Day 200: Thieves, Omens And Homosexual Extraterrestrial Love. And The End Of The And, And The End Of The And, It Was The End. -Bobby 3:13

First of all what you’re reading now is not part of my original piece, Per se.

In rereading it, I got the urge to actually write a short story called: Ray of cosmic love.

To see if I can create something from what was originally a pacified idea to praise Benin.

As I was coming up with a fancy post-it note :

I became inspired to buy a typewriter, possibly a 1930’s corona, and make slurpton and Ray, (played by Bradley cooper). Surely magical.

Because to be honest: writing the way I have been is starting to suck.

I’m waiting a lot, to be honest.

For visas and shit.

Yet I feel obligated to transcribe my experiences with care and in detail.

Which is usually torturous to relive

And that is becoming a task I no longer want to burden myself with.

So fuck it, I’m going to flip the script.

If you want to continue reading, by all means.

But it’s filled with hostage shit.

Weird hostage shit.

So, thank you for your time and consideration, I hope I can do the Ray Of Cosmic Love Story, justice.

Maybe I’ll be like your stepdad and show up on a birthday.

Day 313: 313, until then…

Au rivor moi petit cherries.

Goodbye, my friends.

(Bobby walks stage left and shoots himself in the face with a 1997 super soaker XTI.

He dies instantly.

He enters stage right, a new, entirely other.

…back to the regularly scheduled program.

I consider the small country of Benin a refuge, camouflaged perfectly between Nigerias extreme corruption and Burkina Fasos dark Islamic overture.

Benin is safe, relaxed and most of all, a beautiful country.

I could close my eyes and very easily spend a life time toiling away in various artistic endeavors here.

Opportunities seem both exponential, as well as affordable.

Just as Van Gogh travelled to France, England and Belgium looking for muse, today’s artist can find similar margins for inspiration here, in Benin.

Because, frankly, traveling the “country side” in France, painting ships on canvas, just ain’t like it used to be.

The artist has become passified by these new super economies.

Unless of course the artist is an agent for these super economies.

If Justin Timberlake loves It so much, why dosent he just marry it?

You poser.

Marry McDonald’s Justin.

Prove your love for a cheeseburger is similar to the love a mother feels for her placenta covered first born daughter.

I mean sure, you can work in an office in New York or Milan, but have your own studio near the sea? “Forget that shit.”

Not in 2019.

Ask yourself?

Do you want to wake up smelling plaster drying from what surprisingly turned into last nights sculpture orgy?

Or spend a morning casually picking dried acrylic paint kneaded into your nail beds, because you devoted the entirety of last week painting fantastic dicks?

Meanwhile, flowers bloom cascading their sweet perfume all around you.

Butterflies fuck.

Dragon flies too.

Curious blue lizards scurry at your feet.


I want to write a series of short stories about a homosexual alien obsessed with Ray LaMontagne (played by Bradley Cooper), on a vintage typewriter.

In my world and possibly yours, results are intended to justify means.

Can I sell a homosexually charged love affair between a beautiful singer song writer and a mysterious yet rugged extraterrestrial, to a publisher, film maker or Netflix?

No, I can’t


That’s not the reason I want to create this, or any story.

I’m writing for me, for you.

Because “A Star Is Born” didn’t have enough choreographed Indian dance sequences, or graphic alien sex, or choreographed Indian dance sequences with graphic alien sex.

Why not write a story to see what some random idea can evolve into, after polishing it to a mirror.

Until Slurptpon the alien absorbes all my failures as a lover and a brother.

Ray La Montague (played by Bradley Cooper), deepens a deep respect and desperate obsession… he loves Slurpton, ok?

Deep love, it’s somethin’

Despite Slurptons shortcomings as a space lover, who is the stereotypical lethargic bachelor, ever bouncing between white suns on the brink of going supernova and the bed sheets of space hunks, steeped in hard unforgiving muscle.


Slurpton regularly travels to distant worlds, through dimensions, through men sitting in red sand amidst rolling ocean dunes, seemingly alone in their remote particulate of the cosmos, these unsuspecting people are in fact, the jankey portals Slurpton uses to be near his beloved, Ray (played by Bradley Cooper).


The series is called, Ray of cosmic love.

The sexy twist?

Slurpton can and does, lick human balls in a manner akin to an old Chinese man rhythmically rotating authentic, Chinese made, chrome stress balls, which is to suggest, Slupton can wag a wet tounge across an orgasmic mans asshole like a pack of starving sewer dogs.

Seriously next time you’re in Cambodia.

Go to Gary Chows.

Pay 10,000 dong (Gary’s, Vietnamese. He screams when he talks. Seeming to be forever asking rhetorical questions)

He’ll let you lay on the floor naked and open your legs at 4:30 and 7. While 14, freshly hair dried, exotic breeds of very rare puppies joyfully lick Nutella from your now sparkling asshole.

Like a pedicure for your butthole.

Imagine pounding the of letters of this colourful saga on your 1930’s Smith Corona.

The Coronas percussion complimenting the purrrrrrrrrrrrrr of the sea, as it beats a complementary hypnotic rhythm of soft larghissimo, in the deep, almost invisible back ground.

Somewhere beyond your subconscience.

Way past your subconscience, perhaps, to your beginning?

As I said, Benin feels like a refuge.

Not just from Africa, but from the world.

I could have illustrated my point in million different ways, why create fictional characters that are destined to offend at least one person reading this?

maybe it’s you?

Are you offended?

“A homo sexual alien!?”

What does that even mean? Aliens are A-sexual.

Are you going to thumb down me dude?

Excuse me, as I get off Benins dick.

Right, so after 10 glorious days of live music, Voodo rituals and mental freedom, I travelled north to Natitingou.

My intention was getting to Niger, despite plenty of warnings regarding that decision.


There have been kidnappings and some murder near Natitingou.

Islamic extremists are widely believed to be responsible, said to be from Mali and Burkina Faso.

But who really knows?

I was told by locals that going to Timbuktu right now would be suicide, with a lot of steps.

Add to that, a Norwegian shipping vessel was bordered by pirates and nine crew members were held hostage, a few days ago.

Lots of hostage going on.

Which was the reason I made a pseudo hostage video.

Because I have a visa for Niger.

My reason for going to Natitingou was purely transit related.

While in Natitingou, waiting for Monday, I visited the local market with a plastic box full of eighty nine suckers and a similar looking cellophane box, filled with chocolate squares, that, in all honesty, tasted like, what chocolate would taste like, if the chocolatier only had access to sugar, food colouring and milk powder.

Weird & Nasty, this chocolate.

Why did you have so much candy Bobby?

I was possessed by a sweet tooth demon, planted in me, by the bus Priest, I’m sure.

Under the cover of night, I went to a small, nearby shop.

Where the woman at the counter refused to sell me three individual pieces of both Chocolate and cherry suckers.

“You must buy all of them” she said, daring me.

How much” I asked

Two thousand five hundred each.

I bought them.

As my inner diabetic demon jumped for joy.

I can’t eat all this candy, I’ll go retarded, I thought, as I picked fragments of chocolate from my chest hair, before it melted.

So, the following day I walked to the local market carrying my sweet wares.

No stranger to a market collective, I set up on an abandoned wooden table, under a tattered black tarp.

Within seconds I had customers.

My business plan: give me a coin and I’ll give you a candy, or three.

Business was never my strong suit.

If you’re old or very young, you get a free candy.

Soon I was surround by sixty or more people.

Outstretched hands pinching gold coloured coins, thrusting them, shaking them at me.

Some of the woman had intricate scars woven into their faces.

Some had small green tattoos of shapes etched into their foreheads and under their mascara adorned eyes.

Everyone clamouring before me, had the shine of sweat coating them.

Making them sparkle in the hot sun.

I keep saying relax relax, but people were enchanted with the novelility of buying sweets from a white.

And at a hell of a deal to boot.

Did you see, he gave five suckers to that old woman, for 50 Francs!” I imagined them advertising for me.

Soon the kids were slipping their tiny hands into my chocolate bucket, stealing my sweets.

This was happening blatantly, as I was now distracted by the colosseum of babies before me, each one fashioned with a coin in their tiny hands.

If a baby gave me a coin, they got a sweet, as I refused the coin, followed by a short, rehearsed, “the pleasure is mine” said to a curtsying mother.

Then it was on to my next customer.

People who appeared especially worse for wear, were given free candy, despite their having coin.

Those with no allegiance to capitalism were rewarded with a sweet.

Mine was a sellers market that could never be reproduced by the imitative entrepreneur.

“Combien?” I would ask

Meaning how much candy do you want, for anything of value?

Then I would hold their coin up to the sun, inspecting it with somber diligence.

The kids stealing from me would stop momentarily to laugh.

Giving me an ounce respite.

Then I would return the coin, with a couple suckers.

Humour was the only way of somewhat effectively controlling the mass of people plotted in a complete circumference around me, with an ever decreasing radius that was nearly choking me.

“Relax relax” I kept repeating.

Humour was doing a dodgy job now.

This moment reminded me of how powerful a group of people can be.

Not as a metaphor, but as real power, real energy.

A real encounter producing more than enough energy to push me around.

To overwhelm me completely.

Imagine trying to sell sweets in a mosh pit.

Toward the end, I couldn’t control the little thieves.

I gave what I had left to the oldest person near me.

Fuck this job, I quit, I said.

I walked way with my hands in the air.

To the boisterous jeers of my former customers.

The lesson I learned again was, I’m not in control.

If a group of Islamic extremists forced me to wear a pillow case on my head, while walking me through the desert under starlight, to a cave with really bad wifi.

It would take five skinny, determined men, minimum.

I noticed in this particular market there were hundreds of refugees from Burkina Faso and Mali.

Refugees are always an indication of a serious problem.

And the most important observation.

Was the way I was looked at by some of these men.

It was neither brotherly or amused, it’s how a caged lion would behave at a Louisiana a rib roast.

I was food.

Given an opportunity, I would become an opportunity.

The wave of my reconsideration started to break.

That following day I visited the jewel of the north, a waterfall in Kota.

I smoked some magic grass and made a rather long video illustrating my love of art, Avichii and what I think of hostage takers.

Which makes me think, what if I were to kidnapped someone who kidnaps people, professionally?

Would that make me a master kidnapper?

A Masternapper?

Worth a linkedin edit.

I later climbed the falls, squatted on a rock and stared into the mist swirling all around me.

In the mist, a rainbow appeared.

Two rainbows.

The Colors were presidential in all their primary glory.

Except these rainbows were vertical.

In that moment, my intuition told me that I’ve reached the end of this rainbow, this beautiful grotto in Benin.

That I should not venture beyond the color.

And like a good boy, who listens to his Omens.

I abided.

I leave for Ghana on Saturday.

I will abandon the ancient mystery of Timbuktu.

Morocco is after all my goal.

I vow to return to this Timbuktu side mission, once, of course, I wrap the game.

“The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels in the world and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.”

⁃ The Alchemist.

Day 187: On the motherfuc$!ng cop.

Nigeria is like a membership that automatically charges your credit card, even after you canceled it.

In short, me no like Nigeria.

The corruption that permeates life here, could, I’m sure, make anyone an insane criminal or a sociopath devoid of any empathy, within three months.

Like Andy Dufraine, from Shawshank Redemption said, “I had to go to jail to learn how to be a criminal“.

Three months in Nigeria and I’d be Al Capone.

My god.

What a terrible place.

I’m determined to keep this piece of writing positive, GODDAM IT!

If there is a hell on earth.

A place that uses a modified economic model to ensnare, then enslave people, forcing them into desperate joyless lives.

It’s Nigeria.

More positive, Bobby.

Way more.

I arrived in Calabar, free of all my demons.

Thanks to river exorcism I was party to.

According to my ancient guide book, the Nelbee Executive Guesthouse in Calabar, is a top choice.

Nine years ago.

I asked a moto to take me there.

After checking in and briefly meeting with Nelbee Guesthouses all female staff, most of whom were shuffling toward me through an empty parking lot, like sassy zombies infected with mono.

I went immediately to ABC transport.

Of course the bus ticket I bought online in Cameroon, via a Nigerian PayPal, (flutterwave) didn’t exist.

My credit card was charged, but there was no record of my purchase.


The thing of it is, you never know who to get mad at?

Is ABC transport in cahoots with flutterwave, the fraudulent online payment service they force you to use, if you buy online?

Or not?

Just get me to Benin, I said, buying another ticket.

MasterCards going to be in military school until he fucking dies.

Nothing direct huh? I said rhetorically.

“Mmm” she glerted ( a made up word that means, answering a question with the least amount of energy possible).

I have to stay the night in Lagos? I said to air.

Arrive in the biggest city Africa has, Sunday night?

She glerted again.

Leave for Benin on Monday morning, “Yeah, let’s book that” I said.

I have an entire Saturday to not get murdered or accrue a demonstrable facial scar, in Calabar.

Before I can dodge both, I need to eat.

Preferably something other than a loaf of white bread and salted fish.

I herd apples was a fairly decent restaurant.

It’s not.

But that’s what I herd.

I love the name, maybe they have t-shirts.

I hissed for a three wheeled Moto to pick me up.

Enter Daniel.

My new homie.

As Daniel was driving me to Apples I got the impression he was distracted.

It looked as if he was multi tasking but he wasn’t, he was single tasking.

What’s up Daniel?

What do you mean?”

It looks like your playing Ecco the dolphin up there


It’s a sega game, it’s really hard.

Oh, ok

Just as I was explaining what Eccos powers were, some random man ran up to us, put his hand inside our taxi then shut it off.

We rolled to a stop, amidst a cacophony of horn bursts.

The brazen man and Daniel exchanged words.

Pigeon English.

The context of which, I could barley decipher.

Daniel gave him some money, started his taxi and we drove off.

Before I could ask him “what was that was all about?”

He was stopped again.

And again.

Daniel was multi tasking.

He was playing Ecco the taxi.

Trying to find a route with the least amount of people to pay.

I observed the two humans interacting.

They speak softly to one another, neither seeming to have the energy to deviate from what seems to me, to be, a very old script.

Daniel lowers his head then shakes it slowly.

(David Attenborough voice)

Now that Daniels been bitten, he’s contorting in response to the painful process, of being liquified from within.

Meanwhile, the Spider-man casually looks over his shoulder for more unsuspecting victims.

His eyes seem to track two separate opportunities, simultaneously.

This terrible Spider-Man has all the discipline of a diabetic child asked to hold a jumbo sized box of Fruit Loops.

(Stop the Attenborough)

Daniel digs around his man purse for money.

This completely illegal thing, happens at just about every Intersection.

I’m not taking liberties here, Daniel was practically the Joker in the original Batman, throwing money at complete strangers.

This wide spread corruption has forced him and many others to drive specific routes in order to avoid scandalous police and criminal vigilantes.

It was the most disgraceful thing I’ve seen in Africa.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a statement.


I was left alone.

This virus seemed to only affect Nigerians.

After I treated us to Apples, which I was hungry for.

Daniel asked if I was interested in the particulars of Calabar.

I’m interested in not becoming dead in Nigeria, I told him, finishing my Apples, which I was, to be clear, hungry for.

He asked if I wanted to visit several of Calabars historical nuances.

“Heck yeah, dude” I glerted, while dabbing the corners of my mouth with toilet paper.

When we arrived at the independence memorial, I took a photo, which prompted the several men sitting behind it, to aggressively question my photographic intentions.

To put it mildly.

“Oh, I’m with the national fear patrol, we go out looking for really shady people, then give them smily face stickers.

You have to put one on your forehead now.

Or we put you in jail.”

I walked toward the tiled pillar, toward the semi naked swarm.

Ah, a little Kumbaya sesh”, I said sitting down with the squad under a little palm tree.

They asked, so I told them.

How did I come to be in Nigeria?

After my story, one guy called me a warrior.

I like this guy, I thought, I should get his email and send him an e-valentines day card.

Parts of my story, specifically my bid in a maximum security Congolese prison, bought me enough Nigerian street credit, that the leader passed me a fairly large marijuana cannon.

which I proceeded to smoke with post haste enthusiasm.


Daniel peered over my shoulder, “Are we going to leave now?

Just a hint of impatience, rolling from his mouth.

“Woah, yeah” I said, suddenly realizing that I was sitting in a clump of dirt with eight shirtless Nigerian strangers.


Let’s go.

I stood up and opened my backpack.

The faces of the men I shared the past half hour with changed.

They thought I was going to give them money.

Nah fam.

I pulled out a bag of gummy bears instead.

They looked at the bag like, “how do we fuck this thing? “

Lovely men.

Later that night Daniel and I were walking through Watt market.

I was looking for a tailor to fix the zipper on my lucky sharp tooth Gucci fanny I bought from a unsuspecting server in Kinshasa for ten bucks, when Daniel was summoned by a rather large man, we will call him, Greyworm.

They were speaking pigeon (a bastard language, with English roots).

Apparently, from what I could piece together, due mainly to my interest in Lou Begas Mambo No. 5, when I was in Junior High, Greyworm and his cohort Blueworm, were shaking Daniel down for money.

Money, Daniel owed.

Money Daniel borrowed.

I was with this dude all day.

He was paying bribes to everyone.

Now, I’m standing in the dark, while two men are demanding money from with Daniel.

Then Greyworm, with a lightning fast speed, took Daniels phone.

Snatched it right out of his hands, as he was asking for more time to pay.

“How do you not become the Batman here” I thought to myself.

Daniel just put his head down and shook it back and forth.

I took Daniel aside, “How much do you owe them?”

Five thousand, he said.

We went back to Blue and Grey worm.

“How much does Daniel owe you” I asked?

Three Thousand.

I weighed my options.

Do I walk away, assuming Daniel and these guys are in cahoots, attempting to Nigerian me out of some money. Turn to page 361

Do I pay Daniels 3000 Naira debt to Grey worm and Blue worm, chalk it up to me hiring a guide for the day, Turn to page 41.

Do I start jacking off on everyone, like Louis CK. Turn to page 964.

I turned to page. 41.

After two days at the Nelbee Executive Guesthouse in Calabar.

A place, I learned only hires women dressed in minis.

Late night knocks on my door forthcoming.

“Do you need soap?”

“It’s 11:30 honey, unless I strike you as a bearded germaphobe, you’re wasting your time.”

I run a prostitute free conscience.

If you had ice-cream, I’d be rubbing your back already.

Daniel agreed to pick me up at 5 am that morning, to take me to the bus station.

My bus to Legos was leaving at 6.

At 5:30, after cursing Daniel with glerted disapproval.

I decided to walk to a nearby taxi stand in the pouring rain.

“I should be on page 964”. I thought.

Could they have orchestrated that entire piece of theatre, to sheer me of 3000 Naira (11$)?

Regardless if they did or not, the very fact that I think it’s possible is what makes Nigeria so incredible.

Nigerians are capable of limitless feats.

“These boys are sharp” I was warned in Cameroon.

Despite its reputation, I pledge that Nigeria, is the beating heart of Africa.

Among the African collective, who among them is cunning enough to outsmart, outplay and outlast the Chinese.

It’s very certainly not Kenya, who are basically Chinese now.

It’s not short man syndrome, “frontier ferme” Gabon either.

Let it go dude.

It’s Nigeria.

China V.S Nigeria!

Live on pay per view.

Ewww weee!

Its 10:30 in the night, I just finished a 16 hour minivan commute.

It was terrifying.

We were going too fast the entire time.

The confidence this guy had that people were adverse to driving head on into us, bordered on pure faith.

I’m laying on a sticky green bus bench, that was designed to seat three, outside a bus station in downtown Legos, looking to the horizon for any hope of daylight.

Like a tramp.”

Eventually I realized I slept at the wrong bus station.

I quickly hired a taxi to drive me across town.

Just in time.

As I was crossing into Benin with relative ease, I witnessed an armed Nigerian border patrolmen going from car to car extorting money from the occupants waiting in queue to enter Nigeria.

He casually put the money in his pocket and strolled along, whistling.

I whistled too.

I won’t be here for the civil war.

But he will.