Ikoro Iyineleda
3 min readSep 23, 2023


I bought bread and eggs in the vicinity of Alegongo-Akobo this morning, to eat as breakfast so I could take my drugs. The bread was incredibly stale, whilst the eggs — after I had fried it — had an incredibly disgusting taste.

I had bought two loaves. I had to give one to my dog, Princess. It was that stale.

I had bought four eggs. Two eventually went down the throat of Princess.

For those that do not understand the significance of all these, the riff-raff dirty-dirty that keep on stalking me in Ibadan, striving to make my life a living hell even when it comes to the food I eat, were they that planted those loaves and those eggs where I eventually bought them. How they knew I was going to buy food there will be obvious to all those that have been following my writings. Because those stalking me in the Ibadanland that I call Ikadan stalk to the extent where they strive even to read my mind. I wrote of this almost two decades ago.

And to prove how determinedly these dirty-dirty lunatic cadavers of Ibadan stalk me to make my life a living hell, this afternoon — after having visited the hospital to confirm my suspicions of being infected with malaria — I went to a restaurant to grab the meal with which I intended to take my drugs. The meal consisted of jollof rice, plantain, vegetable salad, and chicken.

Before I had finished the meal, there was the sound of a major disagreement downstairs. To the extent where a young female voice was actually heard screaming, “I’ll kill you! How could you have given him food as good as that?!”

Then, seconds later, as the noise died down, another young woman was heard saying in a calm voice, “You’re not supposed to give Professor Sanda’s child any good food.”

So I can’t even eat good food in accursed Ikadanland.

It’s been a while since I’ve noticed that all these dirty-dirty lunacads of Ibadan that have been stalking me for years now always want to make sure that I don’t even get good food to eat in Ibadan, all in their bid to make my life a living misery. Before I left that restaurant of which I wrote of above, a dirty, rickety car drove into its grounds, with nothing to do but to have its driver ask one of the attendants of the restaurant why they served me such good food.

The attendant replied by saying I was a customer, and that was a reason good enough. And without anything else to do or say in the grounds of the restaurant, the driver of the car drove off.

I have eaten this same jollof rice before, in restaurants as well-known as the Mr Biggs at Mokola Roundabout, without being able to finish the food because it tasted so disgusting. All because of this dirty-dirty people of Ibadan that would rush there before I got there, claiming that I was their son and so I had to eat the food they eat, and therefore replacing the food Mr Biggs would actually have served me with the food they brought for me to be served. Only my Creator knows the kind of diseases I would have been afflicted with over the years if not for those who follow what is going on, who follow me to such restaurants, who insist on eating the food I’m served.

Ikadan, you will not poison me. By The Grace of my Creator. In The Name of The LORD. GOD knows the type of dirty-dirty food you’ve been serving me for over two decades. But by The Grace of my Creator, I no longer eat out of thy hands.

PS: Apologies both to vegans and vegetarians. I remain a vegetarian. I don’t eat eggs, meat or fish. But, atimes, I can’t help but fall to the temptation of doing things I don’t do normally. Those that follow me should not be like me in this wise. They should either get married or parried, and thereby have the food they eat in their homes more certain than the food I eat without a partner.



Ikoro Iyineleda

writer, intellectual, chartered accountant - in view, consultant psychiatrist - in view, professor in Psychiatry - in the making.