Excerpt From First Novel: Boys Are Dogs

It has been a long while now since I posted on this blog. Apologies. I have been terribly busy with school work, writing and some other stuffs.

Today, I will be sharing an excerpt of my next book, titled Boys Are Dogs. Enjoy!


Mother told me that immediately I was bathed, Grandma, who moulded my soft tender face, rubbed my body with palm oil. So, whenever you want to say hi and ask for my name then when I was in Primary 1, 2, 3, I would answer: Tayo, Epo Pupa.

Bolu said he loved me with his whole heart, that I am the sugar in his tea, the butter that made his bread cool to eat. I gave him the chance. He kissed me. He was violent with my breast that has just formed a full moon shape.

I was a fool. A fool in S.S.2. He dumped me. I told him I like the body shape of Ngozi, the newly admitted student. At St. Agnes Secondary School, admissions are thrown at wards of influential parents at any time of the year, so far the big boys and girls are not writing W.A.S.C.E with their long trousers and half braided hair.

When boys talk to girls in dark corners, and the girl keeps a straight face while the boy holds her left hand, the one close to her pear shaped heart, and then love must be in the air. Definitely. Sile had told me she saw Ngozi and Bolu holding hands and the light big breasted girl laughing back at Bolu’s jokes, my own Bolu, after the preparatory class.

‘Maybe it is not Bolu,’ I replied Sile.

I went crazy. Bolu had kept me waiting in the Biology laboratory for over twenty minutes of the first break. It has become like a tradition for both of us ever since we’av been together. Even the laboratory attendant, Uncle Kunle, knew about us, that he would often time say, whenever he passed by: ‘When you finish University, get married and make Albinos.’

‘I took Ngozi to the sick bay,’ Bolu said, his two hands in both pockets. I looked at him, up and down, and walked out. Bolu never came up to me. I soaked my mattress with tears and my roommates laughed at me.

Abiola, the sharp mouthed one, the plump girl that was born into a strict Catholic home but masturbates in the middle of the night and moans the names of her crush, said to me in one of my sleepless nights: Boys are dogs, they run after the bitches.

‘You want to beg him?!’ Sile shouted at me

‘I should not have reacted that way?’

‘Then you are not a dime shit to any guy. What do you take yourself for, ehn?’ she dragged me closer to her.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Go and beg him, and sell your dignity to a dog, then.’

‘Stop calling him a dog!’ I raised my voice at Sile and ran straight to S.S.2A.

It was the August rain, heavy and cold coated, and I and Bolu have not spoken for three months. We were in S.S.2 and every one of us was looking up to the final year at St. Agnes.

The library was re-opened after the government equipped it with hundreds of new titles, ranging from Biology to Literature. I was at the fifth shelve peering at Chinua Achebe’s No Longer At Ease, when a strong scent passed my nose and then two strong hands, at least stronger than mine, held me at the hips. The hands went up towards my upper region and squeezed my breast. I shouted at the top of my voice. He withdrew his hands and stepped back. It was Bolu.

‘What is the meaning of that rubbish?!’ I shouted at Bolu.

‘I am sorry. About everything!’ Bolu said.

‘Look straight into my eyes and say you are sorry,’ I demanded.

‘What is happening down there?’ the library attendant, tall and muscular, asked. Bolu grinned. He left.

Bolu must have been surprised, too shocked to imagine his little girl talking with authority. He looked up at me thrice, but couldn’t stare straight into my eyes. I shook my head here and there and disappeared into thin air.


I was in Kuti Hall cafeteria peering at the high roof tops, listening to the husky laughter of the male ones and the chimmering voices of the ladies. Deeper Life Church had saved me from further embarrassment. With the three A1 and several B3 that lied fallow on my WAEC result sheet, my State University had denied me of admission.

‘Visit the Blessed Sacrament and talk to the body of Christ,’ my father would advise when I complained about admission racketeering in all these State Universities.

My mother was an active member of the Deeper Life Church. One of those cold Tuesdays, ushering the Christmas festival, she took me to her short beard Pastor, who spoke in tongues in between short prayers, and there and then I gave my life to Christ.

The next year after Christ became the King of my life, I sat for Jamb and old University Professors invited me to their large auditorium and interacted with me. Jesus favoured me.


It was not only the way he smiled broadly and the dimple, like a droplet of water on a bowl of hot Pap, on his both cheeks that made me go crazy about him, but his yellow T-shirt and perfume.

Maybe this was because Bolu was on a perfumed yellow T-shirt the day he toasted me and I nodded my head like a randy Agama lizard.

‘Are you a fresher?’ he asked me. He was dark like charcoal but the yellow T-shirt made him yellow like ripe orange.

‘Yes.’ I replied.

‘Which of the departments?’ the guy asked further.


‘Really? Destiny can be pathetic sometimes,’ he said and sat.

‘Are you in Economics too?’ I asked him

‘Akin is the name. Three hundred levels.’

We shook hands.


Boys Are Dogs by Folarin Olaniyi


Busayo, a light skinned heavily breasted lady, packed into the room next to mine at a very strange time. She was dripping wet; her two leather bags clung to her hands.

The rain of August in Ibadan is not one to be joked with. It trots and tramples on lands, causing erosion, and breaks into softly nailed roofs giving those domiciled in the uncompleted building a thorough bath.

University of Ibadan had just resumed from a long vacation and students, some of us, had resorted to face me I face you apartments scattered all over Agbowo. I was one.

‘Are you a fresher?’ I asked Busayo, as I helped her with one of her luggage. She looked at me and shook her head here and there.

‘Oh. Sorry. Thought you were fresh,’ that was how the words snailed out of my mouth.

‘I am in my second year. What about you?’ she asked, as her left hand softly wipes her face.

‘I am a finalist.’

‘Seriously? What are you doing here? You should be in the hostel. D block.’ I chuckled and sat on one of the two wooden chairs in her one wooden window room and uttered, ‘You know all those politics, now? I can’t lick the ass of somebody because of one tiny room. I am not complaining here, jare.’

Silence stood between us for some seconds. She was standing opposite where I sat, the rays of the sun that comes after the August rain glittering on the clothed mounds on her chest.

‘Why are you staring in that kind of manner?’ she said, puts on a smile, strained, and sits on my armchair.

‘What is the name?’ I asked her

‘Busayo,’ she replied and stands to take a walk around her new room.’

‘I am Akin. Are you sleeping here today?’

‘Depends. I am not even here with my mattress.’

I walked towards the window and smelt the fresh icy air. The rain has started again, this time less aggressive.

‘You may use my umbrella, when you are ready to go.’

‘Okay. Thanks. For the hospatility,’ Busayo said and sees me off to the door.


It was one of those evenings in November, ushering the first semester examination. Hours ago, I had left Blessing in Kenneth Dike Library.

‘Are you fucking Blessing?’ Ola, my friend since hundred levels, once challenged me.

‘Don’t be raw, Ola. I and Blessing? We are just friends, jare.’

So when Busayo, the girl next door to mine, popped up the same question after her usual looking through my window and sitting her buttocks on my armchair, I kept mute for some seconds.

‘I don’t trust you guys. A girl sleeps over in your place and goes the next day with her thighs as dry as before? Unimaginable.’

‘You know I am a seminarian?’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit, boy. A seminarian studying Economics, when Religious studies and Philosophy are next door?’

I laughed out loud, from the depth of my stomach, and drew my eyes towards her chest. She caught my glance and shook her head here and there.

‘I am going to my hole,’ she said and walks towards the door, but stops halfway and utters, ‘Are you impotent?’

Writing: Think Out Of The Box!

Since the inception of our publishing arm at Emotion Press, several writers have submitted manuscripts.
I have been given the opportunity to evaluate some of them.
In this session, I would like to ruminate on one of the major problem literally fighting most writers.Just like Nolly wood where scripting cliches are the order of the day, most writers want to write as Chinua Achebe, Chimamanda Adichie and Wole Soyinka.
Thinking out of the box is quite essential as a 21st century writer.
Most stories you would be carving has been written before. The difference you would make will be your ability to write your own story your own way.
Chimamanda Adichie and Chinua Achebe don’t think the same way because they do not come from the same background nor had the same experiences; you and I don’t think the same way. We are two original and creatively blessed entities.
I am challenging you today to think out of the box. As you put pen on pen, think out of the box. Avoid cliches. Be like yourself. Be original.Create new things.