Fun Joe?

I’m here ruminating over what I have become, writing a piece whose end I can’t guess. It’s my way of escape from the tension that has been surging through my being lately: the tension to just write. About what? You don’t just write because you have itchy hands and well, some twitchy thoughts. Yet on second thoughts, what else does one really need to write, or should I say to scribble? And here I am, obeying the urge to merge my thoughts with a virgin sheet.
I have become rather unaware of what people lightly regard as enjoyment. When they say they had fun over the weekend, my graced mind finds it difficult to assemble these possibilities for me. Not that I’m averse to fun or enjoyment-phobic; I would rather love to think that my version is completely parallel to what they call fun.
The height of fun for me just would sound chokingly boring to a lot of these quasi friends of mine. Sorry about the quasi title but what else am I supposed to call someone whose company appeals as much to me as oil to that of water. Yet am proud to say that I seem to prefer the pictures that I behold as my eyes race through the lines of a book than that which I would derive if I had to watch a movie (and God help my company if that movie was so flawed in thoughts). I cherish to indescribable heights, the company of my family of six (me inclusive). The source and length of our laughter and the often dwarf existence of our anger is more appealing to me than Swiss chocolate (well, it would not be a bad idea to have both).
The beach is great scenery. Just the sight of the union of the sea and the skies leaves my mind agape. I gape at the beauty and splendor while yawning at the possibilities of ever finding that point where this bed of endless ripples marries the beautiful hue of blue skies. Some say it is horizon, I call it verizon. However, in spite of my admiration of this sight, I would rather drift with my lust for solitude to the confines of my not-so-large room and just be by me. I can’t deny that every once in a while, sleep interjects but I seem to prefer this to the ‘fun’ my friend guesstimates of his planned trip to the beach. I have for about 10 years now! Hmmm, that is a synonym of a decade. Quite a shock even as I write!
What makes me what I am, is what I wish I could find out. What leaves me the funny yet reclusive Joe is what I wish I could spell and I can spell temperament but I don’t think that’s it.
I hope very well that I would one day- very soon- make of this desire for solitude what would be so rewarding, enough to get a larger and better furnished room for this version of my enjoyment.

COMPASSION…. AN ENDANGERED SPECIE!

She ran to the help of a child who was lost and about four years of age. Goodness, she must have screamed, as she wondered why anyone would be as callous to have left a child that young wandering on the ruthless streets of Lagos.
She must have thanked the heavens as she found in the grip of the infant a paper bearing an address that could just save the day. She immediately took a taxi there and walked straight to the door with most likely, the joy and fulfillment that comes from being a compassion-stricken heroine. She rang the bell and ……
Sammy needed to withdraw some money using his ATM card. At the dispensing machine, he met someone whose countenance showed robust confusion. He asked to be assisted so he could also withdraw some money as he is unlearned. Sammy hastily went about his withdrawal and helped out the fellow who he noticed gave the necessary details from a rather awkward position and distance.
I have beheld so many a time, very decently dressed and eloquent young men who share varying tales of their mishaps. They often claim they just came into town and ran out of money to continue the trip or got to their intended destination and discovered shockingly that the host had relocated long ago. As such, they would need all the assistance they can get to make a head way at least from the nearing danger of Lagos nights. Yet, they seem to be have made the same trip, with the same excuse, a week after.
She, the lady who helped the lost kid, took quick steps to the doorstep and on pressing the doorbell, passed out. Woke later in an empty room, nude! Sammy was later arrested for having his face show up in the CCTV camera that recorded the time and face that perpetrated an ATM scam. And me? I have felt fleeced over and again by people my age with excuses that I found ridiculously false, some days after.
I’m pushed to wonder who then deserves aid. What sorry face truly has a sorry heart? Whose outstretched arm longs to take beyond the money we offer? It’s caused my bank of compassion to shrink greatly. Sympathy is nearly taken over by suspicion and the delight once gained from granting aids now ruffled by the dreaded regret of emerging a victim of either cheap scam or ritualistic attacks. I know the Holy spirit makes it easier to know who’s in need and who’s in greed yet, they are times when you just wonder; what if I was wrong?

Caught in The Act

I looked around for where the sound was emanating from. A quick swing of my gaze to my left caught the source in the act. The rich splashing sound that was made every time his bathroom slippers in giant strides hit the ground, was the distraction that took my gaze off the driver of the bus I boarded. His speed would unsettle Usain Bolt, at the least a bit.
I kept hearing the sound until it faded into the mix of chaos that the blaring horns of these Lagos drivers yielded. He was chasing one of these drivers. He was racing with-from what I saw- enough energy to keep a dream alive. He ran after a driver who might by his gesture have hinted that he was interested in the wares he (the impromptu athlete) was hawking in the traffic. He raced and as I watched him run, thoughts raced through me.
I sat in motion wondering, how much profit could he be racing for? How many times has he had to race like this today? How much has he made from such enervating sprints? How many of them turned up a goose chase? How did he feel when he, after about forty meters of hard chase, caught up with the prospect only to shock the driver or passenger who might hastily admit that he was only gesticulating to a passenger in a chat and didn’t beckon at him? And why he still hasn’t considered crime as a more lucrative option.
I sat pondering deeply on what his motivation was. Motivation that was enough to defy the odds of rejection; a spur, intense enough to allow him risk countless goose chases. I wondered. I still wonder!
I live in Lagos! The Land of the Brave if you will. Desperation and ruthless courage is commonplace fragrance. Heartless efforts for survival and brainy schemes litter the streets. All and sundry are seemingly plagued with the eagerness to breakthrough. In the midst of these, we see as clearly as I just did, some people who make it so obvious that the air they breathe might be free but it is a poor remedy for hunger.
This circumstance-compelled sprinter knows from bitter experience that every gesture counts and every penny is a unit of his life. While I think slightly different from that, I must admit that I also race. I sprint yet with less desperation; more as a result of my God-given leverage than of my value for every single penny. Howbeit, as I watched him, I felt the severe pull of sympathy and gratitude.
As we race through life and Lagos, lets learn to exercise as often as possible, the right quantum of contentment for where we are, sufficient gratitude to God for what we have done and more importantly, faith in God’s promises for our future.
Nearly above all, I think we should shed as often as we can sympathy and assistance especially for those who are caught in the act of survival.

Oil or Grease

When men lie, and I don’t mean when they do it deliberately, they do so only to affirm that flesh is until Christ comes, limited! I got greatly hit lately with actions that entirely contradicted the words that were previously uttered and I wondered why one would lie so heartily. I became quite irritated and judgmental and I really hope that’s understandable. I’m trying hard here to explain how I felt when trusted friendship put in a resignation letter. The stab I felt on the back was one slightly worse than a jab with a jagged edge knife.
It‘s easy to be judgmental and call people names when they fail to live up to their prolific promises. Imagine being assured oil and getting grease in return. The excuse the giver immediately offers is “well, I know I promised oil but grease is just as good. Try melting it!” No apologies. No “I know this is not what you expected but can we manage this?” No! Rather what you get is a synonym of, “Take the grease or stroll to hell”.
All these seem too metaphorical and proverbial to perhaps make sense yet I would need you to imagine what the exclamations of a heart would be if it was narrowly missed by the wrenching jab of a denial and separation.
I am convinced now more than ever that some lies are not the intended. They are only words pronounced confidently yet ignorantly of what the future holds in her womb. That’s where God stands out. He knows tomorrow, He owns tomorrow and when He says a thing, it must arrive reality not only because He is powerful but because He cannot lie. Ever!

Please Be On Time

I remember when I took your new car on the road and wrecked it. I thought you would be livid and come down hard on me, but you didn’t. I remember when we went to the beach and you didn’t want to go because you said it was going to rain. We went and it rained. I was sure you would rub it in and say, ‘I told you so!” But you didn’t. Then there was the time when I spilled blueberry juice down the front of your new tux. I knew you would be upset and blame me. But you didn’t. And remember that formal evening? I was mistaken and told you it was casual. You wore blue jeans and felt like a fish out of water. I was sure you would storm out in anger and leave me standing there. But you didn’t. I wanted to tell you how much I loved you and how much I appreciated you for all those things when you returned from Vietnam. But you didn’t.

Please don’t wait till these praises turn graveside eulogies. Say it if you mean it. Say it when you mean it.

ROBBED AT FUN-POINT

Barely two months ago, we celebrated nationwide, Children’s Day. We witnessed a range of march pasts by excited kids who would one day look back and wonder at the degree of naiveté that’s locked in those budding years.
I have dared lately, to peek into the past of a good number of my female friends and colleagues. I’m amazed- stiflingly shocked precisely- at the number of them who confess how this childhood innocence was quickly eroded.
It slipped their grip before they knew how to spell innocence.
What becomes so disturbing is the relationship with the thieves who robbed them of this childhood gift. As you might have rightly guessed, they span from uncles, elder cousins to neighbors and dead shockingly, fathers. Yes, fathers and I mean biologic, step, surrogate and stupid fathers.
It would haunt me with guilt, for years on end to excuse the cousins and neighbors and uncles but allow me to panel beat the issue of fathers in a few lines.
The reason why even at thirty years of age, some of our parents want to make some decisions on our behalf, is not only because they would forever feel wiser but also because, they can’t stop seeing us as the “little Sandra” who pooped everywhere, just ‘yesterday’. They still behold us for a very long time through the tiny inlets of our cradles. We are kids. Regardless of age!
When and why do these fathers cease to see us from those standpoints? When do these men of heartless thoracics begin to think that our innocence is ripe enough to be reaped? Could it be when our breasts start looking less like budding flesh and more of a man’s toy? Or maybe it is when our thighs let out glows that might blind them if they don’t quickly cover it with their ravaging hands. Most probably, it would be just when, the devil finds out suddenly how convenient their minds are as a habitat. They claim this all the time, don’t they?
My heart is weighty with myriad of questions. Questions that have over time being answered with statements that escape reason by miles. What excuse on earth could make a father nurse erotic feelings for his own daughter? What excuse except well suppressed insanity. Conscience in hibernation!
From the sexual advances at his own daughter to the well advanced absurdity of taking a teenager’s (and sometimes, preteen’s) undies off, for provoking levels of incest, I truly wonder what surges through the mind of these very young victims. As they wrestle their bodies and innocence from the abattoir of his shameless testosterone, I wonder what thoughts blaze the trail.
We can’t always blame the child now victim, for choosing silence over a whisper. She has tall odds against her. Perhaps a mindless career mother, who cares more for promotion than parenting, plus a father who has threatened the victim to remain silent. “Spill a word and I will spill your blood” he has assured her. She-a very young heart- houses cancerous secrets as a result.
Pardon my anger…I’m seeing too many victims on the streets, too many scars on childhood tales and some emotional wounds that still gape after decades of the deliberate infliction.
I wish this would get across to these predators of men. To these fathers, uncles, cousins, neighbors and so-called friends who cannot tell breast from beads. Alas, I wish in vain! If the screams and tears of these children cannot squash your hormonal misdirection, my writing will readily pass for wasted ink on cheap paper.
However, I speak to mothers, aunties, and every vigilant heart out there. I plead that you look out for bubbling juvenile hearts who all of a sudden prefer cold caves to the warmth of sitting rooms. Please persistently inquire from these children, why they have scars in the oddest places. Comfort them with endearing friendship and before long, these men of will be dragged out from secrecy into jails for what I hope would be their “annual rapist reunion”.

Thrust Trust into it!

I half-heartedly assured you that I would follow up the issue of “when trust rusts” with a number of suggestions on how to resuscitate it. I deeply hope this would be that perfect sequel. When trust in a relationship seems to have been strangled, there are few first aid measures I can recommend and I hope they suffice.
What we feed must grow. That’s true in both negative and positive contexts. Love, hatred, habits, passions, and well, yes, trust. It’s not hard to imagine. See each of them as your dog. Regardless of how bad you want your cruel dog to die, it will live and grow robust if you make a habit of feeding it. Especially with delicacies! It’s no different for our emotions and life style. We are what we eat. Ultimately!
When trust has been eroded and what’s left bare and unclothed is hatred and intense feelings of betrayal, it is easy to despair on the possibilities of ever trusting the traitor. It’s so easy to wonder “how do I start trusting this person again” particularly when perennial enmity is not one of the options. How do you start?
Trust again! Not simple right? Well, I agree but this is the first in the order of first aid measures that could salvage the wreckage. Trust again. Slowly but steadily. Do this remembering that what you feed, regardless of how little the chunks are, must grow. Bit by bit, step by step, trust is allowed to sip back into the pit betrayal once dug until it fills it up.
To trust again, you must believe the best of the other person. You must suffocate the tendencies to doubt their actions and make excuses for them. Making excuses means simply: “if they knew better, they would act better”. That of course is not as easy as writing this is to me but like every other challenge, practice makes perfect.
I heard once the amusing deduction of a comedian. He said “To forgive is human, to forget is animal”. There’s the huge temptation to agree, yet I refuse to. To forget in this context of forgiveness is more a deliberate effort than it is subconscious. It is a decision to shelf the past in extinction and move on with this relationship only hoping for the best. A friend calls it deliberate amnesia. I can’t help but agree more.
Undeniably, the heart is a fragile vase; often, a slip leaves in it a crack at the least and we sure have had cases of utter wreckage. The soul is agreeably a soft canvas- pictures painted are hastily absorbed. This raises the question: how then can I completely forget? Well, the human memory can often be a traitor; it forgets what you least ponder on and when such issues pop up again, they do so with less feelings of animosity. Exceptions exist but they exist only because these persons offer less effort to the process of forgiving and forgetting.
Lastly, who else helps us through betrayals and periods of steaming hatred but God? He’s the one who can cradle our hearts to forgiveness and serenade our souls to trust again. To achieve the germination of trust again, we must run to the One who empowers us well above the human ability to trust. He shows us the easiest way to trust: to see humans including ourselves as those who cannot only fall, but can also fail due to their human limitations. To expect flawlessness is to prepare yourself eventually for a stream of tears. He reminds us that He’s the only One worthy of trust and if any other deserves trust, it’s because He lives in them.

WHEN TRUST RUSTS

I got a mail some days back whose subject read “For your eyes only……” The rest of the subject might give too much away. More unsettling was the content. It had the most heartrending graphics I had seen in my brief patronage of the internet.
Two members of the staff of one of the telecommunication outfits in Nigeria, both of opposite sex and of two different married couples went on leave. They left the shores of our green Nigeria to paint the corners of some other nation, bloody red.
A husband leaves his wife in Nigeria, and travels with the wife of another man and on getting to their foreign destination, leads the consummation of what must have been their secret sizzling office romance. They both indulge in what they would have tagged, “the greatest fun of our lives” yet.
It’s only amazing how fun can burn!
To make these moments more than mere memories, they made use of cameras and froze the smiles that hung over their naked bodies. They had pictures taken in their Jacuzzi and on lovely duvets. Indeed it was quite a sight.
Undeniably, a picture as is often said is worth a thousand words. I can’t possibly describe all that was seen in this mail. To express my feelings seems a greater difficulty. But I’ll try, for your sake- the reader who hasn’t seen the mail in question.
The rare splendor they thought they shared was broadcast to the world when someone stumbled into the memory card which bore shots of their incredible indulgence. This person, whoever he/she is, immediately pushed it into internet circulation and in record setting time, more people than their wildest imaginations could imagine had a robust glimpse of their remixed honeymoon.
What followed was their Company’s advice to ‘either resign or be resigned’. In haste, you would think that should be their greatest loss.
Think now of what their spouses would feel; how they would react to the betrayal of marital vows. Worse still would be that such betrayal was first made public before they were confessed privately. Already, I’m almost 118% sure that the marital bliss of both couples would have evaporated or at the least, being refrigerated. What disturbs me more is how badly scorched their trust vaults must be now.
Trust is sublime. We were taught in physics that the word sublime refers to substances that can be readily transformed from solid to gaseous states. My teacher forgot to mention such examples as trust! I fear that by now, their trust levels for one another would have been so badly damaged they are likely declaring bankruptcy to those who care to listen.
Trust at first sight! Ever heard that? Or trust your neighbor as yourself. Heard that either? Well, I haven’t and I’ve yet to meet anyone who has. That is simply because, trust is built; very slowly, yet lost in a flash if not faster. I’m more concerned here about when trust rusts; when the confidence reposed in another wears thin from very gentle strokes of misconduct.
Love seems easier to find when lost. We find more people saying, I’m going to love again. Trust? Nah! That is one reason why most of us don’t gamble. We are just not sure that our investments would return, not to mention with profits. We just don’t trust these processes. But what do you do when your marriage or friendship feels more like a casino than anything else. What is next when confidence in your spouse has gone south? What do you do, when Trust Rusts? I hope my next post offers answers.

BEND or BE BENT

Far beyond the alliteration, there’s a difference
Between the gullible and the humble,
While one believes my mum invented Mercedes Benz
The other’s distance from pride is immeasurable.

The matchlessly Mighty resists the proud.
Who and what can save such a heart?
Should they even cluster into a crowd,
The Mighty versus the minute? Pitiful impact!

The shortcut to the top is named “Humility Road”
In it is an elevator through life’s pressures
To ply this path is worth more than finding gold,
As God grants these pedestrians, honor and treasures.

Beyond the spelling, there’s a difference
Between the one who’s meek and the one who’s weak.
While one has a will which so easily bends,
The other bends easily to the will of the One who made every week.

SWAG!

Swag! What on earth does that word mean? In the now famous context (no thanks to Soldier boy), I frankly don’t believe that it still means a sway in your gait.
In his words? “Put some swag on. You could get disqualified for lacking it you know”. I listened confusedly to one of the judges of an audition I attended. For an audition that sought more than anything, oratorical skills, I was perplexed that my celebrated oratory could lose its weight in the absence of my swag. What is that? I don’t know if I was being too courteous to the judges (to project innocence and rig my chances) or if I was too ruffled to even speak but I really wanted to ask these judges what that word meant to them.
As I contemplated that, an opponent walked in and they immediately pointed out what they meant by “put your swag on”. As I looked at the young man in question, I could only see arrogance. Did they mean swag and arrogance are undefined synonyms? I feel so bad. Why did it take so long for me to have deciphered this? Yet I wonder, are they supposed to praise the level of confidence that swings deep into pride? Are they supposed to applaud he who says loud and clear: I’ve gat it, you need it, so listen ‘cos I’m talking”?
Well, that's what I saw.
And yes, I was eventually screened out for lacking the necessary swag. I wasn’t swaggerly enough!
A debate needs confidence, how much of it makes up arrogance? How much of hands tucked into my trouser beams my swag? I understand that I might have done better, smiled wider but swagged further? I don’t know.
They did their best- the judges - and I have taken home the assignment to be more gestural. I hope when I am again offered such a great chance by life, this take-home assignment would make me shimmer in high flying colors. If I ever have to stand before any judge or a group of them, then I sure hope I’m well clad with a swag that would be so ‘in-their-face’, they would call me the best ‘Swaggard’ so far. For crying out loud, ‘no swag’ just cost me three million naira!

IN PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS

It’s a concrete hard assumption that all men are egoistical. At least most of us have an ego that would not easily be cowed into mushy sentiments. Not even in the face of true life fictions. Well, shamelessly I must confess that mine melted as I watched the movie titled “In Pursuit of Happyness” come to an end.
I barely watch movies; it’s nearly an annual event for me. I thought lately however, to go fickle on that tradition. This movie is daring me into greater fickleness-and I mean that in a very positive sense.
How on earth do people write such cute scripts! I know it was first lived out as there’s a claim on it’s being a true life story but how do minds fuse fiction and reality and make it look so good as to cost me a stream of tears? A very brief stream of course.
Minds are irrefutably the most powerful things there are on earth. Did I hear you ponder along nuclear bomb lines? What conceived it? Coupled it and canvassed as the delight that countries now gratefully possess despite its potential disaster? Minds!
The offspring of some minds makes me truly wonder to what extent I use mine. It’s easy to say “In Pursuit of Happyness”, is that impressive? Well how do you write scripts like the James Bond’s newest series? How do minds conceive such fictions, direct them and leave us entranced for as long as a standard football match. I’m truly humbled yet greatly challenged.
If minds can craft engines to the point where one bolt is indispensible, then, I should be able one day, to craft articles and poems that leave a punch with every word. I will keep at this task until that day when hearts would race, and hormones would ignite the body’s entropy at the sound of my words.
The minds I seek here to emulate all have great and generational impacts, yet there are minds who would rather be “In Pursuit of Craftiness”. To these minds, I must warn that whatever a man sows, he would reap; and the ratio of seeds sown to harvest is at least, 1: infinity.

TRUE LIFE FICTION

She walked towards me, beaming intensely with delight- one that was usual for our every meeting. We hugged. Hmmm! That’s all I can say! I can try to explain that exclamation but I still would be unable to mold these amazing feelings into words.
The world around us always blurred to the background when we were together. “I missed you terribly” I would say. “I missed you more” she would reply. “No you can’t” I often retorted and the debate afterwards would heighten the glee of our meeting until we chose to get serious enough to open new pages of trivialities like: “so Dear, how was your day?”
Hmmm! my heart feels cheated. It feels English language hasn’t given it enough words to express the true dimensions of enchantment that escorts our meetings.
Oh, her name? Mirabel. It was easy to call her my Miracle. We were friends. Just friends! Everyone who witnessed our ‘hmmm’ moments doubted with fervor that we were just friends. Even we had a string or two of disbelief tugging at our hearts yet, they were always expressed mutely, at best.
And then we sought for a good reason to land this flight of deception- the impression that we could love each other this much without dating- and chose to give this ‘thing’ a good shot. With all coast clear, we did. And our gift of heartwarming friendship was the best foundation we could ever have. With such strength of a foundation, this ‘thing’ we shared will never end we thought. We thought so wrong.
For as long as this memorable jolly ride of romance lasted, we awakened glossy admiration in the eyes of friends and fiends alike. They overtly salivated for an experience like ours. The not-so-wise itched to break us up, with the amusing hope that by dating one of us, they would taste of our scarce brand of romance; regardless of how brief. So we heard! I’m not sprinkling yeast on facts here. These are nude truths.
Ok, so why would we alight from a ride that was jollier than any Shakespeare tale of love? Why would anyone (in their right senses) sever this lovely melody from the cadence of two young hearts? How could we ‘grow apart’ as they often say?
It was largely my fault. Not entirely but largely. I partly absorb the blames, as burdensome as they are. I didn’t cheat on her; at least not sexually. I failed her. I failed to plan.
The present was indeed a present- a gift. We relished it so much we become somewhat oblivious of truth. We are age mates. That meant that she would always feel the discomfort of the ticking clock if we didn’t get married early. Your guess is as good as mine. She started feeling it….. 20months down the line. Alien strain visited our bliss. We wrestled with our long denied truth. I wasn’t ready; I didn’t plan to be ready then. I only hoped and now I know regretfully, that hope was not enough.
Words indicating a switch of lanes trickled from her lips. “Dear, it’s not like I don’t love you, but please can you lift eyes a bit more to behold reality?” she said. I felt multiple stabs with a jagged edged knife.
The debates were no longer trivial. They bled life out of our larger-than- life affair. Life lacks a pause button. I would have held hard to it, visited the past, planned, executed and returned ready.
Time doesn’t wait for anyone, not even for a wristwatch repairer. I’ve ever since remained sober. Sober enough to love the present and levy the future.
Now, even our beautiful friendship has been reduced to a memory. I couldn’t settle anymore for just friends. Comfort and demotion are fierce enemies, Ribadu will understand more. I have learnt my lessons but after the school was shut down.

Donation or Rotation?

As a Medical Lab. Scientist, a profession I practice with more than enough grumbling to stagnate a lake, I see life-threatening cases every day. In their different shades and shapes, I see people who disclose pathologically induced discomforts of myriad kinds. This has hardened my heart of some sort, against the usually gory sight of blood and gaping flesh. Yet, I noticed some two days back that the hardened part of my heart is only a very minute dot when compared to the mushy lot.
Just as we were rounding off work at my venue of private practice, in comes this slim young man in his say, late twenties. He sought to see my boss. He was informed that my boss was away briefly for personal issues. He insisted on waiting.
Soon after, my boss walks in and the established familiarity affords them barely heard pleasantries. Afterwards he (my boss) says to me “bleed him”. This in medical parlance means, ‘take some blood from him’. Quantity of collected blood depends on the need. This varies from simple tests like PCV to blood donation that can take as much as 450mls of blood from the donors divinely awarded quota.
In this case, our guest, a donor, had to lose a pint of blood to our expectant blood bank. The problem was he was classed by my boss as a ‘professional donor’. I found great uneasiness at the title. I quizzed myself: how professional can a donor be? Who even made it a profession? We are talking here about losing blood deliberately and someone refers to such as a profession?
Now that the title had triggered my concern, I took the donor aside for a casual chat. He confessed with a good weight of confidence how often he donates and that he does it however with caution.
WHO recommends a donation only as frequent as four times annually. The young man donates ehhhhh……well, monthly! He does this as a remunerated donor, as WHO likes to refer to them- donors who get paid for losing some of what we others withhold fiercely.
I dare not reveal all what he shared with me not only because of how heartbreaking they are but also because of how you might henceforth perceive me.
The bible says that the life of everything dwells in the blood. I understand as a result why a religious denomination does not subscribe to the idea of blood donation. If life is in our blood- donated or protected- and it is, then why should it ever cross our minds to sell it and worse still sell it for less than N5,000? Is it gruesome poverty, plump ignorance or simply the near zero value we place on life?
Has this nation become so poor that the citizens’ trade a bit of their lives to sustain what is left? Is that donation or rotation? I listened again to the memory of his voice and these words are of them all, loudest: “I dey donate sometimes, three times a month”. That much ‘life’ traded for just N1,500 per pint.
Hmmm!

CREEPLING CRADLE

I read with soaring disappointment, the reaction of Mr. Femi Falana to President Barack Obama’s choice to not stop by Nigeria when he visited Africa. He poured fury at the President, questioning his reason, which was by the way, “in support for countries with legitimate and true democracy”. Mr. Femi expressed volumes of dissatisfaction particularly at President Obama’s choice of words which disguisedly berated Nigeria and cited also, the fact that his lengthy speech was empty of words like “reparation and Western apologies, for their connivance in slave trade”.
At this point, I became quite livid at this legal practitioner’s course of thoughts. I’m no supportter of the slave trade era nor do I regard the chief perpetrators of this landmark heinous crime, any less than criminals. However, I have also refused to support the idea of pampering an entire continent.
From achievements to blunt refusal at maturity, Africa can be sadly referred to as the last born of the seven continents- Antarctica inclusive. We have practically waxed numerous albums of how we were the cradle of civilization. It looks from where I stand now, that the cradle got too comfortable and we stayed put. Our whiter siblings grew, advanced and came to ask for our services, with offers to pay our wages on the skin of our backs rather than be dropped into our palms.
I wonder now why anyone should blame ‘Jacob’ when ‘Esau’ gladly swapped his birthright for a pot of porridge that didn’t even come with a bottle of chilled Coca-Cola.
Africa remains the pathetic concern of every gathering of advanced nations. Decades after slavery, we have only reinvented ourselves at best to be free-slaves. Should we still blame the slave drivers? If we have refused to maximize what has been in our custody for countless decades, should it be the fault of those who knew better, earlier?
We dare not compare a country like Germany to ours in the light of natural resources. How heartrending it would be to liken “the sleeping giant of Africa” to a once-barren country like Singapore, whose independence was only a few years shy of ours. Who should we really blame?
The disturbing issue is simply this: No one is a failure until they fall and blame the ground for not being steady enough”. That is why Nigeria has remained on its knees- either begging for forgiveness of debt, or for foreign assistance or seeking seats in UN that would shed more light on our plight.
We seemingly like this position and when are reminded of our latent greatness and potentials, we as a continent and more as a nation, claim that we would have been better had slave trade never existed. It is downright appalling!
Specialists in fabrication of sympathy and exportation of excuses- that’s what we have become. If we seize to see ourselves as the last born of the bunch and undeserving of global sympathy, we will be well on our way to ‘rebranding’. John Maxwell once said that it is easier to move from failure to success than it is to move from excuses to success. I agree, with Nigeria as a reinforcing case study.
Mr. Femi Falana did well to dish a portion of blames to the West for their input in our set back, he however failed in serving Africa the Lion’s share they deserve. And that’s the problem- everyone has excuses, Nigerians just seem to use theirs all too often.

DISCRETION Vs. DIVINITY

I look forward with robust hopes to that day when all- every part- of my life will be controlled entirely by what I hear the Holy Spirit say. No hassles, no objections, just unblemished obedience. As little as whether or not to use a deodorant is included. Well, with the consequences of not using a deodorant, I’m sure someone won’t call that little.
I amidst this hope have a reservation however. I wonder truly where the line should be drawn and if there should indeed be a line. I mean here, the line between what is God’s responsibility and ours. How far should our discretion go and when should human instincts back off completely? It might seem senseless to wander along this thought course but for someone who has ever asked Jesus to be his Lord, I believe we should share the same puzzles now.
One synonym for ‘Lord’ and that which fits the above context quite perfectly is Master. And for everyone who has a master, not much can define him than being a subject. And if we are subjects, what more should we do than what the Master has laid down? Except well, in cases of inadvertent insubordination or outright rebellion! Where this not the case, should our obedience not be as good as leaving the driver’s seat completely for the One who knows the way?
All too often, we Christians seem to have our actions stalled by our “waiting on God syndrome”. Not that this is a bad syndrome, it just seems these days as an effective excuse for inaction. I’m pressured to wonder which actions we should wait on Him for and which we should outrightly execute with more consultations to discretion than Divinity.
For someone who wants ‘Jesus to take the wheel’, I look forward to that day when I would have let all go- steering, throttle, rear mirror, gear and even seatbelt and not be so heavenly conscious that I’m classed as earthly useless.

DEFLOWERED DIGNITARY

Nigeria, once our eye-popping virgin
Beautiful enough to have lured the Crowns of the great West
But now, even her children call her barren
Strangers fondle recklessly her drooping breasts
And her scantiness now mocked by her younger womb-mates

Her rapists are driven by greater forces than testosterone
Armed with more than the expandable Ghana-must-gos
She’s plundered by such greed that can scorch the sun;
By beings with consciences sedated to an overdose.
Worse still, her children scream mutely, and are pacified by hopelessness

True waste is in shredding the recyclable with the disposable
It’s in discarding both the unused and misused
But why does the colorless skin seek for what we have called deplorable?
Could there be fat wealth in our disguised virtues?
Maybe our mind’s eyes are deserving of optical aids!

Strengthen your gaze on this abused of ours
She would discard her limp, if we stare in hope
What’s left might be feeble yet fertile, thin yet a tower
But wouldn’t she glitter if she’s bathed with our compassion’s soap.
Imagine her beauty then! I dare your minds, imagine!!


Who needs crutches more than the frail at feet?
Who needs oxygen far more than the unconscious?
What sane mother longs for her son’s defeat?
What’s clear is that Nigeria needs all of us,
A bit more than hell needs a pail of chilled water.

Outspoken

Every blank sheet deserves two possibilities at best- to remain blank or be deflowered by wise scribbling. I hope this sheet gets the later as I compassionately reap off its blankness.
This weekend has had my young heart panting in wishes and worries. I have felt anemic, deserving of an emergency transfusion of at least ten pints of 20/20 vision.
What can trouble me so? The fear looms larger than a soldier’s on a field heavily infested with landmines. I have had to walk with that much caution lately.
Spoken words-regardless of subtlety- are misconstrued. Imagine then what has become the fate of my actions! If I say I’m certain of where and what next, hmmm! I twist truth. Badly! Even my silence has been violated; it’s intentions replaced by distant and unrelated meanings. But for grace I would be as fatigued as a decade old memory.
Well, enough of the suspense! It’s about my love life or maybe I meant the life of my love. I fantasized of one that would outlive Methuselah, out-dance David, outweigh the Titanic, outclass all of Shakespeare’s love tales and outgrow our boundless hearts. I think the only thing it seeks now is outsourcing!
As is obvious, this mind is unsure about so much. Lest I infect you with unsettled thoughts, I would stop here. I only wonder if my heart still feels young.

SILENCE OR COINCIDENCE?

Walking through these serene streets, I wondered and lusted. I coveted all these- the sky high fences, the eye-popping architectural pieces- in well, some very moral way I hope. Yet above my lust and smoldering desire for the wealth that perfumed these streets, I wondered: why is the neighborhood of rich often so serene? Why does tranquility seem to abide more in their bosom than in those of their opposites?
Are they rich because they are quiet or are they quiet because they are rich? Have they lost their tendency to be noisy to the comfort that escorts wealth or is wealth just a Siamese twin of the restful minds? Seriously! If I’m doubted, take a stroll through the GRAs, the Lekki Peninsulas and the choice, highbrow estates that house this caliber of the ‘careful and courteous’ then, you might grab a feel of what I mean. You might wonder why a cemetery would gulp this much architectural investment. Go on. Take a stroll.
With these assumptions, I’m tempted to think (and I like the temptation) that the rich are far less prone to screaming than the poor. Peace of mind is a lot more expensive than I imagined. Otherwise how can you explain why the vicinities (because I can’t brand them neighborhoods) that are packed with the poor are forever blaring? Even if such streets were called “Mind Your Business Avenues”, its ambience still would bear similarities with the noise that would have come from the sinking Titanic.
I don’t think it’s because these houses are not as soundproofed as those of the rich, I believe rather that the poor might be talking too much, they often miss what gets the rich both their name and serenity.
I would henceforth listen a little more, talk a little less, and visit these streets a lot more. I might just be rewarded someday by their secrets of wealth which I hope would not be buried too deep in quietude that I don’t hear as I pass by.
Hey, I’m not poor, I just prefer these awe-crafting neighborhoods and one day I know I will be writing from the library of these suspiciously peaceful houses.

THE FIRST NOTE OF A NEW RHYTHM

Larry King narrates in his book “How to Talk to Anyone, Anytime, Anywhere”, how his very first experience in broadcasting was. He was literally ‘pushed off the edge’ to get started. I feel my feet at such an edge tonight!

While my mind shuttles between which of my thoughts would splash colorfully on this sheet and from what corners I could make the finest splash, I remember an incidence that caught me gaping almost disgracefully this evening.

As I stared at our aging TV screen, I watched with virgin fascination how a reckless driver sped from his home down the street just to avoid going to church. He drove fast enough to win the attention of the policemen, who also noticed how invisible he was through the windscreen.

He was seven years old! I mean, three years away from being ten.

Even if the car were automatic, how did he maintain the right lane, drive fast enough, when visibility of the road must have been painstaking and bring the car to a halt when he chose to? He’s seven and too short to have his height expressed in feet, for goodness sake.

I remained intrigued up until I chose to write this. I’m just wondering, would I ever have such an opportunity at not only CNN free coverage but also history-jerking records? I definitely can’t be the youngest billionaire anymore. I’m not pessimistic, people have been there already! I wish I had slid into record books as one whose very first article was published in Times Magazine with a title like “A baby Giant Writes”. However if wishes were horses, I will be a beggar right now.

With time, I hope half desperately that my little acts here and there, etch their way up through this proverbial glass ceiling until pop! I’m the first or youngest to have……

I hope more however for three things: that that day comes soon, that I’m not escorted in handcuffs for any reason and that an audience be caught gaping. It would be gratifying fun if my parents are members of this entranced audience.

Lost, Now Found!

I’m gradually recovering from the awe of just watching people of black skin with golden achievements. Aired on BET (Black Entertainment Tv), I saw the true picture of honor. The canvass, art work and frame was simply magnificent! I was bedazzled. Gladly so!
They all, regardless of gender awoke the snoring giant in me. My highlights seemed all too frequent, I could with great prudence call it “a compendium of highlights”.
Delight surged through the screen when Whitney Houston was invited up stage. It was her first time in a long time as the commentator aptly echoed. She introduced one of my newest role models and who is so for many good reasons. With well crafted oratory, she introduced one man whose acts and scenes have made our actions and sins a bit more glaring. His movies have helped draw our deep evaluations to our past moves, especially our critical ones. My role model, Tyler Perry is one man whose messages have shaped our perception of who we are and how we are meant to treat people as well as be treated.
“You have never completed anything” a job interviewer told him; “not even your application”, he added. Tyler Perry henceforth decided that against all odds: “I will complete whatever I start”. That to me is one of his unscripted messages. It tells me that every book opened, every project assumed, and every prayer point taken up must been seen to its finish line. No rooms anymore for spiky enthusiasms and fleeting zeal. No more levity for matters of my destiny.
Indeed I was quite guilty of running on too many tracks with very few crowns to show for it or even consolation prizes as proof of race completion. It’s disheartening! Incomplete book, poems, business proposals, visions and even thoughts. It is revelatory of impatience, intolerance, and only modicum measures of perseverance. He made a decision to finish everything he starts. So have I. That’s why I can say “was guilty”
While it was an award ceremony for achievers on different rungs on the impact ladder, I also got an award. I was awarded with the realization of cancerous mistakes including a depth of ingratitude. He narrated how he met a destitute who he thought was begging for just money. Quite shocked he became, when she asked “do you have shoes?” “Well, I guess I can get you a pair he said”. The second she received the perfect fit, she exclaimed “thank you Jesus, my feet are off the ground”. Not “what beautiful shoes”, or “wow, now I will show Monica, who’s boss”. She thanked God her feet were off the ground. It’s mind-blowing when people cut through the nitty-gritty of life as if with a laser beam to unearth the real essence of our everyday lives.
I should learn to thank God for the ability to see myself in the mirror. It is one wish I feel Steve Wonder might highly esteem. I should learn to thank God for each rising of the sun; it’s a renewed chance to right my wrongs. I should just learn to thank God for every little shinny drop that makes up the ocean of my life and of those dear to my heart.
Lastly, this physically huge role model of mine suffused my thoughts with admiration when he said “although Jesus didn’t have a place to lay his head, he never lacked a place to pray”. Hmmmmm!