Today is Friday

HBO DOCUMENTARIES WEBSITE > HBO DOCUMENTARIES CLIPS
Rated TV14: ADULT CONTENT, VIOLENCE, ADULT LANGUAGE
Running Time: 57 minutes
Genre: Documentary
On September 1, 2004, heavily armed extremists stormed into a school in Beslan, Russia. For three days, more than a thousand children and adults were held hostage in a sweltering gymnasium, denied food and water, and forced to keep their hands over their heads. The harrowing siege ended in violence that killed more than 350 people--half of them children. Through chilling footage and heartbreaking interviews with more than a dozen young survivors, this documentary explores the devastating aftermath of one of recent history's most heinous atrocities. (TV14) (AC,AL,V)


Today is Friday. And it is a day when I am supposed to spend my time tuning in to Holy Spirit and spending my day either doing a food fast or a mental one. I did neither. I mostly complained and procrastinated about my life. I made a to-do list, of which I don't think I have done even one thing. I day dreamed about the perfect life that I have been praying for for years. I skipped class and decided to sleep the afternoon away: I told myself that I had had a difficult week.

Then I watched a documentary on the CHILDREN OF BESLAN, the synopsis of which is posted above. I wept as listened to the children recount their experiences of that horrific day, their small voices desperately clinging to an innocence that will never be theirs to have again. I watched the chilling footage of mangled limbs and bloodied, naked children---- not only had the terrorists taken over their school, they had ordered the children stripped of what little clothing covered their tiny bodies.

I listened as one child described hesitantly how he saw his mother die. I saw the pictures of another girl, probably ten years of age but with the limbs of a six year old attempt to climb back into a burning classroom in search of her mother after the explosion from the terrorists' grenades flung her outside the building.

I listened as these children described what it felt like to thirst so much that they were forced to drink their own urine to make it through the three day siege. One child whose mother died has a little shrine of sorts for her at home where her picture is placed and in front of which a bar of chocolate is placed--her favourite--and a cup of water, so she will not thirst in the afterlife; as that had been her last desire before she was killed.

I generally do not comment on acts of hatred. I see it in some way as giving attention to those who sought it by commiting those acts in the first place. But I have to constantly wonder how humans can cross that line that seperates us from the rabid animal? I say rabid animal because in the animal kingdom, animals don't prey on each other for fun. They kill for food and to defend themselves. We are the only species of living things that would deliberately seek to cause one of our own pain. And the sick part of it is that we can in most cases justify our actions.

Some will use religion as their reason. Some will use monetary and material gain. Some will say that it is to right wrong commited against their person. Some will say that it is because those on the receiving end of their brutality were deserving of the cruelty.

I had prepared a post to share my exhaustion, frustration and confusion at some of the things going on in my life that I would so much prefer were not going the way that they are. At this moment right now, all that seems insignificant.

I might just be emotional. I might just be tired. Or I might even simply be equating the insignificance of my issues with the horror and pain that the Beslans experienced. Who knows?
What I do know is that, I am going to lie down and take a nap. Then I will wake later to have something to eat and do some of the work that I know I have to do.

And before I drift off, I will place my attention on my inner eye and think of all the great things that I do have going for me. Then I will speak to my spiritual guide and invite him to meet me in my dreams and speak with me. Because I simply want to say thank you.

Thank you for the fact that I have a bed that is warm. It is in a room of my own. It is filled with books, both educational and recreational that fill my days and nights with comfort. There is music in my room and a window that overlooks a generic looking parking lot. I make fun of that parking lot but today I am glad it is the way it is; not filled with dead bodies, screams of agony and fanatical individuals threatening to kill me or anyone else.

Thank you for my family that has sacrificed so much and though we are seperated by miles and a current lack of money to rectify that, we are there for each other.

Thank you for my life because it is filled with experience, opportunities and hope. And all those are cushioned by prayer.

Thank you simply that it is beacause of God's love that I exist.

And thank you that even though those terrorists tried very hard and some lost their lives, there were some that survived not just to tell their tale but to remind the rest of us to simply look at our lives and give thanks.

Have a great weekend.

i mean we have to be good for something....

There is this blogger I am looking for. She writes about Nigerian films and film productions. Was on her blog a while back and cannot remember her name or find where I wrote down the link...

Does anyone know a blogger by that description?


update: i found her oooooooooooooooooooo (abi it is a 'him' sef....)
CHETABLOG!!!!

Sister mine

I had not seen her in a long while. That was to be expected. Her flight from town had been sudden but not secret. It had been paramount that she leave when she did and any delays at that point would have spelled disaster.

She wore her hair long now. I wondered if it was really hers. She had always had short hair, cut low like a mini afro. Framing her face, her hair glowed in the light of the room like it would if you were looking through a glass of coca cola. It elongated her jaw. It made her look very feminine. Her beauty was almost a shock not because she had been particularly unpleasant to look at before but because it came with a calmness and elegance that I had never seen or possibly that I had not been able to discern at eighteen.

"I cannot believe you are getting married." she laughed, her voice singing out to me. My stomach tightened. She saw my discomfort and chuckled reaching for her drink.

"Don't worry Lola, you don't have to invite me. I will never cause you any embarassment."

Those words, simple and unembellished cut through me like a sharp knife and it was a few seconds before the pain began to spiral out. I looked away as I felt my eyes fill with tears.

"Lola, please don't." her voice had changed. It was not just that the laughter was gone and her tone held a tinge of cold warning. I had just never heard her sound like that. Is this what nine years could do? Suddenly I was very exhausted. I could not simply sit there and make small talk, skirting around the issues whilst we endured for as long as we could in each other's public company and then flee to the familiarity of my world.

"I would be glad if you can come to the wedding." I told her simply.

Her eyes went cold. "I do not need your sympathy." she spat her words at me like my invitation was decorated with feaces. I ignored her. There was no going back.

"It would be great if I can have all my sisters with me on my wedding day."

A slow smile spread across her face. It was not a good one. It was mocking and unkind. I deserved it.
"So, now I am your sister? Pray tell, how could that be? I thought I ceased to be that nine years ago, you know, when the old man forbade every single one of you contact with me."

I winced, " Sis Dupe, can we not move past that? I know what we did was not right but I am here now, trying to make things right."

She shook her head, "you cannot make right by yourself a decision that took a group to make wrong." she sat forward and I saw that her eyes were misty and filled with pain, "do you know what that felt like, fleeing my country like a thief in the night with nothing to my name but citizenship and yet no one not even mom bothered?" she gave me a once over with her eyes and it felt like I had been wiped down with a rag.

This was not going to be easy. I did not expect it to be. We had all turned our backs on her. All she had asked was a chance to be herself. It was because she loved us, she had said at the time, that she wanted to make sure that she was not living a lie and that we knew who she was and what she was doing. Of all the things that I could have conjurred, no where did it occur to me that my older sister could have been involved in a torrid affair with another woman. My mother fainted when the words left Dupe's mouth and my father did not speak for three days. When he would utter sounds next, it was to publicly declare his disownment. No one was to have anything to do with Dupe ever again.

Things had begun to escalate even before she came clean. Sandra, with whom Dupe had been carrying on was married to an older man who was a colonel in the Nigerian army. Only God knows how he found out. All we know is that somehow there was struggle, a gun and a dead man. Sandra fled and Dupe her lover, receiving no sanctuary from her family even though she had not been present or involved with the shooting, fled with her. The man's family still came calling and made sure the whole world knew that one of Chief Kayode's daughters was involved in "unnatural practices". It had been a little over nine years and still the whispers had not died down.

And I was about to resurrect them. No one in the family knew that I had actively sought her out and that I had come with the sole purpose of inviting her and Sandra to the wedding. It was going to be held in London anyway and everyone was coming over. I wanted my family there, complete and unabridged.

"She is my sister and I want her there." I had told Ima.
"Do you also want the ensuing drama of that decision?" he had asked. He did not like the idea.
I was just tired. How do I tell my children about all their aunties and uncles and leave out Dupe?

Dupe and her love for mangoes. Dupe and her off key serenading. Dupe and her piano playing. Dupe and her sarcasm. Dupe who would lie just as our eldest sister, Subi had instructed about who broke the coffee table and then under further cross examination also inform on the culprit. Dupe who had written two books that had made the best seller lists and got her a literary award. Dupe who was a gay rights activist. Dupe who had survived attempts on her life for her work. Dupe who was a lawyer and had travelled to every single continent. Dupe who was so funny that she always escaped dadddy's spanking by giving her own side of the story in such a way that the man could not hold back his laughter. Dupe who braided my hair and my scalp erupted in boils. Dupe who tried to teach herself to drive and killed the cashew trees in the compound. Dupe who would sit in silence for hours and then rush off to pen her thoughts. Dupe who could not dance to save her life. Dupe who would hug me even though I pretended not to like it. Dupe, my big sister.

There was so much that was her that that by which she was now known was such an insignificant part. She was a good person. I loved her. She was my sister.

"Deepee sis" I called the name I had used for years because in the beginning that was what my toddler lips could form, "I could not come to you then because I was very young and confused. I am about to start my life on my own terms and it would make me proud if you can please come and celebrate the beginning with me."

She looked at me. I held her gaze. And then she laughed.
"Men, daddy is going to piiiiiiiiiiiiissssssed."



Soul exists because God loves it.
-The Shariyat-ki-Sugmad bk 1.

Mistress

I see it in their eyes when they look at me. The silent judgement. The mockery behind their greetings. The snickers barely masked in their laughter. I don't care. It is the hypocrisy of their world. It is the hyporcrisy of our world that allows them to come to me when they need me or my connections and yet turn around and speak out of the side of their mouths down at me and who I am.

Who am I? I am not sure anymore. I have not been too sure for quite a while. I mean, I have not changed that much. I am still short. I am still dark. My hair still cannot be tied in a bun and my tummy is not quite as flat as I desire it to be. I still like the same foods and to most extents, dream the same dreams. Then what has changed? How can my answer be "all and nothing"? Odd, I say. Most odd.

Like this one chattering away at my side. He has been at my side for twenty minutes, bending my air in his borrowed foreign accent to- I can only imagine- impress upon me his breeding so that I can impress upon him that I will do as he desires. I don't even know what he is talking about. And I would so love to leave. What he has had to drink oozes out and assaults my senses. It is definitely not wine. Probably beer. Upperclass indeed. I feign a sighting, make a wave at the "person" and move briskly away. Would the night ever end?

"How was the party?" he would ask me later as I pour him his brandy, his voice as warm and as thick as the liquid he is about to indulge in. I would hand him his drink without an answer and he would take it, both of us careful in the way we lightly allow our finger tips to touch. In everything we do we are careful. Careful. Careful. Careful.

It's not that no one must know. They already do. It's just that for the two of us, the parts we play are new to us and it is as if we are discovering the roles as we go along. He and I. He and I. How did we become "he and I"? I am not even sure. If I ask him too, I doubt he can say. But that we have become and the moment we crossed that threshold, there was no going back.

Not that I want to. I like it as it is. No, I love it. I love it. I love this new house on the Lagos waterfront, raised on a raft foundation and fortified against the water's reclaim of the land. I love my new car. I love the trips I take and the places I go. I love the fact that I no longer have to rise in haste in the morning rushing to make my living amongst the surviving horde that is the populace of our metropolis. Now, if I don't want to, I don't awake before ten am. Spoiled, I have become. And then above all, I love him and he loves me.

I mean, what else am I to do? I have really no where to go. No one to talk to. Nothing major to do. My father has decreed that none of his name shall have anything to do with me. And sadly, they have all agreed. Even mother. Bah! That woman.
I wonder what I have done that is so bad. Why is he such a hypocrite. I am the same age as her, the one that he keeps in a house in Abeokuta. Is it not funny how it is acceptable for him to do to another person's daughter what he cannot allow for his.

And he should not be upset. Unlike him and her, he and I are married. Yes, they were once best friends. Not anymore. The birth of "he and I" destroyed all that. I wonder what will happen in six months when there is another birth.

*sigh* here comes beer breath. Will this night ever end?

As the world turns...

Mr. O, I have reviewed your application and I must say that I am very impressed.

Thank you ma. It's the grace of God that we have been doing this this long

I would surely hope so. I am sure you know that I have taken my time bringing you in for an interview. It's not about me being difficult. Alot is riding on this project and I need to know that whoever is given this portion will execute as demanded.

Ah, madam, that is all we are asking for, a chance to show you that we can do it. Give us even a small portion as a test and see for yourself. This is what we do. This is what we know how to do.

I already have.

I am sorry, ma, I don't follow...

Don't worry. I have already put you through a test and you did okay. This "ma, ma" issue, I would like to stop. I am younger than you are. You can call me Ms E if it helps but "madam" can be reserved for my mother.

As you wish ma...sorry. It is all out of respect.

Thank you very much.

Ah, it is nothing ma....sorry Ms E

*smiling and shaking head* I see it is going to take you a while to get it. Anyways, there is one little thing that I want to ask your help. You being older, I need to employ your wisdom.

Ah, it is God that is the wise one. But if it is anything that is within my power, ma ,I will do it.

Thank you. I just need your advice. I have asked other people too but I also got the nudge to ask you. After all, if you wish to work with me, we should be able to communicate.

Yes *nodding* I agree

See, there is this situation that I have found myself in. And it is not a pleasant one at all

God forbid ma, what is it?

To this u have to apply your utmost discretion.

Of course, or course....

Now, what do I do? One of the girls working here has come to tell me that one of our vendors that is applying for the show sexually assaulted her in the past and now, after such a horrible experience, she has to come here and face the person. Now, this man has the best credentials ofthe group and yet there is this. ehn? sir, what do you say?

Haba! I say, how do you know she is telling the truth?

Thank you! I knew you have a brilliance to you

Thank you

No, no, it is true. Yes, I asked myself that too. So I sent a young girl to him to ask for a job as this employee of mine said happened and low and behold, this man told her that the only way she can get a job with him is if she plays ball.

As per?

Ah-aaaah, Mr.O, what else can a man be asking for?

Aaah! That is bad o.

Yes o. That is my dilema because based on his qualifications and all, I know he and his outfit will do the job like we want but how can I allow such a man like that near my person?

I think you should not. I mean, you are surrounded by so many young girls that you have to keep safe. These are people's daughters. I have two of my own.

E so be ee...and since then, I have met about three girls who have said the same thing and one who used to work for him and said that he used to try and corner her in the office when others were not around.

Ha!

Exactly.

This is serious o. I will say that you call him and explain your findings so that he can know that his wrong ways have caught up with him.

Thank you. I have decided that as well. *reaching for the phone* please excuse me, let me quickly set up a meeting.

Oh, please no problem

*into the phone* Mary, please come in with Tega. *to the man* I know you said earlier that you would not have anything, are you sure?

Oh no, no, ma, I am fine.

No problem. well, now that I have that sorted out, do you have your quote ready for me to review?

Oh yes, *reaching into bag and pulling out a folder* here it is...and we even introduced a discount, being our first time working with you and all.

oh, thanks alot. let me just go through the logistics of it.

(door opens and two women walk in)
Mary: Good afternoon sir. Ms E?

Tega:*curtsies*

Ms E: Mr. O, do you recognise either of these ladies?

No...no...no...

I see, so between yesterday and today you have forgotten the "sweet yellow girl"? *pointing at Tega*

I don't know what you are talking about. I don't understand

Oh, I see *pulling out a tape recorder and pressing play. the man's face contorts as his voice fills the room* so you see, I did put you through a test. and you did as I expected.

Ma, ma...

*slamming palm down on table* DID I NOT TELL YOU NOT TO CALL ME MA, MA , MA? YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT?

Ah, ah, aaaaaah, it was a set up.

was it? was it a set up when it was my time?

your time? i never....

How will you remember? Fool. You need to really have God in your life. You forget when you do the shit you do that one day, the roles might be reversed. You have been doing this job for the ten, fifteen years since we met and yet you have not risen above where I last met you. Now, look at you now, I have in front of me the documents to help you cross that boundary and you don't even remember how when you had the same power in your hands to help me, you gave me the option of sleeping with you. Thank God, I walked away so that now I can show you this aso inule rada rada, ikeji aja, that I did it all with his grace despite the devil's instruments like yourself placed in my path.

ah...i...I....please

I will slap you o. I am going to make sure that you never do business in this town again because as long as you do business, you will have money and you will think u are above the law

em...em...emm....pls...I...

I see you cannot even argue. You have messed yourself up so much that you don't even remember. tsk tsk tsk. oya, tell me what do I do? One call and not only will this door be closed but every door in this country and best believe me, I can do it. Mr O, what do you want me to do ?

Thanks to all who were concerned...Mobolowowon

I have survived.....We thank God.

Whilst i dust my brain functions and come up with my posts for the week, here are some pictures from the Fashion Show at my school....

Countdown to Pin up

5.31 pm. Wednesday,March 12th.
Total hours of sleep since Friday: seven.
Acne levels: six and counting. seven is warming up
Waist line: Now a soda line
Wardrobe: hun?
Hair: hun?
Diet: in what category does tostitos fall into?

Project checklist
Site Plan: 0%
Floor plans : 50%
Sections: 30%
Full rendered elevations: 0%
Partial elevations on special features: 0%
Structural plans: 0%
Section through Auditorium: 0%
Model: hun?
Pin up date: Friday, March 14th @ 1.00pm

Stay tuned for updates....

3.56 am, Thursday March 14th
Total hours of sleep: 0
acne levels: those bagas can go and die for all I care...
Waist line: now a "Dole Pineapple slices/ Chinese fried rice and croaker fish line
Wardrobe: same as the one of yesterday
Hair: still there
diet: answered above

Project Checklist
Site Plan: 0%
Floor plans: 75%
Sections: 45%
Elevations: 0%
structural plans: 0%
section through auditorium:0%
Boards completed: 1 of 4
Total: 45% complete
Starting plans of auditorium now...how do you orient the stupid thing sef? to the water or not?
let me peep at my friend's and just copy his design. he has many, he can spare one.

8.42 PM, THURSDAY MARCH 13TH

Total hrs of sleep: 5. ( bad idea. It was supposed to be 2 and I just went over board and now i am do panicked, I cannot see straight)

Acne levels: n/a

waist line: halal chicken and fajita bread line

wardrobe: t-shirt and trouser. have showered.

hair: hun?

diet: answered above

PROJECT CHECKLIST

Site plan: 40 %

Floor plans: 90%

Sections: something has gone wrong and I have to fix it. Don't panic. don't panic. I will still say 45%. May the Blessings Be

Elevations: 40%

structural plans: 0%

section through auditorium: 30%

Model: n/a. I am not building a model. will go with a 3d rendering, touched up by hand.

Total: 65%

My morning and Nayo arrives.....

I jumped up from bed and realised I had overslept my two hour time limit by forty five minutes. Disoriented and hazy, I showered, got dressed and realised as I made my way hastily to the studio that the reason I was limping was because I had put on the legs of two different boots. Though both were black, one was heeled and the other was not.....at least unlike yesterday, I remembered to put on a bra. Thank God my girls are still standing proud.

The life of an architecture student....

And the much aniticipated album arrives:

The Album 'African Girl' will be available everywhere in the UK -**MARCH 10, 2008** Its can be pre-ordered at any of the following links below.

WEBSITE -http://www.nayomusic.com/

HMV -http://www.hmv.co.uk/hmvweb/displayProductDetails.do?ctx=280;-1;-1;-1&sku=776187

AMAZON -http://www.amazon.co.uk/African-Girl-Nayo/dp/B0013PJGCO/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1204209002&sr=8-1

In addition, we'll be hosting a live **Secret Village Show** atthe Soho Revue Bar in London - March 13th to celebrate the album release.

TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE -http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user/?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=257575

INTERVIEW ON CELEBRITY CORNER -http://www.brightcove.tv/title.jsp?title=1437286070&channel=495713462

EXCLUSIVE DOWNLOADS: TIMES ONLINE -http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article3461978.ece
FACEBOOK GROUP -http://www.facebook.com/pages/NAYO/12423665655?ref=s

It's been a while

It's been a while since the heat of skin warms me through my sleep

It's been a while since the sound of life matches mine in beat

It's been a while since my thighs have throbbed from rhythms

That only the dance of want can bring

It's been a while since the length of my spine

Has curved an odd little "C"

It's been a while since a hand has cupped the essence of me

It's been a while since there has been a "you and me"

When you are ready, when it's time

Come to me , in my arms recline

Whisper my name, in that tone of yours

That resembles liqour poured

Move with me

any pace

It's our time

there's no race




Come to me and bring to an end

This lengthy drought

Water where it is needed

Command my garden to bloom

Take it how you want it

Shatter my earth, make it move




*sigh* These musings of mine

Is what you get when it's been a while

When it's been a while since

soft screams have escaped these lips......

Oliver

Inspired by Dicken's Oliver Twist and edited....

Chapter 2
"I am very sorry for the way I spoke to you. It was just..." Danumego's voice trailed off, his embrassment merging with mortification as he attempted to profer his apologies. Mojere was not about to make it easy for him. She just stared, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Amazed at how little he felt, even though he towered at least a foot and a half over her, he cleared his throat and forged ahead.

"Mrs. Sulaiman, I am sorry for my behaviour. If you can find it in your heart to excuse it and forgive. It was...it was not a good day and then you brought him in and...I am sorry."

Mojere gave him five full seconds of silence before sheer exhaustion won and she sighed.

"One, it is Ms Sulaiman. Secondly, I will suggest that you always ask before you jump to conclusions. I would never do that to a child...to any human being."

He nodded, his bald head shining under the flourescent light.

"Please forgive. I am not that ill mannered an individual."

Mojere raised an eyebrow,

"So you are somewhat ill mannered?"

He shrugged and gave her a full smile, one that she had noticed all the females doing sommersaults over. It did not affect her...that much.

He sobered and reached up to rub his eyes. She noticed that he was wearing the same shirt as he had been the day before and that his eyes, though cheerful were extremely tired.

"He is ready for discharge. Do you know what you are going to do?"

Mojere shook her head wearily,

"No, but he is coming home with me. His parents are dead, that much I know and I don't know about his relatives because when I tried to ask him, he went into fits. Whether that was because he was sick or because he was panicked, I don't know. He will come home with me. I can't go back on him now."

Danumego regarded the tiny woman before him and wondered how he could have been so mistaken in his initial appraisal of her. When he had been called on the intercom to come down to emergency, he had burst through the door to be greeted by two bloodied women and a child, the latter of which lay unmoving on the bed. The stench of gasoline had been almost unbearable.

"Market...little boy...I carried him...my car..." the shorter and more worried of the two women babbled out to him incoherently.

He assumed that she had hit him with a car. When he reached the boy, he realised that it was not a car that had done the boy in. He had been beaten and judging by the garrish scars on his back and legs, it was not the first time. In fact, the last time he had seen skin so marred with keloids had been on a poorly treated burn victim.

He had noticed when he sighted the women that underneath the blood and petrol, they were attired in clothing that was not cheap. The ring on the finger of the one who had spoken gleamed. He guessed that he knew who they were. Wealthy women who most likely in a fit of rage had beaten up their male servant.

"Is he going to be okay?" The shorter woman asked. Danumego was disgusted.

"Get out!" he spat.

'Excuse me?..." she began, stunned.

"I said get out." he continued, without looking up. "Let me see if I can save this boy for you to kill another day. Or would you like to finish him up right now and save us some time?"

That had been a wrong assumption to make. He did not find out the details until later when they had miraculously found blood and intravenous medicine to keep the boy hanging on by a thread for his life. By evening, an infection had set in and Danumego was not sure he would make it to the next morning, but he did. And the next one and the next.

Three days later, when the boy was stable, Danumego found himself in the director's office. There in the presence if his boss, Mojere Sulaiman stripped him naked verbally and walked out.

"What were you thinking?" Director Nnamani asked. "Do you not know who she is?"

Danumego did not. He had not been in the country long. He knew almost no one.

"Be careful, There are some people we do not need to be worried about."

"Yes dad." he replied before he left.

He had been trying to apologise for the past six weeks.

Till he conered her in the parking lot.

"It cannot be easy for you. You have tried alot. I have not seen your friend for a while." he continued referring to Labake who had accompanied her in the beginning when Oliver was first brought in to the hospital.

Mojere avoided his eyes. She did not know how to tell him that as she was standing there before him , the grey skies threatening a heavy july rain moving swiftly past above their heads, that she was alone in the world. Alone with her decisions considering Oliver. She and Labake had not spoken since the day of their heated and bitter exchange over her involvement with Oliver.

Oliver needed clothes. When she brought him in to the hospital, all she had had to cover his small frame had been Labake's scarf that she had snatched off her friend's shoulders and the jacket of her suit. It had been a week and a half, Oliver seemed destined to beat death a second time and was hanging on pathetically to his existence. There were no men's clothing for her to borrow for him at the house.

Thus, she dragged her ever available friend and companion shopping. Oliver needed clothes and she was going to buy some for the boy. Labake was no longer amused by the play that Mojere was enacting starring the vagrant street child.

"Mojere, what on earth do you think you are doing?" Mojere winced. Labake's voice, cutting above the hum of the store's air conditioning and background Celine Dion music was loud and grating on her nerves.

"What does it look like I am doing?" she bit back before turning to the sales girl, "do you not have something smaller? He is a very tiny boy." She turned back to her friend, lifting the shirt in her hand. "Or Labs, what do you think?"

Labake eyed both her friend and the grey and blue t-shirt. "What do I think? What do I think? Are you listening at all to what I think? I have been asking you what you think you are doing; do you intend to bring him to come and live with you? Where do you know that he is from? Why did he run away from home? Did you even bother to ask? Mojere...Mojere..."

Mojere had moved on to the next rack, completely ignoring her friend.

"Mojere I am talking to you." Labake's voice held a warning. Mojere was suddenly fed up.

"Labake, what do you want me to do?"

"What you should have done from the very beginning. His case belongs with the government. You should have handed over to the police from the very beginning." Labake was indignant, her nostrils flaring with the strength of her emotions. She had since ignored the fact that they were in public and was oblivious to the fact that not only the sales girl but the six other customers in the store were eavesdropping unabashedly on her conversation with Mojere. Infact, one man who had accompanied his girl friend had since discarded his look of misery at being dragged from store to store and was staring unflinchingly at the two women, his ears wide and receiving.

"Is it the same police that almost did not show up before Oliver was almost burnt alive?..."

"Oliver..."Labake hissed, "Oliver, you are calling him Oliver? Hey-ey, you are getting attached to that area boy."

Mojere was suddenly disgusted. Labake of all people was not someone who ought to say such things as her education had been paid for by her mother's trading at the bus park. And yet, just because she had become the mistress/third wife to a wealthy politician chief, all who did not exist in her economic circle where beneath her. Mojere fixed her friend with her legendary icy stare.

"Labake, I asked you here because you have twin boys and so you could help me figure out what a boy ought to have. If you don't want to help me out, you can go back to your shop and do whatever you were doing that area boys were not involved in. I have alot of things I need to get before I go to the hospital."

Labake shook her head as if something was very sad. "The boy is not your son. And he never will be."

The pain that sliced through Mojere was such that a gasp escaped her mouth without her knowledge. Infact, it was so heavy that she clutched at her side as if Labake's words had become a knife that had gone through her side. Labake sensing she had gone too far, opened her mouth to speak.

"If it had been anyone else but you Labake, I would have slapped them for what you just said. No,he is not my son. So, if I do not go and open my legs for the first potbellied randy goat that thows money at me and carry his seed, I do not know how to be a mother? Abi, iru osi oro wo lo n jade lenu e, ehn Labake? (What kind of nonsense are you saying?")

Labake was taken aback. "Excuse me...?"

Mojere sneered, "Excuse you? you are excused. Please leave me. Yes, I have found this area boy and until I can find someone else who can do a better job, I will take care of him so that I am not driving down one day and see that people like you have set fire to a little boy of eleven!"

'Mojere! Are you crazy? What has gotten into you?"

Mojere hissed, "I don't know o. I don't know. Maybe when he gets better, I will just carry him and dump him at the exact place I found him and pray that this time, the mango seller will not chase after him when he steals because he is hungry. You disgust me!"

Labake's eyes widened. "I disgust you? Hey-ey, Mojere, are you listening to yourself?"

"Not really," Mojere replied, "but I am sick and tired of pretentious superior attitude when we all know that if Chief was not busy with his cronies spending the country's wealth on you and all his other mistresses in the universities, maybe we would not have that many Olivers."

Mojere had hit home and hit home hard. The issue of Labake's standing as Chief Rotimi's wife/mistress was a really touchy one. She had only recently been allowed to refer to herself as Mrs. Rotimi even after producing twin boys for the man. And she knew after more than fifteen years of being with him starting when she was still a Jambite in the university, that she was only one of many women on his roll call. The latest softsell edition had pictures of Chief and his latest mistress at a social function. Like Labake, when she too had come into his life, the girl was just twenty two.

Her mouth parted and she too backed away much like Mojere had done a few minutes before. Without saying a word, she reached for her huge purse that lay at her feet, picked it up and walked out.

They had not spoken since then. And now the doctor was asking after her.
Mojere looked at the doctor, "She is fine. She has been busy." That at least was true. She knew Labake had been busy.

Danumego nodded. He did not press further. So, instead he said to her, "If you come with me, I will hurry up the paperwork and you can take him home."

She smiled. Slow and wide. Danumego tried not to stare.

"Home." she looked at the hospital building and nodded as if to herself, "Yes, he will come home today."

Oliver

Inspired by Dicken's Oliver Twist and edited....

CHAPTER ONE

It was futile, his attempts to flee but that was the only solution he could come up with because no sooner had his trembling fingers wrapped around the soft, warm flesh of the mango that the fat, sweaty seller looked away from her neighbour with whom she was exchanging meaningless gossip with and settled on the boy. Even if he had let the fruit go, she would not have let the action go and both reacted in reflex. She raised a cry and he turned on his heel and ran.

He ran, quite oddly, weaving blindly past bodies as he tried to make his getaway, all the while mindful of the cars zipping past the street.

"Ole! Ole!! Ole!!!" The woman cried as she tried to maneuver her bulk after him in pursuit. She knew she would not catch him but she hoped that her cries would motivate someone to do so. Her voice carried over the din of car horns, haggling traders, screaming bus conductors and loud conversations to somehow capture the attention of people around. That, and the fact that as the boy ran, he bumped into people, knocking both he and them off balance and they in turn rewarded him with a few shoves here and there, laced with a generous dose of curses in whatever language they proudly called their mother tongue. That also meant he was slowed down.
Slowed down so that as he whipped past a conductor who had come off his bus to loudly call out his bus' destination in a medley of bus stop name, all the man had to do was reach out his right hand and bring the panicked boy to an abrupt halt with one well placed blow.

The boy went down. Before he could draw a breath, a crowd was upon him. The bus conductor had forgotten his passengers, other traders had forgotten their wares, students - some returning from school and others who though had on uniforms had not been to school in weeks- merged with the excited crowd and swelled its numbers, buyers forgot their budgeting and bargaining and within seconds, the boy was being jostled this way and that with the crowd's cries switching from inquiry as to the hulla-balloo to blood thirst as they called for him, the little boy, the little thief to be drawn and quartered.

He was quite small. There seemed to be very little of him but what there was received a generous dosage of slaps and knocks. It was not long before the old and threadbare checkered shirt that had covered his dry skin was ripped off his shoulders and he was relieved of his shorts under which he wore no underwear so that as these angry men and women metted out their justice, he was clad only in the sickly looking fabric that was his skin under which jutted the frame that made up his skeleton.

"Thief!"
"Look at him. Nonsense!!"
"Ehen, yes, that is good."
"Beat him well well. Never in his life..."
"Ole!"
"Where are his useless parents."
"Aww and he is just a boy o"
The cries mingled as one. Maybe only one or two bore the sentiment of the last statement. All had suddenly crossed that thin divide between man and animal and for that afternoon, the boy had become prey for the heated and hungry crowd. The little boy could not make out what people were saying. He did not see that the mango seller had managed to jostle her way to the front and was explaining in a loud voice to all and any that bothered to ask what he had done.
"Omo oloroburuku, oniranu ikeji aja, ole lasan lasan yii, lo ji mi nigba..." she informed. For those that did not speak her language, you did not have to be told that her information was laced with curses and insults. Some on the boy and some on his mother. The mango which had dropped when he had been hit had since rolled on the street and under a moving car. The boy had tried to plead when he had been first lifted off the ground and had since stopped. Like the sun bearing down intensely on Lagos that afternoon, there was no mercy around.


Mojere rested her chin on her hand which was rested on the car door. Beside her, Labake her best friend chatted on incessantly,
"Ah, can you imagine the colours of the lace they wanted to select? I was so disgusted. That is how you know when money misses road. Can you just imagine? They left me to go and pick out that? God forbid, I am not wearing that useless, cheap nonsense."
Apparently from what Mojere had pieced together between tuning out her friend's chatter and watching traffic was that one of their friends had chosen not to purchase fabric for aso ebi to be worn during her father inlaw's funeral reception. Thus Labake was miffed to no end.

Thud! A body slammed into the side of the car on Mojere's side. Both women including the driver who had been listening silently on the conversation, jumped. The culprit had sprinted off. It was a young man, one of those people who sold their wares in traffic and he was in an awful hurry to get down the road. It was then that Mojere realised that the car was at a standstill and so was everyone around them.
"Jesus!!!" Labake exclaimed, "Did you see that?"
Mojere was tempted to tell her no, that she had not, that she just felt like being frightened out of her skin.
"Mr. Lawal, ki ni yen?" (What is that?)
Mr. Lawal was rattled. He knew he was going to be blamed. Had he been actually paying attention, he might have had a better answer for his madam.
"Madam, awon oloshi ni yen ni madam...." he began as he started to come down. Because he was already half out of the car, Mojere could not caution him about his language. She hated when he spoke like that and she had warned him many times before.
"These useless boys. I don't know what they are doing here." Labake continued, "they should all be in school. Hen-en, just imagine...we thank God o that it is not more than this. Is the car okay?"
Mojere was more concerned if the boy was okay. Before he disappeared from her sight, she had seen him stumble a bit after the collision before he righted himself and made away. Mr Lawal had come around to her side so she rolled down the glass.
"Ko si problem ma." he told her (There is no problem) "O kan gba moto legbe but ko se e lese." (He only hit the car but there is no damage.)
"What on earth was he in a hurry for?" Mojere wondered aloud.
Labake hissed her response,
"Those vagabonds. What else? Running after cars without a care for if they got hit or something."
Mojere ignored her. Mr Lawal was looking ahead. There seemed to be some commotion.
"What is it?" Mojere asked him.
"I don't know ma." he replied, "let me go and check"
"No," Mojere replied, suddenly getting out of the car. She needed to get some air and over forty five minutes cooped up in the same space, albeit air conditioned with Labake and she was about to loose her mind. "You stay here and watch the car. I will be back."
She got out and began to move towards the excited crowd just a few feet away before either he or her friend could say a word.
Maybe it was the charged air or the worries that had been on her mind all day, or Labake's unimportant and longwided, one sided conversation but the next thing Mojere knew, she had made her way to the crowd and was jostling her way to the front.
When she made her way to the front small clearing, she was stopped in her tracks not just because there was no where else to go and those around were not budging but also because she could not understand why there was blood on the street.
In the middle of the clearing, bearing the brunt of an over zealous and possibly psychotic crowd, a short and skinny man was bring beaten. Although he was being held upright by the those beating him, it was obvious to anyone who cared to observe that he was unconscious and yet, still was being hit. Mojere was immediately sickened. She only became horrified when she realised that the person was not a short man but a little boy. Her gasp was lost in the chatter of the crowd.

What happened next unfolded like a scene set in slow motion. Because no sooner had she made her realisation that from the corner of her eye she saw two people making their way through the crowd holding a jerry can of what she instantly knew was petrol and she turned in silent horror to behold the jeering crowd, the men who held him and most of all the unconscious boy. Later, if you asked her, she would not have been able to explain what she did next.

In less than five strides, Mojere had broken free of the crowd and dashed forward. In the same motion, the man carrying the container opened it and lifted it up, tilted to empty its contents. The men holding the bloodied boy up raised a cry of hurray at the sight and the knowledge of its intent. They did not see Mojere coming. They did not see her swing her little fists, knocking the man on the boy's right and loosening his grip. Mojere could not think. She almsot could not breathe. The second she threw her arms around the boy, she felt the splash and strong stench as the petrol was poured on her body.

She had refused to let go. Somehow, the one who had agreed to light the match did not. Somehow, the enraged crowd had not touched her. It was as if in one swell move, the sight of a young woman in a suit, holding on to this small and frail boy lifted a veil off the eyes of the crowd. Someone cried "wait" and then another and another and another and then you had people asking questions.
"Who is he?
"Who is she?
"What did he steal sef?"
The mango seller who previously had been the center of sympathetic attention suddenly found herself on the end of ridicule.
"Haba! Madam! can you not see that he was hungry? A mango, and you want to burn him alive. What would you then do to the politicians?"
"Why have you no mercy?"
"The lord said we should forgive"
Stunned at the sudden change, the woman blustered and stammered her explanations. A policeman suddenly appeared. It was his first day on the job manning the junction down the street. He was not in the mood or even trained for the sight he beheld. Blood, fuel, a trembling woman and an unconscious child, bus conductors who looked high as kites and a mob throwing explanations in more than one language.
"Heys you! Madam, what is going on?" he asked of Mojere.
She did not answer. She did not hear him. All she could hear was the faint beating heart against the pounding of hers and the small, shallow breathing against her skin. The smell of blood and petrol she could not smell. The heat of the sun burning mercilessly through the fuel, she could not feel. The sounds of frustrated drivers blasting their horns as if it would make a difference did not exist. All she knew was that she had been just in time.

Just in time.

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......

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

The bill was sponsored by the chairman of the senate committee on women affairs

Senator E.Uffot â€"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.

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....

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 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!!!!!!!

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.

Will update as soon as I can.
Not feeling too good.
been on IV fluids all day
temperarure up and down
tired...
be safe y'all

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.

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.

PS: I finished writing the post to discover that my jollof rice was unsuccessful. Case in point: no blogging while cooking....shikena.

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.