Naija comedy – MAIRAGO TV https://mairagotv.mosravo.com Mairago TV, Your home for comedy, entertainment, celebrity news, events, broadcasting, and emerging talents. Showcasing Alhaji Shehu's expertise and over two decades of media excellence while connecting audiences through laughter, creativity, and unforgettable experiences. Thu, 15 Oct 2026 17:41:05 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.1.3 https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/10/cropped-logo2-32x32.png Naija comedy – MAIRAGO TV https://mairagotv.mosravo.com 32 32 15 Jokes Every Child of an African Mother Will Understand https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/15-jokes-every-child-of-an-african-mother-will-understand/ https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/15-jokes-every-child-of-an-african-mother-will-understand/#respond Thu, 15 Oct 2026 17:41:05 +0000 https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/?p=149

Every African mother is a full-time security agency, weather forecaster, finance minister and comedy legend — even when she is not trying to be funny. These are brand-new jokes, freshly cooked in the Mairago TV kitchen. Read them, laugh, then go and call your mum. She has been waiting since Tuesday.

The Classics, Remastered

  1. I told my mum I lost my phone. She said, “Did you check where you kept it?” Mummy, if I knew where I kept it, it wouldn’t be lost. She went straight to the place and found it. I still don’t know how.
  2. My mum’s slippers can travel faster than DHL. Same-day delivery, any part of the house, no tracking number needed.
  3. When an African mother says “Come here,” the distance between you and her suddenly becomes the longest walk of your life.
  4. I opened the ice cream container in our freezer. It was stew. I opened the biscuit tin. It was thread and needles. I opened my mum’s handbag. It was a full pharmacy, two receipts from 2014 and Bible tracts.
  5. My mum says, “I’m not angry.” That’s how I know I should write my will.

Money, Money, Money

  1. I asked my mum for N2,000. She asked, “Do I look like a bank?” Then she asked my dad for N20,000 in the same voice and got it. That’s not a mother. That’s an investment banker.
  2. “We have food at home” is not a sentence. It is a national policy.
  3. My mum keeps money for me “so I won’t spend it.” Since 2009. The interest rate is zero and the withdrawal date is “when you’re older.” I’m 31.

The Supernatural Powers

  1. My mum can hear me roll my eyes from the next compound.
  2. She doesn’t use Google Maps. She just says “turn by that place where they used to sell akara,” and somehow the driver finds it.
  3. I told my mum I’m tired. She said, “Tired of what? At your age I was carrying water on my head, going to school, and cooking for eight people.” Mummy, how many hours were in your day?
  4. My mum knew I was coming home late before I knew I was coming home late.

The Grand Finale

  1. When visitors come, your mum suddenly calls you “my darling.” When they leave, you return to your original name: “This boy.”
  2. I said, “Mummy, everybody is going to the party.” She said, “Are you everybody?” I said no. She said, “Then sit down.” Philosophy degree, completed in three seconds.
  3. My mum called me and said, “Call me back, it’s important.” I called back. She said, “Did you eat?” That was the emergency. And honestly? That’s love.

Which one sounds like your mum? Tell us in the comments, add your own African mum joke, and share this with your siblings — they know.

Featured image: Photo: "Diversity" by markus119, CC CC0 1.0, via Openverse — source

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12 Things Nigerians Say the Moment NEPA Takes Light https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/12-things-nigerians-say-the-moment-nepa-takes-light/ https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/12-things-nigerians-say-the-moment-nepa-takes-light/#respond Thu, 15 Oct 2026 17:33:13 +0000 https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/?p=152

Electricity in Nigeria is like a visiting relative: you are happy when it comes, nobody knows when it will leave, and when it goes, the whole compound has something to say. Here is your official guide to what Nigerians say the very second NEPA takes light. (Yes, we know the name has changed. No, we will not be updating our vocabulary.)

The First Five Seconds

  1. “AHHHHHH!” — Said by the entire street at the same time, in perfect harmony. No rehearsal. No conductor. Pure national talent.
  2. “Just when I wanted to…” — Whatever you were about to do — iron your shirt, charge your phone, watch the penalty — NEPA was watching. NEPA always knows.
  3. “Is it only us?” — Everybody rushes to the window to check if the neighbours have light. If they do, it becomes a personal matter.
A small petrol generator
Photo: “power generating turbines in hoover dam arizona” by Tim Pearce, Los Gatos, CC BY 2.0, via Openverse

The Investigation Phase

  1. “Check if it’s our fuse.” — Dad sends you to the meter box with a torch that has been dying since 2019. You stare at the switches like you understand them. You do not.
  2. “Who didn’t buy units?” — For prepaid meter families, this question can end friendships. Everyone suddenly develops amnesia.
  3. “They said they will bring it back by 6.” — Who said? Nobody knows. It came from a cousin’s friend’s group chat. It is now gospel.

The Acceptance Phase

  1. “Where is the rechargeable lamp?” — It is exactly where you left it: uncharged, because you were relying on NEPA to charge it. The irony is not lost on anybody.
  2. “Off all the switches before they bring it back and burn everything.” — The most responsible sentence in any Nigerian home. Said by mum. Ignored by everyone.
  3. “Oya, on the gen.” — Followed by twenty minutes of somebody pulling the starter rope like they’re rowing a canoe to Cotonou.
  4. “Is there fuel?” — There is not. There is never fuel. The jerrycan is a decorative item at this point.

The Grand Return

  1. “UP NEPA!” — When light returns, the joy is louder than a Super Eagles goal. Children dance. Adults forgive. For one beautiful moment, the nation is united.
  2. “Quick, charge everything!” — Phones, power banks, laptops, the rechargeable lamp, grandma’s radio. Because experience has taught us one thing: this light did not come to stay. It came to greet.

Electricity may come and go, but the Nigerian sense of humour has never needed a generator. It runs on pure vibes, and it has never once taken light.

Which of these did you shout last time? Drop your own NEPA line in the comments and share this with that friend whose gen never starts on the first pull.

Featured image: Photo: “christmas watching candles dark” by Rachel Tayse, CC BY 2.0, via Openverse — source

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My Danfo Ride From Ojota to CMS: A Lagos Survival Documentary https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/my-danfo-ride-from-ojota-to-cms-a-lagos-survival-documentary/ https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/my-danfo-ride-from-ojota-to-cms-a-lagos-survival-documentary/#respond Thu, 15 Oct 2026 17:21:28 +0000 https://mairagotv.mosravo.com/?p=145

Some people go to the gym to build endurance. Me? I simply enter a danfo from Ojota to CMS at 7:15 on a Monday morning. By the time I come down, I have done cardio, leg day, and a full course in conflict resolution. Let me tell you how it happened.

Stage One: The Boarding Olympics

The conductor was hanging from the door like a man who signed a contract with gravity and won. “CMS! Obalende! CMS! Enter with your change o!” he shouted, already moving. In Lagos, a danfo never stops; it only slows down out of respect.

I ran beside it like I was in an action film. A woman with a basket of tomatoes overtook me. An elderly man with a walking stick overtook me. Somehow, I made it in, landing on a seat that was clearly designed for three people and currently held five, plus somebody’s handbag that had its own opinions.

Heavy traffic on a Lagos highway
Photo: “Lagos, traffic over a brook” by crashdburnd, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Openverse

Stage Two: The Change Wahala

The fare was N700. I gave the conductor N1,000. He collected it the way a magician collects a coin, and then he simply… looked forward. Into the future. Where my N300 apparently lives now.

“Conductor, my change.”

“I hear you, Oga. Wait small.”

In Lagos, “wait small” is a unit of time between thirty seconds and the next presidential election. Three other passengers were also waiting for change. We formed a silent union. We exchanged looks. We were brothers and sisters now, bound by the N300s we may never see again.

Stage Three: The Traffic Has Its Own Weather

Near Third Mainland Bridge, the traffic stopped so completely that I saw a hawker sell bread, Gala, sachet water, a phone charger, and what I believe was a full wardrobe. A man in the next bus started a small business selling advice. Somebody’s car was so still, a bird considered building a nest on it.

The driver turned on the radio. It was playing slow love songs. Nobody asked for this. We were stuck in traffic emotionally and physically.

Stage Four: The Unexpected Sermon

Just as I closed my eyes to rest, a man stood up — stood up, inside a danfo, which is a miracle in itself — and said, “Brethren, I will not take much of your time.” Forty-five minutes later, he had preached, sung, sold herbal medicine that cures “malaria, typhoid, back pain and village people,” and collected an offering.

I gave him N100. Not because I was moved, but because I felt it would get my N300 change moving through some spiritual channel.

Stage Five: The Final Negotiation

At Obalende, the conductor finally remembered us. “Who get change?” he asked, like it was a quiz show. Four hands went up. He looked at his money, looked at us, and said the most dangerous sentence in Lagos transport: “Make una share am.”

He gave one N500 note to four people who were each owed N300. Ladies and gentlemen, I have seen the United Nations work less hard than we did in that bus. We did mathematics. We did diplomacy. A woman in the back row produced a calculator from her bag. By the time we settled it, we had formed a WhatsApp group called “Ojota-CMS Survivors 2026.”

Arrival: A Changed Man

I came down at CMS one hour and fifty minutes after boarding, for a journey Google Maps said would take 35 minutes. My shirt was rearranged, my shoe had a footprint I didn’t own, and I smelled faintly of tomatoes and anointing oil.

But I was alive. And somewhere in that WhatsApp group, a woman was still calculating who owes who N50.

That, my people, is Lagos. You don’t just travel. You graduate.

Have you survived a danfo ride like this? Drop your own story in the comments and share this with that friend who still thinks “wait small” means small.

Featured image: Photo: “Lagos Danfo Bus” by AbrahamHaruna, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Openverse — source

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