Every Nigerian family has one. A group chat with a long name like “Adeyemi Royal Dynasty (Official)”, sixty-four members, three admins, and a profile picture of a grandfather who has been dead since 1998 but is still watching all of us. Our own is called “The Okafor Family Worldwide,” even though only one person lives outside Nigeria, and she has muted the group.

I decided to keep a diary of one week in the group. My therapist (my best friend Nkechi) said it would help me heal. Here it is.

Monday: The Flower Festival

At 5:02 a.m., Uncle Emeka posted his first “Good morning family” with a picture of sunflowers covered in glitter. By 5:30 a.m., he had posted it again, because he forgot he had posted it. By 8 a.m., three aunties had replied with their own flowers. One of them sent a picture of a cup of tea with the words “Blessed Monday” written in the foam.

By the end of the day, Uncle Emeka had posted “Good morning” thirty-one times. Some of them were sent at 9 p.m. Nobody asked questions. In the family group, “good morning” is not a time of day. It is a lifestyle.

Tuesday: The Breaking News Department

Aunty Ngozi forwarded a message saying that drinking warm water with lime at exactly 3:00 p.m. could make you “as strong as a Bentley.” The message had been forwarded so many times that WhatsApp had given it its own special label. Aunty Ngozi added: “Please share to 10 people or you are not serious about your health.”

My cousin Chidi, who studied Microbiology, typed a long, polite reply explaining that this was not true. It was four paragraphs long. Aunty Ngozi replied with one word: “Okay.” Then she forwarded the same message again an hour later. Chidi left the group. Uncle Emeka added him back within six minutes, with the message “Nobody leaves this family.”

Wednesday: Caps Lock Day

Grandpa’s younger brother, whom we call Papa Small, discovered the caps lock button. Every message he sent that day sounded like an announcement at the airport.

• “WHO IS COMING FOR CHRISTMAS.”
• “WHY IS NOBODY RESPONDING.”
• “I HAVE SEEN YOUR BLUE TICKS. I AM NOT A SMALL BOY.”

The scariest part is that Papa Small never uses question marks. So every question feels like a statement of judgement.

Thursday: The Accidental Voice Note

At 2:14 p.m., Aunty Chioma sent a forty-seven-minute voice note. The whole family panicked. Was it a family emergency? A wedding announcement? A new recipe?

Brave cousin Ifeoma volunteered to listen. After twenty minutes, she reported back: it was Aunty Chioma’s phone recording the inside of her handbag at the market. We heard her bargaining for pepper, greeting four people, and singing along to a song playing at a shop. The pepper seller won the argument, by the way.

Aunty Chioma later replied, “Who sent that voice note with my phone?” We are still investigating.

The Family Reaction

Uncle Emeka responded to the voice note with “Amen.” Nobody knows why. Uncle Emeka responds “Amen” to everything, including birthday pictures and the price of rice.

Friday: The Contribution Message

On Friday, the eldest uncle posted a long message about the family end-of-year meeting and asked everyone to contribute money for the “family development fund.” Suddenly, the group became as quiet as a library during exams.

Sixty-four members. Zero replies. Even the people who had been posting flowers since Monday went offline at the same time, like a coordinated military operation. The only response came from Uncle Emeka, eight hours later: “Good morning family.”

What I Learned From My Diary

1. The family group never sleeps, but it does go silent the moment money is mentioned.
2. You can mute the group, but you can never escape it.
3. Every “good morning” is sent with love, even the thirtieth one.
4. Behind all the flowers and forwarded messages is a family that keeps checking on one another. And honestly, that part is sweet.

Next week, I am going to try something brave. I am going to reply to Uncle Emeka’s flowers with my own flowers. Pray for me.

What is the funniest thing that has ever happened in your family group chat? Share this with your cousins and tell us your story in the comments!

Featured image: Photo: “Group of diverse people using smartphones” by Rawpixel Ltd, CC BY 2.0, via Openverse — source

If you have ever lived in a Nigerian compound, you know that the most dangerous words in the English language are not “We need to talk.” They are: “Landlord says all tenants should come downstairs by 7 p.m.”

That message landed on our compound WhatsApp group on Tuesday evening, with three exclamation marks and a voice note from Baba Landlord himself. The voice note was mostly background noise of a radio, but we managed to hear the words “emergency,” “water,” and “nobody should be absent.”

The Gathering of the Tenants

By 7:15 p.m., every tenant in the building had come downstairs carrying their own plastic chair, because Baba Landlord’s chairs are reserved for “important visitors.” We arranged ourselves in a circle like a village square meeting.

There was Mr. Okon from Flat 2, who always comes to meetings with a notebook and never writes anything. There was Madam Joy from Flat 4, who sells pure water and somehow brought a full bag to sell during the meeting. There was the young couple in Flat 6 who always look like they are planning to move out. And there was me, in my slippers, praying it would be short.

It was not short.

Agenda Item One: The Water Tank

Baba Landlord stood up, adjusted his cap, cleared his throat for a full minute, and began. “I have called this meeting because of the water tank.”

We nodded seriously. The tank had been leaking for two weeks, and the pumping machine made a sound like a goat with a cold.

“But before we talk about the water tank,” he continued, “let me talk about the gate.”

And just like that, we left the water tank. We would not see it again for the rest of the evening.

The Gate Debate

According to Baba Landlord, somebody had been leaving the gate open after 10 p.m. Everybody immediately looked at the young couple in Flat 6. The young couple looked at each other. Then the husband looked at the sky, like he was expecting a helicopter to rescue him.

Mr. Okon opened his notebook, looked at it, and closed it again. Madam Joy sold two sachets of water to the gate man.

How the Meeting Travelled the World

From the gate, we moved to the issue of people spreading clothes on the balcony “like a market.” From the clothes, we moved to the generator noise from Flat 3. From the generator, we somehow moved to the price of tomatoes, then to whose child kicked the football into Baba Landlord’s window in 2019.

At one point, Baba Landlord spent fifteen minutes telling us how he built the house with his own money, “one block at a time,” while we all nodded like students in a lecture we had heard many times before.

Madam Joy had sold her whole bag of water by then. She was the only person who made a profit from the meeting.

The Contribution Surprise

Then came the part every tenant fears. Baba Landlord brought out a small paper and announced that each flat would contribute money for “maintenance.” Mr. Okon finally wrote something in his notebook. It was the amount. He underlined it twice and sighed.

The Grand Ending

At 9:20 p.m., two hours and five minutes after we started, Baba Landlord said, “Okay, I think we have covered everything. Meeting adjourned.”

Somebody at the back whispered, “But what about the water tank?”

Baba Landlord paused. He looked at the tank on the roof. The tank looked back at him and dripped quietly.

“We will discuss it at the next meeting,” he said, and walked inside.

We all carried our plastic chairs back upstairs in silence, like soldiers returning from a long battle. As I climbed the stairs, the pumping machine started its goat noise again. Na so life be for compound.

What We Learned

• An “emergency meeting” can last longer than a Nollywood trilogy.
• Always bring your own chair, and maybe a snack.
• The agenda is just a suggestion.
• If you sell pure water, every meeting is a business opportunity.

What is the funniest thing your landlord has ever said at a tenants’ meeting? Share this with your compound group chat and drop your landlord stories in the comments!

Featured image: Photo: “Central Park Lake” by guillenperez, CC BY-ND 2.0, via Openverse — source

In most parts of the world, “five minutes” means three hundred seconds. In Nigeria, “five minutes” is a spiritual journey. It can stretch from a short walk to a full Nollywood film, and it has stages. After careful research (we waited for our friend Tobi for two hours last Saturday), the Mairago team has identified the eleven official stages of “I’m five minutes away.”

Stage One to Four: The Home Phase

1. Still in bed, scrolling

The person is lying down with one leg hanging off the bed, watching skits. Your call comes in. They answer with a fresh, energetic voice: “I’m almost there!” The blanket is still on them.

2. Looking for what to wear

The bed is now covered with clothes. Three outfits have been tried and rejected. They text you: “Traffic is crazy today.” The only traffic is in their wardrobe.

3. Taking a bath

You call again. They don’t pick up. Twenty minutes later, they reply: “Sorry, I was driving.” They were in the bathroom singing.

4. Searching for the car key

Everything in the house has been turned upside down. The key is eventually found inside yesterday’s trousers. This stage alone can take fifteen minutes and one argument with a younger sibling.

Stage Five to Eight: The Journey Phase

5. Finally leaving the house

They lock the door, walk to the gate, remember they forgot their phone charger, go back inside, find the charger, and leave again. They send you a voice note: “I’m on my way, I’m close.”

6. Stopping to buy fuel or “something small”

There is always a quick stop: fuel, recharge card, a bottle of water, or puff-puff from a roadside seller who refuses to be rushed. This stage is not mentioned to you at all.

7. Real traffic arrives

Now they actually meet traffic, and they send you a picture of it as evidence. “See it! Look at this road!” You are supposed to forget that they told you about traffic one hour ago when they were still in bed.

8. “I’m turning into your street”

This is the most famous lie in Nigerian history. They are not turning into your street. They are turning into a street that might one day lead to your street. Possibly.

Stage Nine to Eleven: The Arrival Phase

9. “Which gate again?”

They call to ask for directions, even though they have visited you seven times before. “Is it the blue gate or the black gate? Is it after the mosque or before the church?” You walk outside to wave at them like a traffic warden.

10. The parking negotiation

They finally arrive, but now they need to park. They reverse, move forward, reverse again, call you to come and guide them, and then decide to park somewhere else entirely.

11. The grand entrance

They walk in smiling, fresh and relaxed, and say the magic words: “Ah, you people have started without me?” You started two hours ago. The food is finished. The event is ending. But they are here, and somehow, everyone is happy to see them.

How to Survive a “Five Minutes Away” Friend

• Always tell them the event starts two hours before it actually starts.
• Ask for a live location, not a promise.
• Bring a snack while you wait. You will need the energy.
• Love them anyway. Every group has one, and if you can’t identify yours, it might be you.

To be fair, Nigerian roads and Lagos traffic do give everybody a genuine excuse sometimes. But we all know the difference between “traffic” and “I just woke up.” Your friend knows it too.

Tag that friend who is always “five minutes away”! Share this list and tell us in the comments: what is the longest you have ever waited for someone?

Featured image: Photo: “Early General Electric Colored Wall Clock” by alexkerhead, CC BY 2.0, via Openverse — source

Every Nigerian knows that an owambe has three sacred pillars: the aso ebi, the live band, and the cooler of party jollof. You can manage if the band arrives late. You can manage if your aso ebi tailor sews your sleeve like a parachute. But if the jollof cooler goes missing? Wahala don land.

That is exactly what happened last Saturday at Aunty Bisi’s 60th birthday party, and I was there to witness the whole drama with my two eyes and my one plastic plate.

The Disappearance

It was 3:47 p.m. The MC had just finished praying for the celebrant for twenty minutes, and the band was warming up. The serving girls marched out with five coolers of jollof, lined up like soldiers on parade. Everybody counted them. Nigerians at a party can count coolers faster than a bank cashier counts naira.

Then the MC called everybody to dance the celebrant in. We danced. We sprayed money. Uncle Tunde did his famous “leg work” that looks like he is stepping on an invisible cockroach. When we returned to our seats, there were only four coolers.

The silence that fell on that hall was louder than the speakers. Even the baby on Mama Ronke’s back stopped crying, as if he knew this was serious.

The Investigation Begins

Aunty Bisi’s younger brother, Uncle Femi, appointed himself Chief Investigating Officer. Nobody voted for him. He simply removed his cap, folded his agbada sleeves, and said, “Nobody is leaving this hall until we find that cooler.”

He started questioning people like a detective in a Nollywood film. “Where were you at 3:47?” he asked the DJ.

The DJ looked insulted. “Sir, I was playing music. You heard me. Everybody heard me.”

Next suspect: the serving girls. They swore by every grain of rice in Nigeria that they had brought out only five coolers and returned none. One of them pointed at the gate man. The gate man pointed at the photographer. The photographer pointed his camera at Uncle Femi and took a picture, which did not help the investigation at all.

The Prime Suspects

• Cousin Dayo: Arrived with a backpack. Who brings a backpack to an owambe? A man with a plan, that is who.
• Mama Caro from the next street: Nobody invited her, yet she was sitting at the high table.
• The rented generator boy: Kept disappearing behind the hall “to check the gen”. For forty minutes.

Searching the Evidence

Uncle Femi demanded to search Cousin Dayo’s backpack. Dayo opened it slowly, like a magician revealing a trick. Inside: a phone charger, a power bank, another power bank, and a small extension box. The man was not stealing jollof. He was running a mobile charging business at the party! He had already charged eleven phones at fifty naira per bar.

Mama Caro was cleared too. She had simply wandered into the wrong owambe because there were three parties on the same street, and she decided she liked our small chops better. Honestly, we respected her judgement.

Then everyone turned to look at the generator boy. He raised his two hands. “I no touch anything o! I just dey sleep small behind the gen.” Na so he confessed to sleeping on duty, but not to stealing rice.

The Shocking Twist

Just as Uncle Femi was about to call a family meeting to decide the punishment for an unknown criminal, Aunty Bisi herself walked in from the back room. She was holding the missing cooler.

“Why is everybody looking at me like that?” she asked.

It turned out the celebrant had kept that cooler aside for her church members, who were coming later. She did not want them to arrive and meet empty coolers like last year, when the choir sang three extra songs because they were too hungry to stop.

The whole hall burst out laughing. Uncle Femi quietly put his cap back on and went to sit down, as if he had never been the Chief Investigating Officer. The band started playing again. Cousin Dayo charged two more phones.

Lessons From the Jollof Investigation

1. Always count the coolers before you start dancing.
2. Never appoint yourself detective at a party you did not pay for.
3. If you see a cousin with a backpack, he might just be an entrepreneur.
4. When in doubt, ask the celebrant first. She knows where the rice is.

By the end of the night, everybody got food, the church members were happy, and Aunty Bisi danced until 9 p.m. in her second outfit of the day. All is well that ends with jollof.

Has anything ever gone “missing” at an owambe you attended? Share this story with your party people and drop your own owambe gist in the comments!

Featured image: Photo: "Party Nigerian jollof rice" by Halima Waziri, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Openverse — source