The Return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tale ends

A knights Tale concluded

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Knights tale of a Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be Contd.

Carls Report.

Yesterday I played football.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carl fights back.

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?”