Buchipedia - Straight talk

Prescience or hope?

2022-03-05T17:11:00.003+00:00

18^th February 2022. Two weeks ago. That’s when I knew for sure. I knew I wanted to marry you. The day before, the 17^th, when we sat together in that plane from Addis to Dar es Salaam, I knew for sure I was in love with you.

“Insane.” That was your initial description of what was developing between us. You’d said that while acknowledging we were both going to answer to endearments. This was barely 2 weeks after we’d began to fully spend time with each other. And I agree; it was insane. It was bonkers. It was mad, sudden and consuming all at once.

Knucklehead. That’s what I called you at first. Not only because you actually do fit the description in the best way – standing resolute with your principles even amidst swirling distractions - but because I could recognize that in myself as well, even if maybe not as positively as yours. Yes, it really was insane, but if we’re being honest, that’s the only way it was ever going to happen. We’d both probably have instituted mechanisms for defeating what was budding, and ‘logiced’ our way into repressing it, and denying ourselves this beautiful thing we’ve built. (PS, have we built it yet?).

Logic –

“Do you think this would grow to more than we think considering I’m only getting out of a situation?”

“Nah. I think we are both very pragmatic people who will manage it so it doesn’t.”

No, you’re not a prophet darling, (or a Pharisee that sees from far like I do). But you’re one of the clearest thinkers I know. You analyze a situation very quickly, and while you recognize the place of emotions, your decisions and positions are always grounded on logic, and there are few things that endear me to you such as this. You’re absolutely brilliant, and this is me saying it lightly. Maybe in a way, it actually is logical that we come this way, and this far together (again, I hope), considering how much we innately share in common.

And man, you’re absolutely beautiful. Stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. I spend half the time in your company gazing at you, and smiling sheepishly when you inevitably catch me, in absolute wondrous pleasure, that you’re mine. All mine. That body… that body, Chinenye, the less said here, the better.

The things you make me do, the things you do for me, your instinctive kindness, easy generosity, and selflessness… these things I’m just as glad to do for you. Slander tea drinkers all day for years, and then find myself looking forward to making you tea almost on a daily basis, and scouring the aisles in foreign malls and dufry shops, searching for new tea flavours I didn’t have. Remember how we carried honey and lemons all the way from Dar to Zanzibar, and even regretted not taking them to Addis?

I'm still not drinking that thing sha.

I’m not surprised at how deeply I fell for you, and so fast. You ticked boxes I didn’t even know I had.

“You’re the braver one in this,” you said. Maybe, but I’m not sure you have any idea how much I also wanted to freak out alongside you when we both fully confronted our feelings that night in Essque Zalu before we left. Because like you, I was scared shitless at how fast it had happened, at how much of myself and my happiness I was going to allow to depend on you and how happy you were. I felt exposed, raw and afraid. Only thing keeping me sane was the realization that this depth of feeling was mutual, and you were just as scared (I’m still going to tease you forever for actually freaking out).

So yeah, if anyone had told me at the turn of the year after exiting where I was, that I’d be this fully into someone else barely weeks later, I’d have konked them on the head, considering how disillusioned I was back then. But you see, that morning at Slipway, while we had breakfast and I kept staring and making you smile, that was when I knew for sure that I’d be absolutely happy spending the rest of my life with you. That’s why I was only half laughing when Peace called me “Nnuku Ogo” as a joke. I knew I wanted that title already, then. I’m glad I get a chance to answer to that (I hope)! When I sent this pic to a couple of my friends, I knew. I always did.

It's been a whirlwind. Intense, breathless, crazy yet beautiful (have we fought yet?). I haven’t caught my breath yet, and honestly, I have no intentions of ever doing so.

I love you somewhat crazily, Chinenye Marian Njoku, and I hope I get to do forever with you.

Happiness

2018-08-03T13:16:00.002+00:00

Happiness comes to me in the form of a gurgling kid,

Smiling up with wonder as I pretend to make magic with my eyes.

It’s in his implicit trust, cherub of face, innocent of guile,

His bubbles of laughter eliciting automatic giggles from me.

It shuts out my inhibitions and insecurities
for the period it takes me to sing ‘Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I love you tomorrow’

Happiness…. is innocent and pure.

Happiness hits me hard at the back of my throat,

The first slug of a cold brew on a hot afternoon,

Resetting the worries, dueling with the bile and cares,

Victoriously expunging them with the first full belch.

But happiness isn’t the flabby drunk, swaying endlessly,

Regaling unwilling ears with incoherently strewn exploits,

It’s not in the blissful ignorance, temporary forgetfulness of responsibilities

No. It is found in the camaraderie, the bond of socializers,

The easy conversations, banter, first dates and meetings.

Yes, Happiness is… friendship.

It comes not in the form of a fraudulently concluded deal,

Not in mountains of cash gained a la Pablo or Evans,

With victims strewn across the world in various shades of ruin

And pedestals mounted upon undeserving platforms.

It brings with it, the sheen of sweat, pride of accomplishment.

It dignifies, it uplifts, and is sure and deserving.

Happiness is…. Honest.

It is the heart beating in anticipation of the lover’s lips before that first kiss,

The warmth and security of the hug,

Of worries melting away while snuggled against each other,

The reassuring squeeze of a mother’s palm in a futile battle to contain joy,

Or the tears in a father’s shimmering, but proud gaze across the graduating aisle.

Happiness….. Loves.

Happiness is the wind rifling through your hair as you drive with the windows down,

Existing even when the destination is a liberating nothingness.

It resides in Maitama, curled up in bed with a book, serenaded by Andrea Bocelli on a rainy afternoon.

And equally present playing in the rain in the sandy streets of Gbaramatu.

Happiness cares not for Jew or Gentile,

It doesn’t demand, cajole or force.

It neither aspires nor schemes,

Happiness just…. Is.

Striking Resemblance

2017-04-07T10:19:00.000+00:00

His Mother dropped Kefas off at school that morning, as she was wont to. Her kiss on his cheek was perfunctory, absent-mindedly ruffling his hair as he exited the car. She didn’t however step in to say hi to his well-liked teacher as she sometimes did. Her scarf, rather than tied on her head, was flung around her neck, seemingly carelessly, but enough to hide any tell-tale bruises on her fair skin.

She did not say goodbye. Her mind had already moved on. It was now focused on the market and how fast she could purchase the ingredients for the fresh Okazi soup Bitrus had requested as his dinner. After a quick glance to ensure Kefas was safely inside the school premises, she drove off.

Kefas' teacher, Ms Iveren was your favourite teacher’s teacher. Cheerfully overweight, constantly dressed in long, bright flowing dresses which sat comfortably on her ample frame. She radiated a kindness so tangible, one almost felt it could be packaged and shared amongst other teachers who sported sullen faces like they were only paid to look formidable. In fact, she was seen by most parents as a constant ray of sunlight, able to pierce darkness and enliven the mood of even the most sullen of children.

Today, however, she could do little to improve Kefas’ mood. The boy’s face was closed in, locked into a perpetually bland expression that hinted to a tightly held control of raging internal emotions and conflicts. She mentally filed him away for further attention at the end of the school day. Perhaps a discussion with his mother when she came to pick him up would suffice.

Kefas meanwhile, had zoned out. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the events of the previous evening, hearing again snatches of his mother’s conversation with her sister while working on his Maths homework, as usual, unsupervised.

“Leave him and go where?”

“…….and survive how? On what? With what? Ha! Shey you will bring the money for me to go back to school and start work?”

“…….And what will my Kefas do? You know he won’t let me go with him. Who will now take care of my boy? Ah no o.”

“…..my dear, I will do as the pastor said na. He is my cross to bear so I will continue to pray for him. Please let me continue with my cooking joor.”

“…..yes I know he ate it yesterday. He liked it very much and said he wants to eat it today again and you know he does not eat yesterday’s food. It has to be fresh……”

Kefas had no idea when the call between his mom and his aunt had ended as he was not listening anymore. He had zoned out again when the cooking talk started, focusing on solving a very troublesome math problem. However he was sufficiently distracted by the return of his father. Hurriedly pasting a smile on his face, he ran to him in welcome, stopping short when he saw his visibly exhausted mother seated, asleep at the table, phone in hand, soup ingredients lying unused around her.

Taking his father’s bag into the bedroom, he remained there, back against the door. He knew the script by now.

Closing his eyes, he futilely placed his hands over his ears, but he could still make out his mother’s protests of “Ah! Bitrus! I was tired, true” silenced by the thuds of what he knew were his father’s fists. He imagined, rather than saw the belt come out and repeatedly lash against her bent back, scattering the ingredients on the table.

Ms Iveren interrupted his reverie, pairing him with Amanda, the brilliant chirpy girl who, in Kefas’ opinion, always laughed too readily and was too willing to lead class activities. They were to share a text for a reading exercise.

Immediately the strong-willed girl moved the shared text from the morose child, intending to read first, the teacher knew she had erred in shelving Kefas’ issue till day’s end.

The tightly coiled time bomb that was his emotions exploded. His fists rained against Amanda, hitting her face, head and neck, as if consciously avoiding every other part of her body.

She moved to intervene, and stopped short. Not because of fear to her personal safety, for she could have smothered his flailing fists on her ample bosom if it was needed, but it was the words, the words that floated clearly to her ears, distinct, despite the keening cries of anguish from Amanda and the protests of the other school kids, that chilled her to the bone.

Kefas’ voice had suddenly become guttural, he had aged right in front of her. Timing his words to the smack of his fists, he shouted, enunciating clearly with tears streaming down his cheeks:

“Bitch! Whore! Who are you to read first? I’m the man here. Know. Your. Place.”

Believe Them Anyway

2017-02-03T17:00:00.004+00:00

Like Lips leaden from excess grass,

The words refuse to form.

With obvious reluctance to escape my lips,

They reverberate in my head

A wordsmith, I am not,

Flowery phrases I have not

But I dare to ask,

So what, if I lack the words to be the poet for you?

Paint my feelings in metaphors punctuated with punchlines,

Proclaim my desire in measured phrases to astound you,

Describe your smile as a window to happier times

How I see your very essence as a time machine,

A tribute to its ability to make me pause and stand still

I want to describe with wonder, the fullness of your lips,

Explain my bedazzlement by the sway of your hips.

The sound of your voice, the lilt you’ve come to personify.

The ululations inspiring, yet calming, much like a lullaby.

Yet because I lack the apt phrases, I fear you may wonder.

If I speak with plain words, will they make you a believer?

Would you see the pedestal I aim to place you?

Or maybe you are Helen and poetry is my Achilles.

Perhaps I’ll just say I love you and leave you to decipher,

From my silence so loud, it will scream my words louder.

Darling, whichever words come, however less they seem to say,

They bleed genuineness, therefore believe them anyway.

Converted

2016-12-07T10:50:00.000+00:00

‘If I ever got around to having a wedding, I want this one,’ was my immediate thought. From my vantage spot, I could see that the guests present numbered less than one hundred and seemed to only include young people. I was already salivating at the dancing that would ensue at the end of the boring formalities. If I could change anything though, it would have to be the suit. My groomsmen would wear Jeans and Tee shirts, I was sure.

My introspection was interrupted by Jimoh’s entrance with his bride, which sparked off a reverie. I remembered him coming late to Beer Barn three weeks ago where we were to watch the Champions league match between Arsenal and Basel. I was already there, along with Ohis and Manu, and we had our customary Beers in front of us. He was grinning from ear to ear, and that set me off as I didn’t believe anyone had enough reason to be that happy; so I threw in my first Jab.

‘This United Man, Wetin dey smile you? Your mate dey here? You no go wait for Thursday night football?’

His reply was fast. ‘You wey dey the Champions league, you go win am? Ohi joined in.

‘No mind Buchi. Na heartbreak man. Arsenal fan. Mister lost causes. Even the writing wey dey give am joy, I hear say na musicians dey win their best awards now. In short, just drink your Beer.

I took my L in peace and asked Jimoh. ‘But Dude, why are you so happy?’

‘I’m getting married in two weeks man. Isn’t that enough?’

I was flummoxed to say the least. Why would someone be pleased at committing himself into an institution from which the only exit was a jail break?

So I scoffed. ‘And so? Are you the first? My friend, reflect soberly on the impending loss of your freedom.’

My disloyal friends turned on me again. This time it was Manu who responded. ‘Oga, calm down. Not everyone is cynical like you. Some of us are hopeful and believe in happiness.

Before I could respond, Jimoh Chimed in.

‘His problem is that he’s like his coach. He’s a perfectionist. He wants a crossbreed of Angelina Jolie and Michelle Obama. Have you heard his checklist? Left handed Sexy, Book reading, black, Artistic, geeky, beer drinking doctor. Hopeless man. Shey he is a writer. He should create the character.’

I did not respond even though the jibes cut deep. I just drank my loyal, faithful beer. At least Beer wouldn’t turn on me.

Today, watching the couple dance to their seats, I couldn’t help but envy the seamlessness with which they moved. Their happiness was evident. Little details began to come back to me. How Imade would complain of hunger to me and Jimoh’s call would come in to say he was at our Office bringing her lunch, and I’d dismiss it as coincidence and gripe about him not bringing me any. I remembered too, how, we’d all stopped watching Saturday football games at mine and moved on to Jimoh’s because the warmth they both exuded made their place a cocoon too attractive to ignore.

I recalled Jimoh asking me if I had noticed anything different about him of late. I had. His strides had become surer, his smiles more genuine and immediate, in fact his confidence was infectious. He explained it to me; ‘I’m no longer alone man. I’ve found a partner, younoamsaying? I’m whole. I have it all.’ The realization that I was, for all intents and purposes, alone hit me harder than an onrushing linebacker.

Looking at them both, I wondered how one could be so comfortable placing his whole essence of happiness in the hands of another human without fear, recalling when he said to us at the table;

‘Unlike you man, I can’t live in fear. I’m taking the plunge. You should try it too before you become senior bachelor. Boya you are Banky W? Who do you call when you’ve had a terrible or awesome day? And don’t say your E-Reader Tablet. Shey that thing you call your girlfriend will hold you in your low periods? Even George Clooney got married. I hear Jolie is available now. Goan find Visa and fulfil your fantasies.’

Sitting at the groomsmen table, I smiled remembering that last comment. The elegantly dressed bridesmaid opposite me returned my smile, erroneously thinking it was directed at her. Sneaking a glance at her hand to confirm the absence of a ring, I ignored my meticulously constructed checklist of an ideal partner, shocked everybody on the table by leaning towards her, grabbing both her hands in mine, and said;

‘Hi, my name is Buchi and I’ve been wrong for so long. Now, I want to have it all like Jimoh. I don’t know you, but I’m willing to chance it. Are you?’

Please Accept My Apologies

2016-12-07T10:49:00.002+00:00

To the woman befuddled by constant talk of feminism,

I have no justifications, only Apologies

not for telling you who you’re equal to,

but because I needed to convince you of your equality.

And so, I apologise,

For society,

For years spent convincing you to be proper,

Unsolicited attempts to define your honour

Outfitting you in dresses, with frills and in lace,

For pirouettes and curtsies, you must speak with ‘grace’

For illusions of purity, to keep you from exploring,

And that useless strip of skin, to become your undoing,

I’m Sorry.

For Excuses,

The passes provided for man, not extended to you,

telling you to aspire, but no more than your husband

‘Ugo nwanyi bu diya’ because who the hell are you?

To wear any other achievement like an armband?

Away with you to the kitchen, for that is your office

Or the other room, for he owns that orifice

I apologise,

For the titles,

The Dr Mrs., Lady pilot, female head of state

Sobriquets functioning as reminders of your ‘place’

Making the achievers an aberration. It’s not your fate

For who would dare give strong women a heroic face?

And shame us with a revolution of wives we cannot handle.

I’m sorry,

For our parents.

Who gauge your lifespan similar to dog years;

And monitor your biological clock just like livestock,

Premium placed mainly on physical attributes

Because, how does intelligence help you breed children?

I apologise,

For concessions,

The glass ceilings placed to ensure you stay put

35% because 50 has a similarity to parity

For meaningless talk shows and seminars to allay your fears

Convince you of something being done to change the present

yet deny legislation to ensure your future.

Let me also apologise,

For not teaching you enough

Asking you to raise enduring queens rather than humble kings

Painting females as attractive when they become footstools.

Creating medals for long suffering queen mothers

For punching bags are necessary to let out a king’s anger

It’s a man’s world you say?

Then perhaps all men should be feminists.

For my gender, and all its contributions to your status,

I have no justifications, please accept my apologies,

21 Questions On The Unborn Conundrum

2016-11-30T17:43:00.002+00:00

One,

The Unborn Dead

First I am liquid, only one of many fluids,

I cause no trouble, am serene, like the druids

Even then I’m alive, though filled with uncertainty.

Thinking, what is this sac that holds me in captivity?

Time passes; I grow in body and mind.

When do I get noticed by the parent mind?

Why pour these hot fluids on me? They burn me.

Imbibe more fruits. They develop and form me.

Oh I’ve been noticed, now, no more foods come.

Aha! How restless the parent mind has become.

Now I have an idea. Too young to let me stay

And little stones come. For what purpose I pray?

Stop the stones. They turn me back to blood

Am I deformed, my limbs, they refuse to bud

Oho! They’ve stopped. Do I have time to re-grow?

I sense a larger space out. Have I enough to show?

But I have to struggle. I sense my minder worried.

Am I that much trouble? She seems so harried.

Where are you going? Oh no! I sense danger here.

Wait! Wait! My screams are not loud enough to hear

Um wait. Won’t I find out what I have to give?

Am I to be killed before I have a chance to live?

Aha! The sword of Damocles, it sucks me out of my harbour

Sliding fitfully into oblivion, I scream pitifully, ET TU’ DOCTOR!

http://www.voicesnet.com/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=180167#sthash.ucMhsfFp.dpuf

Two.

I wrote the above poem in 2010. Six Years ago. Not difficult to deduce my stance on Abortion right?

Well, you aren’t exactly correct. I like to believe I wrote it in an era of naivety. You know, sort of like William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. That was my period of Innocence.

Now? I don’t know. This is as sensitive an issue as any other, in any society. (It makes and breaks elections in the US). Also, although a lot has been said about it, still, not enough. Some better writers than me here on this site have postulated for or against it, with various degrees of Success and engagements.

I’ve read a number of posts here, on this issue, and the responses have been err… let’s just say enlightening.

First off, lets agree on the basics, We’re talking about Abortions due to unwanted pregnancies. Not Medical complications-induced abortions.

I’d like to go after it in piecemeal so I can gather my thoughts. People look at it in different ways.

Religion– It’s a no-no. Every Religion, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Jewish, whichever, all condemn it. I’m catholic, so, faith wise, I should ascribe to what my religious doctrines say. Again, some people here can probably shed more light on it here than I can.
Realism – Some people prefer to take a more realistic POV here, and say the persons involved should take a decision whether or not they want to keep the baby, irrespective of their religious or moral inclinations.
Feminism – Now there are women, and to a lesser extent, men, who adjudge that there is no moral quandary here. They insist that the woman, and the woman alone should be responsible for the decision whether or not the baby is kept to term, since she and she alone supposedly undergoes the difficulties of pregnancy and birthing.
Idealists – Some of us who believe that the baby should be taken to term, irrespective of all, there is always a way out, a way for the child to be taken care of, irrespective of the circumstances of the parents. It will all work out in the end right? All’s well that ends well.

I know almost all of us will assume to belong to at least one of these groupings.

Permit me to call a mild Bullshit on all of them. First off, the Religious person/leader who insists the child must be kept will not help the initial victim – the woman to bear the rigours of pregnancy, endure delivery, which I am assured is very painful, take care of an infant which, I have seen firsthand, is tough going. Neither will the Realist help you fight the depression and attacks of conscience that is usually associated with an abortion, even for the most jaded of girls. The Feminist is more likely to turn the girl to a cause than to help, and for the Idealist, the less said, the better. Please don’t say ‘All’s well that ends well’. Even that Shakespearean comedy ended farcically.

Therefore, I have the following questions I’d like answered.

What should we really be focusing on? The symptoms or the Cause, is killing the Spider not more effective than constantly cleaning cobwebs?

Instead of forcing the pregnant girl to keep an unwanted pregnancy, even after being abandoned by the man responsible, and/or disgraced by the parent or guardian, why aren’t we making a play for enlightening parents and Guardians that having a pregnant ward/girl child isn’t the end of the world?

Shouldn’t we be asking why the bulk of the Sex-Ed most of us in this forum have is from books/friends? Why aren’t we asking why it is absent in our national curriculum for public and private schools?

Shouldn’t our religious leaders, knowing the influence they have on our largely uneducated/unenlightened older generation make efforts to re-orient the minds of these people so as to reduce the shame and stigma associated with teenage/single motherhood, and foster more acceptance and accommodation amongst our parents and Guardians?

Shouldn’t there be a clamour for our elected and appointed leaders to make concrete efforts to avail the nation, especially the poor with credible public health care, to ally girls’ fears of delivery complications, and encourage them to take pregnancies to term?

Should we not be asking why tertiary institutions, especially private ones, still expel any lady found to be pregnant while in school? Did the pregnancy suddenly destroy her ability to study, to learn? Did her brain become pregnant too? Why force her to hide the pregnancy and then choose the route of Abortion here?

We have very few orphanages in the country. Knowing how poorly run they are, what happened to volunteering to help out sometimes at some of them, instead of visiting only on our birthdays to take pictures for social media and to assuage our consciences? Why aren’t we making the choice of keeping the pregnancy to term attractive for pregnant girls?

Again, to we, our current generation of youths, our ‘woke’ generation, when did we become so cynical, so hardscrabble, so jaded, that we’ve become in danger of losing our humanity? Who 'chairmanned' the forum where we decided and agreed that life is a Yes/No, Agree/Disagree, White/Black situation? What happened to fluidity, to grey areas? What happened to examining things according to their specific circumstances, instead of allowing ourselves to become so polarized by divides, to become like the Americans and their Roe V Wade fixation?

Why have we stopped thinking for ourselves and decided that we must belong to someone else’s school of thought?

Why am I asking all these questions I have no answers to?

Kindly help me answer them.

Blame Everybody

2016-10-12T14:23:00.001+00:00

‘Hey, what’s that word for being afraid of cramped places?’ He asked.

‘Claustrophobia’. I responded.

I briefly flirted with the idea of exposing the meaning of the word, to include a lack of means of escape, but refrained because he still would have been correct.

‘Correct guy. You always have the answers to all my questions, in your previous school, was your nickname Bookman?’

I smiled ruefully. He was close.

Unbidden, the memories surfaced, breaking to the top like air starved divers. As usual, I tried willing them back into their forbidden mental compartment, but, like Pandora’s box, once opened, attempts to force them back in seemed futile. I succumbed and let them wash over me overwhelmingly. Another Place, another time.

A little under a year ago, James had taken one look at the spindly, sickly looking eleven year old, when I had been introduced to him, being the Senior Prefect in my new secondary school, and declared me his Boy. To my ecstatic parents, he said ‘This Bookworm is my school son’.

‘Thank you my son,’ they chorused. ‘He needs looking after. His head is always in the clouds, like he lives in his books. Very forgetful. Please take care of him for us.’ My mum pleaded earnestly. They left, secure in the knowledge their son had a protector.

And what a protector I did have. I defined the word breakable. I was thin and looked like I should avoid heavy gusts of wind lest I get blown away. I had no understanding of physical activities and contact sports, so I didn’t even get on the field. Despite having an above average ability in Chess and Scrabble, I was awkward around people and so kept away from them. My goggle-sized nerd glasses completed my ensemble, making me ripe for being picked on by both my peers and my seniors. That didn’t happen though for I was under James’ protection. I spent the first term exempted from every compulsory labour activities, and slept at least an hour more than my mates. When I got a gift of a rechargeable lantern to enable me read into the night, well after lights out, I was in ecstasy. I became proud of my nickname.

I returned home for the holidays, singing the praises of my benefactor to my parents who were overjoyed. ‘Listen,’ My Father said, ‘we’ve finally found you the perfect school for you to thrive in. Don’t you do anything to antagonize James.’ I nodded vigorously.

Of course I wasn’t going to displease him. He made me feel safe and comfortable. I had come to trust him implicitly. Even when he started giving and requesting compulsory massages although I had no physical exertions, I wasn’t altogether scared.

Maybe that’s why it’s my fault. I should have run away the first time I felt his hardness rubbing against me during one of the massages. Perhaps I should have been wary of the seemingly constant alone times with him. To be honest, there was no surprise. It felt like a mere progression of activities, feeling almost natural. By the time it culminated in me lying face down beneath him, hearing his loud grunts, feeling the warm, sticky deposits when he was done, I wasn’t altogether shocked. I was passive, numbed by the repetitiveness and my own powerlessness. It seemed inevitable, like a script acted in a daze.

Or maybe my Parents should be blamed. They probably should have noticed my reluctance to return to school after the second holidays, or the return of my solitary lifestyle and not believed my ‘it’s alright’ answers to perfunctorily asked questions about my wellbeing. But to be fair, I always was a morose and withdrawn child and I do not expect anyone to notice an extra cup of water in a full bucket.

Perhaps James can take some of the blame. He found me too pliant (shoot, that blame might be mine), but my pliancy probably encouraged him to pass me off to Jimoh when he was graduating. Maybe I wouldn’t have snapped if I hadn’t been transferred on to Jimoh like a mere piece of property of which my only claim to fame is as a receptacle useful for stress relief.

Or blame my books. Yes, blame them. Maybe if I hadn’t lived too much in them, I would have known that one does not stab another multiple times and remain at the scene, nose deep inside yet another book. All my book knowledge couldn’t make me street wise.

Oh well, I’d forgot I had a question to answer.

‘Bookman?’ I asked my Bunkmate, No. I was called a Bookworm.’ He laughed and got up. ‘O boy, It’s almost time for parade. Get your beautiful behind up and prepare.’ While passing out of our corner, he rubbed my head, lingering longer than I thought necessary. Perhaps my fear was unfounded, but I still reached under my pillow and drew comfort from the feel of the sharpened breadknife I’d secreted there.

I’d just got a new book, as I opened it to read, I heard the call of the Bugle. I hastily dressed up in my parade whites. I can’t slouch in Military School. Here, I don’t have a protector.

The Exodus

2016-10-04T17:28:00.003+00:00

Her carriage betrayed her, made her profession obvious.

The absent Stethoscope was no hindrance to my predicting.

Happy to leave, her excitement was infectious.

‘Miss..’ ‘Doctor!’ She corrected as I checked her in.

I watched her go.

His phone in his ear, he made his apologies;

He was headed home – just a temporary holiday

Business would resume soon, only a few issues,

Nigeria is still my second home, he needed to say.

I watched him go.

She walked in a shuffle, burdened by expectations.

Her family’s sole hope, Dad’s severance paid for her exit.

Top of her class, should be pride of her nation.

She leaves with her knowledge, her host Nation’s profit.

And I watched her go.

His hasty footsteps, the numerous furtive looks

I recognized his face; he had recently trended.

His frustration was apparent, his demeanor spooked.

The under-fire journalist, His patience had ended.

And I watched him go.

They came in a group, airy, confident without worry.

With special dispensation, Foreign exchange a no-brainer.

My smile is wider, for tips I want them to remember me.

They’ll leave wealthy, and return shortly, even wealthier.

And I watched them go.

He was earlier than normal, his retinue even longer.

His plane had been idling. Our alertness no happenstance.

Another conference, another interview, Ah, my leader.

But I’m happy. Our relationship fares better long-distance.

I also watched him go.

I return home early tonight to the sound of my generator.

It's the norm now, the hum lures my children to slumber.

My dinner heats up, my wife completes her dressing.

Almost late; her Second job calls. We need the money.

And We all watched her go.

The Aftermath - An Epistolary

2016-08-21T22:34:00.000+00:00

Dear ….. Erm, I don’t quite know what title to ascribe you now.

I’ve held this pen for quite a while now, dithering over what to write. I’ve always wanted to explain everything that happened a little better, but how do I start?
You see, I have absolutely no experience with heart breaks considering that I have practically no history with relationships, but I can totally imagine your present state of mind. I can imagine the hurt, disappointment, anger, the possible hatred and feelings of betrayal.
And yeah, I know, I caused them all.

I remember the night I dropped the ‘bombshell’ of wanting out. Even though I don’t think it should have been a bombshell, for it was a long time coming, i don’t expect it was any easier for you to handle. I was just too much of a coward to admit that I’d wanted out for quite a while and I did not quite know how to finesse the exit and not look terrible about it.
I’m sure your most prevalent question, right now, is ‘Why?’ Why did I leave? I know if you could find a way to ask me that question, without seeming desperate, you would. With that in mind, I can give you my answer now, before you ask; I don’t know. I absolutely do not.

I can’t explain how I came to not be thrilled anymore when you make those clowning, South Park themed jokes that used to get me in stiches. How did I lose total interest in embarking on road trips with you, when it used to be the highlight of my admittedly infrequent vacations?

Remember when you’d tell me I was an amateur in the kitchen, and then you’ll waltz in and prepare those mouth-watering, delicious dishes that made my house a main stay for the guys on weekends and public hols? I remember your veggie stew with ‘long throat’.
I used to love your cooking. I still do, to be honest. I just wasn’t enthused anymore to try to spend time with you in the kitchen while you worked your magic.

Remember how we’d forgo Friday night Turn-ups to stay in and catch up on old movies? Yes, I admit, I enjoyed lying down to watch chick flicks with you. And cuddle. I used to want to spend every moment with you. Where did that go?

I just watched the closing Ceremony of the Rio Olympics. I remember when we were giddy, watching the Copacabana beach scenes during the World cup two years ago, and swearing that we’d watch the Olympics together, live in Rio this year. Funny, we could just have afforded it right now. Life happens eh?

I could not explain it either, when I’d look at you now through the eyes of my friends and not feel an immediate oomph added to my swag. Remember how proud I used to be upon seeing the envy in their eyes? And how I’d smirk, preen and remark to myself, ‘yeah, that’s all mine’. When we’d dance and it would immediately become an exhibition for everyone else watching, and people would exclaim, ‘Ah, relationship goals.’ Yes, I still hate that goals word. But how the hell did all that wear off?

I can’t answer any of these questions, but I can definitely assure you of two things;

First, I didn’t give up easily. I tried. Not just because I wanted to stay so much, after all, you’ve been the best thing that happened to me recently, but also because I want to believe I wasn’t destined to end up alone, as I’ve always suspected. Remember the break? I wanted to miss you then. I tried to, so bad, but, again, life happens.

And no, there isn’t someone else. There never was. And this epistle isn’t to exorcise my demons so I could move on to someone else. Nope. You’ve set the bar way too high and probably no one, bar say, Angelina Jolie (remember we love her?) could even attempt to measure up. I mean, if I couldn’t stay with someone as awesome as you, who would I stay with?

I mean, who else would tell me on phone to say hi to my truck, and tell it that you miss it?

Damn, I really didn’t deserve you. Sally was right. I really am so jaded, I’m Jade itself

I still don’t know what to call you. I hate to acknowledge that I would one day use the word ‘ex’ to refer to you. I’m not ready for that, even though I know it has to happen.

Anyway, I hope this finds you well.

Yours ever in love,
(I don’t know, what do you call me now?)

For the Love of Beer

2016-08-12T15:47:00.001+00:00

A few days back, I met someone awesome for the first time and we had drinks at a Café in Abuja here.
It’s known for having really good cocktails and coffee mixes on menu. She ordered a ‘dirty white boy’, a coffee, milk and cream mix, (I know, who the hell names these drinks right?), and I, a beer. Without being asked, I hastened to convey my love for beer but couldn’t quite explain properly what draws me to it and makes me choose it over probably every other alcoholic beverage, even over my beloved Cap’n Jack and Skyy (that’s really good vodka).

At home today, nursing a bottle of Star, the words came to me. I’d just come in from the shopping complex close to my house, where I’d walked to buy tomatoes (thank God it’s cheaper now). I was thirsty, so before cooking, I opened this bottle, and sans glass, stood in front of the fridge and chugged down almost a quarter of the contents in one swallow.
I belched loudly, smiling. The ice-cold goodness had travelled straight down my gullet, cooling my parched tongue along the way and hitting my stomach with authority and command, generating that spine tingling feeling from that often glossed over spot, you know that part, back of the head, a few metres from your neck, just under the sharp point we called ‘Ogor’. Only three things give that feeling – the hum from a barber’s clipper on your head, a Beer, and very good, sloppy, …. Err… ‘brain’?

How do I extol beer further? Tough, but I’ll try.

Ever walked into a Bar on a hot afternoon during the heat wave and a visibly sweating, from-the-freezer, cooling-the-air-round-you cold bottle of lager is placed before you? I’m sure your thirst gets sated even before you drink.
Or perhaps I can tell you about Beer’s worth as a conversation enabler? Smoother of pathways, leveler of class, first of its name? I kid you not. See below:

Want to ask a legal but unofficial favour from a colleague and don’t know how to approach him? Take him to a bar and Buy him beer. Thank me later.
Going to a party and don’t know most of the guys you will meet there? Go with a case or two and carry it into the party late. You’re the MVP from then on. Or at least until some other guy, probably named Buchi, buys an even bigger case and brings it in, but there you go.
Offended me, and don’t know how to say sorry? Just take me to a good bar and buy me cold beer. Sometimes ‘brain’ works, too, but only from a specific gender, and in specific dynamics. You’re safer and surer with beer.
Worried about meeting your Significant other’s brother, favourite male cousin, close male friend(s)? Venue is inconsequential here. Just buy beer.
Got enough Balls to attempt to meet the proposed father in-law? Err…. Maybe not always a beer here, just in case he’s that guy for whom no one is good enough for his baby-girl. He’ll turn the beer to prosecutorial evidence.

All the above is on assumption that they all drink beer. I do, in case you’re wondering, even though I’m sure you aren’t. If they don’t, don’t bother, they aren’t worth the trouble. Wait, I jest.

Seriously though, Beer is healthy. Surprised? Beer has less calories per serving than alcoholic Wine or sugary soft drinks. In fact, moderate and responsible beer consumption has been proven to have nutritional value and is actually good for you on the long run.

Can I take a minute to Say hello to the ladies who drink beer? Especially in our gender defined society? I like it a lot. I’ve always opined that my life partner must be a left handed, artistic, geeky yet sexy, smart, freaky doctor, preferably not from my tribe, but above all, enjoys beer. Tall order, I know. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel I’m probably doomed to die single. But there’s something uniquely appealing for me about a woman that drinks beer, and writes, and draws, and is a nerd, a freak, a…. Buchi Shut up.

I do need to point something out though. This post isn’t for those who use alcohol in general as a means of escape, or as a tool for working themselves up to abuse either themselves or others, especially domestically. That’s despicable and we the association of Beer drinkers disassociate ourselves from those ‘arrants’. Nor is this for those who, despite their medical condition, refuse to stay away from alcohol. If you belong to these groups, please desist and get help.

This isn’t also for those without self-discipline who expend all their money on alcohol, or for those who, every Saturday or Sunday evening, head for their favourite spots, with shirts often unbuttoned, flabby, pregnant bellies open for the public’s unsolicited viewing displeasure, and sit down to quaff cartons of beer, enough to run a bottling plant for a day. You people make us look bad. Stop already.

Nope. This is for the blue and white (even brown) collar workers, artisan, entrepreneur, writer, geek, teacher, and of course, the doctor. I write this for the Bar owners, who are pillars of the community much like Moe in The Simpsons. I mean, where else would Homer and Apu go? This is also for those watching football in Bars (and trolling, just doing ‘bants’, not griping like @Sirkastiq on twitter about Arsene), the average Emeka, Musa and Funke, who, after a hard day’s job, enjoy relaxing to a beer or two, who are creating value, unwinding, socializing and forming bonds with like-minded lovers of beer.

So, tell me, what’s your poison? Are you a wine connoisseur, Hennessey enthusiast? You like Jack the Captain? Or are you like me, do we all love that cold, rich, smooth, sometimes brown, sometimes green bottle of soothing awesomeness, which contains just the right amount of bitterness to keep us going?

Are we united in our love for Beer?

The Best 24 Hours of my life

2016-07-25T16:05:00.000+00:00

Let me tell you about the best 24 hours of my life. It was the day I met you. I’d decided to marry you that day, six full months before I finally did propose.
I was initially reluctant when Uche, my brother asked me to turn up that Friday night, and I almost didn’t go. The week had been long. Running startups is hell.

The Bank is my favorite Abuja club, so of course we drove to Amino Kano, on Wuse II, sat down at the Pre-club spot, aptly named ATM, ordered my customary starter – a chilled bottle of Star. I opened my Nook reader and, forsaking the Ngugi I’d just copped, I opened the lighter Jack Reacher, It was a Friday night after all. Jack’s always the Man on Friday nights.

Mild commotion directly behind me. Four girls took up the table before ours. I didn’t care initially, until you loudly ordered for the coldest bottle of Star they had in stock, to the laughter of your friends who had all ordered cocktails. I turned. The lift of your eyebrows at me confirmed you were the beer drinker. My smile was tiny, but I hoped my approval showed.

It did. You walked up to my table. A five-eleven, hourglass-figure apparition, with eyes that seemed to have a permanent box of laughter and mischief parked inside it’s garage. You’d seen my Barnes and Noble Nook, you said. You wanted to know what I was reading. To test you, I said, ‘Lee Child’. Your Immediate response of ‘Jack Reacher, Which one?’ Intrigued me. We talked books.

Of course, the mischievous Uche suggested we merge tables. We do, and I immediately start having fun. We share a final bottle of their coldest Star. Of course you cheated me, a gentleman, I let you drink more.

My premonitions begin when we get into the club and I ask what you’d like to drink. You reply. ‘Jack’s the Man’. We obviously share a love for Captain Jack Daniels. We dance, crazily, closely. You’re the Ginger Rogers to my Fred Astaire.
We are having fun. So much fun, your friends snicker when we danced gangnam style like we’d rehearsed it.
When your Tipsy colleague asked if your cobwebs might finally get some cleaning tonight, I pretended not to listen. Didn’t want to hope too much.

Tentatively however, I tell you I don’t want the night to end yet,
You then ask me, eyes dancing with laughter,
‘How good are you at FIFA?’
I say, ‘very’.
‘Come over to mine for the rest of the night,’ you say. ‘But I won’t put out.’
I didn’t mind one bit. I’m game.
I hand my keys over to Uche and tell him to get home. You throw me yours, saying ‘I call shot gun.’ I don’t mind. I like to drive. You’re ticking boxes I didn’t even know I had, left, right and center. Even when you say ‘Don’t touch the radio, its mine’ I smile, It was déjà vu. I’d said it countless times to my friends. But you make good. The first song you play is Little Big Town’s Sober. We sing along.

The drive to Lugbe seems very short. For once, I did not complain about the streetlights that were off on Airport Road.
I don’t remember much else about the drive. I do however remember not feeling weird at all about you having Men’s clothes ready for me to wear at home. Tongue in cheek, I offer to share a shower. With those damn eyes twinkling with laughter, you say, ‘I won’t put out remember?’ Kicking me to the visitors bathroom. Afterwards, I sit at the PS4 console in the living room waiting for you.

You come out smelling of Jasmine so faintly, I almost put out my tongue to taste it. I’ve always loved its ability to soothe and I knew I would definitely enjoy cuddling with you. I was so distracted by the scent and the not so modest tank top that I almost lose at FIFA. Laughing (again that damn musical sound) you tell me start up managers have more time on their hands than doctors. I call you a sore loser.

My upteenth surprise, I arrange the couch to sleep, I was already happy enough with my night so far.
You re-enter from the bedroom and say, ‘I lied, I will put out.’
I grin with anticipation. And for good reason. Damn you were good. Your head game, dope. Remember that time you said, ‘Look Papi, No hands’? You near triggered an explosion right there.

You woke me up after dawn with a nickname –
‘Hey, Tonguey McTongueyson, Breakfast in Bed?’ I smile at the compliment and say Yes. ‘Then you’re cooking’ you said.’You like to cook remember?’ I laugh. I did cook.

After breakfast, I set up your new Kindle since you had refused to. ‘Nerds like you should do nerdy Stuff,’ you said. I introduced you to the ebook world. When we lay silently together for two hours, you in the crook of my arm, and me ignoring the cricks, both of us reading books, I knew I was lost.

So I ran. Mumbled about work, demands of running two different startups, teething problems I say. I planned to not see you for another two weeks at least, or at least that was what I had in mind before i found myself back at your place that same night, mumbling something about being in the area.
But I knew, I knew right then I was gonna marry you.

The best 24 hours of my life. It hasn’t happened yet, but I hope it’ll happen exactly this way when I meet you.

Which is when?
Where the hell are you?

What's in a Name

2016-07-12T21:54:00.000+00:00

Oh, Just Recently, my name ended in 'Matters'

Not surprising, The U.S Civil rights was in tatters.

Wasn't the first time though. My monikers often are varied

I've been Bland, I've been Bama, whichever motion was carried.

I was born of a script, initially coded to birth a Trend,

Never knew I was to become a Unifier upon whom causes depend.

My name is myriad, it evolves, my only constant is a symbol

Apt, I represent a canvas upon which reactions gambol

Keyboard Warriors consist my most common Conceptors

Impressionable Millennials, my most common receptors.

My name changes can befuddle an observer. I am Agatu today,

Tomorrow, I'm a herdsman. Aggressor tomorrow, Victim today.

With surprising clarity, therein lies not my confusion.

Neither is my short life span the reason for my disorientation

Nor is it in the ease with which my new names are chosen,

For I'm as useful as the middle ranked witch in a coven.

But, Have you ever been trapped in a futile circle of purpose?

Only if you're a Vice-President or a social worker, I suppose.

Then why must I end at my name? Why must my skin be shed?

Constantly being forgotten and replaced by another trend?

I suppose some could call me a rallying cry for many an Issue.

But I know better, I assuage consciences. I'm a feminist's tissue.

Be calm, I know, I will introduce myself. Don't be a nag.

You know who I am. I'm your latest fad. I am a HASHTAG.

The Traitor named Hindsight

2016-07-04T22:50:00.000+00:00

Dear Sir,

I am writing to tell you that I have learnt my lesson. Really, I have. I am sorry. I am even sorrier that I didn't learn earlier. It's all the fault of Mr. Hindsight. Yes, Hindsight, that annoying Mr. Right. He's a traitorous bastard. I have now discovered a lot of lessons he should have taught me that he didn’t, until it had become too late.

Sir, Hindsight is not a Christian. If he was, he'd have known that one does not ask questions during indoctrination. One only takes what one is told, hook, line and sinker. I should not have asked you all those searching questions during my training and induction. What did I need the information for? Did I want to do the job better than you? Foolish Hindsight. He should have stopped me then. Just look at foolish, naïve me. Asking Smart questions you had no answers to, was your son not seated there? Did he ask any? I was a foolish boy sir. Was I supposed to be smarter than your son? I have learnt that lesson now. Hindsight just told me. The fool.

Who gave me the right to win Rookie of the year award? That coveted accolade that only went to the superstars who clocked outstanding figures and performed in exemplary fashion, an award you never dreamt of winning, even after spending over five years at entry level. I now went to win it. My foolishness is probably from the village, sir. I'm sure Hindsight was collaborating with the old women in my village. That's the only explanation, otherwise I would not have worked hard enough to do so well and show you up. Hindsight should have told me that the corporate world in Nigeria is like those Chinese martial arts movies I watched as a kid. You can never be better than your master. I have also learnt this one now sir.

Sir, Hindsight will not go to heaven. Where was he when I was preparing that well publicized brief that was so good, it redefined our way of working, when you were on vacation? Why did he not advise me against preparing and executing such a flawless sales strategy? He should have advised me against doing so well, I would impress the visitors from the global office during that employee fair. I should have known that I was stressing you by forcing you to smile and extol my virtues to top management when in actual fact you were not happy about it. Imagine making you smile reluctantly. Was I planning to induce constipation and add to your already well documented list of ailments that made you leave the office almost everyday around lunch, and hand over responsibilities to me? Don't mind me sir. I have learnt from that foolishness. But only God will judge Hindsight.

Oga, see, about that beautiful corper in the office last year, that was attracted to me, sorry. Na Hindsight fuck up. The foolish man. Why didn't he tell her to ignore your marital status, Children and humongous beer gut? Why did she go and like me sef? And so what if I was a clean, handsome, smart young man with excellent potential? Because I was unmarried? And so? Who eligible bachelor epp? Hindsight should have told her that it takes work staying married, being a father, and having to remember all those mundane vows and responsibilities, hence you deserve the refreshing affections of beautiful young females whether in the workplace or no. Oga sorry. I should have curved her. What does a young man need love and happiness for? Hindsight should have told me its only a prerogative of older men who have seen a lot of unpleasant things in life, like school fees and sleeping next to the warmth of a wife almost everyday of their lives. It's his fault, along with his friend, Youthful, whose surname is exuberance.

Sir, I know Hindsight is not my friend. If he is, why did he not warn me not to issue a query to Omolola, that new female staff with the big Ikebe? If she came late to work five times in a row nko? Who cares if she did not complete any of the tasks I delegated to her even after doing half of them for her? Why did my so called friend, Hindsight not tell me that a lady like her needs extra hours every morning to do her squats so her Ikebe would remain attractive to you? I can be very foolish ehn, I shouldn’t have asked her why she came in from lunch 30 mins late. Didn't I know that lunch with you is like having a presidential lunch? Sorry sir. Remember what I said about my village people. It's Hindsight and those old women at work.

Hindsight came to my house today sir. He told me that I shouldn't have performed very well when I was sent to relieve that Regional Manager in Uyo. I now foolishly went to break sales records upandan, surpassing even your own. He should have told me you wouldn’t like it even though it was not your region. Me sef, I can overdo. Must I be great? But you see why I am not happy with Hindsight? Its his fault. He did not accompany me to Uyo.

I quarreled with him today sir when he told me I was not a good employee. He said If I was, I would have carried your bag everyday, made your coffee even though you had a secretary, I should have given you credit for all the innovations I brought in. I could have kissed your ass in different ways, while acting like it tasted like Skyy's Passion Fruit flavoured Vodka. I agree that I should have done all these. After all, that’s what you told Julie, that new Corper you took out to lunch yesterday. But you see why I blame Hindsight? If he had told me all of these, I would have been a model employee, instead of an asset to the business. Who needs assets these days sef? At least If I had been good, you would not have put my name up for retrenchment when the company asked for redundant staff to downsize. Imagine the stress I gave you, making you lose your most talented subordinate. Who will now do that mountain of work you assist my life with by dumping for me to do? I have learnt sir. I will do better where next I work.

P.S I have told Hindsight not to come to my house again, except with his twin cousins, Forewarned and Forearmed.

Yours Forever and Ever,

Now humble ex-Employee

I wished for a Happy ending

2016-07-01T15:27:00.001+00:00

In the Beginning, I met you, albeit reluctantly.

Dislike – My first feeling. You're privileged, was my perception.

I'm Street, I say, Never met privilege I didn't bully.

Surprise, You were steel, encased in flighty velvet, was my realization

Quickly, I liked. Very much. My re-orientation, very rapid.

Who would want to bully that? I am definitely not rabid.

My bleak cynical curtain of Loneliness, in the face of love's brightness, began to part,

Hope was at last shining through it. Alas, my heart wasn't after all, an Icebox.

My renowned empire of cynicism fell apart faster than the North under the Starks.

Jade used to be my Moniker because previously, I disengaged faster than detox.

The depth of feeling this time would put paid to that, I felt.

Mush was creeping in on me, like Curry, just before shooting threes,

Telling me, it's time to let go and really feel, or so I felt.

It looked like time to man up, to let go of the meaningless freebies.

And so, I felt. I opened up. I loved. I mean, What was there to not love?

The witty conversations, becoming my movie buddy, the epic Friday nights,

The silly things began to matter. Misgivings over Val's day began to devolve.

The camaraderie I felt when you chugged down your first cold glass that night,

Sharing a beer took on a whole different meaning. Now I was home.

Like Lebron, I might finally be winning a championship in my home.

I was giddy. Expressively, 'tell-everybody' giddy.

The feeling was unfamiliar. Happiness filled my heart to bursting.

See this happiness ehn, its sneaky. It trickily glossed over everything,

Selling me a building with a structure so dodgy.

Much Like the Trojans, I refused to look my gift horse in the mouth,

Disregarded the psychological incompatibility. What was it worth?

Ignored the apparent sexual imbalance even though it was innocence versus experience.

Until the inevitable doubts surfaced. Intellectual lack of parity made felt its presence.

And while my excitement dimmed, your contentment increased.

The little things became big burdens to execute, or so I deduced.

Your fully bloomed joy became sticky vines round my neck, choking me.

While my disengagement took root, your confusion was germinating.

'How can you not love anymore? Our compatibility seems so true.

I don’t want this to happen. I wouldn’t know what else to do.

Why would you want to leave when it feels so good to tarry?

Or has staying in love become too big a burden for you to carry?'

My lady, I am but helpless. We saw forever, but Fate saw temporary.

Thought it wouldn't happen, but She can be finicky about a prophecy.

How did the feeling exit me so fast? Perhaps I'm jaded and Nature is right.

If so, If my name is indeed Jade, the future really doesn’t look so bright.

So, 'What next now?' You ask. 'What are we to do?'

It's the end, my friend, I loved you, but I'm leaving you.

2012-10-11T13:56:00.000+00:00

Scraping beneath our thin veneer of civilization

#Aluu4

I think the resonant thoughts in the minds of many folks today probably revolve round something like this: ‘Thank God I’m not from Aluu.’ For folks who have relatives, children and siblings there (I have four brothers there), well, you can guess our thoughts: ‘it could have been them.’

The brutal extra judicial murder of the four University of Port Harcourt students in the student community of Aluu, in Rivers State is no longer news. It has also caused so much hue and cry that the only folks who aren’t steeped in the supposed facts of the issue are those whose lives are also beset by problems, meaning of course, those devastated by the recent floods ravaging the country, especially the riverine communities surrounding the nation.

The story has been reported in a million or even a gazillion ways and versions. Some say they were thieves, some said cultists, others yet, mere students who went to collect debts owed them. It is a herculean task trying to sift through the ‘facts’ in an attempt to separate the truth and the lies, as only the dead students and the person(s) they went to accost can say for sure what happened, and what the root cause is of this suddenly huge issue that has led to the indefinite closure of the university and a number of youths remanded back to their homes in an interruption of their academic pursuits.

Stripping away all the unsubstantiated facts, all we have, and only care about, at this point is this: four University students were savagely and brutally murdered by a mob. Before looking at the sentiments involved, the bare facts are that there were acts of murder committed against humans who possess the right to life, a fundamental human right.

Having stated the above, we can now go on to discuss. Since when did extra judicial killings cause such hue and cry? Shockingly, the answer is: today. I distinctly remember watching a very graphic video of a lynching and burning alive of a suspected thief on the streets of Lagos last year for supposedly stealing a necklace. I watched that video and couldn’t get the imagined smell of burning skin off my nostrils for days or the actual images from flitting in and out of my subconscious. No surprise then that I have resisted watching this one. Cowardly maybe, but it works for me. I have decided to take the narrations of braver folks, who were able to watch the video, as fact. But that particular one didn’t cause this same uproar. Like I previously said, burning suspected thieves and or beating them to death didn’t start today. How then did it start and why did it become so commonplace until this recent killing?

The causative factors range from the simple ones, caused by necessity, to the more complex and psychological reasons.

Starting with the simple, the Nigerian police, in fighting crime, have been as effective as, Samuel Peters in a fight against Vitalis Klitschko, or say, Federer against Nadal on clay. Funny, but true. It was a perfectly accepted truth that looking up to the Nigerian Police to deal with robberies and burglaries was a big waste of time. It was evident that to curb the then overwhelming menace of armed robbery, pick pocketing and burglaries in Lagos as far back as twelve to thirteen years ago, the ordinary residents and citizens would have to do it themselves.

Hence began the unsavoury, but brutally effective act of beating and burning any apprehended person alive. This was tacitly, though informally approved by the government and the disinterested police force as at then. They were very effective solving marital dispute and arresting marijuana smokers than at chasing thieves or responding to distress calls, especially in the middle of the night. Hardly had a thief been apprehended than people arrived with contributing items such as fuel, matches and used tires, the last of which is abundant in the automobile congested state of Lagos. Policemen learnt to steer away from such gatherings, perhaps realizing that their ineffectiveness gave rise to it, or perhaps they just didn’t care. They knew that the thieves had no relatives interested enough to bail them, and so arresting them wouldn’t be lucrative. It soon became very normal for us kids growing up in Lagos to see burnt carcasses of humans on our way to school most mornings.

Sooner than later, this trend spread quickly to other very populated parts of the country where there were jobless youths in abundance. It then became the standard punishment for any apprehended thief proven or not in and around the country. As is often the case where good intentions are achieved the wrong way, it of course went out hand and degenerated into something so horrible, even the initial proponents of the act cringe at the mention of tires right now. One could then say this horrible practice started out of necessity.

Moving to the complex, why was it sustained? What made this detestable practice stand the test of time? Can we also attribute it to necessity? That would be delusional. We need to realize some truths first. Psychologically, humans are drawn to the gory and the gruesome. This has happened in every era of human development and civilization. The Romans and their coliseums where the gladiators fought, gave birth to the Olympics. There people, and by people, I mean average joes and janes, went to see their fellow humans kill themselves. They did this for sport. All these still exist in various ways in our lives today. They exist in sports like kick boxing, in wrestling, heavy weight boxing, e.t.c. These are merely civilized forms of violence and we cannot turn away from them as it is our nature. Furthermore, from time to time,we still require our fix of the more primitive scenes. Hence the horror movies in Hollywood, violent movies, like Spartacus et al, the expendables (wonderful movie though), viral videos of terrorist beheadings and fatal accidents spreading faster than ebola, and of course, lynchings and horrors like the #Aluu4 killings.

To prove my point, honestly attempt to answer the following: why did this video go viral in mere minutes? Why did a huge number of people stand by and around watching this horrible act and refuse to do anything to stop it? What was the attraction for those people who watched the video after learning what it contained? Oh, and just so we know, a fair number of those who stood around watching the lynching have to be students too. Why did the outcry over their deaths not start until a few days after the video had gone round? If the earlier watchers weren’t outraged after watching the video, what then went through their minds?

See, these questions have answers lying not too deeply in the psyche of the human mind. The average human mind is drawn to violence, gore and carnage. This, I believe is the one fundamental we need to acknowledge first and then try to deny ourselves this fix when the craving comes. In self help meetings to cure addictions, the first thing you are encouraged told to do is to introduce yourself and say you were and addict. Tell me, if the culprits of this horrible act are caught, by a sample of the general public, what would they do to them that would be very different from the crime they committed?

Note that I am not in any way claiming to be above this psychological defect, nor am I suggesting what is right or wrong. I am just chipping in my own two cents, (if you are generous, or one cent, as I myself think it is worth).

There have been numerous suggestions about what to do, ranging from doing same to the culprits, removing the students of Uniport from that community, by a hare-brained contributor yesterday on channels television (how she intends for that to be done she didn’t say, I think she’s most probably blonde), allowing the law take its course, which it has started to do, as I hear, to closing the school down, which has also been done, and others too numerous to mention.

I, personally have no suggestions for justice. I am not suitably qualified to profer any. I can only say, in the aftermath of all these, that efforts should be made by both the government and the community leaders (not the callous and dickless one, if you pardon my French, who approved the killing of those young men) to mend relations between the students and the community, because their fortunes are forever intertwined, as long as the school remains there. Efforts should be made to make the students (and their parents) feel secure again in that environment and the bulk of this should be shouldered by the community.

Finally, we should also say a special word of thanks to RIM, producers of the Blackberry for facilitating the exposition of this heinous crime. If not for them, believe me, this killing would have stayed where it happened – at the scene, like countless others that have gone unreported. Also, heartless bastards, when they are in the mood to perpetuate their inhuman acts of fuckery, again, pardon my French, will think twice, knowing that they could suffer the same faith we hope the #Aluu4 culprits will suffer, as a result of the existence and effectiveness of the social media. Also, to any of you who reads this and still harbours any thoughts of ‘Aluuing’any one, be well advised.

Phew!!!! I had forgotten what joy writing gives. I have to return to doing more of this. Back to an article a week I guess.

2012-10-10T19:53:00.000+00:00

THE UNBORN DEAD

First I am liquid, only one of many fluids,

I cause no trouble, am serene, like the druids

Even then I’m alive, though filled with uncertainty.

Thinking, what is this sac that holds me in captivity?

Time passes; I grow in body and mind.

When do I get noticed by the parent mind?

Why pour these hot fluids on me? They burn me.

Imbibe more fruits. They develop and form me.

Oh I’ve been noticed, now, no more foods come.

Aha! How restless the parent mind has become.

Now I have an idea. Too young to let me stay

And little stones come. For what purpose I pray?

Stop the stones. They turn me back to blood

Am I deformed? My limbs, they refuse to bud

Oho! They’ve stopped. Do I have time to re-grow?

I sense a larger space out. Have I enough to show?

But I have to struggle. I sense my minder worried.

Am I that much trouble? She seems so harried.

Where are you going? Oh no! I sense danger here.

Wait! Wait! My screams are not loud enough to hear

Um wait. Won’t I find out what I have to give?

Am I to be killed before I have a chance to live?

Ah! The sword of Damocles, it sucks me out of my harbour

Sliding fitfully into oblivion, I scream pitifully, ET TU' DOCTOR!

Playing Jeremiah

2012-01-31T13:31:00.002+00:00

Ever hated being right? Predicting and hating it when your prediction comes true?.

If you have, then you have a pretty good idea what went through my mind through-out the subsidy removal strike and protests. Owing to my pro-government stance on this issue, I have received a lot of stick. In fact, any person who reads my previous piece on Nigeria and our annoying system would be very much surprised to discover that I am for all intents and purposes, pro-subsidy; however, the thrust of this blog post is not about deciding who is right or wrong on the issue.

With the dust having settled since the uproars of the past few weeks, we can now critically evaluate the happenings.

What I want to do in essence is evaluate the main characters in this play and see where they have done well or erred.

First and foremost, a little background information. Most of it is public knowledge however; it just presents a particular picture in context.

Not many people actually understand the subsidy issue. The explanation of this policy is simple: the Nigerian government pays huge amounts of money to a select group of people who import premium motor spirit (P.M.S) or in lay man terms; petrol. These moneys actually represent a huge portion of the national budget year to year. The essence of paying these monies was to reduce the pump price of petroleum. This time around, owing to a promise of transformation from a hitherto ineffectual president, the Nigerian Government decided to remove the subsidy from premium motor spirit, i.e. stop paying the funds to the oil importers, promising instead to use the money saved to fund other badly needed projects in the country.

Do we start with the government? Yes I think we should, them being after all the policy promulgators and all that.

Where can we commend them?

ü Simple, they took the bold step. A president previously categorized as weak suddenly grew some balls and decided to face the biggest drainer of national funds and attempt to convert that deficit into positives.

ü The government was upfront about the difficulties to be encountered by the masses upon the removal of the subsidy on petroleum (even though any average Nigerian could have discerned this), ostensibly citing it as temporary, promising an overhaul of the petroleum sector, which serves as the main stay of the Nigerian economy.

ü The intentions are honourable. They made a structured programme for spending the saved money, setting up a committee consisting of reputable Nigerians to oversee it.

Where did they err?

´ They failed to lead by example. Nigerian cost of government rates as one of the highest in the world. The budgets for personal and official expenditure of the president and his aides as well as the other Governmental officials and appointees including the senators and their appointees are downright astronomical. How then do they expect us the masses to toe the line of austerity when they are not showing us the way?

´ Imagine being the C.E.O of an International organization, when new company policies are about to be effected or new programmes are to be incorporated, what is the most essential move to be made? The answer is simple: dissemination of information, this ensures that the paid help are fully aware of the reasons for and the justification of the policy to be implemented. Here, I have to admit, the Government failed. Granted, they made efforts, albeit to a public untrusting of governmental policies because of past experiences, still, I have to say they did not do enough. Did they go to the grassroots, the villages? No. they did not. Did they saturate the airwaves with the publicity we then saw after the strikes and protests? Those moves were then reactive instead of pre-emptive.

´ Palliatives: To me, the first duty of the government is the welfare of the people. The palliatives hurriedly put in place after the reactions of Nigerians to the removal of the fuel subsidy should have been in place before then. Here, they totally erred, eroding what little faith the people had in them.

Next, the people. Now some would probably berate me for putting the masses under scrutiny but I think we deserve some blame in this. My reason is simple. The subsidy discussion had been going on for a while, in fact, for about three months prior to the actualization of the policy, but we refused to read or heed the handwriting on the wall. We, the masses, in general made no effort to learn about the pros and cons of the policy. We simply saw it as a fuel price hike, which incidentally, it was, but it was greyer than that. I am of the opinion that the tension would have been less than it was if enough people had made the effort to thoroughly understand the subsidy issue.

That point being made, we did extremely well to have protested what we perceived as a trampling of our rights as Nigerians and the high handedness of government. Our protests and reactions made the government listen and bound them to a bond they will find extremely difficult to extricate themselves from except they deliver on their promises. It is a well acknowledged fact that the proposed cuts in government spending is as a result of the successful protests undergone by our protesters.

Now to the people’s champion, labour. Yes, they organized successful protests and kept the protests largely peaceful and non-violent, but there is a question I’d like to ask….. Where had they been all along? The people got it right with the protests. The protests of the masses weren’t just about the pump price of petrol, but about corruption, the excesses of government and a lot of other vices that had kept the Nigerian citizen hostage to the sands of time. Labour got it all wrong when they protested solely against the pump price. A friend of mine asked me what the day-to-day job of the labour leaders was, is it the preparation for strike and protests? How about lobbying and acting as watchdogs against government excesses?

Like I always said to my friends, labour does not help us. Rather, they always fail us. Like this time around, they did. What stopped them from sitting with the government and demanding, as early as November or October last year that they see the palliatives on ground before the subsidy removal implementation? If they had done their jobs, there wouldn’t have been any need for any nationwide strike. The truth again is that the Nigerian labour Congress was caught napping as was every Nigerian. So they should get off their high horses and admit their share of the blame.

Nigeria’s politicians are the bottom of the lot. The senators, councilors and other eminent politicians simply took the opportunity to score cheap points by appearing in the forefront of protests they had no hand in organizing in order to castigate the present government. The opposition in Nigeria was exposed as being toothless. In developed countries, crises situations are opportunities for opposition leaders to convince the electorate that they have something better to offer. Nigeria’s opposition showed that they actually have nothing to offer. All they did was criticize the present government without giving or proffering any solutions to fixing the quagmire the country was in, exposing their lack of imagination and not instilling any hope in them by the electorate.

All in all, I can say conclusively, is that there was no winner, nor was there any vanquished. Time is the only judge here, perhaps we’ll find out if we took the right course or not, in good time.

When do we do a Libya?

2011-11-30T15:34:00.001+00:00

Right, I promised to write on a regular basis, but, well, I have to be sober most nights to do it, don’t I?

Before going into my piece, let me apologize first. I did promise myself that If I ever start a blog It definitely won’t be political, but here I am, my very second real piece, breaking that rule. This I just couldn’t resist. I really think my fallibility is justified.

This past year, at least 3 African nations have rebelled and ousted their rulers. With the exception of Ivory Coast, these nations are better than Nigeria economically. Yes, they are. Our brothers often travel to Egypt and Libya in search for greener pastures despite the strict one religion culture they practice there (well, maybe Egypt does have some Coptic Christians, but you still get the general drift), braving the hazards of crossing the huge Sahara while trying to smuggle themselves into the country illegally.

Yet, they rebelled, for reasons lighter than what we face in this country of ours.

Granted, they may have been fuelled or incited by some unscrupulous foreign powers, and they also rebelled against rulers who were iron – fisted and had clung to power for donkey years, with some of the rebels never having known any better or any other ruler. These differences are but minor dissimilarities.

No. we do not have a despotic ruler to oust from power. Neither are we being hauled off to jail in the middle of the night for speaking out against the government. No, too, our women are not being oppressed and seen as child bearing tools only; they are actually given a percentage in leadership positions. So, maybe we are not a Libya, or an Egypt, or even an Ivory Coast?

No. we are not. We are Nigeria, with our problems so myriad that we have lost track of what to complain about. We have taken our rot as the norm.

What we have is a system. An unacceptable way of life that has become acceptable, a way: the Nigerian way. I can tell you categorically, that even with my best of intentions, if I am voted into power, I will be powerless to do anything owing to the sort of established practice we have here.

Big admission? It’s justified. How many of our present ministers have occupied different ministerial positions in the past? I’ll tell you: most of them. Despite their obvious failure, these men are re-cycled again and again in and around the executive positions in the country, creating a situation of “the powers that be” that we are powerless to prevent.

The calculation is simple. If I served the past two administrations and was ineffectual as minister of two different ministries or sectors, what is the probability that if I am appointed a minister in another administration I will do better?

The great Fela summed it all up when he sang that his hit (which I grew up to meet) in which he said suffering and smiling is the nature of Nigerians (or words to that effect. I don’t claim to be an avid Fela follower). However, he couldn’t have been more correct in summing up the Nigerian spirit.

A few days ago, I sat for an examination as a youth corps member, a professional exam if you call it that. The number of ‘corpers’ who sat for the same exam was very high. Normally, it could be seen as encouraging that Nigerian youths are trying to obtain professional certificates to better themselves, and ultimately, the economy. However, the underlying and more practical reason for this is more disturbing- having a first degree is no longer enough to get a job in the country. Most applicants now feel the need to obtain certificates – any certificate, in a bid to gain any possible advantage over their mates, reason being that there just are too many applicants for extremely few jobs. Therefore, one, including yours truly, has to make sure he isn’t left behind. Why, for heaven’s sake do we keep trying to work around the disgrace of a country that we have, instead of trying to cure the ills of our ailing nation?

Walk on the streets to any newspaper vendor on any given morning and you will find men of all ages converging and reading the dailies. The young men amongst them will be devouring the sport papers and the older ones, the news dailies. Then listen to the arguments and/or discussions that will ensue in their midst. These are the ones that gripe. That’s all we ever do - gripe in our comfort zones and timidly swallow all the junk we are handed down, while accepting that the high level of corruption and greed in our society has come to stay.

Now I must make it clear here that I am not in any way advocating violence or revolution – the needless waste of human life never appeals to me and it’s the only reason why I do not rejoice at the freedom the North Africans have been able to carve for themselves. I am only lamenting the ‘bend over and take it in the ass’ attitude of Nigerians (if you pardon my French). I am a bit hypocritical here because I simply have no idea what to do to change the status quo, but then I wonder, Isn’t there something we can do? Can we not overhaul this system?

Alex Ibru died last week, Ojukwu , mere days ago. This year has the highest number of senior citizens dying more than any I remember in previous years (I may be wrong), however, the old guard is slowly but surely dying. The mantle is surely falling upon us, the younger folks, the baton being passed upon us (and note that I use the term younger in a very loose way), but nothing will change if the system of the old guard is also passed on. The status quo will remain the same and we will keep sliding down the path of self-destruction, unless we do something to change it.

Since we cannot fight or rebel, I just have to ask, is there any peaceful way we can do a Libya?

Use the rod

2011-11-18T07:43:00.001+00:00

“Oya… commot am, Commot everything….. Mama Gbubemi flog am well well, im wan tief blackberry.. as u no get boyfriend wey go buy am for you we go help you advertise wetin you get make boy come carry go… foolish girl”

“See – she dey cover her breasts” Slaps her visciously on the face and she promptly removes her hands from her body, opening it all for all to see. “ehen.. na so we want am.”

The above scenario is not made up. It is fast becoming a norm in this country of ours – The beating and stripping naked of Girls for any offence committed. I say any offence because; even though it is mostly due to stealing, there have been a few other instances where the girl in question did not steal. She might have insulted a boy in or around her higher institution premises, or is indebted to another girl.

Before delving into the possible causes of this deplorable act, let us look at the act itself.

What exactly is it supposed to teach the girl? Is it supposed to help the girl? Wont the girl in question be scarred for life and posses a deep seated hatred for anyone who falls into the category of her assailants? Then, has the purpose been achieved?

What exactly does this say about our society? How and when did we degenerate into using jungle justice as our first, second and last potions for discipline and correction? I was discussing this with a friend of mine some weeks back and he gave the standard answer of trying to teach the girls a lesson, and I hit him below the belt by playing the only trump card I could ever hope to own in this sort of situation – I asked him what his reaction would be if it happened to his sister and his response was that she wouldn’t steal, (sidestepping the question) but I persisted and he could not find any answer to the question.

Some ten, fifteen years back, Lagosians decided that the best punishment for thieves was to burn them alive, after beating them. I really cannot say if it has reduced the crime rate or prevented men from stealing, but one thing I can say is that there is the possibility that it has made the average armed robber in Lagos more ruthless because there is the certainty that if the same people they are robbing do catch them, it is the end of the road for them, I can also say with all certainty that it has reduced the people who burn them to ghouls. Some of you may dispute this, however, what then will you call yourself if you delight in ending another human’s life so ruthlessly? Who empowered you with the right to decide that this person has outlived his usefulness in this life? Most succinctly, who appointed you judge and executioner?

That, however, is not the original thrust of this blog post. I cannot say exactly when we transferred this viciousness to the female folk, It, nonetheless, is becoming alarmingly common place in our society. It is out rightly worrisome.

A second example is a particular video I was shown of two girls who came visiting a university of Benin Student and, being lesbians, did their do in the middle of the night. Come morning though, their room being adjoining to a guy’s, the young man brought other guys who were neighbours, and they proceeded to beat the girls terribly and force them to repeat the very acts they were doing the previous night in the privacy of their room, except they now had to do it in public and while being mercilessly flogged and videoed.

You get to ask yourself this question. Was the young man who instigated this act really angry that he heard their cries of pleasure the previous night, or was he just sexually frustrated? What exactly gave him the right to ‘discipline’ these girls?

Now, I am in no way supporting lesbianism, or saying what the girls did were right, however, isn’t there another way we could actually point out to these girls the folly of their ways and get them to change instead of beating them?

It is easy to say It will teach them a lesson not to ever steal again, or make them change their sexuality, But seriously, will it? Will the lesbian girl not hate the men who beat the hell out of her for doing what she liked doing, or will the thieving girl lose all hope and trust in the mother figure that disgraced her so heartlessly? What exactly are we doing to their psyche? A bigger fear is that, are we not hardening these girls?

That you might know

2011-11-17T08:54:00.000+00:00

It isn’t everyday one gets a chance to venture into something that represents, for one’s self, a heady challenge.

Having shaped my views and perceptions by the Internet at large, and specifically, by the blogosphere, I have then decided to take up the daunting and perhaps near – impossible task of writing a blog.

Yes, yes, I know what you are probably thinking….. that having spent too much time on the Internet reading other peoples’ thoughts, he now feels qualified enough to feed us his own spiel… well, If you are thinking that, then we have started on the right foot… we’ve agreed on one thing at least.

In my mocking self pity, I forgot to say a bit about what this blog will be centered upon.

The blog will be candid about most things affecting Nigerian youths, our society and our relationships with each other. Since I am the furthest thing from being an authority on any of these topics, I shall be inviting some guest contributors to contribute and share their ideas. Your comments will be as well appreciated.

Right, that’s about it for now. Expect more by the ‘morrow.