Tag Archives: Clinton Durueke



‘I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know…’

The lyrics to this popular Christmas song arrested and pervaded the mind of Akinfemi Martins, a Nigerian lawyer based in America with his family as his ten-year old son softly hummed to it, and he could not help but think about certain obscure Christmas traditions. 

Why does Christmas have to white?

What’s wrong with a Black Christmas for a change?

For ages, Femi knew, the white man had always taken the lead, even on a festival as universal and diverse as Christmas. People anxiously desired a white Christmas with a white Santa and white snow flakes! Nobody cared about a Black Christmas (or Latino or Asian, to be fair), or even gave it consideration. He found it amusing because he believed the African man had achieved greater exploits than any Tom, Dick or Harry from Europe or the United States, and is therefore deserving more of praise and admiration in whatever manner.

Femi’s thought’s were cut short by the arrival of Boluwatife, his five year old son. His chubby figure was well accentuated by his tiny, innocent eyes. “Dad? When is Santa coming from the North Pole with his gifts? Christmas is about him, the elves and the gifts after all!

Being a devout Christian, Femi strongly believed that Christmas marks the birth of Jesus Christ, the Nazarene Messiah. His Nazarene Messiah. Still in shock, he was soon joined by his beautiful wife, Toke, who held a tray of Christmas crackers. 

Can you believe what our son just said?” He addressed her, barely amused.

Toke adjusted her front hair with her free hand. “What else could have attracted me here?”

This is why I love you, Femi thought. “If Christmas is indeed about Jesus, why then do these white folks want to make it about them? I mean why is a white man- pardon me- a white old man with a funny name and a protruding belly, handing out presents to people, especially children, on Jesus’ birthday? And nobody senses a pervert vibe? No offence Santa.” Or maybe a lot of it.

Looking at the shimmering Christmas tree beside the fireplace, Femi felts his wife’s soothing palm kiss his shoulder. His eyes drifted from the illuminated masterpiece to his wife, who had joined him on the couch. 

Even with all that, we both know Jesus highly recommended sharing. Personally, I don’t have a problem with the gifts; they represent charity. Rather, my issue lies with the person handing them out. A black Santa can make my little babies happy too. I mean, the bearded dude is practically black by nature. According to these white folks, black screams deviance, so how does it become a pleasant ‘surprise’ when an old white man breaks and enters houses at night through a chimney and not the front door?

Nostalgia suddenly rumbled within Femi. “We did this years ago in Criminal Law, didn’t we?Constructive burglary?

Feigning indifference, Toke folded her arms comically. “Äkinfemi Martins. Forever the show-off smartass.”

Like you haven’t schooled me multiple times.” Femi replied, his hands tenderly greeting his wife’s make-up-free face. “And I trust my African people, the anointing oil gets unleashed once Santa shows his face.

“I can almost imagine my uncle Josiah engaged in one of his fire prayer sessions.”

Femi smiled wistfully. “God bless his soul.”

The prevous Christmas turned out to be his last. At least, everyone took solace in the fact that it was very memorable, after he succumbed to a heart attack in July.

Even with all said and done, I also need to understand the ideology behind the disparity as to animals killed during festive periods. Rams are killed during Muslim festivals, turkeys during Thanksgiving and then the awardwinning Christmas chicken. Why do animals have to dread such joyous moments while we humans celebrate? Or could the right question be, why isn’t there a uniform sacrificial lamb for all seasons?

Even as Toke struggled to hold back her laughter, she could not play down the possibility of her chat ending anytime soon.

Christmas, the time of the year when families gather to be jolly, merry and ho ho ho, what beautiful moments are shared. Yet, I do not understand why families strive to leave their fatherland for the white man’s land. What’s so wrong with families converging here and celebrating Christmas in Africa? Nigeria, to be precise? What’s wrong with a black Christmas in a black man’s land with his black family?  Why can’t there be dreams of a black Christmas? 

Written by Olamide Davis and Clinton Durueke

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Posted by on December 27, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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Come, gently, come closer,

Face me squarely and be my muse.

My love for you is no longer news

Yea, it is the music of love-

That has prompted me here 

With my palette and gear.

I bury my brush in my palette, softly

And swing it to the canvas, swiftly 

And succinctly, I make beautiful strokes 

Impressing you, raising your hopes-

That the final work will astonish you 

Like a hoax.
But nay, I art a fraud,

Never having consulted art’s drawing board.

The price of apprenticeship, I can’t even afford

Cloaking these in lies, you took my word 

That I was a lord 

Lording it over this sacred art

Immortalizing nobles, ladies and dukes

Marking trifles that resemble their looks.
Nay still, I shall not undeceive you 

Rather, stay still and keep that smile;

Feel at home- my studio, your castle

Have faith as my strokes pile.

Until you tangle me in truth’s lasso,

I remain your Pablo Picasso.

Written by Clinton Durueke


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PS: this is not a Blog ad for the soft drink ‘Mountain Dew’. Now we’re not saying we wouldn’t market the drink (if you’re ready to pay we’ll advertise anything for you, even cannabis😉) but that is a story for another day.

The Blog team organizes in-house themed writing competitions, which we hope to expand to the general public this holiday season. This week’s theme happens to be ‘Mountain Dew’. Our top two entries were by the incredibly gifted Clinton Durueke and Miracle Eme of the Blog Team. First, we present Clinton’s perspective of the theme. Kindly join us again at exactly 4pm for Miracle’s original piece.


Where am I?

Lacking full consciousness and in the middle of nowhere, Kofi lacked the strength to answer his question, let alone move or open his eyes. But man, he could marry the aroma that filled the air at that moment. It reminded him of the beloved Ghanaian brand of Jollof rice, which the Nigerians on his Twitter timeline took pleasure in discrediting. Recently, one of them even stated that Ghana Jollof resembled a sacrifice to a certain Ifa priest. They would never understand.

The sacred ways seem gibberish to the uninitiated.

Having burst into a fit of laughter, Kofi’s nostrils picked up a sharp smell that could only be traced to…

Wo be ti piii
One corner one corner one corner

Eye payy

One corner one corner one corner

His eyes didn’t hesitate to come out of retirement. However, his head flew back down in shock, realizing that he was in the midst of leaves in what seemed to be…nowhere. A forest, maybe?

Soon, it became a question of whether to dwell on the pain or to check his phone or to retrace his steps on how in God’s earth he managed to wind up in a forest-like enclave.

A new threat arose when he felt foreign hands dig into his pocket. Kofi turned in shock, but all it revealed was another item on the list of bizzare occurrences for the day.

One Corner is your ringtone?” the ‘native doctor’ asked in the local Twi, laughing. He held Kofi’s Camon C9 upside down, putting in much effort to operate it.

“Where am I? Who are you? How did I get here?” A confused Kofi spoke in English, agitated to the marrow. He tried to move, but it was then he realized that he was strapped to the stump, sacrificial-style.

“The process is almost complete.” This time, someone else spoke. And in English. The Vader behind the voice jolted enough fear through Kofi to prevent him from checking out the new entrant.

So I’ve got a sorcerer and his apprentice. Great.

Kofi was trying to make sense of his situation, but the dew on the leaves around him was not helping matters. He was allergic to sharp-smelling leaves. It wouldn’t have taken long before he began sneezing.

The sorcerer edged towards Kofi, and Kofi witnessed a figure more primal and menacing than his uncle Kwadwo. And the figure, he finallllly discovered, was not a man.

You young people feel you can pollute the land with your useless partying and music. You chose the wrong place.

Sorry ma.

Kofi knew better than to utter his sarcastic reply. “Please, Great one. I know I’ve desecrated the land, but please let me go. I swear, I won’t do it again.”

Too late.” Her reply was rasp and quick. “Our dues must be paid to the mountain god Aafo. Now, take off your jacket.

Man’s not hot.

Are you deaf? Take off your jacket!

I said man’s not hot.

It took a few more seconds before Kofi realised that the apprentice had already cut him lose. Apparently, he was too awestruck by the menacing Ghanaian version of Madea to notice. 

Nice boobs though.

Young man, its like you want to speed up your death, yes?” The apprentice asked. “Take it off.”

Man’s can never be hot.

In reality, Kofi was down to nothing. Lazily, with every bit of apprehension in him, he took off his beloved denim jacket. But it wasn’t until the apprentice started taking off his shoes that he remembered a special but absurd package.

Maami?” he called out humbly. The sorceress’ expression was blank. “I have an offering to make. Something to appease Aafo.”

What would that be?

Smiling, he reached for his bag on the floor and brought out his half-finished bottle of Mountain Dew, from the previous night’s party. “This is the exact drink people offer as propitiation. The bottle is different.”

And you think I’m stupid?” The sorceress boomed out. Kofi was shook. In that moment of silence, Kofi heard footsteps. The footsteps only served as lightning for the thunder to follow.

Gunshots. The police. Skrra papapa!

Invigorated, Kofi ran his right leg into the sorceress’ chin and rammed the bottle of Dew into the apprentice’s nutsack, sending him to the ground. He got his shoes back on, grabbed his bag and his phone and broke into a run. He edged himself in the direction of the sirens cum gunshots, pumping with adrenaline. He paused to check his phone for the previous call. But more surprises.

I’ve been here for four days! And Mum has been calling!

Blinded by his new resolve, Kofi didn’t know when he stepped into an expanse of air that ran down the valley to the creek below.

Written by Clinton Durueke

Published by Great Opara

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Posted by on November 2, 2017 in From Us, Uncategorized


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It was a quiet, beautiful Lagos Saturday afternoon in the life of a certain bachelor. For this bachelor, everything was chilled. He was home alone with Hennessey and his Internet was rubbing shoulders with Barry Allen. He knew Lagos Saturdays were largely characterised by Owambe, but to him, Friday turn ups were enough. He couldn’t imagine himself slugging it out as a consultant for five hectic days, only to stress his anti-social self by attending weekend functions, where all he ever cared about was the Item 7 and how quickly to ex from the event after relishing to his fill. He was done feeding his guilt. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to genuinely care about someone’s happiness.

Not that he was a Punisherlevel sadist, anyway.

Speaking of food, Chuka realised that his beloved microwave had been beeping for seconds. He was there in a jiffy, and as fate would have it, his solitude was about to be terminated by the arrival of unexpected company. Cursing under his breath, he took out his meal and silently prayed that his Igbo mother hadn’t come to give him the ‘Marry fast and give me grandchildren!’ talk for the seventy-seventh time. Setting his package down, he strode to the door to uncover a figure that was not his mother. Or even female.

“Brooo!” escaped the lips of Chuka and his visitor in unison, as though the words had minds of theirs. That was followed by an informal handshake and a brotherly hug. Chuka did not waste time in letting his good old friend into his abode.

“Correct guy,” Chuka began as they made to sit, “The last recession didn’t smell you at all.”

 “Like it ever ended.  It’s doing my body work, but wounds heal.”

“They sure do. Time heals everything.”

If only Chuka had the faintest idea. There was nothing but a look of satisfaction plastered on their respective faces. Regardless of their current vastly different lives, they were fraternal brothers with so much in common, right from their undergraduate days in LASU. Despite the façade of manhood that now hovered around them, they could still see clearly their younger, early-twenties’ selves.

“How’s everything going for you?” Ovie asked. “I took a risk by coming sef, but it paid off.”

“A risk?” Chuka had returned with a glass for Ovie. “I’m always here on Saturdays. And some Sundays.” He set it down, sat back and looked forward. “Many Sundays.”

“And you’ll still think that your problems aren’t spiritual.”

Chuka sensed the sarcasm well. “Similar to my mum, you’re now seeing my unmarried status as a curse. What if this is actually God’s way of blessing me?”

Ovie couldn’t help but laugh heartily, setting down his drained glass in the process. “Be careful what you wish for, brother. And this was legit needed,” he said, referring to the glass he’d just consumed.

“Indeed. And you look like you’ve been somewhere today.”

Ovie exhaled, looking upward. “I was at a wedding. Everything was going well before my sidechick went to catch bouquet.” 

In an effort to subdue his shock and laughter, Chuka recounted the years his friend had been married: five. “A single guy is dying in the friendzone while his married friend is still balling like a bachelor. Life is too fair.”

“Very fair, man.” Ovie maintained his upward gaze. “I blame myself for letting things between me and Toke become so strained and bitter in such a short while.” Turning his gaze to his friend, he began again. “What about that Gladys babe you’ve been on to?”

Chuka exhaled. “She…well…” His hands were in the air before they fell. “She decided to become a nun. She left me for Jesus.”

Ovie did little to hide his utter shock. “What on Earth…do females in this day and age still do that? Why?” Rubbing his palm across his face, he shot his friend a sardonic smile. “Take heart and accept her higher calling. But I still don’t believe the girls of our age fancy convents.”

“Me too.”

“So that’s why you’ve been avoiding church.”

“What if that’s why? The heartbroken one that avoids church is better than the infidel that doesn’t.” Chuka shot Ovie a comical searing look afterwards. Ovie knew better than to take offence. His friend had left loose ends and he was more than determined to tie it up.

“Whose zone then are you dying in? And has it gotten so bad that you’re writing about it on your laptop?”

Chuka, for some inexplicable reason, had been oblivious of the laptop on his sofa for as long as he could remember. He ran his hand over his face. “Let’s just say I’m putting my hidden talent to good use. My mind has been nagging at me to write something about this IPOB issue. I couldn’t take it any longer.”

Ovie heaved a sigh. “Inasmuch as I’m entitled to stress over national integrity, your ‘muse’ is of much bigger concern to me right now.”

Nothing about Chuka could believe his friend at that moment. Keep it simple and short, he thought. “Co-worker. Turned me down thrice before telling me she was with someone else. And no, she’s not my muse.”

Their collective blank expressions received life when the doorbell rang again. Chuka remained on the floor a while longer, finally believing that this visitor couldn’t have been anyone else but his mother. 

And Ovie is here to aid her sermon. Perfect. 

Approaching the door, Chuka’s mind drifted to the foodstuffs his mother always brought for him, in an involuntary search for a bright side. Instantly, he found solace.

But the figure he unearthed gave him solace, much more than the foodstuffs could have done. And it shocked him a thousand times more than Ovie’s arrival did.

Solape? What are you…”

His co-worker could clearly see the shock that made him lose touch of his words. “I know I should have called, but I’m having a bad day and you were pretty close so…” She began silently, before handing expression duties to her eyes. Chuka got the message.

“You can come in, sure.” He said, stepping aside and feeling comfortable. No sooner had he braced to make the expected introductions than Solape suddenly froze before him, directly facing an upstanding Ovie.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” She let out slowly, in a gasp of horror. She began to shoot the duo equally brief but guilty scares, almost as though she had seen a ghost. As she edged towards the door, Chuka could make out “Why do you two have to know each other?” before she finally exited his apartment, so quick that it was hard to believe she ever arrived.

A wide range of possible explanations began to swirl in his head. However, he couldn’t make any sense out of it. All he really needed for clarity was a calm, simple sentence from Ovie.

“Remember the chick I just told you about?”
Written by Clinton Durueke

Published by Great Opara


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“You see, madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is is a little push!”- The Joker.

If you think this article is a joke rearing its green ahead around your screen, I suggest you close this web page with immediate effect. If you think it isn’t, then I wonder why you are not in an asylum right now. Nevertheless, I implore you….scratch that. I plead your indulgence to sit back and revel in the consequences of me giving my madness a little push.

Why so serious? Tell me, why are you so serious? Why are you still worrying about your GP? Why are you complaining about your monthly data balance that you renew four times within the same period? If you haven’t noticed, WhatsApp is no longer megabyte friendly thanks to the status feature. And your social media followers, why so serious? It’s not like you’ll add it to your CV when you’re done with this legal journey. It’s not as if you’ll even practice…okay, let me stop there. 

Nigerian Twitter savages, why so serious? Somebody cannot Tweet in peace again, for fear of being jammed by an unforeseen trailer. It’s not fair mehn. One should actually be able to sue these guys. Savagery can provoke suicide, literally. Sister reading this, why so serious? Why are you constantly stalking your boyfriend’s WhatsApp, Instagram, destiny and even Facebook that we left for our parents and razz people? He’s definitely cheating on you. Even if he wasn’t, you’d still go and be shouting Men are scum, all men are the same upandan. Have you tried all of them? Have you tried me? (I’ll most likely break your heart. Emulate Drake by not coming closer)

Lai Mohammed, why so serious? Economy, why so serious? You are so bad that we can’t even complain about you anymore. The plastic bottles of soft drinks that shouldn’t even go for more than fifty naira are now being sold for half the price. I almost fainted when I found out tbvh, and boom, that’s what Ozone expected me to enjoy not long ago. I should be cursing both them and the economy, but that would be so serious, as serious as the Nigerians who have been praying for a certain leader to come back/recover/step down/die for over a year. Why so serious

Lekki people, why so…I should probably cut the jokes here. But nah,…serious. What doesn’t kill you makes you stranger. Yes, stranger; the viral photo of a man smiling while waist-deep in flood. Y’all will see it and come back to say I’m mad. Smh. Still on Twitter savages, there’s a rare photo of a certain duck and a certain frog spotted cruising on the waters. You should check it out yourself, and be careful too. Someone can like to jam you for the simple reason of being online. And my Lekki people, don’t mind the Mainland people that have been mocking you. It’s inferiority complex.

Evans Vanishes’ should probably be the best Nigerian newspaper headline ever. I mean, why so serious? Speaking of vanishing, the annoying day-long rains seem to have vanished…or subsided, at the very least. They were so serious mehn. Funny enough, the day it began was the same day a certain lecturer made his way to an unsuspecting class, after a self-imposed hiatus. Why so serious?

Arts students, why so serious? All that beef on top a cancelled show? You should have been on their group chats on the night of The Event. I literally treaded their faculty with caution the week after. Man cannot be bludgeoned for sin he did not commit. Am I so serious right now? Maybe I am, maybe not. Even the Pat Tiri girls that purportedly did some underground work, they need medals in their lives for being so serious- if they were, that is.

Still on Law students (though this is general now), why so serious? See how y’all rushed out after the Kasunmu lecture for chow. One could think a band of monkeys was unleashed in Main Aud. No, Ade Ajayi auditorium. Or maybe just Main Auditorium. It will always remain so. Not that we were ever kidding ourselves, anyway. And SamAzing, all that seriousness on top whistleblowing? I hope you get paid though. If you know how to do something, never do it for free 😀 

In other news, Game of Thrones is finally back. So will the list of Eligible bachelors and spinsters in this prestigious faculty .
Written By Clinton Durueke

Published By Great Opara

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Posted by on July 28, 2017 in Uncategorized


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Blood on my pillow, I guess I fought in my dreams. Blood on my pillow, Nothing is what it seems.

Was I murdered in my sleep? Have I morphed into a ghost? Did the bullet sink deep, To send me to the Lord of hosts?

Reality is a phantasm Life is an apparition The truth becomes sarcasm And my enemies turn to derision

Blood on my pillow, Has my life come to an end? Liquid spills off the edge- Will another chance, my Creator lend?

My heart burns with regret As I gaze at my mortal host Russian Roulette and a bet Last night, my enemies had a toast

Blood on my pillow, I guess I fought in my dreams Irony of existence- Nothing is what it seems.

Written By Clinton Durueke


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