Month: July 2017


“Being spiritual is not an excuse for you to suspend your brain”.

-Sam Adeyemi




In the Nigerian chapter of Real Mothers of Whatsapp you only join its league of megabyte assassins when you have at least one child away from home. Once you exhibit the admission traits from the age of 40 years you become a real mother of whatsaap. We children overrate our parents’ introduction to social media. Will they be cool? Won’t they monitor our lives we have crafted free of their judgement? Like any group there would be extremists and cool folks. While some women will have difficulty identifying the app, installing or utilising it. Others will just pop up on your feed.

Instant messengers are the new servants of millennias. They deliver parcels of detached care. Whatsapp is Nigeria’s leading servant. Why? Real Mothers of Whatsapp are to thank. Brand loyalty is one of the things you learn as a child from your mother. The same detergent brand, seasoning cube, hospital, church, pasta company, hair stylist for many years or until an unreasonable price change. Real Mothers of Whatsapp will flood you with pictures, videos, broadcast messages, add you to religious groups with or without permission and so on. “It’s annoying” many youths have groaned. The other day I saw a meme on Instagram of a drawn sexual position captioned ‘my mood right now’ on a whatsapp status which was viewed by ‘Mom’. Talk about hilarious. That’s a mother who can utilise whatsapp, not every mom is like that.

One of the reasons I deleted my first whatsapp app was because of numerous broadcast messages from the religious groups my mother added me to. A Real Mother of Whatsapp will do that. I would turn on my data connection and see over 100 messages. Curious excitement would brighten my face. Who loves me? I would scream out loud. Until I would see messages insisting I rebroadcast or face the wrath of Jesus. Then there were those that broke bad news in Nigeria. The most hilarious ones were the health tips which whistled don’t eat this or that. If I wasn’t a well researched #fitfam I would be a starving pancreatic cancer patient.

I downloaded whatsapp again because I missed connecting with loved ones and friends. One of the things I missed about the old application was my mum’s morning prayers and jokes. It is annoying when we see spam broadcast messages from our mothers. These messages don’t matter. What matters is that their love and care curate helpful information from around the cold internet to warm our phones. Don’t wait till you are depressed before you appreciate their prayers or concern for your well being. Believe it or not a real mother of whatsapp isn’t using whatsapp because of you. They have friends, business associates and family to communicate with. They are rational individuals who would respect your expressed wishes. Except that mother runs on the Hardcore Package. In a world of detached care and onlookers a real mother of whatsapp would call you to find out why you haven’t read her messages.

Would you say your mother is a Real Mother of Whatsapp? Comment below to let me know.

Image source: Whatsapp



“What did you see?” The male staff from Works inquired.

“Well, we were all seated in front of Ralph, the conveyer. The wooden benches held by sitting metal skeletons had slightly dusty table tops attached to their backs. We leaned on them relaxed.

The class is cream coloured and spacious. With just six of the eight dirty white ceiling fans rotating fast. We did not fill up the empty class though. The white board hung on the wall opposite us. There were two white boards in the class. The second one was unhinged and leaned against the wall beside the other. Both boards had black, faded red marker scribbled all over them.” I answered

“I smelt the burning circuit first. Ralph was speaking on the use of description in prose fiction. I asked the lady beside me if she smelt anything. She said, “no”. I kept silent as the wide and tall lecture room was invaded with the pungent nose tickling smell ignored.

The first explosion sounded as I was stacking my A4 papers. It rocked the class and it’s fifteen louvres windows. Fumes of grey smoke emerged from below the white board. The socket beneath the board sparked out orange streaks and smoke. These little fireworks blackened the beige wall. We all panicked because the spark cracked louder. Below the dying firework laid the remains of the white socket, in fractured pieces. We all stood up”. I paused out of breath. Continuing my red full lips began moving.

I remember Yemi stated with gratitude, “Thank God, I didn’t plug my phone there.” We had to stop the literary interactive session. Then hurriedly we left the class through its open dusty white metal bar doors”. My narration ended as the bowed shiny bald head mimicked the slight shake of the scribbling pen of the man from Works. “Repairs would be carried out quickly by the Department of Works” the man dryly says.


Image sourice: Lukas Blazek