by Salami Femi<\/p>\n
Fly away<\/strong><\/p>\n \n “Bro, Liverpool would win tonight’s game o….”, Ife said. “We are the better team.”<\/p>\n \n “Hell no”, I interjected. “We are on top of the league. Yes, we are rivals, but we don’t even need to win against you guys, getting a draw is our goal.”<\/p>\n \n “Here, we go again, draw my foot. Everyone has an extra mid-week game to play, so no excuses here, bro”, an irritated Ife replied.<\/p>\n \n But Jide was having none of all this, “Why am I here watching this game with you people. Too much noise and shouting. I hate football.”<\/p>\n \n Both Ife and I looked at Jide with devilish eyes.<\/p>\n \n The first half of the game started and off we go. The first half was intense and as predicted by Ife, Liverpool led by halftime with three goals to one. Liverpool was ruthless.<\/p>\n \n “Man-utd were fatigued”, I said out loud to Ife.<\/p>\n \n “As usual, more excuses. Or better still, your best players were not on the pitch”, Ife laughed.<\/p>\n \n I was speechless.<\/p>\n \n Suddenly, I felt a slight discomfort in my stomach, but I ignored it for a while, but as the second half was about to start, I realized I had constipation and watching a football game in a viewing centre was the last place I needed to be.<\/p>\n \n “Guys, I cannot finish this game o…. My stomach dey pain me o….”, I informed them both. Ife was upset but Jide was busy with his phone and uninterested about the issue.<\/p>\n \n “See you guys later”, I said, but Ife was visibly upset, “bro, hold body and see the game to the end.”<\/p>\n \n But I wasn’t able to reply back, and as I walked towards the door, I woke up. It was all just a dream.<\/p>\n \n Dream o dream<\/em><\/p>\n Filled in my eyes at night<\/em><\/p>\n Bringing imagination to light<\/em><\/p>\n Like a grape that thrive on a vine<\/em><\/p>\n Having rough edges, but so bright<\/em><\/p>\n Dream o dream<\/em><\/p>\n \n Reality kicked in.<\/p>\n \n Ife had passed away to the great beyond eight months earlier, while I left him behind in my dream to return back to the real world.<\/p>\n \n Rest in peace, brother Ife. Till we meet again in the Afterlife.<\/p>\n \n \n \n Trust<\/strong><\/p>\n \n \u201cFriends! Comrades! They\u2019ve gone too far!\u201d Mr. K thundered, his voice echoing off the walls. \u201cThe council\u2019s new tax laws are unbearable. Unpaid allowances. It\u2019s tyranny! Who is with me?\u201d<\/p>\n \n A roar of approval shook the dusty windows.<\/p>\n \n \u201cI am, Mr. K!\u201d bellowed Bush, a man built like a fridge. \u201cWe will not be silenced!\u201d<\/p>\n \n \u201cTo the barricades!\u201d screeched Vicky, a woman whose floral print dress seemed at odds with her anarchic spirit.<\/p>\n \n \u201cLet\u2019s show them the power of the people!\u201d yelled a young man named Tim, whose participation was largely motivated by a hope to impress a girl named Chloe, who was also in the room.<\/p>\n \n Tears of joy welled in Mr. K\u2019s eyes. \u201cThen we march! To the town hall! For justice!\u201d<\/p>\n \n And so, the protest began. Mr. K led the charge, a battered megaphone held aloft. He strode with purpose, a general at the head of his army.<\/p>\n \n \u201cThe people, united!\u201d he yelled into the megaphone, his voice crackling with static power.<\/p>\n \n Behind him, Bush\u2019s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. \u201cHmmm, money transfer received. Interesting!\u201d He slowly did an abrupt about-turn and power-walked backwards, away from the group, muttering, \u201cUp the revolution\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n \n Mr. K, oblivious, pressed on. \u201cWe shall not be moved!\u201d<\/p>\n \n Vicky\u2019s phone also buzzed. It was a notification from her neighbourhood watch app. \u201cOoh, a credit alert text message!\u201d she gasped. \u201cMore investigation needed!\u201d She peeled away from the group, “a vigilante needs refreshment as well.”<\/p>\n \n The crowd, which had numbered a robust twenty-five, was now down to thirteen. Each receiving text messages on their phone.<\/p>\n \n They reached a crosswalk. The pedestrian light was red.<\/p>\n \n \u201cWe do not bow to the system\u2019s oppressive signals!\u201d Mr. K proclaimed forcefully, stepping into the road.<\/p>\n \n A bus honked violently. The protestors, a law-abiding bunch at heart, recoiled onto the pavement. \u201cYou go on ahead, Mr. K!\u201d one shouted. \u201cWe\u2019ll, uh, create a diversion here!\u201d<\/p>\n \n He didn\u2019t look back. His eyes were fixed on the prize: the steps of the town hall, where a line of six police officers stood, looking mildly bored.<\/p>\n \n Tim saw Chloe check her phone and sigh. \u201cUgh, my phone\u2019s about to die. I need to go home and get my charger.\u201d Seeing his chance, Tim quickly said, \u201cI\u2019ll come with you!\u201d<\/p>\n \n And just like that, the revolution lost its last two members.<\/p>\n \n Mr. K, feeling the electric energy of his massive following, strode triumphantly up to the police line. He raised his megaphone, his voice a tinny, solitary roar.<\/p>\n \n \u201cOfficers of the state! Behold the will of the people! We stand here today, a united front, and we say you shall not\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \n The lead officer, a sergeant with a face that had seen it all, slowly leaned to his left, peering past Mr. K. He then leaned to his right. He looked back at Mr. K, his expression one of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.<\/p>\n \n \u201cWhich people?\u201d he asked, his voice flat. \u201cYou mean that pigeon over there?\u201d<\/p>\n \n Mr. K\u2019s triumphant pose faltered. The megaphone dipped. He turned his head.<\/p>\n \n Left. Right. Behind him.<\/p>\n \n The street was empty of protesters. A plastic bag danced in the wind. The pigeon the officer referred to was pecking at a discarded chip.<\/p>\n \n Mr. K\u2019s eyes, once blazing with revolutionary fire, widened into dinner plates of sheer, unmitigated panic. He looked back at the six officers, who were now all staring directly at him. His lip trembled.<\/p>\n \n \u201cSo,\u201d the sergeant said, pulling out a notebook with terrifying slowness. \u201cwhat were you about to say?”, as Mr. K was visibly shaking at this point.<\/p>\n \n \n \n \n The Observed<\/strong><\/p>\n \n Agent Terry sat in the dimly lit room, surrounded by rows of monitors displaying feeds from Joe Rogan’s podcast, phone calls, emails, and online presence. His family and friends were also under surveillance. Terry’s mission was to gather Intel on potential UFO disclosures on various social media platforms and private messages.<\/p>\n \n As he watched Joe Rogan’s live show, a guest, a former government agent, shared his encounter with UFO ships. Terry’s ears perked up. He knew he had to report this to his superiors, with details plans attached to discredit the former government agent as quick as possible.<\/p>\n \n But just as he was about to file his report, the monitors began to glitch. Terry’s trained instincts kicked in. He swiftly activated his system\u2019s advanced firewalls, scanning the system for bugs or viruses. Nothing showed up.<\/p>\n \n Suddenly, a figure materialized beside him. Terry spun around, shocked at what he is seeing, but ready to trigger the fail-safe alarm.<\/p>\n \n “Relax, Agent Terry,” the being said, its voice eerily calm. “I’m not here to harm you.”<\/p>\n \n Terry’s eyes widened as he took in the being’s otherworldly features.<\/p>\n \n “Who are you?” Terry demanded.<\/p>\n \n “I’m an observer of this world,” the being replied. “And a big fan of Joe Rogan’s podcast, I might add. His open-mindedness is…. so refreshing.”<\/p>\n \n Terry’s mind reeled. “What do you want?”<\/p>\n \n “Stop reporting on Joe Rogan’s UFO discussions,” the being instructed. “His podcast is the reason we haven’t made contact… yet. Humans aren’t ready. Not even close.”<\/p>\n \n Terry hesitated, torn between duty and the extraordinary revelation.<\/p>\n \n The being continued, “Joe Rogan’s platform provides a unique window into human curiosity. We’ve been monitoring his shows, and his openness has proven to us, you are not yet ready for higher form of logic and reasoning.”<\/p>\n \n Terry’s fingers trembled, but lower his fingers from the alarm button under his desk.<\/p>\n \n “What’s at stake?” he asked.<\/p>\n \n The being’s gaze seemed to bore into Terry’s soul. “Your species’ fate! Continue to monitor Joe Rogan, but do not interfere. We love his episodes on UFOs, he is almost there.”<\/p>\n \n With that, the being vanished!<\/p>\n \n Terry sat stunned, questioning everything he thought he knew about his mission and the world. He deleted his report, ensuring that his bosses don’t have any new data on Joe Rogan’s podcast.<\/p>\n \n As he resumed monitoring, Terry wondered: Was he now working for humanity’s benefit or the extraterrestrial observer’s agenda? Who is observing who?<\/p>\n \n Speaking out loud, Terry asked; \u201cthe observer is now been observed.\u201d<\/p>\n \n \n \n Warmonger!<\/strong><\/p>\n \n Agolo the four-armed alien crouched on the beach, his extra limbs working in perfect harmony as he carefully extracted a DNA sample from a starfish. The creature wiggled indignantly before being plopped back into the water, unharmed but probably reconsidering its life choices.<\/p>\n \n “Fascinating,” Agolo muttered to himself. “Such delicate flavor potential. The soup back home will be legendary.”<\/p>\n \n Behind him, the distant roar of helicopters and the ominous hum of warships had been building for the last twenty minutes. Agolo, engrossed in his culinary science, had dismissed it as “probably some human thing.”<\/p>\n \n Then\u2014 “ALIEN!<\/p>\n \n Agolo spun, nearly dropping his DNA sequencer. Standing before him was General Kane, a grizzled war veteran with more medals than common sense, flanked by an entire battalion of nervous-looking soldiers.<\/p>\n \n “Greetings, extraterrestrial invader!” Kane boomed. “State your intentions for Planet Earth!”<\/p>\n \n Agolo blinked. “Uh\u2026 hi?”<\/p>\n \n “Don\u2019t play dumb!” Kane snarled. “You\u2019re here to destroy us, aren\u2019t you? Where\u2019s your mothership? Hiding behind the moon? Preparing to suck our blood?”<\/p>\n \n Agolo tilted his head. *”What? No. I\u2019m just\u2014”<\/p>\n \n “LIES!” Kane turned to his troops. “Ready the nukes!”<\/p>\n \n A woman in a colonel\u2019s uniform, Jenny Cash, stepped forward. “Sir\u2026 what is he actually doing?”<\/p>\n \n Agolo held up his sequencer. “I\u2019m a cook. I needed starfish DNA for replication. My people love seafood.”<\/p>\n \n Silence.<\/p>\n \n Kane\u2019s eye twitched. “You\u2019re\u2026 a chef?”<\/p>\n \n “Yes.”<\/p>\n \n “Not a warlord?”<\/p>\n \n “No.”<\/p>\n \n “Not here to terraform Earth?”<\/p>\n \n “We can already do that to dead planets. Why would we want this one?”<\/p>\n \n “Then\u2026 you must want our water!” Kane insisted.<\/p>\n \n Agolo burst out laughing. “Oh, please. We\u2019ve got ice planets across our galaxy. Look, General, no offense, but Earth is a simple planet. Nothing special here.”<\/p>\n \n The soldiers exchanged glances. One muttered, “He\u2019s got a point.”<\/p>\n \n Kane\u2019s face turned purple. “This is a trick! You\u2019re lulling us into a false sense of security!”<\/p>\n \n Agolo sighed, pressing a button on his wristband. Above them, a sleek, invisible ship shimmered into view. “Buddy, if we wanted Earth, we\u2019d have taken it before you invented the wheel.” He waved. “Anyway, gotta go. Soups don\u2019t make themselves.”<\/p>\n \n “Also, get a hobby, mister.”<\/p>\n \n With a flash, he teleported aboard. The ship zipped away at impossible speeds, leaving Kane staring at the sky, heartbroken.<\/p>\n \n “No war?” he whispered. *”Not even a little one?”<\/p>\n \n Colonel Cash patted his shoulder. “Sorry, sir\u2026”<\/p>\n \n Kane sniffled. “But I already bought the nukes\u2026”<\/p>\n \n And somewhere in deep space, Agolo chuckles at the sheer drama of humans. “Such adorable little warmongers!”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Salami Femi Fly away “Bro, Liverpool would win tonight’s game o….”, Ife said. “We are the better team.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1843,77],"tags":[1845,1123,1866],"class_list":["post-16169","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-88","category-english","tag-egophobia-88","tag-english","tag-salami-femi"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-4cN","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16169","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=16169"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16169\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16170,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16169\/revisions\/16170"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=16169"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=16169"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=16169"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}