NOTICE: Change of Blog!!

"Once upon a time, there was a Prince and he lived in a castle. This Prince had long hair and his friends called him Rapunze. At least they would have, if he had any friends. However, this Prince, Prince Rapunze was a loner and stayed alone in his castle using his long hair to make objects to amuse him (hats, stockings, a doll..). And yeah, he used his hair to masturbate too. Not his fault really, he was alone in the castle with nothing else to do. One day he decided to do something different. He decided.."

Bleh!
I wonder how people who write such stories get an audience. In situations like that, you wonder whether it is the writer's fault or the fault of the reader, coping with that trash. Anyway, I don't write like that, and if you're reading this right now, you probably know that already.


http://bit.ly/IXy58s

Wait! Before you go clicking on that link,(nothing would happen anyway), hear me out a second. This is important. *dramatic pause* This may be the shortest post I've ever written on this blog, asides maybe 'Isolated Words'..but that was a poem. Anyway, I have a new blog. Yeah..*sigh* After, two years and over 60 posts (some have been deleted), since April of 2010, I have decided to leave ' All in a Life's journey..' and move on.*sniff* It has not been an easy choice, I naturally tend to stick to whatever I have, (except maybe women), but certain circumstances have persuaded the change in base.
Blogger.com which hosts this blog, like y'all know has a few, uhm, quirks especially concerning sharing and comments (NB: this is a free blog. I'm pretty certain the paid blogs do not have this problem). You've related to me a coupla times about how hard it is to share and comment on my posts, so to accomodate as usual, I decided to switch address. Not that wordpress.com is perfect, but then..


http://www.aljanusi.wordpress.com


Do not bother clicking again!
I really am going to miss 'All in a Life's journey..', I'm thinking maybe once in a while, I'll write up something special just for this blog. She's my first love anyway.
From me here, the Writer; Mr Janus, it's Asta la vista, and see you in ------> http://aljanusi.wordpress.com
Now, you can copy, paste, click..
PS: I hope bloggers.com don't sue me for this..#okbye

Bessie...

It sounds like; "Help me..save me.." but it keeps getting fainter and fainter, the sounds disappearing as though vanishing into some unknown abyss. And then without warning, the deep voice echoes out of the darkness; "She's mine now.." Then the voice laughs, a cruel, hideous cackle that chills my bones and jolts me awake. It was a dream. But it was reality. Pushing away my blanket, I stretch my hand to the other side of the bed. It is cold. Cold and empty. She's gone. Gone right before my eyes. My heart grows sad and a deep pit forms in my stomach. Thus begins my day, as it has been for weeks now. Breakfast is a blur. I eat the food, but I don't see it. Spoonful after spoonful of cereal entering my mouth in programmed motions. I am conscious of hunger, but I have no appetite. The simple joy of eating has fled me, and what I once loved is now mere activity. I keep remembering that day. I keep seeing her face. It was all my fault. As she walked out the door that morning in March, I knew. I am not clairvoyant, but I swear I knew as she walked out that she wasn't coming back. She wasn't..not except I went after her. Except I ran after her. But I didn't. I am stubborn and now I see where that has gotten me. I remember that day. Tears warm my cheeks as I drive to work. My concentration is split, but experience and instinct prevent accident. Not like I care. What do I work for? Who do I work for now that she's gone? Why bother? I smile a little. Those were my thoughts in those late days of March; Why bother? I drowned myself in alcohol then though, with a cluster of friends and a bevy of ladies to assist in drinking my booze and spending my money. Those were hazy days, the hours merging into one another. The stupor helped me forget, until morning and night were only differentiated by hangovers. Until I saw her. A car is honking behind me. It seems I am driving too slow. I don't blame the driver, he never had and lost what I had. No one else did. No one else... When I saw her, I stopped. I was in one of my more lucid moments when I saw her. I saw her in a picture. A picture of me and my Bessie. My partner.. The memories come flooding in. I and Bessie had been together for so long. We understood each other, we spoke a language only us could understand. At first my friends didn't approve of her and our bond, but in time they too grew to like and love her. We went everywhere together. She protected me, I loved her; it was simple. Until that day. The memory hurts so much I squeeze my eyes to hold back the tears. The job had been telling on me. I was working late hours and Bessie didn't like it. She let me know, but I wouldn't care. Then that morning, she just walked out. I called her, but she ignored me. I called out her name, but she just looked at me with those big brown, puppy eyes and kept moving. She wanted me to get up from my desk. To come after her. But I am stubborn. I stuck to my Microsoft Excel sheets and I waited for her, but she never came back. It's been four weeks now. She never came back. My cheeks are wet again, the tears flow freely now as I drive into my office parking lot and remember our picture. We had taken it right there. The picture of me and my Bessie. Me and my dog. Bessie the dog...

The Last Friday

I never really believed in ghost stories. I had heard them since I was a little kid, but I knew the truth. Those tales were just a bunch of crap to scare children with. And I wasn't about to let myself get scared. So even when Mum died three hours after her twin sister, my friend Femi keeps waking up in places he couldn't have been able to enter, and Dad gets those phone calls from his dead best friend every New Year, I still wouldn't believe in ghosts.
That is, until today.
When I woke this morning, everything was normal. My alarm rang on time, the sun rose perfectly and the birds outside were chirping the usual song. My phone notification light was blinking, so I checked the messages: same old, Friday the 13th spoofs. As I swung my feet over the bed to the floor, I woke again. My alarm rang. As I looked out the window, the sun rose and the birds started chirping. Everything was the same. Picking up my phone, I read the messages. The same. Chalking it up as de-javu, I threw off my clothes and walked into the bathroom. Nothing was going to foul up my day. If only I knew how wrong I was.
Friday has my most lax timetable, so I took my time preparing for class. After an easy shower, I turned on the stereo; time to psych myself for the day ahead. It was while I brushed my teeth, the metal sounds from Linkin Park setting the theme for my day, that I felt the chill. In all the movies, when a ghost is about to appear, everywhere fogs up and the hero's breath curls out of his mouth in mists. Not in real life.
Without warning my lungs suddenly felt dry, like an icy hand was squeezing the life out of my chest. I would have screamed but I had no breath to. Stumbling out of the bathroom into my room in search of an inhaler, I heard a voice.
"Janus.."
"Ja..nus.."
The voice seemed to rise and fall in a sibilant whisper. All else was silent, the sounds of the birds and Linkin Park all muted to the background. All I could hear was that scary voice and the slow thumping of my beating heart. Then as quickly as it had started, it ended. The hand seemed to lose its grip on my heart, and I fell to the floor right in front of the speakers, as Linkin Park blasted out, "Easier to run". Heart pumping wildly, I picked myself from the floor and grabbed my inhaler. As I inhaled deeply, the cool air giving life to my lungs, I thought to myself: "It was just an attack, it was just an attack.." I had no idea how true those words would prove.
In the back of the shuttle bus on my way to class, I kept replaying the mornings events in my head. I could not help the feeling that I was being warned. But by whom, and for what? My phone beeped. It was another Friday the 13th broadcast. This one however had a most sinister twist to it. Apparently, every Friday the 13th, a 2nd son and 13th grandchild in any family was claimed by the Devil. Usually, broadcast messages are not specific, but it was not only the specificity of this message that got my attention. I am the 2nd son of my parents! Though, I am the 11th grandchild; my father's parents had only 12 grandchildren. Breathing a sigh of relief that somebody invented family planning, I deleted the message and relaxed for the first time since I stepped out of bed. At the most, Friday the 13th was a day of bad luck, and the worst was over, the day couldn't get any worse. I closed my eyes.
The sound of screeching tires snapped me out of my reverie. Throwing my eyes wide open, I stared out through the windscreen. Right in front of the shuttle, a truck carrying iron rods and building materials suddenly lost control. Brakes squealing, the vehicle smashed into a drain at the side of the road, spewing bricks, wood, nails and rods into the road. The driver of the shuttle, swerved to avoid the still skidding truck, but was too late to dodge the contents. The bus rode over a bed of nails and the tires exploded, dragging the vehicle into a spin before crashing into a signpost. The windscreens exploded, showering glass everywhere while the passengers screamed and struggled to get off the bus. And then suddenly, like before, all went quiet and my heart ceased to beat. In the window was a face. She was young, and pale green. Her hair seemed to wave in the breeze, thin tendrils that crossed her face and reached down to her neck. Her eyes were holes; lid-less sockets that seemed to beckon me into the darkness behind. As I stared in disbelief, blood rushing down the side of my head, the ghostly apparition disappeared and my heart started to beat again.
The whole Friday the 13th thing has got to be a joke. There is no way a trail of bad luck could just be following someone; could just be following me. It just had to be coincidence. Those were the thoughts in my mind as I walked out of the Emergency Room at the Health Centre, a gigantic bandage wrapped around my head. Nevertheless, I could still see the face of that girl, her hollow sockets which had stared and stared at me, the face contorted like she wanted to scream at me, but she had no tongue, no voice. I shivered.
It was raining outside. The dark clouds covered the sky, angry and foreboding, unleashing torrent upon torrent of angry rainfall. I stood beneath the porch, my hand resting on the wet wall, contemplating whether to brave the weather and try to get a taxi to take me home. Then a taxi drove up, releasing its passengers. Seeing my chance, I made to dash through the rain when suddenly, a large rat jumped out of the hedge in front of me. The shock caused me to reel back. The rat saved my life. With a flash of white light, lightening sizzled down from the skies, striking the very spot I would have been standing. The electricity crackled the air, the current rushing up the wall where I rested my hand, the force tossing me 3ft into the air. As I landed on the floor, there was a dull thud beside me, and right in front of my eyes were the charred remains of the rat that saved my life. I screamed. As I blacked out, I could hear the rumbling echoes of clashing thunder.
I woke up in my room.
My friend had brought me home in his Mum's car. The storm had subsided now and he had to return the vehicle. He put on the TV and promised to come back immediately. So I lay on the bed, covered in bruises and bandages, wondering how my day had deteriorated so badly. The morning had been perfect, how could everything have gone so wrong? As I sobbed softly, I decided to call my Dad. He always knew what to do. He picked almost immediately, and I told him everything that had happened since I woke.
"Why is this happening to me Dad? Why me? I'm not even the 13th grandchild!"
Even as I said those words, my mouth froze in mid-scream. For, right there on TV was the girl who I had seen, the one who had called to me. It was a 'Missing Persons' report. She had been missing since January; January 13, and there was a reward for whoever found her. But no one would ever find her, 'cause she was dead. And I knew how. I tried to stifle a sob. And then I heard my Dad's voice on the phone:
"..technically, you are the 13th grandchild, two of your cousins died before you could know them.."
I heard a loud crack, but I didn't look up. My eyes were fixed on the TV. I knew what had happened. The ceiling fan had loosened from its place and the blades were falling and spinning out of control, spinning in their deadly cycle, aiming for my head.
On the screen, the girl was smiling. Dead and smiling. Dead..
I woke again. The alarm rang, the sun rose, the birds chirped..
"Ja..nus.."

Isolated words..

Tumblers cascading into cacophony,
Disjointed tunes affording seamless melody.
Chords and notes clashing as one,
Mindless rhythm, music of the mind.

Ink staining white sheets;
Thoughts flowing from mind to nib.
A complete jumble of incoherence,
My thoughts, my mind, isolated words.

Rivers of the Soul, parted in two,
Decisions, decisions, which to make.
What once was one, now made into few,
The roads spread out, which to take.

Nigerians and the Diasporan trail

Originally, the concept of the diaspora started with the Jews, and as with everything related to that band of individuals, it involved massive takeover of the world. The diaspora, tells of a period whereby the Jews migrated from their nation into other nations to live and to work. Nowadays, this title entails and includes the movement of people of any nation or group, into any other nation or group to get away from theirs. The concept of diaspora is now forgotten, the long ago practice of world domination and pursuit of excellence for the good of the entire peoples has been sacrificed on the altar of self-aggrandizement.
One of the issues lamented the most in the country we live in is the problem of the diasporan spill and the movement of Nigerians, especially Nigerian professionals to other countries where their talents and skills are utilised to the absolute bereft of their motherland. Originally perhaps, the Nigerian goes abroad to study, but the obvious lure of the milk and honey and grapes of the developed world gradually erodes all ties which bound him to his nation, and that cement so often occasioned to the promise of wealth and power ensures that he stays in that country, becoming in essence a Diasporan, like many before him.
It would do well to advise that, I do not seek to attack the idea of the human person leaving the country of which he was born to seek a life of success somewhere else, the reader would do well to read on and understand the objectives of this piece.
A person in diaspora, as has been seen a thousand plus times, while in his quest for financial excellence and self-satisfaction, endeavours to send some of the spoils of his riches back home to those he left behind, all the while assuring them that he would soon return or, better still, that they would soon be moved to join him. This is commendable and brings to mind an image of the mother bird fetching worms from the dangerous outside world for her fledglings. But my article is not just about the diasporans, enough has been exhausted on them, this is also about those who have been left behind, those who remain in Nigeria.
In an idealistic poll carried out in any state or geopolity in this nation, using whatever demographies, the greatest percentage (about 65%) of Nigerians are desperate in one form or the other, to reach for greatness and travel abroad (in diaspora) to recover the golden fleece. Of the remaining 35%, most are content in some form with the world or nation they live in, (in this category fall our leaders and godfathers), and the rest just don't care.
In visa offices, immigration offices and embassies in Nigeria, we see thronging crowds of such people as the 65%, and the fever is palpable and the desire visible and at one glance, one can tell that once gone, these people would not fly over the airspace, not to talk of return to the shores of this country. But it is not them we are concerned about, not anymore. Volumes of pages have been written on this diasporan syndrome and I am not ready for mine to be classified in that degree. Rather, right now, I am concerned with the remaining 35%.
Like I intimated earlier, ogf this 35%, a certain degree does not care, (of this lot, abject poverty has beaten them to a level of submission where they are just about ignorant of the dates and time in which they even live), but some do so. Of those that are concerned about the diasporan movement, but do not want to relocate abroad, a number of factors come into play. What such factors are is constantly an issue for debate, but I will try to elucidate a few.
Some of these people, do not have the financial wherewithal to travel out of the country. It is the absence of these funds that makes them complacent to their ordeal and thus take up the mantle of self-righteousness and patriotism and claim a desire to remain in the country. But there exist a few, certain people who despite their ability to relocate if they will, choose to stay behind. And then we wonder, why do these Nigerians reject the diasporan trail?
Some would say it is patriotism and a desire to stay within their country, these are the liars. Another school of thought, one which I subscribe to, say they stay because of a sense of belonging and a sense of ownership. A sense of belonging to the a country and a constituent of the whole, and a sense of ownership of the country in that you constitute what without you will not be an existent whole.
And now again, we remember diaspora and the original concept behind it, and we ask ourselves, in a contemplation of the Diasporan trail and the Nigerian citizen, what is wrong and which is right; to travel or not to?
Still trying to analyse the connection between the Nigerian and the diaspora, we take a look at the Igbo people of the South-Eastern Nigeria. If I may digress a bit, years ago, the people of the East, like the Jews whom they claim as ancestors, moved also from their homelands to the outside. Now in present day Nigeria, it is typical to find an Igbo person in any geopolity, whether North or West. Within this very country, Igbo people, so long ago denied a country of theirs, Biafra, live in diaspora.
One might wonder, and I do so for I am a scientist, whether the longing or trend for the Igbo people to travel in search of greener pastures is due to the Jewish blood flowing in their veins; a macabre testament of their true ancestory or perhaps, it is the situation in which they have found themselves in this country that prompts them to move out.
A few weeks ago, before issues such as the SNC and 'derivation' started to clog ,our headlines, the menacing scourge of the Boko Haram and its prevalent effect on the Igbos was of maximum interest. And we wonder why it is that within their own nation, the Igbo people are so often threatened and oppressed? Is it that they have no land of their own? And what must be done to alleviate this fear and insecurity?
Still on the diasporan trail, a lesson should be taken from the old Jews and, closer to home, the Igbos. It is a common trend, and we have seen it often, that Igbos do not consider each other as haven 'arrived' until a house has been built in the village they come from. Whilst ignoring this as another 'proof' of Jewish ancestory, we recall that the old Jews took to the diaspora in search for milk and honey which they may transfer back to their people. Here in is the lesson, and it is a lesson to the 65% who have trudged up the diasporan trail and opted to remain there; Bring the resources and the milk and the honey back home. Do not consider yourself arrived until there is a 'house' in the Nation.
Arguably, the conditions in the country are relatively unfavourable, and indeed that is what prompted the diasporan spill in the first place. Nevertheless, reawaken the spirit of belonging and the spirit of ownership, and realise therefore the essence of the diasporan trail, and so find your way home.
A seasoned critic would read this article and poke a lot of holes saying; I write this because I am stuck in this nation and from a heart boiling over with jealousy, I have decided to slander. Maybe so, and I do not claim scientific viability of any of my theories, but in it all is truth. There is a purpose to the diasporan movement, and by now, I would have reminded you.

A Critical Review..

Ah! you will say, the clock has spun round and the time has come again, another opportunity for this foolish writer to complain and lambast on paper. But not today. For today i have seen the light, today i am here to say d truth. The irrefutable, it-pains-me-to-utter-this kind of truth. I would say the truth of my writing and i would not mince words. I challenge you to counter me, and I am secure that you will not. For if you do, you praise me. Though if you do not, you do also. But that is my bonus.

As an independent observer reading one of my pieces one day, I realised the inadequacies hidden behind every line I write. I play up my words with tunes of high pitches, gross embellishments and exaggerations, searching for deeper meaning where sometimes there is none. It is annoying to the seasoned reader when he takes up a piece of my work. What he views is a truckload of horsedung whose creator has merely clothed with finery. And as one idiotic fool said, that is the true definition of a writer. Ha! What does he know?

Never before have i been so disgusted as when i took up one of my works to read during one of my boring hours and all i saw was a pseudo-litany with sexual underlining. I shook my head and laughed at myself. What i was exhibiting was a shameless salesman technique where you give the people what it is that they want at the expense of literary morality. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.

Going further, on extremely boring days, i notice a trend which has begun to dog my work. The trend of addressing myself to the reader as though on a personal basis. What does that mean? Since when did that become artistic writing? As far as I am concerned that is a mere trick to grab the readers attention and keep him with you all through the article and that is just bullshit isn't it? Honestly, as far as i am concerned it takes a high level of intelligence to read anything I write, I may kid myself that it is because some of the offhanded phrases and lines I throw in along the way require past your basic intelligence, but I know better. And you do too. The reason why those who discard my articles claiming its unreadability do so is simply due to the length! I write for too long, using big words. And a piece is essentially supposed to be short and to the point. To justify myself I claim it is because, I get ideas more than the average man and hence have more material to work with, but you know better don't you? Or I could claim that the topics upon which I write are just too intelligent or even bourgeois for the common man to interprete. What insolence!

On most occasions I can be downright insulting and that I know. I end up coating my words in vernacular and slang to take the brunt of the insult but only after the damage is done. Some people call that brilliant journalism or a sort of diplomacy. I simply call it pretence. Why do I couch my words in hidden terms and double entrendres? Is that not more of an act of cowardice than a supreme style of writing? The writer should say what he wants to say, for he is the Fourth Estate, not a snivelling man hiding behind a curtain! Right?

When the subject matter shifts to girls, in a totally and quite typical male chauvinistic pig attitude I am highly critical and quite dirty. Even Oscar Wilde I fear will have a thing or two to say about me. I console myself saying, it will merely be jealousy which shall trouble his heart. But who knows such things?

The other day i took it upon myself to write a poem. Who send me? Who asked me to? I had not even recieved a wide acclaim for my articles. At the very most, about 500 people in the whole wide world knew I could spell out the words of an article. And I wanted to try on the highly exalted chair of the poet? Why? Because of a couple of romantic pieces I had written once or twice which earned me some two-bit fame? Hmmph! I amuse even myself.

There exist a lot of people in this world and of this number, a very few of them are storytellers. Into this small circle is where I sought to throw myself. The annoying, and by that I mean, really annoying part is, I am no good at it! If i was, then i wouldn't have needed to try convincing my editor of the worthiness of my novel, (he should have simply caught on right away). I would have more subscribers following my blog (maybe like 50, 000 ) and even in the days when we were young and we sat on the bunks and told stories, I would have a listening group of 90 people, rather than a loose collection of friends who obviously were waiting for me to round up (out of courtesy) so they could go do something more interesting like solve further mathematics.

This is the truth and I say it plainly, I cannot claim to be a master of magic and spin webs of words around your heads and keep you so enthralled you'll gladly lie at my feet just to feel the words pour out for a thousand years. No! I simply write and apparently, somewhere deep within your crazy souls (you have to be crazy to read from me), there is a need to hear something no one else can give you. I will always provide for that need. I cannot but do so.

I have criticized myself. You have been duly warned. You read on at your peril.

Nevertheless, do!

A night's dream..

Like a streak of silver, the shimmering ephemeral substance shoots through the clouds heading higher and higher past the gravity barrier, and into space. Moving with the force of a thousand kilotons and at the speed of light, the light whisper of a breeze zooms past the sun moving faster and faster through the seemingly endless vista of space, crossing completely the time-space continuum, till it reaches golden gates...
"Welcome," says the guard, steel helmeted with the red and purple crest of royalty, a golden breastplate across his frame, a blade of fire and light and wind in his hands, and wrapped in place of a cape on his back, wide pearly-white wings. The gates swing back open, and floating through, lighter than a feather, the ephemeral form steps onto golden streets.
There is a soft music upon the air, the meshing of various instruments and voices in constant crescendo, all into harmonious melody with perfect symphony. Yet, it is a quiet sound; there, yet not there, and the music swells and falls, rises and rolls, an atmosphere of music that seems to rise into nothingness. And the ghostly form seems to resonate in time with the sound.
Gliding down narrow streets and wide alleys, roads all paved in gold and inlaid in precious stones and jewels, floating in the sound of the ethereal music, the shimmering substance comes upon a place more beautiful than all previously seen. From within seems to issue the music which so enthrals its entire being. Floating forward as though drawn by invisible cords, the ghost comes upon an incredible throne room. In here, the atmosphere of music is more pronounced, as tangible as a sweet scent upon the air. From the throne a white light so bright, pulsating with so much quality and brilliance, the essence of all that is, all that would be..
And suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, the ephemeral substance, light as a cloud, is yanked back with a force greater than anything conceivable. Tossed back, through the halls, and out into the golden streets, falling, falling out the gates and through the sun, back to the clouds and into my bed.
And so I woke.

Adieu Papa..

It's been a while now. It's twelve years since you left us, twelve years since they said you translated to glory. I miss you now like I always have. I never really knew you. I was a kid when u left. My memories of you are pale pictures of your wide grin, the grin they say I took. Time has gone, yet like that fateful day, my eyes well up and my voice cracks. I miss you old man, I wish I could have known you. The things we would have done together. My first story award, my first driving lesson, my first matriculation, my first degree, my first convocation. All the times when your advice would have been critical.
I still see your smile in my head, I see it in the mirror each time I smile. I miss you Dad.

Dedicated to John O. Anenih

The Love of a god..

It's amazing when I think about it, think about the feelings I have for you; their depth, their inconsistence. Left alone, I would hold unto you, tightly, grasping with the whole of me, holding tight to you, as tight as I can. Left to me...
Deep though my thoughts towards you; fated though our paths may be - for I have seen you in my head, imagined you as you are far before I saw you; beautiful though we may seem together; sometimes I cannot but wonder if it isn't too good to be true.
I've been alone for a very long time, quiet and hidden in the stars that have become my home. Up above the realm of mortals, clothed in the clouds, my vision the fire and colour that only the immortals can see. Right there, hidden and surrounded in my loneliness and comforted in the solace of cynicism, cold to love and romance and open only to logic and pragmatism, that was when I saw you.
Looking down from the stars, in the heavens I had made my lonely home, I saw you. Beautiful maiden, my light in the darkness the world had become. And so I came down, replesendent in all my glory, clothed in all the finery of the gods, winged and beautiful. And you worshipped me. I showered love and you fell and adored me in return. It was a wonderful time I spent with you, a few months by your time, an eternity for me. But the longer I stayed on Earth with you, the more my finery eroded and my wings disappeared, soon, I was no more than a man in your eyes. And you would never love a man.
How could you love me then? Now that I am a mere man..
I knew what I risked when I dared to love you, I knew what the consequences would be. I would gladly give all of my eternity for you, sacrificing immortality, giving up my seat with the gods, abandoning my goddess.
My splendour is gone now. You, my love, is gone too. I know the gods would take me back, but how to go, when to go, IF to go is the question.
There is only one more avenue left to me. As I stare at the dagger in my hand everything is clear. On the hilt I have engraved 'LoVe', when the blade pierces my heart that is all that would be left. It is over for me now, a mortal's end.

All in a day's job!

And so it happened that this morning, I set upon to do some hard labour, yes, me. I had not planned to, but yesterday as I entered into my mother's compound, there were several mounds of sand, each constituting a trip, standing forlornly in a scattered row. The matter was simple; the sand was not going to stay there forever, it had to be spread. And naturally, mother was happy to have me home.
For the benefit of the 'uneducated', a trip of sand is essentially a big tipper lorry-load of sand/dirt/soil. In this case, the sand was of the laterite variety, the kind used to fill low/marshy lands and that which is found naturally in Edo state.
Long ago, as the myths read, the cause of the reddish nature of the (laterite) soil found in the Benin kingdom was due to the blood of several giants who had been slain by the ancient Obas when the land was claimed by the Bini people. Blood of giants or not, this morning as I stared at the mounds of sand and the shovels sticking out of them, I knew they had to be spread. The method was simple, (shovel up the dirt, spread it anywhere you see), the task however would not be.
One of my older cousins was around(bless his soul!) and the man is built like an ox's elder brother. Already, before I had even stood from bed, he had demolished a mound and was bent over, powerfully attacking another. Grabbing a shovel, I stepped forward like some Roman general about to attack Carthage and dived on the closest mound. It took only fifteen minutes.
Now, I want to explain something here. Broad-shouldered, quite handsome and (ehm..) 'not short' I may be, I'm not exactly of the Ox variety. So one cannot expect me to demolish a mound all by myself! So fifteen minutes after I started, I stopped. Don't judge! I had blisters for pete's sake!
Now, my fingers and palm are built for writing and drawing with steel-nibbed pens, typing on keypads and caressing the finer lines of beautiful women (another days story!), not for holding shovels!!! All in all, I had to then get some bandage and wrap my hands before continuing work. Yes, I did!
The work continued beautifully, then, one of the tenants who owns an electronic repairs store came over with a couple of his guys. Maybe they thought it was easy work, the way they saw me shoveling heap after heap of sand in perfect see-saw motion, all muscle-rippling and all that(yezzbozz!). In their minds, they were like, "See beans!"(Mscheeew..)Ok, I'm just being ungrateful. At any rate they joined in, and work moved faster. Then one other guy came over and stood by us and began pouring wisdom.
At first no one listened while the guy gave us the latest in Edo politics, it was when he started giving advice on how a combination of coconut sap and lime juice can cure HIV/AIDS and how years ago, he once used just white sand with no cement to build a skyscraper! that we really started laughing. In the end, the work finished on time and we ordered for five more trips.
As I sat on the sand later on, typing this and wondering if I'll ever lose these callouses and blisters, I marvelled to myself; this is what men even younger than me do as half a days job. A feat, or ordeal (lol), that had nearly killed me, was food to another man's table. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, I thanked my stars and counted my blessings.
Now I'm rested, and there's a mound of..eba! before me, All in a day's job!

Valentine's Day

For the past five years, I have celebrated Valentine's day in a variety of ways, and looking back now, it's almost amusing. In 2007, I wrote an article posted in school, condemning the frivolity of the occasion partially because, I was in a pseudo-zealous mood then, all burning with 'the Fire' and uhm, also because I didn't know what to buy for my girlfriend..(Yes! I admit it now, was a kid then, sue me).
2008's Valentine's day, was blurry. The morning started with me going to class like every normal day. Everybody was in shades of red; I wore blue jeans and a black shirt. I was completely oblivious of the celebration. Somehow, the very knowledge that it was Feb 14 had escaped my mind, and like some Ogre or Grinch, I forgot the day of love. Ironically though, I got gifts from a couple of friends, something that wasn't to happen again for a really long time.
In 2009, it was different, I remembered well ahead of time; I actually organized a Christian Youth program to celebrate the occasion. It was a rainy day, and attendance wasn't really in the hundreds, but after the show, I remember walking home and thinking it was a success. Then, I called my girlfriend(a different one). Suffice to say, I got no gifts that day, not even a kiss or a peck, but then again..*shrugs*
In 2010, a good year, Valentine's day was very simple, and plenty fun. Yours truly was in the after-effects of a nasty break-up, and you can say, I was antagonistic of the very notion of love. In fact if Cupid had dared show his face around me, it would have been a gory sight: blood-spattered burnt wings(extra crispy), naked disemboweled babies, bloody smiling heads on a pike (with the halo stil intact, an arrow piercing through the ears) and so on. Such was my anger. Anyway, I went on a drinking binge with friends(not all male, in fact most were female), and we had some adventures. Till this day, we still remember that night when we sit and tell stories. The experiences drew us closer I guess.*wipes eyes*
In 2011, one of my most memorable years, Valentine's day was different, to say the least. Then, I was working as an IT student in a Brewery(do not ask). As you can imagine, there was going to be a party after work, right there, in the Brewery. So, I got ready, I had nobody to share the day with so I might as well, sit around with co-workers and swig illicit beer. Then, I got a call: would I be available to talk to a couple of teenagers on the issue of Valentine? It was like wafting a sausage under the nose of a mad dog. If there is one thing I love almost as much as writing, it is talking in front of people, "Oh the bliss..". So I accepted, and while the beer was being swigged at work, I was talking to kids. (P.S: never before had my pedophilic urges been so tested, but more on that another day).
This year, 2012, Valentine's day started out boring. I was alone at home, watching cheesy romance movies and flipping through annoying love songs. There I was, curled up on a sofa hugging a pink pillow and watching Richard Gere promise everlasting love, certain that I had reached the lowest of lows, when I received a text. It was from my Pastor, he invited me to a Valentine's day service in church. I have never been so enthusiastic to go to church. It was a sort of dinner, and as I went home, tummy full of 'church food' swimming around in gas and communion wine, I was almost bent double from the effort of keeping my tummy in. It is a miracle I didn't throw up somewhere. The service had been fun, the people more so, now perhaps, it was time to sleep. Then I got home and there was a dinner table set out in the middle of the compound, right there in semi-darkness, muted lights wafting down through the tree branches; dinner for five. There was some food and there was wine. They had been waiting for me, Mum, Ivie, my Uncle and Tati. While we sat and toasted, Mum and my Tati brought out gifts, it was like Christmas again, and I did feel loved.
Then, I called my girlfriend.

Oliver Twist...

If the most stupid question in the world is, "Is there GOD?", I heard the second most stupid question today. Someone actually asked me, "Why do you want the things you don't have?" What a moron.
But, he got me thinking. Not of the extent of his stupidity, just thinking of the fact that, that's what we always want; what we don't have. It's my final proof of the insatiability of man.
Rich men don't pass through needle eyes, (or was it camels?), spouses never stay faithful, and Oliver keeps wanting more. That's the state of our world, as it has always been since the beginning of time. And someone says that even the Bible allows us this insatiation, in the book of Proverbs, "..in all thy Getting, Get understanding..".
Now we ask ourselves, with the words from the Holy Book still ringing in our ears, is it therefore a vice to want more?
Too much of everything is bad. That's an adage or admonishment as old as any, and true too. I can remember, very clearly, the last time I went against that sacroscant law. It was beginning of this year, and this story involves me and a 4litre jar of ice-cream. Now, I loooove ice-cream, and half of the angels of Heaven would be needed to stop me if I get to that ecclesiastical place and there is no ice-cream!, and on that fateful day, here was I with a 4litre jar.
At nature, I'm very conservative, a tad of a miser sometimes, but that day, I just wanted mooore! This was something I had! 4litres of vanilla cream all for me, but I just kept wanting another taste., just one more. I finished the jar that day, and my tummy told the story, very badly. (Don't blame me, even Eve couldn't say no to an ordinary fruit, and she had the frigging Garden Of Eden). It doesn't hurt that, the bakery I bought the ice-cream from is called "Wan' more" either, but that is another story.
We always desire more. It's a part of our genetic make-up, it is only after subjecting those hormones and desires that we impose control(keyword being 'impose'). That's why we have sex-offenders, obese people, murderers, thieves and so on, people who were unable to say no to the desire for more. In the world today, however, this 'More syndrome' is actually welcomed. Corporate boardrooms, bank floors, marital bedrooms, concert stages. Encore!
And the man said to his wife;
Man: More?
Wife: Yes! Yes! Yes!*moan*
But that again, is another issue.
How does a man improve if he does not want to?
I think, this is the question the Creator was addressing when he integrated the 'More factor' into our genomic sequence. The desire for more is the very basis of Competition, and like any kid would know, Competition begets success.
So therefore, I'll say it proudly, I'm an Oliver Twist, and I always want more! Desire, Get-to-work, Achieve, then you Desire again. Never forget the 'Get-to-work' step though and who knows, we may achieve whatever we want, Babel-style.
Encore!(Read again).

For better, for worse...

This line scares me more than anything else whenever I think of marriage, and believe me, the very idea of wedding rings, confetti or bouquets sets me on panic alert. Now, naturally, I'm a bit of a traditional; I believe in the sanctity of marriage, fidelity and all that jazz. I'm anti-divorce and pro-family planning, so yeah, you can say I've given the topic quite some thought. But the phrase, "For better, for worse.." scares the socks off me.
By nature, again, I am a fleeting personality. I hardly ever get completely committed to anything. I may get absorbed by a notion for a while, but as soon as it gets boring, my mind shifts. Some say it's my artistic temperament, those people make me smile, I think though, that it's just a bit of a psychological deficiency; 'committophobia' [hahaha], but really though, I have a bad track record and looking back at it, I wonder how I'll manage to keep up with my professed traditional values of fidelity in marriage.
And for the record, I am most definitely not considering marriage anytime soon. That said...
I had a dream, some weeks ago, maybe if I was Wilde, I'ld have written some really bizzare poem about it. Anyways, the dream was some sort of a Christmas Story spoof, with my present and past girlfriends meeting at a table for lunch while I eavesdropped frm behind a curtain. Naturally, table talk was centred on yours truly. After some, [entirely flattering] comments on my 'bedside manner', and romanticisms, they naturally diverted to my flaws and mirthlessly thrashed out the foolish reasons I had given for breaking-up with each of them. The girlfriends of the Present laughed as they heard and then realised that already, I had began to lay ground for creating more such excuses. At the end of the lunch, (or was it my dream), the concensus was that, I am fleeting, childish and shallow. This would have hurt me deeply, even in the dream, if they had not been sending me surreptitious texts and iMs proclaiming love through the lunch. But that is another story.
I wonder and ask myself whenever I can; what am I going to do about my case of 'infideliousness'?
I've tried prayers. It's either I don't have enough faith, or I didn't pray properly or perhaps, this is the divine plan. I tried 'Infidelity Anonymous' once,[lol], the organiser was a hack! B**ch tried to screw me, literally! I've had a spell of psychology sessions and I'm not really going very far there, but considering that I'm examining myself from a bunch of textbooks, I'm not surprised.
Years ago, when I was a wee lad, I did say I would never marry. Unfortunately, (or is it fortunately), the resolve was not because I was certain of a life of infidelity, but because as a product of some foolish childhood eccentricity, I just wanted to be a bachelor till I died. I forget I'm my mother's first son, the destined one to carry the family name [rolling my eyes].
But anyways, I remember a cartoon I watched as a kid in primary school. "For better, for worse" was the name and it was about a family and the trials that each member went through as they grew older and wiser; Emo-issues, finance issues, marriage issues etc. Maybe that's what I need to do; find a dvd of that cartoon, getting a bag of popcorn and watching the whole thing. Who knows, I might learn something. But whichever way, "For better or worse, things would turn out right".

Learning from Obee..

Disappointments rarely, if ever, present themselves as stepping stones, on the contrary, they come across as large blocks of ice which hem us in, cutting us off from our hopes and dreams, driving us deeper and deeper into ourselves, until after a while we're a simple shell of what we once were.
In truth though, disappointments are not a terrible thing, if anything, you could describe them as a necessary part of one's existence. But like death, or sickness, we all strive to avoid disappointments. And like death or sickness, it catches up with us every time. And as with every thing in life, there are stages, so also with disappointment.
First, you have the ........... This stage differs among various people. For some, you have crying, for some you have silence and quiet, but whichever it is, it doesn't last very long, and it is a prelude for what comes next.
Then you have the Outrage, when you just want to lash out, hit back at a target: yourself, the messenger of such bad news, a loved one, etc. This stage is often quite violent, especially if your ....... stage was filled with crying, in which case we'll probably have a tantrum on our hands.
Then, after that, you go into another stage, which involves withdrawal. I'll call this the Brooding stage. A lot of thinking is involved at this stage. You go back every detail, you re-examine the sequence of events, you try in every way you can to figure out what could have gone wrong, and once again, you lay blame. And then, u make the Decision.
This is the fourth phase of facing disappointments. Most of the time, the decision made at this point holds no substance, as it is rash and sooner or later, you forget all about it. But for that moment, that thought is supreme and inviolate in ur sub-concious. And most of the time, it's the wrong call.
It is immediately after this point that you go into a form of Denial. In your mind, you've re-examined the sequence of events, and you have discovered the obvious: it was meant to be. There is no way your plan would have worked anyway. Whether it was a business investment, a job application or a relationship, you weren't smart enough, you weren't good enough and he/she just didn't love you enough.
Disappointments are like funny infectious diseases. When you catch one, it runs its course but how it's handled determines whether it's going to leave behind scars, a (worse and debilitating) opportunistic illness (ignore the lingo, I am a microbiologist after all) or an immunity to further disappointments of that kind. The Denial phase determines which line your disappointment is going to toe.
And now, you Determine. This is the final stage of handling your disappointment. In a true illness, we'll call this convalescence (yes, I did go to school). What you determine is a consequence of what effect Denial had on you. And that effect like I did say, would go a long way in determining the sort of person you turn out to be. But, unlike the other phases, this one actually relies on outside influence. The presence or absence of people, friends or family joining you to cope with this goes a long way in determining the final outcome. If they encourage you, sometimes, you're pushed to surpass what limits were there before and pulsating heatedly within that block of ice in which you were trapped by the disappointment, you reach out, arms stretched and grab that which you sought, and with the faith of your friend lending wings to your feet, you fly above all impossibility and achieve even more than what you originally set out for.
But then again, things could go differently...
Just saying.

Appreciations!

The Shire
1:35pm
15th Jan, 2012.

I am writing again with emotions churning in my heart and a large lump in my throat.
Now, I haven't written anything in a while, and maybe it's because my thoughts have not been clear or my emotions have been in a constant state of flux. Nevertheless, today, I was in church, (Boko be damned!), and I heard the little voice, and it said, "Appreciations!"
In everything I have written for a very long time, I have tried my utmost to be objective, un-biased, and not let my work be subject to any religion, ethnic code or whatnot. I have tried to represent all I can, while talking about Human Nature and upholding Morality(a little). But today, I may shift a little, today I would subscribe to religion, scream I am a Christian and say, Appreciations!
We live our lives, our very day-to-day existence in a world compounded at all ends with different forms of danger. The ability to survive a minute is testament to resilience. At every single moment, we are so engrossed in the need to survive that we forget to sit back, remember and thank GOD for the small mercies.
It's the third week of the year, time is flying on winged steeds, and already we have experienced enough troubles to last an eon. Hairs have added gray, faces have added lines and my previously smooth face has a very prickly stubble. And upon our hearts are burdens, heavy and great. But there are still the small mercies.
There are many nations which have experienced less than a quarter of what we have seen this year and become embroiled in bloody war and revolution. I admit that I stay in relatively calm Benin city and most of the violence has occured in places far from me, and the accounts that I have heard are probably watered-down stories with almost no significance, but still, Appreciations!
I solemnly sympathize with those who have lost family and friends since the beginning of this violence. I would not claim to understand, but I can empathize a little as I have lost close family members too, but never in such an eruption of avoidable violence. I can imagine the heart-wrenching pain and grief in your hearts. I can imagine the anger directed at those perpetrators of evil and at no one in particular. I can imagine the urge to strike back at faceless evil and Death itself. I can imagine hurt and pain and sadness. Tears well up in my eyes even as I write, but nevertheless, Appreciations!
The man would say, it is only in retrospect that we would know if things could have been worse or better whether by one way or another, I would not claim any understanding of these things, just, Appreciations!
Now, I subscribe to Christianity. I believe in GOD, Creator of Heavens and the Earth, Father of All, and I know that all things that happen are decreed by him. I know that whatever may occur, and at whatever time, has been foreseen of him and happens for his purpose. I cannot claim to know the purpose for which we have seen these evil times, neither can I say what the future holds, but I know that in all this chaos, is purpose, and reason.
Hearts of Kings, and the Gears by which the affairs of this world are controlled lie in the hand of GOD and despite their 'unreasonability', He has His reasons. So for the simple mercies of the breath of life, the scent of dew in the morning, the feel of the sun on our face or the light caress of wind on our skin, the fact that the country still stands and with the knowledge that all would be clear at fruition, I thank the LORD.
Someone said, the crisis of the nation has brought together the Christian and Muslim family, especially those in the North, speaking in one voice and uniting. I wonder, in a strange illustration of "Calamity creating the strangest of bedfellows", would hurt and pain be the panacea for our nation? The thoughts trouble me, my mind races and tries to find answers and reason, but in it all, I am certain of order, and purpose, all for our good, by the name of Jesus Christ.
Appreciations!

P.S: I wrote this on Sunday, before the Presidential broadcast or the labour announcement.
P.S.S: Appreciation doesn't really have a plural term, does it??

Clarion call..

These are sacred words I am about to put down. Words from my soul, words of my heart.
It pains me to the very fabric of my being to write this, so soon, so early into the year. But everyone is having a say, and I had better before it is too late, before there is no more time for speech.
In this country today, everyone is talking about protests and revolutions. Illustrations are being drawn and analogies compared to North African students who set themselves on fire and the fate of Nigeria is at the forefront of discussions and when we should celebrate and be happy at our 'crossover' into the new year, we rue and cry and scream and bicker.
The issue of fuel subsidy, Boko Haram and related matters cannot be over emphasized, but it would do us all a lot of good if some downplaying went into the narration of our tale of woes. Nobody is happy about the problems or hurdles the country us passing through right now, but they are hurdles and they are being passed or would be eventually. Like Nelson said, we should "Wait and see". It is imperative that we all keep our calm, and reason to resolve.
Analysts, wizened old men with potbellies the size of Banquo's cauldron and pockets full of thick wads of cash, sit behind their desks and cry murder. They scream that only a bloody revolution would restore this country, a revolution in which we, the youths would have to fight.
Old men don't war. Old men don't care.
They have decided to use us, to bring the impertinence of the youth to bear and press upon him the urge to instigate war. Various messages have been flying across the media, carrying various purported tales about the need to fight and all of them are targeted at the youth! They want to push us to war! Do we know what a revolution is? Basically, we are talking about a war between the people and...the people! And at the end, what do we have? What do we get out of it? Looking at South Sudan, just a few months old and an incessant bickering has started among the people and d flickers of another hatred threaten to ignite the nation in another war! Look at Libya and the jostle for power among the Party members. Taking leaves from the books of history and the French and the Russians, and we ask ourselves, oh Nigeria, is this what we want?
Freedom is won by the blood and sweat of enemies and patriots, but not unity. Unity is won by dialogue and companionship and brotherhood. Freedom is what we have, already. Unity is what we need.
Let us assume we have a revolution. Alongst what lines shall we settle our differences? Socio-economic?[With the poor fighting the rich? As it was in Russia about a century ago] Ethnic lines? Religious differences? We are so diverse in this nation, but unlike the pessimistic antagonists would prefer to think, in our diversity lies our strength.
I am a young person. I am a Nigerian. I was born in this country, and I have since childhood stood at assembly with my classmates and peers, and before the flag, swore, (under democracy and in junta), that I will be, "...Faithful, Loyal and Honest..." that I will, "...serve Nigeria with all my Strength..." and most of all, I would, "...defend her Unity and uphold her Honour..."
I will always believe in my country, that is my Faith. I will speak true and Honestly. I will be Loyal to her, not being ready to spring up and betray her at the first sign of trouble. I will serve her to my utmost capacity, defending her Unity against those who would seek to split her in two. And I would uphold her Honour; she would not be become a war-torn state, not on my watch.
That is the charge; a Clarion call for us as Nigerians. Set aside insane thoughts of revolution my brothers and sisters. We would sit and discuss and plan the future of our nation.
God help us..