Carl with a C.

The camel's back

2009-10-29T11:58:00.000-07:00

I’m lying on the floor and typing this. Andromeda says I must have superhuman powers because she does not understand how I can possible spend as long as I do on my laptop in the position that I currently am.
I simply smile at her and get back to work. This after all is my life for the next week.
I have been ordered to lie down for the rest of the week.
It happened on Sunday.

The anniversary weekend was coming on great. Saturday had been a blast. We spent the entire day watching romantic movies whilst nibbling out of a bag filled with all sorts of junk. When I got tired of nibbling on those I would nibble on her. It was fun. Simple. The world’s truest definition of a balanced diet.
Much later on in the evening I took her to some restaurant which a friend of hers had assured me was her favourite. We had a lovely time—even when she pointed out to me that I was using my salad fork the wrong way and that I was holding it in the wrong hand. I pointed out to her that because I was seating opposite her, my left hand was located on her right side. She gasped at her mistake and looked really mortified.
I suspect she realizes how cute she is when she does that.
Saturday was fun. Saturday night was even more so. The trouble all began on Sunday morning.

We were getting ready for church. Andromeda was adamant about it. We might be having an anniversary weekend but no way were we going to miss out on stopping by to say hi to Jesus. I wisely did not complain and went about getting ready. I checked the mirror to make sure my hair was brushed and there were no visible smears of lipstick or love bites on my face. Everything looked okay.

I was just bending down to tie my shoe lace when it happened. I sneezed. It was a pretty serious sneeze as sneezes go. The kind you would expect to have if you were tied down and had pepper sprinkled into your nose with a pinch of thyme. My back certainly agreed because immediately after the sneeze I felt a sharp tear in my lower back. Two seconds later I was sprawled on the floor groaning in pain.
For those of you who are curious—No! There is nothing amusing about rolling about the hotel room floor with only one shoe on.

After Andromeda was convinced that I was really in pain and not trying to escape going to church she called a doctor friend of mine to quickly solicit his medical advice. My friend went through the discussion of how I felt and where the pain was located. After a pause he finally offered his medical opinion.
“I think you’ve slipped a disk Carlang.” He waited for another half a second before asking me the question “So how did it happen again?”
I took time to go through the whole motion of events. Me. My shoe lace. I bend. A sneeze. Roaring pain. I could feel him nod on the other end of the phone.
“A sneeze you say.” He sighed. “Nice try.”
His voice grew even lower as he asked me “Now tell me seriously. What did Andromeda do to you?”

Everyone has been asking me the same question all week.

Day One

2009-10-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

Andromeda is in the bathroom taking a shower.
She has just returned from 5 hours in the market—a mission that ended with only a lone pair of shoes. Women and their weird meter of accomplishment. I have ceased to try and understand them. Whenever I get confused I simply kiss them.
Thus far it has worked.

We are in a hotel for the next three days.
It has been 370 days since she said a firm “yes” to my stammered request that she be my girlfriend.
We are celebrating our anniversary this weekend. Or rather I am.
When I asked Andromeda what she would like to do for our anniversary she looked at me like I had asked her if Jesus might possibly have been a blinded 78 year old hunched back Asian, whose deformities were mistaken as Messianic in proportions.
According to her—women never plan anniversaries, they merely experience it. The job she says is completely mine.
“Surprise me” she announced.
The message has been received.
I am doing my best.

Thus far, everything seems to be going okay. She seemed delighted with the hotel that I picked. She walked out to the balcony which gave a nice overview to the city of Abuja and smiled. In her world that is a “Well done Carl. You’re doing great.”
Indeed.

There are two more days ahead of me.
Plenty of time for me to let her down. But at least for now, I have survived the first day.
She likes the room. She likes the view and she still likes the boyfriend. Friday is done.
We’ll just take one day at at a time.
And if things get really bad....well...there’s always kissing.

That always seems to work.

The curious case of blogging

2009-10-11T12:46:00.000-07:00

If I had stayed and persisted in whipping out of my complaining hands a few more months of writing, I would have, by now, been celebrating my second year of blogging. But I didn’t stay and the rules of blogging took over. For every month that I have been away, I have aged backwards. And so today I find myself not at the 2 year mark, but somewhere worryingly around the 11th month.
It is enough to make you weep.

There is some advantage to being 11 months again. For one, I get to look forward to another one year old birthday celebration. For another I am better equipped to handle the time because of my experience. Much has changed since I was 11months and yet again very little has. The company is different. I do not expect this blog to be read because most of my dear friends have all gone. Swallowed by that ever ravenous shark that is life.
For example Naapali is gone. There are rumours that he is has been stolen by a loving wife and delightfully troublesome children. I have never been one to pay attention to proffered truth. Naapali is exactly where I left him. The only problem is I cannot remember where.

Atutu is also gone from the world of blogging. Fortunately I get to chat with him every now and then. But even in our conversations I sense the absence of what was. The magical lure of blogging is gone, replaced by the harsh realities of life. “LOL” in the world of cyber space calls to the mind the happy chatter of bloggers. In the real world they are just alphabets with very little significance.

Nigerian drama queen is supposed to be around. But even I am half convinced that this is untrue. The other half of me knows for certain that it most certainly is not. True there still are some of my old friends hanging around the woods. It appears Bumight is yet to perform her first medical murder and Fantasy queen is still very much in her Eldorado. Shubby doo still posts the occasional post and Afrobabe is still in search for the 6 hour orgasm experience. But even though many of these familiar names are still present, most of them have evolved without me. They are who they are before I left, but now even so much more that they aren’t.
The world of blogging has changed. The people. The colours and even the language.

Sometimes I feel like I am getting old.
Other times I wake up and realize that indeed I am.
But every now and then I get to experience the thrill of being young again. In another five minutes, I will return to the real world filled with work, deadline, coke and the never ending pursuit of physical fulfilment.
But until that happens I will remain here.
And for a little while, I will be 11 months again.

Life's Gamble

2009-04-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

This is a work of fiction.

Last night someone asked me if I loved to gamble and my immediate thought was “Yes. Everyday.”.
I gamble in the morning when the 3 year old alarm next to my bed, lets loose another of its daily shrills. Wincing in pain, I ponder my choices. Do I ignore its announcement and go for another 30 minutes or do I trust my body’s ability to make it to the bathroom without my brain.
I gamble when I brush my teeth. Do I go for 15 strokes, 50 strokes or do I trust the 200 strokes of yesterday to carry me on through today.
I gamble when I head out of the house at a slow walk. I am hoping that the train does not break its routine and somehow make it to the station early.
Most of the time I’m lucky. But other times I have to seat through an angry boss.

You see what I’m talking about?
Everyone gambles.
It’s an inherent instinct of life. I laugh when people shake their heads in pious shock when they are asked the gamble question. They do not believe themselves capable of such behaviour. Gambling is too risky they claim. I nod my head as they announce this familiar bit of defense. It is not out of concordance. It is more out of the situation’s irony. If gambling is too risky what then can be said of living?

Life is a series of gambles. We walk the streets gambling on the chance that the tattooed individual in the corner is not really a disgruntled employer itching to take a swipe at anyone who comes within 3 feet of him. We gamble as we drive—that the 3 million other cars sharing the city with us is not being chauffeured by speed demons who like the look of mangled metal. We breathe daily , gambling that we suddenly will not take an accidental whiff of one of those secret killer fumes that we are assured by the CIA is out there, but instead continued to run into good old, terribly plain oxygen.

Most of the time it works.
We wake in the morning and go through the day with nothing to show for our risky acceptance of fate’s dice except one or two splashes of mud. It is one of the nicer rules of playing the game of life. Most of the time, with very little bit of planning involved, we end up breaking even.
But every now and then our luck runs out and we are left with one of those situations that we might have avoided had chosen differently. Situations that might have been avoided if we hadn’t been so rash in our decisions.

And so last night when he looked at me and asked me if I loved to gamble, I shook my head slowly--even though my thoughts echoed differently—swallowed hard and gently handed over my wallet.
His grim gaze, hovering over the gripped gun told me I had made the right choice.

Belated

2009-03-25T13:06:00.000-07:00

There are times when being an Angel sucks.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being an Angel. The pay is fantastic, the management is more than decent and the method of transportation is simply, quite frankly, out of this world.
It rocks being an angel. Being able to whiz around the world at will. Being able to speak over a million languages. Being able to walk through walls into homes, offices and yes—shower rooms, those are advantages that very few occupations can boast of`.
But there are other times when, despite the seemingly infinite benefits, being an Angel truly can suck.
Like now.

I stared at the sitting frame of my new assignment.
He was slouched in a couch watching some channel called CNN. In his hand was a bottle of water—His lone source of hydration ever since he had sworn of coke 3 months ago. On any other day, I would have considered him a fine specimen as far as human standards went but today I found him to be most irritating.

I wasn’t on vacation—that rarely happens for Angels. It is one of those things that we are not allowed to do, right after eating chocolates (No one likes an overweight angel you see).Besides, the whole idea of vacation is stopping to have a great time. Angels already have a great time. Vacation , for us, was totally unnecessary.

So I wasn’t on vacation.
If I was on vacation then—maybe—I would have been less irritated with the cross-legged human in front of me. But I wasn’t and so I was.
You see the thing was, it wasn’t just that I was on assignment.
It was the worrying fact that he was the assignment.
And as far as assignments go he was like one of those calculus equations that teachers sometimes give 3rd graders just to frustrate them.
He was being irritatingly difficult.

I stared at his unruffled forehead. To the casual observer, he looked to be in perfect health. His body was not overweight, his eyes darted around in focused scrutiny and the silent bob of his head gave evidence to his hearing.
However as far as I was concerned, he seemed dead to my existence.

I heard a soft whoosh behind me and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Hello Legna.” I said quietly.
Angel Legna walked up to my side and smiled at me. “You’re getting better Mourinho.” He murmured. His perfect wings softly beating up and down. “You knew it was me without looking.”
I gave a half smile. Normally it would have been a good compliment but right now I wasn’t feeling particularly receptive. There was a reason why wings were tucked between my legs and it wasn’t because of the overhead fan.
Legna stood beside me and we both stared at my assignment. We watched as he reached for the remote control beside him and quickly surfed through the channels. After a stunning change of stations he settled on some channel called “E”. They were talking about some lady called Angelina Jolie. He sighed happily and relaxed deeper into his chair.
“This is him?”Legna asked me.
“Yes it is!” I replied.
“He doesn’t look that troublesome.”
“They rarely do.” I replied tersely.

Angel Legna laughed at me.
“Don’t let it get to you. Humans are notoriously difficult and stubborn.” Again he chuckled softly. Probably at some memory. He scratched his smooth chin “What’s the assignment anyway?”
I sighed out loud.
“I’m supposed to inspire him. According to the reports he is supposed to be a writer. But he hasn’t written anything worthwhile recently.” I explained.
“So you’re here to help him?” Legna asked.
“Yes. That would be it.”
“Kinda like a Muse. You’re on Muse detail.” Legna said.
“Yes. I guess you could say that. Only this Muse is not amused with this musing moose.” I retorted.
Legna laughed out loud.
“You’re really adjusting to being an angel. Musing moose… that’s priceless.”
This time I couldn’t help it. I smiled back at him.
We chuckled for another 5 seconds then Angel Legna quietened down.
“So what is he suppose to write. What are you trying to prod him into writing? A story? An essay? An assignment”
I shook my head. “None of those. Try a blog.”
“OH?” Angel Legna said. “He is a blogger?”
“Yes.”I muttered. “Goes by the name Carlang. I have no idea why he chose that.”
Legna chuckled.
“That’s actually simple as far as blogging names go. You should try names like Afrobabe and Nigeriadramaqueen.”
I frowned.
“Bloggers?”
He nodded in affirmation. “Yes. Both of them. I was assigned to them recently. They had the same problem with this……Cartlan?”
“Carlang.” I corrected.
“Carlang. Got it!” Legna said. “Well... I had to persuade my two to get writing as well. Like him they had tumbled into an unnecessary hiatus. Unlike him they eventually they got round to it.” He stared at my assignment who was still staring at Angelina Jolie. I wasn’t sure but it looked like he was drooling “Off course, I suspect my job was a lot easier because my subjects were females. Males are notoriously difficult to get through.”
“I noticed” I said dryly.

“Have you tried talking to him” Legna asked.
I snorted.
“Right.” Legna said with a laugh.”I’m sorry about that. I’m guessing you’ve tried everything by the book.”
“Everything!” I stressed in frustration.
Legna smile.
“Well then I guess it’s time you tried something out of the book.”
“What would that be?”
He gave me a mischievous smile. I never thought Angels were capable of those. I became wary.
Legna pointed at my waist. “Use it.”
It took me a second to comprehend what he was talking about.
“No!” I gasped.
“Yes!” he said firmly. Then his smile softened. “Don’t worry. You’re not doing anything illegal. We do it all the time.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Really!” Angel Legna said with a serious expression. “How do you think Noah managed to complete building the ark?”
“I always wondered about that.” I murmured.
I stared at Carlang. He was channel surfing again—did humans ever stop watching TV. It seemed like all they seemed to be ever doing.
“So do it already.” Legna said.
“Poke?” I suggested.
“Poke!” he confirmed.

There are times when being an Angel sucks.
And there are times when it is totally cool to be one.
With a happy smile I pulled out my sword. It was a beautiful engraved piece. I had never made out exactly what the symbols on the blade meant but it was exquisite. I stared at the smooth blade which had fire softly trailing the edge. Up until now I had never used it. I hoped I wasn’t drooling.
Beside me Angel Legna chuckled.

I stared at the lazy unreceptive blogger called Carlang.
And then I poked him with my sword!

At the insistence of "We".

2009-01-24T22:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while now.

It’s been lingering in the back of my mind, rearing its uninvited head when the occasion presented itself. Like when I was caught in traffic, firmly sandwiched amongst three hundred cars and what looked in the distance to be an elephant. I thought to myself with irritated amusement “Wouldn’t this be a fun thing to blog about?”

It progressed slowly over the weeks. When I noticed that the planners of the year 2009 had somehow goofed and accidentally assigned the 14th of February to a Saturday I was blinded with fury. What was the reason behind their mistake? Why would they do something so silly? Who assigns Valentine’s day to a Saturday? The horror. All my excuses for avoiding valentine which I had saved over the years would be completely useless this year. How was I supposed to be in a business meeting on Saturday? No girl would believe that excuse. What had those idiots done this year? Shouldn’t I be doing something about this? Like blogging a complaint?

Finally it came to a head last night.

Oddly enough nothing special happened. I was there lying on my bed celebrating the end of another busy work day. I had my earphones on and Keri Hilson was yelling something about her Energy. I was dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt which had the picture of Obama and the words “Change” emblazoned on it. I was particularly fond of that T-Shirt. A while ago the T-shirt had suffered a meeting with a bottle of ketchup. Now Obama stared back at me with ketchup on his chin and a smile that didn’t seem fitting anymore. I had refused to wash the T-shirt. I loved the look of shock when people spotted me wearing it.
“Is that blood or ketchup?” they would ask, looking quickly at my face and then back at the shirt.
It was always hard to decide what to answer.

So there I was ,smelling like a man who works in a ketchup factory dedicated solely to the culinary demands of America’s number one citizen. I had just finished chuckling over some joke I heard a girl say—I can never be Lesbian. I’m not crazy about the female Vah-jay-jay. I’m so paranoid about it, they gave birth to me via caesarian.—and now had nothing else to do except return to reading my current Novel (Double Tap by Steve Martini) or attacking the Rubik’s cube which had been in my possession for the last 3 months. The pressure of choice. I was lying there trying to decide which of the two would be more fun when suddenly my alter ego Karlang sighed and asked out loud.

“Why don’t you just write something?”

Now I’m not particularly fond of Karlang. He is the annoying half of me that enjoys asking ridiculous questions.
Like what constitutes sexual Harassment at work?
Supposing you wink at your secretary would that be sexual harassment?
Supposing it’s just because you have something n your eye?
Supposing it’s her right breast?

Whenever people asked me if it was Blood or Ketchup that smeared Obama’s chin, it was always Karlang who thought saying Blood would be a great idea. Karlang was responsible for seeing imaginary elephants in holdups and the major reason why I was always in holdups in the first place. Karlang was my annoying irresponsible half who I had had to deal with all my life. He was the cocky bastard who thought he was so cool he could make gay women straight and I was the accompanying sidekick who feared he could turn straight women gay. Every week I wished there was some way I could trade him for something else—like a cricket for instance. And yet, despite our differed perception of the world and its bylaws, every once in a while he sometimes managed to say something that resonated on the reasonable or, at least ,mutually acceptable to us both.
Like when I found out the 14th of February was on a Saturday.
We both groaned out loud.
“Saturday?” I moaned. “That’s terrible.”
“Tell me about it.” He muttered. “I’m not going to be able to watch the football matches.”

This seemed to be one of those rare Moments when we both seemed to agree on an idea. I paused and considered his suggestion. It seemed like a good idea. Hell it seemed like an extremely great idea.
“I’m smart like that.”Karlang pointed out.
“Oh shut up.” I snapped.
There was sudden knock on my door and then without pausing, my cousin stuck his head into my room. He looked at me for a second.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Er.. No one.” I said with an embarrassed smile. Just some creep who lives in my head.
He shook his head sadly and left. I didn’t want to consider the conversation currently going on in his head.

I lay down for a bit more, pondering what exactly I would write if did decide to listen to my advice and write.
What could I possibly write on? I wondered. My life had been really boring thus far except for that one time when I feared I was pregnant.
Ha Ha.
Karlang sighed out loud with irritation.
“How about we just start writing and figure out what to write along the way.”
Sometimes he does make a little sense.

And so we did.
This is it.

Blogville's triumph

2008-12-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

I always knew it would be something interesting that would draw me back for a 43rd post.
I am delighted that it is this.
One of our very own has lived my dream.
When Isi announced that she had finally completed her novel I knew that i just had to share the good news with you all.

It is a joy to read our many delightful scribbles.
It is even more delightful when some of our scribbles make it into print.

I celebrate the achievement of one of us.
I still expect Angelina Jolie's phone number for Christmas.
But until then this makes for a delightful pre-christmas gift.

Thank you Santa.
Thank you Isi.
Thank you Blogville.

The 42nd

2008-11-20T08:15:00.000-08:00

I’m evolving.
I didn’t notice it at first. It crept slowly on me like the slow song of a relationship. You meet a girl accidentally at breakfast, you talk to her, you laugh at her jokes, you buy her dinner and then you wake the next morning to find out she has been your girlfriend for the last 3 years.
Well I woke up yesterday and realized that I have become a different kind of blogger.

I have no idea exactly what type of blogger I am becoming. I am unsure if this lethargy of mine is some seasonal hiccup which will change with the eventual passage of time or if It will remain, grow and eventually claim a full hold on me forcing me into the graveyard of bloggers where the once mighty—Ozaveshe, Littlemissme and lately ( dear God no) Afrobabe—now rest in undefined hibernation. I am full of hope that it is the former but caution prevents me from completely ignoring the later. Doing so would be a dangerous thing. A complete disregard for an unwelcome possibility.
Like a girlfriend who comes back home to find lingerie in her boyfriend’s bed.
Well in line with her wardrobe colors and designer but unsettling in that it happens to be two sizes too large.

I have been a blogger for over a year now.
When I joined Blogville it was for two reasons. I sought a medium in which I could share some of my insanity without the recriminating snorts of disgust or looks of perplexity that normally followed my voiced opinion. My year long sojourn has made me realize the flaw in my plan. It seems everyone else on Blogville joined for the same reasons. Now I wonder what I was thinking. A community comprised of bookworms, nerds and intellectual socialites—where did I get off thinking that I would be the lone alien in their written world. Back then it certainly left me shocked.
The discovery of a world where aesthetics was accepted and insanity condoned as Talent.
A world which I delightfully explored.
The second reason was just as important. I sought to become a better writer. I had at the time just finished writing a 60 paged short story that I was half satisfied with(I read it once and thrashed the story into some nameless folder on my hard drive). There are two things vital to writing a good book. Talent and Discipline. The way I saw it, if I could manage a year of regular blog writing then I could consider myself firmly on the path of the later. As far as talent was concerned I figured showcasing my writing would give me an idea of how good or terrible I really was.

A year has gone by and I have formed some idea on the subjects.
It has been an entertaining, if indeed slightly alarming, ride. I honestly do not think this fun ride of mine will come to an end. But that will depend a lot on my determination, resilience and creativity. Factors you would expect a boyfriend to have when he returns home one evening to meet his girlfriend of two years with her bag all packed up and the dining table all set out.
Served on his plate is the flaming red Bra.
Two sizes too large.

And so I write this fully determined to ensure that this is not my last post.
In truth there is very little to suggest that I have become a slow blogger. Looking over my archive I seem to have maintained a steady average of posts over the months. But blogging, as I have come to know it is not just about the posts. It is about the play behind the posts. The little comments we live from page to page, tiny notes that say we are here. We read you. We care about you. Notes that I have failed to deliver in quite a while.
I suppose this is what work does to you. A year ago I was a complaining student. Now I am an annoyed African struggling to fan his tiny life into a roaring start. My days seem more taken with work related matters and when I think of blogging, it is with the fond air of a period when I was able to find an hour in a week to type out the story of my last 7 days. An hour in which to go visiting dear friends. An hour to read the running debate for the week whilst laughing at the undefined flirting. An hour which, my watch now warns me is almost up.
This is my 42nd post. I write this fully confident that I shall return to write a 43rd. I am only uncertain as to when this will happen. It might be next week or next month. I do not know. What I do know is that I have deeply enjoyed the time I have spent with you and plead that you forgive my silence. My slip is not because I love you any less but because I love you more and wish to fulfill the high standards we have all, inaudibly, set for ourselves.
A line of defense that might have better served the philandering boyfriend had he decided to use it, instead of his blasé retort that the Flaming Red Bra belonged to his favorite Aunt who had visited him.
An argument whose shaky foundation was even further weakened by the fact that the last time his Aunt visited him, she was recovering from a Mastectomy.
A recovery which sadly resulted in complications and her death.
6 years ago.

O' bummer!

2008-11-06T10:02:00.000-08:00

It is hard to say who made the first call.
What is certain is shortly after, within the space of 2 minutes, almost a million more were made. The fact alone was hardly news in a country recording a population of 120 million. And then you took into consideration that the calls began at 3 in the morning. You marveled at the fact that it happened on a Tuesday—a working day. You gasped at the fact that the million calls spurned millions more. And then suddenly the news of the abnormality became worthy news.
The facts were these. Still exhausted from the rigors of a demanding Tuesday, millions of people were forcefully woken from their sleep. The reason was quickly explained. Thousands of miles away, in a country which had its time zone 6 hours behind ours, history had been made. The phone calls called for celebration. Reactions of delighted joy followed the breathless announcements. People called each other to spread the historic news.

I got a call that night.
Mine was for a different reason.
It carried behind it none of the general urge to share the good news which was propelling callers around the country. I was being called to be laughed at. I was the guy in the looking glass—A singular being of agnized negativity living amongst fellow humans—who nobody could understand.Simply put, I was one of those weirdoes who did not support Obama.
“You lost you idiot!” The first caller yelled.
Barely opening my eyes, having been asleep for a little over 4 hours and hence ignorant, I surmised quickly that this probably meant so also did McCain.

It was almost expected of me not to be in love with Obama.
I was rarely asked “Who do you support?”. Instead the assuming line of “You don’t like Obama do you?” was more often used. Born renegade, ever in need of interesting debate, it was not difficult to find myself on the other team against Obama.
In the beginning it was easy. I loved Hillary and completely supported her bid. This was no fickle cheer by some stranger who watches matches during the occasional weekend. This was the obsessed study of charts by a fan as he peers through glasses emblazoned with the logo of his club. My love for Hilary was no new thing. Ever since the Lewinsky era I had admired her strength, focus and loyalty. Attributes I believed no good leader could do without. With Hillary as president, and the equally intelligent ( and less philandric) Bill behind her, America could not hope for a better champion.
And then she lost.

I don’t hate Obama.
A lot of people have come to assume this and I, in keeping with my renegade image, have done nothing to correct that impression. I actually like him. I once sat with my youngest sister and watch her cry as she listened to him talk. The strength of his rhetoric coupled with the steady confident gaze is as powerful an attraction as a siren’s song to sailors. I admire his confidence and his discipline. His composure against attacks thrown at him which criticize his policies and question his loyalty. When Obama walks the stage he does it with the grace of a panther. Effortlessly charming the audience whilst leaving them with no doubt of the strength of his character. As I watched him with each passing day after his party nomination, I became more confident that if there was ever a worthy replacement to my candidate Hillary, he was it.
So why did I appear not to support him?

Very simple.
I was worried about the trend that seemed to be plaguing the world. Everywhere I turned more and more people seemed inclined to have Obama as a president not as a result of the attributes that I was in love with, but for a simpler basal trait. He was an African American. It seemed ridiculous to me that a person’s vote was based primarily on the appearance of his candidate’s skin. All over Nigeria everyone was pro Obama. Not very many people had listened to his debate and even fewer had any idea of what his policies were. Nonetheless, everyone was in complete support of his bid for presidency. Everywhere I turned I was swept with the wave of Obama-mania carried by people who had no substance behind their glee.
I pondered the logic of the situation. The irrationality of voiced sentiments. The absolute danger behind the ecumenical movement.

History warns of the blind worship of new leaders.
Hitler. Idi Amin. Obasanjo.
All three were welcomed into office with loud cheers in the streets. All three ended up being dismal failures at their jobs, spawning a sad tale of irrational murders, kidnapping and unrestrained corruption. Even more interesting was the period at which each assumed power. Their individual nations were at all time low with the economy in stutters. The general public walked with their backs hunched against the mantle of the nation’s ill health. The people were sick of the way they were living and demanded an end to their suffering. Unsurprisingly, in situations of domestic revolt the first head to be chopped of is usually the leader. The people demanded a new king. One who would fix things. One who would ease their burden. One who would bring about that which their every cell called for as it churned in the blood of wretchedness.
Change.

I believe it is possible for America to change. I, in fact, fully expect her too.
I am not worried about that. I am worried at the perception of everyone that a singular change of government is going to bring about an immediate change. 46 years ago Martin Luther king asked for a change in the country. 46 years later his wish was answered with the election of the first African American.
46 years.
America is at an all time low. Never, since the great depression, has her economy suffered as badly as it currently is. There are some who would suggest that compared to the depression of the 30’s this is even worse. That is not the issue. What is is how long the much needed revival is going to take. In his acceptance speech Obama pointed this out to everyone saying “….It might take a term to achieve this but , America, I have never been more hopeful.”(A paraphrase). I personally would have been much happier if he had used the word “confident” instead of “hopeful” but the man knows his politics. It would be suicide for anyone to promise a change of the magnitude expected by the American public. I realize that. I do not expect much to change until his second term simply because it will take years for his plans to show fruit but how many voters actually know this?

The issue of America’s health is a serious one in that it affects us all. The Terrorist can groan all they want but if they did eventually get rid of the “Infidels” like they keep threatening to do , they would wake up to find they had an abundance of unwanted goats living in pens feeding on the sparse vegetation the arab desert and occasionally swimming in pools of unused ,by virtue of its niemity, crude oil.
The truth is the well being of the world assumes a precondition that America is equally well. If the United States falters (as it has) then inevitable other economies world wide will falter as well. (As it did.)
If a country’s well being is assumed as important to the health of the world then it follows that more attention be given to the leader of said nation. More thought should be paid to the decision of a successor than the color of his skin.
Barak Obama is an impressive man with incredible potential. And yet I dare say that were this not so—if by some weird chance some idiotic African American with the backings of the Democrats was nominated as presidential candidate—the just concluded wave of singular trait worship ,coupled with the desperate need for change, would have swept him just as overwhelmingly into office.
This is not impossible. How else did George W. Bush get elected president?

Hasn’t the time come when people are more concerned about what the candidate can do for the country and less about who he is? Today the media announces that the election was not about race. I beg to differ. It was mostly about race. If indeed the well being was chief in the minds of the American public then Obama might never have survived the primaries. The polls show that Obama was voted in by an overwhelming number of the black and young demographic. If ten were to be picked and asked what informed their decision 9 of them would reply with words associated with “Change”, “African American” and “being cool”. In an election designed to select the leader of the free world it is absurd that this is what it boils down too. The cosmetic plebeian perception of the masses. A selection based more on racial profiling than on the candidate’s official qualification for the position being lobbied.

Do not get me wrong.
I believe there were millions of people who made an informed decision to vote for Obama. In all likelihood there was very little in way of preventing a Democratic return to power. The Republicans had done such a good job destroying the virtues of the nation that the people would have had to be extremely blind to have returned them to power. Obama’s victory was surprising not because of the Party’s triumph but because of the person who the Democrats approved to ride their Seabiscuit.

The very play of sensation against sensibilities was evident in the final lap. Barack Obama picked a vice president because he understood that, for the few Americans out there who were not caught up in the hebdomadal countdown to possible history being churned by the media, his foreign policy and knowledge was reason enough to lose him some of their votes. Hence the choice of Biden—a man designed to satisfy those who demanded enterprising leaders instead of entertaining one. Senator Mc Cain on the other hand astutely realized that where common sense was involved he would be hard put to gain a following outside that which he already had ( The diehard republican faithful.) and so he seized on the genius idea of riding the wave of sensationalism. Sarah Palin was a good counter to Obama’s social fame. With that singular act Mc Cain sought to pull with him more people. People from the demographic where race, sex and a candidate’s glass were good enough reasons to get voted into office. And unsurprisingly, up until the financial meltdown his daedal plan was actually working.

I argued with people to make them think.
A time must come when we make decisions based on individually contemplated review and not on the hand painted presented worth given by the media and ultimately the majority public. There must come a time when we vote with reason. There must come a time when a man’s rhetoric, as charming as it might be, will not be enough to sway our decision not to support him if his mettle does not charm us accordingly. Eloquence is expected of leader. Fustian and witty rhetoric is the trademark of a politician.
Being a successful leader requires the ability to charm your followers.
Being a successful follower requires the strength to look through the charm and point out the murk that exists beneath—if any. If we do not study our leader we end up with the Hitlers of the world.
A nation is only as strong as its people.

I am delighted with Obama’s victory.
I am excited about what it stands for.
My only wish was that his victory was more as a result of confident belief in the man and less on the public need of hope and the infantile decision to change the history books just because…we can. Obama sought to be elected as president but instead got an approval as a savior. I look forward to his administration and pray that the American people find patience with him. Something they normally would have had, had their decision to vote for him been based on a realistic idea of what he could achieve and not (as it mostly was) on a dream of some Messianic president who would fix everything with his African wand in his very first year.

Writing this blog the irony of my situation does not evade me.
Many of the people trapped by sensationalism do not read. They are dependent more on the word shared on the streets and the glitz of cameras. Writing an article complaining about the social situation is an exercise drenched in futility. The only people who will ever get to read this are people who really do not need too. People who are used to reading and listening and then thinking.
There is little more I can do but that which I have always done. Persist in my role as a part time renegade—Challenging commonly accepted truths in a bid to make people search for the ingrained reason that makes it true. If it makes me appear a hater of Obama and spurs them on to find reasons to effectively counter my assumed disloyalty then I shall have done society some small service.
Come January I shall welcome Obama into office with a content smile.
But deep in my heart shall lurk the dark worry that despite thousands of years of painful experience the human race is still terribly fickle. Still worryingly pliable to the whims of the majority and the circumstances of the time. Particularly in moments of crisis. History will always be a willing teacher as long as we keep returning for the same lesson.
There is very little I can do, I suppose.
Except give little lectures, annoy a few more clueless Obama supporters and answer amusing early morning calls.
It is every man’s right to vote.
I only just wish, we all voted for the right reasons.

God bless us all.

A month gone.

2008-11-03T13:57:00.000-08:00

I blame work.
I’ve been chained to it.
It has taken upon itself the task of making me a better person. It swings at me every morning−forcing me out of bed−Drawing from me moans which, given the early hours of the morning, might be mistaken as erotic moans of protest against a continuance of coital activity. It goes with me when I go to the bathroom watching as I struggle not to pass out on the loo. I take a cold bath in the shivering cold of the morning praying that come sunrise, my day will be a lot easier. It’s usually too early because most of the time God is asleep and doesn’t hear my prayer.
Lately I have been considering the annoying possibility that maybe he does hear my prayer. Maybe he just reads my prayer and then tosses it aside with an unconcerned chuckle as he moves over to attend to prayers from his current favorite son−Some big eared humanoid that goes by the unimpressive name of Obama.
If God does have a hand with the workings of my last month then I hope he realizes that, unlike Job, a couple of hundred sheep will do nothing to soothe me. It probably will take a thousand of sheep. Each with an attending and obedient shepherd girl (preferably dressed in French maid outfits) and an accompanying secretary.
The 100 cars are a given.

So yes.
My ranting aside, there lies the reason behind my month long silence. I have been working. In the last one month I have visited 4 different states. Some for only a night and some for more than a week. The two most important of these visits would be Abuja (The source of my last month's headache) and Bayelsa, home of the only other thing that takes residence in my mind aside from work. Andromeda.

Two weeks ago I was in the Nigerian Senate. In retelling this tale it has come to my attention that whenever I mention the fact that the last one month I have being doing some work for a Senator, people gasp with delight, roll their eyes and proceed to peek out the window in search of the flashiest car--which no doubt ( Nigerian logic dictates ) would be mine.
I hope I won’t have to put up with that here.
Yes I did do a bit of work for a Senator, but sadly (so says my mum) my life is pretty much the same. I was given none of those insane payments that NTA seems to talk about so much. In fact, if anything I was actually underpaid. A fact that didn’t bother me then because I was counting on the fact that work for a Senator would look pretty impressive on my resume not to mention open further avenues to more lucrative ( think high profile) work.
The Jury is still out on whether that was a smart idea on my part.

By far the most interesting part of my senate sojourn was sitting with a Senator’s Aide and some other important people and listen to them groan about how lazy some Senators were. It amazed me because their irritation and concern was genuine. They really wanted to do some honest work to help Nigeria. It greatly helped repaint the image I had of our Nigerian senate. One that involved parties behind closed doors and nonstop wild bacchanal orgies. Hope it appeared still floated in the halls of Epimetheus. She was just taking to bloody long to get things done.

The second part of my interstate travel involved Andromeda.
There are three reasons why I hadn’t blogged about her much.
1.) I was worried about jinxing what we had. Call me old fashioned but I have come to experience that when something is too good to be true, talking about it will probably make it disappear. I am yet to get over the shock of Santa Claus. You don’t want to get me started on Santa Claus.

2) Probably even more worrying was the fact that I really didn’t know what we had.
True; we like each other.
True. We had spent the last 4 months hanging out every weekend (save two weekends when she had to travel).
True. We had become very good friends.
True. We had broken the MTN texting record 7 times (our current record stands at 253 messages sent in one day).
And yet despite all this established truth I was uncertain as to where exactly our relationship stood. Or where it was headed too.

3) I hadn’t blogged much about her because--well-- I hadn’t blogged much.

And so it was that three weeks ago I took a trip to Bayelsa to see Andromeda. My intentions varied but chief on the list was a determination to have some sort of definition given to our relationship. I had to figure what exactly the last 4 months between us was. What it had been. And what it was going to be. A month of being prodded by work had thought me the merits of efficiency. I was going to Bayelsa to see Andromeda. I was going to do something about our relationship status. It just didn’t make sense that I would wake up in the morning only to spend the rest of it in a dream involving her. My friends had stopped answering my calls because (they claimed) I was no longer fun.
One way or another something had to change.

I spent 4 days in Bayelsa.
IN retelling this tale it worries me that whenever I get to this part the listener gives out a gasp (something between shock, delight and surprise) and immediately looks at my fingers in search of some glittering ring. Romance it seems lurks in the hearts of most Nigerians and nothing makes better gossip than a hasty engagement.
Really! It’s so ridiculous at times I wonder at the sanity of most Nigerians. I blame Nollywood. Fortunately I will not have to put up the same with the Blog folk. There is something to be said for anonymity. Gasp might be uttered out there in cyberspace but I am not obliged to hear it. If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it. Has it fallen?
Rhetorical.
SO yes. I spent 4 days in Bayelsa. Yes we came to some sort of understanding. Yes I did not work those lovely 4 days. Yes it is an interesting story.
I see your eyes all widened with interest. What was the nature of our compromise you wonder? How did my four day sojourn end?
Well I’ll tell you.
Or rather. I would tell you. Except I don’t want to have it jinxed.
Yes Jinxed!
Haven’t you been reading?
You really don’t want to get me started on Santa Claus.

The Date

2008-10-23T00:34:00.001-07:00

Forgive me.
I have been so so busy.
This is not even a real post.
I wrote this story last year and decided to post it to fill for my silence.
I miss you all.

I was in love with Michelle Adebayo Halima Okoronkwo.
No, her name didn’t bother me one bit, which is one way I sensed my love was sincere.
This wasn’t some infatuation. I totally loved her. I dreamt of her when I watched the evening news. I smiled at her image as I brushed my teeth. When I put ketchup on my fries I squirted out her name all over my plate and stared in hungered lust. Yes I was in love with her. So when she said yes to my suggestion of a date I nodded my head, asked to be excused, wobbled to the bathroom and then screamed.

I was in euphoria until the night of the date. I whistled through the office. Sang in the toilet. I gave my boss a big hug on the way out. I hi-fived the Motor bike riders on the road whenever I got to a traffic light. And helped the PHCN men, who came to cut my power lines, carry the ladder to their car. Ah. Too be in love. All was going well until the hour before my meeting with my date. I walked out of the bathroom singing “Hapuya like that”.
And then my world fell apart.

What does one wear to a date? My last date had been ages ago. I couldn’t remember what I wore. I’d been more interested in getting out of the clothes anyway. I stood in front of the mirror in my boxers and pretended that I didn’t know that I knew that I was sucking in my stomach.
What to wear? I could wear a T-shirt and a pair of jeans but would that spell being too casual? Would she think I was some unserious bloke who took our date just as flippantly?
I tossed the t-shirt aside. Perhaps not.
I gave a long look at my tuxedo. Wasn’t a tux something you only wore for a wedding? If I wore that for our date wouldn’t I be going overboard? Besides If I did wear a tux and somehow got lucky tonight would it turn out very uncomfortable when we got around to more than kissing?
I reconsidered.
Maybe I should wear something native.
Some Senegalese outfit perhaps. Would that be wrong?
Would she consider me ....Razz?
I looked at my football jersey. What if she wasn’t a Chelsea fan? There were a few of those.
Sigh.
I kept on trying different outfits. None of them seemed quite right. Some were too loud. Too bland. Too casual. Too daring. Too dirty. Too many holes.
The clock kept ticking.
What was I going to wear?
Eventually I decided to pick the first two things that my hands touched in the heap.

Ten minutes later I was at our rendezvous point-Her home. She answered the door wearing a lovely little black dress that did wonders for her figure.
“Lovely outfit.” I said.
“Thank you.”She replied with a smile and then shut the door behind her.
She looked at me. “Yours too.”
I nodded my head in satisfaction.
Not from the compliment but from what I had seen.
Just before she shut the door I had glimpsed a pile of clothes similar to the one I had left in my house. Two piles actually.
The bigger one was clothes.
The smaller one looked suspiciously like lingerie!

Blame the Storks,

2008-09-27T07:47:00.000-07:00

When a couple of Bloggers left comments on my last post asking me to pass along their thanks to my mother for having me, I chucked to myself, gave a tut tut and promptly forgot their request. Oh don’t get me wrong. It was a noble gesture. Very kind. Really sweet. Possibly sexy if I reconstructed the reason behind their thanks but the problem with acting on their suggestions was that no one took into consideration an important fact.
My mum is unofficially insane.
She’s been insane for a while, irreparably so. Long enough for me to know that there is no way to fix it and glaring enough for me to feel occasionally guilty.
Insanity, they say, is inherited. You get it from your children.
Guess which of her kid’s is responsible for driving her mad?

Okay. That’s a no brainier.
Stop giving me glaring looks. I’m not terribly proud of the fact that I’m responsible for 6 of the 8 wrinkles on my mum’s forehead. I keep pointing out to my mum that I didn’t exactly request for her when I was in heaven. I asked to be sent to either the Gates family or the Bush family. Some angel messed up with my paper work and sent me to some place called Nigeria. Home of the world’s smartest flies, 120 million people and the oldest known fossil (found clutching a preserved bag of golden coins); Nigeria was as unlikely a choice for my earth getaway as you could find.
But just as I came to fall in love with this disorganized country, finding within it countless little pieces of delight which a quick foray would never have revealed, I came to fall just as madly in love with my mum after getting over the fact that I probably would never have a Lear Jet with which to go to school.

My mum however, as far as falling in love was concerned, didn’t fall in as easily
I tasked her sanity right from Child birth. The Doctor, a man who I never got to meet but who I still feel pity for, walked over to her and stared whilst she groaned on the hospital bed.
We’re going to have to do a Caesarian he announced to the nurses. At that point his decision was stemmed from the need to save my Mum’s life. He needn’t have bothered. He should have asked me. My mum is the strongest woman I have ever met. She is also the queen of Multitasking. She could conduct a battle in War torn Germany, watch American Idol, figure out what needed to be bought in the house for supper and still have a baby just in time to catch the return of Idols after an advert. As it turned out, his life defining decision came to define certain things in my life. If anything the resultant scar would be reason for over a hundred speeches which I would come to hear from my mum,over flogging the persistent theme “You ruined my Bikini Days!”

My mum still insists that there has to be a record of me at Heathrow airport. As a 3 year old boy I somehow managed the astonishing feat of getting lost twice in the airport whilst still holding her hand. One minute I was there beside her asking her why those white men were looking at us that way. And the next, my mum was asking those white men if they happened to have seen a silly black baby come this way.
When I was five I tried to go for a record third MIA but my mum was ready. She pretended to look away whilst talking to a cousin of mine. Through the side of her eye she watched with astonishment as I made my move. I looked left, affecting an uninterested stare at a porter, and then right. I stole a surreptitious look at her supposedly busy self, and was satisfied with her apparent inattention. Sensing that the road seemed clear for my record making escape I made a slight shuffle away from her.
I don’t know about baby records but I’m sure Heathrow officials still watch a certain video which had a certain young boy screaming from the agony of having his ears turned in uncertain directions by an enraged mother. The video is probably filed under the folder “Barbaric acts of love by Africans.”
An hour later though I was on the plane heading back to Nigeria. The stewardess was conned by my toothy request to see the pilots flying the plane. My mum didn’t even protest. I got to seat in the cockpit with the Pilots whilst the white fools joked about “how solid a chap I was.” And how “great a pilot I would be in the future”
My mum didn’t smile when I returned. Maybe she was hoping the self eject button would malfunction and launch me back to heaven.

I was a confusing bundle of extremes.
My mum had come to happy terms with my brilliance at primary school. It was one of the few good sides to training an extremely mischievous child. Which was why she was shocked when she stumbled unto me lecturing the neighbors kids that a Gecko grew into a lizard which grew into a chameleon which grew into an alligator and inevitably into a Crocodile.
The kids next door stared with alarm at our fence which had lizards running everywhere and shivered with the thought of what it would be like in another 2 years when we had over a 100 crocodiles leaving in our backyards. When one of them found a Gecko crawling on the walls of his parlor his parents didn’t understand why he screamed so loudly.

I drove my mum crazy.
It’s an accepted fact now. Back then she fought hard against it. She refused to scream in frustration when she found me opening up our Black and white television because I wanted to fix it and add color. She refused to break out in tears when she realized that for the last month I had been flinging my uneaten Eba behind the bookshelf and waltzing to the kitchen with a cheery “I’m done.” Just so I could return to watching TV.
And when I replied to her request to put the machete away that the item in question was pronounced “Muh Shet ee” and not “Ma Chet!”—And could she repeat her request with the current pronunciation this time—she struggled really hard not to bury the machete in my neck.

We joke about it now.
She talks about how difficult a kid I was. How exasperated I used to make her feel. I laugh at her and pretend that I really can’t remember. It’s all an act. I really do. I remember the night I accidentally mixed her reserved 20 liters of petrol with 5 liters of kerosene. I remembered how angry she was when she worked in on me smoking the stub of a cigarette left by a guest. I remember how confused she used to be when I would be selected by Sunday school to represent them in Church quizzes saying I was by far the smartest and best Christian they had. I laugh as she jokes about these moments and I marvel at the resilience she showed through it all. Lord knows I wouldn’t have stood for it. I would have invited the kid for a trip to Lagos. Pulled over in the middle of the highway and toss his sorry butt unto the smarting tarmac. Fortunately my mum was much nicer. She just hung in there and got very very very good with the cane.

Every year my mum asks me if she is getting her Jeep.
I and my other siblings joke about it. (No I wasn’t the only child. There are 4 of us). We have all come to the decision that until we get our mum the Jeep she craves she never truly will forgive us for driving her mad. My younger brother, who gave my mum one of the remaining two wrinkles the week he was suspended for cooking corn stolen from a teacher’s farm, joked about it last month. We are getting weary of joking though. We have decided that next year we will seriously consider fulfilling the woman’s request even though she already has two and a half cars ( don’t get me started on the 20 year old Nissan she refuses to sell.). It is the least we can do, my sister said to me. I agreed with her, my mum has done a lot more than put up with us. She has sought to make us proud.When my mum teased my sister last year to consider getting married soon, my sister retorted that she wouldn’t consider the idea unless the invitation card sported the words “The family or Dr. Mrs. Thigszerlty..”
5 months later my mum registered and begun her PhD program.
“That woman self.” My sister groaned to me. “Now I have to get married.”

So yes.
I will pass on all your thanks.
But I’ll need to do it in a much grander way. Simply saying thank you to a woman who we ( my siblings and I) collectively drove mad might not be enough. We need to do something to show that we are madly in love with her. That we are grateful to her for her persistent and occasional humorously role in our upbringing. (“AIDS is not like love” she once told us. “It is forever!”)
My sister has announced that from next month we shall all mandatorily chip into a “Mummy Present” foundationesque account which she is going to open. I am okay with the idea. Even better I am delighted with it. It is the least I can do to show my love for a woman who treated me with unbelievable patience in the midst of baffling stupidity.
I remember once I stood beside her in the kitchen as she strove to teach me the secrets of cooking. I watched as she stared the Jollof rice with a wooden spoon.
“Don’t stir the food with a metal spoon in a metal pot. The rice will just start burning.” She informed me.
I nodded my seven year old head in silent acknowledgment.
“What happens..” I asked. “If you stir it using a Plastic spoon in a plastic pot?”

For Her.

2008-09-23T05:55:00.000-07:00

10 years ago she asked me to write a story.
It wasn't for her. She wanted to enter it for the Commonwealth Short Story Competition. Excited with the idea i grabbed my pen(The good old days before the keyboard.) and proceeded to write as she requested.I ended up writing three short stories which she submitted.
I waited 6 long months for the result.
And i didn't win.
I felt miserable that day. I sat dejected in front of my meal angry with myself for letting her down. Angry with myself for putting my hopes up.
She walked into the room and, noticing my depression,came over and gave me a hug with a soft chickle.
"You're so silly." She said. "They were all good stories. You're a winner in my books."
It took me a while to grasp what she meant.

Today i seek to honor her.
Thinking of what to write,I came to the realisation that i had no idea how to go about expressing my love for her. Words seemed mere beside all she had done for me. Nothing I thought of seemed fitting enough.I wanted something she would love and approve off. Something that told her how much i valued her contribution to my life.
It shouldnt have been dificult.

It took a lot of digging within my box but i finally found them.I pulled out one of the three stories I had written for her. I laughed as I read it. Looking at it now i see how i never could have won.
And yet I did win in a lot of ways.I won a valuable lesson in life.
Never to let my failures get to me.
And she taught me that lesson.

I am posting his for her without correcting my old mistakes.I am proud in my flaws because they can only mean i can get better.I am humbled by the fact that despite my flaws I always been perfect to her.
I am here because of her.
I am me because of her.
Happy Birthday Mum.
This one's dedicated to you.

....................

I ran through the woods.
Cutting out paths were none existed. Branches whipped back slapping against my skin. I had cuts in so many places, I had lost track of where. I could feel the cold trickle of blood but not the pain. There was no time for pain.
All I could feel was fear.
Galvanizing fear.
They were trying to kill me.

Thus far they had been unsuccessful. Perhaps as a result of lack of skill. Perhaps as a result of my luck. Whichever it was, one was bound to soon outweigh the other. The end would come soon and it would star either a blood-spattered me or a dead and still blood-spattered me.
I loved the injured living me idea better and so I ran faster, ignoring my wounds. They would eventually heal once I escaped.
Not if.
I would escape.
They had thrown caution to the wind. Bullets were being fired at me and places where “me” might have been.
I stumbled and fell just in time to avoid a bullet that clunked into a tree above me.
How many where there?
Three, four, five.
I didn’t know.
I was certain of three I had seen. Fleeting glances, but they had stuck. One had a red shirt on and the other two were dressed in army fatigues. I was also certain that there was another ahead of me. Possibly two.
Three, four, five men trying to kill me.
I leaped successfully over a boulder that appeared from nowhere. Behind me, I could hear the panting and curses of the men. They were tiring. I was losing them. There was a secret cave half a mile ahead. If I could just reach it. Perhaps this would be over.
Perhaps.
But first, I would have to reach it. Another bullet whizzed by me. A quick streak of light on my periphery. They were hungry,
Must run faster.
I didn’t want to die.
My life was measured by seconds. It had been four minutes since the first shot was fired. A life time ago.
As I took a measured leap over a log that lay in my path, I felt a blurring pain in my leg and realized that I had been hit. I screamed.
In shock? In fear? In pain?
All three?
I stumbled, attempted to keep up with my pace and then I fell.
I refused to yield. I tried to crawl.Ignoring the growing pain. There was no time to stop and cry. I had a plan. All I needed to do was complete it.
Up ahead of me there was a cave. If I could get to it …..
Perhaps I could hide.
Perhaps I could live.
I swore to myself.
I would live.
I would not die.
The harsh rusting of leaves warned of their impending presence. Seconds later three men burst through the woods. Red shirt was one of them. None of the other two wore fatigues.
There were five.
I watched them approach with loathing. Strangely, I had no fear. All I felt was blinding hatred and anger.
“We got him” Red shirt said. He was panting. Out of breadth.
I made him run. I thought to myself. A spasm from my gunshot wound almost blinded me with pain. I gritted my teeth. I would not scream in front of these men.
These monsters.
Murderers.
No. I swore to myself again. I would not die.
I would live.
“Not yet!” Another said reaching for his gun.
I stared at him with hate.
I would live.
He fired.
I died.
Leaving the woods, one deer shy.

Erebus.

2008-09-15T08:35:00.000-07:00

It was hard to place when he died.

A minute earlier I had stood unnoticed beside him on the edge of the road.
He was waiting for the traffic lights to turn red so he could safely cross. We were not alone. Other pedestrians hovered around. It was a couple of minutes after 4 and most had the tired look of frustrated workers who would give anything to stay at home and explore the possibilities of regaining sanity. With slightly hunched backs, they clutched their worn out briefcases impatiently, their eyes focused almost permanently on the lights. The god for the moment were those traffic lights.
His rule was law. Right now his rule was red. They awaited his green.
Like them he had a briefcase as well. A worn out leather affair which sported a tiny sticker announcing ,to any who cared to read, that he was employed in those most ambivalent of jobs. Logistics and Accounting Resources.
If the tell tale wires didn’t betray him, his gentle bob from side to side let everyone in on his estrangement from this noisy impatient world. He whistled inaudibly as he listened to some song on his IPod.
He went everywhere with the IPod. I had heard him say a couple of times that it kept him sane at work. Having an IPod, he often said, made his life a lot easier.
It certainly helped killing him.

The truck roared down the road flying towards the junction. Eager to round up for the day, the driver didn’t pay attention to the traffic light as he approached. That was his first mistake. He only noticed the red light a couple of meters before the junction. He panicked and attempted to slow down quickly to correct his oversight. He slammed on his breaks.
That was his second mistake.
The truck went into a slide. Shrieking loudly it fishtailed across the road sending neighboring pedestrians into a survival run. People screamed. The air was suddenly filled with shouts of warning, shock and Outrage. He didn’t hear any of them.
Once the lights turned green he took a casually step into the streets whistling the chorus of his favorite song. He was feeling in a good mood and why not? In another 5 minutes he would have been home.
If the truck hadn’t hit him.

3500 kilos of uncontrolled metal slammed into him. The IPod was an instant victim. It shattered beneath the force breaking it into a thousand pieces which mixed easily with his shattered bone. Pain burst into his beautiful world of music. All of a sudden his image of home was gone replaced by one of flying glass, whirling surroundings and blinding pain. The force of the impact tossed him into the air like a bean bag kicked by an angry kid. There was a stream of red as he flew. His Mind barely had time to comprehend what was happening before he hit the floor with a resounding slap echoed by the screams of horror from the pedestrians. The force of the landing cracked a rib. He slid to a stop with his leg bent at an unnaturally crooked angle, he didn’t notice it yet but he had left three of his toes behind.
Oh god he silently gasped battling the streaming pain.
And then the cars hit him.

The toss has sent him into the opposite green lane. Cars swerved to avoid hitting the sprawled man but they weren’t quick enough. Three cars ran over him. Sending his body flaying across the highway. A sickening streak of blood marking his trample skid.
By the time traffic came to a shocked stop it was over.
It was pretty hard to place when he died. In five seconds he had suffered an unbelievable sequence of physical trauma. He had so many broken bones the doctors would need to have a series of operations before they could repair him. He would be in bed for months just trying to flex his remaining two toes if he had survived. But he didn’t.
He was dead.

I made my way slowly across the street.
There really was no need to hurry. Most people were in stunned shock, others had rushed over and were crowded around his body wondering how quickly they could get him to the hospital. They needn’t have bothered. He was as dead as a stone cast into an ice pond.
I didn’t say this because I could see the gaping hole through his side, or I already knew about the fractured spine which the doctors would later find. I knew he was dead for certain because he was meant to be.
It was the reason I was here.
He was the reason I was here.
I had come expressively for him. Like a driver waiting at the arrival airport I had come to pick him up.
I was his assigned escort angel.

I stood beside his dead body and watched his living soul come to terms with the suddenness of its release. After a couple of blinks his eyes came to rest on me. They widened in alarm.
“Am I…”
“Dead?” I finished for him. I nodded my head gravely.”Yes. Yes you are.”
He scowled at me.
“I was going to say naked. Am I naked?”
I stepped back in surprise.
“Well, no….I don’t think you are. You look okay to me. A bit hairy but that’s accepted fashion in heaven.”
He looked quickly at me.
I read the question in his eyes.
“Yes.” I confirmed. “You’re going to heaven. You lived a righteous life.”
He closed his eyes with what I thought was joy. I was wrong. He opened them a second later and the fury in them stunned me. He glared at me and said in an extremely clear voice.
“Sod off!”
“What?” I gasped.
“Get lost. I’m not going to heaven. Not now at least. Come back in another 50 years. I should be ready by then.” He got up and dusted himself down.
Ordinary I would have been amused. Our celestial gowns are pretty neat stuff. It was almost impossible to get them dirty. Even Lucifer (heretofore to be referred to as “whatshisface”) was impressed with it. Thousands of years of wearing it in hell and he still looked clean whenever he stopped by for a debate. But I wasn’t in a mood to talk about the benefits of wearing the celestial robe. Not when I had a soul who was claiming he didn’t want it.
He was walking away from the accident site. I ran after him quickly. For a soul who had just suffered an accident he was in pretty good shape.
“Sir …” I began as I reached him..
“Quit that. You know my name. It’s Nnamdi.” He looked across at me “Stop being so formal. You’re an angel aren’t you? When the angels came to meet Mary they didn’t say “Ma’m you’ll be handed a young Sir by Immaculate Conception. We’d prefer if you called the young Master, Jesus. Please sign here if you approve.”
I gasped and looked around quickly.
He closed his eyes in irritation and kept on walking. I wondered where he was heading too.
“Sir...er…Nnamdi. We really have to go.” I said again.
“No we don’t. I’m not going anywhere. I already told you that.” He snapped at me.
“But...”
What’s your name?” He asked.
“Mourinho.” I replied.
“Okay.” He said. “Mourinho...Fuck off!”
The thing about swearing was that it wasn’t always a sin. It was so hard to decide where exactly one placed these loud exclamations by humans. Humans considered swearing as wrong and too some extent they were right. Using the lord’s name in vain was a sin. But where did you place scenarios where people asked you to go sleep with someone. It was clearly an offered suggestion. Was it a sin? That was unclear. To decide that you had to be aware of the facts surrounding the question. What was his relationship with the person who yelled “FUCK YOU!”? If it was his wife did it make it okay? If she meant it as a joke did it make it okay? Even more importantly, if it was none of the above why wasn’t it okay. When a person yelled out the words SHIT and FUCK he was deemed to be in the wrong by humans. But in the ethereal the jury was still out on how exactly it qualified as a sin.
SHIT and FUCK were body functions experienced by every human. Why was saying it a bad thing? Most humans were offended by mouthed utterances with such words and yet they smiled and laughed when they talked about words like SEXY and MONEY. Two words that had us angels cringing in our boots over the infinity of possibilities.
What was wrong with yelling out occasional words that meant nothing really? Why couldn’t a person yell out “SHIT” when he fell down a flight of stairs? When Jesus was being crucified I doubted he whistled “Whistle whilst you work.”
It was a running debate amongst us Angels. When did cussing go from being an expression of emotion to a damnation of your soul?
“Damn you” was clearly a sin, but” Fuck off?”
How did one handle that?

“You don’t want to go to heaven.” I asked slowly. It was the first time I had come across a soul who wasn’t excited about going to heaven. Most of the time they were eager to rush home. Nnamdi was something different.
He sighed and slowed down in front of a door.
“No... Well yes. Yes I do.”
He looked at me and walked right through the door.
We were standing in a room that appeared to be the parlor. In the corner a TV was set on some local Cartoon cable channel. The room was resultantly filled with the high pitched chatter and happy notes of kiddy fun. In a corner sat a young girl. She looked to be in her late teens. Her eyes were pale behind the glasses she was wearing. Propped up against her knee, she was reading from a book. Her look was one of intense concentration.
“I do want to go. But I can’t. Because of her .I can’t leave her behind.” Nnamdi’s eyes clouded over. “She is my daughter.”
”Your wife….” I began.
“Is dead?” He finished for me. “Yes she is, she died two years ago.”
I pretended to scowl.
“I was going to say Not naked. Your wife is not naked.”
He smiled for the first time and then broke into a chuckle.
“She’s in heaven. Dressed are you are.” I said.
“That’s good. I’m glad.” Nnamdi said staring at his daughter. “But I really can’t leave her here. I’m all she has in the world now. If you take me now who will take care of her?” He looked at me quickly “Don’t you dare say Angels!”
I remained quiet and pondered the situation.
“I’m serious Mourinho. I’m not going to heaven. I’d rather go to hell than spend one minute in heaven with my daughter left behind. She is too young to go to through life alone. I’m all she has right now. You can’t take me. I’d go to hell first” He said.
There was a loud whoosh and all of a sudden fire flashed all around us. Suddenly the room was filled with the glare of bright burning fire. I could feel the soft heat emanating from his body. I peered through the fire at the new person who had just joined us.
“My name is Michael.” Angel Michael said.
Nnamdi nodded his head. His face had a stunned look. I didn’t blame him. The chariot of fire was an incredible vehicle to behold. The burning horses pawed the ground softly. Resplendent in their flaming beauty. Talk about smoking hot.
“How come you don’t have one of these things?” he asked me admiring the burning Chariot.
I blushed.
Angel Michael caught it and frowned. I felt like kicking myself in the wings. Blushing in front of archangel. It wasn’t going to look good on my file. He turned from me to Nnamdi.
“We’re sending you back.” Angel Michael said softly.
The change on Nnamdi face was incredible. Suddenly his eyes moistened with joy, the frown on his face quickly replaced by a radiant smile.
“Don’t be too happy. Your body is in pretty bad shape. We’ll fix your spine and hasten your healing but it’s still going to take months before you’re okay. You’ll have to walk with a limp for the rest of your life.” He peered at Nnamdi.” that shouldn’t bother you.”
“It doesn’t.”
Angel Michael nodded.
“That’s good then. Here is what should bother you. It’s not easy getting into heaven. Ask Moses. All that good and he almost didn’t make it. You’re going to have to work very hard to make sure you get in a second time. The demons are unto you now. They’ll work over time to frustrate you into falling. They’ll taunt you with your condition. Anything to make you falter.” Michael rubbed a hand on one of the horses Mane. “Don’t.” He warned.
Nnamdi nodded.
Angel Michael beamed and then pulled out a parchment with an accompanying quill.
“Very well then. One last thing to do and you’re good to go. You need to sign your release form. Nothing special. Protocol you understand. Just a simple disclaimer. You are aware of your actions; you are sound of mind and in good health... of course you are. ..You’re dead. Ha Ha.”
I watched Nnamdi ass he signed whilst Michael chatted merrily.
I was moved about how much he cared for his daughter. The last three months I had witnessed acts of human sacrifices that had stirred me. I had seen men starve for their family. I had seen mothers suffer unspeakable acts of torture so they could protect their children. I had see brothers shiver so their sisters could be warm. But this… a father giving up his position in heaven just so his daughter could go through life a little happier. This I hadn’t seen. This was love.
Unquestioned. Uncontrolled. Unconditional. Uncanny.

And then it was time for him to go.
“It was nice meeting you Mourinho.” He said with a smile.
I nodded my head. I was at loss what to say to him. Goodbyes were not something I was used too.
And then I had an idea.
“Sod off!!” I said.
He broke into a chuckle, a soft rumble which grew into loud laughter. His face was contorted with mirth as he laughed really hard. He was still laughing when he vanished. I hoped his body didn’t break out into laughter in the ambulance.

“Nice guy.” Michael said. “If he survives the first five years he’ll definitely be back here.”
He tapped my shoulder and got into the burning chariot.” I’m sorry about that. Every now and then we get people who just don’t want to go to heaven yet. Most of the times we persuade them but when chaps like yours start asking to be sent to hell instead…. Well...You want to just listen to their demands and send them back in.”
I nodded my head sagely. Then a thought occurred to me.
“What did you mean by him surviving the first five years?”
Michael laughed.
“Oh nothing really. His accident was pretty bad. He’s going to need a lot of surgery before he is okay. But eventually he’ll be fine. One thing’s for sure though. He is going to be impotent for at least the next 5 years.”

Simply Hillarious

2008-08-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

You've got to read THIS!

Dear Fantasy Queen.

2008-08-25T12:45:00.000-07:00

Once every week I spend 30 minutes trying to decide what I should blog about.
This week started no differently.

I had narrowed it down to three possible contenders.
First , I considered blogging on the delightful fact that ,over the last three months, I had lost 6kg. True, It was hardly the stuff of triumphant tales but I was still happy. Three months after my mum’s scathing appraisal, I was safely back within the healthy walls of my BMI (That’s Body Mass Index thank you very much!). As far as health was concerned, my weight was normal. Even better whenever I wore a T-shirt I was paid compliments. A week ago Someone actually called me sexy. I didn’t let it get to me though. The sun was out and she probably was short sighted. But it was an appreciated compliment. Who cared if I was yet to get the required six packs demanded by the female populace ( to get that I probably would need to loose 2 more kilos and devote a month to the gym.). I certainly didn’t. It really wasn’t fair. A man had to work hard to get an appealing body. All a woman had to do was eat and the curves would appear. Curves on a woman was good. Fat settled on a man’s stomach leaving him looking like some distant relative of Santa.
On a woman it migrated gracefully to her hips leaving her the object of many late night fantasies.
The way to man’s heart was through the stomach.
I was beginning to suspect more and more that what was meant by that was one of two things.
Ignore his bulging stomach and he would fall in love with you.
Or Stuff your stomach and resultantly gain bewitichingly fantastic female hips.
Either pay little attention to his stomach or more to your stomach (and ultimately your hips and butt.)
Both would guarantee the attention and ownership of his cholesterol clogged heart.
One thing was certain. Curves on a lady were acceptable and attractive. On a guy it just was unhealthy and occasionally gay.
Men were fat. Women were just.…thick!

With my body nicely silhouetted in a T-shirt I figured blogging about my return to the appealing demographic would be a lovely idea.
It was certainly something to consider writing on.

Also worth considering was the happy situation that had developed between I and Andromeda. For the last two months we had spent every weekend together. The first three had been in a Salsa class laughing over our pathetic imitations of the dance instructors mesmerizing swivels. He swore under his breath as he struggle to make Matadors of us. Each time we failed, trampled beneath the raging bull of clumsiness and inexperience. It was fun but after the third lesson she had suggested we spent the next week doing something less tasking and still as much fun. The next weekend we met for Ice cream. We enjoyed our evening made up off slurping ice cream and chatting about our week’s tale that it pretty much became our default arrangement.
The Dance instructor didn’t miss us.
He never called back.
For the next 3 weeks she took me to her favorite ice cream spots. I have never been much of a fan of ice cream scoops but she sought to remedy that. I’ll admit I enjoyed the conversion process.
And why not? What is better than slurping ice cream with an attractive lady?
Rhetorical. You don’t have to answer Afrobabe.
The sane part of me points out that I might have lost more weight if I had abstained from so much ice cream but the whimsical side counters that what I might have gained in weight I would have lost in romantic blissful hours.
I have been lacking there lately you see.
And yes. The last 8 weeks has been fun. There was something between us two. I wasn’t sure what it was. But it was there. I was confused. I considered writing to Blogsville and asking for their opinion and advise.
It was something to be considered.

Finally a part of me longed to revisit the interesting world of Angel Mourinho. I had found myself missing him and his naivety. I wanted to see what he was up too. I had ideas of what that might be and I had hope that come this week I would share my ideas with my friends.

All that changed after Fantasy Queen’s post.

For those of you with confused frowns on your faces, Fantasy queen happens to be the moniker used by one us. She is a blogger. A delightful blogger whose page has always left me filled with interest and delight. Her last post was a still a delightful read but this time it had the added twist in that its interest was in me.

Fantasy Queen,, upon reading my recent Stolich encounter had ventured her opinion about Stolich and I.
It was not strange what she suggested—The hint that perhaps I and Stolich were more than just friends. The belief that eventually we would end up waking up one morning with 3 children and a wedding ring between us—I had heard it a lot of times and never once failed to laugh. Hearing her echo the views of people was not strange. What was strange (and eerily interesting) was she went on further to propose a speech which my eventual declaration of love (and Stolich’s grudged acceptance) would come with.
And the speech was good.
Very good actually.
So good in fact that I regret the fact that I am unable to use it.

Stolich and I are great friends with all the makings of a great romance. But Naapali and Afrobabe are right in their assessment. If I were to try an overture in a bid to ask for more she would break out into such unbelievable laughter God would wonder if he had accidentally cancelled the rapture.
As important as all this is what is important is that which I have kept on repeating.
I don’t want a relationship with Stolich. We’re like siblings she and I. I could no more imagine kissing her than I could my sister. And just as I can appreciate how lovely my sister looks without feeling the urge to make advances I am trapped in a similar lethargy as far as advances to Stolich are concerned. Stolich and I are more than friends. We’re great friends who will go through life comforted in the knowledge that in each other we have a friend , a best man and a window into the world of the opposite sexes when the need arises.

So yes. We’re great friends. But sadly we cant be more.

Despite the finality of things between us I was still deeply moved by the headiness of Fantasy Queen’s borrowed speech. I felt it would be such a waste if I let something so beautiful go to waste.
The problem with the speech was that it was tailored to only one scenario. I could only use the speech with someone ( a female) who happened to be my best friend. Since no one other than Stolich fitted that bill, I quickly realized that unless I did something drastic I would never get to use the speech.
And so I decided to do something about it.
What I needed, I immediately realized, was a new best friend. Someone whose company I could enjoy for another 2 years before breaking down into silly tears when I confessed that somewhere beneath the nights of watching movies and pillow fights I had somehow fallen madly deeply in love with her. I would look her in her eyes and read out the wordings of FQ’s speech word by word with the appropriate inflections where it was needed.
It seemed a good plan.
Much better than my idea of jumping off the second floor with an Umbrella.
Dont get me wrong,Jumping off the second floor was probably a lot safer than falling in love but the flight was rarely as nice.
I decided then that I would find a lovely girl. Make her my friend. And use the lovely speech when I realized I could no longer do without her.
I didn’t care how long it took.
Much admired actor, Billy crystal took 10 years in the classic “When Harry Met Sally.” Before professing his undying love. I would take my time.

But where to look?
Where did one find a girl who was willing to be best friends with an insanely ridiculous blogger who spent more time thinking about having a shower than he did actually having the shower?
Where did one find a girl cute enough to guarantee that I would fall in love with her?
How did one go about such adventures?

It seemed a pretty hopeless mission.
Everyone I approached seemed taken or unavailable.
Angelina was married to Brad.
Jlo was still married.
Audrey Hepburn was dead.
There seemed an unbelievable absence of volunteers.
And then, just as I was about to give up and request that blogville pick my next topic of blogging (thereby saving me another thirty minutes of weekly thought) I noticed an interesting fact.

I have only met two bloggers in my life time.
One of them is Fantasy queen. We met once. A contrivance by mutual friends of ours. We met at some Café in the palms. The café was sited a few feet from the movie theatres. Seating there I was guaranteed a first row glimpse of the beautiful girls that were on their way to watch movies. Dressed from outrageously brassy outfits to the demure I couldn’t deny the fact that most of the girls coming to watch movies were attractive. From my position I had a clear line of sight.
And then fantasy queen stepped into the café and sat opposite me.
I didn’t look at any other girl after that.

So here I am, months later , wondering who I could possibly become best friends with.
And suddenly I realize I know the answer to that question.
Hello fantasy Queen!
Will you be my Best Friend?

Weekend with a Friend.

2008-08-18T17:15:00.000-07:00

Her announcements were like the jarring gong of a doomsday clock.
They first came in two weeks ago.
I was seating in my office daring the devil to make my day worse. Unfortunately for me he had just returned from Somalia and was checking up on his mail. Mine was first on the list.
A beep from my phone alerted my attention to the arrival of an SMS. Staring at the caller ID of the sender, I was already weary before I read the message.
“I’m coming in two weeks.” it said.
I’m coming in two weeks, it warned. I shivered quietly and pretended the air-conditioning was set to low. Two weeks. I thought to myself.
Two weeks! That wasn’t enough time to fully prepare .
Subsequent days were graced with like messages.
I’m coming in 11 days.
I’m coming in 10 days.
I learnt how to count backwards from 14 all over again. I made silly jokes about the messages to reduce the message’s ominous note—coming in 11 days? Must be some Orgasm—it didn’t help much.
On Day 8 it got worse. I got a call instead of a text.
“Did you get my text?” the voice demanded over the phone.
“Yes. I did. “I muttered.
“Good. See you soon.” And then the voice was gone. Replaced by a dull monotone which did nothing to lessen the exasperation I was feeling.
On day 14 my phone beeped shortly after I stepped into the office.
“I’m in town.” The message ran. “We’re meeting for lunch. Make sure you have gist.”
Simple. Straight and to the point. The text did nothing in way of warning of the insanity that loomed behind its announcement. But I was wiser.
Today was going to be a long test of patience and exasperation.
Stolich was in town.

We agreed to meet at 4pm.
The location was at a popular fast food restaurant renowned for its past brilliance in making burgers. At 5 past 4 I walked through the doors and braced myself.
She didn’t disappoint.
“CARLANG!” She screamed.
I stared at her as she walked over to me with her mischievous smile on her face. She still looked the same. Still the same rosy glow. The same confident swagger. She was still lovingly cute.2 months ago she had called me to complain that she was going fat. Looking at her, I couldn’t see where the extra lard was laid. Possibly, her butt looked bigger but I was only assuming that because some guy behind was staring at it.
She squeezed me in a bear tight hug.
“Howz my best friend?” She asked happily.
I looked around the restaurant quickly. There were over a hundred people in it and all of them were looking at us. Some things never changed
Stolich was like that. She could walk into a stadium and still draw attention..
“I’m good.” I said dragging her to the nearest table. She plodded along behind me slowing my quick exit into a comic display of couple dis-unity.
Maybe she was right about the weight gain. She certainly felt heavier.

I sat down at the table and stared at her silly face.
Stolich and I had been roommates years ago. During the period we had developed this weird mode of communication were we really didn’t need to talk to know what the other person was thinking.
She didn’t use it.
“Howz work?” She asked me with a happy grin.
Fine. I replied. And then I went on to explain what I meant. For the next 5 minutes we chatted about out individual work places. Our opinions seemed to be matching. Our bosses were idiots. Our coworkers were annoying. Hers kept on hitting on her and mine kept on slapping my back. We agreed that our salaries were at deplorable levels—A raise wouldn’t be a bad idea—but despite it all work was somewhat fulfilling.
She nodded her head in satisfaction and then gave me the look.
I knew what was coming before she asked.
“When last did you get laid?”
I sighed Inwardly to myself. There it was. 10 minute with Stolich and she was already demanding the skinny on my coital affairs.
“Er.. I don’t want to talk about it.” I said defensively. I considered dashing off to buy a burger but knowing Stolich she probably would continue the conversation at the counter.
“You don’t? What is wrong with you?” She rolled her eyes in mock frustration. “What happened to you? I used to boast about you! I used to tell my friends you were the world’s greatest lover”
“Really?” I laughed.
“Stop laughing. It’s not funny. You’ve become boring!” Stolich snapped. Her eyes retained her irritation briefly and then were replaced by something a lot worse and scary.
She smiled.
“Have you ever had sex in an office?”
I laughed at her.
“No.” I replied.
She smiled even brighter.
“Well I have. It was fantastic. Bloody fantastic. One thing we were talking and the next thing we were naked in his office.”
“His?”
“Andre.” She said.
I nodded. Andre had been her boyfriend for the last 4 months. I hadn’t met him but I certainly had heard of him. I found the fact that she was dating hilarious. She had finally broken up her 6 year relationship only to end up firmly in another barely 2 weeks later.
“Right. How is he?”
“Fantastic. It was great. I haven’t had sex that good in such a long time.”
I closed my eyes in frustration.
“I meant. How is he? Relationship wise. Are you guys happy?”
She paused to consider the question.
“I think we are. He is a really nice guy . Very funny. “Her look turned serious. “He says he wants to marry me.”
I almost broke out into laughter. One of the major reasons why she had split with her last boyfriend was because she said she wasn’t ready for marriage. Something he had been clamoring for. Now it looked like her replacement boyfriend was cut from the same cloth.
“What’s wrong with that? You’re getting old you know.”
“I’m 24!” She snapped.
“DO you remember Mother Teresa?” I asked.
“Yes. The very old nun who died years ago?” Stolich asked.
“Exactly. She was 26 when she died.”
Stolich laughed out loud at me. “You’re such an idiot.” She said.
I shrugged. She called me that every 10 minutes. Maybe it was true.
“You didn’t answer the question you know.” She reminded me. “When last did you get laid?”
“Not this month. That’s for sure.” I mumbled.
She gasped.
“You’re insane. How do you handle the pressure? You jerk off?”
I shifted in my seat uncomfortably.
“Every guy jerks off. “ I muttered. “If any guy says he doesn’t he is lying.”
“I don’t think that guy does. “ Stolich pointed out, gesturing to someone behind me.
I turned around. Seated behind us, with someone who looked like his mum, was a teenager with a cast on both his arms.
“Maybe he broke them jerking off?” She asked me with the same silly smile on her face.
“You’re impossible.” I said.
“And you are just frustrated. I can’t believe you haven’t gotten laid.”
Her voice was loud. Two girls at the table beside us heard her announcement and sniggered. I felt myself blush. I wasn’t getting up to leave until the restaurant was empty.
She laughed at my discomfort. She seemed to enjoy the fact that her teasing was getting to me. I was glad at least one of us was. I wanted to strangle her with my hands.
“DO you still Blog?” She asked.
“Yes.” I said. Delighted to get the subject on some other area of my life that didn’t require me naked and sweaty.
“Seriously? That’s neat. “Her tone took a wistful note “Do you still blog about me?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I haven’t blogged about you in a while.”
“Really? Why not.” She asked.
“Everyone started suggesting I was in love with you. Even worse they began suggesting the ridiculous idea that I was going to get married to you.”
Her eyes became guarded.
“What’s wrong with that? You couldn’t marry me?”
I am officially a klutz. Men really are from different planets. I was still recovering from the probes I had weathered concerning my sex life. I was not really thinking. I looked into her eyes and made a mistake.
“Good lord. You’re joking right? I could never marry you!”
And just like that. I hurt her.
It was there in her eyes briefly. Earlier on I mentioned that we had mastered the art of speaking without saying a word. I regretted that particular bit of skill now. I looked at her and I realized I had hurt her without meaning too. I must have sounded like a jerk.
“Because. You’re too much woman for me. Sex in the office? You’d give me a heart attack before our first anniversary.” I said quickly.
It worked.
She laughed at me.
“I think you’re exaggerating. But you’re right. I probably am too much woman for you right now. Unlike you, I happen to love sex.”
I flinched.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it means. You need to get laid man. You’re probably so charged you’ll soon get yourself pregnant.” She laughed at her own joke. Beside us the girls at the table laughed too. I hope they weren’t laughing at me.
“I’m always at work.” I protested.
“So? “ She leaned in towards me with a mischievous grin. “You should try having sex in the office. It’s great.”
As I sat down there listening to Stolich. It struck me how different the world had come in the last 100 years. Here I was being prodded into a physical relationship by a girl who was very confident in her sexuality. Human social relationship had come a long way from the conserved relationships of later years.
Mankind had freed itself from its restraining chains. Prometheus had given us fire. We had invented fireworks.
Stolich was still talking to me. She was close enough that I could inhale the sweet musk of her perfume. She really was an attractive lady.
“It was fantastic. “ She was saying. “First we were kissing and then...”
“ I don’t want to hear what happened!” I said quickly.
I needn’t have bothered. Stolich was an unstoppable express when she sought out to be. For the next 5 minutes she recanted in detail the tale of her Office adventure.
I sat there listening.
I suspect the two girls beside us did as well.

Do Geese see God?

2008-08-09T05:50:00.000-07:00

I could count the veins on her face.
Her skin glistened with a mixture of body oils and sweat. She had been screaming obscenities for half an hour but the last one minute it seemed like her voice had gone unbelievably higher. Her eyes were red with the fury, strain and pain from her exertions. She didn’t even have the strength to cry anymore.
She looked directly at me and screamed one loud word.
“Fuck!”
I felt my face go flush.
It started from my neck and crept into my head before settling itself firmly on my cheeks. I didn’t have a mirror but I knew how I looked to all who could see. My pale face was a perfect canvas for the bright Rudy blush on my cheek. I sighed sadly to myself. This wasn’t working out very well. I seemed to be making a mess out of everything.
I didn’t need to read the manual to know this was an uncalled for reaction.
I was not supposed to blush.
Angels didn’t blush.

“She can’t see you, you know.” A voice said from behind me.
I didn’t turn around to look. I knew already who was speaking. There were only two angels in the room. One was blushing and the other wasn’t me.
I felt him glide and stop beside me. He watched the screaming woman with a soft smile.
“Enjoying yourself, Mourinho?” Angel Legna asked with a chuckle.
I turned even redder and closed my eyes with irritation.
For those of you new to my world the following gleaned information is correct.
Yes I am an Angel and yes my name (as far as this story is concerned) is Mourinho.
The following though is incorrect.
I wasn’t enjoying myself.
I looked at the straining woman in front of me and sighed. Being an Angel was hard enough work.Understanding humans just made it a lot harder.
“She’s in pain.” I observed.
The Angel standing beside me nodded.
“She could die.” I said.
“Yes. It’s a possibility. We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He raised his eyes to the skies. “Unless otherwise ordered.”
I stared at the groaning woman in confusion. Her pain was so strong it seemed to take a viral life of its own. Infecting everyone around with some degree of her torment. I wanted it to come to an end. Soon. Even if it meant us taking her home early.
“She could have avoided this.” I asked quietly. “She actually chose to go through with this?”
“Yes. “Legna asserted. He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. I had only recently been transferred to earth. Nigeria to be exact. Legna was my Orientation supervisor. For the next one week he was supposed to put me through the basics and help me adjust to life with humans. He had been really patient thus far.
“You don’t understand I see.” He said.
He was correct this time.
No, I didn’t.

I had only been on earth for a week and already my head was spinning from the weird traditions and decisions of humans. This was one of them.
Why did humans enjoy smoking knowing how dangerous it was?
Why did some humans like Dogs and others love Cats?
Why did they laugh and cry at the same time?
And just who exactly voted Obasanjo in as president?
Humans were a confusing bundle of exhibited oddities which lasted only long enough to startle you before they were replaced with even more startling displays of quirkiness.
“The last one week, can’t have been that bad” Legna said with a laugh.”Surely you’ve come across something that you enjoy.”
I brightened at that.
“Well. I did come across a delightful little creature. Every evening when I’m free. I sit down with it and I listen to it sing. It’s got one of the most beautiful voices I have heard. Almost as nice as the voices I sang with in the choir.”
“You’re exaggerating.” Legna said with a laugh.
I smiled. Admitting that I was.
“But it does have a lovely little voice. I could listen to it forever. “
“FUCK. FUCK.CHRIST. FUCK!”
We both winced.
I looked up quickly expecting to see a thunderbolt. The ceiling fan remained undamaged.
Across us one of the Midwives rubbed a Damp flannel cloth over her face. She softly brushed her hair back.
“You’re doing okay.” She crooned. “We can see the baby now. Take a deep breath and push.”
“It’s going well” Legna said in a satisfied tone.
I looked across at the straining woman surrounded by a Doctor and Midwives. It didn’t look like it was going well. Her breath was racing. Her face contorted in reflection of her pain.
And what was that between her legs?

“Palindromes.” Legna said.
“What?” I said in shock.
“Palindromes.” He repeated. He flapped his wings and floated softly into the air. “Do you know what they are?”
I looked up at him uncomfortably. He was dangerously close to the fan. Although I knew I was being unreasonably, I wondered what would happen if he flew into the fan.
“Of course I do. They’re sentences that read the same way forward or backwards. Like the sentence. Dennis Sinned. It’s the same thing if you read it backwards.” I said.
He smiled.
“Dennis sinned”. That’s a nice example. Almost as nice as “Madam. I’m Adam!” Although in that one you have to take the spaces into consideration. No X in Nixon. That’s another nice one.” He thought for a second. “A Toyota. Race fast. Safe Car. A Toyota.”
I looked at him
“What?”
“A palindrome. That’s another palindrome. Read it backwards and it still means the same thing.” He said explaining.
“I know that.” I sighed. Just because I was formerly a seraph everyone thought I was slow. “What’s that? A Toyota?”
“Oh…Right. I forgot you’ve only been on earth for a week.” He slowly soared down. “Well. A Toyota is sort of like a Chariot. Without the flaming horses. But it moves. Really fast. Human speed that is.”
“A chariot without horses?” I asked slowly.
“ Yeah. It’s called a car actually.”
“Oh!” I snapped “Why didn’t you say so. I know what a car is. I had an orientation class before coming to Nigeria.”
Legna Laughed.
“My sincere Apologies.” He landed beside me and we watched the woman for a while. I looked on with rising concern. Whatever was between her legs, it was growing. Her screams were unbelievably loud now. My feathers twitched nervously. This was going on well?
“You were wrong you know.”
“What?” I asked startled. I wondered how Legna could remain so calm. The woman was being killed right in front of me by that….thing!
“About Palindromes. They’re not just sentences you can read backwards. They’re can also be words. Like the word Gag. Or the place Aba.”
“Aba. That’s here in Nigeria right?”
“Yes. Interesting place. It’s close to Port Harcourt which is another interesting place. The way things are going over in Port we might send you there really soon. Last week local Militants kidnapped an Angel.”
“What?” I gasped out loud. I looked around quickly. The doctors and Midwives hadn’t heard me. The woman seemed to be looking at me though.
“FUCK ME!” She screamed.
Legna laughed.
“I’m joking about the kidnapping. “ He said.
“Er…. Okay.” I said. My face was doing the red thing again. I looked nervously at the woman. I wondered if…
“She can’t see you.” Legna said again with a chuckle. “You’re just in her line of sight.”
I nodded wearily. I didn’t want to move. The view here was fantastic. And whatever that thing was it now had hands.
I sighed to myself and looked at Legna.
“You were saying? About Palindromes.”I muttered.
Legna nodded in approval.
“Right. It’s not only words that can be Palindromic in nature. Numbers as well can. Like the sequence 1234321. That’s a Palindrome. Same thing in Music.”
“Ah! Music.” I said delighted. I had been a member of the Seraph choir for the last five thousand years before my sudden deployment to earth. If there was anything I was good at, it was music. At least I thought I was. I didn’t know who the singer Lil Wayne was or why he would want to sing about his Lollipop but I did think the music was Catchy.
It was strange. But Catchy.
“Yes Music. Do re mi fa so la ti do. Do ti la so fa mi re do? That’s a palindrome right there.”
“Yes….Er… Yes it is.”I said. My feathers had gone from nervous twitching to full out vibrations. I hoped I wasn’t shedding. Legna could chat all he want but I was beginning to freak out. There was half a body hanging out of the woman. This was more depressing than watching Abraham try to count his children. I closed my eyes.
Lena’s soothing voice came into my ear.
“It’s okay Mourinho. It’s almost over now. Calm down.”
Calm down. I told myself. Legna was right. There was nothing to worry about. If anything bad was going to happen. We were here to stop it. We were Angels. We were here for a reason.
And then out of the blues the reason cried.
I opened my eyes.
The Doctor had a baby in his hands. A beautiful beautiful baby. Her eyes were closed but her mouth was wide open as she screamed her first words. I listened to the baby cry and I knew without looking that my face was bright red again. I hoped I didn’t break out into happy tears. I seemed to be breaking all the Angel laws.
I looked at Legna. He had a satisfied smile on his face. His face looked like there was a blush on it but that was probably just my red haze confusing me. He bobbed up and down in place. His wings flapping slowly.
He nodded at me and pointed to the woman.
I looked and I saw.
I saw a Miracle.

She was beautiful.
Beautiful. True; her face still glistened from the sheen of her exertion and her hair was a tousled mess where it wasn’t plasterd against her skin. But in the center of it all was a lovely smile. Her eyes shone with incredibly warmth and her face which minutes before had been contorted in pain was now trapped in a loving stare. Her skin glowed with love. Oozing care from every pore. I stared at the Butterfly that had lain beneath the cocoon of pain and obscenities and for a second my gaze dimmed.
Beautiful.
“If you cry, I’ll have you sent back to heaven on the next Chariot!” Legna’s voice broke into my reflection.
I looked at him and laughed.
We both laughed.
It seemed everyone in the room was trapped in the same heady sense of Joy that we all were. The doctor was beaming with restrained pleasure in the corner. The midwives were clucking their contents in a corner and the mother, so beautiful, who minutes before had been begging a sexual alliance with Christ was now content with simply staring at her baby. In truth the only person in the room who wasn’t crying with joy was probably the baby. But she was crying so she half qualified.
“They’re like Palindromes.” Legna said.
“What?”
“Humans. They’re like Palindromes. There’s rarely nothing straight forward about what they do. It’s easy to misjudge them based on their actions but that would be a mistake. They are multidirectional creatures. Granted there are occasions were their actions can be judged on the surface of it but more often than not. If you look the other way you find that there are other things to read. Too see.”
Legna looked at me.
“Take war for instance. It’s a horrifying debacle of man pitted against man in a sludge fest of manic gore. They die. In their millions. In thousands of terrible ways. But the purpose of war oddly enough is to bring about peace. The reason behind the slaughtering of millions is so that billons may live. And live better lives too.”
“Do You see what I mean. You have to look around with humans. Never be quick to judge.”
“You see a woman hanging on the corner. She is selling herself for money. Deplorable you say. And then you find out she does this to fend for her three children back at home. All three are in school and because of her sacrifice they stand a chance of having a better life.”
“Or you see a woman willing to go through nine months of back aches, sleepless nights, nausea and eventual labor woes for just the opportunity to see a baby. Her baby.” He smiled at me. “Now you understand.”
I nodded.
“I think so. Human emotions aren’t an exact science. There’s nothing precise about them or their actions. It’s inexact. Never odd or even.”
Legna smiled at me.
“That’s a palindrome you know? Never Odd or even. It can be read in either direction.” He looked at the cooing mother. “It’s a fitting definition of human emotions or the human race. Never odd or even.”
Never odd or even.
He soared slowly into the air.
“I must leave now. I have another assignment. Some mother has asked for guidance over her children while she is away on her business trip. They are about to watch Basic Instinct 2. I might have to knock down a power pole to stop them.” HE chuckled and then looked at me.” If there is nothing else, we’ll continue your lecture tomorrow.”
I raised my wings and dropped them.
“Angel Legna. That’s a Palindrome isn’t it?”
“I’m impressed.” He said.
And then he was off. He shot off into the air. Vanishing through the ceiling.

Left alone,I took a walk outside leaving the mother with her child. Despite Legna’s assurances I wasn’t convinced the mother couldn’t see me. I left her to breast feed her child in peace.
The night was warm with the faintest of breezes in the air. As I made my way down the street the lovely singing creature flew by and filled my ears with lovely music. I closed my eyes and enjoyed its symphony.
I thought about what Legna had told me. Never odd or even.
Nothing in life was as it seemed.
I was learning.
I for instance knew that my new singing friend was called a Mosquito.

A dip..

2008-07-21T06:39:00.001-07:00

(I initially submitted this as an article.
After the editor read it she called me back. "It's more like a blog" she complained.
I took her advise and posted it.)

Being Nigerian there are very few things in life that I am afraid off.
I am for instance unimpressed with Mosquitoes. I don’t even flinch when they bite me. Having been bitten all my life I no longer pause to yell my outrage whenever these unwanted visitors stop by. Gone are the days when mosquito bites used to leave me looking like a pimple advert. These days whenever a mosquito bites me at night it usually has to go to the dentist the next morning to fix its broken teeth.
I am equally unfazed with Cockroaches. If I come across one I simply turn around and walk the other way. If the cockroach is stupid enough to come scuttling after me (this happens every now and then) I proceed to plan B—An intricate move which involves a flying shoe and a very flattened, very dead cockroach.
But despite my invulnerability as a Nigerian there is one thing I am still terrified about.
Water.

Well swimming to be exact.
I can’t swim. It is one of those things that I keep promising myself I have to learn. Being Nigerian has taught me caution. You never know. One day I might be trapped in the bathroom with a shower that refuses to go off. Then what would I do?
Swimming, I realized was one of those important things that people never got around to learning. It was a delightful form of exercise for those wishing to lose calories and a perfectly convenient means for irregular transportation. Take the Mexicans who swim into America for instance.
It was quite clear to me. One day I would have to stop procrastinating and actually get around to swimming.

I reached that point last week.
As I celebrated another birthday I decided to do something positive with my new year.
I was going to learn how to swim.
It was surprising how many centers there were in Port Harcourt for beginner swimmers. After inquiries I settled on one which my friend Jeff had recommended. Jeff weighed roughly 120kg. Every time he moved some Asian country suffered an earthquake. And yet whenever I was with him at the pool he always amazed me with the ease with which he moved through the water. He was like a clumsy bungling penguin which transformed into an aquatic marvel once it hit the water. If anyone could teach Jeff how to swim I decided then he must be very good.
So I settled on Jeff’s trainer.

I turned up at the pool the next day.
I was unsure what exactly one wore to swimming lessons. Would I need swimming trunks or would I be given one of those inflatable arm bands. Jeff didn’t help matters much. Shortly before I left he hung a bright Red “L” around my neck.
Just so other swimmers don’t bump into you ,he said.

I arrived at the pool with an excited air. Today I was going to get my license as a swimmer. I wasn’t really worried. There was probably nothing to swim. Just jump into the water , kick your legs, swing your arms and presto, you were swimming.
My swimming instructor walked up to me as I approached.
“You must be Mr. Thrisxtyereix.” He suggested.
“No. That’s my father. “ I said with a grin. “ Just call me Carl.”
He nodded and gave me a serious stare. He ran his eyes over my body. I was suddenly conscious that unlike him my body was not hard and riddled with delightfully placed muscles. He was lean as a Shark and I was …well…let’s just say I wasn’t shark material.
IN front of us a little boy was swimming circles in the water. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. I watched his act with amusement.
“Your son?” I asked my instructor.
He flinched like I had called him a cockroach.
“No. He is not. I have daughters!”
He said this with pride. Like there was something wrong with having sons. I made a mental note to ask my mum about this reaction when next I visited her.
“When do we start? “ I asked excitedly. I took of my shirt quickly and dropped next to my bag which in turn was lying on the Learner L.
He looked at me with a smile.
“We may begin now if you’re ready.”
I laughed in amusement, stretching my hands to the sky. The sun felt warm on my bare back.
“Ready?” I scoffed “I’m a Nigerian. I was born ready.”
And with a running leap I dived into the pool.

Quick lesson.
For those of you who are yet to visit the pool there are things you must know. Most pools have shallow ends and deep ends. The shallow end are designed for people who can’t swim and yet insist on jumping into the pool. Perhaps for the sake of a picture .The deep end are for the professionals who are so skilled they can make coffee underwater if they decided too. Yet still, there are other pools that have shallow ends, deep ends and then very very deep ends.
I didn’t know all this. If I did I didn’t suspect. There was a five year old boy swimming already. Nobody warned me.
The instructor tried to shout a warning as I jumped in but I didn’t quite hear him. All I heard was a shouted “No .Don’t….” and then I was in the water.
.

I didn’t panic for the first 2 seconds. The force of the impact caught me by surprise but I recovered quickly. I kicked my legs in the water. I had read books with instructions. If I kicked with the right momentum I would move forward. It didn’t work out that way. Instead of a burst into sunlight I remained in my water prison. I noticed quickly that I was sinking instead of rising. It didn’t make any sense. Opening my eyes I could see two baby legs hanging above me. My lungs were screaming their alarm. I had been in water for only 2 seconds and suddenly I realized was in trouble.
And then I panicked.
I opened my mouth to scream for help.
I was going to either shout Help to the side or Jesus to the heavens. I did neither. I managed to open my mouth and succeeded in tasting my first mouthful of pool water.
It didn’t taste like sprite.
Water rushed into my mouth flushing out whatever self control I had left. I thrashed about in the water madly. My eyes were bulging out with alarm. I must have looked ridiculous. If a penguin swarm by it would probably conclude I was some confused seahorse. I had fought in the water for another five seconds when suddenly my head broke the surface into the warm sunlight.
I inhaled deeply as I popped out. A sharp pain warned me that maybe I was overexerting myself. I looked around quickly for my instructor. He no doubt was on his way to save me.
I found him still standing on the side of the pool. He was looking at me with a puzzled frown.
“What are you doing? “ I gasped out. “I’m drowning you idiot.”
Then I sunk back in again.
My arms went crazy .They flayed madly in the water. Almost as if they were trying to run away and leave me to drown. I thrashed about in the pool for another 3 seconds before bobbing back to the surface. Frothy foam was all around me. I could feel a dull ache in my arms slowly growing. I wouldn’t be able to fight any longer.
The swimming instructor was still standing at the side when I popped out. Beside him the five year old boy was watching with concern. I had probably scared him out of the water with my swimming antics. I splashed wildly around me. Trying to stay afloat. If I wasn’t so busy trying to stay alive I would have been furious with the instructor. Was this how he trained his students?
I wondered if there were any bodies at the bottom of the pool. People that had failed his course.
Despite my heroics I was losing the battle. I couldn’t fight anymore. In another second I was going to go down again and this time I wasn’t sure I could make it back up again.
“Help me.” I gasped to the instructor. “Please.”
The instructor shook his head at me and sighed.
“Stop being silly and just stand in the water.”
His instructions took a while to register. I struggled for a moment before deciding to do what he said. I let my sink and then stood up.
My head burst into the warm sunlight.

It turned out I had dived into the shallow ending. Standing, the water was no more than 4 feet high. More than enough for me to breathe. I stood in the pool, hunched against my knee gasping for breath.
The instructor and the little boy watched me perplexed.
“ I almost drowned.” I pointed out.
“ In 4 feet of water? You’re six feet!” The instructor snapped.
Beside him the little boy laughed at me. I glared at him angrily. Maybe this was why little girls were better than boys. A little girl would have crying for me.
They watched me patiently until I stopped panting. Then slowly I made my way to the side and climbed out of the pool. Water dripped of me as I slowly made my way to my bags.
“Where are you going to?” The instructor asked. “We’re about to begin your lesson.”
Begin?
I had almost ended my life there and I told him as much.
He laughed at me. “No one drowns in the shallow end. You just panicked. We’ll have to work on that.”
I ignored him and sat down. He was joking if he thought I was going back into the water. I was Nigerian not stupid.
“Oh come on.” He urged with a smile.
“Once beaten. Twice I shy” I said. I picked up the learners L and rehung it around my neck. I didn’t mind that everyone knew I couldn’t swim. I had survived almost drowning. Come Sunday I had a testimony to tell.
“Practice makes perfect” He crooned.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed the afternoon.
He might have had a point but it was flawed.
Practice might make perfect, but nobody's perfect, so why practice?

Day 365

2008-07-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

As I stood there with my arms full, my breath a disorganized series of deep inhalations and exhalations, I pondered the journey that had gotten me here.

If life was a series of journeyed paths, then I was standing at a junction which appeared to be the indirect intersection of various roads I had travelled in the last one year.
If my feet weren’t hurting and my arms so full I might actually have laughed out loud. It was funny when I thought about it; The tiny things that I had disregarded which had all joined together to bring me here. Somewhere on the sidelines they were standing with satisfied grins watching me sort out my dilemma. I wanted to reach out and throttle every single one of them.
From the recent entrees to the pixies that were there at the very beginning.

Off course, to do that, I had to be sure when exactly that was.

I think it all started on my birthday.
My last birthday to be exact.
Last year I celebrated my birthday.

As decisions go maybe it wasn’t a particularly wise one.
I was born on the 7th of July. A most unique date if the zodiac enthusiasts and experts are to be believed. My friends certainly believed them.
When my friends realized that my birthday would land on the magical number 07/07/07 they insisted that I simply had to celebrate my birthday.
A firm man would have pointed out that numbers were a pretty silly reason to throw a party.
A broke man would have insisted that a party was a silly reason to use up the numbers in his account
Seeing as I was firmly broke I didn’t fight hard enough and went ahead to convert my cash for birthday party pictures.

My birthday isn’t the issue.
What is, is what happened because of it.
Don’t get me wrong. The party was memorable. I got kissed six times, once by a girl, but that again is not what I want I want to talk about.
What I am talking about is the fact that I danced.
Yes.
I danced.

In years to come when questions are asked, I can always reply that the first time I danced was on my birthday. Prior to that I was convinced that dancing was a ridiculous expression of fun practiced by people who just weren’t cool enough not to dance. Dancing was for sissies I announced. That had been my mantra for most of my life ever since I realized that I was caused with the marionette-like dancing moves of the British. It probably might have lasted the rest of my life had I not decided to throw a party to celebrate another anniversary of said life of mine chugging along.

I’ll never know what exactly made me start dancing.
Maybe it was because I realized that after the party I would unofficially financially be dead. Maybe it was because of the sexy girl who had her arms around me with that incredibly impossibly lithe waist.
Maybe it was because I was drunk on vodka and juice.
Whatever the reason, I thrilled Zodiac enthusiasts by proving them right.
On 07/07/07 young drunk and visibly horny Carlang finally realized his destiny and saved the world from certain Septenary Astral destruction by simply dancing.
Enter Triumph Music.

Granted, it begun in hardly the most classic of tales (a man’s accidental drunken redemption of Mankind is hardly the stuff of Homers Iliad.) but once it started it grew very quickly. All of a sudden I found myself dancing. True I was no Terpsichore, my waist refused to bend as lovely as the siren that teased me out of my cave, but with enough practice I could do the Yahooze and a couple other interesting shuffles. I was growing. A late bloomer, I was determined to get the hang of it. One day, I was determined; I would become a good dancer.

Birthdays are accepted landmark occasions.
Like most people, I found myself making attendant resolutions whenever I approached another one. Last year was no different. I promised myself that I would start writing again. I hadn’t done anything serious for the last four years. Apart from two weak attempts at writing a short story, one of which was a detailed exploits of Jack and Jill’s walk up the Hill, I really didn’t have much to show where writing was concerned.

The morning following my birthday, I decided, midst a blinding headache from a hangover, that I would once again begin to write. Sitting down at the desk, as I stared at the blurred page in front of me I came to another decision. I would begin writing the next day. Hopefully by then I would be able to see more clearly and my fingers wouldn’t shake so much.
To help me fulfill my resolution I decided on doing something drastic and supporting. Something that people suggested would greatly help my writing.
I joined Blogville.

And so it was that last week I contemplated the anniversaries before me.
Alongside my birthday I would be celebrating a year of dancing.
A year of blogging. However irregular that might have been.
And a year since I had gotten drunk.

Too be sure it was hardly the making of a triumphant list, the like of which you might have found in the diaries of ,say, Christopher Columbus--“Dear Diary, today I found America. God help us all.”—but that didn’t really bother me. What was important was the fact that I had actually kept some resolutions for a year despite the turbulence that had come my way.

Besides, if you were going to make an argument out of it, Christopher Columbus didn’t set out to find America. He stumbled on it by accident. I didn’t stumble on an Anniversary of Blogging. I actually worked for it. Keeping a journal was hard work. An electronic journal that is, not the silly little leather book Christopher had to show for 3 years in open seas.
Comparing me to Columbus was terribly unfair.
He had a ship didn’t he?

“What are you doing?” Jeff asked me walking into the room.
Jeff and I had a curious alliance. I was born on the 7th and he on the 8th. We came up with the theory that since our birthdays fell within a 24 hour radius we were kinda born on the same day.
The look on peoples faces whenever we announced our theories suggested that our way of thinking was technically flawed but we children of the 7½ natal day clan are never were one to consider the opinions of others.
“Making a list.” I announced. “It contains all my resolutions I’ve managed to keep in the last one year since my last birthday. My list of triumphs you could say.”
“Have you started on the list of failures.” Jeff asked.
“No.” I said guardedly. “My birthday’s coming up soon. I’d like to be depressed after and not before.”
Jeff laughed at me.
“Whatever happens,” He began walking away “Make sure you add the Spanish chick to your list of failures.”
“Failures?” I said in shock. “Why would you say that? I only met her 5 days ago.”
“You aint done nothing bout it hombre. That counts as a failure in my book!!” He repeated still laughing.
“I’m not failing you idiot. I’m thinking up a plan.”I said quietly.
“Right. Let me know how that goes in another year.” Jeff said still walking away. His head shook from side to side with laughter. Idiot.
I yelled at his retreating form. “Christopher Columbus cheated. He had a ship”.

Spanish chick.
That was what Jeff had taken to calling our new friend, Andromeda.
In the end coming clean hadn’t been difficult.
Andromeda had laughed when I told her I wasn’t really a doctor but instead some physics graduate who had fallen for the physics behind her beauty despite her attempts to doctor them.

If relationships were anything like the play acts that most novels today portrayed them to be, then I was well past the introduction. We had gone by the first two chapters. The heady meeting of two single people. I was somewhere between chapter 3 and chapter 6. The sustenance of intrigue between said heady members.

I was supposed to see Spanish chick come the weekend.
A hang out she had called it. The way she saw it I owed her a lengthy debriefing of who I really was. I had seen her hospital file. She was demanding her pound of flesh and being very greedy about it. What she wanted was a date come Saturday. She left the decision of where to me.
I sensed that my choice would be the deciding factor of how this symphony of ours would end. A roaring finale of triumph or the sad ending of mistakes repatriation found.
Was the final chapter of our tale going to be one of Romeo and Juliet.

Or something more delightful, like my retold comedy of Jack and Jill.

As any man who has had the misfortune of impersonating a doctor would know, you really want to get the second meeting right. I was trying hard to think of some place terribly irregular to have a date and yet delightfully fun. I stared at my listed list of triumphs in frustration. Forget my anniversary of dancing where did one take a Nigerian girl who spoke English and Spanish and still had the delightful hips of a Nigerian?

The answer was quick as it was surprising.

“You’re crazy.” Spanish chick said laughing at me.

“I get that from time to time.” I replied with a silly smile on my face.

“ This is terrible.” She said giggling. “ I’m never going to be good at this.”

“We’ll see.” I said still with the same smile.

We stood together in the middle of the room, my hand gently rested on her firm hip. Her hand was on my shoulder. She was playing out some tune with her fingers.

At our side the dance instructor was yelling out instructions at us and the rest of the class.

“Salsa is all about rhythm. Tap. One two three. Tap. One two three.”
He did a demonstration. An incredible blur of motion with his feet that left all of us newbie dancers with jealousy and dread. Still dancing to the music, he grabbed a large lady who belied her size by moving easily across the room with him sensually swinging her hips as she did. “Rhythm.” The instructor yelled again.

Show off.

Beside me Andromeda punched me.

“You’re crazy you know. What in the world made you invite me for Salsa lessons? How did you know I would come?”

I shrugged.

“I didn’t. But I hoped you would. It would have been terrible if I had arrived alone. Everyone else has a partner. I would have had to dance with him.” I said pointing out the instructor.

She smiled at me. Her eyes said a million things. They all sounded good.

“Happy Birthday.” She said.

“Don’t jinx it. It’s not till Monday.” I pointed out.

“Again.” The instructor yelled from across the room. Asking us to resume the forward and back shuffles that we had been doing for the last one hour since we go there.

And so I stood there with my arms full, my breath a disorganized series of deep inhalations and exhalations, and pondered the journey that had gotten me here.
Last year I had started dancing.
This year I was beginning Salsa. The difference was slight but progress had been made.
Thinking of progress, I looked into the bewitching eyes of Andromeda and inhaled the soft musk of her perfume. She had her hair in tiny braids. Black laced with touches of violet. It added a hint of mysticism to her. In my arms she looked even lovelier than I remembered.

Her eyes were filled with mischief and her lips looked even more beautiful when she laughed after stepping on my toes for the 134^th time. As we murdered our first attempt at Salsa, I thought of all my triumphs thus far and wondered what I would be celebrating come the next birthday.

Life was an interesting tale. I stared at her lips. They were still trapped in her enchanting smile.
It was worth the read just to see what happened next.

Carls Anatomy.

2008-07-01T06:08:00.000-07:00

I am not a doctor.
It is very important that everyone remembers this. At some point in this story of mine the debate of whether or not I really am might arise.
For those not paying attention.
I’m not.

I had a lovely weekend.
By the end of Saturday I was convinced that, come the following week, I would recount my exploits over my blog. Saturday was a delightful day. A day which had me attending three equally delightful weddings. The last and by far most memorable ended abruptly when the host grabbed a bottle and threatened to stab some guest who had insulted the Bride’s mother.
In all the confusion no one noticed me grabbing most of the cake left in the tray.

Yes. Saturday was fun. From the three weddings I attended, to the finale buffet my friend threw to usher out his married sister. (Said Melee wedding was not his).
But as memorable as Saturday turned out to be it had nothing on the antics off Sunday.

My friend Jeff belongs to a family of Doctors. His mother and father are the directors of a Clinic. Sensing the dark plan being forged by his father—a dream that he would one day takeover the family business—Jeff applied for a course in Computer Science. A path he was certain would protect him from his legacy.
As plans go it perhaps was a lovely idea except his father was determined. Once Jeff left school he handed the construction of the Hospital Database over to his son. And just in case that was not enough. He bought a CT scan unit and handed the operations over to him.

This was why on Sunday I was in the Hospital with Jeff.
The South African Contingent ,coupling and training would be operators of the CT scan, were working that day. I think Sunday falls on a Monday in South Africa. Jeff asked me to tag along with him to watch them set up the machine. It was a pretty fun exercise I suppose but after one of the South African Radiologist warned me that I could risk getting sterilized from the radio waves if I hung around long enough ,I decided to leave the room and explore the clinic.

When I say explore what I really mean is the Clinic had this really cute doctor who not only was delightfully single but was actually silly enough to consider me a lovely friend. With the choice of being beamed to death firmly out of my head I made my way to her office.

She was having lunch when I got in.
I found out what exactly she was eating when she screamed my name. Trapped between her lovely teeth I made out the bits of what looked strongly like peanuts and banana. I wondered amusedly why I didn’t find it a turn off.
“You’re here.” She said with a smile remembering to swallow.
“I should hope so. It would be weird if I dreamt up a balding Male South African Caucasian Radiologist.” I replied with a laugh.

I sat in her Doctor chair whilst she remained on the observation bed.
She offered me a bit of her Banana and groundnut but I declined.
I wasn’t really hungry I told her.
She nodded and we kept on gisting.
After 4 minutes she repeated her offer.
This time I accepted. I was starving by then.

And so it was that we were seating and laughing about nothing really in particular—she told me that she got a lot of her features from her father. I nodded and replied, He must have nice boobs—when suddenly there was a knock on the door.
“Come in” The” doctor said wearily still laughing.

And then she walked in.
Memories are deceptive. You can never really count on them for accurate recollection.
Take this particular bit of memory for instance. The way I remember it when she walked in Time slowed down to a halt. Behind her there was a flutter of doves as they swarmed into the room. Her lovely face was lit up with a nimbus. The glow echoing of the red gloss on her perfect lips. Beneath her head her clothes hugged her body singing a soft sensual song with every step she took.
I didn’t exactly see the violinists but I heard them. The melody of the String Orchestra filled the room as I stared at the lovely lady that had just walked in.
Like I said, Memories are unreliable but I am completely convinced of the last detail.
She walked into the room gave me a smile and then started my Sunday.
“Good Afternoon Doctor.” She said to me.

Looking back at it I could understand how she was mistaken.
I was sitting in the doctor’s chair.
I was at the time playing with a stethoscope.
I should have corrected her error right there and then. I should have.
But I didn’t. Common Sense was buried beneath a pile of groundnuts and Bananas. Instead I looked at her with a smile and said.
“Good Afternoon. And how are we today?”
Beside me, On the Gurney table, my Doctor friend looked at me with a smile. Her face was contorted in a struggle not to break out in a laugh.
I glared at her with a frown.
“You know what. “ I told the beautiful patient. “I need to run upstairs. My intern here will attend to you. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”
I walked out of the room very quickly before the actual Doctor convulsed from restrained laughter.

I returned to CT scan room hoping to find everybody had been beamed into dust. No such luck. They were still working on the assembly. Something about switches not being firmly in place. Everything else was okay. The machine hadn’t gone critical and initiated a Nuclear Countdown. Hospital work was really boring.
“Are you a doctor?” A South African radiologist asked me.
“What?” I asked with a dumb look.
He gestured to the doctor’s Stethoscope which I had slung over my shoulder.
“Oh?” I said. “No. I’m not.. It’s just. Never mind. It’s a long story.”
He nodded and studied me for a minute.
“Doesn’t it have anything to do with a girl?”
I stared back in stunned shock. Had the radio waves turned him Clairvoyant?

After 5 minutes hanging around the CT room I decided to return to my Doctor friend and test out my new Super powers. I hoped the radio waves had given me something neat. Like Super Speed.
“Where have you been?” The Doctor practically yelled at me as I walked in.
Patient Aurora had left the room. The Doctor was seating on the gurney again. Her legs swinging gaily back and forth.
“She likes you.” She announced with a happy smile.
“Me?” I scoffed out loud. Within I gasped in delight.
“Yes you.” The doctor laughed. “After you left the room she kept asking about you. Asked me why she couldn’t just wait for you to return and examine her.”
“Examine her?” I said with a blank expression.
The doctor chuckled and shook her head at me.
“What was wrong with her anyway?” I asked trying to act degage “Or is it something you can’t tell me.”
The doctor laughed.
“No. she’s fine. She just had Malaria that’s all. A bit of Typhoid came up in her blood test.” She smiled at me. “She’s clean incidentally.”
“I didn’t ask that.” I said with a laugh.
“Oh no. I’m volunteering the information. Just incase you were trying to avoid getting her number.” The Doctor said laughing.
“How would I go about getting her number? She’s gone already.” I said.
And then she walked in.
Again.

Just like that.
One minute we talking about her and the next thing the sexy devil was in the room.
She barely glanced at the actual doctor. She looked straight at me and said.
“Doctor I have a problem. Is there any way you could help.”
I grabbed the bottle of peanuts and tried to look Doctor like.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“The Clinic Pharmacy is taking forever to give me my drugs. Is there anyway you could speed them up. They don’t have enough change at the moment but I need to get home. I’m Starving.”
“Yes.” I said. “You should eat. It’s terrible to take drugs on an empty stomach.”
Sometimes it helps to remember what your mum tells you.
Behind the doctor gave me a silent laugh and then announced.
“I’ll go see what I can do.”
She didn’t wait for a response before she ran out of the room. I hoped the CTmachine blew up and killed her with it.

I sat at the table for half a minute trying to think of something incredibly witty to say. My brain was asleep.
Me?
Nothing to say?
“Is it bad?” She asked me.
“What?” I asked.
“My results.” She said gesturing to her file which was still on the table. “Is it bad? You’ve given me an awfully long list of drugs to buy.”
“Oh no. You’re fine. We’re treating you for Malaria and Typhoid. A bit of it came up in your blood test.” I said quickly. “Other than that. You’re fine.”
I stared at her lips.
Very Fine.
I was still brain dead. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was about to have an imaginary surgery that would take me from the room when Jeff saved my life.
He walked into the room.
I could see the effect she had on him.
He took one look at her and raised his eyebrows.
Dude!
He telegraphed with his eyes.
I know! I telegraphed right back.
“My friend Jeff. “ I announced.
“Andromeda.” She said with a soft smile.
“Lovely name.”
“Gracias.” She replied with a laugh.
“Spanish. That’s sexy.” Jeff said. I glared at him. Why was my brain dead? He was stealing my thunder right in front of me. I picked up her file and pretended like I was going through it.
“Yes it is. “ She said still laughing. “That’s why I learnt it.”
I dropped the file.
“You speak Spanish?” I asked in shock.
She nodded seriously. “Yes I do.” And then she ranted out five quick sentences in Spanish.
Jeff looked at me quickly.
Dude! Dude!
I nodded silently at him. I know dammit. I know!!

For the next 10 minutes she chatted with Jeff talking about herself. She was an aspiring lawyer. Yet to go to law school but done with her University degree. She loved watching Series. She was working in a law firm. She was single. I sat like the dumb idiot I had become unable to say anything. I busied myself with her file. Looking over the gibberish the doctor had written in it. I was beginning to worry that maybe my brief exposure to radio waves had turned me stupid.
The Doctor returned after 10 minutes with her drugs and handed them over to her.
“Thank you.”She said to me.
I nodded my head. We doctors do our best.
She smiled one last time at me and turned to leave the room.
And then I snapped out of it. My daze vanished. In another 15 seconds she would leave the room and I would lose her. Forever. Until she once again got sufficiently beaten by Mosquitoes to warrant another visit to the Hospital. I had to do something.
“So. What happens if I need to call a Lawyer? “I asked.
She stopped at the door and gave me a puzzled look.
“What?”
“What happens if I need to call you?”
I held up her file defensively. As if justifying my right to ask the question.
I needn’t have bothered. She smiled at me and walked back to the desk.

And so I got her number.
We both swapped numbers. I gave here mine and saved hers.
The doctor smiled after Andromeda left. She and Jeff stared at me with expectant looks.
“What?” I asked wearily.
“What the hell do you mean what?” Jeff snapped. “Dude. You’ve got to call her man.”
“No.” I said.
“Why not.” Jeff asked.
“Because I am not a Doctor.” I said simply.
How come everyone else seemed to be forgetting that little hiccup? Did I have to wear a T-shirt with the words “He is not a Doctor” Before everyone remembered?
I had done enough damage as it was.
Lied for 30 minutes to some gorgeous girl who i didn't know. More or less ruining my chances of getting to know her. Sunday couldn’t get any worse as far I was concerned.
“So you’re just going to give up.” Jeff gasped.
“Yes.”
Jeff scratched his head in confusion.
Seriously? He signaled,still scratching.
“Handle your lice problem.” I said.

Sunday was finally coming to a end.
Earlier on, I had called my sister and recounted my day. At first she had refused to believe me. But after Jeff confirmed my story she called me a cow and hung up.
Family support was always so dependable.
I was seated in a chair watching the Euro finals. Spain was beating Germany which was a good thing. No one seemed to be in support of the Germans. I could relate to that. I was considering turning in for the night when my phone gave a vibe.
It was a short message.

“Are you still in the Clinic? I’ll be returning next week. Hasta Leugo. That’s Spanish. It means I Hope to see you soon. Preferably not as a patient.”

Attached to the message was the ID of the sender.
Andromeda.

Again Memory fails me on what happened afterwards.
The following is what I seem to remember.
I gasped in shock at the text message. I think I sat down. Over my heads dark clouds gathered, darkening the room further. The ceiling seemed to grow higher leaving me feeling incredibly small. In the Back ground some clown started playing with a fiddle. Some comic western jig. I was glad someone found it funny.
Directly opposite me my phone vibrated on the table in tune with the music.
I had been with the phone long enough to understand its mood and what it was trying to tell me.
Its light flashed a merry white and Blue.
Dude!! My phone said.

Life's Diet.

2008-06-23T12:40:00.002-07:00

I started out smart.
I don’t know why. Perhaps it was a reflection of my parents who sired me. My father at the time of my birth was pursuing his PhD .My mum was well into her first diploma. Two minds deeply engrossed in pursuit of knowledge took time out to produce another. Maybe with all the reading my resultant DNA helix had just a little extra protein. Somewhere at the first twist. Smaller than a micrometer but the effect was interesting.
This is all conjecture. I off course am assuming all this. The point though is whatever the reason might have been. I started out as a really smart kid.
My mum swears I started reading at the age of two. I don’t believe her. There are too many reasons against such blasé acceptance of her recount. Old age for one and the blind eyes of maternal love for another. I do however agree—report cards still lying in my shelf bear evidence—that I was slightly smarter than the average kid during my childhood.
I would spend all day watching TV and running my parents mad with imaginary games and somehow, when the time came, I would sit in class and answer questions that were stomping all the other kids around me.
Questions like what the square of 7 was.
What type of soil was best for farming?
And who was the first president of Nigeria.

As a result of my brief intellectual head start I was placed in classes suited for children above my age.
Thus it was that I found myself hanging around friends who were years older than I was. Much later in, years to come, I grew up picking much older friend. This was more out of habit and not because I still was the smart wunderkind of yesteryears. In fact I had become quite an Idiot as I grew older. I was yet to figure out the secret behind girls. My sisters had somehow reversed the tables and were now bullying me and just a month ago when my mum asked me who the first president of Nigeria was I replied, after thinking for 3 minutes, a hesitant Babangida?

Tumbling out of Secondary School found me with friends approaching the final laps of University.
They were my Sentinels to life my friends. They warned me of what to expect. Of things to avoid and goals to gun for. For instance I got my first lesson on Sex from my friends. They explained it carefully and quite plainly.
Sex, they said, was a lot like pounding yam. You spent 5 minutes or more hammering away at the yam breaking your back with exertion and yet strangely spurred on by the desire to have pounded yam. You kept pounding away working your body into a fevered state. A climax was very much like swallowing all the pounded yam in one quick go. Your entire 10 minutes (20 minutes if you were a pro) work vanished in less than 30 seconds.
As could be expected after swallowing a plate of pounded yam, most of the time you passed out immediately.
That was what sex was like, my friends explained.

Just like most groups of friends, we had tradition. One of which was every month end we would look forward to a night of Beer and Pepper soup. Protected by an alibi in beer we would sit and talk about matters of life. Laughing at those we had triumph over and those that were to come.
And so it was that at last month’s gathering I found myself with my friends talking about that most dreaded of topics.
Marriage.

None of my friends was married.
I had always found it relieving.
My reason was simple, if they were yet to get married with all their experience and time, then who was I to consider looking into such matters. As reasons go it had worked for a long while. The only problem was the longer it worked the more holes Time punched into it. Whist it was true that I was logically the last person expected to get married in the group, I had noticed that outside my circle of friends, everyone else seemed to be getting married.
What was wrong with my friends?
Why were they refusing to get married?

“You’re joking.” Chuck said when I asked the question.
Everyone else at the table laughed
“Why should I get married? Life is hard enough as it is.”
I took a sip of my beer.
“You think Marriage is hard?” I asked.
Was Marriage hard I wondered? Really? True there was no such thing as happily ever after. The laws of social human interaction demanded that eventually conflict would arise with proximity and familiarity. But was this enough to define Marriage as hard?
“Absolutely. Why take up an extra person’s burden? Having a woman to Nag at you all day. Where’s the fun in that?” Chuck asked with a grimace.
Chuck was kind of special amongst our group. He was the most vocal about his sexual exploits and if his pronouncements were true. He had rewritten the Kama sutra. He also had succeeded were none of us had dared. He had a child.
It seemed he had pounded so hard on the yam he landed in soup. Hot soup. Nine months later the soup was a girl. Maybe his hesitation to get married stemmed from this. A reluctance to add to his responsibility pile.
But what about the others.
“I can’t give up sex. It’s ridiculous.” David volunteered. David was one of two lawyers amongst our group.
“I agree.” Said Akinwale. Another friend of mine.
Our friendship was built on traditions and habits. One of them was the PSP. Every one of my friends owned one. We also had a pact to all eventually own Power Bikes. Akinwale had already made good his end. Parked outside was a flaming Yellow power Bike. Every time I saw him I assumed it would be the last. He left worrying status updates on face book like "I just broke Mach3". Or "I just made a BMW Z5" eat my dust. Akinwale was a speed demon in every area of his life. A man who blazed between Lagos and Ibadan at 230 miles an hour scaring the demons off the road. He was the last person I expected to commit. It didn’t surprise me.
“So it’s all about sex.” I said.
“Absolutely.” Everyone said with a laugh.
“Why eat the same kind of soup when you can have different kinds?” Chuck asked. “Having sex with the same woman for the rest of your life can be very boring.”
I nodded my head in agreement.
Perhaps.

Marriage as an institution was one of mankind’s strongest traditions. And yet in recent years less people seemed eager to commit to it and more were seeking a divorce exit. Was Marriage slowly evolving to a slow end? Would it soon be extinct with only the rare few practicing it teachings. The present day was fraught with social revolutions—The advocacy of gay rights. The right of a woman to choose. The acceptance of the 21st century woman. The liberation of sex amidst sexes—Had all these combined inadvertently to ridicule the notion of marriage?
Or had it just made it stronger?

“Marriage is a good idea if you’re ready for it. But most people don’t seem to realize that. People just want to get married without really knowing why. Just because tradition demands it. That’s one major problem. You have to be ready” David said. “And if you’re not ready to get married then I don’t think you should get into it. There’s no rush. Really.”

Maybe there was the answer.
The spurious sense of urgency imposed on everyone. What was the rush to get married anyway?
Breakthroughs in medicine guaranteed that child bearing could be had as long as the woman still could. The dangers associated with aging mothers, whilst still present ,were easily attended too. Whilst there was no reason why a person couldn’t marry in his late teen years there was no reason either why such decision could not be postponed for another decade.
One thing was right. Marriage was taking a lot of hits. If one was going to do it. It helped if you did it right.

“Eventually I suppose. I will get married. When I’m ready. When I find the right person.” Chuck announced. He raised his bottle of beer in his hand. Just in case we asked him to make good his declaration he was pointing out his excuse.
I didn’t say anything in reply to that. I had already made my decision on the topic.

It was true that sex was great and the freedom of singlehood was a heady rush. But then there were times when the need to share arose. The need to touch. To see. To reassure ourselves that we were not lone adventurers experiencing the busy pace of life. No man, they say, is an island. Marriage guaranteed that we found partners to steer through life with. The good and the bad. There was a reason why Marriage had worked so well and somehow I doubted that sex had that much to do with it. Sex was an important part of marriage. But it wasn’t Marriage.
Like a man once said, No one knows who discovered water but it wasn’t the fish.
Someday I would marry. But when I did it would be because of all the right reasons. Because I felt ready. Because I found the right person.

“So maybe one day we’ll get married.”Akinwale said raising his beer glass with a smile. “But till then. Here’s to more nights of Glorious sex with our girlfriend and girlfriends.”
We all cheered in agreement with him, Loud shrieks adding to the noise of the already noisy bar, but within me, another fraught with caution, whispered even louder.
Sex to be sure was a fantastic thing. But if there was one thing I still remembered from my wunderkid years it was this.
Pounded yam was good, but too much often resulted in Kwashiorkor.

Deployment.

2008-06-09T03:40:00.000-07:00

I am afraid of heights.
It is a pretty serious problem i am told.
Given my line of work there are certain things expected of you. Even more importantly, i am not told, are things that are not expected.

Fear of Heights appears to be one of them. It is why i am seated here waiting.
My condition has been referred to the people above me and some form of reckoning or reconciliation is scheduled to take place.
I think it's a lot of fuss over nothing really but everyone assures me that, in my line of work , it isn't.
You see I am an Angel.

There is a soft gasp and he walks in.
Well, he doesn't so much walk as floats.
When one is an Arch Angel like Micheal walking is hardly the means of conveyance.
I play with my fingers nervously as he seats down opposite me. To calm my nerves I wonder why i am fidgeting.

Micheal doesn't notice my fidgeting. If he does he is polite and does not comment on it. He looks through the sheaf of paper in his hands. Some unbiased report--i suppose--on my......preference.
"You're afraid of heights?" Angel Micheal asks with a smile.
I close my eyes in exasperation. Obviously i am wrong.
It is a big deal when an angel is afraid of heights.
Micheal chuckles."What;s your name?" He asks.
He asks me the question in Yiddish. We Angels are Multi Lingual. The simplest of us is versed in over 987 earth languages. Obviously Arch Angels are acquainted with more. It is a common habit for us to converse in different languages.
"Mourinho." I reply.
Okay. Granted that really isn't my name. I don't really say Mourinho in answer to his question but instead give him my actual name. Unfortunately What my real name is is something that--unless ordered otherwise-- i cannot write here. To cover this problem i have picked a susbtitute.
Mourinho is just as good a substitute name as Micheal is.
No. Micheal isn't his real name either.
Micheal smiles."It's okay. You aren't the first Angel afraid of heights."
I look at him with surprise.
"I'm not." I ask him this in German. One of my favorite languages.
"Off course not. It's actually quite common. Something to do with an angel's fear of falling." He chuckles again "Fallen Angels aren't good news you know."
I nod my head not really understanding.
Micheal turns a sheet and writes on the page using a quill dipped in ink."Let see. Before this you were a Seraph. In the Choir it says."
I smile happily. This is something i am proud off.
"Yes i was. I sang the Dotrino Hossana Harmas. 4 times in a row." I look at him hopefully " Do you want to hear it?"
"Er.... NO." Micheal says.
I slouch in my seat a bit let down. I understand his hesitation though. An Angel cannot leave his work until it's done. The Dotrino Hossana Hama takes 1500 earth years to complete.
""4 times in a row. Very Impressive.."mummurs Micheal in Latin.
"WHat's that?"
"Never mind." He says to me with another lovely smile.He shouldn't have bothered.
We angels rarely worry for long.It's on the list of things one expects from angels. A lack of worry. It's an Angel thing.
Across me Micheal tries to write in the scroll that he holds in his hand. The quill appears to be broken. He sighs and looks across at me.
"DO duck your head."
His wings are magnificent.
They unfold slowly from behind him. Blossoming out into the masterpiece of white plumage. A soft breeze sweeps across the room as he fans them softly sending tufts of cloud in difrent direction. Framed by the feathers he appears even more beautiful.I watch as he fiddles with his wings a bit before finally settling on one feather.
He pulls it out.
"Ouch" i say using the Universal language of Ouch.
My wings behind me quiver with the shock of the act.
It must have hurt a lot but Micheal doesn't show it. My respect for Arch Angels grow a notch.He dips the new quill in the bottle of Ink.
"I cant wait for Laszlo Biro to come to heaven. There are changes that i wouldn't mind seeing around here. A Biro wouldn't be bad at all."
"A what?" I ask him. He spoke in English and yet it is a word i am not familiar with.
"Never mind."
I do the angel thing. It is a very easy thing to do .Not worrying.
"Okay Mourinho. You know why you are here. It seems there are more and more souls popping up on earth. 3000 years ago we had barely a million people on the earth. We didn't need to supervise as much. I remember the years after the Flood. Noah and his family were all we had to watch over."He sighs dreamily."Those were Good times. Good times indeed."Micheal leans forward and points to a meter behind him. There is a number on it written in lovely Calligraph.
Six Billion, five hundred and sixty thousand , two hundred and three.
"Now we have Six Billion, five hundred and sixty thousand , two hundred and three souls on earth.
""Two hundred and eight." I correct him.
"What?" Micheal Asks.
I point behind him. The handwritten Meter has changed with an extra five. It now reads.Six Billion, five hundred and sixty thousand , two hundred and Eight.
Micheal nods and throws his wing in the air.
" You see what I'm talking about. They're growing at an alarming rate. Popping up all over the world . Unless..... off course some woman just delivered Quintuplets."
"Quintuplets?" I say with a laugh.
Micheal nods." It means...."
" I know what it means." I interrupt. Somehow we have ended up speaking Greek for the last minute. I change to Spanish. " I see what you mean."
The numbers on the wall have gained an extra one hundred.
" Do you now? Well that's good." Micheal says with a smile. " We've got a lot more souls to watch over now. Most of them require at least 2 angels to watch over them and that's if we're lucky. Some girl asked him for 7 angels to watch over her puppy. There's a lot of demand for us over there. " He looked at me grimly."That's were you come in. We've decided to pull some of our Seraphs to help out with the load. It's been ordered by him. We wanted to send you some where south but this flying thing..."
"The Flying thing." I repeated with a respectful nod.
Micheal smiled at me again. He seemed to love doing that a lot.
"It's okay though. A ready solution comes to mind. We'll just send you over to places that do not require much flying. A place were people stay closer to the ground than most. You shouldn't have a problem blending in there. it's a proven ground for people with your condition."
I cant help it and blush.
"I feel so embarrassed ." I say in Gibberish.
Remarkably enough he hears me." Oh no. Don't be. There are angels that have crazier sides. Why , i know of an angel who liked to float upside down. Scared the hell out of some nuns in Brazil. No no. YOu're fine. It's a phase. You'll slip out of it." Micheal said laughing. " In the mean time here's your deployment papers. You'll like it. We're sending you to the Equatroix Section. ALpha Mani."
I take the papers from him and read it quickly."It's close to the desert." I say with delight.
Micheal nods sagely. " Yes. We took your singing experience into consideration. Just in case you feel like singing. There's space enough..." Micheal says in Russian.
I smile happily. He twirls the quill with a pleased look.
Business all done.
" SO that;s it then." He says with a smile ."Pack your bags and roll out. Someone will attend to you when you get there."
I rise happily while he floats opposite me.
."See?" He says in another language "I tell you say Wahala no dey. No worry."
I smile happily back doing the Angel thing.
Worry Ke? Thunder Fire Satan.

14th and Serenity..

2008-06-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

This way to
14th and Serenity Street

Some Friday...

2008-05-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-05-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

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!

When the wind blows.

2008-04-18T09:43:00.001-07:00

I got the call at 6am.
The ringtone—a sudden shatter of the morning's silence by Eiffel 65's "I'm blue"—meant only one thing.
It was family.
“It’s a girl." My sister yelled into my ear.
Or it was family announcing more family.
"Stop talking to yourself and wake up!" My sister yelled again.
I closed my eye with exasperation.

I had long since stopped the search for the source of my Sister’s Insanity.
I didn’t have to look far. Coming barely a year after me she had had the misfortune of having me as her only friend and ally as we chugged through the tracks of life. I was the lead coach tugging her along as I announced my discoveries, perceptions and dreams. Somewhere along the line I took a sharp turn of the straight and headed down the twisted and rarely visited. Ever the loyalist she turned off with me.
So, no, I didn’t bother questioning why she was the way she was. That I already I knew.
What bothered me was not why she was a screwball but why she still was.
It was okay to have a mind that could think off tangent and the will to act on it but when you went past 21 with a perfect pair of legs and a lovely flat tummy you started to think that maybe, just maybe, a return to normalcy was called for.
My concern did not stream primarily from my wells of sibling concern.
I was being selfish. Just in case my plans didn’t work out. She was supposed to be my backup. She would marry a Billionaire and split the fortunes with me.
I checked the market. Most Billionaires didn’t want Wacko's as wives.
Problem is my sister didn’t share this line of reasoning with me.
To get from her position to marriage she would have to do a 180, switch tracks and develop a fondness for men, none of which took her fancy.
“Men are douche bags" she pronounced whenever I brought the topic up.
I looked at her wearily as she made the pronouncement, I was male wasn’t I?

She didn’t come by her verdict overnight. She had dated a couple of times. The last one had been serious. It lasted 3years before coming to a mutually orchestrated end. Since the breakup though, she had refused to re-dive into the pool.
When probed she announced with scorn that it was her decision to make. The fire in her eyes where very familiar. What had I done?
Maybe I was a douche bag.

She was way past my control now. I had taught her independence and the merits of seeking solace in illogical logic. She was now her own train choosing where she went. And so I had to suffer her opinions, views and continued disregard for the male folk.
"A girl?" I asked slowly. My mouth felt dry and my eyes were still trying to let the light in.
“Yes a girl. You're an Uncle now." She chuckled wickedly "Wake up and stop being a cow. And oh--before I forget--call mum. She still hasn’t forgiven you for that Silly” I just got married yesterday" April fool's joke."
And then she hung up.

I stumble off to the bathroom to see if my morning could be salvaged.
My cousin, to whom I had been best man, was the reason for my early awakening. His wife had been two months pregnant before the wedding. I hadn’t been told this most important of information when my services as Best man had been propositioned. I still felt cheated. I had been best man to three instead of two people. Once the fact of the pregnancy had been established I had walked over the the groom and demanded that in compensation I be allowed to play Godfather to his forthcoming child. He gave me a worried look and handed over his car keys.
Why don’t you just take that as compensation instead? He offered with a hopeful look.
I spent the rest of the week in silent torment.
Was I that bad a nominee for Godfather?
Was I really that terrible?
A douche bag who couldn’t be a God father?

That was six months ago.
From my sister’s announcement it seemed the baby was finally here. I looked in the mirror and reminded myself for the 30^th time that I had to have a haircut.
This was turning out to be an annoying morning.
Still Groggy I pulled out my toothbrush and grabbed the dish along the sink. I rubbed it against the soap and then put it in my mouth.
I woke up after that.

After 30 minutes of spitting and yelling at myself I got dressed and prepared to go visit my niece.
Whilst I zipped up my trousers very slowly, I considered my dilemma.
I had been convinced that the baby would be a boy and consequently had made a list of male names.
Rock, Phoenix, Kanye and maybe, just maybe, Naapali.
Now six months later I was left with a girl to name.
I experimented with the names. Would adding a suffix ia at the end breathe some effeminacy into them?
Rockia?
Phonexia?
Kanyeia?
Oh God no....Naapalia?
With the exception of Phonexia most of the names didn’t sound like the sort of thing that she would survive primary school with.
I sighed with more frustration.

Almost ready, I called 3 different people to find out the name of the hospital the baby was gurgling at and came up with 4 different addresses.
I didn’t see how this was possible, unless it was one of those bouncing babies that literally bounced upon birth. Frustrated I picked my novel—a lovely book by Nelson Demille called The Gold Coast—and with Psophie safely tucked into my pocket I made my way to my cousin's house. My logic was simple. Once I got to the scene of the crime I was convinced someone would point me in the right direction.

Fortunately for me I didn’t have to go to all that trouble.
I met the mother as I walked in.
My cousin's wife was something else. She was actually back home. The baby had been born at 2am on the 13th of April and here she was 8 hours later back in her home.
When my mum had me she had stayed in the hospital for one week. I’m not sure whether it was necessitated by her need to heal and recuperate or because (as I suspect) she was trying to return me to the hospital. Whatever the story I was staring at an oddity. Here was some lady who was back on her feet after only 8 hours.
She explained herself. She had decided to go stay at her mum's for the next 3 days and so I caught her at home packing for her next 2 days.
“Where is she?" I asked happily.
"Don’t you dare touch her" the mother said every bit a lioness.
We laughed at each other. Secretly I was relieved. I never felt comfortable carrying babies. They were so frail and kept judging you with those lovely eyes of theirs.
“I’m going to call her Phoenixia."
"What?" She asked me wearily.
"Phonexia. That's the name I’m going to call my first niece,"
She gave me a worried look and asked me to carry a trunk for her. It was heavy.
Why did girls pack for a year when they where traveling for a week?
It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen the father yet.
“Where’s Dave?" I asked after spraining my arms.
"He is in the bedroom. He isn’t talking right now" she gave me a smile “He was with me during the birth."
I stood with a stunned look
Oh.

I wasn’t the only one who wanted to see the baby. A couple came in minutes after I did.
I stood aside whilst they yelled out their congratulations. I didn’t see what they were so happy about.
True the contractions had stopped, but the labor seemed like it was just beginning.
"Where is the baby" the man asked. He had a funny moustache.
"Phonexia." I corrected.
"What?" Funny moustache asked.
“The baby's name is Phonexia."
"Don’t mind him. He is insane" Phoenix’s mum said with a laugh. She introduced me. “This is my cousin in law. I don’t know if you remember him but he was the best man at our wedding."
I stuck out my hand and shook funny moustache. I hoped he wasn’t contagious.
He and his wife nodded wearily at me. They looked around the room briefly.
“Where is Dave?"
"He witnessed the childbirth." I said cheerfully.
They didn’t disappoint me.
The woman laughed.
The man raised his eyebrows.
Oh?
He might have smiled or frowned ,i wasn't sure. It was hard to tell with the moustache.

As if he heard us talking about him, Dave walked into the parlor with the baby in his arms.
Dave smiled proudly at me when he saw me.
I didn't blame.He had a daughter now. Two cars, a beautiful wife and a lovely daughter No question about it. He was winning the race.
I smiled back at him. Phonexia looked so lovely. She gave me a slow look and closed her eyes.
She didn’t think much about her Uncle Carl.
That settled it. I liked her already. She was a smart one.
“You think you can wait 26 years?” Dave asked funny moustache.
Funny moustache laughed. Beside him the woman gave an uncomfortable Ha ha with us. I didn’t blame her. It was one thing to be upstaged by the young girls in the world but to actually meet your competition. It was sort of like Madonna meeting Shakira.
The man blind to his girlfriend (she couldnt be his wife anymore) discomfort smiled at Dave.
“Haba. Me ke? In 21 years I’ll give you a gun to help protect her.”
Once again everyone burst into laughter.
I didn’t pay them much attention. I was staring in shock at Phonexia.
Only 10 hours old and already her ears were pierced with accompanying earrings.

“What’s wrong with that?” My sister asked me later on at night.
The sun had gone down 4 hour ago but the moon was yet to come up for air. It was one of those monthly events where the baton got lost mid transitions. The stars filled the sky announcing their apologies for the moon’s absence. Characteristically, no one noticed.
“Nothing. Girls will be girls I guess.” I said with a smile.
My sister’s grunt over the phone announced what she thought of my verdict.
“Did you call mum yet?”
I laughed.
“Yes I did. She told me to grow up. Then I told her of Dave’s baby and she told me to get off the phone so she could call him.”
My sister laughed with me.
“Don’t mind mum. It was a pretty funny joke but I don’t want to encourage you.” She said. “Speaking of Dave how was he anyway.”
“Not too good. He was with her during the delivery.” I said.
“Ooh. That’s so sweet.”
I didn’t argue with her.
Men were from Mars and Women where from Venus.
Being present at child birth was sweet?
“What do you think about Phonexia as a name for the baby?” I asked.
“Shut up.”
We chatted a bit more and then with a yawn, she hung up with a sleepy “Love you and good bye.”

I lay in bed tired.
The time was 10pm.
My mind wandered over the events of the day. The scourge was spreading, I observed.
My mum, my grandma, my sisters and my niece.
All of them where female.
Women really where taking over the world.
I pondered the choice of a female name and finally hit on Renee.
It was either that or Bridget Jones.
Renee sounded good.
And with that thought I closed my eyes and slept off.

And thus it ended .
The moon might not have made it and once again i forget about my hair but April 13^th ended on a good note.
I did not become a Godfather but at least I was an Uncle.
Content, I slept on.

The hairy douche bag probably snored too.

Codenamed: The Phoenix dies.

2008-03-30T08:22:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had the impression that maybe, just maybe, Blogsville isn’t what it is said to be?
Has the thought ever occurred to you that perhaps there is something behind all this?
Like the scenario in the opening minutes of the movie Matrix. Do you ever suspect that the seemingly free and autonomous site you visit, riddled with limitless online journals for your perusal, isn’t as free or as unplanned as it might appear?
Well if you’ve thought all these things. Then you’re right.

Welcome.
Blogville isn’t what you’ve all thought.
Yes. Yes.
Surprise. Surprise.
Do close your mouth.
True, people share their day to day activities amongst strangers, but that’s not the real reason why this site is here.
No it’s not dating either.
This site called Blogville is secretly the meeting place for the association known as the “REDEMPTION OF ENSLAVED CITIZENS FROM THE TYRANNY OF K”.
I see you all frown in puzzlement. You’re all wondering. What silly society is this?

Well first of;
We are not a silly society. We’ll forgive you your ignorance this once. Henceforth we’d rather you used the term Nobly great when addressing our esteemed association.
Secondly, this Nobly great society of ours is not as insignificant as you might think.

Naturally I don’t expect you to simply just take my word for our greatness. If you lend me a couple of minutes I will attempt to prove my point as to our greatness.
Believe me, I make no idle boasts, this society works hard behind the scenes protecting you from the tyranny of K.
We are responsible for so many great achievements in the world.

For instance we are responsible for the smooth transition of the yell “Yeepa!” to a simple “Yeiy”.
We are also responsible for the exit of Punk and Mohawks as hairdos, substituting the craze instead for the low shaven cut that is currently the rave.
You probably have not noticed that these days more and more men are leaning towards wearing boxers as their choice of underwear apparel. Thirty years ago pants where more the way to go. Why even Superman, that most famous of aliens was forced to wear pants upon his arrival, albeit wrongfully placed, and in shocking bright red too. No more of that. Thanks to us Boxers are now the preferred choice of wear.
We were vital in the abolishment of the idea to shoot a sequel to the movie Nigerian Bachelor in Russia 4, wisely pointing out that a fifth installment would hardly make any sense.
Still haven’t heard of us?

Well, another thing we are responsible for is the invention and smooth transition of the dance “YAHOOZE” into the Nigerian populace. We seek to completely wipe out the following dance moves Running man and Crazy Leg before the year 2010. We plan to reinstate the sensual dance of Patra called the Butterfly back into night clubs in time for the New Yam festival.
See our head site for vision plan.

We are often ascribed credit for the idea of feeding goats chocolates shortly before they are killed in other to make the avante garde dish Chocolate flavored goat intestine pepper soup. Sadly this is not one of our many bright accomplishments.
That is the work of our rival group called the

“REDEMPTION OF ENSLAVED CITIZENS FROM THE TYRANNY OF THE GROUP CALLED “REDEMPTION OF ENSLAVED CITIZENS FROM THE TYRANNY OF K”.

We are however considering encouraging advances into the study of enhancing the taste of chickens into that of eggs. A lot of people have wisely pointed out that it is unfair that an egg should taste different when it grows up. A baby cow and an adult cow all taste the same. Why should eggs taste any different from chickens?
Have no fear we are considering all this.
With breakthroughs in our science field happening everyday. (I.e. we are now certain that gravity is a pull and not a push) we are confident in our capabilities.

Which brings me to the issue of why we are here?
All of you, yes al of you, have been chosen for your very special talents. From The Doctors in your midst (Naapali for instance.) to the stockbrokers amongst you. (Hello Fantasy queen.). You have all been specially selected for the important mission we have ahead.
There is no need to stare in shock everyone. How do we know your secret identities and real professions.
Well.
It is evident that you have not been listening.
We are a secret society.
The reason why we are called a secret society is because we know secrets.

Now...
Unto the main issue.
After the briefing you will all be sent your secret badges. Naturally I expect you all to act normal thereafter. There is no point in announcing to the world that you have been admitted into the the Nobly great society of K. You would not be believed and we would deny you.
Ask Oprah.
Why have you all been gathered here today?
I shall tell you.

Today I shall reveal the society’s great plan to once and for all curb the menace of those idiots in power. I am of course referring to the Power Holding Company of Nigeria. Now known as PHCN formerly known as NEPA and heretofore to be known and referred to as Target PHEPA. Aka Project Down with the Phoenix.
Too many people have suffered at the unjust dealing of their arm. We are tired of having to wait for three weeks for power only to finally have it come three minutes after our electrical lines have been cut for unpaid bills. Even more annoyingly is the fact that it is taken four minutes after we have finally paid our overstated bills. This madness must stop.

Time there was when this great nation of ours had constant power and the only generator on record was a prototype in the National Museum built by a fulani for his Final year project ,which involved arguments for and concerning the sustenance of possible life at the Artic.
The year was 1938.
Although it would probably be a good idea to set a century as a fitting date to mark the same reoccurrence we have decided to speed up our plans and strike this blow once and for all now.
Have you ever missed a football match because of Target PHEPA?
Have you ever stupidly tried committing suicide with an electric iron only for Target PHEPA to take power?
Have you ever tried making love in the middle of a hot afternoon with no source of cooling?
Have you ever tried making love with another person in the middle of a hot afternoon with no source of cooling?
Well then you know what I’m talking about.
The Madness must stop.
And it starts here…

This brings me to why you are all here.
A grand plan has been drawn up to fix this problem.
You, every one of you who is reading this has been chosen to participate in enacting the solution.
Indeed you are lucky, you have absolutely noting to worry or fear. The brains behind this project this are the masterminds of the highest repute

They are the lords of Chaos theory. They refine subtlety to an art. The faintest flutters of their butterfly wings result in storms across the globe. Nothing can fail when they put their very brilliant minds to it. They are the E in expert. The put the B in the Very damn Best. There is no Hiccup in this plan of ours that hasn’t been foreseen and planned for. Like the geniuses they are they have accounted for every possible failure. Henceforth we shall have nothing but smooth sailing till the triumph of out plans. Nothing can shock us. Nothing unforeseen can occur. Every wrinkle has been accounted for with ready solutions. They are the very best. The very damn best.
Nothing can surprise..

*****
**********
************

Blogsville Communiqué to reader.
Error in communicating with Host 908675 aka CarlwithaC.
Unable to contact host site.
Suspected Power failure.

Do you wish to hold?

2008-03-05T11:09:00.000-08:00

Hello Blogsville.
I have a secret to share.

I see your eyes light with interest. What news could he be about to release?

In our world, where members darkest fears are online perusals for others, secrets fall into the blockbusting category of Blogsville events. I must warn you though. I might not shatter the records with my disclosure. Don’t get me wrong. I do have a secret to tell. I’m just not sure if you’ll believe me.

You see, my friend is a super hero.

Special powers. Special abilities. Double identity.
I know what being a super Hero entails…
He’s got it all.
Consider.

He suffers from Sickle cell anemia. That most annoying of afflictions due to the finality of its diagnosis. Once you’ve got it you’re stuck with it.

It’s like walking to class naked in your final year in University with the words “Micheal Jackson is the sexiest guy I know!” hanging around your neck. You never live it down. You just have to live with it.
Same thing with sickle cell. There’s no escaping it.
My friend T? He must not have read the book on living with sickle cell. He doesn’t just live with it. He gives it life.

I was with him last week. That’s what friends do.

We visit each other. We spent the whole day clowning around. Laughing at our past silliness, planning new ones.

Our days where long roller coaster ride of infinite possibilities on the fun track, anything could happen. If it was happening elsewhere we sought it out. If it wasn’t happening we made it. The days where good most of the time. Other times they where fantastic.
And the nights..
Well for me. It was.
Not for T though.

You see T doesn’t just have Sickle cell Anemia. He also suffers from a leg ulcer that is common with sickle cell patient. Whilst Sickle cell patient are prone to occasional attacks of pain ( they call em crisis) leg ulcers are annoying side attraction. Too make it worse.They’re always there. They never leave and they always have to remind you of their prescence. It’s an annoying sore on his leg that refuses to go. It almost has a life of its own. Sometimes the sore closes to just a slight scratch on the skin, teasing us with the possibilities of its departure. Just when we are convinced that this time, just maybe this time, it’s going to final leave, the sore laughs at us and opens up into a wound that looks like the result of a gunshot.
Gunshot wound or screen crack. The sore is always there.

And it never stops hurting.
Never.

I’m not talking the slight dull ache that hitting your head against the wall can give you. I’m talking the pain that a surgery patient would experience if they suddenly ran out of anesthesia mid operation and then kicked him out. The sore that T is afflicted is one of respectful proportions. When I say pain. I mean real pain. Like the tale of the little mermaid , (not Disney’s romantic version, the real one) every time he takes a step he is hit by nerves reminding him that they are here to make his life hell. It is like he is literally working on broken shards of glass. The leg hurts like hell. The pain is so bad that most of the time his body is covered with sweat as he struggles to come to grips with it.
Sickle cell. Leg ulcer. Unending pain.
Sometimes you wonder why the gods don’t just pay less attention to Somalia.

I woke up one night last week to meet him sitting in a chair.

The room was dark and his was a shadowy hunched silhouette against the background.

He couldn’t even talk when I asked him if the leg was hurting. It was almost a silly question.

The leg always was hurt. It just sometimes hurt more than other periods. This time it was having a blast cranking out the pain. He just nodded his head weakly. He was hurting and couldn’t do anything about it. I was his friend and there was nothing else I could do. True there where drugs he could take. But the pain killers he used where pretty strong stuff. They where way up there with cocaine in the addiction monsters. It was really easy to get addicted to the drugs because of its soothing effect. My friend T had heard the stories of people suffering from addiction to the drugs he was using.

He was worried.

He was not going to add junky to his glowing resume of woe.
A brave decision perhaps.
Certainly, a painful one.

He might have been noble but I wasn’t.

Despite his murmurs on the contrary, I tore his room apart looking for the vial that would bring him relief. I eventually found it. He didn’t wince as I gave him the injection. He just lay there groaning softly.
Eventually the drugs kicked in and a dreamy look came to his eyes. He made his way to the bed to pass out. I watched him as he slept a drugged sleep and I wondered. Last year I had two tummy aches. Both instances had left me rolling on the floor gasping for help whilst I swore out my oaths to the cooks responsible for my gastronomical dysfunction.
I could not handle pain for one night and yet here was a person, my friend, who could, and who had, for the last 5 years.

It’s a wonder how much I have taken for granted in my life.
Things I do for fun he is unable too. He is, for instance, unable to drink coke. Not because sipping the sugary elixir will kill him but because he has been told that too much sugar in his blood does not help the wound. He cannot drink alcohol because 2 years ago his liver complained after a night of mindless boozing (vodka anyone?)whilst we celebrated our continued existence.

An even simple thing like dating is not so simple where he is concerned.
Cursed with the tinge of an SS blood group he is wary dating anyone with an AS tag.

Not because he is afraid he is contagious but because he fears that like, Damocles sword swinging over his head ,the knowledge that the relationship cannot go anywhere will ruin whatever little pleasure he might have derived.

That no matter how deeply he is in love with her they cannot be eventually wed. He plans on having children this friend of mine and he plans on having good ones. It is sad watching him meet a girl he likes only to watch him slink away when he finds that she does not possess that elusive AA blood type. There is no point to it he mutters when I insist that he just continues for the fun of it.
He doesn’t see my point.

Why persist in the endeavor when someone might get hurt?
In a world clouded by his survival of pain. He has made it his mission not to be responsible for others.

Last year I walked into his room and saw him surfing the web.

He wasn’t checking out the latest Shakira pictures or trying to track down J-lo’s number.

No.

What my dear friend was doing was checking for a prosthetic limb. He was so frustrated with his own leg. He was prepared to cut it off. That was how bad the pain was making him think.
He blogs as well as I. Given my infrequent forays here I’d say he browses more often than I do. It is an outlet for him to complain and yell. At least it started out that way. But lately he has become more cheerful about the Blogsville environment speaking more about his life and les about his pain.
That is my friend.
Half full never half empty.
Sometimes we seat and ponder about the people behind the names on Blogsville.
We are united in our perception of you all.
You’re all a delightful crazy bunch.

There is hope to be sure. There must be.
There just isn’t any in this country.
He plans on leaving at the end of this year. The only reason that he hasn’t is because of his studies. He requires at least a year of proper rest and treatment for the successful healing of the sore. We want it gone and we want it gone for good. He need s a year. The Nigerian school calendar is not inclined to give it to him.
When two elephants fight. The ground suffers.

And so we wait for the end of the year when he shall be done with his exams. We joke about his last day in school. I tell him I shall personally drive him to the airport and see him into the plane.
I shall stand on the runway and watch his chariot streak across the sky.
Thereafter for a year I shall loose a dear friend.
I console myself with the theory that with him away the girls will get to notice me more.
Sometimes it works.

As I sat there watching him sleep, noticing with sadness that even his sleeping position had been forced to change since his leg developed a sore 5 years ago( he holds his leg protectively in the fetal postion), I marveled at the strength in my friend. He goes through life everyday with pain mocking him in the background. But like Paul in the bible he doesn’t let a simple thing like unending pain stop him from his duties. He is the best friend a guy could have.

Fun, charming and very easy to push around.

Someday he is going to make a lady extremely happy but till then he is ours. He never lets his affliction get in the way of his relationship with people. He doesn’t let it affect his ambition to become so rich he doesn’t have to work for the rest of his life. He doesn’t let it affect him.

He is who he is. Without the pain. And so much more because of it.

It has been a week since then and we still go about our affairs.
But I watched him differently. There is no way I can know what it takes to live a life like he does. But I am convinced it is not easy. Living with pain and not showing it. Being brave in the face of you demons. Never allowing the pain to get you down.
It is the stuff of legendary stories.
I have found myself another hero.
My friend T.

I wish there was more I could do for him. I wish in a lot of ways I could make the pain go away, but I can’t. All I can be is a good friend and be there for him. And maybe ,one day, I’ll write a story about it. About my life with the great man T. And what is what like living with a person who re-taught me what bravery, fear honor and nobility was all about.
Till then I do the best I can. Waking every day with the knowledge that I hold dear.
My best friend is a super hero.

Hello Blogsville.
I have a secret to share.

A tale of a Hero

2008-03-05T10:47:00.000-08:00

Hello Blogsville.
I have a secret to share.

I see your eyes light with interest. What news could he be about to release? In our world, where members darkest fears are online perusals for others, secrets fall into that blockbusting category of Blogsville events. I must warn you though. I might not shatter the records with my disclosure. Don’t get me wrong. I do have a secret to tell. I’m just not sure if you’ll believe me.

You see, my friend is a super hero.

Special powers. Special abilities. Double identity.
I know what being a super Hero entails…
He’s got it all.
Consider.

He suffers from Sickle cell anemia. That most annoying of afflictions due to the finality of its diagnosis. Once you’ve got it you’re stuck with it. It’s like walking to class naked in your final year in University with the words “Micheal Jackson is the sexiest guy I know!” hanging around your neck. You never live it down. You just have to live with it.
Same thing with sickle cell. There’s no escaping it.
My friend T? He must not have read the book on living with sickle cell. He doesn’t just live with it. He gives it life.

I was with him last week. That’s what friends do. We visit each other. We spent the whole day clowning around. Laughing at our past silliness, planning new ones. Our days where long roller coaster ride of infinite possibilities on the fun track, anything could happen. If it was happening elsewhere we sought it out. If it wasn’t happening we made it. The days where good most of the time. Other times they where fantastic.
And the nights..
Well for me. It was.
Not for T though.

You see T doesn’t just have Sickle cell Anemia. He also suffers from a leg ulcer that is common with sickle cell patient. Whilst Sickle cell patient are prone to occasional attacks of pain ( they call em crisis) leg ulcers are annoying side attraction. Too make it worse.They’re always there. They never leave and they always have to remind you of their prescence.

It’s an annoying sore on his leg that refuses to go. It almost has a life of its own. Sometimes the sore closes to just a slight scratch on the skin, teasing us with the possibilities of its departure. Just when we are convinced that this time, just maybe this time, it’s going to final leave, the sore laughs at us and opens up into a wound that looks like the result of a gunshot.
Gunshot wound or screen crack. The sore is always there. And it never stops hurting.
Never.

I’m not talking the slight dull ache that hitting your head against the wall can give you. I’m talking the pain that a surgery patient would experience if they suddenly ran out of anesthesia mid operation and then kicked him out. The sore that T is afflicted is one of respectful proportions. When I say pain. I mean real pain. Like the Piers tale of the little mermaid , (not Disney’s romantic version, the real one) every time he takes a step he is hit by nerves reminding him that they are here to make his life hell. It is like he is literally working on broken shards of glass. The leg hurts like hell. The pain is so bad that most of the time his body is covered with sweat as he struggles to come to grips with it.
Sickle cell. Leg ulcer. Unending pain.
Sometimes you wonder why the gods don’t just pay more attention on Somalia.

I woke up one night last week to meet him sitting in a chair.

The room was dark and his was a shadowy hunched silhouette against the background.

He couldn’t even talk when I asked him if the leg was hurting. It was almost a silly question. The leg always was hurt. It just sometimes hurt more than other periods. This time it was having a blast cranking out the pain. He just nodded his head weakly. He was hurting and couldn’t do anything about it. I was his friend and there was nothing else I could do.

True there where drugs he could take. But the pain killers he used where pretty strong stuff. They where way up there with cocaine in the addiction monsters. It was really easy to get addicted to the drugs because of its soothing effect. My friend T had heard the stories of people suffering from addiction to the drugs he was using. He was worried. He was not going to add junky to his glowing resume of woe.

A brave decision perhaps.
Certainly, a painful one.

He might have been noble but I wasn’t.

He is, for instance, unable to drink coke. Not because sipping the sugary elixir will kill him but because he has been told that too much sugar in his blood does not help the wound. He cannot drink alcohol because 2 years ago his liver complained after a night of mindless boozing (vodka anyone?)whilst we celebrated our continued existence.
An even simple thing like dating is not so simple where he is concerned.
Cursed with the tinge of an SS blood group he is wary dating anyone with an AS tag. Not because he is afraid he is contagious but because he fears that like, Damocles sword swinging over his head ,the knowledge that the relationship cannot go anywhere will ruin whatever little pleasure he might have derived..That no matter how deeply he is in love with her they cannot be eventually wed. He plans on having children this friend of mine and he plans on having good ones. It is sad watching him meet a girl he likes only to watch him slink away when he finds that she does not possess that elusive AA blood type. There is no point to it he mutters when I insist that he just continues for the fun of it.
He doesn’t see my point.

Why persist in the endeavor when someone might get hurt?
In a world clouded by his survival of pain. He has made it his mission not to be responsible for others.

Last year I walked into his room and saw him surfing the web.

wasn’t checking out the latest Shakira pictures or trying to track down J-lo’s number. No. What my dear friend was doing was checking for a prosthetic limb. He was so frustrated with his own leg. He was prepared to cut it off. That was how bad the pain was making him think.

blogs as well as I do. Given my infrequent forays here I’d say he browses more often. It is an outlet for him to complain and yell. At least it started out that way. But lately he has become more cheerful about the Blogsville environment speaking more about his life and les about his pain.
That is my friend.
Half full never half empty.
Sometimes we seat and ponder about the people behind the names on Blogsville.
We are united in our perception of you all.
You’re all a delightful crazy bunch.

There is hope to be sure.
There just isn’t any in this country.
He plans on leaving at the end of this year. The only reason that he hasn’t is because of his studies. He requires at least a year of proper rest and treatment for the successful healing of the sore. We want it gone and we want it gone for good. He need a year. The Nigerian school calendar is not inclined to give it to him.
When two elephants fight. The ground suffers.

And so we wait for the end of the year when he shall be done with his exams. We joke about his last day in school. I tell him I shall personally drive him to the airport and see him into the plane.
I shall stand on the runway and watch his chariot streak across the sky.
Thereafter for a year I shall loose a dear friend..
I console myself with the theory that with him away the girls will get to notice me more.
Sometimes it works.

As I sat there watching him sleep, noticing with sadness that even his sleeping position had been forced to change since his leg developed a sore 5 years ago( he holds his leg protectively in the fetal postion), I marveled at the strength in my friend.

He goes through life everyday with pain mocking him in the background. But like Paul in the bible he doesn’t let a simple thing like unending pain stop him from his duties.

He is the best friend a guy could have. Fun, charming and very easy to push around. Someday he is going to make a lady extremely happy but till then he is ours. He never lets his affliction get in the way of his relationship with people. He doesn’t let it affect his ambition to become so rich he doesn’t have to work for the rest of his life. He doesn’t let it affect him. He is who he is. Without the pain. And so much more because of it.

It has been a week since then and we still go about our affairs.
But I watched him differently. There is no way I can know what it takes to live a life like he does. But I am convinced it is not easy. Living with pain and not showing it. Being brave in the face of you demons. Never allowing the pain to get you down.
It is the stuff of legendary stories.
I have found myself another hero.
My friend T.

I wish there was more I could do for him. I wish in a lot of ways I could make the pain go away, but I can’t. All I can be is a good friend and be there for him. And maybe ,one day, I’ll write a story about it. About my life with the great man T. And what is what like living with a person who re-taught me what bravery, fear honor and nobility was all about.
Till then I do the best I can. Waking every day with the knowledge that I hold dear.
My best friend is a super hero.

Hello Blogsville.
I have a secret to share.

The Return.

2008-02-21T08:15:00.000-08:00

It was Enrique’s first time in Lagos.
His second time in Nigeria.

The first time was 26 years before. His father ,Jose Alonso, was on his way to Nigeria with his pregnant wife Maria Rosalina Alonso. Having been married for only 5 months, her 9 month old pregnancy told the common tale of precipitous marriages. Unlike most, this marriage was different in that it was yet to begin to show the cracks that an unplanned foundation will often result in. Nine months after forgetting to buy a condom Jose was still in love with his Wife from Turin. He was so much in love that when his company sent him on a survey mission to Nigeria he relented ,upon her request, and brought with him his pregnant wife along for the trip.

They flew in with the Nigerian Airlines.
The Pilot, a 29 year old Architecture graduate of University of Ibadan had barely 19 hours beneath his belt. In any other country he would still have been flying biplanes with an instructor mouthing obscenities at his every slip. Here in Nigeria, deeply ingrained with a military government and its associated despotism, it didn’t matter. It helped if your father’s step-brother’s Uncle’s cousin’s brother in law was the president.
The pilot had such a chain link to the political powerhouse and so he got the job.
The plane didn’t crash. The god’s were lenient. Instead, as some form of punishment, they sent the pilot the worst recorded turbulence experience in the last 5 years.
After 6 hours of praying and being butted across the skies the plane finally arrived at the Muritala Airport. In the cockpit, vomit strewn behind the chair, the pilot vowed to return to his first field of Architecture. Behind, in the first class cabin of the plane, there was a crowd of wondering Nigerian men as they witnessed their first child birth.
The Alonso’s where of strong Italian stock but 6 hours of turbulence alongside a menu that offered Amala and Ewedu, will defeat anyone.
Maria Rosalina Alonso gave birth as the plane rolled to a stop next to Hanger 12 of the Muritala Mohammed Airport.
Thus did Enrique D.G Alonso, born from two, true blooded Italians, gain Nigerian Citizenship.

The Alonso’s changed their plans immediately. They sat in the airport clinic for an hour before hitching a return trip back to Italy.
Mr. Alonso never got to do his survey or see Lagos.

25 years , 11 months and 28 days later Enrique returned.
Enrique had a guidebook. He had done his research.
The Italian consulate had been nice enough to hand him a list of do’s and don’ts.
He knew for instance that it was not healthy to drink water from the tap. Whilst this most accepted of acts was recognized behavior outside the country, within the irregular borders of Nigeria, drinking from the tap was not without its risks. No one had yet decided conclusively where the AIDS virus came from and until that was resolved the WHO was not yet ruling out the Nigerian Water system.
He knew, again, that at this time of the year the country was going through it’s unpredictable weather cycle... The sun was known to shine as brightly and as warm as 40 degrees, five minutes before making way for dark clouds that emptied their water load o the city drenching the sweltering inhabitants of Lagos.
To this end he had packed in his Nike knapsack, Sun screen crème. A small umbrella and a raincoat. Reading the brochure carefully he discovered that there hadn’t been a Volcanic eruption in Nigeria in 40000 years. Which made it more than likely that there would be one soon.
He packed a Volcano survival kit.

The sun was high in the sky when Enrique walked out the airport doors. A strong blast of heat hit him, threatening to boil the air in his lungs and leave him choking in pain. He found himself looking up to the sky for the dark clouds he had been promised. No one had mentioned it would be this hot. The sun screen on his face was beginning to sizzle.

Desperate to escape being cooked alive He made his way to his first Nigerian Cab.
It was a Peugeot 504 painted bright familiar yellow.
On the side was the word “TAXEY” boldly written in black.
Enrique assumed it was the Nigerian Translation of the universal word.
The driver was dressed in a T shirt with the words “Nothing dey happen”.
He looked at Enrique with a happy smile as he walked over.
"Where too?” he asked grabbing Enrique’s bag for him.
He tossed it into the back seat.
Enrique made a move to get into the back seat but the driver stopped him.
“No…Seat in front. The airconditioner…It’s better.”
Desperate to get out of the heat Enrique consented and moved to the front. Whilst making a quick check to ensure his bag was indeed behind him, he noticed that the entire back screen was covered in Stickers. There where a lot of them, starting from “1987 my year of laughter “to “2007. My year of Breakthrough”.
He probably had a bike in 1987 Enrique thought.
He asked the driver why he had so many stickers behind.
How do you see behind you?
The driver looked at him puzzled as he made a motion to start the car.
“Wetin I wan look behind me for. I’m moving forward not backward.”
He pulled out two wires and touched them together. There was a spark, followed by a loud cough from the engine and the insides of the car was instantly flooded with smoke.
“Welcome to Nigeria:” The Cabbie said.
Thus did Enrique D.G Alonso experience his first Taxey in Nigeria.

Enrique didn’t say anything for the first 3 minutes of his first Cab ride.
It took him that long to say The Lords Prayer, the Nicene Creed and Psalm 23.
He looked up just in time to witness the driver blaze by two trailers with only inches to spare. The speedometer wasn’t working but Enrique was convinced they had passed MACH 1.
He turned to meet the driver’s amused gaze.
“Where are you going?
Enrique corrected him. The question wasn’t where but what.
What did he want to do?
He had made a promise to himself regarding his first action in Nigeria. He had looked forward to it.
The driver shrugged
What. Where.
Semantics.
“So what do you want to do? “ The driver asked.
Enrique told him what and watched the driver smile.

She was clad in a tight blouse that highlighted her massive bosom. Her hips, spread beneath a wrapper, looked impressive despite the shroud. In spite of the heat she had make–up on. Red bold lipstick covered lips beneath eyes adorned with pink eyeliners.
She looked at the duo in front of her. First at the driver and then at the sweating white man behind him.
“You say what?” She asked for the third time.
“This man talk say e wan chop Amala and Ewedu..
“Amala…” The woman repeated staring at the white man behind.
His eyes where darting around nervously. She didn’t blame him. When a white man walks into a National Union of Road Transport workers canteen that many eyes are bound to stare at you.
‘You say this white man wan chop Amala?”
“Yes… With Ewedu. And Bush meat…” The driver looked behind him and then added quickly. “Two plates. Put Gbegiri for my own.”
Iya Buki had seen a lot in her 29 years of work at the Ikeja NURTW canteen. But this, she shook her head, this took the cake.
She was finally getting old.
“Sikirat!” She called wearily. “Bring me two plates of Amala!”
She had had longer experience being a Nigerian.
“6000 Naira for two plates “She announced handing over the meal.
Thus was Enrique D.G Alonso given, albeit expensive, his first taste of Nigerian cuisine.

Enrique loved it.
Iya Buki was so thrilled that she offered him an extra plate free—without the bush meat of course. He and the driver.
Enrique returned to the Taxey completely sated with a complementary stain of stew on his shirt.
“That Na your dining badge.” The driver announced grandly.
“Dining badge.” Enrique repeated happily, touching the stain with pride.
Midst cheers from the crowd of Okada riders and Cab drivers who had come to watch this Oyibo eat Nigeria’s finest the taxi reversed forward and then left.
After a quick question the driver changed heading and headed to a well known bar. Beside him. Thoroughly stuffed Enrique smiled with a glazed look in his eyes.
They gisted about idle stuff.
The driver asked him if he was from New York.
“No Italy.” Enrique said.
“Okay….” The driver nodded “How close to is that to New York?”
Enrique laughed (it was a joke wasn’t it?) and closed his eyes whilst trying to figure out what exactly “Nothing dey happen” meant.
Noting the happenings?
Possibly.

The car slowed down as it hit slight traffic.
There was a tap at his window.
He looked out to see a man holding the watch of his dream.
A Tag Heur. The diver’s edition. There where only 980 of them made. And one of them , to all appearance and events, was being sold in a hold up here in Lagos.
“How much?” The driver asked after winding down.
“4000 naira.” The watch sales man said very quickly.
The driver shook his head. What did the watch man think he was made off.
Money?
To Enrique’s horror he began to move forward in the traffic.
To Enrique’s shock the watch man kept speed with the accelerating car, barely breaking a sweat as he grudgingly announced.
“Okay. Take am for 2000 Naira.”
“I’ll take it.” Enrique said quickly.
Hell a plate of Amala had been 6000 naira. He was getting a bargain here.
He nodded his acceptance to the driver, before he changed his mind.
5 minutes later there where still 980 of such watches in the world.
One of them ostensibly was being worn by Enrique
And thus did Enrique D.G Alonso discover the hidden secrets and potential of a Lagos Traffic Holdup.

The drive ended up in Lekki.
Specifically, A bar on the water side where for 200 naira or 1000 naira (depending on whose version you believed the barman or the interpreting driver) you could have a bottle of the freshest palm wine.
Comfortable in his role of driver cum interpreting guide, Noting the happenings ordered for four bottles of frothing fresh palm wine.
“Wait until you taste this.” Announced the driver “There is no better wine in the entire world.”
Secretly Enrique considered the wine from his Uncles Vineyard the best but he kept his observation to himself until he sipped the palm wine.
He was glad he did.
Thus did Enrique taste his first Nigerian Drink.

The Sun was almost gone from the sky. All that was left was an orange orb in the sky. To look at the pale sphere now you wouldn’t believe it was responsible for half the heat that was now softly wafting from the ground. From the ocean barely a mile away the air carried the soft calming breeze of coastlines. He had called his hotel, Sheraton Lagos, to confirm they still had his room ready and waiting. After confirmation he had driven there, dropped his bad and returned to the bar. He refused to take of his dining badge shirt.
Seated in a chair, his hair being played with from side to side by the wind , a mug of poured palm wine in his hands Enrique could not think of a better evening.
He was wrong.

“Is this seat taken. “ She asked.
Enrique stared entranced.

Blonde braids framed a face which contained eyes that where opals of black lit with the strangest of lights. Her gaze ripped through him. Seeing into his darkest shadows and highlighting his secrets. Her soft lips shone with the hint of gloss. He found himself swallowing even though he hadn’t had a sip of palm wine.
She smiled at his silence and sat beside him
They sat in silence for a while.
“You’re American?” She asked softly.
“Italian” he replied finally finding his voice. She nodded her head softly.
“Italy. I’ve been there once. With my parents.”
He looked at her with more interest.
“Really? That’s interesting. Where in Italy?”
She made a face.
“Rome. My mum is love with the Pope.”
He laughed.
“Yes we all are.”
“Italian…” She murmured looking at him.
Again she gave him that look. He found himself correcting.
“Actually I’m also Nigerian. My parents gave birth to me here.” He raised his hand “Citizen by birth.”
She looked at him with surprise.
“I’m serious. “ He said with a laugh. He let down his tone a notch. “I even have a Nigerian name. My mum called me after the man on the plane that helped my child birth. He was a real gentleman.”
“You where born on a plane?” She asked laughing.
“Yes I was. My Nigerian name is Dele Giwa. That was the man’s name. I’m not sure but my mum thinks he was a journalist. Would you like to hear the tale?”
“Please.” She said softly.
He talked.

The sun finally finished its good bye song and sunk behind the horizons. This close to the Ocean there where a million stars in the sky. In a corner the driver sat content sipping his 7^th bottle of palm wine.
Noting the happenings.
Today had been a good day.

Enrique didn’t notice. He just sat there chatting animatedly with Millicent Njoku. That was her name. She was a 4h year Marketing student of University of Lagos.
He didn’t notice the stars.
He didn’t notice the ghostly moon's rise.
He didn’t notice the amused stare the bartender gave him.
He didn’t notice that his limited edition Tag Heur had suddenly stopped working.
All He noticed was her lips.
And she noticed.
So they did something about it.

Thus did Dele-Giwa E. Alonso ,a terminal ill patient suffering from Cancer, see, taste, hear and feel the first of his last 60 days in his first country.

The tale ends

A knights Tale concluded

2008-02-13T08:43:00.003-08:00

The butterfly glowed in the dark.
Measuring roughly 2 inches, it hung teasingly above my head.
I was sitting in the toilet pondering my next course of action. Hanging in front of me was one of the many lingerie pieces that adorned Stolich’s restroom. I had no idea what part of the body the strip of cloth was suppose to cover but I failed to see how it could successfully manage this most simple of designs, even if it was intended for use around, say , her anklet.
The glow was from some fluorescent designs ingrained in the silk material. A motif of a butterfly etched out on the tiny lingerie. I suppose when she wore it at night it was supposed to glow. Like some street light leading you to the promise landing.
This way to the spot. Follow the butterfly.
Therein lies the path to nectar.
I sighed to myself.
It was turning out to be an annoying evening.

Stolich was outside laughing at everything Captain Ridiculous was saying.
Seeing as he hadn’t really stopped talking since he walked in, that summed up to a lot of laughing. Captain Ridiculous was in turn oozing so much charm I worried that once he was done, there wouldn’t be enough for people who really owned it. Like Pierce Brosnan?
They hadn’t even noticed me when I excused myself 10 minutes before. For all they cared I was just some silly Muppet who was hanging around in the corner,
Now here I was, seating on the toilet, staring at butterfly adorned lingerie whilst pondering the silliness of my situation.

“What are you doing in there? How long do you plan on taking?” Stolich yelled out at me.
Her question was followed by silent laughter. Captain Annoying had probably said some silly joke about the possibilities surrounding my continued stay in the toilet. Again, I had a vision of him hanging from her ceiling. Lingerie tight around his neck. The fluorescent butterfly glowing in the dark. A sign hanging around his neck. He dared to steal the forbidden nectar.

“I’ll be out soon” I muttered. And then more loudly. “I’m coming.”
My announcement was followed by more laughter as they churned the perceived innuendo in my statement for all it was worth.
This guy was pissing me off.

I walked out of the toilet and headed straight to the kitchen to wash my hands.

Stolich came to meet me with a worried frown on her face.
She stood strategically in front of the fridge and asked.
“So. When are you going?”
” Going?” I asked her still washing. I looked down at my hands.
I had used too much soap and now had to wait an extra minute to wash it off.
“Leaving. When are you heading back home?”
I shook my head slowly. “I can’t go back home. It’s late already.”
She smiled a happy smile. “Good. I was hoping you wouldn’t go. I think he plans to spend the night too. I’m hoping with you here he won’t make a move.”
I looked back through the window at Lord Casanova.
He was seating on her bed. A knee slightly crooked. He looked like some model posing for a Rubens painting. Only he was male and for the most part clad.

“He is sexy isn’t he?”
It was an old recurring trick of Stolich. She always asked my opinion of guys. If I said yes he was sexy then I was gay. If I contradicted her, disagreeing on her perception of sexiness she would call me jealous.
Either way I was damned. So I did the smart thing and answered with a question of my own.
"Does he know you have a boyfriend?”
“Yes he does. But he says it doesn’t matter. He says we’re not married so I’m still available.”
Stolich announced this slowly like maybe there was merit behind his theory. Her eye had a hopeful glint. I had the vague suspicion that if I gave her the slightest go ahead on the theory she would have a cab waiting for me in the next 5 minutes. She probably would have 6 orgasms before I got home.
I hated to admit it but Captain Wanabee looked capable.
“That’s bullshit!” I said quietly. “How would you feel if right now some girl screwed your boyfriend just because he wasn’t married to you?”
She nodded her head in sad agreement.
“So you’ll stay?” She asked again.
Silly question. I asked a better one
“What are plans for supper?”

After supper I sat as close to the TV as I could, behind me Stolich was chatting away with the Frog Prince.
We had settled on noodles for supper.
No surprise there.
The entire time we ate our conversation where stilted. Most of mine where aimed at Stolich and the bulk of his where likewise directed. She was the only one who spoke freely to both of us. The only time we spoke to each other, he and I were in the initiation of some Jibe.
“So what did you study?” I asked him.
“Medicine.” he announced confidently and then just incase I didn’t understand what this meant. “I’m a doctor.”
“Right.” I nodded. “Have you killed anyone yet? I hear every doctor accidentally commits murder once.”
He shook his head and gave a soft smile. “That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. I got it from some concrete source” I countered.
“No it isn’t. That’s ridiculous. Where the hell did you hear that?” Stolich asked me with a laugh.
“Grey’s anatomy. Season 2. Phoebe killed what’s his face.”
“That’s your concrete source?” he asked with another of those annoying Janus smiles.
In the background I heard a bell go off. Round 1 done. 1 –0.

He asked her a question about me..
“Carl is an idiot. We where roommates for an entire year in my fourth year. It was crazy. I remember one morning I woke up and forced him to drink an entire bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. I was wasted. Ran around the house, Stripped to my underwear, and singing. I probably threw up a million times. He had to wipe me down and put me to bed. He has never allowed me drink again since then.” Stolich said with a laugh. Explaining how she came by her name. "Stolich comes form Stolichnaya!"
He gave an uncomfortable ha ha.
She laughed with him and patted my arm. “It’s been really great hanging with him. I think Carl is the coolest guy I’ve ever known.”
I looked across to him.
You hear that? Coolest guy in the world. Beat that!
The bell dinged again. 1-1.

The night might have gone on with sustenance of such ridiculous antics from our trio but it didn’t. I was getting comfortable in my role of cock blocker. Seating in front of the TV I had ignored hints from both Stolich and him that maybe I should stop watching TV and turn in for the night. I wasn’t blind to the gambit. With the room plunged in darkness and me ostensibly sleeping on the couch there would be nothing to stop his advances. Given Stolich glazed eye look I didn’t expect much resistance from that quarter. No way. I had decided. I was going to stay awake and play out my chaperone roll even if it meant dying from insomnia.
Prince Triple X stared daggers into my head.
I ignored him.
He might be a doctor but I was the world’s coolest guy.

Then it happened.
A couple of minutes after I confirmed that the time was indeed 12.30pm on my swatch, (midnight call anyone?) Nepa flipped the switch. One minute we were caught in our battle of wits and the next minute we were trapped in complete darkness with nothing to hear save our strained breadths.
I could feel his triumphant smile behind.
Forget his paltry stratagem, I had been completely checkmated.
There was nothing I could do now but pray that Stolich resisted him for the rest of the night.
I wondered what Gandalf would have said. I was pretty sure there was a solution for stuff like this in the Middle earth.
“Oh dear." Stolich said with delighted joy in her voice. “I guess we have to go to bed now.”
“Lets.” Said Mr. Inyourface.
Oh dear?
Lets?
I had lost.

I lay on the couch prepared for the worst. There was really nothing else I could do again. Stolich handed me a pillow. On her face was a silly grin. Looking at it I knew that the next morning I was going to be given a long rant about how guilty she was and how sorry she felt. She was planning on sinning and she was planning big.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. No point stretching out my suffering. I was prepared for what was to come. The soft giggles. Light playful scuffles. Harshly drawn breadths. The inevitable moans. I saw no reason why I had to go through all that, my role was chaperone and not Eunuch and so I tried my best to fall asleep. The sounds where coming. I expected them soon.
What I didn’t expect was a loud shriek followed by the terrified words.
“RAT!!”
I looked up quickly.

All of a sudden. Stolich remembered she had a rechargeable lamp hidden somewhere. The room was suddenly cast in blinding light. I stared in amusement at them. Stolich had on a tank top and a pair of bum shorts.
Aha! She did have plans.
She was standing on the bedside drawer with terrified shock in her eyes. Beside her the doctor ,clad in boxer shorts, was standing on Tip toes looking hurriedly around like he had just been tossed into a lake reputed to have Piranhas. They both looked so ridiculous.

”Where?” I asked calmly not leaving the comfort of my couch.
“It’s beneath the bed. “ Stolich gasped.
I wasn’t sure if it was my perception but her hair looked like it had turned white.
I stared at the bed. Her frame had collapsed a week ago so the bed was basically a mattress on the floor.
“It’s beneath the mattress?” I asked.
“Yes! I’m sure of it. I saw it run under the mattress as I turned on the light. It had big teeth.”
I ignored her mention of the rodent’s dental prominence.
“Jump on the Mattress then.” I joked. “If it’s under the mattress it’ll definitely die.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
She turned to look at Prince Charming.
And then I watched my Joke turn to hope.

I realized that all was not lost. Maybe I had won after all.
“Come on Jade. Please jump on the mattress…”
He stared at her like it was the worst idea in the world.
Personally I agreed with him.
It was the worst possibly idea.
“Unless of course you’re scared.” Stolich said sagely.
Beware the woman.
With nothing else to do I watched him make his way to the mattress.

Stolich remained perched on the dresser watching his movements. He stood in the center of the mattress and gave a half hearted hop.
“Oh come on...” She groaned.
He gave another jump. This time there was more bite to it,
“Harder.”
He jumped.
“Faster…”
“Right There.”
Up and down he went.

He jumped like he was some yoyo at the end of a sting. Up and down left and right. All the time Stolich kept on yelling her encouragements.
Harder. Faster. Left. To the right. That’s it.
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing.
It was slow chuckles at first. Tiny tremors that signaled the start of an eruption. Midway through a jump as he went up in the air, his face all determined in his bid to kill a Rat, PHCNrestored power. For a mica second his image was flash frozen in my head. Clad in boxers, sweat running down his face. Beside him Stolich was yelling encouragements.
Joke. Gambit. Checkmate.

I started laughing.
After the first 5 seconds Stolich joined me.
We laughed at the image of him jumping.
We laughed at the absurdness of the situation.
We laughed like we had lost it.
And in truth, we had.
Needless to say he didn’t find it amusing.
He stopped jumping, gave Stolich a hard glare and went to bed.
Mickey mouse be damned.

The next morning I woke up to find Stolich jumping on her bed. Sir Lancelot had left really early in the morning. Something about hospital runs.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Stolich had her ipod on and was jumping to some unheard rock song.
“I’m practicing.” She explained. Just incase I was wondering.
I hadnt really but it helped to be assured of my friend"s continued insanity.

I nodded my head and walked to the bathroom.
It looked diffrent from the previous night. Bathed in the morning light.
I sat on the seat and closed my eyes content.
I still had a soft smile from the morning’s happenings.
The day promised to be a good day. A New day.
And then I looked up.
The butterfly lingerie was still there.
It wasnt glowing
It wasn’t a bra.

A Knights tale of a Night

2008-02-03T06:46:00.000-08:00

I sensed its start two posts ago.
Faint undercurrents of resentment and irritation.
Most of the comments left on my blog made mention of the owner’s perception of my sanity level. How else did one go about explaining a blog post whose main objective was a lesson in philosophy? A flawed lesson at that too.
Reading through the comments I realized that I was facing a rebellion. It seemed people had a serious problem with the turn my blog posts where taking. Who blogged about football? It just didn’t make sense. What sort of madness was this? Where they being punked? Was Carl just a pseudonym for Ashton Kutcher?
Possibly.

The Bottom line I figured, as I sat reading the comments, was that I would have to soon make a return to what was perceived as normal. Enough ridiculous blogs about the logic of Afro babe being Jlo (I am yet unchanged on that stand) and the ridiculous and hopeless state of our nation’s football outing (I am changed on that.).
What everyone wanted to hear was normal stuff.
About normal me.
However abnormal that might be.

And so I submit for your perusal another weird day in the life of me.

A while ago Stolich invited me over.
She had less than 30 seconds of airtime so she rushed her plea.
She was having an exflame come visit her and she was worried that without a chaperone there was a very good chance that she would yield to the inevitable advances of the charming gentleman. Apparently her last roll with him in the hay had been that memorable.
Would I please please come over?
It was really important.
Please?
And then she hung up.

Ever the gullible bloke for a damsel in distress call, I tossed my books aside, grabbed my PSP and hobbled over to Stolich’s room.
Stolich lived in some self contained room which contained the essentials for a struggling student. She had a bathroom which never seemed devoid of lingerie hanging boldly in the corner.
Every time I went in to take a leak I felt like I was in some Victoria Secret store boldly defacing the Mecca of erotica. Also attached to her room was a kitchen. I secretly considered this my favorite place in her apartment. Stolich had a mad love for cooking. True her choice of meals where limited. Noodles. Porridge and soup and noodles but seeing as I was always hungry most of the times, gourmet selection was the least of my problems.
Plus there was the fact that if there was anyone who stood a chance in beating me for the heavily contended Best fan of coca cola. It was Stolich. She always had a bottle of coke in her fridge.

I headed straight for the kitchen as I walked in.
“The coke bandit returns. Someone call the Sherriff.” Stolich muttered to herself. She was seating down watching some ridiculous movie called Perfume: The story of a murderer.
I shrugged of the insult. You do what you have to do.
Is he here yet?
I yelled from the kitchen, staring at her through the connecting window..
She shook her head and continued on the movie.
No hugs. No wild thank yous for coming over after a 20 second plea. Just faint interest in the fact that I was drinking her coke. Who cares about Carl?
The elements of great friendship.

We both sat and watched the movie to its depressing end. After a couple of minutes I realized that the darkness and gloom was not just a reflection of our state of mind. It was late.
“I guess he didn’t come again after all.” I said.
Stolich had a sad look on her face. Like successfully escaping being tempted to cheat on her boyfriend wasn’t the best thing to have happened to her today.

We chatted idly about a couple of things.
I confessed that I had a fear of picking up the soap in the bathroom because I sensed that homosexual ghosts, hanging out in the bathroom, were probably waiting for such an opportunity. She told me that she felt Jessica Alba was sexy. I argued that given the gravity and sincerity of my confession she would have to tell me something just as damning.
Like say, she was secretly a sixty year old man who had undergone an age reversal operation followed by a sex transplant. And thus went out mild persiflage for another 30 minutes. I visited her fridge one more time , ignoring her pleas for mercy.
After two bottles of coke though I was beginning to feel like maybe I would have to visit her Lingerie room.
I was about to announce gently that I would have to soon leave when suddenly there was a loud hump at the door followed by a soft knock.
The time was 8pm.

Stolich looked wildly at me. Her eyes all lit with delight. There was a ridiculous smile on her face. I found myself half hoping that it was the gateman at the door. It would be nice to see if she would remain as thrilled as she was.
“It’s him.”
She whispered fiercely. Arms flaying in the air like she was some 5 year old who had tumbled downstairs on Christmas eve only to find Santa seating in her favorite chair and watching that most annoying of shows. Teletubbies.
I gave a shrug. I had never been much of a fan of Santa ever since he failed to deliver on my request for Angelina Jolie.
“Get the door.” she whispered and to stress her point she pushed me towards it.
I sighed softly. For the umpteenth time I swore to review my friendship. Some people just didn’t appreciate me anymore. I wondered if it was okay to advertise in a magazine for a friend.
Maybe Playboy?
Prince charming was at the door.
2 inches over my 6ft, His entire frame was all clad in vaguely visible muscle beneath the Tshirt he wore.
He had the same ridiculous grin that Stolich had sported only minutes earlier. I had the satisfaction of watching it disappear.
Who are you? He blurted out.
Her father.
Her boyfriend’s best friend.
Her boyfriend’s father’s best friend.
A long list of possible answers swept through my mind.
But I did the annoying polite charming thing and said.
“Carl. Please to meet you.”

There was a flurry of movement behind me and Stolich appeared. I was stunned. She had done that girl thing again. Somehow in 30 seconds, she had changed, applied makeup, brushed her hair, used up, what seemed her entire bottle of perfume and was here gushing over Mr. Annoying Nameless bloke. Her pose all natural and degage. Like it was normal to still have perfect lipstick at 8.17 pm.
Quickly breezing by me she gave me an introduction.
“This is Carl. My good friend. He is almost like a brother to me”
Brother? I stared in shock. That was it. Come tommorow i was advertising for a new best friend.
I watched Captain Annoying give me a satisfied smirk as he processed the information.
Good friend. Brother. Nothing to worry about. Just another loser.
“Please to meet you." He said softly.
He'd probably sat in front of a tape recorder until he got just the right note. Soft enough to hint at the effeminte and yet still retain the strength and vibes of Barry White.
Beside me I could feel Stolich’s pulse quicken at the sound of his voice. I couldn’t see her face but I sensed Guy Smiliey was back on.
“Oh come on in.” She chirped happily.
He gave me a condescendingly triumphant smile--See how much your sister loves me-- and stepped into her apartment.
And then, to seal my dislike for him, he gave her a hug that lasted almost 3 minutes
Stolich had obviously forgotten the game plan. She had forgotten that she had a boyfriend 3000 miles away.
“God I’ve missed you. “ She said.
He looked at me with a twinkle.
I felt like running into her Victoria's secret toilet and strangling him with one of her lingerie.
The Pink one.
Instead i smiled back at him.

I made up my mind on the spot.
No one was getting laid tonight.

To be Contd.

Carls Report.

2008-01-24T05:36:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I played football.

You know?
Football: Silly game where a bunch of guys forget the world’s important details —The name of the ten sexiest women in the world— in exchange for half an hour during which your soul mission is to chase a round object and kick it hard.
Football?
Yes that game.
The chasing part wasn’t too difficult.
I’ve had a lot of experience in chasing curves. The kicking part? Now that’s where the challenge lay. You not only had to kick it, you had to do it with precision.
Rhythm was an important note.
You didn’t want to look like Captain Hook trying to save the day with a wooden leg
Some girls hung on the sideline yelling encouragements to their guys. I stared at the guys in annoyance. They obviously had better control and handling in chasing curves.
On and off the field.
Showoffs.

The girls hung on the line dressed in jeans that hugged their frames.Distractions hanging on the periphery of my vision. One of them was dressed in summer dress that moved with the slightest of breezes. Simply running by her triggered a vision of lust.
I stared at the referee for help.
Wasn’t that a red card offense?
Eventually I got the hang of it.
Aim for the curved object. Avoid the shin. Breathe. Run like hell.
Check. Check. Check. Pant…Check!

In the end I didn’t do so badly. Just when I thought I was going to pass out on the field from exhaustion and pain from a dislocated and then broken ankle (I’m auctioning said ankle on Ebay. It’s still got blood on it. Starting bid $800. Can be used as book marker, self-defense weapon or replacement ankle Visit WWW.Carls-ankle.com.) The referee blew his whistle, yelled out time and saved my life.
No one understood why I ran to the referee and gave him a hug midst sobbing babbles.
As if.

I returned home, without the limp that would surface once the endorphins where done swimming in my blood, grabbed a consolatory bottle of coke, sat in front of my system and hopped into the internet.
As I browsed I noticed an alarming fact.
A quick survey of my favorite sites showed that not many people had made reference to football. While this probably would have been acceptable behavior in weeks past. Recent events have forced a change in priorities of views and soon to be effected blog posts. If you’ve still got raised eyebrows, shame on you, by recent events I’m talking about the nation’s cup.
After pondering the dilemma I decided to do something about it.

Given my obvious experience in football; a life time of observing and playing football squeezed into yesterday’s eternal 20 minute game,and my position in Blog as a member, have decided to put my experience as both a semi professional footballer and writer to good use.
I have decided to appoint myself the official unofficial nations cup reporter.
Hopefully, years from now, my country will look back on my actions and posts in the weeks to come and award me some prestigious award.
It is something to look forward too.

Another thing to look forward to, I suppose, is a sudden decreases in traffic and hits on my site. I comfort myself with the dream that the award will happen one day.
Besides, which is more important? To be loyal to a country as corrupt and rich in clichés as Nigeria or to write interesting blogs for fans (majority of which happen to be female) to read.
Rhetorical!
Don’t answer the question.

Ignoring the advice on the contrary by some annoying chap on my shoulder, who is wearing a T-shirt with the words “Jiminy cricket rocks”. Some bloke who keep insisting that he is my conscience anytime I want to do anything remotely fun, I’ll dive straight into the nations cup update.

Nigeria thus far sucks,
We played against Cote d’ivoire.
Does anyone know where that is? No. I didn’t think so. Its somewhere in Africa. West Africa. You do all know where west is right. No. Not that far west.
Oh brother.
Does anyone know who Drogba is? Or Solomon Kaloue? DO the names Kolo Toure and Eboue ring a bell?
Well we played against those guys and lost.

Given the caliber pf players we played against, some would theorize that we were bound to fail in the end. Perhaps. Well there’s failing and there’s failing.
There’s the defeat of Poland by Germany that not even the Germans talk off because of the embarrassing ease at which it occurred.
And there’s the adrenalin and awe inspiring defeat of 300 Spartans by an ad infinitum force of Persian. True they where defeated and swept away in the end. But they put up a fight so fierce, so true that they have become the stuff of legends. At least that’s what Frank Miller would have you believe. That 300 Greek men, half clad in linen, did what the members of Gandalfs (and Tolkein’s) middle earth, replete with thousands of seasoned warriors , dwarves and socerers could not do.
They withstood and slayed a herd of charging Battle Elephants.

Well our eagles chose the approach of the Poles. They simply stood, made the obligatory sign of the cross, and where run over by the elephants of Cote de ivoire.

I can go into the torment that ensued as I watched the match. How I winced every time the elephants took a shot at our goal. It seemed to happen every minute. Very soon I was shivering like some epileptic patient. How my friend John who had bet 3000 thousand that the eagles would murder the elephants (He obviously hadn’t watched Discovery Channel or National Geographic) sat in a corner murmuring
"Say it isn’t so.”
How PHCN also known as NEPA also known as BLOODYTWATS denied me freedom and relief and absolutely refused to take power when I needed them too.
I could say all this, but I am reminded that this is an article and as such, should be concise and simple as possible.
With the obligatory witty/funny remark at the end.

And so..
After a depressing 90 minutes the match ended with the scores at 1-0.
Nigerians all over the world groaned with dismay as the players walked off the field.
heir dreams of Nation cup glory had developed its first crack.

Beneath it was the second desperate thought.
Where are our native doctors when you need them?

Carl fights back.

2008-01-17T03:42:00.000-08:00

It started out with a poll.

There I was seating in front of the computer screen.
One half of my face was lit with the light, the other half was hidden in the shadows.
The room was buried in the dark, Darker patches of inkiness announcing where furniture might be. The night had come with its predictable cocktail of darkness and fatigue and, just as predictably, I was bored out of my mind.
My blog page gazed back at me with a smirk. I had just finished reading comments left on my blog and for some inexplicable reasons the network wasn’t allowing me post a reply.
For want of something else to do I started the poll.

A little tiny box in the corner of the page.
If you weren’t looking you’d probably miss it. Most of you, in all likelihood did.
But it was there.
A little box on the corner of my page. In the box was a question.
Do you think Afrobabe is really secretly Jennifer Lopez?
The answers to the question, multiple-choiced where used in a poll that I had set up.

I chuckled to myself as I clicked the post button.
Even my blogpage stopped its act of rebellion long enough for the poll to be posted. It seemed to agree with me. The synchronism of man and machine, unified in goal. It appeared my blog thought putting up the poll was a good idea.
Delighted with the successful completion of setting up my poll I again tried to post a comment.
No dice. I got an all familar message.
Internet explorer cannot will not locate page. So there!!
It still wasn’t working.
Frustrated I turned of the system and made my way through the dark to the fridge. The ethereal light from the heaven of coke bottles bathed the room as i opened it.
I gave the computer a retaliatory smirk in return.
I can drink coke and you can’t.
The monitor gave a beep and powered off.
Show off.

Seven days later, after going through the staples of weekly life, I stopped by to check the results of my poll. Whilst it hadn’t exactly suffered an avalanche of contributors, there had been enough poll voters for me to discern the obvious overwhelming reply to my inquiry.
80% where convinced that I had lost my mind.

In other words. The sad answer was, No… Afrobabe wasn’t secretly really J-lo.
I sat with shock in front of the monitor, Feeling the patronizing arm of depression on my shoulder. For a second the words on the screen blurred as I let its import sink in. My spirit took a jump of the board of conjecture and dived into the well of despair, sinking miserably, shackled with grief, to stunned to fight it's plunge to the bottom.
And then, just when I felt there was no hope. I felt the flutter of it begin in my stomach. The faint flashs of lightning announcing the coming of a storm.
My vision cleared and I saw.
It continued here.

You see, dear Blogville, we have come to an interesting turn in our relationship. For the first time in 2008 a startling thing has occurred. We have come to a junction in beliefs and i'm taking a left.
Simpy put. I don’t agree with you all.
No... I’m not talking about the poll voiced opinion that I’ve lost my mind.
I completely agree on that count. In fact I think I voted for that cause. Twice.
No. That isn’t where my insurrection stems from.

Fact I’ve lost my mind.
I completely agree.
Fact: Afrobabe is not secretly Jennifer Lopez.
I completely disagree!!!
My faithful dear Blogsville you’re all wrong.
Afro babe is Jennifer Lopez.

And now the insurrection begins.

It is Plato who started the idea of idealism. The issue of form vs idea.The man lived over a thousand years ago, didn’t have a toothbrush. Was forced to wear a dress in the name of fashion and still managed to come up with a pretty neat philosophy. Here it is as I understand it.

Nothing in life is as it is. When we see an object and we call it a chair. We’re not referring to the object( or form). We’re referring to the idea of the object. What we define as a chair is something we can seat on. To that end a table can be substituted as a chair. If I had never seen a chair before and I stumbled across someone seating on a table. I would be well in my rights to call the table a chair. Because the table fills the idea of the chair.

When I suggested that Afrobabe was in reality Jennifer Lopez what did I mean?
(For god sakes would someone please tell Afrobabe to stop spluttering obscenities at the screen?)
I’ll tell you what I meant. I meant the idea that was Jennifer Lopez.
Fact Jennifer Lopez isn’t Jennifer Lopez!
COnfused? I should hope so . I got a headache when i tried grasping the logic behind the philosophy. If you're all tired you can stop reading.

Wait.. come back.....I'm joking!

The Jennifer Lopez we have an idea about, the successful media star with the body to die for, the drive to succeed and that marvelously fantastic derriere(Sigh) is really an illusion.
Thing is... it we did see her in person (Hello Naapali. This is MTV and you have just won a week with Jennifer Lopez for answering the question 1 + 1 =? Correctly!) She wouldn’t live up to our expectations. Her face wouldn’t be as perfectly made, the lovely derriere whilst still as lovely wouldn’t be that fantastic ( Why. it’s just the same size as Sade Adu's!!) and every once in a while , if we hung around long enough she just might break wind, bad enough for you to consider cutting your vacation short.
She just wouldn’t leave up to the idea that is Jennifer Lopez.
With camera work, media hype and the overworked imagination of fans it’s hard to leave up to the image.

And here’s where it comes in. My simple logical mind at work.
Jennifer Lopez is an attractive, successful and funny female.
Afrobabe is an attractive, successful and funny female.
Jennifer Lopez isn’t Jennifer Lopez.
Jennifer Lopez is Afro babe.
Afro babe is Jennifer Lopez. (The real one behind the idea.)
If we're going by Naapali's brilliant deduction that 1+1=2 (Congrats by the way!) then my philosophy really isnt that difficult to see.
Jennifer Lopez is Afrobabe!

Because. The idea I have of the real Jennifer Lopez fits that which I have of Afro babe I think I have every right to call this table a chair.
Afro babe is Jennifer Lopez.
Naapali is Ernest Hemingway.
Queenofmycastle is Vanessa Williams.
Undercovasista is Audrey Hepburn,
Fantasy queen is Cameron Diaz.
And Carlang is…….Carlang!

There.
I suppose another way to state all this would be to say that i was being metaphorical. You know... Unnaked is a Stallion. Princessa is a Princess. Lighty is an Angel. . .That kind of thing?
But where's the fun in that?
Why say i was speaking metaphorical when i can spin some yarn about my ostensible knowledge of Plato's theory of idealism?
Not only do i get to sound like i know what i'm talking about but i also get to play the part of a lecturer. However pathetic the attempt might be.
Phew. It's been hard work though ,this lecturing thing.
No matter it has it's advantages.
Afrobabe carry my books and see me in my office.
There you go spluttering again.

It started with a poll.
It triggered an insurrection.
And now it comes to an end.

New Year with Stolich.

2008-01-03T20:49:00.000-08:00

The 29th of December was ending with a warm evening.
I was sitting outside staring at the darkening sky with a cup of palm wine, my fifth, in my hand. I watched the sun set behind the hills. Nature’s timer was ticking. Another three sunset and this New Year madness would come to an end.
People would return to their jobs.
Families would go back to their homes.
And lovely vistas like the one I was watching would go by unnoticed. Hidden by the shroud of life’s busy toll.
Till then though it was a lovely evening for sitting down, staring at the sky and sipping palm wine.
The evening was beautiful.
And then my phone rang.

I had fallen to the habit of setting different ring tones for people who called often. I listened to the opening score of the horror movie Omen.
Only one person had that ring tone.
“Hello Stolich!”
“Hello. Carl! Happy New year.”
“We’re not yet there. We’ve still got a couple more sunsets.” I said wearily.
“That’s just a technicality. I’ve already got my new year resolution ready.”
I sighed inwards. I hated resolutions so much. Somehow I always managed to break them before the next year came around.
“Seriously?” I asked with a half smile.
“Absolutely. The cool thing about it is I’m starting it right now. I’m not going to wait till the New Year before I begin.” Stolich announced proudly.
“Oh really?”
“Really!”
“And what’s your New Year resolution going to be?”
There was a pause over the line as she debated how best to tell me. Finally she settled with a simple.
“I’m going celibate!”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Understandably she hung up.

Going celibate and giving up sex.
Just thinking about it gave me goose bumps. I had had a partially sucessful experience with that bit of resolution some months ago. I had celebrated going six months without sex.
I had been all set for making it an even seven months off the wagon until one day I met a girl. We had a moment. She gave me a kiss. Did something incredibly with her tongue. Roved her hand over my body. Knocked me on the bed. Slipped her hand beneath my shorts, did something more incredible with her hand and next thing I was all over the place.
Record time 2 minutes.

True I hadn’t exactly had sex. But seeing as having orgasms was against my resolution I had to conclude that my resolute spell was at a delightful end and get on with my life.
The point though was, the seven months (almost) that I had spent celibate hadn’t been easy. I didn’t expect it to be any different for her.

The 30th of December came without the warmth of 29th.
There had been a light drizzle and with it had come the comfortable biting cold of the harmattan. Staying outside wasn’t an option and so I hobbled into the parlor.
I sat with members of my extended family and watched in horror my first Nigerian movie of the year. It was a disaster.
Has anyone watched “The Last Billionaire”?
No?
Word of advise. Dont.
I was watching a scene unfold with concern.
Some Members of the Nigerian Secret service were about to kidnap a known felon from the United Kingdom. He had murdered a relation of the Nigerian president a year before and had since fled to the UK for safety.
Ignoring the obvious process of extradition thy decided they would just go and kidnap him a la Umaru Dikko.
The head of the SSS was announcing his grand plan of getting to the United Kingdom.
“We’ll fly to China. From there we’ll go to Japan. Take a boat to Indonesia, head to India. Go to Russia. Cross over to Vienna. Then we’ll fly to Argentina. We’ll drive through Brazil. Mexico. United States finally ending up in Canada. Fly to Greenland and then, then gentlemen, we get to the United Kingdom.”
I closed my eyes in frustration. Who wrote theses scripts? Save me lord I prayed.
My phone rang.
The Omen ring tone.

Her voice was cheerful as she yelled into the phone.
“I’ve gone one day!”
“Huh?” I asked. My mind was still in numb shock from the movie I was watching.
“I’ve stayed celibate for one day. I’m unto a roaring start with my resolution.”
“Yeah the first day is always the hardest. You’re so silly” I laughed. “What does your boyfriend/fiancé think about your decision?”
‘Er…he doesn’t know yet. He is not around. He is flying in today.”
“You haven’t seen him in over 3 month’s right?” I remembered.
“Yes so?”
“Nothing. So he flies in after three months horny as hell and finds out his nymph of a girlfriend has decided to go celibate. I can’t wait to hear how this goes!”
“He won’t mind.” She said confidently.
“I’ll bet.”
I heard her inhale sharply.
“Look Carlang. Stop being a Schadenfreude. If you can’t be for me. Then don’t be against me.” She snapped and then hung up.
She was doing that a lot.

I returned to the television screen. The movie was unreeling with unbelievable stupidity. The SS agents had found the targeted individual. I watched as thy raided his London home and stunned him with some kind of gas. Nerve gas or something. What the chemical constituents was was not the issue. The gas worked fine because he passed out.
What was absurd was the fact that the terribly overweight SS guys stood next to him in the potently lethal gas without gas masks and none of them was affected.
Must be one of those selective nerve gases.
I couldn’t take anymore. If I kept watching I wouldn’t make it till 2008.
I went to bed.

The 31st of December brought with it the familiar feeling of excitement and hope. People chatted expectantly as they waited for the big transition into 2008. I had given up trying to figure out what New Year fuss was all about. I mean, Apart from a number, nothing else really changed.
Stolich called me early in the morning.
“He is coming in another 4 hour.”
“Coming?” I asked with a smile.
I heard her sigh loudly over the phone. “You know what I mean Carl. Not that kind of coming. I mean he arrives in 4 hours.”
“Right.”
“And I’m going to welcome him.”
“Right!”
“Is that all you can say.”
“If I can’t be for you I shall not be against you.” I said in my best imitation of a robot.
Predictably, She did the hang up thing.

I lazed the entire morning away.
I started doing my laundry and changed my mind.Then I picked a novel, one by James Patterson and read for a bit.
After watching them murder a couple of goats that was destined to be used as pepper soup I returned to the parlor. Fortunately no one was watching a Nigerian movie.
My aunt had dug up and old VHS tape and an even older video tape player.
VHS? What would I see next? A T-rex? It was almost like I was back in the Jurassic period. Anyways it turned out to be everyone’s ostensibly favorite movie.
Jesus Christ of Nazareth.
With nothing else to do I sat down next to my aunt and watched the coolest man in the world strut his stuff.

In the midst of a powerful speech from Jesus my phone rang with the demonic ring tone from Omen.
My aunt shot me a cold look. I had just ruined her concentration. I worsened my plight by answering the phone. I knew I was in trouble. What kind of idiot answers the phone when Jesus is giving a lecture?
“Hello? Who is this” I asked even though I knew damn well who it was.
“I’m too young. “She said.
“You’re too young or he looks really sexy.” I said. My aunt actually paused to look at me. Children of nowadays. Back in the days I would be stoned.
“Both. He looks really sexy. I’m not sure I can pull this celibate thing off. I mean .Do I really need to be celibate? Is there any point to it? What do I stand to gain by denying myself sex?”
“Right.” I muttered in reply.
“Seriously. He is in the next room looking so sexy. It would be a sin I didn’t do anything about it. He is my boy friend for crissakes. HE bought me a Christmas gift. I haven’t opened it but it looks promising.”
“Right.”
“ I’m a hedonist. Plain and simple. I’m too young to give up pleasure. That’s insane isn’t it?”
“Right.” I replied again.
I looked at the screen. Jesus was still giving the lecture. I felt really uncomfortable. I was talking about unbridled and unsanctioned sex right in front of him. He paused and looked at the screen. I felt my hair go white. I tried to listen to what he was saying.
What are you doing? You’re not helping me.”Stolich’s voice barked into my ear.
“Sorry. I was trying to hear something.”
Her voice was irritated.
“Whatever you’re doing stop doing it and focus on me. You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
2000 years after Adam and the Garden of Eden, we still were suckers for women.
Same scenario and we were still making the same mistakes.
I stopped listening to Jesus and focused on her conversation.

“Don’t do it then. I thought you said you were going celibate.” I said.
My aunt had stopped looking at the screen. Her entire focus was now on me. She was glaring at me like I had a bra tied around my head.
I considered my options and left the room.
“You’re a terrible friend. If you can’t be for me then don’t be against me” Stolich retorted.
I felt confused.
“I thought the for option meant I supported your celibate bid. I’m supporting you.”
“But I want to break my vow. You need to support me on that now. There’s been a change in agenda. Haven’t you been listening?I want to make out with my boyfriend.” Stolich groaned into my ear.
“Oh? Now you want to quit celibacy?” I asked wearily.
“Yes. Didn’t you get the memo?”
I thought about it. What would Jesus do?
I hung up.

After the build up and excitement to the New Year the transition was surprisingly uneventful. Someone yelled happy New Year and the entire town went wild with the bang of fireworks and crackers.
I waited 3 minutes but no Alien ship appeared.
I guess the world was going to survive for another year.
My phone ran at 20 minutes past 12.
“Happy New year Carl.” It was Stolich and she sounded exhausted.
“You did it?” I asked sagely.
It was funny how our conversations had degenerated to the point where it could only mean one thing.
Sex. The Mc Nasty. Transitional Cotius.
‘Yes. It was great. We did…”
“Save me the details. I don’t want to hear the skinny on your sexcapades.” I said wearily.
She laughed at me. There was a voice in the background, his, and then she said.
“He says Merry Christmas. “
I returned the greeting.
“Any plans for the new year. Do you have any resolutions that you’re making.” She asked me. Her voice sounded strained. Was he trying for an encore already? I was in a different state 30 miles from her and he still felt the need to mark his territory.
Men.We were such beasts.
“Yes. I’m giving up coke.”
“Nice. I’m sure you’ll do well. You're a lot stronger than I am.” She observed “ I couldn’t even stay celibate for a year.”
“Well technically you did. You last had sex last year in 2007. Its 2008 now. Officially you haven’t had sex for a year.”
She burst out laughing.
“Thanks Carl. You’re good for my ego.” She gave a loud gasp " Happy New Year darling. “And then she hung up still laughing.

Ten minutes later I walked into the house and met my aunt. She still had the look on her face. If the rapture had happened at midnight, and she had her way, I would probably be in hell right now.
“Happy New year Aunt.”
“You too. “She said quietly. “Do you have a resolution?”
I nodded that I did.
I left her and walked to the kitchen. There was still some pepper soup left in the pot. I filled a bowl for myself , grabbed a bottle of water and walked to what had been designated my room. Half way there I stopped and thought about it.
Young.
Hedonist.
Free.
What’s the point?
I walked back to the kitchen. Opened the fridge replaced the bottle of water and pulled out a bottle of coke.

Happy New Year.

Once upon a time..

2007-12-11T07:30:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-30T02:28:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-16T09:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-10-31T01:45:00.000-07:00

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!