Naija Film Blueprint

A friend of mine wrote and sent this to me over a year ago, and I still think it's one of the funniest things I've ever read. I'm sort of down-in-the-dumps these days and have been looking for a pick-me-up. Turns out, this was it. So for any other avid Nigerian movie fans who might be mourning the advent of winter, I present - on behalf of "Marrow" - the blueprint for making the well-rounded Nigerian movie:

My wife and I are keen watchers of Nigerian films and are always tickled by the inescapable similarities that seem to spring up in virtually every other movie. So here is your very own blueprint to making a Naija film. Follow these golden rules and you too can tap in to an estimated £120 million industry.

1.It is unthinkable that your protagonist goes through this film without some kind of family intervention. Even if he is currently without a family, he has either lost them at an early age or will magically acquire a new one during the course of the film. If I'm watching a movie with Russell Crowe in it, I am not concerned about his relationship with his mother nor do I particularly care if he is regularly sending money to his brother in the village. Too much information!

2.When a character is deported/returns from America, he will immediately adopt an incomprehensible dialect This dialect is unique to Nigerian films and contains a disproportionate number of Rs , every other sentence ends in 'men' and affords a liberal use of expletives. This clearly means you have been to America. The character will also be decked up in a variety of tank tops or equally skimpy outfits. There is obviously not enough cloth in Yankee to make complete outfits.

3.Every polygamous family is doomed. Stepmothers in particular are to be avoided of you want to survive in a Naija film. The minute you hear stepm.... fade, just fade. She will kill your ass.

4. Jazz, Jazz and more jazz. If in doubt, the obligatory 'Baba Alawo' scene will answer many plot holes and keep our movie ticking along. Jazz is also an invaluable tool in explaining any irrational behaviour. Oh that madman? Na jazz. Oh he started beating his wife? Na jazz. Impregnated his sister's cousin's youngest daughter? Jazz, Jazz Jazz. For mental disorders in Hollywood, read Jazz in Nollywood.

5.No matter how rich or succesful a character is, their office must not exceed 12 X 9 ft in dimension. The decor is something straigth out of Carpenter's monthly with square edges everywhere. During the course of the movie, that same office will also double up as the bank manager's office, baba alawo's shrine any indeed any other interior location you can think of.

6. Stella Damascus Aboderin must cry in any movie she is cast in. If you do not include this in her contract, then you are wasting the woman's talents and you might as well cast someone else.
7. Similarly Ramsey Noah must have facial hair in all his films. No Ramsey I don't care if it makes you look fine, the part requires you to be a Tibetan Monk godammit!

8. Every flashback must be in either black and white or sepia, preferably with a dream like effect. Without this we are obviously too dumb to differentiate past events with current ones.

9. No one ever loses or gains any weight in Naija films. 20 years later abi?...abeg just pour small powder for my head. My diet is exactly the same and I have not succumbed to middle age spread. I now have six kids but not the waistline to show for it.

10. Do NOT under any circumstance try and incorporate special effects of any kind. They will fail miserably. If you want to make a movie about a man who flies or shoots thunderbolts from the tips of his fingers, think again or move to Hollywood. Don't forget to close the door behind you.

11. And finally whatever you do, NEVER NEVER cast Nigerian children in your film. Child actors are notoriously bad but Nigerian child actors deliver lines in a manner that makes you just want to slap them and curse their parents. (Dore, remember "Mommy, (n)why. does. Duddy. 'ate. os?" LOL!!)

Dane Buying Ugandans for Art

I know that all I seem to be talking about these days is Africans, but the world seems to be running mad and I can't help it! Plus, these days, I'm increasingly inundated with news about that continent - I think this is God's way of telling me that I must not stay in this country when I'm finished with school. But that's a topic for another blog. This blog is talking about a strange breed of neocolonialism that's boldly underlined with an unfettered desire for one Danish man's massive ego to be stroked. And the sad thing is that hunger and poverty have clearly numbed the senses and pride of these Ugandans, who don't seem to see anything wrong with what they are doing (or so the Dane would have us believe).

I take God beg you, read that press release (in the hyperlink) and then go on to check out the pictures on his website: www.hornsleth.com. What is this world coming to, holy Father??

Remember Saro-Wiwa today, everybody

Where Did We Go?

Nigeria is no longer the most corrupt nation in the world; Haiti is, according to Transparency International. Actually, Nigeria isn't even in the top 10. On one hand, this is interesting news for obvious reasons - it means there are countries that are even more corrupt than ours. On the other hand, if there are countries more corrupt than ours - a whole 10, we know for certain - then what on earth does that say about this world of ours? Scary thought. And what does it say about the people who are doing the measuring? Did these countries just suddenly become more corrupt in the past couple of years? Or did people just decide to take more notice after they became bored with the usual scapegoats?

I'm interested to see what will become of the Haitians in world media following this release. And as an aside: the French and the Italians have been linked to global mass corruption, being cited as the two countries that pay the most bribes in developing nations. Funny how they aren't considered one of the top 10.

My Silpas Too Fine!

Ok, I had to steal this from my friend Katja S.'s page. I've been visualizing this picture for hours, and it still has me in stitches. Apparently, corruption in Nigeria has prompted some very personal - and borderline ridiculous - responses. This picture was allegedly taken outside a mosque:

I say "allegedly" because a friend of mine refuses to believe that anyone would stoop so low as to padlock their slippers and feels that this is a doctored picture. I, on the other hand, am completely unsurprised by this action (though immensely delighted) and totally see the sense in using a giant padlock to secure your property outside a house of worship. After all, robbers are no longer afraid of God, so what's to stop them from tiefing your load outside His house, even when the penalty of that particular God for stealing is the loss of your tiefing hand? Notice the dirt-outlined toeprints and the indented, cracked heels. This person uses his slippers religiously (no pun intended); why should he not want to protect them?

You know you're all wishing you thought of this first.

This is Lagos?

http://www.newyorker.com/online/content/articles/061113on_onlineonly01

This is one of the most annoying things I've ever seen or heard (and given the rate of my annoyance, that's saying a lot). This woman is mad and ignorant, even more so because of her lack of understanding despite the fact that she seems to be so well-traveled. I'm not naive enough to say that everything she said was a lie; after all, she managed to capture A truth (one, singular truth) from A perspective (one, singular perspective). To turn around and blanket an entire nation, even an entire city, with this one truth and one perspective is irresponsible and appalling. And annoying. Maybe the people were obstructing your photography because they don't appreciate a random white woman coming and taking pictures all willy-nilly without permission.

That being said, Nigeria and her people need to wake the hell up. That these people can still find living situations like this to focus on in our very wealthy nation is a disgrace. That these people still have the opportunity to speak ignorantly and derogatorily and that we don't have a sufficient rebuttal is a disgrace. Thus rubbish heaps are older than some of us, and they're still sitting there. Does nobody care??

Short Gist: Oga Landlord Strikes Again

See trouble o! My landlord has promoted himself from part-time stalker to petty thief. Last week, he brought plumber to install heat in my bathroom. I left them in the apartment and went to class. I came back, didn't notice anything out of order. Next morning, getting ready to take my shower, I couldn't find my shower cap. I thought maybe they moved it somewhere. Turned my bathroom and bedroom upside down looking for it - nada. Figured the plumber ripped it and threw it away or something, but the least he could have done was tell me, right? No matter. I bought a new shower cap. Life went on.

Yesterday, Oga Landlord brought electrician to fix some problems my neighbors and I have been having. We were in the living room most of the time, but they had to go through my bedroom once to get to the basement (it's an interesting layout). Didn't take more than a minute, I didn't leave the living room because I didn't think I had to. They did their work, they left. At midnight, I was getting ready for bed - and I couldn't find my headtie. Again, ransacking the bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom to find it, including garbage cans in case I was just mad enough during the day to throw away my favorite 10-year-old headtie. Again, nada. All I could think about was the email he had sent me just moments before telling me how attractive African women are to him and why he just loves them so much - they're so smart, and beautiful, with great family values and most of them are virgins until they get married (I don't know where he got that gist from sha, but whatever).

This isn't like the time I ate oatmeal and forgot that I put the bowl in the sink, so I thought someone broke in - to eat my food...how retarded was that?? Anyway, this isn't like that. The man is taking my shit. He's probably sniffing on my headtie right now, wanking to the sweet smell of my perfumed oil that is now permanently embedded in the thing. WHY WOULD HE TAKE MY SCARF??? I stole that scarf from my Gubsie years ago; it means a lot to me. I'm so irritated, and now very paranoid. I slept with a chair against my front door last night. Even though the chair has wheels and won't do shit if there is ever an intrusion. Suffice it to say, it didn't make me feel safer. I hope I'm wrong and the scarf just turns up somewhere I didn't think to look...like behind the ceiling tiles. So annoyed.

Liar, Liar, 'Trossis' On Fire!

Have you ever been caught doing something you shouldn't have, then decided to tell a really elaborate lie to get out of it, only to realize that the truth would have been a whole lot easier to deal with than the lie? But now you've gone through all that trouble to concoct a story that borders on the ridiculous (or is in fact neck-deep in ridiculous) and you realize that going back on your story would snatch away your credibility before you could say "I'm sorry" so you stick with the crazy lie and feel bad forever?

I don't lie very often, and for that reason, my lies tend to be pretty absurd. I have told many a whopper in my day. I remember in 5th grade, during recess, some boy was teasing my chubby ass for no particular reason except that I was the new kid (so was he o, but I was shy and thus an easy target) and I was so outraged at my powerlessness that I lashed out at him as hard as I could with the only weapon I possessed: my tongue. Even then, I knew that emotional pain was harder to heal than the physical. I'm so ashamed of what I'm about to type. I looked him square in the face and said, "I may be ___, but you raped your sister!"

I already said I'm ashamed; don't judge me! I was only nine! I had no idea what rape was, but I knew that men did it to women and that it was bad. I knew that it was in fact an abominable act, and it was the only thing in my mind that equaled what he was doing to me at that moment. It never occured to me that he might know what rape was. Or that he'd be so pissed about it that he'd report me to Ms. Ellis, our inherently cruel teacher (or so my child's brain insisted). Ms. Ellis was a robust, 60-something black American Methodist from the Midwest who had recently broken her right hand, which was taking forever to heal. She had been in a bad mood for months (or years, depending on who you ask), and from the moment we met, I got the feeling that she didn't really care for me. That was a new experience; I'd always been teacher's pet. Now SJ, provider of all the sweets and pastries her mother could produce to satisfy Ms. Ellis' sweet tooth, was teacher's pet. But that's not the point.

As our hero - who has grown up to be some sort of OCD freak - ran to Ms. Ellis' classroom to report me, I considered many things. I considered chasing him to beg him not to, but I was too chubby to exert myself that way, plus he was already halfway through the door. I thought about going back home to Mrs. Carter's, where I was squatting, but she and Ms. Ellis, being the only black Americans in the school, had formed an alliance and called it friendship. Sooner or later, I'd be caught and then I'd have to face the two old ladies at once. So that wasn't an option. I had just decided that I should begin frothing at the mouth and feigning convulsions when he emerged from the classroom and informed me triumphantly that Ms. Ellis wanted to see me immediately. That was the day I had my first hot flash. As usually happens when I'm in trouble, my brain scrambled and I couldn't even think about where I was going, not to talk of what I would say when I got there. Before I knew it, my stupid legs had transported me through the door, where I stood quaking.

"Girl, come closer!" Ms. Ellis' grating voice snapped at me from her desk at the other end of the room. I prayed that I would trip on my shoelaces and bust my head on the cold concrete floor, but I realized that I was wearing Keds and they didn't have laces. God, why have you forsaken me??, I cried inwardly. At that age, I could cry on command, but even that particular talent failed me that day. There would be no mercy for me—unless I could come up with the perfect lie.

The following is the conversation that ensued between me and Ms. Ellis, recalled to the best of my ability. Be warned: it is a gross display of bumbling stupidity, as caused by blubbering fear, lack of preparation time, and an innate disability to lie properly, especially when it counts.

ME: What did you say to old boy just now?

k: Me?

ME: Yes, you, child! Do you see anyone else in this room?

k: No, Ms. Ellis.

[silence]

ME: You want me to ask you again?

k: No, Ms. Ellis.

[silence. kulutempa hopes that Ms. Ellis has forgotten the question.]

ME: [kulutempa], what did you say to little boy outside?

k: Nothing, Ms. Ellis.

ME: Look here, I do not have the patience for a lying child. Now, I will ask you one last time: what did you say to the overgrown baby outside?

k: (trembling terribly and desperately searching for an answer other than the honest one, reaches for the absurd) I said that he will reap his sister.

Note how clever my dumb ass thought I was being. If I said the boy would reap his sister, and he heard rape, then he would be the bad one. It wouldn’t by my fault that he had such a rotten mind. And the little s.o.b. was what one might call a bad boy. As much as he teased me, he was fascinated by my breasts (yes, I had breasts at that tender age) and because we lived down the street from each other, he often took the opportunity to let me know he saw 'em. Again, not the point, but God, we were some rotten kids!

Anyway, back to my abysmal lies. Ms. Ellis was actually taken aback for a fleeting moment. It soon because obvious, though, that she was just interested in seeing where I was going and how far I would be willing to go in this lie.

ME: (shrilly) Reap?!

k: Yes, Ms. Ellis.

ME: And just what does that mean, young lady?

k: (stammering) It’s just another way of saying that he beat his sister.

ME: What? How?

k: (slowly growing more desperate, yet strangely confident in her ability to keep this going): Yes, because it’s just like reaping a harvest, you know, you have the stalk of wheat or whatever and then you use it to whip someone. No, no! It’s like the motion of reaping a harvest, the same motion that you use to beat someone. Reaping. We say it at home.

I’m already laughing hysterically at this memory. What was I thinking?? Clearly, Ms. Ellis was asking herself the same thing. I imagine that she was thinking to herself, I’m too old for this. My arm is broken, I hate these damn kids, and this one thinks she can tell me this ridiculous lie and have me believe it! I’m a grandmother, I can’t even see my own grandkids, and here I have to deal with these bad-ass children who don’t even know how to lie. In a Christian school! These heathens are going to hell, starting with this fool in front of me. But to me, she sighed heavily and massaged her forehead with the fingers on her good hand. When she looked up at me again, she peered over the top of her glasses (which was no easy feat, given the size of those bad boys) and said, “I don’t know what happened out there on that playground, but if I ever hear that any of that filth came out of your mouth again, I will call your father and you will be going home in shame. Do you understand me?”

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I knew that she didn’t believe me, but she wasn’t even going to punish me for lying? I was overjoyed. “Yes, Ms. Ellis. Thank you, Ms. Ellis. I’m sorry, Ms. Ellis,” I said, walking backwards as quickly as I could, before she changed her mind and used her good hand to smack me across the face (I was still in transition from being at home, where my brothers did not miss a chance to give me a well-aimed slap across the face; I didn’t yet realize that Americans never beat children at school). And so I escaped what should have been the worst embarrassment of my life. I went out on the playground and gloated to the defeated sap, but only for a second, lest he find something else to go and report me about.

I’ll never know the far-reaching effects of that lie. It was certainly one of a magnitude that could have changed the course of nature. Perhaps it is the reason for the hole in the ozone. Maybe El Nino can be blamed on my big-mouthed, small-brained sin against the universe.

Of course, I swore never to be caught doing such nonsense again. And of course I’ve failed. Time and time again, actually. But I won’t bore you with those details. Does anyone have any whoppers they want to share, for fun? Not that I’m trying to build my repertoire or anything ;-).

Pyeri Boy

I hardly ever endorse anything (mostly because I can't influence anything, not even the hair on my head), but I absolutely must introduce y'all to my other favorite short man, Jude Abaga, aka Pyeri Boy, aka m.i who has brought a fresh new sound to Nigerian hip hop, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not the only one, though; Jude's sound is hot. And because I like Jude's music so much, I would like for everyone who can to check it out at his space. I guarantee you'll find something to love.

Jude, you should put "Pyeri Boy" up there!

Chapter III: When A Man Dies

While I was writing the conclusion of Ahmed's death, I suddenly realized that the ending I have is for a much more complex story than I have had the time to write. The personalities, histories and relationships of the characters in my imagination are so vivid to me, but I haven't been able to convey them - yet. Plus, I hate the way the story ends. I've always had a problem ending a story, because it's always so hard for me to comprehend "the end" of anything, especially life. Still, I hope you don't feel like you've wasted your time with this, and your criticism is always welcome. I can only get better, after all. Presenting the last installment:

Don't read this crap. It sucks.

Ahmed slathered thick saliva over his dry, cracked lips, preparing to speak to his child when Shahina’s face suddenly appeared beside their daughter’s, rough and dark in comparison. In her eyes he saw the same iciness that had lain there for almost forty years, though fear had temporarily blunted its edges. He breathed, Shahina. Still, only silence emanated from his lips. He needed her to know that their marriage need not have been the prison she had always imagined it to be. He loved her, and it was this selfish love that had made him force her to stay because he could not live without her. He wished she could have allowed herself to grow happy with him, to be gentle with him, so that he would know the tears staining her cheeks shared his pain and warmth. Instead, he had hardened her soul and caused his oldest son a most unfortunate childhood.

But in this moment, he could not allow himself the slightest regret. He was beginning to feel light, weightless, as though his essence was no longer subject to the pull of the Earth but had gained authority over itself. He could feel himself disappearing; first toes, then legs, then hips. Abdul! Where was Abdul? He was panicking now; his unsaid messages burning holes in his chest as they fought to escape. He scanned the many faces that now surrounded his bed, looking for the familiar black eyes set above a hooked nose and the strong jaw that belonged to his son. The boy was now a man, but he still hurt like a boy; that hurt must not find its way back to Shahina. Ahmed knew that Abdul would do as he was told, would obey the last wishes of his father, even if his father asked him to do the impossible: love his mother. Finally, Abdul’s face pushed through the crowd. He grabbed his father’s left hand. “Baba?” he said, half-pleading with him to stay. Ahmed looked, and he tried again to speak.

He took many shallow breaths, and began to shake vigorously with the exertion. The family grew alarmed. What was happening, the straggling visitors on the edge of the crowd wanted to know. Shahina’s wits quickly took hold of her, and she began to chase them out of Ahmed’s bedroom. “Get out! What do you want here? Leave us, you bastards! Vultures!” No one took offense at her curses; after all, she was grieving. It was clear that the sadness was manipulating her mind, overpowering her sanity. They shuffled out reluctantly, stealing glances over their shoulders for one last look at Ahmed’s predicament.

Behind her, Ahmed could no longer feel his arms or his chest. Though his body shook violently he knew nothing of it, aware only of the calm that one associates with weightlessness. He had become an omnipresence—uncontainable, untouchable. The particles that comprised what he had once believed was Ahmed were becoming one with the Earth, with the curtains, the flowers on the windowsill, Mariam’s hair, the very bed on which his shriveled body lay. All the remained on the pillow was his head and as he disintegrated into the void that contained everything, he knew, he must say his last words or be gone forever, in silence.

He tried to ease the desperation he still felt, and prayed for a peaceful calm. With eyes that saw brightly, he looked up at the faces of his children and his wife and finally began to rest. He saw fear and sorrow in their tears, but he smiled. These were the people with whom he had shared his life, whom he had given life. They had shared everything with one another, from food to common colds. They had learned together, had grown in wisdom and knowledge to the jealousy of their friends and neighbors. They were handsome and they were healthy, and there was only one thing he wanted them to know. He smiled up at them, and as Ahmed turned to dust, he told them with his last breath: “Embrace kindness.” And then he was gone.

The entire house had grown eerily silent. The visitors, banished to the living quarters, listened for any sounds that would indicate what was happening in the bedroom. But the family never spoke. For long minutes, no-one said a word. Tears froze on cheeks and dried up under eyelids. In absolute stillness, they sank into their thoughts and stared at their father’s lifeless corpse, barely breathing themselves. Ahmed’s parting word enveloped them in a shroud of self-consciousness as they battled, each one, to unravel the complexity of that simple word, embrace, and determine the meaning it carried for their respective selves. Why would Baba ask them to do that, they thought. How could those be his final words? What on earth could he mean? The puzzlement was more than they could bear, and one by one, they turned away from the bed in disappointment and disgust, muttering under their breaths about how it was just like Baba to be so self-involved, even unto his last moment.

Soon, the only ones left were Mariam, Abdul and Shahina. They had been there with Ahmed from the beginning, and their pain at being placed in an impenetrable darkness was perhaps greater than any of the other relatives that Ahmed had left behind. Mariam still kneeled by her father’s head, but she felt drained, empty. All her efforts over the past few weeks to heal her father and comfort him seemed to have been for naught. When the end came, she was still not prepared. To her, all that mattered was that her father had gone and left her, despite her prayers, and his words were meaningless to her. He had left her nothing to carry her through the difficult months to come, and she was almost certain that she hated him for that. Meanwhile, the salient edge had returned to Shahina’s icy stare. She was bitter and angry, a slighted widow and no longer sorrowful. The lout had never even apologized for what he had done to her, or for the parts of her life that he had claimed. He had taken her youth, even her children loved him more than they did her, and now he had begrudged her even an ounce of remorse or pity, even at death’s door. As far as she was concerned, he had tried to break her for the last time, and she condemned him to a hell that was hotter and darker than the living hell he had subjected her to while she was alive.

And then there was Abdul. He never stopped looking at the little smile that had stayed frozen on Ahmed’s face long after the Earth had recaptured his soul. The long, deep dimples that had once garnished his cheeks when he grinned were long gone, swallowed by the wrinkles that gutted his entire face, but Ahmed remembered and loved it. It was a smile he had known from his boyhood, at a time when Ahmed’s arms were the only place he could find happiness, and when Ahmed’s eyes were the only ones that looked at him with compassion. Because of his father, the inevitable hatred that could only come from the anger he felt towards his mother was kept at bay; because of his father, he had come to know love and to feel adoration. Now his father was gone, leaving him in charge of a family that he was not sure he could keep together. He felt overburdened with sorrow, loneliness and a responsibility that he did not want.

But even in his most painful and frightful moment, at death’s door, Ahmed had remembered to smile at his son. He had sent a message to Abdul, a reminder of the love they had shared, and encouragement that he was capable of standing on his own in self-assured strength, to feel compassion and show kindness. When Abdul looked up from the small, shriveled corpse that had once been his father, he gazed across the bed and saw the dark figures of his mother and sister at the opposite edge. They stood apart, each in her private misery, weeping and alone. Ahmed’s words echoed in the room: embrace kindness. Embrace kindness. Abdul walked hesitantly around the foot of the bed toward Shahina, but stopped just a few feet away from her. His heart pounded so strongly, he could feel its reverberations in his throat. This woman, his mother, was despicable. The hard lines of her face, the way she had always ignored him except to torment him, the anger in her eyes whenever she looked at him – he abhorred everything about her. He saw her tears and knew they could only be for herself, not for anyone else, because Shahina was incapable of caring for anyone else. Yet now, she was his responsibility and he could not shirk her. Embrace kindness. But how? How could he forgive her, take care of her, when she had never for a moment cared for him the way a mother should?

The three stood, so frozen in their anguish and confusion that they never noticed little Mohammed slink into the room. With all the chaos, nobody remembered the child who had once deemed that Ahmed’s death would not come so soon, though his pronouncement had proved to be untrue. As the adults because absorbed in mourning and funeral plans, discussing politics and the latest gossip, Mohammed grew increasingly agitated and afraid, and so sought his mother, Mariam. Though he did not yet know that the cause of the negative feelings floating through the house was his grandfather’s death, his immature mind knew only that his mother could and would alleviate his feelings of invisibility, and her arms would shield him from that which he did not understand. He entered the room, focused only on reaching the safety of his mother’s side, but when he found her, he noticed with alarm that she was crying. He was confused and a bit afraid, but gently called to her. “Mama?” Mariam looked up at her child, her eyelashes wet and clumped together. Without stopping to think, the boy immediately wrapped his skinny little arms around her neck, saying, “Don’t cry, it’s all right, Mama,” repeatedly.

Abdul looked on at this simple, childish act of consolation, marveling at Mariam’s response. Moments ago, she had forgotten that anyone else in the world existed. Now she was squeezing her child as hard as she dared and, though she still wept, a miniscule smile had crept through the torrent of tears, mirroring her content at being comforted by one of her own. Encouraged, inspired, Abdul swallowed hard, and took the two steps that brought him to his mother’s side. Slowly, gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder. Shahina looked up, startled to be touched, and even more shocked to see that it was her son’s hand that rested on her. He reached down for her hand, and raised her up from the floor where she kneeled. Embrace kindness. The words reverberated through him, and he barely heard her sharp intake of breath as he drew her close to his body. Shahina crumpled, broken by this act of tenderness, and for once she tired of being resentful. In the wake of Abdul’s kindness to her, she softened. Years of neglect, hurt and regret that had never been addressed crashed over them like a giant, blue wave of emotion. Embrace. Together, they cried loud and long, rocking back and forth in their fully encircling clasp, each teardrop forming an apology that was years overdue.

They never spoke of forgiveness. Their future was uncharted, too unclear to know if they could ever attain true forgiveness. But they embraced, locked into this moment when they could finally be the cause of the other’s happiness, each the source of the other’s comfort. And Ahmed’s spirit continued to smile, his invisible presence moving over and through them, enveloping them with his eternal love.

I've Been Tagged!

Way to give me assignment, Adaure!

FOUR JOBS YOU'VE HAD IN YOUR LIFE
1. Customer Service Rep at The Pulse (copy center on GW campus in DC)
2. Lenoir Hall cashier/maker and shaker of Jamba Juice + occasional tief at Subway (I called it reparations)
3. Research assistant at FPG Child Development Institute
4. Website reviewer for CTI, a.k.a. pay me to chill at my house and watch TV all day as I pretend to work hard for you

FOUR FICTIONAL JOBS YOU WISH YOU HAD
1. Nigeria's Minister of Women Affairs
2. Coyote Ugly bartender
3. CEO of Microsoft
4. Zookeeper

FOUR MOVIES YOU COULD WATCH OVER AND OVER AGAIN
1. The Color Purple
2. Coming to America
3. Lord of the Rings (but only part 2, where Gandalf the Grey becomes the Gandalf the White but is SHOCKED that people are still calling him Gandalf)
4. The first 10 minutes of "Who's Next", starring Jim Iyke ("You can't just come in here and styat...and styat...ARDRIN us aroun'...stan' up, sit down, do dat...you wanna end dis shyeeet?!" LOL!!!)

CITIES YOU'VE LIVED IN
1. Lagos, Nigeria
2. Port Harcourt, Nigeria
3. Jos, Nigeria
4. Chapel Hill, NC

FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH
1. Everybody Hates Chris
2. Oprah
3. Girlfriends
4. Dateline (this is clearly my "I don't want you guys to think that all I watch is trash" entry)

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION/TRAVELED TO
1. London, England
2. Cape Town, South Africa
3. Zanzibar, Tanzania
4. Toronto, Canada (odikwa world traveler o!)

FOUR WEBSITES YOU VISIT DAILY
1. Gmail/Google
2. Blogger
3. Facebook
4. Yale University

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS
1. SUSHI!!! (Addy, you miss road on this one, but it's such an expensive appetite to maintain)
2. Eba or akpu (you miss on this one too) and egusi or ogbono soup with pomo, tongue, chicken and dry fish...Jesus, I have killed myself!! See me swallowing serious amounts of saliva!
3. Lasagna as prepared by the amazing chefs at Agip Nigeria (or myself)
4. Yam Pottage (as prepared by myself or my sister, AJ)

FOUR THINGS YOU WON'T EAT
1. Amala!
2. Anything with tuna in it (unless it's raw tuna, in which case, it's just fine)
3. Sweet potato pie
4. Unagi (eel)

FOUR THINGS YOU WISH YOU COULD EAT OR DRINK RIGHT NOW
1. Spicy tuna rolls in abundance
2. Akpu and my sister-in-law's CRAZY GOOD afang
3. Isi-ewu with "Star shandy" (Star beer mixed with Sprite or Fanta--I miss my family kitchen :-()
4. Masa with chicken suya from Hill Station (any Jos people in the house?!)

FOUR THINGS IN YOUR BEDROOM
1. The sweetest bed in the Western Hemisphere (I swear there's sleeping medicine between my sheets)
2. No bloke (I hear that, Adaure! Though I really wish you'd stop saying 'bloke'!)
3. All the best hair and skin products from Carol's Daughter and Origins, respectively
4. A laundry basket that is full to overflowing

FOUR THINGS YOU WISH YOU HAD IN YOUR BEDROOM
1. An internet connection
2. My man
3. 3,000ct bedsheets
4. A very large and expensive painting...a triptic, maybe? (inside joke)

FOUR THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW
1. Black gauchos
2. Gray tank top and matching hoodie
3. Green jigida (waist beads)
4. My favorite crucifix necklace (I wear it almost every day)

FOUR PLACES I'D RATHER BE RIGHT NOW
1. Stone Village, Zanzibar
2. Cape Town
3. North Carolina
4. Anywhere but here, damn it!

FOUR FICTIONAL PLACES I'D RATHER BE RIGHT NOW
1. Ihugh, Benue State (it's a real place, but it seems unreal from all the stories I've heard about it!)
2. My beach house in the Bahamas
3. Cuddling up with my mama in her bed in Lagos
4. In Aso Rock slapping Obasanjo and making Atiku call himself my bitch

FOUR PEOPLE YOU’D REALLY LOVE TO HAVE DINNER WITH
1. Shirley Austin
2. Doosuur Tilley-Gyado
3. Newell Holt (a.k.a. Graham Holt's father - lol!)
4. Barack Obama

FOUR THINGS YOU ARE THINKING RIGHT NOW
1. Why won't I just do my work instead of procrastinating?
2. I wonder what's on TV
3. What am I going to do to my hair?
4. Relationships are too hard

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE THINGS
1. Music
2. Friends
3. Laughter
4. Puppies (even after they become dogs)

FOUR PEOPLE YOU TAG
1. I
2. Have
3. No
4. Idea

ok, seriously:
1. Katja
2. Dore
3. Dantala
4. Titi W-D

This Conversation Is Over

Joe's hand shook as he let the phone drop from his ear. It landed on the floor with a loud clatter and broke open. The battery fell out and slid across the tiled kitchen floor, stopped just shy of the cupboard under the sink. Joe was furious. His lips were parched, as though from the heat he felt bubbling under his collar, so he walked over to the sink, grabbed the least dirty-looking glass and filled it with cold water from the tap. Within seconds, he had gulped down the contents. He filled the glass and drank again, more slowly this time. When he finished, he exhaled a trembly breath and glared at his refrigerator door. He carefully placed the glass in the sink, then lumbered over to the fridge, eyes staring intently at one point in the upper right-hand corner. There, stuck against the cold stainless steel, was a magnetized photo. It was a picture of them, him and Sephira, that they had had taken at a mundane tourist spot during their summer vacation in London. It had been a moment too stupendous and unexpected to ignore. While strolling along the promenade at Waterloo, a man with a camera took a picture of them before they even realized it, then charged them for five pounds for it. "I'll throw you in the magnet for free," he said, displaying his yellow teeth in a big grin. Sephira had thrown her head back and laughed, thoroughly enjoying the incredulity of it all. Joe remembered how sexy he thought her neck had looked at that moment, reflecting the light of the setting sun. He paid the five dollars, and stuffed the picture into his jacket pocket as they walked away, giggling, heads close together, arms around one another.

Now he took the picture off the fridge door and stared at it. She had been so beautiful that day. She was all he ever looked at when the photo caught his eye as he went to the fridge for a cold beer, or lunch meat for his work sandwiches. But now, he looked more closely. In the picture, they were holding hands. Joe was looking straight ahead, probably admiring the view, or gazing at the people that loitered on the promenade: the tourists, the artists, the peddlers and pickpockets. Sephira was looking at the Thames. Again, he was struck by her beauty. She seemed regal, with her hair pulled up into a woolly bun over her long neck, her butterscotch skin glowing amber in the sun. Her cardigan, slung over her shoulders, threatened to slip off and reveal her taut shoulders. He frowned slightly as he noticed something he had never seen before - Sephira biting her bottom lip. He started a little in his shock, taken aback by the suddenness of the revelation. Biting her lip. He tried to peer into her eyes, turned the picture a little, trying to get a better angle. He couldn't be sure, but now he felt that he saw longing in her gaze. A desire for something more. Something better.

Red flashed before his eyes, and he hurriedly crumpled the photo in his right hand. He reflexively stuck it in his pants pocket. So even then she had been unhappy. Or perhaps not unhappy, but dissatisfied. As if that was any better. Suddenly, his throat felt tight and dry, and his vision became blurry. He swallowed, coughed. He quickly ran his hand over his face and looked around, as though embarrassed that anyone could have seen him in this his moment of weakness.

There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the kitchen counter. When he took the cork out, it made a dull pop. He took a swig, then leaned against the counter, deep in thought, though not thinking anything in particular. Visions of Sephira passed through his mind, memories of their laughter and spontaneity, the way she arched her back when he ran his hands over the curves of her body. He winced as though the thought caused him physical pain, doubled over and ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. He would not, could not - must not - cry. Now he sat on the cold floor, knees tucked into his chest, bottle of wine in his right hand, his left hand fingering the hem of his jeans. Another swig from the bottle, a longer one this time. So she was unhappy. She blamed him for her unhappiness, but how, he thought, could he have known? Yesterday, last week, last month - everything had seemed fine. They had always seemed fine. Of course, they had the occassional argument, as every couple does, but they always talked things through. Sephira had always been rational, had always seen things his way. She valued communication as much as he did, as the vehicle for achieving normalcy in their relationship. So when had she become eaten up with dissatisfaction? When had he ceased to be enough?

He couldn't think. The wine was beginning to blunt the edges of his mind. He shook his head to clear it, and up sprung the words from the last conversation. Words loosely connected, each yielding powers of destruction that can only be likened to a landmine or a grenade. "I can't do this...I'm not myself...we deserve to be happy. I don't love you anymore, Joe." It felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest. He had already begun gasping for air when he realized that his face was wet with tears. He grabbed his hair in two fists, panting, trying to calm himself. He had knocked over the bottle and the red wine spreading fast over the floor, making tiny rivulets in the cracks between the tiles. Joe didn't notice. He was quiet now, thinking of the silence that followed Sephira's declaration. "I don't love you anymore, Joe." Like a punch in his gut, like a sharp blade slowly, painfully, slicing across his throat. He hadn't said anything, because if he opened his mouth, it would have been to beg her not to leave him, and he wasn't prepared to give up that much. They remained in silence for a full minute. It felt like eternity had come knocking at their door. Joe subconsciously thought, if we don't speak, maybe the silence will undo what she just said. He listened to Sephira breathing on the other end of the line. It was low, but steady. She was sure of what she was doing. When she spoke again, all she said was, "Bye." Then there was a click, and the line went dead.

He pressed his eyes together tightly and lay down, his shirt and hair mopping up spilled wine. Bye. They had spent three full years together, a solid couple, and her parting words were, "Bye. I don't love you anymore." Click. Conversation over. And now his longing for the woman he loved, irrigated by his tears, produced the words he could not say. He wept as they poured out of him, as he cried out for Sephira, pleading with her to stay with him, to love him. But Sephira had long hung up the phone, and he lay alone in his kitchen, distraught, broken. Unloved.

*This clearly has nothing to do with my previous installments. However, I am in a funky mood and writing melodramatic trash tends to be cathartic for me. Still working on an end to Ahmed's story. Hope this wasn't too much of a distraction. Or a bore.

Chapter II: When A Man Dies

Thank you, people, for your great comments on Part I. After I blogged it, though, I began to find it disgusting, embarrassing and hard to read, but nevertheless, I shall press on. Installment 2 - bring on the criticism.

Ahmed could sense that he did not have long left to live. Even as his shallow breaths gurgled in his lungs, he could feel the surrounding air take on a different quality. It was as though everything around him had gained life, the life that he was losing. The inanimate sparkled with vivacity; the living had acquired an inexplicable luminescence that glowed beneath their skin. He seemed to be peering into another dimension, seeing crystals floating in the air around the room, reflecting icy-blue lights on every surface, breaking through the dimness and revealing all that he thought he had forgotten. To him, God had sent him the heavens, and put the stars within his reach. The dark shadows that had hovered over him for weeks had finally left him, and suddenly he felt the need to share this experience with the people he loved most.

But when he tried to speak, his mouth only emanated a low groan. With his mind, he beckoned to his daughter, whose ever-watchful vigilance managed to detect the inconspicuous waving of his fingers, resting lightly on the off-white bedspread. She quickly came to him and kneeled by his head, held his hand. “Yes, Baba?” she asked, her eyes wide with expectation and fear.

Ahmed slowly, painfully, turned his head to look at her, and saw his own big brown eyes gazing back at him. If only he could speak! He would tell Mariam how precious she was, how good a daughter, a mother, a wife. Because of her, he had come to know the love a man could feel for his daughter and he wanted to thank her, to share with her how she melted his heart at every moment. His eyelids fluttered weakly, and she raised his fingers to her face, touching her alabaster cheek with his yellow nails. Ahmed slathered thick saliva over his dry, cracked lips, preparing to speak to his child when Shahina’s face suddenly appeared beside their daughter’s, rough and dark in comparison. In her eyes he saw the same iciness that had lain there for almost forty years, though fear had temporarily blunted its edges. He breathed, Shahina. Still, only silence emanated from his lips. He needed her to know that their marriage need not have been the prison she had always imagined it to be. He loved her, and it was this selfish love that had made him force her to stay because he could not live without her. He wished she could have allowed herself to grow happy with him, to be gentle with him, so that he would know the tears staining her cheeks shared his pain and warmth. Instead, he had hardened her soul and caused his oldest son a most unfortunate childhood.

But in this moment, he could not allow himself the slightest regret. He was beginning to feel light, weightless, as though his essence was no longer subject to the pull of the Earth but had gained authority over itself. He could feel himself disappearing; first toes, then legs, then hips. Abdul! Where was Abdul? He was panicking now; his unsaid messages burning holes in his chest as they fought to escape. He scanned the many faces that now surrounded his bed, looking for the familiar black eyes set above a hooked nose and the strong jaw that belonged to his son. The boy was now a man, but he still hurt like a boy; that hurt must not find its way back to Shahina. Ahmed knew that Abdul would do as he was told, would obey the last wishes of his father, even if his father asked him to do the impossible: love his mother. Finally, Abdul’s face pushed through the crowd. He grabbed his father’s left hand. “Baba?” he said, half-pleading with him to stay. Ahmed looked, and he tried again to speak.

We Interrupt This Storyline to Bring You...

...questions!

¨ Who owns Ajaokuta Steel Mills, Delta Steel Complex, Jos Steel Rolling Mills, Oshogbo Machine Tools, and Itakpe Iron Ore Company? Who is deceiving whom?

¨ Who is the largest shareholder in UBA? Who bought out the shares of Akeem Bello-Osagie and threatened him with arrest and imprisonment?

¨ Who was the largest shareholder in First Interstate Bank Ltd, before the merger into Unity Bank?

¨ Who owns the majority shares of Virgin Nigeria? Who gave the airline special facilities at the international wings of our airports at the cost of N400 million? Why does Virgin Nigeria not pay parking and landing fees and purchase aviation fuel at a discount, while at the same time competing in the same market with other local airlines?

¨ Why should one man set up Transcorp, devalue our national assets, obstruct free and fair competition and sell everything to himself and family? If not, why did Transcorp purchase almost the entire NITEL for $750 million when Globacom bidded $1.2 billion for the same property? Not too long earlier, VMobile sold a fraction of its shares for $1.2 billion. How could all of NITEL with a vast net worth of digital exchanges, armoured cables, three international gateways, among others, sell of only $750 million?

¨ This one man operates six farms in six states of the federation. What is the source of the funds for these massive investments?

¨ What is the deal between the one man with the owner of Mittal of India? Why the hurry in granting Block 246 (oil block) to the Indian conglomerate? Is Nigeria for sale?

Signed by Taiwo Abdulrasak, For Nigeria Anti-Corruption Collective, 26, Ahmadu Bello Way , Kaduna

In this age of anti-corruption and EFCC raids, it's time Nigerians started asking critical questions and seeking answers that will lead to action. I got this forward this morning, and it got me thinking. We complain constantly about how corrupt the nation is, but nobody ever seems to be held accountable for their shady behavior. Now, there is a wave of anti-corruption prosecution, but still, the greater part of society allows the superficial nature of the anti-crime "movement" sweep away more of (what should be) their crucial concerns. How can we make all the big men of Nigeria assume responsibility for their corruption and, more importantly, their hypocrisy?

Chapter I: When A Man Dies

This is something I've been fooling around with. I'm introducing it in installments, mainly because it's too long for a single blog but also because I haven't found a suitable way to end it. I like it because it's raw and unfinished; I call it my Swiss Cheese version because of the numerous holes that are just waiting to be filled with plots and character development, etc, etc. Why am I sharing it in this phase? I have no idea. I figure that's what the Hyena's Belly is for: criticism, sharing, learning together. Just digest it (if you can). Introducing Installment One:

It was a long-drawn goodbye, filled with tears and painful yearning.

For weeks, he had lain in bed, eyes half-closed and fighting to inhale each precious breath of air. Though he could barely see, he was very aware of the presence of his family around him. His senses picked up every movement, every sound and every emotion, especially the fear and uncertainty. He responded to very little these days, but his greatest source of joy was still Mariam. Dear Mariam—she was his constant bedside companion and nurse. Her touch was always gentle, as though she feared that any sudden movement would send his soul right out of him, far away from her. One day her six-year-old son, Mohammed, pronounced that Baba would rise from his bed to play football with him very soon, because he had seen it in a dream. His words encouraged Mariam and revived her faith in her father’s ability to recover from his mysterious illness. The air around her was charged with an optimism that threatened to falter, yet she remained hopeful. Ahmed wished he could put her mind to rest with the truth which only he knew, but he was weak and could not find the strength to speak.

Sometimes, he could see his beloved Shahina sitting on a low stool in a corner, just beyond the shadows that clouded his vision. At those times he would smile wryly, or so he imagined he did, as he considered the fact that she had always seemed to be in her own world, separate from his, and now, even now, she remained beyond his reach. She rocked back and forth, crying silently as she fingered her prayer beads. She did not spend as much time in the room as she should have, as his wife. There were guests to see to, meals to prepare, and her children, though grown, made many demands on her as they returned home one by one to pay their last respects to their dying father. As she grieved in her dark nook, the visitors nodded in approval of her bereft stance and one could hear snippets of their whispered conversations: "...a good wife...so devoted and caring...she would follow him into the grave, she loves him so...." Few, if any, realized that Shahina’s grief was only for herself and her fate, as she contemplated what would become of her after her husband passed away. She had never loved him, had only grown to tolerate him over the years. And now that he was dying, she knew that she would be handed over like a used, dirty rag to their oldest son, Abdul, just as her father had handed her over to Ahmed decades ago.

She and Abdul had never been close, had never shared the indelible bond that a mother and her child should possess. Throughout his childhood, Abdul had reserved his love and affection for his father alone, a fact that she resented throughout his life. She never hid her jealousy. Through it, she was able to enact what she considered to be acts of vengeance upon him: a pinch here, a slap there, depriving him of presents and privileges that she would freely give to his other siblings. It could come as no surprise to her, therefore, that the boy slowly grew to hate his mother as much as she seemed to hate him. But now he was the man of the house and tradition would place her under his roof, in his care. So as she waited, she worried and bemoaned her powerlessness yet remained the splendid picture of a sad widow.

(to be continued....)

To My Favorite Short Man

So here we are: another October 10. It's been 11 years since I could see or hear you dismiss my ever-enthusiastic "Happy Birthday" with a wave of your hand and a mutter about how people are always so unnecessarily excited about so frivolous a thing. 11 years since I could see the twinkle in your eye that told me you secretly enjoyed the attention, even my birthday hug and kiss.

I'm upset because my memories of you, of us, are getting more and more blurry every year. I'm going to have to write things down before they disappear completely. I don't really remember what your voice sounds like anymore. I only vaguely recall how warm and woody your room used to smell because of all the pipe tobacco, and how the smoke obscured the light of the bedside lamp. I remember typing lessons at your office, and my pathetic short stories that you were always so happy to read, and the day you let me "edit" someone's first attempt at a novel so I could tell you my opinion afterward. Clearly, you didn't think much of his work, and it wasn't very appropriate reading for an 11-year-old, but boy, did I feel important!

I remember how you never drank more than half a bottle of beer at any given time, and how you always ate with a fork and knife, even when you were eating pounded yam with Mama's catfish soup and piagara. Weirdo. And there was the time I was (allegedly) rude to someone and wouldn't apologize, so you tried to make me kneel down and apologize to you after she left. Looking back, that was hilarious. I was about 10, we were almost the same height, and we must have had almost the exact same look of stubborn anger on our faces as you willed me to kneel and I willed you to piss off. I finally apologized three hours later, with hot tears of frustration streaming down my face. You patted my back, we forgave each other; it was over. Good times, good times. The last time I saw you, you were in a cell at Bori Camp. It was too hot, the walls of the building were various shades of brown, and they only allowed one person in to see you at a time. I couldn't really talk to you because I was scared and a bit upset, but just when I was starting to warm up, we had to leave. We've since talked about what I wanted to tell you that day, so I won't bring it up again. But don't forget what I said. I meant it then, and still do now.

So those are the memories I have to hold on to. Those, and I try to remember your birthday and your death-day, so we can have a little chat about times gone past. You'd have been 65 today (eek!), but in my mind, you're still in your 40s, playing football and table tennis at the club with young men half your age and giving them a run for their money.

To think that all I have left are memories.

You weren't perfect, but I love you. I love that you were always gentle, and that you always seemed to know everything. I love that you engaged my mind at every moment, never caring that I was young, never caring that I didn't yet understand everything we talked about. I love that you made up games for us to play that would only have been fun to a kid like me because they were always about words. I love that you gave me the gift of words, though the transfer was cut short by those immoral, illiterate yokels who took you away from us. May they never have a moment's peace.

So, Jeje, this is just to say that I miss you, with your short self. Happy Birthday. I hope you're happier now, wherever you are.

Permit Me To Open the President's Nyash A Little

My sister just called me with this gist and I have been dying of laughter since I heard it!

One of her friends was telling her about a benefit concert that was held some time last year; Stevie Wonder performed, and President George "Dubya" Bush was in attendance. Apparently, the brainy Bush had never heard nor been briefed about the fact that Stevie Wonder is, in a word, blind. That means he cannot see. He can't see anything. Not even those fancy beaded braids of his. Yet Oga Presido reportedly spent the entire concert waving at Stevie Wonder, no doubt wondering why the uppity negro wouldn't acknowledge his efforts at camaraderie!

Ain't that some funny sh*t!

Update: OK, I'll spare y'all the pain. This is an urban legend. In reality, Bush only sort of waved, and supposedly at someone else on stage, not Stevie Wonder. See this link for more info.

Setting the Record Straight: A Blurb

In the wake of October 1 and a smattering of "Happy Independence" greetings, I feel the need to say something about the over-zealous patriotism that some of my fellow Nigerians have expressed all over cyberspace. In particular, I'm referring to a guy on Facebook who entreated his fellow countrypeople to celebrate the day Nigeria, via Zik's efforts, acquired her independence from the British after a fierce struggle. In his enthusiasm, this fellow obviously became a bit deluded, so I have taken it upon myself to set the record straight: Nigeria never "fought" for its independence. In the perfect words of Peter Enahoro, we "grumbled" for our independence, and only because the British were in the process of giving global colonial independence anyway did they cave and say, "Whatever. Take it."

And don't think for one second that we were ever truly free. We may never discuss all the stipulations attached to our so-called independence, but we totally mortgaged our liberty. So please, never let it be said again that Nigeria "fought" for independence. You wanna talk about fighters, look to Zimbabwe and South Africa. Nigerians won't fight for steady electricity, people are talking about independence...tschew.

A friend of mine (also clearly deluded, but I've corrected his mistake) said about my opinion: 'Sounds harsh...never thought about the notion that "Nigerians won't fight for steady electricity." Guess I always explained it as victimization of a very patient people. No joke. You know, the whole virtuous-sounding quote "No condition is permanent." ' To which I say: go and listen to Fela's Sorrow, Tears and Blood. Words never rang truer than the lyrics in that song, but in the second verse he says, "my people sef de fear too much...we fear to fight for freedom/we fear to fight for liberty/we fear to fight for justice/we fear to fight for happiness/we always get reason to fear/we no wan die, we no wan wound, we no wan quench, we no wan go/i get one child, mama de for house, papa de for house, i wan build house, i wan enjoy...". Countripeople, na 1979 the guy write this jam o! And yet the story is still the same.

But we are celebrating "independence", throwing parades in NY and sh*t. Ngwa, de celebrate de go. I shall reserve my enthusiasm for a Nigeria that is actually improving its attitudes and policies towards its own people.

I might have been more enthusiastic about October 1 this year if I hadn't seen and read so many embarrassing news stories and articles about 419ers and other disagreeable Nigerians.

She's Here!

Finally got pictures of my baby...

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Innomama Osunyameye Dickson at 12 days old! Tell me this isn't the cutest newborn you ever saw:

This is her being held by her daddy, who is completely smitten with her (see below):

It's pretty scary, actually. I never thought I'd see the day that this guy would be somebody's father. Now he's telling me "Turn By Turn, Nig. (Ltd.)" (as in, I'll be doing the same thing myself soon). Where the hell do the years go??? The next is one of my favorite pictures of Nomsy (as she will probably be called). Pretty much summarizes her entire life at 2 weeks (apart from the howling and constant breast-munching):

Now I'm sorry, but if this child isn't going to be the prettiest little girl when she can finally open her eyes for longer than 3 minutes at a time, I don't know who is! So yeah, this is my newest baby and I'm so glad she's here. Probably won't see her again until she's almost a year old--so sad. I should move back to Nigeria.

Isn't she cute?!

I Am Paralyzed

Chineke God of Allah, I...am...in...pain!! Sake of say person wan resemble Janet Jackson, I have been working out religiously since the beginning of the semester. I don't know whether I am trying to make up for my year-long hiatus from regular, structured exercise, but I really injured myself on Thursday after I ran, then did (serious) weight exercises on my legs for about 40 minutes. I woke up on Friday with a mysterious pain on the right side of my right leg, between my lower thigh and upper calf. I was not aware that I had a muscle there that could be pulled, and yet there it was, throbbing. Standing up required Herculian strength of will; walking could only start off slowly and painfully. But I was OK. I made it through an afternoon of shopping (spending money I had no right to spend), came home and got ready for a night of drinking with some people I know. I felt energized, so I dressed cute and wore heels. I am an idiot.

After a night of strutting my stuff up and down New Haven, standing around socializing for four hours in my friend's apartment, then standing in the freezing New England wind waiting for the Yale shuttle to take me home at 2:30 in the morning, I got into bed and crashed immediately. Even my toilet dreams couldn't wake me up. You know those dreams you have when you really need to pee, so you dream that you've woken up to pee (sometimes even in your own toilet), then when you really wake up, you find that you're lying in a gigantic wet spot? Well, it's been years since those dreams have managed to successfully fool me (even though now, when I'm awake and peeing, I still have to double-check and make sure that I'm not actually asleep--don't judge me; I'm not the only one who does that!), so even though I peed in my dreams about 4 times, I managed to remind myself that I was still sleeping and needed to stay in control of the situation. Anyway, at 9:06am, I decided that I couldn't put if off any longer; I needed to empty ye old bladder. I attempted to swing my legs out of bed, but I found that every time I shifted anything below my hips, excruciating pain radiated from my thighs to my toes and hair follicles and even shook the bed. I thought I would never get out of bed again, which would have been unfortunate because I still needed to pee really badly. I ended up flinging myself onto the floor, and clawing my way to the bathroom on my elbows and stomach, army-style. Overly dramatic? I think not! It was a waste of time, though, cuz I still had to stand up once I got there and that hurt so much I prayed for my legs to fall off.

I won't bore you with the details, but the fact of the matter is that I am having serious trouble even walking at the moment. I still bravely hobbled to my Pilates class at the gym this morning where I was told that the stretching would help relieve my sore hamstrings, but now even my hobbling has been reduced to a slow, slow, cautious shuffle. The only relief I have comes from long, hot showers but that relief is shortlived. Ah, if only someone would come and give me a massage. And I was supposed to play footie tomorrow. Damn it. How am I supposed to get fit and good-looking if I keep injuring myself??

Now I just bit my inner cheek.
When it rains, it pours.

Basic Instincts

So I'm in Atlanta doing omugwo and I've checked out the baby (my niece). In the words of Steve Brady's mother (all Sex and the City fans will know what I'm talking about), she's a cute fuckin' kid! Looks just like my brother, which means she looks just like my sister, Nat...she looks like Nat's baby pictures, actually. I can already tell we're gonna have a beauty on our hands!

It's weird that I feel this excited about her, cuz I'm not a baby person. Actually, I can't stand children. I've met a couple of friendly ones over the past few years, and I tend to get along with those ones for a few minutes at a time because they have the ability to make me laugh and engage me a bit. Most children, however, are assholes and I ain't afraid to let 'em know it! That being said, I was pretty excited to see my baby Nomsy (whose full name is Innomama Osunyameye Dickson--named after my mommy [and me, and me!] and Nat), which was also a bit disturbing because I was wondering whether I was truly changing. I've been positive since I was fourteen that I didn't want children, at least not more than one just for sake of say "I don born pikin, make una lef me see road", and people keep telling me that "don't worry, one day soon, your biological clock will start ticking and you'll change." When I hit 24 and I was still saying kids were not for me, they said, you're at that age, don't worry, you'll see. So I was a bit apprehensive when I met my baby, cuz I didn't want them to be proved right and yet, here I was all giddy with excitement because we finally have a baby girl in the family.

The first time I held her to put her to sleep, I held her close to my chest, over my left shoulder. Because my mind thinks like I'm writing a novel half the time, I began to subconsciously compose sentences that would describe the maternal feeling that I was supposed to be having. I did this in anticipation of the feeling, but when I kept waiting and waiting for it to kick in and all I felt was a little bit of gas, I was actually very relieved. I'm still kulutempa--no more, no less. It was great to be able to help out the fam by trying to make her sleep--which I am very good at, by the way--but being here has totally confirmed my feelings that I don't really want this for myself. I will make a wicked aunt, though. My plan is to make myself her favorite aunt, by being spontaneous and fun (and rich) and constantly buying her stuff her parents don't want her to have (thanks for the lessons, Aunty Gubsie). We will call them 'contraband' and we will sneak her into my room so she can enjoy them. She will spend her summer vacations with me and we will travel the world, to Spain and India and South Africa (which is something that Gubsie and I never did, but no matter...this will only make me the best aunt that ever lived!). She will tell me all her boyfriend secrets and I will give her great advice and she'll talk to me more than to her parents. It'll be great fun.

In the meantime, I'm making a tape for her that she can look back on when she's 24 and contemplating the craziness that is childrearing. She can watch herself howling at midnight, then again at 2 in the morning, and at 5:30 and at 6:51, see the haggard looks on her father, mother and aunt's faces, and tell herself that baby = madness, whereupon she will put on some wicked stilettos and head out to the club. To have fun with the girls, of course; no sleazy men for my baby girl.

It's already 8:30 and I've slept for about an hour. Ok, ok...3 hours. Either way, babies blow. Going to shit and shower, and hopefully that'll wake me up. Pictures later!

Gini K'I Siri?!

Forrest Whitaker is Igbo?? As he said it on Oprah, I didn't know when I started clapping on my couch (apparently there were some Igbos in the audience that had the same idea). So now all you Nigerians that like to claim celebrities by force, you can be fully claming the guy with impunity! Biko, leave Nas (Nasruddin) and Ne-Yo (Niyi) alone...they are not Yoruba. And all of you who were stretching to claim R. Kelly as Igbo because of his accent in one song (i.e. "Do you mind if I stroke you up?/Ah-don min'/Do you mind if I stroke you down?/Ah don min'!"), leave that mess behind you. We have authentic, Igbo blood in Hollywood!!!! WHOOOOO!!! I'm sure Adaure will be throwing a party on her spot today!

Sadly, he just had to be mixed with the Ghanaians. He's part Akan as well...damn! But the Igbo blood comes from his father's side, and we all know that father's blood is the reddest. Forrest Whitaker is Naija...whooooo!!!! I wonder if he'll visit, now that he knows...

I Spit On Vonage...Tweh!

A pox on them! Last night, I was in the middle of a phone call...no, I was in the beginning of a phone call. My brother-in-law had just said "Hello" when my phone died. I was alarmed, but not distraught. I just went and got the other phone from my bedroom...and nothing. No dial tone. In confusion, I checked the lights on my modem. I'll explain for the uninitiated. I use Vonage service for my phone, which means that my phone line is directly connected to my internet. Ergo, if my internet is not working, my phone will not work. Internet was working, though, so I went to the Vonage Help Center. They gave me a list of steps for "troubleshooting the device", which I went through patiently. Nada. "No problem," I thought, "I'll just wait until 9 and I'll call them from my cell." Y'all know how it is; no-minutes wahala. It's at times like this I wish I could switch to T-Mobile. 1000 minutes for $40...I mean, is that a gift from God or what?

Anyway, thusly it became 9 o'clock on the night of September 20, whence I ventured upon the dialling of Vonage Technical Support. Like magic, I found myself talking to Deepa of Mumbai, India. IN Mumbai, India. I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I get very irritated when I am talking to a technical support person who, first of all, does not know jack-all about the equipment they are technically supporting, beyond following printed orders that their oga in New York faxed to them. This is often the case when I have to discuss technical matters with any Patel, Singh or Shah that these American companies thrust my way. As soon as Deepa answered the phone, I hissed. I hissed, but I laughed a little because I knew what was going to happen. She was going to make me repeat what I had already done, then send me to someone else to talk to. I figured since I already knew what she was going to do, I might as well graciously comply and obey. I just knew my patience would be rewarded with a speedy transfer back to America. I am an idiot.

For the next 45 minutes, Deepa and I played "Simon Says". By now, many of you know that I have quite the temper. The only way I can control it, for now, is to shut up. So I never said anything. Literally. My utterances were rarely more than a "Mm-hm?" Deepa, on the other hand, was full of orders: Ok, ma'am, can you now unplug the Vonage device from the wall? Now unplug your cable modem. Now plug them back. Now check to see if you have a dial tone. Now go online and type in this IP address. Now carefully follow my instructions, which I will give to you as though you are a retarded four-year-old, as we do these eight or nine things. Now let's do everything again from the beginning five more times." And I never said anything to her except "Mm-hm."

Actually, that's not completely accurate. I remember one time, she said, "Ma'am, can you please plug another phone into your Vonage device and check to see if that has a dial tone?" I was on edge; my voice was gravelly and shaking moderately as I struggled to control myself. I said, "And where am I supposed to get another phone?" Deepa asked, with great incredulity, "You mean you don't have another phone that you can use to check if you have a dial tone?" At that point, what I wanted to say was, "You are very stupid! Does your father have phone?? If you don't come to work, do you smell phone in your village that you are asking me why I don't have spare phone??" But I controlled myself...a little. I employed sarcasm. Instead, I said, "Sorry, I don't happen to keep a stack of phones in my closet for occasions such as this. But I will remember to do that in the future." Deepa ignored me and we carried on for another 25 minutes, she intermittently placing me on hold then coming back to give me more orders, me intermittently hissing and emitting low, "Ohhhhhs" every time she made me "unplug the Vonage device, then unplug the cable modem, then plug them back in and check to see whether you have a dial tone."

I fell of my chair in shock when she finally admitted defeat and transferred me back to America to "Level 2" technical support. There was something about hearing that American accent that soothed me, so I could speak again. Plus, my "technician" was a black lady who was just reading my mind, so you know what helped improve my mood considerably. The first thing she said was, "Oh, well, you guys did everything!" I said, "Well, if after 45 minutes we hadn't, I would be shocked beyond disbelief." She also asked me to disconnect my Vonage device and the modem, bla bla bla, however, she kept apologizing so profusely for making me do it yet again, that I was even happy to comply. She only did it once, but for some reason, this call took almost as long as the last one. 35 minutes later, she said she would transfer me to Level 3 in the chain of authority. Level 3! I was encouraged. Not solely because I thought this was the end of my nearly 2-hour long drama, but because I really couldn't afford to get upset anymore. It's been a tough week emotionally, and I think my heart is about to give out. However, the dude at Level 3 had other plans for me.

So I got connected to Bob, who spoke in the brisk, curt manner of the technically savvy super geek. For some reason, his attitude set me back on edge. He's at Level 3, for goodness' sake. Surely, he knows that only the worst of problems meet him at his doorstep. He has to know that the people who reach him have been frustrated beyond their wits by the numbskulls on Levels 1 and 2. Yet he had no mercy. He asked me to verify my name, account number and billing address (which everyone had done already, and which is a step I find so time-consuming and redundant, even though I know why they think it's necessary), then he asked the same question that I had been asked at every level: "What can I help you with?" I told him: "I don't have a dial tone." He began to ask me to go on the internet and type in this IP address that I had memorized back in Level 1, when I said, "Oh boy, which levels be dis na? No be Level 3 we de so? You no tink say I don do all this one before? Abi you wan make I tell you all your password before you go believe say I don de on top this matter for almost 2 hours? Abeg, abeg, fall in, make we end this kwanta one time!" That's when he said, "Oh ok, let me check your notes here and see what you've done." A whole Level 3 "technician" and he could not even read the notes before he started talking and giving me order. Even the babe at Level 2 knew to do that! I tensed my jaw. One clench, two clenches.

The guy was still going to make me restart all the modems o, but kai, I had had enough. I said, "No, I've been unplugging and plugging for 2 hours, I...am...done!" Then he said, "OK OK, I'll send you out a new device and you should get it in a couple of days. Your device is faulty." You're all saying "No shit!"; I said it too, under my breath. But I was more concerned about this "in two days" matter because I was going to be out of town from Friday until Monday, and I knew that they'd send it back to sender on Monday. I told him this and said, is there nothing else you can do? He said, "Well, we only have two-day delivery, that's all we offer." I was quiet for a while, because I was partly in shock and partly enraged. I had been on the phone since 9pm, it was now almost 11:30pm and this is what it had come down to?? The low, gravelly voice came back and said the following, very slowly: "I am telling you that I will not be in town when this device is going to be delivered to me. It will almost certainly be returned to you people and I will be without my phone. You people will still charge me as though I have a working phone. And I do not want to have to wait for another 3 or 4 weeks before I get a fucking device in the mail. I have been on the phone with you people for TWO HOURS and you are trying to tell me that there is nothing you can do to help me? Is that what you're telling me?"

He was thinking. I could hear the wheels turning in his nut-sized brain (and I'm not talking about coconut). He started to repeat himself about there being only two-day delivery, then he said, "OK, ma'am hold on, let me just see if I can do something." The air was tense with expectation. I thought, could this really be getting resolved?" On the phone, there was a click, then a ring, then...a voice.

"You have reached the Vonage Account Management department. Our hours are from 8am to __pm. Please call back during our regular business hours. Goodbye." Click. Busy tone.

As I recovered from the blood vessel that burst in my brain, I realized that I was still holding my phone to my ear and that my eyes were closed. I gripped the phone tighter, then held it as though I were going to make another phone call. I wanted to call my boy, but I really could not bring myself to open my eyes. It took nearly two minutes, but I briefly released my eyelids, just long enough to find his number and press "Send". The poor guy was asleep, and he answered, but when I couldn't even open my mouth to utter a response to his two Hello's, he hung up and, I'm assuming, went back to sleep. I, on the other hand, continued to sit in my desk chair, eyes closed, holding the phone. A few moments later, I shut down the computer, turned off all the lights in my apartment and crawled under my bedsheets, fully dressed. I lay on my back, eyes still closed, hand over my eyes, furiously shaking my right leg and trying to resist the urge to curse Vonage and everything they stood for. This is how I fell asleep.

I woke up this morning and resolved to try again, this time using my few remaining precious minutes. I called India. This time, I spoke to Sheba. She attempted to take me through the whole rigmarole again, and I said, no. Transfer me to Level 3. Now. She put me on hold for 3 minutes, then transferred me to Level 2. The man there said, "How may I help you?" I told him my story, then waited for his response. Rien. Zip, nada, zilch. "Hello?" I asked. Then again, "Hello!?" Click. Busy tone.

I became so angry, I become happy again. I laughed, then called India once more. Now Irwinder picked up. Went through the whole Exodus journey again; he transferred me to Level 2. Frank there, insisted on walking me through the whole troubleshooting journal for the umpteenth time. I insisted that I would fly to his house and strangle him in his sleep if he dared to try my patience this early morning. Long story short, I won. Sort of. They're sending my new device in the mail and, hopefully, I'll be here by the last delivery attempt. It's a bittersweet victory. I'm not getting a credit on my account, and I have to pay to return the one that's defective. But what can I do? I'm not Bill Gates, Oprah, or even Jessica Simpson; they don't have to make me happy in order to keep my money.

I'm not going to class today. There's a girl there, Frannie, who is an ITK extraordinaire and has self-appointed herself as our second professor because she spent the summer working for the NIH, which means that she knows more than all of us combined, including our 50-something-year-old esteemed professor. I don't know why she is taking the class with we brainless twits if she already knows everything there is to know and wants to teach instead. If I go to class today, I will tell her to shove it. So I'll just pack for my trip to Atlanta tomorrow to see my new niece. She better be cute.

Update: Ees a meeraycul! I just picked up the phone and it's mysteriously started working again! This, after my internet connection went a little crazy, and I just see now that my microwave has also reset itself. I dunno what's going on here but, thank Providence, I've got my phone back! Now if only Providence could get someone at Vonage to answer their phone so I can cancel that order...

And the Winner Is...

Whoever the anonymous person is that reminded me about Corrine Bailey Rae. The annoying thing is, my girl actually has the CD and I was supposed to rip it while I was in London this summer, but I forgot. Too busy club-hopping. Now I gotta buy it.

Anyway, I owe you 20 bucks. Thanks.

Remember These??

People keep trying to pull me deeper into this YouTube frenzy and sadly, I find myself drawn into the fog and quicksand. However, this was a gem of a discovery! My favorite was always the 'Super Visco Static' by AP, mainly because AP sponsored my dad's sitcom, Basi and Company, and so I watched this ad constantly for a whole season until they pulled the plug on him and his mouth!

Doesn't this just conjure up some fabulous memories? For me, I remember Checkmate, Behind the Clouds, The Rich Also Cry, Things Fall Apart and, for some bizarre reason, Sunday Rendezvous. Nothing like watching some bushmeats from Ajegunle getting hot and sweaty in a random "nightclub", then choking themselves on La-la-la-Limca just to win an umbrella! LOL...ah, good times, good times! I still remember some of those steps...actually, I remember seeing people seriously bobbing up and down and wondering what on earth they were doing with their feet that was making them dance like that. Man...where have the good times gone?

What does this stuff remind you of?

By the way, that Joy girl has some big ass teef! Lol...perhaps there is hope for people like me after all!

I'm Scared

There's a used bowl sitting in my sink. I didn't use a bowl last night, and I certainly haven't eaten this morning, so there is no reason why it should be there. So there are only two options here:

1) I sleepwalk all of a sudden and eat whole meals that I have no recollection of, or
2) Someone has been in my house while I was asleep, eaten my food, put it in the sink and run the tap and left and I didn't hear a peep.

As in, I am CONFUSED. If I were sleepwalking, shouldn't I at least have dreamt of eating? HOW could I have woken up in the middle of the night to eat???

I'm scared....

Please...Help Me...

I'm bored with my music selection. I have over 1,000 songs on my hard drive and about 70 CDs and I can't find anything to listen to. So I'm enlisting your help, internet buddies.

I like:

R&B (which is a wide-open genre, I know, but let the depth of the lyrics guide you to the right choice for your beloved kulutempa :-D)
Jazz
Sounds of the Continent (kwaito, ndombolo, highlife, soukous, etc.)
Alternative Rock
Punk Rock
Reggae & Soca

I like more than that, but let's start there for now. There's a lot of room for choice in there.

This is serious. I need you to care about this dilemma. Music is my life. I don't have cable, and I can sense that I will be so done with my hookah before long (I smoked myself into a headache yesterday...apparently, your body can't take that much oxygen-deprivation without reacting to it in a negative way). This is also a reflection of your own music tastes, so don't send me crap! And just to make this interesting: $20 to the person who sends me the best selection. Are you interested?

Speaking of which: "Mean Gene", Esq., you need to send me that Jonathan Scofield (sp?) pronto! Four months I've been waiting...is it right? Is it fair?

For clarification: I'm not asking for music files or CDs or vinyl...just the names of songs or albums that I will try to get a hold of by myself. I thank you in advance for your LOVING concern and assistance in my time of need :-).

In My Mind, I'm Still On Vacation

Yesterday represented the first day of my academia-induced depression. I finally realized that the summer was over as a result of the New Haven chill in the air, which also made me realize that I'm back in New Haven for The Duration and that I need to get to work. I don't want to work. So I'm smoking shisha instead. I am so buzzing. I need to do some transcriptions, I need to read...hell, I need to buy the books that I need to read. But I'm smoking shisha instead.

It feels good. I'm going to grill some chicken breasts for dinner and then hit the books again. I've only read 41 pages out of 252, and class is on Thursday. Wow. I have no coherent thoughts. I just realized that I'm going to run out of time for this blog once school starts in earnest, so I'm jotting down as many thoughts as possible, as useless as they are.

Went to the gym today in an attempt to improve my mood. Ran a mile, which was good considering that I haven't run one step (except to chase London buses) since summer of 2005! Then I walked for a while, and hit the weights. Ok, well, I didn't quite hit the weights. I went to a weights orientation class and pretended to exercise with the instructor as he showed us how to use the machines and dumbbells properly. I'm not as unfit as I thought I was. I saw my arm muscles glistening in the mirror and wanted to start holding Ms. Olympia poses. But I restrained myself. It would have been a serious embarrassment! Y'all know how, to the average Nigerian, embarrassment (note the stress in the middle of the word--which is the wrong place. To think I thought for almost 20 years that that was the right way to pronounce the word) is the most terrible of sins and they will go to all length--even commit murder--in order to avoid it. Yes, I watch Nigerian movies and too many of them. I make no apologies.

Speaking of words that Nigerians mispronounce and misuse, let's talk about the word "trafficate". If there is anyone out there who thinks this word exists, please come and talk to me. I remember the first day I said "trafficate" to an American. See confusion. The boy said the word does not exist, I was arguing with him. And I don't know why I like to argue most when I'm wrong. I shout, shout, shout o, come bring dictionary. As we no come find the word inside dictionary, I say na because na American Heritage Dictionary, make e bring Oxford Dictionary come, say e go de inside. Years later, I am yet to find that word even used in any country except Nigeria. The correct term is "signal" o! I don't know where "trafficate" came from.

Big News: my mama's first grandchild and niece was born yesterday and she's named after us (I'm named after my mom, she's named after my mom, my mom ain't here, so I'm claiming her as mine)!!! I'm so excited to see her. Going to Atlanta next weekend to see my baby...this is so awesome!!!!!!!!!! My sister-in-law's water broke in a store in the mall, just like in a movie, and despite the fact that this is her first pregnancy and first baby, she only had a four-hour labor. I love her, but damn! No stretch marks, didn't gain but 15 or 18 pounds and now this! It's 7am, I'm exhausted, but happy, and I need to find something to do or I'll fall back asleep.

Peace.

Bareback

WARNING: The contents of this blog are fairly explicit and pretty personal. Read of your own compulsion. I don't want to hear if you were offended!

I was going to write about the sexual fantasies that tickle our fancies (following extensive "research"), but recent events have forced me to change my mind. Some of you are going to continue on and read this, then assume that it pertains to sex. Do not be fooled by your own ignorance. This is about an obsession with clearing clutter. As you might know, I spent the numerous hours between Monday night and Wednesday morning cleaning my apartment after witnessing filth beyond my imagination in my own living space. We won't talk about the cow who created the filth and absconded without even leaving an explanatory note. Anyway, I suppose I was on a roll with the cleaning and the clearing. I was unstoppable. After I finished with my apartment, I went to work on myself. Gave myself a mani-pedi. Shaved my 'pits, shaved my legs. Nair-ed my stomach, tweezed my eyebrows. As I began my bi-weekly hedge-trimming, I wondered for the umpteenth time what it would be like if I didn't have to keep using the scissors, what It might look like bald and if I shouldn't just take the plunge and do it once and for all. I've been waffling back and forth on the question of waxing for over a year (To Wax or Not To Wax?). I decided last night that it was time to just go ahead and yank those wiry suckers out of their follicles. Bald Eagle, baby!

I went on the internet and did some research to boost my courage and reassure myself that I was doing the right thing. It wasn't encouraging. For the most part, the articles out there in cyberspace like to emphasize that the pain is horrific and unbearable, then they turn right around and say, "but you'll LOVE the results!" Maybe I have a mental block. But all I could think of was this pain and I wondered how you could "LOVE the results!" after such an experience. How beautiful could it be where you go through that much pain and just keep going back? No one says how long the pain is supposed to last, by the way. They just emphasize all the things that could go wrong and that you want to try and avoid. Mm-hm, how about we hear more about the actual experience, internet bikini-waxing gurus?? Nevertheless, I trudged ahead. I woke up this morning and headed to the nail shop, armed with a glowing optimism that was laden with ignorance...and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I would live to regret this day.

So I went to the Asians with their acrylic and nail polish and lack of English. Somehow I managed to communicate that I wanted a wax and so we walked into the back room, me and the Asian lady. She asked me, "You wanna takiroroff (take it all off)?" (at least, I assume that's what she said) and I said, "No, I want a little triangle when you're done." Then she goes, "Lemme see." The lack of hesitation with which I dropped my draws was rather shocking, considering I'd never met this woman before in my life, not to talk of showing her my "down-below". Anyway, I showed her and drew an imaginary triangle where I wanted mine to be, then she said, "Ok, " grabbbed the talcum powder and nodded at my shorts. I took that to mean that I could get "nekked", so I stripped from the waist down, hopped onto the tissue-lined bed and lay down, eagerly and naively anticipating what would happen next.

A flurry of Johnson's Baby Powder snowed down on me, some waxing strips were laid on my belly, she spread my legs and went to work. I have to say, those first twenty rips were pretty painful. I tried to let her know that it was my first time and that she should be gentle, but I don't think she understood. Each time she slathered wax on me, she sucked in her breath--Ssssss--as if to say, "This is going to hurrrrrrt....," laid down the waxing strip, and let 'er rip. And, boy, did it rip! I strong sha--I no shout. I did forget to breathe for about 3 seconds, though. With the second rip, I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I smiled bravely and let out a quivering breath. By the fifth rip, I needed to shout, but I didn't want the people outside to know what was happening. So I shouted in my throat: "MMMM!" and thrashed my legs a bit. At that point, all I could think about was the fact that she hadn't even gotten to the nether regions, the tenderest part of the peach, and that when she got there, I was going to die. I was going to burst a blood vessel in my brain and just die. She tore some more hair and flesh off me, at which point I blacked out. When I woke up, she was done.

Yeah right. I wish that's what happened. Instead, at that point, I raised one of my arms weakly and covered my eyes, still shaking my legs. She laughed at me, which translated to: Sebi you said you want to wax? You never see anything!

Well, then she got there. The nether regions. And I don't know what it was: maybe I was motivated by her laughter or maybe I had reached a place beyond pain, but the waxing of my Place of Sweet Surrender was actually the least excruciating pain of all. In fact, I quite enjoyed it. The erotic warmth of the wax traveled down to my toes, and the rrrrip of the waxing strip as it took my hairs with it didn't have the quite the same sting as before. In fact, since my brain was no longer preoccupied with surviving the pain, I had time to marvel at the fact that a strange Asian lady was looking at, fingering and spreading my most private of privates and I wasn't even self-conscious about it! Had I become an exhibitionist and masochist all in a matter of minutes? I asked myself, are masochists made or are they born? When did this self-liberation occur and where had I been when it was happening?

I was almost sad when the experience came to an end. She soothed the area with some baby oil, brought out a pair of tweezers to take care of some strays, and I directed her to a few that she missed. That was a truly priceless moment. "No, you missed these ones right here...yeah, pluck that one...and that one...fabulous!" When I asked for a mirror, I knew then that there is nothing I cannot do in this life. She explained her work to me, pointing here and there, I gave an approving nod and thanked her, and just like that, we were done. Together we laughed at the amount of hair that she had ripped out of me, and then she informed me that "most people just takiroroff." She seemed disappointed in me, and a bit confused at my decision to go with the triangle. I wanted to explain to her that the internet bikini-waxing gurus said that first-timers shouldn't go Bald Eagle, but she probably wouldn't have understood. So I said, "Next time," and she nodded: Great! Then she left the room and left the door open as I put on my shorts so the whole world would have a chance to see her work. Bloody cow.

So yeah, it was a pretty good experience, I have to say. Twelve of the most unforgettable minutes I will ever have. I'm not sharing because I feel a need for the world to know what I look like at the moment (because you couldn't and don't know, even though I'm sure your imagination might be working on it--lemme help you: it's beautiful *wink*), but because I finally feel truly clean. My apartment is clean, my body is totally clean (at least in my OCD mind) and I've learned something about myself: I'm fearless. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is worthy of blogging about.

Or I'm an exhibitionist with no shame and a mouth that runs like tap. Whatever. I'll redeem myself at some point in life.

It Has Happened

There is dog piss on my beautiful couch. And all over my living room carpet. And every surface that used to be white is either brown or black. I opened my bathroom door and staggered back three steps because of the overwhelming stench of dog and human waste. I opened the toilet and called upon the Lord, because I could not even have crouched over what I saw in there. I had to drive to DC to shower because there was no way that I was putting one toe in my shower. I had to spray Lysol in the sink before I could brush my teeth. And I could not see my face clearly in the mirror because of the dried toothpaste-and-spit mixture that decorated it. And the girl is expecting her security deposit. Hm-hm! Do you know she even had the audacity to leave the dog's food and toys for me in my cupboards? Hm-hm!

I have to give credit to the makers of cleaning supplies in America sha. I didn't have to scrub the toilet at first after I put Clorox's Toilet Cleaner with Bleach. Almost all that mess was bleached right off. Then I put on my glove and face mask, got the scrubbing brushes and went to work. It took me almost 2 hours to finish the bathroom, but every surface is gleaming (even behind the toilet--I was a madwoman at work yesterday) in there. I almost licked the toilet just to prove that I could (but that's still gross and I'd never do that without a gun being pointed to my head--would you lick a toilet green with bacteria, algae and brown with shit for $8,000?). Anyway Lysol, Clorox, and Comet products are the shit. Use 'em!

As I cleaned, I was envisioning all kinds of court scenarios, in case she tries to sue me for keeping her security deposit. Me in front of Judge Judy or Judge Joe Brown, telling them how this girl is a disgusting pig, showing them all the pictures I took as evidence of her disgusting self and habits (and I took SO many pictures), bringing my character witnesses to say that there is no way I would have lived in a place like this, talk less of accepting as the way the apartment was when she moved in (cuz she was meant to have left the place in the same condition as it was when she met it). Bloody thief. She wants to 419 Naija babe. Story go pass story when I finish with this chick.

Anyway, on another tip, I've been obsessed with the question of what one would do for the right price. For example, if you're a guy, how much would you accept to kiss, i.e. smooch and rrrrromance, another dude? I "offered" $80K, but most guys are like, "If I can pick the guy, I will do it for even $1K sef!" Apparently, knowing that the guy has good oral hygiene is very important. And yet I have had to suffer through more than one dirty-mouth, bad breath kissing session in my life in the name of "love". Men are very stupid and selfish. Back to the task at hand: how much would you accept to lick that toilet I described in one of my former posts ? (Come to think of it, since I left Ife, my life has begun to revolve around toilets and their states of hygiene.) Ladies, how much would you accept to have sex with two dudes at the same time? And while we're on it, would the guys have sex with another guy for $10 million? Would anyone accept money to kiss Jim Iyke? That requires an "LOL"...as in, I would have to see the briefcase full of money, and it would have to be within reach so I can snatch it as soon as I have finished kissing the guy, cuz he looks like TicTacs will not help him in this life!

Ok, I have to go back to cleaning. I have been cleaning this place since Monday night; which kain nonsense...and she wants security deposit. Hm-hm!

Update: She and/or her dog pissed on my comforter. There are giant and tiny yellow stains all over my EXPENSIVE, DOWN comforter that have smells that strongly resemble that of urine.

And she wants her security deposit back.

I have entered the white-rage stage of anger.