Some Friday...

It started 15 seconds after I knocked on the door.

After my mum suffered the indignity of being robbed twice in one day I felt it would be terribly wrong of me if I didn’t go home to cheer her up. I had been away for almost half a year and my mum had gotten to the point where she referred to me as "Your Brother" to my siblings and "That boy" to her friends. I wasn’t quite sure how she referred to me in her prayers to God but I was sure she was praying. Mostly for a lightning smite.
Logic, my never faltering mentor, demanded that I take out time to go and visit her.
And so I did.

My mind was filled with so many images of how my welcome home would be. I envisaged my mum's shock when she opened the door. How her eyes would dim as she stared at me, filled with joy for the son she thought she had lost to lightning. I would hug her warmly and whisper in her ears that I loved her and she would hold me tight in turn. To reassure herself that I was real and to stop me from seeing the tears streaming down her face. It was going to be a really great reunion.

It didn’t really work out that way.
I stood in front of the door waiting for it to be opened.
As it turned out my mum did open the door when I knocked.
She looked at me, ignoring my cheery grin. In her hand she had some novel that she had been reading.
"You're fat." She said.
And that pretty much was it.

I wasn’t the only one who had returned home. It seemed all my siblings ( I have 2 sisters and a brother.) had the same mentor as I did. However, as planned over the phone, I acted surprised .As if I had no idea they where all going to be home.
“Oh my God. Carlang!" My sister screamed when she saw me. I was genuinely impressed with her scream. My sister had perfected the role of ingénue to an art.
“He is fat." My mum announced standing between her two daughters.
“Yes he is." They both agreed.
I stared at my sister closer. She was a very good actress but I sensed no pretense in her appraisal.
"No lunch for you" My youngest sister announced.
I still had my bags in my hands. I wondered if it was too early to leave.

That's how it pretty much started.

The next morning I woke up really early and did a roll out of my bed.
I was spiked. All night I had lain in troubled sleep contemplating the extra pounds I housed. I was no stranger to my weight. I knew for a fact that I was 3 kilograms over my permitted BMI. But I had always thought that it was an acceptable excess. One that I would eventually loose when I got married and dived full time into the making of kids. Apparently I had been mistaken. No one wanted a guy 3 kilograms overweight. I was thinking Japan and the associated respect given Sumo wrestlers. Here in Nigeria it simply was no longer accepted. The only time respect was tossed your way was if you had a 100 million Naira for every extra kilo you carried. Only then would smiles be flashed your way.
My mission the next morning was very simple. It was nice having them around but the time had come. The three kilos had to go.

Turning on the bright lights overhead, I dug out my old pair of adidas trainers from my wardrobe. They were still in pretty good shape.
“What are you doing?" My brother mumbled from his bed. We shared the same room.
"I'm going jogging.” I announced.
"It's 5.30 in the bloody morning." he pointed out sleepily.
“I know." I snapped.
I did a couple of warm up exercises outside. The Muslims were up praying, a mosque nearby was blaring it’s lead, and for 15 minutes I pretended like I was dancing to the prayers. It wasn’t a terribly good warm up as warm ups go but I think I did get my blood pumping.
The gate man grumbled when I asked him to open the gate. His Job was to prevent strangers from getting in during the night. It didn’t say anything about letting fat children out.
I ignored him and took off at a healthy trot.

I had Psophie with me. My trusty Psp . Aside from the over 100 rock songs there were about 15 Nigerian songs. Proof that I was finally beginning to warm towards musicians from the same country as mine.
Gongo Aso was one of said songs.
I had jogged for about 10 minutes already. I was feeling really happy with myself. My body was already covered in a fine sheen of sweat . I wasn’t gasping for breadth and my legs where yet to begin to hurt. What was all the fuss about anyway? 3 kg wasn’t that bad a deal after all . I still had it. There was a faint fog around so visibility was low. I felt like I was jogging in a cloud. Gongo Aso was blasting at full volume in my ear cheering the endorphins on in my blood. I'll admit it. I was having fun.
And then it happened.

He tapped me from behind.
I slowed down my jog and turned round to stare at him.
There were two of them. One of them was seated on a bike and the other, the one who had tapped me, had a Machete in his hands.
"Your set." He said.
Now , I’ve thought about it a lot since it happened and I’m convinced that he must have probably shouted at me to stop before running up to tap me. As it was I didn’t hear him because I had cranked my ps to the loudest volume.
I didn’t even hear him when he said "Your set" because when I turned round my ear phones where still plugged.
I took them off slowly.
“Yes?" I asked.
“Your set." he repeated.
And then it clicked. Two men. A machete. One lone fat kid in the middle of the highway at 6 in the morning. Unless there was a goat behind me, I was being robbed.
There was only one logical thing to do. And I didn’t do it.
"No” I said.
“What?" the guy gasped like I had slapped him. I felt sorry for him. Business must have been going really well until he met me. The script didn’t give space for obstinate joggers who refused to get robbed. He was really pissed.
He slapped me.

Forget the clouds around me I saw stars. I was royally pissed. I mean there I was with one ear piece still stuck in my ear with GongoAso playing away and in front of me was this ridiculous man who wanted to take that away from me.
So I punched him. It really wants much of a punch. It was more reflex than planned. You know. Slap followed by a weak punch. Hardly the kind of punch that Mr. Miyagi would be proud off. But the effect on Machete man was profound. He screamed in anger and then swung the Machete.

This isn’t a completely happy story.
Well not really. I mean I’m still here. and I’m still typing with the same old silly smile on my face but beneath my shirt I’ve got stitches.
Yes the Machete hit me. It cut into my arm slicing through skin and muscle. For a second I was in the script of 300 and I wasn’t playing the Spartans. I was one of those helpless Persians who fell without a struggle to the bleeding battle floor.
Fortunately it only lasted a minute.
If I had been pissed before, my anger now went nuclear. I hadn’t planned the first punch, but this time I planned the kick. I kicked him. Every single kilo I had was concentrated into that kick, the extra 3 kilos probably helped. My Miyagi would have been pleased ,hell he would have been impressed. It was a pretty strong kick.
This time Machete man didn’t stand there looking pissed. He flew backwards with the impact, landing on the floor beside the bike. His Machete was still in his hand. The guy on the bike looked at me like I had lost my mind and in truth, looking back at it, I think in a lot of ways I must have.
I wish I could say I rushed at the two of them and pummeled them into submission thereafter carving the words “I will never steal again" into their scalps with the Machete. But that my dear friends would be a lie.
I ran.
I'm not talking, late for a meeting dash. I'm talking “rapture's here and I just missed the last chariot” sprint. I streaked down the rode barely touching the asphalt. Behind me I heard the bike rave into motion and with my speed possibly doubling, I looked back in terror.
They were going the opposite direction.
It seemed they had pushed their time limit where robbery on the highway was concerned. My suspicions were confirmed 18 seconds later when a car drove by.
The whole incidence had lasted less than a minute but it has seemed like a life time.
I slowed to a walk and started breathing again.
Gongo Aso was crawling to an end. Motion on my arm drew my attention. It was a mess of blood and whitish stuff that I was hoping wasn’t my muscle. I turned in the opposite direction and began jogging home.
What could I say?
I was on fire. No be beans talk.

I guess that pretty much ends the tale.
I woke my mum at 6.30 with blood dripping on her carpet. She’s a pretty strong lady that woman.
She asked me to go and brush my teeth.
My sisters came to meet me in my room as I got ready to head to the hospital, the wound really hadn’t stopped bleeding. To arrest it My brother was in the process of stuff in cotton wool before eventually wrapping it in a bandage. I called my friend T to recant the story and he was pretty shocked.
My siblings sat opposite me and gave me a lecture.
Everyone seemed to be on the same wavelength.
"Why didn’t you just give them the bloody PSP ?"
“It’s the principle of it.” I told them with a grimace. “If I gave them the PSP I would have been supporting armed robbery. I don’t want to be a supporter of robbers!"
" Well you very nearly came close to supporting Murderers. How do you feel about that?" My sister snapped back.
“Leave me alone. I want Pancakes. “I moaned.
“Nice try. You’re not getting anything."
"But I’m handicapped" I pointed out.
"So? Mum raised us to take care of ourselves." My sister snapped again.

The ride to the hospital was mostly uneventful except for some cops who, upon seeing my bloodied arm, demanded we got to the station to report the assault. It took a while for my mum to make him realize that if I didn’t get stitched up there would be no first hand report. I've pretty much given up on the Nigerian Police.

By the time we got to the hospital my mum was telling everyone who cared to listen the story. I was a hero. To hear her tell it you would think my only misfortune was I didn’t have a shield with me otherwise I would have apprehended both thieves.
The nurse listened to my mum as she narrated the story to her.
"You’re pretty brave" She told me.
She pulled out the stitching needle and walked over to me. I threw bravery out the window and demanded that I be injected for the pain.
It took 4 stitches to close the wound up. In the end it really wasn’t as bad as it looked. I got a tetanus shot and about a million packs of drugs. I just asked which was the pain killers and put the rest aside.
I got lots of calls that day and then some days after that.

The bulk of them where condemnations on me for not simply relinquishing the phone aka my Psophie. I didn’t know how to explain to them that I really didn’t have a choice. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to react the right way. What was the right way anyway? Handing over the PSP was deemed the right way to save my life. As far as I was concerned my actions had been towards saving my life as well. It had been a war of sorts. War wasn’t about who was right. It was about who was left.
Everyone was adamant on one point. It wasn’t worth the cost of me dying over a foolish Psp .
"You be fool." MY friend Jeff told me with a laugh.
"It cost more to register you in a hospital and stitch the wound than your silly PSP is worth." My sister said jokingly later in the evening.

And thus it ended.
My mum called me aside later in the evening and gave me the hug I had imagined.

A fierce hug with whispered words of love. Dimmed vision. The soft flow of Tears.
“ Why are you crying?” My mum asked when she let go.
“My arm." I muttered. "You were squeezing it.”

My mum smiled.

“You’re a brave kid Carl." She told me with a laugh "but next time just give them the phone. Two inches more to the left and it would have been your chest."
“Two inches to the right and they would have missed me completely." I replied.
My mum smiled.
“You’re still fat."

Three days later I woke up at 7.15 in the morning.

Although i still had plaster over my stitches (which was beginning to itch like hell) I felt strong enough to once more resume my jogging. My sister had been making me pancakes since my incident and I was worried that my 3kg had morphed into 5.
My mum met me at the gate as I was about to leave.
"Where are you going?" She asked.
“Jogging." I replied.
She nodded sagely.
"Take the car."

Tag?

Tagging is like a season. Once every year it rears its head and stays long enough for us to notice its presence. Off the familiar four seasons, it is perhaps a bit, attribute wise, more like the rain season. It is almost impossible to go through the entire season (rain) without getting a bit wet. Eventually, no matter how hard you try, sooner or later, given enough time and mistakes, you get caught in a drizzle.
Darkelcee is responsible for my drizzle. She has knocked a hole in my tagging Umbrella, letting in the unforgiving rain. I am now left half drenched, shivering from the shock of the ambush and clear as to my actions hereinafter.
For those of you new to Blogsville consider this your orientation course in Tagging. Tagging pretty much explains itself. Someone makes you it. He or She then proceeds to tell you what being it entails—Usually some order to write a piece on something—and you are duty bound thereafter to do, with an allowed slight grumble, it.
The plus side? After you have completed the task given you, you automatically are handed the all powerful wand to order other people around in the guise of tagging.
Which brings me to the rather important question.
Does anyone know what Angelina Jolie’s blog ID is?

So with my permitted grumble (grumble) I shall now start on a list I have been ordered to write.

6 insignificant quirks about me….or something like that.

1) I love the feel of water on my body. Most of the time after a shower I only dry of enough to leave pearls of cooling water on my skin. I follow this by standing beneath the fan whilst I pretend that I don’t know that I’m sucking in my stomach.

2) I smile a lot. Most people have another 60 years to go before the consider botox. At the rate I’m smiling I’ll need them in another 10 years. People are so used to me smiling that they immediately get concerned when they don’t see a smile on my face.
Is everything okay? A girl asked me last week. Why aren’t you smiling?
I rubbed my eyes slowly, blinked wearily at her and announced the obvious.
Because I’m sleeping!

3) I haven’t been sick in over 6 years.
Malaria? Typhoid? The flu? All them familiar ailments that get you into bed? I seem to keep missing them. I’ve been really lucky. I spend nights supporting local parties for mosquitoes.This happens every now and then and yet apart from a slight paleness and bumps on my skin I come through okay. Lately though I have become sceptical of my immunity. Am I being set up for a much larger fall? One of those named syndromes that are incurable?
Like an Addiction to Blogging?

4) Years ago I had big plans of being rich and famous. I would have loads of apartments, lots of extremely sexy and horny girlfriends 10 cars, one jet and 15 power bikes. In preparation for this finale I sat down deliberating the one quote that would be used to immortalize me. I sat down trying to compose some insightful line that would be mine.
After 2 years I finally agreed on the self made quote.

“Life would be so much easier if life was easy”
Carlang Tjjkityreyer.

That was years ago. I was pretty stupid and dumb back then, blinded by the irrationality of youth. Now off course, I have realised the errors of my past dreams and revised them accordingly.
I want 16 cars, 2 jets and 20 power bikes. One for each of my Latin American girlfriends.

5) I bite my tongue. Playfully. Not the deep, I’m trying to commit suicide kind. I don’t think it’s terribly attractive because people ask me every now and then why I do it.
Come to think about it.
Why do I do it?

6) I’m slow to anger. When I do get angry I never yell or rave. I just walk away , Usually I wait till I’m completely calm and logical before I bring up what annoyed me.
It’s a simple Approach.
“Hey. I hear Iron Man is finally here. Let’s go watch the movie. Yes I’ll drive. By the way Steve I was pretty pissed last week over what you said….”
That sort of approach? Yes. That’s how I usually handle fights. It walks great with my friends but it almost always backfired with my past girlfriends. They almost always complained that they didn’t like it when I refused to get dragged into a fighting contest of words. Once one of my exes rushed to the door and locked it before I could leave.
Pent up emotions, pulse racing, her breast rising and falling with her panting. I suppose seeking an Orgasm was the only logical solution.


So I guess that’s it. Tag assignment done. In turn I am tagging the following bloggers.
Fantasy queen, Hengish , Lightly , Bumight, Jeff and Angelina Jolie.
There really is no point groaning about it . To recant what a very important man once said
“If I was told I had 8 minutes to live , I’d write a little faster.” (Issac Asimov.)
When it snows make snowmen, so quit whining and start writing. Tagging is like the seasons. It’s here to stay and no amount of cursing or swearing is going to make it go away. Most of the time, things in life don’t go our way but there is no helping it.
It is like another very important man once said.

Life would be so much easier if life was easy.

The By-laws of life

In this ordered and structured world of ours there exists undefined laws within man's rigid frame.

Consider.
Lightning may strike anywhere it wants. It is a law firmly set within earths ordered structured.
You dont believe me? Look under the Earth's constitution for lightning.
The entire earth is permitted table for Zeus's practice.
That is acceptable.
What is unacceptable is found within the undefined laws.
Lightning may not strike twice in the same place.
Laws within laws.
Earth spins on merging a cocktail of defined and the undefined.

Defined.
You may have an orgasm during sex.
Undefined.
The female must achieve one, preferably more, before the man may gasp his first, usually last climax for the sex to be deemed memory worthy.

Defined.
Sounds rarely kill.
Undefined.
If you hear a gunshot duck.
If you hear another gun shot start running.
If you hear a third gunshot really start running.
If you're in your apartment during the gunshots there is no point running.
And so on and so forth.

I call them the bylaws of life.
These undefined and yet resolute laws which we all somehow know and follow. All through life we are expected to obey them and stick to the formula. Common sense , our annoying pro bono lawyer,advises us too.
Deviating from the rule is simply unwise as made apparent by the law beneath.
You may not re-accept a boyfriend/girlfriend who has dumped you three times for a better fish only to return when the urge for Tilapia (that would be you) resurfaces.
See?
Laws I tell you.

The bylaws are here to stay. Make no mistake about it.
There actually is a bylaw about that but here is not the place to point it out.
You see this post isn't about defining the bylaws; it is about reporting a crime against them.
Last week a group of individuals callously broke one of the sacred and most cardinal rules in the bylaws.
These men where armed robbers.
Nothing wrong there.
My mum was robbed by these men.
It happens.
Twice.
In the same day.
Now that.... is unacceptable.

Twice in a day?
What kind of idiotic armed robber does that?
There is a clear rule stating that thieves may not rob a person twice.
It's right there, next to the law that you may not kill a person twice. Didn't they read the constitution? Is there no such thing as honor amongst thieves. Where they that unlucky at the gambling booth.
Sigh I disgress. I am yet to tell the tale. Don't get your hopes up though. It reallyis an annoying story.


My mum, (God bles her sexy soul) was off to work one happy day, the sun was in the sky, birds were twittering and Risse had scored a lovely goal for Chelsea the night before. Everything seemed perfect when, suddenly, she was stopped by these creeps of the night in broad daylight.
My mum was nice; she gave them everything they asked off her. Her money. Her purse. Her phone. The name of her worst son (Carl). Everything they asked for she handed over.
Impressed with her cooperation they let her drive on to work.
Up unto that point the story seemed ordinary.
What was weird is 7 hours later as she returned from work (yes my mum actually stayed in the office and worked. And y'all cal me crazy), whistling "Jesus na baba" they hopped out of the bushes and pulled her up again.

This time all my mum had was 50 Naira.
See why the "Once a day" law is there?

Fortunately everything thereafter stayed though to the rules of life.
20 metres after the robbery was a Police post with armed Police men seating down. They greeted her cheerfully as she approached.

Wihout her 50 Niara she couldnt tip them!