Prescience or hope?

 

18^th February 2022. Two weeks ago. That’s when I knew for sure. I knew I wanted to marry you. The day before, the 17^th, when we sat together in that plane from Addis to Dar es Salaam, I knew for sure I was in love with you.

“Insane.” That was your initial description of what was developing between us. You’d said that while acknowledging we were both going to answer to endearments. This was barely 2 weeks after we’d began to fully spend time with each other. And I agree; it was insane. It was bonkers. It was mad, sudden and consuming all at once.

Knucklehead. That’s what I called you at first. Not only because you actually do fit the description in the best way – standing resolute with your principles even amidst swirling distractions - but because I could recognize that in myself as well, even if maybe not as positively as yours. Yes, it really was insane, but if we’re being honest, that’s the only way it was ever going to happen. We’d both probably have instituted mechanisms for defeating what was budding, and ‘logiced’ our way into repressing it, and denying ourselves this beautiful thing we’ve built. (PS, have we built it yet?).

Logic –

“Do you think this would grow to more than we think considering I’m only getting out of a situation?”

“Nah. I think we are both very pragmatic people who will manage it so it doesn’t.”

No, you’re not a prophet darling, (or a Pharisee that sees from far like I do). But you’re one of the clearest thinkers I know. You analyze a situation very quickly, and while you recognize the place of emotions, your decisions and positions are always grounded on logic, and there are few things that endear me to you such as this. You’re absolutely brilliant, and this is me saying it lightly. Maybe in a way, it actually is logical that we come this way, and this far together (again, I hope), considering how much we innately share in common.

And man, you’re absolutely beautiful. Stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. I spend half the time in your company gazing at you, and smiling sheepishly when you inevitably catch me, in absolute wondrous pleasure, that you’re mine. All mine. That body… that body, Chinenye, the less said here, the better. 

The things you make me do, the things you do for me, your instinctive kindness, easy generosity, and selflessness… these things I’m just as glad to do for you. Slander tea drinkers all day for years, and then find myself looking forward to making you tea almost on a daily basis, and scouring the aisles in foreign malls and dufry shops, searching for new tea flavours I didn’t have. Remember how we carried honey and lemons all the way from Dar to Zanzibar, and even regretted not taking them to Addis?

I'm still not drinking that thing sha.

I’m not surprised at how deeply I fell for you, and so fast. You ticked boxes I didn’t even know I had.

“You’re the braver one in this,” you said. Maybe, but I’m not sure you have any idea how much I also wanted to freak out alongside you when we both fully confronted our feelings that night in Essque Zalu before we left. Because like you, I was scared shitless at how fast it had happened, at how much of myself and my happiness I was going to allow to depend on you and how happy you were. I felt exposed, raw and afraid. Only thing keeping me sane was the realization that this depth of feeling was mutual, and you were just as scared (I’m still going to tease you forever for actually freaking out).

So yeah, if anyone had told me at the turn of the year after exiting where I was, that I’d be this fully into someone else barely weeks later, I’d have konked them on the head, considering how disillusioned  I was back then. But you see, that morning at Slipway, while we had breakfast and I kept staring and making you smile, that was when I knew for sure that I’d be absolutely happy spending the rest of my life with you. That’s why I was only half laughing when Peace called me “Nnuku Ogo” as a joke. I knew I wanted that title already, then. I’m glad I get a chance to answer to that (I hope)! When I sent this pic to a couple of my friends, I knew. I always did.

It's been a whirlwind. Intense, breathless, crazy yet beautiful (have we fought yet?). I haven’t caught my breath yet, and honestly, I have no intentions of ever doing so.

I love you somewhat crazily, Chinenye Marian Njoku, and I hope I get to do forever with you.

Happiness

Happiness comes to me in the form of a gurgling kid,

Smiling up with wonder as I pretend to make magic with my eyes.

It’s in his implicit trust, cherub of face, innocent of guile,

His bubbles of laughter eliciting automatic giggles from me.

It shuts out my inhibitions and insecurities
for the period it takes me to sing ‘Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I love you tomorrow’

Happiness…. is innocent and pure.

Happiness hits me hard at the back of my throat,

The first slug of a cold brew on a hot afternoon,

Resetting the worries, dueling with the bile and cares,

Victoriously expunging them with the first full belch.

But happiness isn’t the flabby drunk, swaying endlessly,

Regaling unwilling ears with incoherently strewn exploits,

It’s not in the blissful ignorance, temporary forgetfulness of responsibilities

No. It is found in the camaraderie, the bond of socializers,

The easy conversations, banter, first dates and meetings.

Yes, Happiness is… friendship.

It comes not in the form of a fraudulently concluded deal,

Not in mountains of cash gained a la Pablo or Evans,

With victims strewn across the world in various shades of ruin

And pedestals mounted upon undeserving platforms.

It brings with it, the sheen of sweat, pride of accomplishment.

It dignifies, it uplifts, and is sure and deserving.

Happiness is…. Honest.

It is the heart beating in anticipation of the lover’s lips before that first kiss,

The warmth and security of the hug,

Of worries melting away while snuggled against each other,

The reassuring squeeze of a mother’s palm in a futile battle to contain joy,

Or the tears in a father’s shimmering, but proud gaze across the graduating aisle.

Happiness….. Loves.

Happiness is the wind rifling through your hair as you drive with the windows down,

Existing even when the destination is a liberating nothingness.

It resides in Maitama, curled up in bed with a book, serenaded by Andrea Bocelli on a rainy afternoon.

And equally present playing in the rain in the sandy streets of Gbaramatu.

Happiness cares not for Jew or Gentile,

It doesn’t demand, cajole or force.

It neither aspires nor schemes,

Happiness just…. Is.

Striking Resemblance

His Mother dropped Kefas off at school that morning, as she was wont to. Her kiss on his cheek was perfunctory, absent-mindedly ruffling his hair as he exited the car. She didn’t however step in to say hi to his well-liked teacher as she sometimes did. Her scarf, rather than tied on her head, was flung around her neck, seemingly carelessly, but enough to hide any tell-tale bruises on her fair skin.

She did not say goodbye. Her mind had already moved on. It was now focused on the market and how fast she could purchase the ingredients for the fresh Okazi soup Bitrus had requested as his dinner. After a quick glance to ensure Kefas was safely inside the school premises, she drove off.

Kefas' teacher, Ms Iveren was your favourite teacher’s teacher. Cheerfully overweight, constantly dressed in long, bright flowing dresses which sat comfortably on her ample frame. She radiated a kindness so tangible, one almost felt it could be packaged and shared amongst other teachers who sported sullen faces like they were only paid to look formidable. In fact, she was seen by most parents as a constant ray of sunlight, able to pierce darkness and enliven the mood of even the most sullen of children.

Today, however, she could do little to improve Kefas’ mood. The boy’s face was closed in, locked into a perpetually bland expression that hinted to a tightly held control of raging internal emotions and conflicts. She mentally filed him away for further attention at the end of the school day. Perhaps a discussion with his mother when she came to pick him up would suffice.

Kefas meanwhile, had zoned out. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the events of the previous evening, hearing again snatches of his mother’s conversation with her sister while working on his Maths homework, as usual, unsupervised.

“Leave him and go where?”

“…….and survive how? On what? With what? Ha! Shey you will bring the money for me to go back to school and start work?”

“…….And what will my Kefas do? You know he won’t let me go with him. Who will now take care of my boy? Ah no o.”

“…..my dear, I will do as the pastor said na. He is my cross to bear so I will continue to pray for him. Please let me continue with my cooking joor.”

“…..yes I know he ate it yesterday. He liked it very much and said he wants to eat it today again and you know he does not eat yesterday’s food. It has to be fresh……”

Kefas had no idea when the call between his mom and his aunt had ended as he was not listening anymore. He had zoned out again when the cooking talk started, focusing on solving a very troublesome math problem. However he was sufficiently distracted by the return of his father. Hurriedly pasting a smile on his face, he ran to him in welcome, stopping short when he saw his visibly exhausted mother seated, asleep at the table, phone in hand, soup ingredients lying unused around her.

Taking his father’s bag into the bedroom, he remained there, back against the door. He knew the script by now.

Closing his eyes, he futilely placed his hands over his ears, but he could still make out his mother’s protests of “Ah! Bitrus! I was tired, true” silenced by the thuds of what he knew were his father’s fists. He imagined, rather than saw the belt come out and repeatedly lash against her bent back, scattering the ingredients on the table.

Ms Iveren interrupted his reverie, pairing him with Amanda, the brilliant chirpy girl who, in Kefas’ opinion, always laughed too readily and was too willing to lead class activities. They were to share a text for a reading exercise.

Immediately the strong-willed girl moved the shared text from the morose child, intending to read first, the teacher knew she had erred in shelving Kefas’ issue till day’s end.

The tightly coiled time bomb that was his emotions exploded. His fists rained against Amanda, hitting her face, head and neck, as if consciously avoiding every other part of her body.

She moved to intervene, and stopped short. Not because of fear to her personal safety, for she could have smothered his flailing fists on her ample bosom if it was needed, but it was the words, the words that floated clearly to her ears, distinct, despite the keening cries of anguish from Amanda and the protests of the other school kids, that chilled her to the bone.

Kefas’ voice had suddenly become guttural, he had aged right in front of her. Timing his words to the smack of his fists, he shouted, enunciating clearly with tears streaming down his cheeks:

“Bitch! Whore! Who are you to read first? I’m the man here. Know. Your. Place.”

Believe Them Anyway

Like Lips leaden from excess grass,

The words refuse to form.

With obvious reluctance to escape my lips,

They reverberate in my head

A wordsmith, I am not,

Flowery phrases I have not

But I dare to ask,

So what, if I lack the words to be the poet for you?

Paint my feelings in metaphors punctuated with punchlines,

Proclaim my desire in measured phrases to astound you,

Describe your smile as a window to happier times

How I see your very essence as a time machine,

A tribute to its ability to make me pause and stand still

I want to describe with wonder, the fullness of your lips,

Explain my bedazzlement by the sway of your hips.

The sound of your voice, the lilt you’ve come to personify.

The ululations inspiring, yet calming, much like a lullaby.

Yet because I lack the apt phrases, I fear you may wonder.

If I speak with plain words, will they make you a believer?

Would you see the pedestal I aim to place you?

Or maybe you are Helen and poetry is my Achilles.

Perhaps I’ll just say I love you and leave you to decipher,

From my silence so loud, it will scream my words louder.

Darling, whichever words come, however less they seem to say,

They bleed genuineness, therefore believe them anyway.

Converted

‘If I ever got around to having a wedding, I want this one,’ was my immediate thought. From my vantage spot, I could see that the guests present numbered less than one hundred and seemed to only include young people. I was already salivating at the dancing that would ensue at the end of the boring formalities. If I could change anything though, it would have to be the suit. My groomsmen would wear Jeans and Tee shirts, I was sure.

My introspection was interrupted by Jimoh’s entrance with his bride, which sparked off a reverie. I remembered him coming late to Beer Barn three weeks ago where we were to watch the Champions league match between Arsenal and Basel. I was already there, along with Ohis and Manu, and we had our customary Beers in front of us. He was grinning from ear to ear, and that set me off as I didn’t believe anyone had enough reason to be that happy; so I threw in my first Jab.

‘This United Man, Wetin dey smile you? Your mate dey here? You no go wait for Thursday night football?’

His reply was fast. ‘You wey dey the Champions league, you go win am? Ohi joined in.

‘No mind Buchi. Na heartbreak man. Arsenal fan. Mister lost causes. Even the writing wey dey give am joy, I hear say na musicians dey win their best awards now. In short, just drink your Beer.

I took my L in peace and asked Jimoh. ‘But Dude, why are you so happy?’

‘I’m getting married in two weeks man. Isn’t that enough?’

I was flummoxed to say the least. Why would someone be pleased at committing himself into an institution from which the only exit was a jail break?

So I scoffed. ‘And so? Are you the first? My friend, reflect soberly on the impending loss of your freedom.’

My disloyal friends turned on me again. This time it was Manu who responded. ‘Oga, calm down. Not everyone is cynical like you. Some of us are hopeful and believe in happiness.

Before I could respond, Jimoh Chimed in.

‘His problem is that he’s like his coach. He’s a perfectionist. He wants a crossbreed of Angelina Jolie and Michelle Obama. Have you heard his checklist? Left handed Sexy, Book reading, black, Artistic, geeky, beer drinking doctor. Hopeless man. Shey he is a writer. He should create the character.’

I did not respond even though the jibes cut deep. I just drank my loyal, faithful beer. At least Beer wouldn’t turn on me.

Today, watching the couple dance to their seats, I couldn’t help but envy the seamlessness with which they moved. Their happiness was evident. Little details began to come back to me. How Imade would complain of hunger to me and Jimoh’s call would come in to say he was at our Office bringing her lunch, and I’d dismiss it as coincidence and gripe about him not bringing me any. I remembered too, how, we’d all stopped watching Saturday football games at mine and moved on to Jimoh’s because the warmth they both exuded made their place a cocoon too attractive to ignore.

I recalled Jimoh asking me if I had noticed anything different about him of late. I had. His strides had become surer, his smiles more genuine and immediate, in fact his confidence was infectious. He explained it to me; ‘I’m no longer alone man. I’ve found a partner, younoamsaying? I’m whole. I have it all.’ The realization that I was, for all intents and purposes, alone hit me harder than an onrushing linebacker.

Looking at them both, I wondered how one could be so comfortable placing his whole essence of happiness in the hands of another human without fear, recalling when he said to us at the table;

 ‘Unlike you man, I can’t live in fear. I’m taking the plunge. You should try it too before you become senior bachelor. Boya you are Banky W? Who do you call when you’ve had a terrible or awesome day? And don’t say your E-Reader Tablet. Shey that thing you call your girlfriend will hold you in your low periods? Even George Clooney got married. I hear Jolie is available now. Goan find Visa and fulfil your fantasies.’

Sitting at the groomsmen table, I smiled remembering that last comment. The elegantly dressed bridesmaid opposite me returned my smile, erroneously thinking it was directed at her. Sneaking a glance at her hand to confirm the absence of a ring, I ignored my meticulously constructed checklist of an ideal partner, shocked everybody on the table by leaning towards her, grabbing both her hands in mine, and said;

‘Hi, my name is Buchi and I’ve been wrong for so long. Now, I want to have it all like Jimoh. I don’t know you, but I’m willing to chance it. Are you?’

Please Accept My Apologies

To the woman befuddled by constant talk of feminism,

I have no justifications, only Apologies

not for telling you who you’re equal to,

but because I needed to convince you of your equality.

And so, I apologise,

For society,

For years spent convincing you to be proper,

Unsolicited attempts to define your honour

Outfitting you in dresses, with frills and in lace,

For pirouettes and curtsies, you must speak with ‘grace’

For illusions of purity, to keep you from exploring,

And that useless strip of skin, to become your undoing,

I’m Sorry.

For Excuses,

The passes provided for man, not extended to you,

telling you to aspire, but no more than your husband

‘Ugo nwanyi bu diya’ because who the hell are you?

To wear any other achievement like an armband?

Away with you to the kitchen, for that is your office

Or the other room, for he owns that orifice

I apologise,

For the titles,

The Dr Mrs., Lady pilot, female head of state

Sobriquets functioning as reminders of your ‘place’

Making the achievers an aberration. It’s not your fate

For who would dare give strong women a heroic face?

And shame us with a revolution of wives we cannot handle.

I’m sorry,

For our parents.

Who gauge your lifespan similar to dog years;

And monitor your biological clock just like livestock,

Premium placed mainly on physical attributes

Because, how does intelligence help you breed children?

I apologise,

For concessions,

The glass ceilings placed to ensure you stay put

35% because 50 has a similarity to parity

For meaningless talk shows and seminars to allay your fears

Convince you of something being done to change the present

yet deny legislation to ensure your future.

Let me also apologise,

For not teaching you enough

Asking you to raise enduring queens rather than humble kings

Painting females as attractive when they become footstools.

Creating medals for long suffering queen mothers

For punching bags are necessary to let out a king’s anger

It’s a man’s world you say?

Then perhaps all men should be feminists.

For my gender, and all its contributions to your status,

I have no justifications, please accept my apologies,

21 Questions On The Unborn Conundrum

One,

The Unborn Dead

First I am liquid, only one of many fluids,

I cause no trouble, am serene, like the druids

Even then I’m alive, though filled with uncertainty.

Thinking, what is this sac that holds me in captivity?

Time passes; I grow in body and mind.

When do I get noticed by the parent mind?

Why pour these hot fluids on me? They burn me.

Imbibe more fruits. They develop and form me.

Oh I’ve been noticed, now, no more foods come.

Aha! How restless the parent mind has become.

Now I have an idea. Too young to let me stay

And little stones come. For what purpose I pray?

Stop the stones. They turn me back to blood

Am I deformed, my limbs, they refuse to bud

Oho! They’ve stopped. Do I have time to re-grow?

I sense a larger space out. Have I enough to show?

But I have to struggle. I sense my minder worried.

Am I that much trouble? She seems so harried.

Where are you going? Oh no! I sense danger here.

Wait! Wait! My screams are not loud enough to hear

Um wait. Won’t I find out what I have to give?

Am I to be killed before I have a chance to live?

Aha! The sword of Damocles, it sucks me out of my harbour

Sliding fitfully into oblivion, I scream pitifully, ET TU’ DOCTOR!

http://www.voicesnet.com/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=180167#sthash.ucMhsfFp.dpuf

Two.

I wrote the above poem in 2010. Six Years ago. Not difficult to deduce my stance on Abortion right?

Well, you aren’t exactly correct. I like to believe I wrote it in an era of naivety. You know, sort of like William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. That was my period of Innocence.

Now? I don’t know. This is as sensitive an issue as any other, in any society. (It makes and breaks elections in the US). Also, although a lot has been said about it, still, not enough. Some better writers than me here on this site have postulated for or against it, with various degrees of Success and engagements.

I’ve read a number of posts here, on this issue, and the responses have been err… let’s just say enlightening.

First off, lets agree on the basics, We’re talking about Abortions due to unwanted pregnancies. Not Medical complications-induced abortions.

I’d like to go after it in piecemeal so I can gather my thoughts. People look at it in different ways.

• Religion– It’s a no-no. Every Religion, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Jewish, whichever, all condemn it. I’m catholic, so, faith wise, I should ascribe to what my religious doctrines say. Again, some people here can probably shed more light on it here than I can.
• Realism – Some people prefer to take a more realistic POV here, and say the persons involved should take a decision whether or not they want to keep the baby, irrespective of their religious or moral inclinations.
• Feminism – Now there are women, and to a lesser extent, men, who adjudge that there is no moral quandary here. They insist that the woman, and the woman alone should be responsible for the decision whether or not the baby is kept to term, since she and she alone supposedly undergoes the difficulties of pregnancy and birthing.
• Idealists – Some of us who believe that the baby should be taken to term, irrespective of all, there is always a way out, a way for the child to be taken care of, irrespective of the circumstances of the parents. It will all work out in the end right? All’s well that ends well.

I know almost all of us will assume to belong to at least one of these groupings.

Permit me to call a mild Bullshit on all of them. First off, the Religious person/leader who insists the child must be kept will not help the initial victim – the woman to bear the rigours of pregnancy, endure delivery, which I am assured is very painful, take care of an infant which, I have seen firsthand, is tough going. Neither will the Realist help you fight the depression and attacks of conscience that is usually associated with an abortion, even for the most jaded of girls. The Feminist is more likely to turn the girl to a cause than to help, and for the Idealist, the less said, the better. Please don’t say ‘All’s well that ends well’. Even that Shakespearean comedy ended farcically.

Therefore, I have the following questions I’d like answered.

What should we really be focusing on? The symptoms or the Cause, is killing the Spider not more effective than constantly cleaning cobwebs?

Instead of forcing the pregnant girl to keep an unwanted pregnancy, even after being abandoned by the man responsible, and/or disgraced by the parent or guardian, why aren’t we making a play for enlightening parents and Guardians that having a pregnant ward/girl child isn’t the end of the world?

Shouldn’t we be asking why the bulk of the Sex-Ed most of us in this forum have is from books/friends? Why aren’t we asking why it is absent in our national curriculum for public and private schools?

Shouldn’t our religious leaders, knowing the influence they have on our largely uneducated/unenlightened older generation make efforts to re-orient the minds of these people so as to reduce the shame and stigma associated with teenage/single motherhood, and foster more acceptance and accommodation amongst our parents and Guardians?

Shouldn’t there be a clamour for our elected and appointed leaders to make concrete efforts to avail the nation, especially the poor with credible public health care, to ally girls’ fears of delivery complications, and encourage them to take pregnancies to term?

Should we not be asking why tertiary institutions, especially private ones, still expel any lady found to be pregnant while in school? Did the pregnancy suddenly destroy her ability to study, to learn? Did her brain become pregnant too? Why force her to hide the pregnancy and then choose the route of Abortion here?

We have very few orphanages in the country. Knowing how poorly run they are, what happened to volunteering to help out sometimes at some of them, instead of visiting only on our birthdays to take pictures for social media and to assuage our consciences? Why aren’t we making the choice of keeping the pregnancy to term attractive for pregnant girls?

Again, to we, our current generation of youths, our ‘woke’ generation, when did we become so cynical, so hardscrabble, so jaded, that we’ve become in danger of losing our humanity? Who 'chairmanned' the forum where we decided and agreed that life is a Yes/No, Agree/Disagree, White/Black situation? What happened to fluidity, to grey areas? What happened to examining things according to their specific circumstances, instead of allowing ourselves to become so polarized by divides, to become like the Americans and their Roe V Wade fixation?

Why have we stopped thinking for ourselves and decided that we must belong to someone else’s school of thought?

Why am I asking all these questions I have no answers to?

Kindly help me answer them.

Blame Everybody

‘Hey, what’s that word for being afraid of cramped places?’ He asked.

‘Claustrophobia’. I responded.

I briefly flirted with the idea of exposing the meaning of the word, to include a lack of means of escape, but refrained because he still would have been correct.

‘Correct guy. You always have the answers to all my questions, in your previous school, was your nickname Bookman?’

I smiled ruefully. He was close.

Unbidden, the memories surfaced, breaking to the top like air starved divers. As usual, I tried willing them back into their forbidden mental compartment, but, like Pandora’s box, once opened, attempts to force them back in seemed futile. I succumbed and let them wash over me overwhelmingly. Another Place, another time.

A little under a year ago, James had taken one look at the spindly, sickly looking eleven year old, when I had been introduced to him, being the Senior Prefect in my new secondary school, and declared me his Boy. To my ecstatic parents, he said ‘This Bookworm is my school son’.

‘Thank you my son,’ they chorused. ‘He needs looking after. His head is always in the clouds, like he lives in his books. Very forgetful. Please take care of him for us.’ My mum pleaded earnestly. They left, secure in the knowledge their son had a protector.

And what a protector I did have. I defined the word breakable. I was thin and looked like I should avoid heavy gusts of wind lest I get blown away. I had no understanding of physical activities and contact sports, so I didn’t even get on the field. Despite having an above average ability in Chess and Scrabble, I was awkward around people and so kept away from them. My goggle-sized nerd glasses completed my ensemble, making me ripe for being picked on by both my peers and my seniors. That didn’t happen though for I was under James’ protection. I spent the first term exempted from every compulsory labour activities, and slept at least an hour more than my mates. When I got a gift of a rechargeable lantern to enable me read into the night, well after lights out, I was in ecstasy. I became proud of my nickname.

I returned home for the holidays, singing the praises of my benefactor to my parents who were overjoyed. ‘Listen,’ My Father said, ‘we’ve finally found you the perfect school for you to thrive in. Don’t you do anything to antagonize James.’ I nodded vigorously.

Of course I wasn’t going to displease him. He made me feel safe and comfortable. I had come to trust him implicitly. Even when he started giving and requesting compulsory massages although I had no physical exertions, I wasn’t altogether scared.

Maybe that’s why it’s my fault. I should have run away the first time I felt his hardness rubbing against me during one of the massages. Perhaps I should have been wary of the seemingly constant alone times with him. To be honest, there was no surprise. It felt like a mere progression of activities, feeling almost natural. By the time it culminated in me lying face down beneath him, hearing his loud grunts, feeling the warm, sticky deposits when he was done, I wasn’t altogether shocked. I was passive, numbed by the repetitiveness and my own powerlessness. It seemed inevitable, like a script acted in a daze.

Or maybe my Parents should be blamed. They probably should have noticed my reluctance to return to school after the second holidays, or the return of my solitary lifestyle and not believed my ‘it’s alright’ answers to perfunctorily asked questions about my wellbeing. But to be fair, I always was a morose and withdrawn child and I do not expect anyone to notice an extra cup of water in a full bucket.

Perhaps James can take some of the blame. He found me too pliant (shoot, that blame might be mine), but my pliancy probably encouraged him to pass me off to Jimoh when he was graduating. Maybe I wouldn’t have snapped if I hadn’t been transferred on to Jimoh like a mere piece of property of which my only claim to fame is as a receptacle useful for stress relief.

Or blame my books. Yes, blame them. Maybe if I hadn’t lived too much in them, I would have known that one does not stab another multiple times and remain at the scene, nose deep inside yet another book. All my book knowledge couldn’t make me street wise.

Oh well, I’d forgot I had a question to answer.

‘Bookman?’ I asked my Bunkmate, No. I was called a Bookworm.’ He laughed and got up. ‘O boy, It’s almost time for parade. Get your beautiful behind up and prepare.’ While passing out of our corner, he rubbed my head, lingering longer than I thought necessary. Perhaps my fear was unfounded, but I still reached under my pillow and drew comfort from the feel of the sharpened breadknife I’d secreted there.

I’d just got a new book, as I opened it to read, I heard the call of the Bugle. I hastily dressed up in my parade whites. I can’t slouch in Military School. Here, I don’t have a protector.

The Exodus

Her carriage betrayed her, made her profession obvious.

The absent Stethoscope was no hindrance to my predicting.

Happy to leave, her excitement was infectious.

‘Miss..’ ‘Doctor!’ She corrected as I checked her in.

I watched her go.

His phone in his ear, he made his apologies;

He was headed home – just a temporary holiday

Business would resume soon, only a few issues,

Nigeria is still my second home, he needed to say.

I watched him go.

She walked in a shuffle, burdened by expectations.

Her family’s sole hope, Dad’s severance paid for her exit.

Top of her class, should be pride of her nation.

She leaves with her knowledge, her host Nation’s profit.

And I watched her go.

His hasty footsteps, the numerous furtive looks

I recognized his face; he had recently trended.

His frustration was apparent, his demeanor spooked.

The under-fire journalist, His patience had ended.

And I watched him go.

They came in a group, airy, confident without worry.

With special dispensation, Foreign exchange a no-brainer.

My smile is wider, for tips I want them to remember me.

They’ll leave wealthy, and return shortly, even wealthier.

And I watched them go.

He was earlier than normal, his retinue even longer.

His plane had been idling. Our alertness no happenstance.

Another conference, another interview, Ah, my leader.

But I’m happy. Our relationship fares better long-distance.

I also watched him go.

I return home early tonight to the sound of my generator.

It's the norm now, the hum lures my children to slumber.

My dinner heats up, my wife completes her dressing.

Almost late; her Second job calls. We need the money.

And We all watched her go.

The Aftermath - An Epistolary

Dear ….. Erm, I don’t quite know what title to ascribe you now.

I’ve held this pen for quite a while now, dithering over what to write. I’ve always wanted to explain everything that happened a little better, but how do I start?
You see, I have absolutely no experience with heart breaks considering that I have practically no history with relationships, but I can totally imagine your present state of mind. I can imagine the hurt, disappointment, anger, the possible hatred and feelings of betrayal.
And yeah, I know, I caused them all.

I remember the night I dropped the ‘bombshell’ of wanting out. Even though I don’t think it should have been a bombshell, for it was a long time coming, i don’t expect it was any easier for you to handle. I was just too much of a coward to admit that I’d wanted out for quite a while and I did not quite know how to finesse the exit and not look terrible about it.
I’m sure your most prevalent question, right now, is ‘Why?’ Why did I leave? I know if you could find a way to ask me that question, without seeming desperate, you would. With that in mind, I can give you my answer now, before you ask; I don’t know. I absolutely do not.

I can’t explain how I came to not be thrilled anymore when you make those clowning, South Park themed jokes that used to get me in stiches. How did I lose total interest in embarking on road trips with you, when it used to be the highlight of my admittedly infrequent vacations?

Remember when you’d tell me I was an amateur in the kitchen, and then you’ll waltz in and prepare those mouth-watering, delicious dishes that made my house a main stay for the guys on weekends and public hols? I remember your veggie stew with ‘long throat’.
I used to love your cooking. I still do, to be honest. I just wasn’t enthused anymore to try to spend time with you in the kitchen while you worked your magic.

Remember how we’d forgo Friday night Turn-ups to stay in and catch up on old movies? Yes, I admit, I enjoyed lying down to watch chick flicks with you. And cuddle. I used to want to spend every moment with you. Where did that go?

I just watched the closing Ceremony of the Rio Olympics. I remember when we were giddy, watching the Copacabana beach scenes during the World cup two years ago, and swearing that we’d watch the Olympics together, live in Rio this year. Funny, we could just have afforded it right now. Life happens eh?

I could not explain it either, when I’d look at you now through the eyes of my friends and not feel an immediate oomph added to my swag. Remember how proud I used to be upon seeing the envy in their eyes? And how I’d smirk, preen and remark to myself, ‘yeah, that’s all mine’. When we’d dance and it would immediately become an exhibition for everyone else watching, and people would exclaim, ‘Ah, relationship goals.’ Yes, I still hate that goals word. But how the hell did all that wear off?

I can’t answer any of these questions, but I can definitely assure you of two things;

First, I didn’t give up easily. I tried. Not just because I wanted to stay so much, after all, you’ve been the best thing that happened to me recently, but also because I want to believe I wasn’t destined to end up alone, as I’ve always suspected. Remember the break? I wanted to miss you then. I tried to, so bad, but, again, life happens.

And no, there isn’t someone else. There never was. And this epistle isn’t to exorcise my demons so I could move on to someone else. Nope. You’ve set the bar way too high and probably no one, bar say, Angelina Jolie (remember we love her?) could even attempt to measure up. I mean, if I couldn’t stay with someone as awesome as you, who would I stay with?

I mean, who else would tell me on phone to say hi to my truck, and tell it that you miss it?

Damn, I really didn’t deserve you. Sally was right. I really am so jaded, I’m Jade itself

I still don’t know what to call you. I hate to acknowledge that I would one day use the word ‘ex’ to refer to you. I’m not ready for that, even though I know it has to happen.

Anyway, I hope this finds you well.

                                                       Yours ever in love,
                                                       (I don’t know, what do you call me now?)

For the Love of Beer

A few days back, I met someone awesome for the first time and we had drinks at a Café in Abuja here.
It’s known for having really good cocktails and coffee mixes on menu. She ordered a ‘dirty white boy’, a coffee, milk and cream mix, (I know, who the hell names these drinks right?), and I, a beer. Without being asked, I hastened to convey my love for beer but couldn’t quite explain properly what draws me to it and makes me choose it over probably every other alcoholic beverage, even over my beloved Cap’n Jack and Skyy (that’s really good vodka).

At home today, nursing a bottle of Star, the words came to me. I’d just come in from the shopping complex close to my house, where I’d walked to buy tomatoes (thank God it’s cheaper now). I was thirsty, so before cooking, I opened this bottle, and sans glass, stood in front of the fridge and chugged down almost a quarter of the contents in one swallow.
I belched loudly, smiling. The ice-cold goodness had travelled straight down my gullet, cooling my parched tongue along the way and hitting my stomach with authority and command, generating that spine tingling feeling from that often glossed over spot, you know that part, back of the head, a few metres from your neck, just under the sharp point we called ‘Ogor’. Only three things give that feeling – the hum from a barber’s clipper on your head, a Beer, and very good, sloppy, …. Err… ‘brain’?

How do I extol beer further? Tough, but I’ll try.

Ever walked into a Bar on a hot afternoon during the heat wave and a visibly sweating, from-the-freezer, cooling-the-air-round-you cold bottle of lager is placed before you? I’m sure your thirst gets sated even before you drink.
Or perhaps I can tell you about Beer’s worth as a conversation enabler? Smoother of pathways, leveler of class, first of its name? I kid you not. See below:

• Want to ask a legal but unofficial favour from a colleague and don’t know how to approach him? Take him to a bar and Buy him beer. Thank me later.
• Going to a party and don’t know most of the guys you will meet there? Go with a case or two and carry it into the party late. You’re the MVP from then on. Or at least until some other guy, probably named Buchi, buys an even bigger case and brings it in, but there you go.
• Offended me, and don’t know how to say sorry? Just take me to a good bar and buy me cold beer. Sometimes ‘brain’ works, too, but only from a specific gender, and in specific dynamics. You’re safer and surer with beer.
• Worried about meeting your Significant other’s brother, favourite male cousin, close male friend(s)? Venue is inconsequential here. Just buy beer.
• Got enough Balls to attempt to meet the proposed father in-law? Err…. Maybe not always a beer here, just in case he’s that guy for whom no one is good enough for his baby-girl. He’ll turn the beer to prosecutorial evidence.

All the above is on assumption that they all drink beer. I do, in case you’re wondering, even though I’m sure you aren’t. If they don’t, don’t bother, they aren’t worth the trouble. Wait, I jest.

Seriously though, Beer is healthy. Surprised? Beer has less calories per serving than alcoholic Wine or sugary soft drinks. In fact, moderate and responsible beer consumption has been proven to have nutritional value and is actually good for you on the long run.

Can I take a minute to Say hello to the ladies who drink beer? Especially in our gender defined society? I like it a lot. I’ve always opined that my life partner must be a left handed, artistic, geeky yet sexy, smart, freaky doctor, preferably not from my tribe, but above all, enjoys beer. Tall order, I know. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel I’m probably doomed to die single. But there’s something uniquely appealing for me about a woman that drinks beer, and writes, and draws, and is a nerd, a freak, a…. Buchi Shut up.

I do need to point something out though. This post isn’t for those who use alcohol in general as a means of escape, or as a tool for working themselves up to abuse either themselves or others, especially domestically. That’s despicable and we the association of Beer drinkers disassociate ourselves from those ‘arrants’. Nor is this for those who, despite their medical condition, refuse to stay away from alcohol. If you belong to these groups, please desist and get help.

This isn’t also for those without self-discipline who expend all their money on alcohol, or for those who, every Saturday or Sunday evening, head for their favourite spots, with shirts often unbuttoned, flabby, pregnant bellies open for the public’s unsolicited viewing displeasure, and sit down to quaff cartons of beer, enough to run a bottling plant for a day. You people make us look bad. Stop already.

Nope. This is for the blue and white (even brown) collar workers, artisan, entrepreneur, writer, geek, teacher, and of course, the doctor. I write this for the Bar owners, who are pillars of the community much like Moe in The Simpsons. I mean, where else would Homer and Apu go? This is also for those watching football in Bars (and trolling, just doing ‘bants’, not griping like @Sirkastiq on twitter about Arsene), the average Emeka, Musa and Funke, who, after a hard day’s job, enjoy relaxing to a beer or two, who are creating value, unwinding, socializing and forming bonds with like-minded lovers of beer.

So, tell me, what’s your poison? Are you a wine connoisseur, Hennessey enthusiast? You like Jack the Captain? Or are you like me, do we all love that cold, rich, smooth, sometimes brown, sometimes green bottle of soothing awesomeness, which contains just the right amount of bitterness to keep us going?

Are we united in our love for Beer?

The Best 24 Hours of my life

Let me tell you about the best 24 hours of my life. It was the day I met you. I’d decided to marry you that day, six full months before I finally did propose.
I was initially reluctant when Uche, my brother asked me to turn up that Friday night, and I almost didn’t go. The week had been long. Running startups is hell.

The Bank is my favorite Abuja club, so of course we drove to Amino Kano, on Wuse II, sat down at the Pre-club spot, aptly named ATM, ordered my customary starter – a chilled bottle of Star. I opened my Nook reader and, forsaking the Ngugi I’d just copped, I opened the lighter Jack Reacher, It was a Friday night after all. Jack’s always the Man on Friday nights.

Mild commotion directly behind me. Four girls took up the table before ours. I didn’t care initially, until you loudly ordered for the coldest bottle of Star they had in stock, to the laughter of your friends who had all ordered cocktails. I turned. The lift of your eyebrows at me confirmed you were the beer drinker. My smile was tiny, but I hoped my approval showed.

It did. You walked up to my table. A five-eleven, hourglass-figure apparition, with eyes that seemed to have a permanent box of laughter and mischief parked inside it’s garage. You’d seen my Barnes and Noble Nook, you said. You wanted to know what I was reading. To test you, I said, ‘Lee Child’. Your Immediate response of ‘Jack Reacher, Which one?’ Intrigued me. We talked books.

Of course, the mischievous Uche suggested we merge tables. We do, and I immediately start having fun. We share a final bottle of their coldest Star. Of course you cheated me, a gentleman, I let you drink more.

My premonitions begin when we get into the club and I ask what you’d like to drink. You reply. ‘Jack’s the Man’. We obviously share a love for Captain Jack Daniels. We dance, crazily, closely. You’re the Ginger Rogers to my Fred Astaire.
We are having fun. So much fun, your friends snicker when we danced gangnam style like we’d rehearsed it.
When your Tipsy colleague asked if your cobwebs might finally get some cleaning tonight, I pretended not to listen. Didn’t want to hope too much.

Tentatively however, I tell you I don’t want the night to end yet,
You then ask me, eyes dancing with laughter,
‘How good are you at FIFA?’
I say, ‘very’.
‘Come over to mine for the rest of the night,’ you say. ‘But I won’t put out.’
I didn’t mind one bit. I’m game.
I hand my keys over to Uche and tell him to get home. You throw me yours, saying ‘I call shot gun.’ I don’t mind. I like to drive. You’re ticking boxes I didn’t even know I had, left, right and center. Even when you say ‘Don’t touch the radio, its mine’ I smile, It was déjà vu. I’d said it countless times to my friends. But you make good. The first song you play is Little Big Town’s Sober. We sing along.

The drive to Lugbe seems very short. For once, I did not complain about the streetlights that were off on Airport Road.
I don’t remember much else about the drive. I do however remember not feeling weird at all about you having Men’s clothes ready for me to wear at home. Tongue in cheek, I offer to share a shower. With those damn eyes twinkling with laughter, you say, ‘I won’t put out remember?’ Kicking me to the visitors bathroom. Afterwards, I sit at the PS4 console in the living room waiting for you.

You come out smelling of Jasmine so faintly, I almost put out my tongue to taste it. I’ve always loved its ability to soothe and I knew I would definitely enjoy cuddling with you. I was so distracted by the scent and the not so modest tank top that I almost lose at FIFA. Laughing (again that damn musical sound) you tell me start up managers have  more time on their hands than doctors. I call you a sore loser.

My upteenth surprise, I arrange the couch to sleep, I was already happy enough with my night so far.
You re-enter from the bedroom and say, ‘I lied, I will put out.’
I grin with anticipation. And for good reason. Damn you were good. Your head game, dope. Remember that time you said, ‘Look Papi, No hands’? You near triggered an explosion right there.

You woke me up after dawn with a nickname –
‘Hey, Tonguey McTongueyson, Breakfast in Bed?’ I smile at the compliment and say Yes. ‘Then you’re cooking’ you said.’You like to cook remember?’ I laugh. I did cook.

After breakfast, I set up your new Kindle since you had refused to. ‘Nerds like you should do nerdy Stuff,’ you said. I introduced you to the ebook world. When we lay silently together for two hours, you in the crook of my arm, and me ignoring the cricks, both of us reading books, I knew I was lost.

So I ran. Mumbled about work, demands of running two different startups, teething problems I say. I planned to not see you for another two weeks at least, or at least that was what I had in mind before i found myself back at your place that same night, mumbling something about being in the area.
But I knew, I knew right then I was gonna marry you.

The best 24 hours of my life. It hasn’t happened yet, but I hope it’ll happen exactly this way when I meet you.

Which is when?
Where the hell are you?

What's in a Name

Oh, Just Recently, my name ended in 'Matters' 

Not surprising, The U.S Civil rights was in tatters. 

Wasn't the first time though. My monikers often are varied 

I've been Bland, I've been Bama, whichever motion was carried. 

I was born of a script, initially coded to birth a Trend, 

Never knew I was to become a Unifier upon whom causes depend. 

My name is myriad, it evolves, my only constant is a symbol 

Apt, I represent a canvas upon which reactions gambol 

Keyboard Warriors consist my most common Conceptors 

Impressionable Millennials, my most common receptors. 

My name changes can befuddle an observer. I am Agatu today, 

Tomorrow, I'm a herdsman. Aggressor tomorrow, Victim today. 

With surprising clarity, therein lies not my confusion. 

Neither is my short life span the reason for my disorientation 

Nor is it in the ease with which my new names are chosen, 

For I'm as useful as the middle ranked witch in a coven. 

But, Have you ever been trapped in a futile circle of purpose? 

Only if you're a Vice-President or a social worker, I suppose. 

Then why must I end at my name? Why must my skin be shed? 

Constantly being  forgotten and replaced by another trend? 

I suppose some could call me a rallying cry for many an Issue. 

But I know better, I assuage consciences. I'm a feminist's tissue. 

Be calm, I know, I will introduce myself. Don't be a nag. 

You know who I am. I'm your latest fad. I am a HASHTAG.