I’m not a queasy person and will steadily look at and tolerate things that would make most people grimace, cringe or wince with discomfort; however, an incident occurred lately that got me thinking of repulsive habits.
1. Last Saturday I went to West Ham, to a place I normally go to listen to my taste of Afro hip-hop and r‘n’b. It’s not exactly an upmarket place but it suits my quest for anonymity. I stood hugging Remi and fondling Stella (for the uninitiated, that is sipping Remy Martin brandy and using Stella Artois beer as a chaser).
Then this giant of a man comes and stands right in front of me, so close I can smell his three day old sweat and my arm brushes against his back each time I took a swig of my beer, which does not appear to bother him. He looks like Idi Amin and stands like Mandingo so my inclination to tap him on the back and request he find his own space was cowed. I glanced back and a couple were standing there; I would have invaded their space had I moved back. While I am contemplating how to deal with this colossus and looking at the back of his head with the huge folds of skin where the head joins his shoulders (he has no neck), he suddenly plants his fingers behind his head, uses thumb and middle finger to part the biggest crease of skin and scratches away at the now exposed crust with his index finger…I could imagine the flakes of previously imprisoned dead matter falling into my brandy and I felt sick.
Found my way home and could not eat for thinking about disgusting habits.
2. On my way to work in the tube about 12 years ago, I was absent-mindedly looking at this well-dressed couple. The man was picking his nose and sucking the contents into his mouth. Ugh! I took a hard look at both of them and wondered why a woman so elegant did not see anything wrong with her man’s actions and, as if to answer my question, she dug her elbow into her side, pointed her index finger toward her face, proceeded to pick the bogey stuck between the corner of her eye and the bridge of her nose, and, I kid you not, put it into her mouth. That was the first time I saw that done and the last time anyone saw me in the London Underground.
3. A disgusting habit here is spit cleaning. That is when someone puts his or her finger to their mouth to obtain some spittle in order to clean a mark on their body. Years ago a girl tried to help me clean marks to the sides of my face caused by tears streaming from my eyes because of bitterly cold winds, with her own spit, mind you, and my reaction was fierce. I’ve seen mothers use spittle to clean marks on their children. Ahh! I feel sick.
4. About public loo hygiene. Let me tell you ladies out there, when you go out, about 70% or more of blokes using the loo do not wash their hands afterwards. I don’t care what we say; I see it, every time, and stand in wonder. This probably happens with the ladies as well, however, I’ve not been fortunate to find myself in a ladies’ loo yet. Clubs, pubs, airports, restaurants, bars, everywhere, dirty, grubby, MRSA infected fingers are coming out to embrace you.
5. Eating loudly. I have an acquaintance here that chomps through food like he’s just been released from Guantanamo or Kirikiri. I’ve tried the power of suggestion several times and even told him outright a couple of times, but he appears to take offence when I correct him. Suffice to say, I cannot eat when he is.
That’s my list of disgusting habits. I felt a little unsettled so I thought: why go through this on your own when your blog friends are out there to share with?
Friday, 11 January 2008
Saturday, 5 January 2008
Prose To Darkness
When I noticed some blogs with comments moderation enabled I wondered why, in the interest of free expression, one'd need to do that. I recognised the fact, then and now, that out there are some who cannot employ temperate language when they feel strongly about something, when angered or when they take an issue personally, as we all tend to do from time to time. I also know that some comments left may be totally inappropriate, way too personal for this medium or may even border on blackmail.
With the above in mind and even though I totally validate the reasons why some will moderate their comments - there are too many unhinged people out there and, believe me, I've seen and met my share - I resolved never to moderate comments on this blog. I can literally see a couple of my friends in blogshere raising their eyebrows and saying: you wait, you'll eat your words and I think I agree with you because, as I write, I feel it in my water that you're right.
What has influenced my thinking is the knowledge, acquired over the past two years or so, that we have less to fear from those people I described in the first paragraph than those who are hidden from us, (some of whom smile at us in reality and are our best friends at work and at play, and who we share our stories with and they know most things about us, the ones who really understand us, them), those with really ulterior hang-ups, total dead-beats with sinister chips on their narrow shoulders fermenting evil machinations and wallowing in the stench of their murkiness.
I have broadly divided visitors to various blogs into separate categories below:
1. The Curious – they just ‘surf’ (how I hate that word) and look around various blogs. Like reading a newspaper, they do not leave comments.
2. The Passive – this category mostly wander unto your site by linking to comments you leave at other sites. Some leave comments, some do not. Some come back, others stay away. Some want to come back later to blogs they find interesting but cannot find the path with which they navigated to the blog, as has happened to me. Some ‘stalk’ your blog in a not unpleasant way.
3. The Active – some who know you only on blogshere, virtual friends with whom we develop friendships and affections for their writing styles and ideas, others know your person. At other times, we meet virtually and become friends in reality. Mostly, they leave comments, sometimes they cannot be bothered.
4. The Baddies – this group have some things in common apart from the love of darkness. They generally think they’re clever; they monitor your blog so closely they could be your shadow. They’re around so often they could be stuck on with super glue. They never leave comments but follow your ‘trail’, seeing what you’ve been up to and trying to determine your next move. They are always there, rabid little heretics who may actually be deaconesses in church; greedy dead-enders slinking around in darkness. If you listen closely, you can hear them clicking on to your site. I can see you! Oh yes! Every time you come to my site I smell you, you leave a rancid bovine smell when you log off, much like your paraphernalia of jazz you thought you were hiding from me. You, daughter of darkness, the daughter of an abomination of a mother who knows both husband and boyfriend, killer of Abel and his first son, importer of jazz, the bad fruit does not fall far from the rotten tree. I smell you. Every time you come on, you leave a nasty taste in my mouth.
With the above in mind and even though I totally validate the reasons why some will moderate their comments - there are too many unhinged people out there and, believe me, I've seen and met my share - I resolved never to moderate comments on this blog. I can literally see a couple of my friends in blogshere raising their eyebrows and saying: you wait, you'll eat your words and I think I agree with you because, as I write, I feel it in my water that you're right.
What has influenced my thinking is the knowledge, acquired over the past two years or so, that we have less to fear from those people I described in the first paragraph than those who are hidden from us, (some of whom smile at us in reality and are our best friends at work and at play, and who we share our stories with and they know most things about us, the ones who really understand us, them), those with really ulterior hang-ups, total dead-beats with sinister chips on their narrow shoulders fermenting evil machinations and wallowing in the stench of their murkiness.
I have broadly divided visitors to various blogs into separate categories below:
1. The Curious – they just ‘surf’ (how I hate that word) and look around various blogs. Like reading a newspaper, they do not leave comments.
2. The Passive – this category mostly wander unto your site by linking to comments you leave at other sites. Some leave comments, some do not. Some come back, others stay away. Some want to come back later to blogs they find interesting but cannot find the path with which they navigated to the blog, as has happened to me. Some ‘stalk’ your blog in a not unpleasant way.
3. The Active – some who know you only on blogshere, virtual friends with whom we develop friendships and affections for their writing styles and ideas, others know your person. At other times, we meet virtually and become friends in reality. Mostly, they leave comments, sometimes they cannot be bothered.
4. The Baddies – this group have some things in common apart from the love of darkness. They generally think they’re clever; they monitor your blog so closely they could be your shadow. They’re around so often they could be stuck on with super glue. They never leave comments but follow your ‘trail’, seeing what you’ve been up to and trying to determine your next move. They are always there, rabid little heretics who may actually be deaconesses in church; greedy dead-enders slinking around in darkness. If you listen closely, you can hear them clicking on to your site. I can see you! Oh yes! Every time you come to my site I smell you, you leave a rancid bovine smell when you log off, much like your paraphernalia of jazz you thought you were hiding from me. You, daughter of darkness, the daughter of an abomination of a mother who knows both husband and boyfriend, killer of Abel and his first son, importer of jazz, the bad fruit does not fall far from the rotten tree. I smell you. Every time you come on, you leave a nasty taste in my mouth.
Monday, 24 December 2007
Merry Xmas To You
My friends, seen and unseen
My enemies, real and imaginary
My acquaintances, known and unknown
My family, whom I could not choose
To everyone on whose life an impact I've made
And they, on mine
Whether positive or negative but never indifferent
My enemies, real and imaginary
My acquaintances, known and unknown
My family, whom I could not choose
To everyone on whose life an impact I've made
And they, on mine
Whether positive or negative but never indifferent
Friday, 21 December 2007
Always Online
A few months ago, I was sitting in front of my big sister’s house having a chat. We fondly refer to her as Sure Sister and for the life of me, I cannot fathom the origin of that name.
Sure Sister told me about crank calls she receives at 3 am in the middle of the night, telling her they ‘have a message from her brother in London’. According to her, she always responds by saying she has no brother in London (in reality, she has two).
After laughing about it, it struck me that she was essentially answering her mobile phone when most sane people were asleep (except me on weekends, of course). I pointed this out to her and she said her phone is always on. I asked her whom she expected to call in the middle of the night and she said ‘you never know’.
Later that evening, I was speaking to Laspapi, expressing my wonder. He agreed with Sure Sister and says you never know when an important call may come in, one which you would not want to miss for the world. Cant it wait? This is Nigeria! Real business only happens in the night, he said, adding, most Nigerians leave their phones on. Excuse me!
Now, me, as soon as I get home, my mobile phones go off and do not come on until I get into the car the following day. I have a house phone for which I don’t know the number and only had it installed because the rigid Sky TV people said it was a condition for me to get the facility, so it never rings. A few years ago, I forgot my phone on and an unknown silly, giggly girl called at 2.30am and thought it was funny, so I find it difficult to understand why anyone would want to leave their phone on. My mum argues it as well and asks how to contact me in an emergency, and I reply, as politely as I can, that if it is an emergency, she should be dialling 999 instead of me. If it’s something that needs my attention, it can wait until the next day.
Now, is the problem me, or you who will not switch off?
Sure Sister told me about crank calls she receives at 3 am in the middle of the night, telling her they ‘have a message from her brother in London’. According to her, she always responds by saying she has no brother in London (in reality, she has two).
After laughing about it, it struck me that she was essentially answering her mobile phone when most sane people were asleep (except me on weekends, of course). I pointed this out to her and she said her phone is always on. I asked her whom she expected to call in the middle of the night and she said ‘you never know’.
Later that evening, I was speaking to Laspapi, expressing my wonder. He agreed with Sure Sister and says you never know when an important call may come in, one which you would not want to miss for the world. Cant it wait? This is Nigeria! Real business only happens in the night, he said, adding, most Nigerians leave their phones on. Excuse me!
Now, me, as soon as I get home, my mobile phones go off and do not come on until I get into the car the following day. I have a house phone for which I don’t know the number and only had it installed because the rigid Sky TV people said it was a condition for me to get the facility, so it never rings. A few years ago, I forgot my phone on and an unknown silly, giggly girl called at 2.30am and thought it was funny, so I find it difficult to understand why anyone would want to leave their phone on. My mum argues it as well and asks how to contact me in an emergency, and I reply, as politely as I can, that if it is an emergency, she should be dialling 999 instead of me. If it’s something that needs my attention, it can wait until the next day.
Now, is the problem me, or you who will not switch off?
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Lagos Jumps
A couple of weeks ago, I flew (instead of walking, I suppose) into Lagos. I had given Laspapi, my initial host and pick-up, 14 hours notice to arrive on Saturday morning (I can tell you: he’s sick to the eye-teeth of me), which is not bad considering I gave myself about 16 hours notice.
‘Papi had called back to say “environmental! You have to be out of the airport by 6.30am so we can get home by 7”. I said: no problem, plane gets in
‘Papi had called back to say “environmental! You have to be out of the airport by 6.30am so we can get home by 7”. I said: no problem, plane gets in
at 5.30, should be enough time. Not only did the plane not get in until 6am (I wanted to scream at the pilot to put his foot down, esisin nje tyre, and all that), my bag only came out at 6.45 and by the time we got to the car, it was 7.05. Too late! We stood in the car park having a coke and catching up, joined by one of Papi’s friends who was also waiting.
Eventually, we left at 10, got home, I had a shower and needed an immediate nap. During my last visit in April, ‘Papi had promised he would install A/C’s in his place as I complained of the heat. I dismissed him as Lagos mouth who always makes unfulfilled promises. To my surprise, he had fulfilled that promise, bless him, and split units were competing for space everywhere you looked, everywhere, wait for this!, except in the spare room where he usually shoves me. Did I say bless him?
I fell asleep and woke up with someone holding my nostrils blocked. I jerked up in a panic, Laspapi is trying to kill me in my sleep, exacting revenge for all those torturous years he thought I gave him while we were growing up. No, not him. It’s my ex choking me! How did she get into Papi’s house? She was screaming: “die, mother f*cker, die”, like a banshee. Oh my God! She finally got me! I came fully awake, not ready to give up without a fight. Oh…… It was the giant fan ‘Papi put in the room to help me sleep blowing dust into my nose. I forgot about Lagos dust and my nose was now blocked. No point in going back to sleep, especially as the picture of my ex had been so vivid.
In the evening, I made a few calls to London and Lagos, went to my favourite watering hole near ‘Papi’s house for Star and goat meat, and went to bed.
On Sunday, washed my car. Yep! I have an o
ld banging BMW I keep at ‘Papi’s, attended my watering hole again, met up with old friend and Lagos big boy Gbemiga (not of the 419 ilk, this one works o… he heads
some department in the biggest old generation bank), and decided to take in ‘Papi’s show called ‘Wedlock of the Gods’ at Terra Kulture. Jolly good show.
Eventually, we left at 10, got home, I had a shower and needed an immediate nap. During my last visit in April, ‘Papi had promised he would install A/C’s in his place as I complained of the heat. I dismissed him as Lagos mouth who always makes unfulfilled promises. To my surprise, he had fulfilled that promise, bless him, and split units were competing for space everywhere you looked, everywhere, wait for this!, except in the spare room where he usually shoves me. Did I say bless him?
I fell asleep and woke up with someone holding my nostrils blocked. I jerked up in a panic, Laspapi is trying to kill me in my sleep, exacting revenge for all those torturous years he thought I gave him while we were growing up. No, not him. It’s my ex choking me! How did she get into Papi’s house? She was screaming: “die, mother f*cker, die”, like a banshee. Oh my God! She finally got me! I came fully awake, not ready to give up without a fight. Oh…… It was the giant fan ‘Papi put in the room to help me sleep blowing dust into my nose. I forgot about Lagos dust and my nose was now blocked. No point in going back to sleep, especially as the picture of my ex had been so vivid.
In the evening, I made a few calls to London and Lagos, went to my favourite watering hole near ‘Papi’s house for Star and goat meat, and went to bed.
On Sunday, washed my car. Yep! I have an o
ld banging BMW I keep at ‘Papi’s, attended my watering hole again, met up with old friend and Lagos big boy Gbemiga (not of the 419 ilk, this one works o… he heads
some department in the biggest old generation bank), and decided to take in ‘Papi’s show called ‘Wedlock of the Gods’ at Terra Kulture. Jolly good show. Monday, drove around, got dusty and dirty in my white shirt. Dapper fashion Rule no. 1 – never wear white in Lagos. I spoke on the phone to one of my favourite strong-minded people – Isi, while navigating Ikeja and hoping one of the myriad of uniformed officers called FRCN or Plasma or Mulatto will not arrest me - made a mental promise to invite myself for a drink with her and later got to see her picture in some mag – was it Genenieve? Not sure. Somehow, I did not get to invite myself.
Tuesday, drove towards Ibadan to buy odó for my pounded yam, yes o, it now graces my kitchen and it is full size, although I have not used it yet. I like my pounded yam, comes in second after bread.
Wednesday to Saturday, hibernated in a hotel room for peace (alone, for you people with wild imaginations) and in between took in Coliseum night club, Page, Extreme something or the other and, courtesy of Gbemiga, the Lagos Country Club, before returning to the land of no area boys.
Tuesday, drove towards Ibadan to buy odó for my pounded yam, yes o, it now graces my kitchen and it is full size, although I have not used it yet. I like my pounded yam, comes in second after bread.
Wednesday to Saturday, hibernated in a hotel room for peace (alone, for you people with wild imaginations) and in between took in Coliseum night club, Page, Extreme something or the other and, courtesy of Gbemiga, the Lagos Country Club, before returning to the land of no area boys.
Monday, 10 December 2007
A Riddle That Will Kill Your Brain
Someone sent this to me since July and I would periodically look at it to no avail. I know some smart person's out there that will have the answer just like that.
========================
There are three words in the English language that end in "gry". ONE is angry and the other is hungry. EveryONE knows what the third ONE means and what it stands for. EveryONE uses them everyday, and if you listened very carefully, I've given you the third word. What is it? _______gry
========================
There are three words in the English language that end in "gry". ONE is angry and the other is hungry. EveryONE knows what the third ONE means and what it stands for. EveryONE uses them everyday, and if you listened very carefully, I've given you the third word. What is it? _______gry
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
I got hit by a golf ball
OK! The title does not fit – I just felt quirky.
Everyone knows Nigerians have a propensity for titles, probably because we are a nation of flash gits: we have the old ones of Dr; Dr. (Mrs); Chief; Alhaji and Alhaja; at which time the problem was getting so bad that Ibru, publisher of The (Nigerian) Guardian, when it first came out a couple of decades ago, decided he would only call men and women of quality like Obafemi Awolowo (Chief) and Nnamdi Azikiwe (Dr) by their titles (- this has since changed).
In the last 20 years or so, people now moved to Barrister; Lawyer; Engr. (I used to know a twit here who drives mini cabs [kabu kabu] and refers to himself as Engr. because he had done a couple of Microsoft exams); Balogun; Asiwaju; Aré; even a couple of my acquaintances are on the Otunba bandwagon. What happened to plain old Mr & Mrs?
I admire my late father for not joining the title race and praise Babatunde Fashola, Lagos State governor, for resisting it so far. I will forgive him for the totally inadequate (alright, let’s be honest – atrocious) roads, I am even willing to give him time to sort out the armed robbery and consider getting a separate power grid for Lagos, I will ignore the area boys and lack of ‘town planning’, but his stature will diminish in my eyes when he titles up.
What really irks me is the propensity for Nigerians now to be referred to as ‘Sir’. As far as I know, ‘Sir’ is an honorary knighthood bestowed by Charles’ mum which can be used by UK citizens but not by non-UK ones on the rare occasions they’re honoured. I remember Sirs Adetokunbo Ademola, Adesoji Aderemi, Tafawa Balewa, etc. The Rivers State governor (Amaechi) is called ‘Sir’ and now Sir Mike Okiro???? The Police IG was referred to as ‘Sir’ in some newspaper adverts congratulating him for his substantive appointment as IG. For some reason, these new ‘Sirs’ mostly seem to emerge from the non-nothern parts of the country and I cannot figure out the trend.
I feel better now
Everyone knows Nigerians have a propensity for titles, probably because we are a nation of flash gits: we have the old ones of Dr; Dr. (Mrs); Chief; Alhaji and Alhaja; at which time the problem was getting so bad that Ibru, publisher of The (Nigerian) Guardian, when it first came out a couple of decades ago, decided he would only call men and women of quality like Obafemi Awolowo (Chief) and Nnamdi Azikiwe (Dr) by their titles (- this has since changed).
In the last 20 years or so, people now moved to Barrister; Lawyer; Engr. (I used to know a twit here who drives mini cabs [kabu kabu] and refers to himself as Engr. because he had done a couple of Microsoft exams); Balogun; Asiwaju; Aré; even a couple of my acquaintances are on the Otunba bandwagon. What happened to plain old Mr & Mrs?
I admire my late father for not joining the title race and praise Babatunde Fashola, Lagos State governor, for resisting it so far. I will forgive him for the totally inadequate (alright, let’s be honest – atrocious) roads, I am even willing to give him time to sort out the armed robbery and consider getting a separate power grid for Lagos, I will ignore the area boys and lack of ‘town planning’, but his stature will diminish in my eyes when he titles up.
What really irks me is the propensity for Nigerians now to be referred to as ‘Sir’. As far as I know, ‘Sir’ is an honorary knighthood bestowed by Charles’ mum which can be used by UK citizens but not by non-UK ones on the rare occasions they’re honoured. I remember Sirs Adetokunbo Ademola, Adesoji Aderemi, Tafawa Balewa, etc. The Rivers State governor (Amaechi) is called ‘Sir’ and now Sir Mike Okiro???? The Police IG was referred to as ‘Sir’ in some newspaper adverts congratulating him for his substantive appointment as IG. For some reason, these new ‘Sirs’ mostly seem to emerge from the non-nothern parts of the country and I cannot figure out the trend.
I feel better now
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