Not My Portion!

“HAHAHAHA!”

“Jesus! Guy why you fall our hand naa, so all that akpuobi  na for show?”

They were laughing at me, Ejiro was bent over in his chair and Mike was choking on his beer.

Chike had just told them about my experience at The Edge last week (see here). Bad gist indeed travels fast, someone at the gym probably told him too.  Now I knew for sure that I would have to stay away from that gym for a while.

“It wasn’t like that…they say she is an Olympic champion! Na she win bronze for weightlifting last year. Mike you should have seen her.”  

I was hoping to redeem myself but it didn’t change anything. They laughed even harder.

I looked at our table and decided we needed more suya. We were at Greenwich Bar and Suites in Lekki. I stood up and headed for the main stand.

“Where you dey go?”

“More suya… I am coming.” They were still laughing when I left.

At the suya stand the Hausa vendor was lining more meat on the barbecue gauze. It wasn’t Abdul (remember Abdul from last time? (See here). No, Abdul was serving four years in Kiri-Kiri for attempted manslaughter, so I heard. I looked into my wallet, and saw I didn’t have cash on me.

“Do you have a P.O.S machine, so I can swipe my Visa card?”

“Pisa machine? Oga I no dey give Pisa…na Bornu I from come. Insha Allah, if I get I for don go London since.”

“Never mind”

I didn’t have patience to explain. What did I expect?

I walked to the ATM machine close to the gate but there was a long queue. Somehow it seemed that everybody in Phase 2 had decided this was the only ATM they would draw from. I asked a woman at the end of the queue if she was the last person…

“God forbid! I will never be the last person, it is not my portion in Jesus Name!”

I was confused. Had I said anything wrong?

“Madam, I just want to know, is…”

“I have already told you Sir, I can never be the last!”

I silently joined the queue, I couldn’t shout. One can only wonder what these mushroom churches preach these days. It reminded me of an experience I had back at Nsukka when I was a student at UNN.  My brother and I were at Peace Mass Transit (PMT) about to shuttle from Nsukka to Owerri for Easter holidays (we had no choice). Before the journey began, it was routine to write your name, address and phone number of your next-of-kin just in case there was a need to contact them.

Now this was common practise with transport manifests everywhere, however some women saw it as a curse and bluntly refused to fill the register.

“Mba nu! I can’t wish myself bad luck. We will not have accident”

“Chi lee! Chukwu ekpe kwela ihe ojoo! God forbid… I am not writing my name” Another interjected.

We simply tried to explain but all pleas fell on deaf ears. Their pastors had told them that filling such manifests meant conceding to the possibility of a road accident. Nothing would make them touch the pen. Tufia!

The journey began without much ado. As a habit we both sat in the front close to the driver in order to avoid the stinging fumes of ose Nsukka (yellow pepper, one of Nsukka’s notable exports) being transported by these same superstitious women.

I was quite tired; we had stayed up most of the night for a bonfire at CEC and had had little sleep. I was about closing my eyes when a shrill voice jostled me.

“PRAIIIISE THE LOOOORD! PRAIIIIISE THE LIVING GOD!!”

“ALLELUUUUUUJAH!!!”

Even my brother was startled. We realised it was the usual pre-journey prayers. One of the Ose Nsukka women had decided to lead prayers and banish all dark agents and principalities from the bus much to the welcome of the other travellers.

At first I thought it would end at the prayers, but the praise and worship session soon followed. After about an hour, it was clear that I wouldn’t be getting any sleep during that journey. In fact it appeared that my brother Ken and I were the only people not singing along to banish the witches and wizards. One of the women nudged someone to tap us, but we wouldn’t be bothered (I had said the Grace earlier). In response, they intensified the tempo of their songs as if to force the evil out of these heathens. The bus driver kept watching too like he expected us to scream and start confessing any moment.

It wasn’t long before he inserted a tape and began to play the hit song then Akanchawa…

That four hour trip to Owerri, cramped in a small bus with stinging pepper fumes, listening to Akanchawa at near deafening volumes will always remain one of my most memorable bus-trips in the five years I spent at UNN.

Greatest Lions! Greatest...

“Hello? Hey…”

Someone behind me tapped my shoulder.

I was roused from my trip down memory lane. It was my turn to draw from the ATM. I looked around for the woman who was in front of me but couldn’t find her anywhere. I put my wallet in my back pocket and walked towards the suya stand. The restaurant kitchen-door suddenly swung open as if by some windy force and the cook hurried to shut it, but not before I observed the basket of yellow peppers sprawled on the floor.

The Gym Buff

“I am fruiting.”

“I am juicing.”

If I hear one more diet lingo from another girl I will go mad!

It just seems babes have a new weight-loss fad every season; few years ago it was the Ardyss Body Magic craze. Its success went viral; however it wasn’t long before a downside was discovered when guys found it to be a barrier during ‘playtime’.  Imagine all that hard work trying to get them off; energy spent that left you worn-out before you started.  Even the babes realised it was a mood killer, it just had to go.

Next came Spanx. It heralded a new wave of body ‘packaging’ and slimming wear. The girls welcomed it with euphoria, after all Kim Kardashian was wearing it too. But, (as there are always ‘buts’ with these kinds of things) the deception beneath it was too much. Boyfriends felt cheated and husbands duped that the women they were attracted to were far from the real deal under Spanx. The last straw was when it became available for men, now the women were subjected to a taste of their own medicine. It wasn’t long before that too diminished…

Today weight watchers have come up with different schemes to shed the odd fat and no, it isn’t something you wear this time, it is actually something you consume.

Fruiting and juicing.

Terms used to describe the practise of consistently starving yourself off regular foods and consuming only fruits the whole day or eating only a combination of liquid-based diets for long periods of time. Does this work? Maybe, personally many guys aren’t complaining much as it actually reduces date expenses. I have my reservations though; I have always said the best way to be fit is to exercise (in addition to fruiting and juicing). Unfortunately many babes couldn’t be bothered to gym and would only carry on their dietary regimen halfway.

All these thoughts went through my mind yesterday as I drove to The Edge, a gym not far from my house.  I got my bag out and entered the gym. It was a Friday so it was slightly packed. A capoeira class was in progress but I was booked for Wednesday evenings. I walked on towards the general workout area where I spotted a few fakes; guys who only came to the gym to ogle at women. They usually hung around the treadmills doing nothing but drinking copious amounts of water and taking pictures.

I did my leg squats for about twenty minutes before moving to the bench press. At the corner of the room was a heavily built dude with short braids, about six foot two with biceps resembling little hillocks of pounded yam that had several wiry veins running through them. His pecs were decent too, beefy and plumped up, evidence of time well spent doing cardios.

He lay down on one of the benches and began to press, starting with 185Ibs. Not one to back down from an opportunity, I subconsciously challenged myself to compete with him. I started with the next press nearby, ramping up 185Ibs too (normally I would start with 180Ibs). A few minutes later I looked at him, he had raised the bar to 190Ibs. No shaking, I increased mine too pushing up and pumping hard.

Several minutes later, the muscular guy had moved on to 195Ibs pushing fast and hard. I replicated same, only this time my hands were beginning to tremble a bit. I surged on, hoping he would give up soon.  A small gathering of people had stopped to watch (I cursed silently at the busybodies). The next time I turned my head to look at the dude, he was already on to 210Ibs, waxing stronger than ever. We had been going on for about 20 minutes non-stop now and that was when I realised that the annoying sound I had been hearing was my own breathing…like a dying steam engine chuffing on its last coal supplies.

When I tried to lift 210Ibs, my arms gave up and that was when I gave in. No I won’t have a heart attack today… I asked someone to hand me my towel. For the first time I gulped down all the Lucozade in my bottle in one go. My rival went on another 5 minutes before hanging up (show off). After I had caught my breath, as a good sport I walked over to commend his gym prowess.

"Bro! That was something back there. You got decent pecs too…how do you do it, steroids? Whey protein?”

He looked at me with a blank expression before replying:

“First of all, I am not a bro. And these- he pushed up his chest - are breasts not pecs.”

Then he walked out of the gym towards the ladies shower room.

I was dumbfounded, shocked beyond words! The truth is I wouldn’t have believed her, but the high pitched voice confirmed it all. I had been owned by a girl.

That was the end of gyming for me- for that evening.

As I drove back home that night, my arms feeling like dead weights, I had to rethink my previous assertions about girls and their unwillingness to exercise.