    1. Lord eBay says:

      Really? It’ll be my pleasure. I’d also love to know you more and will read your posts.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Oza says:

        Glad we feel the same 🙂
        My posts may not be many, as I am new to this.. But hopefully wil write more now on.. 🙂


      2. Lord eBay says:

        Good. Write. Write. Write. And I’ll surely read, read, and read. If you’d like to interact with me personally, follow me on twitter @eBayism
        I’ll be waiting.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Still, most of us, at least once in a lifetime, get suicidal thoughts .Then, isn’t it a good method?


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