if I shave off my beard,
change the colour of my hair,
go back in time, got born again.
if I spoke better grammar,
wore dolce and gabanna
the papparazzi on my Hummer.
if I become a bilgs gelz,
wore a lot more blingz,
counted my billionz with Bill.
if I'm related to Her Royal Majesty
the queen of England, Lizzie,
walked with my nose in the air.
if I got a new pair of tits,
a makeover from Style - lists
dropped names on the A- list.
if I got more class,
graduate with the masters,
kiss the air by your airse.
if I lived in the mews,
walked in jimmy choos,
rolled with the Gates.
maybe ...
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Hooves
Something to scare you witless ...
Come here, move closer, I can’t speak louder than a whisper, because the story I’m about to tell is of the spirits, and as you know those beings lurk everywhere. They are in the very air you breathe. If you don’t believe me please explain to me in detail how the internet works without descending into gibberish.
So my dear young lady, pull your chair closer and let me tell you of my adventure with one of them. This tale is true, I swear, every word I say is the Gospel, I have neither added nor taken anything away from it.
I will continue my dear, what you people lack nowadays is patience and the strength to whisper, whisper m’dear, don’t shout.
I had just bought my first Peugot 404, with my first salary, this was way back in the seventies. I decided to wash it for my friends and all of us planned to hook up at a peppersoup joint along Oke-Ado.
What I’d forgotten was the fact that I had another party in Abeokuta on that same day, my grandfather had been dead for some years, but some of his children decided to turn him on his other side, because the side on which he had been sleeping on must be aching, and they did it the old honourable way of throwing a chop and quench party.
I had to be there or my mother would have had my head.
So there I was in Abeokuta, conscious of the fact that my friends were waiting for me in Ibadan. As you well know, there were no mobile phones in those days, so I really had to turn up or I would be forever known as the man who reneged on a promise.
At 12pm on the dot, I jumped into my car and commenced the drive to Ibadan, of course I did not tell my mother or she would not have allowed me to leave.
To cut a long story short, I was nearly in Ibadan, at Omi Adio to be precise, my headlights picked out the figure of a young lady standing by the road side. I was shocked, what was she doing out flagging down cars that time of the day? In those days armed robbers were the last things on your mind, the country was enjoying a boom then, and all those caught stealing were instantly executed.
You got that right my girl, mob justice, tyres, petrol and matches ... and boom!
There goes the thief.
Barbaric? Aren’t we all animals?
Now back to my story.
I drove past her, but something inside, some insistent voice made me return to her. I reversed and smiled at her, I asked her what she was doing at that time of the night in that part of town, I asked her where she was going and finally I asked her if she wouldn’t mind a ride.
She smiled at me then
I thought you’d never ask.
Till date I don’t know whether she said those words to me or sent it by telepathy.
Anyway as she stepped into my car, I tried to speed off, but she was too strong for me. She sat down and asked me why I was such a scaredy cat. I pointed at her legs. She smiled at me and said that was exactly why she was going to borrow mine, she showed me her face, her arms, flashed me a pair of pert breasts, a flat stomach.
She needs to snag herself a man she said, a real man not a manling like me. She’d have me for breakfast, she said casually, and that would not fill her up, she needed one that she can also have for lunch and dinner.
See every part of me? I had to borrow from some people. As you can see there’s only one part of me left, my legs, I like yours. I’ll just borrow them and hopefully return them to you soon. From the way you’ve been pressing down on that accelerator I can see they are in perfect working order. She said and leaned close to me, she stank like a he-goat.
That was the last thing I remembered. Till date I don’t know how I got to the hospital. The people that found me met my car intact, I was slumped over the steering wheel.
Did she borrow your legs?
Oh she did, she did all right.
How come you can still walk then uncle?
Why she replaced mine with hers.
Stop laughing, I can show you her legs, they are right here.
I pulled up my trousers and showed her my goat legs complete with hooves.
Come here, move closer, I can’t speak louder than a whisper, because the story I’m about to tell is of the spirits, and as you know those beings lurk everywhere. They are in the very air you breathe. If you don’t believe me please explain to me in detail how the internet works without descending into gibberish.
So my dear young lady, pull your chair closer and let me tell you of my adventure with one of them. This tale is true, I swear, every word I say is the Gospel, I have neither added nor taken anything away from it.
I will continue my dear, what you people lack nowadays is patience and the strength to whisper, whisper m’dear, don’t shout.
I had just bought my first Peugot 404, with my first salary, this was way back in the seventies. I decided to wash it for my friends and all of us planned to hook up at a peppersoup joint along Oke-Ado.
What I’d forgotten was the fact that I had another party in Abeokuta on that same day, my grandfather had been dead for some years, but some of his children decided to turn him on his other side, because the side on which he had been sleeping on must be aching, and they did it the old honourable way of throwing a chop and quench party.
I had to be there or my mother would have had my head.
So there I was in Abeokuta, conscious of the fact that my friends were waiting for me in Ibadan. As you well know, there were no mobile phones in those days, so I really had to turn up or I would be forever known as the man who reneged on a promise.
At 12pm on the dot, I jumped into my car and commenced the drive to Ibadan, of course I did not tell my mother or she would not have allowed me to leave.
To cut a long story short, I was nearly in Ibadan, at Omi Adio to be precise, my headlights picked out the figure of a young lady standing by the road side. I was shocked, what was she doing out flagging down cars that time of the day? In those days armed robbers were the last things on your mind, the country was enjoying a boom then, and all those caught stealing were instantly executed.
You got that right my girl, mob justice, tyres, petrol and matches ... and boom!
There goes the thief.
Barbaric? Aren’t we all animals?
Now back to my story.
I drove past her, but something inside, some insistent voice made me return to her. I reversed and smiled at her, I asked her what she was doing at that time of the night in that part of town, I asked her where she was going and finally I asked her if she wouldn’t mind a ride.
She smiled at me then
I thought you’d never ask.
Till date I don’t know whether she said those words to me or sent it by telepathy.
Anyway as she stepped into my car, I tried to speed off, but she was too strong for me. She sat down and asked me why I was such a scaredy cat. I pointed at her legs. She smiled at me and said that was exactly why she was going to borrow mine, she showed me her face, her arms, flashed me a pair of pert breasts, a flat stomach.
She needs to snag herself a man she said, a real man not a manling like me. She’d have me for breakfast, she said casually, and that would not fill her up, she needed one that she can also have for lunch and dinner.
See every part of me? I had to borrow from some people. As you can see there’s only one part of me left, my legs, I like yours. I’ll just borrow them and hopefully return them to you soon. From the way you’ve been pressing down on that accelerator I can see they are in perfect working order. She said and leaned close to me, she stank like a he-goat.
That was the last thing I remembered. Till date I don’t know how I got to the hospital. The people that found me met my car intact, I was slumped over the steering wheel.
Did she borrow your legs?
Oh she did, she did all right.
How come you can still walk then uncle?
Why she replaced mine with hers.
Stop laughing, I can show you her legs, they are right here.
I pulled up my trousers and showed her my goat legs complete with hooves.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Falling in love
I spotted her as soon as I entered the fast food restaurant next door to my office.
Our eyes caught and I noted she’s another tall, slim, fair skinned girl. Yellow girls are notorious for catching people’s attention, I thought dismissively, most of them turn out to be unattractive by the second look.
I bought lunch and as I swung around to leave, her gaze locked with mine again. I noted her nose, lips, those eyes bored into mine, they whispered promises.
I walked out and promptly forgot about her?
She was seated at the same table the following day. Her eyes lit up as I entered. I groaned inside and pretended I didn’t see her. That long neck, I had always sneered at people who waxed poetic about people’s necks, now all I wanted to do was run my hand from her neck to her cheek. Those lips, how would they feel if I kissed them?
What did I buy?
I walked out of the restaurant in a daze, my thoughts spun round and around, those lips, those eyes, she should quit it! I’m not going to walk up to her table, I won’t sit down. I won’t.
My heartbeat picked up as I approached the restaurant. I willed my feet not to skip towards those doors. I took a deep breath and looked up, she was there. She smiled at me.
I walked over to her table, stretched out my hand which was grasped in her warmth. Her smile grew wider.
Hi, my name is Ngozi, what’s yours? I said as I sat down beside her.
She smiled, we held hands as we walked out of the restaurant together.
Our eyes caught and I noted she’s another tall, slim, fair skinned girl. Yellow girls are notorious for catching people’s attention, I thought dismissively, most of them turn out to be unattractive by the second look.
I bought lunch and as I swung around to leave, her gaze locked with mine again. I noted her nose, lips, those eyes bored into mine, they whispered promises.
I walked out and promptly forgot about her?
She was seated at the same table the following day. Her eyes lit up as I entered. I groaned inside and pretended I didn’t see her. That long neck, I had always sneered at people who waxed poetic about people’s necks, now all I wanted to do was run my hand from her neck to her cheek. Those lips, how would they feel if I kissed them?
What did I buy?
I walked out of the restaurant in a daze, my thoughts spun round and around, those lips, those eyes, she should quit it! I’m not going to walk up to her table, I won’t sit down. I won’t.
My heartbeat picked up as I approached the restaurant. I willed my feet not to skip towards those doors. I took a deep breath and looked up, she was there. She smiled at me.
I walked over to her table, stretched out my hand which was grasped in her warmth. Her smile grew wider.
Hi, my name is Ngozi, what’s yours? I said as I sat down beside her.
She smiled, we held hands as we walked out of the restaurant together.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
A Loss of Memory
I write this with a lot of reluctance.
Not as a response to Richard Ali and his ilk who seem to thrive on controversies and mud-slinging. The hysteria and melodrama that accompanies everything they say is off-putting and extremely boring.
This is written for people who cared enough to ask for my own ‘side of the story’. I fear no man.
First off I’d like to state categorically that I did not ‘formally’ invite Richard Ali to Laipo, the writer’s platform that I started over a year ago in conjunction with NSIAC(Nigerian Society for Information on Arts and Culture) and Booksellers. As writers who have been to Ibadan will testify, you can only consider yourself formally invited when Mrs Pimoh, the Librarian at NSIAC calls you.
So I don’t know the phone call Richard Ali referred to in his first point.
There is nobody that goes by the name Shola who is a member of Laipo, and I can’t remember anybody from NSIAC who goes by that name either. So I am totally baffled by this call received by Richard Ali. The question is when this ‘Shola’ called him to tell him that his reading has been ‘called off’ because it was going to be ‘boycotted’ why did he not make enquiries immediately?
There is however, an aggrieved member of Laipo, an elderly gentleman who heard about the accusation of plagiarism levelled against Rotimi Babatunde by Maiwada, a man Richard Ali is associated with. This gentleman called me and said that he does not want Richard Ali featured at the event. I told Afi about this call, who was at that time staying in my house (as she usually does anytime she’s in Ibadan) not because I planned to ‘uninvite’ someone who has already been invited, but because she’s my friend.
I placed a call to Mr Mosuro and Mrs Scott-Emuakpor, and informed them about what happened, they agreed with my point that the event will hold, because even if Maiwada wrote a book worth featuring nothing will stop us from inviting him, since the club is about books.
I, immediately (this word is used deliberately) put a call through to Afi (who had by then returned to Lagos) to inform her that she shouldn’t worry about the reading, we were going ahead with it.
Two days to the reading I stumbled on a tweet exchange between Richard Ali and another tweep where he stated categorically that he was NOT coming to Ibadan. I called Afi and asked her what was going on and that was when she decided to tell me that Abubakar and Richard were not coming. I was annoyed and asked her why I wasn’t informed earlier so as to make other arrangements but I did not get any straight response, so I immediately called up other people who graciously agreed to attend in spite of the short notice.
I want to ask Richard Ali who he called when he ‘declined’ the invitation. In his typical fashion he claims to be ‘censored’ and in the same breath claims he ‘declined’ to attend the event. Which one is it Richard Ali? Were you ‘censored’ (and by whom)? Or did you ‘censor’ yourself?
The next point I want to call him up on is his reference to Mr Kolade Mosuro, who he claims is a ‘philanthropist’ and ‘bankrolls’ Laipo. He said Mr Mosuro ‘dissociated’ himself from the way he (Richard Ali) was being treated. I do not recall Mr Mosuro ever meeting Richard Ali talk less of holding forth a discussion on Laipo and the role he plays in it. I will also like to ask Ali, since he’s so fond of making references to ‘evidence’ to please state the time and place this conversation took place.
If Richard Ali’s blog hadn’t been so mind-numbingly repetitive and full of hyperboles I would have been outraged. He asked me why I didn’t respond to his ‘interview’, well because I find all these tiresome. I don’t engage in fruitless argument or discourse with people who can’t even get their facts straight.
As to his demand to have the name of this elderly gentleman made ‘public’ simply because he expressed his opinion, I find that disturbing, to say the least, because somebody here is obviously suffering from delusions of grandeur.
Not as a response to Richard Ali and his ilk who seem to thrive on controversies and mud-slinging. The hysteria and melodrama that accompanies everything they say is off-putting and extremely boring.
This is written for people who cared enough to ask for my own ‘side of the story’. I fear no man.
First off I’d like to state categorically that I did not ‘formally’ invite Richard Ali to Laipo, the writer’s platform that I started over a year ago in conjunction with NSIAC(Nigerian Society for Information on Arts and Culture) and Booksellers. As writers who have been to Ibadan will testify, you can only consider yourself formally invited when Mrs Pimoh, the Librarian at NSIAC calls you.
So I don’t know the phone call Richard Ali referred to in his first point.
There is nobody that goes by the name Shola who is a member of Laipo, and I can’t remember anybody from NSIAC who goes by that name either. So I am totally baffled by this call received by Richard Ali. The question is when this ‘Shola’ called him to tell him that his reading has been ‘called off’ because it was going to be ‘boycotted’ why did he not make enquiries immediately?
There is however, an aggrieved member of Laipo, an elderly gentleman who heard about the accusation of plagiarism levelled against Rotimi Babatunde by Maiwada, a man Richard Ali is associated with. This gentleman called me and said that he does not want Richard Ali featured at the event. I told Afi about this call, who was at that time staying in my house (as she usually does anytime she’s in Ibadan) not because I planned to ‘uninvite’ someone who has already been invited, but because she’s my friend.
I placed a call to Mr Mosuro and Mrs Scott-Emuakpor, and informed them about what happened, they agreed with my point that the event will hold, because even if Maiwada wrote a book worth featuring nothing will stop us from inviting him, since the club is about books.
I, immediately (this word is used deliberately) put a call through to Afi (who had by then returned to Lagos) to inform her that she shouldn’t worry about the reading, we were going ahead with it.
Two days to the reading I stumbled on a tweet exchange between Richard Ali and another tweep where he stated categorically that he was NOT coming to Ibadan. I called Afi and asked her what was going on and that was when she decided to tell me that Abubakar and Richard were not coming. I was annoyed and asked her why I wasn’t informed earlier so as to make other arrangements but I did not get any straight response, so I immediately called up other people who graciously agreed to attend in spite of the short notice.
I want to ask Richard Ali who he called when he ‘declined’ the invitation. In his typical fashion he claims to be ‘censored’ and in the same breath claims he ‘declined’ to attend the event. Which one is it Richard Ali? Were you ‘censored’ (and by whom)? Or did you ‘censor’ yourself?
The next point I want to call him up on is his reference to Mr Kolade Mosuro, who he claims is a ‘philanthropist’ and ‘bankrolls’ Laipo. He said Mr Mosuro ‘dissociated’ himself from the way he (Richard Ali) was being treated. I do not recall Mr Mosuro ever meeting Richard Ali talk less of holding forth a discussion on Laipo and the role he plays in it. I will also like to ask Ali, since he’s so fond of making references to ‘evidence’ to please state the time and place this conversation took place.
If Richard Ali’s blog hadn’t been so mind-numbingly repetitive and full of hyperboles I would have been outraged. He asked me why I didn’t respond to his ‘interview’, well because I find all these tiresome. I don’t engage in fruitless argument or discourse with people who can’t even get their facts straight.
As to his demand to have the name of this elderly gentleman made ‘public’ simply because he expressed his opinion, I find that disturbing, to say the least, because somebody here is obviously suffering from delusions of grandeur.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Three easy steps to riches beyond your wildest imaginations
I have to tell my story before I die. That much is clear to me as I lay on my bed contemplating how I got to this place, at this point in my life.
My name is Owolabi, I was born somewhere in Ibadan in the mid-70’s. My parents are retired civil servants. The one thing I have not been able to discover, is the reason why they decided to name me Owolabi, which in Yoruba means ‘we have given birth to wealth.’
I snigger when I think of my name and where I am right now.
I can hear their noise, ah! I’m in trouble. It is a quarter to 10. I should be able to finish telling my story before it’s 12 o clock, I am sure it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
My parents were not fetish, in fact they laugh at most people who believed in witches, wizards and other sundry spirits. They were not religious either, when the wave of Pentecostalism hit Nigeria, it somehow passed over their heads. We never went to church, but they believe there’s a Supreme Being who watched over everything that happened to human beings, they believe the Being has a wicked sense of humor.
Yesterday, in a bid to clear my conscience and prepare my parents for any eventuality, I had gone home and confessed all to my parents, who to my astonishment fell about laughing instead of feeling sorry for me.
“Forget that bladderdash!” Father had said, “Everything that happened was just coincidental, anyway I hope you’ve learnt your lessons ... if you survive till the day after tomorrow.” Father was practically rolling on the floor with laughter when he said the last sentence the book he had been reading fell on the floor. Mother tried to keep a straight face and appear sympathetic but she failed woefully. I am their only child and I’m about to die, and they are laughing. My parents are crazy. But then I run ahead of myself, let me tell you the story.
I graduated from the University of Nsukka over 14years ago where I read a course in
Engineering. After graduation and Service I went back for my masters. By the time I finally left the four walls of the university, most of the guys that I went to school with had already started doing something with their lives. I stayed at home for the first six years, walking from one company to another, attending tests and interviews. Translation: I couldn’t get a job.
I eventually got a job in a secondary school teaching Maths, Physics and Chemistry to the poor unsuspecting students. This job I did for three years, I was still at home, I still could not afford to feed myself because the pay was so poor I could barely transport myself to work. After a while I started helping the weak students, I don’t know why the school authorities thought my method of helping the poor kids by showing them the answers to tests and exams before they actually sit for them was wrong.
Their parents had money and I had the services, and we all know those students wouldn’t have passed if I hadn’t helped them. To cut a long story short I was fired by the school authorities when some bad-belle parents went to complain that I was aiding exam malpractices in the school.
That had to happen when I was finally able to meet my financial obligations and moved into my own apartment.
After losing that job, I tried everything, I played ‘Baba Lotto’, worked in a sweet making factory, tried to be a hustler (and discovered the life is not as easy as people make it out to be) and finally ended up working on a chicken farm for peanuts.
Then one stupid manager who doesn’t know the difference between a chicken and a pig started harassing me sexually. Why would I want to sleep with an overbleached piece of womanhood, who starved herself regularly in the name of dieting? Her bones stuck out all over the place and her face, which would have been pretty, wore a perpetually hungry look, the poor girl reminded me of those children people like posting on social medias as the representation of African Children (capitalization deliberate).
I told the poor girl the truth about her lack of backside, the smell of bleaching and the odour that oozes out of her ‘real Brazillian’ hair that her expensive perfumes couldn’t manage to cover and the girl hit the roof.
She had me fired.
So I set up a chicken farm with the money I had managed to save.
All the chickens died.
I stayed indoors and despaired.
That was when Suraju came into my life. He was one of the regulars at one drinking joint like that where I go to drown my bitterness in bottles of beer. I didn’t know he had been studying me until he walked up to me one night.
“Egbon I’ve been watching you for close to three years.” He said to me. There’s no doubt about the fact that Suraju was not a bad looking dude, but I don’t swing that way.
“Come on Egbon, I’m not propositioning you, what I mean is that you have been very kind to me but I think life has not been kind to you, especially in respect to your wonderful name.”
Well he can say that again, I’m an Owolabi without a penny to my name. I laughed at everything, at nothing.
He drew close to me, he smelt surprisingly clean for a man who had taken twice the amount of beers that I drank that night.
“If you want to know the three steps to easy wealth, call me on this number by 9am tomorrow, not earlier or later, it has to be nine on the dot.” He said as he slipped a card into my hand, he turned back and disappeared into the night.
My eyes were bleary and my head pounded like someone was playing steel drums in my head the following morning but I had the presence of mind to call Suraju at 9 on the dot.
Oh God, I can hear spirit noises outside my window, although as I peer through my curtains I can’t see anything, there’s a shape drawing near, maybe I should drop the curtain and hide under my bed. Oh it’s the night guard. They can’t be here yet, it’s just some minutes after eleven, I should stop panicking... watch out for Part II.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The Padlock
My name is Florence, and before you start judging me, I’ll have you know that I LOVE THE LORD, I know I shouldn’t have shouted at you but then you will have to pardon me, I needed to make that point even before I start telling you my story.
I am going to be 35years old in the next few months. I am a medical doctor and I’m doing quite fine in Neurological Sciences circles.
To the outsider I have it all, a great career, nice car, fantastic flat (that I bought with my own money) and a great body.
I know I’m a beautiful woman, thank you very much!
Since I’m writing this story you must have guessed that all is not well in my paradise, yes my dear brother or sister, you know that saying ‘all that glitters is not gold’? Yes that one, I'm now a cliche.
I am a beautiful, intelligent woman who is the envy of her peers, but as my pastor, my mother, my siblings, church members and even Facebookers and Tweeps (whom I’ve never met, nor likely to meet) has pointed out over and again, all these things are NOT important.
I am a failure.
Yes I said it, and no I do not have an inferiority complex. Why would I suffer from that kind of thing when I know exactly who I am and what I want out of life? The problem started when I was born a girl, I still don’t understand it, I should have come as a boy, all women should have been male so that there will be equality in the world, and no, I’m not a feminist, I dislike those manly women almost as much as I dislike all those married women in my church who flaunt their husbands and children in my face.
I can tell you expressly that I know I’m the child of the Most High God, the best friend of Jesus Christ. I am a staunch member of my church and I give my tithe even far above what is required of me. In spite of my tight schedule I do volunteer work in church and I belong to about 3 departments and these 3 will practically fall apart without me. I tell you no lie.
As per what I want from life ... A husband and three children. Two boys and one girl, Jesutito, Jesuwalaye and Jesuseyifunmi. Is there anything wrong with picking out names for your unborn children? The names are written down in my prayer
notebook, the date on it is 7th of August 2000, that is just to show you how long ago I’ve been asking God for my own family.
I do not possess a single bone of jealousy or envy in my body, anytime there’s going to be a wedding in church and another one of those little girls with little sense and those blind brothers decide to put a wedding band on each other’s fingers I always make myself available for those occasions. Some of these broke people even approach me to help finance their weddings, (rubbish!).
I don’t think I’ve asked the Lord for too much, since I did most of the work of passing my medical exams and performing exceedingly well in my duties as a doctor without divine intervention.
Recently I met a Christian brother, Poju, who is the embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. He is a fiiiiine boy! He is not only fine he also has good taste, you should see the designer clothes this brother wears to church. He trained as a fashion designer in one of those swanky art schools in America and has just returned to Nigeria to start his own fashion label. He is well traveled, a wine connoisseur and he reads! Frankly he can easily give all those romance novel heroes a run for their money any day!
Immediately he joined the church I was drawn to him. Not only because of his good looks and wealth, but he is also my intellectual equal, we spend hours arguing one fine point of the books we’ve read or the other, we critiqued movies and loved eating the same type of food. It would appear that the Good Lord has finally answered my prayers.
Immediately he came into my life, I went to buy a suit for him which I kept in my wardrobe and every morning I pray him into the suit. I will point my hand at the clothes and imagine his body filling them. Ah my brother (or is it my sister?) that man is fiiiiiiine (I said that already abi?) and that body! Jesus walks!
From the moment we met Poju and I became inseparable, we enriched those thieving telephone network companies with our constant calls.
It got to a point that we started seating beside each other in church and people started noticing us. For the first time since I joined that church, people looked at me with envy and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction, the wait had been worth it.
My mother heard the news through the grapevine and was overjoyed. Life is good ... or so it appeared.
When I told my mum that I was disturbed about the fact that Poju had never touched me before. The best we’d done was exchange chaste goodnight kisses. My mother was shocked at the turn my thoughts were taking. Impure thoughts she called them. She did not raise me as one of those nymphomaniacs who seem to enjoy sex, it is shocking the things you see these days my mother said in consternation, all those girls enjoy sex and they even ask for orgasms, it is so not lady-like!
After that day I stopped talking about my failed attempts at luring Poju into my bed. I have ‘accidentally’ touched him before and I’ve seen him rise to the occasion once when we were in church and some boys and girls seated in front of us were shaking their bodies to the Lord, Poju is a yansh man and thank God for giving me that gift.
So I am darn sure that he does not have a problem in that department, I concluded that he must be one of those who actually don’t believe in sex before marriage, not those ones that do everything but penetration and still claim to be virgins.
In order to ensure Poju’s full cooperation in our upcoming nuptials (although the dense man had not proposed at that point in time) my mother took me to one of my uncles, a pastor who is well versed in the spiritual arts. Don’t get me wrong, he does not practice all those fetishes some of these ancestral spirit worshipers engage in, he is just more spiritual than the average Christian.
The long and short of the story is that he gave me a padlock and a key, which he assured me was my spirit and Poju’s spirit. The padlock was Poju and I was the key. Once the key (that’s me) has locked the padlock (that’s Poju) his eyes will be opened to the fact that he loved me all along, that he’s never loved anyone as much as he loved me and he will marry me immediately and all my dreams will come true and the Lord Jesus would finally shut the big mouths of my enemies. And a trailer full of joy will hit me as I cross an expressway, a trainload of happiness will crush me on my way to work, a plane full of health and wealth will crash on me as I sit down in my lovely sitting room.
He told me to keep the padlock and key in a safe place in case I decide to unlock the thing by myself because once it is locked both of us are locked together forever and there’s no escaping the person, and if we go our separate ways without opening the lock and doing the appropriate rituals, both of us will die, slowly and painfully. That sounds right up my alley. I love padlocks and keys.
True to my Uncle’s words, as soon as I locked the thing ‘pam’ like that, my phone rang, it was Poju. He was anxious to see me, when I told him I was doing some stuff in my village, he insisted that I must return to Ibadan immediately. When I got to his house I found him pacing his sitting room. As soon as he saw me his countenance changed and he hugged me (which goes to show how much he’d missed me).
He knelt down and asked me to be his wife. I was short of all other words except ‘YES!’ and ‘THANK YOU JESUS!’
Wedding preparations started in earnest, and I was sad when Poju resisted all efforts on my part to make him kiss me. But then the days of my patience were numbered so I did not mind so much.
Early yesterday morning... this is difficult but I have to do it
Early yesterday morning the person that brought our platinum wedding bands from England called to inform me that the rings were ready, I quickly went to Poju’s house to pick up my atm card that I had forgotten there two days earlier, so I can pay the girl. I thought I heard sounds from Poju’s room so I entered and met him being taken from the back by his personal assistant, Kabir.
The two men scrambled for their clothes and Poju burst into tears. He loved me and nobody else he claimed, it was just sex and nothing more between him and Kabir. Although he can’t stand the idea of a woman touching him in a sexual way, he was willing to sacrifice himself for me and that’s the depth of his love for me.
He and Muhammad were just having a goodbye fuck, from now on, he said as tears streamed down his face, he will be faithful to me, the look of dismay on his face when he uttered the word ‘faithful’ had me gasping with laughter.
The implications of what happened eventually sank into my consciousness, I fainted, not because of my discovery, but because yesterday morning I had traveled down to Lagos and thrown the padlock and key inside the sea.
I am going to be 35years old in the next few months. I am a medical doctor and I’m doing quite fine in Neurological Sciences circles.
To the outsider I have it all, a great career, nice car, fantastic flat (that I bought with my own money) and a great body.
I know I’m a beautiful woman, thank you very much!
Since I’m writing this story you must have guessed that all is not well in my paradise, yes my dear brother or sister, you know that saying ‘all that glitters is not gold’? Yes that one, I'm now a cliche.
I am a beautiful, intelligent woman who is the envy of her peers, but as my pastor, my mother, my siblings, church members and even Facebookers and Tweeps (whom I’ve never met, nor likely to meet) has pointed out over and again, all these things are NOT important.
I am a failure.
Yes I said it, and no I do not have an inferiority complex. Why would I suffer from that kind of thing when I know exactly who I am and what I want out of life? The problem started when I was born a girl, I still don’t understand it, I should have come as a boy, all women should have been male so that there will be equality in the world, and no, I’m not a feminist, I dislike those manly women almost as much as I dislike all those married women in my church who flaunt their husbands and children in my face.
I can tell you expressly that I know I’m the child of the Most High God, the best friend of Jesus Christ. I am a staunch member of my church and I give my tithe even far above what is required of me. In spite of my tight schedule I do volunteer work in church and I belong to about 3 departments and these 3 will practically fall apart without me. I tell you no lie.
As per what I want from life ... A husband and three children. Two boys and one girl, Jesutito, Jesuwalaye and Jesuseyifunmi. Is there anything wrong with picking out names for your unborn children? The names are written down in my prayer
I do not possess a single bone of jealousy or envy in my body, anytime there’s going to be a wedding in church and another one of those little girls with little sense and those blind brothers decide to put a wedding band on each other’s fingers I always make myself available for those occasions. Some of these broke people even approach me to help finance their weddings, (rubbish!).
I don’t think I’ve asked the Lord for too much, since I did most of the work of passing my medical exams and performing exceedingly well in my duties as a doctor without divine intervention.
Recently I met a Christian brother, Poju, who is the embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. He is a fiiiiine boy! He is not only fine he also has good taste, you should see the designer clothes this brother wears to church. He trained as a fashion designer in one of those swanky art schools in America and has just returned to Nigeria to start his own fashion label. He is well traveled, a wine connoisseur and he reads! Frankly he can easily give all those romance novel heroes a run for their money any day!
Immediately he joined the church I was drawn to him. Not only because of his good looks and wealth, but he is also my intellectual equal, we spend hours arguing one fine point of the books we’ve read or the other, we critiqued movies and loved eating the same type of food. It would appear that the Good Lord has finally answered my prayers.
Immediately he came into my life, I went to buy a suit for him which I kept in my wardrobe and every morning I pray him into the suit. I will point my hand at the clothes and imagine his body filling them. Ah my brother (or is it my sister?) that man is fiiiiiiine (I said that already abi?) and that body! Jesus walks!
From the moment we met Poju and I became inseparable, we enriched those thieving telephone network companies with our constant calls.
It got to a point that we started seating beside each other in church and people started noticing us. For the first time since I joined that church, people looked at me with envy and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction, the wait had been worth it.
My mother heard the news through the grapevine and was overjoyed. Life is good ... or so it appeared.
When I told my mum that I was disturbed about the fact that Poju had never touched me before. The best we’d done was exchange chaste goodnight kisses. My mother was shocked at the turn my thoughts were taking. Impure thoughts she called them. She did not raise me as one of those nymphomaniacs who seem to enjoy sex, it is shocking the things you see these days my mother said in consternation, all those girls enjoy sex and they even ask for orgasms, it is so not lady-like!
After that day I stopped talking about my failed attempts at luring Poju into my bed. I have ‘accidentally’ touched him before and I’ve seen him rise to the occasion once when we were in church and some boys and girls seated in front of us were shaking their bodies to the Lord, Poju is a yansh man and thank God for giving me that gift.
So I am darn sure that he does not have a problem in that department, I concluded that he must be one of those who actually don’t believe in sex before marriage, not those ones that do everything but penetration and still claim to be virgins.
In order to ensure Poju’s full cooperation in our upcoming nuptials (although the dense man had not proposed at that point in time) my mother took me to one of my uncles, a pastor who is well versed in the spiritual arts. Don’t get me wrong, he does not practice all those fetishes some of these ancestral spirit worshipers engage in, he is just more spiritual than the average Christian.
The long and short of the story is that he gave me a padlock and a key, which he assured me was my spirit and Poju’s spirit. The padlock was Poju and I was the key. Once the key (that’s me) has locked the padlock (that’s Poju) his eyes will be opened to the fact that he loved me all along, that he’s never loved anyone as much as he loved me and he will marry me immediately and all my dreams will come true and the Lord Jesus would finally shut the big mouths of my enemies. And a trailer full of joy will hit me as I cross an expressway, a trainload of happiness will crush me on my way to work, a plane full of health and wealth will crash on me as I sit down in my lovely sitting room.
He told me to keep the padlock and key in a safe place in case I decide to unlock the thing by myself because once it is locked both of us are locked together forever and there’s no escaping the person, and if we go our separate ways without opening the lock and doing the appropriate rituals, both of us will die, slowly and painfully. That sounds right up my alley. I love padlocks and keys.
True to my Uncle’s words, as soon as I locked the thing ‘pam’ like that, my phone rang, it was Poju. He was anxious to see me, when I told him I was doing some stuff in my village, he insisted that I must return to Ibadan immediately. When I got to his house I found him pacing his sitting room. As soon as he saw me his countenance changed and he hugged me (which goes to show how much he’d missed me).
He knelt down and asked me to be his wife. I was short of all other words except ‘YES!’ and ‘THANK YOU JESUS!’
Wedding preparations started in earnest, and I was sad when Poju resisted all efforts on my part to make him kiss me. But then the days of my patience were numbered so I did not mind so much.
Early yesterday morning... this is difficult but I have to do it
Early yesterday morning the person that brought our platinum wedding bands from England called to inform me that the rings were ready, I quickly went to Poju’s house to pick up my atm card that I had forgotten there two days earlier, so I can pay the girl. I thought I heard sounds from Poju’s room so I entered and met him being taken from the back by his personal assistant, Kabir.
The two men scrambled for their clothes and Poju burst into tears. He loved me and nobody else he claimed, it was just sex and nothing more between him and Kabir. Although he can’t stand the idea of a woman touching him in a sexual way, he was willing to sacrifice himself for me and that’s the depth of his love for me.
He and Muhammad were just having a goodbye fuck, from now on, he said as tears streamed down his face, he will be faithful to me, the look of dismay on his face when he uttered the word ‘faithful’ had me gasping with laughter.
The implications of what happened eventually sank into my consciousness, I fainted, not because of my discovery, but because yesterday morning I had traveled down to Lagos and thrown the padlock and key inside the sea.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
SLEEPING BEAUTY (MY VERSION)
this story was told to my 2year old earlier this year, it has been slightly modified, the original story is on my facebook notes.)
So there was this King and Queen and they don't know what to do. They had no children, no heir to leave their throne to. Oye vey! What a tragic day!
Out they went for a stroll one balmy summer evening (and please no discourse allowed on whether Nigeria has summer or not!) on their huge, expensive estate(no peasants to mar the rolling hills!). They admired the hills, the vales, their solid gold Rolls-Royce.
"Oh darling darling why can't we make babies?" The Queen cried out in a timid voice, like her heart would break.
"It's all your fault my little green eyed brunnete!" The King said sympathetically (Don’t even go down the route of Nigerians cannot be green eyed or brunette! It shows you know nothing about fashion).
"How dare you say that? I'm sure it's your fault!" The Queen screeched her timidity thrown through the window. “You can barely get it up even on your most virile days.” The King's face grew beet red and he was about to push her into the clear, cool stream flowing through their beautiful garden when the water boiled, thunder roiled and lightning lit up the dark skies. (Oh wait didn’t it start out as a summer afternoon? Well it doesn’t really matter just read on and stop asking questions!)
"Oh please don't do that!" A voice said out of the roiling waters.
"And who might you be? How dare you interrupt the King while performing his royal duties?" The King said loftily, his hands still around his lovely Queen's neck her lovely green eyes bulged and her Brazillian tresses trembled.
"Oh it is me, a magical fish, it's all good and it's true, it's your fault O King that there are no babies, but because we don't want her blood staining our beautiful stream, we'll grant you a wish, a pretty daughter will be born to you in nine months!" The fish said disappearing into the stream.
“Why a daughter? Why not a bouncy baby boy that looks exactly like his handsome daddy?” The king said indigantly.
“Well we all know why? He’d be short, rotund and as stupid as his daddy. If she was female at least she will be fine with the help of plastic surgery.” The fish said, for the queen was still coughing and trying to get air into her bruised lungs.
True to its words nine months later, the brunnette Queen and her brown haired King gave birth to a beautiful blue eyed blonde baby. (Now I've told you Kiisa, stop asking me questions like that, why can’t a Nigerian have a blonde baby? I'm not making it up! Genetics? What do you know about genetics? You're only 2years old! Now shush and let me finish reading the story to you.)
The King and the Queen threw a great 2weeks party, to celebrate the birth of their perfect princess. Everyone was invited, of course, well ... except for the bad bad witch who got slapped by Oyedepo. Although the King got wind of the fact that she might be a billionaire soon, but he can always invite her for another party WHEN she became rich.
Anybody that was anybody was there, Bank-Ole, Ote – Dollar, Patricia E-te simply had to fete the King and his lovely queen.
Anyway the bad bad witch got wind of this party and since she can, she simply flew into the party and was having a wild wild time when boring old King came and ordered her out!
"How dare you?" the bad bad witch screeched. She turned to the baby princess and pronounced these terrible words.
"Thou shall fall, on a spindle, break your neck on a bindle, lay down and die on a kindle!" The whole palace went quiet for a moment and suddenly (What's a spindle? Kiisa please stop how will I know what a spindle is when I've never seen one before? I think it is that thingamajigibob in the picture. What do you mean by saying I'm making this up? I'm reading it to you, is it me that said you shouldn't know how to read? Wo stop it or I'll stop reading o!)
Anyway suddenly people started screeching ... and lo and behold the members of the Nigerian Senate appeared, after making sure there are no gay people at the party they pronounced these words ... "We shall go and pray at Daddy GO's Church and he will make you not to die, you shall live and blah blah blah." After then they disappeared ... with all the golden utensils in the palace of course!
Truly this came to pass too, the king ordered all spindles to be removed, but as we all know that witches are very powerful the wicked bad bad witch came back ... (why are you pointing at the picture and at me? No I do not resemble the bad bad witch, although her nose and stomach somehow reminds me of me.) Eighteen years later the beautiful blue eyed blond princess touched a spindle ... well she just fell into a sleep that lasted for a century! So did every member of the King's household, and the Nigerian President came out with a press statement that "it is better to bear the burden of sleeping than to die!" and his wife came out and said "All my fellow sleeping princesses I and my husband have been asleep longer than you, though it may appear that we are not." or something to that effect.
And then they set up a committee on why spindles and princesses don’t agree. The committee of course found out why and then they went around the homes of all indicted witches and said ‘Give us dollars or we will put your name on the list of swindlers ... sorry spindlers!
Anyway a hundred years later all these princes who seem not to like princesses that are awake because they probably give them too much wahala decided to seek the sleeping princess out and marry her, after all she was rich! After one of them successfully breaks into her bedroom, he drew near to her bed and was about to kiss her when a waft of air blew up the body and mouth odor of a princess that has not had her bath or brushed her teeth in a hundred years ... he fainted and they all lived happily ever after.
So there was this King and Queen and they don't know what to do. They had no children, no heir to leave their throne to. Oye vey! What a tragic day!
Out they went for a stroll one balmy summer evening (and please no discourse allowed on whether Nigeria has summer or not!) on their huge, expensive estate(no peasants to mar the rolling hills!). They admired the hills, the vales, their solid gold Rolls-Royce.
"Oh darling darling why can't we make babies?" The Queen cried out in a timid voice, like her heart would break.
"It's all your fault my little green eyed brunnete!" The King said sympathetically (Don’t even go down the route of Nigerians cannot be green eyed or brunette! It shows you know nothing about fashion).
"How dare you say that? I'm sure it's your fault!" The Queen screeched her timidity thrown through the window. “You can barely get it up even on your most virile days.” The King's face grew beet red and he was about to push her into the clear, cool stream flowing through their beautiful garden when the water boiled, thunder roiled and lightning lit up the dark skies. (Oh wait didn’t it start out as a summer afternoon? Well it doesn’t really matter just read on and stop asking questions!)
"Oh please don't do that!" A voice said out of the roiling waters.
"And who might you be? How dare you interrupt the King while performing his royal duties?" The King said loftily, his hands still around his lovely Queen's neck her lovely green eyes bulged and her Brazillian tresses trembled.
"Oh it is me, a magical fish, it's all good and it's true, it's your fault O King that there are no babies, but because we don't want her blood staining our beautiful stream, we'll grant you a wish, a pretty daughter will be born to you in nine months!" The fish said disappearing into the stream.
“Why a daughter? Why not a bouncy baby boy that looks exactly like his handsome daddy?” The king said indigantly.
“Well we all know why? He’d be short, rotund and as stupid as his daddy. If she was female at least she will be fine with the help of plastic surgery.” The fish said, for the queen was still coughing and trying to get air into her bruised lungs.
True to its words nine months later, the brunnette Queen and her brown haired King gave birth to a beautiful blue eyed blonde baby. (Now I've told you Kiisa, stop asking me questions like that, why can’t a Nigerian have a blonde baby? I'm not making it up! Genetics? What do you know about genetics? You're only 2years old! Now shush and let me finish reading the story to you.)
The King and the Queen threw a great 2weeks party, to celebrate the birth of their perfect princess. Everyone was invited, of course, well ... except for the bad bad witch who got slapped by Oyedepo. Although the King got wind of the fact that she might be a billionaire soon, but he can always invite her for another party WHEN she became rich.
Anybody that was anybody was there, Bank-Ole, Ote – Dollar, Patricia E-te simply had to fete the King and his lovely queen.
Anyway the bad bad witch got wind of this party and since she can, she simply flew into the party and was having a wild wild time when boring old King came and ordered her out!
"How dare you?" the bad bad witch screeched. She turned to the baby princess and pronounced these terrible words.
"Thou shall fall, on a spindle, break your neck on a bindle, lay down and die on a kindle!" The whole palace went quiet for a moment and suddenly (What's a spindle? Kiisa please stop how will I know what a spindle is when I've never seen one before? I think it is that thingamajigibob in the picture. What do you mean by saying I'm making this up? I'm reading it to you, is it me that said you shouldn't know how to read? Wo stop it or I'll stop reading o!)
Anyway suddenly people started screeching ... and lo and behold the members of the Nigerian Senate appeared, after making sure there are no gay people at the party they pronounced these words ... "We shall go and pray at Daddy GO's Church and he will make you not to die, you shall live and blah blah blah." After then they disappeared ... with all the golden utensils in the palace of course!
Truly this came to pass too, the king ordered all spindles to be removed, but as we all know that witches are very powerful the wicked bad bad witch came back ... (why are you pointing at the picture and at me? No I do not resemble the bad bad witch, although her nose and stomach somehow reminds me of me.) Eighteen years later the beautiful blue eyed blond princess touched a spindle ... well she just fell into a sleep that lasted for a century! So did every member of the King's household, and the Nigerian President came out with a press statement that "it is better to bear the burden of sleeping than to die!" and his wife came out and said "All my fellow sleeping princesses I and my husband have been asleep longer than you, though it may appear that we are not." or something to that effect.
And then they set up a committee on why spindles and princesses don’t agree. The committee of course found out why and then they went around the homes of all indicted witches and said ‘Give us dollars or we will put your name on the list of swindlers ... sorry spindlers!
Anyway a hundred years later all these princes who seem not to like princesses that are awake because they probably give them too much wahala decided to seek the sleeping princess out and marry her, after all she was rich! After one of them successfully breaks into her bedroom, he drew near to her bed and was about to kiss her when a waft of air blew up the body and mouth odor of a princess that has not had her bath or brushed her teeth in a hundred years ... he fainted and they all lived happily ever after.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Dark Sunny Day
Dark Sun-day
Sad Mourn-day,
Fat Tools-day,
Shall I then go
on national teevee
let the tears flow
flow,
go on
and blow
my nose
for dearly departed
souls
of dearly departed
in-soles
of empty
pews, aisles, roads
burning trucks
what in-sow-lence!
shall I then
cry you a river
shall it cleanse
wash all my sins away
shall I then be
as white as
Willi-Willi
the ghost
tell me Ay-bay-lay
dearie dearest
patiently patience
patented teary one
doctor of the lucky few
sows, goats, fowls
Shall I
squeeze kai-kai
out of dry bones
shall I then
go on bended knees
head bowed
pray
have witchcraft
slapped off
my wet face
(the billion naira slap)
shall I then
not
after so much tears
return to business
as
Usual?
Sad Mourn-day,
Fat Tools-day,
Shall I then go
on national teevee
let the tears flow
flow,
go on
and blow
my nose
for dearly departed
souls
of dearly departed
in-soles
of empty
pews, aisles, roads
burning trucks
what in-sow-lence!
shall I then
cry you a river
shall it cleanse
wash all my sins away
shall I then be
as white as
Willi-Willi
the ghost
tell me Ay-bay-lay
dearie dearest
patiently patience
patented teary one
doctor of the lucky few
sows, goats, fowls
Shall I
squeeze kai-kai
out of dry bones
shall I then
go on bended knees
head bowed
pray
have witchcraft
slapped off
my wet face
(the billion naira slap)
shall I then
not
after so much tears
return to business
as
Usual?
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Long Drawn out Departures
La Salle de Depart written by Melissa Tandiwe Myambo is another story on the shortlist of this year’s Caine Prize for African Writing.
It is the story of Fatima and Ibou her brother. Ibou lives in America with his Egyptian lover (she’s a fine woman who accidentally happens to come from a rich and enlightened home). Ibou loves this woman who seems to understand his fears and longings. She is also extremely intelligent and apparently has good taste. Her family was everything his family would never be.
Fatima, a divorcee, lives at home and takes care of their half-blind father, she has one male child. She hoped her brother will take the boy with him to America, but he refused point blank, the problem was not financial but a lack of space. According to him “... we have no space for him in our lives.”
Fatima of course was bitter and words burnt at the tip of her tongue, but years of conditioning made her not to spit the words out. She remembered how her father had sacrificed her own education at the altar of furthering Ibou’s because he was supposed to ‘save’ the family and bring good fortune for them. She remembered how an uncle had taken Ibou to America with him, no questions asked. Now he looks down on them. Their way of life was not ‘classy’ enough for him. They leave globules of shit floating in the toilet (is there something about toilets and the Caine Prize this year?)
It was very difficult getting a profile on the writer of this short story, I spent about two days and God knows how many hours trying to discover who Melissa Tandiwe Myambo is. I still don’t know much except that she read comparative literature at New York University and she lives in America. She has also published a collection of short stories Jacaranda Journals published by Macmillan(South Africa).
This is a typical story of another marginalized African woman. A woman who was denied an education because she was the wrong sex. She had been kicked out of her home because her husband wants more children (what’s one child when you can have 20?). Victimhood suits Fatima to her dainty little toes.
In spite of the fact that the writer tried to give an insight into what made Ibou, Fatima’s brother, behave the way he did, you came away with the feeling that he is just selfish and suffers from a severe case of inferiority complex. His sister like I said in the previous paragraph suffers the same affliction, both characters are as dull as dishwater.
I must be frank I struggled with this story, it was precise,with hardly any editorial flaws and the language was great but man the story was boring. I took the longest, most long-winded taxi ride, I’ve ever had when I climbed in the backseat with Fatima and her brother Ibou on their way to the airport. I was rather hoping that something really exciting would happen at the airport (a terrorist attack, maybe? That would have stirred things up a bit, but then Africa is the hunger capital not the terrorism capital of the world).
There was too much thinking in the story and too little talking. Resentment simmered underneath the conversations but neither side had the guts to actually speak their minds. Sometimes you can’t help but wonder on whose side the author really is because her impartiality did not shine through.
Who is the villain of the piece? Is it the family that waits on their son to bring them trashy, touristy gifts from ‘abroad’ and give them money which never amounts to much at the end of the day? Or is it the son who gets suckered into the ‘great’ American way of life and does not look back? Or maybe it is even our hardworking victim, Fatima, who expects too much of her brother.
One thing though, if the brother is not broke why then is his father half-blinded by cataract? Does that mean the boy doesn’t even send money home? I’m just wondering out loud.
I tire of writers who make African women appear to be washed out and gutless. The part that really got my goat was after Ibou told Fatima that he cannot take her son to America with him(and in a very snide and hurtful manner) I thought that for once she was going to show some spirit or in the least blackmail him with good old ‘you owe the family’ diatribe, all she could say was “I am the one who waits always and watches others come and go. I am the one who always remains behind so that you can go.”
I wanted to slap her upside her head and afterwards ask her who has stopped her from going? After all she’s a divorcee and has only one son. A woman who is strong enough to make a life for herself after a divorce and creates a business out of nothing should be strong enough to tell her brother to take a leap off the closest cliff.
The African women I know are strong resourceful women. They always find a way round things. They do not sit down and wring their hands when things don’t work out for them, they find alternatives.
I’ll be the first to admit that women, generally don’t find life easy and this not only applies to Africa, it cuts across the whole world. Yes, women who live in Africa struggle twice as hard as women from other parts of the world, but they do not see themselves as victims. Up till the 19th Century European and American women faced almost the same challenges so why are we making out like all human problems originates from and ends in Africa?
Why do some writers portray ‘African’ women as victims? And since we are fond of generalizations may I ask Ms Melissa Tandiwe Myambo ‘Who is an African woman’?
It is the story of Fatima and Ibou her brother. Ibou lives in America with his Egyptian lover (she’s a fine woman who accidentally happens to come from a rich and enlightened home). Ibou loves this woman who seems to understand his fears and longings. She is also extremely intelligent and apparently has good taste. Her family was everything his family would never be.
Fatima, a divorcee, lives at home and takes care of their half-blind father, she has one male child. She hoped her brother will take the boy with him to America, but he refused point blank, the problem was not financial but a lack of space. According to him “... we have no space for him in our lives.”
Fatima of course was bitter and words burnt at the tip of her tongue, but years of conditioning made her not to spit the words out. She remembered how her father had sacrificed her own education at the altar of furthering Ibou’s because he was supposed to ‘save’ the family and bring good fortune for them. She remembered how an uncle had taken Ibou to America with him, no questions asked. Now he looks down on them. Their way of life was not ‘classy’ enough for him. They leave globules of shit floating in the toilet (is there something about toilets and the Caine Prize this year?)
It was very difficult getting a profile on the writer of this short story, I spent about two days and God knows how many hours trying to discover who Melissa Tandiwe Myambo is. I still don’t know much except that she read comparative literature at New York University and she lives in America. She has also published a collection of short stories Jacaranda Journals published by Macmillan(South Africa).
This is a typical story of another marginalized African woman. A woman who was denied an education because she was the wrong sex. She had been kicked out of her home because her husband wants more children (what’s one child when you can have 20?). Victimhood suits Fatima to her dainty little toes.
In spite of the fact that the writer tried to give an insight into what made Ibou, Fatima’s brother, behave the way he did, you came away with the feeling that he is just selfish and suffers from a severe case of inferiority complex. His sister like I said in the previous paragraph suffers the same affliction, both characters are as dull as dishwater.
I must be frank I struggled with this story, it was precise,with hardly any editorial flaws and the language was great but man the story was boring. I took the longest, most long-winded taxi ride, I’ve ever had when I climbed in the backseat with Fatima and her brother Ibou on their way to the airport. I was rather hoping that something really exciting would happen at the airport (a terrorist attack, maybe? That would have stirred things up a bit, but then Africa is the hunger capital not the terrorism capital of the world).
There was too much thinking in the story and too little talking. Resentment simmered underneath the conversations but neither side had the guts to actually speak their minds. Sometimes you can’t help but wonder on whose side the author really is because her impartiality did not shine through.
Who is the villain of the piece? Is it the family that waits on their son to bring them trashy, touristy gifts from ‘abroad’ and give them money which never amounts to much at the end of the day? Or is it the son who gets suckered into the ‘great’ American way of life and does not look back? Or maybe it is even our hardworking victim, Fatima, who expects too much of her brother.
One thing though, if the brother is not broke why then is his father half-blinded by cataract? Does that mean the boy doesn’t even send money home? I’m just wondering out loud.
I tire of writers who make African women appear to be washed out and gutless. The part that really got my goat was after Ibou told Fatima that he cannot take her son to America with him(and in a very snide and hurtful manner) I thought that for once she was going to show some spirit or in the least blackmail him with good old ‘you owe the family’ diatribe, all she could say was “I am the one who waits always and watches others come and go. I am the one who always remains behind so that you can go.”
I wanted to slap her upside her head and afterwards ask her who has stopped her from going? After all she’s a divorcee and has only one son. A woman who is strong enough to make a life for herself after a divorce and creates a business out of nothing should be strong enough to tell her brother to take a leap off the closest cliff.
The African women I know are strong resourceful women. They always find a way round things. They do not sit down and wring their hands when things don’t work out for them, they find alternatives.
I’ll be the first to admit that women, generally don’t find life easy and this not only applies to Africa, it cuts across the whole world. Yes, women who live in Africa struggle twice as hard as women from other parts of the world, but they do not see themselves as victims. Up till the 19th Century European and American women faced almost the same challenges so why are we making out like all human problems originates from and ends in Africa?
Why do some writers portray ‘African’ women as victims? And since we are fond of generalizations may I ask Ms Melissa Tandiwe Myambo ‘Who is an African woman’?
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Who’s on Trial?
It is no longer news that the shortlist of this year’s Caine Prize for African Literature is out. On the shortlist are Bombay’s Republic by Rotimi Babatunde; Billy Kahora’s Urban Zoning; Love on Trial by Stanley Kenani; Melissa Tandiwe Myambo’s La Salle de Depart and Constance Myburgh’s Hunter Emmanuel.
This is a review of Love on Trial by SO Kenani, hopefully I will be reviewing the other stories on the shortlist over the next few weeks. The stories shall be reviewed in no particular order.
Love on Trial is from a collection of short stories written in 2011 titled For Honour and other stories published for Random House by EKhaya.
The story is set in present day Malawi. It is about the African and homosexuality, international politics, foreign aid (aka charity) and religion. Ultimately, it is about the powerful West and powerless Africa.
The writer, SO Kenani weaves the tale around a young man, Charles Chikangwe, who was caught in a primary school toilet having sex with another man. This discovery was made by no other person than the illustrious Kachingwe, the village drunk. And like any lush who is worth his salt, he was able to milk the juicy scandal for every drop of local gin he could get by entertaining tourists with the story and taking them to the very place where the ‘crime’ had been ‘committed’.
The scandal, through word of mouth and then the press, eventually got to the authorities who promptly arrested the accused (without any other evidence than the word of a drunk), arraigned him and threw him in prison.
Surprisingly his father was supportive but, as expected, the Malawian government and religious bodies came out in arms insisting that homosexuality was ‘unnatural’, ‘un-African’, ‘devilish’ and that the young man only needed to ‘give his life to Christ’ and then do a ‘deliverance’ and all his troubles will simply melt away. A female friend of his even suggested that his ‘unnatural’ desires will melt away once he tasted the love of a woman.
The accused eventually went on trial, which was quickly wrapped up within one day and he was sentenced to 12years imprisonment. Of course there was only one witness, the infamous Mr. Kanchigwe who was suffering from a case of DT at that point in time, while the accused stood alone.
It is interesting to note at this point that Charles Chikangwe did not waste his breath denying the accusation he only wanted to prove that he had the right to love anybody, it was his choice.
While the Malawian government and most of its people were the villains of the piece, the international community were heroes. They breathed down the neck of the Malawian government and withdrew aid when they stubbornly refused to toe the line and release the incarcerated young man. It was a sad period in the lives of the citizens of Malawi.
At the end of the day the economy fell apart and this affected everybody, including the man that started it all, Kachingwe, who was unable to obtain his anti-retroviral drug supplied by one of the super-powers. A case of what goes around comes around I suppose.
Homosexuality in Africa is a very touchy subject. Recently, in Nigeria, the government passed an anti-gay marriage bill which led to public discourse and nearly split the Nigerian writing community into two halves, one side accusing the other of being homophobic, while the other side retaliated by calling the lot homosexuals.
A lot of writers ended up calling one another all sorts of other unsavoury names and some even went to the extent of ‘unfriending’ and removing people from their Facebook pages and groups.
This story is therefore relevant to the current situation in Africa. With a lot of African leaders coming out to state that homosexuality is an ‘abomination’ or something to that effect.
Ironically a few days ago, Joyce Banda Malawi’s new president declared that she was going to repeal the anti-gay law.
It is rather unfortunate that the story was not as tightly woven together as it should be. It dragged on a bit especially in all the parts that Kachingwe, the village drunk, appeared. There were too many repetitions and a lot of inconsistencies, which were especially glaring due to the fact that it is a short story.
For example when Charles was interviewed on live television it was as if the author zoomed into that part with a camera, the careful way every word and expression was documented contrasted sharply with the way other scenes in the story were described. Even the court scene went by so fast it made your head spin.
One major thing that baffled me about the story is the point SO Kenani was trying to prove by choosing to have the two men caught in a toilet, a primary school toilet for that matter. Are primary school toilets in Malawi that clean? Because I know for a fact that if anybody tried to have sex in a primary school toilet in Nigeria they would have gotten more than they bargained for.
Another thing that makes his toilet story unbelievable is the fact that the two men have been lovers for many years, does that mean all this while the two men have been having sex in public toilets? Or was it that they were so desperate to have sex that they threw caution to the winds?
The tale got fatalistic towards the end, the way the Malawian government watched helplessly as their economy fell apart beggared belief. As bad as African leadership is I doubt if a government will simply fold their arms and announce to their people that they are losing grip and have no intention of rectifying the situation.
Every character, from Charles Chikangwe to Mr. Kachinga, was flat and one-dimensional. They behaved predictably and we did not even get a glimpse into what made them behave the way they did. Everybody was a caricature. I would have loved to know why Mr. Kachinga decided to tell Charles story to the whole world (aside from the obvious of course), since both of them are from the same village, I’ll expect that there’s a level of familiarity between the two men.
Why did Charles stubbornly refuse to reveal who his lover is? Why was he so hell-bent on being the poster boy for ‘Ten reasons why coming out of the closet in Malawi is a really bad idea’? He had every opportunity to refute the allegations because his accuser is a well-known lush.
The fact that all through his tribulations the man Charles claimed to love so much he was willing to go to jail for did not even turn up once does not correlate with what we know of human nature. The absolute absence of the lover is totally unbelievable. Why was the man not even around to watch Charles go on air to put the noose round his own neck?
It was as if the story was designed specifically to reinforce the African ‘single story’ syndrome. Usually writers who engage in this kind of writing portrays her in a single light. Africa is a great mass of land full of hungry children with kwashiorkor impregnated bellies, tse-tse flies, tyrannical leaders, abused women, misogynists and more recently, homophobes and religious fanatics.
The superpowers came out smelling like roses while another African country has been put firmly in its place ... in Africa.
Monday, May 7, 2012
A PATCHWORD OF WORKS
It was all
in my head
Just a part
of my dreams
Ramson Nouah
presidey
Genevieve
his wifey
It was all
my fault
For it happened
On my watch
multicoloured
blasts
Rocked
But not Aso Rock
When blood
thundered
Just like the sea
That straddled
My dreams
good luck was
Everything but...
rue ben
Re-wrote
his story
Die zenie
the djinnie
Handbags
Full of
dollars
It was all
in my head
Out of it
Deep inside
me
When Iwe – Ala
Banked the world
Paupers R Us
Pee eitch See Hen
Blinded
By
The light
Pastored
by
Taxless
tithes
It was all
about you
Not ever
about me
beggar-lee
Hunger-ree
Aki
got married
To Paw paw
his pretty
both of
them
OCCUPIED
My closet
the yoots
Older
Than
Baami
lay the blame
on me
for it happened
while I dreamed
it was all
about you
it was
never
about
me ...
Monday, April 2, 2012
The Score
I sent this in for publication in a newspaper but it was rejected and I thought, why waste it? so here we go.
Script: Aremu Afolayan
Director: Aremu Afolayan
Cast: Saheed Balogun, Eniola Olaniyan, Olumide Bakare, Sunkanmi Omobolanle, Aremu Afolayan.
The Score is an action film.
The movie is about drug cartels and focuses on the story of two drug lords Mustapha (Aremu Folayan) and Kamoru(Saheed Balogun)
and their long running battle for supremacy.
Mustapha is an American(?) returnee who runs a drug cartel but is always stepping on the toes of a rival drug lord, Kamoru. Part of Kamoru’s cartel were two brothers. One of them made a deal with the police to become an undercover agent in order to shorten his prison sentence, he exposed Mustapha’s deals to the police which led to the death of some members of Mustapha’s gang. His younger brother confronted him about being a snitch and it led to a break in their relationship.
Although it is an action movie the story of an actor who seems not to be able to keep his hands off women was also woven into the movie.
The Cinematography was really good, there were many shots that went a long way in making the story bearable. There was no blurring that distracted the eyes.
The screenwriter must be commended because the story was well tied together, leaving no dangling threads. However I cannot say the same of the director, there were too many loopholes.
There was too much shouting, too many people pointing guns at one another unnecessarily and awful sex scenes. Watching some of the actors kissing was a painful process, they left you wondering if it will be wise to kiss anybody because you’ll be afraid that the person might just suck your face off. The close shots of the ‘kissees’ did not help matters in the least.
Saheed Balogun was terrific in his role as the rival drug lord, making such a smooth transition whenever he switched languages that you wish he will just keep on talking and everybody else should simply disappear. One moment he is speaking impeccable English the next he is speaking beautiful criminal Yoruba.
Veteran actor, Olumide Bakare also performed very well in his role as a ‘Sinator’ of the federal republic. He delivered his part flawlessly in spite of the fact that he did not appear in too many scenes.
In a bid to sound Italian (or is it American ?) Aremu Afolayan ended up sounding like a Yoruba man forced to speak like a Hausa man. He totally mangled every scene he appeared in. I flinched each time he appeared in a scene.
It was not only him most of the actors behaved like they were in a badly produced gangster Hollywood film. Which actually it was except it was a Nollywood production. There were too many shots of too many people swaggering aimlessly up and down a street.
All the characters were flat. No reason was given for why they are where they are presently in their lives. In this day of well rounded characters, it was a total disappointment.
One other thing that bothered me about the movie is the way major characters disappear in the course of the movie. The first person to go was Sunkanmi Omobolanle, who played the part of Sean, Mustapha’s brother. After about three scenes the guy silently disappeared and you start wondering what happened to him. Not long afterwards the undercover policeman (played by Eniola Olaniyan) disappeared without any explanations.
In the true Nollywoodian spirit about three major characters appeared towards the end of the movie and you’re not sure exactly what the point of bringing them in was because they spoke a couple of lines and the film ended. I guess it’s a new ‘major movie star waka pass’ thing.
I must be frank that this film has a lot of potentials but did not fulfil any single one. With so many good actors that featured in the movie, a little tweaking here and there would have made it a blockbuster.
Now to the things I learnt from this movie
• It is not everybody that can act
• I am not allowed to groan out loud too many times while in a cinema except I want to be thrown out
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
25 random things about me
1. I believe in God
2. I’m a drama queen …. I looooooove drama. I’m the queen of chaos … hehehe
3. I’m kwayzeeeeeeeeeeee
4. I have a cheeky 10 year old son
5. I totally believe that age is just a bunch of numbers (because I have loads of them)
6. I love watching cartoons and reading children books (shh don’t tell nobody)
7. I love dancing. I dance like a crazy 16year old.
8. I’m kwayzee about my son
9. I’m a very energetic person, as in I jump outta bed, sing while working and just generally zip around. I zip, I don’t walk. I’m an exercise freak
10. I don’t feel short, although I’m below 5”2 I still feel tall (maybe bcos I adore wearing high heeled shoes)
11. I love music, I’m a schizophrenic when it comes to music and reading
12. I read during church service, especially the boring bits. I’ve missed my bus stop on several occasions because I was reading. I read when I’m on a long trek, I read at parties, I read to avoid socializing with snobs, I read just because… I usually have, at least, three books in my bag at every given time
13. I’ve become addicted to jogging. I pray while jogging.
14. I used to be a chain smoker (2packs) now I’m totally over that addiction … I think
15. I’m street smart, very independent and adventurous
16. I love dancing with my son on Saturday mornings to very loud music
17. I sing in my bath (offkey baybee)
18. I’ve been blonde. I’ve been brunette .Right now my hair is black with brown tips. I’m thinking blonde again.
19. I believe money is like fertilizer … spread it and it will germinate
20. I hate injustice and believe that snobs are basically insecure people with inferiority complex.
21. I have loads of great friends
22. I can eat anything as long as it has stopped moving
23. I love beautiful shoes, sexy underwear, old and faded but comfortable jean trousers, body fitting tops and I so adore stilettos and bags (hint hint)
24. I speak fluent sarcasm. I can be extremely cynical.
25. I can switch off completely from people who have truly offended me. It’s like switching off the light. I see them and it’s like I never loved them before. I don’t hate them, I just become totally indifferent to them and that’s the scariest aspect of my life. It’s eerie and I just don’t know how NOT to do it. Once that switch is off … hasta de la byebye
2. I’m a drama queen …. I looooooove drama. I’m the queen of chaos … hehehe
3. I’m kwayzeeeeeeeeeeee
4. I have a cheeky 10 year old son
5. I totally believe that age is just a bunch of numbers (because I have loads of them)
6. I love watching cartoons and reading children books (shh don’t tell nobody)
7. I love dancing. I dance like a crazy 16year old.
8. I’m kwayzee about my son
9. I’m a very energetic person, as in I jump outta bed, sing while working and just generally zip around. I zip, I don’t walk. I’m an exercise freak
10. I don’t feel short, although I’m below 5”2 I still feel tall (maybe bcos I adore wearing high heeled shoes)
11. I love music, I’m a schizophrenic when it comes to music and reading
12. I read during church service, especially the boring bits. I’ve missed my bus stop on several occasions because I was reading. I read when I’m on a long trek, I read at parties, I read to avoid socializing with snobs, I read just because… I usually have, at least, three books in my bag at every given time
13. I’ve become addicted to jogging. I pray while jogging.
14. I used to be a chain smoker (2packs) now I’m totally over that addiction … I think
15. I’m street smart, very independent and adventurous
16. I love dancing with my son on Saturday mornings to very loud music
17. I sing in my bath (offkey baybee)
18. I’ve been blonde. I’ve been brunette .Right now my hair is black with brown tips. I’m thinking blonde again.
19. I believe money is like fertilizer … spread it and it will germinate
20. I hate injustice and believe that snobs are basically insecure people with inferiority complex.
21. I have loads of great friends
22. I can eat anything as long as it has stopped moving
23. I love beautiful shoes, sexy underwear, old and faded but comfortable jean trousers, body fitting tops and I so adore stilettos and bags (hint hint)
24. I speak fluent sarcasm. I can be extremely cynical.
25. I can switch off completely from people who have truly offended me. It’s like switching off the light. I see them and it’s like I never loved them before. I don’t hate them, I just become totally indifferent to them and that’s the scariest aspect of my life. It’s eerie and I just don’t know how NOT to do it. Once that switch is off … hasta de la byebye
The Filipino Connection (pardon my French)
Over and again we show the world how ridiculous we are as a people. The country is being practically run into the ground by its greedy elites, a lot of whom I sincerely believe need psychoanalysis, because a set of people so determined to put their kith and kin in perpetual bondage and ensure they die of poverty must surely have deep seated psychological problems.
Unfortunately,none of our leaders come from outer space, it would have made everybody’s life easy to simply blame our failing economy, failed educational and health institutions on the Martians. These people are a part of us. Most of them are from poor homes like the rest of us, they suffered through the military regimes and their parochial ways like us. They were once our neighbours, friends and even family members before dabbling into politics. All you have to do is look at our president who lacked footgear while growing up.
So, one wonders why these our so-called leaders, who have suffered, like we are doing presently, from epileptic power supply or lost one relative or more on one of the death traps called expressways, they cannot put in reforms that will surely put this great country of ours on the road to greatness?
I believe I have the answers and these are my theories;
1. That we all inherited a psycho-pathological disease from our ancestors.
2. That this condition is triggered by power (no matter how small). 3. That it is intensified by the acquisition of wealth.
4. That this condition is called MEGALOMANIA.
According to Wikipedia megalomania is a psycho-pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of power, relevance and omnipotence. Just think about it, check out all the politicians you know who are presently in power.
That is not all Wikipedia says that other characteristics of this condition are an inflated sense of self-esteem, and an over-estimation by the sufferers, of their powers and beliefs.
If the above were not true, can someone please explain to me the rationale behind the employment of Filipinos as nannies, housekeepers and house boys by ‘Lagos Big Boys’?
It is no news that our ‘international’ schools are riddled with Europeans and Americans. The more Europeans or Americans working in your school, the higher the school fees you can charge. It doesn’t really matter whether these people are qualified or not, or whether they are known or unknown criminals, whether they can even speak the lingua franca of the children they are supposed to be teaching (which is English Language the last time I checked) as long as your skin is white and you speak with a funny accent barely understood by the ‘high class’ children you are teaching.
Now the ante has been upped, the true mark of class and good taste, as far as the jet setting cliques who apparently have more money than sense, is the possession of a Filipino servant.
In a country where most people cannot afford to eat 3meals in a day, they are bringing in illegal immigrants and pay them between $450 and $500 US dollars every month. This translates to about N60,000 naira, which they can never pay any Nigerian working for them in the same capacity.
But then why am I talking like this? What makes a Nigerian look more sophisticated, ‘Real Brazilian Hair’ or tying your hair with thread? Real Brazilian hair of course! Why spot your own kinky, unmanageable hair when you can buy hair off poverty stricken Chinese women? It is long and luscious, and will provoke the envy of all your enemies.
So it follows that you will make a final statement of the fact that you have class, good taste and money when a Filipino nanny holds your bundle of joy while you are spending hard cash at a big, expensive mall. It makes absolute sense to have a well groomed Filipino opening the door to your friends as they come into your home to attend one of those your tasteful parties, and have a Filipino chef prepare all those strange and amazing dinners everyone pretends to enjoy so much.
It all makes absolute sense!
A friend told me that the fad started because people were afraid that their children could be kidnapped by their Nigerian nannies. This makes even more sense due to the fact that ALL Nigerians are kidnappers and they ALL want to kidnap your child because you are the ONLY rich person around.
Thank God for Filipinos because they are ALL honest due to the colour of their skin and the texture of their hair. White denotes HONESTY and they would never do that kind of thing. There are no criminal Filipinos. The fact that they are working in Nigeria without proper papers does NOT make them criminals. The best part is that at the sight of your Filipino nanny, potential kidnappers would be so struck by terror, awe and lust that they will banish the thought of ever kidnapping your child.
At this point I’m even thinking why Filipinos? Why not French au-pairs?
Leaders emerge from the people, people deserve the kind of leaders they get.
Word of advice to job seekers; go bleach your skin, fix real ‘Filipino hair’ and acquire badly spoken English and a peppering of Filipino swear words and you might just get that juicy position as the snotty Filipino nanny taking care of future megalomaniacs.
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