Nigeria Stories

Here are some street stories and stories from my school days

​THE FIGHT – SHAKARA OLOJE
The market was heaving that afternoon — the smell of roasted maize in the air, the chatter of bargaining voices rising and falling like waves. It was there, amidst the chaos of everyday commerce, that I witnessed a spectacle that could only be described as pure theatre: a fight — but not the kind that ends in bruises and black eyes. No, this was Shakara Oloje at its finest: a masterclass in bluffing, posturing, and saving face.

It all began over something completely trivial — a squabble about the price of tomatoes. First came the shouting, a ferocious exchange of insults so vibrant that even the goats tethered nearby seemed to perk up their ears in interest. Two market traders faced off, both of them veterans of many such battles. One was tall and wiry, a man whose cap was perched at a jaunty angle as though defying the world; the other was short, stout, and visibly brimming with a fiery determination not to be outdone.

Insults flew back and forth:
“You think you can cheat me, ehn? Oloshi!” (thief)
“Look at you — your face like spoilt yam!”

Within moments, a crowd gathered. Old women abandoned their heaps of plantains, street hawkers halted mid-sale, even the peanut sellers edged closer, craning their necks to see.

The shouting grew more animated, each man trying to outdo the other in bravado. But it was the shorter man who, sensing his disadvantage in stature, made the first bold move. He darted across to the adjacent shop, grabbed a long broom pole from a stack and, with a dramatic crack, snapped it in two across his knee. The crowd let out a collective “Ehn!”, thoroughly impressed by the theatrics.

Armed with half a broomstick, he returned to the standoff, brandishing it like a sword, jabbing it forward now and again but never quite making contact. Not to be upstaged, the tall man took two deliberate steps forward, bent down, and with exaggerated care drew a line in the sand between them.

“Cross this line if you’re truly a man!” he challenged, his voice carrying over the marketplace like a town crier’s announcement.

The shorter man, gripping his makeshift weapon, stared at the line… and stayed put.
The tension was palpable. Would he cross? Would he charge? Would broomsticks clash like swords?

Of course not.

Because this was Shakara — the ancient Yoruba art of fronting, bluffing, making a glorious fuss without actually intending to descend into real violence. It was all about pride, about saving face, about showing the world that you were not to be trifled with — without the messy business of getting hurt.

Had either of them actually struck the first blow (Ilògi), the situation would have shifted from performance to real danger. But they both understood the unspoken rules: shout as much as you like, gesture wildly if you must, but under no circumstances escalate.

Just as the scene threatened to spiral further, a wise old man from the crowd stepped forward — an elder whose greying beard lent him an air of authority. He spread his arms wide between them.
“Enough of this foolishness! Are you not ashamed, fighting in front of children?”
And just like that, the fire fizzled out. Both men, clearly relieved at having a dignified exit, retreated with grumbles and muttered threats under their breath.

But the drama was not yet quite finished.
The shopkeeper, whose broomstick had been dramatically sacrificed, marched up to the shorter man.
“You have broken my broom,” he announced, in a tone that left no room for argument. “Two thousand naira. No bargaining.”
Two thousand naira! For a battered old broomstick worth a fraction of that. But pride demanded payment. The shorter man, bristling with the need to maintain face, dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and slapped it firmly into the shopkeeper’s hand.
“Fine! Take your money!” he said, chest puffed out as though he had just paid for a chariot rather than a stick.
The crowd erupted into laughter and teasing as the two combatants slinked away, each convinced in his own heart that he had emerged victorious.


As calm returned to the market, the lesson lingered in the air. If only the street gangs of Britain could learn from Shakara: the art of making noise, saving pride, and walking away with nothing more than bruised egos and intact bodies. A world where battles were fought not with knives or fists, but with words, bluffs, and lines drawn in the sand.
Now that would be something worth shouting about.

SCHOOL STORIES ABOUT MISCHIEVOUSNESS 

Back in my school days, when I was about 13 or 14, disaster struck. Some of my classmates, in a fit of reckless excitement, managed to damage many desks while playing—probably testing the limits of wood and gravity while inventing a new sport that combined gymnastics, wrestling and pure mischief.

The next day, the headmaster stormed into the classroom like a general marching into battle. His eyes swept over us, searching for the guilty ones. But the class sat in perfect, disciplined silence. No one dared to confess. You could hear the sound of a mosquito cough, whispering its own judgement.


Then, the headmaster’s gaze landed on me. He folded his arms and, with a knowing look, said, “Donald, I know you do not lie. Tell me who did it.”
At that moment, my heart pounded. I could have easily named names, pointed fingers, and walked away blameless. But I also knew the weight of betrayal. My classmates sat stiffly, their eyes begging for my silence.
So, taking a deep breath, I did the only thing my conscience allowed.
“It was me,” I said.


A murmur rippled through the class. My friends shifted uncomfortably. The real culprits looked at the floor, guilt creeping into their faces.
The headmaster nodded slowly, suppressing a smile. “Very well, since you are responsible, you will water the football field.”
Water the entire football field.
With a single watering can.
Under the unforgiving sun.


I walked out like a condemned man heading to his fate. The watering can in my hand felt heavier than it should have, the vastness of the field stretching before me like an endless desert. I tilted the can, watching the water trickle out—one agonising drop at a time.
But then, something unexpected happened.
First, one classmate arrived, carrying a bucket. Then another, dragging a jerrycan. Then more and more, until the entire class stood by my side, helping me carry out my punishment. Even those responsible for the broken desks joined in, their faces red with guilt.


The headmaster stood at a distance, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. A small chuckle escaped his lips. He had known all along.
By the time we were done, the field was flooded. Grass that had been dry for months suddenly found itself replenished and green again.


But more importantly, that day, I learned something: Sometimes, honour is not in pointing fingers but in standing firm—and sometimes, even the guilty will find their conscience when they see someone else suffering for their crime.

MR COCKEREL

I woke up this morning to a cool morning breeze with a pleasant feeling about the world. It just shows how a gentle touch from nature can make one feel good about life. Am awake and ready to go with a feeling of hopefulness with my landlord revving his car waiting for his family to join him. He is a member of the Jehova Witness and Saturday is their days of preaching. My landlord is a very small squat of a man. He is the chattering type who will say things to make himself seem important. He will chat to anyone, man or woman even passersby. Most of what he says are lies; the trouble with people that tell lots of lies is that they forget their lies. He will tell you the same stories ten times and each time the story will be different from the previous.
​In the compound the chickens are busy doing their thing. As usual I was up very early in the morning and the first thing that I saw was a young cockerel, it walked right in front of me and I heard myself say good morning Mr Chicken then I smiled wryly to myself. The morning was so fresh and good it made one feel as if anything was possible as it turned out anything was possible I said good morning to the cockerel.
Above the birds are chirping away as they perch on trees tops, Some of these birds are big but most of them are small. Some are so small you can only identify them by following the lovely sounds that they make. The compound is an average about one plot of land with trees plantain and banana trees dotted around. The compound is quiet most of the time which suited me except occasions when the children will come out to play.

The truth is that Nigeria is a zoo

"Nigeria is not a zoo, says the Daily Post.
There might be some issues, same as many countries worldwide, but Africa’s biggest nation is strong, united, forging ahead and will never break".  Daily post 

This is over stated if ever there was one in my opinion.

The truth is that Nigeria is a zoo but unlike a well run zoo where the animals are well catered for, in Nigeria the animals are the people are left to their own devices. The government does not give a dam or cares about them. Nigeria is not like any other country, it is corrupt like no other. The leaders have no shame or self esteem (self respect?) ,they don’t care that the head of governments around the world mock at them and they are always seen as laughing stuff. Nigeria, the supporters of the government are themselves corrupt they are not thinkers this is why they are given the positions.  They do not have pride in their country or in themselves. Their only motivation is how much can I steal because that’s what it is stealing, thieving while am in my current position. They say things like of course ,Nigeria is not where it should be. Authorities say that they are striving to ensure that the lives of all citizens get better. Who are they kidding the facts tell a different story. This is a country without amenities whatsoever. It calls itself giant of Africa but the truth is, it is just wishful thinking. The truth is that Nigeria is nowhere as a nation.
 
The country wants to be taken seriously, it wants to be one among equals and yet it has no electricity, no roads, no good hospitals or transport systems. Nigeria in fact has nothing to show for all the wealth it has created from the oil. When you arrive in other countries of the world, as wealthy as Nigeria, you can always tell how rich the country is by what you see as you enter the country but with Nigeria it it is the opposite, the country looks poor and uninviting. There is nothing to see, as we always say there is nothing to write home about.True thinkers, those who have pride in their country and themselves have all been sidelined. These honest men and women have no way of offering their integrity or services to their country. It is frustrating, sad and annoying the country is in such a state because of the greed of a few people.