Negotiation

Our very own Isi has written a collection of stories called Eko Dialogue which made gripping reading for me. I was at once caught between laughing hard and saying "this is so true".

I hear you say: "explain the title of this post". Ok. I tried negotiating with her: my proposal was that I take 80% of the sale proceeds as my management fee (she has not yet agreed that I manage her, in fact, she is adamant that she does not want me); the company that I will specifically set up for the management will take 10%; my existing business will take 5%; and I leave her with the total of 5%. Is that not how it's done? I wonder why she's being so unreasonable.

For copies call: 0702-808-9176 (Please note: this number will change when she agrees to my proposal).

Akwa Ibom Witch Children

WARNING! DISTURBING CONTENT

This was sent to me today by a friend. It disturbed me and brought tears to my eyes; I could not even view parts 2 to 6.

Is this Nigeria? Are we worse off or better off in our country where people tie down children accused of mental illness as if they were goats? Is this a sign of the lawlessness that pervades our country? Do we need English men to come in to save us from ourselves, and our children from us? Is this our own 'Spanish Inquisition'? If the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile could get it out of their system in 1478, why is Nigeria like this in 2008? Is it a failure of leadership?

The Best of Harri

I’m passing through Laspapi’s living room a couple of weeks ago when I accidentally knock down some paperwork, newspapers and several CDs. On picking up, I notice the CDs were similar promotional copies of the same song titled ‘No more Yahooze’, a title that grabs my attention. So I take one of the CDs with the intention of telling him and… well, now you know ‘Papi, if you ever get to read this post.

As soon as I collect my car at the airport I slot it in and the song strikes an immediate melodious resonance with me. I play it over and over, making private fun of the intro:

Phone rings.
Girl: Hey Baby, how about that Gushi you promised me?
Boy: Oh no! Things are a bit tigh' right now, can you call me back next week?
Girl: Nest week? No more Yahooze?

Now, I’m one of those unrefined ones who mostly listen to the rhythm and beats in music, with the songs and lyrics complementing the experience if they were lucky, however, "> it strikes me with it’s intelligence and style. For some reason, it reminds me of Gladys Knight’s Midnight train to Georgia, in which the refrain sometimes takes the lead and then everything ties together like one of Einstein’s theorems. I remember also blogville idol winner, Abbie and her voice.

I recognise my limitations (yes, even I have one or two) and I know I am no song critic, so I decided to share the song with my friends because I still listen to it everyday, doing an Internet search so I could get a link. I got his MySpace page where Harri Best shows his photo, well cut ‘pecs and all. (The link I use is You Tube but a Google search for Harri Best reveals a lot). I was in the process of making fun of myself, sharing that the only reason he looked like that was because he had not had pizza for lunch and Chinese for dinner like I did that day. Then I took a closer look…

This is Harry! Laspapi’s Harry. They were best friends at Baptist Academy and he was so small-framed then. Once I saw him in London and he remained his pleasant self. He sings? And so well?

Good luck Harri. May you get to the top and then become my claim to fame.">

Confessions of a Weary Traveller

I find it difficult to believe that I have not blogged for almost 3 months. A myriad of reasons but the prevailing one is laziness. I was always going to post something ‘today’ or ‘tomorrow’ until it all gradually became remote. Even my one-year anniversary in October went unheralded. Ok, I do believe I’ve now beaten myself up sufficiently.

So I’m in an airplane last week on the way to Lagos awaiting take-off. The woman next to me is reading a newspaper and then makes a phone call to her friend to proclaim ‘Jesus is alive’. She obviously sees Obama’s election as a celestial event. I was initially fearful because I had been unfortunate enough to have sat next to another bible-reading, fervent-praying, wildly-gesticulating woman on a trip in June, who ended up having an argument with two other passengers and three crew at different times, leaving me wondering about what I might have done to deserve the torture of my allocated seat. Why do I always end up with these people? In truth, the Jesus-is-alive-cos-Obama-won woman turned out to be really nice if you could ignore the ‘praise Jesus’ and ‘God lives’ that she interposed with every sentence and we chatted for most of the trip.

Still on divine intervention, I had my iPhone with me and realised I did not have the pin with which to remove the sim card, so I could change to my Nigerian sim. I was loath to ask the crew for a sharp object for fear of being labelled ‘Taliban’ and simply wished I had a toothpick. I looked down and right by my foot was one of those individually wrapped toothpicks. Now, you’ve got to bear in mind that this was a freshly cleaned plane and we were yet to take off. I spent the entire flight vainly looking to see if I’d find another. My own miracle!

I will not even talk about the two spoilt kids who screamed and cried for four hours right from before take-off. It was all I could do not to get up and slap them upside the head, and then their parents too if they deigned to complain.

And the stupid girl who spent 15 minutes complaining to the Stewardess as she could not get a space in the overhead compartment right over her seat. Does it take a Stewardess to explain to a Nigerian that the lockers are not allocated?

Lagos was fine as usual. I was distressed about the Uzoma girl’s story as it was just breaking when I got in. On Wednesday I visited the Trade Fair, which reminded me of how much deterioration has taken place, six hours for a return journey that should have taken one, on arrival running a gauntlet of mainly aggressive Igbo traders who were selling clothing and footwear seconds all over the Fair grounds.

Then, and now

1. Then, I used to sport an afro and it was a running battle with my father not to have it trimmed. Now I cut my hair very low every week, stopping just short of completely shaving my head

2. Then, I loved cars and as a teenager when my father sent me on an errand with the car I would look to drive through the most congested streets I could find in Lagos. Now I wish I could afford a driver although my love of driving has not diminished

3. Then, we ate any strange food combinations as student teens – moin pie (bread with moin-moin [bean cakes]); banana pie (bread with bananas); ice cream sandwich (need I tell you the ingredients?); bread with sugar cubes; bread with groundnuts; bananas with groundnuts. Now I just try to exercise portion control

4. Then, I drove my car left hand twisted forward over the steering wheel in a proud display of my wedding band. Now I drive left hand twisted forward over the steering wheel in a proud display of an empty hand

5. Then (last June), I looked at my fish live in the tank before I authorised its slaughter (its called ‘kill-and-go’ or ‘shoot-to-kill’ or ‘point-and-kill’ or something).



Now my gut hasn’t gone down after forgetting my portion control policy in devouring the catfish washed down with Star Lager

Don’t You Just Dislike That?

I have succumbed to the quite forceful (thanks, dscr?be) and gentle (what a voice Abbie has) prodding to update (having just discovered from the link that they may be one and the same) and when deciding what to write, I discovered something about myself today – my posts are always symptomatic of my moods. I have 3 or 4 posts swirling around my head (with apologies to ‘in my head and around me…’) at any given time, however, some just do not sit right with me to publish, depending on my mood, no prizes for guessing what my mood is at the end of this post. For you guys who see shrinks, I think I just qualified (as a shrink, that is), so let’s negotiate.

Those who read my previous posts about ‘irritating habits’ and ‘revolting habits’ know that there are some things that just, well… irritate me. I don’t think I’m pernickety, I certainly hope not, but some things just do a rumba on my nerves, especially when they’re oft repeated.

Here goes:

1. Women who violently pat their scalps in order to salve the itch caused by their weaves or attachments. You see them everywhere; in shops, while they're driving, walking down the street, all over the place. They also always appear to be of African extraction (someone please correct me if I’m wrong). Why, friends, why? If it itches that much, it means you have dandruff or fleas or ticks or something. Why not simply take off the weave and shampoo the hair, or don’t wear it, you’ll give yourself a brain haemorrhage. Am I being simple?

2. Long posts, some of which are made less attractive by being published in 8 point font size. Come on, one gratification from our posts is when others read them, so how do you think one would feel after spending 30 minutes and aching eyes reading one?

3. Music on blogs – I listen to an eclectic collection (remember the iTunes tag?) and would not impose my taste on anyone, besides, listening to music puts me off reading and I get tired of stretching to turn down my speakers each time. I must confess, though, that I heard Gongo Aso for the first time on Sha’s blog, even then, I think it would be a good idea to get one of these players that do not start automatically.

4. My pet hate – people who do stretching exercises on plane aisles. My ex-wife used to do that and it embarrassed the boxers off me (probably why I’m still traumatised). I agree that we did a lot of those 10 and 11 hour trips to Florida, LA and Texas, but come on, grunting down the aisle after 1 hour of flight time? I feel there are places such as in front of the emergency doors where one could surreptitiously stretch, anything other than that appears to me to be an attitude of ‘notice me’, which doesn’t say much for one’s self-esteem.

Do We Need Pre-Nups?

You’ve met the woman of your dreams, or, for that matter, the man. (S)he’s charming, sweet, sensitive, supportive, romantic and hard-working. As an added bonus, (s)he’s tremendously good-looking and also has a good job. (OK. Here’s where the alarm bells start ringing – how come (s)he’s available, are all the other men/women walking around blindly which enables this extremely eligible (wo)man to fly below the radar? For the benefit of this post, we’ll ignore those wretched alarm bells).

So you’re a practical so and so and decide a pre-nup is a good idea. There might be tears ('it means you don’t love me'); there may be lies ('poor (wo)man, how can I convince you not everyone is like that?'); there will be reassurance ('it’s just a crying shame that you haven’t met the right (wo)man'); there can be reverse psychology ('my family may not be wealthy...'); there certainly will be indignation ('what do you mean? How dare you? My father had 50 times what you have before he died'; or 'before someone duped him out of £50 billion'; or 'before my mum fell ill and he spent N75 trillion on her treatment abroad'). How do you navigate these obstacles?

…Or, maybe you still believe in the goodness of human nature, you being love-struck and all and thinking: what the heck is this fellow writing about? Where has he been? What sort of shady characters has he met? Pre-nup kó, pre-nup ni (in other words, don’t talk to me about pre-nup). Anyways, I have nothing of value that a future spouse can lay claim to if things go sour, at the most, a DVD player, a house and a car.

Did you just say nothing?! You may end up finding out that ‘nothing’ becomes ‘everything’. Ask Lanre who is now stacking shelves at night in the supermarket after he lost ‘nothing’. Ask Louis who has developed physical complications after mental illness when he lost ‘nothing’. Do ask “Sade” who felt she had to emigrate to Canada when she lost ‘nothing’, which included her erstwhile husband instructing a solicitor to claim a half share of her house on the day she was supposed to complete a sale, after he walked out and said he wanted nothing to do with her and her house.

Maybe we should use the case of Mr and Mrs Crossley to bring it home. In the UK, pre-nups are not as binding as in the US, however, this is a very interesting case. I quote a magazine: Mr and Mrs Crossley ‘were independently wealthy at the time of their marriage (indeed, Mrs Crossley had accumulated £18 million from three earlier divorces {that’s $36m to you folks across the pond}). Their marriage … had the benefit of a pre-nuptial agreement. When Mrs Crossley sought to extricate herself from the agreement in order to bring financial claims against her fourth husband, the Court of Appeal rejected her claim, making it clear that this was exactly the sort of case where a pre-nuptial agreement should be truly binding’.

A true example, albeit an extreme one. Your thoughts?