Fade Away

I’m definitely making this into a song!

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For a time my whole world was but perfect
It was shiny and bright. It was gold
Never thought I’d once be broken-hearted
This is ugly and dull: yes i know

And the smile I was once had, my old twinkle
and the way that i glowed in the dark
and the knowledge that love was so simple
seems a rocketed blast from the past

Can I drink lots of wine and sleep it all off
Can I laugh at a joke and forget for a day
Can I hope that you’ll snap out and suddenly call
Can I open my eyes and not watch it all
Fade away

For a time I lived life how I dreamt it,
With no limits, a hug and a smile
But now someone is dearly departed
So I’ll shower for longer to cry

And I’ll sit and I’ll mope and I’ll never go out
I will grieve for eternity’s spring
Then I’ll weep and I’ll scream and i’ll tear my hair out
Cuz I know I’ll remain unfulfilled

Wish I could drink lots of wine and sleep it all off
Can I laugh at a joke and forget anyway
Can I hope that you’ll wake up and suddenly call
Can I open my eyes and not watch it all
Fade away

So I went through the things that you left behind
Seeking answers and comfort and hope
Do I feel better? Am i suddenly fine?
The answer is always a ‘no’

And this wholesome soul is now incomplete
This body is drained of all fight
Wish I flip change time for exorbitant fees
A small price if it makes things alright

Because I can’t drink much wine: I’ll just throw up
And you told the jokes best anyway
And no one will wake up or reach out to call
So I’ll open my arms and try to fall
As I fade away

Dream Again

2015.
The husband was upstairs in the study. He reckoned the wife was downstairs somewhere. Probably watching TV in the living room or rustling up some lunch in the kitchen. He’d been holed up in there for the better part of the afternoon. He had just acquired a new gadget – a ‘toy’ if you were listening to the wife rant about the cost – and the manual obviously wasn’t going to read and master itself. But after all that time, he’d decided he was feeling hungry. He got up and walked out of the den towards the stairs. He felt he was in a rather polite mood so he held the banister, bent his neck downwards and yelled: “Bitch, I need food!”
His reply came from the kitchen. It was swift and equally loud:
“What the flying fuchsia are you asking me for?”
“Did you not hear me say that I needed to put something in my mouth?”
“Seriously, you should repeat that in a gay bar!” The wife was out of the kitchen and in the living room so she could look up at him while they traded loving insults.
“Screw you to damnation!” he cursed.
“Awww. You kiss your wrinkly mother with that potty mouth, sailor?” the wife asked,
“My mother? I kiss you all over your nasty nasty body with this mouth. Seven days a godforsaken week!”
“Exactly. Now you know why I cry myself to sleep every night.”
“It’s your father that makes your mother cry herself to sleep every night. In that case, some people aren’t getting late-night head ever again!”
“Ehn? Don’t try it o! God will punish you severely for that. How can you deny me my God-given right to mutter incoherent gibberish thrice a week?”
“Deny what? Uncle Sir Mallam Bunny Rabbit don finish for market?”
“No. But I prefer Major General Tonguey Tonguer.”
“Story. Sweetie could you microwave some of that jay-rice for me? Pretty please?” he pleaded genuinely.
“Already did that.” as if on cue, the microwave testified with a ‘DING’ “Say you love me or you’ll starve to death,” she threatened.
“I love you… But I’m still retiring Major Tonguer.”
***** ***** ***** *****

2013.
The first words he’d said to her were probably not the cutest: “Eh eeeehn… is that so? Shebi after giving me gono and cut-cut and staphylococcus you now come here to spend my money abi?” he scratched eagerly at his groin for effect. “God will not do you well for this thing you have done to me o…” his fake Yoruba accent was terrible but it was good enough to make the elderly man who’d been pestering her aggressively at the bar get up and leave in a hurry.
As soon as he was he out of earshot she proffered her thanks amid laughter. “Oh my God, thank you so much. I thought I was going to die here.”
“Yeah. I could see the elderly guy was looking pretty desperate to get into your knickers,” he said in his natural tone of voice. The utter lack of an accent when he spoke took her by surprise. She laughed heartily.
“Hello, I am man. Pleased to meet you,”
“Hi. My name is man. Wo-man,” she said while paying homage to the James Bond movie character. It was his turn to laugh. Five minutes later, they were enjoying a nice conversation when:
“Smooth. You know I’m going to ask for your number, right?” he said,
“What? Hey! You just saved me from being hit on only so that you could hit on me yourself?” her words were dripping with sarcasm.
“What can I say? Man giveth and man taketh away,” he smiled while mentally crossing his fingers.
“Give me one good reason why I should give you my number…”
“’The reason’ is probably going home to tell his buddies how God saved him from catching genital herpes from a skank who at first sight he thought was an…” he paused and seemed to sober up, “… unbelievably attractive, smart young woman.”
She tried to look unimpressed, immediately put on a straight face and seemed to be looking past him as she deadpanned:
“Zero eight zero one, three five seven…”
Three weeks later, they were officially dating.
Once, he was driving her home in his car after a nice evening out.
“You almost ran that red light. LASTMA in this area doesn’t joke around oga,” she said
“I know. It’s just that my brakes are almost always funny.”
“How come?”
“My mechanic says the genuine version of my brake pads and lining aren’t in the country. I have to make a special request and order them in from wherever.”
“Ah. Risky biz. You should change mechanics. Or cars.”
“I should. By the way, you look smoldering hot,”
“Thank you. Makes you think of hitting that. Right?” he paused for a second but answered anyway,
“Intensely. Viciously. Like you owe me something,” she tried to suppress her laughter. She failed.
“See, I like that about you. You’re so real.”
“Oh yeah. My pot belly is definitely for real.”
“Hahahaha. Stop joking around. You know what I mean.”
“I’m serious. Here,” he pushed his stomach out toward her, “Feel that. Hundred percent natural. All me. No silicone.”
“Stooppppp.”
“Okay. I just like you though. Just like that. You get me. You’re probably smarter than I am though you don’t like to make it seem that way. And minus those nails, I think you’re pretty real as well.”
“My nails? You’re a dead man!”
“Still breathing,” he goaded
“I’ll fix that in a moment.” She tried to act like she was fuming.
He saw that he was close to an eatery’s parking area. He pulled up, parked, unbuckled his seat belt and proceeded to kiss her until she was convinced that she had feathers and fins in lieu of human toes.

****************
June 30th 2015; 6:30 AM
****************

She woke up and reached for him. He wasn’t there. Disappointed, she stretched out her left hand and fumbled around the night stand for her mobile phone. Once she’d touched it, she pressed a button at the top of the device to unlock the touchscreen and make the display come on so she could read the time… 6.35am.
Still too early to get up.
*********************************

2013.

He was a car and gadget lover, read PC Pro religiously and enjoyed board games. She could never get her head around the toys he always obsessed about. She was only glad to have a car because it made her commute to work easier and meant less time in his ride with the funny brakes. He was cute, spontaneous and eager. She was supportive, accommodating but a little unsure. He’d long ago figured that she was probably in love with him but was unwilling, for some reason, to declare as much. And though they weren’t exactly on the same page on a few matters, they agreed on political issues:
“Sweetie, did you hear that our lawmakers are hoping to pass a bill that pretty much attaches a jail term for being gay in this country?” She lifted her eyes from her iPad where she had just been reading something pertaining to that story.
“Sweetie…” she tapped his shoulder. He seemed fixated on something showing on the TV screen in his pad.
“Oooooh…. what about it? This lion is about to eat this zebra like the zebra ate his mama.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you think about this anti-gay bill business?”
“Ughh.” He lowered the volume of the television and turned to her. “It’s stupid. Very stupid.”
“Oh really? I think so too. It’s like the dumbest thing ever. I’m a little glad we agree on this, dear.”
He wore a puzzled look on his face. His thumb was hovering close to the ‘volume increase’ button on the remote. “Wait… we agree on this issue?”
“I thought we did,” she answered sweetly, “Didn’t you just say you though it was a dumb idea? Well, I think so too.”
He cursed himself for even desiring to see this conversation through and put the remote down. “Why exactly do you think it’s a dumb idea?” he queried.
“Well for one, we have way bigger problems for our legislators to focus on. Plus I feel that all the furore is a bit overblown…”
“Ah.” He breathed. She knew that move.
“What?” she asked, “You have a different view?”
“Well, I have something to add.”
“Which is?”
“Assuming homosexuality, for example, is really a problem in Nigeria, I think jail would be counter-productive. Surely, there are better ways to punish a man who likes men than to throw him into Penis Central! I mean gays’ll go to prison and smile at the entrance once they observe how much premium tail is available!” She was already laughing.
“For real. It’s not funny. Send those guys to jail and they will never be able get a grip on their bars of soap. Straight dudes will have to get denim boxers. It’ll be even more of a madhouse in there than it already is… Stop laughing…” She didn’t.
They also had fun a lot of fun talking about sex. One day, that led to a very good thing.
“So what’s your take on role-playing?” he’d once asked,
“I could do that. Depends on the role though.” She smiled.
“How about you be Dame Patience and I’ll be Berlusconi?”
“Berlusconi? Why him?”
“I’ve always wanted to be Italian.”
“Sure. And I’ve always dreamt of playing Nigeria’s most eloquent First Lady ever,” she sighed
“What about oral?” he switched.
“Ooh. I’d like that,”
“Like that? You’d better love Major General Tonguey Tonguer! How else am I supposed to make your unbelieving spirit speak in tongues?!”
“Major who? Don’t tell me you just made that up?!”
“Of course I did. Thank me now. Now I say!”
“Dirty perv!” she laughed but then she became serious as she thought about something, “Given the purpose to which you just put it, isn’t it ironic that the language is called ‘tongues’?!”
He laughed heartily before replying:
“Okay, it’s confirmed – we’re going to hell.”
“Yeah but I’ll love you still.”
“You’ll what?” He’d told he loved her countless times in the past but made it clear he wasn’t in a hurry to hear it back. Now he was hearing it back. Sooner than expected.
His next move was to break into song:
“Joy, joy, joy, hallelujah joy…”

****************
June 30th 2015; 6:35 AM
****************

Apparently, she’d been having one of those dreams again.
Damn dreams.
She smiled. There was a time when she resented those dreams. But after a while, she started to feel less bothered and now, she found herself even looking forward to them. She’d speak to him about it though.
Talking to him about stuff always proved to be cathartic.
*****************************************

2013.

He bought the ring 6 months after they had started going out. He was convinced they were surely on the road to a happy married life with picket fences or whatever was left after their toothy kids would have gnawed away at them. Spontaneity was his strength. That evening, it probably proved to be his undoing as he popped the question while they were having dinner at a lively restaurant.
For some reason, she was taken aback.
“No… I’m so sorry but I’m not sure. This is happening so fast. Too fast. I’m not ready… I don’t think we should get married… I…”
“But…” he was too stunned to say more. Too numb to think. His charm always worked. His style always won. Of all days, why not today? Why not now? He could feel the others at the restaurant begin to look at him with pity. Tiny ‘aww’s everywhere. All he wanted to do was make the fastest possible exit.
Watching him leave was possibly the most difficult thing she’d ever done. At first, she thought it was for the best. She loved him but she wasn’t sure as yet if she wanted to get married. At least that was what she told herself as she watched his slouched frame amble out of the restaurant dejectedly.
While she drove home herself, she thought about what had just transpired. She missed him already. She wanted to talk to him on her drive home. Sometimes, she called him and he ran commentary for her as if she was a Formula One driver. He’d name her Michelle Shoemaker. She never got the reference but according to his commentary, she was always second. She’d been miffed at that outcome initially, and she let him know.
“Sweetie, I’m a dude with a lazy waist and an abhorrence of condoms: I always come first!” he’d replied. And again she had laughed. God, she never got tired of his commentary.
And in that moment, she rationalized that her real problem was fear.
“But what am I afraid of? He’s the one! Ugh…” she chastised herself.
She got home and called her bestie. She told the bestie all. The bestie was always helpful. “So what are you afraid of?” the bestie asked,
“The term ‘marriage’ I guess. Being tied down. The ceremony… I don’t know,”
“Exactly. You don’t know. Is there someone else?”
“What? No! I almost went mad when I couldn’t call him on the drive home. I love that fool to death. I cannot live without him. I…”
“Say what now?” Bestie interrupted.
Then realization hit.
“Oh crap, oh crap… Girl, let me call you back…”
“Sure thing.” The bestie said and clicked off.
She dialed his phone. It rang but he didn’t answer. She tried twice more. Still nothing. She knew he’d come around. Eventually, they would have to talk and she would fix this. Damn right she would fix this. Whatever it took.
She began to make plans in her head. She needed a big gesture: something to catch his attention and make the situation ultimately memorable. She wondered whether to involve his friends. The ringing of her phone interrupted her thoughts. Her face lit up: he was calling her back.
“Hello ma… hello…” but it was not his voice on the other end of the line. She was a little alarmed but kept calm.
“Yes… Who is this?”
“I’m sorry ma, I’m sorry but do you know the owner of this phone?” He must have misplaced the phone somewhere. She began to wonder where this man on the other end of the line found it.
“Yes, I know him. He’s my boyfriend,” her voice was already shaking
“I’m sorry ma, but I’m calling you from accident site…” the person on the other end said in passable English.

Apparently, his ever ailing brake pads, when thrown in the same mug as his disastrously sour disposition that evening, mixed very poorly. He’d been wracked with emotion on his way home and having to fight back tears made his vision blurry at best and non-existent at its worst.
His bonnet was already under the trailer when he noticed. Stupid brakes didn’t help. It was gruesome but relatively quick. He wasn’t even crazy about fighting for his life anyway. Not that day. Not in that state of mind.

***************
June 30th 2015, 6:37 AM
***************
Left to her, she would grieve him for eternity. However, she eventually came to terms with the fact that it really wasn’t her fault.
She smiled again. Because the dreams were all she had left. Perhaps dreaming of the marriage they never got to have was her own coping mechanism. It had been a while since they’d talked anyway. She turned on her side and before setting herself up for a mild snooze, made a mental note to stop by his tombstone on her way from work in the evening. She closed her eyes. Maybe she would dream again.

***** ***** ***** *****
She heard the husband in the shower. Whistling.
She thought “why not?” and immediately began stripping. The shower curtain made a noise as she pulled it open and stepped in. His face lit up as he broke into a song he obviously just made up:
“Mr. Man I wed your daughter,
She follow me enter the water,
No be fight but I go rush her,
Baby say shower shower!”
“Shower shower!” she squealed gleefully while his nude form moved his pelvis in time to a non-existent rhythm. She joined him in dancing. She loved the way his random quirks popped up at the oddest times. He abruptly stopped dancing and spoke:
“Honey, you know I think you’re –to suffer a cliché – three times a lady, right?
“Yes I do.”
“Great! Just keep that in mind while I treat you like the exact opposite and viciously defile you for the next thirty minutes. Cool?”
He didn’t even wait to get an answer before he pounced.
***** ***** ***** *****

Okro’s Mole

This one’s long. But I reckon I owe you… Meanwhile, please subscribe via email to all my posts from here on up. Tagging isn’t easy… The link to do so should be somewhere at the bottom. Thanks.
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“Enter with your change o! I don warn una. I no get time for story. Enter with your change! I don talk am now. Five hundred, two hundred, one thousand: mi ni change. Wole pelu fifty naira yin,” John barked. He really was not in the mood to go hustling for change this hot afternoon. Also, most of his fellow conductors were rarely ever forthcoming when approached for assistance. He cajoled and courted passengers till the bus was full. Well, almost full. He made sure he reserved a seat for himself at the end of the middle row. The last seat on said row was a pull-out seat that was simply attached to the rest of the row by two strips of metal. Also, unlike the others, it lacked a backrest.
“Oya pilot! Jade be! Go on soun!” Okro said. At first, he’d found conductor-speak rather repulsive. All the yelling and the yelling and more yelling. All that yelling irrespective of the punching that touts were constantly meting out to one’s vulnerable midriff. Your lungs had to be in tip-top shape. No wonder the conductors that smoked weed regularly had raspy voices, he figured.

Lamidi had driven for two minutes when John began to collect his money. Passengers generally started getting off around Famous bus stop and they were approaching it. John did not want a situation where he had to collect money as the passengers were alighting. It was more often than not a frustrating ordeal. Especially if he had to give them change…
**************************************
They were approaching the final stop where everyone would have to get off. John looked around the bus. There were only three passengers left now: a tired-looking middle-aged woman seated beside him in the middle row who had two baskets of tomatoes in the boot, a chatty fellow seated up front who had managed to make Lamidi’s driving experience rather enjoyable – John could tell that Lamidi would have loved to have the man follow him around for the rest of the day without paying – and a gentleman in the back row who hadn’t raised his face from the newspaper he’d started reading as soon as he got on. He sat at the extreme left; behind the driver’s seat.
In his line of work, especially since he’d started working on the Palmgrove to Bariga route, men in suits were not uncommon. Especially in the mornings and late evenings. Most of them, he’d figured, were bankers or other professionals going to work or returning home. There were a lot of banks and white-collar institutions on Ikorodu road and Ikorodu Road was parallel to half his route.
So he couldn’t figure out why something about this gentleman just seemed off. Uncomfortable even.
Then he began to piece it together: John glanced at his N200 wrist watch. It was 12.30pm. It was neither closing time nor time for resumption for most banks or law firms. In truth, this was the period of the day when transportation experienced something akin to an ebb in these parts because most people were at work. Then there was the issue of the man’s suit: it was impeccable. And expensive. He’d spent enough time working at Trytek Nigeria to know what a bloody good suit looked like. This was a bloody good suit. John shrugged it off: the man had paid his exact fare without any fuss whatsoever. His kind of passenger. Maybe he was a rich dude off to a clandestine location to hang out with his mistress.
********************************
At 4am earlier that day, Magnum 365 woke up and entered the five-star hotel’s bathroom for his morning rituals. He peed, shaved and then sat on the loo. Thereafter, he had a bath and while dressed down, took a few minutes off to re-read the details of his latest assignment. All the necessary info was there: the plate number of the vehicle, the photos and bio of the man he’d be transacting today’s business with and the location where he would most likely find his soon-to-be acquaintance. He looked at the time: 4.20am. Way too early. He was always ready too early. He sighed then turned on the TV and immediately was on to National Geographic. Nothing gave him more simplistic joy than the sight of a lion tearing into a speeding gazelle. It resonated with him. It seemed like the lion was saying “Run all you like. I’m still gonna get you.” Two hours later, he was hungry. Being a vegetarian, he ordered a salad. It was great. After exactly 15 mouthfuls, he pushed the rest of his breakfast away and got dressed up. When he got to the hotel’s exit, the doorman greeted him cheerily.
“Good morning sir.”
“Good morning,” he replied and sent a plastic smile in the doorman’s general direction. He walked out of the hotel and hailed a taxi.
“Onipanu bus stop sir,” he politely told the taxi driver his intended destination. He was actually headed for Palmgrove but he preferred to walk there from Onipanu. Just because.
“Two five!” the taxi driver yelled in Magnum 365’s direction.
“I can’t pay you two thousand five hundred. One five. Nothing more.” Magnum liked to haggle wherever possible. He could easily pay a hundred grand but these moments made him feel like he was actually normal. Like he was really blending in. He stood back and waited for the driver to mull it over.
“Two thousand sir,”
“One five,” Magnum was almost sweet.
“Oya one eight. Let me just manage that one sir,”
“One five oga. Or I can call someone else.” Magnum stood back and acted like he was scanning the street for alternatives. After a moment’s thought, the taxi driver beckoned him in with a hand signal and reached across to open the backdoor from within. Magnum was quickly settled in. He leaned back and allowed himself a brief smile. It was going to be just an ordinary day, he thought.
After all, all he had to do was kill a guy.

A guy named John Okro…

********************************************
He’d timed his entry into the bus to perfection. The devil was in the details. He knew he would stick out of the crowd dressed as he was but he knew he’d stick out. However, most of the people who plied that route were unlikely to ask questions of a person whose looks instantly intimidated them. And the less he had to say, the better.
He sneaked a look at the conductor when he’d asked for his money. The photos given to him by Intelligence were accurate save for the lack of contact lenses. The target was 5 9″, dark-skinned and of average build. For a conductor, he was reasonably well-built. He had a cynical but enlightened look in his eyes. Magnum 365 was also very well acquainted with the mark’s story and thus knew why John was stuck in a bus rather than a 20-storey building in the heart of Lagos. The target looked like hard times had fallen upon him since the photos were taken. His misery would be at an end today.

Normally, the easier way would be to kill the mark in his sleep. But Intelligence found that he rarely slept in the same place twice. He seemed to be almost destitute at times. They needed something predictable. This way would be more open but they were left with rather limited options.
Depending on when the bus got empty, Magnum 365 had various plans. Before today, he had cased the area for a week entering various other buses but compulsorily avoiding the mark’s. Just to get a feel for how things worked in the area. The worst case scenario for him would be if the bus didn’t get empty till he arrived at the last stop. He’d simply make his move when alighting. However, it seemed that Lady Luck was smiling upon him. Two stops before the last, Magnum 365 pushed the newspaper down just enough to allow him observe the lady seated in front of him get off. He listened without turning as the conductor got her tomatoes out and slammed the boot shut. The passenger in front wasn’t going to be a problem but he’d gotten off as well. Tomato lady had been the last of them. This was going to be easy.
Magnum 365 raised the newspaper again as he saw the conductor re-enter the bus. The bus began to move again. Magnum 365 reduced his eyes to slits so that he could barely see as he concentrated on counting to five in his head. When he got to four, he reached for the silenced pistol in his jacket. At five, he fully lowered his paper, eyes wide open and extended his arm as he made to shoot.
But save for the driver, the bus was empty.

Still seated, he asked rather calmly: “Driver, where is your conductor?” Lamidi, the driver, turned and almost lost control of the vehicle as he experienced, for the very first time, what it felt like to have a pistol aimed in one’s direction.
He scanned the bus with his eyes in utter disbelief. Where was John? “ I… I… don’t….” he stuttered. His sentence was punctuated when out of seemingly nowhere (in actual fact, ‘nowhere’ was the open bus’ doorframe) a foot shot in and kicked Magnum’s wrist at full velocity, knocking the gun out of his grasp, out the nearest window and into the street. Lamidi, scared that the gun would go off both ducked and stopped the car at the same time.
The tell, for John, came when the man had lowered his newspaper. John saw the mole. It was an artificial mole placed precisely two inches above the left eyebrow: The Mark of the Magnum. He had shared bosses with that crew of assassins while at his previous place of employment. He had shut the boot after giving the lady her tomatoes and re-entered the bus. He knew the Magnum would make his move anytime. As soon as he saw the paper go back up, John noiselessly climbed to the roof of the bus. He was surprised that the Magnum hadn’t noticed at once. Sloppy. Moments later, he’d heard the man speak. John then swung from the edge of the roof and aimed his foot at the man’s wrist perfectly. If he’d aimed for the hand, the gun might have inadvertently gone off. The wrist possessed the control. Luckily, the gun fell out of the bus and out of immediate reach. Pivoting on the edge still, John swung himself back up on the bus and was about to roll to the other side of the vehicle so he could get the gun. However, a burly hand reached up and began to pull him down by his arm.
It was a really strong hand.
John landed on the road with a small thud.
He sprang to his feet and was instantly face to face with the Magnum.
“Hi, John,” the Magnum almost whispered, “I’m here to kill you.” He said confidently.
“You don’t say! And here I was thinking you came to admire my cologne.” John quipped and instantly sniffed his underarm. He regretted that last move because it immediately quashed the cologne theory.
Immediately assuming the role of aggressor, John aimed several quick punches at his midsection. But they were all blocked. Easily. In truth, the punches caused more pain to John than it did Magnum 365. Each block more painful than the last as forearm clashed with forearm.
“Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow!” John Okro winced every time he tried to land a punch. Finally, Magnum made his move as he trapped John’s arms to his sides, making John unable to move. John was breathing rapidly from the exertion. Magnum 365, however, was respiring rather evenly. He cocked his head to one side peering at John Okro as if he was seeing his face for the first time. He flashed one of his plastic smiles at John for the briefest of moments before sending his forehead into the bridge of John’s nose sharply.
Again.
And once more.
John was dizzy and in pain. He gasped as he felt his breathing become even more strained. The wetness spread quickly from his nostrils to his chest as blood spilled freely from his nose to his shirt. His eyes could barely focus but he noticed more movement as Magnum tried to head-butt him again. This time John evaded, shifting his face to the other side and then putting it on Magnum’s shoulder so that the bigger man could not connect with the front of his face anymore.
Around them, John Okro could hear a crowd gathering. This was Bariga after all. If you scratched your head too loudly, people gathered. Now, there was actual violence. If Lamidi had any business acumen, Okro thought, he would gate and start selling tickets.
John Okro was at his wits’ end trying to figure out how to come out of this alive. His primal instincts took over as he sunk his teeth into the shoulder before him. He could tell that the bite was causing the Magnum little or no pain but Magnum tried to shake him off nonetheless. When John wouldn’t let go, Magnum raised both fists quickly to punch John on both sides of his head. That inevitably eased his grip on John who immediately extracted his teeth and made to turn.
But Magnum 365’s fists connected before John could escape.
It was dizzy-time once more for John as he fell onto one knee. His assailant was about to knee him in the face when he heard Lamidi’s voice.
“Lea… lea… leave him alone or I will shoot!” Lamidi was stammering again. Some of those in the crowd gasped. A few began to retreat for fear of a stray bullet. Lamidi was now in possession of the once fallen weapon and was pointing it at Magnum 365 from point blank range. The Magnum turned, looked at Lamidi and frowned.
“You can’t shoot that.”
“I s-s-s-s-say I will shoot!” Lamidi was backing away as the Magnum left John, who was still reeling, and started to walk towards the man with the gun. Lamidi was trembling and sweating profusely. Obviously scared. The Magnum could smell that part. Another plastic smile as Lamidi, not watching where he was going, backed himself into the side of the bus. Panic set in as he scrambled to move away. But the Magnum was quickly upon him. With his right hand, he grabbed Lamidi’s wrist as he twisted it to collect the gun. Then he planted his knee into Lamidi’s groin with such force, the poor bus driver couldn’t even scream. His mouth formed an ‘o’ and his eyes widened with brand new pain. Lamidi crumbled to the ground.
While Lamidi hadn’t been able to stop the Magnum, he’d distracted him long enough for John to pounce.
John, finally able to once again see past his nose, leapt on the Magnum’s back. He tried to disable the assassin’s right arm, the one with the gun, from behind with both his legs. He managed to squeeze both legs around that arm limiting its range of movement. Then he began to work on his head.
John wrapped his left arm around the Magnum’s jaw and put his right hand on top of his head. Then he snaked his middle finger down…
And began to scrape at the mole.
Now it was Magnum 365’s turn to panic. Not the mole! With his free hand, he reached up and tried to prise John’s fingers away from the mole. Then he felt John’s grip around his jaw tighten and he knew he’d been had. John wasn’t after the mole. He knew the move. He’d executed it countless times before. But there was no time to react. He felt John’s fingers snake back up as his palm moved quickly to the back of his skull. John pushed it viciously sideways and upwards. The resistance offered by the arm around the jaw was enough to elicit a ‘snap’ as the Magnum’s vertebrae got dislocated from his skull. He barely groaned as he fell to ground. Unconscious.
Lamidi, eyes still red, managed to blurt: “You don kill am?”
“No. But e fit no waka again. I no sure but I no go wait to find out. Make we move abeg.” John was sure this was going to be the end of his time conducting for Lamidi. He’d gotten the innocent man into enough skirmishes as it was. John couldn’t bear to put his life in danger again.
And he was sure that whoever sent this Magnum would be sending a few more soon.
*********************************************************

“Oh dear! What happened to your nose?” Miriam asked with more than a hint of concern. She’d invited John over. Now she could see why he’d been reluctant to show up
“I was tracked by my former employers.”
“Who?”
“My former employers. They got to me.”
“Why?” Women and questions, Okro thought to himself. Must she know why he almost got killed?
“I’m not sure but I probably have something they want.”
“Not sure? Probably?” She stressed that last word. Full-on sarcasm.
“Okay. I know why. But I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a loooong story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Well, I might have to kill you.”
“You’ve tried before,” she rolled her eyes with a smile. John shook his head.
“This is no time for sex jokes,”
“Yeah yeah. Start talking buster. I ain’t scared and I’ve got time.” Of course she did. John rolled his eyes and winced.
“Ugggh. Crap…” he began.

Hey Ma II

If you don’t know what’s going on, read “Hey Ma” for further info, you may also read “Insights”. There’s pidgin below so be warned in case that’s not your thing.

****************************************************

 

Hey Ma I wrote you, you ain’t write back,

E don bad reach so? No be like dat,

Your son write you, you suppose reply sharp-sharp,

Meanwhile, where you been dey buy those rat traps?

 

E get some small tins wey you need to know:

We still dey wait maga – him never show,

I don make new songs but I never still blow,

And now you fit port your MTN carry Glo!

 

Your husband dey: hin never change much,

E still dey wait im bad son make e change much,

But you know say your son no dey gree fear God,

E still dey job Popsy upon say you don mud.

 

Johnny wife fit get belle but we no know,

Your granddaughter too fine – she don dey grow,

She resemble your Vivienne wey been don first go,

Speaking of Vivi, una don reunite so?

 

We don vex, we don crase, sotey we face turn blue,

We wan kill d driver wey make your bus tumble,

We still dey feel d pain, we still dey cry for you,

But we dey strong small small, abi how we for do?

 

We still dey miss your way, we still dey find your food,

Anytime we see your pix, we dey just turn confuse,

Yellow sisi, nobody fit fine pass you,

But Bible talk say “All things work together for good…”

 

The last letter wey I write na so so phon-eh,

So I say make I use pidgin wey u go hear,

Hey Ma, what’s it like? How’s it up there?

Mma Dan, reply na, dis tin is not fair o!

 

 

Insights…

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…
Marriage…
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.

Hey Ma…

Hey Ma, what’s it like? How’s it up there?

Do you yet have skin are you still fair?

Or are you formed different than we are here?

Are you more or less fragile than you were?

 

Do you smile? Do you laugh? Do you make jokes?

Do you crack Jesus up? He a cool a bloke?

Do you have money there? I’m a bit broke,

Can I send you a beat? Did I hear ‘nope’?

 

Do you feel? Do you smell? Can you still cook?

Cuz if you could, you would leave some angels shook,

Do you still hide stuff where men can’t look?

Like in your small-print KJV Bible?

 

Have you learnt new skills? have you changed much?

Do you now read Latin and speak Dutch?

You were stubborn here. Do you now budge?

Nwa Chineke, you still dey go church?

 

Sometimes I wonder if you can be helpful

When the fam becomes too much to handle

Can I get tips  on cooking some draw soup?

I don’t eat that but you know how  Dad do!

 

So what’s the latest there? What is in vogue?

What do Seraphs wear to the high throne?

Do they wear fly kicks and rock gemstones?

Does their make-up highlight their cheekbones?

 

There are times when I just wanna hug you,

Wanna brag; show you off to my friends too.

“That’s my mom. She’s the best she is so cool,

She speaks slang, cooks well and chops knuckle!”

 

Do you think that you left at the right time?

D’you hear father’s cries in the nighttime?

Do you see how the pain made us decline?

On the plus side, I got a new waistline!

 

Your kids wanted to move you to Yankee,

Aurora to Phoenix then to Tennessee,

Our dreams and our plans left us hopped up;

Can you see how everything is fucked up?

 

Do you still give a damn, do you still care?

You still worry bout me when I’m not near?

I should be with you in some eighty years,

Hey Ma, what’s it like? How’s it up there?

 

 

Chill out eternally, Justina Chienyenwa Ogbuehi

17/04/1950 to 31/03/2013

I Was Dumbfounded…

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.

“Fuck you!”

“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?”
“Yes you!”
“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.
“Get in.”
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.

I gasped.

“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.

‘Boobs’.

‘Death’.

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.

Mrs. Cikk0, welldone o…

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…

Crash Course

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!”

“Jolo-wetin?”

“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.

“Hello, Jolomi!”

“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.

Ah. Jolomi.

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 26^th 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.

“Hello,”

“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!

See yansh!

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!”

“Napo-wetin?”

All dis Orile winches no go kill me!

Baby Woes

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