Once upon a time..

Last week I bumped into Bunmi.

I hadn’t seen Bunmi since primary school
( A lovely place called Dalfred. It's right next to Sesame Street!)

The last time we met was during the send off ceremony the school had thrown in our honor.We were leaving the school into the big world. The world of secondary schools; Dating, Biros, Increased pocket money and a whole new set of teachers to learn about.
What was there not to like?
The last image I remembered of her had her weeping terribly as the choir sang “Roses in the valley.”
It was almost as if after the 3hr sendoff ceremony was done she would be sent off too war.
Hell. Come to think about it most of my class cried that day.
Everyone had tears in their eyes because they knew, they just knew, that leaving primary school was the end of the world. The absolute worst thing that could happen to them.
This was it. Their lives were over.

I wanted to yell out at my Class.
“Come-on. Why the tears? There was nothing for us here anyway. We’re going into the world man. Suck it up. You’re leaving primary school for crissakes. Look around you. Except for the slides and swings…Nothing happens here!!”
I didn’t.
I just joined them and cried.

So here we were a decade and then some years later and I see her smiling happily at me.
“Carlang Xertnghotli!” She screamed with delight displaying that most annoying of infant traits. Somehow everyone you went to primary school with remembered your surname. They flaunted this by yelling it out loud whenever they meet you.
Not to be outdone I replied.
“Hey! Bunmi Thiguyeser!”I looked at her “Wow…”
I was right on both counts. Her surname and she looking wow.

Last time I saw her she was some 9 year old girl with a head to large for her body and braids riddled with ribbons. Now she was a gorgeous 5 ft 7.Her, lips shining from gloss, was the beckoning center piece of a perfectly made face. Beneath her face she carried a figure that begged to be hugged. Her dress clung to her skin highlighting the gentle curve from her flat stomach to the soft swell of her breast. Long legs, toned a lovely brown, shot out from her plaid skirt ending in delightful sandals. Her Toenails were colored the same lovely shade of pink as her fingers.
I swallowed hard.
This was skinny Bunmi?
Wow.
If i had any doubts about evolution they were gone now!

She gave a chuckle and gave me a hug.
“I can’t believe it’s you. Is it really?” She said with a warm smile.
No.
The real Carlang died after the send off ceremony. He got run over by a herd of cows that were trying to escape from their herdsman. Distraught by the disaster the local school PTA donated money and cloned the cells of the dead boy, recreating another kid in his likeness. Carlang's parents wept with joy as they unwrapped their kid when the gift was delivered.
“He looks so much like the old Carlang.” His mum wept as she cut of the cello tape from his right nipple. “I think we’ll call him Carlang as well.”
“Yes! Lets.” His father agreed.

Naturally I didn’t disclose this closely guarded family secret. I just nodded my head and smiled.
Yes..
It’s is me.
Really.

We chatted about a couple of nothings for a bit. I focused completely on her face. My pose all degage. Inwardly my nerves were shot.

It just didn’t seem right that she had grown a fantastic pair of jugs with age. It didn’t seem fair either. If I had known she would have turned out this way I would have been much nicer to her when we were in primary school.
I wouldn’t have laughed at her when she said the capital of Egypt was China.
She stopped smiling at me and ran her hand across her hair. It was a habit she had had since primary school. This really was Bunmi!
“You know I thought about you just last week.” She said.
“You did? That’s nice. What about?” I asked with a wary smile.
I shouldn’t have worried needlessly.
“The books” she said. “Do you remember? I was talking with my sister Lamide about primary school episodes and then I remembered it.”
I didn’t remember Lamide. But I remembered the books.

She was talking about an incident that happened in primary four.
I’m not sure how old I was then.7 maybe or 8? I was definitely young though. It was about noon and we were in class having a lesson.
The lecture (Did we call it lecture back then) was about some boring science topic.
About how you could mix two atoms of Hydrogen with one of oxygen and get this mix called water.
Big deal. I had my head bent over my desk in a seemingly exhausted pose. I was anything but. What I really was doing was reading a novel that I had placed on my lap.
Bunmi was seating beside me so she could see what I was doing. Ignoring the droning voice behind the lecture I dived into a world of magic. A world of flying chairs and distant worlds made out of chocolate. I was so engrossed in the tales of the Wishing chair that I didn’t notice the silence in the class until it was too late. As it was my first warning of the danger I was in was Bunmi’s quiet cough.
I looked up into the eyes of our lecturer. Wait a sec… I think I remember. We used to call them Class teacher…
AhH!!
Right. So I looked into the eyes of our…class teacher and I knew I was in trouble.
He had stopped giving the lesson and had the look in his eyes. The “Who the hell do you think you are you little punk” look. I suddenly wished my chair was a wishing chair.
“What are you doing Carlang?” He asked sternly.

I looked at him with my innocent doe eyed bambi look. I had been practicing it for weeks. Everyone was supposed to fall sway beneath its spell.
“Nothing!” I replied. My Bambi look on full beam.
Everyone in class laughed. In the world of kids and babies there is no such as thing as doing nothing. When we say nothing we mean something and occasionally everything. But never ever do we really mean nothing.
The class teacher had hung around long enough to understand the lingo of infants.
He walked over to me and looked beneath the desk.

Page 59. The Adventures of the Wishing chair. Author Enid Blyton.
The bench would like to present this as evidence against the accused.

It was an open and shut case against me.

My school was preppy. But they had nothing against the occasional use of the rod. The teacher brought out his cane with masochistic swiftness and asked me to stretch out my hand.
Whack .Whack.
Two strokes were quickly delivered across my palm for doing nothing.
I didn’t cry.
Girls did that sought of thing. Girls actually started crying before they were caned so most of the time they never really got around to actually being caned.
Smart Tactic.
I couldn’t cry. If I broke down and cried in front of the class I would loose my position amongst the top 20 coolest boys in the class.
There were 22 boys in the class as it were.
That would be terrible.

After my punishment I was asked to seat down.
The class teacher (May the pox of a thousand camels infest his nose) returned to the front of the class with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. After a quick look around the class he continued the lecture in his boring drone.
The class, as it is want to be after such executions against its members, was decidedly quieter.
“I’m really sorry about that.” Bunmi whispered to me.
“Its okay” I answered. Smiling as if the teacher had just given me a pat on the head and a tickle.
My palms hurt like hell.

For the next two minutes I focused on the teacher. He was still droning about the makings of water. It seemed pretty silly to me anyways. Was he trying to say that if oxygen flows in through one window and twice as much hydrogen flowed in through the opposite window we would have a fountain sprout in the middle of our class?
After two minutes of pretending to listen to his ridiculous lecture (who needs water?) I stopped looking at him.
I opened my desk.
Beside me I heard Bunmi Gasp. I didn’t blame her.
Inside my desk, beside my lunch box and stationary kit, were 7 novels lying in wait.

I gave a quick scan, The Adventures of the Wishing Chair had been my favorite but The Enchanted forest was just as nice. I settled for that one.
“Let me know when he looks at me.” I told Bunmi with a smile.
And with that I went back to reading.

Tale closed.
That was the episode Bunmi was referring too. Tales of our youthful exuberance.

I looked at Bunmi and smiled.
We had migrated to a soft drink booth during our recant. Now we were seated. I had a bottle of coke in my hand .She had settled for soda water.
Dieters. Yuck!
“You were crazy back then. “ She said with a laugh. “Supposing the teacher had seen you again.”
“Oh. I had you to back me up then.” I replied laughing with her.
“Thanks. Not that I was much help. If I remember correctly half the time I used to read during class alongside you. We were crazy about books.”
“I still am.” I said.
I couldn’t help it. I finally stared at her boobs. They looked. “Wow!”
“What’s your number” I asked.

She was right. I loved reading as a kid. As I smiled with nostalgia, I got thinking.
It didnt seem to be the case anymore.

It seems to me that reading has taken a decline amongst our young ones? What most children want to do now is watch some animation or zone out on the various game consoles out there. I’m not against that ( I’m still guilty of the same) but no one seems to read anymore. I used to stay locked in my rooms for hours on end reading books after books. In my world Enid Blyton was a Goddess and the chronicles of Narnia were masterpieces that were Shakespearean in accomplishment. There used to be great importance and credence given to the game of I’ve read more novels that you have. It wasn’t just enough to read. But to read as much as you could. The pace setter series, The Nancy drew mysteries, the hardy boys. All the eponymous books about kids solving crime. Reading was fun. It was loved. The thirst for knowledge was a virus that gripped us all. The few of us who didn’t love to read actually pretended too, just so they could be cool.

Some of us where so passionate about it we were willing to ignore the lecture of water making just to find out what adventures Moonface or Dame washalot was up too.
It was cool to read.
If you read. You were cool!
When did all that change?

Make no mistakes about it. Change it has. Over the past two decades the number of children who enjoy reading has reduced. How did that happen?
It’s a sad thing to loose. The culture of reading. In a lot of ways I am more reconciled to the notion of adults not reading. It’s easier to forgive. Life has a way of taking up your days when you’re an adult. As much as you’d love too, finding time to read is a lot harder as you age. There’s so much else to do. Work , fun, sex and sex.

But Children have so much time and so little to do. Reading as a kid made me half the person that I am. Aren’t children today missing out on all the important lessons I learnt because of their dislike for reading?
I fear that, in Nigeria at least, reading is a culture that is slowly being lost amongst our children.
Where did all the love go?
How can it be brought back?

“I’m not sure. “ Bunmi answered when I asked her. “I think it’s just the way of the times. Most parents don’t read themselves so they don’t feel the need to urge the same trait in their young ones.”
Perhaps.
I took a sip of my coke and stole another look at Bunmi’s Bosom.
In the end perhaps there was still hope. Maybe it was one of those dictated cycles in life. Maybe after a while the child hood lust would return.
After all, not all my childhood lust was gotten over as quickly.
Take Bunmi’s chest for instance.
“What are you staring at?” she finally asked me.
Girls. Some things never changed. Girls were still as observant as they had been back then. She probably had been aware of my gaze for the last thirty minutes.

I looked at her face.
She had a mischievous smile.
I smiled an innocent smile in return. My doe eyed Bambi look planted firmly on my face. Over a decade after primary school, I had gotten very good at it.
What was I staring at?
There were a million answers to that question. Her button. Her necklace. Good old nothing.
I could answer the question.
Or I could ask her one of mine. The Nigerian way.
Answer a question with a question.
I rubbed my hand across my hair and asked.
“What’s the capital of Egypt?”

Because Blogsville said So.

I was sleeping last night, after a long day of playing this game called life, when it started.
Someone came knocking at my door.
A slow ominous thud thud thud.
I’m a lot of things but brave isn’t oneof them.
I’ve always wondered what all those guys who walk downstairs in the dead of the night with a baseball bat expect to find.
Some guy waiting downstairs with a ball?

Anyways. Ever the survival freak I crept under my bed and started counting backwards from 1. I’m not very good at that and it takes all my strenght to concentrate.
After 5minutes of nerve jarring thuds the knocking stopped and something was slipped beneath my door.
It was an envelope. It glowed a bright fluorescent red in the dark. I was instantly wary.
My power bill?
I crept slowly towards the envelope observing with humor that my fright had gone leaving me covered with sweat and a mild erection.
What was my body thinking? I’m about to die.
Quick have an orgasm one last time!!

I brushed aside my thoughts and picked up the envelope. It didn’t have any thing written on it. It just lay there in my hands pulsing its dance of red scream.
I opened it.
Inside was a note. My first emotion was relief. It wasn’t my Nepa Bill. Quickly following that was disappointment. It wasn’t a birthday card or a gift certificate.
Oh well.
Now firmly in the hands of curiosity I pulled out the folded sheet and lifted it to read . The message was simple.

“ You’ve been tagged on Blogsville zone,
Today’s the 29th of November
If you fail to post a post tomorrow, we’ll be coming for you.
Bring a baseball bat. We’ll beat you to death with it

P.s Could you please buy some popcorn and soda.
It’s not much fun beating people without food. Leave it in your fridge!!

Cheerfully yours.
Blogsville Members.”

I woke up from my dream.

I didn’t sleep much after that. I dashed off to the computer.
Blogsville was coming for me. I was in trouble. My deadline was the end of November. That was today.If I didn’t reply to my tags I was done for.
I was doomed. I was going to be beaten with a bat. Not sexy beating, (and i couldnt stand those) but crazy beating.
The "what are you doing naked in my bed with my wife" kind of beating.
Somewhere in the dark my 9 year old Casio watch let out a beep.
I had just crossed from the 29th of November to the 30th.
I had 24 hours.
My brain wrestled with fear and the need to concentrate. I had been asked to write 7 weird things about me.
I started typing.

Seven weird things about me.( Stop shivering and type you idiot!)

I love Magic.
No kidding. Magic. The kind where a dove seemingly comes out of an empty hat.
That kind? Yes. I’m a fan.
For as long as I can remember I’ve always loved the idea of tricks. I had an Uncle who was half Jewish. He had this neat trick where he would make a coin disappear and then pull it out of my ear. It used to completely blow my little 5-year-old mind.
Thinking back now I realize that I might not have done anything about this love of mine except life played a really cool trick on the world.
It made the Internet appear.

With an ad infinitum of knowledge only a keyboard away I dived in.
I’m hardly a professional. I do your basic card and coin tricks.
My coin tricks aren’t that spectacular. I enjoy pulling coins out of little 5 year olds now and watching them scream with delight. But other than making coins appear and reappear I cant do much more.
My card tricks are a lot classier and advanced. I was well into my hobby during my first year of admission into a university. I always had a deck of card in my hands.
Practicing is king. There are over a hundred sleights you need to be really good at.

I’ve got a lot of great stories but I think my favorite is the one where I asked a girl to pick a card. She did. I asked her to sign it. She did. I then asked her to stick it back in the deck and shuffle it.
After she had I asked her to search through and pull out her card. She couldn’t find it. While she was gasping with shock. I called a guy walking by and asked him to take of his shoe.
Inside his shoe was the card.
Nice huh? I repeated the trick but instead of a shoe I made it appear in her handbag.
She totally freaked out.
I watched her scream and jump.
I had turned her into a five year old girl with boobs.

Eventually though everyone started becoming wary of me.
The rumors started. I was a wizard.
Carlang Voldermort Gandalf.
Even though I told everyone that it wasn’t real magic no one would believe me.
After an entire week of having strange looks from people I sat down (On a chair. I hadnt learnt how to float in the air) and thought about my options.
I could either continue awing people whilst hoping that I'd bump into a sexy beautiful native doctor, or I could give up my hobby and become normal again.
So I gave up my hobby.
Tossed away my book of tricks.
I don’t do tricks anymore.
Although every now and then I’ll pick a deck and someone will walk over to me and say.
Hey! Do you gamble?
I turn to the person, Give a smile and say.
”Pick a card!”

I love Coke:
I got the inside dirt from a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who works there. In the international sales room of coke they have a chart. On it is listed the amount of coke sold to countries. My name is on the list. Between Canada and Congo.
I’m a die-hard fan of coke.
Breakfast for me most of the time is a simple bottle of coke. My friends call me an addict. Good call!
Still every now and then I take a vow of abstinence and stay off coke for a while. My longest purge was last year. A particularly beautiful girl promised to kiss me for as long as I wanted if I didn’t drink coke for a month. I abstained for 3 months and got to kiss her as far as I wanted.

I love foreplay:
Seeing as I ended the above weirdo exclusive with some tale about my relation with females I might as well continue along that train. Sex is lovely. Really.
But if sex is the climatic ending of the hit trilogy, the lord of the rings, then foreplay is the breathless 8 hour build up of the movie before we find out that frodo succeeds.
Simply put. I derive as much fun in kissing a girl and trailing my tongue all over her as I do with the eventual act of sex.
Sometimes I think maybe I love it more. There is nothing as nice as making love to a woman with your hands and tongue, tasting her lips and neck, teasing her nipples into tapering peaks, and having her gasp out her thanks. Her hands roving over your hair and back…
Nothing as nice.
Sigh.
My ex girlfriend once asked me which I’d prefer.
Making love to a woman.
Or drinking Coke.
Easy answer.
Drinking coke from a woman.

I love watching Animations.
Think Disney’s classics and Japanese animations. I could spend days watching them. My mum calls me a TV Zombie. Animations are a modern day expression of art.I love the 3d animations as well but that really isn’t weird since most people do too. That’s it. I’m an animation nut. I used to do a bit of drawing back in secondary school. Infact I still do. It’s one of my dreams to work at Pixar or Disney. I’m still hoping. Till then I’ll just keep watching.

I love making up bullshit stories.
It’s a curse. There is nothing I love more than fooling really intelligent people.
Last week I convinced a bunch of guys that the Papacy has a rule where all reverend fathers must marry before swearing their oath. That way they know exactly what they’ll be missing. So technically every reverend father has actually been married. Because you cant be a reverend father until you’re married and divorced.
Weird thing was some guys actually agreed with me and said they watched it on CNN.

Another favorite occasion was during a party. I told some girls that the constituents of the atomic bomb that blew up Hiroshima was half part coke the other part vodka. If you mixed them together you would have an explosion. To prove my point I asked anyone who was brave enough to take a swing of coke and then vodka. No one took my challenge. 5 months later I was at another party and I heard some girls warning people not to drink coke and vodka because that’s what blew up Nagasaki.

I love taking showers.
I probably take 6 showers a day. It’s pretty silly when you look at it because half the times I really don’t need to take the shower. But still I do it because …because I can.

I love making faces.
It started out with me trying to be a cartoon character when I was little and ended up with me being cursed with it. I’ve got an animated face. I can’t do anything without the expression showing on my face.
The only time when this okay is when I’m having an Orgasm. I hear normal faces aren’t advised.
I have never taken a normal picture. It’s always Carl and his silly expression. My mum calls it me squeezing my nose.
Once my ex girl friend took me to a studio and took over an hour’s worth of pictures until she had one where she said I looked completely normal.
I don’t know why she liked that one but I remember what I was thinking and it was
I hate all those gorgeously cute guys in Greys Anatomy. Why do they have to be so bloody perfect?
And then the photographer took his shot.

So now every time I need to take a picture with a normal expression that’s my trigger.
I wish a plane would fall on that Mc dreamy guy.
Snap.
Ha! I bet McSteamy is really gay.
Snap.
Snap.
Mc Dreamy. WHat kind of silly name is that. Mr cool? Dream on dreamy!
Snap.
Mc Dreamy. Mc steamy. Na only them dey this world? I wish they would be ganged banged by a quartet of Grey silver backed Congo Gorillas
Snap. Snap.Snap.
Lovely.

There. I’ve done it.
Seven.
Phew. And now I’m supposed to Tag someone else.
That’s easy. The hard work's been done already. Everything after this is merely icing.
Here's my list of taggees.
Lightly (so you can do it right this time.), Bumight, Nyemoni (so we can finally get a post), and Undercovasista.
Tag. You're it!
So there.
Start writing already.Dont wait for the red letter.
I’ve done it.
I've done it.

Say...
I don’t have to buy the popcorn anymore do I?

The Best Man's Diary

So there I was half dead with worry.
I was going to be a best man in three days and nothing seemed to stop it. I had refused to cut my hair because I felt nobody would want to get married alongside a best man who looked like Bonny M. It didn’t faze the groom. He would seat with me and discuss wedding plans, comfortably ignoring the fact that I carried a six pound hamster on my hair.

At some point I began to suspect that maybe, just maybe, the groom wanted this as badly as I did. Maybe he wanted the wedding cancelled .And I was to be his excuse.
“We are gathered here today to have a wedding…hey…what’s with the hair. Wedding over! ”.
Suddenly it made sense.
That’s why I had been chosen as the best man. Because he knew, he just knew that if anyone could disrupt a wedding from happening. It would be Carl.
I was his Get out of jail free card. I would keep my hair. The wedding would be cancelled and the groom, the best man and bride would live happily ever after.
That was the plan.

A day before the wedding, as I sat with him trying to figure out why the Bachelor’s eve wasn’t going to happen; he looked at my hair wearily for about five minutes, Shook his head and then handed me a thousand Naira.
“Fix your hair Carl.” He paused for effect. “Please.”Then he walked away and that was that.
Plans had changed.
The wedding was a go.
More importantly. Me being his best man was a go.
Bonny M was going to have a switch with Mike Tyson.

The morning off the wedding I woke up five times.
The first at 12am.
The second at 12.05am.
The third at 12.09am.
The fourth at 12.13am.
The fifth at 12.16am
“This isn’t going to work.” I told myself calmly. “I’m much too nervous. I need some means to relieve myself of the stress and pressure.“
I turned on the bedside light and reached for my travel bag .Within it I found and swallowed three tablets of valium. I drowned it with a mug of milk and then for good measure I masturbated twice to my favorite fantasy. Me and Shakira and J-lo.
I sighed with relief as the tension left me. My eyes drooped with exhaustion and the effect of the valium coursing through my veins. I was a goner. I closed my eyes and passed out.

I woke up at 12.30am.

Eventually the morning came. The next five hours had I and the groom scurrying round trying to get things in order for the reception. We hadn’t got a Wedding planner. That wasn’t the African way. Between the hours of 7 and 9 I hung around the lady in charge of decoration. Somehow the balloon pump had gone burst. So now we had over 700 balloons that had to be blown. The wedding had to be saved. A wedding without balloons was like a wedding without a bride. (Male or female.) The balloons had to be blown.
The groom called me to help.
He had a lot going for him.
I was the best man.
I was paying him back for the thousand Naira excess I had been handed the day before.
It was either blow balloons or seat in my room and rehearse how to breathe during a wedding.
SO I helped him with the balloons.

Seventy minutes later, and with my cheeks hurting from blowing balloons I hobbled back into the apartment.
The house was set on a lovely incline that lent a view to the lovely valley that it was part off. Green trees breathed freedom in the distance as far as my eye could see. When I had been told the wedding would be done in the village I had had my doubts. They had long since faded. Framed with the vista of nature in the background, embellished with swooping drapes of gold and white, the compound looked quite lovely I had to admit. There were ribbons draped everywhere. Artificial flowers had made a Gazebo of the curtilage
Nice .Very Nice.

I spotted my sister somewhere midst the workers. She was tying cute gold ribbons unto the chairs.
“You’re still here. I’m impressed.” She said calmly with a smile.
“ Oh yeah. Where would I go.”
“ I don’t know. Mum bet with me that you would bolt an hour before the wedding. I disagreed.”
I made a face.
“Trust mum. She always thinks the worst off me. Why does she do that? Well….I’m not bolting.” I hugged my sister.
“Thanks for supporting me.”
“ I didn’t support you . I bet with mum that you would bolt 2 hours before the wedding. The car keys are on the dining table. Nice hair cut by the way. You almost look human. “
Family!

I bumped into the groom as I walked into the apartment. He looked really harassed . The way I expected him to look after 18 years, four children and bloated school fees. The wedding morning predictably hadn’t gone right. The Truck handling the drinks was taking it’s time. The balloon pump had gone bad. His backup best man (there had to be one. I was still holding out) was yet to come. And Chelsea was still fourth on the premiership table. Hardly a lovely morning.

I tried to cheer him up.
“You can’t fight Murphy’s law you know.” I said sagely.
He nodded his head and stared at the dining table.
“Are you going to bolt on me?” He asked.
“Me? Why would you think that?”
“Murphy’s law. Anything that can go wrong will.”
I slapped him on his shoulder.
“You made me your best man. Trust me. When it comes to going wrong, nothing can top that.”
He smiled and actually looked better. I felt pleased with myself.
I was getting the hang of this best man thing.

The wedding was set for 11. Meaning we had to be ready by 10 at the latest. We looked at out watches. It was already 15 minutes past 10.
“Go have a bath and suit up. I’ll meet you outside in another 10 minutes.” He said. The worried look was back on his face.
“ And Carl.” He called as I walked away. “Whatever happens, don’t slip on the soap and crack your spine. I don’t have a back up best man despite what you think!”
Drowning men cling at straws. Why did he have to snip mine?

I’d always prided myself on being expeditious when it came to taking baths. In three minutes I could manage to get soap to every single part of my body that needed it, Give it a quick once over and then rinse it off with warm water. If I was very zealous and lucky I could have an orgasm in the process. This didn’t happen but I did manage to get out of the bathroom in 3minutes and 19 seconds. Not a personal best but hardly a bad run.

I made my way to what was designated my room through out the duration of my stay. Hanging on the wall was embodiment of my mission here. A grey suit. Specially tailored to fulfill one purpose. Anything thereafter was secondary. This was my best man suit. Much had gone into the actualization of a dream. I could joke all I wanted. But once I wore that suit, Once I slipped the custom tailored tie into place, I was officially a best man. I was like Superman in the red and blue. Once I wore it .I was stuck with it. This was my last chance at emancipation. Run now or forever hold your peace.
I wore the suit.

Everyone screamed when I walked out the room.
I took a step back. What had gone wrong?
Was I wearing the wrong suit?
Was my tie all done the wrong way?
Did I wear my underpants out in my bid to emulate superman?
“You look lovely. “ My sister said.
“My God. “ Someone else said.
The groom walked up and smiled. “I wouldn’t have believed it. You look….wow.”
I stared uncomfortably around. I hoped he wasn’t about to propose to me. Not with a wedding in another 30 minutes.
Another girl walked into the gathering.
“Wow. You look lovely.” She said. “You look incredible.”
I nodded my head degage.
“Bond. James Bond.” I said.

The ride to the church took most of 10 minutes.
The priest waited for us outside the church. He had a big frown on his face. We were late. We had promised to be in the church by 10 and now here we where turning up at a quarter to 11.Again I had the impression that the wedding was going too be cancelled.
He gave us a long hard look. I wondered if my afro was back.
“Let’s go behind.” The pastor said.
It turned out we were supposed to have a counseling session of sort before the main wedding. I hadn’t known about it or I would have washed my socks. I sat uncomfortably beside the groom looking nervously at the pastor. I hoped he didn’t think I and the groom where a couple.

While we waited for the bride to come save us, some lady came in. She looked between 40 and 90.She had one of those flash bulb cameras that where used during the civil war. The kind that had an 8000 watt flash bulb which accompanied every shot alongside a loud resonant whirling sound.
She asked I and the groom to smile at her.
Snap.
Snap.
Hold your heads up. Snap. Snap.
Open your eyes.
Each shot was like a stun grenade in the room. The flash soon had tears running down my face. I felt like a corpse in a room and she was the forensic photographer taking crime shots. She took picture of us from ever conceivable angle.
Five minutes later the bride walked in. She looked so lovely.
Snap. Snap.
I looked behind her. Sure enough the bridesmaid looked every bit as lovely as I had been promised. This just could work out eventually. I smiled happily,
Snap.

The counseling session was pretty short. The groom was asked if he’d done everything he needed to do . He said yes. The bride was asked the same question and she reiterated the groom’s response. I was called to come sign the certificate. The church had a funny system .The witnesses signed before the wedding and the couple signed during the wedding.
“Sign the certificate. “ The priest said and looked away.
I stared uncomfortably at the wedding register. There were so many slots for signing. Where was I supposed to sign? Supposed I accidentally signed for the groom. What would that mean? That I had married his bride by accident.
I looked nervously at the priest. He had a grin on his face. He probably had gotten a couple of best men accidentally married to the bride this way. I was his next victim. The camera banshee was waiting patiently.
Snap. Snap.
Make a move sucker.
Is this how Bobby married Whitney? Was he the best man at her wedding?
I looked at the priest and asked quietly.
“Where exactly do I sign?”
He gave a grunt of annoyance. Why didn’t I just marry her and make him happy. There probably was a lottery on me accidentally marrying her.
“Sign here.” He said grumpily, pointing to the line beside the word witness.
Duh!
Snap. Snap.

Another five minutes and the wedding began. The pianist played the wedding march with gusto. He probably had bet on me surviving the almost wedding and now had an extra 500 in his wallet. My belly curled as I waited before the chancel. This was happening. It was actually happening.
The bride looked beyond beautiful as she walked to the alter. It was true what they said about brides. I smiled until she reached I and the groom.

I looked across at the bridesmaid. She had a lovely face. Perfect makeup. Beside her I paled in comparison. I was tempted to look behind her and check her out. But this was a church. If I looked at her butt the odds where I would get turned to stone or salt or something.
She caught me staring at her and gave a slight smile.
Okay!
This Afro loss wasn’t turn out as bad as I thought.

The service went really well in the end. The pastor kept things pretty simple. At some pint during the sermon he started talking of a lady called Ruth. He looked at our Quartette and asked us if we knew who Ruth was. Suddenly I was back in Secondary school.
I felt sweat run of my back in rivers.
Ruth? Who was she?
Wasn’t she the girl that killed that Goliath thingy?
Please don’t pick me.
Fortunately the bride seemed to know who Ruth was and so I was saved the indignity of being asked to stand and raise both my hands for the rest of the service. The pastor was being mean. Why didn’t he ask who Jesus Christ was. Everyone knew the answer to that one.

And so finally it came to an end.
The wedding.
They said their vows to each other. The brides maid had tears in her eyes when they where pronounced man and wife. Somewhere a band let loose a deafening Tattoo once the announcement was maid.
Ladies and Gentlemen. They’re a couple.

We marched out triumphantly. Everyone kept yelling and smiling as we walked down the Aisle. I saw my mum and my sisters. They were both cheering me on. My brother too. Beside them Stolich was snapping away with a silly grin on her face. I laughed and winked at them. This walking down the aisle thing wasn’t so bad after all. I extended the crook of my arm to the bridesmaid and she took it midst smile. We chatted as we headed to the doors of the church. We exchanged names. I cracked a joke about the wedding . She laughed and called me silly.
Nice!
My face was flushed with beams. I had done it. I had been the best man.
We were just walking out the doors when the ambush happened.

Someone somewhere had thought it fitting to have children man the confetti. They were foam based . The kind that condensed into snowflakes upon contact with air.
The children where lethal with it.
As the bride walked out they let loose a blast of foam into her face.
She screamed in shock and tottered on the steps. I reached out to stop her and then I got hit by the salvo. A stream of foam caught me in the face.
“Get him!” One of the children yelled.
More foam hit me from the sides. I was gradually beginning to look like I had walked into a carwash. I glimpsed the bride through the foamy haze. She was being buried alive in foam too.
The air was replete with Children yelling. I managed to open my eye just in time to get shot again in the face. Everyone was a screaming and trying to get the confetti cans from the children. I had my doubts about their lineage. Their persistence, ferociousness and accuracy.
These kids were probably Vietnamese.
They were good.

Eventually they got the kids of our backs and we stood for our pictures. There were over a million digital Cameras and one annoying loud one. The banshee lady was back.
Raise your head. Stop frowning. Swallow the foam on your face.
Smile Mr Best man.
That was me. The best man.
I smiled.
Snap. Snap.

The Best Man's speech.

Hello Blogsville.
How is everyone?
What’s new?
What’s the latest story?
Any new Romance? Anybody just got promoted?
Maybe someone got abducted by an alien. Or better still someone abducted an alien?
Did someone’s pet monkey sprain an ankle while trying to steal a banana of the fridge?
What’s the scoop?

Mines pretty simple.
I’ve started playing football. As a result, I know what my ankle looks like. And oh, I almost forgot, I’m a best man at a wedding.

A best man.
It happened two weeks ago. Chelsea, my adopted football team, had just played a really great game. I hadn’t watched a single minute of it. I stayed at home, watched a movie. Waited the requisite hour and a half and then I made a call to my friend to get the scores.
That’s how we professional fans do it.
Anyways midst my jubilation with a close friend of mine-He happens to be a she. A particularly sexy bit of she. I called her Stolichnaya after a particularly memorable day of vodka drinking- I got the phone call.

"Hello."
"Oh hi cuz. What’s up?" I said cheefully. It wasn't my mum. Phew!
"Congrats I hear you’re the best man at Okey's wedding. Okey just told me. He’s been trying to reach you."
"What?" I blurted.
"Congrats! I can’t wait to see you in a tux."
"What?"
"You do have a tux don’t you. Not that silly denim jacket. It’ll be really great. Seeing you at a wedding for the first time. You’ll get to walk down the aisle too. Heh heh."
"What?"
"I gotta go. My credit’s beeping. Call you later."
Click.

Stolichnaya stared at me.
I stood with a “Jeezuz I’ve just been made a best man” look on my face. Obviously she didn’t get what the look meant because she asked me what was with the look on my face.

I shut my mouth and stared at her lipstick.
“I’ve just been made a best man.”
“At a wedding?”
“No. At some March parade for the “Freedom of Gays in Nigeria before 2010”.’ I snapped back. “What do you think? Off course a wedding.”
She laughed.
“You don’t have to get all cranky” She said “And stop staring at my lips. It gets me all uncomfortable. If you need to stare at something that badly, stare at my boobs. I’m used to those. Besides I just bought a wonder bra.”
I stared. She was right. She did have a wonder bra. Fancy that!
“I can’t be a best man.” I groaned.
“Why? You’re my bridesmaid!”
That was something else. A year ago I had asked her to be my best man when I got married. We’d been through so much together I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want to be behind me at the alter other than her. All my male freinds would just stand there muttering
" DOnt do it Carl. DOnt. It's not too late. Retreat. Abandon attack. Bros before hoes" . And about a million other innuendoes designed to break my resolve.
She i could trust to stay silent.
She had smiled and agreed.
6 month later when her boyfriend had asked her to marry him. She had called me and asked me to be her bridesmaid.
I was feeling really daring and so I said yes. Yes I would be her bridesmaid on the condition that i was called her Bridesguy or first Knight or thatguy Anything but bridesmaid.
She agreed.

A lot had happened since then. Primarily she had called her fiancé and asked that they get married in 2010 because she needed time. They still argued about it everyday.

I felt she was crazy for postponing that long but then again her being crazy was what drew us together in the first place.
“It’s not nice!’ I complained.
“What you being the best man?” She asked.
“No the wonder bra, But now that you mention it. That too.”
She laughed again.
“I knew I shouldn’t have asked you. You never compliment me!”
”I only compliment females!”
”What’s that supposed to mean?”
I raised my hands in frustration.
“Can we focus here ?This is about me. I’m the one in trouble.” I pointed at her boobs “They don’t need any help!”
She smiled.
“You think?”
“Lee!! I’m in a crisis here. I can’t be a best man. There’s a best man rule book. The best man’s constitution. To be a best man. You must have nephews. Have had sex. Own a tux and finally, have at least three people who call you uncle.”
“Really?’
“Yes!”
“You really think my boobs don’t need help?”
I screamed.
“FOCUS!!!”
Stolichnaya laughed out loud.
“Okay okay. I’m just teasing you. So... you don’t want to be a best man. The best man’s constitution? Typical. Trust guys to come up with excuses. What;'s the requirements again? You’ve got nephews right?”
I looked at her slowly
“Two. “ I conceded.
“Right. Check. You’ve definitely had sex. Either that or you’re the worlds oldest virgin.”
” Lee…..”
“I’m just joking. Off course you’ve had sex. What else is there? Tux. You own a tux right? I don’t mean that silly denim jacket of yours.”
I nodded wearily.
Why did everyone hate the jacket?
“There! See? Three out of four already. You’re almost eligible. Last on the list is you’ve got to have at least three people who call you uncle right? SO what about your nephews they call you Uncle don’t they?”
“I’ve only got 2 nephews.” I said smugly.
“Only 2? “She asked.
I held up two fingers.
She folded her hands across her breasts. Not that I was looking at them anymore.
Infact I had barely paid them a glance since the wonder bra observation. The problem with Stolich and I, like I always told my friends, was that I had ceased to see her as a girl. She was just a friend. Hell, we had been roommates for a year. Somewhere between then and our years of friendship, my erotic meter had developed a blind spot as far as she was concerned.
“I can see how this is going to be a problem.” She muttered. “Only two people call you uncle.”
“That’s right!”
“And they have to be at lest three.”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s it then. You can’t be a best man. “She announced slowly.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Sometimes Stolichnaya was really a wonderful friend.
“Unless….” She added and gave me slight look.
Four years of friendship. I knew what she was about to do.
Wonderful friend was not going to happen.
“Don’t even think about it. “ I warned.
“What?”
“Lee…..”
“What? I haven’t done anything…”
“I swear to God lee if you pull that stunt.”
“What? What will you do...?” She paused. “Uncle Carl?’
There! She had done It. She called me Uncle. The rule called for three people to have called me Uncle. Now there where three people out there.
The jury had sat and made a decision.
I was officially a best man.
I sighed in frustration. Chelsea had won and I was a best man at a wedding. The occasion required some form of celebration.
I grabbed a pillow and beat her silly with it.

I’ve thought about it some more since then.
Why am I worried about the fact that I’m the best man? Maybe it’s because the idea of marriage scares me. Eventually I know I’ll get married. It might take my mum calling me for diner one fine weekend. Looking me in the eye over my favorite meal .and pulling the old “This is my last request as your mother” line, to get me moving.
Or maybe one day. I’ll cross the street. Walk into a store and there she’ll be buying a Nelson Demille novel. We’ll gist. Have a couple of dates. She’ll agree with me that Sean Connery is one of the coolest Old guys in the world and Danielle Steele is an alien sent to haunt us. We’ll make passionate love-everywhere-and months later, Stuffed with love, I’ll propose.
It’ll be corny. I’ll be wearing my lucky denim Jacket. I’ll probably stammer over my lines. But propose I will.
Whatever the path, it’s definitely going to happen.
And yet I fear that right now. Nice chap like me in my mid twenties. The last thing I need is to be reminded that my clock’s ticking.
Does that make me a chicken?
Maybe.

My mum’s been having a ball. She says I’m the first best man she knows off who’s having wedding jitters. Sometimes I suspect that this whole best man thing was set up on purpose.
Still.

I met the bride last week. She's fantastic looking. Okey was one lucky groom.
She's 6ft1 and i'm 6ft. She was wearing heels. I had to look up to her.
Okey is 6ft3.
I was weary of their babies already.

I told her i was delighted to be the best man at her wedding.
She gave me a smile and said.
“Yes so am i. It;s a great idea. Besides,,This might be my only chance to get to see you in a wedding by the alter.”
Hmpf.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I gave her a Ha Ha. Trying to be nice here.
She patted my shoulder.
“Don’t worry. Wait until you see my Bridesmaid. She’s so hot and good looking. She’s got one of the sexiest figures I’ve seen. You’ll love her.”

Christ!
Why didn’t anyone mention that in the first place!

Of Nothing and Something.

Has it been so long?
Hello Blogsvile.

I’m depressed. I don’t know why.
No... That isn’t true. I do know why. It’s not just one thing. It’s so many things.
For the last 2 weeks I’ve taken my morning exercise routine more seriously , not because I’m keen on owning the Olympian physique that’s beginning to hint beneath my skin , but because it’s the fastest way to get me out of my mood. After a 10km hike every morning with rock music (yes...I love rock) blaring into my ears. My spirit is lifted out of it’s spiral descent into gloom.
I sound terribly melancholic don’t I?
I can’t believe I’ve written 10 lines and I haven’t said anything funny.
This sucks.

So this post here really isn’t about anything. I’m writing this because next to a 10km hike with rock music on my Psp. The only other things that lifts my spirit just as effectively is writing (and sex). Seeing as I cannot at the moment have the later I am stuck with writing.
Hopefully by the time I’m done with this post I’ll actually say something funny.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
No. That’s not it.
Oh well sooner or later I’m bound to say something funny. I’ll keep trying.

The last 2 week have been crazy. I have exams in 2 weeks.
Exams; Large rooms. Specially trained invigilators assisted with groups of surveillance robots. The last set of questions that stomped the Physics Nobel laurel aspirates printed boldly on A4 sheet. You’ve got an answer booklet and 2 hours. Figure out what Einstein couldn’t .Everyone’s sniggering at you. The lecturers, the robots, the questions and the two hours.
Exams.
Yes those.

Well, I’ve got exams in two weeks and thus far most of what I’m reading doesn’t seem to be making much sense. Physics is a really annoying topic. Space time continuum. Not as much fun as Star trek makes it. Physics has the ability to ruin Natures miracles.
An apple fell from a tree. Nice and yummy you would think.
Toss in physics and all of a sudden you have gravity and a whole bunch of vector and scalar forces to contend with.
Why not just let the damn apple be?

Jack had sex with Jill.
a. Calculate the velocity of his forward thrust.
b. How long doe he have to maintain this speed to ensure she has a 5 minute long orgasm if the temperature of the room is at 32c.
c. Given Jack’s proclivities to sadomasochism , piercing and heavy spanking during sex how fast will it take Jill to get her clothes on, grab her purse and run out of the room?

Physics!
Why wouldn’t I feel depressed?

Midst my woes and confusion I had a fight with one of my ex girlfriends.
I realize that I haven’t really mentioned much about my past relationships. Maybe it’s cos they’re not something I like to dwell on much. Maybe it’s cos I like to respect the privacy and memories of my relationships. A gentleman never kisses and tells. That sort of thing.
The girl in question was my first girlfriend. An extremely lovely and high spirited lady. We dated for about 7 months and then split up. Thinking back now, I realize that maybe we never should have dated. It ‘s the same old story. We were so great as friends we thought that we had enough to make the transition to something more.
We were wrong

So we had a fight.
She accused of me not having moved on, Which hurt, And of saying things about her behind her back. Derogatory and hurtful things. That hurt even more.
I’ve always been told by my friends, male and female, that I am too nice a person.
People are going to take advantage of you eventually. My mum always told me. Till then I’ll just be the only one who does.

I think people have only taken advantage of you if their actions harm you in some negative way. What might be okay with one person might be sufficient reason for another to grab a biro and stab you with it. It’s all relative. As long as they don’t harm me, I’m okay with what they do. So what if they borrowed my bottle of perfume and never returned it. I don’t mind. I’m like that. If I did mind I wouldn’t have allowed them take it in the first place.
Don’t all rush to my closet at once.

It hurt me terribly that she (my ex) would believe that I did say things about her behind her back. Particularly since they weren’t true. I tried to convince her that the stories she heard were false. That I hadn’t said anything derogatory about her. She didn’t believe me.
As far as she was concerned I was an ass of a boyfriend.
I said bad stuff about her.
I was responsible for 9/11 and the death of the dinosaurs.
Case closed.
Next.
See you later Johnny Cochrane.

Why are people quick to believe the worst about other people? Why are acts of kindness frowned upon with suspicion and act of callousness accepted without criticism. Why are humans so quick to believe the worst of their neighbors? Has humanity degraded so far that benevolence is now perceived as alien?
I don’t know.
I think maybe in the end humans feel more comfortable with misdeeds. It’ human to be imperfect. To have flaws. My last girlfriend had one major problem with me. I was too understanding. Whenever she did something wrong, or we had an argument, I always understood her reason. I never had problems forgiving her. It worried her a lot. I think she felt like she was taking advantage of me. But she wasn’t. Not in any way.

Are human fundamentally greedy?
I guess that’s life’s riddle for you.
We might finally be one small village but humans still don’t understand each other. Story of our existence.

I feel sorry for all those aliens locked up in their war rooms planning on strategies to take over our world. They’re in for a big surprise. We’re hardly the Garden of Eden.

Okay I feel much better. I don’t feel like the complete idiot that I thought I was this morning.
You know….
The kind of guy who sits and stares fixedly at a pack of orange juice just because he saw the word “concentrate”.
That kind of guy?
No I feel better.

What this most welcoming of news means is I do not have an excuse not to return to studying.
It’s back to the physics textbooks for me.
All those annoying theories and equation. Hamiltons principle. Schroedinger's equation. Derivatives of derivative. Years and years of Newtonian dialogue. So many annoyingly difficult quesitons.
Jack is still there.
This time he has Jill ,Mary and little Miss muffet.
Show off!

Shall we dance...

I’ve never been much of a fan of dancing.
I still remember why.

It was my fifth birthday.
My mum, as most parents would do, had decided that it was a perfect excuse to throw a party. I failed to see the point. Why spend so much on a party inviting adults who I really didn’t like, and a bunch of people from my school (most of whom I also didn’t really like) when the same amount would have got me a brand new Atari 64 game console.
Grownups.
Sometimes they can’t see the obvious.

The chicken was being fried in the kitchen. The female adults where hanging around the kitchen. The male adults where hanging behind the female adults.
Your basic typical food chain.
I and my sister went to hangout on the balcony and stare out at the world whilst praying feverishly that we never became annoying number calling adults.

Eventually the party started.
It started out okay.
I got a couple of gifts from people. Most of whom I didn’t know.
My second best gift was a scrabble board.
I still own it and most of the tiles are worn out with age and use. My first was my cumulative cash donation by everyone. I had a thousand naira, three hundred and twenty six Naira fifty kobo. My mum smiled when she took it from me promising to keep it for me.
Right!

It only got bad when my mum decided that I should dance.
You’re the birthday boy. Everyone is here to see you. Come on darling. Dance for us.
Everyone agreed that this was a lovely idea and all together they formed a circle around me.
I was five and in high spirits. That meant I was stupid enough to actually listen to them. When the circle was formed, midst clapping and people shouting in the background, I started dancing.

I’d just seen the Michael Jackson moonwalk a week before and I had known instinctively that I could do that move. I decided to start with that. Warm the crowd up a bit. I took a step back in what was to be the opening sequence and fell flat on my face. Everyone giggled. Not to worry I told myself. Since I was on the floor I would just do the worm. So I tried to do the worm. It didn’t work very well because I heard my Aunt ask my mum nervously.” Is he convulsing?”

My mum rushed to me and dragged me to my feet.
“I’m fine mum.” I said laughing. “I was just dancing.”
“That was dancing?” my mum asked with a horrified look on er face,
“Yes “
She nodded her head nervously and asked me to sit down.
Somewhere in the background my sister seized the moment to stick her hand into my uncut cake and eat a piece.

The next day at school I was the laughing stock of the entire school. Those who had come for my party quickly related tales of my dancing exploits to the rest. Everywhere I went I would see people doing funny moves that looked a lot like nothing I had done.
“You’re a terribly dancer.” A boy was stupid enough to tell me.
I kicked him in the gonads!

Later that evening as I stood in the bathroom about to have my bath I pondered on what I had been told during the day.

1) 1) It was terrible to kick a boy in his gonads.

2) 2) I was a terrible dancer.

Off the two, only the former bothered me. I looked at the bathroom floor.
The problem with my rendition of the Michael Jackson moonwalk I reasoned was that the ground hadn’t been slippery enough. I bet Michael had loads and loads of oil on the stage when he did his. What I needed was lubrication. I looked on the bathroom shelf and spotted my mum’s shampoo.

In five minutes I had covered most of the bathroom floor with the gooey pink sweet smelling gunk.
That ought to do it. I reasoned.
I stood at one end and took a step back. Hello Micheal. I think I spun five times in the air before I landed with a loud thud on the floor.

“Carlang dearie. Are you okay?“ My mum asked as she ran into the bathroom.
“I’m fine mum. I think I hurt myself.”
“My shampoo!!” She screamed in anger. “What did you do you stupid boy.”
SO now I was stupid. Five seconds ago I was dearie. The inconsistencies of adults.
She looked at me in anger. I knew that look.
“I’m already in pain mum. You don’t need to punish me.” I told her calmly.
It didn't help.

That pretty much was it. After that I stopped dancing.
Dancing was ridiculous I told myself. Playing scrabble was so much cooler.
I went through primary school resolute in my decision.
Fortunately some boy threw a party where his dog went wild and bit some students. Everyone forgot about my party after that. By the time I got to secondary school Mc Hammer was king of the world. Everyone was trying to show that they were “Too legit to quit”. I held my opinions to myself. During social events as my friends jumped into the dancehall to make perfect assses of themselves I would stand by a corner and watch with amusement.

I don’t dance. I told everyone that asked me. I had a hundred intelligent reasons why I shouldn’t. By the time I got to the thirtieth they usually left me alone.

Apart from a spell when my Grandma begged me to dance for her and I complied I didn’t do much dancing. My mum chastised me afterwards. She said she had never seen her mum laugh so much and if I killed her with mirth she would seize my Nintendo system.
I didnt dance after that.
Secondary school went by pretty quickly
And then universities came.

Every time I went to a party there was always some girl asking me to dance with her. My hundred reasons didn’t make much sense all of a sudden.
Here was a beautiful girl. Lovely hips. Eyes to die for. She’s asking me to dance.
What’s my excuse?
Wit? Stuff it Oscar Wilde

But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t risk falling on the floor again. My girlfriend didn’t get it. Once she took me to a night club. Got me really drunk in the hope that alcohol would loosen my inhibitions and get my feet swaying.
Well. I did get swaying but there was nothing artistic or rhythmical about it
Plus midst all the smoke I suffered my worst asthma attack ever.
I stayed away from the clubs after that.

And then this year came.

No one was calling me again,I had perfected the Gonads kicking trick, But everyone was insistent on one thing. I had to throw a party. Everyone felt that a number like that 07 07 07? Was too good a number to waste. I had to throw a party .It was just too monumental to pass by.
I agreed with them.
After a quick perusal of my bank account I decided that yes. I could throw a party after all. Why not.
After all I hadn’t had a party since my mum stole my money and sister punched my cake..
Maybe this time it would turn out better.
So I listened to everyone
I listened to me.
I didn't listen to my account statement.I threw the party.

It started out slow.
I threw the party outdoors. The skies were clear. We had installed lights.The music was blaring and I was standing at the edge of what had become a dance hall.
Suddenly a girl grabbed my hands and pulled me in. I started protesting and laughing at the same time. I said five funny things at once.Automatic damage control.
She ignored me and put her hands around my neck. One step. Two step. I fumbled a bit and protested. She ignored me.
She peristed..
and then…
I was dancing.

What happened the next five hours was simple.
I danced my head off.
i think i danced with every single girl that came for the party. My feets just kept moving.
The punch helped.

In the end , it really isn’t difficult this dancing thing. You just move your body to the music. One two...there you go.
I had fun.

So now I don’t hate dancing. In fact…I seem to spend half my time dancing theses days. I dance when there’s no music. I dance when there; music. Years of suppressed Terpsichore (that's my word for the day. I'm supposed to use it at least once.) suddenly let loose.
I’m dancing. Dancing dancing.

It took a while but I'm finally here. I don’t hate dancing now, I’m going clubbing tonight. True I’m hardly the worlds greatest dancer. I probably never will be. But I’ve found out that you really don’t need the Michael Jackson moonwalk to impress a girl.
Besides…the moon walk takes you away from the girl, which is such a waste of time (and space and girl )if you want my humbled amateur opinion.

My days are more fun now. I’m dancing again.
This would have been a story with a perfectly happy ending except for one slight thing.

I stopped dancing when I was five.
Two weeks before I stopped bedwetting.
Now I’m dancing.

The bedwetting thing…
It isn’t going to come back is it?

Me and I

The sun was warm outside.
The first bit of sunshine we had had in 2 weeks. Plenty of things to do on such a day.
Go out for a long walk.
Finally get to do my laundry.
Go to the rainmaker and burn his house down.
Instead of these lovely options I was stuck indoors with a girl.

She was lovely. She was very sexy. She was my friend’s girlfriend.
My friend, (whose girlfriend I was babysitting at his request) had left for Abuja in the morning. It was almost 4. He was supposed to be there by now. He hadn’t called since he left. His girlfriend, like girls are wont to do, was freaking out.
“Maybe he is dead?” She said to me as I struggled to read the 45th page of a novel for the 17th time. We’d tried playing scrabble but she couldn’t concentrate long enough.
“Maybe.” I agreed.
“How can you say that?” She screamed at me.
I looked at her. “I thought you said it first.”
Girls have unbelievably selective memory.
“He should call. I’ll kill him. I swear. I’ll kill him. I don’t care what his excuse is. When I see him I’ll kill him.” She said.
“And if his excuse is that he is dead? You’ll still go on and kill him?” I asked sagely.
“Carlang!!” she screamed. Her eyes looked like I just announced that I had a cobra as a pet snake.
“What? You started it. Look, I think he is fine. He probably just got struck in traffic or something. To be fair to him, He doesn’t normally die when he travels. I’d remember.”
She punched me and then attacked me.
Which was what I wanted in the first place. Something to get her mind of its self destructive panic. Mid way through her sleeper hold move on my neck, Just when i was about to break into tears and apologise for my insenstivity,Her phone rang.
The ringtone was the first verse of Frank Sinatra’s song Unforgettable.
It was him. The MIA Boyfriend.
Franks Sinatra? Love was so yucky!
They spent three minutes on the phone trading words in lover’s lingo—a wild mixture of I love you. I miss you. Low tones as she whispered some silly dark fantasy. Maybe he whispered the second verse of Sinatra’s hit in return—and then they where done.
Lovers. Even more yucky!!

She looked at me after she hung up. An annoying sweet smile on her face. To see her now you wouldn’t believe she was about to go Clifford Orji on me five minutes ago.
“Wow. You really scolded him. I’m sure he’ll never do it again!” I said with sarcasm trying to fix my book.
Somewhere between my floggings she had managed to rip off the cover of my novel.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I do that?”
“No. The page ripped off on its own. It’s suing the rest of the book.”
She laughed at me.
“You’re really silly.”
I waved her off and smiled as well. I didn’t dispute that. People had been calling me silly all my life. Eventually you got to accept that maybe, in some way, you really where silly!

The she saw the ring on my finger.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Oh this. It’s my engagement ring.”
She screamed. Is there a law somewhere that girls always have to scream? I stared warily at my bottle of coke. If her scream broke the bottle…
She rushed over to my side eagerly. She had the “Hurray. Gist. Gist” looks on her face.
“You’re engaged and you didn’t tell us. When? Who are you engaged too?” her eyes sparkled.
Girls and gossip. They're like guys and porn.
“Me.”
“What?”
“I’m engaged to me.”
She looked at me with a frown.
“What do you mean?”
I stared at her pursed face “It’s really very simple. I’m going out with the coolest guy in the world.” I pointed at my chest “Me!”
“You’re dating yourself.” She said warily. The “Hurray. Gist. Gist” look was gone. Now it was just the “Carlang is the dumbest boy in the whole universe!” look. I was used to those.

“Yes. This isn’t some Narcissist thingy .Trust me it’s the coolest thing in the world. We hang out together. Gist together. We go out together. Me and I. Just yesterday I was going out for a walk with me; oh...it was so romantic.” I hugged myself “Anyways... then I told me the loveliest joke ever. The one about the nuns? Yes that one. We couldn’t stop laughing. I told me it was the funniest joke he had ever heard. We went delirious.”
“We?” She asked.
“I and me!”
“Oh please Carl. That ridiculous.”
“Is it? On the contrary. My relationship is filled with advantages.” I countered.
“Like?” She asked.
I stared thoughtfully into space.
“Well... take travelling for instance. Every time I travel I know exactly where I am. I don’t need to worry about how I’m doing because I’m always with me!”
She laughed.
“No seriously. No one in the world understands me better than me so who better to date than the one guy who knows me best. “
“You.” She pointed out.
“Me.” I agreed.

The sun was still warm outside. I wondered what the rainmaker was doing.
She sat down and thought for a moment.
“What about sex? How do you ...”
“Sex? Well first of all I don’t agree with most people that a relationship is naught without sex. I think sex is overrated.”
“You do? “ She asked with a smile.
“Yes. I do. But…sometimes when the urge gets...er…..overwhelming… I have methods….”
“Methods?” She had a ridiculous smile. I was instantly wary. The “Hurray. Gist. Gist” look was back.
“Yes. Tell me something. Do you know your spots...your erogenous spots? Places on your body that drive you crazy...I bet you do. Now seeing as you know your body so well, who could possibly be a better lover to you than you?”
She frowned.
“Doesn’t that make you gay?”
“On the contrary.” I retorted. “The beauty of having erotic fantasies is you can have anyone else you want in it. Last night I was with Salma Hayek. The night before I was with Halle Berry. Did you know that Janet Jackson has a tattoo on her left bum?”
“She does?”
“Off course!!I saw it in my fantasy five days ago. It’s really lovely. A sweet teddy bear.”
“Janet Jackson has got a teddy bear on her bum?”
“That’s nothing. You should see my fantasies with Toni Braxton. She’s keeps singing.” I scoffed.
We both burst out laughing.
She suggested we play scrabble again and I agreed. I made sure she won. Three times.
The thing a guy has to do.

Eventually I had to leave. The sun had set behind the hills and the moon was doing warm up laps behind the clouds. The night was still cloaked with soft residual warmth from the day. A perfect day followed by a perfect night.
She tried to get me to stay longer but I really couldn’t. I had a long day ahead tomorrow and my friend was a very jealous guy. He had asked me to babysit her during the day so she wouldn’t miss him that badly.
My job was done.
It had been a lovely day.
I was still sad that I had missed out on burning the rainmaker’s house. I hoped someone else did it.
“Please stay. At least for supper.“
“Thanks dear. I would have loved too. But I can’t. You’ve beaten me three times in scrabble already. I can’t survive a fourth. Besides I promised me we would watch a movie together this evening. If I called me and cancelled I wouldn’t forgive myself.”
She laughed.
“You, Carlang, are a silly person.”
Everyone says that.

Much later that perfect night as I lay alone in bed with my two pillows and a blanket. I closed my eyes and came face to face with a sad truth about my self relationship.
I was lonely.
No matter how hard I bullshit every other people.
When I come to bed and I’m alone.
I can’t bullshit me.
I never fall for it.
Sigh!
Sometimes, I hate hanging around me.

Of chocolates, Bikes and memories.

Life is full of self knowing .
Most of them are really absurd.
One example is the saying “take the bull by the horns.”.
I fail to see the logic behind that particular reasoning unless the bull in question happens to be some one month old, heavily sedated bull. Or do they call them bullings?
I don’t know.
Or yet again take the annoying phrase “Cat got your tongue.” .
I’ve gone over this particular scenario over a hundred times and I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way this can happen is either.

1) You're one of those people with detachable tongues who carry them around in tuna fish cans. I’m not sure but I think you can find people like that in China.

2) Baring that, the only other way this can happen, (Children don’t try this at home) is if you lie on the floor and stick your tongue as far out of your mouth as possible. Off course this is hardly incentive enough for the cat to come and have a nibble so you’ll have to embellish the meal with something they actually like. Say, ketchup, or tuna. For the really brave try balancing a piece of fish on the tip of your tongue. That usually gets the cat’s running. (Children if your parents actually do this. Drop the toys and call 911.)


But sometimes you actually come across some sayings that have a ring of truth to it.
Like, when you’re about to die your life flashes before your eyes.
That, my dear friends, is true.
It does.
Literally.

My near death experience occurred on an Okada.
I see furrowed looks already. An Okada my dear Non Nigerian friends--(my sympathies by the way. There are over a million benefit of being Nigerian, one of which is instinctively knowing what an Okada is.)—is what we call the commercial motorcycle riders. We call them Okadas, you call them motorbikes used for commercial purposes, and the devil calls them his minions.
It had been a long day. I was pressed for time and I was sick of listening to common sense.
I boarded an Okada.

So there I was on an Okada and we were breaking the land speed record.
I had made the mistake of suggesting we reduce our speed shortly after we took off to our destination. I had heard stories of bike accidents. The other day there had been head line news involving a head on collision between an Okada and a Helicopter. I wasn’t crazy about bettering that and quietly mentioned the fact.
Big mistake.
He had simply grunted and tripled our pace.
I watched with horror as objects became blurs of streaking colors. My jacket fluttered wildly behind me. A cape in the winds.
“Aren’t we going to fast? “ I yelled out to him.
“No!” he replied back. To ensure I got the point he went faster.
This wasn’t working. Appealing to his sanity clearly was futile. I attempted damage control.
“Are you married?” I asked with a smile.
“No.”
“Do you have children?”
“No” My smile faltered.
“What about your parents?”
“They’re dead.”
“You don’t have any siblings?”
“One!”
Thank God. I had struck it lucky. I smiled again in relief.
“He died last year.” He added. And then just to make sure I got it. “Bike accident.”
He paused for effect,
“ I was riding the bike.”
That was it. I was on one of those bikes. The ones where the riders didn’t care if they lived or died. More importantly they didn’t care if their passengers lived or died. I looked over head quickly. Was there a chopper in the sky. Did he have a parachute on?
The lord is my sheperd. I shall not want..
There was no helping it now, the only way I was getting of the bike was head first against something. Something hard.

I swallowed my saliva and reached for my cell phone.
Knowing that I was infact going to die on the bike, I started typing out my goodbye text messages on the bike. If I was going to die I would do so with a will.

“Dear mum. I’ve always wanted to tell you this. I love you. Yes I was the one who stole the bag of bounty chocolates and then attempted to flush it down the toilet. I really am sorry. The devil made me do it.”

I raised my head just in time to watch us streak between two trailers. The drivers in both stared after us in shock. Looking at the text I decided to change the end. I was going to be meeting the devil in another five minutes. It didn’t make sense accusing him of things he didn’t really do. The last thing I wanted was an irate devil.

“I really am sorry” I corrected. “I was just hungry...”
Did that make sense? I could imagine the fury of my mum when she read my good bye text.
He stole my chocolates just because he was hungry.
He made me watch Dynasty on an empty stomach just because he was hungry.
He made me rip open the toilet floor to extract a chocolate bag just because he was hungry.

If I knew her she probably would try to flush my dead body down the toilet at the morgue. I debated sending them a message to have a plumber handy.
Then I reconsidered. They probably had a standby plumber already. What with bodies trying to escape and all.

“We just passed 120 kilometers an hour!’ The Okada rider announced with a smile on his face. Least I think it was a smile. At the speed we were going my skin was also being stretched away from my face. I had the same grin.
“Okay! Splendid. “I replied.
My jacket kept flapping in the wind. Before the bike ride it had been a lovely green. Now it was pale white.
I was glad to know I wasn’t the only one terrified.
Tears streamed down my eyes.
Boo hoo. I was going to die.
My life flashed in front of my eyes.

I was debating who the next recipient of my text message would be, (My brother who owed me money or my sister who I had borrowed the money from to loan him), when I felt a decrease in speed. I held my breadth in hushed hope. Could it be? Would I get to live?
I felt my skin settling back in place. I peered over the shoulder of the ghoul riding the bike. The needle on the speedometer was arcing towards the left. A steady depression. I stared. 90km….80km…
My mind went into overdrive.
I’d read an article somewhere that It was safe to jump of a bike as long as it was not going faster that 20km/hr
the needle hit the 20km/hr mark , I decided , I was going to jump off the bike. Who cared if I broke my bones in the process? At least I’d get to live.
60km/hr.
50km/hr.
I waited. My body tensed with anticipation. Adrenalin coursed through my veins.
The needle stayed at 50km/hr.
“What’s this woman driving?” The rider grumbled.

In front of us was the reason for our deceleration. A Nissan Jeep. Whoever the driver was she was most definitely not a speed demon. She drove slowly down the highway, thwarting the insane path of the bike I was on. I stared at the needle.
45km/hr.
Please drive slower. Drive slower.
As if we shared telepathic link, unbelievably she slowed down some more. Despite the cursing and honking from the bike I was on.

The Okada rider looked possessed. I suspected that somewhere , inserted in his contract with the devil , was a clause wherein, he was not allowed to slow down for more than 2 minutes. Already he had slowed down for a minute and a half. Another 30 seconds and he would be punished by the devil and sent to heaven where everyone walked, no one went more than 5km/hr and chariots of fire were drawn by well behaved ponies.
The horror.

25km/hr.
The number leaped at me. I was almost there. I could make it. I braced myself for the leap. I sincerely hoped 20km/hr was a lot slower than 25km/hr because in my opinion we were still moving too quickly. My left leg ignored the rest of my body.
You jump if you want too. I’m staying here with Schumacher.
Oh come on.
A mutiny now?
I tried to convince my left leg to move. Trying to convince it that spaghetti mode was hardly the best of choices. I’d do anything after we get off.
A massage. A pedicure. A brand new pair of trainers only for you.
Just when I thought I had gotten through to it. Just when I thought I would be able to make the leap. Just when I thought I would live. She slowly drifted across the lane making way for the bike man to pass.
No.
The needle shot from 23 to 70 in a second. I screamed in shock. The bike man laughed and launched himself into space. I could see the end. I had to stop this soon. If I didn’t, I would end up as graffiti against some wall.
My family would sit down for the evening news and my observant sister would go. “ Doesn’t that body without a head look like Carl?”
My brother would probably just smile and thank God he hadn’t paid me. My PSP would be his too.
No .
I had to do something . I was too young to die.
As we raced past the Nissan I yelled at the female driver. Somehow I had to stop the bike.
“See how you dey drive. You idiot. Like say you be Okada rider.”
He slammed on his breaks. literally. One minute we were a bullet set to beat the speed of light the next we were dead in the center of the road.
“What did you say?” The Okada rider snapped at me.
I jumped of the bike and ran away tossing more than my fair share of the fare at him.

I’d always had a problem with the saying. “ A fool and his money are easily parted.”
“If the guy is such a fool” I would ask with an intelligent look “ Then how did he get money in the first place?”
Efico. What did I know. Life had thought me a lesson. It was possible to be a fool.
Behind I heard the loud roar of an approaching truck .I ignored it and ran to the nearest tree on the road. I jumped straight at the tree and hugged the roots. Tears ran down my eyes.
“Land. Land!!” I muttered.
People walked by giving me strange looks. I was past caring. I had just survived an attempt on my life. The tree at least had some sympathy. It’s branches patted my head in comfort.
Across the streets the bike roared into life again. I looked up quickly. He had picked up another passenger. Some cute girl. She had on a T-shirt with the words You want milk? inscribed on the front. I memorized the shirt. I would look for it on the news tonight. Another victim.
The Okada rider gave me a look.
“Idiot.” And then he was off.

“Land…” I mumbled to myself, slowly standing. I Brushed the leaves of my face. That was the problem with trees. You hugged their roots and next thing they assumed you were a couple.
I heaved a sigh of relief. I had survived. I had lived. The sun was shining. My legs were intact. I was alive. I was well.
Nothing else could go wrong.
And then two things happened that made me wish I was dead. MY phone gave a short beep.
I looked at it and my heart leapt.
Message delivered.
10 seconds later the phone started ringing.
It was my mum.
The damn chocolates!!

A tale of LUST LOST!

So.
Say you’re some guy living in Nigeria.
Say you’re in your mid twenties and fresh out of college. Say like every other male you’ve got an appetite for women. Say your appetite is really healthy. Say you’re not in a relationship and you don’t have a female friend for companionship. Sexual companionship.
Say the ladies are so hard to please these days and you haven’t had sex in five months.
Say you’re all these things.
Then you just might be me.

Sex is a drug.
It’s a powerful and mind numbing drug. Wars have been fought over this most trifling of acts. What’s that? What about love you say?
Ptah!
It’s never about love. It’s always about sex. You don’t believe me examine the scenarios yourself. We’ve all heard about battles between grown men over some chick. Not once have you ever heard of a battle over some ugly chick. The girl is always some beautiful sexbomb.
There’s a reason why medusa is single And Beyonce famous.
It’s not the snakes.
Not really.
So here I am on my fifth month.
Sex is a drug.
And I’m trying to go cold turkey.

Why am I abstaining you might ask. Well it’s a bit silly. I’m trying to get disciplined. I woke up one morning and realized that if I kept on going the rate I was, I would end up dead one day with the words “ he wasn’t disciplined!” inscribed on my tombstone.
Hardly my idea of a grand ending.
So I decided to get disciplined. Make sure I was always on time. I’d get rid of the 3 kilos of weight that I had been promising myself to loose. Cut down on my hours with my psp, pay more attention to my studies. Call my mother more often, And give up sex.
Just for kicks. To prove that I could
Because all those hours I spent tracking and sweet talking ladies into my bed , the subsequent hours of romping , the mental and physical drain. All those hours could be put to better use.
Like maybe learning how to play a guitar.

Man it hasn’t been easy.
No I don’t mean learning how to play a guitar, I mean my abstinence.

The first month was the worst.
I had made up rules guiding my celibacy.
No kissing, touching or midnight romp with some girl. I wasn’t allowed behind the scenes fondling of C. junior. Naturally watching porn was a definite no.(SInce i had aleady had the playboy mags ,those could stay). No accidental orgasms. Wet dreams. Masturbation. Nothing.
I smiled as I made out the list.
Bring it on. I can do it.
Ha.

After the first 2 weeks I was in agony. Every single girl walking on the streets was testament to what I couldn’t have. Nipples teased me beneath blouse tops. The flash of cleavage, the soft moistness of female lips. The exiting swell of the female butt. Believe me people ,There’s a God somewhere. It was almost impossible to work the streets without my much exited member (I call him Sebastian) rearing his ugly head. So I developed a walk.
A special walk to hide my state.

Sebastian grew three extra inches because of my dilemma. Not that it did me much good. What’s point having a yatch if you live in the desert? I knew I was in trouble when I watched sisters Act and was turned on by Whoopi. I had an erection through out the entire movie. I couldn’t believe it.
The first month was hell.
And I didn’t even learn to play the guitar.

Still , with subsequent months I leant how to control my urges When I felt like having sex, which was almost always , I would go out and do something to block out the images. Take a walk. Go out and watch a game. Preferrably one without females. Attend to some work. Anything to get my mind of the erotic images flashing behind my eye. If that didn’t work I’d take a sleeping pill and go to bed.
Going to the local chemist took an entirely different meaning.
Hello John!
Long night ahead huh?
No I don’t want to buy a condom.
5 tablets of valium please.
I think I slept through out the entire second and third month.

With the fourth month came peace. I finally got Sebastian under control. I could finally talk to a girl without diving into a fantasy of how lovely her lips would feel. How soft her moans would be if I slowly swirled my tongue against her nipple. How her belly would squirm beneath me as I softly blew hot air against her skin and slowly made wet circles with ice cubes. How firm her legs would feel on either side of my head as I cradled her butt and made love to her with my tongue.
Okay…
This isn’t helping my situation.

You see...the thing is I’m ready to drop of the wagon. I think I've proven myself to me. I’ve gone five months. Way to go. Here’s your medal for achievement on and beyond the call of sanity. Congratulations.
I probably have the Guinness book of record record for longest abstinence. I’ve got so much pepped up testerone that I’m sure if I hugged a girl she would get pregnant.
You don’t believe me.
Step up and see.
Ladies and gentlemen the amazing Car.

I’m ready to fall off the wagon.
But here’s my dilemma. I don’t want to do it with just anyone. Five months. That’s a 153 days. That’s at least thrice as many erections with no respite and an ad infinitum at night.
you don’t just break a fast like that with anyone. You do it with someone you’re crazy about. Someone you’re nuts about. Some one you really care for. Someone whom you can just spend the day with just staring into her eyes. Someone who you’ll be able to gist with afterwards and giggle about how loud you screamed. How much of you kept coming.
I’m not much of an expert but my next step is obvious.
Even Dear Abby would agree.


Say you’re some guy with a healthy sex drive.. Say you’re some guy who has been celibate for five months. Say you’re some guy who hasn’t kissed a girl in five months. Say you're some guy with an above healthy super sex drive who goes around claiming it;s just merely healthy. Say you’re some guy who watches female lawn tennis matches more frequently the last five months.
Say you’re me.

What your next plan should be would be to fall madly in love with a girl.
And enjoy the best love making session ever.
Because some things actually beat sex.
Making love for instance.