The story so far

Earlier today...

Sandwiched between our potbellied driver in a shirt badly in need of two, three say four-five complete wash cycles and a younger man who was ah, somewhat physically fit and give or take endowed, I was engulfed in a wave of nostalgia so strong I could perceive the scents of memories past.  

Although I did not quite get a good look at the face of the younger man, I knew he was fit because as we rode the motorbike fondly called “Okada” in my area, every time the bike rider pushed his brakes to avoid a bump or speeding headfirst into the bumper of a bigger vehicle, I was pushed into his rather nice, welcoming chest by one of Newton’s laws of gravity. 

Come to think of it, I think we shared a moment, because when I finally got to my stop, he hesitated a bit and actually told me good-bye.

Young love? Sigh.

Abu Dhabi

First impressions count, theirs on me? 

Not so good.  

I lost a waist belt that some how managed to remain with me through thick and thin until UAE. 

Despite the fact that said belt was “borrowed” it still smarts that after happily telling me to take it off before walking through the scanner machine ‘thingy’, they failed to tell me it had dropped while I struggled to grab the rest of my bags. 

When I realized I lost it, I made an attempt to retrace my steps but abandoned my quest after I tried to explain my predicament to a uniformed man and was asked instead to step aside and produce my travel documents.

I was like huh? 

The next episode occurred when some interesting team members of Burger king used sleight of hand to make my paid for bottle of water disappear from my tray and feigned not to understand my accent when I demanded to get what I paid for.

When finally I was told to “Please get decent.” by a male flight attendant because I happened to be carrying breasts beneath a to-the-neck T-shirt and an all-other-upper-body-parts-covering leather jacket. I half expected to be escorted away and stoned to death for being shameless.

To sum it up, the experience was ‘bleh’.

MMM

I have not bothered to check if MMM stands for anything or if it was used because the inventor had a fondness for M&M’s and couldn't use the name but, I may or may not have lost a dear friend because of the whole MMM palaver.

X swore never to talk to me again because the freedom to choose to be with her was taken away from me by another person who went a step further than her by sourcing for my details and depositing money into my account and having his way with me after I had turned down several of her (and other peoples) offers to “come under” (is it just me or does the whole MMM lingo sound sexual?).

Aside from that, for the past weeks every other thing I hear is MMM this or that it is like a secret society of sorts, you are either in, out or a square for not respecting the hustle.

Call me ignorant or clueless but I couldn’t stop myself from laughing when I came across a ‘subscriber’ huddled in a corner making calls to remind ‘paired partners’ that they were due to make payments in a couple of hours.

The thought that someone might have the audacity to call me by 11:30 pm and probably wake me up after a long traffic, dust and noise polluted day to pay N2000 into his/her account is enough to put me off.

Pedestrian Bridge, Ojota

I committed an offence and felt really bad. I needed to confess to anybody so I could do my time and move on. 

I mean, how can I say I lead the  change I want to see when I allowed myself to be pushed into doing what I wasn’t comfortable with.

So, I called sister dear.

I was on for about five minutes talking about how I was sorry,  how I was careless and my fear of dropping the soap in jail when she was like wait first, are you talking about road for driving or flyover? 

She found it difficult to understand how it was possible to use one way on an overpass/pedestrian bridge or flyover as PH people refer to it. 

So, I took pains to explain to her that for some reason I don’t know, in a bid to protect life and property, restrictions were put around Ojota bus stop on the Ikorodu express road to stop people from running like headless chickens across the motorway and rather force them to squeeze their way across a below capacity pedestrian bridge because it is better for one person to get mugged, trampled or contact skin disease (and spread to a dozen more …Ebola anyone?) than to properly plan an alternate route for movement before enforcing “law and order”.

Out of courtesy or concern, a metal partition was constructed within the narrow bridge with up and down clearly labeled to ease traffic.

While school children and people in uniform are allowed to go either way (one way) it is an offence for anyone else to walk freely.

I accept responsibility for my actions and it would not happen again but the question is, at what cost?

What next?

There is Jumia and their dismal customer/client service that have decided to take my order to ransom, there is the story of recession and how it affects weather conditions and my new favorite word "Kolework" but that is gist for another day. Until "that other day", e go be later!

Cheers!

Toyo-toyo

Gather round my children, pick up your stools and come sit close to me by the fire. While the heat warms my old bones, I will set fire to your young minds with a tale of valor, love and hope.

Before you lies Abemeji.

Like an eagle, the land rises. It stretches its wings and spreads for miles and miles, going beyond the hills, past the river from the goddesses bosom before settling to roost at the horizon where the starlit skies kisses the earth. 

The land is beautiful yes? 

It was not always so. 

Abemeji was once a land divided and kept apart by evil men who learned he kingdom's secret. You see the kingdom is made up of a variety of people who have migrated from lands far and wide. While it is home to various people. Our greatest weapon was the strength in our diversity;  where one household with ample wisdom was lacking in courage, the house with courage but no wisdom would supplement and so forth. 

Together we were strong.

This was our secret. The evil men learned of this and rather than unity, they preached tribalism, bigotry and vanity. 

In time the land was torn apart and resulted in the creation of two kingdoms. 

After separating the land, they left descendants whose only ambition in life was to continue to promote the destruction of the once beautiful land. 

Although there were no outward signs of suffering or lack. There was a gradual decay of the society from within, people lost sight of what was important and what was not, they spent their lives searching for what they felt would lead to happiness at the expense of family and friendships, they became indecisive, easily fooled and weak. With every member of of the older generation that passed on, the problem got worse as the history of their once great kingdom was gradually being erased. 

While the people of Abe who were known for their game, valuable trees and brave warriors lived in the south,  the people of Meji who had precious stones, fertile lands and beautiful women occupied the Northern regions. 

Anyone who was convicted of a crime, or caught without any justifiable cause at the boundary of both kingdoms, was made to suffer a crime worse than death; they were banished to the evil forest - a place no man or woman had ever returned from. 

It was believed that the years ago the trapped spirits of those who were wrongly accused had turned evil and caused any mortal who wandered into the forest to turn mad and feed on themselves. 

In Abe, there was a warrior called Akaworlu. Known for his bravery, skill and talent. He was revered by members of his community while merchants spread tales of his valor to neighbouring towns.

One day he went on a hunt that lasted for many months and returned with a maiden more beautiful than any the land had seen before. 

This made three men, Kayo, Showgo and Iraw who were already envious of his good fortune very upset. A situation which was worsened years later when Akaworlu's wife Dizia, gave birth to a  baby girl. Rather than pay the fine, and take in another wife who will then bear a son as was the custom of the time, Akaworlu slaughtered an animal, had a feast and wrote songs for his wife.

 Although a few years later Dizia bore two boys for the great warrior, by that time, the threee men had been consumed so much by hatred that they made a pact to  destroy Akaworlu and all held dear, even if it meant their own destruction.

Akaworlu named his daughter Mmawa, in memory of his beloved mother who had imbibed in him values and respect for life and taught her in secret how to wield weapons and engage in hand combat.  This was done in secret because it was forbidden for women to learn or do any other thing but prepare meals and fetch water from the stream. It was an offence punishable by banishment to the evil forest.

The three men suspected  Mmawa was trained in the art of weaponry but because she was obedient, humble and graceful, hard as the three men tried to provoke her to reveal her talent, by forcing people to torment and bully her, she always remained calm and resolved issues diplomatically. 

When the time for Mmawa to be wed grew close, the three men knew that if Akaworlu's family got united with another family, it would become difficult to carry out their evil plan so, a few weeks to Mmawa's coming of age party, they planned with wicked native doctor who summoned a creature to attack Akaworlu on his way back from a hunting trip. Although it was unable to kill him, he was badly wounded and was unable to continue his journey home. 

Worried about her father, knowing it was unusual for his hunting trip to last for so long, Mmawa, left her mother with her younger brothers, took her father's donkey  and went in search of him. Using the tracking skills her father had taught her, she was able to locate him on time and bring him home. 

Mmawa's father was sick for many nights. He was so sick  that Dizia was worried she would soon become a widow and began to prepare for his passing. 

They ran out of food and because the three men had been busy spreading false news and rumours about Dizia, calling her an orphan and foreign spy, people were unwilling to sell or give her food.

Not able to watch her family and sick father starve to death, one early morning Mmawa picked up her father's weapons and headed into the forest, by nightfall, her satchel was filled with enough meat and wild fruits to feed her family for a long time as well as herbs and medicinal plants her father had showed her on their many secret lessons. 

On her way home, she heard a loud cry, looking around, she saw no one. She was about to continue her homeward journey when she heard the cry again. 

It was a human being and  from the sound of it she suspected whoever it was, was being attacked by wild animals, without considering  the risk of exposing herself, she hid her satchel of food under a nearby bush and silently hurried silently towards the direction of the sound and climbed up a nearby tree. Below, she spotted wounded young man being taunted by a pack of hyenas. She pulled out her arrow and shot the animals dead one after the other. Using tree branches and vines, she fashioned a crane which she was able to use to carry her satchel of food and support the stranger. 

She took him to her parents home.  With the help of her mother and younger brothers, after a few weeks, both men were nursed back to health. 

The young man had grown fond of her. He  crafted tokens  and hid gifts around the house for her to find but he refused to tell her his name. Whenever she would ask for his name, he would sing a song which he taught her. 

When he was able to travel, he expressed his gratitude to Akaworlu and his wife and left without saying goodbye to Mmawa. 

She was heartbroken. 

For days she was depressed and refused to give audience to any suitor that came calling. Just as she was beginning to cope with the feeling of loss, the three men sent a message to her mother that she had been found guilty of stealing food and was to be escorted to the public square to be stripped and flogged in front of the members of community. When the men came to retrieve her mother, in anger, Mmawa attacked them, beating them up without the use of any weapon, thus revealing that she was indeed a warrior. 

Without letting her stand trial, the three men convinced the elders that she should be immediately banished to the evil forest or risk infecting the rest of her peers with her malicious spirit of disobedience and disrespect for tradition. 

When Akaworlu heard the news, he instructed his wife to pack up a satchel while he raced to the square to rescue his daughter before he reached her, he was subdued by a dozen warriors who had been told to lie in wait. 

Mmawa cried for her mother and brothers as she was being led in a procession towards the evil forest.  

There was a loud cry and suddenly, a ferocious beast with wings for hands and talons for feet, swooped down and disappeared into the evil forest. While people scrabbled and ran for their lives, Mmawa knelt in front of her father's captors and begged that she be given his weapons and the leather cloth he wore across his shoulders. Believing it would do her no good, her request was granted. Unknown to them, she had heard the song that was taught to her by the man she had fallen in love with coming from the belly of the beast and had somehow gotten a vision of what she had to do.

Her father saw the look on her face and understood, helpless to assist her, he nodded to her mother who was hidden in the crowd. She ran to her daughter and tied the satchel around her waist.

Suspecting they were planning an escape, Iraw one of the three dragged Mmawa away from her mother and pushed her into the dark alley of the evil forest... 

Time, Friends and Commuters

There was a day I was home alone on a cold night.

With the lights out, it was so dark that I could hardly make out the outline of familiar objects.

Walking blindly I felt for a chair and stopped when my fingertips brushed against the edge of one.

With a sigh of triumph, I sat down slowly and afterwards let my mind wander.

I remember the day because at that moment, I was happy. I was content and I was where I needed to be.

Knowing where I was, knowing where I stood combined with the comfort gleaned from knowledge of what it feels like to love and be loved in return, felt like I was in a bubble of hope that continuously rose from a spring that never dried.

I have friends.

I have come across a catalogue of the complex relationships life offers and learned the hard way that there is never a ‘one size fits all’ design.

Categories include: friends, associates and fellow commuters in the amazing bus called life.

While some options from the category are custom made with people enhancing you in every way possible, some contain solely ornamentals with generic characteristics like occasionally saying the right words here and taking a great picture of you there and the rest? 

‘Monitoring spirits’ come to mind.

The thing with change is that even in life it remains constant; continuously impacting, continuously affecting; even the way I feel about those I have previously felt differently about (with Osikena, being the only exception).

Nothing remains the same.

Time today could grant me a friend whose value has no price and come around tomorrow to turn same friend into a person I barely stand or recognize.

Oh I have felt anger towards cherished friends as well as love. Been betrayed and grown suspicious of the seemingly innocent but with time, these things change.

For friends who have come out victorious after the test of time, I remain forever grateful. 

To you I’d be faithful, loyal even honest – in fact the whole Nigerian anthem.

For the rest who take, take and take but never think to give. Not even a little, you have been acknowledged. 

I smile with you, I talk to you but one day soon, I hope you realize you are not at all a friend.

You are a fellow commuter on this road called life.

I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t fault you but dearie, kindly stop pretending like you give a damn. 

Take care and pay your dues.

Until then, find me at the awesome row making beautiful and timeless memories with those who are my friends.

Cheers!

The Robbers tale

 

A Play

There’s this killer attractive thing about a man who knows how to weave, stroke and stitch words together that drives me soo… I can’t explain! On some level, it is possible that listening to that song ‘I like the way’ by Timaya will give the curious an idea of the mush my brain turns into after interacting with such a man. 

To be clear though, I am not talking about ‘street boys’ with their undersized trousers, excessive crotch grabbing and ridiculous lines. 
I am referring to sensible, mature, brilliant men who bear the prestigious title and fulfil the role of...  *swoons a bit*

... Authors

(Novelist, playwrights, etc.).

Bust and a fan 

Although the list of these lot who are endowed with the amazing ability to make me pull out them clear heels and get my non-existent booty popping (in other words get me to believe in self and potential) is as long as the unfulfilled promises made by "you-know-who", today's focus is on the work of one of my African favourites [which include Femi Osofisan, Ahmed Yerima (the playwright), Wole Soyinka and Ben Okri ] .

The emotions they invoke, the words they preach, their ability to use poetry, satire and music to teach valuable life lessons? 

It is nothing else but magical!

Stage presentation at The Crab, UNIPORT

While I understand it is not always easy to capture the depth of a written piece and compress it into a half hour/forty-five minute production, I have been lucky enough to witness awesome live performances that were vivid, enthralling and captivating. 

Fond memories from stage events I attended growing up include: gorging on popcorn, sweating from every possible orifice and looking out for my current object of affection in the darkened confines of the tiny theatre aptly named the Crab.

About the first encounter...

Now, I do not know if it was because the actors that performed the first presentation I witnessed were delicious looking men and women or if it was because said actors were truly talented or if, maybe it was the pull from the energetic rendition of Keggite-ey songs used to pass time between power outages (trust NEPA) but, whatever the reason, the theatrical performance of the play Once upon Four Robbers by Femi Osofisan is one of the lot I will watch over and over again.

Life in Nigeria is hard. After accepting the fact that ‘take home pay’ can barely take the common man home, it is easy to understand why no regular citizen will be interested in parting with any amount of money in a bid to indulge in 'stimulating entertainment'. 

Common knowledge describes our leaders as corrupt, selfish-forked tongue beings who bleed the nation, destroy what’s good and oppress the oppressed.

While this may or may not be true and it is obvious they have played a significant role in the destruction of our national pride, does this mean they are also the ones responsible for the death of heritage,  values and cultural identity?

Does it have to continue to be so? 

Inspired by folklore and Yoruba symbolism, the play Once upon Four Robbers was written by Femi Osofisan in 1970’s as a moral argument against the practice of public execution of armed robbers in Nigeria. 

It revolves around four characters – Alhaja, Angola, Hasan and Major who are presented with a charm by an Aafa after he is moved by their sob story.

 On the condition that they abide by his three Robin Hood type rules (steal from only the rich, steal in public places, and most importantly never steal a life) the charm gives the four robbers the power to steal from people without meeting any resistance. 
The play features comedy, conflict, betrayal, suspense and depending on the audience a happy ending.

I can vaguely recall the rhythm of the robbers anthem’ Maa jό - maa jό as I type this. I remember laughing my head silly when a victim of the charm pulled her wrapper and gave Hassan to hold so she could fetched the money pouch she had hidden in her underwear (to prevent theft) and my very brief career goal of becoming a thief when I grew up after watching the play.  

Oh and I was in love with the dude that played the Hassan character for a long time (he was a cutie). 
Sadly, the only actor’s name I remember from the many viewings I had is Michael Ogundu (talented fellow by the way).

In 1978 Osofisan wrote the play based on the theory that society was responsible for encouraging issues of unemployment, hunger, hoarding, inflation and embezzlement of public funds. He was more concerned about the causes of armed robbery rather than its consequences on the society. 
Decades later although it is the same problem we are facing, we have chosen to ignore the contributing roles we play and sing instead the “it is the government and politicians that are to blame for the nations decay” chorus. 

The question now is, does government alone determine the choices you make?  
What influence does the million and one churches present in this same government oppressed nation have over their members individual actions and decisions?

If you and your household are seen profiting from simple, honest, innovative ventures will  this terrible government single you out and hunt you for oppression sake?

Here’s an idea, rather than wait for change and lament about expensive and scarce crops produce, why not plant your own? No land? Use a raised bed!

crops planted in a wheelbarrow 

Raised bed from recycled tyres 

Raised bed from a recycled desk drawer

If you decide to park one or more wheelbarrows, damaged buckets or the drawers from a discarded cupboard back to back in a corner of your tiny compound, throw in compost from your household food and paper waste and grow your own pepper, tomatoes, onions and leafy vegetables will the government arrest you for not starving? 

(If body sweet you, you fit sef add another cupboard, expand your "farmland" dey sell small portions of fresh vegetables to the family living across the mile high fence.) 

Government might be to blame for the unsuitable environment for creativity, skills transfer and entrepreneurship but I don’t think we should allow that stop us. 
We the people are the majority together, we are strong.

Nigeria has a diverse culture, a coloured past but rich history. 
This one no be tori ask your older folks or read the remaining history books we have if in doubt.
Once we were passionate, driven and hospitable people today respect is bought. 
While the verdict on our ability to make jest of dire situations is still being debated, we have to learn to be proud of where we are from.

Dear friends hustle oh! 
Hustle hard because there is no denying the economy these days is terrible. Except you are into ***, ******** and/or ****, there is no other option but to hustle. However no matter how much you struggle to make ends meet, if you don't make out time to relax, connect and live, one day you would look into the mirror and wonder at the old, frail and sickly person you have become; too exhausted to spend the wealth you have accumulated.

Today I plead with you, give Nigeria a chance. Be concerned, be interested. Appreciate, interact and engage with this country we call home.

Maa jό!   

Reflections I

The Plough

In church today, most of the readings had to do with ploughs, crop and oxen.

My wandering mind had begun to alternatively daydream of harvesting corn and eating freshly prepared roasted beef so much so that when it was time for the sermon, I was expecting hostesses to come out from behind a curtain and serve first boiled corn and native pear followed by suya on veggie sticks while the preacher preached.

Sadly, that did not happen.

While there was an invitation to have cake the following week, the sermon was about focus.

The whole idea of the plenty ploughs was because with ploughs according to him, there is no room to look sideways, backwards or above. 

To have a well-prepared field with bountiful harvest (of maybe corn?) you have to bear the weight of the machinery, and push forward.

Still in church, I dropped a coin.

It made so much noise that I was worried everyone would turn around to stare down at the funny person wearing a thick hoodie in a room above 29°C.

After sighing in relief when this did not happen I dipped low and did a quick scan on the floor for my coin – I had come along with it so I could drop it in the donation box to light a candle for a prayer intention.

I did not find the coin. When I sat down, the teenager in front of me caught my attention. She whispered something to the man I assume is her father then pointed to her feet. She lifted her right foot and there was my coin! The man picked up the coin and put it on the pew in front of him before deciding to hand it back to the girl who leaned forward and dropped it into the collection box on the side.

I sat for a bit at the end of the service and watched people as they made their way out.

A pair of people fascinated me. With beautifully scattered liver spots on their hands, legs and neck, missing hairs and sagging age lined skin. I’d guess they just were pushing off the shores of mid nineties with the man having a little more experience than the woman.

Although she looked younger than him he had this look of confusion on his face until she nodded or bent her head this way, like she was reassuring him somehow. He'd reach for her randomly, help her to sit or stand, wrap his hands around her shoulders and give her a discrete squeeze every now and then. I wondered why she was whispering and using her fingers to gesticulate so much till I noticed he was wearing a hearing aid.

They were a team; they were in sync.