Fisayo’s Warning

"Jide, you should stop taking your laptop home. Leave it in the office and lock it. It's safer that way"

I looked up from where I sat, and smiled at Fisayo - that kind of knowing smile you give when a little child makes a cute but asinine remark. It was Monday morning, and I certainly didn’t have time for iranu.

“And if I don’t? What’s the worst that could happen?” I queried.

“Ah! Don’t say that oh.” Fisayo exclaimed, “Someone can easily snatch it from you on the road. And it is even against company policy to carry laptops out of the office if you don’t have a car.”

Now I was beginning to think that one of his ogas had sent him to me. I did a quick scan through the office to see if we were being watched covertly.

“Well, I have been carrying my personal laptop for years now, and nothing has happened. So free me.”

“But, you have a laptop at home,” Fisayo insisted. “Can’t you carry some of your work home and use your personal laptop?”

“Yes, I could. But it could get messy with all the similar files of different versions in separate laptops. I like to keep things simple, and it’s simpler this way,” I rationalized. “Who want to come and snatch my laptop sef? Ehn?”

“Me, I don’t know oh!” Fisayo said, backing away with his hands up in the air. “When something happens now, don’t come and ask me who sent them oh!”

We laughed profusely at Fisayo’s joke.

Fisayo is my friend and colleague at the Lagos Business School, and we’re currently running an internship programme in a company in Ikeja. He is not the loquacious type, so I wonder what made him come to my desk with such comments l’aaro kutukutu. Had I been the superstitious type, I’d have said it was some form of divine warning (I hadn’t watched enough African Magic to jump to that conclusion). But I decided it was better to be safe than sorry. So I took the most rational (I think!) decision, and left my laptop at work that day. And the next day. And the next day.

Now Thursday (today) was a different issue. I travelled during the day and left some work unattended to. So I had a lot of catching up to do when I got back. I left my workplace by 7pm. This time around I didn’t even give it a thought: I simply packed my laptop into my laptop bag and headed out of the office. I had 3 stops before going home, and they were all on Allen Avenue. So I made the first stop at the ATM, withdrew some cash, and then stopped at my friend’s place. The plan was to make a final stop at Stop Centre (no pun intended!) and then head home. But Stop Centre was closed already.

‘Oh well,’ I thought to myself, ‘Lemme end the day with an ice-cream cone.” KFC was just beside Stop Centre and it was looking so bright, busy and full. So I went in. After waiting for a couple of minutes, I bought the ice-cream and headed out to hail a cab home.

Just a few paces away from KFC, a bike zoomed past me. A guy alighted from the bike and headed directly towards me. He brought out a metal something.

“You, stop there. I am holding a gun. Kneel down. Drop your bag.”

I froze. Literally. This guy was actually holding something that looked like a gun. My mind raced. What should I do? Was that a gun? I stepped back a little.

“I said stop there!” the gunman barked. He charged forward, attempting to grab my bag, but I held on to it, firmly.

A second bike pulled over and another man alighted and came directly at me again. This one held a metal rod.

“Guy, drop that bag!” he said. And with his rod, he hit my wrist. The laptop bag dropped involuntarily. The guy picked it up and ran forward with his second. I chased them, trying to get the bag back.

The bikes they used seem to appear out of nowhere, and they got on it, and zoomed off.

It all happened in a split second. I paused for a moment, then it hit me: they just stole the office laptop! I momentarily lost my senses. My laptop? Office laptop? Oh my God! And I was warned. I was warned. I was warned. I kept repeating “I was warned”, like it was some life-saving mantra. Some passersby came to enquire what happened. I simply ignore them and walked on. I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Everybody seemed a suspect. Every dark corner seemed to house another robber on the verge of pouncing. My pace quickened and I hailed the next available bike. And I went home.

Now, as I type this I realize Fisayo’s warning was actually a divine one – African Magic or no African Magic. And I disregarded it to my own peril. My current psychological state is in a maze and is sort of hard to describe. Am I feeling angry? Definitely not…something deeper. Hurt? Nope...something much stronger. Confused? Close, but no. Devastated? Yes. Exactly. I am devastated.

I’m going to do a couple of things. And if you are a reader, you’d be wise to do them too. Please don’t be like me and rationalize. I’ve carried a laptop on the streets of Lagos for over 7 years (I had to count!). I’m practically a night crawler…I define late as anything past 10:30pm. I’ve travelled from Awka, Anambra State and gotten to Lagos at midnight with my laptop slung over my shoulders. My laptop was my second skin, and tonight I was flayed. So when I say this could happen to anybody, please trust me.

So, as much as humanly possible,

1. My laptop is always going to be in the trunk of a cab or car when I’m in transit
2. I’m out of my office by 5:30 latest. Any work undone will be done the next day, God helping me
3. 7pm should always meet me in my house. Late has just been redefined.

Now, the quality of my life can take two different turns. At one extreme, I become overly cautious and suspicious and sensitive; looking from the both corners of my eyes and being afraid of even my shadow. At the other extreme, I might decide to live life at its fullest because the next second might be my last – merrymaking, clubbing, partying, and generally having fun would become the order of the day. Let’s see how it goes.

Of course there’s a third option. But the chances that I’d remain the same person I was before the incident is not just very slim – it’s clearly impossible. Sadly.

Black People Don't Read

You might have read this before; you might have not. Read it, or read it again. Leave a comment. (Said to be written by a white woman)

"THEY ARE STILL OUR SLAVES We can continue to reap profits from the Blacks without the effort of physical slavery Look at the current methods of containment that they use on themselves: IGNORANCE, GREED, and SELFISHNESS.

Their IGNORANCE is the primary weapon of containment. A great man once said, ‘The best way to hide something from Black people is to put it in a book.’ We now live in the Information Age. They have gained the opportunity to read any book on any subject through the efforts of their fight for freedom, yet they refuse to read. There are numerous books readily available at Borders, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon.com, not to mention their own Black Bookstores that provide solid blueprints to reach economic equality (which should have been their fight all along), but few read consistently, if at all.

GREED is another powerful weapon of containment. Blacks, since the abolition of slavery, have had large amounts of money at their disposal. Last year they spent 10 billion dollars during Christmas, out of their 450 billion dollars in total yearly income (2.22%).

Any of us can use them as our target market, for any business venture we care to dream up, no matter how outlandish, they will buy into it. Being primarily a consumer people, they function totally by greed. They continually want more, with little thought for saving or investing. They would rather buy some new sneaker than invest in starting a business. Some even neglect their children to have the latest Tommy or FUBU, And they still think that having a Mercedes, and a big house gives them ‘Status’ or that they have achieved their Dream.

They are fools! The vast majority of their people are still in poverty because their greed holds them back from collectively making better communities. With the help of BET, and the rest of their black media that often broadcasts destructive images into their own homes, we will continue to see huge profits like those of Tommy and Nike. (Tommy Hilfiger has even jeered them, saying he doesn’t want their money, and look at how the fools spend more with him than ever before!). They’ll continue to show off to each other while we build solid communities with the profits from our businesses that we market to them.

SELFISHNESS, ingrained in their minds through slavery, is one of the major ways we can continue to contain them. One of their own, Dubois said that there was an innate division in their culture. A ‘Talented Tenth’ he called it. He was correct in his deduction that there are segments of their culture that has achieved some ‘form’ of success. However, that segment missed the fullness of his work. They didn’t read that the ‘Talented Tenth’ was then responsible to aid The Non-Talented Ninety Percent in achieving a better life. Instead, that segment has created another class, a Buppie class that looks down on their people or aids them in a condescending manner. They will never achieve what we have. Their selfishness does not allow them to be able to work together on any project or endeavor of substance. When they do get tog ether, their selfishness lets their egos get in the way of their goal Their so-called help organizations seem to only want to promote their name without making any real change in their community.

They are content to sit in conferences and conventions in our hotels, and talk about what they will do, while they award plaques to the best speakers, not to the best doers. Is there no end to their selfishness? They steadfastly refuse to see that TOGETHER EACH ACHIEVES MORE (TEAM) They do not understand that they are no better than each other because of what they own, as a matter of fact, most of those Buppies are but one or two pay checks away from poverty. All of which is under the control of our pens in our offices and our rooms.

Yes, we will continue to contain them as long as they refuse to read, continue to buy anything they want, and keep thinking they are ‘helping’ their communities by paying dues to organizations which do little other than hold lavish conventions in our hotels. By the way, don’t worry about any of them reading this letter, remember, ‘THEY DON’T READ!!!!"

Depth

I always wonder what exists inside a person. What else typifies or personifies the usual flesh and blood that we sight each day. I tend to believe that we are much more than the organic materials that covers our essence, much more than our eyes can see, more than our minds can comprehend. And today, I proved it yet again.

There's this hawt lil' Phd student in the Lagos Business School, who recently posted a note on facebook (who does that these days? RME). She's beautiful yeah...but beauty, sometimes, isn't enough. Depth is an uncommon essence, and such is reflected in this piece. I shouldn't say much. Lemme know what you think.

But before you do, remember the morale: we are more than what we think we are.Always remember who the next person really is. Not what he does, or how he does it, nor his mistake or frailties. Open your mind and look. And see.

Enjoy it!

PS: She's also my friend. My very good friend. Lol!

---

Miss Match

In a man’s world with a man’s drive and a man’s name
In a woman’s body with a woman’s heart and a woman’s pain

I need to fit in and I want to stand out
I must conquer the world and yet, my victory must not corrupt my humility

Miss Guided

Life is a game whose rules can depend on Grace or on tact
And love; a curveball, an illusion – only clear after the fact
The world is meant to be understood, says the philosopher
The world is meant to be left behind, says the believer

Miss Represent

There’s more to me if you’d only look within
But you cannot see past the clothes that I wear, my smile, or my hair...
I am a wealth of knowledge, a sea of curiosity, a lover of wisdom...
But then I distract you with my very need to appeal to you

Miss Conclusion

I know what you’re thinking; your eyes give you away
Your actions, they tell me you don’t mean what you say
But wait...I accused you, and then did the same to you
I didn’t look past that which I could see
I didn’t think twice about the things that I heard
I am the Judge and I am the jury.
And you are guilty because you are guilty.
You lost the case based on my conclusions –
I made my conclusions based on my preconceptions.
Fini.
(c) Segun Olomofe

The Fool

Lay a whisper on my pillow
You heard the song once,
Now I'm singing it wrong. Dunce.
Yes, you. Fool!
You heard me. See,
Don't touch me
Don't even start:
I'm tired of you, and your katakata
So, biko, carry ur load from my heart. Patapata
I don't want you anymore.

It must have been love?
Shut up jor! it was nothing of the sort.
It was one lousy headache after the other
Recount all we went thru, hurt by hurt?
Where is the love?
In fact, don't go there.
It wasn't even chemistry
Twas more like chemicals flowing through our arteries
Why do you think my heart speeds up at the sight of you
as if plugged on overcharged batteries?
Love? Bullshit!
Had the same feeling driving at 140

Maybe I love the steering wheel as much
Or my pristine posh leather seats
Chemicals! Plain and simple
I don't love your smile, nor do I love your dimple
Don't let 'em deceive you
It's not me, it is you. If you're in love, you're the fool.

Deuces.

A Song

I've always wanted to write you a song
Through the years I've had many things to say
But all along, I'd form busy, as time sails away
seconds turn to minutes, to hours, to days.
But here i stand, just me and my thoughts
As I attempt to pen the notions swirling in my head
my past prowess ever before my eyes
So why then, why do I seem to falter?

It seems a colossal task
Cos how do I explain the immense love, and deep frailty I feel
How do I describe an extraordinary God with trite words
How do I transcribe a profound idea with simple thoughts?

You're Magnificent. Astounding. Incredible
The earth trembles at the hint of your smile
You're my Love, my Dear, my Friend
Your arms ever open, even when I stray for a while
Cos Lord, I'm naked without you
Yes Lord, I'm helpless without you
Without You, I'm blind, I cant see the grand view
You're the light. Without you Lord, I'm who?

You make my life brand new.

I've always wanted to write you a song
Here it is
It may not be a hit
It may not top the list
It may not even beat the charts
But it's a song Lord,
It's a start
It's a song from me to You
It's praise straight from my heart

Marian

The last thing I remembered, just before I felt the heat, was thinking that I would never get to reply her message.

Then the heat came. Where am I? I tried to open my eyes, but they were already open. I couldn’t see anything. Everywhere was black. Pitch black. The air was smelly and thick. The ground felt rocky, uneven, and hot. I wondered if the heat was emanating from a furnace beneath. I tried to take a tentative step forward but couldn’t - something was hindering my stride. The attempted movement caused a bit of scraping sound on the ground. As seeing was close to impossible, I stooped to feel what was causing the impediment. That’s when I realized my feet were bound in chains! Big and rusty metallic shackles encircled my ankles, with the chains leading into the ground! I started to panic. My heart was beating so fast, I could feel the palpitations in my throat! How did I get here? Who has held me against my will? Where on earth is this place? I began to sweat profusely. Subconsciously, my lips began to move in a voiceless prayer, as my hands periodically wiped off huge balls of sweat from my face.

Sensing the hopelessness of my situation and the need for some rational thought, I begged my senses to calm down. By now, my eyes had adjusted to the palpable darkness surrounding me. I stared forward, trying to bring together, bit by bit, pieces of my surroundings.

I was in a very big and wide space. The ground stretched as far as my eyes could see. As I stood in the middle of this large expanse of nothingness, my semi-tranquil thoughts wondered to how I got here. Then I remembered.

Marian.

As a child, I grew up having the best of morals. My father taught me the essence of right and wrong, and brought to my awareness that all my actions, good or bad, inevitably spawned consequences. I followed his teachings diligently, being careful to do what he considered good, and abstaining from what he considered evil. It was no coincidence that I went to private schools all my life. My primary school was a Catholic Private School close to home. My secondary school was a Baptist Boys’ school. My university ‘happened’ to be one of all these private Christian universities being used a dump site by parents who have resigned from their God-given full time jobs. Therefore, all my life was lived in deference to the teachings of my father, until I met her.

I met her on my first day in postgraduate school. I had just secured admission into the prestigious Lagoon Business School, and we were being given a tour of the facilities. We had just been ushered into the dining room, and while everyone was rushing to get into the hall so as to get ahead in the food queue, I waited patiently at the door for the hustling to die down. It was at that moment I spotted her. She walked right past me as she moved towards the door. I held my breath. Time seemed to slow down to a mindless drag, the noise whistling down to a reverberating silence. As she gracefully glided through the metal frames supporting the wooden door, I could spot every element of her facial features: her wine-colored braided hair resting on her shoulders; her delicate nose; her ebony cheeks; her steady heartbeat (I swear I could hear it!). Did she just look my way? I realized I was still holding my breath. I reminded myself to breathe.

We got talking during one of our class sessions. She told me her name was Marian. She studied Accounting. We were both holding blackberry devices so we exchanged blackberry PINs. In retrospect, this turned out to be the greatest mistake of my very short life.

The instant messaging began. We were sending messages to each other in class, out of class, at home, in school, from dusk till dawn. And what did we talk about? Everything, yet nothing. At the initial phase when boy meets girl, almost all of their thoughts, words and actions are geared towards the physical. Ours was no exception. Our eyes were constantly meeting in class, often ending in stifled giggles. We were high school teenagers all over again.

The first time we kissed was right in front of her house immediately after classes. I brought her home in my car, and after a little bit of small talk, she reached over and kissed me. I was startled; my world was spinning. It felt like air was sucked out of my lungs. The kiss seemed to last for an eternity and felt so potent, I had to steady my breathing afterwards. We said goodnight as she alighted from my car, and I drove home.

As I drove, different thoughts hammered in my head. Jide what did you just do? Don’t you know that you just went against everything your father stood for? Everything he told you? Kai. But is it supposed to be so pleasurable? How could something so sinful be so sweet? Little wonder Brother Adam couldn’t resist the juicy fruit. Who made me any better than my brother?

From that day on, I made it my personal duty to drop Marian at her house. And, of course, we always did the usual; until one day Marian said to me,

‘Jide, don’t you want to come in?’

What?! I was speechless.

“Er…em…yes, er… of course,’ I stuttered.

And so with hands clasped around each other’s waists, heads fused side by side, we walked into her apartment, and closed the door.

Next morning was a school day. I had to quickly rush home, freshen up, and come to school. It was 8:00 AM. The first session starts by 9:30 AM and I did not want to be late. So I said a quick goodbye to Marian, who was in the bathroom, rushed into my car and sped off, without bothering to buckle my seatbelt.

On the road, with the gas pedal pressed to the floor, I could not help thinking about the activities of last night. I knew I had passed the point of no return. My Blackberry beeped. Holding the steering wheel with one hand, I tried to access my Blackberry message. “I miss you already”, it said. I decided to punch in a quick response with my free right hand. That was when it happened. The driver of the car in front of me, for no apparent reason, decided to apply his brakes. I was still on my blackberry, in between words, when I noticed the stop. But it was too late. I jammed my foot on the brakes, swerving sharply to the right to avoid a collision. My tires screeched loudly, the car still moving, obviously out of my control. The impact came when I least expected it. I hit a concrete NEPA pole by the side of the road. I found myself hurling towards my windscreen, head first. I heard my blackberry smash into the NEPA pole, just before my head collided with it too.

The last thing I remembered, just before I felt the heat, was thinking that I would never get to reply her message.

But all that happened just a few moments ago, or so it seemed. Where am I now? Have I been kidnapped by some ritual killers? Where are they? Why can’t I see anyone now? As these thoughts flew through my mind, I noticed a movement behind me. I turned, and I saw a figure emerge out of nowhere. It was tall and dark, with certain human and animal features I could not immediately make out because of the absence of light. Two long horn-like protrusions grew from the top of a head which housed two fiery eyes. A long and pointed tail followed it like an unwanted shadow. One hand was stretched towards my direction, while the other one gripped a long pitchfork. There was something familiar about the figure. I couldn’t lay a finger on it. The humanoid took a step towards me and smiled, revealing pincer-like dentition. Then it laughed – a loud and blood-curling shriek. It suddenly dawned on me: I knew where I was! With the revelation came a feeling of total despair; the darkness finally assuming corporeality, closed in on me. I was going to be here a very, very long time.

Marian.

Damn.

Lucifer’s laughter echoed through the abyss.

Letters

16-09-2009 0335hrs

Where do I begin? Should I start from the beginning where you were calling me incessantly, and though I was initially wary, I began to love every moment of it? Or should I start from the middle where the love became mutual and we began looking forward to seeing each other first the first time? Or should I start from the end - yes there's an end - where an undisclosed and therefore an unfulfilled expectation resulted in bitter disappointments? Where do I begin?

Usually, endings create an atmosphere for retrospective thinking. So I've had more than enough time to think about what happened to us; what went wrong. I've analyzed, I've scrutinized, and I've thoroughly evaluated. And even though I make it a matter  of deliberate policy not to point the blaming finger at anybody, I'll have to take an exception here, and you'll have to pardon me upfront. Also, forgive me for the blunders that may exist in my words. I don't intend making this any literary masterpiece. I'm just going to tell it as it is...

---

23-05-2010 1743hrs
I wrote those words last year in my jotter. Then I was filled with indignation and was slightly peeved at the way you were behaving, and the distance you were bringing between us. I wanted to mail it to you, but, somehow, I never got around to completing it. Thank God I didn't, cos it would have simply complicated things further. I know there's a lot of things that has happened between us. Can we just let it go? Can we move on? Can we forget the past, the hurts, the pain, and move on?

Whats the point of being friends and loving if we don't get to forgive? Some times people mess up, and most times they make up. Please don't be a past chapter in my life. I want you perpetually at the forefront. It's too late to think of letting you go. You're already a part of me. Letting you go will hurt many times as much as this break you've put us in.

I desperately want my friend back, Sue Loom*. I need my friend back.

Please.

Me.

---

20-08-2010 0257hrs
Once again, I read my words, but this time I'm filled with joy. I'm filled with a variety of exhilarating feelings because you understood; because you took me back; because you accepted me. For this, I'm eternally grateful. Words cannot begin to tell the extent of the emotions flooding my heart. I'm like the luckiest man alive: I have you. Thanks for being there. Thanks for being you. Thanks for understanding the errancy of the human nature, and the clemency of the divine one. Thanks for putting the past behind. Thanks for sharing my present. Thanks for the existence of an anticipated future. I know you know I'll still mess up; thanks for sticking your heart out all the same. Thanks for being the greater person, better than I'd ever be. Thanks for loving me; even though you don't say it, because sometimes the words don't count, especially when the deeds are screaming loudly against your ears.

I love you back, for now that's all to be said. And I'll always love you, from now, even till my death bed.

Me.

*alias

Where is home?

I had a little argument at work today. The minor dispute was between me and some of my colleagues and the issue was about the concept of home. Diran, who is one of the most verbally constructive person I've ever known, was of the opinion that home is a psychological phenomenon. Using his quick command of the English language, he put it straight forward that where you call your home doesn't have to do with who or what is in there, but how you feel. And I totally agreed with him.

Arinze on the other hand, who is one very brilliant chap and who calls everybody 'fellow' ("Why is this fellow parking here??", "When is this fellow coming?") objected vehemently. He said, "How on earth can your home be a thing of the mind? That's not possible!"

Odunsi, also, who is my boss, joined the Arinze train. He said that there's no where on earth that can be compared to his village, in spite of any dearth of social amenities. "I feel totally at home in my village", he said.

The argument spanned our entire break period, and even spilled into our work time. Arinze was busy spilling words like 'roots', 'origin', 'family' etc. "Your home is your connections to your roots," he argued. "It has nothing to do with the mind". In fact he gave a very funny analogy. He said when one goes to the toilet and feels at peace, does that make the toilet your home? I couldn't help laughing, in spite of the jab towards my argument. In a little while the row subsided, and we went back to work.

On my way home, I had to reflect further on our heated conversations. Who exactly had the right definition of home? Was I wrong? Or was Arinze just bamboozling everybody?

Having looked at both sides critically and objectively, I came up with one conclusion: we were both right! The home has both concrete and abstract elements. Concrete in the sense that a proper home, in the ideal sense of the word, must consist of your parents (or children), or other memorable elements. It could be your favourite tree in the centre of the garden, or the smile on your grandmothers face when she sees you - something tangible should be part of what we call home.

But on the other hand, if we isolate these physical components, on their own, they'll mean nothing! What is there in a bloody tree surrounded by weeds?? Or in a crooked old smile with brown dentition having one or two teeth missing?? These by themselves don't have any special meaning, except those we give to them. In other words it's the feelings we associate with these things and people that make them special. It's the artifacts, and the emotions they effuse in us, that make a home a home.

Having established that both reasoning are sound, there is now the question of superior argument. Which of these two logically sound arguments is superior to the other? Two arguments may make sense, but one has to make more sense. To me the one which makes more sense is...(yes, you guessed it!)... Diran's argument - what i'd like to call the psychological logic!

It would be severely limiting, not to talk of unfair, to link the word home with family, or roots, or origin, or any of those other sentimental phrases my friend Arinze was touting. What about those with no family or no clear discernible roots? What happens to the orphan whose first conscious moments were in arms of an angry and dissatisfied social worker? Where would the orphan call home? Under the bridge where he was born and discarded? Or should the poor thing, in his quest for home, go looking for his parents who abandoned him?

Why am I even going too far sef? What happens to the regular kid who has strong roots, and origin, but who is grossly maltreated, or simply misunderstood 'at home'? The only place he would likely call home is the little corner of his room where he retreats to each day.

Or consider someone like me who has never been to his village before. I'm Ekiti, and proud; but if I get Arinze and Odunsi right, when my parents dies, then there's no where I can call home again. Kai.

Odunsi said whenever he goes to his village, he is thrilled, happy, content, in short, he feels 'at home'. But if I dare venture into my village square, I'd feel lost, confused, dejected and severely unhappy. What's missing from these two seemingly similar experience??

Let's look from another perspective: If home is about ancestral roots and origin, then half the population of the free world would come and celebrate Christmas in Africa, just because their great-great-great-great-(perhaps, even another great)-grand parent was an African slave. In fact, Malcolm Gladwell, the bestselling author of Outliers traced his ancestry through his Jamaican mother, through his slave grandmother, down to his 'roots' to some certain Ibo tribe of West Africa. I wonder why I don't see him carrying his backpack and mosquito net every winter on his way to Naija looking for home.

I think I've written enough. And I'm sure you catch my drift. Home is where your family is; the place where your fondest memories exist. But more importantly, home is just where and what you make of it!

Gratitude

I was walking along the streets of Unilag one day, and this young man approached me. Although I couldn't quite recollect his name, I knew I knew him. He stepped up to me and after all the pleasantries, he said, 'I read your blog, and it was really nice. I was inspired. Please keep it up!' That was like the best thing anyone said to me that day. It's not enough to write and think you're writing good. I think it makes a whole lot of sense, and much difference if someone else is blessed or inspired from your writings.

Another day, as I logged in to facebook, I saw this message in my inbox:

Hey!

I know you have no idea who I am. But I read an article that I believe you wrote about the role that individuals play in perpetuating the corruption in Nigeria by condoning bribery (of police officers).

I thought it was very insightful & well written. So it led me to your blog and FB profile . . .

Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

Wow! I was mega tripped after reading that. And I still am. Thank you, Damie. As M.I. said, God bless you ma!

For all of you guys that take the time to read my ramblings, this is for you. You know how the love songs says 'There'll be no sun without you...etc", well...what's the point of giving, if there's no hand to receive; whats the point of loving, if no heart perceives? You guys are the icing on the cake - the essence. You guys give meaning to everything. Thank you!

Another bunch of people to whom I'd gladly share this gratitude with are those writers who inspire me. The trip here is that these people are everyday people, not superstars or celebs (at least not yet). First on the list is my friend Benita. You should read her Changed Man? and see what an amazing writer she is. Then there is Towun, who wrote a poem for his mum when she died. A heart made of ice will melt at these words, believe me! Towun was my roommate in school oh - one very typical guy with a big head obviously filled with creative genius.

Then there's Zainab. This babe writes, sings, plays the guitar, designs websites and designs space rockets for NASA! (ok, that last one is jara! :) ). Her ingenuity is incredible! Check this out!

Others are bloggers who I stumble upon through my sojourn around the blogosphere.

There's this hilarious babe, who made me cackle with laughter right in my office when she wrote this. There's also Rayo, whose mind I'm in love with btw (shhh! don't tell!).

These people give me the impetus needed to break my literary lethargic moments. Their words stimulate and motivate me intellectually, and sometimes emotionally sef! Thanks guys. May your ink never run dry.

Ciao!

PS: I got tired of my blog's insipid facade and decided to give it a facelift. Lemme know if you like it. It just might change again...

Coherence

I always make it a habit of going through my past write-ups, and I always get astounded at its coherence. Don't get me wrong, I don't gloat in my literary prowess...far from it. I'm humbled at the fact that I can piece these words all together. And I always wonder how I manage it. I can't help but thank God, at least for coherence.

Check out this poem I wrote for my friend Benita during her birthday. She called me during my birthday and sang the happy birthday song to me. And her voice blew me away. So I decided to retaliate :). Here it is. It's amazing (I may be biased. You be the judge). Enjoy...

Happy Birthday
I wish I could sing you a song
And take your breath away
I wish you would sing along
And perhaps, mask my bray

I wish I could wear a thong
And you watch as I sway
Then you'd wish i'd stick to the song
Or flee the scene without delay!

But since I won't dare sing
Or with my dance ruin your day,
I wish just one thing
Just one thing, for you I pray

Faith in the midst of adversity
Hope in the midst of fear
Love in the midst of animosity
Strength, the strength to bear

(c) Jideolat 21092009

Agonies of Love

I remember the very first time I fell in love. I was doing my medicals, at the Medical Centre, Unilag, having secured my admission into school few weeks before. I remember where I sat, waiting for some blood work, or something - my memory fails me in that direction. But what I'll never forget is the person I saw walking up to me. She was of average height, fair and incredible beautiful. She wore no makeup, and had a simple pink shirt on with denims, yet her pulchritudinous demeanor was striking. She walked straight, perfect poise, with subtle strides, each pace bringing her closer to my direction. She was walking towards me. WALKING STRAIGHT AT ME! I braced myself as she stepped up to me. Then she spoke. My God, she spoke! Apparently she needed directions of some sort. She was also a first year student like myself, having come to the medical centre to complete her medicals too. I can't remember what she said, and I hope my response was coherent enough, but I remember her walking away, and I clearly remember that I was holding my breath. Had to consciously urge myself to breathe. As I watched her leave, I knew I had fallen in love.

She was in my faculty, in a related department. So fortunately we took the same courses. And as you'd have guessed, I always looked for an opportunity to sit close to her, stealing a glance at those feline features once in a while. And to top it off, we had similar friends. So, whenever we meet on the corridor, or something, and she's walking with a friend that I know, I'll stop over and say,

"Hi, wassup?"

Then I'd turn to her friend (my friend too), and say,

"Ah ahn (feigning surprise)...do you know Halima? (let's call her Halima - and of course, i know my friend knows Halima. I've been stalking the two of them from the corners of my eyes all week!)

And then Halima says,

"Jide, you know Wale too? (lets call her friend (my friend too), Wale)

"Of course," I'd respond, patting Wale on the back. "I've known Wale for years!!!" (I actually just met him over the weekend, as a result of my stalking activities). And Wale wouldn't dare saying anything to the contrary. Boys' Honour.

Inevitably, she started warming up to me small small. We started to talk. I sometimes keep a seat for her in class, just, you know...to keep the wheels of our rapport constantly oiled. Things were falling nicely in place. Luck, it seems, or something more potent, was smiling ever so brightly on me that semester.

There's some inexplicable communication that occurs when a guy likes a girl. And girls are so adept at picking up those signals rapidly. In Halima's case, she didn't slack. She knew that I liked her, heavily. And that information proved fatal to whatever hint of hope I had.

You see, when a boy likes a girl, and the girl doesn't like the boy as much, or even at all, the boy stands the chance of being used. Or at best, being taken advantage of. Same thing goes vice versa. I learnt this the hard way. Halima started behaving strange. She began trying hard to make me jealous, for some out-of-this-world reason. And we weren't even dating - still at that look-in-her-eyes-and-get-flutters-in-my-stomach preliminary phase. One particular event stands out in my memory. It was our matriculation and we were all taking photographs. After taking shots with all the other girls, I came over to her side in a bid to snap with her (I saved the best for last! :) ). When taking pictures with friends, you'd normally put your hands around them, or hold their hands, or do something crazy, just to make the whole process fun. But this girl, this girl who always got visits from me every evening in her hostel, this girl who I always surprise with gifts at regular intervals, this girl whose presence makes my heart palpitate, this girl whom I'd gladly stand in front of a speeding truck for, this girl. This girl said I shouldn't hold her!

"Just stand beside me", she said.

Her friends around were alarmed.

"Halima, what is wrong with you," they asked.

She didn't bother responding to them. She was the tiger, and I was the helpless bleeding zebra in between her jaws. I was in love.

And in spite of all that, in spite of the embarrassments and pain, in spite of the bruises and heart aches, I still gave excuses for her.

"She'll come to," I kept telling myself, "She's just immature."

I was the immature one.

It went on for a couple of months until I decided to bone. I realized that falling in love makes you susceptible to a lot of pain. It opens your heart wide and positions you for a fall. The only person who you can safely fall in love with, is someone who is also in love with you. But the question is, how do you figure that out? And how certain can you be? Another of life's paradoxes.

But the pain made me grow up. It changed my perception of life and love. And according to Nietzsche, what cannot kill me will only make me stronger. Truth is, the feelings associated with falling in love is ephemeral. It's the aftermath that really counts. Countless of stories have been told where one falls for the other and everything is perfect for a little while. Then one of them changes, and the supposed love turns to something cynical, or even sinister. Falling makes you see your partner through rose-coloured glasses. You don't see her faults, you see her strengths. In fact, her faults is the main reason you're falling anyway. You love the way her eyes look when she's angry at you...or the way her backside sways each time she walks out on you in public. And you'd probably think she hangs out with all those guys because she's a very friendly person.

What arrant nonsense!

Halima's episode made me realize that I could simply skip the falling in love part and jump straight to loving - jump straight the real thing, and see the person for who she really is. And love the person for who she really is. This way, they wouldn't be surprises in the future.

But until I fell in love again, before I put the whole tripping thing behind me. This time, it was a girl in my class, who taught I was getting my bread 'buttered on both ends'. But that's another story for another time.

I'm still carrying a flag for Halima. A small one. I guess that's why they calling it 'falling in love'. You never can't seem to be able to completely stop once you start, until, well, you hit solid ground. And die.

Musings of a 1st Class Graduate

And here I was, thinking that all I need to do is to graduate with a 1st class, and the world would be at my feet! You can imagine my shock (and disgust) when I finally finished with the first class and nobody was calling. OK, just a few called, but with the silly emphasis we place on a first class degree, you'll think that Multiple MDs would come knocking at my door.

Now, don't get me wrong. Interviewers are always wowed at first class graduates. These guys seem to have an edge when presented amongst their peers. But the truth is, does that edge guarantee a job? Or what's the use of the interviewers drooling all over you and licking your feet, saying you've got the best grade/qualification for the job, and yet you don't get the job? Call it the paradox of the Nigerian job seeker. So, I'm thinking: there has to be something else...an extra quality that stands one out.

At the end of the day, I finally got 2 appointment letters in my hands. Just two!! Imagine! I know there would be some people who would call me greedy and say that there're are million of people out there who would give their right leg for just one letter. Well, those millions of people didn't make a first class degree. I'm not proud; I'm just frustrated. And annoyed.

And then, there would be the other group of people who would say, "Ah ahn...Jide, thank God for the two you have nah!! Some have food but cannot eat..." To those ones, I'll say that I didn't work my a$$ off in school literally only to get two letters. Once again, don't misconstrue: I'm grateful to God. Eternally! Who helped me with the first class in the first place sef? It's Him. I'm just venting my frustration. And, well, annoyance.

Funny how life turns out.

Twas when I had the two letters in my hands that it hit me: none of these people employed me because of my class of degree. Sure, they knew I made a 1st class, but they hired me because of particular set of skills I possess and a particular set of attitude to my job. In fact, I never even wrote tests. I was cut off from the hiring process and went straight to the interview phases and bam!

I then realized that employers would prefer first class people to first class degree holders. In other words, it's your person that counts, not your kpali!

So if you didn't make a first class and you're beating yourself up, pls stop. Develop yourself personally and morph into that first class person employers would live to have. And don't mind starting small. Make the best of small, and watch your small grow.

And to you my first class mates, your cardboard paper can only take you this far. This where the rubber meets the road. We're forever doomed to proving our worth in the midst of others. But nothing do you. You have what it takes. Show your colour!