Sisterhood of need

picture from here

I ran into Szezan today and I mean that literarily. I stepped out from the cool bank lobby into the blistering hot sun that Lagos has been infinitely blessed with and slammed into an oncoming figure. It was Szezan. Szezan Ajenkuma. Szezan that I had not seen in almost twenty years. More importantly, she had not changed a bit. Where I was sporting a full head of grey hair brought on by the stress of daily living and clad in the extra pounds birthing three children had gifted me with, Szezan was still her petite self, complete with her signature reddish gold hair and huge spectacles. She looked like she had walked out of the eighties.

Recognition is a special thing. If it comes with fond memories, delighted squeals ensue coupled with tight embraces as both parties try to reconnect. If it is the contrary, it could be a disastrous disintergration into exchanged punches, insults and accusations. When it is a bittersweet one like me remembering Szezan and she remembering me, it is a special kind of discomfort. Still, after our initial gasp and hesitation, we moved into a brief hug.

"How are you?" she asked, her accent deepening her voice. Memories of times spent teasing and imitating her, brought tears to my eyes. I was surprised at the reaction and tried to push them back. It was too late. She had already seen them.
"Haimani," she said my name with a sigh, "come this way". She pulled me away from the entrance where the previously bored security gaurd was watching with barely veiled interest.
"Where have you been?" I asked because I did not know. I had tried so hard to find her but she just seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.
"Here and there...mostly, there" she said with a dismissive chuckle, her tinted curls bouncing over her forehead.
"That is not an answer." I did not mean it but it came out as much more of a retort than I had intended. She blinked and stepped back a bit, putting some distance between us.
"I did not know that you would care." she bit back, the icy cold in her voice bringing on a small shiver even though we were both standing unshaded from the sun.
"That's not true..." I began and stopped because I knew it would sound false to her. What could I say to her? There was nothing to say. Nothing that could change the past.

She had married my brother. There had been no children. Our mother and kinsmen had made her life misreable, subjecting her to varying levels of emotional and physical abuse. Neither myself nor my brother Jahan had done anything. Jahan's solution was to kick out his wife and marry someone from our village who knew that if she too did not produce a child within nine months, that she too would suffer the same fate. Jahan's first son Kabile was born. I had not seen Szezan since the day she had stood by, watching as if she was one of the entertained passersby as her things, accumulated over four years of marriage and three years of courtship were loaded on a rickety pick up truck and driven out of her compound without her.

Jahan and Estelle were blissfully miserable. She had borne him five children. None of them his. We found out when Djiani, the smallest girl needed a bone marrow transplant. The shock nearly gave Jahan a heart attack. He had rounded up his mistresses and their children and just as expected, not one single one of his "offspring" was his. What could we do, everyone knew what had happened with his pretty bride Szezan and what his family had done. It was not to get out, so there Jahan was, father to eight children fathered by other men. At least Estelle, had made sure that all of hers were from one source.

I had tried to find Szezan but even God knew it would be too late to apologise. I always asked myself why I had never defended her. She and I had been friends. Laughing and living lackadaisically, our youth a security blanket of hope, optimism and opportunity. She had married my brother. My family that had watched her grow up, witnessed her life's achievements alongside mine turned on her with such speed and malice that one would have imagined that the resentment had been a long time coming.

"Szezan, I am sorry" I said simply.

She shrugged and smiled and I was surprised to see that it was genuine. "There is nothing to be sorry for."

I shook my head, "I did not say anything because I was scared."

"I know."

We stood in silence. Our history speaking for us instead. She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like tickets.
"If you are available, here are two tickets. They are my last two spare. Come to the MUSON center"
"You are performing?" My mother had smashed Szezan's grand piano saying that she had sold her womb for the gift of music.
"No," she shook her head, "my son is."
I should not have been surprised that she would be a mother but the news hit me hard.
"You have a son?" I could only whisper.
"Sons and daughters." Chuckling at the look on my face, she continued, "My first two are adopted and my last two are from my husband's first marriage."
I paused. So, she had adopted. So it was true that she could not have kids.
Reading my face, she pushed hair out of her face as she spoke, "I decided not to have children, Haimani. Or I should say, that I did not want to be pregnant. I chose a different kind of motherhood."
That did not make sense.
"Why? After all that you were put through? Could you not have put your enemies and detractors to shame?" I winced because I could easily be on that list.
"I have no enemies or detractors. Anyone that had a problem with me not being pregant, where are they now? I don't know and don't care. I have four healthy children, a happy marriage and blessings beyond what the mouth can mention. Tomorrow night, my second child performs to a sold out crowd...the past is insignificant."
I did not know what to say. So I said nothing. Neither did she.
Without saying goodbye, she walked away and into the building and I turned around to watch her go.
I saw in her stride the things that I myself did not have. Things that I ought to being that I had done every single thing I had been told to. I had married the man I was told to. Given birth to his children and given up my career to raise them. I had closed my eyes to his indiscretions, ceased "antagonising" him when he sometimes hit me. I had been a good wife and a respectable woman. And yet, I had nothing of what Szezan had. Her walk told me that she was happy, confident and proud.
I walked even slower to my car. Suddenly, I was very very very sad.
**************************************************************************************

I watched Haimani's retreat and could not help but feel regret. She had been so beautiful and lively. Now she looked worn out and exhausted. I was not surprised though. I could have been her. That was why when Jahan's mother started the last leg of her climatic attacks, I did not put up a fight.

I had known about Estelle. The moment I found out, I knew one thing infinitely and totally. Jahan was a weak man. And he would always have his mother as his excuse for doing so. That was why I was not surprised that he would not meet my gaze each time his mother accused me of witchcraft. That was why he was away when I was moved out forcefully from my own home and Estelle moved in.

And that was why I stood by and did nothing. Then I took a taxi to the clinic and had Dr. Abayomi remove my four week pregnancy.

Como Vai

Bom dia, meus amigos. Hoje es Terca, 10 de Marco e eu estou en meu colega.
Como Vai?

Porn Connoisseur

As someone who has been entertained, fascinated and puzzled by the adult film industry, I must pose some questions; and they are some that only few might be able to answer.

1.There is this genre of porn that is shot at parties where people have sex in full view of a crowded room. The female participants typically appear more intoxicated than their male partners. In any case, their performance is cheered on by their equally alcohol indulged audience.
My question: I have noticed that the audience is ninety percent of time, made only of men. I now then wonder, is the girl there to service them all and if so, what could possibly inspire you to be where twelve men (at least, and here, i am undercounting) have just recently been? How do you que up to fuck someone? And how can you just stand around watching two people paint the floor and furniture with bodily juices?

2. Asian porn. Females that look adolescent and sound infantile.
My question: Why would anyone watch someone who looks like a child? It looks to me like what I imagine child pornography to be and I am always sickened. I am never sure whether to call the police or not.
Even more alarming is material that comes out of South East Asia. It is either the women look like they are being forced or not even aware that they are being filmed.
The one, I saw from the middle east freaked me out. The girl was begging to go. She kept trying to keep her hijab on and the man was pulling at it and pushing her around. I did not understand what she was saying but from her body language, I could see the resistance. I could go no further than a minute. I emailed teh cybertipline but who knows. After all, it was porn and they could have been acting. And it was not American material so jurisdiction issues would have been an issue along with the possibility of having that girl in trouble based on their sharia laws.


3. Tera Patrick.
My question: How do I get a body like hers? I swear, that woman is fine and looks like a kindergaten teacher.

4. African Porn
My question: Where are the good ones? It is either they are ridiculous or they all look like they need to take showers. I once saw a clip involving a white girl and a pygmie. I nearly died laughing. I can't even describe what it was about.

The Blacklist Volume II

"God might not always come when you call Him, but He is always right on time"

I must just always remember this.

See you there.....

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

picture from here

TTYL

It started out as a thought and the next thing I knew I was rolling on the floor laughing...

Cos I remembered when I still used to wear a leg brace. I went for Sunday EWS and afterwards was walking back to the car while my parents touched base with other adults at service. I noticed that some of the "main guys" were seated on a low wall by the cars conversating and that I would have to walk past them. In true fifteen year old form, I attempted to sashay past; a ridiculous idea given that I was a female teen version of Forrest Gump. I was not to be deterred. I began my move. As I approached, the conversation among the boys slowly died down as they paused to behold the spectacle that was my movement. I am guessing I would have made it too if the yeye thing had not locked at the joints and sent me flying. I just lay there while the boys jumped up and rushed over.
Long story short, don't catwalk if you have a leg brace on...

Or the time I was on the bus and wanted to flick my long weave backwards and out of my face and sent my earring flying through the window....

Or the time that I farted while laughing at a joke the School of Architecture's guest of honour said and the poor guy just went "Take it easy child"...

Or the time I was not looking and got into the wrong car in front of my dorm and scared the beejeesus out of these three guys...

Or the time I thought I would get my eyebrows waxed and ended up looking "surprised" for two weeks...

Or the time I did not know that one stupid baby had pulled my wig backwards on the bus while I was dozing and the mother was trying to find a way to push it back without waking me up and ended up knocking me upside the head when the bus jolted. I just woke up and found that people were staring at me with hands over their mouth and some hispanic woman trying to get off the bus fast. When I got out, I caught my reflection in the bus as it drove past and my wig was on backwards....

Or the day I bent down in class to pick up something and my jeans ripped....

Or the....I gotta stop, my side hurts men

Envy and other musings on a cold January afternoon

On November 4th, a huge chunk of the citizens of the United States of America participated in a free election that put in place the first black man as the 44th president. For country that grew its economic wealth on the exploitation and oppression of others, this was an amazing feat even in itself. And today, braving the bitter Washington DC cold, this man was sworn in with a ceremony that was moving and inspirational, into his office. This man, Barrack Obama, has become the new iconic symbol of global change. He is the black man from the West. He is the future of international relations.

My feelings at this point towards this man and his people are a combination of being impressed and envy. The journey to this point and the ability to get here is what I envy. On the day of the American elections, there were no reports of violence or rigging (no reports might not mean that they did not happen). People went to the polls, cast their vote and went about their day. At the end, the results were announced and the losing party bowed out with a graceful show of sportsmanship and stepped aside so the winning team could take centerstage. The entire country, irrespective of their beliefs and voting choices unified to welcome the new president home. It was like a page out of fairy tale book on what democracy is all about.

My eyes filled with tears as I listened to the 44th president make his first speech as president but I refused to let them fall. It is quite the heartbreak to hear such inspirational words coming from someone addressing his people and come from a country like mine.

I am a Nigerian. And I am wondering when we as a people will be courageous enough to demand leaders who manage our growth towards stability and further development. I wonder when we refuse to be poor in thought, words and deed because poverty is not just about a lack of legal tender; that is simply being broke. When will the mention of my nationality not mean an invitation for people to share what negative experiences they have heard about or experiences with some other Nigerians?

I don't know.

Maybe in twenty years. If we all make the conscious decision to work towards it.

Now, I watch the Americans celebrate.

In a while, and God willing I will be a part of it, so will we.

The Nigerians, I mean....and all other nationalities who wish it.

God why?

I just need a simple explanation why it is so FRACKING cold today!!!! I nearly passed out walking from the metro and I must have lost alot of energy doing so because now, I am so sleepy.....

My mind has been made up for me, Nope, I am not living in a cold climate even if I get a nice car to cart me and my stuff around. I need not to fear that I will loose my ear lobes because somebody sometime ago insulted God and he cursed the land with ice weather.

Haba!!!!

The Kiss

Picture from here
"Now, we are here. This is the most important part of the film. This kiss is the most important thing about the film. This is what should tell the audience if both your characters are supposed to be together. Your love story so far has been a series of hits and misses and now finally, you are here. Look at her, she is Sajida. The one for whom your heart beats and your blood boils. The one for whom you have risked even death itself just so you can feel her forbidden touch. And you, Malicka, you as Sajida have been waiting all your life for this moment. You have fled your wedding on the promise made to you eleven years ago when you were but children. Your love is one of desperation. You know loving him will destroy you but you cannot help yourself. You are lost. You are his and only he can save you from this jump off the cliff into the unknown. Are you with me?"

We both nodded. What could we do. Draped across each other in a state of suggestive undress whilst a frantic crew orbitted around us, there was nothing Kunal and I could do but nod. Ask anyone in our line of work and they will tell you that it does not matter how many movies you do, the love scenes are the most uncomfortable. First, there is the fact that you have to pretend to feel all that emotion for someone you are not supposed to. Even if your body responds, you have to act like it doesn't while acting like it does. It never ceases to be embarassing for either one of you to suddenly become aware that the other is aroused. That has led many a leading pair down the hurried path back to their trailers where they rip the clothes off each other, only to figure out six months after the movie has been released that that was all it was: a reaction and not a connection.

Then, there is the crew. They, avoiding your gaze and you, avoiding theirs. If you are established like Kunal and I, you can demand a closed set. But if you are just starting out, you can find yourself under the assessing stares of almost fifty people trying to make sure that you don't fuck up their work. Makeup needs you to remain dry and intact all through the shot; something I never quite understood when one is placed under such severe lighting. Wardrobe needs for the costumes to come off effortlessly and in such a way as to imply that if the audience purchased the same pieces, they might find themselves in similar embraces of passion. The Cinematographer, Lighting crew and Director, all pressed to make the shot as suggestive as possible without actually having to result in unsimulated sex. There would be stills; the most excruciating part. Taken by the photographer, they would run with promos and be leaked to blogs and buzz makers so as to create the illusion that your ticket at the cinemas would buy you audience to witness the forbidden. That is when you and your co-star have to hold contorted positions for minutes at a time.

I typically zone out during these takes. I go into auto pilot. With a body like mine, I have no hang ups about nudity, even though I never do full frontal. Sex sells and I get paid to suggest that I've got the kind that all men or some women want. With 15 mil a flick, I think I am quite convincing. And so far, I have not had to compromise my principles. That is not to say that I have not slept with some of my co stars. That is a story for another day. Today, it's all about this scene. This scene where Sajida and Qais steal a night of passion beneath the beautiful darkness of an Egyptian night. This scene shared between Kunal and I. This scene that would make or break the movie.

"Remember, you can keep it close lipped. All I need is the look in both your eyes. You kiss, pull away briefly and move into a hurried embrace, " Said, the director went on, "then you, Kunal, push here slowly back against the bed of discarded clothes. Remember to place your hands, here, here and here..." he directed, pointing at my neck, stomach and thighs. Kunal nods, his curly hair falling over one eye. He looks at me and winks. I wink back and chuckle at his attempt at being cavalier. I know he is nervous. I can feel it. I know because so am I.

Said gives us the thumbs up and pulls away to his highly coveted position behind the camera, in front of the preview screen. We are going for action in a minute. I lean into Kunal,

"You ready?" I whisper, impressed that I am able to still the trembling in my voice. He nods without looking at me. He can't anyway; make up is giving his sweaty brow, one last dab.

The AD takes control of the set. Everything dies down. Everyone is in their places. The crew and the cast: Kunal and I. It is cold, the coolness sweeping past on a soft breeze from the lake nearby. I can see the reflection of the night's moon on the still surface. We are on the river bank and it is the last shoot of the night.

"Silence on the set. Places everyone." No one moves. Said could throw a tantrum and whatever he has in his hand if he feels his shot is compromised by a crew member. He is holding a styrofoam of coffee that I know would be stiff, black, bitter and smoldering hot.

"Lights?"

Lighting crew nods

"Sound"

The poor boy holding the boom mike nods

"Camera"

There is a pause as the DOP looks at his camera.

"Rolling"

"Mark it"

A young production assistant, grateful to be on set hurries forward and marks the shot, "Sahara Rose. Scene thirty four, take one. By the riverside."

She moves away

"Action"

Kunal's lips are less than an inch from mine. I can feel his minty breath on my face, his cologne scented skin against mine. We have both been sprayed down with fake mist, simulating the pespiration that passion brings. The shot is simple, has been choreographed over and over. It would be a chaste kiss and a caressing embrace, from which my lover will ease me on my back and move between my thighs. Then we cut. A minute or two that would be edited to a three minute sequence justaposing close ups of skin, limbs and parted lips with soft suggestive music for what should be an erotic encounter. It has all been explained and defined in the contract.

I have other plans. I want this man and I am going in for the kill. I am going to give him something he did not see coming. I can feel the tenseness in his frame and know that he is politely arching his body to give me some space and avoid his pressing weight. I hear the signal and I do what I plan to do.

I rise so fast, he has no time to react. I push him off me and to a sitting position so that I can move to straddle him. I hear the collective gasp as the artfully placed piece of muslin fabric falls away from my naked bosom. Thrusting my hand in his full head of hair, I pull his head back and cover his lips, opened with the pain of my grip, with mine. He tries to pull away and I push into him, coaxing him to respond.

"Kiss me." I moan against his mouth,"Kiss me. Tonight is ours. No one can take this away. Tonight belongs to you and I. Kiss me"

I pull back and look into his eyes. Those lines were never in the script. He knows I mean them.

I can almost from the corner of my eye that Said's mouth, like most of the crew, is hanging open and his coffee is pouring slowly on the floor.

I move my hand slowly from Kunal's hair to cup his face, brushing his wet lower lip with my thumb.

"Kiss me, my love"

He does, crushing my mouth to his. I let go and he let's go and we fall into each other's arms, giving in to weeks of pent up emotion, stolen glances and suggestive conversation. I melt in the taste of his mouth and he, warm, wet, minty, fresh and suprisingly sweet, his tongue responds to mine.

It does not matter that the movie is initially banned. The censorship board feels that the kiss is a bit too much. The press takes the issue, lights a fire to it and runs it day in, day out. Advocates for the freedom of speech speak out in opposition to the ban. Conservatives cry out that we, Kunal and I have demoralised the future generation by exposing them to improper behaviour. A few bribes are paid under the table. The movie is giving an R rating. It is sold out in every theatres. Pirated copies are found on the internet. Youtube, blogs and chatrooms have us as their topic of discussions resulting in heated debates where insults and name calling become the fashion.

Said enters the film in an international film festival. We win an award. Kunal is nominated for his performance as the Best Male Performance. I am nominated for Best Performance in An Epic or Drama.

We arrive at the award ceremony at the same time. There is an amazing opening dance performance by a seasoned classical dance artist. The category wins pass by. Kunal's category comes up. He wins.

In his acceptance speech, he thanks God, the director, producers, cast and crew. He thanks me his co star for a professional working environment. Then he thanks his wife for her undying support

I had planned not to start the year with a rant but any case...

I was jeje-ly and rora-ly enjoying my New Year and trying to connect with my roots by staying glued to the poor audio-visual bumbling attempt that was NTA. On air was the traditional recap of events marking the entry to the new year (mostly in various churches as if non-Christians did not enter the new year) with a special focus on the annual visit of the nation's first lady to the newborn babies of the year.

After carrying the poor infants who were oddly enough clothed in winter gear, the first lady took some time to address the camera. When asked what her message was to Nigerian women, our lady responded (and I am going to try and remember the exact quote):
"Err, to the Nigerian women, in the new year, they should take care of their homes, obey their husbands......."

I must confess, at the last part of the statement, I was so stunned, I did not hear the rest. I was just too amazed that giving the opportunity to speak to 60% of the country's population,from diverse ethnicities, relgious backgrounds and personal pursuits, our first lady whom I had been told had a formal education could only see fit to advise all women to take care of their homes and obey their husbands.
She was saying...

To the single mothers: obey their husbands
To the lawyers, doctors, engineers, fashion designers, writers, editors, entrepreneurs, prosmiscous women, prudes,nuns, athletes, mothers, students, daughters,wives, sisters,nieces,aunts, grandmothers, architects, actresses, film producers, directors, chefs, drivers, inventors,readers, manufacturers, philanthropists, nurses,medical practitioners, scientists, researchers, shallow women, traders, kidnappers, child traffickers, preachers, religious zelots, religious leaders, bloggers, illiterates, singers, artistes, investors,sex workers, mistresses, bankers, 419ners, travellers, planners, lazy females, hardworking females, employed, unemployed, whatever-you-could-possibly be: obey your husband?!!!!

Apparently, the Nigerian woman is only a homemaker. She cleans the house, tends to her children, obeys her husband and that is the extent of her existence. It is no wonder why the Nigerian female consciousness is the same as it was in pre-historic times because even the woman--our first lady--who is the ultimate example of our identity cannot see herself outside of the definitions of a marital status. It is all she probably ever aspired to be and cannot even fathom a word of encouragement or inspiration for the woman coming after her that does not mirror her own private achievements.

(sorry i could not find a picture with a dutiful nigerian wife but you get the picture)

I am sorry and not the least bit surprised to say that I have never been inspired whether in deed or words by any first lady my state or country has ever had. When I was little, I looked to Margaret Thatcher, Indira Ghandi, Benazir Bhutto, Winnie Mandela and until recently, Hilary Clinton. Right now, I am inspired by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, president of Liberia because she represents a future that seems like it might never happen in my country: A woman who leads the people. I don't even know if she is married and frankly, I don't care. All I know is that she has taken some mantle of leadership and is doing what she can to repair a hurt nation.

These women were (and still are) doing things, making waves and changing lives as they led their people. I am not going to analyze whether or not they executed good governance, I am talking about the impression their attainment of their positions had on me.

In Nigeria, first ladies belong to a sorority whose accomplishments include supporting philandeering husbands who abuse power, setting up organisations that take more money from a society (CASE IN POINT: BETTER LIFE FOR ROYAL WOMEN and whatever other scheme there is out there) that needs it and becoming fashion icons. Titi Abubakar, was not first lady but I think she did in her own way make an attempt to do somethings with her position but even that was marred by the constant power struggle between her and her husband's second wife, Jennifer...we are not going to start on the mistresses...(to the Nigerian woman, they don't count abi?)

This is always the case. Nigerian women and their power struggles for positions defined by men. The men don't even have to degrade us. We already degrade ourselves and then wonder why they don't see us as anything other than what we defined ourselves to be.

So then, you might ask: What, dear Catwalq, after your long diatribe would be your message to the Nigerian woman?
To which I would answer( with the knowledge that the next time I go home to Nigeria, there might be a squad waiting for me at the airport as is the norm these days for Nigerian bloggers who criticise anyone in government/power):
Someone once said that there are only two very important days in your whole life. The day you are born and the day you figure out why you are born. To the Nigerian woman I say, figure out why you were born and make sure that you are the best of it or you can simply OBEY YOUR HUSBAND and call it day!!!!

A new year has come....
And?

This morning

1. I discussed the Arab-Isreali conflict and went over popular opinions that the Arabs were the descendants of the son of Abraham that he had by his female slave and the Isrealis are the descendants of the son of Sarah. I put forward that if that is the case, then I blame Abraham for using a woman for his own personal means and discarding her when he was through with her because he had found an alternative. I am not sure if it is written anywhere( as I don't read the bible) but it is quite possible that the slave girl was raped. Imagine that situation where you are so horribly violated, forced to bear a child only for you and your child to be cast away when something more favourable to your tormentors came about. I figured that was probably enough motive to want to casue trouble. However, that does not explain away generations of violence to one another--the Isrealis and Arabs I mean.

2. Which also brought up the topic of "the chosen ones". Who decides who are the chosen ones? And how do we know the "texts" advocating them as chosen ones were not solely written by them and part of propaganda masquerading as religious material

3. Then I thought about different scenarios that I had read( briefly) or learned about from the orthodox religious faiths that I could turn into satire for a stage performance. I have already come up with my version of the Nativity tale (that one always cracks me up when i imagine how it will be executed). I have one for the story of the Garden of Eden, where Adam is just a lecherous fool who thought with his stomach and his penis....and now, I have one that will be set in the House of Abraham....

4. Which now reminds me of the show House of Saddam; an awesome film project bringing together some of the best actors of middle Eastern descent. I am so in love withj Igal Naor. I don't care that he is 50 years old, we can always work something out.

5. Which brings me to my fascination with older men. Why can't I just gravitate towards someone at least six years older? What is it about a man in his forties or in some cases fifties (depending on what he looks like) that makes my knees water...? Someone said that women who move with older men are looking for a father figure. I disagree. I have a father. One that was always there and would possibly wring my neck if I brought home a man just nine years his junior. I like who I like. Shikena

6. Which caused me to think about sex and how long it had been since I had had any and how I was not even in the mood to take off my clothes on the account that I was not looking as I would want to look...so, i decided that I must once again, go on a diet and this time be consistent.

7. Then I thought of what it would mean to be consistent. I need discipline in my life. I thought of all the wasted time I had misused in the past year and all the projects that either had to be abandoned or shelved...

8. Then I thought of all my business ideas and how much money I need to do what I want to do

9. Then I thought about where I could get the money

10. Then I thought about money some more

11. And some more...

12. Then I said I would make another unending list of things to do so I could get organised. Then I chastised myself because I make those lists everyday and never seem to be able to get them done or keep to task

13. Then I wondered where the list I made for yesterday was

14. I couldn't find it.

15. I checked my handbag.

16. It was not there

17. Could it be on the table?

18. I think someone trashed it which would be ironic because I am the one always trashing pieces of paper that look like trash.

19. I think I have created a cleanliness monster.

20. I need my own place

21. Then I went online to look for affordable apartments.

22. I need money

23. So I thought about money some more

24. Then I thought about whether I would break rules to make money

25. I told myself: you have been in this country for five years (in a couple days) and you have not broken rules, why start now?

26. I couldn't be a prostitute.

27. Too much work.

28. I need a job. I have been looking for one for months, one that will allow me to work and be paid cash because the law says that I cannot work off campus and there are no jobs on campus.

29. Would working not be breaking the rules?

30. Aaaaaarrrrgggghhh!!!

31. You know what, I am not stressed.

32. I am going to go eat something.

33. First what is on TV?

34. Oooohhh, sexy Said Tamaghoui

35. *sigh*

36. It is 12:33 pm...what do I eat for breakfast sef?

37. Let me go take a shower.

38. Thank God no one is forcing me to do anything, like work in servitude or whatever

39. Not like Abraham's slave girl.

40. Which brings me back to the Arab-Isreali conflict...what would it take for us all to get along? ehn?!!!!

Consistency

MERRY XMAS

The bus to tomorrow

picture from

Sit here

With your bag of dreams

The bus to tomorrow has not yet come

If you like

You can begin the walk

If it stops to pick you

Then

Or else

you take longer

With a bag of so much

Don't think of the heat of the burning sun

There is water in the course of the sojourn

The bus to tomorrow has yet to come

In the distance, you should see its form

Its slow chug making you to breathe fast

Does not mean that it moves to meet the beat

Sit here

With your bag of dreams

The bus to tomorrow has not yet come

If you like

you can begin to walk

If it stops to pick you

Then

Or else

you take longer

With a bag of so much

Hahahahahahahahahaha

Hahahahahahahahahaha

I must laugh, the story is riddled with mirth.

You cannot return, The words were flung at you

With your bag of so much, telling you to take your foolish dreams

And leave the simplicity of their unimaginative peace

You spat your goodbye, you refused to cry

You have no time, you must catch your ride

So you hurried and hurried to the station

Where the dust had cloaked with a blanket so brown

Only to find that the bus was no where around

Sit here

With your bag of dreams

The bus to tomorrow is yet to come

If you like

you can begin to walk

If it stops to pick you

Then

Or else

you take longer

With a bag of so much

They can come up to you

And offer you a lift

Faster they will get there

and faster they will split

It is hot I know, but the cool they offer is not so

The ride so fast, it brings vomit up and out

Do you even arrive?

And how do you pay for this ride so fast that they offer?

Me thinks they have seen your bag of dreams

And that is why they know that you need to get somewhere

And that you must have been waiting awhile.

Sit here, joo

With your bag of dreams

The bus to tomorrow has not yet come

If you like

You can begin to walk

If it stops to pick you

Then

Or else

you take longer

With your bag of so much

Sit here

With your bag of dreams

Sit here

I will sit with you

I too, have my bag of dreams

The bus to tomorrow will soon come

Sit here

Let there be peace in Hindustani....

The night before thanksgiving

pictures from

The winds are brutal and unrelenting. They whip at my body with malicious glee, reminding me that I have to go through this gruelling journey everyday, twice a day. And at this time, everyday as I await the bus to take me home, I go through all the things that I find unsatisfactory with my life. I list all the things that I wish would end and all the things I would do, if given the chance. I look for all the things that aren't there and tell myself, "any day now, God please, any day now"

Then by happenstance, someone will come to stand by me. By the looks of them, he or she is also waiting. But not for the same thing. They are waiting for me and all others to leave. We are in their way. We are in the place where they call home. This uninsulated shed with a broken bench, pooly lit and inusfficiently sheltered. We are in the place where tonight, and most likely every other night, they will call bed.

We don't meet each other's eyes. I am a bit ashamed of my ingratitude but unrelenting in my ambitions. I can do better than I am now and I want the chance to do so. Yet, I know in that moment that I could be in so much more worse a situation.

It's okay though. For now, the wait ends and I continue on my way. I am paying my dues so that what comes next is much more appreciated and every action from now on must be done to ensure that it does not bring to another, difficulty and unneccessary strife.

For the ride home, I try to remember: Cat, dear, be grateful.

XYLOPHONE IN G MINOR

Hair

No hair

Laugh

no laugh

cry

no cry

smile

no smile

slim

not slim

fat

not fat

dance

can't dance

me,

myselves

and I

Used

not used

tired

not tired

hungry

not hungry

dreamer

can't dream

sing

don't sing

please don't sing

me,

myselves

and I

sex

no sex

want

can't want

not wanted

won't want

move

no move

stop

don't stop

beg

don't beg

fear

oh dear

me,

myselves

and I

sounds

no sounds

music

no frowns

keys

beat

love

laughter

heat

me,

myselves

and I

who?

not who

what

yes, what

know

don't know

shake

shake

shake

me,

myselves

and I

It's me...
It's me....
It's me...
It's me, myselves and I....

Hold my hand

I'm tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand

I'm tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand,

Master

I am tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand

oh oh

I am tired

And I'm falling

Please hold my hand.

Liquid symphony

The rains have come and with it, a liquid symphony. Water waltzes down from the skies and then breaks into a fox trot on the metal roofing sheets that cover the decaying urban sprawl that is Ajegunle. Where it can, this water finds its way to the ground and roughly drags the earth down the hill in an electric slide. This is the best part: watching refuse, sand and discarded bits make valiant attempts to resist the pull of their watery master; pretending like they either do not hear its music or that they do not wish to dance. In the end, water wins and they all dance along to its tune. When it is all over, all has been washed clean or at least moved from one place to another. We forget that the stench of rot remains and that the ground is now a vomit of mud. No, we say to each other: the rains have cleansed the land.

Why then do they not cleanse me? I, who sit here patiently waiting for this symphony. My ticket has been purchased through my homelessness and I have front row seats to the magnificence of the rain's dance. No, it will not cleanse me. It's not meant to. I am to sit here, chilled, hungry and alone. All of my eight years, this is all I have ever known. Still I wait to be cleansed, ignoring the sores on my spindly legs; hunger having long receded and its definition forgotten as there has been no otherwise.

One day however, the rain brought something else. A hand. It reached through the crack in the wall I had made for myself from old doors and forgotten panels from the market place. It dragged my screaming form out and enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I was certain to squeeze the air out of my being. I fought and railed at the hand, cursing the rain because it had deserted me. The rain laughed and continued on its own way.

The rains have returned and with it, liquid majesty. It has never been so beautiful. I watch it from my new seat on the window. The window that is by my little bed. My bed in this huge house where the hand has brought me. Here, no one worries that I don't speak. Here there is no cold. The hand has changed many times. Now it belongs to an old man who smells like baby powder. I now smell like baby powder too. Some other hands gave us alot of it and I have my very own bottle of blue. It is a nice place, this house. He is a nice man too. There are nice children here. And here, the rain is nicer.

The rain sings and with it, liquid orchestra.

FREE JONATHAN ELENDU

Nigerian Government,

When you fear criticism, then what is being said must be true. You are one of the most useless institutions out there and that is because you are populated with incompetent, corrupt and self serving individuals whose usefulness has expired and whose goals and objectives benefit no one but themselves.

As a citizen, I have the God given right to say all this and as a human being, I can do that also. If you are not going to do anything good with yourselves, at least don't do anything worse. Let the man go, if he has not said anything true, why are you worried? And if he did do something unconstitutional, there are the appropriate channels to bring him to justice.

Or are you planning to come for the rest of us too?

Farafina's latest issue out

Check out Farafina's latest issue online for free. You can download and print to your heart's desire....

It's the Year of Thanksgiving

Picture got from here

The new spiritual new year has begun and it is the Year of Thanksgiving. You have come a long way and I know that if you push aside the mist of challenges that might exist to obscure your vision of your life, you will find alot to be thankful for.

Thus, in the spirit of all things blogger (because asking you for something else might be intruding on your personal space) I would like to invite you to tell me:

1. One blog you are thankful for

2. One blogville sponsored event you are thanful for

3. One new thing that you learned on blogger that you are thankful for and

4. One blogger that you are thankful for.

Leadership by example dictates that I must say mine so I will list as follows;

Blog I am thankful for: Naijablog. I am there every day.

Blogville sponsored event: 14TH AND SERENITY. It was an experience on its own and allowed me to converse with some of the most interesting people on blogville. In the event that people argue that I can't plug my own event, then I say BLOGVILLE IDOLS; because it was the first one that I saw that gave me the idea for mine.

New thing I learned: To seperate the blog from the blogger. Not everything you read is as it presents itself and not all bloggers are as they present themselves online. Thus in real life, learn to look at whatever or whomever you are looking at from a higher point of view. You see more and are never dissappointed but always surprised.

One Blogger I am thankful for: I should have made this option plural because for me there are so many. I will say Rayo because she introduced me to blogging....and because she knows where I live so I don't want her to come smother me in my sleep...cos I really wanted to say...

And you?

A loud silence

Tomorrow, October 22nd, 2008, I am inviting you to join me in a move to

Break the Silence and support the Congo in her struggle for stability and freedom from an exploitative west. This week is Congo Week and this is a way for you to join hands to make your voice heard...through your silence.

From 11 am till 5pm, I implore you to join the CELL OUT!!!. Switch off your phones from 11 am till 5 pm in a boycott of the cell phone industry. Coltane which is used in the manufacture of cell phones and other electronic devices has been the motivating factor behind the exploitation and death of millions in the Congo. Congo has as one of its multitude of abundant resources, this mineral called Coltane.

There was a time when we did not have cell phones. You can make a difference. Join me in the CELL OUT.

You know some of your people have fucked up real bad when this conversation appears as part of the dialogue in a DISNEY cartoon:

BOY
Wha are you up to?

GIRL
I need to get money

BOY
What for?

GIRL
Someone has been sending me emails for investments in Nigeria. I need to get back to them

BOY
Uhh, I wouldn't do that if I were you....


So here's a big thank you to all you mother fuckers who ran this country to the ground and encouraged corruption and crime in all its forms. Nigeria is now a punchline for Disney's prepuberscent kids !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Is it true?

Catwalq: How come these porn stars have such great skin? Ehn, I want to look like one.

Catwalq's Aunty: Don't you know they say that sperm is good for the skin?

Catwalq: Haba! Aunty mi!!!!!!

Catwalq's Aunty: I am serious. Ask someone.

Catwalq: u mean sex? or you mean as lotion?

Catwalq's Aunty: Yes!!!

Catwalq: (rolling on the floor laughing her beautiful african derriere off)


So to you guys: Ngbo?!!!Is it true? Has anyone heard any such thing?

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Yeah, I said it...and...?

I was having a conversation today with a dear friend of mine and we were recounting experiences we had with fellow Nigerian women with regards to the following: sex, marriage and children (to have or not to have). I personally am fatigued from discussing this topic but I still find it fascinating because I find that I am in the minority with regards to how I address and analyse the above mentione topics.

I love sex. I think it is a natural function that can be used for both recreation and procreation. I do not entertain any guilt of any kind associated with it because I am an adult who chooses to responsible for my thought, words and actions. Thus, religious endorsements or lackthereof on me having sex outside of the oh-so-sacred institution of marriage is of no consequence to me. I think that with regards to sex, we all have to be honest with ourselves. In any decision regarding what you allow yourself to experience, it all boils down to you and what your comfort level is. If you won't do something, it's then not your place to impose upon others the same decision. Therefore, if you like sex and want to have it, that is your business and if you want to experience it only within marriage, that is your business too. The pervese comes into sex when the experience is either to someone's disadvantage or guilt gets involved.

I don't think marriage is sacred or any of that nonsense. It is a socio-economic partnership with emotional ties included. It is important only to whom it is important. If it does not work out, it--the contract--can be severed and another created. I refuse to compromise on my happiness because I think it is delusional to think that you can make someone else happy when you are not.


Children are also important to whom they are important. Having ovaries does not a good mother make. I was tickled pink by the many comments on Solomonsydelle's post about a woman (I am assuming she is an adult) who wrote in asking for advice on whether or not she should have an abortion. Me, if I don't want a pregnancy, I am getting rid of it but also I should be smart enough to use birth control if I am going to be sexually active. As a woman, you have to be in control of every decision that involves your life and your body. That is what makes you a woman: self responsibility. As much as people would like to spout religious text as the basis for why they would advise for one to keep a pregnancy, none of them would be there to experience with you the joys and PAINS of motherhood. And please don't imagine that because there is a father involved that he is obligated to share the experience. It would be ideal and props have to be given to committed and involved fathers--and I am not saying that men are so dispensable--but when you remember that should anything wrong happen with that child, society would ask for the mother's identity, you start to evaluate your role as a mother rather differently (or I would hope)
Anyone can be a mother and at any time they wish. It just depends on how you define motherhood. I have said this before and will say it again: Carrying a child inside of you for nine months does not mean that the child is obligated to love you. And I will add, that I think that should not be the maximum of your accomplishments. Unless that is how you choose to identify yourself: birther of another human being.

I feel that those who share my views don't get heard in the sea of stereotypical "traditional" opinions. It seems like the majority feel like views like mine are not deserving of being expressed. I think most of us are not corageous enough to say what we really feel in the face of opposing majority view. If I have offended anyone...I am not sure I care.

I am just someone who refuses to define myself along the lines of whether or not I am a virgin, whether or not I am married and how many full grown ovaries I am pushing out of my vagina. I am other things. And those things are much more important to my definition of womanhood.

Feel free to disagree. Or not.

Yesterday, my teacher wept as he recounted the tale of how the remains of enslaved Africans were laid to rest in lower Manhattan after having been exhumed in the early 90s by chance during thr construction of a major landmark in New York. He did not bawl. Tears simply ran down his face as he discussed ancestors for the Africans all over the world. He spoke with pride about how Howard University was selected to conduct the research and forensic study simply because it was the only school the supporters of the cause could think of with black scientists they felt they could trust to conduct the research without influence and tampering.

For many years, the bodies resided on the campus while undergraduate, graduate, faculty and visiting scholars painstakingly tried to piece together whatever history they could on the remains they had found. He described the interment ceremony with emotion and how the bodies journeyed through all the predominantly black states on the east coast in coffins handcarved from Ghana and lined with handwoven kente cloth. It was a wonderful tale. He ended by saying that one day, we--the students--will be called upon to stand for something and in that moment of decision we will realise what our training/education/degree had been for.

It got me thinking about my country whose birthday had just past. For the past four three years of my being here, I celebrated Nigeria's independence day with much more vigor and enthusiasm than I had done my whole life. I would put on my nicest African fabric, braving the fall weather to brand myself as someone in celebration of my countries efforts. I never really thought of those who might have died so I could have a country but I would think of those who continue the struggle because they have decided to stand for something. They stand for their country, their nation and their people. They know what their training is for and that is their lives calling.

This year, I did not carry my portable shrine of fabric on my skin. I did not show up at any of the many parties being thrown around the city (not that I ever went: there is just something not so appropriate about dry humping in the name of independence) and I did not sit painstakingly texting everyone in my phone book and wishing them a happy independence day. Funny enough, neither did they. I did not rush to my blog to put a post displaying my e-patriotism. It was just an ordinary day. Me, and all my issues trudging through the cycle of it, hoping to get to the next one not as bruised as one feared. And the situation at home unchanging.

We are 48. And so? What have we done to show that we remember those who fought so we wouldn't have to? What have we done to take the name forced on us and brand it a superior identity? Not much.

But still....it is home. A forty eight year old home whose foundations are still there but whose structure is bending in the wind.

Happy birthday old girl. Everything is going to be okay....

You have 14 messages

"Hi, this is Tayo...and Lara...and Queen(hey girl!!!!) and we are just calling to say hi (Hiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!....where have you been?). Anyways, call us, no call me (what about me? Are you the only one with number?) okay. Toodles...."

Hi, this is Tayo...call me when you get this message.

Hi, this is Tayo. Haba! Ki lo n sele?

Omo, Queen here o. Where are you?

IB. This is your friend Lara. You know, the fine one. Not the other two. I am calling to make sure that you are still alive and speaking English. I will stop by your place tonight. Abeg open the door o...unless there is com-pah-nie...wink wink...anyways, laters.

Look here, IB, what is it? where are you. Call me. Just in case you will say you don't know...It's Tayo.

Girl, please call me. I am worried.
It's me, Lara.

Girl, I just heard. I am so sorry. Where are you?

IB please where are you. I know you are getting this message. Please call me. I have been to the house and you are not there. Please let me know. It is not the end of the world. It is Queen o. Me. Queen. Please talk to one of us. I know you don't like me but that is not....

I was just saying that that is not what is important. Call me, it is Queen.

IB it is me Tayo. This is not fair o. Are you trying to make my hair fall out with worry? Eleyi o da o.

You know what, just call me. I am tired of begging you. Ah-ah, what is it?Where are you? be hiding and shit. Oya, I am sorry. Call me. Tayo

Omo you are gangsta o. Chei...and see me worrying. Call me, it is Queen

Oloriburuku ni iwo omo yiii. Odaran...call me. It is Lara.

*************************************************************************************
Delete messages?
Yes
Messages deleted.

Splenda-dly Useless

I felt I was coming down with something and so I raked together my last $2.05 and went to get myself a cup hot herbal tea from Starbucks. And when I say my last $2.05, I mean my last $2.05!!!! Anyways back to my story. By now you should know I am fitting to curse someone out.

Anyways, I get there, get my tea and proceed to what I like to call the "garnishing station" where you can make up your beverage any which way. I was about to reach for my old faithful, Domino Sugar pack, when I looked down and saw my encroaching gut and thought to myself "Cat, you need to get on this diet for real. I mean, in two years, you have gained a good twenty pounds and on 5'4", 170 pounds does not look good (I am not 170 pounds yet o...but if I am not careful)...so I turned to my right and looked for the alternative (I am sorry my diet isnot exclusive of sugar) and picked up SPLENDA! That oloriibu zero calorie sweetener piece of sege! That baba n la nonsense owo waster! That iranu, rada rada olorogbeske amunisowonu type mssssstssssthw!

Now, I am sitting here. My throat is still hurting funny. And I am watching my green tea vanilla thingy cool down to a BITTER!!!!!!!!! mix. The yeye thing made my tea bitter and now I cannot drink it. Nitori olorun, hen?!!!!!

I am so pissed. Mostly at myself becaue I should have known better. After all there was that incident in freshman year when....

*sigh* my throat is paining me. If I catch anyone that works at Splenda...walahi!!!

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A Cat nap

The fact is that I must take a much needed step back to reorganise my life. For two weeks, I have churned on many story plots trying to find the right words with which to carve out a most intriguing and spell binding tale. Alas, the words fail me and I am bereft of tales to tell.

I am two weeks into the first semester of my final year and staggering under the sheer weight of responsibilities, commitments and plans that I am in a constant battle to see realised. Everything dances just within reach, enough to remind me that they aren't.

*Sigh* the trials of a woman with an imagination on steroids. I am fatigued and yet emboldened. And definitely in need of a vacation.

Mikhaila's proposal

"You have to help me get to where I need to be. I kind of gave him the impression that I knew what I was doing and now he thinks that once I get the position, I know what to do."
In her desperation, she was talking too fast and Souman was trying his best to not only follow her side of the conversation but also process the information she was passing on.

"Why would you lie about a thing like that?" he had to ask.

She bit back on her statement and had the good graces to look a bit ashamed. "I really wanted it so I..."

Souman sighed. It was not her fault. She was not the first person that he knew who was trying their darnedest to be where she was trying to go. And it seemed that she had somehow led Martineau to believe that she deserved to be there.

"Do you know what you are asking me to do?" he asked her again because he was quite sure that she didn't.

"Yes," she nodded profusely, her long braids swinging back and forth in their high ponytail, "you have to help me." then she arched an eyebrow, "or are you helping someone else?"

He returned the look, "Maybe"

"Souman," she sighed, moving closer, her breast brushing against the sides of his arm, "Please Souman..."

Even though he sighed and feigned irritation, he knew that he would give in and give her what she wanted. He also knew that with all his help, she would not look back even for a second once she was within Martineau's grasp. And yet, what could he do. He was helpless against Mikhaila. He was even grateful she had only asked for what she had asked for because he knew that had she asked for more and the impossible, he would have given it to her.

Thus began their sessions for two months. She would come over after classes and he would coach her for four hours. Initially, it was for twice a week but towards the end, it was almost everyday. Everything he knew, he taught her and she was a quick and effective learner. Sometimes, when he watched her replay something he has shown her, he was no longer sure if indeed she was the novice she had claimed to be.

The last time they met, she was quiet. And so was he. Things had changed. He was now angry at himself for having invested so much time and effort because for her, it had been only been about the sessions but for him, it had been so much more.

"Thanks so much Souman." she whispered, her small voice floating from behind the veil of her hair to caress his ear. It hit him like a slap. Tensing he moved away so his thigh was not touching hers.

"When do you meet with Martineau?" He knew he should not ask but the words left his lips before he could stop himself.

"Tomorrow at nine..." she rubbed her eyes, "Funny, I was so looking forward to it."

"And?" he asked, his ears perking up, hope causing his heart to jump in his chest.

"I....I...." she shrugged and never finished her sentence. And that was how they left it as she got up, got dressed and left.

He did not know why he had suddenly been paralysed with misery. It had suddenly enveloped him and crippled him to his bed. Work, he did not get to not; fortunately it was a weekend. He just lay in bed, clothed in his boxers and the memories of Mikhaila.

He remembered how the first time, when he had taken her as carefully as he could she had taken a sharp breath and then quickly covered her mouth as if in apology. He had had to kiss her fingers away, coaxing her to relax and focus on his lips until he could begin to move and take her with him where passion was leading. Or the smile on her face the first time she made him scream his incoherent release against the contracting muscles of her throat. He remembered everything. Every gasp, every moan, every touch, every chuckle, whisper and soft scream. He even remembered the time she had been laughing so hard that she had farted and how he had laughed himself silly at the mortified expression on her face.

He remembered it all. As well as the fact that the only reason she had come to him was because she had lied to Martineau that she so much more sexually aware than she was. From the corner of his eye, the green lights on the digital clock said that she was probably continuing that lie with a very convincing performance. He curled up on his side and tried to go to sleep.

Her cold hands on his back propelled him awake. Her eyes blinked back from him from behind a screen of braids.

"What are you doing here?" he looked at the clock. He had only been asleep for thirty minutes.

She shrugged and moved to take peel her jacket off her small shoulders. The lace of her corset peeked out at him.
"You know you did not lock the front door. Has it been like that since I left?" She asked.
He nodded.
She took off all her clothes except for her panties and crawled beneath the sheets with her back to him.
"I did not go to him." she whispered, "just in case you are wondering."
He nodded and pulled her form against him, burying his face in her hair with gratitude.
"I propose you never do." he said to her.
"I agree" she replied.

Where the critters lay

When I saw them scurrying down the steep slope, I remembered the conversation myself and my friend Yetunde had had only thirty minutes earlier when she had exclaimed "Can you imagine the audacity?!"

Sensing the humour behind the question, I had laughed and asked "What is it again?" because she had only just outlined the most ridiculous plan ever to find herself a husband.

"It is these two rats here," she replied hissing, "they are fighting in front of me..."

I had imagined her facial expression, the two tiny things oblivious to their audience and started to chuckle.

"Chase them away naa." I had suggested.

"Ehn, me?" she must have shaken her head because there had been the sound of movement against the phone, "Noooo, before the vex and bite me. You remember what happened to Sylvia when she said the rat in her house threw something at her from on top of the cupboard when she was chasing it?"

So, that was why when I saw the two squirrels hurtling down the steep incline of landscaping near the road, I did not move to stop them; ask them to slow down or point out that it was rush hour and that cars were speeding down the street.

I looked away only for a moment and that was all it took for one of them to launch itself on the street in a bid to get to the other side where the trees were plentiful and filled with nuts and unripe fruit for their possibly famished bellies. It happened so fast. It probably never saw the grey Toyota Corolla coming and I am sure neither did its driver see Brown Squirrel Number II.

It was an excruciating two minutes watching helplessly as the tiny form struggled to hold on to this incarnation, its tiny limbs thrusting out rapidly and furiously in the air as if to grab at the tiny thread that was life itself. What could I do? Nothing. Though not a fan of the pesky critters and always the first to complain how the laws in this country prevented me from indulging myself in some fresh bush meat stew, I still was not hardened in the face of pain.

So, I said to it, "Let Go. Move on. You are done here. May The Blessings Be." And meant it. I hoped it had learned all the lessons it needed to afford it a return into a higher state of consciousness and that it realised that the use of speed while moving should be in combination with caution and good vision.

It must have either heard me, realised what I had said was true or both because its limbs slowed to a still certainty. It had crossed over. Painfully, but over nonetheless.

I looked to see if Brown Squirrel Number I was somehow standing at the roadside, his/her hat in hand mourning the vicious and abrupt passing of their comrade. There was nothing there. God knew what He was doing when He made souls at all different levels. For them, it was all about survival of the fittest.

My bus arrived and I too moved on.

Barbara

"Thank you for coming." he says to her. They are looking into each other's eyes and she is trying not to blink. The words sound to her like she imagines they would if he were talking to one of his clients at the office. She does not respond. She neither wants to be there under the circumstances nor is she about to make the whole process easy for him. She is pissed and a whole lot at him.

He sighs. Then he rubs his eyes. They look tired. She mentally chides herself for filling sorry for him. She wants him to feel as bad and as hurt as she is. He senses her coldness and the weight of it make his shoulders sag. He is upset with himself that he is the result of her pain.

"How have you been?" he asks, then wonders what he expects her to say. She does not disappoint.

"How do you think I feel?" her retort is sharp and swift.

He tenses. She is spoiling for a fight and he refuses to give her one. First, there is no reason to fight and second, they are in a public place.

"This is not where I expected to be. You must understand that." he tells her.

"I should know," she replies sarcasm drenching her words and bringing her upper lip up in an unpleasant snarl, "I am supposed to be on my honeymoon." She pauses and touches her finger to the lip as though in thought, "but no, no, my fiancee has broken it off to go be with his..."

"Be careful" he warns, the tone of his voice sending a chill down her spine and bringing tears to her eyes. He never would have spoken to her like this in the past. Now...

He sees he has shaken her and is immediately contrite. He reaches for her right hand that she has placed on the table beside her untouched glass of water.

"Barbara, I am sorry..."

She shakes her head and pulls her hand away to reach in her purse for her handkerchief. She needs to stop the tears and buy herself time for composure. He realises that some of the other patrons in the restaurant are beginning to stare at their table. Most of them are staring at him in accusation; especially the women. They seem to all know that he is responsible for her distress. He sits back in his chair and looks at the table setting before him.

"I only came because it seemed like no one was going to leave me alone until I did." she says finally. Her voice is no longer as strong or as bitter. Now, she too is showing her fatigue. It has been a long day and a long year for both of them.

"I never got a chance to say how sorry I was. I promise you that I never betrayed the relationship the way you always imagined...."

"I know that you never slept with her." she tells him.

This is news to him and it shows on his face. "Then why...?"

"It is not only through sex that one betrays a relationship. No, you never cheated on me physically but yes, you betrayed me. Because every moment that I thought I was sharing my life with you, you were sharing yours with someone else. What I don't understand is why you played along until the very end. You would have married me, wouldn't you, had I not called it off?"

He does not answer and instead looks at his hands.

"How is she?" she asks. He thinks about how she is and a small smile comes to his lips. Barbara sees it and a little part of her dies an abrupt and painful death. It takes all of her not to gasp out in pain. Instead, she channels all her energy into maintaining a fixed mask of tired indifference.

"She is doing great. She sends her regards. She would have come..."

Barbara knows that too as well as why she didn't. She knows that Khaltoume does not need to come to speak with her because she already has. It was that conversation that has propelled her to meet with Martin in this restaurant overlooking the lagoon.

"I am not sorry I love him or that he loves me. I am only sorry that our doing so is causing you pain. We never planned it or even worked to make it happen. It just did. It is okay if you never forgive me but you must forgive him because he fought to stay with you for as long as he could." Khaltoume had said.

To Barbara, that statement makes no sense at all. All she knows is that her boyfriend of three years and fiancee of one is now married to her daughter.

Razzness is an art...

I am razz. And proudly so.

I speak my mother tongue, read and write it well.

I can transition between the crudest of accents and hold a convo in pidgin.

I love that I can balance a tray on my head and roll up a scarf to support it.

I always gather the folds of my bubu under my pits and tilt my head tie to the side.

I can dance the yahoozee, galala and s-wooo very well

I have thighs strengthened from gripping to the sides of okada for long periods of time as well as....

I have a nose piercing

I snap my gum when i chew

I would rather eat at mama-put any day

I talk loudly all the time and I don't care...

I speak my mind as long as I know I can 1) handle the consequences, 2) I can beat up any one who objects and 3) my house is not too far if 1&2 don't apply

I sometimes go for lunch at Mama Beatrice, the woman who roasts corn, yam and plantains on my estate

I lace and gele is a necessity for every woman.

I wear huge costume gold jewelry

I have about three Alhajas in my family and they all sell fabric, have gold teeth, wear fake lashes and drink stout.

I am razz jare. No long thing.

If my aunty asks you where her iphone is, tell her that I don't know.

I am serious, I don't.

Wait, let me stop this music so I can see who is calling me sef...

Like I said, I don't know

She that foundeth a husband....

I saw him.

I wanted him.

I facebooked him.

I added him.

He added me.

I messaged him.

On something that had nothing to do with him.

He replied me.

Then we chatted.

Then we emailed properly.

With our gmail accounts.

There we chatted as well.

Then he asked for my number.

Then he called me.

Then I called him.

Then he was coming to town.

So he asked if he could see me.

I said ok, that I would like to see him.

So we met and we saw each other.

We had fun.

He came back.

We had more fun.

Then I went over.

And had more fun.

Then I came back home.

And invited him over.

He came.

It had been all planned.

I was ready.

And I let him know.

It was magical as expected.

The next morning we talked.

And talked.

We were going to make it work.

We did.

It took us four years.

We made it work.

Then he tied me to him with a good old fashioned rock.

Over cake and wine, he said to the guests

"He that findeth a woman...."

I smiled to myself.

Because if anyone had been foundeth

It had been me finding him

Blog Mongers IV

What the hell do you think you are doing?

What do you mean?

I am asking you what the hell you think you are doing?

I...

Do you know that I almost fell out of my bed with fright?!!! I thought someone was dying!

Dying! Where?! Why?!

I can't believe this shit!

What are you talking about?

What are you doing?

Wha...Oh, you mean...?

Yes, I mean...

I was rehearsing.

For what? How to wake the dead?

(laughing) noooo, now, blogville idols.

U're fucking with me.

What? You don't think I can win?

U're fucking with me.

What?

Have you heard yourself?

What do you mean?

Let's just say that if I could bottle your voice, I can bleach metal.

What?!

Ya heard me

You are mean

My dear,I am your friend. I won't lie to you. Your voice is the stuff of nightmares. Look at my hair, it is still standing.

That's gel.

Uhn uhnnnn

yeah uhn

I applaud you your faith in miracles and I know I can't stop you but please don't melt the phones with your singing. Or aren't you having to call in?

You're mean

I am just saying. I am going back to bed, please don't make me wake up screaming like a woman.

Whatever man, u're just mean

No, Catwalq, I am telling you the truth....

Blog Mongers III

Dear Wise Sistah,
I have been started and deleted this email to you so many times that I have lost count. I knew that for me to get the healing that I so desperately seek, I would need to do this. Talking to you is the final phase of ripping the band aid off the wound that is my bleeding heart and battered soul. I know that this email will confuse you as you think you have no idea what I am talking about. But I can assure you that you do and in your own very brave way, you tried to prevent us all from going through the same experience but we were too absorbed by your tale to fully understand the bright red flag of warning that you waved. I for one, thought myself above such mistakes and thus walked right into one. Now, I have to retrace my steps and have returned to my starting point, bruised and bewildered but very grateful that I was even able to return at all. It seems that many others have not been so lucky.

I only have one question. It will explain the ramblings in the paragraph above to you and I know that your answer will help me immensely. Like you, I was lured into believing that life outside of blogville was just as believable and predictable as life within it; a place where the blogger and his words are the same.

How did you survive HIM? I am trying to and it has been devastating. I have lost myself in a most horrific way. I was wrenched away from my reality and everyday is a struggle not to loose all else.

Sincerely

Little-Enid-Blyton


I read the email over and over again, each time heart sinking to an even deeper place in my chest. Just when I had imagined that the past was all wrapped up and put where it belonged: on hot embers so they could be turned to ash, it seemed that a little piece had escaped the fire and floated up on the softest breeze to taunt me. I was suddenly enraged. Rising out of my seat with a loud, almost inhumane scream that tore itself from my tortured breast, I hurled my mug of coffee away from me and at the wall. The ceramic piece shattered releasing its dark contents in a splash against my curtains that were in its way.

I realized I was shaking; and so much that saliva was collecting in my mouth and coming out in small spurts. Tears sprang to my eyes and gushed out and before I knew it, I was sobbing. Not just for myself but for her. I slowly sank to my chair but had knocked it away when I stood up so instead my body sank awkwardly to the floor. There I sat in a most uncomfortable and undignified manner.

Then suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I was going to say what I had been threatening to say and what HE had threatened me not to. I no longer cared that he said he had emails from me that would contradict my allegations and turn me into the woman scorned and the stalker spurned. I did not care that he said he had me on video doing unspeakable things in the nude, so drunk that even I could not remember. I did not care about all he had said. All I knew was that I was dealing with a very sick and twisted individual who needed to be stopped. Someone who used the cloak of anonymity to befriend and betray the trust of innocent women; Sistahs of mine.

All of us had become bloggers for different reasons and had been grateful for the camaraderie and friendships we had found. We had made the mistake of taking it outside of the realms for which it was intended. The hand we had extended had been horribly maimed. Our bodies and minds horribly raped. The result of mine lay in some dumpster somewhere along with other unformed human waste that could only be found in such clinics that performed the service.

It all had to end. And I had decided to bite the bullet and do the deed. I picked myself up, pulled my chair back and returned to my computer screen. The email was still open, Little-Enid-Blyton's email sitting undisturbed and unflinching. I opened another tab and logged into my Blogspot account.

That motherfucker was going down.

Blog Mongers II

I have just been on your blog. What the hell is going on?

My dear, na so I see am o. Leave them, when their joblessness comes to an end, they will move on to something else

This is serious o. You have almost a hundred and fifty comments and most of them are just insulting each other left, right and center

hehehehehehehhehehee

You are laughing...

I should not laugh? This shit is funny o.

Men, this blogging thing sef. Some people have turned it to a do-or-die affair.

Omo[1], for some of them, it is.

What even happened sef?

Nothing o. Remember when I went home last month for xmas...

ehen

ehn, that was when it all happened.

U mean the reunion issue?

Yes o. That is what they have now turned to ammunition and used to make noise over my head. The mumus[2]

Ehn-ehn. This is serious o.

You cannot even imagine. I have been bombarded by emails from all over. Even bloggers that I thought were my friends are misyarning in my direction. The shit is exhausting.

What are you going to do?

Nothing. I don't have time for uselessness. Though, I am enjoying it sha. I am riding those blog hits all the way to the bank. You know I have ads on my blog.

Wait o, you really need to break down what is going on because I am lost. Which one concerns Skinny Dude with the matter?

Oh that one? he is the one that started it. Him and his gbeborun[3] mouth. That man talks like a bitch men.

Where have I been all this while?

U dey ask me? I dey with you?

I am serious joo. Explain, what happened

Men, I am tired. It is a long story.

Haba. You cannot do this to me o.

You don't know how mentally exhausting this thing is o.

Please now

Okay. Remember how when I went home, I planned that fundraiser and invited all my friends?

Ehn now, you invited me sef, just that I ended up not coming home again.

Ehennnnn. Anyways sha, the week before my beach fundraiser, you know Roses And Diamonds planned that her annual bloggers' reunion party that every one and their mama goes to. Lepa Shandi and Skinny dude were there and somehow, one of them said that I was in town and that they had just spoken to me on the phone. Can you imagine that Roses And Diamonds made them call me, put me on speaker phone and talk to everyone there? I was so upset. I had to say hi to like twenty people, some of whom I did not even know....

I remember that she blogged about it.

Men that one is small. She was sha like "why did I not come?" me, i cannot now be telling her that i have no interest in meeting her and her band of "bloggers extraordinaire"; so I said I was sorry and that I had not been aware because I had been planning to my trip home and that I could not make the get together even for a drop-by because I was not in Lagos at the moment.

Where were you?

In Lagos.

Olosi[4]

men, what is going to carry my leg to such a place? If I am not talking to you outside of blogville by now, you should know that I don't want to see your face anywhere.

You are a blog snob

And proudly so. If I wanted to know everyone, i would have used my real name.

So what now happened?

Ehen, that is how she huffed and puffed she was asking me to come and I was like, I couldn't. Long story short, she said that she was planning another one two weeks from then for those bloggers who had missed that day and she would not take no for an answer. I told her I would try and hung up. I was leaving the week of her second shing-ding so I knew that even if she called anyways, I would be out of the country...

you sef...

anyways, my event holds and of course you know all those that were there: Aristocrat, East of The Niger, Her Majesty's Spy, Prince of my Castle, Still Waters and co.

You did not mention all those celebs now.

You are telling me. Anyways, stupid me invited Skinny Dude because somehow, we had been chatting offline and we yarn small small sha and I thought it would be a good networking opportunity for him, cos that guy has so many ideas, too bad he just yarns like a woman. That's how when he now saw Roses And Diamonds, she was like "Where is La Femme Executive?" That one was like "oh, she has gone back to the UK o. After her party last week. In fact, this blogger was there...

Haaaaaa

That blogger was there. bla bla bla bla....it was like another bloggers reunion, just with the creme de la creme.

O pari[5]

I am guessing that alot of people were there because that was how it all began. the mugu now sent me an email saying that if I knew I did not want to meet her, I should have just said so instead of pretending and lying. And you know me now, I was like "I am glad you understand"

No you didn't!!!! Kike, your mouth sef...

Me ke? what did I do? I mean she hit the nail right on the head. I would have given her a prize but I did not have spare change...

Bitch

hehehehehehehehehe. Wharreva joo. That was how it all began o. She told one person and another. the next thing, someone is putting up a post on their blog on how some naija bloggers feel too big with themselves and the olorigbeske[6] decides to mention that for example La Femme Executive is one of them.

That was what I saw and was like , ah-ah what is going on? Went to your blog and saw that the party had already started without me.

Men, you missed. You should have read the post when Roses and Diamonds said that she is such a humble girl and proceeded to give us a brief run down of her life and all the nonsense she has accomplished. I laughed so hard, I almost deleted an important file. The razz mbeke

This is all so surreal. My own is just that, what concerns all the people who feel that they have to say something?

You know most of them cannot seperate the blog from its blogger. I remember the post that I put up about seducing my boss and the emails I got then with people, mostly female asking me to repent and desist because I would be ruining someone's marriage--I had said that he was married--some even emailed me just to insult me and to call me all sorts of names. I......

which boss? you own your own business or when was this?

They don't know that now. I remember when I met Aristocrat and he was like "you are shorter than I expected."

He thought you were tall?

Well, at least taller than I am. I was like, "You are poorer than I expected."

You did not!!

I sure did. That was way before we started dating.

Your mouth is going to put you in trouble one day

It already has mennnn. What possessed me to say "I do"?

Wharrever it was, your wedding is about to be off the hook. I wonder what those bloggers would say if they knew that the two of you are getting married. On blogville, you are always fighting...

hehehehehee. That is why this drama is funny to me. Some people want to kill themselves over shit that is not that serious. Woooo, me I am hungry, I am going to make something to eat.

My dear, we go yarn later. Nighty night

Night sister-in-law. Go and update your blog joo. That place is disgraceful...

Naughty girl.

[1] Omo: child
[2]Mumu: Imbecile
[3]Gbeborun: gossip
[4]Olosi: fool
[5] O pari: It's finished!
[6] Olorigbeske: Big headed