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BamBam shares her heartbreaking experience: 'I was raped by an ex-boyfriend and a spiritual leader'

In the wake of the rape saga between Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo of  Commonwealth of Zion Assembly (COZA) and singer Timi Dakolo’s wife, Busola, Big Brother Naija star, BamBamhas revealed she was raped by an ex-boyfriend and a spiritual leader.

Read what she wrote on Twitter below.

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Genevieve Nnaji reacts: 'This is the alleged rapist, his name is Biodun Fatoyinbo'

Nollywood actress, Genevieve Nnaji has reacted to the ongoing rape saga between pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo of COZA and Bisola Dakolo, the wife of singer, Timi Dakolo.

Taking to her Instagram stories to react, the actress called the clergyman an 'alleged rapist.'

See her reaction below.




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Temporary Duty by Mike Schneider

No. 30 walked into the break room, drew a cup of coffee, sat down across the table from the room’s only other occupant.
    “How’s it going 45, where’s the Old Man sending you this week?”
    “Manila to cover a tsunami. I’m getting tired of these natural disasters. Too much work, too few troops.”
    “Too few is right. I had six capsized boatloads of Syrian refugees in the Mediterranean to contend with in one night, by myself, a couple weeks ago. I forget the exact number of drownings but the boats were grossly overloaded and only a half dozen survived. I’m hoping for something a little easier this week.”
    “Like what?”
    “Maybe the California wildfires, just a handful of people cashing out there, 20, perhaps 30, and generally well spaced. Important but not nearly as sad. They’ve had much better lives than those dodging bullets and living in the rat-infested rubble of the Syrian Civil War.”
    They were silent for a few minutes, 45 chewing on a chocolate doughnut from a box of Krispy-Kremes in the middle of the table, 30 looking off into the corner rather plaintively.
    “What you thinking about?” 45 asked.
    “About how much easier it was when the complement was still 5000. We were busy but we could get it done with relative ease. The Old Man cuts staffing by 60 percent and now it’s nearly impossible.”
    They stopped talking for a few more minutes while 45 enjoyed a second doughnut, glazed this time, and 30 fiddled with his cell phone.
    “Forty-five, what’s the worst case you’ve ever been assigned?”
    “I don’t know. The Titanic wasn’t the worst in terms of fatalities but it stands out as one of the most tragic. Fifteen hundred people died for nothing. It wasn’t in the original plan, then the Old Man got a wild hair up the ass and ‘Boom!’ iceberg.”
    “Yeah, that wasn’t good. How many more years do you have on this detail?”
    “Only one hundred and three. You?”
    “A hundred and five.”
    “I don’t know about you but half a millennium on this assignment is way more than enough for me.”
    “Same here buddy. It’s going to feel so good getting back to being just a regular angel again.”
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Fascination by Sharon Frame Gay

Nan and I sit at the kitchen table. Sunlight streams in through the window, etching the lines on her face. She pours coffee, cradles the cup in her hands and weeps.
    “He’s leaving me.” Nan tells me.
    “Oh God, no,” I say. “What the hell?”
    Nan reaches for a doughnut, takes a bite, slides it on to a plate. She holds one up for me. I shake my head.
    “He told me two days ago. Walked in the door after work, said we had to talk. After the kids went to bed, he told me he was moving out. Wants a divorce. Said he made up his mind. Just like that, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t even have a say in it. Poof.” Nan explodes her fingers apart like a bomb detonating. She looks at me, deep circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped.
    I rock my head from side to side. “The bastard.”
    Nan is my best friend. My heart hurts watching her crumble. I take a sip of coffee. Bitter runs down my throat.
    “It gets worse, Beth.” She sets her cup on the table, hard. “There’s someone else.”
    “Tell me.”
    “He told me he’s in love with her. They’ll start a new life together. Leave the area, begin again.”
    Now she gives in to sobs, slides her chair back, paces about the kitchen.
    “He doesn’t even care about the kids! He’ll leave them, too!”
    “Nan, what the hell are you going to do?” I follow her around as she wipes the counter, the stove top, rattles a pan, flops back on the chair.
    Nan stares out the window. She clutches at the edge of the table as though it’s a life raft.
    “I’ll move back home with Mom and Dad for a while.”
    I nod. That makes sense. Her family is well off. They own a house big enough for Nan and the kids. They live in a small city in Iowa, a town where crickets sing at night. One traffic light. A place to heal. I feel better, knowing her parents will surround her with love and protection from the coming storm.
    “You can start again too, you know,” I tell her, struggling to sound optimistic.
    Nan reaches for another doughnut, takes swift, angry bites. There’s powdered sugar around her lips, a clown mouth. I wonder if I should tell her. I decide to let it go.
    “Yeah, sure,” she says “ Crap, look at me! I never lost the baby weight from having the kids. I’m a mess. Nobody told me I had competition.”
    My mouth tightens with pity. I have seen Nan naked. We go to the gym together, spent hours in her swimming pool, swapped clothes in dressing rooms. Her belly sags, stretch marks marching across her abdomen like a picket fence. The babies sucked all the perkiness from her breasts. I have been the recipient of clothes she has outgrown. So many things that once belonged to her don’t fit anymore.
    She bows her head. Silver strands are laced in among brown ones. On the wall is their wedding picture. Even then there was a hint of sadness in her smile as if betrayal was baked into the crumbs of the cake as she lifts a piece to his mouth.
    “He’s going to walk out of my life, Beth. Just like that.”
    I reach over, smooth her hair. “No, Honey. I’m sure he’ll do right by you and the kids. And maybe things will work out, “ I say, thinking it never will.
    “That’s what he did to his first wife. Said goodbye and waltzed away. Shut the door. KaBoom.” Again, the exploding fingers. Nan wipes tears from her face, smearing the powdered sugar in a slash across her chin. “I guess I deserve this. After all, I was once the other woman myself.”
    My cup rattles as I set it down.
    “What?” is all I can say, jarred, confused. “He was married before? You never told me.”
    She shrugs. “We didn’t want anybody to know. I’m sorry I never told you, but we aren’t proud of it. We wanted a fresh start.”
    I stand, walk around the table, wrap Nan in my arms.
    “I have to go home.” I hold her a little tighter. “I’m here for you. Know that. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
    She nods, lifts her face to mine.
    “You know what really hurts?” Nan smoothes her wrinkled robe, fidgets with the button. Yesterday’s oatmeal crusts the corner of her sleeve. She looks older, defeated.
    “He told me she is ‘fascinating’. He finds her so damned fascinating.” Nan winces, words that pierce her heart. In a broken voice she whispers, “That’s what he used to say about me.”
    I am swollen with anger and righteousness. “That’s just cruel. So disrespectful. Why did he say something shitty like that?”
    She bursts into harsh sobs, throws her cup across the room. It shatters in a hundred pieces, coffee flooding the tile, a tsunami of despair. I try to help, slice my finger on a shard. Blood spatters on her robe, the floor, swirls with the coffee in patterns. She wraps my hand in a kitchen towel.
    “I’m so sorry” I whisper, eyes filled with tears.
     Nan and I sit on the floor in silence as the coffee laps at the hem of her pajama bottoms and cry together. There are no words.
    We mop it all up, then I walk home. Dinner will be late. I open the door and walk past the hallway mirror, willing myself not to look, a stranger in my own house.
#


    It’s past midnight, we’re in bed. Spent from lovemaking, my limbs are soft and yielding. Nipples still taut from his mouth, my chest flushed and rosy. I move over, yank the sheet up to my neck, stare at the wall.
     Luke lights a joint, takes a drag, passes it. I put it in my mouth, taste him, inhale, blow out with a sigh.
    “What’s wrong with you tonight?” he asks, stroking my thigh with his fingertips. We smell like one another, his sweat, my desire. It blends and tracks along the sheets.
    Peering up at him, I take another drag on the joint, hand it back roughly, almost burning his outstretched fingers. I don’t want it anymore.
    I glance around the room, see the moving cartons in the corner. Take a breath.
    “Well, for starters,” I say, “Why the hell did you tell her I was fascinating?”
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Seven by Shamar English

    I look deep into the mirror and see someone who looks exactly like me looking back at me. I don’t recognize that person. This person is a vessel for lust, so he subsides it with a plethora of masturbation, and pornography. It makes him feel filthier than dirty laundry.
    This person is envious. He roots for the failure of others around him. He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help himself. Old habits die hard especially when you’re caught in a storm of madness. 
    This person is a prisoner to the confinements of his own wrath, he drifts through life being passive aggressive. He wears bliss on his exterior and holds aversion in his interior. He drifts in misery and discontent because it is inescapable.
    This person is a gluttony. He eats like he has no bottom. He eats with stomachaches. He eats like there’s no tomorrow. He eats so no one else can quell their starvation. It’s one of the foulest abuses to convey upon his intestines and others. 
    He is a sloth. He is sloth. He doesn’t work, hibernates in the winter, fall, spring, and summer. The avoidances of living his life is his weakness. He’s invigorating, but always sleeping. The laziness is stitching into his spine.
    This person is drowning in the swamp of his pride. He rejects the avenues of helping hands. He rejects a generation of quality wisdom. He’s the greatest, his versatility extends to every activity. He murmurs it to himself every second. A schism exists between him and his heart, brain, and conscience.
    This person is avaricious. He’s greedy, but dirt poor. He still lives with his mother, spends the little bit of currency he has on clothes, shoes, electronics, and video games. He leaves her to pay all of the bills on her own and she’s on a fixed income. Like I said, this person in the mirror staring back at me looks like me, but it isn’t me. I don’t know who this person is wearing my face.
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The Drugs Were Too Good by Tom Ball

I told them to get off the drugs but 99.99@ were on them. There were no hospitals to help them get off the drugs, so I set up a rehab center but few managed to kick the drugs.
    We called the drugs “lotus” and most people just lay around all day enjoying the drugs.
    I tried to tell them that, “Life was not a joke,” but my sayings fell on deaf ears.
    Everyone seemed to be content and even very happy. The suicide rate was only 1@ per annum. Nobody did anything that wasn’t pleasurable.
    All drugs had been legal as far as anyone could remember at least.
    Clowns and jokers were everywhere and just carried on, laughing with the drugs. Actually, there were drugs for all possible mood combinations. There were more than 10,000 drug combos. And each had their own delicious taste. Different regions had their own specialties and so some people toured the world.
    This, with a population of 100 million on this planet.
    Everyone had their senses enhanced for more ecstasy. You could go through 100 enhancements over 100 years. But the 100-year-olds were often sick of this world and often died finally in a happy wake.
    And people would record their dreams on the various drugs and would trade dreams with others. The best dreamers were in demand and people enjoyed the Masters’ dreams.
    No need to eat, the drugs were all nutritious.
    Those who were older would all shake all the time from the drugs. Some tried to be graceful and danced while shaking. Most people would overdose frequently and often died. But nobody cared.
    I said, “Life is infinitely deep for cleverer people than they and I asked them why not try to be cleverer?”
    It was hopeless so finally I opted to go into space, which was very dangerous. But most people in space were also lotus eaters and were so easygoing and carefree.
    I wondered why I was different.
    And I had been brought up to believe that love existed, but I couldn’t seem to find it. The only women that would have anything to do with me were prostitutes. I convinced them to have sex with me the old-fashioned way and have old-fashioned babies.
    In space I raised my children to believe they were special, and that love was their destiny.
    I told them that space was for the taking.
    I taught them using ancient computers that weren’t used any more.
    And I just walked into the leadership that no one wanted, and I gave the people Virtual Reality and video games.
    And machines created art such as music and movies to entertain the people.
    But then there was a man who said he was the “New God.” And he would bring love to the people. I sussed him out; he was a charlatan. And I had him killed. People suspected I was behind the killing, but no one was saying anything.
    And one day after perusing through the ancient computers I discovered the formula for eternal youth. I announced it to everyone but only 10@ signed up for it, believing that life should be short.
    Only 1@ of the populace was able to get off the drugs and live immortally.
    I was now 130 years young and I said I still loved sex and alcohol. It was how I got my kicks.
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My Kind Of Town by Doug Hawley



“How are you doing Dimebag?”
    The clown expanded to twice his size and says in a James Earl Jones voice “I told you to call me Pennywhistle”.
    “Sorry Pennywhistle, I’ll try to remember.”
    “That’s quite the trick, mayor. I guess that it’s some clown secret how he changes like that.”
    “There’s even more to the story. There’s an urban legend that he shows up at 25 year intervals and leads kids into the sewers never to be seen again. There’s a bunch of teens that believe it and are trying to stop him. As if any of the stories were true. But there have been a lot of missing.” The mayor’s voice stopped suddenly and he looked momentarily concerned, but then brightened again.
    “Dick, I travel a lot. How easy is it to travel from Rock Castle?”
    “I’ve got some bad news there. The Bangor Airport disappears at random times and flights have to be rerouted to Boston. Quantum physicists have some crazy explanation, but I don’t understand it. Of course there was that time that we were trapped in an enclosure for a while with no way out. You probably heard about that.”
    “Right. I think that the Simpson’s did an episode based on your experience. Didn’t somebody write ‘The Dumb’ about it?”
    “I got to tell you that neither version flattered us much, but ‘The Dumb’ was a lot more accurate.”
    “How about the school system?”
    “More problems. The Prom Queen from a few years back, Sissy Spacey, went crazy when somebody shot her with rapid fire paintballs as she was crowned. She turned on all of the faucets and hoses telekinetically and flooded the place. Hoo-wee, the students all looked like drowned rats. The building was ruined and every time we tried to rebuild, the new place is flooded. We gave up and bus everybody to the next county over. I think that she got that way from her crazy religious mother. But, and this is a secret, her mother wasn’t as prudish as she claimed. I’m Sissy’s dad.”
    “Isn’t Sissy governor now?”
    “Yeah, it is almost as if she has mind control. She turned all the police into plumbers and all of the plumbers into police, and yet she always gets elected with 90% of the vote.”
    “How about parks?”
    “We were going to develop the Cockknocker property into a park, but it turned out that anybody that went there turned green and went crazy. They are politicians and mass marketers now. Something about a buried alien spaceship. One good thing about the radiation from the property is that nobody can use a cell phone here, so we missed the mass murders caused by faulty cell phones.”
    “What do people do around here?”
    “There used to be a big military base, but since their experiment unleashed monsters from another dimension, they’ve been shut down. At least that’s what we’ve been told. There was a laundry, but one of their machines went crazy and killed a bunch of people. The biggest store is “Things You Need”. Great bargains, but something always seems to go wrong with the sales. Other than that, it is mostly an artist colony, mainly writers.”
    “Well Mayor, the place sounds perfect for me.”
    “I’m sure that you will enjoy it Mr. King.”
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Killing the Clever by Tom Ball

I said to her that people as clever as me were being eliminated by the ruling tyrants. They were doing irreparable damage to the human brain trust. I was in hiding, I told her, and most of my friends had disappeared. I told her, “I didn’t want to toe the line.” And they had put us all on tranquilizers, so we went along with our Leader’s dictates. The tranquilizers caused one to drool and be sleepy all the time. The spies didn’t care if we lived or died, we were just a nuisance to them.
    They got into our minds with MRT (mind reading technology) and determined whether one was clever or not.
    I said there is no new science as the powers that be forbid it and there is no good, deep art either.
    I said geniuses had made all human achievements possible.
    But now there were no more geniuses. The Leaders admitted to killing “The greedy and selfish who wouldn’t blend in.”
    My test was tomorrow, and I knew I wouldn’t pass so I vowed to her that I would become an assassin.
    But she squealed on me to the authorities but I was hiding across the street and so they launched a man hunt.
    But I killed one of the testers and took an MRT machine.
    I just needed to wear headphones and keep the machine within 6 m (18') of me, the range to read minds.
    So, I snuck into the Leader’s palace and got in the Leader’s head through a wall. I controlled him and got him to do my bidding.
    Finally, the Leader announced he was stepping down and was passing the leadership to new blood, me. But he said the new leader would not be seen in public and there would be no coronation ceremony. Then I killed him by turning up the power and literally blowing his mind.
    But everyone was out to get me. I was paranoid.
    So, I never appeared in public, just on TV.
    I lived deep underground, 14 km down where I was safe from assassins.
    I had a loyal group of 35 bodyguards and I ruled from the comfort of my living room.
    Finally, there was war and 99@ of the people were killed. I had a dozen wives who had each 250 incubator children a year and so populated a new city of relatively clever youth.
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Good Writer, Bad Writer, A.D. 2151 by Tom Ball

I had been told I was clever and that, “I had thrown it all away.” I just got drunk and chased women. I was sure I had a lot of good conversations, but I couldn’t remember them.
    I was an identical twin. My twin brother drank in moderation and spent his days writing and had gotten kind of famous.
    The next thing I knew I was 55 with jaundice and overweight. My twin brother was fit and trim. But then when we were both 55, my brother suddenly died of a massive heart attack.
    This sobered me up and I began writing, not good things like my brother but rather horror stories. It is a world of horror I told everyone. But I couldn’t find a major publisher for my works.
    Then one day I was 65 and I gave up on writing and turned into an all out alcoholic. I had a woman from Philippines, but no kids...
    I felt like an alien in this world.
    And I thought about the Devil. He accounted for my selfish behavior, my madness, my chaotic behavior, my anger against the publishing world. And my excessive drinking.
    The dark side is mysterious and shadowy and deep. Real depth is to find yourself in a clever new situation. That’s the devil.
    There were protesters who protested the 80@ tax, and there was no middle class. The Leaders were 12 in number and were rich beyond belief. But I didn’t care as I had enough to live.
    The specter of death bothered me. I was clinging to life waiting for eternal youth to be discovered. I loved life more and more.
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Future Transsexuals by Tom Ball

 I was bored and so decided to change from a man into a woman. It was all fashion.
    I told people if you really were open-minded you would try it.
    The sex change was effective and gave you a new face which vaguely resembled your original one. And you could change back any time. But only 20@ changed back. Some kept a clone of the original in temporal stasis.
     However, I figured it was better to be a woman. And most sex changes (78@) were man to woman.
    Some could afford multiple sex-changed people. For example, 3 different women out of 1 man. And some had sex with the original (different sex), so in effect they were having sex with themselves.
    I was shy and coy with the boys.
    But one day an angry lesbian came to power and she surprised everyone by insisting that all humans become lesbians. Many were upset by this and there was war and the lesbian Leader was finally defeated.
    Many said we had gone too far and had lost our human nature.
    And some said we hadn’t gone far enough, i.e. we should create new sexes, multi-sexes. But the majority of transsexuals were strongly against this.
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The Secretary and the ABD by Anita G. Gorman

I’m just the Sociology Department secretary, so what do I know? Well, as it turns out, I know a thing or two.
    Claude H. Frackenburg was hired two years ago as an ABD. The department chair, Dr. Ernestine Goodenough, had a crush on Claude. At least that’s what I think. Not that I can tell that to anyone. I’m just the secretary. I could tell my friend Sadie over in English, but so what? Who cares? Well, I care, because I know that Claude is up to no good.
    ABD, in case you’re wondering, means All But Dissertation. It sounds like doing the dissertation is no big deal, but let me tell you it is. Since I work here at Ashleyville College in the great but small town of Ashleyville, Ohio, I have met lots of people who were working on their dissertations. I’ve even done some of the typing for a few of them. Let me tell you, those dissertations are usually long and involved, to say nothing of unreadable. But the thing is, you don’t just throw it together in a weekend. In my opinion ABD should be changed to ABARLD, All But a Really Long Dissertation. Heck, it even makes an acronym. ABARLD.
    OK, so Claude H. Frackenburg was hired on one condition: he had to complete his doctorate, meaning that pesky dissertation, in one year. That was two years ago.
    I’ve been around long enough to know you can check these things out. I have access to all those databases at the Ashleyville College Library. You can look up stuff like who has written a dissertation lately. Well, not just written the thing; it also has to be approved and filed and accompanied by a really spiffy abstract so curious readers have some inkling of what it was about.
    So when I have nothing much to do, I check stuff like that, and let me tell you, there is no Dr. Claude H. Frackenburg in the databases, no abstract written by our Claude. He remains, in fact, ABD, or ABARLD. I’m kind of proud of my new acronym.
    But here’s the thing that really made me annoyed, that forced me to do something. Just a few weeks ago the fall semester began. Dr. Goodenough reminded me to remind all the Sociology faculty that they had to update their web pages with their syllabi and recent accomplishments and course policies and office hours. They were also to remove political statements. Dr. Goodenough tries really hard to be fair to everyone, and I think that’s good. Those political statements can get people into trouble.
    I sprang into action and dutifully checked everyone’s web page. I got to Claude H. Frackenburg. There it was, at the top of the page: Claude H. Frackenburg, Ph.D. Below his name was a flowery description of our Claude’s recent work: “Dr. Frackenburg has done on-site investigations into the sociology of women’s hats of the 1930s and has researched with great thoroughness the implications of birth order among Alaskan youth.” I stopped reading. Dr. Frackenburg? When could Claude have become a doctor of anything?
    Dr. Goodenough walked by and saw me frowning at the computer screen. “Everything OK, Melissa?”
    I started at the sound of her voice. “Yes, Dr. Goodenough. I’m just going through the websites and taking notes. I see that a couple of faculty members didn’t list office hours for this semester, and one forgot to attach a syllabus.”
    “Thanks for taking care of this. You know you’re the one who really runs this department.”
    Dr. Goodenough was always complimenting me. But she wouldn’t be happy with me if she knew I was planning to expose her boyfriend. Boyfriend? I had no idea what these people did after hours, and I didn’t do any snooping in Ashleyville’s finest pubs. I did know, however, that our department chair liked Claude H. Frackenburg, ABD, ABARLD, and PPHD (Pretend PHD). What to do?
    I decided to be indirect. CHF, as I had started to think of him in my own little mind, was committing fraud, or so it seemed, but I didn’t think calling the Ashleyville Police Department was my first move. No, he just needed to know that someone was on to him.
    I decided to put a short letter in his mailbox, but I was afraid to do it with my office computer and my office printer. No, I did it at home with the shades drawn. I used a font I don’t normally use, not that I expected the APD to be checking my home office anytime soon.
    This is what I said. I kept it short and not so sweet. “Mr. Frackenburg, you should not be referring to yourself as Dr. Frackenburg on your web page. Cease and desist right away, or Dr. Goodenough will be informed of your fraud.”
    It was terse and to the point. Since I’m usually the first to arrive, I found it easy to place the letter in CHF’s mailbox. Then I waited.
    Nothing happened. His web page still referred to Dr. Frackenburg. The next day I placed another letter in his mailbox. Here is what I said: “Mr. Frackenburg, you must stop calling yourself Dr. Stop it! Finish your dissertation asap if you want to continue working here.”
    Later that afternoon I checked the webpage one more time. It was still there: Dr. Claude H. Frackenburg.
    On the third morning I tried again. This time I was more direct: “Mr. Frackenburg, take that Dr. from your name or face the consequences.” But as I placed the letter in CHF’s mailbox, a booming voice said, “So it’s you, Melissa. You’re the one who’s trying to destroy me!”
    I walked up to him and wagged my finger in front of his nose. “Listen, Mr. Frackenburg. . . .”
    “It’s Professor Frackenburg to you!”
    “Sure, Professor Frackenburg, but it’s not Dr. Frackenburg. Anyone who teaches here can be referred to as Professor, but only people who have successfully defended their dissertations can be called Doctor.”
    “And how do you know I haven’t?”
    “Because your name is not in the databases. I’m also wondering if you did papers on the sociology of women’s hats in the 1930s and birth order in Alaska. I’ll go check.”
    He sat down in the chair reserved for visitors. It seemed appropriate somehow. “How humiliating. To be done in by a mere secretary.”
    “What are you talking about, Claude?” Dr. Goodenough had arrived in the nick of time, as they say. I looked at Claude. He looked at me.
    “Well? I’m waiting. What has Melissa done?”
    Claude turned to Dr. Goodenough and attempted to give her one of his winning smiles.
    “Well?” Dr. Goodenough wasn’t smiling.
    “I put Dr. in front of my name on my webpage. Melissa discovered it.”
    “Oh, then you defended your dissertation, Claude,” the chair said with a smile.
    CHF looked at his shoes. “Well, not exactly.”
    Dr. Goodenough frowned. “Then why put Dr. in front of your name on our website?” It was no longer his page, but our website. That didn’t sound good for the professor.
    “I was hoping no one would notice. I can’t finish the dissertation. It’s just not in me.”
    “And what about your other research?”
    “What other research?”
    “You’ve talked about your work with the sociology of women’s hats in the 1930s and birth order among Alaskan children.”
    “Well, I made those up. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. They sounded rather preposterous.”
    “Oh, you think those topics are preposterous? Just go to a sociology conference. That’ll show you preposterous.”
    I got up from my desk. “Stay, Melissa,” Dr. Goodenough commanded. I sat down.
    “Well, Claude, I was going to give you an extension for the dissertation, but if you’re not interested in finishing and your other research is non-existent, then I think you can clean out your desk.”
    “But who will teach my classes?”
    “I’ll do it. Melissa does most of the work of the department chair anyway. Oh, do bring me your textbooks. I’ll need to do a bit of review before showing up for class.”
    I was pleased to hear that I did most of the chair’s work. But I don’t get even a fraction of her salary. That’s what my friend Sadie in English would call irony. What would she call what happened to Claude? Poetic justice.
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Alone by Rhiannon Bird

Lonely winds, busted windows
steady breaths, the only sound
Silent steps, flickering eyes
sound of creaking, standing frozen
Another creak, not alone
slowing moving, creeping forward
Heart beating, quietly hiding
hands shaking, eyes shut tight
Heavy steps, two sets of breaths
can’t be found, too much at stake
Hooded eyes, malicious grin
scanning room, finding nothing
Danger leaving, fear lingers
cautiously crawling, no more threat


No more risk, no more peril
dissertated town, alone once more
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A Victim of Democracy by Iftekhar Sayeed

After the 2001 elections, triumphant student leaders of the ruling party picked up 15-year-old Mahima and gang-raped her on February 13, 2002. The rapists also took photographs of the scenes and circulated them in public. On February 19, she committed suicide by taking pesticides. She received such treatment because her father and brother were opposition activists.
The Bangladesh Observer, 7th March, 2002


Thirteen, she dreamt of love among her chores;
Indifferent to politics, she had
Seen them excited on election day;
It would be years before she could marry
Or vote. She had no concept of the state
And civilisation; then the boys came
From the ruling party and taught her all
These things in one humiliating night.
Technology abetted lessons; her
Pictures spread through the village like a fire.
The Id unleashed through democratic rule,
She saw the face of evil, and His love;
When nation’s best minds turn away from Him,
What can a young girl do? They found her hanging, too.
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The Great Escape by David Rodriguez

Bobby didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he was gone. For good this time. He was tired of the toxic environment in his home, if you could even call it a home. His mother was a drug addict, his step father was as well. An endless march of strangers coming in and out of the house daily. Things went missing, he would get blamed, then came the beatings from his step dad. Bobby had enough. He had dreams. He had aspirations. He was going to move to the city, the biggest city he could think of, and become a career musician. He packed his guitar with a few belongings, and just like that he disappeared into the dark of the night. First stop, the train station. He walks up to the attendant, “One ticket to New York City please.” The attendant responds, “Sure thing, that’ll be $54.25.” Bobby had grossly underestimated the price of the train ticket. He reached deep in his pockets, hoping to pull out a miracle. No such luck. All he had was a $20 dollar bill, a pack of gum, four pennies, and a nickel. How in the world was he going to make it to New York City? Would he have to go back home? Perhaps plan his escape a little better? He decided no, his escape would not end this way. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Bobby sat on a nearby bench, pondering his next move. An older gentleman, maybe in his early 70’s, sat right next to him. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked. Bobby nodded in agreement. Bobby noticed the old man had nothing with him. No suitcase, no knapsack, no bag, nothing. There was an odd aura about him. Bobby couldn’t stop staring at him. There was a twinkle in his eye. Nothing scary about it, just odd. “Running away are you?” asked the old man. Bobby was surprised. How did he know? “Something like that” replied Bobby. Bobby was fidgeting in his seat. He did not want to be bothered, he was too busy thinking about his next move. The old man went on and on about his life, asking Bobby all types of questions. Finally, he got up and started to walk away. “Got to go, long drive ahead.” Without looking back, Bobby responded, “Have a safe trip to...wherever you’re going.” The old man responded, “The city that never sleeps.” Bobby’s eyes lit up, he turned around, but just like that the man was gone. Bobby ran out the door hoping to catch him before he left. No sign of him. Bobby felt as if he missed his opportunity. He was sure the old man would have given him a ride. Bobby walked away from the station, maybe a walk would help him mellow out and think straighter. Bobby walked for about a mile, and seemingly out of nowhere, a bright red pickup truck pulls to the side. Must’ve been from the 1950’s or something. Although it looked brand new. The passenger door swung open, it was the same old man from the station. “Need a ride?” asked the old man. Bobby, again, nodded in agreement. He was only 16 and about to take on the world. Afraid, but excited. He got in the truck and they drove off. As they approached the state line, Bobby saw the sign that read “Now leaving Tennessee”. Bobby had begun his journey. There was no turning back now. He couldn’t explain it, but for the first time ever, Bobby felt like he had made the best decision of his life. He was finally free.
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Akwa Ibom/Nigerian Blogger Weds In Los Angeles








The CEO of Akstrending weds his heart-throb in Los Angeles, USA.

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Hotel Woman by Corrina-Corinna

“Do we really need two beds?” Jade asked.
    The decor of the room was quite dated with its dull paint and kitschy art. The two beds had matching cheap thin polyester comforters. There was a fruity smell from Fernando’s vape.
    “It’s what I could get at short notice,” he said. “I hadn’t planned on coming down this way. Wasn’t my turn. Rich got hurt and Robert’s in Oklahoma. I volunteered.”
    “You been volunteering a lot lately,” she said.
    “The town is growing on me,” he said.
    Fernando smiled a tight-lipped smile. He his shaven face pronounced his mouth with their full, protruding lips much like a frog. His glasses added to the frog image by enlarging his eyes.
    “I got you a drink,” he said.
    Fernando padded across the room. He pulled out a large can of ale from a convenience store plastic bag. Jade reached out for her drink and opened it with a grin. A familiar snap and pop came from Fernando. She took a long-drawn drink and let out a sigh at the end. A loud burp escaped her chest and bellowed from her mouth. Her eyes widen and cheeks pinkened. She managed a huge smile and a girlish giggle.
    “It’s not bad manners, just good beer,” she said.
    Fernando smiled his tight-lipped frog smile. He relaxed his posture and hunched his shoulders. He laid on the bed with his I-Pad in hand. He sucked his vape and fixated on Jade. She turned her position and stared back. She avoided his eyes, instead, she sorted the details of his tattoos. There was no rhyme or reason to them. The styles were all different, each with their own story to tell.
    “How many tattoos do you have?” she asked.
    “Not sure. Stop counting a while back,” he said.
    “Never really looked at them ‘til now. Do they all mean something?”
    “Some do. Some don’t.”
    “Which was your first?”
    Fernando pulled up the sleeve that covered his upper right arm. A naked red head with green eyes stared back at Jade in a sensual pose. She was not very well drawn and a bit faded.
    “Got her when I was 15 after my first girlfriend broke my heart. Figured she would never leave me.”
    “She got a name?”
    “Jezebel.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, like in the song. Jezebel Eyes by the Dime Store Prophets.”
    “What about the three sparrows?”
    “My daughters. I have three.”
    Jade nodded. Fernando’s left arm looked as if a five-year-old had drawn all over it. The words One love lay in bold face letters amidst all the doodles on his left arm. She sucked in her breath and took another very long drink from her can. She pointed at his arm.
    “See, that is why I don’t mess around with married men anymore,” Jade said.
    Fernando’s head snapped up with widen eyes. He swallowed before he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out, not even the sound of hesitation. He sat up straight, his lips still parted allowing a glint of his teeth.
    “Don’t worry I’m not referring to what we have. We’re not in that type of relationship. If that’s the kind of label you gonna put on our arrangement,” she said.
    Fernando swallowed again and looked down at his I-Pad gliding his finger up as he sifted through his playlist. He stayed silent, as usual. Jade sat on the edge of the bed in the awkward silence. He pressed shuffle on his I-Pad and the song Hotel Woman filled the room.
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In Death I Dream of You Yet by Christian Fennell

See me dying, withered and decaying between crisp white sheets. I wait for the prick of the needle—it comes, the warm reprieve taking me again.
    I run. Dark and empty city streets. I stop, my heart pounding and resounding in my head, and I watch the thin pools of water gathered upon the road beginning to ripple. I look behind me, an immeasurable distance back to the birthplace of darkness itself.
    I turn to run again and a two-headed dog with massive jaws that foam and drip sinks both sets of jaws deep into my face. We fall to the cobblestone surface, my faceless head lulling forward. The dog takes it, the heads fighting to enter my red dark hole. They hollow me out. They rip and consume the skin from my bones and they eat the bones so that all remains of me is a scull dripping in blood from a scalp that is nothing more than a few splotches of dark hair.
    And now I see you, sitting at the end of our bed, wrapped in your heavy white bathrobe, your skin fresh and pink from a warm tub. And even with the stain of this life worn so heavy upon you, you are beautiful. Your blue eyes, long black hair, lips that crave red lipstick, still all shine, despite the fog that settles at the front of your brain, goes away, comes back and settles again.
    I wake in the dark, the room silent and heavy with the smell of my pending death.
    I open my eyes—where? I remember and close them again.
    Together on the porch stairs we lean back, the sun warming on our faces, and we watch our four young children walking down our long, shaded driveway. They walk and talk and play and stop to see the horses come to the post and rail fence to see them off. The horses’ tails flicking at flies, the school bus honking and waiting.
    We smoke and we talk and time passes in our words like a faint breeze across our world—a world that was ours for the making.
     You wore faded and ripped jeans and a white tank top and we laid back flat against the warm porch boards and made love in the sunlight.
    That night, you drank a bottle of red wine. You took another one with you, and you drove away. You drove down a dark country road. You drove onto an irrigated field of beans and you ran a jagged piece of green glass across your wrist. They said you wouldn’t make it. That’s what they said. But you did. You stayed.
    And now the children are here, standing before me, so beautiful, still and quiet, their sad young eyes filled with such fear and uncertainty.
    The needle comes and I go again.
    You wake from a late morning nap and walk to the chair by the small side window and sit looking out at a cool autumn day without sun. You watch for a while, crisp red-brown leaves whirling and tumbling down the vacant road. You look at me, and I can see it, the very same as if it were an object you held in your hands before me. Your wellness has surrendered, betraying you again, our hopes held tight beneath warm sheets in the night—gone, fallen away again. A pain harbored in a darkness so utterly whole, you know it must come from somewhere beyond yourself. It must. How can it not? And it won’t be put off, not by doctors, not meds, not me, not you, not by the letting of your own blood. It will come.
     You draw a warm tub and drink a glass of red wine. You lean your head back and cry, long and silent again. You put on your heavy white bathrobe and walk to our room and sit at the end of our bed.
    I dream that I wake and see you there and you are beautiful.
    We talk and we laugh, twenty years warmed by the sun breaking through the open window, and we stay like this—for a very long time. Somewhere in the house the kids yell and scream. One of us should go. Please, I hear myself saying, stay. The tears that come now are mine.
     I wake and think back to that day not long after we moved to this little house in town. I wasn’t sick yet. I went down into the basement. I can’t remember why. I came back up, and you were gone. And it wasn’t like at the farm, there were too many places for you to go—too many side streets, dead-end streets, parks and strip malls.
     They found you alone in the night parked behind an empty building. Gone. Empty bottles squeezed tight at your feet.
    I wake, unaware I’ve been sleeping. I’m confused and unable to distinguish myself from the darkness. A warm touch upon my face. A whisper. In the guardianship of perfect silence, all shall be known.
    Your eyes come, so blue and clear and there’s a breeze. Your long hair swaying. Your red lips before me, our feet are entwined, twisting and twirling in soft white sand on a vast empty beach I have never seen before. And we dance. A dance of time. All our moments spent.
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Vice President Yemi Osinbajo denies supervising establishment of Ruga Fulani herdsmen settlements

The office of Vice President Yemi Osinbajo has denied claims it supervises the establishment of cattle Fulani settlements known as “Ruga” in parts of the country.

The General Secretary of Miyetti Allah Cattle Breeders Association of Nigeria MACBAN, Baba Uthman Ngelzarma, had said Osinbajo’s office was in charge of implementing the programme nationwide.

“This Ruga settlement model is a component part of the livestock development and transformation plan that is being implemented under the Office of the Vice-President. It is a component part of it. All must agree with me that the crisis we are facing today has become a multi-dimensional one and so the approach must also be holistic. It was the desire of the Federal Government to take a holistic approach that gave birth to the Ruga settlement model and it is not only for Fulani herders.” he said
Reacting to his claim, Laolu Akande, the Senior Special Assistant to the President on Media & Publicity, Office of the Vice President in a statement released on Friday June 28th, said  the Ruga initiative is different from the National Livestock Transformation Plan approved by State governors under the auspices of the National Economic Council (NEC) chaired by Vice President Yemi Osinbajo, SAN.

The statement recalled that NEC on January 17, 2019, approved the plan based on the recommendations of a Technical Committee of the Council chaired by Governor Dave Umahi of Ebonyi State.

Other State Governors on the committee and Working Group of NEC, its said are those from Adamawa, Kaduna, Benue, Taraba, Edo, Plateau, Oyo and Zamfara – mostly the frontline states in the Farmer-Herder crises.

The statement explained that the National Livestock Transformation Plan (NLTP) 2019-2028 is a programme to be implemented in seven pilot states of Adamawa, Benue, Kaduna, Plateau, Nasarawa, Taraba and Zamfara (as decided by NEC in January), being States in the frontlines of the Farmer-Herder crises.

Afterwards, six other states have indicated readiness to also implement the plan. They are Katsina, Kano, Kogi, Kwara, Ondo, and Edo states, the statement said.

It added
 “The plan has six pillars through which it aims to transform the livestock production system in Nigeria along market-oriented value chain while ensuring an atmosphere of peace and justice.
“The six key pillars include economic investment, conflict resolution, justice and peace, humanitarian relief and early recovery, human capital development and cross-cutting issues such as gender, youth, research and information and strategic communication.
“In all the Federal Government will not impose on any State government regarding its land.”
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Glazed Eyes by Cristina Bresser

Watch the bear, watch the bear, mummy!
    The naked toddler, body covered with sand, waves back at the cotton candy beach vendor, who is already dehydrated inside a yellow plush costume with a long snout. 
    The boy’s mother, embarrassed, turns around and pretends she can’t hear his son’s pledges. She tells her friend she can’t imagine how somebody can walk along the beach in such apparel, with all that heat. Her colleague adds: I wonder how smelly it is inside that garment. I would never, ever buy something from that guy. Oh my, it is gross!
    The Bear man goes on waving to the kids at the beach. A baby girl with a pink hat on a trolley, screams. Her father beats the bizarre figure with his bare eyes.
    A boy playing paddle tennis makes a sign to a friend and hits the ball hard in the head of the bear. The seller turns, the brat apologizes. The man walks, the two kids laugh.
    The season hasn’t even started and the heat is over eighty six degrees. The outfit is heavy, and the only uncovered part of his body is the feet, on Havaianas. It should bring him some relief, if it weren’t for the scorching sand that invades the sandals, burning the sensitive skin inside the cracks of his heels.
    The gringo, astonished by the number of vendors along the sand, turns to his Brazilian friend and asks what the heck it was, pointing to the man-bear. The host, tired of so much prejudice in such a fat body, does not respond.
    One family sheltered in a big beach hut waves to the seller. He seizes the chance to stay, even for a little while, in the shade. He takes out the head of the costume and breathes openly while the children choose their candies. The boy picks up the cotton candy with a Spiderman mask. His little sister is in doubt between Frozen and Snow White. She can’t make up her mind and decides she is going to buy an ice cream later.
    The older sister, a teenager, feels sorry for the man and gets a pink cotton candy with no mask on it. The beach hawker stares at her and sees a real princess. The father pays the man. He thanks them, put the plush head down again and points the muzzle ahead.
    At the end of the day, he goes back to the candy distributor, returns the merchandise left, stores the shroud into a moldy closet and goes have dinner. The money made through the whole day barely pays a set meal of rice, beans, meat and salad.
    On his way to the boarding house, he passes by a small building behind the waterfront block and sees the teenage princess of the beach. She puts moisturizer on her body, unrelated to anything other than the task of spreading the cream into each piece of that young, tanned skin.
    The Bear-man climbs the construction next to the building, enters from the balcony and surprises the girl from behind, covering her mouth with his rough hand, muffling her cry for help. He penetrates the girl standing with renewed energy, many times, as if he hadn’t spent the entire day in that suffocating grotesque costume.
    Joyful, he twists her neck back, violently. While exhaling for the last time, she stares at the beach hawker. The recognition is forever registered in those glazed eyes.
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Businessman, Wale Jana, apologises for attacking Busola Dakolo after she accused COZA pastor, Biodun Fatoyinbo of raping her at 17

Wale Jana, the CEO of Sapphire Group and a member of COZA church, has apologised for bashing singer Timi Dakolo and wife, Busola Dakolo, for her explosive interview in which she accused COZA pastor, Biodun Fatoyinbo of raping her.

Wale after watching the interview, took to Instagram to defend his Pastor as well as attack Timi and his wife. He wrote
''I just watched @busoladakolo video I know the world gets emotional the moment a woman mentions that she was raped but if you will take a minute to think objectively; the oldest way a woman can try to destroy a man is to accuse him of rape. Any man is guilty of this offence in the eyes of the public until otherwise and if she has a little social status like the wife of a struggling musician like @timidakolo it makes it look credible.
Why is she doing this? Timi and wife are a pawn in a conspiracy and also because it will help him sell some records which he desperately needs to sell, they will also trend for a while, she has already opened unbroken.ng an online platform to cash in on the drama just like @esewalter and then its over!
I am a proud COZA member and @biodunfatoyinbo is my father and he has been a blessing to millions of people all over the world. This time there will be no silence and since you want war, you will have it. If @biodunfatoyinbo has been a blessing to you, its time to speak up, don't keep quiet!

@timidakolo and @busoladakolo are not saints, she was a choir member and Timi was a choir leader in church when she got pregnant with her first baby, Timi denied that they weren't having an affair and then she got pregnant the second time and that was when the church forced them to get married. This chorister was sleeping with her choir master and was a baby mama with two kids before they got married. These are morally bankrupt people and all that talk in the video will not hold water under cross examination.
Another thing that bothers me is why all the people troubling the body of christ @daddyfreeze @timidakolo@busoladakolo @chudeity all attend a particular church

Timi and Busola have a LOT of skeletons and they both live in glass houses and they are busy throwing stones. Its time to shatter this house of cards these people have built, its time to deal with cyber bullying and vague social media allegations and this couple will be the scape goats.

After being called out by celebrities and other Nigerians for his post, Wale this morning tendered an apology. Read below
There has been a lot of misunderstanding due to my earlier post and Its important to clarify that I DON'T SUPPORT RAPE! I am a father of two lovely daughters and a beautiful wife.

I am surrounded by women; Sapphire Group is made up of close to 1000 women and we have done a lot for women empowerment and will continue to do so.
I apologise to everyone my previous post has offended as it is insensitive to victims of rape. Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo has also come out to refute the allegations leveled against him, it is now a legal matter and the truth will come to light.
Please accept my apologies and I will be more sensitive in the future.
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