The girl inside the bar spreads herself over a desk, her arm resting seductively on a ledge. She wants more than anything to kiss the boy. He vomits words in a rush, never pausing for breath, heaves his heart into his mouth—a restless genius by right. Once he begins his speech on feminism or classism, any ism searchable in the English dictionary, she sighs, moans, hums in consent. Her intelligence can match his—she will be his equal, no questions asked.

“It isn’t Elizabeth’s sex I’m interested in. Her gender means little in the grandiose scheme of things. It’s really her imperial power.” The boy says this with the assurance of a scholar well suited his rank. Such intelligence, poise, and grace—the student enthusiast’s one and only aphrodisiac. But the girl is uncertain his intelligence is not all an illusion born from her declining confidence in herself.

“Elizabeth,” she starts, “was quite the Queen.” And this is all she can force out of her mouth: words constantly evade her when she pleads for their assistance.

“It had nothing to do with her sex though,” he says, his eyes searching hers for an answer worth responding to.

“I guess you’re right.” There is no need to prolong the conversation. She has nothing of interest to contribute. He turns away.

Still, the girl observes him with the intensity of a surgeon, dissecting his thoughts in her mind. She wants to know if he likes her, if he wants to kiss her. The words are on the tip of her tongue: I want to kiss you. But he continues on Elizabeth, well aware, the girl guesses, that she would like to make love to his brain.

So The Girl watches him swallow his beer in one gulp, and decides to keep silent. Her arms rest seductively on the ledge. Her head is bent as she hides her figure in a demure pose. Soon he will take her home, and this is good enough for her.


The love she bore her people was so strong that, upon hearing of the murdered boys, she decided to flail herself, to scrape the black skin off her arms slowly, pluck the stripes of thin hairs off her thighs in order to divert from her pain. What happened to those boys was nothing short of an atrocity: the burnt, charred, innocent, naked, brutalized bodies reminding her of her innocence years ago–burnt, brutalized, naked sex–a toy to be tossed foolishly about by hands that were not hers. Would they ever be her’s, those hands? The hands that dragged those boys down a street and clubbed them to pieces, piercing their livelihoods, stabbing their humanity, failing them, failing them, flailing their beings.

There was smoke between her legs, inside her sex–the strong smell and sensation forcing her to think of the boys’ sufferings, to welcome their pain with open arms. How it got there, she does not know. A world of black fog, chaos; black soot rising from ashes of misery; such hideous smoke trapped inside her sex, seeping out black tendrils. She squirmed on her chair, partly from the minus five degree temperature of the room, and partly from a strong inclination to run and hide from herself. It didn’t help that the smoke reminded her of the boys who were burnt to scales, their smell emanating from down there, down between the opening and closing of her thighs, as if she was giving birth to their charred corpses.

Try as she might, she couldn’t escape this destiny. It was her skin, she assumed, and brought the blade to it. But it couldn’t be fixed, altered, changed, regardless of how many times she sliced through it. Layers upon layers of black skin. The color was meant for her.

Between her thighs, the stream of grey smoke rose to her nostrils. She pressed her legs together and shut her eyes in a measly attempt to brush away the images of those burnt corpses.

When she opened her eyes again, they inadvertently focused on the sole light-bulb glowing menacing orange in the darkness. To this she immediately wondered–if beneath the sun’s ever watchful gaze justice could easily evade those in need, what would happen in the dark, when the world turned blind eyes to suffering in favor of momentary peace and solitude.

The sharp sound of razor meeting thick skin alerts the insouciant shoppers, if only for a few seconds. They resume their frantic scrutinizing, testing, purchasing, yodeling, laughing, jogging, walking, speed walking, running, as if they hear nothing, as if the kiss of death is not mere seconds away.

Konsept Showbiz Group

His name is Luther, a multi-talented poet/rap art/song writer and presently the CEO of konseptshowbiz group, a fast rising entertainment oufit that cuts across Africa and Europe. Luther since joining the entertainment world has done lots of collaborations and projects with the likes of Ruffcoin (Nwa Aba), Jay stunts, Flavour, Slow dogg, Umunamu crew, Ransome and more. Here is a sure street song that is really taking over as it has much message parked in it concerning our country Nigeria which seems to be on the verge of collapsing with different issues coming up everyday. Nice single. They all came correct. Enjoy



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or ff @LUTHER_lyrical

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Deep in the heart of a cavern amidst a slew of tumultuous men sounds a disembodied voice, loud with the air of authority.

Upon hearing of her lover’s death she seemed to have had a visceral reaction, toppling forward as if punched in the gut, her lower lip hanging, every visible nerve slightly twitching in response. That’s how they did it in the movies: jagged movements, the uncoordinated dance moves of a newly-made widow in agony. Boy, wasn’t she a pro at this? She had experience–a lover dead today, another dead tomorrow. Death wasn’t really the issue, perfecting her facade of pain was. And she had mastered her acts, waltzing through them with slick heels on a mushroom cloud. Golden!

A week and a day ago (the minute detail is indeed necessary), I was invited to photograph an event held by The International – Ottawa. I packed up my gear, arrived a little more than an hour late, and flew around the club, sweating profusely while completely exhausted. To be quite honest, I never imagined being paid for my work, ever! But this event filled me with a kind of new/blind optimism I’d never known. Woohoo for random 2012!

This is not my style of photography, but given that my only choice at the moment (hungry wallet is hungry) is between this and a $10.25-per-hour-stand-on-heel-nail-biting-clock-watching job, well, the job can go to hell!

Besides, I enjoyed my night! I enjoyed watching pretty people dance! I was paid to be the voyeur that I am on a daily basis (peeping Chi-Chi protected by camera peeping hole, life is good).

So, here’s some of what I did! Opinions, suggestions, dislikes, likes, compliments–Leave em! I’ll read em! 

@JijiGuerrera – Follow

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July 2018
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