Whatever it means...

I resumed today. Writing has always been second nature to me. Sometimes, I sit alone, people walking past, sometimes even in conversation with me, and all I can do is whip out my phone or a piece of paper with pen and type or write.
Yesterday, with the lines from a bad movie ringing in my ears, I was scared. I had not written anything in a long while and I was almost afraid of a lost talent...or ability? But with the clashing sounds of a strange japanese instrument in my ears and Linkin Park screaming down my pinna, I had no choice.
Art begets art. That's the truest truth in the world. I always, and I mean that, find myself in a creative mood when I hear good music [death to Linkin Park haters], and sometimes even with a good movie or book or art. My best experiences with sex have always been in this creative mood. Indeed, sex is art.
I was sitting on my own today, once again, flipping through my song collection. Then I got to Linkin park's 'Easier to run'. I don't know about you, but the song with it's clashing vocals was enough to rouse something latent in me...even to throw me into near tears. I don't really understand how, but writing things with a certain depth always throws me into such an emotional state, I am close to weeping.
Once I wrote something that actually threw me into a sobbing fit. It was about people's attitude towards sex...imagine!*shrug*
Today though, I think I know what started the fit. What I think, despite my subconcious trying its hardesT to hide it from me, is all about a girl. I wanted to call her and I think I needed a song to put myself into the mood and 'Easier to run', threw me into this.
I've known her for years...in my head. There have been times when I doubt her reality, when she seems like something I cooked up..from dream or fantasy. What is she? Who is this princess that fulfils all my desires?
Even as I type now, my mind wanders and it is her smiling face as I last saw it that resides behind my eyes. The keys of my phonepad blur together and all I see are flashing colours and the eyes which always threaten to engulf me...to take up my entire being into a happiness I'll happily surrender to. Who is she?
I have wondered sometimes if she is some silver wraith sent from somewhere below the underworld, a place more beautiful than Paradise, to tempt me and force me to succumb to her charms and lure until I destroy and explode in a cataclysm of bliss. But I know that is just my over-active imagination. She is a goddess. A special being, created by God to satisfy every desire I may contemplate upon. Created specially for me.
Sometimes I wonder if, like the Golden Fleece and Jason, I am worthy to have her. She seems like a jewel to pretty to be touched by my many times tainted hands. But who knows...she might be my chance for redemption?
Sounds are still banging in my head, now it's 'Jesus of Surburbia' and Green Day smashing that tune out. I love this particular song because of it's unpredictable changeability, it sometimes reminda me of my own soul and mind which switches tracks too often and sometimes with almost no seam of connection. I wonder...
I have almost forgotten her, but can I...she dwells within my heart, I can't leave her, no matter how hard I try. I am alive, perhaps I love?
I have had fleeting moments of passion over the past few years, some lasting weeks, others days, some months and some hours. I have been shocked and jumped, but I have never been broken, not again. Perhaps my artistic heart has decided to break for her. Maybe that is what this is...maybe this is another one of those fleeting pursuits. Maybe...

Ali...the reintroduction

A couple of months ago, at the beginning of the year, I posted a series of short stories about a very disturbed young man, and his journey through the straits of what life had to offer him. I stopped the series after a while and in fact deleted it entirely from my blog because of certain issues at the time, including questions alluding to my sharing an identity with my character, Ali.
Things have changed now, and i feel like putting up Ali's life for display once again. But first, a couple of things.
1. I am not Ali. We bear almost no resemblance. Any resemblance also to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental as this series is a work of pure fiction.
2. The series are not the product of a thoroughly atheistic and pagan mind. I'm a christian, though liberal on most issues.
3. Those under 18 should not follow the Ali story.
I think that's all...read on at your peril

Superheroes in Naija

You know, in those days, when you watch any movie or you read any novel or comic, you always hear lots of talk about the heroes, the Superheroes. Especially if the comic or movie is American, In fact, the created the very term.

And now, I wonder, how about over here in Africa, where are our Superheroes?

The Superhero of the American cinema or folklore is a man or woman of exceeding power  and potential, either physically or otherwise, but most definitely supernaturally, [hence the term]. Apparently, even before the advent of Television and paper, stories about these heroes were constantly told to the young and young at heart.
Therein lies the rub, what then can be said of the African man and his own heroes? I have sat with friends back in secondary school [or high school for the Americans], and we have debated, [quite seriously for that matter] on the simple question of if we could have Superheroes in Nigeria. The final consensus was reached when someone said that even if Superheroes could dwell amongst us here in Nigeria, they would nevertheless be confined to the areas in cities where the presence of sky scrapers are in abundance. I can remember hanging my head in shame as Benin City where I lived could not boast of one single skyscraper. In other words, the ultimatum was that if ever the god of Superhero land decided to dispatch one of his subordinates to Nigeria, he’ll most probably be confined only to Abuja or Lagos. It was a sad moment believe me.

But such things are below me now.

What is a Superhero? Is he this guy?

What does it entail to be a Superhero? A cape, giant arms, wide chest and the power of three trains?

Have you ever heard of Ijapa? Yes, Ijapa! In the Yoruba language of the people of Nigeria, Ijapa is the tortoise. He is the smart, extremely cunning and obligately trickish animal who rules the kingdom of the Animals, but not from the throne, [such things are beneath him]. Ijapa is a hero of the African folklore. And he rules a government further reaching than anyone can truly fathom, and he uses his powers for the good of...himself.

Faster than a speeding bullet? Yes, Ijapa ran a race against all the animals in the kingdom and he was first without even breaking a sweat

Stronger than the most powerful whatever..? Yes, Ijapa won a tug of war against three elephants in a row. And the elephants looked surprisingly like this...

and when it comes to flying, Ijapa has raced to the heavens and back with large birds and he always came back first!

I'm sorry I couldn't get a picture of Ijapa in mid-flight, but you see, he was going too fast for the camera...*smile*

Don't get me wrong though, asides from Ijapa, there are other heroes in the African comic [there should be something like that], such as Amansewah or Anansi the Ghanaian spider, and even a couple of Ugandan heroes.

When it comes to the whole Superhero thing however, Ijapa stands a whole head above them all, after all...he is the Naija Superhero isn't he?

Study with the dirty and un-informed...

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Blog and smile

I feel extremely happy tonight, or should i call it morning? it sounds wrong calling this time, the morning seeing as I've not slept a wink since the night. Morning, night, what's the difference actually?
Anyway, I started typing this, this...morning, to sort of celebrate my new found sense of exhiliration. Exhiliration or exhilaration? Which is it? I keep on forgetting, or maybe it is that i refused to learn in the first place, but then who knows.
A million and one things have happened to me this week and to a warped and twisted mind, they would be normal. My week was normal. That is asides from two near death experiences and a fiasco last night [yes, this time around it was night], when some boys tried to make fun, (they succeeded), at me.
 I was walking with a friend of mine, just strolling, two young handsome boys, down the dark, half-empty streets. I wanted a bit of a time off so I was going to spend the night at his relatively luxurious apartment. I wanted to buy a yoghurt (it's my favorite drink, next to coke), and so we decided to take a little detour. That was our mistake.
In the village besides my campus where I stay, there are hoodlums and various other forms of nefarious associates. Originally, they would  be known as fraternities, but over here, they are very little more that primary schoolyard bullies who have the benefits of small-arms and the fear of the populace as their major weapons. Over time, (I have resided here for over three years), I have pitted my head and wits and obvious superior intellect against them, and each and every time I have triumphed without a scratch and ahead of it all. There is a saying of, "everyday for the thief and..." okay, bad analogy.
Last night, (it's 4:58am here in Nigeria), they called I and my friend over. They were six or seven of them, [I beg your pardon, but honestly i cannot recall, for reasons you will get to understand], and they were already cloud eleven high on cheap whisky and marijuana. Suffice to say, normally i would have engaged them in some sort of debate which might have either resulted in us going unscathed and scot-free, or rather badly with us ending up very scathed and like imprisoned Irish. I mean no offence. Nevertheless, today or rather yesterday was not going to be like that. We were flying heavy. That is, we were carrying alot of valuables.
There was to be no struggle today. Or we would surely lose out. At least that was what was in our minds till, we got closer and they identified us.
I would say no more on the subject asides from the fact that, despite the obvious annoyance which should  be bugging my heart now today, I am instead, joyous and happy even! The embarrassment has worn off now, maybe that is why, but then have you ever had something like this placed at your head?

But set asides all thoughts of violence, I only serve to please. I am alive! Do I need to show you holes in my hands too?
My hands have grown weak and sleep calls. I will sleep all day tomorrow. I enjoyed this, Blogging and smiling.

Victory!

I remember the first time i scored a real goal. I was in Pry 4 and it was us against Pry 5. Our seniors were bigger, they were faster and they were stronger. It looked like it was goin to be a David and Goliath thing. We were David.
The match started off as football matches usually do, with a whistle and a kick off, but this time around there was a difference. I was in the starting eleven playin No. 4. No soul was getting past me today.
The Pry 5 guys started with a flash. They whizzed down d pitch, as fast as ten year olds can go, passing ball from head to leg and back to leg and almost into the goalpost, but I was there to stop the onslaught. We struggled and fought, but they were just too good for us.
Just before the end of the 1st half, the ball flew off from the other end and tumbled into our side with three (Pry 5) strikers right behind. (I would like to state for information purposes that, they were not attackin on my wing). The strikers rolled the ball and did something zigzaggy and bam! the ball was in the net.
They started celebrating and dancing all around the field. The referee blew his whistle and we mounted our counter-attack. Just when, (it seems), that we were about to equalize, the referee blew again and we rested for halftime.
The Second half began with a vengeance, we were all playin forward now, (includin yours truly), and we were determined to score. It took a few more minutes but we did it, (i admit it was a fluke goal sha), and we settled into a tie. All we needed now was a winner. Who was going to come out tops?
The game was drawing to a close and the referee was consulting his watch quite frequently. It had to be now or never. A (Pry 5) striker rode into our patch, the ball at his feet. One of my team tackled him expertly and d ball sailed towards me. I started forward moving like greased lightening. I passed the ball at the midfield and was going to head back when it was sent back to me. Suddenly, it was a matter of one defender to beat and the goal was mine.
I dashed forward, my teeth grinding as i fought to keep myself under control, feinting to one side, i beat the defender and only the keeper stared at me.
It is at times like this that the world goes quiet. I could hear the spectators, i could hear my team mates and i could hear my opponents. Deep within, my heart thudded and lightening sparked across my eyes. The entire match flashed before my eyes in a second. Then everything cleared and i knew what i had to do.
Letting my leg back, i let loose with a shot and netted the ball at the right hand corner of the post. The shouts went up and the spectators poured into the pitch. Victory! I had scored the Golden Goal! For everyone knew there was no chance Pry 5 could equalize. The game was over.
And indeed in a few seconds, the game was finished. My name was on every lip and i was hero at that hour. I guess what i learned that day was the joy, nay! the exhiliration of victory!

Things fall apart

Things Fall Apart.
The time to repair the roof is when the sun is shining.
John Fitzgerald Kennedy

It struck me – about the characteristics of any government agency in the Sovereign Republic of Nigeria, and I realised neglect was the order of the day.
I took a walk down to the PHCN regional office closest to my home. No sooner had I come within sight of the gate that I saw the first sample. I would call it ‘Exhibit A’, for indeed this is an indictment, an accusation stemmed from hurt and disappointment at the deplorable state of things.
‘Exhibit A’ was a truck; a black, 2004 model Toyota Hilux semi-truck. Boldly written across the sides were the initials: P.H.C.N. [The Power Holding Company of Nigeria]. Ironical, I thought, for there resting forlornly on its metal wheels, the rubber tyres long gone, the truck looked like all the power was gone out of it. Only one phrase was apt for that truck: “NEPA had taken its light.”
Matter upon matter, exhibit upon exhibit, and one wonders what happens to the billions spent on infrastructure every year. What happens to the million allocated for each project? Again and again, the ingenuous man on the street berates the contractor and says, “Bad management, bad work. I knew it’ll fail.” But is that right? Is that truly the answer? Is it the fault of the contractors that their work tends to fail after a period?
A smart lecturer at the ABU (Ahmadu Bello University), brings something to light. He stresses that in the planning of any project, a certain amount is usually postulated for maintenance of whatsoever is erected, for a contract-stipulated period of time. The problem is, in the Federal Republic of Nigeria, such things are beneath us. Infrastructure is put up and expected by hook, crook, miracle or juju, to stand firm and perform properly for as long as there is use for it.
Even Faith leaves no loop-hole for such stupidity!
Then, let us ask ourselves, why is it like this then? A poll of Nigerians states that, it is the ‘Nigerian mentality’, to treat government property just so, and without a trace of care. So let’s not blame the government, it’s the fault of the Nigerian people. But then, like some others insist, including [to some measure], our erudite lecturer: Are there measures set in place by the government to ensure the maintenance of the property of the state of Nigeria?
When a vehicle breaks down or a machine stops working in some government agency, does the manager in charge, drop his complaints register and pick up the requisitions form to order a NEW one?
Someone argues that perhaps the cost of repair outweighs purchase. But then the old sages were right: “A stitch in time does save nine” or sixteen or twenty! If a problem were taken care of early enough, even AIDS can’t fight back.
No argument can be considered valid against this testimony, and indeed I testify: “There needs to be set in place, definite measures and procedures whereby government and social property and amenities may be well maintained and taken care of.” It is the only way by which optimum satisfaction or utility may be derived of any product. It is a time-old lesson and a reasonable one; that value should always be gotten for money. What value may one ascribe to a product which is outlived by its use? Conversely, what value may be ascribed to a product which outlives its use even to the extent of being resold for profit?
Take the Federal roads for example. Six years ago, whilst plying the Benin-Lagos road, I was stuck in the middle of a terrible traffic jam at Ore. After waiting close to an hour at standstill, even my novel got boring and I became restless. It was whilst craning my neck out the window for an impossible glimpse of the cause of the hold-up, that I saw it. It was the date of the last day that portion of the road had received specialist engineering treatment. The year was ’85. This was close to two decades ago.
Let’s take a glance at local roads for a change. Whilst maintaining impartiality in the light of the present election period, I ask you dear reader, what to expect of a State capital, I am talking about Benin City in Edo State, whereby the roads are neglected for close to eight years? – Taking into account that the state is reputably the best in Nigeria when it comes to transportation network.
We – you and I, dear reader could go on and on listing the massive discrepancies of our government, however we would not. This piece is not for finger-pointing; rather it is a plea for change – with a few suggestions to boot.
In certain developed nations, certain measures, such as a waste management department are in effect. In a developing one such as ours, this must be implemented; indeed it is one of the first steps to development. However the waste management department that is sought is not that sort which we are used to: agencies which work once an annual quarter for half the pay. Indeed revenue should be pumped into that sector to ensure success. When waste is not handled properly, the circumstances are dire, and I should know, I’m a Microbiology Final year student.
Mismanagement of infrastructure and lack of maintenance are our greatest problems, ignore what the analysts say about the Niger Delta crisis. What started the crisis in the first place? Lack of maintenance principles! And you know the most annoying part, none of the contestants in this election, as far as i know, mentioned anything remotely relating to maintenance. And they want us to vote them? Mscheew...
In disseminating every sector of the economy - from Health and Banking, to Security and Agriculture, to suggest solutions for improvement of maintenance principles, I would only succeed in making this piece inexhaustibly long and boring. So in a remarkable example of maintenance (of the mood), I drop my pen and leave you dear reader with this: A country is like a shoe, you polish it and maintain it and it stays beautiful and does its job, but once neglected, it falls into disrepair so fast, that before you know it, it is worthless even for sale.