A dip..

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Day 365

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer was quick as it was surprising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Show off.

Beside me Andromeda punched me.

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

I shrugged.

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

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

“Happy Birthday.” She said.

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

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

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

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

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

Carls Anatomy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life's Diet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deployment.

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

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

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

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

14th and Serenity..

This way to
14th and Serenity Street

Some Friday...

It started 15 seconds after I knocked on the door.

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

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

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

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

That's how it pretty much started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mum smiled.

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

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

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