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You’re my blog. I share all my toilet humour and wild fantasy stories of randy gentlemen who only speak pidgin with you.
I might as well share my grief.
I recently lost my mother and I’ve learnt some new things since…
1. Nothing Really Matters.
In our heads, some things do. In reality, nothing does. I would give up everything and be a different person and undo everything if it would bring her back. I would be shorter, more overweight, more dumb, less funny, anything. Just to hear that chic whine and nag me some more. To be clear, the whining got a lot less with time and age. I grew wiser, she grew tired and realized I was incorrigible. So in a way, she grew wiser too.
I really would trade in all my ambition, all my current hopes. Everything. I cannot say that enough. People say I am strong but am I really? I don’t cry a lot. I’m still nice to everybody – even though I secretly dream of punching their faces in – but does that make me strong? The only thing people say that rings true when they’re trying to console me is “I cannot imagine what you’re going through…” That much is true. Even if you’ve lost your mom, you’ve not lost MY mom. My situation is not necessarily worse or better than yours: it’s just different.
Those that genuinely annoy me are the mopes. The pity-ers. Every time you walk by, they look at you like you’re a brand new amputee because you’re bereaved. I don’t want your pity, motherfucker… Move away. (in my head I was whispering by the way. Too much Hank Moody.)
2. You’ll think you’re all better REALLY quickly. You’re not.
I hear there are stages of grief so maybe I’m going through mine.
Some mornings, I wake up and feel like nothing terrible happened on Easter Sunday. Like it was just another day. People died, nothing special. I move through the house coasting and being jolly and then I tell myself I’m a trooper. I can deal with this.
Sometimes, it takes a big thing like rummaging through her stuff or a little thing like hearing a conversation and remembering what her reaction would be. One way or another, some kind of relapse occurs. Some days are really woeful.
I can tell you for a fact that I am going to dread Fridays for a long time. A very long time. Because Fridays were our day. My brothers keep telling me to look out for my Dad and not be far from home and be strong this and be manly that. That grates on my nerves too because in their heads, my grief is somehow less. Maybe less than my Dad’s (he knew her since ’67) but mine is still profound. I say that to say this: Fridays.
We went to church every Friday. She went earlier because she always had other stuff to attend to around 5pm. I generally showed up by 8 or 9 pm.
We did that song and dance so often; it is really deeply etched in my memory. Because it was just us. My Dad was always home, my brothers didn’t have the assignment I had so they were not obliged to come. It was just us. Being the youngest, she had no reservations packing food for me when she left home by 4. No matter how grown up I tried to be, she just shrugged and doted on me some more. We always headed home together at 6.10 am or thereabouts. Early morning public transport could be problematic. Conductors are really whiny about change. All the buses we entered cost 50 bucks each so we had a mini-competition as to who could collect the most 100s before Saturday morning. I was always winning but she’d rush to pay anyway.
Yeah… those things. Little then, priceless images now.
I still have that assignment. I still have to head to church on Fridays. I still have to gather my change beforehand. Not 100s for two but 50s for one. I’d rather be gathering 100s. Every time I pass through those routes the memory is so vivid, I nearly pass out. Instead, I clamber into the next bus and ready my 50…
3. People Mean Well But…
When it first happened, I was absolutely inundated with messages from people telling me they were there for me whenever I needed to talk or blow off steam or cry profusely. Legitimate messages I must add and I do honestly appreciate every one of you that checked up on me and still check up on me from time to time. But the truth is that it’s not easy to hit someone up just to depress them or sour their day. I do it now and again but you have to forgive me for not hitting y’all up to whine EVERY TIME I’m down in the dumps.
Because sometimes you guys are so happy and I don’t want to mess with that. How depressing is this blogpost already? Imagine if I had to send you a different version 3 to 4 times a week via bbm or whatsapp! Aha! Some of my friends are either basking in a new job or a promotion, newly married life, a cool new toy or a boyfriend that FINALLY realized they got their boobs done. I can’t see those pms or status updates or tweets and then hit you up to say “oh I had to go through my mom’s stuff and I found a letter I wrote to my folks in JSS3 and it made my heart tear in two” can I? Yes, the most kind-hearted of you will say “of course you can!” and actually mean it. That will not make me any more interested in sharing things all the time. I love to be leaned on because I know how therapeutic it can be but I also know how sad it can make a person who has to listen through all that. And meeeen, trust me, grievers can ramble (I was also surprised to find that ‘griever’ is actually in the dictionary. Who knew?) We could start off gisting you about our lost one’s last moments and somehow delve into some bittersweet anecdote from way back when. I have valuable experience from losing my sister in ‘98.
Oh and I’m not bottling it in. Trust me. That is some dangerous shit right there. Writing this actually helps. Writing “Hey Ma” was therapeutic like you can’t believe. Also, there’s that corny crap you see in movies and turn your nose up at:
You know that corny thing they do where they’ll say stuff like “I’m sure your mother is up there looking down on you blabbity bla bla…” yeah? I think that crap is corny as hell but I swear to every deity in existence I feel it sometimes. Maybe it’s the grief talking maybe it’s a real thing. Sometimes I’m talking and I get the distinct feeling that she’s listening in and taking mental notes like she used to and that feeling can be so comforting. Weird eh? I hope you don’t have to go through all this sha. It’s tough stuff.
4. I’m not sure I’m that magnanimous…
My mom was in a car crash with some people from church. Ultimately, two of them died. Out of about 13. I got to see a few of the survivors recently. Varying degrees of injuries and scratches. Some have really vile wounds others have minor scratches. Seeing them, I didn’t know what to think.
One the one hand, I’m truly thankful for their lives and I thank God that more lives weren’t lost. On the other hand, I wish they’d all died too just for the heck of it. They have flesh wounds that will heal – I lost my mom. No matter how much they apologize, they are not helping much. Because they are alive and Mma Dan isn’t. Simples.
In time, they will only remember that they were in a car crash that took someone else’s life. I’ve heard people talk about acquaintances that they lost XYZ years ago. After a while, they develop this matter-of-factly tone of voice. The emotion gets less and less. As it should. They didn’t kill her (although I hear some rat-bastards were egging the driver to go faster. Unconfirmed reports but I’m buying some rat poison just in case anyway) and they didn’t lose the single most important female figure in their lives at the time. At best, I will remain wry when I speak of her down the years and I will be wistful for quite a while.
Bah… so many words. Lemme see, are there more…?
5. You fear death a whole lot less…
Because the thinking becomes “if it’s good enough for mother, it’s good enough for me.” I genuinely thought of dying just to hang with her. (Forgive the weird executioner’s pun; unintended.) Not suicide or anything stupid or dangerous. Just dying. Death doesn’t really seem like a real thing till it happens to someone you’re especially close to. Someone who is intertwined with like half of all your pleasant memories. Someone you had plans to spoil to infinity. I always imagined I’d make a kajillion bucks and force cash through my mother’s ears till her pupils did like those TV animations and became dollar signs. So much for that. She’ll have to watch me do it and hope I can sneak her a bottle of perfume when I’m coming up to meet her whenever.
Bottom line, it’s no longer such a scary proposition. Especially with me now being one of those proudly brainwashed fellows who believe in God and Jesus and eternal life. Curiously, losing her has actually strengthened my faith. In a twisted, roundabout-ey way, I now kind of understand what Jesus meant when He said “He that loveth this life shall lose it…” my mother was sooo darn careful about everything. She had health issues but had navigated and managed all of them so well. She never took any risks. She was very ‘by the book’ but still…
I have few regrets though. There really isn’t much – if anything – that I would change about my relationship with my mom. I was a pretty decent son. I wasn’t too naughty growing up and I wasn’t mean to her as an adult. What will fill me with regret though is every achievement that will come after…
Attainment of financial stability…
Birth of my children…
And probably every noteworthy thing in-between that I would have loved to share with her.
I’m particularly thankful that we had a relationship worth remembering; worth celebrating. Ours was special. Nothing can ever change that. Nothing will ever replace that. I just await the day when the thought doesn’t make me want to tear my hair out.
I hear it gets easier with time though.
Can’t wait for that to happen!
Nice talk people. I’ll holler again soon.
Hello everybody… Today, I’m doing a sort of throwback thingy thing. One of the earliest times I got to know that I was any good at writing was while I was in JS2. An SS1 boy made me write his essay for him and the essay killed. Absolutely killed. I had a fairly steady stream of writing ‘jobs’ then though. The Igbo gene hadn’t kicked in by then. I could have made a 90s-style fortune from all the writing I did.
I remember what that essay-writing assignment was: “Write an essay that starts or ends with the words ‘I was dumbfounded…'”
I cannot remember what Nollywood epic I penned back then but I decided to retry that now.
To keep this going, y’all gotta suggest the words to start or end the next entry in the series.
I don’t even know what to call the series sef. Y’all can also help with that.
I’ll choose episode titles by whim (or popular demand) and we get to do it all over again. Okay? So here goes nothing.
WARNING: a few swear words!
Before that encounter, I thought Trudy was a phony. First of all, what Nigerian parents named their daughter ‘Trudy’? I didn’t even know what ‘Trudy’ was short for. All I knew was that I didn’t like the girl and I thought she was a fraud.
This is the story of how she proved me wrong. Well… sort of…
We were in our first year at the University and I was still a virgin. ‘Screw’ was still a word I only thought appeared in ‘Intro Tech’ textbooks, ’69’ was just like any other number and pussies only went ‘meow’. Really. I had grown up sheltered and, by Nigerian standards, fairly rich. Even when I got dressed for classes and looked in the mirror, I could tell that I looked spoiled.
I didn’t care.
I had my clique of friends back then. In hindsight, the only thing we all had in common was that we were either spoiled or got a real kick out of pretending we were. Mobile phones were like a bourgeois badge of honour in those days and we all had one. Except the pretenders who lied that though they had one, their parents seized them because either:
a) said parents were borrowing them to use;
b) said phones were too ostentatious and hence too awesome to be in the presence of other less ostentatious mobile devices; or
c) any other proper bullshit story the pretenders were smart enough to concoct and we were gullible enough to believe.
Outside my clique, I didn’t really mingle. I was pampered and spoiled but surprisingly untainted. I really didn’t think anybody else was worth having a conversation with. You tried to start one up and I’d turn my nose up at you. My way of saying “Kindly stop talking and get away from me, vermin.”
Trudy was in my class. I’d seen her around. Always smiling. She dressed really well but never tried to mix with any member of my group. I told myself that she had a complex. That she liked our crew but was jealous of our awesomeness.
Then one day, I saw Trudy exchanging heated words with one of my friends.
“You’re a prostitute!” yelled Yewande.
“Yes. So you should tell your mom that your Dad is a lousy tipper!” Trudy yelled back.
“Like you could handle it if I gave it to you. Look at this child! Do you know me?!”
I was walking towards our lecture hall when I saw that really terrible soap opera unfolding in the parking lot. I ran towards the action.
“You’re just a bastard!” Yewande was still trying to go on the offensive.
“Yeah, I don’t know my father. But tell your mother I know yours more than she does!” Dang. Trudy hit harder with her words than you’d expect from the average first year student. Matured evil. There were already a few of our friends at the scene trying to quell the storm. I immediately helped to yank Yewande away. We rich kids stuck together. I managed to steal a glance at Trudy as we walked away. She was tall for a girl and really did look a lot more mature than most of us managed. However, I’d been raised not to feel intimidated by anyone. Quasi-amazon or no. And I’d also been taught that family and friends were everything. I considered Yewande a friend. Without asking what had actually caused the altercation, I resolved to stick up for her. This must never happen again.
I left the gang and walked back to where Trudy stood. She was still seething.
I pointed to her as I approached. “You! Don’t you ever mess with my friends again. Okay? Or else…”
She seemed taken aback.
“Or else what?”
“Or else you’ll have to answer to me!!!”
“To you???” And she broke out in wild laughter. Annoying me in the process. “Look at this stupid virgin talking to me,” she spat. My solar plexus felt that dig. Especially as it was true. But I didn’t let it show.
“Me? A virgin?”
“Let me tell you, I fuck girls all the time!” I lied with gusto while shivering inside. I’d gotten pretty good at bragging about these things. I think I also tried to act fierce. I think.
“You don’t know anything, you this boy. I’ll just end you for nothing in this school.”
“End me? Who the hell do you think you are?” I’d been reliably informed that getting around in school with minimum fuss was all about posturing. Right then, I was making a mean ass attempt.
“Look here, I’m a gangsta on these streets yo. Don’t mess with me!” I yelled. I’d recently discovered 50 Cent back then so my faux-Americana had to be utilized.
“Oh you are?” I would later realize that the expression on her face was sarcasm.
“Yeah bitch! Don’t fuck with me or my friends.”
“Ok. We’ll see.” Without waiting to hear another word from me, Trudy, a wry smile on her face, turned smartly and began walking away. I thought of hurling abuses at her departing frame.
Instead, I ended up staring at her ass.
That was at about 3pm. The sun was still in view and I still had my balls about me.
Roughly six hours later, they would recede. ***
9pm. Or thereabouts.
I was walking out of my hostel. I was supposed to meet up with the rest of my crew so we could go study. Or as we were all good at doing, pretend to.
“Heyss! Ajebutter, come here.” The voice was gruff and large and grainy. I looked in the direction the voice was coming from and saw this monstrosity of a man. His demeanor couldn’t have screamed ‘Super violent cultist’ more if he’d been dripping with blood and wearing human intestines on his neck. My legs almost gave way.
“I said come here, bloody jambite!” My name was (and still is) Edward Okon – not Bloody Jambite – but I wasn’t about to correct him. The average life expectancy in my family was roughly 60 years. He looked like he could drive that figure down by a significant margin.
As I got within two feet of him, he pointed at a car parked in the shadows. “Madam is calling you,” from up close, his voice left me even more petrified.
There was a lone figure sat in the driver’s seat. Trudy.
She saw me approaching and rolled her eyes as she flicked and tossed away a cigarette stub. Filled with trepidation, my feet slowed.
I meekly obeyed, intimidated. I grabbed my crotch.
Stupid balls were nowhere in sight.
“So… big boy,” she started. “I heard you’re gangsta.” She chuckled; I swallowed audibly. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take in the model of the car but it had wood trimmings here and there plus the air-conditioning was bad-ass. Even though the windows were down, the car still felt like a small freezer especially since I was coming in from a humid evening. Then the sight of a woman smoking?! I bet she had a gun in there. What if she pulled it on me and I got shot? I’d been warned off bad eggs in school. It seemed I was about to be eaten up by a really bad chic.
“I said, I heard you’re gangsta,”
“I’m not. Really,”
“Yes you are.” She goaded.
“Me? No. Never. How do you know that guy?” I nodded in the direction of the assassin I just encountered.
She laughed. “Who? Samgun? He’s a friend. But he’s not as gangsta as you na, is he?”
“I repeat, I’m not a ggggangsta…” I stuttered. She was cracking up visibly.
“I also heard you’ve banged many girls.”
” I have?” I asked without thinking.
“Yes na. You said so yourself.” With her eyes still fixed on my face, her features contorted into a serious look as she pressed the button to bring up the windows. And once the windows were shut:
“Oya. Start banging me.”
My bladder instantly felt full. But something told me that if I emptied it on her seat, Samgun would have to shorten that life expectancy average anyway.
Then her right hand got lost in her shirt. Moments later, it emerged.
With her bra.
“Let me guess. You haven’t seen a bra before, have you?” My first instinct was to push the car door open and run fast. My breathing became heavier. As if on cue, I heard the door locks simultaneously click shut.
“If you’re shaking at the sight of a bra, how will you bang me senseless?” She hissed and swiftly pulled her tee-shirt over her head. Jello Monsters one and two bounced freely before my eyes. My jaw made contact with the floor.
“Come on, touch it. Touch it now!” I gulped audibly. Transfixed on the wondrous sight before my eyes, my hands stayed right where they were. I was sure I would not live to tell the tale if I touched those.
“Oh. You don see breast and you no fit talk again, abi?” They were a beautiful pair. I now know that the adjectives to describe them are ‘firm’ and ‘full’. Back then, two other contradictory words were up in lights in my head.
With her raised shirt went a decent chunk of my innocence and every discriminatory sinew in my body. I saw my first rack… while scared to death.
And I was dumbfounded.
Letter to the future Mrs.
As I write this, we haven’t met. If we have, know that I am presently thinking of you as a proper pretender right now. You are forming. Why did you form all this while when you know you wanted to get down with the cikky icky? Anyway, some insights for thee. I’m writing them now so we can gauge how much more of a douche I have become since we wed. This allows me blame you for all my new flaws and chastise you for not helping me be rid of the shortcomings evidenced below. So here goes.
Food is essential…
Call me old school but you gotta know how to cook well. Very well. Don’t get it twisted: I can cook. At least everything that I like to eat, I can make. And I’ll always be learning to cook new stuff when I can so that you don’t ever ‘shakara’ me because of grub.
Having said that, there’s this thing: my Dad is a stubborn guy. He holds his wife in high esteem but there are some things he prides himself on being able to hold back on. There are certain things no one can goad him into doing. Not even my mom.
Unless she asks him after certain meals.
Mrs. Cikk0, I’ve seen this thing at work several times. Wallahi my mom’s food can break juju and loosen strongholds. This guy will yell at people he ordinarily wouldn’t yell at just because she made him do it after feeding him some unreal chow. Like he can’t even be mad at the person who cooked the food even if she spat in his face right after.
I want that.
I’ve said this many times to people and on prior posts on this blog: manipulate the hell outta me. I don’t mind. Only food oh! Bedroom manipulation, far as I’m concerned, is of the devil himself. Not cool. But if you cook that food right, watch me change the name on those Certificates of Occupancy. Spaghetti is my achilles heel number one. Followed by rice and beans cooked together and eaten with all those sauces that have plenty veggies. See, I’m even leaving hints! Then concotion(sp?) rice is also a fans’ favourite. Basically, all mede-mede and catering practicals are allowed. I like to experiment.
Speaking of experiments, and yes this is the sex part, we shall. Experiment that is. Nothing is barred. Except for that one thing which I’m sure I’ve told you of by now. Other than that, I’m up for some tying, gagging, role-playing, dominating, S&M sturvs. The whole works. Oh wait. Apart from that one thing, I also won’t do autoerotic asphyxiation. How did I hear about that? Google ‘David Carradine’ and stop being a learner.
If you’ve already had our first kid, this next point is moot because I should have already started practising it. If not, know that I wanna be hands on with that childcare business. I think those things are important for many reasons. I’ve heard that quite a few couples tend to grow apart when the kids are born because all some fathers do is hoist the kid in the air thrice daily, make googly eyes, and then wait till their wives are good to have sex again. Also, I’ve come to love the process. It is hell and it will drive us mad but it’s only for a while. They’ll grow up and I’ll get to knock you up again so we can repeat that song and dance.
So help me God, the plan is to own my business – whether it’s the music or whatever – and be the master of my own time. I’d rather work smart than hard. I need time to watch our kids grow. I cannot tell you how many fathers I’ve seen retire after 100 years of work only to realize that they don’t have a working relationship with their children. That money is grrrrrrreat, but I swear it’s not that important. At least not more important than family.
Speaking of money, if you’re reading this, Mrs. Cikk0, it means that I’ve sorted this conundrum one way or the other. But as of the time of writing this, I’m totally confused as to how much money I should have before gathering liver to toast/marry you. I know what I’ll tell our daughters but for the present hour, I’m working my Igbo genes and trying to stack the money as high as possible. Some believe you should have plenty dough, some say you should just have stability, others say you need not have much as long as you’re driven, dedicated and intelligent. The reality is that I’ve seen all three scenarios work well and fail miserably in almost equal measure. What shall I tell our daughters? Option three. Because that’s the only option that’s likely to stand the test of time. That’s what is likely to get him back on his feet when life happens. Who knows though… I might yet change my mind.
I will not cheat. Not because I’m super-human or gay on the side. Not because I haven’t noticed the sick curves my colleague or employee has. Not because I’m better than any of the guys who actually cheat (I probably ain’t; you of all people must by now be aware that I ain’t shii) but because I choose not to. Plain and simple. I hear all the talk of “but all men cheat… What of when I’m pregnant and bloated and raw and uninterested in gbenshin’?… What of when I let myself go?…” Bollocks to infinity. Don’t judge me with the same standards you’d use to judge those rat bastards that did you strong tin before me. The guy who gives any of those as an excuse – or any excuse for that matter – was always bound to cheat from the moment he got married: he was simply waiting for justification. However, don’t be fooled into thinking I’m any better than the next guy just because I’ve decided not to be a Nakamura. Assuredly I say unto thee, I shall find 5,000 other ways to piss you off on a daily daily. You shall annoy me as well but we shall forgive each other and make nice every time. I hope.
Also, please don’t hit me. No, I won’t hit you back. I’ll likely run and hide behind a couch and all my friends will end up calling me Pussygalore. And that’ll just be one moniker too many. But really, grown people should never hit each other. Simples. Act your age and talk to me if I’m pissing you off. Let’s talk and fight and wake the neighbours but let’s keep our hands in the air and in our pockets and folded in front of us but never on each other.
Unless the sex requires it. In that case, my safe word/phrase is “Randy Sausage” or “God of Elijah” or “Yeepa!” Kindly be informed that “Jesus”, no matter how many times I repeat it in quick succession, is NEVER a safe word. Quite the opposite. Thanks.
As for the kids? We shall beat them well please. No child abuse or scarring and only as a last resort; also not as an expression of anger or transferred aggression. But I ain’t gon’ raise no kids that talk back. Na madness? “Backhand-per-insolence” shall be the family’s motto.
Divorce is not an option but…
But don’t ever give up on us, don’t disrespect me (as I shall strive not to disrespect you) and yes… don’t naq our neighbour or their relatives or our driver or his friend. If I can’t do it, you ain’t doing it neither. If anybody other than Christopher Ikenna Ogbuehi of Umueju village, Irette, Owerri-West LGA of Imo state has consensual sexual relations with you…
It af finitch!
Unless it’s Robert Downey Jnr. In which case NOT getting pregnant shall be the equivalent crime. And the punishment shall be same.
That’s all for now. You married a correct dude, shebi you know? You laugh often don’t you? Aha. Yes, I know you’re awesome too but take a second to bask. There you go…
If pidgin is gonna be a problem, close this page now. It’s kinda graphic but it had to be. Loosely based on true events. Errors in characters’ grammar are deliberate.
*** *** *** *** *** ***
“I no go huzzle (till infinity) but I go bubble (till infinity)…”
I pick d phone. Wizboyy na my man. I no go change my ringing tone till I buy my own jeep. Or till Showkey Baba release song again; anyone wey sha happen first.
“Hello, omo how far na?” Na my guy Kajeta been dey call.
“Guuuuy! Yawa don gas o!”
“Ahn ahn. Wetin happen?”
“Jolomi don get belle oh!”
“Jolomi! And she dey tell men say na you give am d belle.”
“Give wetin? I never see im pant na! I never kiss am sef. How I wan take pregnant am?” Make I tell una true: I been don see her pant sha. Smelling pant for dat matter. But I no wan enter yawa abeg. Which kain wahala be dis?
“Omo, d babe dey tell men for area say na you give am sha. Make you know wetin you go do o. Ehen.”
“No mind d babe joo. She dey find who go buy baby food for am. Notin do u my guy. Tank you.”
“Ok na.” I cut phone. Kajeta na my person but you no fit trust anybody for Orile-Iganmu for dis kain matter. Everybody dey find your gist for here. Any fuck up na for your head.
“Hey Big Daddy! How are you doing?”
“Jolomi! Who be your Daddy? Betta go ask ya Mama o. Na me you dey speak English for? If I sound you from here ehn…” I jus dey para. See dis babe o!
Ahn ahn…. Honey bunsh, why are you angry?” Jolomi still dey follow me blow grammar.
“Who be your… in fact, I no get your power today. I just call you to warn you: no dey teh people say na me give you belle o! I go wound you for dis Iganmu o!”
“But dat day, you no wear condom na,”
“Oh you don learn pidgin sharp sharp abi? Which day abeg?”
“Ifeanyi, we had sex on the twenty-six na!” because d babe know me from small na im make she dey try me abi?
“Dis one wey you dey call me Ifeanyi. My name no be Ifeanyi again. My name na Crash Cos. CRASH-COS!”
Actually sha, d name wey my mama give me na Ifeanyi but I don stop to answer dat name since. Na one Oyibo mam give me d name when I small. Dat tori long sha. One day I fit gist una. I sha no dey gree make anybody call me Ifeanyi again. Unless my momsy or my broda. Jolomi liver no dey finish.
Jolomi na babe wey I don know tey tey. All we grow for d same area. We even go d same primary school sef. I suppose senior Jolomi like two years sha but I no sure. E get when I hear say she follow her aunty go stay for Satellite Town. But around October last year, she come back. I suspect say dat her aunty na farmer because Jolomi come resemble person wey dey chop fertilizer. D babe just full ground. Her balcony and her BQ na grade one! We don jam once or twice for area but she no dey gree hear my yans. I don try tire but she no dey gree.
Until 26th December; when we do our Christmas carnival.
Dat day I don drink enough stout. I dey dance like crase person. I come see d babe for one corner. She sef dey dance. She sef don high. I reach dia na so I begin grove d babe. I grove am for dance floor sotey she sef KNOW say person grove am. And na rough dancingo. You know as we dey do for area na. Na so she give me back come dey feel my oil pipeline. She turn face me.
“Ifeanyi, where your house dey?” Omo, dat day I no even send say she call me Ifeanyi.
“My house dey for the next street.” Jolomi just draw me for hand dey carry me go my own house.
Oh boy! Jolomi sabi d tin! D girl dey wine waist die. Me sef I surprise o! No wonder she dey do shakara. D babe kpekus carry anointing! See waya! I nearly trowey on time but I too smart for dat one. I form stoppage sharply.
“Jolomi wait abeg, wait…” I gats get myself for one or two minutes.
“Oooh,” she begin complain, “Ifeanyi, e mean say you no get power?”
“Sharrap dia! Jolomi I wan ask you one question.”
“What is it?” d idiot come dey eye me,
“You be ashawo?”
“Which kain stupid question be dat? You see me for ashawo house before?”
“No na but see as you dey move. Na ashawo movement be dat na.”
“Oh. How you take know as ashewo dey move? Abi you sef don carry ashi before?” I clear my throat. For my mind I first beg God to forgive me before I lie:
“No na. Never. Tufia. I don pass dat level na.”
“Continue dis tin before I lose interest joo,” by then, I don steady again. After like twenty minutes, I finish. As I dey finish, my eye dey clear…
And as my eye dey clear na im I realize say I no even wear raincoat.
As a responsible somebody wey no sabi him papa, I no wan do Jolomi and my pikin as my Papa take do me. I make up my mind say I go help d babe as my hand reach. Even before she born.
“Hey. Ifeanyi… How na?” Dis girl no dey gree fear god.
“Atink I don tell you tire. My name no be Ifeanyi. Make you dey call me Crash-Cos.”
“No be Ifeanyi be d name wey your mama give you?”
“You be my mama?” She finally keep quiet. I begin yan wetin I carry for mind.
“I say make I help you handle some tins as e be say you carry my pikin for dat ya big belle. E get anytin wey you need?”
“Hmmm…” She begin form tinkin. Shakara no go kill Jolomi.
“I dey go do my ultrasand tomorrow,”
“Wetin be dat?” Jolomi and dis her yeye grammar sef. No be like say she finish primary six. She dey fail pass Danfo fan-belt. Na too much film dey deceive am.
“Na just scanning to see weda my pikin dey alright.”
“How much you need?”
“Like two-five sha.”
“I fit follow you come?”
“If you like.” If I like. Mssstchew.
Jolomi na small tif sha because e come be say d scan cost one-five. She still collect d two-five from me sha. She say d 1k na ‘pregnancy allowance.’ Orile armed robber.
Na so we dey inside d hospital. Doctor rub one kain tin on top Jolomi belle and den she carry anoda tin put on top am. Picture come dey show for one small screen.
“Oga na your pikin be dat o.” I squeeze eye begin look like say I understand wetin dey show for d screen. To god I no see anytin. D doctor sef dey look screen, dey look d belle come dey talk.
“Your baby is quite healthy.” I hear “healthy” I happy small. Doctor continue to dey yan.
“From what I can see here, your baby is about four months old and doing well,” my blood just cold
“Doctor, say wetin? You sure?”
“Very sure. Maybe even five months but definitely at least four.”
“Four mont? Jolomi dis na February na!”
“Ehen? So?” Jolomi dey look me like say I no well.
“So wetin? No be December 26 me and you do paroles? How come pikin don reach four months? Abi na my ciga give you belle?” Jolomi come dey understand wetin don happen. Shame catch am immediately.
“I don dey warn you. I don dey warn you, Jolomi. Repent and stop workin ashewo. I don dey warn you.” Jolomi no fit answer. She just confuse. She come dey look d doctor like say na him betray Jesus. If to say I sabi read bible, I for show am where dem keep Judas. She come begin count finger. I just dey look am. Abi she don crase finally finally?
“Okaaaaaay. E be like say na Moruf get am sha. I no calculate well be dat.” I no know wetin to do Jolomi. Even to insult am tire me.
“Jolomi please give your life to Christ. I don tell you.” I no even wait again sef. Na run I run commot for hospital. I later regret because I for demand my two-five from dat mumu girl.
But I happy gaan! For evening, I just arrange myself dey drink, dey dotti eye for Iya Ibeji joint for Opeleyeru street. One woman dey sell drink for Onyah but her shop near one white garment church. I no fit dey look Jesus picture dey manya. Anyway, d shepe been make sense that day. Like say Iya Ibeji know say beta tin happen for my side.
I sha dey my own jejely when Napodia come pass. Napodia na Iya Ibeji first pikin. My people, una for come see yansh na!
Make I talk am again: yanshhh!
E possible say d yansh size increase because of d shepe wey dey my body dat evening sha. I no sure. Napodia fit tall pass me small. She no black but she no yellow. Her face no too fine but I no dey chop face.
“Heyss! Come here!” My voice sef come strooong. Napodia turn look me. I don dey notice d babe before but she no dey fine for my eye. But as she look me dat day, I look am back. Omo, d babe no too bad sha. Shepe get power o.
“Na wetin?!” she nearly dey shout sef. Idiot. She know who I be?
“I say come here my friend! You know why I dey call you?” she carry tray but notin dey inside. E be like say she been dey help her mama do sontin but I no send. She begin waka dey come.
“Oya. Na wetin make you dey call me?”
“I call you because I have one question for you,” Jolomi take style teach me English sha. And I don hiiiiigh…
“Wetin be d question,” Mumu sef dey squeeze face for me. Dis Napodia deserve slap. In fact, all d girls for dis area deserve slap!
“My question is: why your yansh big like dis?” As I dey ask, my hand don fly go her back go slap d yansh small. She no dey fear?
“Common, remove ya hand. Common!” She dey slap my hand but she dey laugh small join.
“Why won’t I slap d yansh? You sef no see as e big. If to say you be me, you no go slap d yansh?” D yeye babe begin laugh more. I know say maga don fall. Idiot…
“I no go huzzle (till infinity) but I go bubble (till infinity)…”
I pick d phone. Wizboyy na still my man. I never buy jeep and Showkey never serious yet.
“Hello, guy how far na?” Na my guy Kajeta been dey call. Again.
“Guuuuy! Yawa don gaaassssss o!”
“Ahn ahn. Wetin happen again?”
“Napodia don get belle!”
All dis Orile winches no go kill me!
The ups and downs of having my niece over.
February 2, 2012. My niece was born. And with her, my paternal instincts. I’ve been absolutely craving a child since I first held Abby rather uncomfortably all those months ago. I was instructed on how to position the head properly while carrying her and such and such. I visited my brother’s semi-regularly just for some Abby time. Her mother, ever happy to take a load off, is always quick to hand the baby over for the duration of my stay. Back then, Abby couldn’t crawl and wasn’t fully babbling. So we were all pleased when her parents dropped her off at ours. Grandma was predictably overjoyed. That was on Tuesday. Today is Thursday. Things have changed. Albeit slightly.
No, we don’t hate the baby just yet. She’s still at that age when she poops and it’s cute. Stank but cute. Two words I thought I’d never see side by side but life teaches you. Safe to say that my paternal instincts have been considerably doused. Sheesh! That baby is a smiling terrorist! She’s crawling pretty smartly now so she gets into weird, hidden corners before you can say “La Campagne Tropicana” three times without blabbing. (80s babies will get that reference)
She’s always putting things in her mouth so you gotta watch her closely. The other day, I saw her resting in my rather buff cousin’s embrace. He’s really buff sha. I’m a blob as is but he makes me look like the Michelin Man got stuck in a self-replenishing Sallah buffet. Anyways, Abby was chilling in his arms looking serene and lovable. Tried to carry her but she nor gree. Dude was smiling and happy. I was just pissed that even with toddlers, muscle-bound ape-men are still stealing my chics!
Later that afternoon, she pooped in his arms (while sans diapers) and I felt at peace again. Woohoo!
Oh. The poop! We bless God for diapers but even then, I’m just filled with trepidation: what if it drops?! She’s crawling all over the place and the diaper is clearly sagging from the weight of her droppings. You’re in NO MOOD to change it so you just stand back and stare and pray that the thing was stuck together really firmly.
And I always know when she’s about to release stuff. She could be seated on my lap and will just pause in mid-crazy-baby-chant and start looking at me. That’s the tell: the abrupt pause. Next thing, I’m feeling bubbly movements from beneath her and hearing muted noises. That’s my cue to start praying though. Hian.
It’s one thing to go and hang with her overnight at my brother’s but having her over is not a small sontin. One baby wears out four grown people by evening. That’s ridiculous, no? We’re all switching and taking turns and at the risk of sounding like a horrible person, we cannot wait for her Momsy to come take her away. I now see the point of baby-proofing.
Pleas spare a thought for her parents who’ve not had a moment’s peace since February. They got married in August last year and didn’t really get a proper honeymoon. This week is for them. You there! Stop doing the math. She was preggers when they wed. Get over it.
I’m still spoiling to be a Dad sha but just not that soon. When I marry, my wife and I are NOT having pikins for one year! I will use hand to hold her eggs if need be because once that baby shows, its over!
Had to run to the bathroom to type this. I can hear Abby giving my couz hell outside. She’s a super cute toddler though so we can’t be too mad to be honest. And you can’t tell me nothing: Barney the Dinosaur has Downe’s or is dyslexic.
Happy New Year to all that read my blog! God bless you immensely in 2013. I’m planning to take John Okro to thenakedconvos.com this year so stay…errrm…tuned?
Ooh and new music. Download “Lovesick” by Rapsody (@iamrapsody) and I
Brethren in the Lord let me warn you beforehand. If you’re one of those who DON’T think farts (and poop jokes) are funny, please move on. This post is dedicated to a nasty moment in my life that, in hindsight, was pretty funny.
Oh and the fiction should be back as soon as I can manage. Just that I think I concocted a plot too difficult to execute without looking profoundly under-informed.
Without further ado…
I was in my third year at Unilag when a very illustrious friend came around. He came to see his boys. We used to be a fearsome trio in Unilag then our friend had to go off and get rich. It is a testament to the bond that said friend used to abandon his blooming luxury to come and hang out with us at Mariere Hall.
In those days, a new “Tantalizers” had just opened up in Akoka. Our most benevolent friend took us out to lunch. Good times. I ate like a proper criminal. Rice, chicken, moi-moi, salad. No time. As a student, your next meal wasn’t sure. You had to be sharp when these opportunities cropped up.
I ate quickly and was done before the other two. We were all gisting amiably nonetheless.
Then I had to go ease myself.
I went in to pee and I must tell you, the toilets were cleeeeeean! There were two toilets and both could have passed for sitting rooms. (Technically they were. Just add ‘h’ to ‘sitting’.)
So I went in and eased myself.
But the cleanliness made me want to do more. Much more in fact, given what I’d just devoured.
I should supply you with some background info:
I was living in Mariere Hall. They cleaned the toilets only once a week (on mondays) and if you were having lectures right after your floor’s toilets were cleaned, you missed a small window within which to use a clean toilet. Come back in the afternoon and you’d meet the same hell you left before the cleaners came around. Whenever I missed the window, I often kept ‘it’ in till I went home at the weekend. That day was a thursday.
And I’d missed the last window.
So I was carrying at least four days’ luggage.
Also, the sight of such a clean toilet was as close to orgasmic as my innocent mind had known up till then.
You should also be informed of one other variable: only one of the toilets had tissue. I took the only tissue and went into the more comfy looking toilet.
What followed next is where the title of this gist came from. Bless the Lord and His holy name. I handled my biz with efficiency.
I spent a while in there. After like 10 minutes, one of the attendants was making rounds and knocked.
“I dey here,” I yelled.
“Okay bros,” he replied.
I heard the noise from the can of air-freshener as he sprayed. A short burst. Brief, perfunctory.
Another 10 minutes later and the story was different. He didn’t knock. He just yelled from the other side: “Bros, I dey hail o!” And then spray.
Long, deliberate. Dude was saving humanity.
Unfortunately, some dude knocked like another 5 minutes later (yes I was in there a long time. 4 days’ worth. Remember?) The dude asked me whether there was tissue in there with me. I said “yeah”. He said he’d be waiting for me then. I didn’t have that one’s time. I just kept at it. Finally, one of my friends got worried and came to check up on me. “Chris you in there?”
“Yes I am. Rounding up.”
By now, the guy outside was trés antsy. Shyte na bastard. He was obviously very pressed. I flushed and as I was walking out, dude ran straight in. Ran!
I smiled the most evil smile and counted to five in my head. At three, I heard a muted scream “Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Arrrrrgh!” And then quick footsteps as the guy ran. Out.
I didn’t spend half an hour in there for cone-headed boys to be running into my business. He deserved to die and almost did.
As he ran out my friend and I started cracking up. The dude came out and looked at me like I was an alien sent to destroy humanity. He was wearing native so he used the top to cover his nose and then ran back in, GRABBED THE TISSUE and then ran back the hell out. He then entered the other toilet. My friend still congratulates me on that day’s feat to this day.
Yeah. That’s my gross story for today. I’ll gist you another one from secondary school next time… Whenever that’ll be.
So here’s the deal: I’m trying to ease back into blogging. No promises to be regular. I’m still lazy biko. So I shall give you what (I hope) are two anecdotes from my past as an overweight kid. Oh and there’s music at the bottom of this post. Download and enjoy and gimme feedback.
Gist 1: Pile of dung gone wrong.
SS1. When I saw my pictures from secondary school recently, I realized that I was actually quite slim back then. But the image of a waddling 60-kilogram kid never left the mind of all who knew me then. I was called ‘fat’ till I graduated. Heck, stuff ain’t changed now.
Anyway, SS1. Back then, in my school, we had something going called the “P-ro league”. It was an inter-class football tourney. Great stuff.
Sidebar: you know you suck at football when you don’t make your class team… especially when your class has very few boys. 13 to be precise. 13! If any of them picked up an injury, they’d just have to go back to defence instead. Can’t risk ‘Ogbus’ ruining things yo. Bastards… Yes, my nickname was ‘Ogbus’ back then. Deal with it. I’ve been christened with worse.
I was in SS1c. SS1A was playing JS2. You’d think this was a mis-match but the quota system of admission they enforced in my school those days ensured that some burly 18-year old Hausa boys (no disrespect) were making it into JS1. They’d be happy to take out all their frustrations in the hostel out on the pitch. Be dribbling their seniors like it increased grades. Punks.
I’ve digressed enough. As it turned out SS1A had some gifted ballers. None the least of them was a certain Longjohn. (His real name I should add. Ironic reality was that my nikkuh was like 3 feet tall – if you measure him wearing sandals!) Longjohn had been making it happen against them JSS2 boys. Dribbling, passing like a gee. Finally, he takes the ball from somewhere around the centre-circle and starts to ‘drimble’ his way on. He scores an absolutely magnificent goal. The chants of “GOOOOAALLL!” were extra loud that day. We all loved that dude.
So my guy starts off on this ‘aeroMplane’ celebration where you fly your arms around and run in a zig-zag fashion. He ends the celebration by sliding to the ground. Stomach first. In joy, quite a few people off the field began to jump on my nikkuh forming some kind of dung pile. At its peak, that pile must have been fifteen people high!
My mistake was in feeling this joy.
I ran towards them…
The first one to sight me was the yeye Longjohn fellow… I can still hear his voice even now as he chastised.
“Ogbus, where are you coming to???? Who do you want to kill???” He had this look on his face from beneath the pile like his life was actually in danger. Next thing I heard? Cries of “Ogbus is coming! Ogbus is coming!” I have never seen fifteen bodies on a human dung pile disperse so readily.
Damn. See boys taking off in different directions and laughing their butts off in the process. I’ve suffered.
It’s a wonder that I still have even the semblance of any self-esteem left after such things. Chai.
Gist 2. “…And all the kings men…”
I was in my fourth year at Unilag studying Law. I had a test that afternoon. Must have been “Law of Equity”. It was a Friday. I remember this because we always wore black and white to class except on Fridays and I left my house in my best blue jeans (‘jeems’ if you talk like my aunt) and a ‘nize’ dress shirt (if you talk like Iya Muyinat across the street). It was during a time when we could afford drycleaners. Shirt was starched so heavily, I began to feel like Iron Man. These days, I just soak with detergent, rinse, dry, fold and pray for the best. Hard times yo…
So I stepped out of my house and picked a bike to take me to the bus stop where the Unilag Campus Shuttle loads. And here’s where it got funky.
Now, at the end of my street, is a T-junction. How it works is that the person exiting my street has to go narrow, hugging the edge (and the gutter) while the person entering the street is supposed to go wide.
My bike-man was going narrow. Some doofus was trying to enter the street. This egg-head okada also chose to go narrow. Both bikes saw each other as they both cornered. And hurriedly stepped on their brakes. But alas, it was too late…
It wasn’t the heaviest impact you ever saw. Because they were both braking, they only collided tire to tire. Once they collided, both bikes stopped moving. Time stood still. I was seated on my bike, calm as ever, thinking to myself “That could have been worse…” then I felt my weight tipping my bike…
“Nooooooooo. Not gbagada gutter!” I thought.
Yeah. Gbagada gutter. I tried to offer resistance by using my leg to stop my fall. Story. The nimble bike man escaped before I could my get legs out from under me. I was the only one who made it into the gutter.
Luckily, not all of me fell in. Just my right leg. Let me give you the picture.
The bike had fallen sideways on the road. My left leg was on the fallen ‘meh-sheen’ (still talking like my aunt) while my right was knee deep in gutter goo. Somehow, my left leg was stretched in such a way that I couldn’t get any traction going in order to use it to pull myself out.
Enter the kings men…
Passersby immediately gathered at the scene trying to haul Humpty-Dumpty out. Passersby that were laughing. Chai. My life! My career! My sexy, pressed jeans that I was wearing for only the first time: black from the knee down.
Omo mehn, come and see pulling! I swear like five people were trying to hold their laughter while pulling at the same time. I was heavy and stuck. Sheeeet. They finally got me out sha. Hurt only in pride. And so close to my house fa. I’d never hear the last of it.
Got home and told my folks. Dad’s brows furrowed in concerned. Mum’s ribs quaked in mirth. Evil woman. I sha got changed sha. Went back to school, wrote the test but I never forgot that day though. Dongitty dang!
Music? Okay so one day I got a call to go to CAMP. They had work for me. Prior to this, I’d remixed two of Bez’s songs. Because I’d done those on my own, I’d had to use tracks WITH instrumentals sitting on them. They sounded ok but not as neat as I’d have preferred. Now, they asked me to remix “the Good, the Bad, the Ugly” and they gave me raw vocals to work with. We went back and forth on the direction a few times but we finally got something all parties liked. If you haven’t gotten the song off my TL, here’s your chance:
So here’s the thing with being a producer: you have an absolute tonne of beats just lying around.
This is a good thing, mind you.
So, early this year, I took stock of all the decent music I had on my system that was just sitting there doing absolutely nada. There were quite a few. I know men with thrice as many beats lying fallow but still… So I remembered there was this dude that once jumped on a track I produced for a friend. I forget A LOT but this guy I remembered. Dude is siick.
His name was (and thankfully still IS) Rapsody. So I invited Rapsody over to my yard and told him: “Dude, let’s put out an EP together!”
Of course he said yes. My beats kick butt joo.
Immodest wisecracking aside, we went to work. He worked alarmingly fast. Dude writes quicker than I think. Although I’m a bit of dumbo sha so that doesn’t really count for much…
Anyway, we got to recording. 8 or 9 songs later, the EP was complete. Some of the beats were in existence when we first had that meeting, one or two were recently cooked up.
The EP is gonna be titled “The Mavrixx EP” because we aren’t really aiming for commercial success with this project as much as we strove to simply express ourselves.
Today, I present the first of those songs. “Raggedy Epistle”. Rapsody is freshhhh. And I think we have musical chemistry. I think. Find out for yourself.
We’ll put out another song before we release the full EP sha. Did I mention that the EP will be out for free? Is that why you are now smiling? Tiff!
Fost of us, I have no apologies for not having posted sooner. In fact, I enjoin you all to savour this post for I know not when another shall come again. Really.
Secondly, these are my views. My views. So, if you disagree, just put your comments in box below. Its not a reason to murk a brutha out on the street.
Third, these are not absolute generalizations. They may not apply to a few of us. However, if this is your sub, accept with grace.
Utter frackin poop.
See those words up there on the title? Those are the words that women the world over have been using to explain away the vilest atrocities known to mankind. Gentlemen dunces, we have been fooled. Those very words have been used to explain away every disparaging comment, every demeaning remark, every derisive snort. Not only are they used to explain away the worst crimes, we are expected to be glad. Ecstatic even. Yes brother, yes. The reason why your ego must be constantly trampled upon, the reason why you must take all the trash talk, is that SHE CARES. Let me repeat myself:
Women hate to be called nags. Scratch that. They fear that word. You have reduced them to every cliché black woman that Hollywood and in fact Nollywod has painted as abhorrent and undeserving of male attention. So even if you’re thinking it, you mustn’t say. Your head will be bitten off. Your neck is not necessarily safe to be honest.
But sweetie, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I’m sure you mean well but if you keep on worrying him, here’s what will happen:
Your perfectly good guy will leave you. Period.
I blame Jan Sardi. He’s the guy who did the adapted screenplay for the movie “The Notebook.” SOME of you will watch that flick and think that love really does conquer all. In spite of how toxic the relationship otherwise is. Don’t get me wrong: love is grrreat. But it will not keep a man.
If you haven’t had this epiphany already, let me spare you the glass-shattering sound effect and give you a nugget: men value their sanity more than their relationships. No matter how bendy you are in bed.
Because men stay in relationships to be happy. Not to be in love.
We are all selfish beings. One way or another, everything we do – seemingly altruistic or not – is for our personal gain. It might not be our exclusive gain but it is for our benefit nonetheless. Notice how warm YOU FEEL when you genuinely give something out? Yeah. Sometimes, you refuse to press home a point even though you know you are right. Why? You don’t want a fight. That way, you can watch your favourite sit-com at 8 and still laugh at their jokes. Staying HAPPY. Wrap that paradigm around every possible permutation in life and you’re swimming around in the mind of a standard guy.
Thus, men have been known to break up with women not because they had fallen out of love but because they were unhappy. We are not tree-huggers who stick around willy-nilly and just confine ourselves to a lifetime of anti-depressants. Prozac and Paxil are not the way. You need to understand that we WILL leave you at the peak of our ‘love’. If you are in a relationship with a guy who is clearly unhappy but is seemingly hanging on while waiting for Moses to come and split the rock again, ma’am he is banging his neighbour. Once daily, twice on Sundays plus special Acrobatic Sessions™ during public holidays that he doesn’t spend with you.
But gather round kids. There might be help after all. Not an exhaustive list I would imagine, but these ought to help some:
Step one is moderation. Do small small. It’s bad enough that you’re saying the truth. Don’t rub it in! Don’t wake us up with it every morning. IT IS NOT BREAD AND EGG! When that voice in your head is telling you to point him in the right direction or remind him of something (especially if you’ve done it twice before) look that ‘voice’ in the eye and say these words: “If next year’s Val’s day gift is not good for you, o voice, it is good for me.” Also…
Dear Miss Smarty Pantsy, (daughter of Mr. Saggy Pantsy and Mrs. Pullyour Pantsy) on behalf of men the world over, we would like you to know that we love to mess. Up. Mess up. We love to ‘mess up’ the other way too but y’all call that gross. So we only do that when we’re around helpless babies who we can blame it on. Poorly conceived joke aside, no matter how much you drill it into our skulls, we just cannot get it till we totally screw it up all on our own. At least once. THEN we get it. It’s kinda inexplicable. Some brothers are really dense though. They might not get it after one fall. Not sure I can help you with those. In those special cases, shock therapy might be needed. Flash em a boob or something; I don’t know. Sucks to be you though. Next time, lay down a minimum IQ requirement before you go out on a date.
Be creative. That “a woman is the NECK of the family” analogy sticks for a good reason. Twist my head just a little bit. It is your birth right saith the Lord of hosts. Run your wily charms. I am assuming for the purpose of this point that what you’re asking him to do is something that is ordinarily right or sensible but that he has somehow refused to do or hasn’t gotten around to even though he knows as much. Don’t creatively ask a guy to give you money meant for his mother’s upkeep. Lightning might solder your grabby fingers shut.
It has always baffled me how my mom has been easily able to turn my dad into an obedient mutt/ferocious warmonger whenever she needs. My dad. My dad the alpha dog who has always called the shots. My dad the disciplinarian. My dad the ex-policeman. My dad who ratted out his superiors in a public courtroom while smoking ‘singa’ no less. My mom knows what to do to him, give to him or slyly suggest to him. Ladies, y’all know as well.
I have personally made no secret of my desire to be shamelessly manipulated by whoever I date next.
(Sidenote to future babe. Three words: spaghetti, spaghetti, spaghetti! Scour the cooking channels for uber-special ways to make it and yours truly will wash your 40 days’ payint in public view while wearing a t-shirt that reads “I’m her b*tch. Emem?”)
The point really is this: you need him to change something for you? Pick your moment, pick your words, pick your style. Wisely. Or something like that. I’m not a woman, I don’t know these things.
See, that is curiously similar to when women want guys to “make an effort” while trying to impress them or do something nice in order to keep the relationship going. We know when you’re trying to get your way. We see you being slippery and smart. But we appreciate the effort to mask it or soften the blow. Then we obey.
But most importantly, respect your man. I don’t care that you’re much older or richer or more experienced. Talk to him with sense. When he smacks you upside the head, I will represent you in court to help you chop half his money in punitive damages for assault but the ‘koko’ will not be on my head. Respect him because he’s a self-respecting man. Respect him because he respects you. Those two bits are kind of a package deal though. Self-respecting males shall respect you. Otherwise, dump his ass. No darl, don’t try to fix him. That’s how beautiful has-beens end up on Oprah with half their faces shotgunned to Planet B6-12. Just drop his ego, take a few steps back, turn and run! I’m not there!
Ack. You there, I see you boiling and ready to tear me a new one. See the comment box? Go ahead. I’ve run away already.
Also, please subscribe as much as you can. Tagging on twitter is sooo impossible.
Long time no post. Just decided to take stab at this. New territory for me. Be merciful…
I’ve been watching chic flicks all friggin’ week. I’m normally a sci-fi, senseless shooter kind of guy. Like when I’m really moody, I just watch thrillers and horror flicks and be done with it.
“The Exorcist” got me through a really rough patch. Losing a prized mobile phone to pick-pockets could be devastating but nothing that couldn’t be solved by watching a child hurl the vilest curses at a priest. Good times.
And now? I’m fine.
No really, its not a problem. Yes, she left me only recently. Yes, I bragged that she was the one. Yes, she probably WAS the one. Yes, I have slight hallucinations most mornings now. I see her, I touch her, I smell her, I sense her, I long for her. Bla, blabbity bla. My rom-com binge is probably catching up with me though. I’m not speaking all these things from my heart. I’m not unfurling my innermost, truest feelings as you may think. That ought to serve me right for watching “The Notebook” thrice a day. Next thing you know, I’ll be writing letters every week for a year to her. Tufia! Quasi-negros puh-leaase. Told you before, I’ll tell y’all again:
I mean… Granted, the constellations have conspired to pull us apart. No, it wasn’t my fault. I did nothing wrong. Curious, isn’t it? I’m normally the one who has messed up. Well it wasn’t her fault either. I’m not willing to get into it. I’m not in denial. Fuck you for that! What’s it to you anyway? It just became too hard. For her, maybe for me. I don’t know.
What I do know…
Is that I’m fine.
I mean it stings like 45 battalions of jelly-fish are having a nibble-party on my genitals but then that’s no big deal. What? I have tears in my eyes? So? I had them in my eyes when I was four. Who says I’ve aged all that? Look, it’s not even tears you see. It’s sweat. All this stress has made me start to perspire more. I’m wiping it all off now. Can’t you see….?
What now? My sobbing? Am I sobbing? Oh dear. Sounds like I am. Well maybe the emotions I masked from watching “Million Dollar Baby” just came flooding back. It was a really sad movie. Watched in error, I promise. The guy at the rental gave me the wrong flick. I asked for WrestleMania. Too lazy to return it. I promise you also…
That I’m fine.
I SAID I’M FINE NAH! I’M FINE!!! I’M NOT LOSING IT. YOU’RE THE ONE WHO IS LOSING IT! QUIT TELLING ME I’M YELLING. I KNOW MY VOICE CAN BE LOUD SOMETIMES BUT I’M NOT YELLING! NO, I’M NOT SAD OR MOPING OR MOURNING. SHE LEFT. SO WHAT? SO BLEEDING WHAT??? DOES IT EVEN CONCERN YOU? I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE WITH ALL THESE INTRUSIVE QUESTIONS YOU’RE ASKING ME. GET OUT OF MY SPACE. LIKE I’VE TOLD YOU A THOUSAND TIMES IN THE SPACE OF A FEW FUCKING MINUTES…
I’m alone but in a crowded space. No one around me but I feel enclosed. I’m shut out from the world they claim to have let me into. This bed is so cold. I look at the alarm clock/thermometer on the bedside table. 30 degrees.
How come I’m shivering? How did I get here? There’s a cup of something that looks like it’s supposed to be hot beside the alarm clock/thermometer. I doubt any of it has gotten inside me. I feel so cold. So alone. And so cold again.
I’m closing my eyes now. Trying not to think. Or feel. Or sense. They must have put me in here. I have no memory of crawling onto this soulless, detached mattress. Did I pass out? Oh dear.
Then the pain.
It’s like an empty pain. There’s no feeling on that spot. Numbness. But it still hurts an incredible lot. I almost pass out again from the sheer intensity. I’m shivering now. Powerful tremors coursing through the entirety of my being. Unwittingly, my head crashes into the headboard. Not unlike what reality did to my dreams.
I’m not fine.