In Defence of Ebuka and his “Co-host”.

In case you missed it, something remarkable happened at the Big Brother Nigeria eviction show last week.

Multichoice, the owners of the BBN franchise paid for one host to run the show but at the last moment, the host decided to give them a surprise BOGOF offer.

Ebuka hosted the show, ably supported by little Ebuka, the unplanned co-host, struggling to break free from Ebuka’s too-tight-for-words trousers.


He he he he he he he he…

On eentarnahshonah television, no doubt.

My first thoughts: you know, that small boy Tekno that was busy running his mouth about “big cassava” should come here and come and learn work.

On second thoughts: yummeeee, wait, is he married? If I am the one thinking badt badt things, would he be the one guilty of adultery.

More “mashoored” thoughts after realising I am an agbaya mother of one: come on Ebuka, park well joor! Signed, VIO.

But you know ehn, these things happen, all these trouser malfunctions.

Who else remembers that time Maupe and her nipples hosted the morning show on Channels television?

Yup, sh*t happens, excuse my French.

Reminds me of that time about 8 years or so ago, I had an errand to run that took me to somewhere around Ceddi Plaza in Abuja.

Those were the days when I used to coordinate my dressing days in advance and had a dress vocabulary wider than “jeans, tee shirt, flats, repeat”.

Anyway, so I was decked out in this seriously fly white linen pants with a black camisole and a chocolate tan, cap-sleeved, jacket on top. My jacket even had a lighter tanned boutonnière clipped on the lapel.

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My feet were shod in black, platform sandals and my dreadlocks were still in the development stage – verdict, lit!

Wellp, I got down from the car and smart stepped my way into the plaza, feeling like a million bucks worth of carefully stated, underdressed, elegance when I heard this hissing sound from behind me.

If you are Nigerian, you know what I mean:

” Hey, hey. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

I stopped, swivelled around and took off the Ferragamo sunshades I had on, and gave the tsker my best ice queen glare.

Well, he was a tall glass of iced coffee but you know you don’t take a drink so quickly, however thirsty you are, you freeze them first with your glare.

So, he took one long look at the “ima kwa ndi anyi bu”, look on my face and excused himself. Apologised for calling my attention, introduced himself and asked for my number which I emmm, emmm, emmm, actually gave him *koff, koff*, then swivelled around and sashayed my way off to my destination.

Less than a minute later, my phone beeped…

” Umm hi, this is Chris, the guy who just took your number. I don’t know how to say this to you, but your trousers are actually split down the back”.

Please pause here for a moment while I go die of mortification, AGAIN.

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Okay, dead and resurrected, where did we stop?

Well, that was the era I was also into the most uncomfortable of underwear known to womankind, that “tho tho tho tho thong!”

So, while I was doing serenren and thinking I was “fly”, I had actually been mooning the entire shopping complex.

And the one person who had been bold enough to approach me, had been frozen out by my haughty glare? When I could have saved myself the extra one minute of mooning the plaza and its occupants?

Make I die again abi the one wey I don already die twice before don do?

Jesus, take the Wii bro. Just take the kaddem Wii!

Second experience, same plaza…

I had come in and done with my business, needed to quickly dash into the loo and “powder my nose”, before proceeding to the day’s business.

So I walked into the restrooms, “powdered my nose”, tidied up and sashayed out and yes, I was dressed for sashaying that day.

I had on this frilly, twirly, knee-length, skirt and a little girly top.

Those were also the days when I had beat back most of the extra meat on my body with the help of a hidden cache of willpower even I did not know I possessed.

I was looking and feeling good and I knew it.

So, as I stepped out of the loo, walked up the stairs to exit the plaza, this dashing, young, yellow like pawpaw (just the way I like um) hunk stepped up to me and placed a hand on my arm.

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I turned to him and he leaned over and whispered into my ear…

“May I”?
“May you what”?

And, my brethren my sistren, please pray for this cup of shame to pass me by today or else, what happened in 1977 will repeat itself here today…

He reached behind me, and pulled out my skirt from where I had tucked it into my thongs after ” powdering my nose”.

That’s it, folks. I am going on exile.

This is a mean, mean world we live in, I don’t have to be here.

So you see, I felt a somewhat vindictive sense of pleasure when I walked into Ceddi Plaza the other day and discovered most of their tenants were pulling out and moving into the Sahad multiplex just behind them.

Serves them right.


After falling me hand and disgracing me over what I don’t know, who says karma is not a biyatch!

Whoop, whoop.

PS: I must confess at this point that I have even forgotten what this post

Karma fought for me, and that’s all that should ever matter.



Ima kwa ndi anyi bu – Do you know whom I am? *best delivered in the most pompous tones known to man*

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One Thought to “In Defence of Ebuka and his “Co-host”.”

  1. Victoria Nwogu

    Seriously! What else happened to Ebuka?

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