Ok... I got my ass punk'd, No tagg'd.

Ok. It's the tagging season.

Here are the rules:

1.link the person who tagged you… Ejura and someone who didn't inform me ;)

2. Mention the rules in your blog…

3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours...

4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them…

5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged...

1. I always blame my parent for not being from two different races. Caucasian + Black, Indian + Black or anyone. I should be an half-caste now. And I still wonder why my great grand parents refused to be slaves. (They refused to make a sacrifice for their great grand child. I might be Will Smith or Hmmmm, Michael Jordan ;)

2. When I'm engaged in some argument with my dad, I always find myself having some funny thoughts like what’s wrong with this young man, what is this small boy who claims to be my dad feeling like?, So you think you’re making sense? ;)

3. For me, I don’t know why mosquitoes and ants should be killed. You’re likely to see my face glued to a wall following an ant. I sometimes use my hand to direct its part… like don’t go there, come here, they will kill you if you pass that boundary. I don’t even kill mosquitoes. A friend passed the night at my place during my undergraduate days. I was surprised to wake up in the middle of the night to see my friend armed with a folded newspaper in one hand and a broom in the other hand, wrestling with mosquitoes. Damn it. You need to see how my wall was graffiti-ed with mosquito blood.

4. I read in the toilet. It looks like that thing won’t come out without having something to distract myself.

5. I hate NEPA (Is it PHCN?) Only my mum can justify my anger. She laughs at my outburst when those mad people cut the electricity. Hear her… Let me tell you why you hate NEPA. It’s not because of darkness. It’s because they took the light barely few minutes before you were born. Who says I shouldn’t hate NEPA? Thank goodness I don't go around carrying an uncut umbilical cord.

6. I make lots of imaginary movies when I stroll. I write, direct, produce, sometimes act in movies I generate from my imagination. I do this especially when I’m strolling.

7.....

8....

9...

10...

Everbody has been tagged. Ok I tag Muse, Efjay, Vera, Loomnie, Jaybabe, and Google

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?

I made this post last year. It has since been attracting some misgivings from some people, who, in their respected opinions, considered it “sensitive”. I have declined every urge to make a post on their rejoinders. I still wonder why they couldn’t drop their comments directly on my blog instead of emailing me.

One of them, a well-known blogger (No, I won’t link him ;)), stumbled at me on yahoo messenger. Before then we’ve been having some real nice chat on about anything. Little did I know I was about to abort our correspondence when I posted this poem. On that faithful day, I logged on to my messenger, only to be welcomed by a long and anxious queue of offline messages. Spam! I thought.

But to my surprise the messages, minus two, were a chain of biblical verses filled with curses, yes – CURSES! My blogger friend had leafed through his bible to fish out portions of that holy text that seem designed as suitable words of retaliation against a perceived sacrilege. What a joke! I thought.

By coincidence, he was online at that time. And then I asked him, “Mr, to what do I owe this prayers?” I guess he must have been pissed off by the cheeky modesty of my question. He replied with yet another stretch of biblical passages, the difference only being that, this time, they came so hurriedly that most of the words were misspelt. How else was I supposed to understand the depth of his anger? I didn’t even bother to reply. All the while the chat box was busy saying #### is typing a message …until he signed out.

Just few days ago, I got a text from a friend who, after visiting my blog, ordered me, I mean ORDERED me, to retract (his word) that part of the poem that reads, “What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?” because, his reason – it is blasphemous. At that point I went back thinking about how far I’ve come with this poem, and who knows – how far I’ll go.

I wrote this poem during my undergraduate years. I still remember the rabid feedback I got courtesy of that part of the poem. A classmate of mine will look at me then and say… You are the anti-christ! And then I would smile. One actually told me she has stopped reading the departmental press board because an “unholy poem” was once glued there. To quote a lecturer-friend, Your case is a sorry case. I avoided arguing with him by replying with a smile too.

But of course, I got some interesting and encouraging comments too ;)

Let's see how many blogofriends I have (or will remain as friends). This is the poem, titled “What If…”

What if…

What if everything is but a dream
cast nude on this jagged plane, unreal?

What if the silhouette is but the real thing
and the substance is its shadow?

What if sight is but blindness
and voice is but dumbness?

What if that animal perceives you as "animal"
itself- human, created in His image?

What if the womb is our grave
and the grave is but the cocoon pregnant with life?

What if white is but a precious gloom
and rose is but the embleem of death?

What if it’s not sleep after all
but Death tickly calling?

What if it’s foolery finely cloaked
masking as Love?

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil
and fanning Hell’s furnace is The Lord?

What if righteousness is but a sin
and Sodomy, the Hallowed?

What if we are just characters
existing only in the dreams of some gods?

What if…?

Lessons from Rich-ard Brand-son

I haven’t been doing much book reading lately for reasons best known to me (in the name of career pursuit), and my boss ;). A colleague of mine whose taste in books is, in one word – first-class, lend me this book Screw it, Let’s do it, authored by Richard Branson, the man behind the Virgin brand.

The book is a lovely read. I couldn’t believe I made a record of finishing a book in a few days (LoL), being aware of my incurable slow reading pace. I’ve been known to spend unnecessary long periods finishing a book, no matter the size. Sometimes I laugh at myself when I take a look at my books and see that a sizable number of them are half-read, some quarter-read, and for some reading beyond the Preface has been impossible. I’ll finish them someday. It isn’t my fault. Some people are just too restless in life.

Reading the preface page of Richard’s book, I knew I was on a mission to winning a reading record. You don’t want to know the number of pages it is! Anyway, I leafed through its pages, learning some inspirational lessons in life and business from one of world’s most successful entrepreneurs. The lessons were clearly presented as a matter-of-fact but interesting approach, not like those palliatives that many motivational speakers and religious leaders alike bore me with, me alone. I just hate those nicely strewn words… Your attitude determines your altitude; If you don’t come to the sanctuary, you’ll end up in the mortuary; You either pray or you become a prey. Some of them are nuggets of wisdom. But Gush! they always bore me.

Rich Richard says,

Whatever your field, you must be passionate about it and create excitement in everything you do. Beat your drum and look beyond the obvious.

Before I face copyright prosecution for writing an abridged version of the book, you’d better go get your own copy. Actually, I feel like giving out free copies to some people.

The way the guy wrote so glowingly about his business empire – the ups and downs, I feel like resuming work almost immediately at Virgin Atlantic or Virgin Nigeria ;) I hear Richard telling me… Man! Screw it, Just do it.

Just Images

Creative Advertising. Beautiful Ads. We'll soon get there in Nigeria.

Writer’s Block or Writer’s Cramp?

These words are just spilling out. I doubt if this will turn out to be a sensible piece, I mean, an unboring piece.

Most times I get nudged to write, either by some experience, or just by the common writer’s need to give a disturbing thought a lettered face. In some cases, it is the struggle to marry conflicting views together, and writing becomes the only leeway for a settlement.

This often comes with its misfortune. I realize that while employing writing as a means to resolving the conflict, I end up inviting some other voices, different shades of perspectives, of voices once muffled, or once inexistent. Of course this is good. But first, I’ll pause, aghast at my self-infliction. Should I continue to write? Should I just give up? Will it be okay if I just engage someone in a discourse instead of resorting to writing? Questions. Probings. Doubts. And then, I’ll continue writing. As the words continue to spill out from their enclave, I’ll negotiate my way through them, and then some kind of light, a strange glow of revelation, will be shown on my writing. Those thoughts will now start to interact with one another, agreeing, disagreeing. Before I knew it, I’ve written a piece. Before I knew it, I would have dotted the last sentence.

Now I have to digress. It’s often the lot of a writer, especially when what is to be written is yet unformed in ones mind, that funny situation where thoughts fly mischievously, playing hide and seek, resisting every attempt to strewn them into words; if not to make a sense out of them but at least to ease the writer’s unsettled mind. Even when the thoughts are well formed, ready to be typed out, they start another form of mischief, this time confronting the writer with where and how to start. This is a familiar terrain.

When nibbled to write, I do not wait for long, before I resign into calmness, into a state where I’m likely to be uninterrupted. And if that occurs in the morning, the better for me, since it appears I’m mostly alert during that part of the day. It’s usually a strange bonus if I get to write anything at all before night calls it a day.

Now, I’m supposed to write. The impulses are right. I just don’t know how to start. This is it! That dreaded state. Writer’s block. A distracting clog on the wheel of invention.

Maybe there is no such thing as a writer’s block, I ask myself sometimes. Maybe it’s just ones perfectionist tendency pressed beyond tolerable limits, and resulting into some kind of cooling down after a tenuous mental exhaustion.

All the same these are not the words I planned to put down, I think I’m blocked.

But at least I’ve blogged ;)

The day Vaginas Vexed in Lagos

My preparation to visit the theatre to see The Vagina Monologues was nothing less than mad. I planned my schedules far ahead, did all I could to avoid a carryover. Luckily for me, the day I planned to watch the play was a public holiday, which means I won’t be at work, although lurking in my mind was the fear that my Oga might announce that I should be at work, “because it’s the nature of the job.”

Wednesday. Two hours before the commencement of the play, I hit the road. I spent two hours for a journey that should have lasted about 40 minutes! Thinking that I have enough time on my hands, I joined the short queue of expectant commuters waiting to board a BRT Bus. I did that out of curiosity, oblivious of how long I’ll wait before Christ will arrive. Few minutes after, the queue became so serpentinely stretched that I wondered what all the fuss was about bordering a BRT.

For all I care, I don’t think Governor Fashola had me in mind before he initiated the new transport system ;) It took more than 1hr 30 minutes altogether before the next available bus arrived and for it to reach the last bus. Me and my restless life, gush, I’m too impatient for such time wasting. (Oboye, Sunkilala, na when we go buy this car sef? I don tire O!) Anyway, I made it into the theatre, just about 20 minutes before the play started.

First, it was the quintessential demeanor of the lady who led us into the play that blew me away. She gave a little background about the play, its essence, the playwright, sponsors, and partners. Behind her enviable command of the English language is an incredible sense of humor.

Hummm, she says, we require that you switch off your phones, or any gadget whatsoever... babies included. And then the play started.

The actresses were all fantastic in their individual rights. Most telling was their deliberate alteration of the mood in that National monument. At one minute it is melancholic, at another it is cheerful, sometimes somber, or annoyingly staid...

Bimbo Akintola

Bimbo Akintola and Omonor Imobhio’s performances were, for me, masterful. Bimbo especially almost got me breathless when she shed those tears. That single act, art I call it, almost deflated my earlier astonishment when she clapped her hands on those well-cupped pairs of breast, her humongous endowments. Omonor, yes OMONOR… that babe is it. The energy of her performance was awesome, to say the least. After her first monologue I earnestly awaited her next. One thing though… Omonor did you acquire those biceps during rehearsals for the play?

Omonor Imobhio

Tunde Aladese

Ashionye (All pictures courtesy FI)

Ashionye, keep it up. Tunde Aladese, what a sleeky act? Yinka Yinka Yinka Davies, indeed your name is “comfort”. Somebody ask Funmi Iyanda where she was. I had expected to see her swing her familiar willowy frame, to see the thespian side of that TV presenter-cum-blogger image of hers. Ms Iyanda, thanks for the disappointment. Three Gbosa to the director, Wole Oguntokun.

Now my take on the play. As much as I appreciate all what the play stands for, I think the whole Nigerian affair is a strangulated experiment of the essence of the play. I’m saying this in the light of the cultural context which the play addressed (or is supposed to address). Nigeria is a highly patriarchal society. Therefore, uprooting any male-ish stump must go the extra mile in terms of campaigning and strategy, not some travesty of this mode.

Maybe my cynicism is informed by the fact that I’ve read the book or that there wasn’t really a well spelt-out solution to the perceived chauvinistic oppression of the Nigerian woman. One suggested solution, offered by the Nigerian story, is the starvation, yes outright deprivation, of sexual satisfaction to any penile incursion (especially when a Vagina has earlier experienced some inhumanity from the intruding Penis). I don’t know how that solves the problem. I think that aggravates the problem the more, opening the Vagina to more oppressive affront from Lord Dick-son.

I also observed that the voice bellowing from the speakers, as the narrator, was a male’s voice. I found it impossible to fit that into the whole affair, since the play was made as an anti-male production (I stand to be corrected). If women were to make a case against their oppression by their eternal arch-enemy, of course Mr Penis, should that be done using the same voice of the oppressor? Well, that’s possible. I guess I’m missing the point that, their campaign notwithstanding, they agree that there should always be a masculine element in their affairs, chiefly in the mode of an authority.

On a lighter note. I had expected that part of the book that says “If your vagina could talk, what would it say?” “If your vagina got dressed, what would it wear?” and “what does a vagina smell like?” The Nigerian version skipped those parts.

One other interesting part of that evening was finally meeting a friend face to face beyond our facebook-ing sessions. Na wa O, this facebook thing! Lyd, you’re really a beautiful, cool lady.

Anyway, I joked with some friends on the possibility of having The Penis Diatribe (or Dialogue, Affront). Who knows? That may be the next BIG thing to hit the theatre.

Watch Out.

Asa, Mama Waidi, reviewed

I love Asa. By the day way, who doesn’t? Here is a brilliant review of Asa, her eponymous album. I hope it will be a first-time consideration for any recognition the album might be up for.

Asa's voice. She works it delicately it threatens to break at every high pitch-- but it doesn't; and the listener's racing heart takes a reprieve. Until the next crescendo, that is. But the message she delivers is arresting hundreds across the world.

Of course, as some have agreed, Bob Marley will love her. Fela will see hope again. Wyclef Jean will be impressed. And she might make friends with such atypical performers as India Arie and Macy Gray. She performs moving poetry on love, human rights, the ordinary life. The manner in which she handles the songs, the reverence, suggests that she didn’t know what she was on to until it arrived fully formed, the mixture of reggae, soul, hip-hop, folk, and rock. And she is left with the enormous challenge to name it, although it appears she won't be able to.

The music is bigger than the musician. Asa stands, maybe, 5ft. She doesn’t at once look like superstar material. Her voice, well, is unusual. Strange. Yet her virtuosity outpaces these distractions, even though she sings like an unpolished village girl, with heavy stress points on her consonants and an attraction to accented English. Her 11th-track, Beautiful, for instance, consumes a great number of songs-for-mother that came before it. Presenting from a refreshing perspective, her flow reflects a robust emotion deserving of a tribute to one who made the giving of life possible.

If the comments on her website and YouTube channel are to be believed, the 11-track CD, Asa, captivates audiences everywhere on earth. The appeal in Europe, America , and Africa is tremendously promising. At home, since the album arrived with the single, Fire on the Mountain, it might have achieved this huge popularity for its significant difference in tone and content, threatening to remove the ground from under what Nigeria was beginning to accept as its own voice: Afro-hip-hop, the standard.

Over the years, from her days as a university dropout who took to the guitar, a weird girl guitarist on the streets of Lagos, to the troubled days with former associates, Question Mark Entertainment, Asa's art has grown up. She is adding frills to her stage performances, too. She can now tour the world as her own woman, not an inconsequential opening act for other people.

Will she win a Grammy? Will she merely be nominated? It's a question that has been asked. If she does win a Grammy or something very prestigious, then it confirms the widespread belief that Asa is world class indeed. If she doesn't, it may not reduce from her magical attraction.

Her drawback, eventually, maybe in the showmanship she puts into her stage performances. That she can conveniently hold concerts for hours has not been convincingly projected either. And, most importantly, how long will this type of music enrapture the world? Some have said it will soon fade away, being a distraction from the dominance of hip-hop and rap. If it doesn't, it's on Asa's shoulder to prove that her first album didn’t happen by luck. She needs to show, in her future work, that she won't cut and paste the rhythm and melody from this one.

And the voice. God don't let it collapse. It's the witchcraft that holds all these in place.

© S.A

And I strongly think Amy Winehouse comes second after Asa ;)

March 14. Today. Today. Today.

Sometimes ago, I made a post about a certain experience. I wrote that “that experience will forever register as the most unfortunate and biting experience that befell me as an undergraduate”. It happened March 14, a year ago… I’m making this post in remembrance of that rainy, stupid, crazy, unbelievable, unforgettable,... and unforgivable day. Click here to read the poem I wrote afterwards. For me, hell has no fury than a man scorned.

The VAGINA Monologues: A personal take

Ever since I got the book from a visiting German friend, my fascination about the subject of the book has gone to a whole new level. Call it an obsession. No probs.

I made the book my instant stroll mate, sometimes leafing through it along those lonely sidewalks of the Unibadan campus, then. And of course I had a treat of a celebrity, sort of, in class, when everyone stared at me as though I had been bedraggled with shit. I’ll deliberately place the book on my table and watch how everyone takes a pious look at the “impious” title. I’m sure the author and/or her publisher intended the cover page to SCREAM. I particularly like the dark ambience of the cover page.

It wasn’t hard to decode what those wrinkled countenances meant.

Chris is at it again!
This guy sha;
Na Wa O!
Yepa!
Gush!
OMG!
Stupid boy!

And those familiar ones… Na U be the Anti-Christ, I said this guy is possessed!

And of course Amaka, a former classmate, will come to me in her charismatic stride to probe the fatherlity and motherlity of my beingness. Pardon my English. She quips, Na person born you?, sometimes accompanying it with a real good jab.

I remember offering the book to a lecturer, a supposed feminist. She declined, tagging the book as “demeaning,” even as I told her the recurring theme throughout the piece is the vagina as a tool of female empowerment, and the ultimate embodiment of individuality. She vexed me. I almost told her she is demeaning “down there”. Fate forbids I spend an extra semester.

That said, I love everything the book stands for.

The book is made up of a varying number of monologues read by a varying number of women who give individual account of experiences with their “cockpits”. It speaks about everything that relates to the vagina, be it through sex, love, rape, menstruation, mutilation, masturbation, birth, orgasm, the variety of names for the vagina, or simply as a physical aspect of the female body.

I found some parts humorous; especially the responses some ladies gave when asked… if your vagina could talk what would it say?

The book has enjoyed lots of criticisms. Some critics disclaim everything the book stands for.

It’s a good thing an NGO, KIND, is sponsoring a localised adaptation of the book. I’m not sure how they planned to do it. But I suspect the cast will give the audience a good treat of localised translation of the word VAGINA. Gush! I have no doubt that the Yoruba variant will arrest the day. Ob…!

Casts include:
Joke Silva
Rita Dominic
Kate Henshaw-Nutall
Funmi Iyanda and a special cameo appearance by Erelu Abiola Dosunmu.

Thanks to Lydia for helping with details of Venue, Time, Date and Gate Fee:
Wednesday 12th March and Thursday 13th March

Venue: MUSON centre Lagos

Time: 6pmGate

Fee: N2,500

Wednesday 19th March

Venue: National Theatre

Time: 4pm

Gate Fee: N300

Thursday 20th March

Venue: Terra Kulture VI

Time: 6pm

Gate Fee: N2,500

My Birthday

LHM, this is coming toooooo late. Make una forgive me o.

I remain doubtful whether the choice of lover’s day as my birthday was intended by my parents. For all I know, those love birds whose collaboration (sometimes I think it’s a conspiracy) informed my birth must have considered the economic advantage of having their first child on that day. It does feel great that I don’t give out gifts. Did you just call me a miser? It’s my birthday after all.

11:55pm. My phone alarm, set five minutes before I clocked a new year, alerted me to get ready for the barrage of phone calls that will soon follow. I took a curious look at the battery levels of the two phones whose strength were going to be put to test. Their full battery bars were a promise of commitment to the night service. I don’t know how they escaped the ever restless, game-playing fingers of my kid brother. Just as I was trying to whisk off the last spell of sleep from my face, the first call came in. 11:59pm, according to my own time. It was from a former classmate. Unfortunately, my sleepish thumb denied her the privilege of being my first birthday-wishing caller by mistakenly pressing the cut button. I was still struggling with the sleep hangover. She didn’t call back though, but the text message she sent still ranked her as the first non-family member to wish me a happy birthday. Mumcy had exploited the opportunity. “Happy Birthday my son,” she said to the accompanying sound of the opening door. I may never know why she favored Yoruba as the medium to offer her wish… her wishes! It was touching.

For about 35 minutes, my Celtel line was leading the score line with the surge of calls and text messages it was receiving. Afterwards, my MTN line, angry with envy, made it first impression, courtesy of an old friend, courtesy of XtraCool ;).

And so the next four hours was spent between picking calls and reading text messages. In some cases the two phones rang at the same time that my preference to favor one caller over the other was based on the “eminence” of the favored party. (Tayo, I hope you’ll still believe me that I went to the loo when you called)

I got lovely text messages, although I wished one had MISSed its way. Worever!

Day break. I went for the NYSC thing. My eyes betray all effort to feign a peaceful night. They bore bags like they were being JackieChaned (©). The calls didn’t stop coming. Neither were the text messages.

So so so so so… I waited fruitlessly for Halle Berry. Eve Einsler didn’t show up. Efjay told me she is gay. No One could never make Alicia Keys to honour my invitation. She was still basking in the euphoria of her Grammy. And so no lady attempted to kill me on my birthday, as I’d expected. Too bad. Maybe if I had a party.

I got some gifts. Thanks to the givers. I appreciate your love. Someone accused me of not having a wish list, his smart way of excusing himself for not giving me any thing. Worever! Dami thanks for the credit (although I think you have used the money to buy me a new phone!)

Though intangible, I consider my chat with the Creative Director, SB, the next day in his office as the highest point of my celebration. In his Asylum (that’s the tag on his door), I think as a way of wishing me… we had a therapeutic chat on my voyage as a budding copywriter. I can only hope that the outing he promised will not coincide with those moments where his mood, which has a legendary status in-house, assumes that of a laughing hyena. Actually, they only remind me of those classical psychological theories of manic disorder and depression… and some Robert Greenish postulations on power relations. Fire me, I dare you… isn’t creativity about disruption again? “It’s not rocket science,” is it? That I came out of his asylum smiling remains a grand antithesis to the famous quote “there are no atheists in foxholes”.

Special thanks to everyone who showed love. And to my blogofriends… I appreciate you guys.

It was my first post-school birthday.

Valentine's Day, My Birthday

Hey! I hope you won’t pretend that you never read this post. I will surely catch you because I’ve just uploaded an invincible application that tracks everyone that visits this blog. If you want to know more, the application has been credited as having the most powerful precision quality. Its features include giving accurate names of visitors. Just bury the idea of running away from this post. Yes, don’t even think of it. I’ll catch you. YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY FROM SENDING ME A BIRTHDAY PRESENT or A HAPPY BIRTHDAY WISH.

This will be my first post-school birthday. Make an impression on me ‘cos when the sky start raining honey on my roof alone, I’ll only grant scooping rights to deserving friends only.

Don’t mind me… it pays to be silly sometimes.

My last birthday was pretty interesting. I remember binging away with a friend who hosted me to TinTin, that cool spot somewhere around the University of Ibadan campus. Then in the evening, another friend decided on a reprisal. She ferried the boat to another joint.

Happy Birthday to me in advance.

Berti Vogts to be fired...

I await a newspaper headline…

Berti Vogts to be fired
… by Firing Squad

LoL.

Toni Morrison endorses Obama

Today I spent my time on Andrew Sullivan’s blog. Yes the blogoGeneral himself (lol). If it’s about American Politics, his blog is addictive enough. He arguably runs the most popular political blog (says Wiki). By the middle of 2003, it was receiving about 300,000 unique visits per month. Yuckkkk! Watchout that record will soon play a second fiddle to the one you’re reading now… what’s impossible? LOL.

He writes on Toni Morrison’s endorsement of Senator Obama.

Nobel Prize winning author and Pulitzer Prize recipient, Toni Morrison today endorsed Senator Barack Obama in a letter citing the need for the country to embrace this rare opportunity to vote for change. Toni Morrison has been a voice of leadership and inspiration through her many awarding winning novels and continued work in education. This is Toni Morrison’s first public endorsement of a presidential candidate.

Excerpts from TM’s inspiring letter:

I have admired Senator Clinton for years. Her knowledge always seemed to me exhaustive; her negotiation of politics expert. However I am more compelled by the quality of mind (as far as I can measure it) of a candidate. I cared little for her gender as a source of my admiration, and the little I did care was based on the fact that no liberal woman has ever ruled in America.

TM continues…

In thinking carefully about the strengths of the candidates, I stunned myself when I came to the following conclusion: that in addition to keen intelligence, integrity and a rare authenticity, you exhibit something that has nothing to do with age, experience, race or gender and something I don't see in other candidates. That something is a creative imagination which coupled with brilliance equals wisdom. It is too bad if we associate it only with gray hair and oldage. Or if we call searing vision naivete. Or if we believe cunning is insight. Or if we settle for…

Details here.

Mischief at work: I GOT PUNK’D

I resumed work and as usual I logged on to my yahoo messenger. Yahoo announced that a colleague of mine was online. And so I sent her a “Good Morning”. She asked about my night and then a little conversation ensued. She replied to my questions on her experience at the RCCG program she had attended.

Conversation continues…

And then a question from her: How about sex tonight?

My fingers suddenly became numbed on the keyboard. My chair must have swiveled as I tried to withstand the jab from the question. Hell No!... I wasn’t shying away from the “wonderful” request. In fact on receiving the request, some KarmaSutra-ish spell ran through my brain. (Stop reading, Yomi Lumor, Tunde-Hundeyin, Solape, ‘Tokunbo, and Samson). I became dumbfounded because this colleague of mine has no carriage of someone who I would expect such a request from. She looks so SU-ish, so spirit-koko-ish… (I hope she’s not reading this!). Her mien belies that question.

Trying to be modest I quickly typed:????

And so the hallowed question came again: How about sex tonight?

Then I realized the chatter meant bizness. I was feeling nudged to tiptoe to her office to confirm whether I was chatting with the right person. But it couldn’t have been someone else. Afterall she had correctly answered a personal question I asked her.

Then the devil in me answered: Not a bad idea!

A LONG PAUSE FOLLOWS…..

Suddenly someone held my neck from the back…

It was the Art Director of the agency.

Art D: You’re a bad boy.
Me: Watzup?
Art D: You’re a fag!
Me: Wetin happen now?
Art D: You thought you were chatting with her… I was actually the one you were chatting with.
Me: ARE U KIDDIN’ ME?

LHM. I knew it. It couldn’t have been that babe, “E”.

The art director was supervising her work. He decided to impersonate her on yahoo messenger, on knowing I was at the other end.

Gush! Did I wish that request was for real?

I got punk’d... by OGA Soooools.

CONDOLENCES TO MY CLASSMATES

I feel really sad that a classmate of mine, Bola Adewumi, lost her life. She was involved in an accident along the Ife-Ibadan expressway. Most touching is the fact that she died less than two months after her wedding and she is presently undergoing her NYSC service year. Rest In Peace, Bola. We’ll miss you. Here is a worthy tribute to Bola, written by another classmate.

My condolence also goes to Uche, another classmate, who lost her husband. I feel terribly bad about the fact that… Uche is also a newly wed, and she is pregnant.

Dele Giwa: Born to Run

I love reading biographies. I remember my childhood days when I used to pick those big hardcover books from the shelves and leafed through them with infant glee. I’ll bury myself under the bedspread, against the chattering of my siblings, just veering away into the lives of some great guys.

Just recently a colleague of mine asked if I have read Soyinka’s You Must Set Forth at Dawn. Of course I have. He recommended that I read Born to Run: The Story of Dele Giwa. And notwithstanding my hiccups with NYSC and some other personal scuffles, I had to create the time to read the book. I bet it’s a very touching book. I particularly resent Dele Giwa’s dysfunctional romance with Florence Ita-Giwa. Gush! That woman na War. True, True No Woman No Cry!

I commend the biographers’, Dele Olojede & Onukaba Adinoyi-Ojo, efforts for their brilliant narration of the life of “a shoeless boy of a washerman” who became “the undisputed number one investigative journalist in Nigeria”.

Most striking was the way the book ends.

The bereaved grieved. The mother expressed her sorrow with funereal, haunting sounds from deep in a mother’s heart.

The mourners moaned. Traditional burial rites were conducted for a man who had little patience for tradition.

The actors talked, with impressive grandiloquence. The sun grew weary and the sun went down. Dele Giwa, shut away in a black casket, went down into the grave.

Forever.

Alone.

Facebook: what is this?

What should we call this? I stumbled at it while taking some random blog search. Click image to view full size.

2008: Starting on a good note

Yeah! I placed myself on a performance scale for the year 2007. With all sincerity, let it be known that I scored below average. Yes O! That year, thank goodness, will forever register as my most challenging year. I wish I could detail all my experiences, my high and low moments. I wish I could grade those experiences according to the magnitude in which they threatened to stifle me.

Of course, It wazn’t an entirely f&#%ed up year. How else can I say that in 2007, I became a graduate: got some of my write-up published, locally and online? Won a major poetry competition on campus and online. Got a job, call it a plum job. I didn’t honour it though, for reasons best known to my mentor, my egbons, and those sabi individuals who will always be there to save my head from the gallows. I was particularly enthusiastic about the job owing to the interesting circumstances that brought about the offer. I was just doing my thing, writing, as usual. I decided to spend my pre-NYSC holiday in school. Thank Goodness, I had a BQ. Armed with a desktop, a bookful© shelf and the tranquility of my room, I gave time to writing… I wrote enough to make the Head of a Brand Management company to request for my CV. Me? I haven’t even served sef! Shap shap! I send am. So so and so, I was invited for a written test. So so and so, I was called for an oral interview two weeks after. Soooooooooo, I was called to meet the management. I hadn’t expected much from the first stage of the interview, at least I gave the second stage to the crop of creamy looking, well-perfumed-corporate-looking-much-older individuals who I was privileged to be called alongside, exempting myself in the manner of a frightened chicken. Blablablabla… Anyway sha, that’s for that. I guess this job thing should stand as the climax of my good moments in 2007.

On the bad side. I gave my lowest moments to the series of nasty happenings that almost yanked my heart form my body in the name of being in love. I can only hope that my relationship with “M” will remain the only dysfunctional relationship I’ll ever find myself. Gush!

It’s a nu year. I don’t belong to that cliché school of Nu Year Resolution but I’ve decided to be at the top of my game, making my rules, judging and jurying meself dis year.

Lots of love.

Book I read during the holidays

Be Your Own Brand: A Breakthrough Formula for Standing Out from the Crowd... A very enjoyable book by David McNally & Karl Speak.

My Virtual T-Shirt

Custom T-Shirt Generator

Alicia Keys' "No One" Video

She's got the voice, the finesse, the beauty, the talent, the... (She should have me)

Alicia Keys - No One video
Uploaded by heyrox

Bad News to all Lovers of Country Music + Sex with Robots

I can believe there is a scientific revelation that links country music to suicide. Click HERE to read, and other bizarre scientific papers. Gush!

Camp Pictures!

Here are some of the pictures I took in Camp. Place cursor on each image to pause.

What I'm reading

The General in His Labyrinth by Colombian Nobel Laureate, Gabriel Marquez.

I bought this book at a ridiculously cheap price, from a roadside bookseller. Here is a wiki profile of this brilliant writer. Does anyone know who the greatest living writer is?

Dangerous Beauty

Dangerous Beauty, I love this movie. The movie, from the beginning, didn’t promise to be an interesting one, at least based on my cynical judgment. The only thing that sustained my attention was the brilliantly crafted lines, not less the poetry, and the voices of the actors. Also, I had to really switch on the subtitle mode, otherwise my mind, restless and wandering as usual, would have long cut off. I had thought the movie was going to offer an intolerable treat of sex scenes, so the movie jacket had suggested, but it didn’t. Thumbs up for the director. She (or he) didn’t allow love-making scenes to distract. These are just three of the scenes I found fascinating.

Don’t ask me why I included the first one. Go watch it NOWWWWWWWWWW

A Three-week long Pause from Civilization

A Three-week long Pause from Civilization

This is an unedited account of my National Youth Service Camp experience in Ekiti, South West Nigeria. I have promised in my last post to do this.

Just few days before leaving for camp, I had sulked over the thought that I’ll be absent from cyberspace. It was just like my world was getting wrapped up. Considering how tied my life has been to the internet, I have often feared that I might one day have an unexpected break. That it will come as a call-to-national duty was unforeseen. Some crazy thoughts smuggled their ways into my mind. I devised every possible plan to beat the camp security in order to ensure that I find my way into town & browse. How can I be on planet earth without reading my favorite blogs, without YouTubing, without watching ads, or without knowing about happenings around me?

Camp was fun. What else can I say? I met with every kind of people possible: the sane, the beautifully-minded, the humorous, the smart, the psychos, the idiots, the snubs, the arrogant, the religious hypocrites, the gold-diggers … wait for this – nymphos. I had the rare privilege of being camped alongside this crop of characters in what looked to me like an open space penitentiary.

Just few days after arriving camp, the demons of Ekiti assumed authority over my respiratory tract. For no just reason, they decided to mar my camp experience with an adequate dose of catarrh, earth-quaking cough, swollen tonsils, and severe migraine. I can’t remember the last time I had catarrh or cough. I had an unbearable dose of both in Ekiti. The migraine stuff was the worst of all. I was selected as one of the members of the parade guards. The rehearsals under the unfriendly sun of Ekiti, sometimes lasting for three hours, triggered my brain cells to rebel against the undeserved torture which they had been subjected to. Hence, migraine. The left half of my head and my eyes threatened to detach themselves from my whole body. The pain was so much that I visited the sick bay three times under one hour. There were no relevant drugs. Only Paracetamol and Vitamin C… and my body system had a sizable dose of the latter. The doctors that attended to me, themselves corpers, warned that I stay away from the rehearsals if I don’t want fitful bouts of the aptly labeled severe migraine. And that was how I excused myself from the parade guard. More annoying is the fact that most of the people I met there think I’m a quiet type, you know, the cool dude. My boisterous part was to a large extent put on hold. It has to be on hold. I hate to blow catarrh in front of people or to spit phlegm. Most times I found myself losing concentration to either a wayward sneeze or a prodigal cough. Besides the mandatory drudgeries, my other occupations were blowing catarrh and spitting out phlegm. And I did my homework well. I bought four handkerchiefs, bought tissue like I was menstruating, and stuffed my body system with different kinds of minted sweets. I’m sure no one came close to purchasing Pectol, Vicks Lemon Plus, TomTom, and other kinds of licks as much as I did. Right now, I bear a small scar under the roof of my mouth, a result of an endless robbing-over with all kinds of minted stuff. Even fruits, orange and banana especially, did some injustice to my pocket. Notwithstanding my lankiness, I became very thin. I sent text messages to some of my friends. I asked, Have you seen a beanpole lately?

Three friends of mine, Femi, Fauziah & Angela were especially there for me. Their unbridled care touched the very heart of my being. I’ve never felt so warm in my life. These are just guys that I met right there in camp. I’ve known Femi right from school but we were not friends until NYSC.

Femi has a large heart. I’m highly indebted to him for his attention and medical advice, although I once thought of disobeying his prescriptions on the grounds that he is a Veterinary Medical doctor and so his patients are animals. I was afraid he might be mistaking me for one of his ‘patients’. Even when I whined annoyingly beside him (his bunk was right after mine), he remained unperturbed. Occasionally, he asks how I was fairing. On an occasion, he asked whether I’ve visited the toilet. I answered NO. I told him I usually find it rather difficult to visit the toilet in places where I’m not used to. Although not deliberate, my shit hormones just cease as long as I’m in a new environment. And so Femi remembered one of his medical texts and troubled my brain with lectures on toxins… and how the wall of my stomach blablablabla. That evening I joined the esteemed league of shot-putters after carrying my ‘pregnancy’ for more than a week. And I indulged myself in that hallowed business on three other occasions. Lord have mercy! …that clayey slab of land right after the Catholic Fellowship Centre, in less than three weeks became brown with human discharges. People like Femi are rare. MY FRIEND FEMI IS A GREAT MAN. Thanks, my brother from another mother. (Only God knows which of our dads was a player!)

I was warned not to go for the endurance trek. Me? I follow. Wetin I go dey do for camp? The only problem I had was with my jungle boot. They practically cooked my feet. Thanks to the kindness of one of the villagers who gave me a pair of slippers which I wore in replacement for the oven of a boot and the chit-chats with Chinwe, my comrade during the trek. One other thing that fascinated me about the endurance trek, aside that I ENDURED it, was the sight of Cocoa plantation. I have been curious about such sight since mumcy won’t stop telling us, her children, about the vastness of Grandpa’s cocoa farm. And so on that fateful Thursday I watched as my childhood curiosity became sated. There in the woods, I saw thin trees breasted with cocoa pods, up down. There was something dignifying about this crop. I wish the camp director had not warned us about trespassing. We climbed some hills and had a panoramic view of Ekiti. There are so many hills in Ekiti. I’m sure an aerial view of the state will give something like a hairy woman lying face-up with a corrugated body full of cupped breasts. There are hills in Ekiti. One of the villagers revealed to me that the name ‘Ekiti’ means ‘hills’.

Most of the time my phone was dead. Since I was off the internet, I decided to stay away from making or receiving calls. However, I had to charge it in order to call my siblings who were already bothered about my health, my immediate younger brother in Unibadan especially. Also I had to collect the phone numbers of a few people.

My hostel mates were something else. Every night after the light-out, we engaged ourselves in crazy discussions. My participation was only as a spectator and laughometer – my coinage for one whose laughter is used in gauging the funniness of a joke. Trust me, I can laugh. There’s nothing I enjoy more. Most outspoken among my room mates were folks from Ekpoma. Yes! Those Ambrose Ali students! There was no corper in Ekiti who had no feel of an Ekpoman. Gush! How do I give an exact account of their yarns especially as they speak their wacky minds through their Waffy-coloured tongue? They are either yabbing someone or making snide remarks about some Oshere (a chic) or glorifying their school (Edo State Military Academy, so they proudly called it), or cooking up strategies on getting a girl laid or escaping from camp to watch UEFA Cup matches. On a particular day these guys picked on a certain Covenant University girl who had called the food provided by the NYSC officials ‘shitty grub’. The girl, according to them, gave that retort on being asked by her friend whether she eats from the Kitchen. Me? Eat that shitty grub? God forbid. I think those Ekpoma boys overheard her and so they tonguelash the hell out of her. Two Ekpoma guys I’ll miss greatly are Raymond & Happy (Real name).

And of course I met some annoying people. Amongst them was one particular girl who joined the table while I was having dinner with two sane chics. She came asking me about ‘the dinner I promised her’. There was this seriousness in her voice. Even while I was trying to downplay the whole thing, she just won’t stop darting into my ears the unfounded claim that I promised her dinner. I had no problem buying her dinner but I was upset with the fact that she made other girls uncomfortable with her yells. Besides, I didn’t promise her dinner. Femi did. Well, na she sabi!

Hmmmm, Suya! I chopped skewered meat like I was never going to eat meat after camp. My bunkee, Babagana, on noticing that almost every evening, just before bed, I stroll into the room with suya asked what the love of suya was about. Himself, an Hausa, a UniMaidigurin graduate, could not fathom out why, for me, Mami Market means Suya Spot. With his friend, Femi’s bunkee, Babalawan, he promised to invite me to the north to have a throatful of suya-eating experience. Babalawan said he would ensure that I take back to Lagos a Ghana-must-go filled with Suya. I can’t believe that a stick of suya that was sold to us for #100 goes for just #30 there in the north. Oga O!

Babagana and Babalawan. I enjoyed hanging with these guys. Femi and I got a different perspective about northerners, something absolutely different from media projections. Well, it’s undoubted that most southerners’ understanding of the north is largely stereotypical. I guess that also applies to the northerners’ understanding of the south too. I have always thought that the north was largely anti-West, and that any Western incursion of any guise was resisted. Hell, No. I was told that Borno State is not as northern as we had thought. We marveled at their understanding of the Hip-Hop culture. Babagana knows almost every of 2pac’s songs with their lyrics. Babalawan was constantly listening to R ‘n B and Raps on his phone. I enjoyed these guys. I enjoyed them most when we threw tantrums at each other. I annoyed my bunkee in several ways. And he wasn’t kind on me with his jabs. But you know boys; we know the way to deflate our anger. I hope that someday I’ll meet these guys again.

Angelaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Angieeeeeeeeeee. If there were anyone whose company I enjoyed like, like, like… what’s the word? Like I should always be in her company, that person was Angela. Barrister Angela. This Port Harcourt babe has a beautiful mind. She is intelligent, funny, and open (hey! not literal). With her there was always something interesting to discuss. Sometimes, we yabbed each other like we’ve beefing each other before getting to camp. We met at the camp. When the stupid migraine started, she was all at hand. Abeg, there are friends and there are friends. Angela, if you get to read this, it’s my way of saying thank you. Unfortunately, Angela left camp before the passing out day to attend her call to bar. Then the hurrying clouds of Ekiti became thick with boredom. Not that there were no people I could hanged out with. I just didn’t see anyone who was free-spirited like Angela. We discussed virtually everything, however ribald or serious.

Fauziah was someone I enjoyed too. My moments with her were kinda irregular but fun. She’s got a beautiful mind too.

I wish I had a whole day to give other accounts of my experience. Just like I said in the beginning, they will come in bits. This account won’t complete without mentioning such names as Kola (LAUTECH), Kemi and Tina (both Unibadan), Zaynab (UniSokoto), Joseph (Delsu), Dogak (UniJos), Tien (Delsu), Bola (KwaraPoly), Helen (UniCalabar)… And towards the end of the camp some friendship lines were drawn, some deliberate, some accidental. Amongst them Omolade, Chidinma, Mide, and Samuel (all of Covenant University), Seun (LAUTECH). Kester (Ekpoma), Ernest (UNN* not sure), Desmond (Bayelsa) etc., etc.

I had some interesting moments with some of the Covenant ‘children’. My brawl with Omolade will definitely make an interesting read. I’ll publish that someday.

The three weeks camping was not without some low moments especially when I had to reflect on the relationship I left before leaving for camp. The camp thing was like a vacation to ensure that I heal my injured heart. The process came rather slow. I’m still on it though. Omolade was like a succour. Her presence did a lot of magic. But we had a sprain… Details later.

Forgive any error, grammar or distortions, in this account. I’m typing directly without giving much concern about editing. I have many things struggling for my attention.

I hope to quickly resolve my wahala with my primary place of assignment. So I may be a bit irregular with my publishing on this blog. Thanks, for visiting my blog. You may click ‘Older Post’ at the bottom of this page to read my