WHO GAVE U BISCUITS??

Who Gave You Biscuits? — The Biscuit Heist That Made Me "Umbebe"

Once upon a holy Sunday, when I was just four years old, I committed the most delicious crime of my life. If you think this story is going to be soft, sweet and short, my dear — sit down, grab chin-chin, because this gist is long like the beating I received. 😩

I came from a strict Christian home. I'm talking church every week, prayers every night, and flogging every time the spirit led my father.

“If you blink twice, you collect again.”

My dad? Harsh. Like belt-cane-wire combo harsh. But this day? Ah. This day was special. It was the day I became legend… and casualty.

Like every well-structured Nigerian church, ours had a children's section. And if you grew up in church as a Naija pikin, you’ll know that Children’s Church was vibes — coloured plastic chairs, too many crayons, and the best part — SNACKS.

“The snack used to carry the grace we couldn’t spell.”

So you can imagine my pain when, on that fateful Sunday, no biscuits were shared. 😭 But the biscuits were still there, chilling in their holy carton. And not just any biscuit—Noreos. My absolute weakness.

My best friend at the time — his mum was one of the children’s church teachers — leans into my ear like he’s dropping prophecy and says, "Dem forget to share, but dem still dey inside the carton."

Before my moral compass could load, we were already back inside the classroom. We snuck in like professional spiritual criminals. We each took two packs.

“The Lord is my shepherd, but that day, Noreos was my deliverer.”

We got away with it. Or so I thought.

As we reach house, rice and stew never ready. I cracked open one Noreos pack like a treasure chest. One bite in — heavenly.

“Creamy chocolate euphoria.”

My sister and brother dey eye me like, "Where this boy see biscuit?" Then the voice dropped like thunder:

“WHERE YOU SEE BISCUIT?!”

I froze. Then my dad delivered judgment:

“Throw it away.”

“I tossed it like a criminal discarding evidence.”

And then… in a moment of divine foolishness… I brought out the second one.

“Out of love. Out of blind, reckless biscuit romance.”

Biggest mistake of my life.

My dad’s eyes widened. And then the flogging began.

Belt. Then cane. Then wire. Then cable. When I thought it was over, this man — my own father — hung me upside down from the ceiling fan. 😭

“I became biscuit Batman.”

“My yansh? Inflated. Expanded. Inflamed.”

I couldn’t walk or sit that entire week. My mom had to intervene before I transitioned fully to glory.

And my bestie? That guy chop flogging too. His mum gave him five-fold ministry slap. Unity in punishment.

But the true pain came from humiliation.

As they were flogging me, they shouted, “WHO GAVE YOU BISCUIT?!”

I tried to say my friend’s name. But what came out was:

“UMBEBEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“Out of the chaos of pain and panic, I gave birth to a new name.”

And my siblings, like demons on assignment, NEVER let it go.

Till today, they whisper:

“Who gave you biscuits?”
“Umbebe.”

“Umbebe don start again.”

I’ve accepted my fate.

So what’s the moral of this very long, tragic, hilarious story?

• Don’t steal from church. God is watching. And your dad might be worse.
• If you get caught, never bring out the second one. That’s not boldness. That’s biscuit madness.
• Your siblings will NEVER forget your shame. They will tattoo it in memory.
• And finally... once you become "Umbebe," there’s no going back.

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This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real biscuit lovers, beatings, ceiling fans, or people called Umbebe is purely coincidental and divinely inspired. 🙏🍪

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