Hano lives at 2, Fortworth Avenue. He lives in a three bedroom, two and a half bath, walk-out basement townhouse. He drives a Volkswagen Jetta. He leaves for work every morning at 7.00 am so that he can beat the beltway rush and make it to work for 8.30, after which he would spend the next thirty minutes setting up his desk, making scalding hot tea to jarr him awake and check on his internet affairs. This is one of his favourite times of the day. The time between 8.30 and 9.15 when the office is quiet and empty of his other colleagues.
This is the time he runs through his check list of blogs, reading and leaving comments. He has his favourites because almost every other day, they have a new post up with content as intriguing and as entertaining as the commentary that follow.
There's Shady Lady, a young Nigerian woman who blogs out of her base in New York and posts the most outrageous tales about her exploits with people she knows are dubious and shady. There is Tantalizers, a young Nigerian man who loves to cook and works in a bookstore. There is East Of Here, a Rwandan journalist who fled to France when the genocide began. There's Seffi Appiah, a Ghanian woman who always finds something amusing about her daily commute to the senior citizens' home where she works as a nurse. There's Lace And Ankara, a young Nigerian woman who imagines herself to be the next vogue in the making for her blog is filled with borrowed reports and commentary on the latest fashions from all over the world. There's Michael Butts, whose blog Hano does not understand but finds fascinating because of all the information pertaining to technology displayed and discussed there.
Hano reads blogs from contributors all over the world. He is familiar with the different cultural groups on the internet: the Africans, Asians, Europeans, Americans, South Americans and Australians. He loves them all. The ones that he pays most attention to are the Africans because their tales are so unique and highly indicative of where the social consciousness is.
For instance, there is no morning that he stops at Shady Lady's without seeing some offended Nigerian calling her out on her supposed activities. There was a time that Shady Lady indicated that someone had reported her to the authorities and they had investigated her using her URL. That had been an interesting time because Shady Lady had gone offline for three months. While she was gone, the comments on her blog reached almost three hundred as various theories were thrown about as to her wherabouts. She later surfaced with a post full of curses for whoever she believed was responsible.
He loves her blog. He loves what she writes. It always makes him laugh. Especially when she decides to take digs at other bloggers. Her post on one female blogger, Sitting On The Rock got more than fifty comments in its first hour. Sitting On The Rock always wrote about her plans to get married before the end of the year and each post was an outlet for her frustrations at her lack of success in finding a mate even though she had intensified her prayers, fasting and involvement in church. Shady Lady cleaned the floor with her and the ensuing online brawl lasted all of three weeks with bloggers taking sides and expressing their own views on the issue.
Hano had watched it all unfold and die down. Shady Lady, bored, had moved on to other issues. Sitting on the Rock had fled the blogging world. The drama was over. And it has been for a while so, Hano is a bit bored with what the posts he sees online in the mornings. No one is saying anything important and no one is pushing any new projects.
After scrolling through a few blogs, he moves to his email. He hits the "compose" button. He sends two emails.
The next morning he is tickled to see one of his favourite female bloggers, Express Lady give a spill all post on her relationship gone sour with another blogger, Aristocrat. He checks the blog hits and smiles.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Friday, June 06, 2008
I don't particularly like children. Growing up and envisioning my future, I could see a career, the possibility of a husband but I never could envision some little things running around complaining of hunger or each other. I don't have the patience or the interest to indulge them. But I do not see why one should deny them their childhood either. I had mine. They deserve theirs.
I sometimes feel the emphasis that Nigerian women put on children is not necessarily because they are so loved but because of what motherhood represents and affords the woman. As a "child bearing" woman, she-the mother that is- is certified as "fully functional" and she secures her position in her marital home. And we all know what "marriage" is to the Nigerian woman.
I know that mothers do love their children. My mother would give me her heart right now without batting an eyelid and she would do the same for my brother; so, I am not saying that a there is a lack of love and affection. I am just saying that I feel that some of the ways we define motherhood is not something I aspire to be a part of.
If and when I decide to become selfless and revolve around someone else, I plan to adopt. I cannot understand how when God has created a balance between women seeking children and children seeking mothers, we still have so many children living in deplorable conditions in orphanages. Or women being put through hell because of "their" inability to produce children? Why would I subject myself to midnight sojourns to the riverside and eating odd delicacies like fried tortoises under the moon when I can simply walk into one of such homes and pick one child to give my whole life to?
Some argue that "There is nothing like your own blood. What if the child asks for his/her mother in the future?" Then by all means, let us get a private detective and seek her out; provided she has indicated that she wishes to be found. I am of the mindset that if all I can do is love that child and give the child even half the childhood experience my parents provided me, then I have done a good thing. Imagining that because you nearly ripped apart your insides pushing forth someone into this world is a guarantee that they will love and respect you says to me that your definition of what it is to be a mother is askewed.
I think children ought to be nurtured, cherished, celebrated, disciplined, educated and learned from. It is a huge responsibility to be given the task to help shape the destiny and mindset of another human being. It takes patience, selflessness and a great deal of creativity. Love is secondary. I love kids, I just don't like them.
I sometimes feel the emphasis that Nigerian women put on children is not necessarily because they are so loved but because of what motherhood represents and affords the woman. As a "child bearing" woman, she-the mother that is- is certified as "fully functional" and she secures her position in her marital home. And we all know what "marriage" is to the Nigerian woman.
I know that mothers do love their children. My mother would give me her heart right now without batting an eyelid and she would do the same for my brother; so, I am not saying that a there is a lack of love and affection. I am just saying that I feel that some of the ways we define motherhood is not something I aspire to be a part of.
If and when I decide to become selfless and revolve around someone else, I plan to adopt. I cannot understand how when God has created a balance between women seeking children and children seeking mothers, we still have so many children living in deplorable conditions in orphanages. Or women being put through hell because of "their" inability to produce children? Why would I subject myself to midnight sojourns to the riverside and eating odd delicacies like fried tortoises under the moon when I can simply walk into one of such homes and pick one child to give my whole life to?
Some argue that "There is nothing like your own blood. What if the child asks for his/her mother in the future?" Then by all means, let us get a private detective and seek her out; provided she has indicated that she wishes to be found. I am of the mindset that if all I can do is love that child and give the child even half the childhood experience my parents provided me, then I have done a good thing. Imagining that because you nearly ripped apart your insides pushing forth someone into this world is a guarantee that they will love and respect you says to me that your definition of what it is to be a mother is askewed.
I think children ought to be nurtured, cherished, celebrated, disciplined, educated and learned from. It is a huge responsibility to be given the task to help shape the destiny and mindset of another human being. It takes patience, selflessness and a great deal of creativity. Love is secondary. I love kids, I just don't like them.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Even though
You are not my type
You are too quiet
You eat cheese
You don't like to read
You think my tastes in movies suck
You are a morning person
You chew gum with your mouth open
You don't like to wear suits
You don't experiment with foods
You watch too much football
You don't understand why I don't like football
You are too close to your mother
You want too many children
You don't understand why I don't want children
You watch Flavor Flave
You watch discovery health
You listen to country music
Your car is always in a state
You are untidy
You think I am a neat freak
You are too tall
You understand the stock exchange
You play chess
You think I am too gra-gra
You don't understand why I don't like your friends
You think my friends are phony
You want me to keep natural hair
You don't know how to cook
You drive too slow
You think agricultural conventions are cool
You think my fashion trade shows are boring
You secretly want to be a traditional farmer
You don't know that I know
You don't know that I don't mind, as long as I never have to lift the hoe
You think I cannot sing
You don't understand why I think you cannot sing either
You think I drive too fast
You think I have too many male friends
You don't know that they all respect you
You are not my type
You don't like fish
You don't like Lagos
You want me to come and live in Enugu
You don't know that I have already decided to come with you
You don't know that I am messing with you
You don't know how much I love you
So, even though you are not my type
Yes, I will marry you
gra-gra : agressive
You are too quiet
You eat cheese
You don't like to read
You think my tastes in movies suck
You are a morning person
You chew gum with your mouth open
You don't like to wear suits
You don't experiment with foods
You watch too much football
You don't understand why I don't like football
You are too close to your mother
You want too many children
You don't understand why I don't want children
You watch Flavor Flave
You watch discovery health
You listen to country music
Your car is always in a state
You are untidy
You think I am a neat freak
You are too tall
You understand the stock exchange
You play chess
You think I am too gra-gra
You don't understand why I don't like your friends
You think my friends are phony
You want me to keep natural hair
You don't know how to cook
You drive too slow
You think agricultural conventions are cool
You think my fashion trade shows are boring
You secretly want to be a traditional farmer
You don't know that I know
You don't know that I don't mind, as long as I never have to lift the hoe
You think I cannot sing
You don't understand why I think you cannot sing either
You think I drive too fast
You think I have too many male friends
You don't know that they all respect you
You are not my type
You don't like fish
You don't like Lagos
You want me to come and live in Enugu
You don't know that I have already decided to come with you
You don't know that I am messing with you
You don't know how much I love you
So, even though you are not my type
Yes, I will marry you
gra-gra : agressive
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A difference of thirty minutes
I told him to call at 6.00 pm my time
It would have been midnight his time.
I told God that if he didn't, then he was not the one for me.
He called at 6.30 my time.
I told God that it was only thirty minutes. Afterall, one had to consider the time difference between us.
Three months later, I was tired, hurt and broken.
I asked God why?
He said "But child, I did not choose him for you. You did. The one for you was to call at 6.00"
And He was right.
Cos I had told him to call at 6.00 my time
And he had called on his time
And it resulted in a waste of my time
THEN COMING SOON TO A BLOG NEAR YOU.....
SEE HERE........
It would have been midnight his time.
I told God that if he didn't, then he was not the one for me.
He called at 6.30 my time.
I told God that it was only thirty minutes. Afterall, one had to consider the time difference between us.
Three months later, I was tired, hurt and broken.
I asked God why?
He said "But child, I did not choose him for you. You did. The one for you was to call at 6.00"
And He was right.
Cos I had told him to call at 6.00 my time
And he had called on his time
And it resulted in a waste of my time
THEN COMING SOON TO A BLOG NEAR YOU.....
SEE HERE........
Monday, May 12, 2008
Water under the Bridge
G.B? Is that you?
Miriam...
*clapping* It is a lie. So this is you?
*Looking at self* Yes
How have you been?
I have been well. And you?
Fine...
Good.
Everyone is doing just fine...
Thank God.
Girl but you are hard o....
How do you mean?
Njideka...
What about Njideka?
I thought she was your friend?
She was.
Then why weren't you there? I mean, no matter what happened between the two of you, you should have been there.
There was no place for me there.
How can you say that? Ehn, all her friends were there. We all came to support her family.
*shrugging* Well, what can I say...
At least for the kids.
You of all people should know why I was not there.
What do you mean?
Miriam, if there is one thing that I do not like, it is dishonesty. How can you be asking me what I mean? Infact, how can you stand here and pretend you don't know what happened?
I beg your pardon
No, I beg your pardon. Weren't you on the Chibuzor support team that accused me of trying to wreck her marriage and now that she is dead, you are all pretending like you did not know that one day that monster was going to kill her...?
G.B, what are you trying to say...?
*hissing* Sebi, I am the unmarried one? The one that did not have her best interests at heart?The immoral one? The one that does not know anything that she is saying. Abi? Weren't those your exact words?
What?
Oh, you didn't know that I heard all of you? Of course, you didn't. Isn't that funny. See, let me educate you. You remember that get together that we, and by we, I mean Nijdeka and I had planned; that you came and took over because God forbid that she do anything without your high and mighty approval? You remember that one? The one where two hours before, Chibuzor nearly removed her front teeth because she challenged him on his mistress? You remember how you, her mother and those single-digit-IQ-holding females that make up your clique sat around her offering advice on how she was supposed to not antagonise her husband and make her marriage work? Remember how, when she said I had told her that she ought to pack her bags and get the hell out of there, you all started on my case about how I am so immoral. How can I know anything about a good man or what it takes to put a marriage together, after I had slept with all the men I work with to make it ahead?
*Stammering* What? I....Excuse me...
Oh, now you cannot form a sentence? *hissing* you forgot to turn off your cell phone after I had called to get the directions to your place. You made Njideka change the venue to your house that you live in with your husband and your children and all that your money had bought you.
How dare you?
You better be glad that I just got my nails done. Or I would have given you tribal marks from the opposite side of the country, stopping me in the middle of the street with your phony arse questions and judgments. Heiffer please, you are just as responsible for her death as he is.
Are you mad?
Ehn now. You did not know...ah-aaaah, let me tell you. It is my madness that has got me all i've got baby. I am mad o. Very mad. Infact, I am anbout to display for you if you don't carry your useless self out of my sight and scurry over to your Rav 4....
Fuck you!
Fuck me?
*Reaching for her earrings* No, sis, I am about to fuck YOU up.
*stepping back*
Are you crazy? Do you know that you are in the middle of the mall's parking lot? People are watching you.
They've got to watch me. I am on primetime.Besides, more asphalt to paint your face with.
I know what your problem is, you're just jealous. Look at you, 35 years and no husband or children. You are forever chasing your co-workers about and you think you are an actress because you take off your clothes? You are a common prostitute.
With an oscar. Don't forget that.
You are a common whore. We all know you wanted Chibuzor and when he turned you down, you tried to break her marriage off.
What are you talking about?
Chibuzor told her. Oh, you did not know that your secret will come out.
*sigh* I have always known you were not worth my time. It is the word of a wife beater that you will take as gospel. You know what, I apologise for what I said before. It's not your fault that your are stupid. It's my fault for listening to you.
*turning and walking away*
Yes, go away. Run away. Nonsense. Useless. And she called you her friend. Backstabber. Prostitute.....
*************************************************************************************
She wept with an intensity that shook her being and hurt her chest. I should never have stopped to talk to her, she thought to herself over and over. It had disntegrated so fast that she had not been able to stop herself.
Seeing G.B was like turning a knife in an already sore wound. Nijdeka's death had torn her apart so bad. Everyday, everywhere she went, there was a reminder that she could have stopped what had happened. No one knew how much she beat herself over the head for not being brave enough to help her friend be brave. She couldn't do that.
She was not like G.B who told the world on a daily basis to go fuck itself. She was barely holding it together. No one knew that Etta's prolonged trip to Spain was because he was in jail. No one knew that she knew she was being watched by the men who paid him for the "goods" he supplied and had been caught in possession of. No one knew that she was sleeping with his brother so he would not kick her and the boys out. No one knew except Nijdeka. And that was why she had understood the fragility of her friend's existence and how if Chibuzor had kicked her out, it would all have been over.
As it was now. She laid her head on her steering wheel and wept; hers sobs masked by the loud horn.
************************************************************************************
I watched her crying in her car. And I knew what she was feeling.
Neither one of us had been able to save her. And we had called ourselves her friend.
Miriam...
*clapping* It is a lie. So this is you?
*Looking at self* Yes
How have you been?
I have been well. And you?
Fine...
Good.
Everyone is doing just fine...
Thank God.
Girl but you are hard o....
How do you mean?
Njideka...
What about Njideka?
I thought she was your friend?
She was.
Then why weren't you there? I mean, no matter what happened between the two of you, you should have been there.
There was no place for me there.
How can you say that? Ehn, all her friends were there. We all came to support her family.
*shrugging* Well, what can I say...
At least for the kids.
You of all people should know why I was not there.
What do you mean?
Miriam, if there is one thing that I do not like, it is dishonesty. How can you be asking me what I mean? Infact, how can you stand here and pretend you don't know what happened?
I beg your pardon
No, I beg your pardon. Weren't you on the Chibuzor support team that accused me of trying to wreck her marriage and now that she is dead, you are all pretending like you did not know that one day that monster was going to kill her...?
G.B, what are you trying to say...?
*hissing* Sebi, I am the unmarried one? The one that did not have her best interests at heart?The immoral one? The one that does not know anything that she is saying. Abi? Weren't those your exact words?
What?
Oh, you didn't know that I heard all of you? Of course, you didn't. Isn't that funny. See, let me educate you. You remember that get together that we, and by we, I mean Nijdeka and I had planned; that you came and took over because God forbid that she do anything without your high and mighty approval? You remember that one? The one where two hours before, Chibuzor nearly removed her front teeth because she challenged him on his mistress? You remember how you, her mother and those single-digit-IQ-holding females that make up your clique sat around her offering advice on how she was supposed to not antagonise her husband and make her marriage work? Remember how, when she said I had told her that she ought to pack her bags and get the hell out of there, you all started on my case about how I am so immoral. How can I know anything about a good man or what it takes to put a marriage together, after I had slept with all the men I work with to make it ahead?
*Stammering* What? I....Excuse me...
Oh, now you cannot form a sentence? *hissing* you forgot to turn off your cell phone after I had called to get the directions to your place. You made Njideka change the venue to your house that you live in with your husband and your children and all that your money had bought you.
How dare you?
You better be glad that I just got my nails done. Or I would have given you tribal marks from the opposite side of the country, stopping me in the middle of the street with your phony arse questions and judgments. Heiffer please, you are just as responsible for her death as he is.
Are you mad?
Ehn now. You did not know...ah-aaaah, let me tell you. It is my madness that has got me all i've got baby. I am mad o. Very mad. Infact, I am anbout to display for you if you don't carry your useless self out of my sight and scurry over to your Rav 4....
Fuck you!
Fuck me?
*Reaching for her earrings* No, sis, I am about to fuck YOU up.
*stepping back*
Are you crazy? Do you know that you are in the middle of the mall's parking lot? People are watching you.
They've got to watch me. I am on primetime.Besides, more asphalt to paint your face with.
I know what your problem is, you're just jealous. Look at you, 35 years and no husband or children. You are forever chasing your co-workers about and you think you are an actress because you take off your clothes? You are a common prostitute.
With an oscar. Don't forget that.
You are a common whore. We all know you wanted Chibuzor and when he turned you down, you tried to break her marriage off.
What are you talking about?
Chibuzor told her. Oh, you did not know that your secret will come out.
*sigh* I have always known you were not worth my time. It is the word of a wife beater that you will take as gospel. You know what, I apologise for what I said before. It's not your fault that your are stupid. It's my fault for listening to you.
*turning and walking away*
Yes, go away. Run away. Nonsense. Useless. And she called you her friend. Backstabber. Prostitute.....
*************************************************************************************
She wept with an intensity that shook her being and hurt her chest. I should never have stopped to talk to her, she thought to herself over and over. It had disntegrated so fast that she had not been able to stop herself.
Seeing G.B was like turning a knife in an already sore wound. Nijdeka's death had torn her apart so bad. Everyday, everywhere she went, there was a reminder that she could have stopped what had happened. No one knew how much she beat herself over the head for not being brave enough to help her friend be brave. She couldn't do that.
She was not like G.B who told the world on a daily basis to go fuck itself. She was barely holding it together. No one knew that Etta's prolonged trip to Spain was because he was in jail. No one knew that she knew she was being watched by the men who paid him for the "goods" he supplied and had been caught in possession of. No one knew that she was sleeping with his brother so he would not kick her and the boys out. No one knew except Nijdeka. And that was why she had understood the fragility of her friend's existence and how if Chibuzor had kicked her out, it would all have been over.
As it was now. She laid her head on her steering wheel and wept; hers sobs masked by the loud horn.
************************************************************************************
I watched her crying in her car. And I knew what she was feeling.
Neither one of us had been able to save her. And we had called ourselves her friend.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Na so I look my back...somebody tag me
1. Link the person who tagged you
2. Mention the rules in your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
5.Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged
I was tagged by Naijalines.
The rules are listed above
7 unspectacular things about me (What? You thought I would not put my own spin on things?)
Anyways, here goes:
1. I am very lazy. I work hard not to let it show
2. I am very shy. You won't be able to tell if you met me. You wouldn't believe it either unless you really knew me. Few people do.
3. I can listen to the same song over and over and over and over for ever until the song looses its power, or the CD gets scratched. And most times, I listen to only one part of the song so I have some songs on my playlist that start out okay but get low at some point.
4. I love easily and hard. And I cut people out just as fast.
5. My greatest fear is that at the end of the day, I might simply settle for a man not because he is the best for me but because I have become afraid of being alone.
6. I sing. And I write songs. And I have had some of my songs performed....
7. Most people mistake my confidence for arrogance, my drive for agression and my silences for judgement.
Like I said before, I am very lazy. So, I am tagging the first six people to comment on this post...I am off to bed. Just finished exams.
2. Mention the rules in your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
5.Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged
I was tagged by Naijalines.
The rules are listed above
7 unspectacular things about me (What? You thought I would not put my own spin on things?)
Anyways, here goes:
1. I am very lazy. I work hard not to let it show
2. I am very shy. You won't be able to tell if you met me. You wouldn't believe it either unless you really knew me. Few people do.
3. I can listen to the same song over and over and over and over for ever until the song looses its power, or the CD gets scratched. And most times, I listen to only one part of the song so I have some songs on my playlist that start out okay but get low at some point.
4. I love easily and hard. And I cut people out just as fast.
5. My greatest fear is that at the end of the day, I might simply settle for a man not because he is the best for me but because I have become afraid of being alone.
6. I sing. And I write songs. And I have had some of my songs performed....
7. Most people mistake my confidence for arrogance, my drive for agression and my silences for judgement.
Like I said before, I am very lazy. So, I am tagging the first six people to comment on this post...I am off to bed. Just finished exams.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The things my eyes have seen.
Ok so, I told him I liked to be spanked. That's how this overzealous morrafohka delivered a blow to my backside that sent my left leg into spasms.
WTH!!!!In reflex, I swung my hand around to deliver a slap that would remind him where he was. I missed and nearly shattered my wrist on the bed post.
Luckily I did not break it. If not for how long it had been since the last time and I was not sure of my next installment, I would have ignored his begging and left. But you know how it is...I sha decided to continue.
That is how this odaran dropped his trosizz. If you see what I saw, you will not be sitting there asking me why I am avoiding the were. I was just looking at him. I could not believe my eyes.
What was I supposed to do with it? It is not like I said I have a rat problem and that he should come with a kondo, that he now produced the thing he wanted to use to kill me for my mother.
I told him "you better divide it into two and keep one for yourself and I will see what I can do with the other half."
What? You thought I would let him go away with that thing? Men, God forbid. Even God would have vexed for letting such a good thing go to waste.
And it was a good thing.
See, I have been walking sideways for three days.
WTH!!!!In reflex, I swung my hand around to deliver a slap that would remind him where he was. I missed and nearly shattered my wrist on the bed post.
Luckily I did not break it. If not for how long it had been since the last time and I was not sure of my next installment, I would have ignored his begging and left. But you know how it is...I sha decided to continue.
That is how this odaran dropped his trosizz. If you see what I saw, you will not be sitting there asking me why I am avoiding the were. I was just looking at him. I could not believe my eyes.
What was I supposed to do with it? It is not like I said I have a rat problem and that he should come with a kondo, that he now produced the thing he wanted to use to kill me for my mother.
I told him "you better divide it into two and keep one for yourself and I will see what I can do with the other half."
What? You thought I would let him go away with that thing? Men, God forbid. Even God would have vexed for letting such a good thing go to waste.
And it was a good thing.
See, I have been walking sideways for three days.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
CATWALQ ACADEMIE 2008
Enrolment for the new session has commenced.
PAST EDITIONS ARE ARCHIVED FOR YOU ON THE RIGHT FOR THOSE UNFARMILIAR WITH THE SERIES...
Application due May 1st...
PAST EDITIONS ARE ARCHIVED FOR YOU ON THE RIGHT FOR THOSE UNFARMILIAR WITH THE SERIES...
Application due May 1st...
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Thinking in scenes
My heart sank a loud thud that only I could hear. Sounds of twin Nigerian hip hop singers dissolved from the loud speakers and faded away. Fear settled on my being with a coldness that brought goosebumps to my skin. What the f*%k was he doing here?
"I am sorry...I did not know you were coming." Moji was immediately at my side, her hand on my arm, her eyes a pool of apologies.
I tried to calm my breathing as I felt the walls around me begin to spin. She must have taken my expression to mean my upset was directed at her.
"But you said you were not coming now?" she whispered harshly, exasperation evident in her demeanor.
It was true that she had cajoled and cajoled for days that I come for her party and when that did not work, she resorted to threats and when she saw that I was not going to budge, she let me. She knew I was avoiding HIM. What she did not know was why.
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
"I am sorry. I am over reacting. Please, don't mind me. It must be the smoke."
Someone was indeed smoking.
Moji looked at me skeptically. I saw her steal a glance at him.
"You are sure?"
I nodded and gave her a weak smile.
"Sebi you told me there was going to be food. please don't tell me I burst out my payless shoes for nothing..." I joked.
She chuckled, "Payless ko, Payfull ni. there is food but me, I will not advise you to put it in your mouth."
"Haba," I laughed, "why?"
"Jide cooked it."
"Ewo". We both burst into laughter.Mine had alot of effort behind it even though what she had told me was hilarious. Her boyfriend was a great cook whose power ingredient was pepper.
"Se you are okay. Seriously he just showed up. How can I tell him to leave? He is Jide's friend. You guys need to talk to each other. Since you will not tell me what happened...ehn, please abeg. Why do the two of you hate each other so much?" Moji asked me, her smile disappearing.
"He said he hated me?" I was surprised.
"No, but the way you guys are always fighting. I mean, after that last time, I was afraid for the two of you. I suppose you go and pray over the issue what ever it is. How could you draw a knife on him? Omo, you are crazy o."
"No ooo," I sneered, "I will wait so he can rearrange my face with a slap abi. That useless waste of..."
"ehn, ehn, ehn..." she cut me off, "we are here to party. See," she made a wide gesture with her hands, "this place is big enough. If you don't want to see him or his ancestry, there are so many corners that you can hide yourself. he is over there, you can go upstairs. I will come and join you." she cocked her left brow at me, "you better not leave."
I really wanted to. It had taken all of me to get up and decide to come to her party. I had to. How could I not? After all she had helped me through. The least I could do was to drag my self, slap on some courage and come watch half drunk colleagues gyrate to raunchy dance numbers. After all, she had promised me over the phone that there would be no repeat of the last time I was at her face when he and I flew into each other's face. Granted I flew at him and most of what he was doingwas trying to deflect my blows and get me off him but the hostility that had been simmering between us for over two years just reached its peak. It had been a long time coming.
I sighed. I knew that even if I wanted to, I could not leave. He had seen me. Him freezing half way through taking a sip from his drink told me that he had. His nod of greeting had been cold and mocking. I had shuddered with disgust. I wanted to rip his eyes out so bad, I could taste it.
"No, I am not leaving." I promised her. I could not. I knew everyone was watching the two of us. If I left, it would only fuel the rumors even more.
When I was ready to let the world know, I would let them know. Until then, I needed to preserve my sanity by avoiding Jubril Keffi.
I made my way upstairs to the food. I made my way past some female making a spectacle of herself as she tried to execute the dutty wind; her drunken self grinning stupidly as even more drunken males cheered her on. Some couples were two inches from turning their dance moves into a possible opportunity for procreation. I smiled and shook my head. Some people were not going to like what ended up on youtube in the morning.
I got to the food. It was all there, displayed in all its excess. My guess was that the first people who had descended on the food had quickly spread the word that it was a no-go area. I had always had this theory that Jide secretly did not want anyone eating his food so he made it near poisonous. Fortunately for me, my mother and Jide had learned from the same culinary school so pepper was never an issue for mr. But I was not hungry. And I was not in the mood to dance. I went upstairs to the bedrooms in search of one that was empty and had not been recently used to exorcise the horniness of anyone at the party that night.
The Master bedroom was a mess. Moji's clothes were all over the place. And I knew it was not because she had been getting ready for her party. It was always like this. I did not know how she and her boyfriend could stand the disarray. I suddenly felt fatigued. All the bravado with which I had walked into the party was gone and I felt hollow and cold. So I began to clear the bed. Then I began to clear the floor. Then I moved to the dressing table. I was not in the mood to fold clothes so I just dumped the items in the closet and closed the door.
I lay down, my whole body sighing with exhaustion. I could feel the thud of music emanating from the surround sound pulsating through the walls and floors. I closed my eyes and silently questioned the wisdom of me coming. The sobs rose suddenly and before I could check them, I was weeping into the pillow.
I did not hear the door open nor hear the footsteps approach. Strong arms turned me over and lifted me into an embrace. Cologne and the scent of clean man enveloped my senses. I clutched at the fabric of the shirt encasing a hard chest and gave vent to my sorrows. It was a good cry. I felt as helpless as a baby and I cried like one.
Hiccupping as I expelled mucus into the handkerchief that was proferred to me, I pulled away and looked up,
"You know I hate you right?"
Jubrila's expression was blank. "Sure."
"And we are not going to be friends. Never."
"Mmn hmn."
I began to cry again. He let me. I crawled into his lap and curled there. He bore my weight and just held me. We said not a word.
"You know he does not deserve you. You are too good for all this shit." his voice rumbled through his chest to my ears. I sighed. Why wouldn't he just leave me alone.
"It's over." I said. More to myself than to him.
"Are you sure?"
I tilted my head back against his arm to look at him. His eyes were worried. sad even.
I nodded.
"Yes."
"He is no good." he said as he drew me close. " I should know. He is my father."
"I am sorry...I did not know you were coming." Moji was immediately at my side, her hand on my arm, her eyes a pool of apologies.
I tried to calm my breathing as I felt the walls around me begin to spin. She must have taken my expression to mean my upset was directed at her.
"But you said you were not coming now?" she whispered harshly, exasperation evident in her demeanor.
It was true that she had cajoled and cajoled for days that I come for her party and when that did not work, she resorted to threats and when she saw that I was not going to budge, she let me. She knew I was avoiding HIM. What she did not know was why.
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
"I am sorry. I am over reacting. Please, don't mind me. It must be the smoke."
Someone was indeed smoking.
Moji looked at me skeptically. I saw her steal a glance at him.
"You are sure?"
I nodded and gave her a weak smile.
"Sebi you told me there was going to be food. please don't tell me I burst out my payless shoes for nothing..." I joked.
She chuckled, "Payless ko, Payfull ni. there is food but me, I will not advise you to put it in your mouth."
"Haba," I laughed, "why?"
"Jide cooked it."
"Ewo". We both burst into laughter.Mine had alot of effort behind it even though what she had told me was hilarious. Her boyfriend was a great cook whose power ingredient was pepper.
"Se you are okay. Seriously he just showed up. How can I tell him to leave? He is Jide's friend. You guys need to talk to each other. Since you will not tell me what happened...ehn, please abeg. Why do the two of you hate each other so much?" Moji asked me, her smile disappearing.
"He said he hated me?" I was surprised.
"No, but the way you guys are always fighting. I mean, after that last time, I was afraid for the two of you. I suppose you go and pray over the issue what ever it is. How could you draw a knife on him? Omo, you are crazy o."
"No ooo," I sneered, "I will wait so he can rearrange my face with a slap abi. That useless waste of..."
"ehn, ehn, ehn..." she cut me off, "we are here to party. See," she made a wide gesture with her hands, "this place is big enough. If you don't want to see him or his ancestry, there are so many corners that you can hide yourself. he is over there, you can go upstairs. I will come and join you." she cocked her left brow at me, "you better not leave."
I really wanted to. It had taken all of me to get up and decide to come to her party. I had to. How could I not? After all she had helped me through. The least I could do was to drag my self, slap on some courage and come watch half drunk colleagues gyrate to raunchy dance numbers. After all, she had promised me over the phone that there would be no repeat of the last time I was at her face when he and I flew into each other's face. Granted I flew at him and most of what he was doingwas trying to deflect my blows and get me off him but the hostility that had been simmering between us for over two years just reached its peak. It had been a long time coming.
I sighed. I knew that even if I wanted to, I could not leave. He had seen me. Him freezing half way through taking a sip from his drink told me that he had. His nod of greeting had been cold and mocking. I had shuddered with disgust. I wanted to rip his eyes out so bad, I could taste it.
"No, I am not leaving." I promised her. I could not. I knew everyone was watching the two of us. If I left, it would only fuel the rumors even more.
When I was ready to let the world know, I would let them know. Until then, I needed to preserve my sanity by avoiding Jubril Keffi.
I made my way upstairs to the food. I made my way past some female making a spectacle of herself as she tried to execute the dutty wind; her drunken self grinning stupidly as even more drunken males cheered her on. Some couples were two inches from turning their dance moves into a possible opportunity for procreation. I smiled and shook my head. Some people were not going to like what ended up on youtube in the morning.
I got to the food. It was all there, displayed in all its excess. My guess was that the first people who had descended on the food had quickly spread the word that it was a no-go area. I had always had this theory that Jide secretly did not want anyone eating his food so he made it near poisonous. Fortunately for me, my mother and Jide had learned from the same culinary school so pepper was never an issue for mr. But I was not hungry. And I was not in the mood to dance. I went upstairs to the bedrooms in search of one that was empty and had not been recently used to exorcise the horniness of anyone at the party that night.
The Master bedroom was a mess. Moji's clothes were all over the place. And I knew it was not because she had been getting ready for her party. It was always like this. I did not know how she and her boyfriend could stand the disarray. I suddenly felt fatigued. All the bravado with which I had walked into the party was gone and I felt hollow and cold. So I began to clear the bed. Then I began to clear the floor. Then I moved to the dressing table. I was not in the mood to fold clothes so I just dumped the items in the closet and closed the door.
I lay down, my whole body sighing with exhaustion. I could feel the thud of music emanating from the surround sound pulsating through the walls and floors. I closed my eyes and silently questioned the wisdom of me coming. The sobs rose suddenly and before I could check them, I was weeping into the pillow.
I did not hear the door open nor hear the footsteps approach. Strong arms turned me over and lifted me into an embrace. Cologne and the scent of clean man enveloped my senses. I clutched at the fabric of the shirt encasing a hard chest and gave vent to my sorrows. It was a good cry. I felt as helpless as a baby and I cried like one.
Hiccupping as I expelled mucus into the handkerchief that was proferred to me, I pulled away and looked up,
"You know I hate you right?"
Jubrila's expression was blank. "Sure."
"And we are not going to be friends. Never."
"Mmn hmn."
I began to cry again. He let me. I crawled into his lap and curled there. He bore my weight and just held me. We said not a word.
"You know he does not deserve you. You are too good for all this shit." his voice rumbled through his chest to my ears. I sighed. Why wouldn't he just leave me alone.
"It's over." I said. More to myself than to him.
"Are you sure?"
I tilted my head back against his arm to look at him. His eyes were worried. sad even.
I nodded.
"Yes."
"He is no good." he said as he drew me close. " I should know. He is my father."
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Another soul moves on....
"It will be great to die knowing that you have lived your life without causing anyone any more difficulty than they ought to have."
- Prof. Tsomondo
REST IN PEACE, PROF. LETTIE AUSTIN
You will missed.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Today I met The King
Today I met The King after I wrangled an invitation from Solomonsydelle to her son's (and my future husband's) birthday where I was sure to get free food on my way home. I had a lovely time spent marveling at how she and her quiet husband managed to not only entertain two other couples and myself but also their three rambunctious kids. Her babies are so cute, bikonu!!!
Of course when I arrived, I immediately introduced myself to my husband. He gave me a once over and returned to his plate of chicken. His sister, my inlaw gave me a small greeting and the celebrant, Bomboy, a small smile. I was not to be deterred. I needed to have them eating out of my hand if I was to ensure that my wine carrying ceremony would take place in the future.
What did I not try? I smiled. I teased. I flirted. I even tried to be saucy. The boy no gree. Haba! It was when he told me that the low cut on my head was not hair compared to his mother's tresses that I knew somebody had been there before me to put sand in my garri. I mean, what could a young and succulent twenty-three year old babe have done to irk this toddler so?
I was so crushed but I am not finished with this boy yet. Whether he likes it or not, he is carrying my wine. So hence (is this a word? I know there is "henceforth" but is hence used this way? I digress) hence, the countdown to my ascension to The King's highly coveted position of Queen.
Why is it going to go my way? In the words of the-owner-of-the-money-of-my-head,
"Because I said so".....
Of course when I arrived, I immediately introduced myself to my husband. He gave me a once over and returned to his plate of chicken. His sister, my inlaw gave me a small greeting and the celebrant, Bomboy, a small smile. I was not to be deterred. I needed to have them eating out of my hand if I was to ensure that my wine carrying ceremony would take place in the future.
What did I not try? I smiled. I teased. I flirted. I even tried to be saucy. The boy no gree. Haba! It was when he told me that the low cut on my head was not hair compared to his mother's tresses that I knew somebody had been there before me to put sand in my garri. I mean, what could a young and succulent twenty-three year old babe have done to irk this toddler so?
I was so crushed but I am not finished with this boy yet. Whether he likes it or not, he is carrying my wine. So hence (is this a word? I know there is "henceforth" but is hence used this way? I digress) hence, the countdown to my ascension to The King's highly coveted position of Queen.
Why is it going to go my way? In the words of the-owner-of-the-money-of-my-head,
"Because I said so".....
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Awwwwwwwwwwwwww
Waffarian Dearest,
Thanks so much for one of the funniest evenings in my life. It was just what I needed to get myself out of the rut I was in. Here's lifting my glass (of juice...hah! I don't drink) to a future of creative thinking, funny commentary and analysis of human behaviour...
Atutu,
Please come back from your trip and come back to me oooooooo
Naapali,
I am good dear. And I still want Beloved.
Unnaked,
Muah
And to all who wished me well, thanks so much. I am back and good to go.
Catwalq is back and of course, she has not done her assignments....see ya soon.
Update: una see me see trouble o. Waffarian! Waffarian!! Waffarian!!!. Mo ma daran o....
after I spent the better part of my night and evening enjoying a transatlantic chat with the Warri babe, I decided to sate my hunger with boiled yam. I don't know what happened. I know I washed my hand after cutting the yam but somehow, I touched my face. Now my mouth is itching like craze...e gba mi o
UPDATE: ALL HAIL OVERWHELMED.
oya overwhelmed leave my neck alone o.....
Thanks so much for one of the funniest evenings in my life. It was just what I needed to get myself out of the rut I was in. Here's lifting my glass (of juice...hah! I don't drink) to a future of creative thinking, funny commentary and analysis of human behaviour...
Atutu,
Please come back from your trip and come back to me oooooooo
Naapali,
I am good dear. And I still want Beloved.
Unnaked,
Muah
And to all who wished me well, thanks so much. I am back and good to go.
Catwalq is back and of course, she has not done her assignments....see ya soon.
Update: una see me see trouble o. Waffarian! Waffarian!! Waffarian!!!. Mo ma daran o....
after I spent the better part of my night and evening enjoying a transatlantic chat with the Warri babe, I decided to sate my hunger with boiled yam. I don't know what happened. I know I washed my hand after cutting the yam but somehow, I touched my face. Now my mouth is itching like craze...e gba mi o
UPDATE: ALL HAIL OVERWHELMED.
oya overwhelmed leave my neck alone o.....
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Can't sleep: Gun shots and lonesome thoughts
Woke up barely twenty minutes into my sleep to the sound of bullets. My heart flew in my mouth as I uttered a quick prayer before pulling back my curtains to see what was going on. My room faced the parking lot, the origin of the sound, and I looked out just in time to see some young men pile into a silver car and speed off leaving the owner of the white car they had just vandalised and possibly pumped bullets into screaming curses.
I am sure his losses were painful but I think I'd be more grateful that the bullets hit the floor and not me. I was glad, that the bullets had not gone ricocheting off God-knows-what and through my window. It had been a hot night and since my bed is against the window, I had simply propped my pillow on the sill to get some cool breeze.
I tried to go to back to sleep, congratulating myself for having remembered to do my Spiritual exercises before the drama went down and was sad to find that sleep had fled leaving my exhausted form strangely alert.
I began to think of everything unpleasant that I was experiencing. My English teacher is lying in intensive care fighting for her life. A woman in her eighties, things are not looking good. I had had no idea she was that old. This is my second English teacher to go through something. The first one, Gary Cooper died in my second year and we were close to. I am sad but know that God is in control.
Alot of things are happening to me that are leaving me exhausted, frustrated and confused. It has been so long a struggle seeking a solution. I am so disheartened. I think I might have to take the counselling office on their offer of free consultations because something tells me that this constant change of moods from extremely upbeat and lively to deeply brooding and retreating is not healthy. I am eating more than I should and I only do that when I am stressed and/or depressed.
It might just be the aftermath of a shoot out that is leaving me melancholy. I will return to bed and seek some sleep. I hope it has returned to me.
I am sure his losses were painful but I think I'd be more grateful that the bullets hit the floor and not me. I was glad, that the bullets had not gone ricocheting off God-knows-what and through my window. It had been a hot night and since my bed is against the window, I had simply propped my pillow on the sill to get some cool breeze.
I tried to go to back to sleep, congratulating myself for having remembered to do my Spiritual exercises before the drama went down and was sad to find that sleep had fled leaving my exhausted form strangely alert.
I began to think of everything unpleasant that I was experiencing. My English teacher is lying in intensive care fighting for her life. A woman in her eighties, things are not looking good. I had had no idea she was that old. This is my second English teacher to go through something. The first one, Gary Cooper died in my second year and we were close to. I am sad but know that God is in control.
Alot of things are happening to me that are leaving me exhausted, frustrated and confused. It has been so long a struggle seeking a solution. I am so disheartened. I think I might have to take the counselling office on their offer of free consultations because something tells me that this constant change of moods from extremely upbeat and lively to deeply brooding and retreating is not healthy. I am eating more than I should and I only do that when I am stressed and/or depressed.
It might just be the aftermath of a shoot out that is leaving me melancholy. I will return to bed and seek some sleep. I hope it has returned to me.
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Friday, March 28, 2008
Today is Friday
HBO DOCUMENTARIES WEBSITE > HBO DOCUMENTARIES CLIPS
Rated TV14: ADULT CONTENT, VIOLENCE, ADULT LANGUAGE
Running Time: 57 minutes
Genre: Documentary
On September 1, 2004, heavily armed extremists stormed into a school in Beslan, Russia. For three days, more than a thousand children and adults were held hostage in a sweltering gymnasium, denied food and water, and forced to keep their hands over their heads. The harrowing siege ended in violence that killed more than 350 people--half of them children. Through chilling footage and heartbreaking interviews with more than a dozen young survivors, this documentary explores the devastating aftermath of one of recent history's most heinous atrocities. (TV14) (AC,AL,V)
Today is Friday. And it is a day when I am supposed to spend my time tuning in to Holy Spirit and spending my day either doing a food fast or a mental one. I did neither. I mostly complained and procrastinated about my life. I made a to-do list, of which I don't think I have done even one thing. I day dreamed about the perfect life that I have been praying for for years. I skipped class and decided to sleep the afternoon away: I told myself that I had had a difficult week.
Then I watched a documentary on the CHILDREN OF BESLAN, the synopsis of which is posted above. I wept as listened to the children recount their experiences of that horrific day, their small voices desperately clinging to an innocence that will never be theirs to have again. I watched the chilling footage of mangled limbs and bloodied, naked children---- not only had the terrorists taken over their school, they had ordered the children stripped of what little clothing covered their tiny bodies.
I listened as one child described hesitantly how he saw his mother die. I saw the pictures of another girl, probably ten years of age but with the limbs of a six year old attempt to climb back into a burning classroom in search of her mother after the explosion from the terrorists' grenades flung her outside the building.
I listened as these children described what it felt like to thirst so much that they were forced to drink their own urine to make it through the three day siege. One child whose mother died has a little shrine of sorts for her at home where her picture is placed and in front of which a bar of chocolate is placed--her favourite--and a cup of water, so she will not thirst in the afterlife; as that had been her last desire before she was killed.
I generally do not comment on acts of hatred. I see it in some way as giving attention to those who sought it by commiting those acts in the first place. But I have to constantly wonder how humans can cross that line that seperates us from the rabid animal? I say rabid animal because in the animal kingdom, animals don't prey on each other for fun. They kill for food and to defend themselves. We are the only species of living things that would deliberately seek to cause one of our own pain. And the sick part of it is that we can in most cases justify our actions.
Some will use religion as their reason. Some will use monetary and material gain. Some will say that it is to right wrong commited against their person. Some will say that it is because those on the receiving end of their brutality were deserving of the cruelty.
I had prepared a post to share my exhaustion, frustration and confusion at some of the things going on in my life that I would so much prefer were not going the way that they are. At this moment right now, all that seems insignificant.
I might just be emotional. I might just be tired. Or I might even simply be equating the insignificance of my issues with the horror and pain that the Beslans experienced. Who knows?
What I do know is that, I am going to lie down and take a nap. Then I will wake later to have something to eat and do some of the work that I know I have to do.
And before I drift off, I will place my attention on my inner eye and think of all the great things that I do have going for me. Then I will speak to my spiritual guide and invite him to meet me in my dreams and speak with me. Because I simply want to say thank you.
Thank you for the fact that I have a bed that is warm. It is in a room of my own. It is filled with books, both educational and recreational that fill my days and nights with comfort. There is music in my room and a window that overlooks a generic looking parking lot. I make fun of that parking lot but today I am glad it is the way it is; not filled with dead bodies, screams of agony and fanatical individuals threatening to kill me or anyone else.
Thank you for my family that has sacrificed so much and though we are seperated by miles and a current lack of money to rectify that, we are there for each other.
Thank you for my life because it is filled with experience, opportunities and hope. And all those are cushioned by prayer.
Thank you simply that it is beacause of God's love that I exist.
And thank you that even though those terrorists tried very hard and some lost their lives, there were some that survived not just to tell their tale but to remind the rest of us to simply look at our lives and give thanks.
Have a great weekend.
Rated TV14: ADULT CONTENT, VIOLENCE, ADULT LANGUAGE
Running Time: 57 minutes
Genre: Documentary
On September 1, 2004, heavily armed extremists stormed into a school in Beslan, Russia. For three days, more than a thousand children and adults were held hostage in a sweltering gymnasium, denied food and water, and forced to keep their hands over their heads. The harrowing siege ended in violence that killed more than 350 people--half of them children. Through chilling footage and heartbreaking interviews with more than a dozen young survivors, this documentary explores the devastating aftermath of one of recent history's most heinous atrocities. (TV14) (AC,AL,V)
Today is Friday. And it is a day when I am supposed to spend my time tuning in to Holy Spirit and spending my day either doing a food fast or a mental one. I did neither. I mostly complained and procrastinated about my life. I made a to-do list, of which I don't think I have done even one thing. I day dreamed about the perfect life that I have been praying for for years. I skipped class and decided to sleep the afternoon away: I told myself that I had had a difficult week.
Then I watched a documentary on the CHILDREN OF BESLAN, the synopsis of which is posted above. I wept as listened to the children recount their experiences of that horrific day, their small voices desperately clinging to an innocence that will never be theirs to have again. I watched the chilling footage of mangled limbs and bloodied, naked children---- not only had the terrorists taken over their school, they had ordered the children stripped of what little clothing covered their tiny bodies.
I listened as one child described hesitantly how he saw his mother die. I saw the pictures of another girl, probably ten years of age but with the limbs of a six year old attempt to climb back into a burning classroom in search of her mother after the explosion from the terrorists' grenades flung her outside the building.
I listened as these children described what it felt like to thirst so much that they were forced to drink their own urine to make it through the three day siege. One child whose mother died has a little shrine of sorts for her at home where her picture is placed and in front of which a bar of chocolate is placed--her favourite--and a cup of water, so she will not thirst in the afterlife; as that had been her last desire before she was killed.
I generally do not comment on acts of hatred. I see it in some way as giving attention to those who sought it by commiting those acts in the first place. But I have to constantly wonder how humans can cross that line that seperates us from the rabid animal? I say rabid animal because in the animal kingdom, animals don't prey on each other for fun. They kill for food and to defend themselves. We are the only species of living things that would deliberately seek to cause one of our own pain. And the sick part of it is that we can in most cases justify our actions.
Some will use religion as their reason. Some will use monetary and material gain. Some will say that it is to right wrong commited against their person. Some will say that it is because those on the receiving end of their brutality were deserving of the cruelty.
I had prepared a post to share my exhaustion, frustration and confusion at some of the things going on in my life that I would so much prefer were not going the way that they are. At this moment right now, all that seems insignificant.
I might just be emotional. I might just be tired. Or I might even simply be equating the insignificance of my issues with the horror and pain that the Beslans experienced. Who knows?
What I do know is that, I am going to lie down and take a nap. Then I will wake later to have something to eat and do some of the work that I know I have to do.
And before I drift off, I will place my attention on my inner eye and think of all the great things that I do have going for me. Then I will speak to my spiritual guide and invite him to meet me in my dreams and speak with me. Because I simply want to say thank you.
Thank you for the fact that I have a bed that is warm. It is in a room of my own. It is filled with books, both educational and recreational that fill my days and nights with comfort. There is music in my room and a window that overlooks a generic looking parking lot. I make fun of that parking lot but today I am glad it is the way it is; not filled with dead bodies, screams of agony and fanatical individuals threatening to kill me or anyone else.
Thank you for my family that has sacrificed so much and though we are seperated by miles and a current lack of money to rectify that, we are there for each other.
Thank you for my life because it is filled with experience, opportunities and hope. And all those are cushioned by prayer.
Thank you simply that it is beacause of God's love that I exist.
And thank you that even though those terrorists tried very hard and some lost their lives, there were some that survived not just to tell their tale but to remind the rest of us to simply look at our lives and give thanks.
Have a great weekend.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
i mean we have to be good for something....
There is this blogger I am looking for. She writes about Nigerian films and film productions. Was on her blog a while back and cannot remember her name or find where I wrote down the link...
Does anyone know a blogger by that description?
update: i found her oooooooooooooooooooo (abi it is a 'him' sef....)
CHETABLOG!!!!
Does anyone know a blogger by that description?
update: i found her oooooooooooooooooooo (abi it is a 'him' sef....)
CHETABLOG!!!!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sister mine
I had not seen her in a long while. That was to be expected. Her flight from town had been sudden but not secret. It had been paramount that she leave when she did and any delays at that point would have spelled disaster.
She wore her hair long now. I wondered if it was really hers. She had always had short hair, cut low like a mini afro. Framing her face, her hair glowed in the light of the room like it would if you were looking through a glass of coca cola. It elongated her jaw. It made her look very feminine. Her beauty was almost a shock not because she had been particularly unpleasant to look at before but because it came with a calmness and elegance that I had never seen or possibly that I had not been able to discern at eighteen.
"I cannot believe you are getting married." she laughed, her voice singing out to me. My stomach tightened. She saw my discomfort and chuckled reaching for her drink.
"Don't worry Lola, you don't have to invite me. I will never cause you any embarassment."
Those words, simple and unembellished cut through me like a sharp knife and it was a few seconds before the pain began to spiral out. I looked away as I felt my eyes fill with tears.
"Lola, please don't." her voice had changed. It was not just that the laughter was gone and her tone held a tinge of cold warning. I had just never heard her sound like that. Is this what nine years could do? Suddenly I was very exhausted. I could not simply sit there and make small talk, skirting around the issues whilst we endured for as long as we could in each other's public company and then flee to the familiarity of my world.
"I would be glad if you can come to the wedding." I told her simply.
Her eyes went cold. "I do not need your sympathy." she spat her words at me like my invitation was decorated with feaces. I ignored her. There was no going back.
"It would be great if I can have all my sisters with me on my wedding day."
A slow smile spread across her face. It was not a good one. It was mocking and unkind. I deserved it.
"So, now I am your sister? Pray tell, how could that be? I thought I ceased to be that nine years ago, you know, when the old man forbade every single one of you contact with me."
I winced, " Sis Dupe, can we not move past that? I know what we did was not right but I am here now, trying to make things right."
She shook her head, "you cannot make right by yourself a decision that took a group to make wrong." she sat forward and I saw that her eyes were misty and filled with pain, "do you know what that felt like, fleeing my country like a thief in the night with nothing to my name but citizenship and yet no one not even mom bothered?" she gave me a once over with her eyes and it felt like I had been wiped down with a rag.
This was not going to be easy. I did not expect it to be. We had all turned our backs on her. All she had asked was a chance to be herself. It was because she loved us, she had said at the time, that she wanted to make sure that she was not living a lie and that we knew who she was and what she was doing. Of all the things that I could have conjurred, no where did it occur to me that my older sister could have been involved in a torrid affair with another woman. My mother fainted when the words left Dupe's mouth and my father did not speak for three days. When he would utter sounds next, it was to publicly declare his disownment. No one was to have anything to do with Dupe ever again.
Things had begun to escalate even before she came clean. Sandra, with whom Dupe had been carrying on was married to an older man who was a colonel in the Nigerian army. Only God knows how he found out. All we know is that somehow there was struggle, a gun and a dead man. Sandra fled and Dupe her lover, receiving no sanctuary from her family even though she had not been present or involved with the shooting, fled with her. The man's family still came calling and made sure the whole world knew that one of Chief Kayode's daughters was involved in "unnatural practices". It had been a little over nine years and still the whispers had not died down.
And I was about to resurrect them. No one in the family knew that I had actively sought her out and that I had come with the sole purpose of inviting her and Sandra to the wedding. It was going to be held in London anyway and everyone was coming over. I wanted my family there, complete and unabridged.
"She is my sister and I want her there." I had told Ima.
"Do you also want the ensuing drama of that decision?" he had asked. He did not like the idea.
I was just tired. How do I tell my children about all their aunties and uncles and leave out Dupe?
Dupe and her love for mangoes. Dupe and her off key serenading. Dupe and her piano playing. Dupe and her sarcasm. Dupe who would lie just as our eldest sister, Subi had instructed about who broke the coffee table and then under further cross examination also inform on the culprit. Dupe who had written two books that had made the best seller lists and got her a literary award. Dupe who was a gay rights activist. Dupe who had survived attempts on her life for her work. Dupe who was a lawyer and had travelled to every single continent. Dupe who was so funny that she always escaped dadddy's spanking by giving her own side of the story in such a way that the man could not hold back his laughter. Dupe who braided my hair and my scalp erupted in boils. Dupe who tried to teach herself to drive and killed the cashew trees in the compound. Dupe who would sit in silence for hours and then rush off to pen her thoughts. Dupe who could not dance to save her life. Dupe who would hug me even though I pretended not to like it. Dupe, my big sister.
There was so much that was her that that by which she was now known was such an insignificant part. She was a good person. I loved her. She was my sister.
"Deepee sis" I called the name I had used for years because in the beginning that was what my toddler lips could form, "I could not come to you then because I was very young and confused. I am about to start my life on my own terms and it would make me proud if you can please come and celebrate the beginning with me."
She looked at me. I held her gaze. And then she laughed.
"Men, daddy is going to piiiiiiiiiiiiissssssed."
Soul exists because God loves it.
-The Shariyat-ki-Sugmad bk 1.
She wore her hair long now. I wondered if it was really hers. She had always had short hair, cut low like a mini afro. Framing her face, her hair glowed in the light of the room like it would if you were looking through a glass of coca cola. It elongated her jaw. It made her look very feminine. Her beauty was almost a shock not because she had been particularly unpleasant to look at before but because it came with a calmness and elegance that I had never seen or possibly that I had not been able to discern at eighteen.
"I cannot believe you are getting married." she laughed, her voice singing out to me. My stomach tightened. She saw my discomfort and chuckled reaching for her drink.
"Don't worry Lola, you don't have to invite me. I will never cause you any embarassment."
Those words, simple and unembellished cut through me like a sharp knife and it was a few seconds before the pain began to spiral out. I looked away as I felt my eyes fill with tears.
"Lola, please don't." her voice had changed. It was not just that the laughter was gone and her tone held a tinge of cold warning. I had just never heard her sound like that. Is this what nine years could do? Suddenly I was very exhausted. I could not simply sit there and make small talk, skirting around the issues whilst we endured for as long as we could in each other's public company and then flee to the familiarity of my world.
"I would be glad if you can come to the wedding." I told her simply.
Her eyes went cold. "I do not need your sympathy." she spat her words at me like my invitation was decorated with feaces. I ignored her. There was no going back.
"It would be great if I can have all my sisters with me on my wedding day."
A slow smile spread across her face. It was not a good one. It was mocking and unkind. I deserved it.
"So, now I am your sister? Pray tell, how could that be? I thought I ceased to be that nine years ago, you know, when the old man forbade every single one of you contact with me."
I winced, " Sis Dupe, can we not move past that? I know what we did was not right but I am here now, trying to make things right."
She shook her head, "you cannot make right by yourself a decision that took a group to make wrong." she sat forward and I saw that her eyes were misty and filled with pain, "do you know what that felt like, fleeing my country like a thief in the night with nothing to my name but citizenship and yet no one not even mom bothered?" she gave me a once over with her eyes and it felt like I had been wiped down with a rag.
This was not going to be easy. I did not expect it to be. We had all turned our backs on her. All she had asked was a chance to be herself. It was because she loved us, she had said at the time, that she wanted to make sure that she was not living a lie and that we knew who she was and what she was doing. Of all the things that I could have conjurred, no where did it occur to me that my older sister could have been involved in a torrid affair with another woman. My mother fainted when the words left Dupe's mouth and my father did not speak for three days. When he would utter sounds next, it was to publicly declare his disownment. No one was to have anything to do with Dupe ever again.
Things had begun to escalate even before she came clean. Sandra, with whom Dupe had been carrying on was married to an older man who was a colonel in the Nigerian army. Only God knows how he found out. All we know is that somehow there was struggle, a gun and a dead man. Sandra fled and Dupe her lover, receiving no sanctuary from her family even though she had not been present or involved with the shooting, fled with her. The man's family still came calling and made sure the whole world knew that one of Chief Kayode's daughters was involved in "unnatural practices". It had been a little over nine years and still the whispers had not died down.
And I was about to resurrect them. No one in the family knew that I had actively sought her out and that I had come with the sole purpose of inviting her and Sandra to the wedding. It was going to be held in London anyway and everyone was coming over. I wanted my family there, complete and unabridged.
"She is my sister and I want her there." I had told Ima.
"Do you also want the ensuing drama of that decision?" he had asked. He did not like the idea.
I was just tired. How do I tell my children about all their aunties and uncles and leave out Dupe?
Dupe and her love for mangoes. Dupe and her off key serenading. Dupe and her piano playing. Dupe and her sarcasm. Dupe who would lie just as our eldest sister, Subi had instructed about who broke the coffee table and then under further cross examination also inform on the culprit. Dupe who had written two books that had made the best seller lists and got her a literary award. Dupe who was a gay rights activist. Dupe who had survived attempts on her life for her work. Dupe who was a lawyer and had travelled to every single continent. Dupe who was so funny that she always escaped dadddy's spanking by giving her own side of the story in such a way that the man could not hold back his laughter. Dupe who braided my hair and my scalp erupted in boils. Dupe who tried to teach herself to drive and killed the cashew trees in the compound. Dupe who would sit in silence for hours and then rush off to pen her thoughts. Dupe who could not dance to save her life. Dupe who would hug me even though I pretended not to like it. Dupe, my big sister.
There was so much that was her that that by which she was now known was such an insignificant part. She was a good person. I loved her. She was my sister.
"Deepee sis" I called the name I had used for years because in the beginning that was what my toddler lips could form, "I could not come to you then because I was very young and confused. I am about to start my life on my own terms and it would make me proud if you can please come and celebrate the beginning with me."
She looked at me. I held her gaze. And then she laughed.
"Men, daddy is going to piiiiiiiiiiiiissssssed."
Soul exists because God loves it.
-The Shariyat-ki-Sugmad bk 1.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Mistress
I see it in their eyes when they look at me. The silent judgement. The mockery behind their greetings. The snickers barely masked in their laughter. I don't care. It is the hypocrisy of their world. It is the hyporcrisy of our world that allows them to come to me when they need me or my connections and yet turn around and speak out of the side of their mouths down at me and who I am.
Who am I? I am not sure anymore. I have not been too sure for quite a while. I mean, I have not changed that much. I am still short. I am still dark. My hair still cannot be tied in a bun and my tummy is not quite as flat as I desire it to be. I still like the same foods and to most extents, dream the same dreams. Then what has changed? How can my answer be "all and nothing"? Odd, I say. Most odd.
Like this one chattering away at my side. He has been at my side for twenty minutes, bending my air in his borrowed foreign accent to- I can only imagine- impress upon me his breeding so that I can impress upon him that I will do as he desires. I don't even know what he is talking about. And I would so love to leave. What he has had to drink oozes out and assaults my senses. It is definitely not wine. Probably beer. Upperclass indeed. I feign a sighting, make a wave at the "person" and move briskly away. Would the night ever end?
"How was the party?" he would ask me later as I pour him his brandy, his voice as warm and as thick as the liquid he is about to indulge in. I would hand him his drink without an answer and he would take it, both of us careful in the way we lightly allow our finger tips to touch. In everything we do we are careful. Careful. Careful. Careful.
It's not that no one must know. They already do. It's just that for the two of us, the parts we play are new to us and it is as if we are discovering the roles as we go along. He and I. He and I. How did we become "he and I"? I am not even sure. If I ask him too, I doubt he can say. But that we have become and the moment we crossed that threshold, there was no going back.
Not that I want to. I like it as it is. No, I love it. I love it. I love this new house on the Lagos waterfront, raised on a raft foundation and fortified against the water's reclaim of the land. I love my new car. I love the trips I take and the places I go. I love the fact that I no longer have to rise in haste in the morning rushing to make my living amongst the surviving horde that is the populace of our metropolis. Now, if I don't want to, I don't awake before ten am. Spoiled, I have become. And then above all, I love him and he loves me.
I mean, what else am I to do? I have really no where to go. No one to talk to. Nothing major to do. My father has decreed that none of his name shall have anything to do with me. And sadly, they have all agreed. Even mother. Bah! That woman.
I wonder what I have done that is so bad. Why is he such a hypocrite. I am the same age as her, the one that he keeps in a house in Abeokuta. Is it not funny how it is acceptable for him to do to another person's daughter what he cannot allow for his.
And he should not be upset. Unlike him and her, he and I are married. Yes, they were once best friends. Not anymore. The birth of "he and I" destroyed all that. I wonder what will happen in six months when there is another birth.
*sigh* here comes beer breath. Will this night ever end?
Who am I? I am not sure anymore. I have not been too sure for quite a while. I mean, I have not changed that much. I am still short. I am still dark. My hair still cannot be tied in a bun and my tummy is not quite as flat as I desire it to be. I still like the same foods and to most extents, dream the same dreams. Then what has changed? How can my answer be "all and nothing"? Odd, I say. Most odd.
Like this one chattering away at my side. He has been at my side for twenty minutes, bending my air in his borrowed foreign accent to- I can only imagine- impress upon me his breeding so that I can impress upon him that I will do as he desires. I don't even know what he is talking about. And I would so love to leave. What he has had to drink oozes out and assaults my senses. It is definitely not wine. Probably beer. Upperclass indeed. I feign a sighting, make a wave at the "person" and move briskly away. Would the night ever end?
"How was the party?" he would ask me later as I pour him his brandy, his voice as warm and as thick as the liquid he is about to indulge in. I would hand him his drink without an answer and he would take it, both of us careful in the way we lightly allow our finger tips to touch. In everything we do we are careful. Careful. Careful. Careful.
It's not that no one must know. They already do. It's just that for the two of us, the parts we play are new to us and it is as if we are discovering the roles as we go along. He and I. He and I. How did we become "he and I"? I am not even sure. If I ask him too, I doubt he can say. But that we have become and the moment we crossed that threshold, there was no going back.
Not that I want to. I like it as it is. No, I love it. I love it. I love this new house on the Lagos waterfront, raised on a raft foundation and fortified against the water's reclaim of the land. I love my new car. I love the trips I take and the places I go. I love the fact that I no longer have to rise in haste in the morning rushing to make my living amongst the surviving horde that is the populace of our metropolis. Now, if I don't want to, I don't awake before ten am. Spoiled, I have become. And then above all, I love him and he loves me.
I mean, what else am I to do? I have really no where to go. No one to talk to. Nothing major to do. My father has decreed that none of his name shall have anything to do with me. And sadly, they have all agreed. Even mother. Bah! That woman.
I wonder what I have done that is so bad. Why is he such a hypocrite. I am the same age as her, the one that he keeps in a house in Abeokuta. Is it not funny how it is acceptable for him to do to another person's daughter what he cannot allow for his.
And he should not be upset. Unlike him and her, he and I are married. Yes, they were once best friends. Not anymore. The birth of "he and I" destroyed all that. I wonder what will happen in six months when there is another birth.
*sigh* here comes beer breath. Will this night ever end?
Monday, March 17, 2008
As the world turns...
Mr. O, I have reviewed your application and I must say that I am very impressed.
Thank you ma. It's the grace of God that we have been doing this this long
I would surely hope so. I am sure you know that I have taken my time bringing you in for an interview. It's not about me being difficult. Alot is riding on this project and I need to know that whoever is given this portion will execute as demanded.
Ah, madam, that is all we are asking for, a chance to show you that we can do it. Give us even a small portion as a test and see for yourself. This is what we do. This is what we know how to do.
I already have.
I am sorry, ma, I don't follow...
Don't worry. I have already put you through a test and you did okay. This "ma, ma" issue, I would like to stop. I am younger than you are. You can call me Ms E if it helps but "madam" can be reserved for my mother.
As you wish ma...sorry. It is all out of respect.
Thank you very much.
Ah, it is nothing ma....sorry Ms E
*smiling and shaking head* I see it is going to take you a while to get it. Anyways, there is one little thing that I want to ask your help. You being older, I need to employ your wisdom.
Ah, it is God that is the wise one. But if it is anything that is within my power, ma ,I will do it.
Thank you. I just need your advice. I have asked other people too but I also got the nudge to ask you. After all, if you wish to work with me, we should be able to communicate.
Yes *nodding* I agree
See, there is this situation that I have found myself in. And it is not a pleasant one at all
God forbid ma, what is it?
To this u have to apply your utmost discretion.
Of course, or course....
Now, what do I do? One of the girls working here has come to tell me that one of our vendors that is applying for the show sexually assaulted her in the past and now, after such a horrible experience, she has to come here and face the person. Now, this man has the best credentials ofthe group and yet there is this. ehn? sir, what do you say?
Haba! I say, how do you know she is telling the truth?
Thank you! I knew you have a brilliance to you
Thank you
No, no, it is true. Yes, I asked myself that too. So I sent a young girl to him to ask for a job as this employee of mine said happened and low and behold, this man told her that the only way she can get a job with him is if she plays ball.
As per?
Ah-aaaah, Mr.O, what else can a man be asking for?
Aaah! That is bad o.
Yes o. That is my dilema because based on his qualifications and all, I know he and his outfit will do the job like we want but how can I allow such a man like that near my person?
I think you should not. I mean, you are surrounded by so many young girls that you have to keep safe. These are people's daughters. I have two of my own.
E so be ee...and since then, I have met about three girls who have said the same thing and one who used to work for him and said that he used to try and corner her in the office when others were not around.
Ha!
Exactly.
This is serious o. I will say that you call him and explain your findings so that he can know that his wrong ways have caught up with him.
Thank you. I have decided that as well. *reaching for the phone* please excuse me, let me quickly set up a meeting.
Oh, please no problem
*into the phone* Mary, please come in with Tega. *to the man* I know you said earlier that you would not have anything, are you sure?
Oh no, no, ma, I am fine.
No problem. well, now that I have that sorted out, do you have your quote ready for me to review?
Oh yes, *reaching into bag and pulling out a folder* here it is...and we even introduced a discount, being our first time working with you and all.
oh, thanks alot. let me just go through the logistics of it.
(door opens and two women walk in)
Mary: Good afternoon sir. Ms E?
Tega:*curtsies*
Ms E: Mr. O, do you recognise either of these ladies?
No...no...no...
I see, so between yesterday and today you have forgotten the "sweet yellow girl"? *pointing at Tega*
I don't know what you are talking about. I don't understand
Oh, I see *pulling out a tape recorder and pressing play. the man's face contorts as his voice fills the room* so you see, I did put you through a test. and you did as I expected.
Ma, ma...
*slamming palm down on table* DID I NOT TELL YOU NOT TO CALL ME MA, MA , MA? YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT?
Ah, ah, aaaaaah, it was a set up.
was it? was it a set up when it was my time?
your time? i never....
How will you remember? Fool. You need to really have God in your life. You forget when you do the shit you do that one day, the roles might be reversed. You have been doing this job for the ten, fifteen years since we met and yet you have not risen above where I last met you. Now, look at you now, I have in front of me the documents to help you cross that boundary and you don't even remember how when you had the same power in your hands to help me, you gave me the option of sleeping with you. Thank God, I walked away so that now I can show you this aso inule rada rada, ikeji aja, that I did it all with his grace despite the devil's instruments like yourself placed in my path.
ah...i...I....please
I will slap you o. I am going to make sure that you never do business in this town again because as long as you do business, you will have money and you will think u are above the law
em...em...emm....pls...I...
I see you cannot even argue. You have messed yourself up so much that you don't even remember. tsk tsk tsk. oya, tell me what do I do? One call and not only will this door be closed but every door in this country and best believe me, I can do it. Mr O, what do you want me to do ?
Thank you ma. It's the grace of God that we have been doing this this long
I would surely hope so. I am sure you know that I have taken my time bringing you in for an interview. It's not about me being difficult. Alot is riding on this project and I need to know that whoever is given this portion will execute as demanded.
Ah, madam, that is all we are asking for, a chance to show you that we can do it. Give us even a small portion as a test and see for yourself. This is what we do. This is what we know how to do.
I already have.
I am sorry, ma, I don't follow...
Don't worry. I have already put you through a test and you did okay. This "ma, ma" issue, I would like to stop. I am younger than you are. You can call me Ms E if it helps but "madam" can be reserved for my mother.
As you wish ma...sorry. It is all out of respect.
Thank you very much.
Ah, it is nothing ma....sorry Ms E
*smiling and shaking head* I see it is going to take you a while to get it. Anyways, there is one little thing that I want to ask your help. You being older, I need to employ your wisdom.
Ah, it is God that is the wise one. But if it is anything that is within my power, ma ,I will do it.
Thank you. I just need your advice. I have asked other people too but I also got the nudge to ask you. After all, if you wish to work with me, we should be able to communicate.
Yes *nodding* I agree
See, there is this situation that I have found myself in. And it is not a pleasant one at all
God forbid ma, what is it?
To this u have to apply your utmost discretion.
Of course, or course....
Now, what do I do? One of the girls working here has come to tell me that one of our vendors that is applying for the show sexually assaulted her in the past and now, after such a horrible experience, she has to come here and face the person. Now, this man has the best credentials ofthe group and yet there is this. ehn? sir, what do you say?
Haba! I say, how do you know she is telling the truth?
Thank you! I knew you have a brilliance to you
Thank you
No, no, it is true. Yes, I asked myself that too. So I sent a young girl to him to ask for a job as this employee of mine said happened and low and behold, this man told her that the only way she can get a job with him is if she plays ball.
As per?
Ah-aaaah, Mr.O, what else can a man be asking for?
Aaah! That is bad o.
Yes o. That is my dilema because based on his qualifications and all, I know he and his outfit will do the job like we want but how can I allow such a man like that near my person?
I think you should not. I mean, you are surrounded by so many young girls that you have to keep safe. These are people's daughters. I have two of my own.
E so be ee...and since then, I have met about three girls who have said the same thing and one who used to work for him and said that he used to try and corner her in the office when others were not around.
Ha!
Exactly.
This is serious o. I will say that you call him and explain your findings so that he can know that his wrong ways have caught up with him.
Thank you. I have decided that as well. *reaching for the phone* please excuse me, let me quickly set up a meeting.
Oh, please no problem
*into the phone* Mary, please come in with Tega. *to the man* I know you said earlier that you would not have anything, are you sure?
Oh no, no, ma, I am fine.
No problem. well, now that I have that sorted out, do you have your quote ready for me to review?
Oh yes, *reaching into bag and pulling out a folder* here it is...and we even introduced a discount, being our first time working with you and all.
oh, thanks alot. let me just go through the logistics of it.
(door opens and two women walk in)
Mary: Good afternoon sir. Ms E?
Tega:*curtsies*
Ms E: Mr. O, do you recognise either of these ladies?
No...no...no...
I see, so between yesterday and today you have forgotten the "sweet yellow girl"? *pointing at Tega*
I don't know what you are talking about. I don't understand
Oh, I see *pulling out a tape recorder and pressing play. the man's face contorts as his voice fills the room* so you see, I did put you through a test. and you did as I expected.
Ma, ma...
*slamming palm down on table* DID I NOT TELL YOU NOT TO CALL ME MA, MA , MA? YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT?
Ah, ah, aaaaaah, it was a set up.
was it? was it a set up when it was my time?
your time? i never....
How will you remember? Fool. You need to really have God in your life. You forget when you do the shit you do that one day, the roles might be reversed. You have been doing this job for the ten, fifteen years since we met and yet you have not risen above where I last met you. Now, look at you now, I have in front of me the documents to help you cross that boundary and you don't even remember how when you had the same power in your hands to help me, you gave me the option of sleeping with you. Thank God, I walked away so that now I can show you this aso inule rada rada, ikeji aja, that I did it all with his grace despite the devil's instruments like yourself placed in my path.
ah...i...I....please
I will slap you o. I am going to make sure that you never do business in this town again because as long as you do business, you will have money and you will think u are above the law
em...em...emm....pls...I...
I see you cannot even argue. You have messed yourself up so much that you don't even remember. tsk tsk tsk. oya, tell me what do I do? One call and not only will this door be closed but every door in this country and best believe me, I can do it. Mr O, what do you want me to do ?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Thanks to all who were concerned...Mobolowowon
I have survived.....We thank God.
Whilst i dust my brain functions and come up with my posts for the week, here are some pictures from the Fashion Show at my school....
Whilst i dust my brain functions and come up with my posts for the week, here are some pictures from the Fashion Show at my school....
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Countdown to Pin up
5.31 pm. Wednesday,March 12th.
Total hours of sleep since Friday: seven.
Acne levels: six and counting. seven is warming up
Waist line: Now a soda line
Wardrobe: hun?
Hair: hun?
Diet: in what category does tostitos fall into?
Project checklist
Site Plan: 0%
Floor plans : 50%
Sections: 30%
Full rendered elevations: 0%
Partial elevations on special features: 0%
Structural plans: 0%
Section through Auditorium: 0%
Model: hun?
Pin up date: Friday, March 14th @ 1.00pm
Stay tuned for updates....
3.56 am, Thursday March 14th
Total hours of sleep: 0
acne levels: those bagas can go and die for all I care...
Waist line: now a "Dole Pineapple slices/ Chinese fried rice and croaker fish line
Wardrobe: same as the one of yesterday
Hair: still there
diet: answered above
Project Checklist
Site Plan: 0%
Floor plans: 75%
Sections: 45%
Elevations: 0%
structural plans: 0%
section through auditorium:0%
Boards completed: 1 of 4
Total: 45% complete
Starting plans of auditorium now...how do you orient the stupid thing sef? to the water or not?
let me peep at my friend's and just copy his design. he has many, he can spare one.
Total hours of sleep since Friday: seven.
Acne levels: six and counting. seven is warming up
Waist line: Now a soda line
Wardrobe: hun?
Hair: hun?
Diet: in what category does tostitos fall into?
Project checklist
Site Plan: 0%
Floor plans : 50%
Sections: 30%
Full rendered elevations: 0%
Partial elevations on special features: 0%
Structural plans: 0%
Section through Auditorium: 0%
Model: hun?
Pin up date: Friday, March 14th @ 1.00pm
Stay tuned for updates....
3.56 am, Thursday March 14th
Total hours of sleep: 0
acne levels: those bagas can go and die for all I care...
Waist line: now a "Dole Pineapple slices/ Chinese fried rice and croaker fish line
Wardrobe: same as the one of yesterday
Hair: still there
diet: answered above
Project Checklist
Site Plan: 0%
Floor plans: 75%
Sections: 45%
Elevations: 0%
structural plans: 0%
section through auditorium:0%
Boards completed: 1 of 4
Total: 45% complete
Starting plans of auditorium now...how do you orient the stupid thing sef? to the water or not?
let me peep at my friend's and just copy his design. he has many, he can spare one.
8.42 PM, THURSDAY MARCH 13TH
Total hrs of sleep: 5. ( bad idea. It was supposed to be 2 and I just went over board and now i am do panicked, I cannot see straight)
Acne levels: n/a
waist line: halal chicken and fajita bread line
wardrobe: t-shirt and trouser. have showered.
hair: hun?
diet: answered above
PROJECT CHECKLIST
Site plan: 40 %
Floor plans: 90%
Sections: something has gone wrong and I have to fix it. Don't panic. don't panic. I will still say 45%. May the Blessings Be
Elevations: 40%
structural plans: 0%
section through auditorium: 30%
Model: n/a. I am not building a model. will go with a 3d rendering, touched up by hand.
Total: 65%
Sunday, March 09, 2008
My morning and Nayo arrives.....
I jumped up from bed and realised I had overslept my two hour time limit by forty five minutes. Disoriented and hazy, I showered, got dressed and realised as I made my way hastily to the studio that the reason I was limping was because I had put on the legs of two different boots. Though both were black, one was heeled and the other was not.....at least unlike yesterday, I remembered to put on a bra. Thank God my girls are still standing proud.
The Album 'African Girl' will be available everywhere in the UK -**MARCH 10, 2008** Its can be pre-ordered at any of the following links below.
WEBSITE -http://www.nayomusic.com/
In addition, we'll be hosting a live **Secret Village Show** atthe Soho Revue Bar in London - March 13th to celebrate the album release.
TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE -http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user/?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=257575
INTERVIEW ON CELEBRITY CORNER -http://www.brightcove.tv/title.jsp?title=1437286070&channel=495713462
EXCLUSIVE DOWNLOADS: TIMES ONLINE -http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article3461978.ece
FACEBOOK GROUP -http://www.facebook.com/pages/NAYO/12423665655?ref=s
The life of an architecture student....
And the much aniticipated album arrives:
The Album 'African Girl' will be available everywhere in the UK -**MARCH 10, 2008** Its can be pre-ordered at any of the following links below.
WEBSITE -http://www.nayomusic.com/
In addition, we'll be hosting a live **Secret Village Show** atthe Soho Revue Bar in London - March 13th to celebrate the album release.
TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE -http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user/?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=257575
INTERVIEW ON CELEBRITY CORNER -http://www.brightcove.tv/title.jsp?title=1437286070&channel=495713462
EXCLUSIVE DOWNLOADS: TIMES ONLINE -http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article3461978.ece
FACEBOOK GROUP -http://www.facebook.com/pages/NAYO/12423665655?ref=s
Thursday, March 06, 2008
It's been a while
It's been a while since the heat of skin warms me through my sleep
It's been a while since the sound of life matches mine in beat
It's been a while since my thighs have throbbed from rhythms
That only the dance of want can bring
It's been a while since the length of my spine
Has curved an odd little "C"
It's been a while since a hand has cupped the essence of me
It's been a while since there has been a "you and me"
When you are ready, when it's time
Come to me , in my arms recline
Whisper my name, in that tone of yours
That resembles liqour poured
Move with me
any pace
It's our time
there's no race
Come to me and bring to an end
This lengthy drought
Water where it is needed
Command my garden to bloom
Take it how you want it
Shatter my earth, make it move
*sigh* These musings of mine
Is what you get when it's been a while
When it's been a while since
soft screams have escaped these lips......
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Oliver
Inspired by Dicken's Oliver Twist and edited....
Chapter 2
"I am very sorry for the way I spoke to you. It was just..." Danumego's voice trailed off, his embrassment merging with mortification as he attempted to profer his apologies. Mojere was not about to make it easy for him. She just stared, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Amazed at how little he felt, even though he towered at least a foot and a half over her, he cleared his throat and forged ahead.
"Mrs. Sulaiman, I am sorry for my behaviour. If you can find it in your heart to excuse it and forgive. It was...it was not a good day and then you brought him in and...I am sorry."
Mojere gave him five full seconds of silence before sheer exhaustion won and she sighed.
"One, it is Ms Sulaiman. Secondly, I will suggest that you always ask before you jump to conclusions. I would never do that to a child...to any human being."
He nodded, his bald head shining under the flourescent light.
"Please forgive. I am not that ill mannered an individual."
Mojere raised an eyebrow,
"So you are somewhat ill mannered?"
He shrugged and gave her a full smile, one that she had noticed all the females doing sommersaults over. It did not affect her...that much.
He sobered and reached up to rub his eyes. She noticed that he was wearing the same shirt as he had been the day before and that his eyes, though cheerful were extremely tired.
"He is ready for discharge. Do you know what you are going to do?"
Mojere shook her head wearily,
"No, but he is coming home with me. His parents are dead, that much I know and I don't know about his relatives because when I tried to ask him, he went into fits. Whether that was because he was sick or because he was panicked, I don't know. He will come home with me. I can't go back on him now."
Danumego regarded the tiny woman before him and wondered how he could have been so mistaken in his initial appraisal of her. When he had been called on the intercom to come down to emergency, he had burst through the door to be greeted by two bloodied women and a child, the latter of which lay unmoving on the bed. The stench of gasoline had been almost unbearable.
"Market...little boy...I carried him...my car..." the shorter and more worried of the two women babbled out to him incoherently.
He assumed that she had hit him with a car. When he reached the boy, he realised that it was not a car that had done the boy in. He had been beaten and judging by the garrish scars on his back and legs, it was not the first time. In fact, the last time he had seen skin so marred with keloids had been on a poorly treated burn victim.
He had noticed when he sighted the women that underneath the blood and petrol, they were attired in clothing that was not cheap. The ring on the finger of the one who had spoken gleamed. He guessed that he knew who they were. Wealthy women who most likely in a fit of rage had beaten up their male servant.
"Is he going to be okay?" The shorter woman asked. Danumego was disgusted.
"Get out!" he spat.
'Excuse me?..." she began, stunned.
"I said get out." he continued, without looking up. "Let me see if I can save this boy for you to kill another day. Or would you like to finish him up right now and save us some time?"
That had been a wrong assumption to make. He did not find out the details until later when they had miraculously found blood and intravenous medicine to keep the boy hanging on by a thread for his life. By evening, an infection had set in and Danumego was not sure he would make it to the next morning, but he did. And the next one and the next.
Three days later, when the boy was stable, Danumego found himself in the director's office. There in the presence if his boss, Mojere Sulaiman stripped him naked verbally and walked out.
"What were you thinking?" Director Nnamani asked. "Do you not know who she is?"
Danumego did not. He had not been in the country long. He knew almost no one.
"Be careful, There are some people we do not need to be worried about."
"Yes dad." he replied before he left.
He had been trying to apologise for the past six weeks.
Till he conered her in the parking lot.
"It cannot be easy for you. You have tried alot. I have not seen your friend for a while." he continued referring to Labake who had accompanied her in the beginning when Oliver was first brought in to the hospital.
Mojere avoided his eyes. She did not know how to tell him that as she was standing there before him , the grey skies threatening a heavy july rain moving swiftly past above their heads, that she was alone in the world. Alone with her decisions considering Oliver. She and Labake had not spoken since the day of their heated and bitter exchange over her involvement with Oliver.
Oliver needed clothes. When she brought him in to the hospital, all she had had to cover his small frame had been Labake's scarf that she had snatched off her friend's shoulders and the jacket of her suit. It had been a week and a half, Oliver seemed destined to beat death a second time and was hanging on pathetically to his existence. There were no men's clothing for her to borrow for him at the house.
Thus, she dragged her ever available friend and companion shopping. Oliver needed clothes and she was going to buy some for the boy. Labake was no longer amused by the play that Mojere was enacting starring the vagrant street child.
"Mojere, what on earth do you think you are doing?" Mojere winced. Labake's voice, cutting above the hum of the store's air conditioning and background Celine Dion music was loud and grating on her nerves.
Chapter 2
"I am very sorry for the way I spoke to you. It was just..." Danumego's voice trailed off, his embrassment merging with mortification as he attempted to profer his apologies. Mojere was not about to make it easy for him. She just stared, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Amazed at how little he felt, even though he towered at least a foot and a half over her, he cleared his throat and forged ahead.
"Mrs. Sulaiman, I am sorry for my behaviour. If you can find it in your heart to excuse it and forgive. It was...it was not a good day and then you brought him in and...I am sorry."
Mojere gave him five full seconds of silence before sheer exhaustion won and she sighed.
"One, it is Ms Sulaiman. Secondly, I will suggest that you always ask before you jump to conclusions. I would never do that to a child...to any human being."
He nodded, his bald head shining under the flourescent light.
"Please forgive. I am not that ill mannered an individual."
Mojere raised an eyebrow,
"So you are somewhat ill mannered?"
He shrugged and gave her a full smile, one that she had noticed all the females doing sommersaults over. It did not affect her...that much.
He sobered and reached up to rub his eyes. She noticed that he was wearing the same shirt as he had been the day before and that his eyes, though cheerful were extremely tired.
"He is ready for discharge. Do you know what you are going to do?"
Mojere shook her head wearily,
"No, but he is coming home with me. His parents are dead, that much I know and I don't know about his relatives because when I tried to ask him, he went into fits. Whether that was because he was sick or because he was panicked, I don't know. He will come home with me. I can't go back on him now."
Danumego regarded the tiny woman before him and wondered how he could have been so mistaken in his initial appraisal of her. When he had been called on the intercom to come down to emergency, he had burst through the door to be greeted by two bloodied women and a child, the latter of which lay unmoving on the bed. The stench of gasoline had been almost unbearable.
"Market...little boy...I carried him...my car..." the shorter and more worried of the two women babbled out to him incoherently.
He assumed that she had hit him with a car. When he reached the boy, he realised that it was not a car that had done the boy in. He had been beaten and judging by the garrish scars on his back and legs, it was not the first time. In fact, the last time he had seen skin so marred with keloids had been on a poorly treated burn victim.
He had noticed when he sighted the women that underneath the blood and petrol, they were attired in clothing that was not cheap. The ring on the finger of the one who had spoken gleamed. He guessed that he knew who they were. Wealthy women who most likely in a fit of rage had beaten up their male servant.
"Is he going to be okay?" The shorter woman asked. Danumego was disgusted.
"Get out!" he spat.
'Excuse me?..." she began, stunned.
"I said get out." he continued, without looking up. "Let me see if I can save this boy for you to kill another day. Or would you like to finish him up right now and save us some time?"
That had been a wrong assumption to make. He did not find out the details until later when they had miraculously found blood and intravenous medicine to keep the boy hanging on by a thread for his life. By evening, an infection had set in and Danumego was not sure he would make it to the next morning, but he did. And the next one and the next.
Three days later, when the boy was stable, Danumego found himself in the director's office. There in the presence if his boss, Mojere Sulaiman stripped him naked verbally and walked out.
"What were you thinking?" Director Nnamani asked. "Do you not know who she is?"
Danumego did not. He had not been in the country long. He knew almost no one.
"Be careful, There are some people we do not need to be worried about."
"Yes dad." he replied before he left.
He had been trying to apologise for the past six weeks.
Till he conered her in the parking lot.
"It cannot be easy for you. You have tried alot. I have not seen your friend for a while." he continued referring to Labake who had accompanied her in the beginning when Oliver was first brought in to the hospital.
Mojere avoided his eyes. She did not know how to tell him that as she was standing there before him , the grey skies threatening a heavy july rain moving swiftly past above their heads, that she was alone in the world. Alone with her decisions considering Oliver. She and Labake had not spoken since the day of their heated and bitter exchange over her involvement with Oliver.
Oliver needed clothes. When she brought him in to the hospital, all she had had to cover his small frame had been Labake's scarf that she had snatched off her friend's shoulders and the jacket of her suit. It had been a week and a half, Oliver seemed destined to beat death a second time and was hanging on pathetically to his existence. There were no men's clothing for her to borrow for him at the house.
Thus, she dragged her ever available friend and companion shopping. Oliver needed clothes and she was going to buy some for the boy. Labake was no longer amused by the play that Mojere was enacting starring the vagrant street child.
"Mojere, what on earth do you think you are doing?" Mojere winced. Labake's voice, cutting above the hum of the store's air conditioning and background Celine Dion music was loud and grating on her nerves.
"What does it look like I am doing?" she bit back before turning to the sales girl, "do you not have something smaller? He is a very tiny boy." She turned back to her friend, lifting the shirt in her hand. "Or Labs, what do you think?"
Labake eyed both her friend and the grey and blue t-shirt. "What do I think? What do I think? Are you listening at all to what I think? I have been asking you what you think you are doing; do you intend to bring him to come and live with you? Where do you know that he is from? Why did he run away from home? Did you even bother to ask? Mojere...Mojere..."
Mojere had moved on to the next rack, completely ignoring her friend.
"Mojere I am talking to you." Labake's voice held a warning. Mojere was suddenly fed up.
"Labake, what do you want me to do?"
"What you should have done from the very beginning. His case belongs with the government. You should have handed over to the police from the very beginning." Labake was indignant, her nostrils flaring with the strength of her emotions. She had since ignored the fact that they were in public and was oblivious to the fact that not only the sales girl but the six other customers in the store were eavesdropping unabashedly on her conversation with Mojere. Infact, one man who had accompanied his girl friend had since discarded his look of misery at being dragged from store to store and was staring unflinchingly at the two women, his ears wide and receiving.
"Is it the same police that almost did not show up before Oliver was almost burnt alive?..."
"Oliver..."Labake hissed, "Oliver, you are calling him Oliver? Hey-ey, you are getting attached to that area boy."
Mojere was suddenly disgusted. Labake of all people was not someone who ought to say such things as her education had been paid for by her mother's trading at the bus park. And yet, just because she had become the mistress/third wife to a wealthy politician chief, all who did not exist in her economic circle where beneath her. Mojere fixed her friend with her legendary icy stare.
"Labake, I asked you here because you have twin boys and so you could help me figure out what a boy ought to have. If you don't want to help me out, you can go back to your shop and do whatever you were doing that area boys were not involved in. I have alot of things I need to get before I go to the hospital."
Labake shook her head as if something was very sad. "The boy is not your son. And he never will be."
The pain that sliced through Mojere was such that a gasp escaped her mouth without her knowledge. Infact, it was so heavy that she clutched at her side as if Labake's words had become a knife that had gone through her side. Labake sensing she had gone too far, opened her mouth to speak.
"If it had been anyone else but you Labake, I would have slapped them for what you just said. No,he is not my son. So, if I do not go and open my legs for the first potbellied randy goat that thows money at me and carry his seed, I do not know how to be a mother? Abi, iru osi oro wo lo n jade lenu e, ehn Labake? (What kind of nonsense are you saying?")
Labake was taken aback. "Excuse me...?"
Mojere sneered, "Excuse you? you are excused. Please leave me. Yes, I have found this area boy and until I can find someone else who can do a better job, I will take care of him so that I am not driving down one day and see that people like you have set fire to a little boy of eleven!"
'Mojere! Are you crazy? What has gotten into you?"
Mojere hissed, "I don't know o. I don't know. Maybe when he gets better, I will just carry him and dump him at the exact place I found him and pray that this time, the mango seller will not chase after him when he steals because he is hungry. You disgust me!"
Labake's eyes widened. "I disgust you? Hey-ey, Mojere, are you listening to yourself?"
"Not really," Mojere replied, "but I am sick and tired of pretentious superior attitude when we all know that if Chief was not busy with his cronies spending the country's wealth on you and all his other mistresses in the universities, maybe we would not have that many Olivers."
Mojere had hit home and hit home hard. The issue of Labake's standing as Chief Rotimi's wife/mistress was a really touchy one. She had only recently been allowed to refer to herself as Mrs. Rotimi even after producing twin boys for the man. And she knew after more than fifteen years of being with him starting when she was still a Jambite in the university, that she was only one of many women on his roll call. The latest softsell edition had pictures of Chief and his latest mistress at a social function. Like Labake, when she too had come into his life, the girl was just twenty two.
Her mouth parted and she too backed away much like Mojere had done a few minutes before. Without saying a word, she reached for her huge purse that lay at her feet, picked it up and walked out.
They had not spoken since then. And now the doctor was asking after her.
Mojere looked at the doctor, "She is fine. She has been busy." That at least was true. She knew Labake had been busy.
Danumego nodded. He did not press further. So, instead he said to her, "If you come with me, I will hurry up the paperwork and you can take him home."
She smiled. Slow and wide. Danumego tried not to stare.
"Home." she looked at the hospital building and nodded as if to herself, "Yes, he will come home today."
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Oliver
Inspired by Dicken's Oliver Twist and edited....
CHAPTER ONE
It was futile, his attempts to flee but that was the only solution he could come up with because no sooner had his trembling fingers wrapped around the soft, warm flesh of the mango that the fat, sweaty seller looked away from her neighbour with whom she was exchanging meaningless gossip with and settled on the boy. Even if he had let the fruit go, she would not have let the action go and both reacted in reflex. She raised a cry and he turned on his heel and ran.
He ran, quite oddly, weaving blindly past bodies as he tried to make his getaway, all the while mindful of the cars zipping past the street.
"Ole! Ole!! Ole!!!" The woman cried as she tried to maneuver her bulk after him in pursuit. She knew she would not catch him but she hoped that her cries would motivate someone to do so. Her voice carried over the din of car horns, haggling traders, screaming bus conductors and loud conversations to somehow capture the attention of people around. That, and the fact that as the boy ran, he bumped into people, knocking both he and them off balance and they in turn rewarded him with a few shoves here and there, laced with a generous dose of curses in whatever language they proudly called their mother tongue. That also meant he was slowed down.
Slowed down so that as he whipped past a conductor who had come off his bus to loudly call out his bus' destination in a medley of bus stop name, all the man had to do was reach out his right hand and bring the panicked boy to an abrupt halt with one well placed blow.
The boy went down. Before he could draw a breath, a crowd was upon him. The bus conductor had forgotten his passengers, other traders had forgotten their wares, students - some returning from school and others who though had on uniforms had not been to school in weeks- merged with the excited crowd and swelled its numbers, buyers forgot their budgeting and bargaining and within seconds, the boy was being jostled this way and that with the crowd's cries switching from inquiry as to the hulla-balloo to blood thirst as they called for him, the little boy, the little thief to be drawn and quartered.
He was quite small. There seemed to be very little of him but what there was received a generous dosage of slaps and knocks. It was not long before the old and threadbare checkered shirt that had covered his dry skin was ripped off his shoulders and he was relieved of his shorts under which he wore no underwear so that as these angry men and women metted out their justice, he was clad only in the sickly looking fabric that was his skin under which jutted the frame that made up his skeleton.
"Thief!"
"Look at him. Nonsense!!"
"Ehen, yes, that is good."
"Beat him well well. Never in his life..."
"Ole!"
"Where are his useless parents."
"Aww and he is just a boy o"
The cries mingled as one. Maybe only one or two bore the sentiment of the last statement. All had suddenly crossed that thin divide between man and animal and for that afternoon, the boy had become prey for the heated and hungry crowd. The little boy could not make out what people were saying. He did not see that the mango seller had managed to jostle her way to the front and was explaining in a loud voice to all and any that bothered to ask what he had done.
"Omo oloroburuku, oniranu ikeji aja, ole lasan lasan yii, lo ji mi nigba..." she informed. For those that did not speak her language, you did not have to be told that her information was laced with curses and insults. Some on the boy and some on his mother. The mango which had dropped when he had been hit had since rolled on the street and under a moving car. The boy had tried to plead when he had been first lifted off the ground and had since stopped. Like the sun bearing down intensely on Lagos that afternoon, there was no mercy around.
Mojere rested her chin on her hand which was rested on the car door. Beside her, Labake her best friend chatted on incessantly,
"Ah, can you imagine the colours of the lace they wanted to select? I was so disgusted. That is how you know when money misses road. Can you just imagine? They left me to go and pick out that? God forbid, I am not wearing that useless, cheap nonsense."
Apparently from what Mojere had pieced together between tuning out her friend's chatter and watching traffic was that one of their friends had chosen not to purchase fabric for aso ebi to be worn during her father inlaw's funeral reception. Thus Labake was miffed to no end.
Thud! A body slammed into the side of the car on Mojere's side. Both women including the driver who had been listening silently on the conversation, jumped. The culprit had sprinted off. It was a young man, one of those people who sold their wares in traffic and he was in an awful hurry to get down the road. It was then that Mojere realised that the car was at a standstill and so was everyone around them.
"Jesus!!!" Labake exclaimed, "Did you see that?"
Mojere was tempted to tell her no, that she had not, that she just felt like being frightened out of her skin.
"Mr. Lawal, ki ni yen?" (What is that?)
Mr. Lawal was rattled. He knew he was going to be blamed. Had he been actually paying attention, he might have had a better answer for his madam.
"Madam, awon oloshi ni yen ni madam...." he began as he started to come down. Because he was already half out of the car, Mojere could not caution him about his language. She hated when he spoke like that and she had warned him many times before.
"These useless boys. I don't know what they are doing here." Labake continued, "they should all be in school. Hen-en, just imagine...we thank God o that it is not more than this. Is the car okay?"
Mojere was more concerned if the boy was okay. Before he disappeared from her sight, she had seen him stumble a bit after the collision before he righted himself and made away. Mr Lawal had come around to her side so she rolled down the glass.
"Ko si problem ma." he told her (There is no problem) "O kan gba moto legbe but ko se e lese." (He only hit the car but there is no damage.)
"What on earth was he in a hurry for?" Mojere wondered aloud.
Labake hissed her response,
"Those vagabonds. What else? Running after cars without a care for if they got hit or something."
Mojere ignored her. Mr Lawal was looking ahead. There seemed to be some commotion.
"What is it?" Mojere asked him.
"I don't know ma." he replied, "let me go and check"
"No," Mojere replied, suddenly getting out of the car. She needed to get some air and over forty five minutes cooped up in the same space, albeit air conditioned with Labake and she was about to loose her mind. "You stay here and watch the car. I will be back."
She got out and began to move towards the excited crowd just a few feet away before either he or her friend could say a word.
Maybe it was the charged air or the worries that had been on her mind all day, or Labake's unimportant and longwided, one sided conversation but the next thing Mojere knew, she had made her way to the crowd and was jostling her way to the front.
When she made her way to the front small clearing, she was stopped in her tracks not just because there was no where else to go and those around were not budging but also because she could not understand why there was blood on the street.
In the middle of the clearing, bearing the brunt of an over zealous and possibly psychotic crowd, a short and skinny man was bring beaten. Although he was being held upright by the those beating him, it was obvious to anyone who cared to observe that he was unconscious and yet, still was being hit. Mojere was immediately sickened. She only became horrified when she realised that the person was not a short man but a little boy. Her gasp was lost in the chatter of the crowd.
What happened next unfolded like a scene set in slow motion. Because no sooner had she made her realisation that from the corner of her eye she saw two people making their way through the crowd holding a jerry can of what she instantly knew was petrol and she turned in silent horror to behold the jeering crowd, the men who held him and most of all the unconscious boy. Later, if you asked her, she would not have been able to explain what she did next.
In less than five strides, Mojere had broken free of the crowd and dashed forward. In the same motion, the man carrying the container opened it and lifted it up, tilted to empty its contents. The men holding the bloodied boy up raised a cry of hurray at the sight and the knowledge of its intent. They did not see Mojere coming. They did not see her swing her little fists, knocking the man on the boy's right and loosening his grip. Mojere could not think. She almsot could not breathe. The second she threw her arms around the boy, she felt the splash and strong stench as the petrol was poured on her body.
She had refused to let go. Somehow, the one who had agreed to light the match did not. Somehow, the enraged crowd had not touched her. It was as if in one swell move, the sight of a young woman in a suit, holding on to this small and frail boy lifted a veil off the eyes of the crowd. Someone cried "wait" and then another and another and another and then you had people asking questions.
"Who is he?
"Who is she?
"What did he steal sef?"
The mango seller who previously had been the center of sympathetic attention suddenly found herself on the end of ridicule.
"Haba! Madam! can you not see that he was hungry? A mango, and you want to burn him alive. What would you then do to the politicians?"
"Why have you no mercy?"
"The lord said we should forgive"
Stunned at the sudden change, the woman blustered and stammered her explanations. A policeman suddenly appeared. It was his first day on the job manning the junction down the street. He was not in the mood or even trained for the sight he beheld. Blood, fuel, a trembling woman and an unconscious child, bus conductors who looked high as kites and a mob throwing explanations in more than one language.
"Heys you! Madam, what is going on?" he asked of Mojere.
She did not answer. She did not hear him. All she could hear was the faint beating heart against the pounding of hers and the small, shallow breathing against her skin. The smell of blood and petrol she could not smell. The heat of the sun burning mercilessly through the fuel, she could not feel. The sounds of frustrated drivers blasting their horns as if it would make a difference did not exist. All she knew was that she had been just in time.
Just in time.
CHAPTER ONE
It was futile, his attempts to flee but that was the only solution he could come up with because no sooner had his trembling fingers wrapped around the soft, warm flesh of the mango that the fat, sweaty seller looked away from her neighbour with whom she was exchanging meaningless gossip with and settled on the boy. Even if he had let the fruit go, she would not have let the action go and both reacted in reflex. She raised a cry and he turned on his heel and ran.
He ran, quite oddly, weaving blindly past bodies as he tried to make his getaway, all the while mindful of the cars zipping past the street.
"Ole! Ole!! Ole!!!" The woman cried as she tried to maneuver her bulk after him in pursuit. She knew she would not catch him but she hoped that her cries would motivate someone to do so. Her voice carried over the din of car horns, haggling traders, screaming bus conductors and loud conversations to somehow capture the attention of people around. That, and the fact that as the boy ran, he bumped into people, knocking both he and them off balance and they in turn rewarded him with a few shoves here and there, laced with a generous dose of curses in whatever language they proudly called their mother tongue. That also meant he was slowed down.
Slowed down so that as he whipped past a conductor who had come off his bus to loudly call out his bus' destination in a medley of bus stop name, all the man had to do was reach out his right hand and bring the panicked boy to an abrupt halt with one well placed blow.
The boy went down. Before he could draw a breath, a crowd was upon him. The bus conductor had forgotten his passengers, other traders had forgotten their wares, students - some returning from school and others who though had on uniforms had not been to school in weeks- merged with the excited crowd and swelled its numbers, buyers forgot their budgeting and bargaining and within seconds, the boy was being jostled this way and that with the crowd's cries switching from inquiry as to the hulla-balloo to blood thirst as they called for him, the little boy, the little thief to be drawn and quartered.
He was quite small. There seemed to be very little of him but what there was received a generous dosage of slaps and knocks. It was not long before the old and threadbare checkered shirt that had covered his dry skin was ripped off his shoulders and he was relieved of his shorts under which he wore no underwear so that as these angry men and women metted out their justice, he was clad only in the sickly looking fabric that was his skin under which jutted the frame that made up his skeleton.
"Thief!"
"Look at him. Nonsense!!"
"Ehen, yes, that is good."
"Beat him well well. Never in his life..."
"Ole!"
"Where are his useless parents."
"Aww and he is just a boy o"
The cries mingled as one. Maybe only one or two bore the sentiment of the last statement. All had suddenly crossed that thin divide between man and animal and for that afternoon, the boy had become prey for the heated and hungry crowd. The little boy could not make out what people were saying. He did not see that the mango seller had managed to jostle her way to the front and was explaining in a loud voice to all and any that bothered to ask what he had done.
"Omo oloroburuku, oniranu ikeji aja, ole lasan lasan yii, lo ji mi nigba..." she informed. For those that did not speak her language, you did not have to be told that her information was laced with curses and insults. Some on the boy and some on his mother. The mango which had dropped when he had been hit had since rolled on the street and under a moving car. The boy had tried to plead when he had been first lifted off the ground and had since stopped. Like the sun bearing down intensely on Lagos that afternoon, there was no mercy around.
Mojere rested her chin on her hand which was rested on the car door. Beside her, Labake her best friend chatted on incessantly,
"Ah, can you imagine the colours of the lace they wanted to select? I was so disgusted. That is how you know when money misses road. Can you just imagine? They left me to go and pick out that? God forbid, I am not wearing that useless, cheap nonsense."
Apparently from what Mojere had pieced together between tuning out her friend's chatter and watching traffic was that one of their friends had chosen not to purchase fabric for aso ebi to be worn during her father inlaw's funeral reception. Thus Labake was miffed to no end.
Thud! A body slammed into the side of the car on Mojere's side. Both women including the driver who had been listening silently on the conversation, jumped. The culprit had sprinted off. It was a young man, one of those people who sold their wares in traffic and he was in an awful hurry to get down the road. It was then that Mojere realised that the car was at a standstill and so was everyone around them.
"Jesus!!!" Labake exclaimed, "Did you see that?"
Mojere was tempted to tell her no, that she had not, that she just felt like being frightened out of her skin.
"Mr. Lawal, ki ni yen?" (What is that?)
Mr. Lawal was rattled. He knew he was going to be blamed. Had he been actually paying attention, he might have had a better answer for his madam.
"Madam, awon oloshi ni yen ni madam...." he began as he started to come down. Because he was already half out of the car, Mojere could not caution him about his language. She hated when he spoke like that and she had warned him many times before.
"These useless boys. I don't know what they are doing here." Labake continued, "they should all be in school. Hen-en, just imagine...we thank God o that it is not more than this. Is the car okay?"
Mojere was more concerned if the boy was okay. Before he disappeared from her sight, she had seen him stumble a bit after the collision before he righted himself and made away. Mr Lawal had come around to her side so she rolled down the glass.
"Ko si problem ma." he told her (There is no problem) "O kan gba moto legbe but ko se e lese." (He only hit the car but there is no damage.)
"What on earth was he in a hurry for?" Mojere wondered aloud.
Labake hissed her response,
"Those vagabonds. What else? Running after cars without a care for if they got hit or something."
Mojere ignored her. Mr Lawal was looking ahead. There seemed to be some commotion.
"What is it?" Mojere asked him.
"I don't know ma." he replied, "let me go and check"
"No," Mojere replied, suddenly getting out of the car. She needed to get some air and over forty five minutes cooped up in the same space, albeit air conditioned with Labake and she was about to loose her mind. "You stay here and watch the car. I will be back."
She got out and began to move towards the excited crowd just a few feet away before either he or her friend could say a word.
Maybe it was the charged air or the worries that had been on her mind all day, or Labake's unimportant and longwided, one sided conversation but the next thing Mojere knew, she had made her way to the crowd and was jostling her way to the front.
When she made her way to the front small clearing, she was stopped in her tracks not just because there was no where else to go and those around were not budging but also because she could not understand why there was blood on the street.
In the middle of the clearing, bearing the brunt of an over zealous and possibly psychotic crowd, a short and skinny man was bring beaten. Although he was being held upright by the those beating him, it was obvious to anyone who cared to observe that he was unconscious and yet, still was being hit. Mojere was immediately sickened. She only became horrified when she realised that the person was not a short man but a little boy. Her gasp was lost in the chatter of the crowd.
What happened next unfolded like a scene set in slow motion. Because no sooner had she made her realisation that from the corner of her eye she saw two people making their way through the crowd holding a jerry can of what she instantly knew was petrol and she turned in silent horror to behold the jeering crowd, the men who held him and most of all the unconscious boy. Later, if you asked her, she would not have been able to explain what she did next.
In less than five strides, Mojere had broken free of the crowd and dashed forward. In the same motion, the man carrying the container opened it and lifted it up, tilted to empty its contents. The men holding the bloodied boy up raised a cry of hurray at the sight and the knowledge of its intent. They did not see Mojere coming. They did not see her swing her little fists, knocking the man on the boy's right and loosening his grip. Mojere could not think. She almsot could not breathe. The second she threw her arms around the boy, she felt the splash and strong stench as the petrol was poured on her body.
She had refused to let go. Somehow, the one who had agreed to light the match did not. Somehow, the enraged crowd had not touched her. It was as if in one swell move, the sight of a young woman in a suit, holding on to this small and frail boy lifted a veil off the eyes of the crowd. Someone cried "wait" and then another and another and another and then you had people asking questions.
"Who is he?
"Who is she?
"What did he steal sef?"
The mango seller who previously had been the center of sympathetic attention suddenly found herself on the end of ridicule.
"Haba! Madam! can you not see that he was hungry? A mango, and you want to burn him alive. What would you then do to the politicians?"
"Why have you no mercy?"
"The lord said we should forgive"
Stunned at the sudden change, the woman blustered and stammered her explanations. A policeman suddenly appeared. It was his first day on the job manning the junction down the street. He was not in the mood or even trained for the sight he beheld. Blood, fuel, a trembling woman and an unconscious child, bus conductors who looked high as kites and a mob throwing explanations in more than one language.
"Heys you! Madam, what is going on?" he asked of Mojere.
She did not answer. She did not hear him. All she could hear was the faint beating heart against the pounding of hers and the small, shallow breathing against her skin. The smell of blood and petrol she could not smell. The heat of the sun burning mercilessly through the fuel, she could not feel. The sounds of frustrated drivers blasting their horns as if it would make a difference did not exist. All she knew was that she had been just in time.
Just in time.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Baba Catwalq
There is this picture I have of me and my dad. I am probably three or four. My hair looks like it was hastily applied to my head from a collection intended for the pubic region. My father has on one of his old plaid shirts that my mother would "mistakenly" throw away over the years. I don't know what I have on because you cannot see my body. I am about four feet off the ground, my spindly limbs jutting out like sticks of sugar cane.
We are both smiling. My dad's reaches from one ear to the other and all of the sixteen dentures that I own are put on display. In my hand is a book, one of the many manuscripts that i was surrounded with as a child. My dad's hands are free but not really.
We are standing in the room where we used to iron. In that huge house we lived in in Benin. At the corner of the picture, you can see a foot. My mother's. Everytime I look at the picture, I look at her foot. i look and look because I cannot for the life of me figure out how she came up with the concept that her toes look like "unsuccessful Ijebu groundnuts." But, such are the kind of statements my mother makes.
It is a happy picture and an odd one. Not odd that it is a father and daughter having fun. But odd because my father, after being pestered by me the whole day relented and went in search of the ankara wrapper that had been set aside for the task he was about to execute. My father hoisted me on his back and strapped me to him with the wrapper. I was too big for my mother to carry. Besides, I was no longer a baby. I now had a baby brother who was probably drooling on himself somewhere. Yet, I wanted to be "backed"
Probably sensing a budding insecurity, my father gave me what I wanted. So in that picture of mine, I am oddly potruding from behind my father. His hands reach around him to support my weight because even though he has applied a scientific formula to the tieing of the wrapper, it is coming loose and I am slowly slipping to the ground. My legs come out at his waist and it appears I have lost the slipper on my left foot.
But it does not matter. My dad has made his little girl happy and from the picture, it appears he is happy too......
We are both smiling. My dad's reaches from one ear to the other and all of the sixteen dentures that I own are put on display. In my hand is a book, one of the many manuscripts that i was surrounded with as a child. My dad's hands are free but not really.
We are standing in the room where we used to iron. In that huge house we lived in in Benin. At the corner of the picture, you can see a foot. My mother's. Everytime I look at the picture, I look at her foot. i look and look because I cannot for the life of me figure out how she came up with the concept that her toes look like "unsuccessful Ijebu groundnuts." But, such are the kind of statements my mother makes.
It is a happy picture and an odd one. Not odd that it is a father and daughter having fun. But odd because my father, after being pestered by me the whole day relented and went in search of the ankara wrapper that had been set aside for the task he was about to execute. My father hoisted me on his back and strapped me to him with the wrapper. I was too big for my mother to carry. Besides, I was no longer a baby. I now had a baby brother who was probably drooling on himself somewhere. Yet, I wanted to be "backed"
Probably sensing a budding insecurity, my father gave me what I wanted. So in that picture of mine, I am oddly potruding from behind my father. His hands reach around him to support my weight because even though he has applied a scientific formula to the tieing of the wrapper, it is coming loose and I am slowly slipping to the ground. My legs come out at his waist and it appears I have lost the slipper on my left foot.
But it does not matter. My dad has made his little girl happy and from the picture, it appears he is happy too......
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Clothing wars
"The Upper House also concluded debate on the general principles of a bill on the prohibition and punishment for nudity and sexual harassment with the senators insisting on stiffer punishment for public nudity, including a jail term of not less than six months
Of course. I am very glad that this wise man (we know no woman could be intelligent enough to write this sort of article) added armed robbery to the list. Many people today forget that the main reason why armed robbers come to a house, is not to get away with cash or cars, but to enjoy the delights offered by the madam of the house as she lies in her bed invitingly in her flimsy night dress."
Uhhhhhhhhhhh... I think the portion in bold text was supposed to be humorous...I hope, because my alarm will know no bounds if people blame pyjamas for the sexual abuse of women in their homes.
Mrs. Ekaette, I will do my best to communicate to the toddler that was raped by the houseboy that it was because her diapers were too sexy. And the girl whose father has been raping her since she was eight, that she needs to dress better. HIV will from now be treated with a steady dose of cotton fabric wrapped all over the patient; exposing the leg will bring pneumonia. I am not even sure how you will eradicate cultism with clothing restriction and I cannot wait for your policy on how you will deter people from visiting that "Baba-in-Ijebu/Offa" for the juju they will use to blind their "enemies".
Men, I am off to catch an hour of sleep joo. This is why I cannot be a politician because I would be one of those people that will tell someone how I know that their combined IQ with that of their ancestors is less than one.
The bill was sponsored by the chairman of the senate committee on women affairs
Senator E.Uffot รข€"Ekayte."
Maybe it just me but the only public nudity that I have seen have been from the mentally handicapped. I am guessing these guys cannot catch a break. Imagine someone just jeje-ly and rora-ly trying to have a conversation with the sun or bag of pure water and then they get locked up for six months...
The joblessness of some people amaze me. I then found this somewhere:
"The whole scenario is quite disturbing considering that this malady, called fashion, has turned out to be a breeding ground for many other societal malaises like sexual promiscuity, rape, prostitution, spread of sexually transmitted diseases, armed robbery, cultism and occult activities including a litany of similar other vices which have now assumed disturbing proportions.Of course. I am very glad that this wise man (we know no woman could be intelligent enough to write this sort of article) added armed robbery to the list. Many people today forget that the main reason why armed robbers come to a house, is not to get away with cash or cars, but to enjoy the delights offered by the madam of the house as she lies in her bed invitingly in her flimsy night dress."
Uhhhhhhhhhhh... I think the portion in bold text was supposed to be humorous...I hope, because my alarm will know no bounds if people blame pyjamas for the sexual abuse of women in their homes.
Mrs. Ekaette, I will do my best to communicate to the toddler that was raped by the houseboy that it was because her diapers were too sexy. And the girl whose father has been raping her since she was eight, that she needs to dress better. HIV will from now be treated with a steady dose of cotton fabric wrapped all over the patient; exposing the leg will bring pneumonia. I am not even sure how you will eradicate cultism with clothing restriction and I cannot wait for your policy on how you will deter people from visiting that "Baba-in-Ijebu/Offa" for the juju they will use to blind their "enemies".
Men, I am off to catch an hour of sleep joo. This is why I cannot be a politician because I would be one of those people that will tell someone how I know that their combined IQ with that of their ancestors is less than one.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Flashback 1998
I have been staring at my blog with some trepidation for over 24 hours because I could not, for the life of me, figure out what to blog about. I thus went once more in search of those trusted notebooks that I used to rely on whilst in secondary school; some of which I have been able to keep till today and browsed through for some reclyable story.
I found this one. It was apparently written when I was in SS1 because it says on the front of the exercise book "SS1x". I cannot figure out why I wrote this but something tells me, I must have just relinquised my hold on Sidney Sheldon's "Sands of time" or something that Harold Robbins wrote. Sometimes, when I come across something I wrote a long time ago, I have to convince myself that I indeed wrote the words. My nonsense handwriting on the ruled page indicates that somehow, I did.....please bear in mind that I was only fourteen when I wrote this...I found it funny.
They lay on their stomachs on the sand, hidden by the bushes. The soldiers were approaching them and Jamie Miro's hand tightened on the ridge of his machine gun. Clara looked round her from Rodrigo whose blonde hair has been swept impatiently into a pony tail and whose eyes were fixed on the approaching soldiers, to Deedee who lat flat on her belly, a knife between her teeth and a machine gun in her hand. She glanced at Jamie Miro and wondered what she could do to help.
A thought came to her head and she knew it was the only way. Shrugging off her sweater to expose creamy full breasts in a miniscule bra, she proceeded to get up. Jamie stopped her, his eyes flying to her chest,
"What do you think you are doing?" he whispered huskily. Deedee and Rodrigo looked up and the original annoyance on Rodrigo's face turned to shocked surprise and the look on Deedee's turned to disgust and hatred when she saw how the men's eyes were trained on her chest.
Without answering, Clara reached and pulled the knife from Deedeee's teeth and stood up.
Jamie was about to yank her back to the ground but changed his mind. The soldiers had sighted Clara and drawn their rifles but they did not fire. Jamie tensed ready to blast at everyone of the soldiers if they tried anything on her. He watched in surprise as Clara ran towards the soldiers sobbing.
"Thank God I've found you...Oh, thank God," she sobbed as she flung herself into the arms of one of the soldiers. Embarassed and bewildered, the soldier held her soft body in his arms until her fake sobs subsided for them to question her.
"Where are you coming from" one with extremely bad breath and tobacco stained teeth asked.
Clara lifted her head from the chest of the one she was holding on to. She did not know why she was holding on this one because he smelt like something from the sewer but considering the odour coming from his friend's mouth, she decided he would be even worse. She moved away from him, giving the three soldiers full view of her breasts.
"I don't know..."she stammered, tears forming again in her blue eyes, "I just...ran...they...tried to kill...me. They've...killed...my...uncle." she finished, bursting into fresh sobs, her breasts heaving on her chest.
The third soldier who wore glasses was beginning to drool as he glared at her breasts and his mind went back to the last time he had had a woman and he felt a tightening in his groin. Swallowing hard, the first soldier asked,
"where were you headed for?"
Clara shook her mane of dark hair and lifted her hands helplessly, lifting her bosom in the process. Their eyes followed the movement.
The one with tobacco stained teeth winked at his mates.
"Let's get you to the jeep. It's right behind those bushes."
Mumbling her thanks, she got up and followed the soldiers behind the bushes.
Jamie almost jumped out to shoot them when he knew their intentions but Deedee held him.
"She started it," she drawled slowly, "let her finish it. If the soup starts to bubble, then we'll help her eat it." (I am not even sure where I got this phrase from)
Jamie looked at Rodrigo who nodded and settled down, gritting his teeth. He couldn't let anything happen to her. She was special. But why? She had done nothing but jeopardise the mission so far...
He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard gunfire coming from behind the bushes and a scream of pure agony pierced the air. Just as he was about to get up, he saw two of the soldiers walking out backwards from behind the bushes. they were looking at twin muzzles of two rifles and the person at the other end was Clara.
Clara didn't even bat an eyelid as she urged them to step backwards. She was barechested as they had relieved her of her bra but she was oblivious to all that. All she could think of was the two men in front of her. She had never felt this way before but it felt familiar; so familiar that it was frightening. She had not even thought twice before pumping the tobacco-stained teeth one with the heavy lead.
She looked at their surprised faces and smiled nastily,
"so where is the jeep?' she asked. the one with the glasses started to shift foot but she grinned warningly, "tsk, tsk, tsk...ah, ah, ah, don't try me honey or you'd be in hell in a sec."
The guy stood still, horror planted on his face but his friend did not seem to believe her and tried to make a clumsy grab at the rifle. Clara did not even take her eyes off the other one as she released fire on his body. the body jerked in dance-like movements and when the body hit the floor, it lay twitching with the force of the bullets before it finally lay still.
Swinging the heavy metal on the other man, she grinned,
"so cutey boy, I've got twice the amount of music, you wanna dance or you wanna show this fancy jeep?"
The man nodded profusely and began to walk through the jungle.
Jamie, Deedee and Rodrigo got up.....
That was where I stopped, apparently at the end of my cache of cliches, incessant repetitions and oddly constructed sentences delivered in handwriting better suited to a harried doctor. I am still trying to figure out what the end of the story was supposed to be and what the beginning of it would have been....
I found this one. It was apparently written when I was in SS1 because it says on the front of the exercise book "SS1x". I cannot figure out why I wrote this but something tells me, I must have just relinquised my hold on Sidney Sheldon's "Sands of time" or something that Harold Robbins wrote. Sometimes, when I come across something I wrote a long time ago, I have to convince myself that I indeed wrote the words. My nonsense handwriting on the ruled page indicates that somehow, I did.....please bear in mind that I was only fourteen when I wrote this...I found it funny.
They lay on their stomachs on the sand, hidden by the bushes. The soldiers were approaching them and Jamie Miro's hand tightened on the ridge of his machine gun. Clara looked round her from Rodrigo whose blonde hair has been swept impatiently into a pony tail and whose eyes were fixed on the approaching soldiers, to Deedee who lat flat on her belly, a knife between her teeth and a machine gun in her hand. She glanced at Jamie Miro and wondered what she could do to help.
A thought came to her head and she knew it was the only way. Shrugging off her sweater to expose creamy full breasts in a miniscule bra, she proceeded to get up. Jamie stopped her, his eyes flying to her chest,
"What do you think you are doing?" he whispered huskily. Deedee and Rodrigo looked up and the original annoyance on Rodrigo's face turned to shocked surprise and the look on Deedee's turned to disgust and hatred when she saw how the men's eyes were trained on her chest.
Without answering, Clara reached and pulled the knife from Deedeee's teeth and stood up.
Jamie was about to yank her back to the ground but changed his mind. The soldiers had sighted Clara and drawn their rifles but they did not fire. Jamie tensed ready to blast at everyone of the soldiers if they tried anything on her. He watched in surprise as Clara ran towards the soldiers sobbing.
"Thank God I've found you...Oh, thank God," she sobbed as she flung herself into the arms of one of the soldiers. Embarassed and bewildered, the soldier held her soft body in his arms until her fake sobs subsided for them to question her.
"Where are you coming from" one with extremely bad breath and tobacco stained teeth asked.
Clara lifted her head from the chest of the one she was holding on to. She did not know why she was holding on this one because he smelt like something from the sewer but considering the odour coming from his friend's mouth, she decided he would be even worse. She moved away from him, giving the three soldiers full view of her breasts.
"I don't know..."she stammered, tears forming again in her blue eyes, "I just...ran...they...tried to kill...me. They've...killed...my...uncle." she finished, bursting into fresh sobs, her breasts heaving on her chest.
The third soldier who wore glasses was beginning to drool as he glared at her breasts and his mind went back to the last time he had had a woman and he felt a tightening in his groin. Swallowing hard, the first soldier asked,
"where were you headed for?"
Clara shook her mane of dark hair and lifted her hands helplessly, lifting her bosom in the process. Their eyes followed the movement.
The one with tobacco stained teeth winked at his mates.
"Let's get you to the jeep. It's right behind those bushes."
Mumbling her thanks, she got up and followed the soldiers behind the bushes.
Jamie almost jumped out to shoot them when he knew their intentions but Deedee held him.
"She started it," she drawled slowly, "let her finish it. If the soup starts to bubble, then we'll help her eat it." (I am not even sure where I got this phrase from)
Jamie looked at Rodrigo who nodded and settled down, gritting his teeth. He couldn't let anything happen to her. She was special. But why? She had done nothing but jeopardise the mission so far...
He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard gunfire coming from behind the bushes and a scream of pure agony pierced the air. Just as he was about to get up, he saw two of the soldiers walking out backwards from behind the bushes. they were looking at twin muzzles of two rifles and the person at the other end was Clara.
Clara didn't even bat an eyelid as she urged them to step backwards. She was barechested as they had relieved her of her bra but she was oblivious to all that. All she could think of was the two men in front of her. She had never felt this way before but it felt familiar; so familiar that it was frightening. She had not even thought twice before pumping the tobacco-stained teeth one with the heavy lead.
She looked at their surprised faces and smiled nastily,
"so where is the jeep?' she asked. the one with the glasses started to shift foot but she grinned warningly, "tsk, tsk, tsk...ah, ah, ah, don't try me honey or you'd be in hell in a sec."
The guy stood still, horror planted on his face but his friend did not seem to believe her and tried to make a clumsy grab at the rifle. Clara did not even take her eyes off the other one as she released fire on his body. the body jerked in dance-like movements and when the body hit the floor, it lay twitching with the force of the bullets before it finally lay still.
Swinging the heavy metal on the other man, she grinned,
"so cutey boy, I've got twice the amount of music, you wanna dance or you wanna show this fancy jeep?"
The man nodded profusely and began to walk through the jungle.
Jamie, Deedee and Rodrigo got up.....
That was where I stopped, apparently at the end of my cache of cliches, incessant repetitions and oddly constructed sentences delivered in handwriting better suited to a harried doctor. I am still trying to figure out what the end of the story was supposed to be and what the beginning of it would have been....
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