Carl fights back.

It started out with a poll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


And now the insurrection begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

New Year with Stolich.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year.

Once upon a time..

Last week I bumped into Bunmi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was an open and shut case against me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Blogsville said So.

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

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

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

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

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

Cheerfully yours.
Blogsville Members.”

I woke up from my dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Best Man's Diary

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

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

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

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

I woke up at 12.30am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Best Man's speech.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Nothing and Something.

Has it been so long?
Hello Blogsvile.

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

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

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

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

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

Physics!
Why wouldn’t I feel depressed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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