If you’re a filmmaker or filmmaker-adjacent or just a curious person, you probably know who a boom operator is. For that, three gbosa for you!!! If you don’t, that’s kind of the point of this piece so, don’t feel bad.

Who is a Boom Operator?

According to Google, a boom operator (or boom op) is a key member of a film/TV production’s sound crew, responsible for positioning a microphone on a long pole (boom) to capture dialogue and sounds, keeping the mic close to the action without entering the camera frame, and assisting the sound mixer with gear and setup.

Why is this important? As much as I’m talking about boom operators, this is more than just them; it’s about the people that we’ve so aptly dubbed Unsung Heroes . Just like the boom operator, there are people’s jobs that are critical to the things we see, touch, hold, and enjoy. The reason we can be so immersed in an ultra, high-definition, cinematic film and be jolted at every switch in tempo, inflections and deflections in speech patterns is in large part due to the boom operator. After reading this, you’ll know who these guys are because of the amount of times I’ve mentioned them.

And to the unsung heroes, the men that work the oil rigs, the women who spend their hours on plantations just to harvest shea that we use for our hair and skin, to the people who keep the gas running and our electrical working, you deserve to be recognized. To me, you shouldn’t be unsung or a muted tune; you’re the real heroes, and while some of us may never get the limelight or the showering of accolades and gifts, while our work might seem infinitesimally incomparable to the ones that make the news headlines, what we do still matters.

yeah. see you around!

The day is November 8th, 2025. I’m recovering from one of the worst experiences with malaria that I’ve ever had (for as long as I can remember). To tell you how crazy it was, I did something I hadn’t done in two decades.

TRIGGER WARNING!

I puked. It was genuinely a horrific thing to go through and even though I’m still recovering as I write this, I wanted to share a brief lesson that this has taught me.

First lesson.

Fumigate your house. In the name of the Lord God Almighty, fumigate your house. If you live in Sub-Saharan Africa, Southeast Asia and the tropical of South America, fumigate your house. You may not be able to 100% get it but you’ll save yourself a lot of money by ensuring you eliminate or at least, reduce the population of Count Mos-cula and his family.

Second lesson.

The devil is a mosquito. Say it again for the people at the back? Gotchu.

THE DEVIL IS A MOSQUITO!

His modus operandi (way of operating) is to drain the life out of us. I recently learnt how mosquitoes drain (drain’s a string word but okay) blood from their victims. The reason you can sleep all through the night and not feel the piercing sting of the mosquito (except if, for some reason, you have super sharp senses) is because they tend to you before taking out your life’s source. The mosquito applies something of a lubricant on your skin before sinking its fangs, more accurately, its proboscis into your tender flesh. And that’s how the devil is.

He can butter you up so beautifully, promise you the world, tend to your every need at the snap of a finger, only to drain your soul from you. If you’re like me and you grew up listening to stories of illuminati offers (whether they’re real or not, I don’t really care), a common theme in those stories is always the availability of a trade — you get all the money and fame only at the cost of your soul, no biggie.

I say that Babylon didn’t die, it just evolved. Took on a new name and a new skin and called it a day — a spiritual plastic surgery.

So, just like the mosquito sings in your ear before it perches on your skin, the devil plays you a tune and hopes that you dance to it.

See you around, x.

If you’re Nigerian and grew up in Nigeria, you understand how unreliable the power supply (NEPA) is. I got to experience it again this past week. On Thursday 8th of January, at precisely 6:02 AM, they struck again. I didn’t think too much of it because, well, it’s routine. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s how we didn’t have light (sorry, there wasn’t any power supply) for the next week! I’d explain the lore behind why we don’t have a generator as a backup but that’s a story for another day.

What’s the point of this story?

Well, this is just one of many instances of the hopelessness of the Nigerian system. These things — cases of unreliability, glimpses or full-scale breakdown of law and order, circumvention of public funds — have created a gap in the market, a void, if you will. And sycophants have taken the position of religious figures and clergymen, exploiting that gap in the market, to the detriment of unsuspecting people.

I was having a conversation with my mum one of these days and we started analysing why it is that people get into a church or “community” of some sorts, and it’s visible to the blind and audible to the deaf that the community doesn’t have their best interests at heart. Yet, they stay there. They give their retirement funds, life savings and sometimes, their lives all for nothing. It looks like nothing to us but it’s everything to them.

So, people want to call these fake clergymen and the closest things to snake oil salesmen wolves in sheep’s clothing but today, I’m calling them something different — Merchants of Hope.

The trauma that’s part of our DNA as Africans makes us more susceptible to sink to the depths of despair and hopelessness. From slave trade and colonial rulership to institutional corruption and being taken advantage of, there’s not really room to believe that there’s light anywhere that’ll suggest that we’re in a tunnel.

So, what better business venture than to be a procurer of hope?

We lust after hope. We yearn for it. We crave it. We are petrified like a deer in headlights when we see a glimmer of hope. For us hope is a high, a luxurious one at that, and so, when we get a whiff of it, we want to do anything to keep it. “If I can hold on to this, maybe things will get better.” Unfortunately, they don’t. They almost never do. And we see so much of these charlatans in churches because the Gospel—the core of the Christian faith — is a wonderfully told, ultimate message of hope. So, it’s easy pickings for these bloodsuckers in priestly robes.

Before you’re quick to judge that grandma that’s trekking under the rain to attend “FIVE NIGHTS OF PROPHETIC THUNDER AND SPIRITUAL EXPEDITION (I AM A WAR!),” or laugh at the crowd of people eating grass at the command of their pastor, think about how hopeless things might have been or might be for them to stoop to the depths of hell for a whisper of hope.

See you around!

Self-sabotage is a pattern of behaviors and thoughts that undermine your own goals, success, and well-being, often unconsciously, driven by deep-seated fears like failure, unworthiness, or rejection, and common examples include procrastination, negative self-talk, perfectionism, or picking fights in relationships (from Google).

Now, that we’ve got the definition out of the way, let’s talk.

This is a particularly touchy subject to me because it’s something I’m actively working on. I never really had a word for it until about a year ago, I just knew that I was struggling particularly in the area of unworthiness. How do I know that I’m worthy of something? There’s no indicator that flashes or doves descending from the cloud to mark my worth. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life endlessly looking for that sign but such a sign doesn’t exist (at least, I haven’t seen one).

At some point, as I decided to take my Christian walk more seriously, anything that didn’t add up, anything that didn’t make the cut or anything (anyone) that walked away, it had to be the “will of God.” If a friendship didn’t go further than a year, “It’s God’s will,” I’d say. If I ran into any sort of opposition or confrontation, or if I was posed with an uncomfortable truth that led to me backing away, hey, “It’s God’s will. Again.”

Why?

If it’s God’s will, it excuses me and absolves me of any sort of responsibility. “God is sovereign, God is all-powerful. So, if He chooses something — a course of action, an outcome or result — it superimposes on anything I’d have otherwise chosen.” It’s comfortable to not be accountable for my actions and inactions, for my irresponsibility, for my failure to adhere to God’s instructions. It’s easy. That way, I only truly deserve what I truly deserve. There’s no room for happy accidents or God’s will at the end of the day.

So, I’m actively working on it. I can’t keep chucking my fate up to chance or better yet, Kairos, and never allow it to run its full course.

See you around.

Before you crucify me, Happy New Year! I hope that all of your dreams and goals see fulfillment this year, and that you get to clear your vision board from top to bottom. Amen.

Now that we have the wishes out of the way, let me burst the bubble I just inflated by saying: it’s NOT a new year. Sure, it technically is because the Earth has completed one journey around the Sun.

Beyond the change of the calendar and the Earth’s solar voyage, it’s still the same old, same old. Nothing’s really changed. The world is still broken, countries and economies are fractured, human connections are at an all-time, abysmal low and Jesus is coming soon by all indicators. So, no! It’s not a new year. Especially if you’re like and you have goals from 2025 that you didn’t get to actualize or achieve — you don’t get to move on or start over. NO!

The first time I had this conversation with a mentor, I was convinced that he was tweaking and intentionally goading me into a reaction (or as the kids say, ragebaiting). And that’s the thing with [some] advice — it needs time to settle before it can make sense or be nonsense. I can see clearly now, the rain is gone and I can say, with all the pain and spite and absolute dread in my heart that it’s NOT a new year.

So, make your resolutions, itemize your goals, create your vision boards and have a glass of chilled Coke if you will. Keep it at the back of your mind, if you will — it’s not a new year until the old things are done.

Oh, oh there he goes
Running through the darts of rain just to get your attention
Using smiles the hide the pains of unrequited affection

Oh, oh there he goes
Smothering you gifts and presents for days
Shadowing your every move through the wind and the haze

Oh, oh there he goes
He sings you a love song in a 3-minute voice note
He's giddy with joy, "I've won her heart," he begins to gloat

Oh, oh there he goes
He’s the love bomber.

I’m going to tell you about “The Social Experiment.”

A professor of psychology in a university in Manchester was having dinner one evening with his wife and she asked him an interesting question. “How true does a story have to be for it to be believable.” Before he could get a sigh out, she asked again, “Are humans just easily deceived?” After finagling with his dinner using the prongs of the fork, he responded saying, “I don’t think we’re easily deceived. We’ve become more resilient over the years and it’ll take quite some effort to deceive a population of people.” She just looked at him, said two words, “I’m pregnant,” and walked away. He just stared as she exited the room, completely confounded.

The next day, he was teaching a module on behavioural psychology and the conversation between his wife and him over dinner popped up in his mind. So, he decided to extend the courtesy to the class by asking the very same set of questions. Of course, there were multiple views, contracting opinions. One student just flat out said that humans are guinea pigs in an alien teen’s simulation game. The professor watched on, almost in reverie, as his students bickered amongst themselves. Finally, a voice echoed, “I think that if someone believes their story well enough, other people might.” That statement was met by a sharp interjection, “I believe that I’m 6’4" and as jacked as Dwayne Johnson.” Everybody laughed hysterically at it.

At this point, you’re probably wondering what the conclusion of the story is, that is, if you’ve read to this point. I’ll be glad to tell you that the conversation between the professor and his students didn’t happen, neither did the dinner with his wife because there’s no professor and there’s no “The Social Experiment.”

If you believed the story as you read along, don’t worry, you’re fine. You’re not gullible. Rather, you’re impressionable and we humans are way more impressionable than we think. Think about how many things you said you’d never do or never believe and went on to do the opposite. The purpose of this “social experiment” was to question our reluctance to search for truth, authenticate what we see online and how comfortable we are with everything and anything that’s presented to us.

Alright, now. Have a good one.

One of the songs that comes to mind, if not the only song, when we see the image above is “Reckless Love” by Cory Asbury. I remember the first time I heard the song — it was the pandemic era and my dad decided to blast Christian music around the house that morning. The words of the song evoked too many emotions in me. There was awe and reverence, there was confusion as to why God would leave 99 sheep for one and there was genuine appreciation for the exquisite wordage.

It didn’t take long for the song to be on the lips of everyone. Every new convert, every choir leader, every church service echoed the lyrics and melody of the song on every other Sunday. The lyrics, along with the verse of scripture that inspired it [Luke 15: 4–7] became the backbone of the radical grace of God. Somewhere in between, we lost the essence of the salvation message and started gravitating towards stories of radical salvation.

Stories of someone who was heavily into substance abuse, hit a brick wall and found Jesus. Stories of the girl or guy who was waist deep in sexual sin and then, found Christ. I could go on for days. My point is, these stories became the spine of gospel sermons around the world, and still are today.

When Paul talks about “not being ignorant of the devil’s devices,” part of me feels like this one thing is a device of the enemy that we’ve completely turned a blind eye to. If someone doesn’t have a story that’s a stark contrast to their faith walk, we’ve built this tendency to not applaud or celebrate it as much as we do the stories of “grand deliverance.” It is because of this very thing that people like me started desiring things that would make our salvation story more compelling. What’s more interesting: the story of the church kid who was raised to know and love the Lord and then, accept Him as Lord and Savior or the story of the ex adult film actor who peddled with substance abuse and mental health challenges before coming to the faith? I think I know what the general consensus would be.

And so, as slippery as a snake, this pseudo-gospel message has crept in. I’m not and will never talk down on stories of radical conversion. I just think that in our obsession with stories like that, we’ve relegated the grace of God to be an exclusive right of those who are completely in contrast to the Christian life, ignoring the fact that James says that one who stumbled in one sin has stumbled in all. It takes one sin to be a sinner.

So, whether it is a tale of a church kid or pastor’s child’s conversion or the conversion of a hardened criminal or prostitute, what really matters to God are their souls.

I think it’s important to have this conversation because I fell prey to thinking that I needed an exquisite, juicy salvation story and fortunately for me, I’m not languishing in my excesses. It’s not so fortunate for other people as they go into these immoral things and indulge all sorts of vices and they never climb up the slippery slope.

Cheers 🥂.

As someone born in the 2000s, most of childhood was actually enjoyable. I remember the time I tried a handstand at 2 years old and landed on my head. There was also the time I misjudged the height of the door. I started my run and it was after I jumped that I realized; “I don mess up!” GBIM! I hit my forehead so hard, I had whiplash.

What do these stories have to do with the conversation?

Well, everything. Whether it was my handstand attempt at two or my Spiderman stunt at thirteen, there clearly was a daring spirit in me. You can chalk it up to stupid things done by a child but to me, at least in this moment, means something more. And I think that we’ve had our audacity mutilated by the system.

I take my mind as far back as primary school. I was the poster kid — constantly used to draw parallels to my classmates. If they did well, they were seen to have performed adequately to challenge me. If they didn’t, it becomes a “Does he have two heads?” conversation. Even though it was weird for me to be in the spotlight, I didn’t let it get to my head. It was because of that that my classmates weren’t mean to me. Somewhere in the middle of all of that was another kid who was just as smart as I was. The only difference was that he was made to feel bad for being intelligent. If it wasn’t “big head” insults, it would be the ITK (I too know) expressions and mannerisms hurled their way. If you were intelligent and consumed by the sheer brilliance of intellectual findings, you were seen as spoilt milk or som’n worse. Of course Nollywood didn’t help the case. The top ranking students were always portrayed as nut-jobs and/or unemployed, seeking help from the kid who was bottom of the class. The chances of that occurring are ridiculously slim as I’ve come to learn. But the effect is all over the country now; it’s a constantly nagging parasitic bug that we can’t seem to get rid off. Our education system, financial systems, infrastructures, and politics are all suffering for it.

“At all, at all, na him bad pass” has led people into mediocre relationships, pushed the culture of half-assed delivery of duties into everyone and their grandmas. It’s disheartening to see or even say. Instead of saying anything, we chalk it up to resilience.

Where and when does it all end?

There was a time when heartbreaks and heartbreak stories were all we talked about. The tale of our first heartbreak — how the girl broke up with us through a text message (or call in my own case), how “breakfast in bed” became synonymous to being broken up with and how Taylor Swift churned out heartbreak anthems every now and again. Oh, can’t forget “Heartbreak Anniversary” by Givēon.

There was a time when you saw girls gather round a particular girl in a consolatory way and you just knew that the girl in the middle was served hot breakfast. There was a time where boys would man-spread, recounting the tales of the escapades and adventures in breaking girls’ hearts with so much pride, even though they were all big lover boys . One thing was true back then — everyone wanted to love and love completely. They wanted to be seen, heard, cared for, even if it was by a fellow 15 year-old who knew little to nothing about the real world.

These days, scarred men hide under the ruins of hearts they’ve broken or their own broken heart and peddle sadistic, misogynistic and downright silly views all in the name of “alpha male.” These days, scarred women line their minds and lips with profanities and dehumanizing ideologies all in the name of “female empowerment.” Everybody is headstrong about their views, consistent in their delusion and so fixated on “me, me me!”

Meanwhile, there’s a 12 year-old kid who’s trying to get a girl’s attention and doesn’t know what to do. There’s a 13 year-old girl whose dream has shifted from wanting to be a doctor or teacher or filmmaker to becoming a moniker, a tool for the pleasure of men and women. We’re witnessing the decay of society and morality — it’s Babylon all over again. And I think that’s it’s because nobody talks about heartbreaks anymore.

Nobody talks about the vulnerable moments at the risk of sounding like a broken record. Nobody wants to recount the moments in their lives where all they wanted to just feel loved at the risk of sounding needy. Nobody wants to talk to kids like they’re kids because we need to “catch them young” (whatever that means).

We need to bring back those heartbreak stories. Not because they’re glamorous or fancy or something to ponder and meditate on but because somewhere, in the midst of all that vulnerability, is a heart that’s yearning to be love, heard and understood.

In there, is a heart that needs Jesus.