Dear blog

So sorry, this is where I pull the curtains.

I don’t know where I am. But I’m not at home.

Like shit, this happened.

Cheers.

V'day. B'day. In Bits.

Two days to Valentine.
We got paired in the office. Official Val. And my pick, by contrast to me, is the shortest female in the agency. Davida and Goliath.

Each couple is meant to exchange gifts on Valentine’s Eve, and do whatnots to celebrate office love. And the strange venture of shopping for a woman (pun unintended), in an attempt to impress her, clouded my thought. I’d planned that if everything fails, I’ll just enter a wine shop and find a sexy-shaped-bottle of liquor, have it wrapped well, and bundle it alongside an empty black (not red) chocolate box. To be placed on her table the morn of the D-day. On the box will be words that say everything about the difficulty of getting an “ideal gift”. Or “Bear with me. But my love for you is stronger than this wine”. Wine Alch content, more than 40 % *wink wink*. Funny, I don’t know where Vibrators are sold in Lagos *wink wink*.

Valentine Eve.
Couldn’t visit wine shops. Plan B. So, I got this cute bag-ful of girly stuffs. The price suggests it’s a good buy, lol. So we exchanged the gifts. Strangely, she gave me a bottle of wine and etc etc etc. Alch content… not to be disclosed.

Same day, My B’day Eve.
11:58pm. I braced up for the next assault on my phone. A cheat call came in. “I know it’s not time yet, but I just want to be the first to wish you a happy birthday”. I said to her… I may die at 11:59 you know ;)

The first true b’day greeting was an SMS. 12:01am. Yo, B!

Valentine’s Day. Birthday.
The day was almost lost on me… cos I was pretty occupied with serious domestic wahala. Two friends planned an out-gig. I turned them down. Serious domestic wahala. But evening came… and boys proved to be boys!

Got on an official cake. Got another lovely one from lil’ sis. Got gifts.

A day after. Sunday.

Office Val & I moved the train to Terra Kulture, alongside a friend, to see a Laspapi-produced play. Sizwe Banzi is dead. Lovely play. You may want to see it too. Did I cringe when Laspapi said… “I’d like to recognize the presence AlooFar and… ?” Good heavens!

… and I appreciate all the love from blog friends. Thanks.

_________

Pulling the curtains…

The truth, virtually.

Yes, I hate my first name.

Yes, I once dipped my hands in the basket.

No, I don’t enjoy meeting virtual friends.

It is not butterflies that fly in my belly when the thought of meeting virtual friends crosses my mind. It feels more like having rotten eggs hatch in my belly. Maybe a phobia is waiting to be named after me.

Aloovirtualphobia? Lol.

For me, the internet (especially blogville) is a universe populated by different avatars, where we have the most boundless freedom to assume extra terrestrial roles… lol. It’s like an open market where merchandises are sold at the whims of traders, free of market regulations.

I remember when I started visiting online forums. Then, I was stunned by shades of opinions from people I didn’t know, people whose faces I only conjectured. Blurred and liquid faces.

And then blogging came my way. Before I started my blogs, which took a while, I was just a blog nomad wandering through blogs and rarely leaving comments.

One thing I found most amazing about blogging was how it conditions people to exhibit high degrees of self-absorption. Narcissism.

And the sheer facelessness that comes with it is even more appealing. Well yeah, some people are not anonymous bloggers. But it’s all cool that these maskless bloggers remain what they are so long as we don’t meet ourselves on “planet earth” to exchange compliments over beer or to size each other up to confirm whatever perception we have of each other.

I don’t think I can pass for a shy guy. Forget my crazy mood swings. I just fear I may lose my fascination for a blog or the blogger if we get to meet. So I don’t want to demystify anyone. Let’s remain virtual friends, virtually. Lol. 

I sometimes wonder… What if she is a shy person after all?

What if he isn’t a smart dude after all?

What if she doesn’t have a beautiful mind after all?

What if it’s all a pose?

What if the only thing good about him is his beautiful writing style?

What if she isn’t “tight” after all?

For all we care… wait for it… she might just be a virgin after all? ;)

But really, I’ve seen some bloggers before, those whose pictures I see on facebook and other sites. On one occasion, at an event on Victoria Island, I remember sitting beside a popular blogger. He didn’t know who I was. We chatted for a long time. I even helped him with my phone to make a call. At that same event, I saw another one (he has stopped blogging) who helped me with direction as I needed to tell someone how to get to the event.

Have I met some bloggers before? Yes, if that includes those who have been my friends before they started blogging. And those who were not my friends before… they can pretty tell the aftermath of meeting them. Lol.

Enough said.

On my second truth, I’m still trying to convince myself to blog about it ;)

________

Valentine’s Day. My Birthday.

I lied, truthfully.

What’s the world turning into? Someone woke up and started telling people to lie? ;) For me, the most stressful part of blogging is doing tags.

Well, one of my truths will be the subject of my new post. I don't know which of them yet.

Carameld, here we go…

Two righteous pills. One sin.

- I hate my first name.

- I once took money from the offering basket of a church.

- I love meeting virtual friends.


Now who do I tag? Everyone has done this already. It’s your turn - Moody (You know what I can do to you if you don’t do this!), NDQ, Uzezi, Rethots, Parakeet.

Can someone tell Laspapi that I feel like seeing The Vagina Monologues again?

­­­­_______

Have you laughed uncontrollably, lately?

I'm not so bad, after all

I never liked going home for break during my university days. I’d prefer to stay on campus after everybody had left; staying behind to enjoy the tranquility of a once-noisy environment. But some people hated the idea.

My siblings.

I used to think it was strange how they always looked forward to my break. Even strange-r was that they knew my school calendar.

I used to feel somewhat guilty anytime I got home, which was rare – and usually unannounced. My siblings will start telling me how they had anticipated my coming. My kid brother, especially, will revel in how he had replayed some fond memories in his head and had expected new additions to his memory bank. But then, I always disappoint. I think I still do.

As much as I enjoyed hanging out with them, it was always impossible to lure myself away from the sanity of the university community (during break) – the sprawling trees waving hands at passers-by, the sight of birds cavorting in the air, the panoramic view of busiless roads, and the few passing faces of those enjoying the fecund freedom.

And so I was at home and kid brother thought it was time to SCATTER my life - the capped word meaning a final disruption of my ever disorganized life.

I was so shocked when he uttered those words. But I feigned my emotions.

How the words linked with our conversation is beyond my conception. Before that defining moment(Yes like Obama’s), our discussion had bothered on his newly-mastered piano and drumming stunts, on why he thinks Mozart is overrated, on his dream DVD collections of Jazz Greats, on why his friends cannot understand his obsession - as a science student - with the arts.

Today, I remember those words again. Those words still haunt (and hunt) me, as ever.

“You know you’re my role model.”

I died for about three minutes when those words hit my ears; my brain ran a quick nanosecond scan.

Me?

Me?

Wait, me?

The conversation continued. However.

Mischievous as ever, after saying those words, he looked up at me and added… “that does not include certain habits.”

Unbloggable habits ;)

He clocked a new year, yesterday. And yeah, I played the big brother. Time to surprise him.

I gave him the package. Three wrapped DVDs.

I saw the glow on his face.

The first two says, The Complete Jazz: Volume 1 and 2

The second says, Piano: Play like the Masters

And then he jumped at my lanky frame (almost breaking me) and embarked on a long singsong of Thank You.

He won’t read this though… Happy B’day lil’ Bro.

No matter what the outside world thinks… I’m a good guy at the home front, I think ;)

Operation Fun, Nothing Less

Vacation lesson from 2008… always codename your vacation. I did.

Operation Fun, Nothing Less.

When you have a year short of fun then you know you need to make maximum use of your vacation. Or better put, when you have a year full of too many challenges then you’d better find a way to pamper your nerves.

The best way to end the year’s load of stress was attending an event at Jade’s Palace on the Island. I wasn’t really in my element… I just sat in one corner following the event. But then, I enjoyed the performances… Etcetera’s, Banky W’s, GT the guitar man’s, Timi (West African Idol winner) etc. But Tosin Martins was fantastic with his rendition of a popular Christmas song, using Afro beat tunes. Where the hell did he get that idea from - fusing Afro beat with Christmas song? And Timi is such a good singer.

The city of Jos was top on my favourite destination list. But I changed my plan after the state got smoked in some stupid ethnic-political upheaval. Nope, it actually wasn’t for that reason that I changed my plan. But my would-be host informed me that his uncle’s house was one of the burnt-down houses. So I guess I didn’t want to be involved in some house-mourning sessions. And I suspect his Uncle’s house was where he’d planned to house me.

Change of destination.

Ibadan.

This vacation, I told myself, there will be no distractions! No internet. No serious reading (except wine labels). No to every other thing that I’d made 2008 what it was for me. Switching off my phone was part of the plan. Yes! But I was bribed not to. I’m one of the few people that enjoy such a privilege ;) Actually, the story of me and my phone is the story of a telecom customer service attendant.

So the bus headed towards Ibadan. I slept off after several attempt to read past page four of Obama’s Dream from My Father. But then, that was the farthest I read before I gifted it to a friend.

Ibadan was a good choice, a cheaper choice.

It feels great to meet a good friend again after what seemed like a decade of separation. There is no amount of internet correspondence and phone calls can replace the magic of face-to-face contact. It’s my theory. And I have a proof.

I knew I was going to break my after-sickness resolution. I mean, how do I keep to it when my host is a mixologist per excellence? On the eve of the New Year, I went to see another friend (the one I gave the book), a professor-friend and his family. Good people.

So my friend and I with his dogs were left to usher ourselves into the New Year. So the plan was up. I had bought a sizeable amount of Suya to last two Homo sapiens and three canine friends. But the liquor was left for the former. That night a new drink will be invented. My friend, tired of using the mixer I bought, experimented with some drinks. And then KT Martini was born – named after his initials.

We started gisting. He forced me to tell him a story I’ve avoided telling him. So I narrated the EX-perience - my story of singletood (in 2008), amidst the barrage of Happy New Year calls and text messages.

The food in his house was good. And the drink, of course. But then, one’s journey to Ibadan is not complete until amala is involved in the story. Yet another theory of mine. We went out on an occasion to buy hampers and some other gift items. I entered UBA with a Zenith Bank cheque. That error is still unexplainable to me. Then hunger struck. And the nearest amala joint came to the rescue. Good food. I didn’t care who was looking at the lanky guy eating amala with spoon and forking the meat. And I love forking meats!!!

Miracles still happen. And strange things haven’t stopped happening. My friend’s niece, a three year old, came with her mum. She was a really funny girl. She told me she was 50 years old a day after she had said she was 20.

And this was the funniest part. As I was about to leave the dining room to pick something from my friend’s room, Small girl announced that she was going to wee-wee. Just as she saw that I motioned to stand up, she shouted No, No, No… don’t follow me jur. I want to go and wee-wee. Please don’t follow.

I was like… see me see wahala o. Na who tell am say I wan follow am to the loo? Wetin this small pikin get weh she know want make I see? Ehn? Three year old knows what shouldn’t be exposed for public viewership.

And that was one of her numerous stunts.

Good thing I stuck to my vacation resolution. Otherwise, the heap of waiting mails would have messed the whole thing up.

Vacation over. Time to leave. Some strange breeze visited me at the thought of leaving. So soon? Lagos again? Gush!

Got some books from my friend, after serious begging. Rubbish! Well, he ripped some movies into my laptop. I only hope I’ll have the time to watch them.

Now how do I tell him I forgot his book, Chinamanda Adichie’s Half of Yellow Sun in the bus I took? I’ll buy another one.

But then, I found myself in Lagos. First thing I noticed... In what looked like a film location for the new sequel of Police Story, all the Okada riders and passengers were wearing helmets.

Oh, I almost forgot… the fan base of KT Martini is increasing.

Wassup peeps? Hope you enjoyed your holidays!

__________

Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint. Mark Twain

... as if I know what women want ;)

I was passing by Muse's blog when I noticed his blogroll widget. I saw one of the dicks from my previous post staring back at me. I couldn't help laffing. I can only imagine the number of bloggers with the same kind of widget... with JT screaming on their visitors' faces. Hahahahahaha, do I owe anybody an apology?

________

I have a fascination about the humankind called “woman”. No doubt about that. And my fascination is nothing less than everything anthropological that has made the male kind to run after the opposite sex in a race that ranks us equal with animals, especially dogs! Perhaps, my fascination might be considered rare, even if I have to say that myself, considering how I wonder (and laugh too) at everything women have to cope with it in this so called man’s world.

This post was prompted by two Facebook notes which two female friends tagged me in. The notes were not so different in contents. The first - a vacancy requirement for any prospective lover: any male, was so funny I almost laughed my teeth out after reading it. I have absolutely no idea whether there is any dude anywhere that can meet her requirements. What she wanted, in three words – a perfect guy! The second was just a straight-to-the-point list of suggestions on how to impress a lady.

Although not as funny as the former, the latter caught more of my fancy. For reasons I can’t really explain, I have never been a fan of write-ups that seek to teach us the steps to getting the attention of the opposite sex. Well, maybe my resentment for those write-ups is borne by a deeply-engraved sense of rebellion (perhaps freedom) that prefers to try out new things, especially against normal codes.

I’m not saying that all the rules are wrong or it’s not good to follow them. My only observation is that such writings reduce ALL men to predictable zombies, whereas some men are not. What happens to the few good guys who won’t (and can’t) obey everything as stated in the content of magazines? They have women dying for them too. Yes! There are men who don’t offer perfumes or initiate dinners. But hey, these dudes are far more romantic than any Ian Fleming’s creation (of course, minus David Craig). Forgive that last part ;) But lemme put it this way... what if the guy looks like Lewis Hamilton at day one, treats you like you're the hawtest chic from planet Venus at day two, shower you with everything showerable for two weeks... only for him to get tired of the whole "show" and decides to be himself - Woody Allen!

Is it that ladies don’t have a preference for eccentrics – dudes who don’t fit into the typical “stable and refined” guy? If I get all the Cosmo-Glamour-Essence advice right… all quirky guys should just go back to mama! Haba!

I know a friend (a few of them actually) a million girls will die for just because he seems to get it right when it comes to impressing women. And yet all his “strategies” are very unlike the D0-It-Yourself stories we read here and there. And he is one bloody weirdo.

I don’t understand how people carry all these ishs in their heads. You’re with a lady and all you can think of, instead of relishing the moment, is how not to screw things up. Beyond the fake smile on your face is a brain that is on hyper-active mode just because certain rules must not be broken. Please, loosen up! The only moment I think all these stories come handy is… well, Freaksho says it better.

I’m not advocating that civility should be dumped in a LAWMA refuse bin. I just feel there should be room for experimenting.


___________________

Same job. More moolah. enuff said ;)

Sex, Dicks… and Advertising!

WARNING: Readers’ discretion is advised. You don’t have to be 18 to view the images. However, a circumcised mind is needed.

My eye balls almost popped out. I stared at the computer screen with such glee. Thank goodness for a healthy eye socket. Random thoughts scampered in my brain. What the fcuk is this?! What the fcuk are these?! I stared and stared. Maybe I drooled too.

The swivel chair halted. I sat motionless. Like a sculpted piece. Befuddled. Only my eyes maintained their business of winking. And my heart palpitates at such rate it almost wrinkled its corner of my shirt. My fingers stood shy of the keyboard, numbed.

It’s my corner of the office. I was practically held enthralled like a teenager experiencing his first orgasm? Well, these images are not so unfamiliar. I have a version of it: the real version. And that is the one I had carefully poked out of my zipper, at the gents, few minutes before I came back to my seat.

One of my agency’s Creative Directors - the one who got me punk’d - passed by. He stole a look at my computer, as usual (for a reason only the two of us knows - I wasn’t browsing my Real Player or youtubing Chris Rock and Jon Stewart at that moment - lol).

He was halted too. One-man traffic.

He spoke from behind my shoulder. “Wetin be dis?” he asked, pidginly. “Disgusting” spelt bold on his face. He didn’t drool though.

I ignored his question. I wasn’t ready for any argument. I’ve had too many of the same argument, on the same images, in the same corner of the office. Does sex sell? Do dicks sell? Puritanicals versus Liberals. Churchies versus Non-churchies. Conformists versus Rebels. I know where I belong. Don’t guess please!!!

Question: How far can (or should) advertising go on its use of sex? These ads are meant to promote a condom brand!

Advertising Agency: Troy, Brussels, Belgium

Creative Directors: Xavier Bouillon, Antoine Wellens

Art Director: Xavier Bouillon

Copywriter: Antoine Wellens

Photographer: François Chevalier

Published: September 2008
__________________________
Somebody should please tell me Obama used a teleprompter to deliver his victory speech!

Yaddy, U’D BETTER FREE JONATHAN ELENDU NOW!

What the heck is wrong with Yar’adua?

First, it was the closure of Channels TV. The latest stunt of his administration’s misadventure with the press is the arrest of blogger Jonathan Elendu.

I have no objection towards the arrest of any person, whose publication, albeit virtual, is considered sensitive to national interest or raises a security concern, but to detain the person for more than eleven days against a law that requires that a detainee be charged within 48 hours of arrest is, to say the least, an act reminiscent of Stalinism (or Buhari’s Nigeria!)

It does feel great to know he has been freed. Free in the sense that he is no longer in the custody of the SSS. But that his travel documents remain “arrested” gives a different definition to being Freed. Elendu cannot return to the US to meet his wife and kid who, one can only imagine, must have been imagining the Nigerian brand of torture which their loved one might be going through.

I can’t agree more with Loomnie that “this latest development shows that there might be an emerging pattern” (one which) “leads to the dangerous conclusion that Nigeria is losing the one thing that has often been reported in the international press about Nigeria - the relative freedom of the press.” Parenthesis mine.

I’m just fucking tired of Yar’adua’s government. Forgive my french. As much as I resent Obasanjo’s era – a classic eight years of how-to-be-a-stubborn-president, I’m more than convinced that the only legacy Yar’adua will be remembered for, as regards his administration, is nothing less than how-not-to-be-a-good-president. His brain, forgive me, seems to be on a permanent slow-mo.

Well, before now, I’d planned to carry a virtual placard (unfortunately, I can’t go naked virtually. Can I?) Damn!

What is more appalling about Eledu’s case is the fact that mainstream media did not consider his arrest a big deal. One would have thought that the issue would have been headlined as prominently as possible… in a press that is still hopeful for the Freedom of Information Bill to be signed. Perhaps, one should think that Nigerian pressmen (and women) are yet to embrace the online phenomenon called blogging. One question: how many Nigerian newspapers have blog sections on their internet pages? Well, thank goodness they have websites!

And if the SSS(haria) wants to arrest more bloggers. I’d like to suggest the following ;):

Blogger/Crime
AlooFar : For putting this post up.

Solomonsydelle : For initiating a worthy campaign for Eledu’s release.

Afrobabe / Ibiluv / Ubongda : For daring Shariah with their posts – lol

I hope you guys are not afraid O! – Lol.

Flight attendant fired for blogging. Here. Here. And Here.

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My brain - it's my second favorite organ. Woody Allen

Feeling Nerdy

Who should we thank for roadside booksellers? ... lol

I can’t believe I read a book in record time considering my incurable slow reading pace. I stopped by at a roadside bookseller to see if I could pick anything interesting. Interesting in this case means the lucky book must have a please-pick-me cover and an arresting blurb. And hopefully, it could also have a string of endorsers from notable writers and critics.

I don’t care how roadside booksellers get their merchandise. A friend of mine has too many theories about their source; the most telling is that they are stolen. But I begged to say some of the books were give-aways, cast-offs, charity. Why should I care anyway? After all, I’ve bought some books (most of them remain unread…lol) that I may never have stumbled at in most of the bookshops I know. I buy them at ridiculously cheap prices. Hey! Save the jest, I buy expensive books too! It was from this same seller that I bought The General’s Labyrinth, written by the Nobel winning Colombian writer Gabriel Marquez. Surprisingly, most of all the books are new. Nope, I won’t give the bookseller’s address ;)

Ooops, I digressed.

A regular customer, I stopped by as usual. Took random glances at the scattered books.

There it is! There! I blinked, maybe twice. I shucked off doubts from my eyes. A section of the cover page, where the author’s name is written, poked out from underneath the thesaurus that rested on it. Slimely, I moved closer to the book. I measured my step in such a way as not to suggest to the seller that it’s a big book I was about to pick… lest he decides to inflate the price... lol. You can’t trust these sellers!

Author, J. M. Coetzee. Book, Elizabeth Costello. I picked the book. I didn’t bother to read the blurb. What matters only was that it was written by an author whose work I have longed to read. J. M. Coetzee – South African-born Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature (2003), two-time Booker Prize winner (1983, 1999).

Written like an abridged biography of its major character – a distinguished Australian novelist, Elizabeth Costello is a starkly interesting and haunting book. It has eight chapters, each chapter represents different philosophical musing of the major character. In some cases, her musings are responses to other people’s stance.

It’s the first book by the author that I’ve read. It does suggest to me Coetzee’s brilliance. His presentation of serious issue in less serious language is remarkable. How he built a fictional character to argue serious matters, matters that are largely discoursed in academic writings (those boring stuffs), is baffling.

It’s a good read, considering the style of writing and the fanciful dramas the author wove together. But for the disturbing images most of the pages conjure… Please Mr. Coetzee, some readers don’t even watch horror movies let alone reading them! There is a part of the book where Elizabeth, the main character, compares the treatment of animals in the modern world to the Holocaust. Gush!

One of my favourite parts is the part where John, Elizabeth’s son anticipates his mother’s response to a question… “What led you, Mrs. Costello, to become a vegetarian?”

“You ask me why I refuse to eat flesh. I, for my part, am astonished that you can put in your mouth the corpse of a dead animal, astonished that you do not find it nasty to chew hacked flesh and swallow the juices of death wounds.”

I almost made a decision to turn to a vegetarian after reading that excerpt. But nothing can stop me from eating my Suya (skewered meat!)… lailai, not even anthrax can stop me from eating Suya!

“To Elizabeth, our oppression of animals – keeping them in captivity,… and breeding them in order to kill them on an industrial scale – arises from an unwarranted privileging of man and the faculty of reason,” says a critic of the book.

Hopefully, I’ll read other books by this author.
__________________________
Status updates on some of my books

The Tesseract, by Alex Garland – been struggling to go beyond the second chapter. Beautiful narration but no humour, maybe when I read further... ;)

Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt – been reading this lovely book since five months ago. I just can’t pass the first chapter. I’m afraid other chapters may not be as funny as the first.

Ibadan: The penkelemes years by Wole Soyinka – second reading actually. My brain has been on a slow-mo for Soyinka, lately. I don’t know where I stopped. Forgot to dog-ear. 30+, bookmarker is not working. ;)

The Culture of Narcissism, American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations by Christopher Lasch – Serious book that I’ve been reading unseriously ;)

The Audacity of Hope by Barrack Obama – 2008 most over-hyped book. I’ve finished reading this…. wait for it… after seven months ;) My favourite chapter is the last one, “Family”.

The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English - been reading this for 5 years ;)
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An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away. ~ Mae West

I'm still alive

Today, 2008.

From the desk of the Head,
Blogggers Welfare Dept.,
Gooogle Inc.
US.

To visitors of this blog

We at blogggers.com will like to inform you that this blog will remain un-updated for a while. We regret to announce that the lanky guy who runs this blog – AlooFar – is presently having a serious duel with an illness. He has since been at the mercy of some strange drugs. Besides, his mother – the ever-early guest at such alarm - has added to the blitz of drugs by involving some herbal mixture. This has caused a little tussle between the two of them. AlooFar insists that he hates bitterness on his tongue. Moreover, all his attempts at adding fruit juice or sugar to the herbal concoction have failed.

Because the illness defiled all domestic caring, he was taken to a hospital where he performed some 007-like stunt that placed him in front of a queue, to the chagrin of other patients. He left his mum surprised with the stunt.

For a hospital he has not visited in yeeeeeaaaarrrrssss, AlooFar was surprised that the recruitment formula for nurses has changed. Moving busily up and down the hospital aisles were good-looking and well-endowed nurses. But he could not understand the cranky look on their faces.

Against his expectation, AlooFar was attended to by a male doctor.

And then the doctor examined his new patient. AlooFar could interpret the look on the doctor’s face – “this dude looks so emaciated. He looks like a shrunken version of Will Smith.”

The doctor proceeded with the diagnosis and made some strange inscriptions on a sheet of paper. Medical lingoes, we suppose.

He directed them to go to the dispensary to get the stuffs he prescribed in coded letterings. Moreover, AlooFar kept staring at the strange writings, trying to see if any of the words look anything like “syringe,” “injection,” or “inoculation”. ALOOFAR HATES INJECTION.

They got to the dispensary and surprisingly he was not going to be injected.

AlooFar is surprised that Art lives in the hospital. He thinks all the pharmaceutical messages on the walls are artistic expressions of a strange sort. Stickers everywhere. Bold headings with funny endings – -quine, -col, -din, -tamol, -vasc, -gil, -illin, -tral blablablabla. “Who are they passing all these messages to?” AlooFar thought. He however said he was looking for any of the words that end with “–gra” or “-siac”. We have no idea which words have those endings.

As they were leaving the hospital, AlooFar began to look around, rather frantically, to have a final look at any of the beautiful nurses. However, none came at that point.

They left the hospital. He has since been taking his drugs and trying hard to get the memories of those nurses out of his sick brain.

We can assure you that he is winning the battle against the illness. And we hope he resumes blogging as soon as possible. After all, he was not diagnosed with blogoriasis or blogolaria.

May we seize this opportunity to warn those bloggers who enjoy prodding him for an update to STOP! He considers those prodding VERy Annoying (caps intended). Any further incursion from them, and their accomplices, may lead to a termination of their blogs.

Cheers,

Yao Ming-Ezimorah

For Gooogle Inc.

Lost

maybe I’m the one left behind
as the world moves in hurrying paces
or am I the first at the seashore – the
lone survivor of this mammoth wreck?

maybe I’m just another grown toddler
who marks time on wobbling feet
perhaps I’m an adept swimmer
who glides ahead of the herd

giddy. these sands are shifting.

am I a tossed coin on a gambler's table or
another Gulliver who lost his map?

Lagos, and more...

I’m not sure whether we, before being born, were offered the right to choose our desired city of residence. If we were, I must have been foolish to have chosen Lagos; except if the city was cleverly advertised to me – its murky side hidden behind a drape of its colorful side.

Lagos. One can hate the city, but can never love it enough. It’s a strange romance. And lately, I have been so caught up in this romance, being an unfortunate lover, that I can’t yet divorce myself form her lustful grip, if at all possible.

Plus every other thing, the ttttrrrraaaaffffiiiicccc in Lagos is killing me. Yes, ttttrrrraaaaffffiiiicccc (visual pun intended).

I have been away from blogging. No, I didn’t resign (at least not now). A friend called and said he has a feeling I landed a job in Barack Obama’s campaign team. Very funny. But sincerely, the after-effect of writing his speech sure feels like an after-sex exhaustion.

Things have been crazy lately. And fun too. From defending myself for writing “as sexy as hell” (a poetry line I wrote and meant to be understood in the context of the poem) to futile attempt to find a place where I can purchase the season one compilation of “Everybody hates Chris”. From engaging in some corporate bickering to missing the theatre to watch Wole Soyinka’s “Madmen and Specialists”. From attending a programme at the Teslim Balogun Stadium and listening to brilliant speakers – Funso Philips and Toyin Subair – to attending the christening party of a boss’s baby and resisting every temptation to spend that evening in Femi Kuti’s shrine instead – somewhere in the neighbourhood. It’s called respecting the baby. It’s crazy I know.

I paced up and down in front of the shrine, secretly relishing one of Fela’s songs as it played in the background. The ambience was somewhat riveting – the smell of tobacco and ganja mixing with Fela’s saxophone, men and women – some of them with heavy swathes of locked hair, pacing up and down, some with cupful of alcohol (what else can it be?), some with cigarette (of course!) expertly placed between their fingers and occasionally sandwiched between their waiting lips. Puffs! Whiffs! Salutation to Abami Eda. I don’t smoke. But I kinda like the smell. Quirky?

Well, during the past week, I resumed my multi-book reading habit – reading six to seven books at a period – dropping one and getting bored, picking another, starting from the centre, getting distracted, stopping, reflecting, admiring one author, disliking the other, going back to the first book, picking a new one, restless anticipation of humour in some of the pages, reading the blurb again, switching between radio stations, the TV remote very close, forgetting to dog-ear where I stopped, blablablablabla… I’ve been reading all the books for about six months. I’m an incurable slow reader, with a low attention span. What’s the cure for low attention span? Anyone?

Besides, my naughty friend is temporarily back in Lagos, after some months-long hideout in the North. I’d thought we were going to resume our evening-long hanging out. The yeye boy lured me into making preparations for his visiting Yankee girlfriend. Every preparation possible. “Do this”. “Don’t do that”. “She would like this”. “She won’t like that”. “Blow her head off” (whatever that means). Rehearsals. Cautions. And internally, I was warning myself to keep a distance from them, knowing how much they will frustrate me with their public show of hhmmmpwah, hhmmmpwah, hhmmmpwah (Is that the spelling of the kissing sound?)

And help. Help. Help. I think I’ve lost my collection of poems. It’s driving me mad. I just don’t know where I dropped them.

Well, let’s just say AlooFar is back. I’m on a bet with a fellow blogger, TosynBucknor. I'm on a mission to be the first to make comments on her next five posts.

For all those who cared to know wassup with AlooFar, thank you. And for those who keep yelling at me…. Your time is coming.

Obama's Speech on Nigeria

Once again I’d like to show my appreciation for everyone who stood by us over the course of our campaign. Indeed it’s been a defining moment, not just for our party but for our country.

I want to specially thank the men and women who have been walking with me in my journey to become the 44th President of the United States.

I understand the importance of America’s democracy to the overall welfare of our planet. But I haven’t known until lately the extent which the world has shown great interest in our affairs.

Just yesterday, I watched on the television the rousing ovation that accompanied the announcement of my nomination, not only in the United States but especially in the farthest regions of the world. What that tells me is that our neighbours, far and near, are interested in the kind of change sweeping across the American nation. What that means is that our message of hope resonates beyond the geographical boundaries of this country. And that is significant - because it also means the rest of the world endorses my candidacy. I’m humbled.

But I must not pretend that I accept all the congratulatory messages without some misgivings. Pardon my impoliteness, but I’d wished I’d not received some messages from certain quarters of the world.

I love Africa. I love the Nigerian people. But certain observations call for serious concern.

I’ve been reflecting over the possibilities of my emergence as president, if I’d been a citizen of the world’s most populated black nation. For obvious reasons, I’ve not been able to curtail my amusement at such misguided reflection, knowing well the odds stacked against such ambition.

I will be 47 this August. And this November, I’ll be marching up to become the next Commander-in-Chief of the United States. If this were Nigeria, I would have been told to wait and allow older people to run as though the amount of grey hair in ones head translates to the person’s level of political or moral maturity. Moreover, its present president is its first graduate president since independence.

More surprising is that his victory during the elections has become a classic illustration in the textbooks of fraudulent electioneering. It will be unfair to bother you with the fact that many Nigerians never knew how their present president looks like until the morning of inauguration day.

American politics is definitely not perfect. But the American people sure have a lot to teach the world in matters of politics. And the Nigerian nation has even more to learn. Our candidates here move from one constituency to another to woo voters, to sell a vision of leadership. But in that West African state, it is the responsibility of a powerful oligarchy, party chieftains, self-appointed godfathers and their band of thugs to impose candidates on the party and the people. The American people definitely understand that a nation is best governed by laws, not men; that we are all equal in the eyes of the laws; that we can be free to say what we want, write what we want – after all the law is there to defend our freedom of expression under reasonable conditions.

Nigeria is a republic – at least that’s what the books say. Sadly, that’s where it ends too. Ones political success is directly related to ones affiliation to established dynasties: tribal dynasty, family dynasty, business or religious affiliations.

The significance of my candidacy has been highly trumpeted – and hasn’t been made less phenomenal by the media - a son of a Kenyan father married to a white woman - a black man who is now riding on the horseback of the American Dream. I guess I owe my late father a lot for successfully planting me in the belly of a white woman. Maybe it’s my mum that I should be grateful to for accepting a black man’s romantic advances. Now my dad has become a source of inspiration of some sort - a source of inspiration to all would-be immigrants to the United States. I guess the chase for the elusive US immigrant VISA has just been heightened. However, let it be known now that the US immigrant VISA will not be any less easy to acquire when I become president.

Mrs. Clinton has fought a good fight. Among other aspirants for the Democratic ticket, she has traveled the farthest. She has made history as the woman who has done what no woman has done before. What are her chances of coming this close to the presidency of her country if she had been a Nigerian? If she ever dared to announce such an aspiration she would have only succeeded in waking up the demons of sexism, and waking up the monster of a culture that says women are to be seen, not heard. She would have been reminded that women are to remain in the background because men, only men, have been destined to occupy the open space. Certain societies are adverse to female dreamers.

Mrs. Clinton proved to the world what it means to lose politically. She didn’t talk of joining another party or even registering another. She has a strong guiding principles and her declaration of support for my campaign is a demonstration of her bravery even in the face of defeat.

I hear Nigeria makes a metaphorical claim as the giant of Africa. That claim, I make bold to say, is not only unfounded but absurd. Forgive my observation, that country’s claim of gianthood is only proved by the relative size of its population. 48 years after bidding farewell to colonial rule, that nation is still struggling to get on its feet, like a toddler. Nigeria has clearly failed to be the beacon of hope for other African nations.

Will the Nigerian people ever speak of their country as that where leaders make unselfish calculations that prepare them for the challenges of the global economy? Will they ever speak of a nation where every child, male and female, has a right to achieve his or her dream? So long as people are trapped in poverty, so long as there are evidences of gross marginalization of certain regions, so long as opportunities are opened but not for all - the dream of a true nation will remain out of reach.

Not too many countries are as religion-loving as Nigerians. On a more ridiculous note, Nigeria also ranks high on the list of corrupt nations. Too much spirituality. Too much corruption. I dissociated myself from my former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright. I condemned the statements of Reverend Wright that have caused controversy, statements that have the potential not only to widen the racial divide, but views that denigrate the greatness and the goodness of our nation. But I still respect him. How many Nigerian clergymen, considering the size of the followership they command, can bluntly condemn unpleasant activities of the government? Bloody hypocrites.

Let’s leave Nigerian problems for the Nigerian people.

The American people deserve change. They are tired of politics and policies that do not address their immediate challenges. They now have a choice to determine whether they will recycle the same of the same or will give the leadership of this nation to a man who will give them the future – a man that embodies hope and change.

One thing though… when I become the president, will the White house be called the Black house? And I’ve promised myself not to allow the Obama girl to come close to the White house. I’m afraid she might be my administration’s version of Monica Lewinsky.

I’m grateful for your attention. I’m more grateful to the writer of my speech. He sure deserves to be a part of my administration.

Thank you. God bless you. God bless America.

Disclaimer: You read this speech before it's been delivered.

Please note...
This writer acknowledges the input of others knowing well that the essence of this speech will discourage a possible lawsuit.

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