The Hyena's Belly

Study of Pure Emotions

2011-10-04T09:58:00.000-04:00

It floats somewhere above the base of the gut, sometimes rising, bobbing, into the throat, where it grows dense and heavy and dark.

There are times when you wish it would rise higher, just an inch or two, where it will pop like a geyser and spew heat all over your skin, wetting your skin, releasing you from your skin that is stuck in this place like a poltergeist with nowhere to rest.

This is what sadness feels like.

I wait in a field of blond grass, taller and wispier than I, yet just as fragile. With the grass, I stand and sway, listening to something on the horizon. It is low, but there is danger in the rumbling. I hear it getting closer, louder, the sound of it developing ominous tones, deep with bass. I cannot see it, but I know that it is black. I know that it is black, and I know that it is hot, and I know that I will not be able to outrun it and so I don’t even try.

As it comes, I stand still, outwardly and unto myself. There is nowhere to look but inside, and so I shut my eyes and contemplate my final destruction.

The heat is closer now; there is a wind blowing toward me, flagellating me with the grass that is my flimsy shield and camouflage. My skin is cut and bleeding. Still, I stand, unmoved and unmoving but for the quickening of my pulse as I steel my soul for what is about to consume me.

That is what rage feels like.

Run the sharp edge of a knife along smooth, almond-colored skin and watch it burst open, revealing hues of ivory and ruby. Listen to sighs of ecstasy, of delight, of finally feeling a feeling that is so horrific, so painful, as to not be ignored.

To bleed. This is what relief feels like.

Queen of Vagina

2010-10-29T07:18:00.005-04:00

I've been in a funky mood for about two weeks. Vinegar is flowing through my veins, I spit fire when I talk. I don't love my friends as much as I did on October 16th. The only person guaranteed to make me smile these days is Majela Zeze Diamond, a.k.a. Queen of Vagina.

She is my hero.

She doesn't write songs; she writes public service announcements. Did you know that 2 + 2 is not actually 4 but vagina? Actually, 2 + 2 is vagina, vagina and vagina. The sum of two twos is also vagina and "pinis", which means that one pinis equals two vaginas, which may or may not be an argument against monogamy. Queen of Vagina is deep, man.

Q of V's songs/PSAs typically last about three minutes and are astoundingly effective. She keeps 'em simple: no more than three parts, the message of each segment repeated rhythmically until it is hammered so deeply into all three layers of your psyche that you will not forget it, no matter how hard you try. Listen to her, I dare you. Queen of Vagina is like crystal meth: all it takes is once. I entered what I now see is a lifetime contract innocently, and now, no matter what I'm doing, no matter who I'm talking to, whatever song I'm listening to on my iPod, Queen of Vagina is there, wailing, "Vaja, vaja, vaja, vagina o-oo-o-o! Vaja, vaja, vaja, vagina eh-eeh-eh-eh!"

I like that she keeps it clean, in her own way, for the most part. She doesn't cheapen her privates by referring to them in feline terms. And even though she is very clear on the fact that she doesn't even respect men, who are "very stupid", she obviously accords much respect to their genitalia, which she sometimes refers to by its formal name, "John Tomos."

I fear I'm growing too attached. As she is currently my only source of true and complete joy, I've begun to study her, trying to find out (or make up) her story. I want to know: do her shoes match her earrings or her eyeshadow? Does she own a MacBook? Does she really bark out orders like, "Give it to me, baby!" when she's doing John Tomoses "until they are knackered"? And is that person in the cap-and-gown on the wall photo behind her the self she used to be before she became the Queen of Vagina too few of us know and love? So many questions....

I'm going to wear a blonde wig, tight red tee, denim jacket and shiny, purple hot pants for Halloween this year. Some people will call that my costume. I think it'll be the banana peel on my slide into Nigeria-induced mental instability, kinda like the Ted Levine character in Silence of the Lambs who skinned women to make himself a body suit. I promise to take loads of pictures and paste them all over my room.

Ofada, Where Art Thou?

2010-10-06T08:33:00.010-04:00

Whenever my bush-er Nigerian friends start to make bota/pako comparisons, placing me in the former category, I have a tendency to balk with indignation. Ah no be bota, I will usually say in Pidgin, just to prove it. And I really believe I'm not. I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth but the advent of SAP quickly saw that utensil replaced with something plastic, something with rough, unfinished edges. How many ajebotas can say they spent a good part of their adolescence living in a two-room boys' quarters with seven other people, including a senile grandmother who considered this living large and her illiterate, village-raised granddaughter whose frustration at not being able to express herself in idiomatic English usually led to a fist fight?

I have handwashed white denim to blinding success; I have de-husked rice with a mortar and pestle; I considered soaked gari a staple in my diet. Hell, whenever I came into money, I would go crazy and buy five nairas' worth of kulikuli, raising this dish from dull to delicacy. I even rode a night bus from Jos to Lagos once (and back!). Granted, most of my family doesn't know (or care) that I lived this way for years, but the reality of this part of my history surely earns me at least part-time membership in the Pako Hall of Fame.

But there are times when I concede to the razz, the local champions, the akpu nwas, that they may be right after all. That no matter how much gari I have soaked, no matter how hard I had to scrounge for kulikuli, these are not the things that make me a pako. Food is not the great equalizer in Nigeria; the perpetuity of generational hardship is. No matter how much a wealthy man loves to eat akpu, he and his gardener will not eat from the same plate, or even at the same table. And we do all eat the same things; yet rich and poor are divided by how much meat they can afford to put in their stews. There will always be a way to separate the 'us' from the 'them' in Nigeria, whatever the context.

Still, there are many things I love about living pako. And the signs that I, indeed, have lived across the tracks from 'las pako', are glaringly apparent. Like when I had to confess that I had never heard the term takpas before this year, or eaten ofada rice. What a wretched omission of joy from my bota'ed life! It is my own private delight when I espy a Nigerian man dressed to the nines for a formal event, and he is wearing takpas. I laugh 'til tears are pouring from my eyes, because the word sounds like the catapult he must have used to get himself into those tight pants. Takpas! It was not just elbow grease he used to squeeze his sizeable African thighs into resistant cotton; it was sheer willpower. Takpas! I love that word.

And now I can't believe I went my whole life without ever eating ofada rice. When I discovered mama-put jollof, I honestly believed it was the final frontier. The smoky flavor and aroma, the individual grains dancing a spicy tango on the tongue, getting intimate with your tastebuds. There was nothing like mama-put jollof, also fondly referred to as party rice. But now there is ofada. After one plateful, I converted and never looked back. Today, I am passionate about ofada rice. I eat ofada rice with my eyes closed, leaving my left hand free to caress my throat, chest and stomach as this deliciousness travels to my gastric cavity. I don't know what it is that makes me feel so...satisfied. Perhaps it is the rice grain itself. Not content to resemble its tame, ivory-tinted cousins from Asia and the Americas, ofada wears a brown-flecked coat. This gives it character. Like the plastic spoon in the mouth of pako newborns, ofada grains are rough around the edges and create a mild, popping sensation around the gums while one chews.

Or maybe it is the stew. If only I knew how to make ofada stew. The ubiquitous tomato and tatase paste of all our stews is fried to within a hair's breadth of utility in palm oil then flavored with stockfish, pomo and MSG. Pomo: that emptiest of nutritious foods, yet so much fun to eat. Someone had the brilliant idea to cut pomo into tiny cubes when making ofada stew. It was probably to stretch the availability of the "meat", to disguise the fact that there wasn't much to make this cheap meal properly attractive. (After all, what is food in Nigeria without meat? A mere waste, a whiling away of one's life until real food makes its appearance, preferably bleating, crowing or mooing on its way to slaughter.) Whatever the case, one man's deception is my happy time. I love tiny cubes of pomo. When I bite into a cube, unexpectedly, as I savor ofada rice behind closed eyes, it's like eating caviar. It's like finally being able to soak gari with kulikuli. It's like eating February 29th: oh my goodness! Is it you? Here? Oh...and just like that, you've gone but, I know, you shall return.

The rice and stew are served on a banana leaf, for reasons unbeknowst to me, but since this leaf is usually the only green that appears on the plate - inedible or not - I welcome its verdancy, the way it complements the brown-red stew. My mouth is watering. The first and only time I tossed this delightful culinary creation, rice on stew on rice, I had no idea what to expect. I was just hungry. Hungry and visiting Henrietta (not her real name) whose chef I will now worship forever and ever. Henrietta felt like cooking and offered to make me grilled salmon and roast potatoes. If I were any less hungry, I might have agreed. But now I am grateful to whichever spirit it was which told me to resist the lure of exotic foods in Nigeria and just eat whatever I could smell coming from the kitchen (which only smelled hot and fresh, not great. Ofada, like most other African meals, promises far less than it delivers. If we Africans judged food by its smell, we would never cook).

I'm in Europe now, in a large city where food from all over the world is never more than a bus ride away and always available at reasonable prices. But all I want is Henrietta's chef to make me ofada rice. I want to scrape up the last few grains of rice from the bottom of my plate, destroying part of the ceramic design, before helping myself shamelessly to a second helping I know I have no business eating. I want to eat alone, so that I can moan euphorically as I chew, without raising eyebrows. But I cannot: there is no ofada here. (Or is there?)

Just as soon as I possibly can, I am going to swoop into a lowly canteen (or Henrietta's kitchen) and place my order for this thing of delight. Like manna to the desert-roaming Israelites is my ofada to me. If you chance upon me on this occasion, I beg you, ignore the palm oil running down my chin. I will have been oblivious to it, not caring in that moment what class of person I am, just that I relish what I am doing.

How to Speak Nigerian

2010-09-21T11:25:00.002-04:00

Nigerians are very good people.

And never better than when they are dealing with non-Nigerians. It is more or less common knowledge that a Nigerian will bend over backwards (or in most cases, forwards, holding his ankles and willing his butt cheeks to spread) to please a foreigner in our country, shunning all other culturally acceptable practices and even self-respect in order to fulfill the every wish of this visitor to his fatherland.

I haven’t quite determined whether my people do this simply because they want something huge in return and don’t know how else to ask for it, or if they are just natural doormats and can’t help themselves. Whatever the case, the good Lord finally saw me fit to experience a firsthand taste of this brand of obsequiousness.

It was a cool evening in Abuja and I was planning an all-nighter, so I ventured to a coffee shop to purchase a latte (which was surprisingly good. Thank you, enterprising Lebanese people, for introducing this delicious, frothy, steamy beverage to our society). When I walked up to the counter to order my drink, I absently and automatically did something my fellow expats will relate to: I used my formal accent.

If you’re an African who has ever lived abroad, you already know what this means. But for those who may not understand, I shall explain. The African is known for possessing a most unique accent, usually comprised of deep, bass notes, lilting intonations, colorful vernacular. When we speak, we mesmerize (or perhaps, stupefy) foreign listeners, who realize they have never heard English (or French or Spanish or…) spoken quite like this before. Indeed, it sounds so strange to them, they hardly recognize these languages for what they are.

Therefore, in order to accommodate our Western hosts in their native countries, several of us have chosen to adopt a speaking style that mimics theirs, so they will not have to strain their ears and brains in order to engage in simple communications with us. We practice these speech patterns for months, years, imbibing them like smooth whisky, so that we may order our drinks and pick up our prescriptions in peace.

Some, like me, are more fortunate than others: attending school with Americans and Britons since we were children, the accent comes naturally to us. We roll our r’s like experts; when we say innit, additional consonants don’t pop up randomly to turn the word into hinni. In short, we blend in. At least, phonetically. Which is why, when we adopt these foreign speech patterns, Nigerians say we are “speaking foneh [faw-NEH].”

Initially, for me, the need to speak foneh only arose in formal situations, which was usually the only time there was a white person in the room. Over time, this formal accent became my polite accent became the way I spoke when I wasn’t yet comfortable with who I was speaking to, white, black, Asian, Arab….whatever. And now, it just pops out whenever it feels like it, and I’ve stopped trying to figure out why. This is what happened this day, when I opened my mouth to order a latte at this coffee shop somewhere in Abuja, and discovered that, to Nigerians, foneh is the gateway to heaven.

Ah! Foreigners enjoy Nigeria sha. I will never know what it was about the way I ordered this latte, but the lady who took my order was clearly impressed. Her eyes lit up and she leaned in towards me over the counter, soaking in my every word. She smiled at me, and was very attentive, trying to make sure that I received everything I wanted, that I received it promptly and that I would have no complaints about my service. I had to reassure her repeatedly that I was certain I didn’t require anything but a simple latte, no, not a delectable pastry, not even of the caramel variety; no, not extra foam in my milk. When I paid, I gave my money to another attendant, but the order taker traveled the length of the counter to ensure that my change and receipt were handled to me with care and a smile. I have never been wished a good evening by so many Nigerian staff in one shot.

I walked out of the store, high on life and feeling momentarily like a human being until a scruffy-looking policeman stopped me at a checkpoint, gruffly ordering me to “Stop there!” and put on my inner light, reminding me that I am merely Nigerian after all. There was no time to pull out my new secret weapon; I could tell from his red eyes that he wasn’t the sort of man you refer to as ‘officer’ – a man that high should only be called ‘sah’, and preferably with some groveling involved.

The preferential treatment is obviously not right or fair, but I must admit I was ever-so-slightly heartened to discover that my people’s biases have nothing to do with race, which is all I’ve contended with since I moved to America. Here, what separates the wheat from the chaff is money. Money by all its names: ego, owo, cheddar, bread…it spins Nigeria on whatever skewed axis we happen to be on. But for all our faults, it appears anyone can get a chance to hop on that ride.

My lady at the coffee shop has seemingly realized that gone are the days when only non-Nigerians could be considered wealthy – now you never know who is going to help move you up that social ladder. So best to be kind, at least to anyone who sounds like they’ve been where you want to go. Of course, I look forward to the day when I can expect good service just as a matter of principle, but until then, I’m using my cheat sheet: foneh all day, baby!

romancing the keys: an ode to my compaq

2009-09-27T19:17:00.003-04:00

ah, how i have missed you.

the words come to me slowly. i have been out of practice.
these fingers: they move more quickly than before, but clumsily. i do not remember you as i once did.

this is our last hurrah.
soon it will be the last time.
i have fallen for another.

three years we have known each other.
you have brought songs out of me, poetry. stories.
of discomfort. soreness.
exploration.
new beginnings.
unexpected ends.

the tale is complete.

and now your turn has come.
discarded onto a heap of electronic garbage, perhaps.
pulled apart by the deft fingers of the impoverished,
experts at discovering hidden value.
exploited for needing and knowing so little.

or handed down to one more needy, also lacking,
though more privileged in many ways.
little brother.
distant cousin, learning you in a ghanaian village.

you are magic.
but your sparkle has dissipated.
it is time to move on.

but for now
you remain
to tell the story of a closing chapter.

of romance that bloomed only to disappear sharply into a void of 'once-was'.
i am grateful.
of misery that tugged and pulled at itself until it discovered the hard seed of self-fulfillment.
my eyes have been opened.
of friendships, both quick and long-lasting.
i will cherish them. all of them.
of that which is new and will continue to reveal itself.
i will explore.
i have explored.

there is much to offer, and you have shown me this.
at once a tool and confidante,
you have served me well.
with fondness,

i bid you adieu.

love on july the fourth: through a slit in the drywall

2009-07-05T11:18:00.004-04:00

we will wake in poor man's luxury, a soft wind blowing through my subterranean window. on these summer days, i can peer out from underneath it to see the sun, hot and yellow, gleaming off the emerald leaves of the trees. the window's position does not permit those rays to warm me, instead letting in a smooth chill that hovers cozily above my eiderdown quilt. it will do.

he turns heavily, and in his sleep, his lips search for me, to kiss the first stretch of brown they find: a shoulder or its blade, the apple of my cheek. in these moments, i quietly enjoy being the center of his world. were he awake, i would swat him away and roll my eyes. but here, when i know i'm too far away, i nudge myself closer, hoping he will throw an arm around me or encircle me with his legs.

when i am sated, i will free myself from the custard-and-ivory tangle of sheets to lounge on the sofa and do a few crosswords, my newest obsession. or i will make myself a bowl of bran cereal with sliced bananas and only the smallest sprinkle of pure cane sugar, and read soyinka, levy, saro-wiwa or lahiri. i will not be wholly in the moment. i will be waiting for him to wake up.

if i am impatient, i will wash my bowl noisily, as the kitchenette sits but three feet away from my bed. he knows what i'm doing and i catch him smiling, eyes still shut. even in sleep, his eyes are beautiful. i am envious of his eyelashes, which are thick and dark and rest too close to his cheekbones when he blinks, but i'm grateful that i can look into them every day, where they frame a profound love for all that i am.

we play "whose breath smells more like manure?" for the umpteenth time, and though he always wins, he also leaves the bed with welts and scratches on his body, proof of my indignation at being pinned down while he tortures me, seemingly without end.

now we shower, now we change. the temptation to just sit and watch television in our underwear is strong, but we resist: it's the fourth of july and all sorts of american traditions await. he wants wings and beer; i want a burger and mojitos. we fight over lunch about how much of elvis's act was 'borrowed' from african american culture and, in anger, i stalk off and abandon him at the table. by the time i get to the door, i instantly regret my action, but i'm part leo and have committed to the drama. thankfully, he calls and tells me to stop walking - he's coming to get me so we can continue to enjoy our day as planned.

as the car pulls up, i fight the grin threatening to rend my face apart. i'm trying so hard not to meet his eyes, which i know will be laughing at me, forcing me to laugh back. in the end, i have no choice: he pokes me in the neck, and i have to turn to retaliate. inevitably, i break into a fit of laughter and lose my third fight that day.

much of the day is lost as we drive from one spot to another, in search of anything interesting but atypical to participate in, finding nothing. not that it matters: we have each other.

in the end, we find MF and his beautiful KR on a dark rooftop with belgian beer and an assortment of cheeses, encircled by the exuberance of a capital city celebrating 233 years of national independence, if not freedom. 360 degrees of explosive lights and sulfur: the national monument stood as always in phallic erection, its own fireworks more splendid and enormous than the rest of the city's combined. the climax was impressive. partly in jest and for my american comrades, i belted out a pitchy rendition of the star spangled banner. MF and KR, unable to withstand the poetry, kissed repeatedly. i avoided CB's amorous looks, but let him hold me from behind. pda embarasses me.

the night was full of ladders. we climbed one to get atop MF's roof. then we took a taxi a few blocks to scale another. it was splendid. fifty, sixty people spread into the night, tamping the tar roof sheets of their neighbors unknown, drinking (yet more) oaky wines and vinegar-and-malt beers. exotic elixir of the night. we could barely see each others' faces; the sky lit up only briefly and sporadically, as more roman candles exploded above us, showering us with fiery bullets and ashy debris. i knew but two guests, but felt peaceful, at home. their stories kept me amused for hours.

it was over for us too soon. we left at midnight, as the call of duty grew louder and we could no longer ignore the imperativeness of a good night's sleep, lest the next day be spent between my cotton sheets at someone else's expense. CB could barely find the energy to undress before he collapsed on the mattress, falling asleep almost instantly. as i always do, i turned off the light and slid in beside him, traced the waves in his soft, soft hair with my right index finger. my eyes were heavy, but before i succumbed to sleep, i succumbed to my obsessesion: the NYT crossword, a classic from january 16, 1998. early sunday morning, i fell asleep on the uncompleted friday grid, after his arm found its way to me and began to stroke the skin above my navel.

the divorcee

2009-06-05T17:17:00.012-04:00

amaka rose early on a sunny monday morning, not requiring assistance for the first time in a long time. the furthest thought from her mind was that she would marry that day. and yet, like it or not, that is precisely what would happen.

she rubbed the crust from her her eyes and looked across the room at her younger sister, chisom, who was still asleep and drooling quietly onto her care bear pillowcase. satisfied that she could finally enjoy an unprecedented amount of freedom, she hopped down from her bed, tiptoed carefully past the crucifix that hung over the armoire and glowed eerily in the dark of night, opened the door and left.

at this hour, the house was quiet save for the hum of electronics and a thunderous snore down the hall. her older brother's, no doubt. she turned away from the bassoon and walked round the corner to the bathroom. reaching up, she turned the knob and entered: she was going to get ready all by herself today and shock everyone.

the response to her display of independence was better than she could have imagined. her mother high-fived her, her sister sulked. her brother, contrary to his usual indifference, rubbed the top of her head and messed up her afro puff, but she didn't even mind. as she chewed on her creamy golden morn, she couldn't help but feel that today would be a good day. the girls at school would let her play ten-ten with them, even though she didn't really know how to play; and that one girl who was bigger than everyone else wouldn't punish her for coming first in class last year by ripping up her art projects and denying her her "friendship".

it didn't matter as much that her mother once again chose to give her the grown-up coffee flask with brown stripes instead of the my little pony one she much preferred. it was some consolation that chisom didn't get a flask at all because she was still too young to drink consistently from a cup, unsupervised, without ruining her clothes. she would have to suffer the indignity of sucking her juice from a box of ribena. she, chisom, wasn't having it and let her discontent be known as loudly as she could. children! amaka shook her head, already weary of dealing with those so much younger and more immature than she. to her, chisom was the most foolish person she had ever encountered in all her years on earth, all six of them.

at her desk in school, which she shared with five other boys and girls, she became engaged in a staring match with chinedu, a long-faced boy who, for some inexplicable reason, caught her fancy today like never before. the feeling appeared to be mutual, because he didn't once look away. the air was virtually prickling with the sparks from their unvoiced attraction.

the ceremony unfolded in an organic manner, seamlessly and without announcement. as the other children looked on, stupefied, amaka and chinedu lowered their heads in near-unison below the table top and exchanged looks in lieu of the customary rings - at each other's underwear. hers bore pink pastel flowers; his were navy blue with a white, elastic band. it was a rite performed speedily and without pomp - overly simple, she would one day recall. but beautiful in its own way.

their marriage now sealed, they proceeded to spend the rest of the day in a version of holy matrimony, performing all requisite acts like seasoned professionals. they switched seats with some of their cohorts so they could sit side by side while they colored by numbers. at lunch time, they shared their jam sandwiches equally and each politely insisted that the other's was more delicious. they declined to split their beverages, but only because chinedu was not in the mood for amaka's blackcurrant ribena, preferring instead to sip on his orange-flavored capri-sun. and when it was time for siesta, the elderly mrs. singh amusedly watched them clamor to share the same mat.

alas, all good things must come to an end, and end they did. perhaps it was the forty-five minute nap that erased chinedu's memory of the rich morning that had transpired between him and his new bride. perhaps it is true that, as they say, all marriages are not meant to last. but as they rose from their siesta mat, amaka eager to behold her handsome partner with her eyes and embrace him with her arms, chinedu gruffly pushed her away as he rubbed his eyes and tried to remember where he was. proud as she was, amaka could not stomach his rejection. she stalked off.

and just like that, their actions signaled the end of a beautiful romance that had barely begun. by the time the mothers, drivers and house helps came to pick up their respective wards, the boy had teased the erstwhile love of his life mercilessly on more than one occasion, leading her to pummel him with her bare fists in order to save face. that day, she was accompanied home by a note in her school bag that was addressed to 'mama amaka', admonishing the little girl and cautioning her parents to ensure her ill behavior was not repeated lest she be sent to learn her sums elsewhere.

to this day, amaka claims that the tongue-lashing she received was worth every punch she laid on chinedu's fickle horse face. he insists that he does not remember.

the fallen one

2009-05-07T00:24:00.003-04:00

Well, it’s official: I’m not a Christian anymore. We had a good run, me and religion. Two years, full of dedication and spirit. It took a while to get there, but after a mere six months of testing the sacred waters of the church, I never missed a Sunday. It is of no consequence that the main attraction for me was the cacophonic choir. They never disappointed. I was there from its inception, when a handful of elderly women decided to lend their hoarse voices to praising the works of the Lord, until it blossomed to include the younger though no less tonally-challenged voices of enthusiastic college students.

I remember the moment I realized that the choir held the key to my commitment, like it was yesterday: I was sitting at the back of the church as usual so I could slip out before the ushers had a chance to finally give me a visitor’s card. It was my third attendance but I had stubbornly refused to identify myself when the pastor asked new people to stand up and be welcomed – with a song, no less. It seemed ludicrous to me that I would let myself be known when I had no intention of coming back. Or so I thought. On this Sunday, several weeks since I was last coerced to attend service with this tiny, Nigerian congregation, I wasn’t hung over, which was a definite plus as I could pay closer attention to my surroundings. I had, of course, arrived too late to catch the opening prayer and the praise-and-worship session. But I settled in just when the ‘special number’ was about to begin. For my non-Christian readers, allow me to describe this distinctive moment in any church service lovingly referred to as The Special Number.

The Special Number takes place between ‘praise-and-worship’ and the sermon. I am yet to understand its relevance or necessity, but maybe that’s something you learn in year 3. Clarity notwithstanding, this is the portion of the church service when a congregation member gets his or her chance to shine. The spotlight is solely on this person; they get to serenade the Lord with a solo, and touch some souls as an added bonus. In most African-American churches, where actual talent is a prerequisite for holding a microphone, this time can be a very special, heartfelt one. At my church, the experience could range anywhere from pain to hilarity.

On this Sunday, The Special Number was a purely hysterical moment, since the sound guy was a volunteer, a recent immigrant from Nigeria whose day job was spent behind the counter at a drug store. It was very clear to all present that he was having great trouble figuring out what to do with all those plugs and wires in the makeshift sound booth. While the poor man struggled to get the soundtrack to play for Mrs. Akerele’s Special Number, she shifted her weight from one meaty leg to the other as she held the mic and scowled at him. He was ruining her moment.

To distract us, the pastor said, “Praise da Lawd!” to which the congregation heartily bellowed, “HALLELUJAH!”

It seemed to work. Along with Mr. Ojo banging around at the back of the church, we could hear the faint strains of Christian alt-rock. If he could figure out how to plug the CD player into the amp, we would be in business. He started flipping switches, plugging and unplugging things. It was like he was Doc in Back to the Future, only there was no Marty and he was only trying to get sound to come out of a speaker, not fix a car so it could drive back in time. He flipped one switch, and the music disappeared again. Mrs. Akerele said *mtschew* and shot daggers at him. The pastor stepped in again.

“Praise da Lawd!”

The response was less than enthusiastic, but still we answered, “Hallelujah.”

In the back of the church, a slow grin was spreading across my face. I was intrigued. I wondered: what are we all going to do now? Will the pastor ask Mrs. Akerele to sit down for a while until Ojo got his bearings? Will he ask her to perform a capella (God help us)? Will we have a special number? Personally, I felt Mrs. Akerele was over the whole thing and just wanted to sit down and move on. Had I been leading the service, I would have put her out of her misery.

Meanwhile, chaos was lord in the sound booth. Pastor decided to get his hands dirty at this point. He hurried to the back of the room and exchanged a few muffled words with Mr. Ojo. A moment later, he walked back to the front of the room and stood beside Mrs. Akerele, saying, “Children of God, we as’ you to please be patient wid us. We will ‘ave some music soon. You know patience is one of di fruit of di Spirit. Praise da Lawd!”

This time, only the most faithful could be arsed to respond, with a disinterested “Mmlelmmya….” A deeply uncomfortable silence settled over the congregation once more.

Suddenly, sound exploded from the speakers in the church! You could tell we were utterly caught off guard: everybody jumped, Mrs. Akerele shrieked, “Blood of Jesus!” She sounded like a macaw. And I fell to pieces. I literally had to leave the church in a convulsive fit of laughter. By the time I came back, the Special Number may or may not have taken place and there was a group of women standing in front of the altar, making noise about something good the Lord had done. I was hooked after that. For every Saturday night I spent at the club, I made sure that I was up and out the door in time to catch any of the musical segments of service, it didn’t matter which, every single Sunday.

But it wasn’t meant to last. Like all my relationships, the kulu-church connection ran its biennial course and came to its predetermined end once I went to grad school. It was worth every moment.

But now I’m a heathen again. I figured this out a couple of days ago at work, talking to my boss. I’m not sure how we got on the topic seeing as we were initially talking about narcolepsy, but somehow religion took the floor. Religious extremism, to be specific. We’re the same sarcastic person, so we toss facetious jokes back and forth regularly, like verbal tennis. I was halfway into it before I realized what I was doing. She said something about people who see the Shroud of Turin in a teacup; I came back with people who see Jesus in melted candle wax and cat fur. Before I knew it, we were suggesting Jesus didn’t really die, he just had a long bout of a strange narcolepsy that had him out like a light for three days; and that his post-resurrection appearance was really him returning after a long trip to India.

The guilt is eating away at me (damn you, missionary school!). For two days, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I’ve lost favor with God and that I’m definitely going to hell. Mostly because it would probably take a whole bunch of repentance to get back in His good books after something like this, and I’m not ready to give up some stuff. Mostly sex, to be honest (and specific). There is always the chance that I can somehow reject logic and learn to live by faith. But I will never, ever learn to live without pre-marital sex. So now the question is: how can I get God to forgive me for messing about while I was bored and tired at 4:30pm at work? D’you reckon I can just say, “My bad,” and He’ll take me for my word and we can just dap up and be pals again? Or is it just going to be awkward now that He knows I’ve got some serious questions about Jesus’ mysterious behavior back in the day?

I don’t want to go to hell *whimper*.

writer's block

2009-05-03T13:12:00.004-04:00

been sitting here for hours, trying to write.

tried to finish my series. i'm not doing it justice right now.

moved on, tried to write an article about the new wave of nigerian hip hop artistry. went on youtube to do research, got distracted for about 45 minutes trying to learn timaya's ridiculous but entertaining yankuluya dance. now i can't remember the original point i was trying to make.

thought i'd make a break for it, dash back to the past, and write something reminiscent of my more adventurous/procrastinatory days. but i think i'm getting...private. how fucking boring.

it was going to be titled "my vagina is dying" and even though it has nothing to do with death (or even vaginas, technically), i still can't write it.

i fucking hate writer's block, i really do. it comes at the most inopportune times. like, when you have a deadline. when people are counting on you to get something done. when you'll look most stupid if you don't finish something you started.

did i mention i'm developing a feature animation? my boss is expecting something great from me this week. i've figured out who the protagonists are, and that's about it. i'm so getting fired.

because i just can't seem to post every week...

2009-02-11T08:10:00.004-05:00

25 random thingumajigs about kulu

1) I have 20/20 vision, but i squint when i look at objects at any distance.

2) This is due to a phase of my life when I envied people their various disabilities, no matter how temporary, and wished I were astigmatic, asthmatic, and diabetic with a couple of broken bones and braces. what a sight I would have been to behold...

3) I color-coordinate my wardrobe, down to the hangers that the clothes hang on, and I HATE it when anyone ruins the order. HATE it.

4) I detest water stains, so I wipe down everything that gets wet after I've used it. I only recently trained myself to stop wiping down the shower curtain, because it was making me late for work.

5) I have unabashed love for Janet Jackson. She is the only celebrity that could get me to stand in rain, sleet or snow, waiting for a concert. And she can't even sing!

6) Dimples...I love dimples. I love a man with dimples. And I love dimples so much that I have tried to create a dimple in my own cheek by smiling really hard with my forefinger poking my face. I don't have a dimple.

7) I'm unbearably shy, and it's not getting any better. I now RSVP to events I have no intention of attending, simply so I can seem more outgoing than I am, but I hate being around strangers. I really do.

8) I still wish I were a mermaid. For a 3-month period after watching The Little Mermaid and Splash (I was 8 years old), I would go to the Shell Club swimming pool in Port-Harcourt and swim like a fish, with my legs together. If wishes were mermaids...

9) I still bear scars I've had since my father took me and my sister to the village in 1991 and LEFT us there for a WEEK! I refused to go to toilet that whole week, and got so many sand fly bites that ALL got infected, and then I went to school at Hillcrest and, following a fateful history lesson, the boys used to call me "Battle of Wounded Knee" behind my back. My aunt, who we lived with, wouldn't let him take us anywhere for more than a day after that.

10) I don't like insects or pictures of insects. If there's a picture of an insect (or an amphibian for that matter) on a page, I have to hold a part of the page that doesn't have the picture touching it to turn it, or if it's a full page picture, I have to shut the book and try to continue reading from the other side.

11) I forgot how to dance. The 2-step is my new best friend.

12) For a very long time, I didn't want to touch or be touched by white people cuz I had managed to convince myself they weren't clean or something, I dunno. I was nearly 17 by the time I got over it, and 20 before I got over it fully. To commemorate the occasion, I made out with this Italian guy.

13) I don't like physical affection - kisses, hugs, etc. And I'm dating the most physically affectionate person in the entire world - it's exhausting, but I'm calling it 'therapy'.

14) I didn't know how to cook until I came to America and lived here for a couple of years. The first time I made stew, I tasted it and thought I was subconsciously trying to kill myself. But I kept at it, and now I'm a badass! You don't believe me, ask about me!

15) How can I only be on #15??? I don't like long questionnaires. Dammit.

16) I don't sleep in the dark. OK, OK...I can't sleep in the dark.

17) I never ran a whole mile until I was 22 years old.

18) I wish lesbians would hit on me.

19) I have to contemplate my death - or rather, people's grief at my funeral - in order to cry real tears.

20) I HATE - oh my God - I HATE people who smack their lips when they're eating food or chewing gum. I have moved train cars, pumped music into my ears and crossed the street to get away from their crass incivility.

21) I wish I could dress like Erykah Badu. But I don't have the tits. Or the ass.

22) I love driving long distances - a 7-hour drive is pure bliss to me (if I have enough CDs). And I prefer not to have company.

23) I want to be a screenplay writer, but I don't really like movies. How's that for irony?

24) I develop drug-resistant insomnia when I'm stressed out.

25) I wish I had more friends and a bigger living room so we could play Taboo. I love Taboo.

expression

2009-01-28T12:03:00.001-05:00

What are your favorite African expressions? Tell me on the AfricaLab channel: www.youtube.com/user/africalab. (Look in the sidebar for the link.)

More videos there as well - enjoy!

she hates she

2009-01-19T17:58:00.006-05:00

I love the velvet softness of her chocolate skin. I have learned to love my breasts; still I desire hers: never obviously paler than her sun-touched face, the same tone as her stomach, thighs and legs. She has no wrinkles, none of the acne scars that mar my own face so obtrusively. Her lips, like mine, are full and soft; after brief, heartfelt visits, we used to kiss goodbye, and the love I had for her, coupled with the intense shock I always felt to discover that my face could sink into hers, made the hairs on my head rise. Her teeth are perfect white squares; when she wears blood red lipstick, and her lips part into that smile that could never be too wide, I melt in awe of her.

And yet. She cannot love herself.

She dresses her luscious curves in trendy fashions, but avoids the mirror of other people's eyes. I have known this woman all our lives, but never have I heard her accept a compliment. Not a smile, not even a quiet nod of acknowledgment. Her eyes glaze over for an instant before she moves the conversation along, as though all her efforts at style are merely a continuous internal competition that she knows she will not win. She doesn't want your validation. She doesn't need you to notice. She will never see herself as perfect. When we shop for makeup, she sighs and says, I wish I were mixed. They're so much prettier than we are, don't you think? No, I don't think. You are as dark as mahogany and you are perfect to me, I tell her, always. She shrugs, and tries the darkest shade of concealer. So I think she must know. She must agree, or she'd try to make herself lighter. So I leave her alone.

When he stepped into our story, she became lost to me forever. Scrawny and pale, with sharp nose and cruel eyes, he managed to captivate her somehow. I know now that it was because he was her first. Not just a lover, but a white lover. Apparently, any one would do. He must not have believee his luck when she looked at him, in all her beauty, and deigned to kiss him with the lips I love so dearly. From that moment, I know, he swore never to free her; and in her ignorance, she locked the door to his prison with her own hand and swallowed the key.

She thinks he's better than she is, though he doesn't work. She thinks he's better than me. His hair dances in the slightest breeze, it's true, but what is that to a woman who knows to see herself through her own eyes and love what is there? My hair towers above me and with combs and thread, plaits made by my own fingers, I can create sculptures in it, majestic pieces of art befitting of my own personal royalty. The queen that I be. But she hates me. She thinks I'm too proud, and foolish to boot. Were I more sensible, she says, I would tame my wildness with lye and force it to lie flat and straight like those who would rule me in thought and deed. Her white superiors. You'd look so much better with a perm, she said once. As I laughed a hearty, derisive laugh, she spit at me then walked quickly away. It was years before we spoke again.

The next time I saw her, she was hard to recognize. Her eyes were still wide, still brown, but they had no shine. She still had her style, but now she used it to cover up the mounds of fat that rolled and cascaded beneath the satin brown that is her skin. And her mouth, soft and pouty that I had always wished was mine, smiled smaller and less often.

You're fat. The words escaped me before the thought was even complete in my mind. She isn't the one I meant to blame; the accusation in my voice was directed only at him but, as is her wont, she moved the conversation swiftly along without acknowledging my misstep, and I never was able to explain that he was the one I hated for doing this to her. We had lunch. She nibbled at everything but dessert; when she finished hers, she asked me if I was going to eat mine. Confused and inexplicably, thoroughly sad, I passed her my plate. I don't remember anything we spoke about, but I did ask her about him. He was fine, working hard to take care of them both. She lost her job at L'Oreal, now she's preoccupied with making sure she's not a burden. But you supported him for six months before, I reminded her. Yes, but I'm not his responsibility. I have to be able to pull my own...colossal weight. She laughed for the first time. I didn't laugh with her.

On the way to the train station, we stopped in the supermarket to buy sprouts for the stirfry I was making for dinner. There was only one bag left in the shop, and the sprouts looked fairly miserable. But I needed them, so I picked it up. She bought doughnuts. A baker's dozen. Here, try these, I suggested gingerly and handed her a small bag of satsumas. Cautiously. That's when she stopped and looked me in the eyes for the first time. They were clear. She spoke with purpose. He beat me, you know. Just once. But I'm fine and he won't do it again. Then she brushed past me to the register to pay for her doughnuts, leaving me holding the last bag of sprouts, wilting on their expiration date. That was the last time I saw her.

They had a baby last year. A girl. Summer. I haven't seen her yet, but she sent me a lot of pictures once. Summer is pale, paler than I would have expected from a mother so dark. I looked through the photos, smiling wryly as I imagined how hard she must have willed her partner's genes to overpower hers. They are beautiful pictures: Summer with the cat, smiling. Summer grinning in the bathtub, reaching for the bubbles her mother blows over her. Summer staring into the camera lens, a question mark on her face, a carefree exuberance in her. She looks just like her mother, my sister. I hear my sister doesn't agree - she wouldn't dream of having a child that looks just like her. I hear she is as large as a house. The doughnuts are still a favorite, but now she eats - no, inhales - everything in sight. She works at Safeway, so she has a discount on groceries. How lucky. On Summer's first birthday, she had a garden barbecue for close friends, some family. I wasn't invited. There was an impressive spread, I hear; she made most of it. Everything but the cake. She ate most of it, too. Just as well I wasn't invited, I suppose; you're not supposed to cry at a toddler's birthday party.

I like to imagine what I would do if I had been forced to witness this latest manifestation of her demise: make a scene, insist that she pack a bag and follow me, that sadistic bastard be damned! Drag her and the child who would follow in her footsteps away, against their will if necessary, and promise her that I will help her start over, re-build. Beg her to forgive me for letting it get to this point. Beg her to let me show her what real love looks like. But she hates she, and always has. The choice to change can only be hers. And I choose to stand back and watch from afar. I have my own life to live, after all.

I'm looking through the pictures again. I am staring at my favorite: Summer staring into the camera lens, a question mark on her face, a carefree exuberance in her. I smile. I know that face. It reminds me of a happier time: of making mud pies with my sister by the side of our house, "cake" to eat with "candy", which we called the palm nuts we cracked open with broken cinderblocks. I run my fingers over the dark, dark curly hair in the picture. I kiss the image of my niece's face. I think to myself, At least she believes you are perfect. So maybe there is hope for you. When I put the picture away, I will have to go and start dinner; my fiance has invited some friends over. So I linger just a little longer and delay the mundane to pray for a brighter future.

kulu 2.0

2009-01-07T12:18:00.003-05:00

Let's dive right in, shall we?

Loc'ed and Loaded: The Eight-Month Recap
After firmly deciding that I no longer wish to stay away from my practice space, I'm back on Blogger. No more exciting than I used to be, no wiser, no happier, no better at my craft. It's funny how the road less traveled always seems to lead back to that more familiar, well-worn one. Now I'm back at the drawing board. Truth be told, I couldn't be happier. There's something very comforting about my Hyena's Belly - talking to no one in particular, at the same time knowing that I somehow manage to touch someone out there. Here's to the second time around.

So here's the (inane) dish: I quit NFTHB in order to focus on work, which I did. Then I got bored, so I decided to shake things up a little bit. I started locking my hair, which has been fun and super-easy so far. I fell in love, which was also fun and pretty easy, but then I grew bored with that and started sowing seeds of discontentment in the relationship to see what would happen. So far, they're only germinating in me, which I don't think is quite what I was hoping for. Anyone's guess what will happen next. I got a job offer in Nigeria, which I turned down for what I imagine are several good reasons, but given my lack of progress in the months since, I'm starting to wonder if I didn't act too hastily. No matter - I've decided to acquire a new skill: screenwriting. I credit the books I'm reading with my decision to return here. The recurring message is resounding: practice, practice, practice. And I won't write anything special until I spew out the mundane. It's coming though. I feel it. Nollywood's next big thing, anyone?

What else? Bought some Uggs (love 'em), went to London (loved it), started to, then didn't, buy a new laptop (stupid, because the battery cord on my old laptop has burned right through and off the battery - now I have to write at work). I also made the surprising discovery that I don't actually hate babies - around the right one, I'm virtually obsessed with making a fool of myself solely for her enjoyment. Apparently, this lady doth protest too much. Hold on to your credit cards - I won't be signing up at any baby registries any time soon!

Anyway, it's January, and I'm back in the spider's web (which is what I'm calling the office), struggling to get out, hoping I can disentangle myself before I suffocate. Voila. My life since May 2008.

Harken to the Call...
As I've said, my time away has been pretty uneventful. I've been working hard, but growing more disenchanted with my work daily. (Did you get that? Shall I say it yet again?) Maybe it's the disorganization. Maybe it's that I don't find any of it particularly inspirational or even appealing. So I'm looking for work anywhere...sort of. I'd like to be happy - I do much better work when I enjoy what I'm doing. So if anyone knows anyone who is looking for an editor-at-large (or not even so far away); an executive assistant; a creative writer; a copy editor; book reviewer (are we seeing a theme here? "Is highly organized, has proficient writing skills, works well as part of a team, extremely handy with MS Office Suite, doesn't do pun, etc., etc.") - call me! I'm thinking magazine houses, film studios, e-zine development. I'm also thinking "paid". The bills don't stop coming just because I want to be "different" and "creative". Keep in mind: I have a master's degree. From Yale. Just putting that out there.

Vision 2009
It's time to get my shit in order. I'm not getting any younger. NFTHB will have to be revamped, as will Wellspring Green. For one thing, I'm going to need a schedule. It's all about discipline in 2009. As soon as I can commit to a regular updating schedule, you'll be the first to know. kulu with your Monday morning coffee...kulu as your Friday night standby...something of that nature. The Green Pages are a different story. But you'll hear about that too.

Positive thinking! I'm only 26, but I think like Death is upon me and there's nothing to live for. I no longer wish to age so prematurely. I credit CB with this...will I ever tell him? I wonder. Which brings me to my next point...

Honesty! Honesty? Surely kulu always speaks her mind? Yes - but it's time to re-frame my idea of being honest. Time to be nicer about it. I'm not necessarily worried about burning bridges (though I still feel guilty for some of the unkinder things I've said in the heat of an argument); my motive is entirely selfish. I'd like to keep my blood pressure even as long as possible. And I need not air my opinion merely because I've been presented with an opportunity to do so. Sometimes, silence is the strongest response. Most of the time, though, it simply doesn't matter. '09 is all about keeping it moving. If it doesn't need to be said, don't say it. Write about it :-).

More than anything, though, I just want to write. I want to create something powerful and everlasting. Re-reading my profile, I remember when I thought life was intended to nurture my growing soul. I've lost that optimism, that minute sliver of hope. So '09 is about recapturing that too. Finding a channel to let my 'me' blossom. I've been a roving carcass way too long. I can only hope not to turn into a replica of my office mate, who is a bleeding heart, through and through. I find his brand of optimism more than a little annoying, I must confess. And I let him know in not so many words, as often as I possibly can: gruff responses to very pleasantly-put questions, lack of eye contact, firm refusals to do anything social he asks me to do. And yet, he was so happy to see me after I got back from Christmas break. He hugged me and kissed me and said he was so glad that I decided not to defect to Abuja (if only he knew). If the universe is going to surround me with people who manage to see through this crusty exterior I've worked so hard to create, I might as well let it go.

Anyway, I guess my point is: I'm back. May we not live to regret this.

It Was Gross, But I Couldn't Look Away

2008-04-29T13:48:00.002-04:00

I saw a homeless man's penis yesterday. Not because he had an exhibitionist streak - he is an old, black man who I often see perambulating the sidewalks in front of the restaurant where I "moonlight", and I doubt he would want the patrons he accosts to know him that intimately. And it wasn't quite an accident either. Ironically, he was getting robbed.

Now I know some of you are wondering who the hell tries to rob a homeless man, and so aggressively. Well, I'll tell you: a strapping black male in his late twenties, wearing a black cutoff T-shirt, shorts and Jordans. Obviously not homeless.

It was weird. There I was, walking back from seating yet another faceless couple with a fake and luminescent smile on my face, when I noticed our general manager streaking out of the restaurant in a panic. Right there on the corner, in front of the valet and in plain view of every last panoramic window we have, two black men seemed to be wrestling against a shiny black Cadillac. The younger was holding on to the old man's pants; the old man had a fistful of the former's T-shirt. They tussled for a brief eternity (oxymoron, I know), dragging each other this way and that while the valet looked on, befuddled. The sidewalk was amazingly clear the whole time, which is odd for a weekday evening in downtown DC. Not an onlooker was present...except all the people who pay for a fine dining experience, and were instead forced to behold this spectacle as they ate.

Before long, we noticed something curious. The old man's pants were sagging a bit too low; there was a little too much skin showing too. No underwear. I, for one, was transfixed. Could this be actually happening? Lord knows I didn't come to work expecting to see random men being stripped against their will, but if fate had a different plan for me, who was I to fight it?

The old man was surprisingly strong. We could see the rippling muscles of the young ox as he struggled to rip the man's wallet through his trouser pockets. With one hand, the old man was holding on to the boy's T-shirt; with the other, losing the battle to keep his privacy - and meager dignity - intact. It was awful, like watching a train run over a small child. So why was I laughing so uncontrollably?

I couldn't hold it together. Customers were lined up in front of me, presumably waiting for me to seat them but also captivated by the bizarre scene behind them. Idle servers rushed to shut the blinds, so they wouldn't have to spend the next few minutes cleaning vomit off the floor. Just in time: Young Guy succeeded in denuding Old Boy from the waist down within thirty seconds.

It was terrible. Ankles imprisoned by his waistband, the man was having trouble keeping his balance. He tipped backwards, rubbing his bare ass all over the black Cadillac, no doubt the property of one of our patrons. I hope s/he didn't notice. He tried to bend over to pick up his pants and hide his shame; at that moment, the younger man tried to bolt. Old Dude wasn't about to let him get away with this. He abandoned that task in order to get a firmer grip on the guy. They both fell on the car, jerking each other back and forth, smearing sweat and oil all over the body, the old man's flaccid penis flailing in the chilly night air.

Behind the host stand, I was agape and wide-eyed, my hand covering my mouth, choking on shock-induced laughter. Servers and patrons alike stood around, trading jokes and passing commentary on the spectacle. Our general manager swept back into the restaurant - he had gone round the corner to call the police; there is always at least one police car present in that area all day and all night. Seeing the flashing lights, the young man gave one last heave, ripped himself out of the old man's grip, and fled down the street. Someone - a bystander - followed in hot pursuit, while the old man finally re-dressed himself and tried to get his bearings.

The shame and pain in his bewildered eyes could be read from yards away. I felt bad for him. At the same time, I couldn't wait to spread his gist. The other servers who couldn't leave their stations to come and watch the happenings approached me to be updated. One by one, they came with expectant eyes and left shaking their heads in pity. Except one. My best mate MF. His reaction was priceless, to me.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Some guy tried to rob a homeless guy and ripped his pants off. His entire ass and penis were on display."

A slow smile spread across his face as he processed the information, and it transformed into a laugh filled with a wicked delight as he said, "That's. Awesome." He started to turn away, still laughing silently, then turned back to me and said, "What are the odds? You wake up in the morning, and it never crosses your mind is that this will happen to you at some point today. And yet." As he walked away, his wicked grin had transplanted itself on my face as we both laughed inwardly, not at the poor man's misfortune, but at this latest dose of surreality that the universe had served us on a slow Monday night at work.

The bystander caught the would-be thief, by the way. By then, four cop cars, a pig on a bike and a police van had shown up at the scene, every last one flashing their lights. All that was missing was the Segway patrol. Ten policemen all tried to get in on the action, each one no doubt secretly hoping to be The One That Arrested The Black Guy. Three stood getting the old man's statement. The rest taunted the young one as he was hustled from street to cop car to street to police van and off to jail. When the old man was finished telling his story, he was dismissed and he hobbled off to nowhere, still homeless, and immediately forgotten. The cops stuck around to have a party, complete with disco lights, their fat stomachs protruding off their gun belts. For thirty minutes, they stayed in front of the restaurant, discussing what, I don't know, while crime continued in the rest of DC, undetected by their fat, uninterested asses.

I got back to work, mentally composing this post for the rest of the night. No doubt I'll see the old man again tonight, but I won't ask him how he's doing or whether his assailant was given due treatment. I will look away, like I always do when I don't want him to ask me for money. But, unlike all those other times, now I will look away because every time I see him, I still won't see his face - I will see his limp penis and taut black ass flash in my mind as clearly as if he were on a stripper stage in front of me, and not standing on the sidewalk, holding a paper cup from McDonald's, asking me to spare some change, trying not to re-live his five minutes of shame. And I will never stop asking myself: Who the hell tries to rob a homeless guy?

Newspaper Man Update: DEADLINE EXTENSION

2008-04-11T07:42:00.003-04:00

Newspaper Man has come to a conclusion: there is no point rushing good ideas. For those of you scrambling to produce something decent from what you already have; for those of you who would submit something but for the fact that the deadline is April 15: THE DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO APRIL 30.

Please send your finished product to newspaperman2008@gmail.com.

Click here to refresh your memory about what we're looking for.

Many thanks to those of you who have already submitted your pieces. You're ahead of the curve anyway, so don't hate us for doing this!

Nigeria Comedy 4

2008-04-10T10:54:00.001-04:00

Crying funny...
Plus, I had to note that they shot this in Ghana, which would explain why the stage looked so well-done. When are we going to be able to achieve this in Nig??

I Ain't No Chef, But...

2008-04-01T13:43:00.006-04:00

Green Curry Recipe
Warning: You better know how to cook before you start to follow this recipe, because I do not use measurements - my only guide is my tongue, aided by the eyes. You'll need to be able to gauge and guess-timate and tweak as necessary, based on your own experience with cooking, to get this tasting the way you want it. If you need more stringent guidelines, stop reading right now cuz I won't be able to help you. Sorry.

Ingredients:
1 can of coconut milk (unsweetened)
1 small tin of green curry paste (in your local grocery's "ethnic food" section)
Meat of choice, cut into bite-sized pieces (I like chicken and I like salmon)
Long, green chillies, sliced (according to your level of tolerance - I use 3)
3 - 4 scallions, finely sliced
Garlic, minced
Thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger root, well-minced
1/4 onion, finely sliced
ground pepper OR minced habanero peppers (as much as you can handle)
salt + 2 Maggi cubes (not those enormous ones that come from Mexico, but the perfectly-sized ones we get in Nig - for those with no frame of reference, I apologize - again.)

Need: Pan + Wok (frying pan will work just as well, I guess)

Prep:
1. If you're using chicken (or beef), stir-fry the meat with the garlic, ginger, onions and pepper first (and in a separate wok). Use just a splash of vegetable oil; you don't want this to be greasy. Add salt & 1 Maggi cube. Use medium-high heat and stir-fry until the chicken is just cooked, i.e. still a little pink in the middle. You'll have created some stock - it's cool. Let it be.

1b. If you're using fish, marinate the fish with a little bit of olive oil, the garlic, ginger, pepper, salt and some onion powder (or chop the 1/4 onion instead - whatever) for 15 - 30 minutes.

2. Pour the coconut milk into the pan and bring to boil; once it's boiled, turn heat down and let it simmer. DO NOT COVER THE PAN. Add the meat/fish (with stock), scallions, chillies and HALF the tin of green curry paste. You can use less or more; it's really going to depend on how you want it to taste. Play with the amount. Experiment. Live a little.

3. Let it simmer, leaving the flavors to cling and entwine, one to the other, like lovers under satin sheets. Taste it, you might need salt/the other Maggi cube.

All told, this shouldn't take more than 20 - 30 minutes, from setting up the cutting board to yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy. So simple, so delic. I like it with jasmine or basmati; their sweetness complements the heat from the chillies nicely. Lemme know if you like it!

(Fried rice recipe another day.)

Janet Jackson - Again (1993)

2008-03-29T12:27:00.001-04:00

I blame Janet Jackson and this video for my inability to find satisfaction in love. Being that this was my introduction to the "art" of lovemaking, in my mind, if love does not look like this, I don't want it! Until the day I die, all I want to know is that the colors of love are white and light-blue denim; and the texture of love is cotton. Perhaps, subconsciously, this video is the reason I wear waist beads...

Go Ahead. Try It.

2008-03-28T10:03:00.005-04:00

Last weekend, my brother came a-visiting with his wife and daughter. They stayed at my sister's posh two-bedroom flat, cuz I'm a loser and I live in a basement (albeit a cute and well-established basement). Seriously, though, it made more sense cuz I'm the baby of the house - which is a new experience arising from the family's recent disownment by my younger sister, the actual youngest member of the fam - and the baby of this family isn't expected to do shit. I'm loving my new position; it rocks! Anyway, like all good displaced Nigerians, my sister and I put my sister-in-law to work in the kitchen, as we do whenever she visits. "Make afang!" we demanded. "Make okro!" And she threw down, as always, much to our drooling delight. But she decided to first make a quick stew, which isn't the most exciting thing we could have smelled cooking, since we make that for ourselves all the time. Unfortunately, I had to leave before she even started making the stuff I cared about, since I had to work that night. I bade them a reluctant adieu, told them I'd be back the next day for my share of the grub, and they better make sure I had a nice-sized Tupperware container full of The Goodness.

The next day, I arrived following a brisk 30-minute walk from my house, hungry and ready to nosh on some eba, only to find the afang being thawed on the counter. What moron would freeze the shit overnight, knowing I was coming back to get mine?? The damn stew was nice and warm on the stove though, with a warm pot of freshly-cooked rice to go with it, and I was hungry as hell, so I got a bowl and went to work, my sister-in-law hovering smilingly over me. (What is it about women who cook - they always watch you sample their food with tender eyes.) So she's right there, watching, and I figure I should make some small talk, so I don't appear to be what I am: someone who is currently more interested in the food than the person who cooked it. This was her vacation after all; and we put her to work - it would have been awkward.

Food being the only thing on my mind at the time, the first thing I noticed was that the rice was extremely fluffy and round, almost like native rice. But it smelled sweet, and that threw me off, because I don't know any rices that smell so sweet, but look so round. So I'm genuinely curious and I ask the obvious question: "What kind of rice is this?" She has a blank look on her face, like "...err, white rice...?" I scramble to elaborate a little, to help jog her memory, or whatever. "Is it jasmine? It smells like jasmine."

Crickets.

I decided to just face my front and dish the rice, when she said, "Well, I don't know o. They [being my sister, who has long been written off as an oyinbo in family lore] said it's Indian rice. You know we, we don't know anything other than long grain."

"Oh ok, so it's basmati." I busied my mouth controlling the excessive salivation that was occurring at the time, and put the rest of the conversation on hold. My brain was still working though, because I noted that the basmati had been cooked until its distinctive slender form was so grossly bloated that it now resembled Uncle Ben's, which reinforced what I already know to be true: Nigerians only know how to cook one kind of rice.

At least, they were willing to eat it. I can only imagine with what dread they come to visit my sister and I, knowing that our refrigerators will be full of foods they haven't even read about; knowing also that one or both of us will be more than eager to make them try some. My sister is more guilty of this than I; I still crave ethnic flavors that more closely resemble standard Nigerian cuisine than that crap my sister eats. On more than one occasion, I've stumbled into her kitchen hungry, and left angry - who has nothing but rice milk and...and...olive dip in their fridge?! Even when the food is something I recognize, like raspberry jam, it's always the wrong kind. You know, the ones that were preserved and bottled on a random converted cottage somewhere in Maine, with hand-written calligraphy and a bow on the label, and huge globs of fruit that won't be spread evenly on the toast (which I've had to fashion out of a rock-hard baguette that doesn't even fit in the toaster properly and invariably pops out scorched).

But I digress. My point is: Nigerians are typically loathe to try foods they don't recognize, and quick to dismiss the food with screwed-up faces, no matter the taste, if it doesn't have a flavor they recognize either. Why??

What is it about us that stops us from trying something new with relish and excitement? What hinders us from exploring the varying tastes and textures of foods foreign to our palate, using spices that aren't thyme and curry to change the way our food tastes, making sauces without tomatoes and/or meat? (Eggplant, anyone?) It doesn't matter how long we've been overseas; the majority of us just refuse to venture further away from our standard 3 or 4 dishes than the occassional chicken salad sandwich!

I'm not the world's greatest food connoisseur; indeed, I may not always have food at my house (to which many of my visitors can attest). But when I do cook, you can always be rest assured to find in my fridge some kind of salad, maybe a casserole, tons of fruit and veggies and one or two sauces to eat over rice. I love rice - I make no apologies for being able to eat rice all day, every day. Jasmine, basmati, brown, wild, dirty - love 'em all! I started switching up my cuisine one day last year, when I got sick and tired of Nigerian stew. "There has to be more!!" I screamed in my kitchen one evening, as I nuked the last bowl of chicken stew and rice that I was going to eat for months. And I was pleased to discover: there is! So now I make curries of all kinds, green being my favorite and the most popular with CB; this spicy goat+spinach blend that he also can't get enough of; and stir-fry galore. But my new predilection for culinary exploration doesn't go down well with some of my Naija folk.

Last year, I offered to help a friend make fried rice for a beach party, so she could focus on other things. I forgot to mention that I cannot stand Nigerian-style fried rice, and have my own style, which consists of red and green bell peppers, onions, garlic, ginger, chicken strips and MAYBE some carrots stir-fried with delicious jasmine rice. You won't find peas, liver or curry in my fried rice, no sir! And it's different, but it's still fried rice and it's still delicious. I made two trays of the stuff, lugged them over to the party site...and there they sat, steaming, as the jollof rice disappeared. The more adventurous menfolk who ate my rice said, "What is this? This isn't fried rice. Who made it?" I was called forth to give the back-story, after which they said, "Ahh! I for say: it's nice, but it ain't fried rice!" They did spirit the trays home, which I was pleasantly surprised to discover when I couldn't find them at the end of the day, but I was still frustrated. Y'all can eat Naija fried rice every day of the week if you want to (and probably do) - how often does anyone get to eat this fried rice? Expand your palate horizons, people!

I nearly got into a fight with someone over green curry last month. I used the promise of yam and corned beef stew to bribe her over to my crib; CB was visiting too and he expressly requested chicken green curry. So I frantically made both at the same time, which is no easy feat in my tiny phone booth of a "kitchen". My friend was really hungry and the green curry was ready first, so I asked her if she wouldn't just try a little to hold belle until the red stew was done. She said no, which would have been fine in and of itself if she had ever tasted green curry before and just decided she didn't like it. But no: she refused because I said the word "green" in describing the curry.

"Abeg o, me ah no sabi any green curry! See as you describe the food sef - how you go talk say the thing green then you wan make ah chop am??"

I was too stunned to point out that half of the soups we cook in Nigeria are also green-colored. Instead, I tried to convince her that it was not only NOT green per se, but it was perfectly safe to eat...and goddamn it, it was delicious! (Yes, I have no problem tooting my own horn in the kitchen - I throws down!) She adamantly refused to even look at my curry. So then it turned to war.

"Look at it, dammit! It's not even green!"

"No!"

"This babe, look am na! You no dey hear the smell? No be you say e be like say the thing go sweet as e dey smell so, so whosai you dey sef?"

"Ah don tell you say ah no wan chop de ting. Na by force?? You know I don't like trying anything new - I know what I know and I stick to it! So stop trying to force me, cuz I'm not gonna to eat it!"

Therein lay the problem! But she had unleashed the foneh, so I knew she was serious. And I could feel myself growing really angry, so I figured it'd be best to just leave it so the visit wouldn't leave us both with a bitter taste in our mouths. If I had a more volatile temper, I would have force-fed her a spoonful of the curry, just to satisfy my own sensibilities. But I didn't. I suffered instead, asking myself the one question she wouldn't answer and I certainly couldn't: why??

Are we scared? Are Nigerians naturally fearful people? Fela would have us believe that we "fear too much", both the things we can see and the things we can't. His contention cannot be disputed to this day. But food, too? Seriously??

Maybe the problem is that we are too narrow-minded, stunted in our vision and lacking in personal growth. Makes sense when one is talking about the lack of continuity in state and federal development projects, or vocational options (does everyone have to be a doctor, lawyer, banker, or engineer?). Makes sense when you think about how people would rather blame deviant social behavior on the Devil rather than explore their own psychoses. But food, too?? Really??

I still can't explain it, and it drives me mad. Am I really one to talk, especially if I still can't bring myself to drink rice milk? Maybe not. But I'm still the only Nigerian I know (besides my sister) who relishes sashimi of any kind (yes, fish and beef), and I'm not loathe to eat the odd exotic (read: stinky) cheese spread as all gathered fart ourselves into fetid oblivion. Y'all would do well to get on board - how can you spend a lifetime eating nothing but stew and egusi, rice and poundo?? When I think of all the spices Indians have learned to cook with - cloves and nutmeg and turmeric and licorice powder - and how fragrant their dishes smell, not to talk of how they make the tastebuds dance with excitement on the tongue - when I think of this and compare it to our blind dumping of salt, curry and thyme in EVERYTHING, I want to weep for our blandness and inability to explore.

So I implore you: the next time someone comes up to you with something you've never seen before, maybe have barely heard about, go ahead - try it. You just might like it. And if you don't, you'll at least be able to say why. Think of it this way: whole generations have probably been raised on it, and it didn't kill them, so why would it kill you?

You pluck termites from the sky and eat them, for God's sake!

Newspaper Man updates: HELP HAS ARRIVED!

2008-03-14T15:30:00.003-04:00

OK, I know some of you have been struggling with the concept of this project and so I've written up a little something that will hopefully clear up the confusion and leave room for your creative juices to flow! What do y'all think: helpful? not helpful?

Newspaper Man options:

There are two broad ways to tackle this subject: explore the media as a controlling force OR explore an individual’s/society’s manner of dealing with what it observes in the media

journalism bias

o telling only one side of the story

o manipulating the story to get people to believe *something*, whether truthful or accurate or not

o avoiding telling certain stories in place of others that will sell more papers/attract more viewers

§ why would a media outlet do that?

human shortcoming/wiles

o exaggerating stories as they are retold – word-of-mouth errors

o distorting the truth

§ for personal gain

§ to establish control over a segment or all of society

§ for no damn reason (is there really such a thing, though?)

o dismissing fact for fanciful notions

§ because it’s more dramatic/entertaining

§ [insert other reason here]

Within these two streams, there are numerous ways to tackle the issues listed – and unlisted – creatively. This is where your creative license comes in – so feel free to exercise your intellectual freedom here! Be witty, be cynical, be funny, be desolate – be anything you want to be, and do a great job of it!

In other news: the mid-March "deadline" is upon us! Don't forget to send your brief synopses to newspaperman2008@gmail.com ASAP! The sooner the better - it'll help you sort out your own thoughts before you start writing as well, and give us more "meat" when we start talking to publishers. Cheers!

Coke and Cheerleaders II

2008-03-05T15:08:00.006-05:00

I became a staunch supporter of drugs and those who do them last Tuesday. The night job's been pretty good - tips plus decent salary has equaled rapid payments on my pudgy credit card bill. But you know, you can only earn so much doing shit like that and I, for one, was getting tired of seeing poverty in my financial forecast. How many more weeks of austerity can I truly, realistically, expect to handle, I'd ask myself, chin resting on my despair-filled fists. Credit card companies are brutally unfair - they deceive you with the colorful, fun-filled commercials. They send you correspondence with cheery language and smiley faces - they make you think they are your friend. And just when you start to get comfortable, just when you start to trust that they are on your side and that you can entrust your credit score to them, they fuck you. Hard. My interest rate went up 7 points within six months of having a balance on my bill, despite my constant payments (above the minimum), despite being a responsible customer for years. Fuming aside, it's all I've been able to think about since the year started: making enough of a dent in the damn thing so I can LIVE MY LIFE!!

I got my opportunity on Tuesday.

It was a slow night. D, the new Asian hostess we hired, was starting that day. She's a self-proclaimed lush and party girl. At 22, she's already addicted to weed, X, alcohol, and Xanex. She does a couple of lines of blow a month "for fun". She tends bar at a family establishment in MD and got this job at my restaurant "for fun" - she doesn't have to work. I pity her Korean parents. Anyway, it was her introduction to the bizarre world that I have come to know and love three nights a week. I felt sorry for her because it was a Tuesday - nothing ever happens on Tuesdays. We spent a couple of hours chatting - small talk - and yawning. Around 9:15, I said, "You know, you can go. I'm sure you've been trained enough for one night." She agreed, the manager agreed. I started splitting our meager tips - $30 each, silently cursing her for showing up at all and halving what could have equaled a major CC payment for me. Just before she put on her coat, we noticed two couples...well, we noticed one man amid two couples. He was wearing a tan suit and whirling like a dervish, or a tornado. Along the sidewalk, through the double doors, all the way up to the host stand, bald head glistening pale under the streetlights. Just before he slammed his groin against the stand, he stopped, with a flourish and grinned at us through his rimless glasses.

"Well, hello." He didn't so much speak the words as let them slide down his tongue and out of his mouth, like so much oily residue. D perked up instantly - she hadn't been this excited since the evening started. I instinctively recoiled. I guess it's true what they say: birds of a feather, it takes one to know one....

The other three in his party had caught up. Two ladies - one short blonde, one tall brunette - and another short man in a leather jacket. The brunette was laughing loudly about nothing and hung on to the man in the tan suit like he would escape in another whirl. They were chattering loudly - just in from their hockey game, sorry about being 30 minutes late for their dinner reservation. Tall man was especially impressed that D guessed their name right - wasn't hard, seeing as they were the last reservation for the night. But, like an intoxicated magician, with a flick of his wrist, he made a $100 bill appear from his pocket and placed it in D's subconsciously outstretched hand.

Having seen my fair share of drunken idiots with money to spend, I was intrigued but not particularly fazed by the appearance of Mr. Franklin at our "party". But D was bouncing off the walls. "He gave us A HUNDRED DOLLARS!" she whispered loudly in my ear as I hung their coats and baseball caps - memorabilia from the game. "I know - seat them, we'll congratulate ourselves later!" I said.

She sat them, I started searching for a way to break the $100. Mere annoyance turned to quiet rage, as I started calculating how much money I'd "lost" that night as a result of her presence. She bounded out the door later, as happy as Pooh's Tigger - I could barely even smile as I hugged her "good night" - my new best friend, as she told me she was. But she was gone at least, and there were at least 20 more coats. Any other wandering dollar bills would be mine and only mine.

Meanwhile, the restaurant was agog with excitement over those four diners. They were rambunctious, ordering bottles of wine and champagne that cost in the hundreds. Servers were falling over themselves, trying to decide who would be the lucky bastard that got their table. The winner wasn't disappointed - within the hour, they had spent over $2400 on alcohol and didn't eat a bite of food. My favorite servers paid intermittent visits to the host stand and we made bets about how much of a tip they were going to leave, and cracked jokes about how many eight-balls were resting in the console of their Escalade limo. The general manager stopped by as well to try and convince us to get them out of there before they started causing trouble - he didn't even think they could afford to pay. And he was right to worry - they never asked how much anything cost before they picked it off the menu, and they didn't really care what they were ordering. But every five minutes, like clockwork, they would stand up - one by one - and head for the bathrooms. Didn't take us long to figure out that they were snorting cocaine up their noses off the toilet seat covers and bathroom shelves.

I was intrigued. Very intrigued. To be perfectly honest, I could have gone home long before they did, but I was hoping, waiting, praying. Some good was definitely going to come out of this night for me, I just knew it. As they drank, I bade other customers a good night, collected their dollar bills and five-dollar bills with the same humility and gratitude I always display. But I was watching the eightball crew - they would come to me eventually, and I'd be ready.

My time came. Tan-Suit Man walked up to me - he didn't look any worse for wear from a distance. But when he tried to say hello and his jaw became misaligned, it was very obvious that we were in a situation. For my own amusement, I asked him how he enjoyed his dinner.

"I'wash...i'wash...." His mouth just would not, could not, form the words. He slapped himself twice, slaps that would have sent a grown mare galloping over a field, bruised the cheek of a small child, or set my ears ringing. He didn't feel a thing. "Was grea'." He smiled - or tried to. He looked eerily blissful - I would have envied him his euphoria, but I was busy.

"Can I help you with your coat?" Smiling sweetly.

He was staring directly into my eyes, like they were magnets and he was powerless in my gaze. I didn't blink. He tried to speak again, and the words were heavy on his tongue, thick and slurred like he was trying to talk through a mouthful of toffee.

"How d'you...how d'you feel 'bout y'parentsh?"

"I don't have any parents." I'm sometimes grateful that I can claim orphanhood - this was one of those times.

"Oh." He was still staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him pulling out his money clip - a thick, gold band straining to hold together a bundle of hundred dollar bills. My eyes flashed.

Pay dirt.

We were still locked into each other's stares. His posse was scrambling to their feet at their table. There wasn't much time. I willed him to pay me. I willed him to pay me now.

"Am real...really shorry to hear that." He released one Benjamin from captivity and waved it in front of me. I only let it taste freedom briefly before I gently, but firmly, extricated it from his pasty fingers and placed it in my right pocket.

"Thank you." I smiled coyly. And stared through his glasses, persuading all the mammywater spirits that have laid claim to my heritage to shine through in that moment.

"I wan' you ta...ta think 'bout two things." His hands were still fumbling with that money clip. I maintained my gaze, fully convinced of its hypnotic power by this point. "I wan' you t'think 'bout your future..." At this, he yanked another $100 bill from the clip. "...and how you're underutilized."

I took the money and put it with its brother in my pocket. "Thank you."

We were still staring directly at each other. I don't know what he was thinking, but I myself was full of hidden encouragement: "You can do it! One more...just one more...." I was aiming for another hundred, a total of $400 on coat check, $300 of which I wouldn't have to share.

No such luck. The posse had finally made its crooked way over to the host stand, and the brunette found her way to his arm and held on tight. Guess she didn't want him to finish all his money on me - she still had to be paid for her services that night, and it wouldn't do to fall short cuz of this Negro hostess.

Still, I couldn't complain. I handed them their stuff, and waltzed all the way to the time clock, where I punched out on cloud nine - which wasn't easy, as weighted down as I was with more money than I'd seen in weeks. Free owo is not something to laugh at, but I laughed my ass off all the way home and through Wednesday night. Who said money can't buy you happiness?

Since then, earnings have seriously dried up at the host stand. I've been praying for the return of the Ghost Dusters, while at the same time feeling eternally grateful to them for paying Target, Inc. on my behalf - they have no idea what they did for me that night. I hope they didn't o.d. I sincerely hope they come back. But in the meantime, I replay the memories over and over, smiling and giggling uncontrollably - I had an unforgettable experience and I didn't even have to leave my comfort zone. How about that.

Coke and Cheerleaders

2008-03-01T10:50:00.005-05:00

Last week was deliciously bizarre, and exceedingly profitable. I got off work after midnight, after having made a little over my usual $50 in tips - I'd already decided it was a pretty good night. My ride had informed me hours earlier that we were going to do something "interesting". I'd spend the last hour bracing myself, because he told me I had to be "ready". I couldn't care less why; it was all I could do to contain my excitement, knowing I wasn't going straight home from work for the first time in three months. Austerity can be painful; self-imposed austerity carries the added sting of mental anguish. I needed the relief.

He picked me up wearing a tie and slacks. I looked like a bum in my wrap sweater. Figures - the one day I decide I'm too disillusioned to "look the part", he decides to do something that requires me to look at least halfway decent. But he's sweet - he said I looked good anyway. I might have suspected his motives - where we were going, the more clothes you have on, the less susceptible you are to harassment. Presumably. We left.

Somewhere near the corner of 14 & U, there's a bar with a blue-white neon sign. The light gleamed off the head of our enormous black bouncer (is there any other kind?). He asked for our IDs, told us it was a $20 cover. He must have noticed me hesitate - that was 30% of the free money I'd made that night; did he realize how many coats I have to hang up then drape over various-sized shoulders for $20?? He must have, because he saw fit to make sure I knew what I was paying for:

"You know what's going on here tonight, right?"

I thought, well, it's a club - drinking and dancing, no? But clearly he knew something I didn't know, so I just shook my head. No.

He didn't speak. Just handed me a flyer with a naked white woman draped in jewelry that sort of, but didn't really, hide her privates. On the back, there was a list of Saturdays in February, followed by such descriptive names as Cheerleader Romp and Naughty Nurse Swing. My first instinct at any surprise is to laugh; that night was no exception. In the seeming distance, I heard the bouncer say "It's a swinger's party," echoing the thought ringing in my head. Still laughing and shaking my head, I looked up at CB; he seemed a little worried. Maybe he'd overstepped his boundaries. "Do you want to leave?" In response, I handed over my $20. We entered Gomorrah - Sodom was upstairs; we were going to tackle that later.

Tonight was Sexy Schoolgirl night. I saw a few "schoolgirls" downstairs, but mostly we were surrounded by unattractive people caught in that drunken euphoria that looks exceedingly silly to those who are sober. I asked for my usual shot of Cuervo; if I had to be there, I certainly didn't want to be annoyed. CB followed suit. The bartender said, "That'll be $23." I felt $11.50 burning down my throat and wondered, For what?? At that moment, I noticed an ape-ish looking man with a pot belly and gold teeth burning lust into my chest. The night wasn't shaping up to be much good; if we didn't leave this dungeon of social rejects, I was about to seriously regret taking CB up on this outing. He wasn't too pleased, either - for $23, we could have bought a couple of bottles of Cuervo and gotten wet before we left the house. We decided to go to Sodom, where earlier I had noticed a girl on a barstool with her ass in the air, humping a fat guy. It promised to be good people-watching.

We weren't disappointed. We settled into a corner by the mini-bar, leaned against the wall. The people up here seemed a little...friskier than the folks downstairs. Right beside us, an older Asian woman (not cute) was being manhandled by a little rat-faced man in glasses (even less cute). I was about to make a comment about how there's someone for everyone, when the little man dropped to the ground, and started fumbling at the hem of this woman's dress. Like a flash, his head disappeared under her skirt, and before long her face crumpled in that way that usually signals pain but sometimes means pleasure. While he explored, she used her hand to steady herself against whatever ecstasy he was giving her in there. She looked over at me a couple of times. I couldn't stop staring. Part of me was searching for shame in her eyes, but mostly I was distracted by the several thoughts racing through my head.

Was this actually happening?
What did that bartender put in my tequila?
Is that why it cost $11.50?
Where is my wallet? These people clearly have no scruples.

CB turned my head away - apparently, it's OK to give and receive head on a dance floor, but it is tres gauche to stare. We visually explored the rabbit hole we'd fallen into - it was CB's first time there as well, and I don't think he really knew what to expect either. The head section, as I christened it, was the official dance floor - mini-bar in the corner, so people didn't have to wander too far away from the action for their liquor. There was a stripper pole in the middle, of course, and female guests took turns shining it, solo or in pairs. Like five-year-old children at Christmas, their partners and escorts crowded around them, whooping and clapping. One Rasta-looking dude was literally jumping up and down, near tears, as his hot girlfriend (probably the only person in there that was worth watching) performed to "Feedback" with a pimply-faced potato sack bursting out of her Catholic school girl outfit.

Down the stairs to the left of the floor was the official bar, which stretched partway along a long wall. Sectional couches lined the rest of the walls - on these, people attempted to finish what they had started on the dance floor and stripper poles. Couples lay, sat and slouched in various positions on the couches, doing...stuff. I will say, though, that I was surprised to see very little actual nudity. DC is a conservative city, though - I suppose even our swingers are no exception.

CB and I decided to brave the bar one more time, tiptoeing our way through the jungle, trying not to arouse any of the wildlife. I got another shot of JC, he got a vodka cranberry: $16. Things were improving. We quietly made our way back to our spot against the wall, with me thanking Providence the whole time that I wore what I wore, because these people really were touching one another with reckless abandon, and I didn't want to have to be get kicked out for fighting anyone who dared to put their sleazy fingers on me. I was wearing a white sweater, which shone like a halogen lamp in the black light, but I was invisible in that place, thank the Universe.

By the time we got back to the wall, the second shot was working its way through my system - I was in that place where everything is warm and nice, where laughter sparks freely and you believe that only good things can happen to you from here on out. My self-imposed "jollity restrictions" have turned me into a lightweight - what six shots of JC used to do before, I only needed two to achieve this night. If I weren't already tipsy, I'd have been sad.

There was a woman on the pole now. I think she was going for the naughty librarian look - frumpy skirt suit with more than enough Spandex, curly bob, glasses, red spiky heels. She was having a good time - a crowd of six had gathered beneath her, cheering her on. She slid her back down the pole, biting her index finger playfully. They clapped. She raised herself up slowly, looking at them over the top of her thick frames. They whistled. She hung from the pole, shaking her hair as she signaled that she was about to do a spin. They whooped. She started to swing around the pole. I turned to steal a sip of CB's drink, when I heard GBA-GA-GRA-GBA-GA!! I whipped around just in time to see Naughty Librarian hit the floor, one spiked heel still on the stage. Some people were trying to help her up; another went across the room to pick up her glasses from where they flew and landed. I collapsed into convulsive laughter, so much so that I lost control of my legs and CB had to hold me up - a difficult feat, seeing as he was also weak from the laughter he could not control. There is now a permanent red smear on my sweater from the vodka cranberry I dribbled onto myself. I call it my badge, an honor I bestow upon myself having survived that night.

And what a night it was, particularly when one considers that we only got there about an hour before they closed. In less than forty-five minutes, I had seen ugly people having oral sex in public, other ugly people engaged in various humping rituals against walls and on couches, and a would-be stripper bust her head on tile. When I finally recovered from laughing, I was too weak to keep standing, so I moved over to sit on one of the speakers; CB followed. We'd both just gotten off work, he a few hours before me; it'd been a long day. Another woman in her late 30's or early 40's came up to us to chat - apparently, she was drawn by CB's outfit and wanted us to know how cute we looked. Liar - I know how I looked. Turns out, she's the co-host of the party - her partner, some bald Polish guy in a black muscle shirt who makes women's jewelry, was across the room. She's a lobbyist and he's in commercial real estate, and on the weekend, they host "alternative lifestyle" parties. Freaks.

While she was talking to us, the pimply potato sack had meandered over to sit beside CB and I on the speakers (he was in-between us). Before long, I felt her fingers traveling over my arm. He said she was rubbing her face on his shoulder and neck. It was time to go.

We thanked the lady freak for her hospitality and gave her fake email addresses for her guest list. And I thought I'd seen it all, but then I wasn't expecting what happened on Tuesday, this time on my home turf.

to be continued...

Newspaper Man Updates

2008-02-24T12:09:00.003-05:00

New developments:

* We recently received a question from a group member asking about graphic submissions - he's an artist, not a writer, but a storyteller nonetheless. In his case, he would submit something akin to Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis novels, which are fantastic graphic accounts of her life story. The general consensus among the editors is that this could be 1) a powerful addition to our collection, being something unique and heretofore unseen in an anthology of this sort, or 2) a major deterrent to publication, assuming the publishers are unwilling to break with the norm. That being said, we're going for it. So if you also would like to enter this sort of submission, your contribution will be warmly accepted, with great interest.

* We had an overwhelming response to the Facebook group in a short amount of time - our guess is we have a few trigger-happy mouse clickers, who just love joining groups for its own sake! Nonetheless, it is a large group of people and we would like to get a better idea of who is really serious about contributing to the collection, and who's just along for the ride. This number will also be useful when we are ready to approach potential publishers.

For these reasons, we are asking writers to e-mail a BRIEF synopsis (no more than one page) to newspaperman2008@gmail.com by mid-March, keeping in mind that the deadline for final submission is April 15. Details not necessary - we'd just like to get a general sense of where you're going with your short.

Remember: if you have any questions, comments or suggestions, feel free to email me. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Newspaper Man: A Collection of Short Stories

2008-02-12T00:23:00.000-05:00

Newspaper Man is the brainchild of a young and prolific writer seeking to understand the role of the media in shaping modern-day ideals and standards of human behavior. It is a writing project based on a simple premise, one that will compile the most profound, exploratory works of creative short story writers who wish to explore the notion of media mind-control, and question a society's capacity to withstand it.

All authors involved in this project will be willing and able to answer such questions as: do the actions of man determine what appears in our media forms; or does the mainstream dictate our reactions to what we read/see/observe?

Through this collection of short stories, we - the writers - reclaim the power of the written word, using the force of our combined creativity to show that neither we nor our thoughts will be controlled by the contorted reality of sensationalist journalism. Likewise, we will imaginatively describe the possibilities that exist for people who cannot escape this social mire.

We invite and encourage all interested writers to put pen to paper and engage in this process with us. Use whichever literary voice suits you best - satire, macabre, noir/thriller, science fiction...whatever. We recognize the negative effects that accompany restrictions on personal creativity. The pride of this collection is the opportunity we have provided to let the writer's voice shine through his/her work, unrestricted by genre limitation, so that you can speak to your audience the best way you know how.

The endpoint of this project is publication. Once we compile the submissions that speak most closely to our directive, the editors will seek to have our stories published, and we hope to do so before the end of this year. All entries must be submitted to newspaperman2008@gmail.com by April 15. No entries will be considered that are submitted after that date. Stories should be 2500 - 3500 words.

Look for our group on Facebook if you've got an account. Once you join, please check back often and share your news and ideas with the rest of the group - no input is without value. If you're not on Facebook...well, tough beans! Feel free to email me, though; I'll do my best to keep you abreast of all group discussions. Thank you for our interest and participation in this project. We look forward to working with you!

Romance is for the Rich

2008-01-27T14:23:00.001-05:00

I'm in love with 2008. 2007 was full of disappointment, demands I couldn't keep up with (both self-imposed and otherwise), an ego that was cracking and bringing everything around it crashing down, too - it was a bad year. The final lowlight was the unceremonious end to an unceremonious relationship that I had spent nearly two years trying to tell myself was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Several weeks later, sparkly-eyed and energetic, I can look back on that dark, dark place and figure out exactly what I need to do to keep from going back there again. Don't get me wrong: I'm going to miss dancing to Steely Dan on his coffee table; making brown-sugar oatmeal in his kitchen wearing my fluffy pink robe and his size-14 blue sneakers because he doesn't own a pair of slippers; plotting numerous trips to Costco because he just can't get enough super-sized boxes of legal pads - I'll miss all of that. But the co-dependency and depressive cycles - those can go to hell where they belong. We (well, mostly he) spent a lot of money chasing thrills that proved empty and uninspiring in the end. Currency was to our emotional problems what Band-Aids are to exit wounds from a double-barrel shotgun. But the dollar bills kept on raining down and turning to pulp all around us, and still - it wasn't enough. What he wanted was eternal days of my undying devotion; what I needed was time to find myself, just the way (he thought) he had found himself.

But that is now the past. In 2008, I have a new love - me. This isn't your average love story: it is a whirlwind affair, to be sure, but not because I am taking me halfway across the world for a Parisian weekend in Bordeaux. Actually, for the first time in a long time, there are no maps involved. We are excited to be embarking on a new, uncharted journey alone (or together, however you choose to look at it). We have two new jobs we love in two new spheres that challenge us, and instead of over-analyzing every little step we take before we take it, we say "yes" to everything first then figure out the details later. We write more in our handmade Turkish leather book, wearing silver rings and large hoop earrings to match our wanna-be hippie spirit. We cook more couscous than rice; we eat more apples than chicken (sacre bleu!). And we're learning how to grow together, relying on our positive energy and smiling so much more every day to create a positive imbalance to the frowns and tears of yesteryear. We're very busy, but we wear our swollen, sleep-deprived eyes with pride.

I don't recall a time in my life when I have been so productive, and through my own efforts, guided by my own momentum. A more self-confident kulu never existed, that much I know. And I actually think it's making me a better person, the kind of person other people genuinely want to be around because they think I'm cool, even though I've never been and will never be the type to bounce off the walls telling giddy stories with equal parts of humor and intrigue.

I can see this reflected in the manner and eyes of my new friends, and one in particular. It's nothing serious - I wouldn't want to interrupt my private love affair with moi. But he's enjoying my company and I find myself, against all the odds, enjoying his. We watch political news and debate the pros and cons of a Clinton administration over an Obama one (the bitch is making it very hard for me to continue lending support to her cause). We talk about his nascent nonprofit organization, and he actually seeks my advice because he thinks I'm "so smart" despite my practical inexperience. We're both extremely busy - he more so than I, the poor thing - but somehow, we find the time to see each other nearly every day - whether we simply fall asleep within moments of hugging hello; or agree to meet at a cafe midway between our homes to work on proposals (me) or character education programs (him). And every day, we laugh until our ribs are sore.

Not for us the poetic, dramatic romance of Bronte and Alcott. Only rich people have the sort of time to devote whole days and hours to each other and each other alone. Me and dude, we've got bills to pay. Rather, it's a quiet sort of, casual sort of, friendly sort of "romance", fashioned around the reality of our lives, rather than the idealism of our dreams. We're broke and/or saving, so we don't go out to candlelight dinners. The one time our schedules permitted a trip to the movies, we got busted trying to sneak in on Child tickets (one full minute of embarrassment, three minutes and counting of glorious, gut-busting laughter). Now we watch one movie over a three-night span at home (where we can learn all the words to the "Saying Grace" scene in Talledega Nights in peace).

Best of all, we are ourselves. Saying, "I'm kinda comfortable on my couch right now; I'll see you tomorrow," doesn't mean "I find you boring and have decided to have a secret affair with someone else," and we're both very secure in that knowledge. There's no need to create a more plausible story or explain myself to death when the simple truth is: I really just don't feel like having a marathon phone conversation right now.

I'm...comfortable. That's the perfect word to describe this feeling. And comfort makes me smile. I'm re-discovering that other kind of wealth that accompanies happiness (pardon the cheesy expression - I'm a full-fledged, starry-eyed, bleeding-heart optimist in January 2008), which is an enormous blessing given my 2007 state of mind. As I continue on my quest for inner peace, a goal that finally seems attainable, I'll keep counting my pennies, secure in the knowledge that my pot of gold, spiritually and financially, is but a few steps away and I'll get to it when I get to it, positivity in tow.

The Matter of Nigerian Sexuality

2008-01-14T14:16:00.000-05:00

Nigerians don’t talk about sex. There are 140 million of us, so we know that we’re having it (and superfluously so), but nobody talks about it. Oh, we’ll hash out the gritty, raw details within the relative “privacy” of our neighborhoods, the juicy gossip flitting furtively from family compound to beer parlor and back. But as far as public discourse is concerned, we might as well all be eunuchs. It was clear to me from a very young age that Nigerians constitute a fairly randy population, but I’ve often wondered why we ostensibly prefer to blindfold ourselves to our own promiscuity. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” seems to be the policy generally accepted in society, at the expense of our collective health and even our culture. Gone are the days when sex and intimacy went hand in hand. Nowadays, in a land that has become increasingly commercial, sex is just another commodity to be haggled over and sold on the open market.

In recent years, I’ve heard increasing numbers of our young women refer to their sexuality as a tool with which they can “make ends meet”, as though they lack other legitimate resources to achieve these ends. Their perspective, however, reflects a large-scale transformation in the national psyche. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t too long ago that such women were aggressively eschewed and derided for utilizing their bodies in the pursuit of monetary gain. But now, things have changed. It was a gradual shift, barely perceptible to me until I realized, with mild shock, that we as a nation have embraced a casual sort of prostitution and simply called it by another name. As women, we are no longer sleeping around for money; we’re simply “making ends meet”, because that, somehow, sounds nobler than admitting the truth. What I find most shocking, however, is how the society at large has merely adjusted itself, so that it is now molded around this new mentality, rather than rejecting it with the same defiance and force with which it sets suspected thieves ablaze in the street.

I’m not arguing for the quick and fiery death of young women who don’t know what better to do with their talents. The promiscuity itself may not be inherently bad. I just want to understand what has happened to our values over the past decade or so, and why we were so willing to let them go. We certainly work very hard to create the illusion of sexual propriety; so who exactly are we trying to deceive?

If you will, picture a time in our history when female virginity was lauded as a symbol of virtuosity and purity, when the virgin represented of all that was good about womankind. Men desired her, women admired her. Her entire community respected her chastity and upheld her honor. We maintain this reverential attitude in our consciousness today, to a degree. Young women, particularly of the Christian faith, still think virgins are more virtuous than non-virgins and our young men still find at least the concept of virginity appealing. And who can blame them? Imagine being the only measure of competence, the first and perhaps sole provider of another’s intimate pleasure. And as for the virgins themselves, what a massage to the ego to be viewed as a divine beacon shining through the growing swarm of sexually active (read: tainted) youth. For both, male and female, the appeal alone would be enough to create waves of orgasmic gratification.

Nevertheless, these same young men are simultaneously turned off by the definitive inexperience of a virgin because, though “pure”, she’s boring. And, honestly, when a man can walk into the boudoir of a femme fatale, who always knows just the right buttons to push, kiss and tickle, why would he allow himself to be distracted by the divine?

It would seem therefore that those of us who still believe that female virginity and all it entails is still a central component of our culture, only say so by force of habit. Clearly, modern Nigerian life does not adhere to this principle. We say we do but few, if any, are actually interested in having relationships with virgins. It simply doesn’t matter to us anymore. On the contrary, people nowadays are all about looking and behaving sexier, in mimicry of popular Western culture, and it is this attitude that is all the rage among young women.

Today’s Nigerian women see their sex lives as being just as important to their personal development as any other component of individual growth. You’ll be hard pressed to find a woman who is naïve or inexperienced in other aspects of life, so why would she restrict herself to being sexually naïve? The freedom to choose, rather than prolonged innocence, is the key to making her sexual experiences memorable and most claim that they enjoy sex too much to ever want to be virgins again. If they could reclaim their virginity, they’d only want to lose it to someone more experienced. So sex is important, whether it occurs in a long-term monogamous relationship or during impassioned short-term couplings.

I can accept this truth, which is why, as I previously implied, I do not subscribe to the ideology that having casual sex reflects negatively on one’s character. Turning casual sex into a money-grabbing exercise, however—not so good. In economically-turbulent Nigeria, the individual’s quest for financial independence has managed to supersede the value systems which once upheld sexual integrity and which could have guided us to a natural, healthy acceptance of being a sexually active society. But our dubious actions in the naked pursuit of money have instead turned (some) Nigerian parents into pimps and reduced their children to game pieces on the giant Monopoly board that is our country.

Faced with the reality that Nigeria is now just one huge brothel, now is the time to publicly—unabashedly—address this culture of silence that enshrouds the topic of sexuality. We can no longer afford to take it for granted that our children and peers are either 1) not having sex at all or 2) being responsible when they do. Somehow, I doubt the young girl or boy who rubs on Chief’s rounded belly and recondite nether regions for a few thousand Naira is in a position to make demands about how his or her body will be used that evening. And if we don’t acknowledge that they are in Chief’s bed in the first place, then how can we even begin to protect them from the plethora of life- and lifestyle-threatening diseases out there?

Some might argue that this is a private matter for the family to deal with. I say the folks at home have failed in their duty and someone else needs to take over the discourse. The media, the government, the private sector – anybody that will facilitate an open, wide-scale debate on how we Nigerians feel, think and act when it comes to sex. Without it, we are in danger of inadvertently teaching generations of new Nigerians that the sex act is naught but a tool to be used in the acquisition of material possessions. Gone will be the reverence we should have for our most intimate selves, and we will have lost the opportunity to see our culture evolve into something more honorable than its current semblance. But the full tragedy will be the abuse we will have caused and endured, to the detriment of our complete human integrity – sexual and otherwise.

She Misses Him

2008-01-07T11:18:00.000-05:00

She is young, in her mid-twenties. At any given moment on any given day, she is desperate for love, to feel love. But not just any kind. It is not enough to hug a friend; the kindness of a heartfelt word is incomplete. She has spent her whole life searching for something, that elusive something, that will make her feel like she's...home.

She looks to prose and poetry, to sea and sky, to birds and trees. She primps, she preens. She buys, she steals. She cries and she grins and she howls and throws things in passionate, reckless arguments with no point. No point, but a purpose: she wants to feel something. Anything. Long ago, she decided pleasant conversation was empty and boring; there is no point opening your mouth unless you have something clever, witty, incendiary to say. If you're just going to talk about the weather, you might as well be dead. Sadly, though, she already feels dead, and nothing touches her that isn't white-hot, or spicy-red, or dry and uncomfortable. Not for her the saccharine sweetness of endless "I love yous", though that is what she craves. Say "I love you" but accompany it with a blow of some kind. Draw blood, if you can - it lubricates love's true path. A sanguinary love that repels her body, but captivates her soul...

She found true love some time ago. He rode in on an unlikely vessel, but attracted her nonetheless. Possibly because she wasn't interested in what he had to offer. Not at first. But eventually, soon, she came to see him differently. His eyes weren't brown; they were blue. The hair on his chest was soft, not coarse and itchy. He loved her, unexpectedly. And she couldn't understand why. But she did know this: don't let him go. That is when she was reborn. And with her, the demon spawn. The troubled child.

The seed of Agramon is seven and has been crying for several years. She did not know love and so doesn't feel it. She knows only pain and craves it like a babe craves its mother's breast. The gentle breeze of peace stirs her. It rouses her from sleep, makes her restless. Because it threatens her, she seeks to destroy it. But she destroys me. She destroyed us.

You showed me one truth, and it was beautiful. Like the turquoise eye of the sea, it awed and frightened me at once. I would give anything to stare at it, without blinking, no trepidation, no quivering, no shame. To walk towards it, surefooted as the mountain lion, not certain but trusting that the next step would not send me hurtling miles below to my untimely death.

If I only knew how.

I would show you the world through my eyes, and seek peace by your side. I would climb to the highest heights of passion with you, and feel safe in your arms, holding your hand (whether you like to or not). I would let you discover me - leg to leg, cheek to cheek, we would walk the path of me and you, of pure and true, of brown and blue, heart to mind to you. No secrets, you would know me through and through. I think I could be happy with someone like you.

But I need more time, and you don't have it. So you've gone. And so I sit, missing you. And Agramon's child, with a smile on her face, sleeps once more.

The Deceiver

2007-11-18T20:19:00.000-05:00

We all know at least one person whose parents sent them shopping in assorted bushes around their compound to find "Justice" (as my household koboko was duly named). I like to think parents like those had a sense of humor, albeit wicked and strange. Sending you on an errand that will facilitate your own punishment, a triple-edged dagger that threatened you psychologically, intellectually and ultimately physically could only have been thought up by the sort of person who sniggers behind you as you contemplate: 1) the weight and flexibility of the weapon, knowing that producing the wrong ratio will only incur more strokes, 2) the conflicting messages coming from your brain, which calmly tells you to do the right thing by your parent and, by extension, yourself; and your instinct, which is frantically trying to inform you that the best way to save yourself is to reject this absurdity and take cover at the nearest neighbor's, and 3) the inevitable, sharp pain that you must surely feel once you hand over your tormentor's device of choice. The parent who chooses this method only wants to put his/her child through mental anguish - the physical strokes tend not to be as heavy-handed (is my understanding) as if they were meted out with the full force of rage that extends from fresh anger. This parent has had time to calm down, perhaps get a little chuckle from watching his offspring agonize over picking the "right" cane - certainly enough time to let a little mercy seep in. This parent isn't dangerous.

Or perhaps you lived in a household where the psychological damage was not wreaked in a relatively short amount of time. In the previous example, your mental anguish lasted only as long as it took you to pluck the cane. By a certain age, you had developed an eagle eye and could find a satisfactory flagellate within 30 seconds. Call it survival of the fittest. If your parents wanted to maintain control of the situation, however, they picked the cane themselves - a splendid specimen, that flashed light when held at the right angle - and placed it in plain view, so you could closely study that which was going to leave welts and lacerations on your flesh...when they were good and ready. You didn't know when it would be, but you wanted to be prepared. If you were lucky, you would have time to hide in a place the cane couldn't reach. So you were vigilant. You maintained a close perimeter, never letting the stick out of your sight for longer than 4 seconds at a time. You would see to it that you weren't taken unawares. But despite your best efforts, somehow you would find yourself immersed in the latest cartoon or playing ten-ten with your housegirl, or perhaps even eating dinner six hours after your transgression, stupidly confident that your mother had even forgotten that you wronged her earlier. It is always at this moment that you feel the flashing heat of pain slicing across your back. Foiled again! But the parent who does this is still merely a trickster and mischievous. You need not fear her.

But woe betide you if you are spawned by The Deceiver, the worst of all sadistic guardians. This is the parent whose intentions are never known, whose motives can never be pre-determined - indeed, he can never be trusted. But because you know no better, you always do. And you always get burned.

Picture this scenario:

It is a hot day in April, and you're back from school. You're seven years old and teeming with energy, particularly after your well-cooked meal of rice and dodo with two pieces of meat. Your cousins from the village have also returned from the government school on the other side of town and they have exciting new games to show you that you don't play at your posh and expensive "international" school (so deemed because of the solitary Indian child whose father is only in Nigeria to fly helicopters for Aerocontractors). They have always seemed more creative than you, and you enjoy their company thoroughly. Mummy is at work; the oldest person in the house is Chinekwu, the fifteen-year-old housegirl with the tangy body odor whose authority you don't respect. You and your cousins are running rambunctiously through the house, ignoring all the rules that Mummy set for you, dismissing Chinekwu's warnings and admonishments to behave yourself lest she "tell Mummy for you". With glee, you all decide to recreate some of the scenes from your favorite American movies - you have pillow fights and jump on the bed, your powerful imagination helping you ignore the jarring sensation in your knees that result when your kakaraka Naija "mattrass" doesn't give way like the bouncy American mattresses in the movies. The average Nigerian mattress is stronger than the wood that built the bed frame. Yours is one of these, and under the pressure of four children adamantly determined to be just like Jane and Michael in Mary Poppins, the bed breaks.

All your little hearts rush to your throats, and cold beads of sweat form on your arms and foreheads. You are too panicked to think about a way to put the bed back together; your cousins' seeming creativity fails you now. All you can think to do is bolt from the room, closing the door quietly behind you to hide the evidence. If no one can see it, it never happened. Right?

But Chinekwu heard the deafening boom of mattrass hitting concrete, and has come to inspect the damage. She is in the middle of singing "Den den deeeen..." when you begin to beg her, bribing her with your meat from lunch tomorrow and Bazooka chewing gum if she will only not tell Mummy when she gets back from work. But Chinekwu has not forgotten the last time you made a similar promise: she kept silent about your misdeed, and Mummy flogged her as well for compliance. Afterwards, you sought her out in the kitchen to make fun of her for howling and "dancing" when she was being beaten; upon all that, you withheld the five naira that you had promised as reward for her loyalty, citing that you weren't spared the rod, so why should she receive compensation?

Chinekwu is only a village girl with a Standard Six education, but she learns quickly and never forgets. She requests the Bazooka chewing gum up front and makes you wash the dishes from lunch. Satisfied that you have covered all your bases, you return to your play and soon forget that you even have a bed, talk less of breaking it.

When Mummy returns from work, you all crowd around the car singing "O yo yo" as Chinekwu rushes to her side to carry her briefcase and grocery bags. Mummy swats you off her, begging you to "let her rest" before you carry on about what she brought for you. She has battled the cachophonous city streets and is in no mood to entertain you or your demands. High with joy now that your mother has returned, you retreat to the living room and wait for her to come in and join you for dinner. You don't notice Chinekwu whispering and pointing in the direction of the bedroom; you don't see your mother look thoughtfully at you before she disappears down the darkened hallway that harbors your sleeping quarters.

Minutes later, Mummy's voice calls from her room: "My pikin! come, let me give you chewing gum!" You cannot believe your luck. It is a rare occurrence indeed when your own mother offers you the sweet nectar of candy - she usually ensures that you cannot get your pudgy fingers on even one Buttermint for weeks at a time. A few years down the road, you will come to realize that no good can come of your mother offering you deliciously unhealthy tantalizers. But today, you are seven and you don't know anything. You run gleefully down the hall and burst into her room, expectantly.

She is sitting on her bed, half-dressed, rifling through her purse as she "finds something for you". You are jumping up and down on the spot; you can barely conceal your excitement. Lo and behold! she produces a stick of gum that you respectfully accept then unwrap quickly and throw into your mouth, releasing bursts of bubble-yummy flavor in sugar-filled explosions all over your mouth. Mummy is getting out of her stuffy work clothes as she asks you how your day went; you gleefully inform her that it was fun, more fun than yesterday but not as much fun as it will be tomorrow. She seems pleased, wants to know more. What did you do today? Oh, nothing much, you say, I came back from school, changed, ate, played with Francis and Ngozi. Oh yeah? What kind of play did you play, she wants to know. We just played Police and Thief, then we played WHOT, then we-. At this point in your story, the image of the broken bed leaps to your mind, as clearly as if you were still jumping on it. All the events that led up to that moment flash quickly through your mind like a tape on fast forward. Does she know? Suddenly, your bubble gum doesn't taste so sweet.

Why have you stopped talking, Mummy wants to know. Continue now - what other kinds of play did you play today? You open your mouth to speak, possibly to beg her for mercy - only a strangled sob escapes. Talk now! she demands. Why are you crying? You didn't do anything worth crying about...OR DID YOU?? All this time, you thought she was just putting away her clothes, arranging her shoes. She whips round from her wardrobe, brandishing a koboko as long as you are tall and proceeds to remind you why she gave you rules to follow in the first place. In the melee, you swallow that fateful piece of gum. When she is through with you, she tells you to wipe the snot and tears off your face and return to the living room to call in the next victim. And for the first time that day, you obey.

This is not the kind of parent that one runs from. This parent has the patience of Mother Teresa and the memory of an elephant - you will never - never - get away with anything. No matter your age, you take your beating like a man and resolve never to make any mistakes again for the rest of your life. Of course, you will fail, but rest assured that you will not make many mistakes; you will instead develop an uncanny ability to think through your actions and anticipate any outcome. In some ways, this is the parent that best prepares her child for a world where anything can happen and carefully cultivates a spirit of caution within him. But a truly discerning parent is one that can passively educate his child on how to think quickly on his feet - and sometimes with the most humorous result.

to be continued...

many thanks to DVTG for telling me this story in its unembellished form - I had loads of fun filling in the blanks, but even my A-game couldn't derive such a perfect ending. your monumental strength in maintaining such a great sense of humor after so phenomenal a beating is well appreciated :-).

Beating your Child and Other Humorous Tales

2007-11-14T08:26:00.001-05:00

I wasn't beaten enough as a child. I know it, and everyone in my family knows it. We all have our regrets. Back then, I threw well-aimed tantrums to get what I wanted. If a knock had targeted my head as surely and more often, I might be a different person now. For one thing, I'd have a lot more stories to share when my friends and I are swapping discipline stories. For the first eight years of my life, no one laid a finger on me - honestly, I had no idea that you could get beaten for doing things wrong until my brother, a recent graduate from the Nigerian Military School, flattened my left cheek with his rugged palm. I don't think I even cried, I was so shocked! (Which shouldn't be mistaken to mean that it didn't hurt - his slaps have haunted me ever since, especially that one in 1996, which left me seeing green stars and picking up radio stations in Cotonou.) After my first slap, I spent many minutes trying to decide what it was that had happened to me and recall where I had seen that look on his face before. You know the look: the eyes narrow and pull back - nostrils sharpen and expand as the slapper gathers force behind his lungs for the blow - lips tighten over bared teeth. I knew I'd seen that look before. But where?

The year was 1987. I was five, precocious and famously ignorant. I also had a very active and troublesome imagination; having a father who was greatly amused by all my antics didn't help reign me in at all. I said everything that was on my mind back then - there was nothing cute about my strong opinions except maybe the Munchkin voice they rode on. On this particular day, I was feeling particularly opinionated about my little life. My hairstlye (one in front, two in the back); my dress (pink, with bows tied as tightly as possible to show off my "shape" - at that age, I was a figure zero); my nap (I wasn't going to take it). On my high horse, I was barking orders to everyone, informing them what I would and wouldn't do (mostly the latter). And my mother had had it.

We were standing in her bedroom doorway. I still don't know what I said. Sassed her in some way, no doubt. My father would have laughed and called me a "troublesome girl". My mother made the "I go SLAP you" face, and threw her hand back, high above her head. I remember looking at her, eyes wide with curiousity. What is she going to do, I wondered silently. Another one of my older brothers was there - he couldn't have been older than fourteen at the time. Fourteen, but wise to the ways of the slapping hand. Rather than watch my chubby face - which was now gazing dreamily at the hand that was about to descend rather heavily upon it - crumple into a severe fit of tears, he jumped between us and held her back. "Mummy, please, Mummy, please - she doesn't know what she's saying. Please, Mummy." She blinked, then heaved a deep sigh. Shook her head, started saying something about me being "stupid". I was confused and mildly disappointed; it was an anti-climactic situation. I waddled away, oblivious to the fact that I had just escaped my first beating.

Like I said, it was three years until someone took it upon themselves to cut me down to size. By then, my mother had died and the guilt that comes from beating a girl who has just lost her mother had worn off. Life was less than rosy, but still - I feel like I missed out on a lot of learning in the early years. For example, it never occurred to me that you could run to escape a beating. Never. I stood there and took everything like an idiot. Granted, I was too rounded to escape even if I had tried to run but that's knowledge every child is entitled to and I didn't have it!

So in honor of all those empty years, I've decided to recount, in the next few posts, some of the more vicarious tales divulged for my listening pleasure by my more astute friends and colleagues. They were nimble; they were quick. They tried their darndest to outwit their punishers, though none escaped. They have much cooler stories, and deeper scars. I envy them. And you will too.

to be continued...

They Have Come Again

2007-10-30T13:51:00.000-04:00

I wake up at 6:15 every morning to the sound of someone getting interviewed on NPR. The topic of discussion is typically obscure (the effects of global warming on the development efforts of nouveau-altruists in Alevoor village, near Udupi, India) or insignificant (why don't Americans watch baseball anymore?). You can always tell I'm awake when I mutter sleepily but firmly at my talking box, "You're not the boss of me." But the box always wins, and as I stomp to the bathroom and reach for my toothbrush, sulking at my reflection in the mirror, I get to listen to Steve Inskeep's baritone reading the morning's headlines.

Today was not unlike any other day - I went through the same routine. But I was less pouty as I brushed my teeth, for one big reason: the headlines announced what promised to be an exciting story about French charity workers jailed in Chad on charges of kidnapping and complicity. My interest thus aroused, I was eager, impatient even, to hear the full story and hopefully before I had to get in the shower. As I spit out the last of my mouthwash, Inskeep read the story. I won't go into too much detail, but as I recount it, I will try to use some of the terminology I heard on the radio this morning - basically, aid workers from Zoe's Ark were arrested after trying to "rescue" 100 orphans from Darfur. Chadian officials stopped them and "claimed" that the children were not orphans and that they were not even from Darfur, but from Chad. Deby, the president, is "using" this event to "portray" himself as the "savior" of these children, and the ensuing tension between Chad and France is escalating. Of course, Deby's actions, though "extreme" are not surprising, given his history: after all, he "seized" power 17 years ago and frequently displays a penchance for extremism and heady egoism.

And so on and so forth. The latter half of the story was my favorite: When interviewed, one of the children said, "They came to my father and told him that I could go to school in France...". It would seem therefore - and please, someone correct me if I'm reading too much into this - that this child is neither an orphan nor Sudanese. But that isn't all: knowing that adoption is "strictly illegal" in Muslim countries like Chad, the aid workers "went to great lengths" to ensure they could secret these children out of the country, even going so far as to "wrap bandages around their heads" so they would appear injured. That's a lot of trouble to go to for a non-orphan, is it not? And I'm not saying there is any substance to Deby's claim that they were planning to use these children as involuntary organ donors, or as victims in a pedophile ring, but isn't it right to question their motives in light of these discoveries? And isn't it remarkable how the reporters first chose to villify the president, calling him crazy and his actions unfounded and extreme, only for we the listeners to discover that the French aid workers were indeed being shady??

It is a fascinating study in international relations, at least for me, and one that I wonder if I will ever tire of. The newscasters never did admit that the aid workers were wrong; indeed, one got the sense they wished they never had to mention the fact that at least one child wasn't a Sudanese orphan at all. It was a sheepishly-delivered tidbit, swiftly and briefly transmitted over the airwaves for a split second before they went back to talking about how "unreasonable" Deby is being.

But forget the media commentators; what about the moral issues at stake in this drama? Here you have foreign expatriates who feel that it is perfectly moral to lie, break the law and rip families apart because they believe they have more to offer "the starving children of Africa". And, in terms of monetary wealth, it is oftimes the case that they do. But so what? According to the interviewed child's testimony, they approached his family, not vice versa. Which says to me that they had the distinct goal of taking as many children as possible, regardless of their familiar situation, strictly based on economic condition. Your parents are poorer than we are, ergo you don't need them. Lesson #1 for those African children: Wealth = Happiness. How noble!

It's easy to say that taking our children overseas guarantees them a better life (which it doesn't - a number of our brethren have become criminals and ended up in jail for some of the social conditions they have had to endure, without their family's support), but what about the emotional and psychological damage these young children will suffer being without their parents or other people similar to them who understand their upbringing and world view? When they miss their mother's smell and all they have within reach is a strange white person who may or may not be willing to hold them the way they need to be held, what happens then? And what is really the end result? Do they truly learn that they must "return to the land that birthed them" and "help their people" in the same way their philanthropically-inclined saviors tried to do by spiriting them away (at all costs) in the first place?

I suppose the overarching question I'm asking is: is it worth it? Too often in this world of today, people make decisions based on their own shallow interpretations or - even worse - idealistic, academic notions of how the world should work. And I emphasize should because they seemingly tend to forget that they are dealing with flesh-and-blood human beings when they act, not automatons who live by the principles of Aristotle and Maslow. Is it fair to force families apart, simply because your giant ego thinks you have the solution to all their problems? My guess would be no.

Now is when Chxta would start harping on and on about Africans' responsibility to Africa and how there is no one to blame but ourselves if white people come in and do badly what we have refused to do for ourselves for decades. He's right, but it's no excuse to ignore the transgressions of our so-called saviors when they do wrong. When we do that, they act with increased impunity and then we get this catastrophe. Stealing children and, rather than admit culpability, insult the intelligence of the people who caught them doing it...what the hell!

Nathaniel the Accountant

2007-10-26T15:20:00.001-04:00

This defies description

Real Mccoy - Mr Frazier Video Datin

2007-10-26T15:18:00.001-04:00

Lawd, Lawd, Lawd!

The Real McCoy

2007-10-26T07:28:00.000-04:00

Why did nobody tell me this show ever existed??? The Real McCoy contains some of the singlehandedly most talented bunch of people I've seen on TV in a minute...and they're no longer on air! It's a West Indian British TV show that is simply remarkable. Videos coming up...

I know, I know: I should write something. But what's really worth discussing these days? The guy that assaulted me on the train last month? The never-ending rainfall that we have so badly needed this summer-fall? My continuing lack of a fulfilling job and all the money I'm spending, wining and dining people who can't do shit to get me one? I'll think of something....

Situation in Nigeria Seems Pretty Complex

2007-10-16T23:21:00.000-04:00

Tried to post this video, but no such luck. If you've never heard of The Onion, it's a satirical publication that has apparently branched out to video/internet media and it's frickin' hilarious! This fictitious panel discusses the situation in Nigeria...or tries to. The last thirty seconds are priceless! $50 to the person who can tell me why the moderator keeps calling our esteemed leaders Umaru Yar'Adooya and Eebrahim Babandiduh.

http://www.theonion.com/content/video/in_the_know_situation_in_nigeria

I should actually write something one of these days. I could have sworn that's what this blog was supposed to be for....

Ughhhhh...

2007-10-11T09:02:00.000-04:00

One unexpected effect of being hung over at "work" on Thursday morning is increased efficiency. It may sound oxymoronic, but it is in fact borne of a reduced ability to multitask. In other words, since I barely have enough brainpower to focus on one thing, I might as well make my "job" the object of my concentration.

(All evidence to the contrary, seeing as I'm now on Blogger en route to Facebook, but in my opinion my anguish permits my hypocrisy.)

Thank God for ORT - yes, the very same Oral Rehydration Therapy formula that saved many a Nigerian child from death by diarrhea during the ad campaings of the late '80s. Laugh if you will - you can even deem me a locito - but the fact remains that this ORT that many effyziemongers will shun in snobbish horror is none other than the Gatorade that athletes all over have repurposed to stimulate physical prowess.

Thanks to my re-discovered, super-cheap, quick-fix hangover remedy, I will be hitting the bar again tonight. Viva the Midweek Booze Binge!

Friday: I didn't go. Couldn't be asked to sidestep my apartment in favor of a bar. These Americans want to deceive me - drinking is so very over-rated.

How to pick up nigerian women! Toooo Funny!!

2007-10-03T21:42:00.001-04:00

I don't know which "Nollywood great" this is, but this deserves to go down in the history books! I can't stop laughing...and what the HELL is he saying about cookies??

Because I May Never Find Time to Post Again...

2007-10-01T21:18:00.000-04:00

...cool your heels on The Green Pages. Read from the bottom up.

Now That I'm 25...

2007-09-06T18:51:00.000-04:00

Over the past few weeks, I've discovered that I have developed an intense hatred for a number of things that I once thought I liked (or at least, didn't dislike).

1. Fat people:

My curves and the fact that I am a direct descendant of women who balloon to Amazonian proportions in middle age have always made me slow to criticize my 'weight-challenged' brethren. Family lore has it that I got on my first (and so far, only) diet when I turned 4, in imitation of my aunts who always brought the latest fad diets to our doorstep. My sister claims that I was more successful than they were at refusing food - how it escaped my mother's attention that I wasn't eating is beyond me, but that is neither here nor there. I clearly recovered from any damage, as evidenced by pictures of my chubby limbs all over the family albums. My point is that I have always thought that I understood the plight of our overweight citizens, particularly since I believe I am just one plate of pounded yam and egusi away from needing one of those speedy scooter chairs to get around.

But since I became a rush hour commuter on the DC Metro, I have begun spending a considerable portion of my commute burning looks into the lumpy backs of the many obese people who also patronize our subways. I've been having a niggling problem with obesity in America for the past two years, mostly because it really does seem to be getting out of hand. I mean, these are not your average fatties. I'm talking about the six-year-olds who weigh two-thirds as much as I do; the people who just can't seem to tear themselves away from those gooey, greasy, cheesy Bacon Cheeseburger/Oreo/Meat-zza pizzas; the ones who habitually, easily drink at least a gallon of Diet Coke every blessed day and then are stunned to tears when they wake up one day three years later, too fat to get out of bed or even reach back and clean their fat asses after they go to toilet. These are the people with whom I must share what little space there is on the train at 7:30 every morning and 5:30 every evening. These are the people who, for a few hours each day, turn my mere worry about obesity into something infinitely uglier and more sinister.

In standing-room-only cars, I am forced to squeeze myself into crooked, tiny gaps in the crowd because a herd of fatties has taken over the train and there is nothing I can do about it. Today was an especially bitter day: in the morning, I was sandwiched directly between two enormous teenagers who kept right on speaking to each other like I wasn't standing right there between them. Now that I think about it, if you consider that all the flesh on my body did not amount to a hill of beans when compared to their combined weight, I really couldn't count for much in the grand scale of things. And so, forced to stop reading my morning paper since it was now pinched between my pressed-together arms, I spent the next ten minutes of the ride glaring at their smooth skin, shiny with the microscopic sweat beads that seem to glisten perpetually on most fat people, with such anger that I am sure my eyes evaporated some of it.

Pushed off the train by their colossal mass, I then had to jostle with yet more fat people who were struggling to get on the escalator at all cost, blocking the way of more nimble folk like myself who are eager to run and catch the last uncrowded train before all the fat people get on it and take up too much volume.

The struggle begins again when I get off "work". Evening rush hour means that the subway cars are literally packed like sardines, with bodies pressed against the doors, people struggling for air. Many times, I can't even get on the damn train because the evening herd first blocks the entry way so that people can't get around them and then, once they're on the train, they take up enough space for two average-sized people. Every time I am left on the platform because of this, I stand with flared nostrils and clenched fists, picturing the last set of double chins I saw atop rolling mounds of excessive fat and flesh and mentally rolling that enormous ass all over DC.

Whew - pardon that rant - the pain is still fresh. So yes, between the hours of 7:30 and 8:00 am and from 5:30 to 6:00pm, I have a fleeting but intense hatred for the obese people who cannot control their hand-to-mouth movements, whose obsession with food disrupts my schedule and does not permit me to relax with my free paper in the morning nor rest my weary feet at night. Most of the time, the anger dissipates as soon as I free myself from the masses and taste sweet, "fresh" air once again - so I suppose that's all right. Moving on!

(To my fat friends and relatives: I apologise if this rant hurts your feelings. I love you, I do...but lose some weight, damn it! Don't do to others what these people do to me!)

2 (finally). Watermelons:

They have no flavor and I've pretended to myself for years that I like them. But they suck eggs, especially in the States.

2b. Eggs:

Equally lacking in flavor, I have suffered through many a platter of the smelly things merely because I staunchly believed for years that they are the quintessential breakfast food. Eggs suck. Eggs can suck eggs (har har). But I do make a mean egg salad sandwich - chopped tomatoes and spring onions...mmmm....

3. Men who cry:

This was a tricky one. It took me actually seeing a man cry to make me realize that men who weep are not cool. Before this incident, I had thought men should be allowed to express themselves as emotionally as (some) women do cuz, you know, we're all equals. But I had never seen a crying man before I decided this. Now that I'm older and wiser, I must reverse my stance: gentlemen, keep those tearful emotions locked well inside. Under no circumstance should water escape from your eyes unless:

a) your parents died

b) your dog died

c) one of your limbs is being sawed off and you have to watch.

Otherwise, chillax and leave the crying to women and children! Or at least do the Denzel/Will Smith cry: silent tears that may or may not make it to streaming down your cheeks, but definitely without the blubbering and heaving shoulders unless something critical happened. Refer to the (short) list above.

4. Cleavage:

I'm tired of having big breasts. I've been tired of having big breasts since I turned 10 and could no longer run around like the little girl I was without a bra. But now I'm really tired of having big breasts. Again, the idea of plastic surgery strikes me as appealing...

Not to sound overly negative, there have been some benefits to turning 25. There's the whole car rental thing I talked about before. And of course my physical age is slowly but finally catching up to my mental age, which is a strange relief. But by far the best thing about turning 25 was the fact that a very special somebody showed me some love by giving me this:

Yes folks - I got the iPhone. I've been sitting on this information for a month! And not only did I get it for free, but I get to join the throngs of angry Apple customers who get their $100 back since Steve Jobs is a desperate idiot! Now, if only we can find a way to sue AT&T so that we can all get back on Cingular and have phones that work again. "Fewest dropped calls," my ass! "More bars in more places," nothin'! It was only a matter of time before AT&T shit on all the good work that Cingular had been doing for years.

That is all.

Oh, and

At this moment...

2007-08-30T10:09:00.000-04:00

Right now, I'm not at work. The sterile cardboard cubicle is not closing in on me. The steely-cold glare of the flourescent light is not a spotlight on my disappointment and failure.

Right now, I'm outside on a sunny day, enveloped in cool breezes, looking at the water.
I'm barefoot in a hammock, wrapped in my white kaftan and letting wind-borne drops of water kiss my face, my neck, my feet.
I have a pen in my hand and a small leather book pressed against my thighs, propped up by my bent knees.

I'm not here.
(There.)

Allergic to Aging

2007-08-22T21:48:00.000-04:00

With my 25th birthday looming, I've become even more introspective. I'm noticing a lot of changes in my being, physical and otherwise, and some of them are surprising, but I'm especially startled by how negatively I'm reacting to my transformation. I always thought I'd age gracefully, nonplussed about the mild lines that Time was drawing on my face, openly embracing the gray hairs huddled around my temples. Instead, I am acutely aware of every minute shift in my cellular construction. That which was comfortably transitory is now the perceived harbinger of a future, permanent ugliness that I struggle tirelessly to stave off. Now, for example, I refuse to look surprised, for fear that the wrinkles in my forehead will etch themselves in so deeply that I will look twice my age by the next day. It's a different truth I face. Now I know: I will not approach middle age with an air of confidence and pleasure in my accruing wisdom and still-youthful good looks. I will, in fact, be kicking and screaming all the way to 30 and possibly beyond. As much as I fear and loathe plastic surgery, I have caught myself on more than one occassion wondering what's so wrong with Botox....

Something else that's interesting about turning 25 is the issue of maternal instincts. Last year, I talked about my lack of said instincts and mentioned that I've never been attracted to the idea of motherhood. Loads of people have told me over the years that this is merely a phase I'll grow out of soon enough, when I reach The Age. A lot of people smugly ventured that I'd snap out of it when I turned 25. I dismissed them all, of course, but I'm starting to find that they were right, in an odd kind of way. They were right because recently I've found that I'm pretty obsessed with little people. But they were wrong because they didn't consider the fact that I am me, always have been and always will be.

Thus, my obsession hasn't taken the form that they predicted. I'm not suddenly preoccupied with loading fetus upon fetus into my uterus. On the contrary, I look upon the vermin - I mean, children - and am instantly hit with some very - what shall we call them? - strong reactions. I do, however, seek out these "bundles of joy" wherever I can, just so I can evoke those feelings and then examine them more closely.

Allow me to explain. Today, for example, I was on the Metro riding home from "work". A man walks onto the train, pushing a blond-haired toddler (boy) in one of those bizarrely huge strollers (is there really a purpose to making them that size?), the boy's equally blond big sister in tow. I was too busy daydreaming about something else to really give the boy child the attention that a true obsession warrants, but at some point during the ride, I absent-mindedly noticed him discover something mundane and look up to his father with pure glee written all over his food-stained face. Before I realized it, I was mentally insulting him. Within moments, I had declared him an idiot because he has no idea what is coming in the next months and years. He has no idea that the reckless happiness he exhibited on the train will seep out of his life, millimeter by millimeter, every day, until he becomes like the rest of us, teetering dangerously on the edge of bitterness and despondency. Soon, boredom will be his greatest enemy and closest companion. He will struggle at every other moment to find something to give his life just half the meaning he currently experiences every in his naivete. But here the fool sat, smiling because he could reach out from the tight security of his pushchair and touch the bacteria-infested metal pole in the middle of the subway car.

And so it was that, this evening, I realized that I would have no respect for my child should I deign to have one, simply because I will never accept their naivete as "cute" and "part of life". Instead, I will always wonder, casually and with a tinge of exasperation: "Why were you born so stupid and how long is it going to take you to learn a thing or two?" I'd fuck up a kid, really.

I have a revelation like this every month or so. Last month, I was trying to be a "big aunty" to my friend Chidi's daughter, who's four and can't count. She informed me of this with the same level of seriousness judges reserve for pronouncing death sentences. I dismissed her, mostly because I assume most kids don't know anything they're saying. But I should have believed her, because when I asked this girl how many teeth her baby brother has, she said, "Oh, he has PLENTY teeth - he has twelve!" Please note: the boy is a year old, and has two, maybe three teeth. And I should have believed her, because when I asked her how old she was, she said she was eight. But I really cannot fathom how a human being lives to the age of four, yet has no concept of numbers. So I wiped the incredulous look off my face, hitched up my bra and attempted to do the aunty thing: I tried to teach her how to count.

Having never spent that much time with a kid that age before, I had no concrete idea of how to go about it. I figured, you count to ten a few times, the kid should get the hang of it, eventually someone who's paid to do this will make it make more sense to them within a school setting. Still, I tried. I really did. But after the sixth round of counting, the girl was still counting like this: "1...2...[wait for me to say something, realize I'm not going to help, give it her best shot]...8...." I was pissed, man. First of all, how many times do I need to say 1-2-3 for you to get it? Second of all, what's your obsession with the number 8?? I gave up in disgust. But I was good; I didn't let her know how much of a disappointment she is. In fact, I praised her. I just said, "Good girl. Go play with your sister," and bounced on home, counting every step I took along the way. (947. Think you'll ever count that high, little girl??)

But I digress.

My obsession has definitely lifted since I have less time on my hands to indulge myself, but before I started "working", things were such that I'd wake up every morning and spend the first 4 or 5 hours of my day watching all baby-related shows on Discovery Health and TLC. I wanted to closely observe pregnant women, not because I thought they were beautiful natural creatures, but because I wanted to compare them to their "Before" pictures and rate how ugly they had become (say what you want, pregnancy ain't cute - especially not after month 6). Then I'd watch "Surviving Motherhood" so I could criticize all featured parenting methods, especially the mothers with "alternative" methods (bargaining with three-year-olds, etc.). I ended my sessions with "Bringing Home Baby", during which I would eagerly mock first-time parents to my heart's content as they struggled to adjust to their newborns, complaining about lack of sleep and how quick the younger mothers were to grow frustrated at their baby's refusal to "latch on". I especially enjoyed watching as they bargained with themselves and defended themselves against imaginary enemies ("It's something I've really struggled to accept, that I can't breastfeed, and there's no need for me to feel like a failure." Losers.). At the end of it all, I'd sit back, more convinced than ever that my life is perfect as it is and will always be perfect this way. Looking at people in that "phase" of life brings me contentment, and that feels great to me. Again, I make no apologies.

The only thing I'm going to like about being 25 is that I will finally be able to rent a car for under $100 - praise be to Allah, Buddha and Sango, no more doors are closed to me! I have been waiting for this day, when I can tell Budget and Avis to KISS MY FLAT ARSE with their no-rent policy for drivers under 25. It's kinda sad that this is all that's meaningful about this year, but...oh well. Wish me Happy Birthday on the 24th, somebody. I'll need it.

And to all the people who helped make last year's birthday the most memorable of my life, I miss you guys and wish I could re-live the whole thing. There never was anything like turning 24.

Sozaboy: A Novel in Rotten English

2007-08-20T13:39:00.000-04:00

I'm reading Ken Saro-Wiwa's Sozaboy for the umpteenth time. I never get tired of it, and I will say over and over again how much I love this book, and not just because I love the guy who wrote it. It's hilarious. Written in the same style adopted (abused and bastardized) by Uzodinma Iweala, who wrote Beasts of No Nation...man, that book absolutely sucked eggs. I don't really apologize for saying that - all you people who gushed and gushed about it, making me spend money I could have spent on an infinitely better read, deserve 40 lashes of a nail-studded whip! Jesus, it was bad! I finished it only because I could see it was short, but it took me all day when it should have taken me hours - the added time came from minutes spent frowning, agitatedly rubbing my eyes and forehead, huffing, flinging the book across the room, stomping over to pick it back up...you get the picture. HORRIBLE BOOK!!

Anyway, indulge me - this excerpt is one of my favorite parts of Sozaboy. The character speaking is Mene, the book's narrator, a young man from Dukana (an Ogoni village) who is, at this point, trying to decide whether to join the army and fight in the Nigerian civil war, which is just beginning. Prior to the 'thick man' (who strangely reminds me of the author) preaching his insultive 'sermon' ("And salt must be inside your salt otherwise they will throw you away like mumu, foolish idiot. Amen."), there was a scarcity of salt in Dukana, which raised the price from 2p to one shilling per cup. The excerpt reads:

Then the thick man begin to walk to the pulpit. Everywhere was quiet. What is the thick man going to say? Will he speak English and use terprita [interpreter] or will he speak Kana? So I was thinking all these things when the man begin to pray. Everybody said Amen and then they sat down. Waiting. To hear. What the thick man will say. This thick man wey no dey go church. But who have come to church today.

As you know, when catechist stands up to preach in pulpit, this thing can never end. He will be shouting, abusing woman who goes to another man, he will be saying anything that comes to his head. He can amuse the people too, oh. But today, the thick man is very serious. He just take one line from the Bible. 'You people are the salt in the soup.' Salt in the soup! Have you heard anything like this before? Porson is salt in the soup? I begin to turn this thing for my mind, and after some time I begin to understand. Because if salt is not inside soup, then it cannot be soup at all. Nobody can fit to chop it. Therefore, that salt is very important to everyone. To the soup and to the people who will chop the soup too. Then the thick man asked: 'Suppose that salt no get salt inside it, what will happen?' This kain question na war oh. How can salt not get salt inside it. Ehn? How can salt not get salt inside? Will it be salt? It cannot be salt. Oh yes, it cannot be salt. That is what the man was saying. I 'gree with am. Awright, if na we be the salt, and we no get salt inside our salt wey be ourselves, can we be ourselves? Wait oh. Wait oh. Wait small. Make I no too confuse. Say this thing again, thick man. Yes. If na we be the salt, and we no get salt inside our salt wey be ourselves, can we be ourselves? Look, my friend, I no dey for all this ugbalugba case. Abi, dis man think that we are in University? Am I not common motor apprentice? How can I understand this salt and ourselves and no be salt and 'e be salt?

I love the way he forms Mene's thoughts, aptly capturing both his simple nature and the innately human complexities he carries around but cannot always explain. In this contemporary age of Nigerian Civil War revival, this is definitely a good book to read for those who want to mentally engage in that struggle, yet not be totally bogged down by the despair. And you can compare it to that infernal Beasts of No Nation and tell me who better deserves critical acclaim :-). Ken Saro-Wiwa the writer - let's not forget that aspect of the man, shall we?

Available on Amazon from $6.65 (used) and $16 (new).

My Firstborn Child

2007-08-07T19:01:00.000-04:00

Here she is! My baby! Altered by the publishers, but I don't care - she's here! It's so surreal seeing my name in print, my words out there for the whole world to see...wow!!!!! You can read the article and watch the video interview from that link. Also, the original article was divided into two, with the latter half published as a separate editorial piece. I'm posting the original below, for posterity's sake. I'm so excited!!!!!!!!!

It is difficult to imagine a crime more heinous than the deadly attacks launched by the likes of terrorist organizations Hamas and al-Qaeda. Yet, despite the numerous deaths caused by the violent and often explosive tactics employed by Islamic terrorists, there are members of the Muslim world who believe a “bigger criminal” exists in Islam whose transgressions surpass even those of Osama bin Laden. The alleged offender is not an evil genius or noxious suicide bomber. She is Muslim Canadian feminist Irshad Manji, author of the highly controversial book, The Trouble with Islam Today: A Muslim’s Call for Reform in Her Faith. Her offense: spurring debate among Muslims.

Manji advocates a revival of ijtihad, Islam’s own tradition of critical thinking, debate and dissent, which she believes will open the channels of discussion and allow more modern interpretations of the Qur’an to exist in mainstream Islam. Ijtihad, the tradition that enabled over one hundred schools of thought to exist and thrive in Islam, was forcibly quashed toward the end of the 11th century for entirely political reasons. Instead, scholars – and believers – were made to accept a more rigid, conservative interpretation of the Qur’an, effectively replacing innovative thinking with imitation of medieval norms. This imitation is what characterizes Islam today. But as far as Manji is concerned, the practice of Islam need not fall under such outdated guidelines. “The Qur’an,” she says, “contains three times as many verses calling on Muslims to think and reflect and analyze than verses that tell us what is absolutely right or wrong. In other words, the Qur’an itself has all kinds of delicious ambiguities that not just permit us but actually encourage us to think and to reinterpret. [This is] a way forward, a way that allows us to be both thoughtful and faithful.”

It is a simple enough premise. For it, she has garnered a lot of support from fellow Muslims, whom she says are “desperate for honest conversations about Islam”. There have been over 200,000 downloads of the Arabic version of her book, which is available for free download on her website (www.muslim-refusenik.com), and the number is growing. Underground discussion groups in Syria, Lebanon and Jordan have sprung up that distribute the book among other reform-minded Muslims who cannot otherwise explore these ideas due to censorship and intimidation. And she receives countless emails of encouragement from young Muslims in the Middle East, such as one from a young man in Jordan who says of his discussion group, “I want to turn this underground discussion club into an above-the-ground phenomenon, because that is when the al-Qaedas and the bin Ladens of this world will know that they don’t represent me or my friends.”

“All of this really goes to show that there is a hunger – however underground, however muted it may be – a hunger for ideas about freedom of conscience, about free thinking and about reconciling that with the faith of Islam,” says Manji.

But the desire to practice an open-minded version of Islam does not come without its risks, which can be dangerous and life-threatening, even in the secular West. Young Muslims who merely express public agreement with Manji’s message can expect violent retribution in the form of stalking and even rape on American college campuses. In Germany, sexually active Muslim girls who shun a life of hypocrisy and deceit by refusing to restore their hymens surgically are threatened with death at the hands of their brothers, fathers and mothers. And in Yemen, where Manji went to film part of her new documentary Faith Without Fear, dancing women – temporarily uninhibited by their burqahs at all-women parties – firmly resisted being depicted on film as fun loving, claiming they would certainly lose their right to vote if the men in their society were to see them being human.

Manji herself has incurred the wrath of several Muslims all over the world, evoking harsh criticism, death threats and even a fatwa from Muslim leaders who have deemed her message un-Islamic and heretical.

The strength of such negative responses reflects the formidable threat that Manji and her cohorts pose to the institution of Islam, but why, one might ask, would the institution be so threatened by a woman? By fundamentalist standards, she is a nonentity by virtue of her femininity. And she is only one person, of petite stature to boot. However, though small and soft-spoken, her words are forceful; her thoughts, provocative. Manji believes that she has exposed the weaknesses inherent in a Muslim leadership which touts dogma over faith, mistakes authoritarianism for authority, and whose only concern is maintaining its monopoly on power. In calling other Muslims to think independently and find a different truth, she has unmasked the shaky foundation on which this monopoly was built, leaving the leadership no choice other than to lash out at her with a vengeful force that seems to only further reveal its insecurities.

But despite the dangers, Manji is proving that she is up to this gargantuan task of facilitating religious reform, attracting hordes of young Muslims all over the world who are anxious to practice a modern, less stifling version of Islam.

The overwhelming response to her message sparked the creation of Project Ijtihad, the world’s most inclusive network of reform-minded Muslims who work together for the ultimate goal of restoring ijtihad within Islam. Why a network of Muslims? “Because we have to show other reform-minded Muslims who are still too afraid to come out of the woodwork and speak their minds freely [that] they are not alone. That even if they speak their minds freely and are marginalized and ostracized and disowned by their families for doing so, they’ll have a new family to turn to [and] a new community to be a part of,” declares Manji. Through forums, advocacy and, very soon, a nationwide writing competition for Muslim Americans, Project Ijtihad seeks to challenge the worldview of Muslims all over and transform provocative thoughts and questions into much-needed social progress. But she warns: “[Project Ijtihad] is not about creating rebels…it’s about making sure that we distinguish between education and indoctrination. And here’s the key distinction: education unleashes the permission to use our minds. Indoctrination quashes the permission to use our minds.”

Manji is well aware of the difference between education and indoctrination, the latter being yet another tool to maintain the status quo. While growing up in Vancouver, she attended two types of schools – a regular public school and the Islamic religious school, or madrassa, which she attended every Saturday. “[Initially], I really looked forward to going to the madrassa because I loved the notion of a spiritual education,” says Manji. “What a shock to me, then, to be told: no questions allowed.” Instead, she and her fellow classmates were taught, among other things, that women cannot lead prayer and that the Jews are treacherous and untrustworthy. The prejudice behind such lessons not lost on her, Manji persisted in asking questions that challenged her madrassa teacher until she was eventually expelled. But rather than leave the faith, she decided to spend what would turn out to be the next twenty years studying Islam on her own, starting in her public library. “And I’m so glad I did, because that is when I learned that I don’t have to take a back seat to anyone in the name of God merely because I’m a [woman].” She adds, “I have great gratitude for ending up in a free part of the world where as a Muslim girl and now as a Muslim woman, I can dream big dreams and tap most of my potential.”

Her motivation stems from several sources. She believes, first and foremost, that it is her love of Islam that drives her to continue pursuing justice and equality, saying, “This religion is, at its best, too beautiful to simply let it rot in the hands of those who want to denigrate it.” And Manji also draws inspiration from her mother, a woman whose faithful devotion and exemplary strength of character have shown Manji that “even a traditional, devout Muslim can be open to challenge. Her example [has shown me] that you can be at once reverential and exercise your freedom of conscience, too.”

As a Muslim, Manji plays a pivotal role in influencing other Muslims and re-introducing them to the ancient tenet of ijtihad. To be sure, the fight for Islamic reform must be led by Muslims, but Manji also believes that there is an important place in the struggle for progressive non-Muslims as well. In her opinion, by acknowledging the moderate voices in Islam, non-Muslims can authenticate those reform-minded Muslims within their communities and accelerate social progress that may not have occurred otherwise. In so doing, issues of human rights and lack of equality will no longer be deemed internal Muslim community politics, but reframed within a universal context through which all can benefit. “That kind of partnership works for everybody,” says Manji. “Even though the fight needs to be led from within for reform of Muslims, it becomes…truly legitimate and truly universal when progressive non-Muslims get involved as well. We need them. We reform-minded Muslims need them.”

And non-Muslims need this struggle. When Muslim women hide their humanity for fear of losing meager rights, we non-Muslims fail to see their humanity also. And if we remain blind to the similarities that bind us, we leave room for autocratic forces with devious political agendas to take control of our world by force. When Muslims are repressed – mentally, sexually, spiritually – and told that the only outlet for their frustration is to mete out violence against those who disagree with the institution, we all suffer and some of us die, whether we are Muslim or not.

Manji believes that non-Muslims have a responsibility to protect and promote the notion of a secular society, “where all can practice their religion personally, profoundly and powerfully, [without imposing] it on others. That is what makes a secular society so fair, to even people of faith.” By lending a voice to Muslim reform, progressive non-Muslims underscore the importance of the individual within broader society, rather than preserving power in the hands of those who will continue to abuse it.

As for the Muslims themselves, particularly those who reside in the Middle East – the ones who seek reform but are scared of violence or of losing the tenuous victories they have already managed to gain – Manji continues to encourage them to push beyond existing barriers to self-expression.

For the women in Yemen and others like them, she has this message: “Risk losing the vote. Risk it. Because if you lose the vote over being seen as human, you can increasingly rest assured that reform-minded Muslims around the world will in fact speak up for your rights. We will…expose the injustices that are being committed in the name of Islam by those conservative Muslims who say that just because you wear a smile on your face, you cannot be trusted to elect the next government. That is so unbelievably absurd, such a slap in the proverbial face of God that Project Ijtihad will make a federal case of it.

“[This is] the universal kind of struggle that we are not going to shy away from. And of course, I’m appealing to non-Muslim progressive people to join us in that fight. Because dignity is not restricted to one group of people.”

Moin-Moin for Breakfast

2007-08-07T10:03:00.000-04:00

I've been temping for a week now, and the only remarkable thing about it is that I manage to get any work done between all the nodding off at my keyboard. I sit at a desk for approximately eight hours during the day, entering missing data into employee records. It's all I can do sometimes not to peer over the edge of my cubicle and inform my neighbor, "I went to Yale. I can really be entrusted with more than this." But it pays, and relatively well (for senior college students), so I suppose I shouldn't complain too much or too loudly.

Waking up in the morning is very interesting. I've always been an early riser, but as it turns out, getting out of bed before 7am five days in a row is harder to do than I might have suspected. My eyes never open fully until I've plunged my head under the shower, and I've had to drop the water temperature lower and lower to achieve the desired effect. The good news is my pores have never looked better. The bad news is that I'm fucked for winter, when my basement apartment will probably have icicles hanging from the ceiling.

I'm also very unused to eating so early in the day. My stomach never accepts anything creamy or sweet before 10am so my go-to favorite, oatmeal, is out of the question, as are a number of breakfast foods. My first day of "work" last week, I gagged at the thought of making even a cold bowl of the stuff, realizing instead that I had a sharp craving for akpu and ultra-spicy vegetable soup. Perhaps I was a farmer in my former life. So I left for "work" on an empty stomach, and lived to regret it. Since then, I've forced myself to down at least a glass of OJ with whatever itty-bitty leftovers I'm eating. The other day it was a (yes, one) jerk chicken wing from Sweet Mango Cafe; some day before that, I made a bowl of oatmeal and ate three spoonfuls.

But then, on Sunday, I went to Chidi's house. She's a lady I met on the street, on my way to a piano recital. She stopped me with her three bright yellow children, one tied to her back with a bright, red wrapper, and asked me, "How do you take care of your hair?" I was rocking my 'fro, recently released from the twist extensions I had shamefully kept in for over 2 months. Chidi's children all have natural hair because their African-American father insists on it. Chidi, however, is Nigerian and has never in her life had to deal with natural hair so the kids are suffering. I imparted my wisdom, gave her my number should she have any questions and went on my merry way. Three weeks later, she calls to say that nothing is working, so I went over to her house to save the day.

What happened there is a story for another day (and indeed deserves to be told), but the relevant gist is that she was making moin-moin when I got there and gave me some to take home after I was done with the oldest girl's hair (she was an angelic four-year-old who asked me not to come back, but her hair was cute, so whatever). Chidi was a bit miffed that I wouldn't eat at the house, but I had my own hair to twist and it was already 2pm. Plus, I'd given in to my craving and made some hot egusi and pepper chicken the day before that I couldn't wait to dig into. But the next morning, her cellophane-wrapped moin-moin caught my eye when I opened the fridge, and something said, "Eat it."

So I did.

The somewhat annoying smell of sour cheese filled my apartment as I cut into my bean-cakes, but I didn't even notice. As I licked the beans and corned beef off my fork, tasting simultaneously the delectable undertones of dried shrimp and crayfish, I was in heaven. I ate a whole one without feeling even a ripple of nausea, and found that I had more than enough energy to brave the already-sweltering day (DC at 7:30am has 85% humidity and is 25 degrees Celsius), battle fellow workers in the Metro and collapse at my desk, ready to fall asleep once again. So, in the end, it is the food of our ancestors that have, once again, saved the day. None of this mede-mede for me anymore; I'm a "moin-moin for breakfast" kinda gal. Bring on the beans, bring on the eba. So my colleagues will reap the rewards (or repercussions) of my chosen diet; so what? I am hale, hearty and Nigerian and I'm representing for all the people who don't want to be forced to eat bangers, eggs and cereal just because we are forming effyzie in obodo Oyinbo!

I'm gonna have to call her up and ask her to make me some more, freezer-bound and individually wrapped for my weekday morning pleasure.

In unrelated news, I'm published! My first officially published article comes out online today on the Voices of Tomorrow website, including the filmed interview I conducted with Irshad Manji and the clip I was forced to shoot of myself introducing the interview. I'll post a link when I know for sure it's been released, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to bray about my achievement. Yeah, me! I do wish editors wouldn't change so much of the writing though - the article ceases to sound like me at certain points, but beggars can't be choosers, right? And it doesn't matter cuz...it's published!!

I should get back to "work". More later.

Has It Come to This?

2007-07-26T18:32:00.000-04:00

Al-Qaeda meets Nigeria by way of Illinois in this story (taken from the Associated Press website).

Ok, that was a bit sensational, but only in keeping with the spirit of the article. Apparently, so long as it's a person of color handling the gun, it's tantamount to terrorism. The Arabs get some media respite...equal opportunity damning...I find it somewhat refreshing. In any case, this boy deserves some major punishment. Not just for feeling like he's Tupac up in damn Edwardsville, Illinois (for crying out loud, Tosin!), but for so foolishly imagining he could get away with it all. In 2007. I can't even believe he'd be chasing this much drama, with his Yoruba self - you won't go and read book like your mates, you're toting semi-automatic weapons and trying to emulate deranged Asian killers. So tragic...

What's the Proof You're Crying If No One Can See Your Tears?

2007-07-20T13:38:00.000-04:00

I'd forgotten the benefits of a good cry. As a matter of fact, I'd told myself - again - that there weren't any. I go through bouts of this: stop crying for a few months or years, suddenly re-discover the surge of energy one gets from the release of those salty missiles, and then I overindulge until I'm sick of it. I've been doing this since 1995, after my father's execution plunged me deep into a depression that lasted two years. I went to school every day and I still got A's, but I rarely even smiled and I certainly never cried. Only Shirley held the magic that momentarily diffused the pain - she who, when I told her I was going to commit suicide, told me to "drink water." (Why that worked, I'll never understand.) For her, I smiled and even laughed, within the safety of our friendship.

Years later, I'm not so depressed anymore but I still try to stave off my tears. I see them as a sign of weakness, even when I know they're not. I hate the reflexive nature of crying, as though there could be no other go-to option.

Today, though, after a long dry spell, I let loose. There was no obvious trigger; I just felt full of something that leaked out and subsequently burst my dam. I cried in my desk chair, rolled over the short distance so I could cry on my bed. Then I got up and walked to the bathroom - avoiding the mirror so I wouldn't get embarrassed - and I cried while I showered.

It's a surreal experience, crying in the shower. Because no matter how much your body shakes, and no matter how breathless you get, you can't actually feel the tears falling down your face and for me, I found myself wondering if I was crying at all. And then, as the tears mixed with the water and cascaded down my body, I wondered if the hurting could be real when my tears were invisible. As I debated the absurdity of my thought, I forced out a fresh batch of tears and contemplated the burning sensation in my eyes.

They stopped as abruptly as they had started.
Reservoir empty, disappeared down the drain.

Note: This entry not to be confused with a display of sorrow. I wasn't crying because I'm particularly sad. I guess I was just full of something that chose to come out in tears, whatever that "something" might be. Thanks for love, though, Reader in Toronto and Chxta :-).

The Bastard!

2007-07-15T10:43:00.000-04:00

Dear Kulu,

I am so relieved I heard from you at last.

Lilian

He's upped his game, man. Ten words (greeting and signature not included), and he's left me thoroughly confused as to what to do next. Yeah, you heard from me, but I told you to piss off, Lilian!! I thought he'd insult me, or at the very least, not write me back. That way I could dust off my hands and turn to some other inane task. But, by fully ignoring me, he has managed to rope me right back in. I might as well have sent him a check, for all the acknowledgment he's given! If this isn't a Nigerian....

But I'm a Nigerian too, and damn it, he's not going to get the best of me! Unfortunately, I don't have a few thousand dollars at stake to keep me going; I'm losing interest, man. At the same time though - and this is quite the oxymoron - I am thoroughly engaged in discovering what the hell he means by this email! "Don't do it, kulu...just leave it alone...let it be..." That's my inner voice. And I know I should listen to it, but I just...have to...say...something....

But what?

In other news, I'm having a total quarter-life crisis. I've written two articles and a short story in the past couple of months and heard zero, zip, zilch from the editors. Also, I'm still looking for work and have been on the receiving end of a whole lotta silence on that front as well. I'm no longer questioning my competence - I now fully believe that I am just taking up space on earth, space that could be much better utilized by more talented folk like Chxta and Jeremy. What to do, what to do...?

And that's the other thing: suddenly, I'm no longer sure of myself, my decisions. Constantly second-guessing everything I do, I wouldn't be surprised if I was turning my life into one steaming heap of dung just because I no longer trust my instincts. I'm starting to understand why people get married/have babies at my age: it's the only "sure thing", based on the lies we're told as children ("yes, you will live happily ever after), and you just get tired of thinking and testing and getting rejected. You latch onto the first mo-fo that shows the slightest interest and voila! you've got yourself a new life with "meaning". I'm not going down that road, so I'm stuck with my current reality, which says: I have no talent, I have no purpose, and I'm going to end up being a waitress at some sleazy diner despite my Ivy League education. Suddenly, those ads soliciting dancers ("no experience necessary", "earn $300-$500 a night") are starting to look rather attractive....

kulu on a stripper pole. Now, if that isn't a reason to off myself....

(*Chineke God of Allah, have I actually been blogging for more than a year???*)

The End?

2007-07-12T11:14:00.000-04:00

So Lilian wrote back. She was none too pleased with my accusations, as you will see:

Dear Kulu,

What are you talking about? I was mad after reading your mail.Please understand that I hate liars and I do not lie.The bible says in Eph 4;28 ' speak evry one truth with his neighbour for we are members of the same family'

Honestly you are mistaking me for some one else.And if you make your proper investigation you will find out that you dont know what you are saying.Then will you aoplogise to me.And I hate being taken for granted.I am not married to any one not to talk of four kids.I dont even know the people you mentioned.I can send you another of my picture to actually make your verification..I dont steal not to talk of stealing people's picture.I dont border about my looks.God has made me just as the picture I sent to you.I sent you my picture and not some one else's picture.

I am not happy here.You have spoilt my mood.I challenge you to makle proper investigation of what you are saying before replying my mail.Because I want your apology when you have confirmed that you accused me innocently. I am right in tears for unneccessary,unverified accusation.You have hurt me greatly.Please investigate this.

All my love still,
Lilian

As you can see, she started calling me Kulu, which lets me further know (like there was any doubt) that I'm dealing with a Nigerian. Note the accusatory tone, the overt indignation, even the Bible verse for good measure - all telltale signs of our trademark Naija mentality.

I couldn't be arsed to respond immediately, though. I was partying in Toronto with my girls. Lilian then pulled a move that made me wonder if she isn't indeed a woman. She sent me another email:

Dear Kulu,

Why have you remained silent? Please get back to me and stop this joke.
I have told you I dont have the slightest idea of what you are saying.The places you mentioned,I have never heard of them.Such places do not exist in Ivory Coast where I am from.

Please call me on the phone immediately.You are hurting me and giving me sleepless nights.

Lilian
00225 08 56 03 92

I even started to feel bad. This guy (or girl) is good! Still, I wasn't in the mood to respond. However, today I decided I would like to try and put an end to this. Don't want to leave sh*t hanging, you know? Here's my noble effort:

Dear Lilian,

Honestly, you don't even look Ivorian. You look SO Nigerian, just like the sister of my dear friend Pius Ikwueme Pius of Ama-Arika village, and I thought you were just lying about your origin. If you are Nigerian, though, I completely understand if you'd rather not claim Nigeria. I hear there are nothing but scammers over there, trying to rob innocent people of their hard-earned money. Lazy bastards, those Nigerians are, and evil. Plain evil. Have you heard of what they do? They send unsolicited letters to absolute strangers, offering them wealth untold, and then they trick them into sending money back to Africa for numerous reasons, after which they disappear, leaving heartache and poverty in their wake. Some of them even go as far as sending photos that misrepresent them. In "small English", that means that they send pictures of other people and pretend that it's them. Man, I'm glad I've never gotten an email from any Nigerian scammer. I would be so angry if they managed to deceive me so thoroughly. I might even try to trick them back. I might pretend to be a man when I'm really a woman. I might waste their time a little bit. You know that kind of thing?

Anyway, I'm afraid I have to draw the curtain on this our budding relationship. As much as I'd love your money, I'm getting pissed off because you keep insisting that I should call you when I've told you repeatedly that I can't afford it. No plasma screen for me, I guess. Oh well!

K

If the heifer responds to this, I'm going off on her. It will be the height of insolence and absurdity, and I won't stand for it, omo Naija ti mo je! Abi does she think she is the only one that can get angry?

To Be or Not To Be...Nigerian

2007-07-09T08:36:00.000-04:00

So, is anyone else incensed by the way the media over here keeps referring to that kidnapped girl in Nigeria as being British? Yes, I realize it's not the most pressing issue in the world, but still, I get indignant about the sloppiness, inconsistency and unprofessionalism in journalism today. A kid got kidnapped in the Niger Delta (not the first kid to get kidnapped, mind you, but the first to get a spot on BBC and CNN because she's supposedly "foreign"), and I can't get past the fact that other Nigerian children - that the first kidnapped Nigerian child was deemed unimportant by our trusty news sources because he or she wasn't white enough. Seriously??

I mean, look at these people:

Now, correct me if I am wrong, but does black plus white not equal mixed anymore? In most parts of the world, black plus white still equals black, but I guess where oil is concerned, they are willing to make a concession. And what these newspeople seem to think is important is not that children are now being used by rogues to make money, but that they would use "foreign" children to do such a thing. And so now they're reaching for little white lies in order to get their scoop - at the dismissal of other kids who, being fully black, don't matter quite as much. They get to be the footnotes in this saga.

Her mama genes strong o! But, fine, young British Margaret Hill (who has lived in Nigeria her whole short life along with her parents who have lived there for most or all of theirs, and one of whom is so Nigerian as to not be confused with anything - anything - else) is free and the expat community in Port Harcourt is breathing again. But the whole thing is leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth, and I'm not altogether pleased.

Hanging Imbalance

2007-07-02T20:44:00.000-04:00

I was gonna take UKNaija's advice and stop faffing around. I'd thought about it and I do have more important things to do. Plus, Patrice drawing my attention to the Ebola Monkey Man just about ruined this whole exercise for me. Here I thought I was doing something clever and somewhat unique - as it turns out, there's a whole world of people doing the exact same thing more brilliantly and humorously than I ever could! The New York Times ran a piece on it (scambaiting) the other day - quite the randomly-discovered eye opener.

Anyway, so I lost interest for a while and figured I'd just leave this business unfinished, take my mediocrity elsewhere. But tonight I decided I needed a little pick-me-up and this little email did the trick:

Lilian,

I have not been able to write you for all these days because my heart is heavy. I thought you were an angel, but now I am left singing the famous words of Toni Braxton, "how could an angel break my heart?" I looked more closely at your picture the other day, and it suddenly occurred to me that that woman could not be you, Lilian Kumasi, the woman I fell in love with. How did I know this? Because that picture is a picture of the beloved junior sister of my long lost friend, Pius Ikwueme Pius, and from what I was made to understand, she married Chimere John from Ama-Arika village and is now the proud mother of four average-looking children. Lilian, why did you steal Pius's sister's picture? Is it because you are ugly? Are you ashamed of your looks?

I thought we were going to grow old in love, but I guess I was wrong. I thought I could trust you, but now I have to question everything you say. Do you really have that money? Will you ever come to America and marry me as you promised? Now that I think about it, I'm even beginning to doubt your sincerity where that is concerned. Are you sure that you love me, Lilian? I've never even heard you say the words. Here I am, investing all this time and effort in you, and I'm not even sure that you are going to live up to your end of the bargain. Are you just going to abandon me with your husband's millions? Even though I would be able to maintain a high level of contentment for at least ten or fifteen years, I will be a broken man without your love to make me complete.

Lilian, how could you do this to me, after everything we promised each other?

Please tell me the truth. I have cried every day since I realized what's happened, and I am no longer the man I used to be.

Love always,
Your darling K

So I'm uncreative - so what? I still make me happy...
I wonder if she'll respond to this.

He/She Wrote Back!

2007-06-27T20:46:00.000-04:00

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Chxta!

Dear Ulutempa,

I thank you for your mail which I have received.May God bless you and keep you for me.We shall soon celebrate this as soon as the box is sent to you and I come over there so that you should invest this money for me..I thank God also who has brought us together for you to help me.I am very grateful to you for your concern about my situation.I will not let you down when I come to your country. Please call me 00225 08 56 03 92.

I want you to be honest and sincere to me in the investing of this money for I also will always be honest to you in every thingSo please always deal with me in honesty for you are my only hope now to invest this money in a good and lucrative thing as soon as the box is sent to you.

I have received the information you sent.I have already used it and introduced you to the security company.I told them that you are my late husband's foreign business partner,my guidian and the beneficiary of the box.That I am going to join you over there where you can take proper care of me.

So write to them with this information. Tell them exactly what I have said.That you are my husband's foreign business partner,my guidian and the beneficiary of the box deposited with them by my husband .That you want to withdraw the box.Tell them that you are contacting them on my awareness.That they should send the box to you. That I am coming over to join you where you can take care of me.

Please you should not mention to them that the box contains money. Because my husband deposited the box as valued royal costumes.and they do not know that it contains money.If they do it will endanger my life.So please you should not mention that the box has money in it.Just tell them it is the box of valued royal costumes deposited with them by my late husband.

This is the contact address of the security company.
You should address the mail to the director;
Engr.Jason Garus
00225 08 53 17 80
Lion Prowl Security &Diplomatic Company
lionprowlds@yahoo.co.uk

Please go ahead and contact them at once and mail me to let me know you have contacted them.
I am waiting for you urgently.I want us to finish this quickly I want to leave here and start coming to join you as soon as you have received and confirmed the box in your custody. So I want you to hasten this up so I can start coming there for you to help me and invest this money.
yours sincerely,
Lilian

Note,Please advice me on what you want to invest the money in
Please call me on my phone.You will see my picture here.

Odikwa beautiful o!

*********************************************************************

Dearest Lilian,
I must say that I am overwhelmed by your beauty. In fact, I cannot even type this letter as I keep clicking back to gaze upon your curvaceous body and luscious lips. Your skin looks as smooth as lily petals - truly the picture of magnificence. How can I even begin to thank you for finding me and writing to me? I don't even want to know how you found me. I just want to declare in all honesty - just as you have done with me - that I will stop at nothing to make sure you find your way to America, to life, to love.

As for how I plan to invest the money: I have always thought of myself as a man who could make it big in this world, given the opportunity. I have had a hard life, but still I struggle on, believing that my time to shine is coming. And, lo and behold, here you come, as an angel from above. Lilian, I believe that you are the answer to many, many years of prayer and fasting. Therefore, I will be investing your dead husband's money in myself. I have calculated that, after paying some bills, buying one or two big screen HDTVs, maybe a house, there will be more than enough money left over to invest in a mail-order business that you and I will manage together. Because, Lilian, I cannot imagine a better way to reward you for all that you have endured than to make you my wife. You don't have to answer me now; just think about it. I know that you will choose the best thing for you and, Lilian, I am the best thing for you.

I'm going to write the security company now. Wish me luck!

Yours forever,

K. Ulutempa (but you can call me K)

**********************************************

UPDATE: The "security company", after receiving my email where I "mistakenly" mentioned the fact that the box has oodles of cash, wrote me back asking for my full details. I was hoping for some backlash and am very bummed that I didn't get even a slight reprimand for being so foolish. I see the careless hand of a Nigerian written all over this. "Lilian" wrote back with this:

Dearest,

I thank you for your urgent mail.I came on computer with strong expectation of your mail.

I thank you for your efforts to get my problem solved.We shall celebrate this when it is over in a way that you will thank God for his miracles.I like the way you write.You must be very learned.Something strongly tells me that you and I are going to have life with its true colours.

What did the security company say? I thank you for you thoughtful and caring words.Dont worry every thing will be alright.

I am waiting for your call so that we can quickly finalise this.Call me.

Lilain
00225 08 56 03 92

I'm upset that "she" didn't call me K; I guess she don't love me as much as I lurves her. But no matter. Our relationship is over. I can't be with someone who doesn't understand that someone with no phone can't call until "his" bill is paid with her dead husband's supposed millions. Or maybe I can't be with someone who insists on using the word "guidian", even after I have slipped in a correction or two. But then again, maybe I can't be with someone who has obviously stolen the picture of my estranged cousin Tokunbo and is using it for dubious purposes. Gosh, there are just SO many ways to end this - any thoughts, people?

For Love and Money

2007-06-26T22:57:00.000-04:00

MRS.LILIAN KUMASI
RUE 26 HB5
KUMASSI RAMBLEAU
ABIDJAN,IVORY COAST
WEST AFRICA.

Dearest in heart,

I really dont mean to bother you.But it is urgent and very important at this point that I contact you.Let me quickly introduce myself.
I am princess Lilian Kumasi.The former wife to late prince Duke Kumasi .I am 26 years old and I have a daughter who is 5 years old.
My late husband was the prince of Buake,a town in Ivory Coast where I lived with him until his death in February 13th 2006.My late husband was a carefree,open-minded and considerate person which I believed contributed largely to his death.He never withheld these qualities from his subjects.The people he ruled.This is why it was easy for him to be poisoned.His death was suspected to have been carried out by one of his subjects..

My husband called me in his palace one faithful Friday afternoon.He told me of the money
( 9. 5 million us dollars) he deposited in a security company here in Abidjan.The capital city of Ivory Coast West Africa.He told me this exactly 3 months before his death.As if he knew he was going to die.He put the money in a box and deposited the box with a security company as important royal costumes.
Now after my husband's death.His kinsmen and his immediate family are after my life.They want to kill me and inherit my husband's wealth.Since I dont have a male child who will succeed my husband and ascend to the throne.

No one knows about this deposit except the personal advicer to the prince.And I suspect he has something to do with his death.He is the one that told the kinsmen.That is why they are looking for me to get this documents.

I succeeded in sneaking out of the palace at night.I abandoned every thing I labouerd for with my late husband in the palace but I took with me the documents of the money deposited with the security company

I am hiding in a local guest house here in Abidjan.I need you to help me retreive this box and receive it in your country.I want to leave here and come over to your country to begin a new life away from this wicked people that killed my husband immediately you have received the money under your custody.I want you also to help me and invest this money in a good business over there. Please contact me with my email address lilian_kumasi10@yahoo.fr.

I will give you 15% of the money for your help.

Can I rely on you to help me?

I am urgently waiting for you.

Yours sincerely,
Lilian Kumasi

**************************************************

Dear Mrs. Kumasi,

Your plight is truly frightening and touching at the same time. I cannot believe how CRUEL people can be; honestly, you are a very brave woman. I would love to help you and your daughter and the money you are offering will be thanks enough.
Just let me know what to do next. I hope we can perform this transaction speedily as I am desperately in need of some cash.

Sincerely,
K. Ulutempa

**************************************************
Dear Ulutempa, Thanks for your mail i received and your willingness to help me.May God bless you and keep you for me.I promised to love any one that helps me out of this problem and to cherish him for ever.
Please bear in mind that this box was deposited by my late husband, in favour of me and all the transaction documents relating to this transaction are here with me and since the death of my late husband i have been finding things very difficult even to eat two times in a day is very difficult for me and as am writing you this mail now,my life is in danger because those evil men that poisoned my late husband are after my life. So please i will like you to speed up very fast for them to send this box to you. I will like to come over to your country to start a new life and please kindly accept me as your sister because right now,i do not have any blood relation here in Africa. Right now,i hide in a local guest house.ELLA MARIS GUEST HOUSE for the safety of my life and please kindly call me on this number as soon as you receive my mail. the receiptionist will call me to the phone

00225 08 56 03 92.

Please kindly call me now. Once you have received my inheritance from the security company then i will come over to your country to start a better life there and invest this money with your help in any good business over there in your country.

Finally,send me your Telephone number,fax number and adress where the box will be brought to you. Also your name in which they will use to deliver the box to you. Please kindly respond to my mail and call me immediately you receive this mail for more details.

When I receive this informations I asked you to send, I will use this informations and introduce you to the security company.I will tell them that you are my late husband's foreign business partner,my guidian and the beneficiary of the box that they should send it to you. And this is also what you will tell them when I give you the contact address of the security company where the box is deposited for you to contact them.
Note,once the box is transfered and confirmed in your custody,i will come to your country to invest the money and i need you to help me and invest the money in any good business there. and please do not disappoint or betray me because this is my last hope in my life. Thanks and hope to hear from you today.

Lilian. [picture of rose]

Note.I here by send you my photo,Pls send me yourphoto.And when I give you the contact address of the security company where the box is,please dont tell them that the box contains money because my late husband deposited it as a royal valued costume and they do not know that the box contains money.Please this is for security reasons.

********************************************************
Dear Lilian,

I am sorry that I did not receive your email in time to respond yesterday. I recognize the urgency of your situation; I don't want you to suffer any more than you have already suffered. My phone has been cut off due to lack of payment, but I am trusting God that they will have mercy on me and just turn it on one of these days. When that day comes, you will be the first person I call, I swear on my honor.

In the meantime, here is my information as you requested:

Phone number: 1-703-236-9555
Fax number: 703-236-2331
Address: 1100 Wilson Blvd., Arlington, VA 22209 [actual recipient: ABC News]

I looked for your picture, but you never sent it. However, I will still send you mine. I have attached it to this email. I am already looking forward to seeing you and taking care of you and your inheritance. Your money is in good hands with me.

Already falling in love,
K. Ulutempa

He/She has not responded and probably never will. Guess he/she wasn't feeling my outfit. All I know is that I am heartbroken and I don't know when I will recover. All those millions - that was my iPhone right there.

iCry

2007-06-19T23:17:00.000-04:00

Why, God, can I not afford the new iPhone?

All I want is to be able to surf the net, look at pictures, listen to music and answer my phone all with a mere flick of my finger.

I've had my Motorola Razr for less than six months, but held against this phenomenal gadget, it already seems like this stupid piece of crap has caused me an entire lifetime of suffering.

Every time I see the iPhone commercials (and there are surprisingly few of them), I try to rip out whole clumps of my hair. I claw at my face and unleash guttural howls at my TV, which now suddenly seems unworthy to capture the very iPhone commercial being aired. But Steve Jobs doesn't hear my cries. Steve Jobs doesn't feel my pain, the pain of a veritable gadget junkie. I have three cameras, four mobile phones, two home phones, a digital voice recorder, a tape recorder, two laptops, two TVs and two iPods, yet none of these have what it takes to quench this yearning inside me for yet another electronic gadget - the gadget that surpasses them all.

This sucks.

It's funny - for someone so cheap and financially practical, I will spare no expense to buy electronic equipment. I'm like the man I never was.

Sexuality Article - A Snippet

2007-05-18T22:55:00.000-04:00

All right, so this is part of the article that I needed all your input for. The editors are changing it, but this is the version I wrote. It might get published, it might not. But, without further ado, I present...

Virgins and Whores: The Matter of Sexuality in Nigeria

Nigerians don’t talk about sex. There are 140 million of us, so we know that we’re having it (and superfluously so), but nobody talks about it. Oh, we’ll hash out the gritty, raw details within the relative “privacy” of our neighborhoods, the juicy gossip flitting furtively from family compound to beer parlor and back. But as far as public discourse is concerned, we might as well all be eunuchs. It was clear to me from a very young age that Nigerians constitute a fairly randy population, but I’ve often wondered why we ostensibly prefer to blindfold ourselves to our own promiscuity. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” seems to be the policy generally accepted in society, at the expense of our collective health and even our culture. Gone are the days when sex and intimacy went hand in hand. Nowadays, in a land that has become increasingly commercial, sex is just another commodity to be haggled over and sold on the open market.

Recently, I’ve heard several of our young women refer to their sexuality as a tool with which they can “make ends meet”, as though they completely lack other legitimate resources to achieve these ends. Their perspective, however, reflects a large-scale transformation in the national psyche. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t too long ago that such women were aggressively eschewed and derided for utilizing their bodies in the pursuit of monetary gain. But now, things have changed. It was a gradual shift, barely perceptible to me until I realized, with mild shock, that we as a nation have embraced a casual sort of prostitution and simply called it by another name. As women, we are no longer [sleeping around] for money; we’re simply “making ends meet”, because that, somehow, sounds nobler than admitting the truth. What I find most shocking, however, is how the society at large has merely adjusted itself, so that it is now molded around this new mentality, rather than rejecting it with the same defiance and force with which it sets suspected thieves ablaze in the street.

I’m not arguing for the quick and fiery death of young women who don’t know what better to do with their talents. I don’t even think promiscuity is inherently bad. I just want to understand what has happened to our values over the past decade or so, and why we were so willing to let them go. We certainly work very hard to create the illusion of sexual propriety; so who exactly are we trying to deceive?

* The rest of this article might (or might not) appear in the first edition of the BHF magazine, to be launched this summer. "Grab your copy NOOOOOW!" Or later. When there are copies to grab.

Thank You!

2007-05-11T08:47:00.000-04:00

Thanks to everyone who filled out my questionnaire. Your responses were very helpful in giving me a clearer idea of how we view sexuality in Nigeria, but more than anything, I learned that Nigerian men are lazy, lazy, lazy (when it comes to writing...and thinking?). More than half of my respondents were male, and a significant chunk of them (over 80%) never got past the question that asked them to state their gender. Que lastima! They'll have as much sex as possible; just won't talk about it. Boo!

But to the rest of you, you were awesome! I didn't get the number of responses that would allow me come to statistically sound conclusions about our people as a whole, but I can at least make the sort of sweeping generalizations that have granted us infamy :). I truly appreciate y'all.

Have a great weekend!

Call for Surveys: Extension

2007-05-05T16:48:00.000-04:00

Thanks to everyone who has already responded.

To anyone who would rather fill out the survey anonymously, I've painstakingly created a survey online at this site: http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.asp?u=265893817261.

I previously stated that the deadline for the survey was May 5. I've extended it until May 8. The survey will be closed thereafter.

I anticipate your participation, and preemptively thank you. :)

Call for Surveys

2007-05-02T00:37:00.000-04:00

Hello people!

I'm writing an article this week about the value of virginity to Nigerian women, and I was wondering if anyone would be willing to take a survey/questionnaire that I've drawn up.

It's pretty straightforward - just a few questions about your feelings and opinions on the issue in general. There are one or two questions that are pretty personal, and you, of course, need not answer if you don't want to (though I'd really love it if you did).

If you're interested in this survey, email me at kulutempa@aim.com and I'll shoot you a copy. I'd very much like it back by the end of the week, i.e. by Saturday night. Your personal information will never be made public; and if you really don't trust me, you can always fill the survey under a pseudonym.

Nigerian men are welcome to participate in this as well, by the way. You'll have to tweak the questions (mentally) to make it relevant to you, cuz I'm not creating another one :-p! Just make a note of your genotype somewhere in there.

For my non-Nigerians, I apologize: this is not intended to be an exclusionary exercise - I'm just minimizing my workload.

Respond!

I'M DONE!!!

2007-04-25T09:49:00.000-04:00

I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'm finished...I'M FINISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With my thesis, that is. The world is a better place.

The Floater

2007-04-09T19:33:00.000-04:00

I've been camping out at Sterling library for a little over a week now. Or maybe it's been two weeks; I'm losing track of time. In any case, I've been "working on my thesis", sequestered away from the comforts of home so that I will be forced to do nothing but type the words that are my ticket out of New Haven. I've looked forward to these moments since September 2006, when I discovered the synonymity between the words "Yale" and "slow death". But now I'm squandering them, these precious, precious minutes. Like a belligerent toddler refusing to be spoonfed her mashed-broccoli dinner, I find myself throwing inner tantrums when I lower myself into one of the green pleather armchairs in my "lair" to work. But because I am 24, not 2, I cannot fling my computer at the wall like a spoonful of green goo, satisfied that I will no longer be expected to finish that which I came here to do. Alas.

The stress is taking its toll. I barely sleep anymore, because when I sleep my dreams are filled with the unfinished paragraphs, running sentences and incoherent thoughts that I am certain fill the pages of my yet-uncompleted first draft. When I do manage to get those coveted forty winks, the first thing I think about when I wake up is my thesis. When I'm splashing water on my recently-acquired crow's feet, I'm thinking about my thesis. On my morning walk to campus, I no longer worry that someone will mistake my temporary, music-induced deafness for rudeness and beat me; I worry about how to write the next 80 pages of my thesis.

Because I have $3.52 in my bank account, I have no choice but to enforce austerity measures on myself (much like the ones IBB implemented during the SAP era that I'm writing about - again, I come back to this godawful thesis), so I'm down to one meal a day. The armed robbers who call themselves restaurant owners in New Haven think that everybody is George Bush's child, so they charge us accordingly for our meals. Therefore, I have taken to buying my singular meal from the Roomba Burrito man's cart: chicken burrito, no beans, extra hot sauce, extra cabbage. $4.50 at SOM, $5 at Elm Street. The Roomba Burrito man has saved me from slow, sure death by starvation. I don't eat my burrito; I inhale my burrito. I eat in seclusion so I can attack my burrito the way a pig attacks his trough of slop, and to avoid any backlash for being uncivilized. The meal is always over too soon, and I always look at the newly-shredded foil paper that once tenderly wrapped it with a mixture of satisfaction and remorse.

But man shall not live by burrito alone, and all this stress on my system has thrown a wrench in the works, if you catch my drift. I'm usually as regular as clockwork; you could set your watch by me. Seriously. I go every day, sometimes twice a day. But now...now things have changed. For one, I'm no longer at home at the time I normally go. Now I'm at Sterling. And secondly, nothing about my recent life is agreeing with me or my large intestine. So now, when I have to go, I not only have to deal with the fact that things aren't flowing as smoothly as they did in the past, but I also have to contend with the lack of privacy that comes with having to go in a public restroom. When you're the kind of person that needs a 20ft. radius of peace and quiet to handle your business comfortably, this presents yet another problem. A very unwelcome one, when it was going to be hard enough to complete this morning ritual already without the added complication of performance anxiety.

But I can't not go, so every day I trudge to the public restroom, grumpy and pouting, and lay down my layers of toilet paper systematically. Two long double layers for each lateral side, two shorter ones for the front and back, and then another layer just in case; carefully woven so that there won't be any slippage or subsequent risk of my tushy touching the seat. If I've forgotten to bring reading material, I read my old text messages - they serve the same purpose. On a "normal" day, I'm out of there in about eight minutes (more, if I have to coax myself back into action after someone has ungraciously stormed into the restroom and thrown things in reverse). These days, I leave feeling a bit defeated, but realizing that there was nothing more I could have done short of reaching in and yanking it all out. But today was different. Today, I dropped...a floater.

It was a rare morning. There were few women in the library today, it seemed, or perhaps today they decided to go at home for a change. So I had it all to myself: the sterile stalls, the silent sinks. All was peaceful. So maybe it was the fact that I could finally simulate the enviroment I am accustomed to or maybe my body is finally adjusting to its new routine, but things went well today. I experienced a cleansing like none that I've experienced in recent times. It made the whole world seem more promising: I would finish Chapter 3 today, I would stumble upon a stray $5 note so I could buy milk and finally have a steamy bowl of sticky oatmeal. I even hummed a little ditty and swayed my hips as I zipped up my jeans. When I raised my foot to press down the flusher (I never touch anything in a public restroom with my bare hands), I did it with a bit of a flourish. I tore a bit of toilet paper off that I could use to unlatch the door and turned round to double-check that all was well. That was when I saw it: the one that didn't go away.

I was horrified. I have never in my life deposited a floater; I had come to accept that my body just didn't make them. And yet, here I was, faced with the hard evidence of my poor nutritional habits - literally. I had started to panic when I realized that there was no one in the restroom with me. Nobody knew except me what was happening in stall #3. I took a deep, calming breath and raised my foot again, applied pressure. The water gushed out like a small tsunami; I was certain that the turd would be washed away by the seemingly crushing flood. It tottered and swayed for a while, destabilized. It started to disappear into the vacuum created by the whirling waters...and when the water stopped sucking, it came back.

At this point, I started to consider my options: I could stay and fight this thing, or I could walk out on it. It was, after all, a public restroom - it could be anyone's turd after I abandoned it. But then I thought: what if someone walks in just as I'm walking out, and they walk to or past stall #3? They'll know I did it. They'll know it's my turd that's staring them defiantly in the face. There was no way I was going to let that happen. This library has become like my second home, my face is well-known here. I could not allow myself to be hereafter known as The Girl Who Dropped the Bomb and Walked Away. No. I would stay and fight.

I flushed and I flushed. I flushed until I started sweating and became delusional. I could have sworn that the turd smiled mischievously at me once; I might have taken an oath that I saw it holding the sides of the toilet so that the water could only rush over it, never pushing it down. I held my hair with both hands: what was I going to do? And then, the worst happened: someone came in. I panicked! Immediately, the first thought that came to my mind was: jump on the toilet seat! Don't let them identify your shoes! In my half-crazed state, the worst that could happen would be if they saw my shoes through the gap in the stall, then saw me walk out three hours later - it would be as embarrassing as them seeing the turd itself. It would be written all over my face and I would be labeled The Girl Who Spent Three Hours Flushing Down Her Floater. In mid-leap, the turd winked at me. I realized then that jumping on the seat would be signaling defeat. I begat this turd, it did not beget me; I would not be belittled by this floating mass of undigestable crap.

I'll never know what the lady in stall #1 thought when she heard me crash-land on the floor of stall #3. My privacy no longer mattered at that point; the stomping had alerted her to my presence anyway. What mattered was conquering my shite. I cracked my knuckles and planned my strategy. The floater, by this point, had withstood approximately twenty gallons of water crashing down on it. It may have been strong, but it was not reinforced with steel; it would have to break sooner or later. I knew that this was my time to win, but I had to ensure that it was a swift victory, one that would ensure I didn't have to look into the eyes of the woman in stall #1 (I may have been at war, but I still had my pride). I listened; she was in #1, doing a #1. I didn't have much time. Quickly, I ripped off a few sheets of toilet paper, a.k.a. friction. I carefully dropped them right over the turd, so that they covered it like a soft, papery blanket. The lady in stall #1 was fidgeting; she was about to start ripping her own sheets of toilet paper. I took a deep breath, held it and flushed.

It put up a struggle, the turd did. But the friction that my t.p. created was unmatched and easily overpowered it. As the water sucked it out of sight, my turd squealed helplessly. Gleeful, I internally high-fived myself. I would have stayed to gloat, but I had no time. I had to get out of there, quickly. I could hear the woman wrapping her sheets in preparation for the wipe. Hurriedly, I unlatched the door and fled to the sinks. Two pumps of antibacterial soap, a quick rubbing of the hands under the flow of hot water. She was pulling up her bottoms now. Hand towels! Where were the paper towels?! I looked in the mirror and saw their reflection; they were behind me. I whipped round, grabbed one, frantically rubbed it over my hands. I could see her feet - she was turning around to flush! Soon, she'd be out of the stall and looking at my face! In one fluid motion, I opened the door and deposited the hand towel in the nearby trash can. As I bolted through the door to safety, I heard the woman in stall #1 unlatch her door and rush out, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of me, the Weird-Noise Chick in Stall #3. In the safety of the hallway, I raised my fists in triumph, grinning for all I was worth ($3.52; -$527.39 if you count my credit cards). I won!

It was a mere four minutes of my day, but they were a priceless four minutes. Because they were four minutes when I did not, could not, think about how to intelligibly write about tourism in Nigeria. All this, I owe to the turd. O valiant, vanquished turd! Your struggle has not gone unnoticed; you were of great service and will be remembered. As you maneuver the stinky sewers of this unglorious city (and hopefully - eventually - disintegrate), know that I think of you somewhat fondly, though I won't miss you much, and that I am grateful.

And to all, I bid you...adieu. Until next time.

Bullet!

2007-04-01T20:30:00.000-04:00

When was the last time you heard and/or laughed at a verbal grammatical error? I remember a time in the not-too-distant past when I could not let one slide without saying "Tiaun!", "Bend down for the ahhhh-rowww!" or one of any number of colorful colloquialisms designed to inform nearby listeners that the speaker supposedly could not speak English. I still remember, very vividly, our senior Bible class at Hillcrest about Islam, which was taught by guest lecturer Mallam Musa, a recent Christian convert. For one full week, the entire class was entertained by this cheerfully ignorant man who insisted on speaking this language that he had clearly not fully grasped. He continually and consistently gave us classics like "Mohammed was in danger. When he heard they were coming to kill him, he flied to Medina!" and "He was asleep on the mountain when just of a sudden...." I personally couldn't understand why he chose to lay emphasis on the arrows themselves when he spoke, but it made for great comedy. For the first time in Bible class history, every last one of us looked forward to the end of the day when we could sit in front of him and attend his free show, Mallam Musa ostensibly pleased by our enthusiasm but clearly wondering why we were rolling on the floor in stitches instead of sitting quietly in our seats.

I've since changed my mind about the importance of speaking perfect English, particulary if it's not your first language, but that doesn't make an arrow any less hilarious when I hear a good one.

Clearly, I'm not alone; there's a group on Facebook whose sole purpose is to serve simple folks like me gut-wrenching laughter borne of reading long-forgotten and freshly-shot bullets. I was checking it out today (instead of doing the work that I left my house and came to the library to do), and saw this one that I absolutely cannot stop laughing at:

"See economic growt. America did it, Japan did it, China did it...why can't we did it?" - OBJ

Una helep me o! I don't know whether the actual bullet is funny, or whether it's funny because na Baba talk am, but I'm almost crying, envisioning the seriousness with which he undoubtedly said it and wondering whether anyone was tempted to shout "Bullet!" during his speech. Whichever it is, I now have an insatiable desire for more arrows with which to pierce my funny bone. So now I'm calling all Belly readers: give me your best shots!

Still Procrastinating...

2007-03-24T23:00:00.001-04:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

I got this off Omodudu's page and it's so fun! I like that it's dead-on, despite Omodudu's doubts about its ability to gauge a Naija person. Though why I take so much pleasure in hearing another person tell me what I already know to be true about myself is beyond me...

The Beginning of the End

2007-03-18T21:01:00.000-04:00

I was cross-legged on my couch, half-watching Bridget Jones's Diary 2, half-writing my thesis when I found the loose end of some elastic from the waistband of my underwear. I yanked at it sharply, hoping to break it off and in so doing preserve the integrity of my panties, when I felt it shift a little on my right hip. It was a slightly pleasant sensation, so I kept pulling. As the springy length of string slithered around my waist, I was absent-mindedly intrigued. But the moment the other end snapped against my right palm, I was stung by an epiphany: I can't stop playing around.

We've all been here, more of us than I'd previously imagined. We claim to need the adrenaline rush that is associated with pressure to get our work done. When the work itself does not inspire excitement or the heart palpitations we need, we take matters - and time - into our own hands. We sit back and do nothing but cross days off the calendar, days that could potentially have been spent doing good work, days that would have added up to leisurely reward for a job well done. We tick off those days, and in the meantime we watch TV, write meaningless blogs, have meaningless conversations and attend meaningless parties (if you live in New Haven, you just sit at home and drink beer alone). To the uninitiated observer, we are merely wasting time. But those who have been anointed into the inner circle know that this is merely the ritual, preparation for a time when we will attempt to cram three months' work into the two weeks we have left. We will curse, we will cry, we will not sleep and we will not bathe. We will make false promises never to inflict this punishment on ourselves again, and our ids will snigger, knowing that we will certainly, inevitably fail.

Why, God, am I on Blogger? At least 30 single-spaced pages to go, and I'm only on page 2. It's taken me two days to get here, and I only have 10 days left. This is my thesis. The key to the end of my miserable existence in New Haven and I'm on Blogger. I am dead.

Humanity!

2007-02-16T08:49:00.000-05:00

My poor baby had her first taste of that blatant, in-your-face, so-cold-it-left-you-shivering racism yesterday...which was ironic, since it has been ridiculously cold in our neck of the woods for a few days now (she lives in Boston). My baby is my best friend, Amaka, and she called me crying yesterday while I was trying to pay for my groceries. She told me she had been trying to dig her car out of the snow and ice for an hour, without tools, and wasn't making any headway. Her hands were cracked and bleeding, and no one was offering to help her. It was at this point that a white lady came out of her house, walked over to her car and prepared to tackle the same problem that Amaka was having. No sooner had she begun kicking away at the ice that pinned her tyres to the road than four white men pulled over and helped push her car out of the snow. My darling girl was watching all this, and patiently waiting for a chance to ask for help, though she was desperate, cold and late for work already.

After the other lady thanked her rescuers and went off on her merry way, Amaka walked up to those bastards and politely asked if they could please help her as well. It wasn't even so much that they refused to help her, it was the way in which they did it. They never even responded to her. They just entered their vehicles and drove off! I was shocked to hear it, so I can only imagine how shocked she was to experience it, and how insulted. There's a certain helplessness I associate with rejection by complete strangers that fills me with so much rage! And this girl is like my other half; it was so painful to me that I couldn't be there to help her and injure one or two people on her behalf.

What really gets to me, though, is that those people are walking around thinking of themselves as good Samaritans, when they would treat a fellow human being in obvious need with so much disregard. She had to sit in her car and wait for AAA, when there were able-bodied men around, who were clearly willing to help someone - just not her. I don't even know how to finish this, or what else to say. I'm so angry!

Photo Blurb: Blake Excellency Resort

2007-02-10T14:06:00.000-05:00

It's hard to write about Blake Excellency Resort. I can't even think where to begin. Do I start with its name? Blake Excellency Resort: even I have to admit that it's ingenious. It's very unlike other Nigerian establishment names that are clearly just two names smooshed together into an empty moniker that sounds very much like household cleaner: Hensol, Remdan, etc., etc. Whoever named it (I like to imagine that he is a sharp-minded, money-miss-road type named Chuks, who always wears a hat and carries a very large, elaborately carved walking stick that he doesn't need) was clever enough to call his joint a resort, invoking visions of cool breezes, impeccable service, and a relaxing atmosphere. You don't get any of this at Blake Excellency Resort, but when you hear that there's an outdoor nightclub with a live band named Blake Excellency Resort, you don't ask questions. You just go. Besides, it's got the word "excellency" right there in the middle. It's risky business to assume that anything in Nigeria that claims to be excellent actually is, but still, I found myself powerfully drawn to this place with the funny name.

The first thing I noticed when I got out of SK's car at Blake's was that I was over-dressed. My friends are very aware that dressing up for any occasion tends to be difficult for me because I can't put in the "necessary" effort to look dolled-up for anyone. These days, I consider myself dressed-up when I pin up my hair and slap on some shiny lip-gloss. But because I was in Nigeria, where effyzie levels are high, I decided to don red stilettos and a wide red belt over my black T and jeans. As far as I was concerned, I'd still be underdressed by Nigerian standards, but at least I wouldn't stand out and subsequently be forced to deal with my shyness by drinking heavily all night. However, seeing the folks at Blake, I was momentarily confused as it dawned on me that this was a different kind of crowd altogether. So I compromised: I took off my red belt. I knew that this was going to be an experience, but I was in no way prepared for what I got.

Blake Resort, Blake Resort, Blake Excellency Resort. I really have no words. From the band which played Lionel Richie and Kool and the Gang songs to the dancers who did marvelous things with their jelly-like waists; from the horrible Igbo performing duo just in from some country in eastern Europe to the plastered expatriates from Italy, Brazil, England and America who could not help flailing their limbs wildly to anything the band played, particularly when they could "dance" with a Nigerian P.Y.T., I spent most of the night alternating between picking up my jaw, applauding things no one else seemed to think were remarkable, boo-ing the Igbo duo, and taking pictures. Four hours flew by and I didn't even realize until it was 3:45am and I was literally using my forefingers to prop open my eyelids.

I'm infinitely grateful to SK, Mo and RD for giving me this night. It was the first time I had fun in Abuja, and it preempted the best time I've had in Nigeria since high school. Highlights include: the band playing this song that no one except the songwriter has ever known the words to (which meant that they were all chewing their mouths for at least a minute - great fun); the Fela impersonator with the money-stuffed panties that stripped so quickly as to inspire one drunken audience member to do the same; the white Brazilian chick who gave the band dancers a run for their bootylicious ass-gyrating money; the hilarious post-show comedians who kept following the Brazilian chick around, asking her to marry them, and to "sheck her blood well" for Nigerian traces; the "after-party" which consisted of a Fuji singer praising a married man in the audience who has a reputation for only maintaining affairs with other married women in Abuja and was dancing with about three of them; the band member who politely chopped the N500 I gave him to play Osadebe's "Onuigbo" for me, despite repeated harassment from me and SK; and the very obvious homosexual behavior of many of the audience members. This isn't a judgment against them; I just found it extremely interesting that Nigerian homos now feel comfortable enough to display their "forbidden behaviors" in public. Look out for our first gay parade! I will so be there!

Some of my pictures are below. No videos, though, because the sync problem is annoying me. Have a good week!

Just one quadrant of Blake's. It extends way into the background, there's a balcony area, and the enormous courtyard outside with the suya men easily seats about a hundred people as well. The sea of cars outside the gate is unparalleled in Nigeria except in front of churches. Oh, and we sang church songs at Blake as well. I told you, the place is amazing. You must all go!

The Fela impersonator, post-strip, pre-stuffing

Being stuffed by an audience member

Talk about a moneybag

The audience member he inspired, pre-inspiration...

...and after.

You didn't see that well enough. Here's the money shot.

The comedians went on and on about his ass, too. They warned him to take it easy, "make e no come tomorrow, open front for us, de dance!"

Street Brawl

2007-02-06T15:14:00.001-05:00

The loud-mouthed one is Gaius. The guy in the red pants in the kabukabu driver that "bash his car". The guy in the white and blue shirt who went away briefly is the one who came with the turpentine (you can see him sort of cleaning the paint off).

Some filler info: the kabukabu driver had a passenger who faded from the scene as soon as we cleared off the road. That's who Gaius is talking about at the end. That guy he's talking to at the end is the same one from across the street that he stood yelling at after everyone had left. I'm still struck by how much time they spent "conversing" patiently, especially since dude from across the street really didn't need to stick around to be yelled at!

So sorry about the sync problem - dunno how to fix it. Hope you can enjoy it anyway.

Week 2: The Surprising Turn of Events

2007-02-03T06:40:00.000-05:00

With my impending departure looming in the distance, I was more excited than ever about bringing this Abuja nightmare to an end. I wasn't making much headway on my research, what with people still postponing our scheduled interviews, or just not answering their phones anymore, and it was becoming more apparent that Nigeria just is not interested in writing anything down. By this, I mean that data is terribly scarce. For a federal government planning and statistics office to rely on publications from Western organizations for its data is sorry. Just plain sorry. I was missing the first two weeks of school, and I was beginning to feel that it was for nothing, when things suddenly took a surprising turn.

This was the week that I met SK and his lovely girlfriend, Mo (obviously not her real name). SK was introduced to me by a mutual friend in absentia, and he was going to help me find people who might have statistical data for me. The first time I spoke to him, I told him what I needed most, and his response was telling: "I think you'd be better off just making everything up. That's what these government people are doing anyway!" I laughed when he said it, but there was a hint of concern in my laughter as I wondered whether or not he was serious. There is a very real possibility that the government is conjuring a substantial portion of its databank, is there not? After all, these are Nigerians we're talking about. With our knack for creative story-telling and our gargantuan egos, it would not be surprising to hear that such grandiose assertions as Nigeria has the fastest-growing tourism industry in Africa are mere fabrications of an influential somebody's imagination. After all, if no one is collecting any data, how do they know? As I contemplated whether or not our federal offices were indeed collecting compilations of lies and dreams, SK and I made an appointment to meet the following day and see how much we could achieve.

This was the most productive day of my trip, and the first time I had felt happy since I arrived in the country. That morning, I interviewed Mrs. Omotayo Omotosho, first Director-General of the National Tourism Development Council, for an hour. She was a veritable mine of information. Then she dropped me off at the Planning, Research and Statistics office to supposedly pick up data. I think we all know how that went. The people there were incredibly kind and helpful but, you know, they didn't really have statistics. At any rate, I spent about an hour there as well, when SK called to let me know that he was sending a driver to come and get me. I decided to wait outside, so the driver could see me without too much trouble; I even told him that I'd be reading a book, so he'd make no mistakes. You'd think it was a gamble, but I was the only person around for miles reading anything: a book, a newspaper, a billboard. I suppose people were reading the numbers on their recharge cards before they flung them into the street, but that doesn't count. Nigerians just don't read. As I waited for the driver - I'll call him Gaius - people passed me on the sidewalk, looking quizzically at this woman in the flowing clothes and furry "caterpillars" on her head (I'd twisted my hair), standing and reading under the blazing sun. A group of men walked past me, and one of them said, "You're a girl o!" I responded angrily, "And so what?!" but he refused to answer. I'm still trying to figure out what he meant by that. I'm a girl, so I shouldn't read on the sidewalk? I'm a girl so I shouldn't be on the sidewalk? What?

Gaius pulled up eventually and we headed for the restaurant where SK was waiting to meet me. On the way, a kabukabu cut us off abruptly and subsequently scratched the car near the right headlight. Gaius seemed remarkably calm as he pulled off on the side of the road, instructing the kabukabu to do the same. I must admit that I was very surprised when the man complied. It's easy to forget that there are people in Nigeria who adhere to protocol - sometimes - especially in situations like these, where it would be so easy to speed off and never face the music for your action. Given his lack of reaction when we got hit, I assumed that Gaius was going to handle the matter quickly and efficiently so we could get where we were going. It was almost 1pm and I hadn't so much as had a drink of water all day; the restaurant was calling me. No such luck. This was definitely one of those instances where my acclimatization to the ways of oyinbo people was going to do my head in, because I had allowed myself to briefly forget that a Nigerian is a Nigerian is always a bloody Nigerian. When Gaius started shrieking and yelling like a banshee from hell, and attracting spectators and mediators from far and wide, I was taken aback. Then I realized that I had always known he was an agboro (tout), what with his red eyes, set jaw and jerrycurled hair, but had chosen to ignore all that for whatever reason. My shock, however, was quickly replaced with mischievous glee as I remembered that I had brought my camera along with me that day. I spent the next 8 minutes recording most of the fight that ensued: Gaius calling the kabukabu driver a "stupid idiot"; Gaius calling one of the spectators that questioned his driving skills "this stupid short one"; the self-named mediators asking the kabukabu driver "why don't you just beg him?"; the professional-looking passer-by that informed Gaius that "people can hear you from far." Nobody noticed the grinning chick in the back seat with the camera. It's priceless footage, I tell you.

The fight came to an end when one of the mediators quietly brought a turpentine-soaked rag and wiped off what only amounted to a paint scratch from our car. The crowd dispersed, the kabukabu driver quickly nipped back to his car and sped off...and Gaius stood on the sidewalk, yelling across the street at the spectator that had voiced the opinion that he was at fault. "Foolish man! You don't see anything that happen, you just come from across street to be talking nonsense! Stupid idiot! You are talking of my driving! Are you aware of my driving?! If I take you to my office now, na one week before they release you and na you go fix this car!" When he realized that the man wasn't paying attention and that he no longer had an audience, he bustled into the car and drove off, muttering. I could barely contain my laughter, and when I met SK, I immediately showed him my video, which turned out to be the perfect icebreaker.

That day, we didn't do anything pertaining to my thesis. Apparently, the fact that I was exposing my upper arms was a barrier to getting me into the Senate House. Instead, he took me home to meet his wifey, and I had the most entertaining conversation I'd had for days. I stayed until after dark, at which point SK took me home. That whole week, I spent almost every day with them. I met their friends, we had lunches, we chatted and laughed and...everything. It was such great fun. And they were the ones that introduced me to Blake Excellency Resort, where your average Nigerian rubs shoulders with drunk expatriates dancing like headless chickens. Blake Excellency Resort (or Blaaaaazzzeee, as the night's MC called it) smells like sex, looks like sex, is sex. And it deserves to stand alone as another post, complete with pictures.

to be continued...

Week 1, Part Deux

2007-01-26T15:52:00.000-05:00

Continuing with the bad news theme (see previous post), I must discuss the way men in Abuja are treating women. Now, I've always known that respect and equality do not come easily to the females in this country, but the Abuja Big Boys are taking it to a whole new level. I'm not sure who to blame. It would be easiest to say that these men are callous, badly raised, ignorant, disdainful mysogynists, but I dare say it wouldn't be accurate. There are also the women - the golddiggers, the prostitutes, the university girls who might as well be prostitutes - who are giving other women - the intellectuals, the hard-working entrepreneurs, the creative artists - a bad name. I cannot walk into a single establishment in Abuja and be taken seriously as a respectable individual, by men or women alike. Because I'm young and moderately attractive, they assume I'm on the prowl to snatch someone's husband/boyfriend for monetary gain. It's simply unfair.

Take what happened to me the other day, at the Hilton. In any other country, a hotel of this caliber would be a respectable location, where people of taste and some sophistication go to relax and take in some sun by the sparkling pool. Not in Nigeria. Yes, you do find those people and they do do those things, but you also find milling in the lobby "businessmen" of all races and levels, making deals and exchanging business cards. They're working, but out of the corners of their eye, they are on the lookout for their newest "catch" of the day, each of them waiting and ready to pounce on the best-looking (or cheapest-looking) girl that walks past. On this particular day, I was with my brother, who had a meeting with someone in the hotel. I was going to wait for him in the lobby and work on my interview questions (though, at the time, I still had no one to interview). As we walked in, we were greeted by a gentleman in a fancy Italian suit. Let's call him Basil. He was Igbo, and you'll understand why I made this distinction soon enough. When he spotted Basil in the distance, my brother said to me, "This is the man I was telling you about that speaks fluent Italian." I braced myself to be impressed. When my brother shook his hand and playfully said, "Buon giorno," Basil said, with some degree of stuffiness, "You don't speak Italian!" Each of those four words was coated with the unique twang that distinguishes my Igbo brethren from the rest of the world. So thick was Basil's Igbo accent that I was hard pressed to believe that the man had even inhaled the smog in Rome, not to talk of having lived there long enough to pick up the language. At any rate, I was soon too angry to be interested in whether or not he could speak his language, and here's why.

My brother introduced me as his sister, to which Basil responded, with an angry,dismissive flick of his hand, "Oh, come on! There's no need for such pretenses, I know what you mean by sister!" I was still trying to pick up my jaw when my brother, trying really hard to convince Basil, said, "No, really, she's my sister!" Basil said, "Are you sure?" He looked at me. "Are you sure you're his sister?" Trying to smile, I said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we're related." Basil again looked at my brother, breathless with shock, "You don't mean it!" His gaze flashed back to me. "You're his sister. You? So pretty!" My brother recounted with a "As pretty as she is, am I not handsome?" Basil just looked at me, his 32 individually-spaced multi-colored teeth grinning with admiration.

At this point, I expected that we would all go our separate ways: my brother to his meeting, me to the lobby, Basil to his lair. So you can imagine my subsequent shock when, in the middle of my cheery "It was nice to meet you," my brother said to Basil, "Why don't you buy her a drink?" I don't think either of them noticed the dismay on my face as Basil cheerily intoned, "Oh, why not!" He ushered me forward with a "Segnora" and began to ask me about what I do. With as much haughtiness as I could muster, I said as loudly as I could without being obnoxious, "I'm a graduate student at Yale. I'm here doing research for my thesis." It was crucial that I sound self-important for a number of reasons. One, neither Basil nor any man within earshot could think of me as a hotel call girl or I would kill someone. The Hilton is a notorious hotspot for female escorts looking for cash. In fact, young women are frequently harrassed by hotel security just in case they are prostitutes because guests have been known to complain about women knocking on their doors, asking if anyone would be interested in "a bit of sex". Two, I wanted the surrounding clientele to know that, even if I wasn't a call girl, I certainly wasn't just one of those chicks who loafs around doing nothing. And by nothing, I mean, waiting around for some guy with money to spend it all on me. I have a brain, and I use it! Lastly, I wanted to make sure that Basil, if he dared to hit on me, would know that I was not going to make it easy. He would definitely have his work cut out for him if he tried to tackle this "princess".

Basil was pleased to hear that I was getting an education at Yale, but he was not about to be one-upped by "this small girl". He began to spout of a list of his credentials including the fact that he went to Harvard and MIT, some other school in Italy, bla bla bla. I must admit that I was impressed; it's not often that I meet an Igbo guy with a whole bunch of advanced degrees like that. (I'm not trying to insult Igbo men o! I'm just speaking from my own experience.) As we approached the lobby, I was struck by the overwhelming number of men just sitting around. Some of them were discussing business with their foreign associates (greasy-looking, pot-bellied white men who looked like they could use a shower); others were watching TV or reading a newspaper. As Basil and I descended the short flight of stairs into the lobby, I noticed how each and everyone one of them stared at me, hungrily. I imagined them all thinking that Basil had paid for my time, which would be easy to believe the way he was strutting with his chest stuck out. I wanted to yell out, angrily, "I don't even want to sit with this man!" But that would have been inappropriate. I just simmered in silence.

We sat. "What do you want to drink?" Basil asked me.

"Just water, thanks." If I had ordered anything else, I would definitely have looked like the cheap hooker everyone thought I was pretending not to be.

"Only water?! Why don't you get soft drink, or stout? Do you drink stout?"

Jehovah! So upon all my yans about being a Yalie, this idiot was still intent on treating me like a common prostitute! It was time to pull out my spare ammunition: my foneh.

"No, I'll just have the wah-der. It's so haht in this country, and I get dehydray-ded so quickly!"

"Ah, ok, no problem. I'm going to have coffee," he pronounced. Good for you, I thought. "Don't you want anything to chew?"

"Anything to what?" For the first time, I was dying to laugh, but by some miracle, I was able to control myself.

"To chew, to chew! I mean, to eat. Do you want to eat something? Why not order something from the bar, like meatpie, or scotch egg, or even salad?" He pronounced "salad", sah-LAHD.

It was too much for me. I had to let myself smile at least as I again refused his offer. Anyone who knows me knows that holding back the laughter was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. We then proceeded to have a conversation about the state of the nation, giving me yet another opportunity to show him that I had some intellectual capacity. But Basil managed to turn this conversation into a pseudo-interview, as he tried to ascertain whether I was the wife he has been looking for his whole life. That was when I learned that he was about 50 years old, and apparently very picky. According to him, he was looking for a wife whose presence beside him on the streets of NEW York wouldn't be an embarrassment. My brother's meeting couldn't have ended soon enough; I don't think Basil even heard my "goodbye" as I fled the Hilton lobby.

I have several stories similar to this, to denote how little respect men accord women here. I won't tell them all, but I must talk about Chief and Ada. Chief is one of my brother's business associates, also Igbo. He came to the house to talk about something with my brother and he brought Ada with him. My brother isn't sure whether or not Chief brought Ada for him, as a sort of gift to smooth their business deal. If he did, Chief must really re-evaluate his tastes. Ada is a masquerade, a truly terrifying specimen of female. She towers about six feet tall, and must weigh about 180 pounds of pure tits-and-ass. She sauntered into our living room, and scared me from across the room when she turned around to greet me and exposed her warpaint makeup. The reddest lipstick coated the thickest lips I have ever seen; her eyes were outlined with black eyeliner, the same eyeliner which she used to paint on her thick devilish eyebrows. Her man-like, beefy hands were tipped with red acrylic claws, and as she sank into my brother's couch, I remember being fearful that it would not be able to hold her up. She made me feel tiny and plain, and I could not take my eyes off her.

I sat behind the couch, working at my laptop as I always do when I'm at home. My brother pointed in my general direction, said to Chief, "That's my sister." I waved, "Hello, good evening." Chief looked at me and decided that he already knew what was going on. "Hello, good eefnin," he answered. Then he gestured at Ada and said, "Ehn, dats my sister too." I couldn't even be upset. For the umpteenth time, nobody was prepared to believe that I could actually be related to my own brother, but the flippancy with which Chief expressed himself was borderline hilarious. Me, with my linen pants and natural face, was now on the same level as the Adas of Nigeria. It's not their fault.

to be continued...

Week 1

2007-01-23T14:24:00.000-05:00

I have achieved absolutely nothing. After one whole week in this town, I have not talked to a single person (other than to schedule meetings - meetings that have consistently been put off until "tomorrow"), nor read a single pertinent document about the Nigerian tourism industry. But for the social horrors of this place - which makes for great stories - I would feel like I have completely wasted my time in this place. But luckily for you, I have stories to tell.

Now, there's good news and there's bad news when it comes to discussing this city. The good news is: Yakuza Suya Spot. Chineke God of Allah, when I say that Hausa men are making FANTASTIC suya and kilishi in Abuja, you berra believe it! As the name suggests, the beef in this small, slightly grimy outlet really hits the spot and makes you go begging for more. I bought N2000 (about $15) worth of kilishi two days ago, enough to feed a battalion of starving children, and only N500 worth remains in my fridge today. I would be ashamed, but I have not eaten kilishi for almost 4 years, and I make no apologies. I also managed to come across some succulent agbalumo/udala at Millennium Park, where I sucked on their tangy juices while being serenaded by a two-man Hausa band, who kept insisting that I give my "husband" - my friend, Mustapha, who introduced me to Yakuza - a "kiss/no be su-mall kiss/give am real kiss!" I got home, all hot and sweaty from the day, took a quick dip in the icy-cold pool out back, then chilled on the couch with a cranberry vodka and Africa Magic. All in all, that was the best day of this trip.

Now, the bad news abounds. Let's start with Tukano, the uppity lounge whose name should be changed to reflect what it is: a pickup joint. My brother took me there in a bid to entertain me, lest I grow bored sitting in the house all day. Little does he know that all I need is a working internet connection (which I have) and cable, the odd alcoholic beverage, and I'm set. No matter, I thought it'd be fun. The moment he said they played house music, there was no changing my mind: I was going to Tukano to see Nigerians dancing to techno, and I wasn't taking no for an answer. It's a members-only club, but apparently, you only have to prove your membership if you look broke or young. It was there that I got my first taste of what it now means to be female in Nigeria: apparently, people - and by "people", I mean men - no longer deem it necessary to practice manners in your presence. They will walk up to you and your crew, greet all the men, and ignore your curvy ass. At first I thought it was because I looked comparatively busted. I've made it a point to look as unattractive as possible before I step out of this house, so as to stave off unwanted attention. And Abuja Big Boys, as they are called, are arrogant pricks who only chase after the prettiest girls. In the following days, however, I realized that it has nothing whatsoever to do with my appearance. They just don't think they should have to say hello to women, because to them all women are hookers and gold diggers and should not be accorded respect, or indeed even common courtesy.

Past that display of inhospitality, you walk into Tukano and the first thing that greets you is the bar, and the pair of giant Arab tits behind it. The tits belong to an auburn-haired stripper, who is dancing on a huge flatscreen in plain view, with or without another well-endowed partner. I might have known that the night wouldn't bode well once I saw that, but I was too shocked to register premonitory feelings. As we slowly made our way through the darkness to the very back where it was hard to see even my white tank top, I remember being somewhat impressed with the decor. At least, I had somewhat forgotten that I was in Nigeria, so they did a pretty good job. Then the waiter came to take our drinks, and it was all pretty much downhill from there. I was encouraged, nay, tricked, into being comfortable enough to ask him, "Do you serve martinis?"

"Yes," he said.

"Excellent! I'd like an apple martini, please."

"No, we only have bweorijwer and roiwerwoe."

"What?"

"I say, we only have bweroier and roeiroweirh."

"Sorry, I don't underst--"

"Red or white!"

Oh, blanco or rosso. But wait: red or white? I was confused: did I order Kool-Aid or a martini? I decided to gamble. "I guess I'll try red."

He came back with a martini glass that looked like someone forgot to put any drink in it. As he turned to leave, I tapped his arm, and said, "Sorry, I asked for a martini."

"Dis is mah-tini. One shot. You want one shot or two?"

It was clear that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Lately, I have prided myself on becoming something of a cocktail connoisseur; I thought perhaps I had jumped the gun. It was only midnight, but I was already weary. I said, weakly, "It's OK. Thank you."

The first sip was deadly. This so-called martini tasted like pounded ugwu leaf. I turned to my brother in dismay. "Taste it!" He took a sip and squirmed in his seat. "It tastes like...basil...or something, I dunno. That's disgusting!" I was, however, still determined to get tipsy as it was clear that I was going to have to lose some consciousness to make it through the night. For example, the house music was blaring so loudly that I had to holler at the top of my voice to be heard by the person pressed up right next to me. That required energy and a steady flow of drinks. But by the third sip, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I went to talk to the bartender, who turned out to be four bartenders, each more incompetent than the last. They all ignored me. Eventually, my waiter stood beside me and said, "Yes, what do you want?"

I ignored the rudeness, and spoke with full Yankee foneh, lest they make any mistake about my status (I'll explain why this is important in subsequent blogs): "This isn't a martini. I don't know what it is, but it's not a martini."

"Ees mah-tini."

"No, it can't be. Look, the glass is not even full!"

"Ees mah-tini. See it there." He pointed behind the bar, where I saw two bottles plainly labeled "Martini: blanco" and "Martini: rosso".

"Ohhh," I sighed.

"Ehen, you see?"

"Yes, I see." I wanted to explain to him that the bottles were merely full of a liquer meant to accompany a martini. I wanted to explain to him that my martini was incomplete. I wanted to explain to him that it was unacceptable to serve me pounded ugwu and try to pass it off an alcoholic beverage. Instead, I again said, "OK, thank you," and went back to my dark corner to choke off the rest of it. I only ordered wine after that, which also turned out to only be available in "white or red".

to be continued...

Au Abuja

2007-01-18T09:04:00.000-05:00

At 4:20am, the New Haven train station seems to be caught somewhere between reality and the land of dreams. It is quiet, except for the muted laughter of two janitors on the far end, exchanging jokes and cigarettes in the darkness of morning. What few passengers there are in the station are sitting on the bench closest to the schedule board, staring up at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock. 4:21. I had been at the station for three minutes at this point, and was struggling to stay awake so as not to miss my 4:42 train to New York. When I looked around at my fellow travelers, we all seemed to be blinking in unison, and very slowly. I looked back up at the clock. The "1" swelled and twisted around itself, transformed into a "2". 4:22.

I was on my way to Nigeria. Abuja, to be specific. I had planned to be excited about it, but I was now too exhausted to care. Though I meant to go to bed at 9 the night before, giving myself six hours' of sleep by the time I woke up at 3, I ended up sleeping by 12:30am. By the time 3 o'clock rolled around, I opened my eyes, realizing that I had never really fallen asleep the whole time. My red eyes burned with fatigue, but I struggled to my feet and into the shower. I woke up a little when the warm water touched my body; by the time the taxi came, adrenaline kicked in as I rushed down the porch stairs to meet it, my extra-large duffel bag stuffed with two weeks' worth of clothes. And now, I waited.

4:26. In ten minutes, I would head to the platform. To keep my heavy eyelids from closing shut, I pulled out a People magazine that I'd found on a plane a few days earlier and pretended to be interested in the inane articles within. Brad and Angelina seen together in public for the first time, Lindsay Lohan clubbing just one day after her appendectomy. Cute accessories every woman must have. I looked at the words, but let my mind drift to more relevant matters: if I stay awake on the train, I can sleep on the flight to London, but not for long, because I have to save enough sleep for the flight to Abuja, so I don't get jetlagged. Important matters. Then I started thinking about the work that prompted this trip in the first place: my master's thesis. Over the next two weeks, I have to collect enough data and conduct enough interviews about Nigeria's tourism industry to bolster what little work I've done so far and create a research masterpiece (insert "Evil Genius" laughter here). I mentally went over the list of people I had to talk to: Omotayo Omotosho (former DG of the National Tourism Development Corporation), Femi Fani-Kayode (if I could find him), bla bla bla at the Ministry of Information and bla bla bla somewhere else. Got a lot to do, but in the words of Joe Nigeria, I am "up to de tax".

The entire trip was pretty uneventful. I had interesting seat partners on both legs: the first, a beefy English man reminiscent of every British mob movie ever made. He looked like his nickname was Boxer and he pounded Carlsberg lagers throughout the flight. The beer cans were dwarfed by his large, meaty fingers, which were equally dwarfed by the enormous gold twisted-metal rings that adorned them. They looked sturdy. Good for punching someone's teeth out. My seat partner on the flight from London to Abuja was also on the chubby side, but squat. And smelly. Before I saw him, I was greeted by his very striking body odor, which was only outshone by the fecal scent that oozed from his mouth when he opened it to speak. I still believe the flight would have been tolerable, if he hadn't insisted on falling asleep with his fat arms halfway into my chair. Twice, I lambasted him for infringing on my personal space: "Excuse me, you're in my space. You're in my space!" As if I didn't pay the same money as him to fly on that plane. Nonsense.

The toasting started pretty much as soon as we disembarked from the plane. Waiting for my bag, praying that it made it, I was approached by this man in a wide-brimmed hat. He needed a pen to fill out the immigration form that we were handed as we walked through customs. Go figure. Only in Nigeria are you expected to fill out immigration forms after you're cleared through customs. I gave him the pen, noticed that he didn't offer it back even though he was done writing. An inexperienced person might have assumed that he was just trying to find a way to escape with my pen; after all, it's a nice pen. But I knew. When, out of the blue, he asked me if I saw my bag, I was certain. This man was going to toast me. I was immediately irritated. Why do I always get the freaks and the losers? It's 2007. Who the hell wears a wide-brimmed hat in 2007? At least he planned his moves right, so as not to "embarrass" himself (embarrassment being the worst fate that can befall a Nigerian. If you don't believe me, just watch Sharon Stone in Abuja, where she had a gun pointed in her face and was threatening the gun bearer with embarrassment if he should pull the trigger). He accosted me outside, where I stood waiting for Mtama, my uncle/cousin/brother, hand-in-hand with another woman named Jane (really - her name was actually Jane).

I have to give it to Nigerian men - they are relentless. And they have absolutely no understanding of sarcasm, which is my favorite weapon but sadly useless within these borders. I won't bore you with all the details, but we went back and forth for about five minutes, him asking me for my name, me cleaning my teeth, him asking me again for my name, me scrutinizing my nails. Suddenly, he noticed that Jane was attached to his hand, at which point he introduced her saying, "Oh, are you shy because of her? Don't worry, she's just a friend. She works here. On your way back, you can talk to her, she'll help you get through customs and everything." I wanted to tell him that I had been through customs many times without anyone's help, but that would have encouraged him, so I shut up. Not that ignoring him was helping. I literally had to tell him that my silence meant that I wasn't going to tell him my name. That didn't help either. Then Jane, grinning, said, "Just leave her, maybe she's shy because of me. Maybe next time, she will come around." They walked off laughing. I was fuming and incredulous. Shy? I was doing my very best to be stupendously rude, and those morons were calling me shy?? And who the hell did Jane think she was, acting like my pimp? She is what is wrong with Nigerian women today, the ones who make it OK for men to behave like panting dogs, moronic assholes, blind mysogynists, oblivious to their own unacceptable behavior.

But whatever, pretty soon Mtama came and got me, and I have spent the past couple of days catching up to my jetlag (I slept all the way to London, and not a wink between London and Abuja on a flight that landed at 5:40am). It's been dusty and hazy, and I'm getting used to constantly having dry skin since I didn't think to bring or buy Vaseline, the only remedy for harmattan. Despite the fact that Abuja is supposedly "more civilized" than the rest of the country, I find that I'm clutching my seatbelt in every vehicle I enter, afraid of what I imagine will be certain death on roads where every driver seems to think he's driving a Dodgem car. It's nice to be back, though. My brother has wireless internet that actually works (!!), I get to watch Nigerian movies whenever I want (thank you, DSTV!), and Grace (the house help - why are they always named Grace?) is very attentive. Gawd, I have missed being asked what I want to eat! Imagine, I've spent so many years making my own food, when I could have had a Grace! Grace makes most of my meals, Grace prepares all the ingredients when I want to cook for myself so I don't have to do anything but mix, Grace makes my bed, and Grace takes my plate back to the kitchen when I don't want to. And she calls me Aunty. I officially love and will miss Grace terribly. I choose this over New Haven any day!

Drinking Seawater II

2007-01-06T18:19:00.000-05:00

By the time my partner returned from his reef exploring, I was beside myself with sadness. He looked at the tears streaming down my face with a shade of disbelief and a heavy dose of confusion. He asked, "Are you OK??" I couldn't even muster the energy to answer; I shook my head, morosely. Too embarrassed to look him in the eye, I kept my gaze downwards and focused intently on the yellow fibers of the salt-stained raft. He said, "Are you ready to swim back?" An inexplicable shudder ran through my body when I pictured myself entering the deep blue sea, and a fresh batch of tears poured from my eyes. At this time, I looked him dead in the eye, pleading as loudly as I could: "Please don't make me. I can't. I can't. Can't you swim back and tell the guy with the boat to come and get me?"

My partner was trying to be sensitive, but I was bordering on ludicrous now. He shook his head, closed his eyes - perhaps looking at me would have made him burst out laughing - and said, "No, come on, you can do it." We proceeded to spend the next five or ten minutes in a battle of wills, which he eventually won despite the fact that I had to attempt to get into the water three times. Each time, I would get thigh-deep in ocean water, become overwhelmed by the fear, and scramble back onto the raft, howling. The last time, he grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me into the water, so I had no choice but to swim. But I refused to look back down, and good thing too. He told me later that there was a giant barracuda swimming right under us, with a huge scar running down its back where it had been attacked by something. His fervent prayers to Providence, begging Him to keep my head above water, were answered. And my life was spared...for the meantime.

The tide was coming in, and the water was getting rougher. Remember the horrific flippers? Well, this was not a good time to have them on our feet. I'm panicky and out of shape. My partner was out of shape and this was making him panic, but at least he kept it a secret lest I freak out and die. You see, he had told me that I could hold his hand the whole way back as well, so I had to see him as a rock, a point of stability in this cold, wet, deep world of waves. Alas, our lack of cardio activity was about to bite us in the ass. Halfway to the first rest station we'd stopped at previously, I felt my lungs giving up. All this time, I had been breathing through my mouth, which is surprisingly exhausting. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe anymore. And because the flippers weren't really doing anything to propel me forward, my legs were tired as well. I tried to float, but I was too scared to concentrate and anyway, the sun was directly in my eyes, which I couldn't take. I knew then that this is how I was going to die, and I absolutely could not believe it. In my distress, I contemplated climbing on my partner's back, having flashbacks of a time when I was four years old and riding on my eleven-year-old sister's back in a pool. Of course, then I weighed about an eighth of what I weigh now, but I was too frantic to reason. I placed a heavy hand on my partner's shoulder in preparation for my leap onto his back, and pushed him underwater. He came up sputtering and angry. Bless his heart, he was still being very kind to me, so he didn't give me the slap I deserved. All he said was, "STOP THAT!"

I didn't even apologize, asshole that I am. I just kept saying, "I can't swim anymore, I can't swim anymore," over and over. He was trying to save himself from drowning, given that he was also exhausted, but the poor guy had to keep reassuring me that I would be fine. Soon he stopped to float and encouraged me to do the same, but every time I noticed him standing still in the water, I would just try to clamber up to his head, falsely assuming that he was standing on the ocean bed. And every time I tried to do this, he dipped a foot underwater. After my third attempt to kill him, he pushed me away - which was very wise - so I decided that it was time to get Hitler's attention. Forget what he said, he was gonna come get me! The frontal lobes of my brain were still running on fear, however, so while one arm was waving for rescue, the other arm was still attempting to grab my partner's shoulder - and effectively drown him. Repeatedly, he would rise up from under the water, see me waving for help, and slap my hand down, saying "Stop doing that!" Because he knew what I refused to comprehend: we were not too far away from the shallow water, I would soon be able to stand on my own, and it would absolutely mortifying, breathtakingly embarrassing for Hitler to bring his boat to where we were. But I could not be stopped. I kept waving, kept getting my hand smacked down, and I was too out of breath to even yell at him what my brain was screaming at me: I'M DROWNING AND I AM GOING TO DIE IN THIS OCEAN IF THAT MAN DOESN'T COME AND GET ME!!!

Eventually, however, I realized that I have been swimming since I was three and that I didn't have to rely solely on the flippers to propel myself through the water. So I gave my arms a break from waving and used them to swim to the shallow water, where I began to walk as soon as I could. I stomped to the beach, swearing and cursing the Bahama reef, the flippers, the fish, the snorkeling gear - everything. When we got close to Hitler, he said jovially, "So how did you enjoy your trip?" I shrieked, "I was drowning and you didn't even notice!" He looked at me, puzzled, and said, "Well, then, you should have waved." I was weak. To avert what would have probably ended in an argument, I just said, "You're right. I forgot," and walked off to rinse the salt out of my hair.

Snorkeling. Bah!

Drinking Seawater

2007-01-04T11:00:00.000-05:00

Tourism is the most important industry in the Bahamas; it's their moneymaker. You wouldn't know it to look at Freeport, but this is what they claim. I'm not in the moneymaking business, but even I could recognize how many dollars they were letting slip through their fingers due to bad management. At any rate, they are making a little bit of money, which they're taking from the rednecks who leave North Carolina, Virginia and Georgia to max out their credit cards and "live it up" at the Sheraton and the Westin resorts on Lucaya Beach. The result is a carnival-esque atmosphere, comprising a massive grilling operation serving cheeseburgers (why leave America just to do the same things you do when you're in your own backyard?) and watery beers; a major section of the beach dedicated to every watersport you can imagine (jet skiing, parasailing, windsurfing, kayaking); this huge grotesque water slide built to resemble a castle turret; bahamian women cornrowing white girls' hair for $120; a LOUD man with an equally loud sound system blasting random soca jams and teaching burly white women in too-small swimsuits how to dance; all topped off with the one-man band struggling to be heard over the madness as he performed for drunken white men drinking rum punch out of coconuts. I quickly realized that, if I were to have any fun whatsoever on that island, I would have to find a place where these people did not go.

Soon, my partner and I rented a car and proceeded to spend the next couple of days exploring Grand Bahama Island, looking for - and finding - remote, secluded beaches where we were the only ones around for miles. We lay on the sand, gazed out over the sun-brighted, blue blue ocean, talked only when it was absolutely necessary. We found a restaurant that few people seemed to know about where the best banana bread is baked, ate conch and drank the best Bahamian beer - Lucaya, it's called. Originality is not important over there, apparently. We let the cool breezes whip through our clothes and hair and soothe the harshness of the sun's rays on our skin. There were very few people around, and they were equally blissful and oblivious to anyone else's presence. We were pleased to be relatively alone and in the Bahamas, with no cacophonic drivel disturbing our peace. I was so happy.

But apparently, I was not content. When my partner suggested we go snorkeling, I pictured myself calmly drifting through shallow clear water, observing sea life, pointing at interesting creatures, smiling. It was an attractive picture, and so I agreed; I just knew it would be great fun. I didn't realize that I was not actually the person smiling and pointing in my imagination; rather, I was visualizing the small white child - the snorkel model, if you will - that appeared in the Bahamas guide book I purchased before the trip. I suppose it doesn't matter that I didn't notice what my subconscious was doing. Either way, I was ignorant of what the activity entailed and gravely mistaken when I assumed it would be "great fun". I was about to realize that the guide book was a liar, and that I was going to be in for a hell of a time.

We drove our rickety Island-mobile to Paradise Cove, where a very tan, gruff instructor gave us curt instructions about how to snorkel in his equipment. "Don't walk on the grass, don't kick up sand, don't touch the coral or you'll kill it. If there's an emergency, wave your hands and I will come in my boat and get you. Don't wave if you're scared because you see a big fish. And don't walk in my flippers. Enjoy yourselves!" My partner and I walked away from ol' Hitler, and entered the water. It was the first time I'd ever snorkeled, and I was excited about it, but also scared. Now, this is why I don't do anything too new: because I cannot be trusted to take care of myself properly. There's too much going on for me to think about everything that should concern me and I inevitably leave something out. In this instance, I was too busy thinking about Hitler's equipment and breathing properly to remember the following:

1) I had never swam in the ocean before
2) I am scared of heights, and in the ocean, depth = height
3) I hate wildlife, especially fish
4) I don't like the way things look underwater

It wasn't until I took my first step in the water and realized that I was surrounded by hundreds of tiny fish - at which point I took a flying leap back onto the sand - that I remembered points 3 and 4. With my partner coaxing me back into the water, I tried again and stepped on squishy grass, which grossed me out so thoroughly that I turned to run back to shore again. My partner quickly grabbed my arm and gave me a good talking-to. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. None of the fish will ever touch you or swim too close. I'll hold your hand the whole time."

"The whole time?" I asked, incredulously.

"The whole time. I promise."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"You'll hold my hand the whole time?"

"Yes! Come on, let's go."

And so, I went. I had a couple of false starts: the water was too cold, seeing grass growing on the ocean floor was so disgusting, everything was brownish-gray and eerie...even now, I'm getting chills thinking about it. Also, it was a bit weird listening to myself breathe through the snorkel tube, and I had to keep reminding myself not to breathe so fast lest I make myself dizzy. But eventually, I made it and started swimming and observing. When I saw my first fish, it was silver, thin and ugly, but I only jumped a little bit. I began to believe that I would indeed be all right, that I was even a bit excited by what I was doing. I hadn't begun to think about points 1 and 2, yet. About 50 or 60 meters away from shore, we got to the first rest station, a giant floating round raft. My partner had begun to worry about the quality of our flippers, which didn't seem to be doing much to propel us forward in the water, but he never said anything about it. I can't yet decide if that was smart or stupid, because had he voiced his concern, I probably would not have swum the next 60 meters to the next rest stop, where the water was deeper. On the other hand, I might have continued on and then I would have been even more mentally fucked when the katakata bust. And God knows it bust, right out of the water.

We resumed swimming, and the water was becoming a deeper shade of blue. My breathing was quickening, as my anticipation of what would come next grew. However, I began to notice that the water was becoming more and more choppy, the waves stronger as we swam...and we also weren't moving forward as fast as we had been before. In fact, we seemed to be standing still most of the time, no matter how much we paddled our legs and I was growing tired. I still wasn't seeing much sea life, and every time I looked up, I saw that we weren't that much closer to the rest station. I was beginning to worry, but only ever so slightly, when suddenly the ocean floor plummeted to 40ft, and I was looking down at tons of fish. Points 1 and 2 immediately flashed to the forefront of my mind, and I panicked.

What the HELL am I doing swimming in the ocean? My mother - rest her soul - nearly lost her mind at Bar Beach in 1987 when she saw me at the water's edge, and then me I brought myself to the deepest of the deep to look at ordinary fish?? Chineke, this water deep o! Why is it so dark?? Where is that fucking rest station????

In my state of panic, I forgot to breathe through my mouth and somehow I ended up swallowing sea water. It was just a little bit, but enough to remind me that people get dehydrated when there is too much salt in their system. I lost it. I started frantically thrashing towards the rest station, abandoned my partner's hand and kicked him in the face for good measure, screaming through my snorkel tube. Ten hours later when I got to the rest station, I used my newly-acquired superhuman strength to hoist myself on top of it, where I tried to catch my breath and gain some inner peace. My partner eventually reached me, with deep worry etched on his face, asking me if I was all right. I shook my head, too weary to talk. He asked if I wanted to go back. Realizing that this was his vacation too, I (very selflessly) said, "No, no. You go ahead and snorkel. I'll stay here and try to calm down." He reassured me that he would be back soon, and went exploring the reef. The big, ugly reef, with waves crashing violently against it. I lay on the raft, too afraid to sit up because I was suddenly aware that I might as well be on top of a building waiting to plummet to my death below where fish would eat me, bit by bit.

With every passing minute, I became more aware of my surroundings. With every passing minute, I became more of a basket case. I was floating on a fucking raft, over 100 meters away from the safety of the beach and over 40 feet above land. (In a mind where depth translates to height, it wasn't that the ocean was 40ft deep; it was that my feet 40ft were too high from the ground and had to stay that way unless I wanted to die a slow, painful death.) I was surrounded by all manner of fish that I didn't even recognize and which were scaring me with their beady eyes and emotionless faces, and I knew that there were barracudas around because the other snorkelers kept talking about the ones they had seen. You know what a barracuda is? A shark! Ok, they wouldn't eat me, but what the hell was that supposed to mean to me at that point in time? A shark is a shark is a shark. When I realized that this was the hostile environment I had to swim through to get back to shore, when I realized that I had willingly put myself in this predicament, when I realized that Hitler would not come and get me simply because I was afraid - I began to cry. Like a scared little kulutempa puppy, I sobbed and lamented my fate and wondered what would become of me.

(to be continued...)

Glorious Sunshine!

2007-01-03T09:48:00.000-05:00

Just in from a sunny vacation in Freeport, Grand Bahama Island.

Grand Bahama Island is a most interesting place, and I hope not to go back any time soon. Ok, that's unfair. Like every other place in the world, it had its plusses and minuses. I almost drowned in the ocean, but there were no mosquitoes. There were too many rednecks with too much money, but the food was spectacular. All the rednecks assumed that I was Bahamian and therefore an employee everywhere I happened to be at the time. Because, you know, all the Bahamians are there to serve the visiting whiteys. In the course of 5 days, I have been a waitress, hotel receptionist, janitor and the girlfriend of a dwarf gas station attendant all because I am black. I don't blame them; na me carry myself go Bahamas.

It was still great fun, though. And I would go back again. I snorkeled for the first time, I gambled for the first time, I was given free drinks by a very handsome bartender for the first time in a long time...all in all, it was a fruitful vacation. This post will just be of a couple of my favorite pictures; later, I'll tell you how I nearly drowned without anyone noticing, a drowning which would most certainly have occurred if I had looked into the water and seen the giant barracuda that was apparently swimming right under me. God is good!

Happy New Year, everybody!

Marry or Die

2006-12-22T00:19:00.000-05:00

Everyone's doing it. Jumping the broom, tying the knot, lugging the ol' ball-and-chain - call it what you will, it just keeps happening: marriage. The incessant influx of wedding websites to Adaure's blog is a very obvious indication that people, especially my people, just cannot seem to wait any longer to join themselves in holy matrimony, 'til death or divorce do them part. And they're taking the single ones along for the ride. From flashy engagement ceremonies in Nigeria to elaborate church weddings in New York, our young men and women are eager to show their love to anyone who will respond to their invitations, and promises of a buffet and open bar. An open bar gets me every time - I can never resist a dance with Monsieur Chardonnay and his friends, Jose, Jack and Sam (Adams, that is). But I cannot help but think that this rush to the altar is just a chain of reactions to the actions of a few deluded couples who think marriage will complete them. A herd reaction, if you will.

I'm not a cynic, and I don't think that everyone who gets married will get divorced (though the stats speak for themselves). I just think that our reasons are wrong, especially among Nigerians. The top three reasons our people get married are, in a word, ridiculous:

1) It is our responsibility as children of God
2) We got pregnant
3) It was just time

The third reason is the one most commonly used by the men. You see, when it is "time", the very next girl who agrees to enter into a relationship with them is inevitably, unavoidably, The One. Excellent strategy, gentlemen. Availability trumps romance, and the messiness of true courtship can be avoided since the girl is almost instantly thrown into planning the wedding. I don't suppose they can be blamed, though. It's the young women who allow themselves to be flattered by a marriage proposition right off the bat. And yes, it is a proposition, not a proposal. Because, you see, for these men, marriage is like a business transaction that must be completed in a timely fashion before the stock value falls. Whose stock? Theirs. If the young lady actually requests some time to get to know him a little better before she agrees to his offer of instant-marriage, it's a deal breaker. Because she might actually discover one or two things about him that he needs to work on before he drags someone into a lifelong contract, in which case he would actually have to become a better man. And that's too much work. Now or never, darling, he laughingly threatens, a sinister glistening in the back of his eye. And the young lady, prodded on by nosy aunts, sisters and her mother, a barrage of websites detailing weddings to die for, and the fact that "nobody has ever been so serious about marrying me before", stupidly resolves that this is God's will for her and agrees to marry this man she barely knows. Five years and four children later, when she realizes that he's been hitting on all her friends, including the maid of honor at her wedding, who was extremely flattered that he would make her his mistress - and potential second wife - so soon, she wonders why life is so unfair.

I speak from experience. But I'm suspicious even of people who eat too quickly, so I backed out, declared that I needed more time. Three months later, he sent me an invitation to his Mediterranean wedding and now, he just pops up occasionally to invite me to be his paramour and ask me why I ruined all our plans. Our plans? Hm.

Personally, I don't think I'm hardwired for that phase of life. I see people exchanging handcuffs - I mean, rings - and I get nauseous. What's so wrong with dating, people? The white man even came up with a brilliant solution for people like me: common law marriage. If you can stick it out long enough, you might as well be married, so he declares that you are. And you don't even have to worry about spending all that money on a frivolous wedding. Brilliant! Of course, Nigerians wouldn't allow that. Marry or die, that's the motto where I come from. But I wonder why anyone wants to marry a Nigerian man anyway. Noncommital, irresponsible, selfish, arrogant, inconsistent, and dishonest - all in a half-assed package that isn't even gift-wrapped. They show their asses right up front - unless they want to get married, of course. Then you have the pleasure of discovering your grave mistake either moments or decades after you've made it, but certainly only after it's too late to do anything about it. Try, and risk the weight of society bearing down on you: your parents complaining that you want to bring shame on the family; your so-called friends waiting to laugh behind your back, even as they commiserate with you on your failed life plan; your children who will certainly be abandoned and forced to go to a badly-funded public school, perhaps helping you sell akara to pay their school fees, or even worse, they will be taken from you and raised by an evil stepmother who gives them whippings for breakfast; your pastor condemning you to hell for even thinking about breaking your vow before God and man. Forget that he broke the vow first; as a woman, you must be the strong one, the cross bearer. Forgive him, and while you're at it, bring him back to Jesus - now that's he's your husband, it's your responsibility to see that he makes it to heaven.

To be fair, Nigerian girls aren't much better either, these days. The country is facing a moral crisis and the future mothers of the nation are getting sucked into this ethical black hole. If they're not marrying for money, they're numb to the immorality of men and, indeed, encourage the underhanded behaviors that take place in the dark of night (or the light of day, depending on schedules and the degree of callousness). Why else would it be all right for a man to employ, for the lack of a better word, confusing methods to approach a young lady? Because in Nigeria these days, men no longer deem it necessary to look you in the eye or even talk to you directly when they want to get you in bed. Like blind cave-dwelling bats, all they need to do now is register your feminine form with their (uncanny) radar before they swoop in for the sex. They toss a flippant greeting in your general direction, then walk right past you and send their personal assistant back to get you. Not your number - you. This happened to me too. Apparently, he thought I was playing hard to get because I kept rejecting his third-party advances. Eventually, when the PA approached me for the fourth time, a nearby security guard took it upon himself to get rid of him and warn me that "these men are touts". But clearly, more than a few Nigerian girls respond positively to these inane gestures - insulting gestures, actually - or the men would not continue to behave thusly. So what does this say about our people? A mass Christian movement, hours spent in communication with God, a culture that supposedly does not support such loose behavior, and still this is what we are?

Methinks I'd rather die than marry that, if I must marry at all.
What say you?

Online De-Registration

2006-12-19T23:35:00.000-05:00

I've been on this Naija binge for days. I'm talking: Naija music, Naija movies, Naija dance, Naija politics, Naija thoughts. I think I'm making up for the fact that the whole world (my whole world) is going to Nigeria this Xmas and I feel like the only person who will not be engaging in all the crazy fun that is Christmas in Naija. But, just in case I was forgetting that my country is not necessarily all fun and games, the universe decided to get my cousin to send me the following email and remind me to thank my stars that I'm staying on this side of the Atlantic this year.

My favorite girl goes to ABU in Zaria, the bedrock of education in northern Nigeria...or perhaps it once was and no longer is. Either way, the university seems to be trying to find a way to revamp its image, like the sixty-year-old man who buys a toy sports car, dyes his hair a darker shade, and tries to get a sexy young thang "on bed" (a hilarious stolen excerpt borrowed from one of those Naija movies I've been digesting lately). And this is what they have done.

Hmmmn.
ABU has decided to join the rest of the nation, join the rest of the world and it chose to begin with online registration. and there ain't nuthin mo' to say!!! cuz, i'm sure you can imagine. though even your imagination is nothing as crazy as what I am going through. first, I am not a computer/internet/anything-remotely-technical guru, so my terminology may (may?...WILL!) leave a lot to be desired, but in 2 mins i'll try to give you the lowdown

1. the site(?) is still being designed, so you can't edit your info if its been wrongly entered into theUni's (data...bank...base....?)
2. you apply for accomodation and get it in hostels that dont exist
3. you are allocated a room which mysteriously becomes another room once you log in again
4. a room of two may be allocated to 4 differentpeople
5. there's no way of telling what courses are core and which ones are electives

and the coup de grace (in my opinion) to the whole ABU catching up with the 20th century in the 21st is this...

6. you ask for help from staff - both academic and non-academic - and no one has a clue.

The poor things. And I don't mean just the students - this has to be torture for everyone concerned, including the incompetent techies who obviously lied about their qualifications in order to land this 'contract'. 2007 is going to be the beginning of a great semester for the good people at ABU!

I still feel like I'm missing out on Nigeria sha. This is the first Christmas I've spent in Yankee since 2000! This BLOWS!!

E Gba Mi O!

2006-12-13T19:26:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I keep doing this to myself. I have been in school for an unmentionable number of years, and I still cannot bring myself to stop procrastinating on my work. I have to complete a thirty-page paper by tomorrow morning. When did I start? Yesterday morning! Actually, I started last week Saturday, but in three days I only wrote 2 pages, so that doesn't count. I inevitably start doing very ridiculous things in an attempt to buy myself time. For example, I decided not to shower yesterday; I told myself that I could not afford to lose the 20 minutes it would take me to shower, apply lotion and get back in my bathrobe. Then I proceeded to spend an hour watching Roseanne. After I nearly suffocated from my own stench after I woke up this morning, I decided not to repeat that mistake. (I'm kidding; I never smell that bad. But this needs some drama, so I figured, why not?)

Anyway, so here I sit, wailing about the fact that, after donkey's years of experience and tons of papers under my belt, I am still scrambling frantically to finish within 2 days something that I had three months to work on. I need deliverance (as Mrs. Attabo of Victory House hostel used to tell me whenever I broke curfew or told a small fib, because she was convinced that I was possessed by Satan).

Pray for me, somebody. After this, I have to cram about eight or ten Yoruba proverbs for Friday afternoon, and then re-write this paper in order to re-submit it to another professor for another class by next Thursday because I didn't have time to research two separate topics. Am I a crook, or am I a crook? Peace.

5 Random/Weird Things about Kulutempa

2006-12-04T18:09:00.000-05:00

I'm doing this for you, Overwhelmed. Let's not make the tagging a habit, eh? Abi, should I be careful about mentioning your name sef, before you wash me in acid like that pregnant Jamo woman ;-)? That sh*t was funny. Anyway, on to the task at hand.

1. When I was about seven or eight, I started to count in groups of three, which led me to develop a habit that currently irritates the piss out of me, but which I cannot stop. I look at tiles (ceiling tiles, linoleum tiles, mosaic tiles...whatever) and group them into a 3x3 square. Then I turn the square diagonally, and this - in my mind - forms a tiger's face. Top square/diamond: top of the head. Next two squares: eyes. Next 3 squares: nose and jowls of the beast (or something). Next 2 squares: cheeks of the tiger, where the whiskers would go. Last square: bottom of the mouth. I need help with this one, clearly.

2. I do not like to see disabled people when I'm eating. This person could actually look quite normal, but once I realize they are disabled in any way - obesity, autism, dyslexia (ok, I'm kidding about that last one) - it messes up my appetite.

3. Now that I've had my navel pierced for 4 years, I no longer like the way it looks without the jewelry. I think it makes me look round-bellied without it. Which leads me to point 3.5, which is that I really don't ever want to be pregnant. Ever. In 2002, a friend and I decided we would develop the WOW, the Womb on Wheels, so as to circumvent all the crap that comes with pregnancy. It's in development.

4. When I was a kid, I used to torment my little sister by telling her that the six children our mother bore were divided into two teams: The Fairs and The Darks. Being that I'm "fair" and she's dark, we were on separate teams. These teams didn't do or mean a damn thing, but it really freaked her out that we would have to be separate and I sadly relished working her up. I'm sorry, Adz; I love you as much as if you were on my team :-). That being said, each "fair" person's arch nemesis in life is someone on the dark team, and vice versa...prophecy, anyone?

4.5. I love dimples. During my pre-pubescent years, I started trying to create a dimple in my own cheek, and have managed to force a pretty permanent crease in the region that pops up sometimes if I smile just right. Now, every now and again, someone will say to me "Oh, I didn't notice you had a dimple!" and I will cock my head slightly, nod, smile and say, "Yeah, it's just a little one. It runs in the family."

5. I only really love one child in the whole world, and I compare every single baby I come across to him. I never admit that anyone else could be cuter, smarter, more fun, or more well-behaved than he, even his own sibling. This might be a problem as my own niece grows up, but whatever. I love my boy.

Gay UK Flight Attendant Commercial

2006-12-04T11:22:00.001-05:00

This commercial is so great! As the folks on Google said, you gotta love the Brits for taking risks.

UPDATE: Gotten a couple of complaints about the video, and it turns out that you need to have Google Video downloaded on your hard drive in order to watch it. So I decided to cut out the middle man and send you here to watch it. But come back and tell me what you think!

Liars, All of Them!

2006-11-28T23:16:00.000-05:00

I cannot stop laughing about this.

My cousin just tagged me about this website: www.myheritage.com, which has this face recognition software that pairs you with a celebrity whom you resemble. So far, every black woman she (my cousin) knows looks like Gabrielle Union, but that's neither here nor there. I am calling for a boycott of this website of LIES!! Ok, so it calls for large pictures that are forward-facing and straightfaced, so as to more easily facilitate the comparison process. I put in my first picture (me with my messy 'fro, freshly showered, no smile but a quirky mischievous twinkle in my eye) and it said that I look like a whole bunch of Asian chicks, Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell, Natalie Imbruglia and, of course, Gabrielle Union.

The next picture I put in was taken in 2002, soon after I first shaved off my hair in South Africa. Again, no smile, but the twinkle is also gone. The software started off saying that I look like Tyra Banks (again). I thought that was promising. But the next celebrity I resembled was COOLIO! I was too shocked to be angry, so I decided to laugh instead. I'm still laughing. Ok, fine, so I look like Coolio. It shouldn't get any worse, right? WRONG! Next picture, someone else fairly good-looking, can't even remember who. Then, DONATELLA VERSACE (that hideous plastic clown)! Then DIANA ROSS (post-op and in her sixties)! As in, gosh, wouldn't it have been better for someone to just tell me that this was an awful picture?! And here I thought I was pulling mad dudes with the sexiness of my lowcut...apparently, they were just attracted to the freak that lies under my skin!

But then it said that I look like Gabrielle Union again, so fair enough. Y'all check it out; it's hilarious!

Why is Black Bad?

2006-11-28T10:11:00.000-05:00

On Thanksgiving Eve, my friend Ndidi called me up to invite me to Black Friday. I have never succumbed to consumer-ism, which is a great feat to have accomplished seeing as I live in the Great Land of (Senseless, Rampant, Uncontrollable) Consumer-ism, but she deceived me. I know this now. I mentioned that my brokeness this year transcended all previous levels of brokeness in my life and that I would not be spending a dime, therefore I would not be going. Then she flippantly mentioned that they were selling Motorola Razrs for $19.99, which was her way of telling me that I would go down as the biggest fool in history if I passed up on using my credit card to take advantage of this gargantuan sale. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was too good to be true. But it only takes a split second for the "me too, I want" spirit to take a hold of you, and Ndidi was so excited about the whole thing. Before I knew it, she had sent me a good ten lists of items on sale in ten different stores, and I was perusing them, wondering what would be worth going further into debt for. I told myself that I was only going to Black Friday because my dear friend wanted me to go. After all, she had called me "dear" when she asked me to go with her. It would be a special time for us to bond. Hindsight is 20/20. I cannot believe I agreed to follow her to what can only be described as absolute craze.

After an eventful Thanksgiving, I finally got to bed around midnight. Actually, I got to couch at midnight, knowing that if I fell asleep in a bed, I would not be able to wake up at 4 to get ready for Ndidi's arrival. This my friend, punctual even in the wee hours of the morning, drove up to the crib at 4:20 on the dot. I was already downstairs waiting for her, and off we zoomed to Circuit City, where our cheap Razrs awaited us. What I saw as we pulled into the parking lot will be forever imbedded in my mind. First of all, it's 4:30 in the morning - a morning following a holiday that is designed to take people out by overeating - but the lot looked as busy as it would have looked on a Saturday afternoon. Second of all, it's cold. I mean, it's North Carolina, fair enough, but it's still November. It's cold. And there is a line of people that's four people deep, and long. Long, long, long, long, long. It took Ndidi and I almost 4 minutes to walk to the end of this ridiculous line, the whole time marveling at how many people are standing there waiting for the doors to open and wondering if we can really expect to get inside, talk less of buy anything.

We amused ourselves thoroughly at the back of the line, though it was only the back for about 10 seconds; people were still pulling in to line up even as we stepped into our place. First, we speculated about sprinting to the front of the line as soon as the doors were opened, and bursting through the doors before anyone knew what was going on. I anticipated a fight, though, and pointed out that it was unfortunate that I was wearing a hoodie and she was wearing a scarf, because we would almost certainly be dragged back by those two items and pummeled/trampled by the incoming crowd. Scratch that idea. Then I marveled about how great this country was and how people were obediently, quietly standing in line unlike the savages we deal with in Nigeria. Then Ndidi asked a great question: what would Nigerians do if this was Nigeria? I gave the following options:

1) They would have broken the doors down by now (it was 4:47, which is close enough to 5am so the sale could start early).

2) Nobody would even have arrived, because the sales people themselves would have looked their oga square in the eye and asked him whether he was feeling all right to ask them to come to work before daybreak. Ergo, the 5am sale would have started at 7. Or maybe even 9am, if some people wanted to attend early mass.

3) There would most certainly not be a line. Rather, a crowd would have gathered where everyone was wearing the sharpest, most dangerous shoes they could find so as to kick the hell out of anyone who dared to enter the shop before them.

4) On the off-chance that the Nigerians could form an orderly line and the sale did start promptly at 5am, some rich Money-Miss-Road from Aba named Johnny Too-Much would have hired a number of area boys with whips to clear the line at precisely 4:59, at which time he would calmly step out of his Pathfinder to stroll leisurely into the store to purchase his goods. This would inevitably put everyone else in a bad humor and they would subsequently take out their frustrations on each other once they did enter the store.

This killed about 10 minutes for me and Ndidi, at which point we realized that the good folks at Circuit City were about to open the doors. The line rumbled with anticipation. We began to stamp out feet expectantly, eager to walk through those doors, hoping that we would be let into the store at all. It was then that we noticed a fairly large number of people migrating to the front of the line from the parking lot, people who had stayed in the warmth of their cars (taken much-needed naps as well, no doubt) until the last possible minute and were about to pull a Johnny Too-Much, sans thugs. These were the people that awakened the Nigerian in us, because Ndidi and I decided then and there that we were not going to be taken for fools. We cut the line. At first, we were hesitant. We just sort of stood there with the other hesistant would-be cutters, waiting for someone else to make the first move and cut. That way, if there was going to be any resistance from the others who had probably been in line since 3am, we could just find our way back to last place and count our blessings (and losses, cuz there were a good forty or fifty people in line behind us when we chose to cut). When Someone Else did saunter into Circuit City without trouble, Ndidi linked arms with me and we calmly entered the store. Line cut, no problem. Now the shopping could begin.

I won't bore you with the details. It was basically a corral and we were a herd of animals, product-hungry animals. We were shopping shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, who were pushing and shoving and yelling. I was hot as hell because I was still wearing all my warm layers, but I couldn't de-layer because we just didn't have the time; there were windows of opportunity to get our stuff that would be missed. We eliminated the possibility of buying the Razrs as soon as we walked in the store, by the way, because of course the price was accompanied by a 2-year contract with Verizon, which we weren't going to sign. When Verizon offers Rollover, we'll talk. So we looked for Ndidi's stuff: digital camera and Season One of Grey's Anatomy ($8.99). Looking for a suitable camera was hell (more lines in the store, too many rednecks with their ghastly cigarette breath in my face), G's Anat was $19.99 - we decided to check out Target.

We drove the quarter-mile to Target's lot, which was already full to bursting. The time was 5:52. When I saw another one of those terrible lines, I realized that Target wasn't opening 'til 6am. Ndidi had already begun to plot our strategy for cutting the line. Like convicted felons with 2 strikes staring a life sentence in the face, we were already frantically chanting the phrase, "We're not going to the end of the line, we're not going to the end of the line!" What most people don't know about Ndidi is that she is fiercely competitive and she hates to lose. Beneath that sweet, genteel exterior lies a monster akin to The Incredible Hulk. I remember one night, years ago, we were playing Taboo, boys against girls. It was me, Ndidi and Crystal against Walter, Roland and Patrik. We huddled, presumably to develop the best plan of action, but Ndidi began by first calling us "motherfuckers" (this was before she got saved, people - allow her) and telling us that if we made her lose, we were going to die. Suffice it to say, we won. Anyway, it was this same monstrous being that showed its face at Target. Her face set hard, her eyes sharpened like daggers, a shadow crossed over her and rested, and she plotted. I mentioned the fact that there were shopping carts dotting the entryway, with ropes strung between them, defining the line as well as keeping out the line jumpers, but she seemed oblivious to the sound of my voice. "Ndidi," I said, "Target has their shit together, man. And the people in line look aggressive." And they did. Some people were already shadowboxing, and everyone looked ready to charge. I heard the person at the front of the line say they had been there since 4am. It was not looking good for us. But Ndidi was a woman possessed and she did not care. As for me, hunger wan nearly carry me. All I knew was that I didn't have the strength to fight anybody in that line - and the Target shoppers were ready to throw 'bows, from what I saw.

Ndi dragged me to the front of line, where four security officials stood, ready to counter any chaos that might ensue. The head security announced to the crowd forming at the head of the line that we would not be let in until the line had passed through the doors. Clearly, he had not met Ndidi. She was breathing deeply now. "Come on!" she ordered me, and dragged me further down the line. Like I said, those Target shoppers weren't taking any mess that morning. People were holding up the ropes as they walked by, to ensure that nobody would hop over and cut the line in front of them. I looked into the red eyes of one of them as he walked past, glaring at us, and knew in my heart that we would not meet success in this line. Ndidi whispered her latest strategy to me: "When the security guard looks away, we're going to hop over the rope and go, ok?" I laughed, partly because I thought she was joking and partly because I thought she was crazy. "Ok, Ndi." So we watched the guard carefully.

Actually, I was watching the guard and the rope, cuz it would have been awfully embarrassing to try and hop over a rope that was too high because someone was holding it up. I also didn't think the guard would look away, given the number of us just waiting at that part of the line. But he did! With excitement, I looked round at Ndidi to say, "Let's go!" But Ndidi was not there. Literally before I blinked, this girl had hopped over that rope with all the grace and agility of Michael Flatley and his dancers and the only thing my eyes witnessed for sure was her pink peacoat disappearing into the store with the wave of shoppers. Her speed not only shocked me, but impressed my co-loiterers, who literally applauded her nimble dexterity. It was clear to me that I had to quickly attempt the same before the guard caught on to what was happening. I awaited my chance. Again, the man looked away, and I quickly jumped over the rope into the line.

Alas, it was ill-fated timing. As my feet landed on the concrete sidewalk, I felt the hard claw of a middle-aged white woman - small in stature, but with a crazed look in her eyes, which peered out under the edge of a badly-tied scarf - on my arm. She grabbed me from behind her shopping cart - a feat which I still find amazing - turned me around and tried to push me out of the line, yelling, "You need to get to the back of the line," over and over. Why me, Holy Father, I thought as I tried to appear nonchalant lest the guard recognize me and yank me out of the line himself. I remember feebly saying something like, "My friend is already in there," then getting on my phone to call Ndidi (for what specific reason, I'm still not sure), while trying to walk faster to get out of reach of this crazy woman so the guard would think she was talking to someone else. As I was trying to call her, Ndidi called me, yelling, "My friend, where are you?! Will you get inside this store, I already have a cart, let's go!"

This happened in a space of 5 seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. The tiny amount of energy I had left in me was burned up by the burst of adrenaline brought on by that hag outside, and I was so relieved to see Ndidi that I ran a little so as to get closer to her sooner. Of course, it was madness inside that store as well, and between running around trying to get our gear (we finally found Grey's Anatomy for $8.98 - yay, Target!) and getting rammed repeatedly by someone's cart (I was concentrating so hard on taking care of myself that I didn't even realize that the bitch was ramming me until it was too late), I could not wait to leave the store and get back in bed. Ndi got everything she wanted and more, and I learned a valuable lesson: when an event is named Black and it's not Black like Black Tie, turn on your heels and flee in the opposite direction!

As we walked out into the crisp dawn, the sun painting the horizon deep pink and yellow, my dear friend said to me, "That was great! We should make this a yearly tradition!" I knew then that she was lost, and nothing I could do or say would save her from herself. It was then that I realized that I was not the only person she had asked to accompany her on this rigamarole, but I was the only person that had foolishly agreed. I was too weary to say anything except, "You and who should make what a yearly tradition?" And that was the last either of us said about Black Friday. It will never happen again.

Say Maybe to Drugs

2006-11-24T23:37:00.001-05:00

Here's something interesting I've learned lately: everyone is doing drugs. Apparently, I've been living a sheltered life, walking around jolly and oblivious to the fact that there is a pervasive underworld full of people who are constantly high on one drug or another, and it is spreading. Crystal meth, marijuana, mushrooms, LSD, ecstasy, cocaine, Valium, crack, alcohol - everyone is doing something and just because I choose to remain cooped up in my apartment 6 days out of 7, I am fully ignorant of just how many people are going to ruin their lives this year because of addiction and/or mistakes. Now, given that I do spend the majority of my time hanging out with my more laidback self, it shocks me that I am meeting more and more people who do drugs. The sheer odds of my meeting that many people means that there must be millions out there, and apparently they're always looking for fresh meat, more people to drag into their dark despair - cuz it ain't fun getting high all by yourself. Ergo, I feel the need to share an experience or two of mine, just for the general education of the virgin public. Just so you know what to expect.

I remember the first time I really got high. I mean, there was the Christmas party at my little sister's foster brother's house in London, but that was just an introduction. They were passing round a spliff at this party before dinner. Everyone smokes spliffs in London; it's just the done thing. I'm just a Nigerian girl (fairly extraordinary, yes, but simple nonetheless), who is a firm believer in moderation and not going down the slippery slope; I turned down the j's first couple of rounds. But when I saw my darling sister puffing on that thin white roll of weed and tobacco, I asked myself whether I was really living life by being so prudish. I decided I wasn’t. On the next round, I took three puffs, and promptly fell asleep. When I woke up 20 minutes later, everyone was laughing at me, but I felt somewhat validated. I had smoked weed - or so I thought - and nothing had happened to me. I resolved then and there to make weed smoking a firm and fixed part of my intoxication menu, which up until this point only included various kinds of alcohol and the occasional cigarette.

I came back to the U.S. and began shopping for a dealer. I hate that I have to use such language, like it was a covert operation in the middle of the night, but this is America. Anyway, so I began to look out for people who looked like they might smoke tweeds, that I might drink from their fountain of wisdom in the acquisition of such dark goods. It was harder than I thought. But as it turns out, I was pleasantly surprised by the discovery that many of the people I hung out with daily were frequent worshippers at the altar of Mary Jane and I didn’t have to look far, or for long. One day, GT told me that he had gotten a shipment of “the good stuff” and asked me if I was ready for the ride of my life. Strangely and stupidly confident after my one brush with drugs, I laughed at his insinuation that I wasn’t ready, got in my car and went to his apartment to “show him how it was done”.

When he opened the Ziploc bag of reefer, I was struck by the sharp, tangy smell of the leaves. It smelled strong. GT noticed my brief hesitation, perhaps even glimpsed the shadow of anxiety that had passed over my face, and laughed at me. I resumed my false bravado attitude, but now I was slightly worried. This “good stuff” didn’t look like any kind of weed I had ever seen before. It was green and had a sparkly quality, almost like it had been sprinkled with stardust. There weren’t just leaves either – there were buds and twigs, and everything seemed extremely fresh. Prior to this, I had only seen shriveled up, dead-looking weed. Certainly nothing that looked like it might grow roots in my lungs and spring to life through my mouth. Inwardly, I started to shake.

GT rolled the j, and politely offered me the first puff. I inhaled – and immediately went into a coughing fit. My throat felt like it was on fire, like the veins and arteries had disintegrated, sending the blood spewing directly from my heart into my esophagus. I thought the pain was never going to end. By the time I recovered, GT had taken the joint out of my hand – to protect it, no doubt – and was sitting on his bed, smoking and laughingly asking about my health. To further rub in my embarrassment, he offered me the joint again. I glared at him, then went to the bathroom down the hall. As I sat on the toilet, I thought to myself how annoying it was that I had to go through all that without even the satisfaction of a high. I still wasn’t sure what constituted a high, but whatever I was feeling, which was nothing, wasn’t it. I dabbed at myself with some tissue, pulled up my pants, and went over to the sink.

As I looked down at my soapy hands, I noticed that the suds looked shinier than usual. I also noticed that I thought I was looking at myself washing my hands from a distance. I blinked. Everything went back to normal. Weird, I thought, and rinsed the soap from my hands. I could still taste the blood in my mouth, so when I noticed the mouthwash by the sink, I thought I’d have a gargle, try to chase the memory of my fall from grace with the minty freshness of Listerine. I reached for the bottle, opened the cap. The green liquid splashed into the small black cap. I threw it back in my mouth, and sloshed it around violently. Rinsed the cap. Screwed it back on the bottle. It was then that I began to realize that I was very aware of every detail of all my actions. I could account for what each finger was doing as I opened and closed the Listerine bottle. Everything was going in slow motion; raising my eyes to the mirror took three seconds instead of the usual fraction of one. Looking in the mirror, the kulutempa I thought I would see was no longer there. Instead, kulutempa was slowly moving out of this girl, prepared to float behind her and watch her from a few feet away. I could literally feel myself drifting out of my mind and body, into a state of oblivion, an unknown place I had never been before. I could only assume that this is what dying felt like. Suddenly, I was overtaken with fear. I had to get back to the room and ask GT what was going on before I ceased to be part of myself. I flung open the bathroom door and started down the dark, unlit hallway. But not before I turned off the bathroom light, essentially plunging myself into instant, impenetrable darkness.

I’m going to have to admit something about myself that few people know: I’m scared of the dark. I haven’t slept alone without a night light for over two years, and before that I had only managed to sleep alone in the dark for about a year. Something about the dark of night terrifies me. This is not a good character trait to have when you are high, prone to paranoia even when you’re sober – which can only get worse when you have smoked igbo – and are lost in a pitch-black hallway. Unfortunately, I was in this state of panic and frantically searching for GT’s bedroom doorknob, vainly fighting screams, when I chose to leave my body. I blacked out. When I came to, I was huddled and shaking on one end of GT’s futon, he was sitting on his bed peering across at me worriedly and asking me if I was ok – for real, this time. His muscular form came to me slowly, through a black haze that never fully cleared the whole time I was high.

That was the longest night of my life. I remember being very worried that I had broken an infinite number of sins by embarking on this weedy journey, and grew increasingly concerned that I would die a horrible death very soon. Within minutes, to be exact. Flashbacks of all the times in church when people were called to the altar to re-dedicate their lives to God and I declined, putting it off for another Sunday, came to my mind and I felt so distraught. I started rocking back and forth, asking God to forgive me for my stupidity, to have mercy and give me another chance to make my life right before He sent me to the fiery pits of hell. GT, long gone at this point, started telling me to just calm down so the paranoia could pass and so I could get to enjoying my high. I think I was ruining his. However, in that short phrase, he had introduced me to the idea that this feeling would not last forever and that I would not live and die like this. There would be an end to my suffering, and I would live a full life afterwards. All I wanted to know was when it would be. So I asked him.

“What time is it?”

“It’s 1:30.”

“Ok.” I waited for a very long time before I spoke again, and then I tried to make small talk. Unfortunately, all I could say was:

“What time is it?”

“1:31.”

“Ok.”

Another long pause.

“What time is it?”

“1:31. Now it’s 1:32.”

“Ok.”

We did this for hours. When GT gets high, apparently he has the patience of Jesus. There he was, laid out on his bed, watching the TV, chilling. Meanwhile, kulutempa is there on the futon, fidgeting and twitching, unable to think of anything except her impending death and the time. I tried to watch TV, but he said the light and waves would probably make my high worse. I had no choice but to believe him; I couldn’t even process what the hell he was talking about. So while I feared everything, I also became obsessed with keeping my eyes from even glancing in the general direction of the TV as I waited for my trip to end. I eventually fell asleep on the futon and woke up at 6 to the sound of birds chirping outside and the misty blue of dawn slipping through the slats of the blinds. I touched my body - to make sure it was all there - went to that eerie bathroom again to check the redness of my eyes, then got the hell out of there. I don’t even think I said bye to GT. I had come to know that igbo pass igbo. All I knew was I would never smoke weed again.

A few months later, I was high on the train in London, on my way home after visiting my sister’s then boyfriend, who was kind enough to offer me trees, the way an Italian offers his visitor red wine. When I became paranoid about a number of men raping me on my walk home, I decided that it was finally, finally time to stop smoking that stuff. I had never gotten used to the unbearable dry mouth, anyway. There is one effect that I will miss terribly, but I’ll leave that unspoken. Man, that was hard to give up. But I digress. I don’t really have a point, but I will say this: weed will get you high, and it might soften life’s edges, but more often than not, it will overly sharpen your senses and make you paranoid as hell. Sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes not. Either way, my decision to say “maybe” to drugs has meant that at least now my “no” has the weight of experience behind it. Which will totally save me from the desperate clawing of miserable druggies looking to drag me down into their despair. Think about it.

Next topic: Black Friday in America and Ndidi the Undercover Artful Dodger. Watch this space.

Naija Film Blueprint

2006-11-13T13:11:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine wrote and sent this to me over a year ago, and I still think it's one of the funniest things I've ever read. I'm sort of down-in-the-dumps these days and have been looking for a pick-me-up. Turns out, this was it. So for any other avid Nigerian movie fans who might be mourning the advent of winter, I present - on behalf of "Marrow" - the blueprint for making the well-rounded Nigerian movie:

My wife and I are keen watchers of Nigerian films and are always tickled by the inescapable similarities that seem to spring up in virtually every other movie. So here is your very own blueprint to making a Naija film. Follow these golden rules and you too can tap in to an estimated £120 million industry.

1.It is unthinkable that your protagonist goes through this film without some kind of family intervention. Even if he is currently without a family, he has either lost them at an early age or will magically acquire a new one during the course of the film. If I'm watching a movie with Russell Crowe in it, I am not concerned about his relationship with his mother nor do I particularly care if he is regularly sending money to his brother in the village. Too much information!

2.When a character is deported/returns from America, he will immediately adopt an incomprehensible dialect This dialect is unique to Nigerian films and contains a disproportionate number of Rs , every other sentence ends in 'men' and affords a liberal use of expletives. This clearly means you have been to America. The character will also be decked up in a variety of tank tops or equally skimpy outfits. There is obviously not enough cloth in Yankee to make complete outfits.

3.Every polygamous family is doomed. Stepmothers in particular are to be avoided of you want to survive in a Naija film. The minute you hear stepm.... fade, just fade. She will kill your ass.

4. Jazz, Jazz and more jazz. If in doubt, the obligatory 'Baba Alawo' scene will answer many plot holes and keep our movie ticking along. Jazz is also an invaluable tool in explaining any irrational behaviour. Oh that madman? Na jazz. Oh he started beating his wife? Na jazz. Impregnated his sister's cousin's youngest daughter? Jazz, Jazz Jazz. For mental disorders in Hollywood, read Jazz in Nollywood.

5.No matter how rich or succesful a character is, their office must not exceed 12 X 9 ft in dimension. The decor is something straigth out of Carpenter's monthly with square edges everywhere. During the course of the movie, that same office will also double up as the bank manager's office, baba alawo's shrine any indeed any other interior location you can think of.

6. Stella Damascus Aboderin must cry in any movie she is cast in. If you do not include this in her contract, then you are wasting the woman's talents and you might as well cast someone else.
7. Similarly Ramsey Noah must have facial hair in all his films. No Ramsey I don't care if it makes you look fine, the part requires you to be a Tibetan Monk godammit!

8. Every flashback must be in either black and white or sepia, preferably with a dream like effect. Without this we are obviously too dumb to differentiate past events with current ones.

9. No one ever loses or gains any weight in Naija films. 20 years later abi?...abeg just pour small powder for my head. My diet is exactly the same and I have not succumbed to middle age spread. I now have six kids but not the waistline to show for it.

10. Do NOT under any circumstance try and incorporate special effects of any kind. They will fail miserably. If you want to make a movie about a man who flies or shoots thunderbolts from the tips of his fingers, think again or move to Hollywood. Don't forget to close the door behind you.

11. And finally whatever you do, NEVER NEVER cast Nigerian children in your film. Child actors are notoriously bad but Nigerian child actors deliver lines in a manner that makes you just want to slap them and curse their parents. (Dore, remember "Mommy, (n)why. does. Duddy. 'ate. os?" LOL!!)

Dane Buying Ugandans for Art

2006-11-10T10:14:00.000-05:00

I know that all I seem to be talking about these days is Africans, but the world seems to be running mad and I can't help it! Plus, these days, I'm increasingly inundated with news about that continent - I think this is God's way of telling me that I must not stay in this country when I'm finished with school. But that's a topic for another blog. This blog is talking about a strange breed of neocolonialism that's boldly underlined with an unfettered desire for one Danish man's massive ego to be stroked. And the sad thing is that hunger and poverty have clearly numbed the senses and pride of these Ugandans, who don't seem to see anything wrong with what they are doing (or so the Dane would have us believe).

I take God beg you, read that press release (in the hyperlink) and then go on to check out the pictures on his website: www.hornsleth.com. What is this world coming to, holy Father??

Remember Saro-Wiwa today, everybody

Where Did We Go?

2006-11-08T10:07:00.000-05:00

Nigeria is no longer the most corrupt nation in the world; Haiti is, according to Transparency International. Actually, Nigeria isn't even in the top 10. On one hand, this is interesting news for obvious reasons - it means there are countries that are even more corrupt than ours. On the other hand, if there are countries more corrupt than ours - a whole 10, we know for certain - then what on earth does that say about this world of ours? Scary thought. And what does it say about the people who are doing the measuring? Did these countries just suddenly become more corrupt in the past couple of years? Or did people just decide to take more notice after they became bored with the usual scapegoats?

I'm interested to see what will become of the Haitians in world media following this release. And as an aside: the French and the Italians have been linked to global mass corruption, being cited as the two countries that pay the most bribes in developing nations. Funny how they aren't considered one of the top 10.

My Silpas Too Fine!

2006-11-07T16:50:00.000-05:00

Ok, I had to steal this from my friend Katja S.'s page. I've been visualizing this picture for hours, and it still has me in stitches. Apparently, corruption in Nigeria has prompted some very personal - and borderline ridiculous - responses. This picture was allegedly taken outside a mosque:

I say "allegedly" because a friend of mine refuses to believe that anyone would stoop so low as to padlock their slippers and feels that this is a doctored picture. I, on the other hand, am completely unsurprised by this action (though immensely delighted) and totally see the sense in using a giant padlock to secure your property outside a house of worship. After all, robbers are no longer afraid of God, so what's to stop them from tiefing your load outside His house, even when the penalty of that particular God for stealing is the loss of your tiefing hand? Notice the dirt-outlined toeprints and the indented, cracked heels. This person uses his slippers religiously (no pun intended); why should he not want to protect them?

You know you're all wishing you thought of this first.

This is Lagos?

2006-11-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

http://www.newyorker.com/online/content/articles/061113on_onlineonly01

This is one of the most annoying things I've ever seen or heard (and given the rate of my annoyance, that's saying a lot). This woman is mad and ignorant, even more so because of her lack of understanding despite the fact that she seems to be so well-traveled. I'm not naive enough to say that everything she said was a lie; after all, she managed to capture A truth (one, singular truth) from A perspective (one, singular perspective). To turn around and blanket an entire nation, even an entire city, with this one truth and one perspective is irresponsible and appalling. And annoying. Maybe the people were obstructing your photography because they don't appreciate a random white woman coming and taking pictures all willy-nilly without permission.

That being said, Nigeria and her people need to wake the hell up. That these people can still find living situations like this to focus on in our very wealthy nation is a disgrace. That these people still have the opportunity to speak ignorantly and derogatorily and that we don't have a sufficient rebuttal is a disgrace. Thus rubbish heaps are older than some of us, and they're still sitting there. Does nobody care??

Short Gist: Oga Landlord Strikes Again

2006-11-01T09:02:00.000-05:00

See trouble o! My landlord has promoted himself from part-time stalker to petty thief. Last week, he brought plumber to install heat in my bathroom. I left them in the apartment and went to class. I came back, didn't notice anything out of order. Next morning, getting ready to take my shower, I couldn't find my shower cap. I thought maybe they moved it somewhere. Turned my bathroom and bedroom upside down looking for it - nada. Figured the plumber ripped it and threw it away or something, but the least he could have done was tell me, right? No matter. I bought a new shower cap. Life went on.

Yesterday, Oga Landlord brought electrician to fix some problems my neighbors and I have been having. We were in the living room most of the time, but they had to go through my bedroom once to get to the basement (it's an interesting layout). Didn't take more than a minute, I didn't leave the living room because I didn't think I had to. They did their work, they left. At midnight, I was getting ready for bed - and I couldn't find my headtie. Again, ransacking the bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom to find it, including garbage cans in case I was just mad enough during the day to throw away my favorite 10-year-old headtie. Again, nada. All I could think about was the email he had sent me just moments before telling me how attractive African women are to him and why he just loves them so much - they're so smart, and beautiful, with great family values and most of them are virgins until they get married (I don't know where he got that gist from sha, but whatever).

This isn't like the time I ate oatmeal and forgot that I put the bowl in the sink, so I thought someone broke in - to eat my food...how retarded was that?? Anyway, this isn't like that. The man is taking my shit. He's probably sniffing on my headtie right now, wanking to the sweet smell of my perfumed oil that is now permanently embedded in the thing. WHY WOULD HE TAKE MY SCARF??? I stole that scarf from my Gubsie years ago; it means a lot to me. I'm so irritated, and now very paranoid. I slept with a chair against my front door last night. Even though the chair has wheels and won't do shit if there is ever an intrusion. Suffice it to say, it didn't make me feel safer. I hope I'm wrong and the scarf just turns up somewhere I didn't think to look...like behind the ceiling tiles. So annoyed.