NewStats: 3,265,441 , 8,186,755 topics. Date: Sunday, 15 June 2025 at 12:25 AM 3yb2r

harrison24:
Nice tread op. I want to ask some questions, can i pls pm you here or have an email i can write you. Thanks

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missimelda01:
I'm here to read comments

Welcome!

NYSC Diary Day 3: In Camp, You Meet People From Different Worlds

2:41 AM
Strange things are happening, good things are happening.

A flurry of movement wakes me. Today is the swearing in. I tap O., but he does not stir. I go alone to fetch my bath water. When I return, I go to bed again, but it’s hard to sleep. I drift in and out until I finally stand up some minutes before 5 am.


And then it begins.

A voice in the room says he has something to tell us. He says we should hear him out. Everyone is busy with preparation, but ears are cocked. And the voice gives his message: we should pray. Muslims in the room should please not take offence.

He is from NCCF, he says, and I think, “Wait, are NCCF people now in our room?”

NCCF is Nigerian Christian Corpers Fellow by the way.

He begins with a song of worship. We sing, cold mouths opening up heavily, slowly. He persists. Tells us to shout Halleluyah. Prayer is important, do we know? Giving thanks to God. We have not had any case of theft, shouldn’t we give thanks?

In the middle of this, I head to the bathroom so I can get a spot before it becomes crowded. I am wrong. In the end, I take my bath in a doorless bathroom, so much for keeping myself.

7:57 AM
Parade begins about this time. This is after morning devotion where brethren from fellowship bodies remind us of our duties to God, after the morning mediation titled Obedience. Parade today is a little humorous, never mind that today is the swearing in, that monumental event that will transition us from prospective corps to bonafide corps . Humorous, in that the new intakes keep mes the commands, being unused to the actions accompanying them.



“Stand attention!” and some people still have their hands by their sides rather than the back.

We are warned: this event will have dignitaries in attendance, we better not misbehave. Our conduct will determine the overall tone of the camp experience, either good or bad.

We are told how to dress: in our khakis, jungle boots, crested vest, everything, sans the jacket. No water bottles, no sunglasses, no waist pouches. Come the way you are.

We go over the commands again, march of the flag parade, g of the oath form, salute of the officials.

Hours later, we are dismissed for breakfast, and told to go prepare ahead for the swearing in.


10:55 AM
We are back on the parade ground for the official swearing in. We are all clad in khakis. My khaki smells like engine oil, but I am afraid to speak out. Finally I do, and B. confirms it. It’s the printing ink.

Let’s be honest, some people deserve tiri gbosas. The sun is hot enough, but some ladies are in full make-up and faux eyelashes. I’m pretty sure that by the end of the parade, such an affair will end in tears. All that makeup, all that sun. One thing must give way for another.



The parade is as you might expect: hot sun cooking us all, dignitaries ably represented by someone else. But there is more: people are fainting. It is expected, but it quickly goes beyond the expected and soon, Red Cross officials begin to dart across the camp to pick up people. It is a believable fainting, yet also so highly staged. At least that one I am sure of. A guy in the queue next to mine is tapping his knee and laughing, laughing, laughing. Two minutes later, Bros is on the ground yelling muscle pull.

One of the of the flag party faints on her way to sign the oath form with the Chief Judge. Entertainment is suspended because of the extreme weather. We become rowdy, mimic the Chief Judge’s pronunciations as we recite the oath after him. We are carefree, and there is hardly anything the soldiers can do to us but look on in horror.

11:46 AM
I return to bed to get some sleep. I am extremely exhausted. Since I got here, I sometimes catch my dozing on the parade grond. I fall into bed with relief and it welcomes me home.


2:50 PM
I slowly return to my default settings after sleep loosens me up. For a few minutes, I stare at people like I’m not sure what I am doing amongst these people. F. keeps asking if I’m alright.

Lunch is Jollof rice and boiled beef. The Jollof tastes like premature Jollof: concoction. And I think it still needs a tiny pinch of salt, but it tastes nice. And I devour it with gratitude.


4:15 PM
This may or may not be the beginning of good things, but I don’t know it yet.

We return to the parade ground where we are told that we are to abide strictly to the rules, now that we are bonafide corps . The camp commandant addresses us. “A lady was caught wearing bum shorts to Mammy Market yesterday night, where do you think you are?! If we get hold of you, you will be dealt with severely. Discipline is needed!”

In other words, we must always be dressed in whites. Rubber slippers will be confiscated. Phones must be silenced or switched off on the parade ground or it will be seized and returned when the camp ends. Do not smoke elsewhere but the smoking corner at Mammy market. Ladies, do not carry hairstyles that will be too much for you to handle. Do not wear shades unless they are recommended, and you must provide a paper to this end.

B. is a fellow platoon member, but so far, we have a connection. I know what you are thinking, but I have not found love yet. B. has a positive energy, one I really like. Since we line up according to platoons, I often find myself before or behind her. And we often talk about random things. But this evening, we roll different. I tell her about the

“Is Ashimolowo a bad bitch?”tweet I found once on Twitter, and that provokes a bout of laughter. Soon, everyone is a bad bitch. The soldier with his new fancy hat. Me when I decide to talk in defiance of orders. A fellow corps member in sunshades. Bad bitches everywhere.

But the most interesting part comes when a fellow platoon member is being bullied and called Bob (meaning Bobrisky) in a condescending manner. I know how this feels, and this manner of toxicity irks us to no end. We decide to fight for him/talk to him at the end of everything.

His name is G., and contrary to what we think, he is actually tough and able to defend himself. From him, I learn (again) that not obviously reacting to whatever people do to you will show them that you’re not bothered. It is different from taking offence which will show them that they are definitely hitting home with you.


And believe me, G. is full of life, full of light. He is the life of the party. And I like this kind of energy instantly. The field empties and we’re all still talking, happy, getting to know eachother. B, the girl I may or may not have a crush on wants me to meet her friend O. who is also my friend and bunk person. O. introduces us to R., and we introduce him to G. The atmosphere is full of all round love and we’re all kumbaya-ing when I realise that someone, we’re all connected and NYSC is the thing that brings that connection to life.

I that B. finished from Babcock. G., from Kwara State University. Me, from University of Ilorin. And I realise how true it is that NYSC is a place to meet different people from different schools and different worlds.

NYSC Diary Day 2: Shame Dies In Camp

3:16 AM
Someone taps me awake. It is A. When I open my eyes, the room is a flurry of activities: young men in various stages of UnCloth rushing to fetch water to bathe, young men already dres. I already fetched my water yesterday so I am spared the stress of queuing at the water tank. The cold is heavy, as usual. I pull out my bucket from under my bunk. I wake O. who sleeps in the bunk next to mine.

NYSC is the place where shame comes to die, so I am not surprised when I walk into naked young men bathing in the open and in the other bathroom without doors. Yesterday afternoon, in broad daylight, I saw a young man bathing in that doorless bathroom, naked, not even bothering that people would look. I swear, I’m not a prude, but it was a shock to me. Me that I’m keeping my body for my future love so that my in-laws will pay the full cost of my husband price. Last night, a guy bathed in front of our hostel. Right at the entrance o. In his defence sha, it was dark. But still.

After taking my bath, I dress up in new whites and wait.


5:11 AM
In other camps, the bugle sounds to indicate that Nigeria is awake, but I hear that things are not normal in this camp. Here, the bugle sounds, but I don’t even know. I expected something different—loud, jarring—but this bugle sounds like a bush baby, an egbere in training.

Soldiers come. We double up to the parade ground in darkness.

I find people from NCCF, singing and clapping. Muslims head to the mosque. The NCCF brother tells us to give thanks to God. God who helped us to be here. Many of our mates are dead, do we know? Many have extra year, are we aware? Even he, he had an extra year, but look at him today.

After this, he invites us to attend the NCCF. Have time for God. Don’t come to camp and forget the Lord. There are three religious bodies: the association for Muslims, the one for Catholics, and the one for all other church denominations.



We sing the national anthem, the NYSC anthem; we recite the pledge, and then listen to the morning mediation. More rules follow: Don’t shit in the open; don’t smoke in camp. If you are a smoker, there are places in the market you can smoke. Don’t drink alcohol (makes sense why alcohol is confiscated). Don’t steal. If you cannot do without stealing, you better control yourself (these are his exact words, believe me).

The drilling/marching session begins again. We re-learn how to remove head dress (face cap), how to give three hearty cheers to the ezeketive govanor of Borno state. We are prepared for the swearing in ceremony tomorrow. I get called onye ara because I am quick in putting on my cap. People are called witches and small witches and we’re told to stop thinking of our boyfriends and girlfriends. Nobody faints—a wonder, but one girl is taken out of camp because a soldier notices her eyes “turning”.

We are on the parade ground for hours that feel like years. I am about to die. 8:11 am, and the commandant finally asks us to go find Ngozi.

We disperse in search of her. My prayer is that Ngozi will never be found.

10:03 AM
I am back on the parade ground, forced to give up my breakfast of bread and tea and double up to the camp. What’s bread and tea, anyway? The bread is a small size, and the tea is like a small flood. But it’s hot. And Lipton. And sweet.



On the parade ground, the sun is already up, hot and bright. It almost feels like it’s afternoon. Drilling begins afresh. Instructions are yelled at us from all sides, and again I feel as though I want to die. The reason for this endless drill is this: tomorrow is our swearing in ceremony, the governor of Borno state and other dignitaries will be in attendance, so we must get all commands right.

We learn (again) how to stand at ease, how to bang our feet and stand still when we hear “attention!”A group of girls are handpicked and taken away. Later, I learn that they are being trained to welcome the dignitaries. All through the parade, I see them clapping and prancing. There are a few guys among them too.

We offend the soldier. He asks us all to sit on the ground. The sun’s intensity increases. The breakfast makes me sleepy, and while standing on the parade ground, I sometimes catch myself dozing, jerking awake when I am about to fall. We begin to grumble, but the soldiers are not having it. Bang your feet!, they yell. Stop saying ‘catch’, just hold your cap!

At about 12:00PM, we are allowed to go sit under the shade. A relief, one which is cut short when the parade resumes again and goes on and on and on until a soldier dismisses us at 1:15PM to go in search of a certain Salamotu. I’m so relieved I want to weep.

3:15 PM
I take my lunch at the kitchen. It’s rice and stew and a bit of meat. Tasty, although some people think otherwise. But it’s free food, so…

F. has devised a way to evade parade, and it is a technique that works. He changed into mufti and went to Mammy Market. This way, he’ll blend in with the hordes of new arrivals who haven’t completed their registration. Smart idea, but there won’t be new arrivals for long.

A. too has evaded parade. But his excuse is genuine: he is a pharmacist and this is a service needed in camp. O., my new friend is nowhere to be found. These people have betrayed me.

6:15 PM
The parade is finally over. For today, at least. Tomorrow is the swearing-in day, so by now everyone is rushing around to amend their kits to look nice for tomorrow. To amend your khaki costs N1,500 at Mammy Market. At the College Tailoring Unit, it costs N1,000. Ironing costs N200.



Mammy Market is not a place to be, if I am going to be honest. Yes, they have all you need, but then it costs too much. It is as though by charging you more, they are teaching you not to be careless in packing necessary items. A bucket costs N500. A cup costs N200. A small cooler costs N650. A metal spoon costs N50. A plastic take away plate costs N100. Every bottled drink is N150. POS withdrawal costs N70 per thousand naira. It looks small, yes, but a pinch here, a bite there, and there’s nothing left. Tell me, if five naira was withdrawn from your one million naira, would you still be called a millionaire?

You Know What Bissau Reminds Me of? Portugal



It’s worth mentioning that I’ve never been to Portugal, nor Europe for that matter. But I’ve read books, watched movies, and spent a considerable amount of time reading about the Schengen Visa.

So, why Portugal?

For starters, a lot of the buildings look like something you’d see while travelling across Europe, except this time, there’s a lot of dust and Jollof Rice. The Portuguese colonised this place for centuries.



Also, all the French I’ve been practising the past few weeks has gone to the gutters. Everyone here speaks Portuguese or something that loosely sounds like Portuguese.

Read the full gist and see more photos: https://jollofroad.zikoko.com/you-know-what-bissau-reminds-me-of-portugal/

NYSC Camp Diary: What To Expect When You’re Posted To Borno

Everyday by 12pm for the next 21 days, I’ll be telling you what life is like at NYSC Camp. I was posted to Borno State, but the camp holds in Katsina state due to Boko Haram insurgency in Borno.

DAY 1



6:35 AM
I wake up in an NYSC lodge in Katsina on the first day of camp. I’m not supposed to be here, that much I can tell. My memory is a bit foggy, but when it all returns, I how I got here. It starts with getting my posting on a Friday and seeing that I had been posted to Borno, which means I would be camping in Katsina since Borno is a no-go area. Then packing my things with a twinge of dread and excitement, blocking out all the varied reactions from friends, family and woes on what to expect. And then making the longest trip ever only to end up in the wrong place.

After arriving in Katsina, my friends and I picked up bikes to take us to NYSC camp. The bike men heard “NYSC” alone and brought us to the wrong place — this NYSC lodge where corps who have their primary place of assignment (PPA) in Katsina stay.

Just as the sun is beginning to light the skies, my friends and I head out of the Lodge to continue our journey.

Let me tell you about my friends. There’s F who was a course mate. We left Lagos together. Then there’s A, the third party we met during the course of the trip. He studied Pharmacy at Cyprus, and for me this is quite a wonder. A foreign-trained person going to the same NYSC with me? As we head out of the Lodge, A tells me he is going to camp to make money.

Me? I came to chop the life of my head, plis.

10:20 AM
It takes us four hours to eventually get to camp from the lodge. We first enter a cab driven by a Hausa man. What’s supposed to be a quiet journey becomes a tour of sorts. An Alhaji in the backseat points things out to us even though we don’t ask:

“Kano is the capital city.”

“Katsina is farther than Kano.”

“If you’re coming through Zaria, don’t trust those parts under the bridge that look dry, they actually contain water.”

After the cab drops us, we take motorcycles and arrive at the NYSC camp on them.

Katsina is cold. Too cold. Alhaji had warned us about this before we got off.



At the gate, NSCDC officials accost us. They ask us to open our bags, provide medical certificate, certificate and call up letter. They ask us to upend our bags so they can be sure we’re not carrying sharp objects, metal spoons, or other objects they perceive to be harmful.

Beside them are confiscated items: spoons, extension boxes, etc. I wonder if they will confiscate condoms too. After all, sex is not allowed on camp. But take your mind out of the gutter, please, I am not carrying condoms. My grandmother packed my bags.

When they are satisfied, I am asked to write my name in a book and allowed to go in. I wait for my friends who are still being checked. In the meantime, I decided to take photos of this diary. The soldier takes offense.

“Go inside!” he barks and I’m gone before he can say another word.

Look where friendship has gotten me.

12:00 AM
Registration: If you’re posted to Borno state, then it’s very likely that you’ll camp at the Peace and Disaster Management Centre, NSCDC, Barbar-Ruga road, Batsari, Katsina. This, to a large extent, is what will happen:

After the soldiers allow you in, you’ll meet two guys claiming they own a coverage business. They’ll tell you that they will take your pictures and videos of everything you do in camp from day 1 to the end, all for N1,000. If they notice a reluctance, they’ll tell you to pay half of the money; you can pay half later. They will ask for your number. Ignore them. That’s what I did. Because why pay a coverage business to follow you about, are you Kim Kardashian?

Here’s a picture of the things you can take to camp. Photocopies are essential, so you don’t enrich the hungry pockets of those people at Mammy Market.



When you get to the registration point, a soldier will give you two forms to fill. One is for bio data, the other is the oath form. After filling, you take it in to a man who asks for your certificate, call up letter, green card, NYSC ID card. He’ll stamp your call-up letter and direct you to another table. Here, your details are entered into a computer, and a printout is issued to you.

With this printout, you’re given an office file with a serial number on it. Assuming you are number 197, then you’ll fall under Platoon 7, according to the last digit of your serial number. There are 10 platoons. Now that you’re in Platoon 7, find the spot of Platoon 7 and submit originals of the documents requested: medical and school certificates, call up letter and green card, print out page, bio data and oath form.

Here, they’ll give you your kits (which will NEVER size you, my dear, forget that NYSC asked you for your size during registration), a handful of booklets (camp rules, etc) and your meal ticket which will serve you throughout your stay. Lose it, and Mammy Market traders will rejoice. A new customer. Relax though, a plate of white rice and meat is N300. Sharon, the sales girl, assures me it’s big meat, but maybe she does not understand big things, sha.

Before or after you open your bank , you’ll need to go to the block to get your mattress. It’s not a tug of war, but you’ll have to dig deep to find a good one. Most mattresses there are as flat as pancakes.



This is quite a process, and with the Harmattan, dust and sun, be prepared to look like an abandoned child by the end of it all.

But think about it: only you in Borno, no true love holding your hands, patting your back and saying “It’s gon’ be fine, love.” Are you not abandoned?

4:00PM
PARADE! This is shaping up to be my scariest moment on camp. One minute, I am looking peng, selfie-ing, and the next moment a soldier is yelling, “Double up!” and coming to our hostel with a kondo. Mans had to flee to the camp ground.



6:00 PM
Lowkey, there’s a little bit of ignoramus in everybody: After the soldiers explain what to do and dish out instructions (raise your left leg! Shout hurray! Don’t touch your cap! Stop saying Catch), many people still do the wrong thing. It becomes so bad, a guy is called out and told to keep shouting “Hurray.”

Fainting/falling down/collapsing is a sure way to escape marching: Now this requires tact to pull off, so you don’t jeopardize yourself. In the heat of the instructions, my dear, just give up like you are giving up on Nigeria. Drop. If you can fall on the person next to you, do it. If your wig can fall, do it.

Like that like that, you’ll be taken to Red Cross, pampered, like the queen/king that you are. Hold on a sec, in your fainting, don’t invalidate the true fainting of people who are truly weak and can’t cope. A friend who I met during registration fell down twice. A girl in my platoon fell down too. Another one gave up the struggle and went to beg soldiers. I considered fainting too, but before I could finish plotting/planning the logistics, the parade was dismissed.

Well, there’s always another day.

J111333:
The is that all cracked me up.

This is not exactly what most people have in mind when they hear "Guinea-Bissau". These are photos from the hotel we are staying at.

Read the journal: http:///2CenbjD

Does Anyone Go To Guinea-Bissau?

When we set out from Conakry on Saturday morning none of us could have anticipated that it’ll take us two days to get to Bissau. 2 days made up of 1 night of sleeping in the bus, going 48 hours without a proper meal and Black being ferried across a river.

When we finally got to Guinea-Bissau we all came to one conclusion – no one goes to Guinea Bissau. At least by road. In 2 days we met no one heading in the same direction as us until we got to the border. The poor road connections between every West African country after Ivory Coast is heartbreaking.

On our way to Bissau – the capital city, we all witnessed the president and his convoy of 13 cars and 2 trucks laden with heavily armed soldiers drive past us, on the poorly tarred road we were plying. A couple of miles back we had noticed a podium draped with the Guinea-Bissau flag and a huge crowd of people waiting for him. It’s re-election season here. I expect he’ll make an appearance make a ton of false promises and probably get re-elected despite the political scandals that have embroiled his term as president.

Here’s a quick summary of his gist:
– Was involved in the country’s 2012 coup
– Accused of being involved in the disappearance of 9.1 million Euros. Of course, he denied it and got elected as president.
– Woke up one morning and sacked the Prime Minister even though his term ended in June and he’s currently playing a figurehead role (whatever that means). Then named a new one even though the old one refused to step down.

Fun Fact: The official language spoken in Guinea-Bissau is Portuguese.

Read the full gist and see photos: https://www.zikoko.com/jollof-road/does-anyone-go-to-guinea-bissau/

Fidelismaria:
Dope

Love it

Is this an all expense paid trips by a major brand or is this from your pocket?

This trip is sponsored by Grow with Google, Leadway Assurance, Coke, GIGM and organized/brought to you by Zikoko mag.

anonimi:


Great idea.
Splendid fun.
Do you have one of the West Africa focused brands as a sponsor

This trip is sponsored by Grow with Google, Leadway Assurance, Coke, GIGM and organized/brought to you by Zikoko mag.

angelEmade:
guys will flood this thread

Hahaha. Let them come.

7 Countries In, Who Has The Best Jollof Yet?

The most recurring question we’ve gotten in the 42 days we’ve been on the road, has been so who has the best Jollof yet? This question is usually followed by a bold proclamation from the locals in whatever country we are in about how they have the best Jollof. And that, in turn, is immediately followed by Nigerian Jollof slander.

In all of the seven countries we’ve visited so far, one thing is clear, the only people who rate Nigerian Jollof are Nigerians. On everyone’s list, their country Jollof comes first followed grudgingly by the Jollof in some neighbouring country or very often Sene-Gambia Jollof. Of course, the disregard for Nigerian Jollof befuddles me. I mean have they had party Jollof? Or better still, burial Jollof? What’s the root of this slander? Envy? I asked everyone who had a beef with Nigerian Jollof what the exact problem was. And this is a comprehensive list of everything that’s apparently wrong with Nigerian Jollof according to Ghanaians, Togolese, Beninese, Ivorians, Liberians, Sierra Leoneans, Gambians, and Guineans.

- It’s too plain. How dare you serve rice and just chicken. No sauce, no vegetables, nothing! The travesty.
- It’s too salty.
- The rice grains are wrong how can you use parboiled rice when there’s perfumed rice or long-grained rice.
- It’s just tomato and rice nothing else. Who even does that. How dare you call that Jollof?
- You guys don’t even own Jollof what makes you think you can cook it well? Pfft.
- The only thing going on for it is the big chicken you guys like to put on top.

At the risk of losing my Nigerian citizenship, I’m inclined to agree with some of these points. I’m one of those people who really wouldn’t mind a bit of sweet corn or carrots in my Jollof rice. I’m not so far gone as to declare that any of the Jollof I’ve tasted is better than Nigerian Jollof but these have been my top 3 in no particular order.

See more: https://www.zikoko.com/jollof-road/7-countries-in-who-has-the-best-jollof-yet/

A friend told me she had tried to keep her wig on during sex. Of course, this didn’t work out. It came off, and he laughed it off but she was too embarrassed to stay the rest of the night.

I had a few other friends over and we got talking about the most embarrassing things that had happened to us during sex. I laughed, cried, and cringed. To make the story a little more diverse, I also put out a tweet asking people to slide into my DMs with their stories, and even after going through all the DMs I got twice, I still laugh until tears roll out my eyes when I read them. I’ve decided to share eight of the most embarrassing stories here.

So here’s what 8 women said about the most embarrassing thing to happen to them during sex:

1. I used toothpaste as lube

I’m still not sure how this happened, but this guy and I had checked into a hotel to, you know, do the do. I dry out quickly so I usually need quite a bit of lube. We turned out the lights and got to it. I picked up the lube, put some on my hand and started to rub it on his penis. I thinking it was thicker than usual. I got on top and started to slide in and at first, I was like, wait, why’s this thing tingly? Then it went from tingly to peppery and I thought, what the Bleep is happening? I ran to the bathroom and started splashing water on my poor vagina while he put the lights on. It turned out there was toothpaste right beside the lube and that’s what I had picked up.

2. My period started

My period was a week late and I thought it was skipping that month because it’s irregular. I also never get the warning cramps some people get when their period is about to start. Sha, I was having sex with my boyfriend and he was getting into it because I was wetter than usual. Me sef, I was wondering what was going on. I thought, last last I must be ovulating. He looked down at some point and told me he thinks my period has started. I almost died. I just want you to know that he actually wanted to continue.

3. I threw up on his penis

I had been seeing this guy for a little over a year. We often experimented with sex because I’m blessed with a high libido and I’m open to exploring. This one time, we got drunk. I had read somewhere about how I could manage my gag reflex and wanted to test my skills. This was after eating amala and egusi, by the way. I guess that combo did not go very well with gin. A few minutes into the job, I decided to deep throat. Let’s just say someone had to clean up a hot mess of amala and egusi gunk off his body because I vomited without remorse.

4. I farted

It has to be the time I farted. A little backstory so you understand how embarrassing this was for me; I find it hard farting in front of people, except in my sleep. I don’t know why the fart won’t come out as long as I’m not alone. Well, that may be a thing of my mind because I let out a very vile fart during doggy with a ‘friend with benefit’. I would have claimed it was that pussy fart thing if it wasn’t so smelly. I almost died from the smell. What made it more embarrassing was the fact that the boy said, “What the Bleep? Please get up” after I did it. Imagine you’ve been giving him hot and doing most of the work by riding in different ways: cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, even dropping down and getting your eagle on and when it’s time to reap the fruit of your labour by bending over for the doggy, that happened. I never saw him again after then, the embarrassment was too much.

5. It didn’t even happen

This was like second-hand embarrassment for me, but still, it was embarrassing. I had been flirting with this guy for weeks; we were in different states and he’d tell me about all the nasty things he’d do to me when he saw me. I’d send nudes, he’d send dick pics (decent size, by the way; I was excited). He finally came to Abuja and we agreed to meet up at his hotel. I was freshly waxed and wearing no underwear. I was ready. There was a lot of pre-intimacy, he was hard and I slipped on the condom for him. When it was time to slide in, he had gotten soft. I was like, ok maybe we need some more pre-intimacy. He got hard again, and when it was time to slide in, it was the same problem. We did this for three hours and tried different things, but he just couldn’t stay hard. He felt so bad about it I had to stay over and comfort him. I stopped picking his calls after that day though.

6. I left

I was about to do it once with a guy I thought I liked. I guess I was just Hot looking back. We started making out and when he flipped it out, I just stared for a minute like is that all. Then I stopped called an Uber and left. I guess it was more embarrassing for him than me, but I was embarrassed on his behalf too. I never spoke to him again. I couldn’t imagine ever taking small dick in my life I heard it makes people cranky.

Ladies and gentlemen, do you have any embarrassing sex stories you'd like to share?

See more: https://www.zikoko.com/her/what-she-said-8-womens-most-embarrassing-sex-stories/

The First Half Is Done, Here’s What The Second Should Look Like

I had a lot of time to think about the first half of Jollof Road while Dr Camara was replacing my second drip bag two days ago.

I’m going to try to summarise it in one breath:

Day one saw us leave Lagos for Benin Republic. By the end of day two, we’d already seen Dantokpa – a pretty large market if you ask me. By day four, we’d had enough of land people, and off we went to a Lake Village. Snakes? We carried them like pets.

That’s one breath, but I’m not done:

In less than a week, we entered our next country – Benin’s more agile sibling – Togo. The first thing that hits you here is that their port works without causing traffic, even though they do more than Nigeria’s port. What we started with voodoo in Benin, we finished at the Voodoo Market in Lome.

At this point, what was the toughest part to navigate? French. Tosin is the blessing.

Ghana was a vibe, and as we left the country on our 16th day on the road, we knew for sure that it’d be one we’d be returning sometime in the future.

Day 17, and we were back on the French groove. This time, I wasn’t taking a backseat. J’aime Abidjan.

Perhaps, no night was more memorable for any of us than the night we had a taste Baba Muhammad’s Pasta, or when I met Ahmed.

A random weeknight, few weeks ago — well, not random. Our #JollofRoad itinerary said we had to be in Abidjan that night, and that's where we were.
There's this slapping food place — it's like Mai Shayii, but replace the noodles with spag, and the tea with cold coke. The food slapped, but the smell of the gutter was slapping Toke harder. I didn't even notice the smell, neither did Kayode. Tosin could manage. Anyway, the search for plate to bring back Spag for Toke led me to this guy. Ahmed.
I dunno if there's a word for it, but I call it Language Roulette. It's this thing where I'm speaking whatever French I have, and the French person is throwing back whatever English they have.
I asked for his name, it's Ahmed — everything sounds better to a person when you address them by their name.
In between our broken everything, I told him I'm Nigerian, he told me he's Senegalese. I told him how I ended up on this backstreet in Abidjan. "I studying Physics for a year in Senegal," his English was better than my French. "Then I leave school." Why? Money. Money is why he didn't get that degree. We talked about force and pressure and temperature and physics things, and by the turn of the minute, I knew he was running low on English.
He had a ring on. "Her name is Soda." Then I did that gesture of rocking a baby to sleep. "Ah, Thiane." I loved how he said their names so much that I wrote them immediately.
I enjoyed talking to him, but I went there for plates. I asked him if he knew where I could buy since he doesn't sell. "Don't worry, you can have mine." "Thank you, Ahmed. I won't forget this." He just smiled. I asked him if I could take a picture of him to show my friends and tell them about his gesture. He politely declined.
The only barrier between us was a burglaryproof gate, the type you'd see in neighbourhood shops. "How about a photo of our hands?" He liked that. So we shook, and I took a photo. And this happened. "Wait wait," he said as I started pulling my hand away. Then he pulled out his phone, and took his. "Bon nuit," I said. "Goodnight," he laughed.

By the morning of the 23rd day, we made our first attempt to enter Liberia. We failed. The next day, we tried again, ing through treacherous roads, then making it into Liberia. We didn’t reach Monrovia until the next night.

Liberia is mud country, but Liberians have my heart. On our 30th day on the road, we met Surfers in Robertsport. Love those kids from my heart.

What’s the first thing I learned on our 31st day on the road? Everyone in Sierra Leone calls Nigeria big brother. The history is deep.

The last thing we learned when we were leaving on day 37? The best Cassava Bread can only be found in Waterloo.

And just as Guinea Fever was kicking in, Toke and I fell sick.

But it’s Day 41 today, and we’re pushing.

What does the second half look like?

Read more: https://www.zikoko.com/jollof-road/the-first-half-is-done-heres-what-the-second-should-look-like/

In Côte d’Ivoire, we met a fan of DJ Arafat who quit his job to keep the singer's memory alive


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDRE0wH0LQ0

mumu9gerian:
pls we need more videos and pictures, I think a lot more people might be interested in such travels and tours, It could be made bigger you know.

Read the full daily journals on www.jollofroad.com

There are also more photos and videos there.

tot:


So this is not just a Nigerian thing. Africa my Africa... smh

Na so we see am o

Question and Answer Sesh About Jollof Road on Day 40

On day 40 of 80 in our 7th of 14 countries, we decided to do a little AMA. We put up the same question across all of our social medium platforms – ask us anything. And these were the questions we got.

Which has been the best country and which has been the worst so far?

Toke: Ghana and Ivory Coast have been the best. I bitched a little about Ivory Coast a little on our first day there, but I ended up falling in love with it. Ivorians are not as warm and welcoming as Ghanaians who have been the warmest and most welcoming people to me so far. Worst has to be Guinea. Except for Buba who has been the loveliest host, I just don’t have that many pleasant things to say about Guinea.

Fu’ad: Liberia has been the best for me. Liberians feel like my own people. Least favorite country will be Guinea. That’s because their soldiers at checkpoint are entitled extortionists.

Tosin: Best, Ghana or Liberia Worst, Guinea

Kayode: Best Ghana. Worst Guinea. Ghana is pure vibes; a vibe I want to wake up to everyday. Guinea is well not much of a vibe, It’s a stiff place with terrible law officers. Ironically the people are really good and friendly.

See more: https://www.zikoko.com/jollof-road/question-and-answer-sesh-about-jollof-road-on-day-40/

sharone21:

Question: Please, how much did you pay to cross the Nigerian Benin border? The last time it was N5000 for a normal N1000 cross.

We paid N24,000 to cross the border with Black, our GIGM bus. GIGM already got laissez ez for the bus which made it cheaper. The real price should be around N40,000 if we were getting laissez es ourselves. But if you mean to get port stamped, for virgin port it was N1000
For non virgins, it should be free. Most countries stamped for free, others requested for money. #JollofRoad

anonimi:


It will be nice to have this project transform into a regular road trip for anyone to sign up for.
Kudos.

We will certainly look into that.

Man down! Man down! Food Poisoning 1 Jollof Road 0

It’s day 39, one day short of 40 days on the road, and Toke and I are currently in the hospital. We are not dead, or dying. In fact, we are recovering, but somehow, all the risky food we’ve been eating and maybe some of the stress that comes with being on the road has finally caught up with us.



It’s interesting that in all this time that we’ve been on the road, we haven’t fallen sick. Does this somehow speak to our resilience as Nigerians? With the way we’ve been eating, we should have been down since day 3.

They have decided to keep me under observation; Toke gets discharged today. The big win in all of this, is the fact that we made sure to get travel insurance before we embarked on our trip. We got travel insurance from Leadway Assurance and importantly, it covers situations like this, sickness.

For now, we’ll focus on resting and getting back on our feet. Tomorrow, we move. You know what they say, we live to try another day.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bm0FLsF3kSs

See jollofroad.com for more

We made the FrontPage! Awesome!!!

Please be patient while we answer all pending questions. Please follow this thread for updates and see jollofroad.com for our full daily journals.

Thank you!

Day 37: What Do You Do When Everyone In A Country Wants Your Money?

The road from Freetown to the Guinean border is pleasantly tarred and bump-free. We all savoured the ride and got as much sleep as we could in preparation for Guinean roads. We had been warned by every Sierra Leonean we came across, that the roads were very bad. We didn’t want to think that they could be worse than what we experienced in Liberia.

When we got to the Sierra-Leone/Guinea border, we realised that both countries shared a single building as their border. This was the very first we were witnessing that kind of harmony. With every other country, you had to get out of your car to perform the routine of crossing the first border, get back into your car and drive a couple of kilometres before you were able to cross the next border. I assumed that the two countries sharing a building was to ease the immigration process but that was not the case.

We hadn’t come across any particularly anal officers in Sierra Leone until Mohammed. The process when stamping in or out of Sierra Leone was somewhat simple. You got your ports ed in a book that would be nowhere, five years from now. Then you got it stamped and ed again in another book — you know, just for the fun of it.

After we got our ports ed by a man in too tight carrot pants and sneakers instead of a uniform (who we assumed was an officer because he asked for our ports and sat in an office) we were accosted by Mohammed who is neither a customs or immigration officer. He told us he was a MINES officer and that he had to search our boxes to make sure we hadn’t smuggled diamonds out of Sierra Leone.

As we explained that we didn’t realise this was part of the process, his sidekick walked up to Fu’ad and asked us to just pay some money.

“That’s not going to happen,” we said to him and told Mohammed he was welcome to search the bus.

He walked out with us, but we didn’t realise he didn’t follow us all the way. When we returned to ask if there was any problem, he told us we had to bring our boxes into the building. Fu’ad explained that we were travellers packed for an 80-day trip. He tried to plead with him, but Mohammed’s facial expression didn’t change. He completely ignored Fu’ad. He had custody of our ports, so it was clear that we had two options: settle him or go get our boxes.

So we went to get them. He started with Fu’ad and made him empty his bag. He tried to make the process laborious, smugly dishing out orders with only a few words and lazy hand gestures. “Open that”, “move that”. When it was my turn, Kayode helped take everything out. He then instructed me to open every little purse and satchel. At that point, another immigration officer had gotten wind of the fact that we are being held hostage. She took our ports from him and stopped short of onishing him.

It’s not a good look in front of foreigners for her to question his authority. No longer in possession of our ports, Mohammed’s search lost its steam. He half-heartedly went through my second box and simply accepted when I told him it was all clothes. He barely went through any more bags or boxes. We returned our boxes and made way to the woman who had taken our ports to be stamped. She was complaining to a superior officer about Mohammed’s behaviour. She said it was a bad look for Salone.

See http://jollofroad.com for more.

ziziangel:
Detailed & Addictive Thread..

I'm surely learning new stuffs here

Glad you like it.