The Date

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,

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.

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.

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

You've got to read THIS!

Dear Fantasy Queen.

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.

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.