Love and truth August 31, 2010

However topsy-turvy life has been lately, I’ve got the goddess to hang on to.

I’m learning form her that truth is what most people say it is, what we were told and what we would tell our children.

I’ve been saving to buy a bicycle so that I can get around faster when I’m beating the gong, in case AfroSays:

LOVE AND TRUTH

LOVE IS +CARNAL

I listened half-attentively to the grayed pastor as he described his convictions about pure love between a man and a woman.

“Any love that is tainted with carnality is of the devil”, he bellowed as he wiped torrents of sweat from his forehead. I always marveled at how he managed to keep up perspiration when the frigid temperature in the church almost formed icicles on the ceiling. Most of the congregation was clothed in suits and sweaters.

“Ladies, any man that wants to have sex with you is from the pits of hell”, he continued, “Men, there must be no hugging or kissing or staying together in private places. Flee from every appearance of evil!”.

“Amen!”, chorused the older members of the church in unison with our pastor’s spiritual ideologies. I was humored at how most of them had consummated their marriages with a foetus under the wedding dress, later subscribing to spirituality to protect their daughters from celebrating their youth under the lewd influence of Aphrodite.

The pastor had enjoyed his youth, the beautiful lady sitting next to me was evidence. I had helped her to enjoy hers as well. She was sitting next to me, keeping the other half of my attention at carnal consciousness with her legs brushing against mine. Earlier on in our relationship, we both had chosen not to devour the forbidden fruit but we had put a hole in it and sucked its nectar to our satisfaction. It is however unfortunate that nectar never seemed to really satisfy one, it only caused an increasing addiction.

Of course, we overgrew nectar with time and started nibbling at the fruit itself. It had been itsy, little incissor teeth cuts at first but before we knew it, we were planning deliberate camping trips under the forbidden tree, preparing fruit dishes with every kind of recipe book we could find.

Her companionship transcended fruit and nectar. We blended so perfectly in every thing else that our carnal sessions could only prove testament. I don’t believe in the First Corinthians thirteen kind of love because I’ve never seen it, but pastor’s kid and I? Friendship? Naa! our relationship or whatever it was, I just figured it was something cool enough to have around as I grew older.

I didn’t surprise me when I married the pastor’s kid twenty years ago. I only winked at her as I watched her eventually turn to our daughter and mumble something about remaining a virgin in Christ, whatever that was.

The rich man’s problem August 29, 2010

Done lazing in the shadow of my memories, I’m gazing into the sunny future, just wondering…

About a lot of things…

She always seems to find everything entertaining so there she goes again with her malevolent sense of humor

I finish my umbrella drink as slow as possible and make journey for the village even though I don’t want to, beating my gong only because Afrosays,

THE RICH MAN’S PROBLEM

THE RICH MAN

I’d seen my exact dilemma happen to my predecessors as a young man and I was too sure I wouldn’t raise a malfunctioning family as most extremely wealthy men conveniently managed. My family wasn’t exactly overly-problematic; it’s just that it had produced an overly-problematic member. Having Douga as a son was enough cause to label my strong Christian family a failure.

My eccentric last son was a modern hippie. He was the reason why I had to put an end to the family tradition of socio-cultural educational excursions which was really simply worldwide holidaying for the kids and international shopping for my wife. Douga had been the most-promising – I’d even allowed him to make return trips on his own so that he could learn more about the people he found interesting. He’d been quite taken by India, Germany, Somalia (his mum didn’t know), Japan, the Emirates and particularly the Caribbean.

I’d indulged his gallivanting, allowing him to quit school to become a sociologist by experience and he was making me proud by appearing on several international elitist magazines looking eccentric like his father. However, it’s a pity that I had always been too busy to read what my son was featured for.

Last year, I was quite impressed when my sixteen year old son was invited for the last edition of the Larry King show on CNN. He wore a purple toga, luxuriantly flowing hair and a mock Nebuchadnezzar look-alike beard. I’d always been a tolerant person so I did not have any aversions to my son’s manner of appearance, I was only very curious as to why the tenth richest man in the world’s son had managed to surpass him as a global personality.

That day, I listened earnestly only to realize that ”The Guru Douga” had started his own religion.

God punish you August 27, 2010

Tonight’s another time to take one of those journeys back in time.

Shes laughing at me, as I try to quickly walk past some embarrassing memory posts.

She finds one of them particularly fascinating, and she decides to make it into something the village can relate to.

I’d be pretending like I don’t know what I’m talking about as I beat the gong hastily, only because AfroSays:

GOD PUNISH YOU

GOD PUNISH HER

I hate the memory of falling for the same chic everybody else fell for.

I hate her memories– the moments I couldn’t breathe properly because she was around, the endless times I attempted to draw her on almost every page of my study jotter, the one time I actually succeeded, the times when I wouldn’t stop talking to my friends about her, worst of all, the memories I probably created myself; the ones where she noticed me but was too shy to make a move, the ones where she turned back to steal glances at me in class while pretending to take interest in the boring paint job on the wall, the one during church service, where her friend told her I was around and they took turns stealing looks at me, the one where she idly wandered right next to me at the cafeteria to give me a chance to talk to her, the one where her friend gave up her seat for me at the cyber-cafe so that I could have a chance to talk to her. Now that I know the truth, I hate them all!

My friends and I, we called her “Cute”.

Towards the end of my first year at the university, the excessive gallant energy that plagued we products of ‘boys-only’ secondary schools had almost completely worn off and my friends had ensured that I attended several “Cute-aholics Anonymous” sessions to cure me of my mildly embarrassing obsession. I had already begun to establish a noteworthy reputation for myself as an intellectual and I had a lovely chic on my arm to boot with. I had really begun to move on with life but one thing held me back – I was still wondering why “Cute” and I never got a chance even when it was obvious that we had some form of ethereal chemistry, (after all, she couldn’t have been stealing all those glances at me if she didn’t like me). I decided to put an end to my curiosity one evening and I walked up to her, this time with a platonic disposition. She seemed pleasant enough, quite friendly in fact. I was beginning to think that the hour had come for the son of man to be glorified….

It wasn’t that we hadn’t talked before – we had, plus I’d even gone out of my way to study a crash course on “Cute – o – logy”.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know who I was, she did! I was not popular but I found my way around.

It just hurt too much when she asked, “What is your name?”

I smiled and answered, “God punish you”

Why I go to church August 25, 2010

it was Sunday a few days ago so this is what I was meant to do:

Put on a flowing white gown and run around the streets of Lagos, beating a prayer warrior tune on my Gong only because AfroSays:

WHY I GO TO CHURCH

CHURCHGOING

“Mummy, I’m not going to church today”, I declared that Sunday morning. I was just back from my first year in the university and I felt that I had earned the right to freedom.

“After all, Brother Chima doesn’t go” I continued, in an attempt to create a solid premise for the expected argument. Brother Chima is my good-for-nothing, thirty two year old sibling who still stays at the house with us. His early retirement from life started seven years ago when he returned from the university, mid-semester. He was already in his third year when the school discovered that he wasn’t a valid student.We had all been fooled into believing that the Student Union had declared yet another strike till a student from the same school was accepted as intern in mum’s department at work. With further probing, mother found out about my brother’s fake admission although he never admitted it. He gave up on life shortly afterward and gradually retreated into his now obese self. He probably managed thirteen words per week since then, most of which were related to how fresh the bread was.

He was at the dining table, adding to his oversize gut when I took my revolutionary stand with mum. I had talked to him about it the night before and even though I wasn’t really expecting any help from him, at least I was sure he would keep his usual silent demeanor.

The chair creaked and we all looked in his direction, expecting some foolish comment about the bread. He was famous for such stupid interruptions.

We had almost turned back in indifference and mum was about to give me a piece of her mind when he pointed a half-eaten slice in my direction asking, as if mockingly, “Do you want to be like me?”

I went to church.

Six billion neighbours August 21, 2010

I’ve been all about me so much lately, I’m fed up with myself.

The goddess pulls my ears punitively  like my mother used to do when I was a kid and she shouts swords into each one.

Truth hurts, so I’m distributing plasters as I beat the gong, because AfroSays:

SIX BILLION NEIGHBOURS

Are you my neighbour?

“Hello there, Are you my neighbour?”

That’s the question they all seem to be asking at each traffic light stop. Most times, I just wind the windows up because I’m tired of saving the world

“Hi sir, Do you live next to me?”

I think I do, but I don’t want to admit it. I know the truth but I’m going to conceal it.

“Good evening, would you give me a ride home?”

I’m tired of helping, please give it a rest; how many neighbours can one really assist?

“Hi again, I’m sure we’ve not really got a chance to talk but I was hoping that…”

It’s not a crime to hope, you’re allowed to have faith, I’m just hoping that you’re not hoping I’d have your needs met.

“Morning sir, you look familiar, please can you do me a favor?”

He surveys me with the same disposition as I had, four others, He then asks if he’s his neighbour’s keeper

I then remember I’ve got six billion minus one neighbours but I’d only meet a few, I’d been a jerk to four earlier and life gives what is due.

I answer thoughtfully, “Maybe we all are?”

The Miraculous Men of God August 20, 2010

She’s hungrier for more worshipers so I have to put my back into it.

I’m leading the worship session, beating a holy tune on my gong only because AfroSays:

THE MIRACULOUS MEN OF GOD

The Miraculous Men of God

Working at the shop was the most boring part of my life. The usually day dragged on like a wounded creature till evening and I only started feeling much better when I began to move in our wares for closing time.

A nondescript yellow bus slowed down and a man jumped out looking like he couldn’t make up his mind between Michael Jackson and James Brown. He was definitely a preacher.

His bible cover and his suit must have been made from the same material because they were exactly the same shade of faded black. He gave a new definition to “Man of Cloth”.

He traveled with the usual pentecostal bag of tricks: a white kerchief, a bottle of anointing oil that obviously contained an inferior substitution, and a lousy bell for inviting the world to salvation. What a delight it would have been to know how he’d have pulled off the Eucharist if it were an evangelical necessity.

He looked like he wanted to start preaching but unfortunately for him, there was competition already at work. One self-proclaimed Prophet Jemini was inviting witches and their victims to repentance and he was quite the spectacle also. He wore a gown that had once been white and a funny red hat that creatively combined a cross, a crescent moon and a star into an emblem. He also wore a yellow scarf and rusted jewelery, all bearing the same divine symbol. He had beaten his adversary to the podium by seconds, ringing his bigger bell and gathering a sparse crowd.

“The devil is a liar”, shouted the pastor in an attempt to steal the dim limelight. “Dear Redeemed of the lord, do not be deceived, signs and wonders shall follow them that believe!” “We are a chosen generation!”

The soft drink seller as if on cue, quickly began to share soft drinks amongst the shop owners. My madame was out of the country so I ordered for something different today. The enterprising kid tossed a can of beer my way and I settled into one of the executive chairs on display.

“Rajah! Raaajah! Thou art great!”, the prophet shouted, as he brought out an interesting series of colorful scarves out of the thin air. I was happy because I guessed he was going to work some magic.

My girlfriend arrived just then and I quickly arranged a beer for her too. She was still sulking that I had decided that we were not going to the cinemas. She was immediately took her seat by my side and started nursing her drinking problem appropriately. Seven more cans would follow, and whenever that happened, I became a hero. Besides, with madame away, the day had gone well so I could afford it. I could be a millionaire by the end of the month, over-pricing the wares if this parasite would leave me alone.

“Rajah! Raaajah! Thou art mighty!”, Prophet Jemini shouted as he opened each scarf to reveal a strangely dyed bird. The all flew into random. The last black bird landed on his funny hat as commanded, “Spirit of Rajah! Lead thy servant!” I wondered how the fellow had managed to capture those strange-looking rainbow birds; they had extra long beaks and tails and were as big as small turkeys.

The pastor would not be outdone so easily, he produced something even more ridiculous. We turned to him and watched as he produced a shining piece of technical wonderment and poured the foul looking oil into it. He pulled a trigger and shouted “Receive the anointing!!!!” A perfumed fountain immediately sprang out of the device, leaping seven feet into the air. He didn’t waste a second, “Receive the faayaaaah!!!!” echoed through the area as the same gizmo produced a spark at his discretion and we were witnessing the latter rain of fire and Pentecost. Over a hundred and fifty lost souls gathered in two seconds.

The men of God had their offering boxes open and the fees of salvation began to pour in. I immediately donated, wouldn’t you? The book of Leviticus teaches us benevolence towards men of calling and I didn’t get this kind of phenomenal service at my austere Catholic cathedral.

The competition continued in earnest. The message for the day hovered around how Nostradamus had baptized Jesus in the lake of Babylon. The two clerics were at it for several minutes, attacking the issue from several abstract angles, mesmerizing their audience with miraculous side-attractions in the process. I enjoyed several other epiphanies from my new church of wonderful revelation; I didn’t know that had Judas founded Judaism or that Bob Marley was still alive in Tibet. The crowd had already grown to ridiculous proportions.

With that kind of crowd around, I immediately began to close shop. When I was done, I and a very drunk companion watched from afar. Interestingly, I had been discreet to observe from a distance because as darkness crept upon us all, the extra large crowd would experience the greatest miracle they would ever see in their life time.

A golden cloud, rapture and missing wallets.

Emoticons August 19, 2010

She’s in her #JustSaying mode.

I’m in my #JustBeatingTheGong mode because, AfroSays:

EMOTICONS

Emoticons

Have you ever been in a chat session with a simultaneous video feed from your chat mate? I’m simply asking if you’ve ever used a webcam while text chatting all at once.

Did your chat mate actually laugh out loud when they typed LOL?

Did that person actually roll on the floor when they typed ROTF?

Was that person close to death when they typed LWKMD?

Did they even smile when 🙂 showed up on the screen?

Guess not!

They were only responding to your contributions to the interaction session as socially appropriate; they were only employing emoticons.

Life is a chat session; our indifferent minds type and our bodies interface in concordance with the expectations of civilization. We’re always using emoticons.

Smiley anyone?

Shredded and screwed

The AfroMuse laughed at me as I narrated my recent life experiences.

Life was really ‘winner-take-all’ after all.

She promised to teach me to win more often and then she left.

I’m shaking my head at this T-Pain derivative. Gong, on a vocoder, let’s do this because AfroSays:

SHREDDED AND SCREWED

SHREDDED AND SCREWED

Is it immature to wake up in the morning feeling like you did in primary school when some kid broke your amazing Superman ruler?

That’s how I feel this morning.

That’s how I felt last night.

Bvlgari and Paco Rabanne let me down. She intimidated them so much, they vowed to stay home for a week plus.

My two white friends and I, we walked into her lair oozing so much confidence, we were staining the floor. We were looking to have a nice time and make memories we could discuss over drinks later that night. Paco was quite the gallant,  charming his way forward like TATA equipment. He did his thing and handed the baton over to ‘Gari. The Grecian was ready.

‘Gari “the smooth” Gregarious  lived up to his alias. I’d never be able to explain what he did or does, all I know is that he gets the job done. I was in the kitchen when Smoothie threw the baton over. Leave the final lap to Mr awwww-some-more?

I casually strolled over like a 1700s English jerk and took over. Panache a la finesse, on a swagger thing, yezzir! Awwww-some!?

Naaa!

My new fancy friends didn’t impress her. Two years ago, good old Mr Klein fared waaaaay better than my new tag team; Monsieur Givenchy didn’t do too bad either last year.

She had baited us and we had greedily chomped it down, winking to each other.

We thought being served was a testament to our chivalry. Alas! it was only a travesty.

We were too heavy to run when those claws came out.

Slowly and meticulously,  we were officially shredded and screwed!

Sorcery August 16, 2010

She explained that what it was all sorcery, the illusions that befall a mind searching for affection.

A wise mage would take advantage, wielding the power in his prey’s weakness.

A witty witch wouldn’t hesitate, exploiting the feebleness in vulnerable man folk.

I ring this tone on my gong in warning because AfroSays not to be

BEWITCHED

Voodoll

Bewitched
Hocus pocus complete
Vodoll’s been pricked
She’s lost her wits

Bewitched
Abracadabra connects
Spell’s taken effect
He can’t protest

Bewitched
Sorcery in session
Consuming passion
Unreasonable expression
Mind in possession

They are bewitched

If my village became August 13, 2010

My head is still up in my posterior, trying to figure out a lot of things. Sometimes it seems I’m the biggest dullard in the world.

But never mind that, some things are basic – the simple joys of life would never betray you.

After yesterday’s kiss, I’m happier than ever because I decided to be content.

Of course! Who wouldn’t be content with kissing a goddess?

I am more than content so I’d be smiling sheepishly, reflecting on kisstalk, beating that Gong animatedly and telling you that AfroSays:

IF MY VILLAGE BECAME

IF IJARE BECAME

I was just wondering,

If my village became British
Which of my Oba’s many wives would be the Queen, her majesty?

If my village became American
Would we dress bush meat on thanksgiving?

If my village became Italian
Would we organize Palm Wine tasting meets?

If my village became Chinese
Would we eat pounded yam with two sticks?

If my village became French
Would we fry our Bean cakes seven feet long?

I’m not sure about our Root Beer or our Pina Coladas, our Ankara suits or our Aso-Oke sneakers
I’m most definitely not sure about our suicide bombers
I’m just sure that we should remain Nigerian!