Adufe, ololufé mi (Adufe, my love)

Adufé, a few days ago before I left you to go to bed, I looked deep into your eyes with the promise of a long day tomorrow. We were happy with each other. I knew I would be getting up early in order to mount you and let you do what you do best – drive me crazy with pleasure, a special delight that would last almost three hours tomorrow at the crack of dawn, and another three in the evening. I was a content man.

When I got up in the morning, I prepared myself quickly and rushed to your side to begin our enjoyment. To my fury, you had been raped overnight. The forces of darkness have struck again, my jazz-wielding friends have done what they do best – come out under the cloak of darkness to defile the pure. Otá aje; omo oju’orola ri, to bimo, t’oso ni Olaniyonu Olawumi (enemy of industry; one who has never experienced wealth but gives birth and names the child 'wealth has problems, I desire wealth').

My journey was long and my time short so I did not have much sentiment for you that morning. I made am instant decision that my affair had to be with Abedó. This had not been my plan. As you know, Abedó is thirsty, loud and wild, and always tries to bring out the feral in me, besides, I prefer for our liaisons to be at night; nevertheless, it was she that accompanied me on my journey to Wokingham that morning.

As I take you to hospital the next day, I muse that you have been besmirched. I also ponder whether to share this with my blog friends, decided to because of the trend in recent posts about male violence against females and wondered if this would be classed as a violent act, since it was perpetrated by a woman. Is it even the more violent as money is yanked from my wallet to pay the excess charge on your insurance (Americanised version: deductible – thanks, Sherri) for the replacement? Incredibly, some ask, what did I do, as if it takes one person’s actions to turn another evil, as if evil actions can ever be justified in any way.


Abedó

For the next few days until Adufé is well, my darling Abedó, you will give me passion during the day and at night. You are magnificent as well and have your own particular skills, quite untamed. The man that tries to tame you will probably end up broken.

Spare a thought for Akanké, the ageing tart. She is the craggy one that gets dumped on, she is second-hand and still trying to be relevant, is now jaded and menopausal, but perhaps still gives some pleasure to the desperate.

PS Adufé is now well and back from hospital

Hell Hath No Fury...

Presidential Suite

A friend called me today to tell me this story (you know me and my naija’s at the airport stories). She had a guest who came in from Nigeria Sunday and who, when questioned at immigration about where she would be staying, said: “Presidential Suite”. The answer, of course, made her an immediate candidate for further close questioning. She was pulled into an interview room and asked, ‘presidential suite where’? To which she responded “Presidential Suite Liverpool Street” – I’m guessing she’s now referring to London’s Liverpool Street market just off Bishops Gate in the city).

Please, please, don’t even ask why she gave that retort. I’m inclined to believe that this was an extension of our nigerian ‘big-manism’, or, in this case, ‘big-womanism’, when we feel the more important we make ourselves out to be, the more respect we will attract.

Four hours later, and after intensive questioning including a meticulous strip-search, when they probed and poked places where the sun ‘don’t’ shine, they let her go.

===============
The story above reminds me of a personal one. One of the closest friends to my ex-wife, who lives in Maryland (I know her well too as we were all at the old Unife together) had an older sister coming in from Nigeria for a course sponsored by her employer – the NNPC. As we are wont to do as Nigerians, she did not wish to pay for the hotel and sustenance for which she had received a foreign exchange allowance and decided to stay with us for the 6 weeks. I did not know the woman and kicked up a fuss about living with strangers, however, my ex did know her, having met her a few times on visits to her friend in Lagos before we all migrated to our various new countries, and it would have been awkward for her to say no.

Several peculiarities accompanied the woman into my house, one of which was her propensity to stand over me during my dinner if she wanted a favour and I said, ok, please wait until I finish dinner; and she always wanted a favour, and I always said ok, please wait. She would simply stand beside me until I finished dinner, which was extremely disconcerting, especially because she was over 6 feet tall and big to boot. Another was her staring at you for about 30 seconds after you spoke to her, like she was lost. After a couple of days, I was filled with enough disquiet to bring it to the attention of my ex. She had noticed some things too, all of which would take up too much space to put down.

The most annoying thing was that as a Muslim she insisted on playing tapes of the Holy Quran in the living room at 5am every morning. So I gave her a small tape player for her religious duties, but no, she was determined to use my music system with the resultant effect that the deep bass reverberated throughout the house like an avalanching rockslide every morning and we all came awake. I explained to her that low frequency sounds tend to carry and are louder elsewhere than from where they originate, to no avail, it was the big system she wanted. So I endured sermons in Arabic for six weeks, the noise bouncing off the walls like some techno party.

It all ended on a funny note though. Towards the end of her stay, my ex had earned a degree of freedom from her, as she now seemed to know her way around London a little. So she decided to go to Liverpool street market, yep, the same one from where you can buy ‘disposable’ shirts at 4 for £10, and wrist watches at 3 for £10. I described the train journey to her (indeed, I worked on Bishops Gate at that time, but since she wanted to get there for 12 and leave around 4pm, I could not help) – 'get to Elephant and castle, take the Northern Line to Moorgate station, ask anybody, Liverpool Street is literally 5 minutes’ walk'.

At 11.30pm that night, my ex had started to worry, as ‘sister’ had not returned. I could not care less and was only counting down the days for her to finally leave. Then the phone rang. It was her and after a confused 3 or 4 minutes, my ex passed the phone on to me:
I think I’m lost, she says.
Where are you, I ‘goes’.
I don’t know, she says.
Look around, I goes, there must be something
I think it’s a train station, she says
They have names, I says
It says, Canta…, Cantry…, Cantarry…
Spell it, I says
She spells Canterbury! I said: you’re in Kent. Then, we lived in Thornton Heath in Surrey, which is essentially South London. Apparently, when she got to Elephant & Castle, rather than go for the Northern Line to Moorgate in London City as I described to her, she asked a man who, in being helpful, thought she was going to Margate in Kent and prescribed the relevant trains for her, 85 miles away.

T G I F

My last post was one for which I had to carefully balance my argument as well as my comments, being conscious of those fearful ‘independents’ out there – you know who you are, you modern-day dinosaurs and tigresses – sherri, florida, g-nigeriana, desy, isi, indecent one (who would pour hot water, or was it oil? on laspapi's head), sha, afrobabe, allied, catwalq, anon gal, 30+, nicky, for the love - dare I continue?

Whilst I was not surprised by the bias of some comments, some totally astonished me. I mean, sherri agreed with me! I’m still doing joyous back flips and excited cart wheels. The flip side of that was onome: now, this was a woman I was in love with, her poster hangs over my bedstead, my phone ring tone sings ‘onome, onome’, if anyone was going to agree with me, it would be her. Always so temperate, always came across as very nice. Did she agree? Not only did she react ferociously, she informed me she has withdrawn her approval for me to hang her poster in my room. Talk about unrequited love. Onome, that’s it for us, I have discovered a new love that omosewa kindly pointed out to me in the comments section of the previous post, maybe she will love me as much as I loved you.

Thank you for the offers of alabukun, anadin extra and isi ewu. I don’t want to sound like an ingrate, but only the isi ewu will do, especially since I feel better now. For those of you who ignored the fact that I had sandpaper down my throat and nevertheless, demanded an update (erm, uzezi), I will attend church this evening to beg for the spirit of forgiveness.


HAPPINESS IS…

* Knowing you’re going out tonight and getting into bed at 10.00 pm anyway, for a nap.

* Two very young boys (12, 13?) selling gala and handkerchiefs under the blazing afternoon sun on Ikorodu Road at Maryland, arms across each other’s shoulders, and laughing

* Seeing old friends after 20 years and you continue where you left off

* Being able to sleep with both eyes closed

* Watching your children grow

* Going to bed without any consideration of when you will get up

Heads, You Lose; Tails, You Lose.

I’m probably going to need some crutches to sustain my balance by the force of some of the reactions I will get to this post. I particularly look forward to the responses of the fiery ‘independents’, you know yourselves and, though sorely tempted, I will not mention any names – I do not feel particularly brave.

This post has been prompted by the expectations of women that men be more romantic. A few men, it must be recognized, work really hard to be romantic in their relationships and I believe they succeed, and I doff my hat to you. For the rest of us…

Women state they yearn for men to be more romantic, loving, tender, devoted, warm, gentle and adoring, yet there is also the expectation for us to be these strong, testosterone-fuelled ‘mighty igors’ who go to work all day, hunter gatherers that provide for the home (although I readily acknowledge that the equation has changed somewhat since many women work and contribute to the home). As a man, especially in Nigeria and the rest of Africa, you are expected to work. I lie. You are expected to GO TO work – none of that working from home modernist trifle. That’s why housewives vastly outnumber househusbands all over the world, and although the concept of the househusband is slowly gathering acceptance here, your life is in the hands of the almighty if you are a househusband in Nigeria because you will be viewed as a dosser. Even some of my fiery independents mentioned above would baulk at the idea of their partners being househusbands.

I imagine one of those pretty, muscle-bound male models they use in the glossies going down on one knee in front of a woman with a single red rose gritted between his teeth, then getting up to make breakfast for her in bed, preparing the children for school, doing the dishes, preparing himself for work – he will spend two hours in front of the mirror, I guess, eyebrows have got to be plucked, trimmed, shaped and sleeked back perfectly - going to do an honest day’s job at the office, getting back home, doing the ‘how was your day honey’ bit, serenading his partner with one or two Teddy Pendergrass songs (ok, ok, Ne-Yo or Mario – I’m old), preparing dinner, finally having a shower. Of course, those are enough to turn a woman on, however that man is simply a figment of my imagination.

So many men turn into Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde so they can fit the image described above. A friend who used to live in DC and about whom mutual friends complained because he was a totally changed man when his girlfriend (now wife) was around is a case in point. I witnessed it first hand on a holiday and thought he had become two people. This was a chap who was the life of any party and the joker in any group but was reduced to saying just ‘hi’ to his friends when his girlfriend was about. I mean, literally, “hi”.

An acquaintance used to lie to his wife that he was driving mini cabs (kabu kabu) nightly. On his way from wherever in the early hours, he would go to the cashpoint for some money and drop it on the dining table with whatever coins he had in his pocket, to appear like the night's takings.

There are also so many men who lie to their partners in order to go out: they lie about overtime, working nights, about some friend having a disaster, having to go view a property in ‘Manchester’ (your choice: England or Massachusetts), about a friend being suicidal, therefore, they have to stay with him awhile, all because they feel they will not fit the ‘romantic’ mould should they simply say; I’m going out Friday for a few hours. Women seem to see this type of man as more 'romantic' because he has not said: I'm going out for a few drinks.

God save you if you’re in actual fact a starry-eyed male individual when you think you’re being a romantic. Years ago, I heard a woman say to her female companion: “I’m really sick to the back teeth of Tunde; as soon as I get in, he starts rubbing himself against me like a cat. Can’t he just leave me alone and look for a girlfriend or something?” This was said in a church, mind you

Irritating Habits

A few weeks ago, I put up a post about revolting habits and one of the comments, from 30+ I believe, suggested I put on a warning sign for readers. 30+, you know I love you but one would have thought the word ‘revolting’ was enough of a warning.

For these irritating habits, no warning is needed, they are just as described on the label: things I find irritating and sometimes annoying.

Media Words
Some words have crept into the Nigeria media usage, which makes me just want to ‘commit’. Words like:
* ‘sanitize’ - “…in a bid to sanitize…”
* ‘actualise’ – “he wanted to actualise his mandate…”
* ‘mobilisation fee’ – “the company collected a 50% mobilisation fee…”

Contemporary Language
* ‘Basically’ – how I have come to dislike that word
* ‘To be honest…’ – spoken by the patently deceitful
* ‘Let me have your digits…’ – said mainly by men of a certain ilk to request a woman’s telephone number. Digits? Next, you’ll be asking for binary numbers. Are there some people out there who actually respond to that sort of request?
* ‘I just came by to say “Thanks for stopping by my blog/Thanks for stopping by/Thanks for your comments on my blog”…’ – for crying out loud, just return the visit as a matter of politeness, if you find it interesting and engaging, by all means leave a comment, if you don’t, quietly slink back to what floats your boat, but do not visit some person’s blog simply to say “I just came by to say thanks for stopping by my blog”. Gosh, it does annoy me so!

Deeds
* People who ‘flash’ you in order to speak to you. I experienced this a lot in Nigeria and they even flash me from Nigeria in London. I just look at the sky in wonder and beseech God to provide me with an answer to why anyone would want to speak with me but ask me to pay for the experience. The last time my family member ‘flashed’, I called her deliberately and asked why she could not invest N500 to speak with me. I continue to thank God that the people I know now do not do that.

* Nigerians who clap when a plane lands in Lagos. If you need to say a prayer of thanks, why not do it privately? If you want to congratulate the pilot for bringing the plane down in one piece, why don’t you inform a steward who will let the captain know? The amazing thing is that these same passengers will not clap on their return journeys to London or wherever.

* Our people who buy food e.g. roast chicken from Selfridges to take to Nigeria (hmm…London chicken, tasty!). Many years ago on a trip to Lagos, when it was still fashionable for the airlines to deliver your luggage one week after your arrival, I went to the airport to collect my bags and you will never believe the stench in the hall where the luggage were left. It was like a sewer run riot. I immediately remembered an ‘aunty’ who had told me a few weeks earlier that she got roast chicken from Selfridges to take to Nigeria, and trying to persuade her that chicken in Nigeria is actually tastier was like pulling teeth without anaesthetic.

How Not To Get Into Trouble

I had wanted to update the ‘I knew I was in Trouble’ post for a couple of days now but could muster neither the physical nor mental capacity; what with spending my working day chatting, driving, atimes dealing with the obnoxious, telephoning and sometimes actually working, the evenings are a sort of recuperative wind-down-in-front-of a news, sports or nature channel before bed. Except for most Fridays. And Saturdays.

I ‘listened’ to the comments on that post and found them to be wise counsel, so I limited my involvement.

Mr A was arraigned at Uxbridge magistrates’ court on the Monday of last week and, though he had some friends present as well as legal counsel (who thought it prudent to allow the state-appointed solicitor to continue with the case), was not granted bail because when coming into the UK, he had stated to the immigration authorities he would be staying in a hotel – thus, no fixed abode. So off to Sutton prison he went and was assigned a prisoner number (I never even knew there was a prison at Sutton).

By the time the case came up last Friday, the prosecutor had Mr A’s life on paper – educational institutions he attended (in Nigeria!), age (52), employment details, everything. It was instructive that she (prosecutor) tacitly acknowledged that he was not suspected of being a terrorist but someone who made a stupid mistake, and the law had to take it’s course.

Mr A, on a trip to the Philippines last year, had purchased the offending belt because he thought it was ‘funky’, looked young and was ideal to hold up his jeans. Unfortunately for him, it was a survival belt with a knife, fork, tin opener, nail clipper, lighter, torchlight, pen, etc; you know the type, bona fide James Bond material. The only things it did not have were toilet paper and WMD. Sadly, one of his friends who’s been here 14 years had seen him retrieve a ‘weapon’ from the belt days before his depature, commented on the belt being unusual and Mr A responded that it was his ‘travelling belt’, yet did not have the sense to point out the inherent danger.

The judge found him guilty, sentenced him to the minimum 14 days in prison and released him as he had spent the mandatory half (7 days). He left for Lagos the same day.

I called him last night to commiserate and offer my sorrow, if only he knew my blog friends had instructed me to ask if he wanted the cutlery for live chicken and amala. He seemed happy but said: emu London yin dani o, eni rimi nibe mo (hold on to your London, you will never see me there again).