Tales from the East (3)

So I am late I know... Okay, that didn't come out well. I mean this post should have come out before now. But I have been busy with hectic villa activities and maybe I praised that WIFI mast at Umudike market square too soon after all. Thankfully the network is back and now I can continue...

There I was, looking for all the interesting spots I used to know in my hometown back when I was a kid.

Unfortunately for one, Obinna the boy I used to play ball with then was now a village fugitive on the run, wanted for theft and thuggery. He had actually served 'jail time' for stealing chickens and mugging elderly women. The last time he was caught he was made to swear before the Eze and council chiefs that if he ever stole again, he would be executed village style. As old habits would have it, he was caught draining diesel (for re-sale) from the telecom mast generators at Umudike market square but he ran away before the police could arrest him. Rumors had it now that he was at Aba, honing his 'craft' with die-hard kidnappers...

Secondly, the stream my village is famous for mmiri ndu (Water of Life) didn't really hold much excitement as it did back when I was younger. Maybe because of all the education and exposure, I was able to see the water for what it was.

It definitely wasn't the crystal clear picture our local African writers painted in their novels. I'll be honest, it was murky brown, and clogged with every kind of material you could find in it. And more disappointing was the absence of those young topless maidens supposedly carrying calabashes on their heads. No, what I saw were elderly women with pendulous breasts and gaunt children struggling to fill their jerricans with the brown water. I think all those 'maidens' are now in the 'big' city pursuing aristos greener pastures.

                                                 
 However, on a more interesting note, the festivals were still as colourful. My hometown Umuoma celebrated its Christmas season in seven festivals, one for each of its seven famous clans; Umudike, Umuofia, Umuazu, Umuikuku, Umuezi, Umuala and Umuoma proper.

Every year, in a bid to compete as the best, each clan tried to out-class the other by producing the most daring hunter or prettiest women-dancers or most agile wrestler. It was always fun.

This time it was the week for Umuoma. The masquerades were creatively dressed and psychadelic, and the girl-dancers were very attractive. Mounds of akpu, ofe oha and ofe okazi were in quantities large enough to feed all seven clans comfortably and have some twelve or so baskets left over. It was just pleasant and I was happy to be present.

Later during the bon-fire, one elderly man was standing too close for comfort behind one of the girls under the pretext of watching the fire-eater perform. She later claimed that he was actually coping a free feel, and told her masquerade boyfriend.  He would have none of it and rallied his colleagues to carry the old man out of the arena. It caused a scene and some people tried to stop them. When things turned ugly, the stand-by policemen were forced to make some arrests. As their van drove by I noticed some of the offenders were still in their masquerade out-fits.   

I think I went to bed by 1.00am that night. The palmwine I had consumed was probably enough to drown all the grass-cutters in Umudike village. When I woke up the morning after, my grandmother told me that when my friends brought me home I was singing 'Nwa baby' by Flavour at the top of my lungs.

I was embarrassed.

It was the day of our umunna meeting. My household happened to be hosting it this quarter. All preparations for food and drinks had been made. One thing we Igbos never lack at home is good food, especially yam. There might be no palmwine but yam was always in abundance. So most of the meals available comprised of yam; ji mmiri oku, ji mmanu, ji ose, ji awii and so on.

The meeting started and after the elders had prayed, I was asked to break the kola (probably as the host or as the youngest person present) and that was when the drama began....

Ricardo: My elders and kinsmen, I have kola here... I began.

Mazi Ogbuefi: Chineke! O bu gini?  (God! What is it?)

Mazi Odom: Biko nata ya oji a. Oji a 'naa sufu bekee! (Please collect that kola from him. This kolanut does not understand English!)

And there was a raucous about whether I should countinue or not. I realized that if I didn't rescue the situation, things might get out of control.

Ricardo: Umunnam, e wela iwe. E nwelem oji, oji rue uno, okwue onye chere ya....

And immediately there were nods of approval from the red-capped heads in the room.

I hadn't yet recovered from last night's hangover, and that afternoon as I continued with the ceremonial rites, I knew it was going to be one of the longest days of my young life.

                                              

Tales from the East (2)

Last night I had a strange dream. It was as strange as it was funny. Wonder where I get all these stuff...

So I dreamt that I was vacationing on an Island somewhere near Puerto Rico. I was excited, I looked forward to seeing really beautiful women; the likes of Vida Guerra and Gloria Velez. Unfortunately, for some reason, all the women I saw there were ugly and hairless. Puzzled by this, I asked why and was told that demand for women's hair had trippled since they started being exported to Nigeria and as a result many of their women were in a frenzy to cash in on the fad. In fact the commercial result was such a success to the Puerto Rican economy that their Government was giving incentives to local 'hair-farmers'. 
                       
It was dreadful and my holiday was ruined.

So in order to salvage what was left of my vacation, I quickly flew back to Nigeria hoping to finish it there. Co-incidentally, I came back to discover that the Puerto Rican men having missed their women's dark and rich long hair had migrated to Nigeria en masse to meet the now 'long-haired' Nigerian women. Soon it became a reason of concern when they started to fall in love and compete with Nigerian men for their women. And Puerto Ricans being all latin and exotic and, Nigerian women whose love for latin telenovellas is no secret were immediately drawn to them. It was a social-cum-biological engulfment and very soon there were Puerto Rican mix-breed babies and children everywhere!

The last straw was when my dream girfriend Chigor came with a preggy belly to tell me she was getting married to a Rodriguez. At that point I woke up with a scream...

My grandmother started to knock on my door but I called out to her that it was only a nightmare. I was sweating profusely and decided to take a cool shower to clear my head.

I have been in my hometown for sometime now, having left Owerri two days ago...(By the way kudos to All Seasons Hotel for their swift room service. You don't get much of that in Owerri these days). So here I am in my villa not Puerto Rico, I haven't been here since 2006 when my grandpa was buried. Five whole years and so many things had changed.

For one, I am happy to say that the WIFI service here is quite good so I am able to blog just fine. It's probably because of that huge telecom mast at Umudike market square.

However, I have also noticed that there are fewer palm trees now than there were before. I begin to wonder if deforestation will soon be a cause for concern. The place isn't looking so countryside anymore. I mean, if we didn't have that 'villa' feel, where would we go to relax from all the Lasgidi hustle and bustle? Sometimes I feel sorry for the indigent Lagosians, especially those whose hometown are in Victoria Island or Ikoyi or something but let's not dig further...

Secondly, there seems to be jump in the number of fast-food eaterys in the nearby town (though not in my home vicinity itself). I am thinking, if these junk foods start spreading towards our area, we would have a big problem considering our beloved akpu and mmiri-oku ji  which is our staple diet will be threatened with extinction. Not good, given that at a time that food saved my father's family during the civil war.

Another major change is in the youths. They obviously have been exposed to city-life just a bit too much. Am not surprised anyway, after all Owerri is only a forty-five minutes drive away.
The sagging jeans (not yet like that of Generation wiz though), colourful lifestyle, Brazilian/Puerto Rican hair (don't be surprised, I've seen a few so far. How real of fake it is, is still open for investigation) and BlackBerry's, yes BB's. My Grandmother  was complaining about them the other day. She said;

"You too you have that phone that is big like a book? Last week, Mazi Odom's son was using it and didn't know when he was crossing the road, a big car hit him and he is still in the hospital. I hope you don't cross the road like that?"

"No Mama. I hardly take it out when I am on the road, except when I really need to call." (I am indulging her)

"Does your own have that wire they put in the ears that make you not to hear too?"

"Yes Mama, but I didn't bring it."

"Good. And then she continued cooking."

 With my grandmother respect was key and I gave it to her always.

Anyways, back to the issue of Blackberrys. The BB fad has got here and the fever has caught very fast. I happened to accidentaly spy the chat on some kid's phone yesterday and the term OMG came up a few times. At first I thought it meant the usual Oh my gosh lingo. Imagine my shock when I was told it was O maka gini! An Igbo exclamation translating to 'Why?'

Now am wondering if LOL, LMAO or SMH mean the same thing or have their own local translations... I will definitely keep you posted on that one.

I have to stop now so that I can feed the goats and check the yam barn. The umunna meeting is a few days away. I will also keep you posted on that too. Cheers

Tales from the East (1)

Greetings guys, it's that time of the year again when the days are synonymous with holidays and fun. I can feel it already. Maybe it's the harmattan or the carols, either way the air is nostalgic of holiday mirth.

It's also the time most people make trips to their 'village'. Some to reunite with relatives while others use that opportunity to show off to the native folk that they have arrived. Well, I had a different reason to make a quick trip to my villa last week (by the way, that is where I am now).

I had received a letter from my 'brothers' back at home from across the Niger telling me that I had long since been due in joining the umunna. The letter amongst other things said I had to answer to my reponsibilities as diala and follow the ways of omenala ndi'ígbo no matter how educated I was. Normally I would have laughed off the contents of the letter but my grandmother's accompanying note made me change my mind. So there I was on the next available flight to Owerri...


My plane was due to take off by 4pm. The duration of the trip was only for an hour and fifteen minutes max. In fact I had been to the office earlier to send a mail before going to Murtala Mohammed Airport, Ikeja.


MMA General Aviation Terminal 2 was as expected a very busy place. Not rowdy-busy, but busy enough to have you bumping shoulders with strangers now and then. While waiting my turn on the queue for the usual checking-in, the air was suddenly filled with the sweet scent of J'ádore by Dior. I looked around for the culprit, but no one seemed to fit the profile.


Few minutes later, when I handed the attendant my boarding pass I looked up just in time to see an apparition in red, disappear through the departure gate. There was my J'ádore culprit, and she was going to Owerri too!


I only saw her from behind but I swear from what I saw, she could have passed for Toolz the radio OAP. I got into the plane and tried to locate my seat. It wasn't hard, the airline was an A340-500 seater Airbus. The longhaul sort and since I had a business class ticket, mine was seat B6, an aisle seat in the middle of the cabin just in front of where the economy class seats began, and a row of seats behind the lavatory and closet section.


I sat down and looked around. The Jádore culprit was not far. She also had a business class seat but hers was D5, a middle row seat directly behind the 'kitchen' and adjacent mine. Now I could look her up very well without being too obvious.


She seemed to have a facination for the scarlet colour. Her lips were painted blood-red, so was her body-fitting dress and her ankle-length heels. In fact, the only things on her that weren't red were the silver ear-rings dangling from her ears. She suddenly looked back and caught my eyes in a move that told me she knew I had been staring. That was when I noticed the mirror in front of her, hanging on the 'kitchen' door. I say, if I wasn't black, my face might have matched her dress as well.


Before long people had filled the seats around us. The flight attendant began to address the passengers on the usual safety drill but my attention was distracted.


'Scarlet' had a red scarf around her neck but it didn't entirely cover the curve where her neck met the shoulders. Her creamy skin was still visible. I looked at the mirror in front of her and saw she was watching me too. Then suddenly, she stood up and walked towards the lavatory. After a few minutes I got up and made a beeline for the lavatory as well.


When I got to the door I raised my hand to touch it but never made a connection. It swung open automatically and a hand pulled me in roughly. The air in the lavatory was redolent with the overpowering scent of Jádore by Dior. The effect left me a bit light-headed.


I was locked in a tight embrace with the Scarlet woman. I discovered that she even had a fuller figure now that I was with her. I nearly swooned from the surreality of the experience but got hold of myself, grabbed her face and kissed her fully in the lips. They were super-soft and tasted like lye.


She kissed back. Her reply had an urgency about it, like she was a diabetic on a dose of insulin. Slowly but purposefully, my hands left the tresses of her hair and wandered down her neck, her delicate shoulders, her curvy sides before coming to rest on her Toolz (ass). They were firm but pliable. I squeezed both cheeks. The result was a soft purring sound. Our lips had broken contact.


There was a rush of blood to my head and every other part of me.


It was strange. There I was, about 29,000 feet in the air above sea level having a quickie in a claustrophobic washroom with a stranger. It was the stuff movies were made of ! I heard zippers unzip and clasps unclasp. I wasn't sure which was mine. But I felt pain as those red Jimmy Choo heels dug into the back of my thighs.


In the frenzy of the whole experience, the taps were turned on and the toilet accidentally flushed. The whole cabin began to shudder slightly...

'Sir, sir...?'

The haze lifted from my eyes and I saw the flight attendant was standing in front of me.

'Please fasten your seatbelt sir, we are about to take off now.'

I looked around me. Everyone was seated, even 'Scarlet'. I quickly fastened my seatbelt and as I did so I noticed something else on her that wasn't red after all. It was a glittering band on the finger of her left hand. I wondered why I hadn't noticed that before. So much for lucid thoughts...

An hour or so later when we touched down at Owerri, I got a cab at the airport to take me to All Seasons Hotel. While still in the car I pulled out my phone and began to check for female contacts on my list that ended with 'Owerri'.

I had a case of the blue balls and I needed a cure...

Sweet Victories

Isn't it quite embarrassing when sometimes you get the neighbor's mail or delivery parcel, especially when the contents are less than glorifying?

That weekend when I answered the doorbell, the delivery guy outside seemed to be in a hurry as he handed me the sealed carton-box. Puzzled, I thought of who might have sent me an early Christmas gift because my birthday had passed over four months ago. I was about signing the acknowlegdment copy when my eyes caught the description of the parcel's contents.
It read:

Ann Summer's "Rampant Rabbit": Maxi Deluxe model

Now this got me really interested so I decided to take a closer look at the recipient's address and that was when it made sense. The parcel was meant for house14d and not 14b (which was mine). I pointed the guy in the direction of the next building and quickly shut my door. I was quite surprised.
Now I am not conservative or prude, far from it but it was who lived next door, and why she would want a vibrator (and a maxi model at that), that baffled me.

You see, that address belonged to Mrs. Ajala.

Mrs. Ajala who stood for everything faultless and just.
Mrs. Ajala who led the weekly house fellowship on Saturdays (and frowned severely whenever I declined invitation).
Mrs Ajala the control freak and poster child for righteous feminists everywhere.

An idea suddenly came into my head and I decided to pay Mrs. Ajala a visit.

I had recently inherited an Alsatian from one of my relatives who passed away. I am not really into dogs, but this particular Uncle meant a lot to me so I decided to keep Castro. Unknown to me my next door neighbour the Missus hated them with a passion. I even heard she had started a petition to ban certain breeds of dogs from the estate and it was gathering momentum and followership. With the rate at which it was growing, I was probably going to lose Castro by the next Residents' Association meeting.

And I wasn't prepared to allow that happen.

I found her tending to her roses just on the other side of the white fence we shared. Many times I had thought of  cutting those flowers.

Me: Good Afternoon Mrs. Ajala

Mrs Ajala: What do you want? 

She never hid her dislike for me

Me: Did you get your parcel today?

Mrs Ajala: What are you talking about? 

Her voice sounded like someone was turning cement and granite and several small stones in an iron basin.

Me: Did you get that delivery parcel you ordered this morning? That did it, she suddenly stopped trimming and looked at me.

Mrs Ajala: How do you know about that?

Me: I have photocopies of the invoice paper and receipts of your kinky orders and unless you quash that petition about dogs you are having, Mr. Ajala is going to receive them in his next mail.

I had resorted to blackmailing her but it was justified. Someone like her had to be taught a lesson once in a while. Besides I was also doing some of the other residents'a big favour.

Mrs Ajala: What?! You can't try it! Ori e! Ori dafun e!

I walked away as she kept raining abuses at my back. I was counting on the possibility that her husband was unaware of her online purchases. Why would he? Afterall he was the local pastor.
She had two weeks to stew over it. And I was patient.

On the day of the meeting, I made sure I sat where I could see her without being obstructed. For someone who was usually very verbose at these meetings, that day she seemed quite withdrawn. I smiled to myself when I overheard a few people ask if she was alright. They would never really know...

When it was time for 'Any other Matters', the Chairman asked if anyone had a topic they wished discuss. He was looking particularly at Mrs. Ajala. Everybody knew about her little petition.

Err...Mrs. Ajala?

All eyes turned to her. She slowly shook her head and said she had nothing to say. Suddenly there was a small raucous of side-talks as people wondered what could have changed her mind.

At that point, I left the meeting to attend to other pressing things at home. The Missus hadn't called my bluff afterall and had actually bought my phony threat to expose her. It looked like Castro was going to be staying with me for a long time to come. It's funny how much you can acheive with a little privileged information.

 This evening, I can see Mrs. Ajala jogging on the sidewalk from my bedroom window and I am thinking I should take Castro out for a walk too. It's nothing personal, he just needs his exercise.

Mrs. Ajala if you are reading this post right now, you can be rest assured that your secret is safe with me.

                                                           

Positive?

                                                         

There was a young lass from Yap,

who had acne all over her Lap

But in her interstices,

Lurked a far worse disease 

Commonly known as the clap

Unknown (London, 1735)

He winced as he left the toilet. It was beginning to get more difficult with each micturition, difficult not just because of the pain, but from hiding his discomfort from anybody within earshot. Especially when he was home with Phoebe.

This was the second day since it began. Only two weeks ago, unknown to Phoebe (and the rest) he had strayed to a local joint in town. The bitch had told him she was clean and he had believed her. He should have known otherwise! He recalled the events of that night...it was animalistic. She was definitely in heat or something.

 Now he was paying for his indiscretions.

The guilt was almost too painful to bear. Even more painful was the fact that he couldn't be close to Phoebe now that she was expecting and needed his comfort most. His boss's doctor had said they were going to have quadruplets and he wasn't going to risk giving her and their unborn children whatever it was that he had caught.

Last night, in her sleep she had pulled herself closer to feel his warmth but he had carefully put some distance between them. It was too early for her to notice now, but what would happen when he did it again this night and the night after? The question crossed his mind several times. He didn't want to lose Phoebe, she was just too good. Maybe to a fault. But she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and was this how he was going to show his love?

He looked down at his balls and inspected them for about the hundreth time that evening. They were swollen and tender. He hoped it was nothing fatal. Probably some bacterial infection that the doctor could fix with a few injection shots.

Somewhere outside a wolf howled at the full moon and he realized it was getting late. He would have to wake up early tomorrow for the long shift.

He left the balcony and returned to the bed where she lay innocently; the mother of his children. He licked the nape of her neck in what he believed was an affectionate gesture. She smiled and turned in her sleep, making a soft sound of satisfaction. He joined her quietly and fell asleep after a few minutes.

The next morning he was ready for work. His coat had been brushed and shone brightly. Even others' were not a bright as his. He reported at his duty post and some minutes later when his boss showed up, they decided to take a walk along the office perimeter.

They got to a spot and he stopped to take a leak. And that was when the pain hit him so bad he blacked out. The last thing he remembered was his boss calling out his name, Rover! Rover!!

Later that afternoon...

When he came to in the hospital, he had a restrainer over his mouth. There were others like him there, he could hear their barks. The whole place was a raucous. Two people spoke by his bed-side and he recognized his boss' voice:

Boss: ...We were on one of our usual patrol rounds when Ol' Rover stopped to take a piss and passed out. Never seen anything like it Doc.

Doctor: Well from our results, your partner has Canine Brucellosis, dog STD. You mate him with any females recently?

Boss: Good heavens No! His mate is expecting her litter in a few weeks from now. 

Doctor: Ah in that case we've got to quarantine him for the next few weeks or so. We don't want him infecting them with all sorts now do we?

Rover watched with big sad brown eyes as he was wheeled away from his boss... and Phoebe. He wondered how long he would be gone.

Suddenly his dog eyes narrowed and became blood shot. That bitch! When this was over, he would find her teach her a big lesson...

Generation Wiz

Thanks for the comments guys. Please I would love to hear your feedbacks and comments on this blog. It's the only way I can keep it flowing...

Okay, so is it just me or has anyone noticed how fast Generation Wiz (what I call fans of Wiz-kid; usually children between 10yrs and 17 yrs old) kids grow these days? Especially the girls! It's so suprising, that it could even get you into trouble [ask R. Kelly and Akon]. And I speak from a personal experience, but I'll come back to that later.

In the meantime, did you know Okada men now have complimentary cards? I didn't!

Last Thursday evening, I was to meet up with my boss and a potential client for an informal evening meeting at Diamond Lounge in The Palms. I had the mental presentation ready and kick-ass designs on my Ipad. It was going to be a winning pitch, however the notorious T-junction traffic at the Oriental Hotel area had other plans.

When I eventually turned into Oniru avenue, I drove into the mother of all traffics just before Fidelity Bank. I looked at the dashboard clock. It was 6.45pm and the meeting was for 7pm. I opted for the Four Points Hotel route (that traffic usually moves faster, try it sometime). It took another ten minutes to get to the hotel itself, and when I did I parked just by the side of the gate and flagged an Okada. I was desperate.

Me: Shoprite!

Okada rider: Oya, hundred naira

As we started, he passed me a helmet. I am wary about public stuff like that, infact I didn't like wearing them. Remember those ads about guys with incurably ugly bumps behind their heads? Now do you still wonder where they come from? The helmet even had a dent in it.

Me: What kind of helmet is this? Abeg hold your thing.

Okada rider: Oga abeg wear the helmet oh. The thing save me day before yesterday. I for nearly die!

Me: What?!

I looked at the man more closely. The day before yesterday was too soon. I wondered if he was even safe to ride yet. Without much ado, I quickly put on the helmet an held my breath all the way to The Palms. It was definitely a night of breaking all the rules. When we got there, he passed me a card and said I could call if I was leaving, that he might still be around.

An hour or so later the meeting was over. I hadn't been too late but the presentation was good. The client, a slightly overweight Lebanese was impressed and automatically, so was my boss. That was what mattered.

After the usual polite pleasantries, we dispersed. I looked at my time, 8:15pm was still early enough so I decided to goose around.

You see The Palms is such a funny place. Most people go there for several reasons. Asides from the real one of shopping and window-shopping, there are people who actually go there just to show off tacky outfits and hook up magas. I mean it's just a mall! No offence though, afterall everybody's hustling.

After about twenty minutes of looking around, I got bored and decided to chill by Food Court and have a Shawama. Sadly, it wasn't the best I had ever tasted. I took out my Ipad and began to fiddle with my latest working models. For a minute I looked up across my table and that was when I saw her.

I don't know how long she had been sitting there, but obviously she had noticed me before I did her. I continued to "concentrate" on my Ipad, and when I looked up again she was still looking my way.

She was dark, tall and leggy. Her shorts emphasized that well. The pink halter neck top she wore told me there was more beneath the generous cleavage than I was allowed to see. She was attractive in a Matilda Obaseki kind of way.

The moment she said hi, I found myself at her table. I don't know how it happened but one minute I was by myself and before I could say bad shawama, I was by her side.

 Girl: Hey

Me: Hi, are you alone?

Girl: Isn't that obvious? She smiled, making a dramatic wave of the empty space around her.

Me: I can't imagine that is possible on a night like this. Do you know it's a full moon tonight? (Not so cheesy if you pull it off with the right swag)

Girl: So?

Me: So, there are wolves around here.

Girl: Wolves like you? 

She crossed and uncrossed her long legs, Sharon Stone-in-Basic Instinct-style. Her smile was lascivious.

Girl: Take my picture! She pointed to my Ipad. 

She smiled at me and struck a pose. I caught her in various stylish positions and she kept laughing with each shot. At that moment I noticed the woman behind us had been looking with a disapproving eye. I didn't mind her then, instead I reached out and set the girl's hair properly before taking a few more photos.

Me: You are such a natural, are you a model?

Somehow all my lines tonight were sounding cheesy.

Girl: No

Now the woman behind us began to glare at me. She was really tall and had a hard stare. I imagined she wished she was younger at a time like this. I wonder why older women have such beef for younger ladies. Especially when they were catching their fun. Simple case of bad belle.

Me: What do you do then, act?

Girl: Nah, Vivian Fowler.

Vivian Fowler, the name sounded familiar. The only Vivian Fowler I could think of was a school...

Me: Oh! so you teach then? I said smiling. Vivian Fowler was an all girls secondary school in Ikeja.

Girl: Nope, I am a student there.

Me: I didn't know Vivian Fowler had a University, where is it? I asked, still clueless.

The chic began to look at me now as if I was some dumb dude.

"No, they don't. I am a student there. I'll be writing my WAEC next May. I am actually waiting here for my Mother to..."

At that point it dawned on me that the babe was only in Secondary School! Holy mother of....

Then the woman who had been glaring at us all this time began to walk towards us. I didn't need to be a genius to figure out who she was all along. So in order to avoid a scene, I did the next smart thing....

Me: [at the top of my voice for anybody within earshot]: ...So make sure you prepare very well okay? WAEC isn't so difficult when you work hard. You are smart and your parents are good people. Good luck!

Without waiting for the woman to get to the table, I took the next quick exit out of The Palms.
My! What did I nearly get myself into? The chic gave all the signs of a mature pro and it turned out she was only a Generation Wiz!

I kept walking. It was now 9pm and there was no body in sight outside the gate, not even a bike. Then I heard a woman's voice call out to me, bros!

I turned my head away in disgust. I had had enough for one night. I put my hand inside my pocket and brought out a card. It read:

                               Amos Adugba
                               Proffessional Cyclist

I quickly dialled the number accompanying it and before long, our mutual friend came around the corner. As I mounted the bike, he handed me that helmet again.

I cursed out loudly as I put it on, thinking of all the shampoos and conditioners I would use when I got back home.

                                                               
                                                                                                        

Uncle Benjy

"Stay away from your Uncle Benjy, he's a bad influence".

That was my Mum warning me then. It was the umpteenth time she had said that. Uncle Benjy was her youngest cousin and of course my favorite Uncle. Those warnings fell on deaf ears.

Every family today has an Uncle Benjy. He's the one who teaches you to make glue out of a mixture of styrofoam and a few quarts of fuel. He's also the one that teaches you to drive a car...as early as ten years old or tell if a girl's boobies are real or merely padded up. Yep, that's Uncle Benjy.
Though such people are usually not the kind of role models parents want for their kids, they often tend to be very good with children and Uncle Benjy was very generous.

Uncle had come to stay with us for few weeks, and during that period he had managed to fill my impressionable mind with a whole lot of bogus facts and ideas much to my mum's consternation. In fact I owed a huge chunk of my childhood enlightenment to his words of wisdom and as a result I was always one step ahead of my peers in the ways of the world. And I was only eleven.

On one particularly windy Friday evening, Uncle Benjy and I were stuck at home. It couldn't be helped; my parents had gone for this cocktail party my Dad's company was organizing. Cordelia the house-help had been summoned to the village because her Dad was sick and probably dying, and my siblings were at boarding school. So there we were, alone.

"What do we do, Lee?" (Growing up then, I loved Bruce Lee movies, so he called me Lee)

"Tell you what, put on your shoes, we are going out."

He grabbed the keys to my Mum's Citroen and we drove towards Ikeja. It wasn't long before we arrived at Titty Bar (Now Club Unique) off Allen Avenue. 

The place was a bee-hive. Though we didn't enter, (Uncle Benjy probably had the sense not to do that, with me around). I could still make out some ashys on the premises.

"This is going to be our secret".

Nobody seemed to care that I was a minor, probably because I was tall for my age or they were all caught up in their own shebangs. We settled for the snooker table/bar outside. My Uncle was a real talent at snooker, he had already won the first two rounds when his friends joined us. We had some beers, a Tandi Guarana for me and suya.

He showed me how to tilt the glass before pouring beer into it to avoid filling it with foam and how to put your finger in the foam to get rid of it.

At some point that evening, a woman passed our table and smiled at Uncle Benjy.

He looked at me and asked, "What's the verdict?"

"Padded", I replied and they all burst out laughing.

Soon it was time to leave. Uncle didn't want my parents to get back and find out that we had gone out. My mum wouldn't hear of it. We got into the car and started home. I can't remember all that he said in the car that evening, but I know he was quite talkative. Tipsy, maybe.

I opened the pigeon hole and brought out some tapes. One of them was Bon Jovi. I slotted it in the player and suddenly Uncle Benjy went crazy. It was the track, Livin' on a prayer. He turned up the volume and began singing along, forcing me to join him. Soon we were shouting at the top of our voices to Bon Jovi.

Whack!

What was that? We suddenly realised we had hit something...someone.

The car veered to a stop by the side of the road.

"Wait here, don't get out", Uncle Benjy was suddenly sober. He got out of the car.

I was scared, what had we done? Then I heard him wail from the back. It wasn't good. I ran out to join him. The man on the ground was covered in blood. He was badly dressed and had a gaunt look. His neck must have been broken, I wasn't sure. But he was dead.

"Open the boot", my Uncle whispered. And he threw in the body.

I guess it was fortunate that at that time of the night, there was no-one around for miles. He drove a few minutes and got to what I believe now was Third Mainland Bridge. He parked close to the edge of the rail and motioned for me to get out. He got the body out, dragged it to the side of bridge and with some effort threw it overboard. A few vehicles passed by but none of them stopped.

I looked into the boot and noticed the man's scuffed shoe. It was stained with blood.

"Throw that in as well", Uncle Benjy stammered.

I wasn't sure but I thought I saw him shiver. I did and it dropped without a splash. All this seemed to happen so fast. He closed the boot and we got into the car.

"That man was a bum. A homeless person with no family, so he won't be missed", he explained.

"You'll keep this quiet and not mention this to anyone, do you hear?"

"Yes", I quipped.

I could barely hear my own voice. The rest of the drive was deathly silent. None of us spoke again until we got home. Fortunately it was only 11pm and my parents weren't back yet. He made me have my bath and get into bed while he proceeded to clean up. It wasn't long before I fell asleep.

The next morning I went down to the back and joined my Uncle as we silently finished cleaning up what remained of last night's encounter from my Mother's Citroen. Even though I had nightmares of the incident for weeks after that, I never once mentioned what occured between us to anyone.
It was our own secret.

Just few weeks ago, Uncle Benjy passed away.

He died of AIDS at Reddington Hospital. A slight parting gift from life for his terrific lifestyle. And I was with him till the last minute. It didn't make me love him any less and I didn't think he was a bad influence, not from the way I looked at it anyway.

I looked at the carton in front of me. It was sealed and had Lee written on the side. Mum said Uncle wanted me to have it. I tore the seal open and looked inside. It was a collection of records, Bon Jovi's all time greatest hits.

I put into the player my favorite track and watched the dusk approach, as the starting tunes of Livin' on a prayer began to play from my speakers.

   In memory of Benjamin Ndukwu (1969-2011)

Listen to Bon Jovi's 'livin on a prayer' here

My First Time...

This evening I was excited for one reason. I pulled her out of my car, slung her over my shoulders and carried her up to my bedroom. I was in the mood and was finally going to do it this time. After several months of procastinating we decided to kill the suspense and get it over and done with.                                                                                    

                                                            

I looked around me, the ambience was good enough. There was no need for the perfect atmosphere, after all was there such a thing? Most people did it in several places and most often where they found themselves. Besides, my bedroom was the most comfortable place to do it never mind how stereotyped it was. So I threw my laptop on the bed and began to blog for the first time...

Oh, what did you think? Get your minds of the gutters folks.

You see the thing about first times is that you never really know what to expect. For one, it's either a good outcome or a not so good one. And you never can tell when for some reason, a moment of madness just might occur. Like this dude who went for an interview for the first time and told the interviewer that one of his short term goals was to replace him. Does that really work for anyone?

I'll tell you something about my first time. No not that one yet, this one was my first blind date. Back then chat rooms had just become popular and cyber cafes (I wonder why they were called cafes by the way, they never did serve any coffee) in Lagos made lots of money selling 'browsing-time' to customers. I used to buy time to surf the net and spend hours chatting with chics I would never meet. One day I decided to break the stereotype and suggest a face to face meeting with one of them, Geri. I have no idea what gave me that courage because I was generally a shy guy in those early days.

I had two reasons for choosing Geri: first, she was fun to chat with and always fell for my lame jokes so I figured out I wouldn't have to work hard on being funny. Secondly I thought she was tush, I mean how many Nigerian girls (especially born in the eighties) bore the name Geri? It's got to be short for Geraldine or Gerrilyn right? She had to be exotic!

So we did agree to meet that weekend at some eatery in Festac. Am not so sure now but I think its Tantalizers, I forget. I got there first and took a seat facing the window. That way I would appreciate her physique all the way to the glass door. *Wink*. I waited about 30 mins and all the hot chics that came in either had their boyfies with them or their mothers. I drained my milkshake bottle and was about to order another when someone tapped me from behind....

"Richard?"

I started from the bathroom slippers up the length of the faded jeans, over-sized blouse before stopping to stare at the face of the girl in front of me. She had the most ridiculous hair-do I had ever seen even at the time and could hardly be described as pretty. But that wasn't all. She lacked pigmentation.... She was an albino! Now for the record, I dont have a thing against pigmentation or lack there of but the whole situation threw me off balance and I was almost forced to deny myself. It was a far cry from what I had painted in my mind's eye.

"Yes?" I gasped

"I am Obiageri", she said smiling.

So it turns out that Geri is short for Obiageri and pronunced Gay-ri not Jeri. I cursed my colourful imagination for getting the better of me.

"I am very happy to finally  meet you...", she continued.

But that was all I heard the whole evening. The rest of the date was a blur and it was the last time I got really fresh on-line with a girl whose picture I hadn't seen. Not that it helped though, but I had to wait few years later for Hi-5 and then Facebook to be invented.

Today I don't do blind dates, but if for some reason I am convinced to, I usually request an image first, no kidding. How many awkward first times have you had and care to share? It's not always that bad I assure you but then we get those days.



That's all for now folks, thanks for stopping by.