The Importance of Speaking Earnestly

It may sound something like Oscar Wilde’s 1895 hit play, but this one turned out more disastrous than comical. Worse, priests and adultery were involved. The venue was my church, a roman-type state-of-the-art piece of architecture complete with stuccoes, tall arches and stained glass windows with sculptures of little angels erected across its several corners; very heavenly and spiritual looking. However, on that fateful day heavenly and spiritual-looking couldn’t describe the atmosphere within.

Saints Philip and Bartholomew’s Catholic Church (S.S. Philip & Bartholomew) located along Lekki-Epe Expressway is home of prayer and spiritual worship to the wealthy aristocratic and Upper Middle-Class kinds living in the high-brow area of Lekki; a former Lagos State Governor and a one-time Minister of Aviation still worship there today. Hence it is not uncommon for these people to coin certain paraphrases in order to speak indirectly about something they didn’t want to say outrightly.  Some examples are ‘join the bandwagon’, that is to ‘give in to political/office pressure’, common among politicians or ‘fall at the steps of the church’ which means ‘to fall to the temptation of adultery’ and so on.

As an unspoken rule, these terms are never really explained but somehow, during confession times when the local priest hears them he understands and gives the confessor penance accordingly. So what If a new cleric comes to the parish, how does he figure it out? No way, it just had never happened. Well, that was until two weeks ago….

Two weeks ago, the regular parish priest Fr. Adekunle was posted to another parish at Kaduna. This might seem unfortunate but Kaduna wasn’t that bad. I mean not counting the violent groups; the city did have its own fair share of wealthy ex-dignitaries. But that is not the point of this story anyway...

So enter Fr. Peter O’ Reilly as the new parish priest. Irish by birth and Irish by personality and we all know how blunt the Irish can be (especially after a few mugs of stout or whiskey…)

In the first two days alone, Fr. O’ Reilly, during confession had received two cases of ‘joining the band wagon’ and ten cases of ‘falling at the steps of the church’. Confused, he didn’t understand the first case and couldn’t do anything about it. However he ordered labourers to rework the outline of the front of the church steps and make sure they conformed to standard.

The next day and the day after that, three more people; a University Vice-Chancellor and two banks MD’s (females) ‘fell at the steps of the church’ again. This was puzzling. He re-called the surprised labourers and rebuked them for their shoddy work. They had to do the steps’ construction again thoroughly, under the Irish cleric’s stern supervision. So you can imagine how outraged the priest became, when  days later, a currently serving diplomat, two House of Reps members and one popular doctor ‘fell at the steps of the church’ yet again!

Having had enough of the reports and what he believed were complaints during confession, the next day being Sunday the priest stood up during the announcements and decided to ask the congregation for their advice. It went something like this:

"I beg your pardon my dear brothers and sisters, could any of you here use your influence to provide the church with professional help in rebuilding the church steps? Over the past week I have had to do it twice because of the series of complaints I have received, unfortunately the workers I called are very inadequate.

Only yesterday our very honourable senators Okon, Igiebo and Dr. Olushola Alade complained to me that they fell at the steps of the church. Mind you these are separate from the previous incidents when Mrs Funke Philips and VC. Lawal complained to me of the same thing. My biggest apologies for their inconvenience and if any of you has useful links to credible engineers, they would be more than welcome. In the meantime, I dare say to everybody to mind those steps. Thank you".

At first the church became silent. Very silent.

Then a whole lot of people began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, especially those in the front row. There was a slight raucous.

 At the end of mass, nobody did the usual after-mass greetings. They just quietly entered their various SUV’s and drove away.

That was last Sunday. Today I noticed the usually coveted front row seats directly in front of the altar were empty as some important individuals were absent. I sat down where the former Minister for Aviation used to seat with her escorts and listened to the Irish man’s sermon. Ironically, the topic was about truth, honesty and the importance of speaking earnestly. If only people would come out plainly and speak directly, a lot of things would be much easier today.

At the back of my mind, I found myself wondering if those steps would ever trip me someday…

                                                    

ON A LIGHTER NOTE

There was once a small quiet countryside in West Yorkshire where people stayed good. Men paid their taxes, women obeyed their husbands and children did their chores willingly. All said, everybody was good so the local parish remained calm and hadn’t any little activity at all.

Until a young Farmer’s help came by…

In the first week a milk maid came to the parish for confession:

Rev, Fr.: Whatsa matter miss?

Milkmaid: I have a confession Father.

Rev Fr.: Okay, put a coin in that basket and say your confession.

Milkmaid: It’s the Farmer’s help; he made me do bad things, very bad things…

 A few minutes later the Milk maid left having said her penance.

The following week, a barmaid came along with the same confession about the Farmer’s help. She too put her coin in the basket and did her penance. Then other weeks followed with a nannies, a nurse and even the school teacher all making the same complaints about the Farmer’s help. By now the priest’s basket was chinking full of coins. Then one sunny Sunday afternoon after service, the Farmer’s help stopped by:

Rev Fr.: I suppose you are here to make the utmost confession about your very bad ways?

Farmer’s help: Not exactly Father, the boy replies cockily. Just give me my own share or I’ll take my business to another parish!

                                                     

This Na War!

Last weekend I saw this movie titled "This means War!" The flick though a girl-movie in many ways was beefed up for the guys with many action scenes by McG (One of my fave directors by the way). In the movie two best friends vie for the heart of one girl whom they both met (separately) and fell for. 

What impressed me about the film was the honorable way the guys did it. No hard feelings, or personal grudges... just plain healthy competetion, "May the better guy win" if you will like to put it that way, and I enjoyed it to the end. But this post is not a review about the movie, no. I remember a similar incident in school days back at UNN. and in good faith I think it's safe to share it here. After all, it's been nine years...

In other to avoid some infringement of copyright law and all that, I have decided to title the post in pidgin thus the name, "This na War!"...

It's 2003, I was in second year and the six months strike had recently been called off after that infamous cult war (thumbs up if you are old enough to remember it). I had just moved into the Boy's Quarters (BQ) of a house at Ikejiani Avenue "Off Campus", having hustled up enough money to leave Akpabio hostel. I was now a bigger boy. Now let me give you a short analogy of  male hostels and BQ's then in UNN.

Those days guys who lived in BQ's were seen as the bigger boys and girls trouped to visit them because they were assured of their privacy. They liked the private toilets, furnished apartment with fancy posters, TV's, air-conditioning e.t.c.(whether your BQ was actually stacked or not is a different story). Hostel dwellers on the other hand were the last carriers.

In male hostels where you had five genuine room-mates and about four illegal squatters in a room (as big as a parlour in a block-of-flats in Festac), nobody bothers to furnish much because several other guys would be using without much care for maintenance.

As for female visits, by the time a girl comes to see you; first of all, coming up the stairs she faces the battle of leering male eyes and cat-calls (shouts of tanker!, a derogatory term for a girl with a big ass), when she finally makes it to your room, she has not less than six male roomies to contend with and of course that rank masculine odour which no girl likes especially when it comes from five different guys...

There's also the issue of privacy. Every conversation you make with your babe is just general knowlegde except if your guys are understanding enough to leave the room. But how many of them will be? And when you want to get down, making your guys see reason to exile for you is as hard as pulling nail from the wall with your teeth. And let me not bring the case of one room-mate who was a self-ordained pastor because that's another story for another day...

Those days if you were asking a girl out, one of her questions was " Where do you stay?", If your answer was Mbanefo hostel or Akpabio hall, your chances of getting her were as good as a team named Accrington Stanley FC winning the English Premier League.

So that was that, sorry for the slight digression. It was just to paint the general picture.

I was in a BQ that had a series of  4 rooms sort of like neighbours. Not the most affluent of BQ's but it was not a hostel and that was what mattered. During my stay there I got to know the guys in each room and their respective behaviours; very funny characters. One particular guy however stood out; Achor was a muscular fitness freak with a bull's build and in the habit of wearing nothing but a particular tiny gym shorts that showed everything he had and the dude was very proud of that. But that was not why he stood out.

Whenever any guy in the BQ had a female visitor, somehow it always seemed to coincide with when Achor was coming back from the gym, all sweaty and 'thirsty' and in those gym shorts only. He would knock on their door and ask for water, in fact he would tell the guy not to bother standing that he could help himself. He'll proceed to enter the room, open the fridge and actually help himself with a glass of water. All this time (with the girl watching), he is in nothing but the shorts flexing and unflexing his biceps with each gesture. Afterwards he would leave with a few jocular remarks.

Not many days after that, the same girl would be seen leaving Achor's room in the morning.

It became so frequent that whenever a guy had a female visitor coming, he would go to Achor's room with a bottle of water and a glass and drop it for him, and if he wasn't around they would actually leave it outside their doorstep for him to see. It was that bad and nobody could confront him.

All this time I thought it was funny until Achor knocked on my door to ask for water. And that was when I decided something had to be done about it.

You see, at the time I was dating Okwuchi. A slamming beauty; fair, curvy and voluptuous. There was no way I was going to let her get "achorfied". But how would I do it? The guy was a bull, one of his arms was twice my lap. Confronting him in a physical fight was merely suicide. But this meant war and someone had to do something about it.

Fortunately for me, I had an idea.

One of Okwuchi's room-mates at Bello Hall (a female hostel) was a big gossip. She once started a rumor that nearly closed the school for a whole session. It had to do with the VC then and a certain politician but that is another story for another day...

That evening I 'acidentally' bumped into her on her way back from buying Mishai, UNN's favorite evening junk food. And we started a conversation;

Me: Hi, Amie? (Short for Nwamaka, not Amanda or Amarynth).

Amie: Ah Richy is that you? I thought it was someone else. I didn't recognise the girl with you, is she your classmate?

Me: That was Emeka's cousin dropping a message for him. This girl's asiri was just too much

Amie: Okay. So what's up naa? We didn't see you this evening, abi you and Okwy met elsewhere?

She was giving me one of those looks. I knew I had to get this over and done with quickly.

Me: I am very tired. I have been at St. Grace's Hospital all afternoon *insert heavy sigh here*

Amie: Who is sick? I hope it is well?

Me: Not really, Achor was admitted.

Amie: That strong muscular boy in your compound? How come?

Me: No nothing much, he will be alright.

Amie: Ahn ahn Ricky, it sounds serious. Tell me something jor. Is it not me again? I won't tell anybody.

I pretended to sigh heavily again and look around before lowering my voice to reply.

Me: He went into one of his fits...

Amie: Fits? As in fitness exercise? I don't understand, biko kowala'm ofuma.

Me: Epileptic fits... He is epileptic (lowering my voice even more)

Amie: Chineke!! That strong boy?!

Me: Shh! Quiet now. He was entertaining his female friend when it happened. In fact he nearly strangled her in the process. She was lucky we were there to break the door and help out or she would have died. We have been in the hospital all day but he is okay now if not discharged already.

Amie: Ha, epilepsy bu ihe ojoo. A very bad thing!

Me: Yes, that is why you should keep it quiet. He gets very angry if you bring it up. It is a touchy topic for him.

Amie: Haba now Richy, trust me this one is under lock and key. Nobody is hearing it.

That was probably the most obvious lie I had ever heard then. I could already see how impatient she was to get back to Bello Hall and tell all the girls.

Me: Alright then, I'll be going now. Send my regards to the others.

Her steps quickened as she left for the hostel. The seed was sown and had taken root.

That year and till he graduated, no girl went near Achor even with a ten foot pole. It was surprsing how afraid women were of the condition. He himself couldn't fathom it and till today I doubt he found out the source of his hard luck with girls on campus.

I know it was a mean thing to do but all my BQ neighbours though they couldn't understand, seemed happy afterwards and besides, 'all is fair in love and war'.

Okwuchi and I dated for another year or so before we called it quits and I moved into another more private BQ at Fulton Avenue where people like Achor and his yeye gym shorts were never a bother.

                                                     

The Beauty of Black Arts?

voo·doo

[voo-doo] noun.

Also, Vodun. a polytheistic religion practiced chiefly by West Indians, deriving principally from African cult worship and containing elements borrowed from the Catholic religion.

Last week a Lagos court ordered the NDLEA to pay N25 Million to local actor Baba Suwe for unlawful arrest and defamation of character. The circumstances surrounding the case as we remember, were very unusual considering the evidence displayed on two different CT scan machines couldn't have been wrong, or could they? Otherwise what were the substances seen in Suwe's stomach and why couldn't he expel them after several weeks?

The answers to those questions may not be very far if you think much about the reason one NDLEA official gave then,

"Our machine detected it at the Airport, .....now that the CT scan conducted at the Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH) has confirmed drugs in his body again what will people say? The fact remains that this man is using high level juju on us"

The statement might have sounded laughable coming from a government official who is supposed to be logical especially when making public statements. By virtue of his office, he actually might have erred in his utterance, but the truth remains that in reality this is Black Africa and juju, voodoo, jazz, black magic or whatever you wish to call it is as real as night and day.

I am not saying this based on a movie from African Magic Channel (no pun intended) or some cheap Nollywood flick, my claim is backed by an actual encounter which I will share with you during the course of this post.

More recently last year, during the voter's registeration exercise, I was at Epe village; a distant native community just after the Ibeju-Lekki LGA area. I went there to get registered because I figured that there wouldn't be any long queues there unlike those in the main towns at Victoria Island and Lekki Phase 1.

During one of the stages of registration, a local woman was supposed to have her picture taken for the record but each time the Corps' member in charge hit the button, the finished photo came out blank on the digital screen. This happened twice and soon enough after third time the organisers began to get puzzled, especially after someone else had their picture taken and it came out perfect.
Then when the woman said it everybody seemed to sigh with relief and understanding.... my suspiration however wasn't with relief, it was one of unease.

Here's what she actually said:

"Ah Koyemi oh! Today when I no wear am this computa no dey work, abi if I come wear am now wetin go come happen?"

We all knew she wasn't referring to some ordinary pendant or engagement ring. Of course it was her juju! I adroitly changed my position so that I didn't make physical contact with her in any way (I hoped no one noticed). The only regret I had was that my pen which I gave her to use was not going to make it back with me to Phase 1 that day...

But that was nothing compared to the chilling experience from way back '96 which I am about to recount now. One I would never forget in a hurry, an experience which brought to actuality things I had only heard of or seen on TV. And ever since, I have come to realize that truth can indeed be stranger than fiction.

Flash back sixteen years ago. Boarding house, the place was Federal Government College Lagos, far away towards Badagry (also known as Ijanikin) and I was in J.S 3. Back then life was much easier than it is now, all I had to worry about was homework, girls and peer pressure. Yeah.

Speaking of peer pressure, I had three friends too; Gbolahon also known as 'Lanky". In those days he was as skinny as a pine leaf. If you see him today, Lanky is actually very huge now (no thanks to NYC junk food). The second guy was Davis, he was the crooked one. Every vice we tried out was introduced by Davis who probably saw it done somewhere and thought it would be fun to try out. And the last (but not the least) was a sickler named Tochukwu who put his frail body through every kind of hard test anyone could think of. I used to be afraid that he had a death wish and might actually collapse on us one day.

On that fateful evening, it was Davis as usual who came up with the idea. It was dinner time but we didn't want to join the queue at the dinning hall and besides the evening's meal was beans speckled with garri (bainz), a not-so-popular food then.

" Let's go to White House", he suggested.

"Yes am down!" That was Tochukwu always ready for any kind of adventure.

White House was a building on the outskirts of the school, just few meters from the surrounding walls. And so-called simply because of its colour. It was a nototious hang out spot for 'bad' students who braved it to scale the walls over to the other side. There were rumors then that natives of nearby villages sometimes laid in wait to kidnap students for their evil cannibalistic rituals. White House was really a thriving joint for lovers of food snacks like bread and fried eggs, fries, Suya, akara, and even squadron in small sachets popularly known as 'squaddy back then'.


Well, we all agreed that bread and Suya was a lot better than burned bainz any day so we set off for White House. It wasn't a problem jumping the fence, after all we were young boys with good knowlegede of teamwork so we leap-frogged one another over the walls. And before long we were on the other side.

The woman who ran the joint was a very large, dark complexioned woman. I am not sure of her origins but she spoke a strange dialect, hardly Nigerian. I also noticed she had a bad eye and that did not sit well with me immediately. It looked cursed, like it had been atrophied by some disease. Nevertheless we had come this far.

Davis quickly placed our orders. The place was not posh (what did I expect?) but it was well maintained though. That dark night, the only source of light there was the coal fire. Thinking back, I wonder now if the business was her only source of income, considering that majority of her market comprised of students with meagre pocket money.

As we ate our food, Iya White House sat by the fire, frying more Akara buns in a large pan while her husband (or some older man) manned the Suya spit.

                                                        


After a while, it suddenly occurred to me that we were the only customers there that night. And the place was supposed to be popular? I was about to bring this observation to Gbolahon's notice when he sat upright and shushed me. I listened up and heard it too. Davis and Tochukwu also did for they had frozen where they sat.

Footsteps...and they were approaching fast!


In the darkness of the night, because the moon could hardly be decribed as full, we observed the thickets in front of us moving vigorously and I was already getting ready to run when the shrubs cleared to reveal the despising face of Emmanuel 'Terror' Akpan!

'Terror' as he was secretly dubbed by students was the Labour prefect and the most unpopular person in F.G.C. Lagos that year. When he walked, people scampered out of the way. He cast a long shadow of horror wherever he went and showed no tolerance for bounds breaking. Already four boys had been expelled because of him and it wasn't even mid-term yet. We were in trouble and I knew there was no escaping this one.

 'Shit! Shit!! We are dead!', Tochukwu cried out repeatedly.
.
We were shaking in our seats, fear had us in its grip. That was the effect Emmanuel Akpan had. We resigned to our fate and waited for the worst to happen... but it never did.

"Quiet, be quiet!"  Someone hushed.

At first I thought it came from Davis, but he too was as clueless as I was. Then I realized it was from Iya White House. She remained in her seat by the fire but from where I sat I could see she swirled a can in her hand, her good eye was closed and her lips were moving fast, muttering words I couldn't make out. Then suddenly, without warning she tossed something powdery in our direction and warned us to remain still.

A few seconds later Terror got to where we were and paused. He looked around and made eye contact with me. He started walking towards me and I remember thinking here it comes, but instead he walked past and stopped by the fire.

"Good Evening Ma. Have any students come this way?"

"Student? No student here" And she continued turning akara in the pan, not looking up once.

Terror looked around once again. If only he knew that Tochukwu was barely three feet from him, shaking like jelly on skates...

I held my breath, I couldn't understand how our Labour prefect was unable to see us, yet I could tell that something mysterious and out-worldly was happening there that night. We were so close and yet so far from him.

After what seemed like an eternity, Terror looked at Iya once again and when she didn't return his stare he sighed and started back in the direction of the bushes. We did not move until his footsteps were no longer audible. I stretched and exhaled sharply. Now I was afraid and I know my friends were too because nobody was keen on finishing their food anymore.

A great sense of foreboding weighed down heavily on us as we went back to the school that night. Not one of us spoke till we got into our domitory. I couldn't shake the feeling from me that I was under some unholy shadow, even after I had my bath that night. And for the first time in many months I prayed my rosary before I slept.

Till this day even if I have no explanation for our 'invisiblity', one thing was sure; that woman had cast some sort of voodoo or juju over us and it was real. Logic or not, it had worked.

And so back to the issue at hand, if that NDLEA official can back his claim with some kind of proof, the Iya White House kind, then maybe the court will rescind its decision on the matter. But until that happens, Baba Suwe can actually smile to his bank.

                                              

Valentine Blues

 So it's a few days to Valentine's day and the mood is picking fervor. All the stores are packed with red hearts, scarlet petals and assorted chocolat boxes. It's the biggest consumer gaffe of all time! Create an atmosphere, build the mushy feeling to its peak, then unleash your goods into the market and watch the bucks roll in. And it works!

But did you know that more hearts are broken on Valentine's night than any other night? If you don't believe me ask the babes who's boyfriend's are changing their ring tones from P-Squared's "You must chop my money" to MI and Waje's "Whether na One Naira" or guys whose babes suddenly had this family 'emergency' that they had to travel for.

Antagonistic? No am not. The season always held a very significant meaning for me until Hauwa happened. Hauwa came and gave it what I now call the Valentine blues...

Three years ago I was in Abuja for a leadership summit organized by GOTNI. The venue was NICON Hotel. We had ended the module for that day quite early and it was a Friday. I thought about doing something spontaneous. Certainly not clubbing, God knows I was too tired to burn any more energy that evening (not to mention staying up the better part of the night to have my ears blown up by some enthusiastic Deejay).

I called Craig and Efeturi my Abuja wingmen. They were just closing from work and heading to Aqua Nightclub in Sheraton, Ladi Kwali Way. I had guessed right. Unfortunately, I already decided I didn’t want to club. I still recall my last Aqua Nightclub encounter. There was supposedly a ‘Girls Gone Wild’ theme that night and we had gone there expecting to see exotic dancers from Asia and the Virgin Islands as promised. Only when we got there, the women we saw were far from exotic. Someone later joked that they were from Papua New Guinea. Simply put, they looked like they were all related to that Chinese man “Ug Lee”, if you understand what I mean.

So it turned out that I was alone. Well maybe not...

I took out my phone and dialed Chioma’s number. Chioma was an old friend I met in camp years before. We never really dated but whenever I was in Abuja, I always checked her out and she was indeed good company.

Me:  Babe

Chioma:  Richy Rich. What do I owe this call, are you in town? Her voice was really drowsy-dull, like she  had just woken up. But it was only just 6pm.

Me:  For a few days. Wanna come around, am at my usual place?

Chioma:  Hmm, is that so?  I didn’t like the tone of her voice. It was quite unlike her.

Me:  Are you okay? You sound funny, and I don't mean 'ha ha'

Chioma:  Actually, I have the cramps... I could still come around though. We’ll only just cuddle.

Me:  Umm, I wouldn’t want to bother you then. Maybe it’ll be a good idea if you just stayed in, you know...get better?

When the call ended, I hoped she would see how understanding I could be.

So, again I was by myself.

I made up my mind to see a movie and call it a night. I flagged a cab and asked the driver to take me to Genesis Cinema at Maitama. When I got there, it appeared I had already seen most of the movies available except the horror movie; Drag me to Hell. I don’t know why but I must have been quite desperate that night to have bought that ticket.

I got my Shawarma, pop-corn and bottled water and entered the cinema. At first I thought I had the wrong room because of the number of Indians there. If there were forty people in that room, twenty-five of them must have been Indians, seriously. I double-checked my movie ticket to make sure it wasn’t some remake of Drahmenda or Nagina. But it wasn’t.

I settled into one of the far corners of the hall and prepped myself for a thrilling experience.

When the lights dimmed and movie began, I noticed one of the two heads in the seats in front of me had disappeared. And I didn’t remember anyone standing up. I shrugged, I couldn’t care less. I chewed my pop-corn in handfuls.

Some minutes and a few scary screams later, someone tapped my shoulder and I had to adjust myself. Though it was dark, I could make out the features of a young woman. She had on a shawl and she draped it over her shoulders. She sat beside me and smiled... or I think she did. I wasn't sure because it was dark.

“Sorry, was it long it started?” She whispered

“About twenty minutes ago”, I whispered back.

Oh”, She mock-groaned, “have I missed much?”

“Not really, but if you are good, I promise to fill you in” 

She merely laughed.

I liked where this was going.

After that, the rest of the movie was more fun than I anticipated. She had the finest sense of humor I had ever seen in a woman. And more often than not, I felt her grab me when the scenes became too scary to bear. I didn’t mind very much.

We laughed a lot at the movie. It was simply as hilarious as it was supposed to be scary. It was one of those horror flicks that aren’t supposed to be taken seriously. Eventually when the credits rolled up we were laughing so hard I could barely stand.

Outside the cinema, I was able to see her face properly for the first time. And she was really very pretty. She told me her name was Hauwa.
Hauwa had a very dark complexion, so dark it seemed almost indigo. But in contrast she had very white small teeth like a child. And unlike many Hausa women, her hips were accentuated to the point that it almost looked obscene. And her nri nwa  was of voluptuous proportions. I was love-struck.

I didn’t want her to leave like that so I suggested we had ice-cream together. After all it was only a few minutes to 9pm. And she agreed.

During the treat I found out she was the daughter of a strict naval officer who had re-married after her mother’s death. She had two little step sisters whom she baby-sat nearly all day.

Her father, the officer was a staunch Muslim and never condoned any male visitors coming around to see her. In fact, according to her she had never dated. Her father would kill her if he knew she was out with a boy at that time. Fortunately he was on a trip for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday.

Soon enough,  Hauwa decided it was getting too late for her. I walked her to her car, a massive Prado Jeep that almost seemed to swallow her as she got behind the wheel. We exchanged numbers and as she started the engine I leaned forward (through the window) to kiss her but she put her delicate fingers over my mouth and laughed.

“What?”, I asked slightly embarrassed.

“I am a traditional Muslim; sorry we don’t kiss on the lips”, she explained.

And she touched her fingers to her lips and placed them on mine. I watched after her as the smoke from the monster engine clouded my face. But I hardly noticed... I was already smitten.


I woke up early on Saturday morning and the only thing was on my mind was Hauwa.
Hauwa this and Hauwa that and when I couldn’t take it any longer I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

She answered on the first ring.

I asked what she would be doing that day and she said she would be taking her half-sisters to their Grandma’s. I asked her what she would be doing after that and she said prayers... and after that?
Finally towards mid-day I got her out of the house. Her naval Dad wasn’t back yet...

We spent the rest of the day touring the whole of Abuja’s fleshpots, from Maitama to Garki. We went to Millenium park, the National Ecumenical Center and the Three Arms Zone. I saw Zuma rock from a whole new angle, through Hauwa’s eyes. By the time it was 7pm, I had no idea that much time had elapsed.

She dropped me off in front of my hotel and just before I could get out of the car, she reached out and gave me a passionate kiss right there on my lips. Several minutes later when she had driven off I was still stunned! I walked up the stairs to my lonely hotel room and dropped heavily on the bed. I must have been like that for a few minutes because I didn’t hear the first knock. It persisted and so I stood up unsure, I wasn’t expecting anybody.

When I opened the door, Hauwa was smiling at me.

This time I didn’t let her pull my face to hers, I did the pulling. The door slammed hard behind us and the best part of the evening began. For a traditional Muslim, Hauwa had so many tricks up her sleeve that even I had no idea whatsoever of. The rest of the evening moved on to places where religion and tradition had no influence over, just instincts and pure primitive desires. It wasn’t until 3am when we wore ourselves out.

When I got up by 10am I was alone.

I got myself refreshed and placed a call for room service. Then I dialed Hauwa’s number. No answer.
I went about my other activities of the day but I couldn’t concentrate much. Not till I had spoken to Hauwa.

I dialed her number again and still no answer. That was strange. It was almost 4pm now and I was starting to think things. Finally when I called for the hundredth time that day she answered.

“Richard, please let me call you back again. Something has just come up. I’ll explain”. And the line went dead.

She never called back.

The next day was Sunday. And ironically it was February the 14^th, Valentine’s Day.

I went to Ceddi Plaza at Abuja, got a whole box of chocolates, Ice-Cream buckets and sweet treats you name it, hired a car and drove all the way to Hauwa’s family home. I was ready to damn the consequences, naval officer or not. That was exactly how I felt that morning.

When I got to the house gates, some security detail stopped me and asked where I thought I was going. I told him I wanted to see Hauwa and he looked surprised.

“You no fit see Madam like that. She dey expect you?”

 I was about to start cursing when a familiar Prado Jeep drove in from behind me.

Hauwa came out and looked at me with surprise like she wasn’t expecting to see me. She was dressed in a flowing gown and looked somewhat more sophisticated this time, with all the jewellery and accessories. Her hair was done back in a band and she appeared more mature.

‘Yes, who are you and what do you want?” She asked like she had never seen me in her life.

“Hauwa?” I was flabbergasted. “You said you were going to call...”

“You must be mistaken. I am not the person you are looking for”

At that moment, two little girls came out of the car and one of them asked,

 “Mummy who is this man?”

Mummy? I was speechless. That was the last straw.

She retreated into the Jeep and drove into the compound. The security man began to approach me but I told him I would leave on my own.

He saw the genuine confusion on my face and he explained to me, what I never expected could be true.

Hauwa, whose real name was actually Zainab was the second wife of a Rear Admiral. She had two children and had a habit of prancing around at the slightest opportunity she had whenever  the Officer left town. I just happened to be some guy she had picked.

That night at the Cinema was no chance meeting. She had probably watched from a distance and decided I was a good mark; lonely and opportunistic.

I was angry, I felt used. But that was all I could do about it. So much for Valentine’s Day! I got back to my hotel room and checked out. I didn’t even bother to call my friends.

Tomorrow will make it exactly three years since the Hauwa (or should I say Zainab) experience and I still kick myself at that folly. I don’t hate Valentine’s Day, I just hate the woman who spoiled it for me.

Maybe someday that will change but for now chocolats and red hearts will have to keep hanging from the shelves of Cakes and Choc creams.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Occupying Nigeria at Greenwich Bar and Suites...

Today is the second day of the Labour strike and I am at home. After seeing courageous Nigerians protesting on TV yesterday I was filled with a sense of pride for how patriotic some people could be. So this morning when I received a BB message from a friend that interested patriots were to meet at New Market, Lekki Phase 1 by 8AM to start 'occupying' Nigeria, I jumped up with excitement at the opportunity to 'fight for my children's future' (as a friend put it).

However when I got there I was dissapointed. There were people there alright and they were ready to 'occupy'. But that wasn't the problem.

For starters I seemed to be the only one (or one of few) who had something to lose. I had made the mistake of driving there (A big no-no in these kinds of convention). Secondly it appeared I was over-dressed for the occassion, but I wasn't expecting the kind of mob I met there. Where were the Lekki residents who sent those broadcasts on BB? I couldn't even find my friends. Then someone tapped me...


"Oga take this thing, if the police begin worry make you just throw am for their front and dem go move back small. Nothing dey happen".


The guy was handing me a bottle filled with small stones and some shrapnel. Probably his home made version of a Molotov cocktail. That was the last straw. I thought it was going to be a peaceful protest, but to incite the Police? And the Nigerian one for that matter? I turned around and went back to my car. I made up my mind to "occupy" Nigeria in other ways different from rowdy and improperly planned conventions.

                                              

After leaving New Market at Phase 1, I stopped at my usual spot to buy airtime but I was told that the vendor was on strike and had gone to protest too. The craze had caught on fast. I was slightly worried. If these people took over the protests without proper control and guidance, the situation might get out of hand and we might be singing another tune very soon. When I got home I watched Japhet Omojuwa and Olumide Gbadebo on TVC speak about the the supressed rights of the Nigerian people. Now that was one way to 'Occupy' Nigeria effectively.

12PM, three hours later...

 My phone rang and woke me up. I had dosed off. It was my friend Mike calling me;

"Bro how far, where you dey?"

"House things. What's happening?"

"Snooker, we playing at Greenwich. Ejiro is here too. Are you coming?"

I yawned, I was still groggy. Greenwich Bar and Suites was a resort cum relaxation spot not far from my house. I usually hung out there with guys when I didn't want to go far for trips. It had a bar, barbeque grill and a snooker table by the poolside. Anything beat sleeping at home by this time. God, I hated being idle.

  

"Give me fifteen minutes", I answered.

  

I joined them not long afterwards. They were already done with the first round of shots. 

Mike was an old friend from university days, he worked at MTN now and Ejiro was on his own doing something with a Real Estate company. I told them about my 'occupy' experience and we had a good laugh. After a few more shots I went to get some beer and Suya.

At the Suya stand the Hausa vendor was a bit chatty. That was a first.

"Gimme Suya N1000"

"Okay Oga...but Suya now na N300 for one stick". 

His accent was very heavy and I could barely understand him. He sharpened his long knives enthusiastically as he smiled. I didn't like the sound.

 "Really? Is it part of the subsidy thing?  Okay put N2700 for me".

While I waited, the vendor brought up a very surprising subject.

"Oga na true say Boko Haram wan bomb Shop Rite for Lekki"?

"What"? I wanted to be sure that I had heard properly.

"Boko Haram naa, I hear they say dem go bomb Shop Rite for Lekki".

"Sorry I don't know Gboko Haran, I have never heard of them". I replied, deliberately mispronouncing it.

The knife sliced the meat very easily, I could see that it was extremely sharp.

"You no know them? He persisted, na dem dey bomb church for Abuja naa".

I remained silent. At that moment some stupid guy (who was probably drunk) joined me at the stand and changed the whole situation completely.

"Ah Abdul, you still dey Lagos? I think say you for don run go Bornu by now. Una people say make you come back. OPC go tidy you here oh".

Abdul's face changed.

"Why OPC go tidy me. I don bomb anybody?" He sharpened his knives more enthusiastically and this time he wasn't smiling.

 "But you be their brother naa. Your people too wicked".

 I didn't like the direction the conversation was going. I looked at the Fish grill section at the other end of the poolside just by the Food Court. The woman working there was alone and her fish were already done. I had an idea.

"Emm Abdul, I don't want suya again just forget it."

Later when I met with Ejiro and Mike they were surprised that I got fish instead.

"I thought you wanted Suya?"

"The one I saw there looked like 404 so I just changed my mind and went for fish instead." I replied.

We played a few more rounds till we were tired. As we stood to leave, I heard a raucous at the Suya stand and people were running away from the spot. Later some security men emerged from there with Abdul. His hands were tied and they bundled him towards their Pick-up van.

Another set of guys were carrying a young man in a makeshift stretcher. The cloth over him was stained with blood. I recognised him as the same man I had met at the Suya spot. He had got into a heated argument with Abdul and had been slashed mercilessly during their altercation. Thankfully he did not die.

As we left the place I could hear an ambulance siren in the distance, probably hurrying to save the young man's life.

When I got home I turned on the TV, 'Occupy' Nigeria was still in the news. I tried to get the thought of Abdul and his knives out of my mind but something told me I wouldn't be eating Suya for a very long time.

  

The Curious Case of Otenkwu Okeke (2)

The mourning had carried on in the village for two days and before long the vultures had settled in. Patiently they waited, cried (or seemed to) and looked as sad as possible. But everyone knew what they had come for; their own share of Otenkwu's hard earned wealth.

Obioma, Chiedu and Ofor could never have looked more desperate as the family members gathered to discuss the burial arrangements. I was invited to bear witness to the whole event, as a neutral observer's point of view was deemed necessary. I still recall that even Chiedu looked sober and Ofor was quite 'normal' that dim afternoon as we sat in the Okeke family obi.

Before the discussion for burial began, the village judge Onuka, also the chief council man brought out an earthenware calabash and set it in the middle of the room. Everybody knew what was inside and remained silent. The only sound heard in that room at the time was Chiedu's harsh breathing. Sure enough marijuana has its side effects after all.

Onuka then began to empty the contents of the calabash right there in the center of the obi. At first, there came out sand, lots and lots of it. When I began to think that there was nothing else in it, the chief council man reached into the small heap on the ground and brought out a piece of paper. Almost everybody in the room gasped audibly, even Obioma sat upright in his chair like he was about to jump on the judge.

The elderly man smiled and held up the paper for all to see. He began the tradition of saying a short eulogy of the deceased. But only that the eulogy wasn't short and after what seemed like an hour people began to shift uncomfortably in their seats and suddenly Obioma shouted:

Old man we have heard you! Now tell us, what is in the paper?

The judge looked at him in a derisive manner and opened the note. After a short sigh he read:

My good family, as you read this I have died. Kindly bury me just as I am, in my land at Nkwo junction under my favorite palmtree. Please do not untie my clothing or try to wash me.
P.S. My houses go to my wives according to their positions.
                                                                                                                           Thank you.

Everybody stared at each other. That was it? No wealth sharing? What happened to his fertile timber lands, the purported numerous bank accounts and the cars? Who was going to manage the timber company?

Obioma was most affected by the news that he reached for the calabash and smashed it on the ground. Using his feet to scatter the sand, he searched the ground for a note Onuka might have missed but found nothing. Ofor's senses suddenly too leave of his mind and he started to mutter incomprehensibly to himself. As for Chiedu, he brought out something from his shirt pocket and began to roll it up in a familiar fashion.

It was as this point everybody began to disperse. There was nothing more to be dicussed.

I watched the events of that afternoon with personal amusement. What was Otenkwu's plan, and what did he mean by do not untie my clothing or try to wash me? That sort of thing was common among charlatans. Already people were beginning to say that he was in a cult and that was their rule after death. I wasn't buying that, rather I imagined there was more to it. Things were obviously not what they seemed.

Later that evening, when Otenkwu body arrived the compound premises, it was customary for family members to look at it in state before finally laying it to rest. As we moved to pay our last respects, I noticed he was still in the clothes he had died in. Strands of tree fibre were visible on them.

...Do not untie my clothing or try to wash me.

Those words kept echoing in my head. And it must have been doing the same too in Obioma's head because as soon as the last set of visitors left the room he rushed into the coffin and began to struggle with Otenkwu's shirt buttons!

The remaining family members in the room watched in horror at the event that unfolded before their very own eyes! Shortly after some of the younger men recovered from their shock and started to struggle with him, trying to disuade him from desecrating his father's corpse.

Obioma: Leave me alone! Leave me!! He can't take away my birthright. He can't cheat me out of my birthright! he cried.

I watched with real amusement because I must confess I was curious myself and wanted to see how this would turn out. Every passing minute was an interesting drama playing itself out.

As it seemed, Obioma must have been either too strong for them or they were afraid to touch the dead man's body, because they left him and started to watch as piece after piece of clothing came off the Mazi's body. A few minutes later the corpse was totally nude save for two strong ropes tied around his waist. The rope was the kind used only by palmwine tappers. Nobody knew how long the ropes had been on Otenkwu but it must have been very long for they left deep indentations on his skin.

Notwithstanding, the rope was not the only thing on Otenkwu's body. Right underneath the first knoty layer was a small crumpled note. Several mouths dropped open in shock and disbelief as Obioma snatched and began to unfold it. The room was deathly silent as the written content was demystified. It simply read:

                                               

Even as I read, I shivered at the contents. It was scary, like some message from the afterlife. How did he know that Obioma would disobey his wishes. Was it pure coincidence or did he simply know his son that well or was it by some paranormal force?

Undeterred Obioma hurried on to the next layer of rope and began to untie it with vigor. After some minutes and expended efforts he got the other note out. He was sweating profusely by now. This one was bigger and seemed more detailed. I couldn't see its contents from where I was but I noticed that the young man's hands were shaking with excitement (or nervousness?) as he read. Suddenly he screamed and threw away the paper.

Bastard! Bastard!! No way! You cheated me, nooooo!!!!

He upturned the coffin and ran out of the room. The body of Otenkwu rolled out on the floor of the family sitting room in all its inglorious nakedness for everyone who cared to see. There were audible gasps of horror as people ran out to avoid the curse that accompanied such an unsavory sight. However, the face of Mazi seemed to smile as if in victory. He had had the last laugh and it was loudest. I couldn't help imagining how loud he would be wherever he was at that time.

Dear friends I must soon round off this story as I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.
But  you must be wondering what the other note contained that drove Obioma wild that fateful evening?

Simple, it contained details of several accounts in various banks and how much money was to be given to charities around the state. A whopping sum went to an NGO on reforestation projects around Umuoma and finally his beloved last son Iheme was given a trust fund and ownership of his business, only if he showed promise as a responsible person by the time he was twenty years old.

Otenkwu Okeke's case however peculiar it was, was indeed a wonderful way to wrap up my 2011 vacation at Umuoma. Happy New Year once again folks.

The Curious Case of Otenkwu Okeke (1)

Happy New Year Everybody...or should I say that just yet?

I am back to Lagos from my good hometown of Umuoma and I see that in a few weeks a whole lot has happened. It's almost as if my absense was the cue needed to kick-start these situations. What's with the toll collection at Lekki phase 1, the terrorist-style bomb blasts in Abuja and the sudden withdrawal of fuel subsidy from our budget? Like he-who-must-not be-named has forgotten his humble roots and started dining with the 'nobles'. 

I know this is an apolitical blog but I thought I should warn that one day the poor will have nothing left to eat but the rich. GEJ a word's enough for the wise!

I was supposed to be back much earlier, however certain 'çurious' events took place at the good village of Umuoma that I decided to sit it out and see how it ends. But before I start, I should ask, how many us have a Will?

Yes, the legal document that shares your belongings when you proceed to the hereafter, no? Well that little item is one of the most underrated pieces of paper in the world today, however it is very important as you will soon find out. One thing, it is never too early to write one. So if you have a wealthy uncle or aunt somewhere, find out where you stand sorry, if they have one, and advise them accordingly.

So my story begins with one man, the subject of this post; Otenkwu Okeke. By the way Otenkwu as any Igbo person will tell you means palmwine tapper. But don't be misled, the mazi was quite rich by village standards. He had several acres of fertile timber land, two houses in Umuoma, one in Owerri and a fleet of five lorries that hauled wood from the village to Owerri and Onitsha everyday. He was a merchant and got most of his wealth from selling timber logs to funiture and paper factories in the city.

Hence the question, how did he get his name? You see Mazi Okeke had a favorite past time. Right from his teen years, he loved palmwine so much, that he decided that rather than wait for the tapper he would learn the tricks himself and do the tapping whenever he felt like it. Before long it became a hobby and carried on long into his adulthood even till he was in his late sixties. So it wasn't unusual to see Otenkwu in the evenings, park his Jeep in the bushy thickets and climb the nearest palm-tree to extract the sweet brew. But I tell you one thing, it was a very funny thing though.

As successful as Otenkwu seemed, he had a big problem that bothered him like a toothache every passing day of his life. The palmwine lover had six children; four sons and two daughters. The daughters he didn't bother much about (probably because they were women) but his sons were his biggest disappointment. Not a day passed that one of them did not bring him shame in front of his peers.

The first son Obioma, after several sojourns to Russia and Denmark for his education dropped out of school and decided he wanted to export cassava flour akpu to China instead. However when that failed, he settled in Onitsha and claimed to be a contractor for Julius Berger. Everybody knew that was a lie, because whenever he ran out of money he would show up in the village and make trouble with Otenkwu. Sometimes he would even threaten to send robbers to collect the money in his place.

The second son Chiedu was a hemp junkie. In his early teens he had started with plantain leaves and when that wasn't strong enough he graduated to marijuana and today he is a renowned dealer of the substance within several kilometers of Umuoma village. But the term "Don't get high on your own supplies" meant nothing to him as he was perpetually high. On many occassions he had been arrested but released based on Otenkwu's connections with the local DPO.

Ofor the third son unfortunately was a mental case. One morning, for no apparent reason he had woken up and run straight into Umudike market square. There would have been nothing wrong with that, if he had his clothes on. No one knew why he did it, but as village rumors would have it, it was believed that he had been cursed by the local dibia for raping his daughter.

So it was safe to say that all Mazi Okeke's three sons were riffraffs in the highest order and a big shame to a man of his timbre and calibre status (not that he had much anyways, not after the way he climbed palmtrees all over Umuoma).

Iheme was the name of the fourth son and last child. He was still a toddler of four years, born by Otenkwu's beautiful second wife. This one was Otenkwu's last hope of dignity in a son. So far he had hadn't been tainted yet and perharps that was why the Maazi loved him so much. He even prevented any form of interaction he might have with the previous three.

And so it happened, one morning I woke up early to take my grandmother to the local market and there were some women wailing loudly by the roadside. I stopped the car to find out what had happened and was told that Otenkwu himself was dead. He had fallen out of a palmtree during one of his tapping sessions the previous evening. He died indulging in his famous hobby. Why he continued to climb trees at sixty-five still beats me, infact I was surprised he made it to sixty years at all...

To Be Continued...