The Prevalence of Currency…

…as dominating our relationships.

The vulnerable, unsure, classically insecure man, who now finds himself in a state of relative financial well-being, has a coping mechanism to dealing with relationships he never dreamed he could attain, splash money around; and also a strategy, splash some more money around. This is quite typical of the Nigerian male, some of whom indulge in now common-place corrupt practices in order to fund the impression of possessing an endless well of money. Another category of man who is poor in every sense of the word also will aspire to be like our man. On this side of the pond our friends who engage in full time jobs as bank fraudsters and credit card forgers are well known.

Show me a man that works 70 hours a week (and I mean works, not someone doing some pseudo routine impression such as leaving home at 1.00pm and ending up at a ’joint’ with the lads) who spends money without thinking and I will show you a liar.

Our women folk have cottoned on to the weakness of the classical man described above by customarily asking him for money. If, during one of his few moments of clarity he decides he does not have the money he will be told in no uncertain terms that he is tight. You should not be surprised when a woman tells her friend, “he’s so tight his bum squeaks when he walks”. There is no thought as to whether or not the man has the money, if he has other plans, can he afford it, or if simply he believes in spending his money according to his wishes.

The pattern is simple: the woman’s mother is ill and she needs money for hospital treatment; or her father is dying with typhoid; or her brother got run over by a hit and run driver; even grannies have been known to die for the cause and she needs money, being the first child, to be able to meet her financial obligations during the burial rites. The more confident woman will ask straight off, “Give me some money so I can look nice for you”.

Then the man, who has seen and heard it all before, possibly stringing 4 or 5 girls along at the same time and listens to the same chorus everyday as if the girls get together to practice, gives her the money anyway. He also knows from discussions at the joint that each of the girls he is stringing along has also 4 or 5 men they are stringing along too, hedging their bets. The heart-wrenching thing is, everyone knows what is going on, however, the man consoles himself by saying she’s not exclusive to him, while the woman says the same but adds to herself, ‘well, I’m a woman, who else am I supposed to ask money from?’.

The unasked question is, had the man not been in the picture, from where would the woman have got the money?

It’s a vicious circle.

I cannot believe how many articles, how many blogs I have read where women condemn the syndrome of a disrespectful, insensitive, abusive and uncaring man but seem incapable of marrying that syndrome to the fact that the man’s perception of them is that if he had had no money, they would not have touched him with a barge pole. Many commentators’ first instinct here too will be to say they do not need a man’s money, however, by the following week, they will be asking him for money in one form or another.

Here Comes Cherub

The season again is upon us when the winged little cherub starts to shoot arrows at gender-specific humans, with the sole aim of coercing them into buying red-wrapped gifts and confectionary for opposite-gender-specific humans, who are, as is customary, lined up hands outstretched like matriarchs in an Italian Mafia family.

There is no doubt in my mind that there is a sort of mafia thing going on here. Men are made offers they cannot refuse: you either turn into a romantic slush or it means you do not love me. You’d better get out there and buy the best gift you cannot afford, if you’re going to get a leg over tonight. The larger the red envelope-ensconced card, the deeper your affection for me is the message. Flowers, those pretty things that die within 48 hours, galore.

Shops have picked up on this deft male emasculation to devote whole sections to the worship of pink and red.

For those to whom the fact that women are smart is still questionable, why do you think the quiver-wielding, fat boy employed for this task is a male called Cupid? Why not Cupida or Cupidina or Cupidess? Why not, for that matter, Sikira? Oh no, it’s got to be Sikiru*.

*Sikira is a Nigerian name exclusive to women as Sikiru is to men.

The Dearth of Romance

So, I have not written in awhile and as time rolled on, it became increasingly difficult to reign in the pull to different directions and other interests, however, here I am.

I would wish you a happy new year but I'm sure that everyone you know, down to their comatose great-grandmother has wished you one, even those that hope you do not have one, which makes me reluctant to add my voice to the chorus.

It took a few minutes for me to decide on the title to this post – 'death' or 'dearth', 'death' or 'dearth', 'death' or 'dearth' – and I settled for 'dearth' because I believe romance exists, not as much as it should, not as pure as it used to be, not as sweet as it can be, but it does. Besides, I do not want those hidden blog warriors to have a fit, after all, its a new year and I have to conform to convention in some form or another.

Years ago (and by that I mean many, many moons ago) and growing up, one could go out and end up in a romantic encounter. Boy meets girl or vice versa. They exchange telephone numbers. They spend countless hours on the telephone just chatting, day dreaming, exchanging slum books, always hanging around their houses or those of their friends in order to catch a glimpse of one the other with hearts ready to jump out the throat and it usually did, even though the girl or boy lives just a street or two away. Juvenile? I think not. The reality was just different then.

Today, boy meets girl or vice versa. They exchange telephone numbers. They spend countless hours on the telephone just chatting, that is after the girl 'flashed' the boy, they have lunch at Tantalizers where boy foots the bill, girl asks for some money to recharge her card, and then for some more to catch a taxi home (this is the girl who alighted from an okada an hour ago).

Or you take an evening out. You see a red hot girl and you dance with her. Its going all too well and you realise you're on the wrong path after you buy her the second drink and she asks if she would be going home with you. While we're on the topic, does anyone know of any place in Lagos where you can have a nice evening out and you don't have to be wary of your dancing partner?

Before you say it is a Naija thing I do believe its not local to Nigeria. I have been out to dinner many times and seen my companions make no move to pay. Of those that have offered and I accepted, one looked like she was going to cry.

But (yes, I know, never start a sentence with 'but') romance is not dead. There are still people who look each other in the eye and smile without uttering a word. There are those you go out with who will fill you with comfort and display old fashioned consideration. The smile in their eyes and the softness of their voice. Their self-consciousness just because you're looking at them. The text messages that make you smile. The time they have for you and your thoughts. The longing for the voice of the other. The exchange of songs, mostly meaningful. Voices that have a special melody to them. Peculiarities, idiosyncratic ways that are cute. No, they do not ask for recharge cards but rather purchase one for you when you run out of credit. They sometimes take you out and buy you lunch.

There is a dearth, however, it is not dead.

Another One Bites The Dust

I attended a wedding quite by accident last November. I met, on the way to Lagos, a couple who were going for their sister’s wedding and had received an invite to which my initial inclination was to decline (I mean, the fella and his wife had my phone number in London so why was I being invited on the plane) and to which, for the sake of not wanting to appear churlish, I accepted.

And attended. The ceremony was well organised and it was an enjoyable experience. The bride seemed to enjoy herself and stepped around the hall in the dance of the happy. The groom seemed slightly bemused but happy all the same. I wish them happy married life until they reach 100 years of age…however, the wedding got me thinking about mine, and whether women especially concentrate more on the ceremony than keeping the marriage ‘alive’.

It seems to me that I stand guilty too of not thinking deeply about marital life before embarking on one. I thought it would be sex on demand (what man does not want that?), sweetness and fun, without any education (self-attained or otherwise) on how marriages work. My traditional introduction ceremony took place with a week’s notice when I decided to move to London since my ex-wife informed me that her parents would not let her join me without any formal recognition, and we returned to Nigeria for the engagement/marriage when she was pregnant, because her parents – church deacons – would not be happy about her giving birth outside of wedlock. Never mind that it is the deaconess who I now find imports jazz from Nigeria for my ex.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not implying I was dragged eyes wide shut to the alter – I certainly loved my ex and I gladly agreed because I knew it would make her happy.

My ex danced like she was going to drop in the church, a ceremony that lasted from 10 until almost 4 pm, even though we still had prayers at her house and a two hour journey back to Lagos. My father commented the following day that she was so happy because she had snagged me and my brother said something similar a few days later. I responded to both of them that she had said she was determined to enjoy her wedding day, which was true. It occurs to me now that she was not as determined to enjoy her marriage.

Marriage now fills me with trepidation because I realise that so many people will walk into mistakes. Unfortunately, about 40% of UK marriages are now breaking up and a large proportion of the remaining 60% are tumultuous. Darkelcee recently wrote an article about her fiancé liking original pounded and I was alarmed at the first comment which suggested the commentator’s husband had to put up with poundo, or nothing (I’m sure the comment was a joke). Relationships are hard work, marriages much harder and I think a lot of our parents fail in educating us properly about them, especially when we have many deaconesses who, rather than train their children, believe in the power of jazz to help keep their children’s spouses under control.

I will end on an upbeat tone. Many marriages will be happy ever after and I can see some examples on blogville: Oluwadee who critically examines every step she takes; Sherri, fiercely independent but with a heart of gold; Omosewa, whom someone once said to me will kill her husband with love (and who, by the way, has 'univited' me to her blog) and a few others.

As Another Valentine’s Day Approaches…

If Cupid is the god of erotic love and beauty why does he appear always to be working extra time in keeping only women folk happy at this time of the year? You only need to step into a supermarket and their ‘valentines’ corner’ is an assault to the senses of the various shades of the colours pink and red. Since we, as men, are stuck with the colour blue (yellow is my favourite colour by the way), who keeps us happy at this time?

That chubby-cheeked overweight dwarf with a quiver and arrows has been hijacked by women all over the world as a sign of the affection of men and turned many men into psychologically-whipped mongrels. Maybe I should not be so narrow in my views as gays too probably employ his services. Valentine’s day is supposed to be when lovers express their love for each other however the flow of gifts, flowers and chocolates all seem to go in one direction: to the female side of the aisle.

In my university days, it was not uncommon for lads to take out girls and pay for everything – movies, meals, shows. Some used to steal, scrape, starve, scrimp and save in order to achieve this and it did not matter if they went without food for the next month. Those of us who had cars were luckier and could afford to spend little or nothing and still pull but an awful lot of pedestrians, especially those that were not from middle class families went celibate. Or went outside of campus to chase girls in the secondary schools of Ile-Ife.

Personally, I will not now date someone with no job, no car (I will not take you grocery shopping) or whose arms hang loosely by her sides whenever it is the time to pay, in other words, an elébi (hungry person). I seriously do not expect a woman to take me out all the time however, I think once to every five times I take her out would be a good compromise, and still she will be doing well out of it.

A Reason To Be Thankful

A friend bought this house at auction last August, spent tens of thousands in refurbishing it to the highest standard, put it on the market (including with me) just in time for the constriction in the property market and then let it out last month as he could not achieve a sale anywhere near his desired price.

This morning the house was gutted by fire. He is devastated and in tears, however, I reminded him (easy for me to say, I suppose) that the tenants did not die in their sleep, especially as there were no smoke alarms installed.

There is always a reason to be thankful although sometimes it is difficult to see it.

The Day I Became Deaf

HISTORY

Hair cut low as usual on Sunday.
Heavy snow into Monday, a little bit of exposure (no, nothing like making a snowman or having a snow fight), some driving around, a lot of sleep and too much eating. Sneezing, sniffling and feeling heady.


SYMPTOMS

Huge headache on Tuesday was the cause of my timely escape from work. Early to bed.
Woke up in the wee hours of Wednesday to hear this constant hum in my head. I could not hear a thing. My sworn enemies have finally got me – didn’t people say juju and witchcraft do not work? I seemed to be in a land of blankness and for a minute, thought this must be how the acutely mentally impaired see the world.
Blocked ears. Could not hear a thing except when you shout and then voices reverberate in my head. Unable to use my phone, sounds like a broken speaker.
Some blood specks when I clean out my nose. Both ears and left nostril blocked.
Restrictive pain between my eyes.


DIAGNOSIS

It appeared like I had lots of water in my ears. No, this is more viscous than water, it is a serious head cold!


OUTLOOK

Positively cantankerous. My phone could not stop ringing yesterday and at a time I picked up to shout at a repetitive caller: “why don’t you just stop calling or send a text message if I do not pick up”? and cut off. I promptly received a text message from a dear friend who had just given birth and was calling to inform me of the fact. Shame! Had to apologise by text. Even more shameful, as I could not tell her why I did not call and was in a mood.
I was like a dog with fleas, everything was an irritation.


TREATMENT

Paracetamol overload. Sniffed on vapour from hot, covered water with some menthol. No, could not get a-hold of Olbas Oil.


THE PATIENT

Can now hear slightly. One ear still completely blocked and the other intermittently. Unable to use phone. Still tetchy.