Some Friday...

It started 15 seconds after I knocked on the door.

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

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

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

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

That's how it pretty much started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mum smiled.

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

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

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

Tag?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Life would be so much easier if life was easy.

The By-laws of life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Wihout her 50 Niara she couldnt tip them!

When the wind blows.

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.