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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
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....
Thursday, February 14, 2008
February: The Days of Love...100th post
For the gift of a 100 posts.....
I have been mising and mising (from the word 'miser') my posts so that my 100 post could occur on a special day. What makes today any more special than yesterday, I really cannot explain except that restaurants, chocolate makers, perfumeries and lingerie are out of their mind with the ecstasy of their sales....
Nonetheless, i would like to use this opportunity to wish all who stop by a happy 100th post day. I started blogging because I wanted to tell myself that I could write better than one of my best friends and fellow blogger, Rayo. I have since found out that that is not quite true. I write differently and not necessarily better and the same goes for her.
I have read so many lovely posts and got the opportunity to see the manifestations of many a great minds in this small but tightly knit and connected group known as Naija Blogville. I sometimes imagine what would happen if we as a group were actually able to effect some positive change for our people as quite a few of us are doing every day.
I have been mising and mising (from the word 'miser') my posts so that my 100 post could occur on a special day. What makes today any more special than yesterday, I really cannot explain except that restaurants, chocolate makers, perfumeries and lingerie are out of their mind with the ecstasy of their sales....Nonetheless, i would like to use this opportunity to wish all who stop by a happy 100th post day. I started blogging because I wanted to tell myself that I could write better than one of my best friends and fellow blogger, Rayo. I have since found out that that is not quite true. I write differently and not necessarily better and the same goes for her.
I have read so many lovely posts and got the opportunity to see the manifestations of many a great minds in this small but tightly knit and connected group known as Naija Blogville. I sometimes imagine what would happen if we as a group were actually able to effect some positive change for our people as quite a few of us are doing every day.
I have been happy to meet you all, quite sad to see some of you go- some, not all-, stimulated by some of the civilised online discourse that have been permitted to occur, entertained by some of the shenanigans that have taken place but above all, grateful for the polite comments that you leave here when you visit. Though I try to tell myself not to write for comments, I cannot deny that I am always touched to see them, especially when I have been indisposed or something....
Anyways, now that I am a 100 posts strong, I now expect to be referred as from today as Ms Catwalq. It is not easy. You guys don't know how my baba-in-ijebu has been working overtime to make sure you come back. I am like thirty goats light and the man's belly is heavily portruding.....hmnnnn, which causes me to think......
So here's to another 100...God, internet and English langauge willing.
So, parry-ova-here, parry-ova-dere. I am not sure what is on the menu but something tells me that no matter what it is, with some salt and pepper, it will go down well. Please feel free to make yourself a plate.
Happy Fah-len-tyne o!!!!!!!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
For the Gift of Health
Tears are streaming down my face as nurses labor over by weak and overheating body to find a vein within which to insert an IV for the much needed fluids to bring me back from the brink of convulsions, intubations and God knows what. It has been two days since this illness has been ravaging my body, two days since I have been able to function as I know how, two days since I have been able to pray as I should and ten minutes since I brought up my enzyme devoured insides in a gory mixture of blood and bile to decorate the kind nurses' shoes with.
I am trying to call God's name. I cannot. I try to call my mother. I cannot. The only sounds that emanate accompanied with the putrid breath of sickness from my mouth are guttural and incomprehensible. I am 23 years old and the nurses are talking softly to calm me down as though I were a baby. I have been stripped of clothing as liquids have been expelled from avenues I can no longer control. My eyes are beginning to roll back and even though they do not raise alarm, I can sense their panic...especially as a doctor comes in and takes over.
That was wednesday. This is Sunday. And it seems a lifetime ago. I can do nothing but thank God that he chose not take me now and in such a painful manner. My parents placed frantic calls once they found out and were thrown into more dissarray when I could not respond to them over the phone. I was so weak, I could not pray for myself. My father prayed for me. Over the phone. My aunt and her friends dropped all they were doing to rush to my side. My roommate watched in helpless panic as I deteriorated before her eyes.
Why this long story? Because it is February. The Days of love. When most people look to chocolates, wine, jewelry, pre-inscribed words on a card and an expensive restaurant dinner as fufliment of love in their lives. I never thought I would be 23 and would never have had a val but after last week it would have been worse to just end at 23 and never truly lived.
Join me, if you wish- this is not to say that if you do, something is lacking- and celebrate the gifts that we have this month. I spent just a few days incapacitated praying for healing and I was spent. Imagine those whose prayer that has been since their first breath on this earth.
Take things easy. My break down was brought on by stress. I was going through financial issues, school issues, a break up and I just kept going and going and going and not taking time to just breathe. I am glad God stopped me this way and not worse. Imagine if I had had a stroke or something.....God forbid. Still, it could be worse.
It's February. You are alive and well. Be happy for that. Greet the day with joy and excitement. Take a second look at that which you call mundane and try and see what is spicy about what you do. Realise that your life is full, so that you are not looking for someone to fill it for you but to share it with and someone who realising what an opportunity you have given them would choose to share theirs with you.
Let's lift our glasses...of juice and soda (no alcoholics here...Rayo step away from the bottle) and let's drink to the gift of good health.
It has been God's valentine to me. And I share with you.
Tears are streaming down my face as nurses labor over by weak and overheating body to find a vein within which to insert an IV for the much needed fluids to bring me back from the brink of convulsions, intubations and God knows what. It has been two days since this illness has been ravaging my body, two days since I have been able to function as I know how, two days since I have been able to pray as I should and ten minutes since I brought up my enzyme devoured insides in a gory mixture of blood and bile to decorate the kind nurses' shoes with.
I am trying to call God's name. I cannot. I try to call my mother. I cannot. The only sounds that emanate accompanied with the putrid breath of sickness from my mouth are guttural and incomprehensible. I am 23 years old and the nurses are talking softly to calm me down as though I were a baby. I have been stripped of clothing as liquids have been expelled from avenues I can no longer control. My eyes are beginning to roll back and even though they do not raise alarm, I can sense their panic...especially as a doctor comes in and takes over.
That was wednesday. This is Sunday. And it seems a lifetime ago. I can do nothing but thank God that he chose not take me now and in such a painful manner. My parents placed frantic calls once they found out and were thrown into more dissarray when I could not respond to them over the phone. I was so weak, I could not pray for myself. My father prayed for me. Over the phone. My aunt and her friends dropped all they were doing to rush to my side. My roommate watched in helpless panic as I deteriorated before her eyes.
Why this long story? Because it is February. The Days of love. When most people look to chocolates, wine, jewelry, pre-inscribed words on a card and an expensive restaurant dinner as fufliment of love in their lives. I never thought I would be 23 and would never have had a val but after last week it would have been worse to just end at 23 and never truly lived.
Join me, if you wish- this is not to say that if you do, something is lacking- and celebrate the gifts that we have this month. I spent just a few days incapacitated praying for healing and I was spent. Imagine those whose prayer that has been since their first breath on this earth.
Take things easy. My break down was brought on by stress. I was going through financial issues, school issues, a break up and I just kept going and going and going and not taking time to just breathe. I am glad God stopped me this way and not worse. Imagine if I had had a stroke or something.....God forbid. Still, it could be worse.
It's February. You are alive and well. Be happy for that. Greet the day with joy and excitement. Take a second look at that which you call mundane and try and see what is spicy about what you do. Realise that your life is full, so that you are not looking for someone to fill it for you but to share it with and someone who realising what an opportunity you have given them would choose to share theirs with you.
Let's lift our glasses...of juice and soda (no alcoholics here...Rayo step away from the bottle) and let's drink to the gift of good health.
It has been God's valentine to me. And I share with you.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Friday, February 01, 2008
February: The Days of Love...
For Nwabugo
When they met, she was six and he was eight. He peered at her from behind his father, instantly ashamed at how he must looked to the chubby girl in her bright white dress and matching sandals with its little bow on the side. He wore one of the two shirts he owned, the other one being his thread bare school uniform that his older brother had passed down to him. He avoided her eyes, though he felt the intensity of her stare the whole time he and his father paid their annual visit to her father in the big house on the hill.
She liked to go on walks around the village during which she would stop to greet the old people who could not make it to her father's house. By now, she was ten. Sometimes, she brought gifts for these old people. She always stopped at his house on her way. It never made sense because his father would have gone to see her father but she stopped anyway. And then, he would be asked by his father to walk back with her and whoever accompanied her; usually the maid.
On the way, they would talk. Or rather, she would. Her Igbo was pathetic and his English was disastrous but they laboured on in their comprehension of each other.
They both figured out that she was going to the government school back in the city and into the boarding house and he was going to join his older brother to learn a trade.
The first thing he gave her was a book. The bookstore owner who sold it to him told him that it was very interesting. it had been a while that he had been in school but something told him that she would like it. It was very big and heavy and he wrapped it in the best colourful paper that he could find. It was a book on European history. She squealed and gasped. He was so pleased with himself that year, that he walked right into a pile of dog excrement on his way home.
She gave him a mixed tape. He could play it as he plied his route in the city conducting for his brother who was now a driver.
His brother looked up when the shrill voice of a foreign female singer permeated the bus.
"wetin be dis?" he asked of Ogugwa.
With pride, he replied, "Nwabugo gave it to me. She made it and brought it to the village for me."
His older brother thus changed his mind about flinging it out of the window but he was not allowed to play it when customers were in the bus or when he, the older brother was at the wheel.
Ogugwa kept his tape amongst his prized possessions: his bible, his four shirts and his leather shoes for church.
He was fifteen.
"Nwabugo, dad wants you."
It was her older brother and he had been sent to find her. It was not hard. The village was not small and everyone knew that when she was there, there was only one other place besides her home she could be found. She was with Ogugwa, on his land.
His father had died and his one piece of land had been split between him and his older brother. It was to that piece of land that sat at the very top of the hill, with a view of the city in the distance that he would come and weep for his loss and she would come to sit with him in silence as he thought.
She was done with secondary school and had been told that she would be shipped abroad for her university. He now drove a bus. He was nineteen and she was seventeen.
They were both doing good. But she was afraid to leave him. He was very broken over his dad's death. He had always promised God that he would build a house for his father and step mother who had raised him when he was able. He felt death had cheated them, his father and him, out of the dream.
"Mama Emeka is still here. Emeka is still here," and then when he still would not raise his head, she added, "I am still here."
His head jerked up and he looked at her. Really looked at her. Really really looked at her.
Until her brother came.
"I will build our house here. By the time you come back, I will have my own buses and I will ply the Lagos routes. I will build our house and you will always have new shoes." he told her before she left, a year later.
He told her that as they stood on the land, not touching, just staring at the city in the distance.
That was the first time she allowed him in her bed. Nothing happened. He was too scared to touch her. It was not that it was his first time or hers, it was that it was her and it was him. So instead, she held him till he went to sleep, his head resting on her soft bosom. He really loved that.
"Where is my daughter?!!!" Saliva burst forth from the Chief's mouth as he grabbed Ogugwa by the shirt. Ogugwa could barely see the man's anger as his eyes were near swollen shut but he could feel the hate. Things had changed, and very drastically. She had run away. But she had not come to him. Ogugwa did not know where she was and he could not go out and find her because he was holed up in the room with the police who had under the chief's directives arrested him for kidnapping and tried to beat a confession out of him.
It did not matter to the Chief that the Uzochi line plied all the routes from the east to the west and to some parts of the north. In seven years, without stealing or visiting a witch doctor, he and his brother had slaved to build their transport network. He, Ogugwa had even travelled outside of the country to Ghana, by air. He had built Nwabugo the house he promised and she had come back to him but that did not matter. He remained to the Chief, Uzochi's son, son of the palmwine tapper.
She would not marry Ikechukwu the Senate president's son. Even when her father had locked her inside the house, she had somehow managed to escape.
Ogugwa could barely think. He had thought he had lost her when he read of the engagement. Now, she was missing.
"I will speak to him." Peter said "Just rest."
Nwabugo nodded and pressed her cheek against her son's head and bid her brother good bye. Ogugwa sat beside his wife and son and put his arm around them.
"Don't worry, he will come around. No true father will disown his only daughter."
She did not reply because she was interrupted by her mother-inlaw's entrance. Mama Emeka came in dancing and smelling of old wrapper. Behind her was her son, Ogugwa's brother and his wife, Beatrice.
"His name is Uzochi" Nwanbugo whispered. Tears sprang to Mama Emeka's eyes.
"Yes, that is good. See his mouth is like his grandfather's. You are going to be feeding this one non stop."
It was Uzochi who brought them back together. It was Uzochi who chased his football out of the compound and into the road and was run over by his grandfather's peugeot station wagon. It was his grandfather who held his frail body as the little boy fought for his life. He nearly lost it too.
It was in the house on the hill, the house that Ogugwa had built for Nwabugo that the reconciliation was held. It was in the house on that land that the story would end.
Because when they met, she was six and he was eight. When they left, she was seventy two and he was seventy four. And as usual, she sat on the balcony attached to her room at the back of the house so she could catch the evening breeze, seperated from the noise and drama of grandchildren, fretting daughters-inlaw and sons-inlaw. When he found her, he thought she was asleep. It was when he pulled on her ear like he always did that he knew she had left him. For a good five minutes, he just stared at her peaceful form frozen in time.
Then without saying a word, he climbed on the day bed with her and rested his head where it seemed like he always had.
There was no heartbeat to lull him to sleep. No rise and fall of her chest to comfort him. But he begged her to wait and not cross over yet so he could come with her.
It was Uzochi who found them. Like his grandfather, he knew just by looking at them that they were where they were meant to be.
When they met, she was six and he was eight. He peered at her from behind his father, instantly ashamed at how he must looked to the chubby girl in her bright white dress and matching sandals with its little bow on the side. He wore one of the two shirts he owned, the other one being his thread bare school uniform that his older brother had passed down to him. He avoided her eyes, though he felt the intensity of her stare the whole time he and his father paid their annual visit to her father in the big house on the hill.
She liked to go on walks around the village during which she would stop to greet the old people who could not make it to her father's house. By now, she was ten. Sometimes, she brought gifts for these old people. She always stopped at his house on her way. It never made sense because his father would have gone to see her father but she stopped anyway. And then, he would be asked by his father to walk back with her and whoever accompanied her; usually the maid.
On the way, they would talk. Or rather, she would. Her Igbo was pathetic and his English was disastrous but they laboured on in their comprehension of each other.
They both figured out that she was going to the government school back in the city and into the boarding house and he was going to join his older brother to learn a trade.
The first thing he gave her was a book. The bookstore owner who sold it to him told him that it was very interesting. it had been a while that he had been in school but something told him that she would like it. It was very big and heavy and he wrapped it in the best colourful paper that he could find. It was a book on European history. She squealed and gasped. He was so pleased with himself that year, that he walked right into a pile of dog excrement on his way home.
She gave him a mixed tape. He could play it as he plied his route in the city conducting for his brother who was now a driver.
His brother looked up when the shrill voice of a foreign female singer permeated the bus.
"wetin be dis?" he asked of Ogugwa.
With pride, he replied, "Nwabugo gave it to me. She made it and brought it to the village for me."
His older brother thus changed his mind about flinging it out of the window but he was not allowed to play it when customers were in the bus or when he, the older brother was at the wheel.
Ogugwa kept his tape amongst his prized possessions: his bible, his four shirts and his leather shoes for church.
He was fifteen.
"Nwabugo, dad wants you."
It was her older brother and he had been sent to find her. It was not hard. The village was not small and everyone knew that when she was there, there was only one other place besides her home she could be found. She was with Ogugwa, on his land.
His father had died and his one piece of land had been split between him and his older brother. It was to that piece of land that sat at the very top of the hill, with a view of the city in the distance that he would come and weep for his loss and she would come to sit with him in silence as he thought.
She was done with secondary school and had been told that she would be shipped abroad for her university. He now drove a bus. He was nineteen and she was seventeen.
They were both doing good. But she was afraid to leave him. He was very broken over his dad's death. He had always promised God that he would build a house for his father and step mother who had raised him when he was able. He felt death had cheated them, his father and him, out of the dream.
"Mama Emeka is still here. Emeka is still here," and then when he still would not raise his head, she added, "I am still here."
His head jerked up and he looked at her. Really looked at her. Really really looked at her.
Until her brother came.
"I will build our house here. By the time you come back, I will have my own buses and I will ply the Lagos routes. I will build our house and you will always have new shoes." he told her before she left, a year later.
He told her that as they stood on the land, not touching, just staring at the city in the distance.
That was the first time she allowed him in her bed. Nothing happened. He was too scared to touch her. It was not that it was his first time or hers, it was that it was her and it was him. So instead, she held him till he went to sleep, his head resting on her soft bosom. He really loved that.
"Where is my daughter?!!!" Saliva burst forth from the Chief's mouth as he grabbed Ogugwa by the shirt. Ogugwa could barely see the man's anger as his eyes were near swollen shut but he could feel the hate. Things had changed, and very drastically. She had run away. But she had not come to him. Ogugwa did not know where she was and he could not go out and find her because he was holed up in the room with the police who had under the chief's directives arrested him for kidnapping and tried to beat a confession out of him.
It did not matter to the Chief that the Uzochi line plied all the routes from the east to the west and to some parts of the north. In seven years, without stealing or visiting a witch doctor, he and his brother had slaved to build their transport network. He, Ogugwa had even travelled outside of the country to Ghana, by air. He had built Nwabugo the house he promised and she had come back to him but that did not matter. He remained to the Chief, Uzochi's son, son of the palmwine tapper.
She would not marry Ikechukwu the Senate president's son. Even when her father had locked her inside the house, she had somehow managed to escape.
Ogugwa could barely think. He had thought he had lost her when he read of the engagement. Now, she was missing.
"I will speak to him." Peter said "Just rest."
Nwabugo nodded and pressed her cheek against her son's head and bid her brother good bye. Ogugwa sat beside his wife and son and put his arm around them.
"Don't worry, he will come around. No true father will disown his only daughter."
She did not reply because she was interrupted by her mother-inlaw's entrance. Mama Emeka came in dancing and smelling of old wrapper. Behind her was her son, Ogugwa's brother and his wife, Beatrice.
"His name is Uzochi" Nwanbugo whispered. Tears sprang to Mama Emeka's eyes.
"Yes, that is good. See his mouth is like his grandfather's. You are going to be feeding this one non stop."
It was Uzochi who brought them back together. It was Uzochi who chased his football out of the compound and into the road and was run over by his grandfather's peugeot station wagon. It was his grandfather who held his frail body as the little boy fought for his life. He nearly lost it too.
It was in the house on the hill, the house that Ogugwa had built for Nwabugo that the reconciliation was held. It was in the house on that land that the story would end.
Because when they met, she was six and he was eight. When they left, she was seventy two and he was seventy four. And as usual, she sat on the balcony attached to her room at the back of the house so she could catch the evening breeze, seperated from the noise and drama of grandchildren, fretting daughters-inlaw and sons-inlaw. When he found her, he thought she was asleep. It was when he pulled on her ear like he always did that he knew she had left him. For a good five minutes, he just stared at her peaceful form frozen in time.
Then without saying a word, he climbed on the day bed with her and rested his head where it seemed like he always had.
There was no heartbeat to lull him to sleep. No rise and fall of her chest to comfort him. But he begged her to wait and not cross over yet so he could come with her.
It was Uzochi who found them. Like his grandfather, he knew just by looking at them that they were where they were meant to be.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
To have loved and lost....
She is on time. I am not. It is usual and almost prophetic of us.
When I walk in, she is with her back to me, restin her chin on her palm as she surveys the crowd. I can tell from her form that she is tense.
I pause for a second to prepare myself before I sit.
"Hello" My voice jolts her a little, I am guessing because it sounds alien to the sounds around us both. She whips her head round and her smile of welcome springs to her lips.
"Yeye..." she says in greeting as she rises to greet me.
I am amazed as my hands go round her in a hug that our reactions are so natural and fluid that if anyone in the cafe were to know in truth, what our meeting is about, they would be shocked.
We ask each other how the day has been, we comment each other on how good we look, we both avoid commenting on the fact that both our eyes betray our inner turmoils; we look good and we also look tired.
"How was your trip?" I ask her immediately I sit down. I have interrupted her mid-sentence asking me if I would like hot tea. She knows that I do not drink coffee.
Her hesitation is brief as I see her mentally prepare herself. She is realising that I am not here to beat around the bush.
"It was alot of fun." She says as she bends low and lifts a bag from under the table that lay by her foot. It is a black and white striped cellophane bag that I know she could only have got from her trip home. She hands it to me. I am slow to take it.
I know the gift is not a bribe. She most likely had planned to get it for me and probably did before it all happened. I am just wondering why she still wants to give it to me. Does she think that this will be a good enough consolation for me.
She sighs at my silence. I have not even looked in the bag. I place it at my feet.
"Cat..." she begins; it sounds like an explanation to an apology.
I stop her with a shake of my head. Now, I want to cry.
I am suddenly very tired and if I could look at myself, I would see as she sees that I am looking a bit gaunt and wearied. This sort of thing can do it to you. This sort of thing when the pain takes over your life and you begin to wonder if you are in control of your faculties as you struggle to claw your way out of the abyss your emotions and feelings have flung you into. This sort of thing where you have no answers you need but only the ones presented. This sort of thing where you are desperately praying for a miracle that will work in your favour to preserve the comforts that you know. This sort of thing when you know you have lost something great but you don't know why. I am weary. I rub my eyes. Maybe the pressure will keep the tears at bay.
"Girl...please don't hate me." she begins. Her hand comes up to touch mine but she thinks better of it as she in unsure. It hovers over mine for a bit and falls to the table, inches from mine.
I shake my head. It has never crossed my mind to hate her.
"How is he?" I ask.
"He is fine." I hear the smile in her voice and my head jerks up. She tries to hide it but I see her glow. My heart explodes in a million pieces of excruciating pain. I cannot scream because I cannot scream.
"I..." she continues.
"Did he tell you why?" I ask her "Because he did not tell me why. It makes no sense to me."
She sits back. "He says be believes there were too many people in the relationship...."
"Like who?" I want to know
"Well, he knows that B tried to get with you..."
"Yes I told him that in passing. That was before us."
"I don't think he understood that."
"What did you tell him?"
"That as far as I know, you have been true to him and to the relationship."
I know that is what she would have said. I just do not know HOW she would have said it.
I am so exhausted.
"So, he wants you."
She does not reply. She does not look at me. She looks down, at the table I presume because I cannot see her eyes.
"I did not come here to fight with you. He has made his decision and I have to live with it. The decisions are always his to make as I can see, when we do what we do, when and who we see who we see and what we say and when we say it. All I did was to take a step back and see if he would give chase and ask me why I stepped back. Maybe that was what he wanted all along. Maybe, he realised very early that I was not what he wanted and he could not figure out an exit. I gave him an out and you gave him an in."
I stop because I can say no more.
We both become silent.
"I am afraid." she tells me, and I remember that I am older than she is. Not just by the two years but in alot of other things. I try to smile to reassure her. My face does not make it. I look like I am in pain.
But I am in pain.
"Why?"
"I don't know what to do. Everyone is going to say I am a fool and that I am deceptive if I choose to go with him. There's you and our friendship. I don't want to loose that. And yet...."
She too does not go on. I understand her completely. I know where she is, how she feels and why she feels the way she feels. She is where I was, when I woke from my heart's slumber to find the world in bloom and the days in orchestra. When all it took was the recognise a number on the screen, the sound of his voice. Even now, I am still waiting...still waiting. I had stopped to check my messages before coming. She does not know that. Maybe she knows. Maybe she knows that my heart weeps that the wall of silence is now becoming an insurmountable blockade.
"You will be fine." I tell her simply or maybe I tell myself. Because I do not know if that is true.
I am too hurt, too hurt and too hurt. Because the end makes no sense. I did not know it had ended until it did and still I don't know why. I have to keep fishing for the pieces in every dump of conversation that I can find...trying to paint the picture for myself with the horror of pastels that present themselves.
And worse, I have to watch as life moves while I remain frozen, clutching at straws...he now clutches at her and she is trying to clutch at our friendship.
I realise that I am having a serious headache.
See, he told me to love him and I do.
He now tells me to let go and I can't.
When I walk in, she is with her back to me, restin her chin on her palm as she surveys the crowd. I can tell from her form that she is tense.
I pause for a second to prepare myself before I sit.
"Hello" My voice jolts her a little, I am guessing because it sounds alien to the sounds around us both. She whips her head round and her smile of welcome springs to her lips.
"Yeye..." she says in greeting as she rises to greet me.
I am amazed as my hands go round her in a hug that our reactions are so natural and fluid that if anyone in the cafe were to know in truth, what our meeting is about, they would be shocked.
We ask each other how the day has been, we comment each other on how good we look, we both avoid commenting on the fact that both our eyes betray our inner turmoils; we look good and we also look tired.
"How was your trip?" I ask her immediately I sit down. I have interrupted her mid-sentence asking me if I would like hot tea. She knows that I do not drink coffee.
Her hesitation is brief as I see her mentally prepare herself. She is realising that I am not here to beat around the bush.
"It was alot of fun." She says as she bends low and lifts a bag from under the table that lay by her foot. It is a black and white striped cellophane bag that I know she could only have got from her trip home. She hands it to me. I am slow to take it.
I know the gift is not a bribe. She most likely had planned to get it for me and probably did before it all happened. I am just wondering why she still wants to give it to me. Does she think that this will be a good enough consolation for me.
She sighs at my silence. I have not even looked in the bag. I place it at my feet.
"Cat..." she begins; it sounds like an explanation to an apology.
I stop her with a shake of my head. Now, I want to cry.
I am suddenly very tired and if I could look at myself, I would see as she sees that I am looking a bit gaunt and wearied. This sort of thing can do it to you. This sort of thing when the pain takes over your life and you begin to wonder if you are in control of your faculties as you struggle to claw your way out of the abyss your emotions and feelings have flung you into. This sort of thing where you have no answers you need but only the ones presented. This sort of thing where you are desperately praying for a miracle that will work in your favour to preserve the comforts that you know. This sort of thing when you know you have lost something great but you don't know why. I am weary. I rub my eyes. Maybe the pressure will keep the tears at bay.
"Girl...please don't hate me." she begins. Her hand comes up to touch mine but she thinks better of it as she in unsure. It hovers over mine for a bit and falls to the table, inches from mine.
I shake my head. It has never crossed my mind to hate her.
"How is he?" I ask.
"He is fine." I hear the smile in her voice and my head jerks up. She tries to hide it but I see her glow. My heart explodes in a million pieces of excruciating pain. I cannot scream because I cannot scream.
"I..." she continues.
"Did he tell you why?" I ask her "Because he did not tell me why. It makes no sense to me."
She sits back. "He says be believes there were too many people in the relationship...."
"Like who?" I want to know
"Well, he knows that B tried to get with you..."
"Yes I told him that in passing. That was before us."
"I don't think he understood that."
"What did you tell him?"
"That as far as I know, you have been true to him and to the relationship."
I know that is what she would have said. I just do not know HOW she would have said it.
I am so exhausted.
"So, he wants you."
She does not reply. She does not look at me. She looks down, at the table I presume because I cannot see her eyes.
"I did not come here to fight with you. He has made his decision and I have to live with it. The decisions are always his to make as I can see, when we do what we do, when and who we see who we see and what we say and when we say it. All I did was to take a step back and see if he would give chase and ask me why I stepped back. Maybe that was what he wanted all along. Maybe, he realised very early that I was not what he wanted and he could not figure out an exit. I gave him an out and you gave him an in."
I stop because I can say no more.
We both become silent.
"I am afraid." she tells me, and I remember that I am older than she is. Not just by the two years but in alot of other things. I try to smile to reassure her. My face does not make it. I look like I am in pain.
But I am in pain.
"Why?"
"I don't know what to do. Everyone is going to say I am a fool and that I am deceptive if I choose to go with him. There's you and our friendship. I don't want to loose that. And yet...."
She too does not go on. I understand her completely. I know where she is, how she feels and why she feels the way she feels. She is where I was, when I woke from my heart's slumber to find the world in bloom and the days in orchestra. When all it took was the recognise a number on the screen, the sound of his voice. Even now, I am still waiting...still waiting. I had stopped to check my messages before coming. She does not know that. Maybe she knows. Maybe she knows that my heart weeps that the wall of silence is now becoming an insurmountable blockade.
"You will be fine." I tell her simply or maybe I tell myself. Because I do not know if that is true.
I am too hurt, too hurt and too hurt. Because the end makes no sense. I did not know it had ended until it did and still I don't know why. I have to keep fishing for the pieces in every dump of conversation that I can find...trying to paint the picture for myself with the horror of pastels that present themselves.
And worse, I have to watch as life moves while I remain frozen, clutching at straws...he now clutches at her and she is trying to clutch at our friendship.
I realise that I am having a serious headache.
See, he told me to love him and I do.
He now tells me to let go and I can't.
PS: I finished writing the post to discover that my jollof rice was unsuccessful. Case in point: no blogging while cooking....shikena.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Yesterday was Friday and I almost forgot my hometraining at home
Update: please check this out...
It started of very nice with God giving me something that I really needed and that I was petrified, I would not get. I was so happy, I was floating. Then I received a call at last minute from the Nigerian embassy asking me to come and pick up a document that was supposed to have been ready since Tuesday and so, I got up wrapped myself in warm winter clothing and set off for the representation of my country on American soil.
I don't know about you, but I feel that Nigerians have a way of disgracing themselves irrespective of their social status and position.
Please tell me why it took five good minutes to get the door opened for me to enter the embassy? I will tell you: Because every single one of their useless selves was glued to the TV watching football. I could hear them shouting at the screen, telling the players to run this way and that, gasping and groaning when the said player did not adhere to the words being screamed at him through the screen. Then, after I nearly broke the call button because I just refused to take my fingers off it till the door was opened, one pot bellied, possibly bare literate individual came and screamed at me, asking why I was making so much noise.
"We have heard you! Why are you making noise?!" He screamed at me.
If anyone has the number to call Yara-on-the-dialysis machine, please send it to me because some people have to be fired.
So, I screamed right back, "I have been standing here. It is cold. Why is there no one to answer me?!"
"I am answering you!"
"Now you are....!!!!". Jeez, so irritating. So the man messes with me some more by telling me to pull on the door when he has not buzzed me in. I know the glass was tinted, but I could see that Murra-fohka smirking. He needed to be glad that I am too broke to buy a gun and that the glass was bullet proof.
I go in and am made to wait in this huge atrium space lobby. I am seated across from this man whose features tell me that either he or someone in his lineage was from south east Asia and I had to avoid his eyes as the shouts of the overly excited embassy staff filtered through the building while we sat in wait and unattended to.
Then fast forward forty five minutes later, the lady comes downstairs to tell me that some documents were missing from my package. Documents that she would have been alerted to tell me about if the man who was supposed to have signed the bloody thing had looked at it at all during the week and not twenty minutes after they told him that I was waiting for him downstairs. I mean, I had called the office at least twice a day, every day and yet no one could have given me the information.
Did they not understand that I had had to skip part of class and walk in that ghastly cold to get there? Did they know that my mother was waiting on this document to arrive and that alot of other things were hinged on it? Did they know and did they care?
I almost lost my temper. the woman noticed it and stood a good three feet away which later was amusing because I responded to all she said in silence. i was so upset, I thought I would start crying if I spoke and if I had started crying, then I would have become hysterical and then I would have sepe-d for the lot of them. I mean the sign in book was a Big Note exercise book ruled and labelled by hand!!!!!!!
*breathe Catwalq breathe* I walked away from her without saying good bye and if the main doors not been made of bullet proof glass and steel, I would have slammed it on my way out. If I had tried and it did manage to swing out, the force of its recoil coming in contact with my face would have landed me a $200.00 ride in an ambulance.
While the embassy team was watching TV, a protest was happening down the street in front of the Isreali embassy.
So while Nigerians were worried about the scores of that irritating game, people were braving the cold to protest an injustice...and after hearing about the dire conditions in Gaza, I realised how greatful I had to be because my case could have been much worse than having to deal with a couple of incompetent, unprofessional and inefficient people.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Tide & Enitan (Version 1)
I was looking through some of my old notebooks for one that was not too used that I could recycle for one of the classes I was taken and I stumbled across some writing I had done a few years back. I actually started this particular story in secondary school and I entitled Tide & Enitan.
It was fictional and based on the idea of what would happen if Queen's College was to merge with King's College. I always thought I would find a best friend who was a guy and we would exchange notes in class. I actually had an entire big note filled with the story and friends would borrow it to read. Then one day, I went home because I was ill and when I came back, it was gone. That was one thing that really hurt me to loose because in many ways the story mirrored alot of what I wished was happening to me as a fourteen year old who was trying not to be overwhelmed with her insecurities and the disparities her fantasies brought to her real life. Also, because I could count on one hand the number of guys I knew who weren't family (and even family could fit on one hand...okay, maybe two) and I was trying to imagine what guys talked like.
Anyways, two years ago at my internship, I was bored out of my mind and so decided to continue but fast forwarding to years later. It did not necessarily have to be Tide and Enitan but it was all about a guy and a girl who were best friends.
I must warn you, it is a bit long. Remember, what they are saying to each other is written on paper in notes exchanged when they cannot directly speak but are in close proximity. So imagine that they are in a meeting or something....
I called you last night. Why did you not pick up?
I wasn't home.
Bull. I was downstairs when I called you.
What? you came to my apartment yesterday?
yes
I did not know that
Would you have let me in if you had?
I don't know
What is happening between us? Why is everything getting complicated? It was not supposed to turn out this way
Well things don't always turn out the way they are supposed to.
Can we talk about this?
There is nothing to talk about.
I disagree...You are just trying to punish me. I said I was sorry. Let's talk over lunch. Once the meeting is over, let's do that. At Benny's.
I am not hungry. Plus, I brought lunch.
Great. What delicious concoction have you prepared today?
I did not say that I brought any for you
Ouch
Look, I am sorry but you have to respect my decision. I have thought long and hard and it is best if we have some distance between us. At least, until Meimuna is more comfortable with you and I.
I am afraid that I can't accept that. I am sorry about what happened on Saturday and I have told her that you and I are only friends. She has to accept that. I do not tell her whom she can or cannot be friends with
Look, we have always know that our friendship would cause us some problems. This is not the first time. No one understands what we have and many people we know are threatened by our closeness. If I was in Meimuna's shoes, I would be too.
You would act the way she did on Saturday? That is not you.
Maybe I would not be that aggressive but I would definitely be cautious about a woman that the man I am in love with is friend's with.
Are you saying that I do not feel for her what she feels for me?
Do you?
U know the answer to that...and I don't know why both of you need me to prove it.
When I was with Micheal, he hated your guts. He never wanted you around. he always said that I compared him to you. I think he was right.
I am sorry that I am all of this hotness that he could not measure up.
Shut up.
lol. but seriously, we have been friends for over ten years. We have been through it all. It is very tiring to constantly have to reasure her that though you and I are more family than friends.
You have it easy sef. I almost went mental with Micheal. there was a point that I started censoring every conversation with him to exclude your name and anything we did together...and you know we see everyday.
I never liked him. You should have stuck with Faruk.
Mumu, that's because the two of you were cut from the same fabric of idiot.
lol
But really, there was a time I was very happy with Micheal
And most nauseating to look at. Both of you. You walked around like you were high. I always had to sniff you to make sure ganja had not become your new vitamin.
hahahaa. look who's talking about high. U think I am like you? Yes, he was good to me at one time. That is what I held on to at the end.
i thought you were very brave with all that happened...
You know me...always brave
Don't worry my dear, your prince will come.
I'll settle for a man
If you like sef, marry tree or coconut. As long as the bride price is brought to my house first
What happened to my father's house?
You forget that your father made me custodian of your sorry arse. I have invested money against how much you will fetch at the end of the day. And your father recognises my effort. My ad for you in the papers will soon pay off. I thought that mumu, Micheal would have played ball and I would have been able to retire but he went and fucked up. Now, I am stuck with you.
God will punish you.
lol...but on a serious note. If you want a prince, you should never settle.
I have a feeling you love it when I am single so you can gloat and be dispensing advice like you are some pro.
hey, I am a pro. And I don't like it when you are unhappy
I am not unhappy because I am single.
Why are you unhappy then? You do not smile as much as you used to. it is depressing to look at you
I am sorry that I am unpleasant to look at
That's not what I meant
What did you mean? ehn?
Look, we need to talk. There is no way we can write what we have to say to each other. I need to talk to you. To really tell you how sorry I am about Saturday.
I know you are sorry about Saturday...
But what?
You have Meimuna now. For you, she comes first. You have to appease her, you need to limit the way we see each other. If you want to see if you can build any lasting happiness with her. That's why I am pushing you away. That is why I am not working with you, not taking your calls. That's why you will not be included in lunch from now on. I want you to be happy my dear. She makes you happy and she needs me out of the big picture to be happy. That is your job. To make her happy. If it doesn't work out between the two of you, which I doubt will happen, I do not want to be a reason because with the way that I see you feel about her, if that ever is the case, you will one day despise me. I don't want that.
Wow.
So you see?
I am sad.
pele. you will get over it.
So there goes our trips?
unless I have a boyfriend and we go in pairs
and my free food...I mean, your delicious cooking
that is the one I am most happy about. You cannot come and be raiding my fridge anyhow anymore.
Awwww...and I was doing you a favour or that food would have spoiled
really?
and our sleepovers....can i have the recliner in the basement , seeing as you don't use it and I cannot come over anymore
No.
What? Why? I am hurt.
I don't care. I keep the recliner. U think u're the only one that likes that chair. I still have not forgiven you for lying that the massage mechanism was not working.
It wasn't....I swear on ...I swear
Tide!!!
Then I am keeping the karaoke machine.
dang! u know that's my joint
Umm-hmn, all my broken windows can attest to that fact.
awwww, you know you love my voice
Yes, it had brought me closer to God because anytime you pick up that microphone i pray that 1. the neighbours don't call the cops and 2. the roof does not fall. so far, the MAN has been good to me.
That's not fair. You need to make a list of all the stuff we have together and we'll split.
hahahahaha...u wish. I see some ojoro about to happen. I will have my lawyer call yours...
I had to stop here because it would have been too long. Still have so many pages. Reading this was an experience because I did not even remember that I had written it.
Oh and for those who could not figure out the previous post: bashir asked his wife to forget romoke (the missing maid of honour), with whom he knew she had been having a relationship.
It was fictional and based on the idea of what would happen if Queen's College was to merge with King's College. I always thought I would find a best friend who was a guy and we would exchange notes in class. I actually had an entire big note filled with the story and friends would borrow it to read. Then one day, I went home because I was ill and when I came back, it was gone. That was one thing that really hurt me to loose because in many ways the story mirrored alot of what I wished was happening to me as a fourteen year old who was trying not to be overwhelmed with her insecurities and the disparities her fantasies brought to her real life. Also, because I could count on one hand the number of guys I knew who weren't family (and even family could fit on one hand...okay, maybe two) and I was trying to imagine what guys talked like.
Anyways, two years ago at my internship, I was bored out of my mind and so decided to continue but fast forwarding to years later. It did not necessarily have to be Tide and Enitan but it was all about a guy and a girl who were best friends.
I must warn you, it is a bit long. Remember, what they are saying to each other is written on paper in notes exchanged when they cannot directly speak but are in close proximity. So imagine that they are in a meeting or something....
I called you last night. Why did you not pick up?
I wasn't home.
Bull. I was downstairs when I called you.
What? you came to my apartment yesterday?
yes
I did not know that
Would you have let me in if you had?
I don't know
What is happening between us? Why is everything getting complicated? It was not supposed to turn out this way
Well things don't always turn out the way they are supposed to.
Can we talk about this?
There is nothing to talk about.
I disagree...You are just trying to punish me. I said I was sorry. Let's talk over lunch. Once the meeting is over, let's do that. At Benny's.
I am not hungry. Plus, I brought lunch.
Great. What delicious concoction have you prepared today?
I did not say that I brought any for you
Ouch
Look, I am sorry but you have to respect my decision. I have thought long and hard and it is best if we have some distance between us. At least, until Meimuna is more comfortable with you and I.
I am afraid that I can't accept that. I am sorry about what happened on Saturday and I have told her that you and I are only friends. She has to accept that. I do not tell her whom she can or cannot be friends with
Look, we have always know that our friendship would cause us some problems. This is not the first time. No one understands what we have and many people we know are threatened by our closeness. If I was in Meimuna's shoes, I would be too.
You would act the way she did on Saturday? That is not you.
Maybe I would not be that aggressive but I would definitely be cautious about a woman that the man I am in love with is friend's with.
Are you saying that I do not feel for her what she feels for me?
Do you?
U know the answer to that...and I don't know why both of you need me to prove it.
When I was with Micheal, he hated your guts. He never wanted you around. he always said that I compared him to you. I think he was right.
I am sorry that I am all of this hotness that he could not measure up.
Shut up.
lol. but seriously, we have been friends for over ten years. We have been through it all. It is very tiring to constantly have to reasure her that though you and I are more family than friends.
You have it easy sef. I almost went mental with Micheal. there was a point that I started censoring every conversation with him to exclude your name and anything we did together...and you know we see everyday.
I never liked him. You should have stuck with Faruk.
Mumu, that's because the two of you were cut from the same fabric of idiot.
lol
But really, there was a time I was very happy with Micheal
And most nauseating to look at. Both of you. You walked around like you were high. I always had to sniff you to make sure ganja had not become your new vitamin.
hahahaa. look who's talking about high. U think I am like you? Yes, he was good to me at one time. That is what I held on to at the end.
i thought you were very brave with all that happened...
You know me...always brave
Don't worry my dear, your prince will come.
I'll settle for a man
If you like sef, marry tree or coconut. As long as the bride price is brought to my house first
What happened to my father's house?
You forget that your father made me custodian of your sorry arse. I have invested money against how much you will fetch at the end of the day. And your father recognises my effort. My ad for you in the papers will soon pay off. I thought that mumu, Micheal would have played ball and I would have been able to retire but he went and fucked up. Now, I am stuck with you.
God will punish you.
lol...but on a serious note. If you want a prince, you should never settle.
I have a feeling you love it when I am single so you can gloat and be dispensing advice like you are some pro.
hey, I am a pro. And I don't like it when you are unhappy
I am not unhappy because I am single.
Why are you unhappy then? You do not smile as much as you used to. it is depressing to look at you
I am sorry that I am unpleasant to look at
That's not what I meant
What did you mean? ehn?
Look, we need to talk. There is no way we can write what we have to say to each other. I need to talk to you. To really tell you how sorry I am about Saturday.
I know you are sorry about Saturday...
But what?
You have Meimuna now. For you, she comes first. You have to appease her, you need to limit the way we see each other. If you want to see if you can build any lasting happiness with her. That's why I am pushing you away. That is why I am not working with you, not taking your calls. That's why you will not be included in lunch from now on. I want you to be happy my dear. She makes you happy and she needs me out of the big picture to be happy. That is your job. To make her happy. If it doesn't work out between the two of you, which I doubt will happen, I do not want to be a reason because with the way that I see you feel about her, if that ever is the case, you will one day despise me. I don't want that.
Wow.
So you see?
I am sad.
pele. you will get over it.
So there goes our trips?
unless I have a boyfriend and we go in pairs
and my free food...I mean, your delicious cooking
that is the one I am most happy about. You cannot come and be raiding my fridge anyhow anymore.
Awwww...and I was doing you a favour or that food would have spoiled
really?
and our sleepovers....can i have the recliner in the basement , seeing as you don't use it and I cannot come over anymore
No.
What? Why? I am hurt.
I don't care. I keep the recliner. U think u're the only one that likes that chair. I still have not forgiven you for lying that the massage mechanism was not working.
It wasn't....I swear on ...I swear
Tide!!!
Then I am keeping the karaoke machine.
dang! u know that's my joint
Umm-hmn, all my broken windows can attest to that fact.
awwww, you know you love my voice
Yes, it had brought me closer to God because anytime you pick up that microphone i pray that 1. the neighbours don't call the cops and 2. the roof does not fall. so far, the MAN has been good to me.
That's not fair. You need to make a list of all the stuff we have together and we'll split.
hahahahaha...u wish. I see some ojoro about to happen. I will have my lawyer call yours...
I had to stop here because it would have been too long. Still have so many pages. Reading this was an experience because I did not even remember that I had written it.
Oh and for those who could not figure out the previous post: bashir asked his wife to forget romoke (the missing maid of honour), with whom he knew she had been having a relationship.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Maid of Honour
"Oh my God, you look so beautiful" Banke exclaimed. She did it in her familiar high pitched British accent influenced English. There were tears in her eyes. I guess the sight of me was indeed that beautiful that she was moved to tears. From somewhere in the depths of my soul, I found a smile and made an extreme effort to project it onto my face. It worked.
"Awwwww", she cooed, "you are blushing". I looked away. I could not hold her happy gaze any longer. I reached for my earring and manouvered the stud between my fake french manicures and proceeded to put them on. Banke rushed to take them from me and help me put them on. It was my day, someone was bound to sneeze for me, if I asked them to. I had done nothing for myself in three days except pee. It would have been alarming had I cared.
The sounds in the room masked my tumultuous mind. My silence had already been interpreted as cold feet. Of course, I was wondering if I was making the right choice, they joked, but did I not see that he and I were destined to be together? I mean, any one of them would say, he comes from a great home, he loves me and above all, I was going to be living in the lap of luxury. My engagement ring alone, if sold could buy me an island in Dubai's Palm Jameirah. I looked at it. I wondered why even though its shine looked so cold, it was burning itself into my skin. I wanted to yank it off and ram it down Banke's throat and end her incessant chatter. There was an increase in the volume of chattering females that made up my carefully selected bridal train- I mean, the wedding was being covered by every network and magazine, reputable and aspiring-and I looked up. My mother had come in.
She looked lovely. She always said that she was suited for wealth and that is why she had been born into the family that she was. Her chocolate skin shone like polished wood and her makeup was flawless, a feat she had mastered years ago and never lost. I was content to let the sweating make up artist paint my face up. I did not care. I just wanted this to be over with.
"Eeeh, adumaadan, iyawo ologe " she greeted me in Yoruba. I had moved to greet her when she entered but she had halted me. "This dress is gorgeous. It fits you like a glove. Hmnnn, when he ses you, I am sure he will just faint with ecstasy."
I really wished that he would. I did not tell her so.
"But I cannot imagine why Romoke could not be here today. I mean, what happened? you still have not said..."
Banke looked away little bit uncomfortable. I did not blame her. She had not been my maid of honour until the week before. She had tried to find out why I had removed Romoke and when I had refused to respond to her, she had instead immersed herself in the glory of her position. Everyone withe eyes knew she had her sights on the best man. Romoke was out and Banke was in and she was going to ride her position well. This was the wedding of the decade and who knew whom she would meet? She did not intend to enter the new year unmarried. I knew it and as a friend acknowledging but not understanding her quiet desperation, I was in some way giving her an eight month start. After all, how long do you really need to know when you want to or not get married. I knew I did not want to be Bashir's wife from the first day I met him.
I did not answer my mother. I coughed and Banke produced a glass of water from somewhere. My mother was looking at me. I wondered if she could tell what I was thinking and feeling.
"The limo is here." a young female voice carried over the din bringing shrieks. My mother abandoned her questioning as the finishing touches began to be made. I rose to my feet, clad in ivory silk that cascaded in volumes about me. The hairdresser, hindered by my meddling mother shoved my veil through my curls into my head.
It was time
*************************************************************************************
His thrusts were not non-pleasurable. I resolved that I could possibly grow accustomed to him as I deftly and skillfully raised my hips to meet his, punctuating his groans with artfully delivered moans. He would reach his peak in a few minutes and I knew that I would have to "arrive" at mine before that, helping him in his lovemaking to me. I clenched my muscles and felt his shuddering begin.
I increased my pace, digging my nails as hard as I could into the skin of his back. If I tore through flesh, hey. As his uninhibited moans escaped his lips and his movements became jerky and sharp as his body convulsed to an orgasm, I relaxed my limbs and belted out the most guttural and incoherent sounds that I could. I added a few shivers to bring home the message and we both "danced" to the music of our "orgasms".
He held me afterwards. I let him, I mean, he was my husband and if he wanted to cuddle from then till January, I had to let him. I did not even mind his sweat. It smelled clean. It was okay.
"Dolapo." His voice was hoarse and a little bit shaky. His descent was much slower than I thought.
"Hmnnn" If I spoke and he heard the strength in voice, he would know that I had not received the same results as he. I matched my breathing to his...just slightly.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I actually smiled because I could hear the hesitation in his voice. He reminded me of the boy I had met when I was six and he, ten years of age. I nodded into the crook of his arm. My back was to him and he had spooned his length around me. I could feel his member, not quite limp against my back and I sensed it would not be that long before he was good to go again. I had heard of his "abilities".
"It get's even better." He whispered into my hair. My bun was nearly undone and my braids had spilled some.
I nodded.
"It will get better and you will begin to recognise my heartbeat as your own."
I rolled my eyes in the darkness. Boy, please.
He pulled me tighter so suddenly that a gasp betrayed my surprise. "I can make you happy if you just let me."
I had no room to squirm and he was holding me so tight that I could not breathe. I was suddenly scared. "Bashir..." I whispered in a choked gasp.
"Dolapo, I can make you happy if you just let me love you and you give us a chance."
"Bashir, what on earth are you saying? It is our wedding night." I began, moving my head to try and look at him.
"Is it?" he asked as he let me go. The rush of air made me a bit weak and I quickly sat up and whipped around to look at him. He was lying there, naked in all his male glory and looking at me with eyes so sad that I began to panic. He knew, I thought, he knew.
I laid a hand on his chest, "Bashir, " I began in a voice most demure, "what is the matter? why are you talking like this?"
"You are my wife. " he said simply
"I would imagine so, or both our families have just spent alot of money for nothing and the past forty-eight hours have been just for show." i joked.
"You are my wife, Dolapo." he said again. he was not joking
"Yes" I agreed.
"Then forget her."
"Awwwww", she cooed, "you are blushing". I looked away. I could not hold her happy gaze any longer. I reached for my earring and manouvered the stud between my fake french manicures and proceeded to put them on. Banke rushed to take them from me and help me put them on. It was my day, someone was bound to sneeze for me, if I asked them to. I had done nothing for myself in three days except pee. It would have been alarming had I cared.
The sounds in the room masked my tumultuous mind. My silence had already been interpreted as cold feet. Of course, I was wondering if I was making the right choice, they joked, but did I not see that he and I were destined to be together? I mean, any one of them would say, he comes from a great home, he loves me and above all, I was going to be living in the lap of luxury. My engagement ring alone, if sold could buy me an island in Dubai's Palm Jameirah. I looked at it. I wondered why even though its shine looked so cold, it was burning itself into my skin. I wanted to yank it off and ram it down Banke's throat and end her incessant chatter. There was an increase in the volume of chattering females that made up my carefully selected bridal train- I mean, the wedding was being covered by every network and magazine, reputable and aspiring-and I looked up. My mother had come in.
She looked lovely. She always said that she was suited for wealth and that is why she had been born into the family that she was. Her chocolate skin shone like polished wood and her makeup was flawless, a feat she had mastered years ago and never lost. I was content to let the sweating make up artist paint my face up. I did not care. I just wanted this to be over with.
"Eeeh, adumaadan, iyawo ologe " she greeted me in Yoruba. I had moved to greet her when she entered but she had halted me. "This dress is gorgeous. It fits you like a glove. Hmnnn, when he ses you, I am sure he will just faint with ecstasy."
I really wished that he would. I did not tell her so.
"But I cannot imagine why Romoke could not be here today. I mean, what happened? you still have not said..."
Banke looked away little bit uncomfortable. I did not blame her. She had not been my maid of honour until the week before. She had tried to find out why I had removed Romoke and when I had refused to respond to her, she had instead immersed herself in the glory of her position. Everyone withe eyes knew she had her sights on the best man. Romoke was out and Banke was in and she was going to ride her position well. This was the wedding of the decade and who knew whom she would meet? She did not intend to enter the new year unmarried. I knew it and as a friend acknowledging but not understanding her quiet desperation, I was in some way giving her an eight month start. After all, how long do you really need to know when you want to or not get married. I knew I did not want to be Bashir's wife from the first day I met him.
I did not answer my mother. I coughed and Banke produced a glass of water from somewhere. My mother was looking at me. I wondered if she could tell what I was thinking and feeling.
"The limo is here." a young female voice carried over the din bringing shrieks. My mother abandoned her questioning as the finishing touches began to be made. I rose to my feet, clad in ivory silk that cascaded in volumes about me. The hairdresser, hindered by my meddling mother shoved my veil through my curls into my head.
It was time
*************************************************************************************
His thrusts were not non-pleasurable. I resolved that I could possibly grow accustomed to him as I deftly and skillfully raised my hips to meet his, punctuating his groans with artfully delivered moans. He would reach his peak in a few minutes and I knew that I would have to "arrive" at mine before that, helping him in his lovemaking to me. I clenched my muscles and felt his shuddering begin.
I increased my pace, digging my nails as hard as I could into the skin of his back. If I tore through flesh, hey. As his uninhibited moans escaped his lips and his movements became jerky and sharp as his body convulsed to an orgasm, I relaxed my limbs and belted out the most guttural and incoherent sounds that I could. I added a few shivers to bring home the message and we both "danced" to the music of our "orgasms".
He held me afterwards. I let him, I mean, he was my husband and if he wanted to cuddle from then till January, I had to let him. I did not even mind his sweat. It smelled clean. It was okay.
"Dolapo." His voice was hoarse and a little bit shaky. His descent was much slower than I thought.
"Hmnnn" If I spoke and he heard the strength in voice, he would know that I had not received the same results as he. I matched my breathing to his...just slightly.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I actually smiled because I could hear the hesitation in his voice. He reminded me of the boy I had met when I was six and he, ten years of age. I nodded into the crook of his arm. My back was to him and he had spooned his length around me. I could feel his member, not quite limp against my back and I sensed it would not be that long before he was good to go again. I had heard of his "abilities".
"It get's even better." He whispered into my hair. My bun was nearly undone and my braids had spilled some.
I nodded.
"It will get better and you will begin to recognise my heartbeat as your own."
I rolled my eyes in the darkness. Boy, please.
He pulled me tighter so suddenly that a gasp betrayed my surprise. "I can make you happy if you just let me."
I had no room to squirm and he was holding me so tight that I could not breathe. I was suddenly scared. "Bashir..." I whispered in a choked gasp.
"Dolapo, I can make you happy if you just let me love you and you give us a chance."
"Bashir, what on earth are you saying? It is our wedding night." I began, moving my head to try and look at him.
"Is it?" he asked as he let me go. The rush of air made me a bit weak and I quickly sat up and whipped around to look at him. He was lying there, naked in all his male glory and looking at me with eyes so sad that I began to panic. He knew, I thought, he knew.
I laid a hand on his chest, "Bashir, " I began in a voice most demure, "what is the matter? why are you talking like this?"
"You are my wife. " he said simply
"I would imagine so, or both our families have just spent alot of money for nothing and the past forty-eight hours have been just for show." i joked.
"You are my wife, Dolapo." he said again. he was not joking
"Yes" I agreed.
"Then forget her."
Friday, January 11, 2008
A week in the life of...
Monday: Moved back to school. I thought I cleaned up before I left and thoroughly too. Why are there hairs on the floor. Eugh.....*sigh* did not miss school. When am I graduating again?
Cool, still have some fish, shrimp and ewedu that I can cook. But there is nothing else so that's going to be awkward.
Tuesday: Registration under a miracle. Someone somewhere has just bought me a bit of time to get my stuff together. Chinese vs Halal food? McDonalds it is.
Wednesday: Mom is not speaking to me. Have f@%&*D up really bad. What was I looking at? God, please help me. This is a new year, cannot be starting up like this....
Classes have begun. Projects to choose from and I have chosen
Thursday: Two classes. One with a teacher who has no business still being in school if he had two minor strokes over the xmas break and is now walking with a cane. I think I am going to like that one. The other class looks like a holding cell for fashonistas and sorority girls. I thought this was Creative Writing Fiction...these people read?
Laptop still comatose and all the diagnosticians are telling me what I don't want to hear.
6 pm: Some hope. A new laptop on credit with four months to pay in instalments.
Stressed out, so I am going to watch a Chinese movie.
Friday: Week at an end. Free groceries at the end of the tunnel.
How am I going to survive a three hour class in the morning again this semester? I barely made it through this morning....
Summary: I am in a state of surrender. Handed over all to God cos I am not starting this year with issues anymore. All hitches are going to be removed ASAP!!!
I have to triple my efforts in school this year because even with all my drama, some people have it worse and they are exceling in school so what is my own problem sef?
So how has your week being?
Cool, still have some fish, shrimp and ewedu that I can cook. But there is nothing else so that's going to be awkward.
Tuesday: Registration under a miracle. Someone somewhere has just bought me a bit of time to get my stuff together. Chinese vs Halal food? McDonalds it is.
Wednesday: Mom is not speaking to me. Have f@%&*D up really bad. What was I looking at? God, please help me. This is a new year, cannot be starting up like this....
Classes have begun. Projects to choose from and I have chosen
Thursday: Two classes. One with a teacher who has no business still being in school if he had two minor strokes over the xmas break and is now walking with a cane. I think I am going to like that one. The other class looks like a holding cell for fashonistas and sorority girls. I thought this was Creative Writing Fiction...these people read?
Laptop still comatose and all the diagnosticians are telling me what I don't want to hear.
6 pm: Some hope. A new laptop on credit with four months to pay in instalments.
Stressed out, so I am going to watch a Chinese movie.
Friday: Week at an end. Free groceries at the end of the tunnel.
How am I going to survive a three hour class in the morning again this semester? I barely made it through this morning....
Summary: I am in a state of surrender. Handed over all to God cos I am not starting this year with issues anymore. All hitches are going to be removed ASAP!!!
I have to triple my efforts in school this year because even with all my drama, some people have it worse and they are exceling in school so what is my own problem sef?
So how has your week being?
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Part 1 & 2
Part I
It means nothing.
It means nothing.
It is just tremors that overtake your heartbeat and convulse you to a release
It is just a steady hand gripping the flesh of your thighs in a silent instruction of how and when to move
It is only sounds of words incoherent and yet most understood
It is only texts and emails that help to set the mood
It is only skin that tastes of man and sweat and cologne and heated promises
It is only the steady rhythm of probing thrusts
It is only the crippling guilt of exchanged looks as he chats away blissfully unaware
It is only the turmoil of a horribly kept secret.
It means nothing.
And neither will the next time.
Part II
Abeni
Abeni sits
Abeni sits outside
Abeni sits outside because
Abeni sits outside because she
Abeni sits outside because she cannot
Abeni sits outside because she cannot go
Abeni sits outside because she cannot go inside
Abeni
Abeni is
Abeni is scared
Abeni is scared to
Abeni is scared to go
Abeni is scared to go and
Abeni is scared to go and beg
Abeni is scared to go and beg Kajola
Abeni is scared to go and beg Kajola to forgive her because she has embarassed Kajola
You see
You see Abeni
You see Abeni thought
You see Abeni thought Kajola
You see Abeni thought Kajola was
You see Abeni thought Kajola was cheating on her with her best friend Motun
So
So Abeni
So Abeni went
So Abeni went to
So Abeni went to Motun's
So Abeni went to Motun's house
So Abeni went to Motun's house with
So Abeni went to Motun's house with "awon boys" to burn the new car that Abeni believed Kajola had just bought for his mistress
It turned out
That the car was for Abeni
And Kajola had parked it in Motun's house
In preparation for Abeni's fortieth
The
The fire
The fire damaged
The fire damaged part
The fire damaged part of the house
Motun
Motun is
Motun is not
Motun is not amused
Motun is not amused and neither is her boyfriend who had helped Kajola get the deal on the car.
So
So Abeni
So Abeni sits
So Abeni sits outside
So Abeni sits outside because
So Abeni sits outside because she
So Abeni sits outside because she cannot
So Abeni sits outside because she cannot go inside.
It means nothing.
It means nothing.
It is just tremors that overtake your heartbeat and convulse you to a release
It is just a steady hand gripping the flesh of your thighs in a silent instruction of how and when to move
It is only sounds of words incoherent and yet most understood
It is only texts and emails that help to set the mood
It is only skin that tastes of man and sweat and cologne and heated promises
It is only the steady rhythm of probing thrusts
It is only the crippling guilt of exchanged looks as he chats away blissfully unaware
It is only the turmoil of a horribly kept secret.
It means nothing.
And neither will the next time.
Part II
Abeni
Abeni sits
Abeni sits outside
Abeni sits outside because
Abeni sits outside because she
Abeni sits outside because she cannot
Abeni sits outside because she cannot go
Abeni sits outside because she cannot go inside
Abeni
Abeni is
Abeni is scared
Abeni is scared to
Abeni is scared to go
Abeni is scared to go and
Abeni is scared to go and beg
Abeni is scared to go and beg Kajola
Abeni is scared to go and beg Kajola to forgive her because she has embarassed Kajola
You see
You see Abeni
You see Abeni thought
You see Abeni thought Kajola
You see Abeni thought Kajola was
You see Abeni thought Kajola was cheating on her with her best friend Motun
So
So Abeni
So Abeni went
So Abeni went to
So Abeni went to Motun's
So Abeni went to Motun's house
So Abeni went to Motun's house with
So Abeni went to Motun's house with "awon boys" to burn the new car that Abeni believed Kajola had just bought for his mistress
It turned out
That the car was for Abeni
And Kajola had parked it in Motun's house
In preparation for Abeni's fortieth
The
The fire
The fire damaged
The fire damaged part
The fire damaged part of the house
Motun
Motun is
Motun is not
Motun is not amused
Motun is not amused and neither is her boyfriend who had helped Kajola get the deal on the car.
So
So Abeni
So Abeni sits
So Abeni sits outside
So Abeni sits outside because
So Abeni sits outside because she
So Abeni sits outside because she cannot
So Abeni sits outside because she cannot go inside.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Where there are no names, all can be said
They come from near
They come from far
They come to tell me who they really are
In my ears
Against my skin
They can reveal all that is within
Sometimes with tears
Sometimes not
Sometimes it is not about the battles
That they have fought
It's what they need to let out
Much like steam
Or when they need to build up
Their self esteem
I am exclusive
It's my right
Even though I have lost it
To this world of night
They think they know me
That they understand
They think they see me
When I let them hold my hand
Sometimes, I sit in terror
When I am not sure
Just how much the speaker is control
Of his all
Fortunately they remember
Sadly they tell me that they do
That they must let me go
To a world that they will never know
Then when I am in need
Of a someone just like me
I come to this place nameless
Reborn and recreated
Cos where there are no names
All can be said
And sometimes, to speak is all I need
To get through the days that make my year
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Blanket of words, pillows of thoughts
When we met, we met at the restaurant I had picked. She came, braving the blistery winter evening and the possibility of an encounter with a psycho to dine with me in a corner booth of my favourite steak place.
She came dressed in a low cut sweater that hinted at her cleavage like a promise and a skirt that clung to her hips like second skin. When she had turned around upon her arrival, to maneuver herself out of her thick but fitting coat, I had got an eyeful of her derriere and I envied her chair because it enjoyed having that warm thickness pressed up against its face. I tried to focus on our conversation.
We had met blogging. She came on my blog with an attempt to express a difference of opinion which resulted in her insulting my choice of mine. I had tracked back to hers and it was not hard to return the favour. We were too dissimilar and yet the same. She was a gifted writer and she told me I was one too. We became regulars on each other’s blogs. One day, I received an email from her. The body of the email said simply “Hello”. I responded in kind. Two weeks later, we had graduated to a full sentence. We had been playing this game of words for almost a year. She had come to London on business. I invited her to dinner.
I don’t know what I had expected to come out of the meeting. All I knew was that for three hours, I had laughed the hardest I had ever done in all of my thirty-three years; I had listened the longest and tried most unsuccessfully not to stare at her rack. At one point, she offered to detach her bosom and give it to me if it would help me focus. I was glad I was not of a race where my skin would show my blush. I stared even harder.
We talked. We talked and we talked. She made fun of the menu. I had taken her to the swankiest place I knew. She ordered the fish and I watched in near mortification as she instructed the waiter to inform the chef that when her meal was presented, it was his duty to see to it that the food had come in contact with salt, pepper –the hot spick kind and not the one for scents-curry and fire. She got what she asked for. I was surprised but not brave enough to dictate the specifics of my own order. She did not drink and so neither did I.
We talked. We talked and we talked. I tried to explain what I did as an investment banker. I lost her three sentences in. She tried to explain what she did as a designer/ developer. Immediately she opened her mouth, I settled my gaze on her full lips and wondered away. We talked about other blogs we liked and the many scandals, issues and forums that we had been audience to. She told me which bloggers she had met. I had met only about two others and one of them was my cousin whom I had introduced to blogging. She was surprised at that. She told me about the rumours that were circulating on the blogs that I was seeing a certain blogger because on occasion, we exchanged endearments and innuendos. I was subtle but emphatic when I told her I was single.
She broke my heart when she tried not to tell me about the one she was seeing. He liked his private life private and so, she did not say much besides the fact that she was happy. I wished she wasn’t. Then maybe, if I pushed a few buttons….she reminded me without reminding me that she lived across the ocean and that in a few days, she would be on a plane back to the life that was hers…and his. I changed the topic and kept it there by talking about how my job allows me to travel and how often I actually go to the states. She told me that if I came over, they would take me to their favourite spots. I knew she meant her and him but I made my own interpretation to be her and me.
I watched her hands which she used a lot when she spoke, even when she was holding a glass. Her fingers were not slim nor were they chubby. They were just right and one of them carried the weight of huge ring she explained was Venetian glass. I did not care. I was just glad that THE finger was bare. She commented on my watch. She loved it. It was big, like hers. We exchanged watches and I watched with satisfaction as she put mine on and admired her wrist encased in my accessory. I wore hers. She wears men’s watches so I did not look like I had crossed over sexual preferences.
We even talked about family. I found myself, telling her about my father and how I felt about him; my mother whom I did not know, my step mother who had taken her position and was doing it very well, my siblings whom I loved to death especially my sister whom I was planning to shoot for what she did to my car and my God daughter, Vivienne, whom I was raising while her father was in jail and her mother in rehab. I explained Vivienne was at my sister’s for the night. She was impressed and I was glad.
She told me she had been pregnant once. She was too young and could not go through with it. It did not belong to the one she was with. He knew and did not care. I knew and did not care either and I understood. Raising a child is not easy and not something you go into without thought. That’s why Khalil and Tori got on my last nerve with the way they treated Vivienne. I was thinking of filing for adoption. I was more a father to her than anyone else. I expressed this to the woman across the table and she told me to pray about it because if my decision was born out of irritation at Vivienne’s parents and not about the needs of the girl and my love for her, then the idea was not right. I sat there and marveled at their wisdom. I was irritated at Khalil and Tori and I was enthralled by this woman from the world where we use no names and yet can say all.
It was time to go. Our magical night had come to a close. I walked her outside and waited to call a taxi. We talked some more and let about three taxi options that were called up for us go to other people. I asked her where she was staying and she told me. It was too cold and so we bundled ourselves in the next taxi that was called.
The ride to the hotel was in surprising silence. She was exhausted. She rested her head on the window with her body turned away from me. Her hand rested on the seat between us. I sat there in silent dialogue with myself, whether or not to take her fingers in mine. They lay there, just warm and inviting. I knew she would know what holding her hand meant. We were not children and she must have guessed that all night I was reacting to her and headily too.
We arrived. She got out and quickly went to the front to pay. I had handled dinner, she was taking herself home. I got out and signaled for the taxi to wait. We stood in front of the hotel with the bellman watching us to see if he needed to open the door for our entrance. She thanked me for having had fun and promised that she would have a post up about the dinner on her blog and I was to watch out at the onslaught of reactions from others on our circuit. I was known for being notoriously private.
When she leaned in for a hug, I went in for a kiss. I captured her lips deftly and pulled her in with one hand. She did not pull back but she did not return the kiss. Her lips stayed imprisoned against mine but they did not move in response. My kiss was not just a manifestation of where my thoughts had been all evening, it was a question. Her response was the answer. If she had responded, I might have lost control and mauled her on the sidewalk. She did not respond.
Releasing her was wrenching. Her hand came up to wipe away what I assume was the stain of her lipstick. I moved out of her reach, I was keeping this stamp with me if that was all I could have. Her smile was apologetic and my heart ached. Why could I not have her and her loyalty?
We were going to be friends. When I went over on business, she was going to take me around her favourite spots. I was going to take her sightseeing before she returned home. The kiss never happened. The dinner did but the kiss didn’t. And neither did the night spent lost in the sheets of the queen bed in room 3405.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
In the spirit of Chrees-maz
Bomboy: Aunty Catwalq, please tell me a story
Catwalq: (looking up from her computer) ehn?
Bomboy: Please tell me a story
Catwalq:(slightly irritated) what story do you want to hear?
Bomboy: Can you tell me about the birth of Jesus Christ?
Catwalq: ehn? What kind of story is that? I don't know that one. How about Little Red Riding Hood or Shrek or something?
Bomboy: Hmnn....okay
Bomboy's Mother: Catwalq, you don't know the story of the birth of Jesus Christ?
Catwalq: I do...I just don't feel like telling it. Let me tell him another one instead
Bomboy's Mother: Indeed...,sha don't corrupt my son
Catwalq: Haba! Aunty ki le mean? (Aunty, what do you mean?) Look Bomboy, I will tell you the story of Red Riding...nice one and then you go and play your video games okay?
Bomboy: Okay
Catwalq:(taps her chin dramatically) Okay, story story....
Bomboy: Hun?
Catwalq: You are supposed to say 'story' and then I say,'once upon a time' and you say 'time time'...what are they teaching you in school?
Bomboy: I don't know.
Bomboy's Mother: Mo gbe!!!! (I am in trouble) What do you mean that you don't know? All the money I am spending on your school fees!!!!
Catwalq: (chuckles)
Bomboy: No mummy, I know. I was just saying that they not teaching us that.
Catwalq: 'they not'? Aunty, you need to check these people out o
Bomboy Mother: mo ma daran o (I am in trouble)
Bomboy: (sulking) all I am asking for is a story nah
Catwalq: okay, okay, I'll tell you the story. Let's start again. Story story...
Bomboy: Story
Catwalq: Once upon a time...
Bomboy: Time time
Catwalq: There was a little girl called Red Riding Hood. She had seven dwarfs and she lived in a palace with her wicked step mother queen....
Bomboy: Uhm...Aunty
Catwalq: If you interrupt me, I will knock you
Bomboy's Mother: Ma na omo me o, eyin aunty oni storyteller (don't beat my child o, aunty storyteller)
Bomboy: Aunty I don't think that is the story
Catwalq: look here, it is my story. Do you want to hear it or not? Because you are the one that came to me. I am busy. Have work to do
Bomboy: But you are on holiday
Catwalq: You know what? Go and play by yourself
Bomboy's Mother: Agbaya ni e (You are a big-for-nothing bully)
Bomboy: What does that mean?
Catwalq: Be quiet. Who was talking to you? You want your story or not?
Bomboy: Ok. sorry
Catwalq: Now where was I?
Bomboy: The palace queen
Catwalq: Yes, and so she now cooked porridge. But her wicked step mother did not like her so when she cooked the first porridge, the wicked step mother was like 'It's too sweet' and the next one 'It is too salty' and the next one 'It is too peppery'...
Bomboy: Like your food...always too spicy
Catwalq: Ehn? Lenu e (coming from your mouth?)
Bomboy's Mother: (cracking up in the kitchen)
Bomboy: sorry
Catwalq: If you interrupt me again...so the wicked woman went and asked a mirror or a cup- which one, I cannot remember- who was the finest girl in the land and the thing could not lie and told the queen that it was Red Riding Hood. The queen now banished Red Riding Hood out of the palace because she stole...
Bomboy: What did she steal?
Catwalq: The queen's Jimmy Choos.
Bomboy: What are those?
Catwalq: Something you have to buy for your wife when you start working. And she did not steal them, the queen lied on her.
Bomboy: Ok
Catwalq: As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, so the queen now banished her into the woods and then paid a wolf to go and kill her.
Bomboy: A wolf!!! Can they talk?
Catwalq: That's why it's called a fairy tale. Haba! You this boy, you are on another level o. Let me finish my story jare
Bomboy: Sorry
Bomboy's Mother: What kind of storyteller are you that someone cannot ask questions again? Didn't you used to ask questions when you were little? Abi, o ju be e lo ni ( or is what is going on more than it is?)
Catwalq: I did not say he should not ask questions. He should wait until the end when I ask him the moral of the story. Then, he can ask all he wants.
Bomboy's Mother: Oya, Bomboy, you too wait till the end. You and your Aunty are giving me a headache.
Catwalq: ese o Aunty Mi (Thank you o Aunty)
Bomboy's Mother: Iwo agbaya yi (You bully)
Catwalq: so as she was leaving, she took bread and started leaving bread crumbs on the way so she could find her way back at night.
Bomboy: Who did?
Catwalq: So you're not even listening?!!!!!! Oya, leave me if you are not listening to what I am saying
Bomboy: I am listening. But your story is confusing. I want to hear the birth of Jesus Christ
Bomboy's Mother: Leave your Aunty. When I finish what I am doing, I will tell you what you want to hear. I mean, how can we say we have an Aunty at home that cannot do one small thing. Or maybe she does not even know the story and she is pretending...
Catwalq: (exasperated sigh) The heavens are against me today. The devil is a liar. Oya, if you want to hear the story of Jesus. I will tell you but if you interrupt me even once, it is over.
Bomboy: Yeeeeee
Catwalq: Once upon a time, there was...
Bomboy: Time time...ooops. You said I should say
Catwalq: Mssstsssthw! There was a young lady called Mary of Jerusalem. She was sitting in front of her house peeling corn.
Bomboy: What was she going to use the corn for?
Catwalq: To make pap in the morning. What did I say about interrupting? So she was there doing her corn jeje-ly and rora-ly when one angel appeared to her and was like 'Boo'. So she jumped and was like "Aaaah". The angel then told her that she should not be afraid that she was going to get pregnant and have the son of God. Mary was like "What kind of nonsense prophecy is that? I don't even have a boyfriend."
The angel told her not to worry, that Joseph was going to be her husband. Mary was like "Eugh, that yeye carpenter?". And the angel was like yes. And because Mary was scared out of her jeans, she said ok so that the angel could quickly go and she could finish her corn before her mother came back from Canaan where she went shopping. That's where the Giant and Safeway of their day was.
So like that, like that, she became pregnant and she had to tell Joseph now. And Joseph was now like "Are you crazy? Who do you think is responsible?" Which was true as they had never been like boyfriend and girlfriend. That is why we say wait till after you are married to have a girlfriend, who will be your wife. Do you understand what I am saying?
Bomboy: Not really
Catwalq: That's no problem. So sha Joseph left her and she was crying and the angel came back and was like "boo" and Mary was like "leave me alone joo. I went and told Joseph that I am pregnant and he denied me. Me myself, I don't even know where the child is coming from." The angel now told her not to worry and paid Joseph a visit. I can't remember what he told Joseph but that very night the carpenter went and married Mary. I am guessing the angel said more than "boo" and freaked the poor guy out.
So sha, they were married and then there was the king in Egypt who had a vision that if Jesus was born that he would become the king of the Isrealites or I think the descendants of Moses...anyways, this guy went unhinged...
Bomboy: What's that?
Catwalq: (makes a imitation of lunacy and boy laughs) so the king, Herod was his name now ordered that all the soldiers go out and find the baby. They went all over Rome and Egypt and what is now today's Iran and Turkey.
Bomboy's Mother: I don't know what is more alarming, your version or the fact that you might have told this story in public before. Where did you get this story from?
Catwalq: Me, I am sorry o. What kind of request is it to tell the story of the birth of Jesus Christ? What happened to good old 'Eze goes to school' or 'Koku Baboni"? I am doing the best I can. I have not even got to the point where Joseph had to part the red sea to escape the soldiers.
Bomboy's Mother: Bomboy! Get up from there now before your Aunty puts me in more trouble than I am already in.
Bomboy: But I like this story. I have to tell it to my classmates when I get back to school. Mrs. Hounding told us to research the story and come and tell it in school.
Bomboy's Mother: Catwalq, you are in trouble.
Catwalq: What did I do?
Catwalq: (looking up from her computer) ehn?
Bomboy: Please tell me a story
Catwalq:(slightly irritated) what story do you want to hear?
Bomboy: Can you tell me about the birth of Jesus Christ?
Catwalq: ehn? What kind of story is that? I don't know that one. How about Little Red Riding Hood or Shrek or something?
Bomboy: Hmnn....okay
Bomboy's Mother: Catwalq, you don't know the story of the birth of Jesus Christ?
Catwalq: I do...I just don't feel like telling it. Let me tell him another one instead
Bomboy's Mother: Indeed...,sha don't corrupt my son
Catwalq: Haba! Aunty ki le mean? (Aunty, what do you mean?) Look Bomboy, I will tell you the story of Red Riding...nice one and then you go and play your video games okay?
Bomboy: Okay
Catwalq:(taps her chin dramatically) Okay, story story....
Bomboy: Hun?
Catwalq: You are supposed to say 'story' and then I say,'once upon a time' and you say 'time time'...what are they teaching you in school?
Bomboy: I don't know.
Bomboy's Mother: Mo gbe!!!! (I am in trouble) What do you mean that you don't know? All the money I am spending on your school fees!!!!
Catwalq: (chuckles)
Bomboy: No mummy, I know. I was just saying that they not teaching us that.
Catwalq: 'they not'? Aunty, you need to check these people out o
Bomboy Mother: mo ma daran o (I am in trouble)
Bomboy: (sulking) all I am asking for is a story nah
Catwalq: okay, okay, I'll tell you the story. Let's start again. Story story...
Bomboy: Story
Catwalq: Once upon a time...
Bomboy: Time time
Catwalq: There was a little girl called Red Riding Hood. She had seven dwarfs and she lived in a palace with her wicked step mother queen....
Bomboy: Uhm...Aunty
Catwalq: If you interrupt me, I will knock you
Bomboy's Mother: Ma na omo me o, eyin aunty oni storyteller (don't beat my child o, aunty storyteller)
Bomboy: Aunty I don't think that is the story
Catwalq: look here, it is my story. Do you want to hear it or not? Because you are the one that came to me. I am busy. Have work to do
Bomboy: But you are on holiday
Catwalq: You know what? Go and play by yourself
Bomboy's Mother: Agbaya ni e (You are a big-for-nothing bully)
Bomboy: What does that mean?
Catwalq: Be quiet. Who was talking to you? You want your story or not?
Bomboy: Ok. sorry
Catwalq: Now where was I?
Bomboy: The palace queen
Catwalq: Yes, and so she now cooked porridge. But her wicked step mother did not like her so when she cooked the first porridge, the wicked step mother was like 'It's too sweet' and the next one 'It is too salty' and the next one 'It is too peppery'...
Bomboy: Like your food...always too spicy
Catwalq: Ehn? Lenu e (coming from your mouth?)
Bomboy's Mother: (cracking up in the kitchen)
Bomboy: sorry
Catwalq: If you interrupt me again...so the wicked woman went and asked a mirror or a cup- which one, I cannot remember- who was the finest girl in the land and the thing could not lie and told the queen that it was Red Riding Hood. The queen now banished Red Riding Hood out of the palace because she stole...
Bomboy: What did she steal?
Catwalq: The queen's Jimmy Choos.
Bomboy: What are those?
Catwalq: Something you have to buy for your wife when you start working. And she did not steal them, the queen lied on her.
Bomboy: Ok
Catwalq: As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, so the queen now banished her into the woods and then paid a wolf to go and kill her.
Bomboy: A wolf!!! Can they talk?
Catwalq: That's why it's called a fairy tale. Haba! You this boy, you are on another level o. Let me finish my story jare
Bomboy: Sorry
Bomboy's Mother: What kind of storyteller are you that someone cannot ask questions again? Didn't you used to ask questions when you were little? Abi, o ju be e lo ni ( or is what is going on more than it is?)
Catwalq: I did not say he should not ask questions. He should wait until the end when I ask him the moral of the story. Then, he can ask all he wants.
Bomboy's Mother: Oya, Bomboy, you too wait till the end. You and your Aunty are giving me a headache.
Catwalq: ese o Aunty Mi (Thank you o Aunty)
Bomboy's Mother: Iwo agbaya yi (You bully)
Catwalq: so as she was leaving, she took bread and started leaving bread crumbs on the way so she could find her way back at night.
Bomboy: Who did?
Catwalq: So you're not even listening?!!!!!! Oya, leave me if you are not listening to what I am saying
Bomboy: I am listening. But your story is confusing. I want to hear the birth of Jesus Christ
Bomboy's Mother: Leave your Aunty. When I finish what I am doing, I will tell you what you want to hear. I mean, how can we say we have an Aunty at home that cannot do one small thing. Or maybe she does not even know the story and she is pretending...
Catwalq: (exasperated sigh) The heavens are against me today. The devil is a liar. Oya, if you want to hear the story of Jesus. I will tell you but if you interrupt me even once, it is over.
Bomboy: Yeeeeee
Catwalq: Once upon a time, there was...
Bomboy: Time time...ooops. You said I should say
Catwalq: Mssstsssthw! There was a young lady called Mary of Jerusalem. She was sitting in front of her house peeling corn.
Bomboy: What was she going to use the corn for?
Catwalq: To make pap in the morning. What did I say about interrupting? So she was there doing her corn jeje-ly and rora-ly when one angel appeared to her and was like 'Boo'. So she jumped and was like "Aaaah". The angel then told her that she should not be afraid that she was going to get pregnant and have the son of God. Mary was like "What kind of nonsense prophecy is that? I don't even have a boyfriend."
The angel told her not to worry, that Joseph was going to be her husband. Mary was like "Eugh, that yeye carpenter?". And the angel was like yes. And because Mary was scared out of her jeans, she said ok so that the angel could quickly go and she could finish her corn before her mother came back from Canaan where she went shopping. That's where the Giant and Safeway of their day was.
So like that, like that, she became pregnant and she had to tell Joseph now. And Joseph was now like "Are you crazy? Who do you think is responsible?" Which was true as they had never been like boyfriend and girlfriend. That is why we say wait till after you are married to have a girlfriend, who will be your wife. Do you understand what I am saying?
Bomboy: Not really
Catwalq: That's no problem. So sha Joseph left her and she was crying and the angel came back and was like "boo" and Mary was like "leave me alone joo. I went and told Joseph that I am pregnant and he denied me. Me myself, I don't even know where the child is coming from." The angel now told her not to worry and paid Joseph a visit. I can't remember what he told Joseph but that very night the carpenter went and married Mary. I am guessing the angel said more than "boo" and freaked the poor guy out.
So sha, they were married and then there was the king in Egypt who had a vision that if Jesus was born that he would become the king of the Isrealites or I think the descendants of Moses...anyways, this guy went unhinged...
Bomboy: What's that?
Catwalq: (makes a imitation of lunacy and boy laughs) so the king, Herod was his name now ordered that all the soldiers go out and find the baby. They went all over Rome and Egypt and what is now today's Iran and Turkey.
Bomboy's Mother: I don't know what is more alarming, your version or the fact that you might have told this story in public before. Where did you get this story from?
Catwalq: Me, I am sorry o. What kind of request is it to tell the story of the birth of Jesus Christ? What happened to good old 'Eze goes to school' or 'Koku Baboni"? I am doing the best I can. I have not even got to the point where Joseph had to part the red sea to escape the soldiers.
Bomboy's Mother: Bomboy! Get up from there now before your Aunty puts me in more trouble than I am already in.
Bomboy: But I like this story. I have to tell it to my classmates when I get back to school. Mrs. Hounding told us to research the story and come and tell it in school.
Bomboy's Mother: Catwalq, you are in trouble.
Catwalq: What did I do?
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Oh la la
It is a sitting room.
The furnishings are modern, tasteful and expensive.
The walls are painted a warm green.
The brown accessories add to the feeling of an embracing calm.
On the love seat, she sits.
Her legs are crossed one over the other. The smooth skin of her legs are illuminated beneath the glow of the floor lamp that is the only light in the room.
Her hand cradles her chin and is held up by an elbow that sinks into the arm of the chair.
Her bosom rises and falls, the smooth globes of her breasts bursting against the fabric of her low cut blouse.
Her braids have been swept away from her face and so her eyes are exposed.
They are very sad but they are dry.
This is suprising because clearly someone in the room is crying.
It is not her.
It is him.
He sits on the other side of the room, on the edge of the middle seat of the sofa.
His head is bowed, his tears hidden to fall silently on the fabric of the dark grey coat that he holds limply in his hands.
He does not make a sound but even the silence knows that he weeps.
He weeps for him.
He weeps for her.
He weeps for the unborn child he would never know.
He knows why that child will never call him father.
He knows that once she rises from that chair, she will go up to her room, pack her things and be gone
He weeps because she does not weep
And he knows that it is because she has wept the last tear she will ever weep
And that means there is nothing more he can say.
She had warned, hadn't she?
They had warned, hadn't they?
You will look up one day and all you take for granted will not be there, they had all said
He had listened but too late
He had lost it all.
"Please." he tries to beg
She does not respond. She unfolds her limbs with her grace that amazes him still.
She leans forward and on the coffee table places two gleaming pieces of gold.
They are her engagement ring and wedding ring.
She gets up and walks away.
Her movement is like that of a swan.
She glides up the stairs and disappears at the top of it down the hallway to their rooms.
He is left with the demons that are his thoughts.
He thinks of what he has to do to make her stay.
She will not come back
He should let her go.
He owes her that much.
All he has put her through.
The humiliation.
The embarassment
And the loss of a child.
If he had been there, maybe he could have saved the life of their child.
He did not know that Selena would come and challenge Belema.
That there would be a tussle and that Belema would fall and miscarry.
He thinks of why he strayed in the first place
And the second and third and all the others
Selena was just the last straw
Even his friends backed off when that affair started.
Her father could destroy him and the business.
As it stood, he was going to.
Selena had been buried according to the Muslim Rites that morning.
Her suicide and letter was all over the news.
Belema just came from the hospital to get her things.
It was over
It was all over
She comes down the stairs. She is holding an envelope
It contains documents of property she owned before the marriage.
She had listened to his request that she not work while they were married.
She had stayed home.
And received one story after the other.
She walks past him and picks up her bag.
"Cherie," she calls him. She speaks french.
Boarding school in Switzerland can help ensure that.
He went to government college in Osun state.
He looks up. The despair the sight of her brings is painful.
He can barely focus.
"My lawyers will contact you in a bit. I don't want anything. When you receive the documents, sign and it will all be over."
He shakes his head.
"Belema...I am sorry."
She chuckles. It is without mirth. It is cold and cruel.
It makes him shiver inside.
"Don't kid yourself," with her accent 'kid' comes out as 'keed'. "That stupid girl did not kill my baby."
He blinks.
"I am not raising a child by myself. And I want nothing to do with you...nothing to remind me of you.So, I got rid of it."
He stares.
"Now, you and I can start afresh. You, with whatever nonsense brings herself your way and I with someone more deserving of me."
His eyes grow hard.
She waves and walks out.
She does not slam the door but the sound of it shutting echoes through his head.
The furnishings are modern, tasteful and expensive.
The walls are painted a warm green.
The brown accessories add to the feeling of an embracing calm.
On the love seat, she sits.
Her legs are crossed one over the other. The smooth skin of her legs are illuminated beneath the glow of the floor lamp that is the only light in the room.
Her hand cradles her chin and is held up by an elbow that sinks into the arm of the chair.
Her bosom rises and falls, the smooth globes of her breasts bursting against the fabric of her low cut blouse.
Her braids have been swept away from her face and so her eyes are exposed.
They are very sad but they are dry.
This is suprising because clearly someone in the room is crying.
It is not her.
It is him.
He sits on the other side of the room, on the edge of the middle seat of the sofa.
His head is bowed, his tears hidden to fall silently on the fabric of the dark grey coat that he holds limply in his hands.
He does not make a sound but even the silence knows that he weeps.
He weeps for him.
He weeps for her.
He weeps for the unborn child he would never know.
He knows why that child will never call him father.
He knows that once she rises from that chair, she will go up to her room, pack her things and be gone
He weeps because she does not weep
And he knows that it is because she has wept the last tear she will ever weep
And that means there is nothing more he can say.
She had warned, hadn't she?
They had warned, hadn't they?
You will look up one day and all you take for granted will not be there, they had all said
He had listened but too late
He had lost it all.
"Please." he tries to beg
She does not respond. She unfolds her limbs with her grace that amazes him still.
She leans forward and on the coffee table places two gleaming pieces of gold.
They are her engagement ring and wedding ring.
She gets up and walks away.
Her movement is like that of a swan.
She glides up the stairs and disappears at the top of it down the hallway to their rooms.
He is left with the demons that are his thoughts.
He thinks of what he has to do to make her stay.
She will not come back
He should let her go.
He owes her that much.
All he has put her through.
The humiliation.
The embarassment
And the loss of a child.
If he had been there, maybe he could have saved the life of their child.
He did not know that Selena would come and challenge Belema.
That there would be a tussle and that Belema would fall and miscarry.
He thinks of why he strayed in the first place
And the second and third and all the others
Selena was just the last straw
Even his friends backed off when that affair started.
Her father could destroy him and the business.
As it stood, he was going to.
Selena had been buried according to the Muslim Rites that morning.
Her suicide and letter was all over the news.
Belema just came from the hospital to get her things.
It was over
It was all over
She comes down the stairs. She is holding an envelope
It contains documents of property she owned before the marriage.
She had listened to his request that she not work while they were married.
She had stayed home.
And received one story after the other.
She walks past him and picks up her bag.
"Cherie," she calls him. She speaks french.
Boarding school in Switzerland can help ensure that.
He went to government college in Osun state.
He looks up. The despair the sight of her brings is painful.
He can barely focus.
"My lawyers will contact you in a bit. I don't want anything. When you receive the documents, sign and it will all be over."
He shakes his head.
"Belema...I am sorry."
She chuckles. It is without mirth. It is cold and cruel.
It makes him shiver inside.
"Don't kid yourself," with her accent 'kid' comes out as 'keed'. "That stupid girl did not kill my baby."
He blinks.
"I am not raising a child by myself. And I want nothing to do with you...nothing to remind me of you.So, I got rid of it."
He stares.
"Now, you and I can start afresh. You, with whatever nonsense brings herself your way and I with someone more deserving of me."
His eyes grow hard.
She waves and walks out.
She does not slam the door but the sound of it shutting echoes through his head.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Recuperating
Please o, people like Jaybabe threatening to hurt someone...me i did not send una message o.
I am recovering from exams.I am on a steady diet of sleep and nothing else for a while. I will be good to go in a day or two.
What have I missed?
I am recovering from exams.I am on a steady diet of sleep and nothing else for a while. I will be good to go in a day or two.
What have I missed?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Anti-Corruption Day
When I received the email highlighting this day and inviting a blogged response, I thought this post will take five minutes. I mean, what are fifty words but two sentences? How long will it take me to come up with a post to my country and the rest of the world about eradicating corruption?
This is the fourth draft of this post. You can see my dilemma.
I have decided to share some of the creeds that I live by. The principles that I have adopted and struggle to implement so that I too, don't become corrupt.
1. Do not encroach on people and their property. And do not allow them to do the same to you: If I am conscious that my actions not affect others and theirs, then I will be less likely to partake or indulge in something that violates the freedoms of others. Corruption does that.
2. Do all you have agreed to do: If I stand before you and say that I will serve you in some way, then I will. Politicians spout whatever will get them votes or even nothing at all, attain high positions and completely forget their promise to the society to serve. It is a matter of how strong your word is. My parents don't have millions but when they give me their word, they bend over backwards to fulfill it.
3. Every thought, word or action either pollutes you or purifies you: I choose to purified. So, I will not think ill, say ill or do ill to another person. That alone ensures that I am not corrupt.
4. Be responsible for your actions: I am not of the faith where there is salvation upon calling somebody's name; a technique that some people have taken it to mean that they can do whatever they like and then after, they just erase it with some mumbled words. I pay for every action and so does every body else. If you imagine that you can get away with something because the human justice does not get you, best be assured that spiritual justice is very fair and unbiased and that as Soul, you are going to enjoy in exact amounts the returns on any and everything you do. If not in this lifetime, then in another.
5. Be clean: Body, mind and deed. In the words of Kpakpando, KPOM!!!
6. Be grateful: I could have had it worse.
7. Do all things in the name of God: I don't think God will encourage you to take what He did not give to you, so don't even think to steal in the name of God.
8. Be careful what you say: A corrupt tongue will say corrupt things. And we all know the power of the spoken word. If, according to a majority faith, God said "Let there be Light" and there was light, does it not make sense that as his offspring, we can manifest or eradicate corruption with our words.
9. Be disciplined: Do the right thing at the right time and for the right reason
10. It's a matter of choice: Choose not to be corrupt.
You might ask why I have not listed social policies. I can't think of any that do not involve people who have to make the choice to implement them. To implement policies against corruption, you have to be someone who isn't. Thus I am starting with myself and hopefully others are to.
If we all did the right thing, do you think we would need an anti-corruption day? I think not
This is the fourth draft of this post. You can see my dilemma.
I have decided to share some of the creeds that I live by. The principles that I have adopted and struggle to implement so that I too, don't become corrupt.
1. Do not encroach on people and their property. And do not allow them to do the same to you: If I am conscious that my actions not affect others and theirs, then I will be less likely to partake or indulge in something that violates the freedoms of others. Corruption does that.
2. Do all you have agreed to do: If I stand before you and say that I will serve you in some way, then I will. Politicians spout whatever will get them votes or even nothing at all, attain high positions and completely forget their promise to the society to serve. It is a matter of how strong your word is. My parents don't have millions but when they give me their word, they bend over backwards to fulfill it.
3. Every thought, word or action either pollutes you or purifies you: I choose to purified. So, I will not think ill, say ill or do ill to another person. That alone ensures that I am not corrupt.
4. Be responsible for your actions: I am not of the faith where there is salvation upon calling somebody's name; a technique that some people have taken it to mean that they can do whatever they like and then after, they just erase it with some mumbled words. I pay for every action and so does every body else. If you imagine that you can get away with something because the human justice does not get you, best be assured that spiritual justice is very fair and unbiased and that as Soul, you are going to enjoy in exact amounts the returns on any and everything you do. If not in this lifetime, then in another.
5. Be clean: Body, mind and deed. In the words of Kpakpando, KPOM!!!
6. Be grateful: I could have had it worse.
7. Do all things in the name of God: I don't think God will encourage you to take what He did not give to you, so don't even think to steal in the name of God.
8. Be careful what you say: A corrupt tongue will say corrupt things. And we all know the power of the spoken word. If, according to a majority faith, God said "Let there be Light" and there was light, does it not make sense that as his offspring, we can manifest or eradicate corruption with our words.
9. Be disciplined: Do the right thing at the right time and for the right reason
10. It's a matter of choice: Choose not to be corrupt.
You might ask why I have not listed social policies. I can't think of any that do not involve people who have to make the choice to implement them. To implement policies against corruption, you have to be someone who isn't. Thus I am starting with myself and hopefully others are to.
If we all did the right thing, do you think we would need an anti-corruption day? I think not
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