Through my eyes

Nameless

2010-10-22T02:49:00.004-02:30

It’s a quiet night in this small Canadian city. We’ve all been entertained, saddened and made pensive by acoustic singers from Ontario and Iceland. I enjoy some parts of their performance, and don’t others. I guess that when acoustic music descends into being clichéd; the sort of thing any North American teenager in his room would play, I just get bored.

Somehow our conversation shifts from talking about how this one time a friend and I tried to pull a cart up a hill, to talking about what really moves people to action, to demand for change. We all first admit that for change to occur, there really needs to be charismatic figures able to inspire people to demand for change. An argument rises when we have different views on if charismatic people are the way they are by nature or by choice. A friend feels that one really can inch away from complacency and choose to act and speak out against what one simply doesn’t agree with. In my mind, I feel there’s a distinction between those who, by their natures, cannot do without fighting injustice and those who get on with life. I voice this to them. I feel that most people, really just want to get on with their lives, rather than risk it or property for the sake of voicing opinions and convictions that might end up not effecting any change. I realize when I say these things, that this idea has branded itself in my mind for a long time. It really is part of my world view. The argument sidles away from this theme back into what truly moves people to ask that the poor state of things become better. My very optimistic friend feels that people want change when the present state of things contradicts with their ethics and beliefs system; that their very existence and what constitutes it: their morals, values cannot co-exist with the norms or dogmas being enforced by their society or whatever governing body. In my mind, something completely different is there. To me, people are shaken to their very core to seek, fight for change, only when their very existence becomes unbearable. That to risk one’s life and the security which progeny could have, one’s present life has to reach a breaking point; a point where living isn’t really worth it.

I arrive at my apartment. Walk into my room and the fan whirs, and sends cool air at me. I want to throw myself at my bed, but I can’t. I’m bothered by love and my worldviews. I’m wondering what kind of a person I am when it comes to these two things. Love almost seems like a cross-examination of myself. Almost as if it watches me, gruels and laughs at me, to see what I’m willing to sacrifice, what I’m willing to be weakened and made foolish by. I digress. I really couldn’t just sleep, because I wondered where my worldviews really do come from? These opinions, principles that I try to keep, but sometimes forget are there in the first place, I wonder where they squeeze out from. I get confronted with news from my family of things happening back home, I have experiences here, good and awful and I decide what I think and feel about these things. Yet, I’m not satisfied that it is at these points my opinions take shape. I wonder why I hold such pessimistic views of what goads my fellow man to simply want something different, better for himself or his brothers and sisters. Why am I so convinced, from my very core, that if one section of society is being dragged down by poverty and oppression, and another enjoys peace and plenty, those capable of speaking will do nothing? I’m saddened that I hold such pessimistic views that come across as so archaic and the very mentalities that will not spark change. I want to sleep, peacefully, but I can’t. I can blame growing up in Nigeria, that country that I love so much and yet I am so pained by, for this worldview of mine. Or I can, conveniently, say that the view I have is the reality of humanity. But I can’t. A part of me, the part that writes this, is disappointed and wants better worldviews to take the place of these views that enmesh themselves to my mind.

Mahmoud's Letter.........i

2009-12-01T00:13:00.008-03:30

In the letter Mahmoud wrote, he wanted the reader to sense the sort of man he felt he was. In the manner he described what he had seen and heard in ambitious English, he wanted the reader to know that, although, he had spent most of his life in rural Adamawa, he was a man still capable of being learned and refined. The handwriting was forced cursive, and so when one drew one’s head backwards and peered into the letter, it seemed the words were of a foreign language. Yet, the failure to sculpt events in beautiful handwriting did not deter Mahmoud from presenting the letter in the manner he felt was elegant. He had placed the letter in those air mail envelopes with streaks of red and blue across the four edges, and had presented it to my father, with his head bowed. His head remained that way while my father read the letter inwardly. After he had read the letter to himself, my father asked that I call my mother so he could then read it aloud. When my father began to read, he let Mahmoud’s words escape his mouth in a stoic tone, as though he had before hand braced himself for the daunting task of reading a letter laden with grief. The manner he read it out slowly, dragging out every word, made it seem like he was
reading an elegy. And this elegy was for my own death, because as I stood in the living room, that night, with my father reading, my brother disconcerted, my mother listening and her legs trembling, I felt that my consciousness would dissipate, vanish like ether on skin.

My family moved into our new house, before it was completed. The estate our house was located in was one of those areas in the outskirts of Port Harcourt, where land was cheap and had not been fully urbanized. There were only ten compounds in the estate, and in between them were unsold plots of land that teemed with thick, green shrubs, Yam and Pumpkin tendrils and wild Elephant grass. The road that lead to our house was unpaved, and was only a stretch of alluvium-covered ground. And so when it rained heavily, the alluvium became soggy, and would exhaust all its ability to absorb water. The road would then be flooded by a creek of coral coloured water. And for us to get to our house, my father would have to slowly drive the car, and we would have to raise our legs, as water streamed in. Sometimes, the engine would fail, after being clogged up, thick smoke would extrude from the bonnet, and we would have to walk, knee-deep, in the water to our house. On our third night in this estate, one of our neighbours had been robbed at gun-point, in his house, by thieves. It was then that my father had decided that we get two gate men.

When my mother could not swallow the fact that the roads were flooded because the gutters were not deep enough; she asked our two gate men to dig out the silt and garbage that had settled in the gutters.They followed her order. Mounds of black-brown earth with old, crumpled plastic bags in it, remained on the sides of the road when they were done. It was Mahmoud who tried to convince an unflinching Boniface that the dug-up earth would be washed back into the gutters by rain. But, Boniface did not budge; he seemed convinced that the black-brown earth would flatten itself, naturally, on the ground. They argued, until my mother settled the case, and ordered Boniface to clear out the mounds of black-brown earth, himself. It was situations like this that endeared Mahmoud to my mother.

The first sentence in Mahmoud’s letter reminded my father of the “deep and passionate reverence” he had for him and how he was “bountifully grateful” to my father agreeing to sponsor him in the university. He wrote on how he had always wished, back in Adamawa, that he could read and speak like an educated man. He wrote that he never wanted to go into the carpet-selling business that his father had, but that he wanted to be a lawyer, "a man of integrity". But these dreams of his never seemed like they would “come to past”, until he began to work for my “honourable and
with-no-doubting honest” father. After his praises for my father, Mahmoud then went on to say that he could no longer keep quiet about the things that had been happening the last few nights. When my father read this sentence out, my mother’s face livened from its former ambivalence. With her head raised, she glared at Mahmoud. She wanted to speak, most-likely demand that my father stop reading the letter and go straight into revealing the things that happened in the night. She muttered words and then my father raised his head to her, signaling that she hold her peace and listen first.

“The aim of this letter, sir, is to inform you that Boniface has done unmentionable and sinful things with someone in your family” my father read out. My elder brother, Bode, rumpled his face in suspicion. His eyes went to the guestroom, where Jumoke, my father’s younger sister, slept in. Jumoke had returned to school that afternoon. Bode then stared at Mahmud trying to see through his dignified, impenetrable look, if he had finally confirmed that Jumoke was the one tip-toeing out of the house every night. But, the hardy look persisted on Mahmoud’s face. My father read out the sentence where Mahmoud claimed that he was in a good position to see what went on in Boniface’s room at night. Mahmoud was speaking of the shack that he and Boniface
both lived in. The shack was by the gate, and it was built from planks of wood nailed and held together in some areas with cement. The shack was divided into two rooms. My father had promised the gate men, that when our house was completed, and all the finishing was done, then a boys-quarter made from bricks would be erected for them.

When my father was done reading the letter, there was silence in the room. No one
stared at the other person, but everyone’s eyes remained on the letter fluttering on the centre-table. My mother did not utter any words, but she looked like she was trying to pull together separate, puzzling thoughts like trying to stick together shreds of a torn note. And when she had finally placed the shreds together, so that they formed a whole, she stared in disbelief at this coherent whole fluttering on the table.

She erupted “Aye mi o!”-“My life!”

With her face now molded in disbelief and disgust, she demanded that someone drag Boniface to the living room to prove what Mahmoud had written in the letter. No one moved, not even Bode who initially seemed ready to go grab Boniface. Mahmoud who stood fixed at the door, only willing to move at my father’s command stayed where he was. It was only after my mother had screamed again, her voice almost guttural,
that Mahmoud hurried to go drag in Boniface.

That smile on her face was eerie in how it bordered amusement and anger. As soon as my mother saw Boniface at the door, she sprang from the sofa, and lunged at Boniface. Her finger nails struck Boniface’s cheeks. He wailed and asked, in an
incoherent and intimidated tone, what he had done wrong. His beards became matted, as blood flowed down into and coloured them maroon. Then the blood began to seep through his beards, as though liquid dripping from a sieve. The blood flowed unto his singlet, mixed with the sweat on his chest and formed an inverted, blotchy red gable.

Sometimes it seems that inanimate things can come alive, when the space they are in is sated in emotions. It is almost as if these things around us can borrow our emotions and then possess feelings of their own. My father’s stoic silence, my brother’s gnashing of his teeth and rumpling of his face, my mother’s screaming and my feeling of dying crowded the living room with too many discordant emotions, that my painting seemed to speak those things I hoped it would. My painting that my mother had finally agreed that I could hang on the living room wall now seemed to be a floating window into the life of someone. The eyes, each an hazel gem at the bottom of a sea of white, stared, curiously and entranced. Slender fingers joined as if woven together, swaddled a mouth. The deep-black hair of the young woman matched with the pitch-black of the night, as though night was a drape the person had powers to open and reveal her face in an unexcited peekaboo manner.

“We should call the police, this is rape!” my mother declared to my father, her eyes now misty.

“How long has this been going?” my father asked, turning to me.

“How long Eniola? Your father is talking to you! Wayward girl!”

“The last three nights” I said.

“Three times? You let him touch you on three occasions” my mother said, her face
looking like it would disintegrate.

What one sets out for

2009-10-17T12:13:00.007-02:30

There are times when we meet certain people or have those experiences that make us question things we hold as true or set sharp lines between things we never saw the need to distinguish. I know a guy who in trying to stay true to his Dandy image of wanting to be among the elite, the higher class, tells these stories, that are beguiling at first, but after questioning them, one begins to see the incredulity and falseness of these stories. He knows that I see him as a bullshitter and that I wonder why he must keep telling these lies. But his defense and reply to what I felt was sort of profound. He said "Do we not have the right to lie? That it is in lies that we know who someone is, that it is in identifying our lies that we know what we truly want but conceal". I think that this guy, a friend I guess, wants me and people to believe that at the core of every lie he tells is truth. But there is the suspicion that he wants people to keep listening to his stories, regardless that they are mistrustful of it, until they begin to accept it as his truth. This man made me feel the strong need to separate the inventiveness and creativity in stories and books from deception.

When I was in elementary school, we would have these talent display shows at the end of the term. Some would whistle a hymn, sketch a Super-hero on the black board, but I was that big-headed, quiet and skinny kid who would go up to tell a story and transform into a different person. Most times I would retell a story my father told me and my other siblings in those evenings when NEPA usurped electricity from us. Other times, I would give my own version of an English book or Disney cartoon that I had previously seen. While telling these stories, I knew my classmates loved them and I saw my teacher's amused and sweet look. I saw how their faces changed at every twist and turn of the story and I would, sometimes, infuse my own twists to make these stories even more intriguing. Other short books that I wrote as a kid were meant to dazzle, whisk the reader out of the present into another world, an over-hanging sphere.

My father still reminds me, inadvertently embarrassing me, of the story The Chronicles of Lady Koi Koi that I wrote when I was thirteen. My story tried to give the origins of Lady Koi Koi as being a disturbed, high-heel wearing, morose and middle-aged matron, who was mistakenly killed by some students in an all-girl school. It described how the paranoia of these girls created in them a fear of the dead Matron-a fear which spread to other all-girl high schools in Nigeria. My stories, these days, are nothing like this. I think I now write, obliviously perhaps, with the idea that I need to reveal truths or shed from myself things that worry me. I don't think there is anything wrong with this only that this desire that hangs over my head, sometimes comes in the way of invention and lessens a beautiful story.

To tell a lie is to conceal truth, to try to dissimulate the real, and I do not think stories set out to do this. From what I hear from writers and what I feel, when writers begin to write a story, there is often the need to free from themselves a small, seed-like idea in their mind. As soon as this small idea is written,planted, it begins to grow on paper, quickly, other times slowly. But after that phase is over, what follows? What then does the writer set out for?
I felt different ways after reading Kiran Desai's The Inheritance of Loss. My feelings bordered between awe and disappointment. The prose is brief and yet she still has these nice sentences like how she writes about "Opera houses where music molded entire audiences into a single grieving or celebrating heart, and where the applause rang like a downpour". Yet there is the narrative voice, pessimistic and bleak. One feels that she wrote the book, after a bout of severe guilt at her position in the scheme of things and also disappointment with the world. And the book is her way of setting out to reveal these sad things about the world, and maybe assuage her guilt. In the detached way the book is narrated, I did not feel the delight that I feel when I read sad stories. This is were my disappointment rose from.

Perhaps writers and storytellers reach a point where they feel that their fiction must have some semblance to truth, to the realities of the day. Maybe as we grow and life burdens us with more complexities and worries, we feel that it is not enough just to write dazzling stories. That we must infuse in them those things that tug within us. Regardless of whatever it is one becomes; a stoic ponderer of society, a lover of Esoteric Poetry, an award-winning novelist, I guess one should borrow from the storytelling of one's childhood. It was not lying then, it was something else.

I once hesitantly asked this friend of mine if he writes fiction. He doesn't, he has tried, but cannot write good fiction.

I am here now.

2009-08-09T03:52:00.009-02:30

Things are more stable these days. I feel like I am more in control of the things I say and do. I no longer feel like I am a slave to borrowed ideology or my sometimes absurd, impulsive mind. Now I no longer detach mind, consciousness from deed. Before, I felt that my actions were controlled, dictated by an almost subconscious, hungry part of me. Perhaps it is out of an inherent arrogance in me to always preserve myself, my essence, that I let myself be subservient to every little impulse in my mind. I've come to realise that doing this is not necessarily being free-spirited and authentic. Our minds are like receptacles that different kinds of things reside in. And I sometimes feel, that placed in certain situations, some of these things surface. We do not have to yield to all of these things. That is why we are human.

The things that preoccupy my mind all seem to revolve around my need for self-development; of reaching that point where I can sit, stare out to world and smile, and also look into myself, see the moments of foolishness, unforgivable stupidity, the moments of realisation, unusual wisdom, and know that out of all of these, I came out a confident, open-minded and self-accepting man. I dearly want to know about this world that I find myself in. I feel so inadequate when I do not know somethings. It isn't really about being eloquent in presenting stored knowledge that I am interested in, rather it is about knowing the nuances, the motivations and most importantly, truths of this world that I live in. The philosophers, rationalists claim there is really no truth in this world. I refuse to believe this. How can there be no truth, precious truth? Things happen, there are witnesses, and maybe these people who have seen sometimes tamper, embellish the truth, but our consolation is that something, regardless that many eyes saw it, happened. This is why I want to know, to discard the many layers of doctrines, norms, ideals that have swaddled, coccon-like, the truths of our world.

And there is the book writing. I think I have said this before, but I'll say it again. One needs maturity, understanding of people and the world to write fiction. You cannot write about this world, if you do not know it. I am writing a book about a family in a dilemma, people with little courage who are trapped and trampled on not by others, but by themselves. It is not going too badly, there are hurdles, here and there, where one looses faith, but my hope is still there. I have chosen to write this book, and I will try to do it justice.

I'm reading Achebe's Arrow of God, and I have glimpsed at Virginia Woolf's To the lighthouse. I stayed for two nights in a light house in front of a beach. The water was cold as it flowed directly from the arctic, and the shore had cobblestones on it. Sea weeds and barnacles squeezed in between the crannies of the rock, and the thread like, feathery ones were strewn on the rocks. There were rusted parts of a ship strewn around. I heard the ship had exploded on hitting, violently, the shore.One of the merits of having the lighthouse is to signal ships in the night, that they are too close to the rocky shore. At this lighthouse, with its six feet thick walls, and winding stairs, I thought of Virginia Woolf, and how I just had to read To the Lighthouse, because it was simply Woolf. She mesmerizes me. In a documentary on her, she was described as being the one who was great with language and would tell her family stories. I wonder what sort of sadness, realization of the abusrdity of life or one's misplacement in it, that made her fill her pockets with rocks and jump into water.
Arrow of God is not going too badly, I've heard good things about it, I'll read on and hopefully, I'll reach these good things.

I am a bit intoxicated right now. I apologize if you feel insulted. I do not wish to belittle or take you unseriously. I respect you if you visit this blog, and take you're time to read my blog, despite that I sometimes post some ridiculous stuff here. You are a lover of talent, that pristine element that some of us often like to trivialize and place beneath hardwork. I write these things because alcohol has a way of unfurling those sheets that cover one's minds.
I'm still travelling, but now, this is where I am.

The Watchman

2009-06-14T15:45:00.010-02:30

A glass cup placed on a wall, with one’s ear then placed on it, can not help isolate one from the sounds around so that the voices behind the wall can be heard. I proved this eavesdropping tactic to be a myth, as I tried, twice, to hear the sounds behind my uncle’s bedroom wall with a glass cup. But I heard nothing. I was curious to hear those sounds that my mind envisioned filled my uncle’s room. In that time of my life, with confidence, sometimes blind simmering in me, I was certain that there had to be the moaning of the woman under my uncle, or him releasing a groan on reaching some point. It was hunger, a ravenous brand of hunger that engulfed me, as I desired to hear even the creaking of the bed, my uncle and his woman lay on, or the tussle of their intertwined legs. But I never heard anything, but the silence that echoed back from my uncle’s bedroom wall.

There was the day my uncle strolled into the living room with the same woman he had brought over, a few days before. I, with my back on the throw pillow that had animated images of Polar Bears and clover leaves imprinted on it, stood up, on seeing my uncle walk in with the woman. Of course, I did not rise as though I was acknowledging the presence of a superior or commandant, but I stood up because, on seeing the woman, I suddenly realized that the manner I lay on the throw pillow with my right foot on my left knee, made me look childish, innocuous. I greeted my uncle and the woman, and then she giggled.

“I am Cordelia, remember I was here four days ago”

I shook my head, remembering her and how she had come into the living room and could not stop gaping at the Arabic words inscribed on the flower vases my mother had bought from Dubai. I remembered her very well, but confused her name with the girl, my uncle had sneaked into the house,the night before. The girl, or should I say very young woman, had short curly hair that was slightly above the length that the girls at the Government college were meant to keep. From the way that her skin gleamed a dark black different from those of the other girls in the estate, it seemed it had been coated and cast with coal and then oiled. I had first seen her when she came to fetch some water from our house, during the one week power outage in our estate in Port Harcourt. She carried a plastic white Jerry can on her head, with a cloth rolled into a spiral separating her head from the Jerry can's abrasive bottom. The white Jerry can leaked and so caused a trail of water to stream down the groove in her back visible under her white blouse. Her name was Ini and she was the housemaid of the family in the estate who owned less than two cars.

My uncle after waiting patiently for Cordelia to end her conversation with me, ordered her, jovially, yet not discarding his authority, to come over with him to his bedroom. I turned my head away from them, trying to hint that although I knew what went on in the bedroom, I had no interest, whatsoever, with what they did. Of course, this was fallacy. With them gone, I went back to my childish position on the throw pillow, switched on the television and then looked away from it. Music from MTV invaded my ears, as I looked up at the ceiling. It was somewhere in between my gawking at the perforations in the ceiling and glancing at the music video , that an idea, or more aptly, scheme occurred to me. But come to think of it, it was not really a scheme; it was only a thoughtful idea to let my uncle, who was busy in his un-shut bedroom, know that I was leaving for a friend’s house. Rising from the throw pillow, I concluded that it was only polite and respectful that I let my uncle know my plans for the day. And so I walked up to his bedroom door, and with two swift, three-second, yet revering knocks on it, I opened the door.

One would think that with the anticipation that I had of not only hearing, but also seeing what went on in my uncle’s bedroom, the first thing that I would have sensed would have been an image, something for my mind to capture and immediately store, for future viewing and relishing. But my first sensory perceptions had been auditory. It was my name that I heard first, before my eyes saw any thing.

“ Baddy, Badero” my uncle called out to me, his voice trembling.

“I’m going out now, I needed to let you know, in case you were looking for me. Sorry” I said averting his stunned gaze, and Cordelia's under him

I closed the door. I rushed out to the terrace and placed on my slippers. Throughout this time, my mind was not cluttered, but free like an open grassland with sparse trees, each of the sparse, spiny trees being the images of things my eyes saw around the terrace and my mind usurped and stored. It was not until I left the house and stood in front of the gate of my friend’s house, that my mind, without my control, began to play the images that it had saved from my uncle’s bedroom. There had been the burgundy silk cloth that had covered my uncle from the small of his back to his knees and had shielded part of Cordelia’s breasts. The veins on my uncle’s forehead were enlarged and more visible like the fibrous roots of Palms trees that reached close to the soil surface and bulged out. Cordelia’s face had been turned away to the wall, and so I could only see her garish red weave and how it had a similar hue to the reddish brown of her neck like the shaft of groundnuts. I saw one side of Cordelia’s unclothed buttock, and how it had formed cascading folds where it pressed on the bed. My uncle had not yelled out to me or spat pejorative Yoruba words at me or ordered me to get out of the room. He had only shook his head, still on top of Cordelia and replied to my thoughtfulness

“I have heard you. Thanks”

In this place where grey iron poles and chipped pillars evenly separated, hold up three storey buildings, I often wonder if what I saw in my uncle’s room on that day lead to my presence here. When I search through the dim, dusty archive of mind, I often wonder if my adolescent curiosity which fomented the other yearnings to see and hear what happened when a man and a woman were isolated from the rest of the world in their shut rooms, made me dismiss and reject offers from other universities, both here and abroad. Was my sudden curiosity in religion and the desire to attend a Seminary a way of dismantling the burdening guilt I might have felt on humiliating my uncle, and most especially Cordelia? Perhaps it did not end there with my uncle and Cordelia, and that me being in the seminary was a way of atoning for the sin I committed when I peered through half-shut doors, hid in
wardrobes, just to see those couples going at it. But that could not be, as I did not, or ever did feel that kind of guilt that people claimed festers in and corrodes one’s insides. And sin, its very concept was something that I never did accept to feel heavy whenever I did something that others considered sinful. In that case, if my being in the Seminary was not a means of seeking divine redemption, then it certainly was my route of escape.

In the seminary school here in Owerri, the routines are, at first difficult, sometimes inane to follow, but as one lives here, the routines become a second nature. At night, fluorescent bulbs, with insects congregating in front of them, light the verandas where students stroll to study rooms. The white light from the bulbs illuminate the Ixora hedges and Frangipani trees that line the front of the
verandas. The white Cassocks of prudish and reputation-conscious students and off white of the less-hygienic ones gleams when the white light showers on them. The white light of the fluorescent bulbs is essential to the boys here in the seminary, because out into the field and surroundings exists an enveloping kind of darkness, since the lamps are usually not switched on when the generator is in use.
But for those boys who engage in clandestine activities, the darkness is often a relief and shield from the predatory eyes of the head boy and housemasters.

I am a Seminarian and an altar server here in St. Barnabas. Not with the intent of sounding self-ingratiating, unlike the other altar servers who were selected for their father’s position in the church, I was chosen for my remarkable academic performance and outstanding self composure. On Sunday mass, that some other students complain of being dreary but I find immensely engrossing, I assist Father
Andrews in performing the Eucharist. With his back to me, I hold out the Paten containing the flaky, cracker-tasting body of Christ. Father Andrews inured to the routine of the Eucharist, does it a robotic manner, uttering the creed, as though not thinking of it or even realizing that he is saying it. He places the bread
on the lips of the communicant, places the grail containing wine on their mouths and then wipes away the spit or lip marks with a kerchief. If one does look at Father Andrews and sheds off, from one’s eyes, those misty scales of reverence accorded to priests, one sees disillusionment in Father Andrews’ eyes. His disillusionment seems not to sprout from his doubts in the Catholic beliefs indoctrinated in him, but
emanates from his observation of his congregation, of the world.

I have seen Father Andrews drink beer and sip brandy in his room. It was one of those nights, with an enveloping darkness and I had gone to respectfully inform him that a suspicious looking man had walked in with a bag, and left his room with nothing. When I peered in through his door, still left half-open by the suspicious-looking man, I saw Father Andrews drinking alcohol. He seemed, at that moment, not to care about anything, about the half-opened door or the possibility that someone peered in through it. Father Andrews staring into nothing in the room and seeming to ignore, yet at the same time listen, relish the Jazz music from his radio, looked like a man who had finally unravelled the secrets and lies of the world, and concluded, disappointingly, that it bore so much resemblance to the animal world. When he finished his beer bottle, he let it oscillate, as he seemed to ponder on how this race to attain so much wealth, and survival of only the most ambitious and the neglect of the inept ones, the casualties was similar to the primal rule of the survival of the fittest in the animal world. Then Father Andrews smiled a tired smile, and let the beer bottle rest in the middle of its oscillatory path as though he was mocking himself at choosing to be at the periphery of the world’s rag race and surrendering himself to be what; a puritan! A celibate man!

For a while, the seminary did offer me escape from the outside world and the curiosity to see others in their most intimate of human connections. But my eavesdropping on Father Andrews and he catching me ended that. Father Andrews, a disillusioned man, had stared stoically at me from his room. Without him speaking, his expressionless eyes were able to order me walk into the room.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“Not long Father. I’m very sorry”

Father Andrews stared back at me, his face still blank, yet demanding a precise answer.
“Two minutes, Father”

“I could have you severely punished for trying to steal from me” Father Andrews said, looking directly into my eyes.

“I am very sorry, sir. I was only going to report to you that a suspicious man had walked out of your room”

Father Andrews let his eyes linger on my face, and he pushed his head backward almost as if to get a clearer view of me. It was when a smile slowly formed in his face, that I knew he had found in me, a useful gift.

It might have been the way that I gave the excuse of the suspicious looking man as though it were truth that I even believed or that, for a short moment, he actually did believe me, that endeared me to him. I became Father Andrew’s wingman, and helped watch out, when he had a woman with him in his room. The women, most of them miracle-seeking and husband-searching, were the ones who sneaked into his
room, averting my gaze. But there were those tense moments when a student would want to file a complaint or a priest would want to see Father Andrews, and I would, inevitably have to badge into Father Andrews’ room to warn him of the incoming danger. These moments were rare, and when they came I used them wisely, my mind usurping every image it could in the short moment I stood in Father Andrews’ room. I would storm in making it seem that Father Andrews was busy attending to me, and the other people, therefore, had to wait. In the dimness of Father Andrews’ room only lighted by a half-dead orange incandescent bulb, I would see the woman first murmuring her discomfort, and Father Andrew chuckling as he engulfed her with his weight. In the dimness and stuffy room, they would be drenched in sweat and so their skins glimmered. Father Andrews would raise his head to me, stoically, and order me to go tell the person to wait outside, where he would attend to them.

Escape eludes me. Father Andrews’ midnight trysts have awakened in me, curiosities buried beneath my years of routine and devotion in the Seminary. Now, I can no longer stare past couples and hold myself from wondering and imagining what they were like in their most intimate moments. Now, at mass, as I stand behind Father Andrews, Paten in my hand, I imagine how the couple, both young and
old do it. I question under what lighting they do it, and if their breathings compliment or repel each other. Even the Nwabueze’s, a strange looking couple, with the husband being a scrawny man and the wife being overweight, rekindle my curiosity. I wonder if Mr. Nwabueze on top of his wife, which is most likely the position they take, almost sandwiched between her thighs ever unintentionally
holds on to the bed and then realizes “very big mistake, wrong cushion”. Now that I am upended by my curiosities and constantly wish that they free me , I experience the boredom and frustration the other seminarians feel. The seminary no longer offers to me, the escape which it used to. I have to leave. I have thought of going back home to Port Harcourt, and letting my family know and maybe their
repulsion and consequent pity would make me change. But I doubt if I can bring myself to do this. A viable option to me, at this moment, is a Sanatorium. Certainly, it would be a drastic change; moving from the jailhouse of the Seminary to the den of a sanatorium, but what else am I to do, in this eye-popping conundrum.

EXCERPT

2009-04-28T19:53:00.007-02:30

After Jaiye and his brothers were done drinking the soft drinks, Star and
Guilder, and eating some of the pieces of fried meat that Ahmed had bought, Jaiye
retired to the room upstairs. Abioshe watched her father undo his watch and then
place it lightly on the desk, so as not to awake her mother. Though he had the dense odour of Guilder, Abioshe knew that he did not drink any alcohol with his brothers. It was
during some period which she could barely remember, that he had stopped drinking and bringing Brandy and Gin to the house.

He watched Abisohe and Akin laying on the mattress on the floor, and in the dim room, only partly illuminated by light from a street lamp filtering through the window, he only saw the white mattress, appearing fluorescent, while they appeared dark and asleep. He walked in between the space Abioshe and Akin had ensured they left between them. With his back first, he rested on the bed, and then with his hands, he lifted both legs onto the bed.

Abioshe peering from in between her folded arms, had thought he was already asleep, when she, suddenly, heard him call out to Akin, and then to her. It was as if, the sound she made with her feet seemed to him too purposive to be from someone asleep.

“Are you awake Abioshe?”

“Yes, Daddy”

Then she felt and heard the thudding sound of his feet on the floor, and
felt his weight as he lay in the space between her and Akin. He asked her
how she was doing and if she had any problems living in his father’s house in
Tejuosho. Abioshe raised her head, letting the light, filtering through the
window net, illuminate the feigned smile on her face.

“It’s a big family, Daddy”

“Yes it is, but wait till you meet my other siblings who live on their own.
You know we’re fifteen, in total, now we’re fourteen after Kayode, the third born, passed away”

“So, is your mother the second wife?”

“Your grandmother, Abioshe, your grandmother is the second wife, and

as you know, I’m her only child”

They were both silent as Jaiye tapped Akin’s shoulders, but Akin shrugged and mumbled something inaudible, as if he was protesting from a dream that he did not want to be awoken.

“Your brothers all seem to be Muslim, how come you became Christian?” Abioshe asked, her face still brightened by the light.

“Remember that I told you that your Grandfather was a Principal of a
grammar school in Yaba. Principal was Muslim and a staunch supporter of
Pan- Africanism. He made sure that we were all well-educated and at the same
time, aware of our heritage, as he called it”

“But is Islam part of our heritage?” Abioshe asked, her face contorted in
confusion.

“You must understand that in that time, what mattered, for some, was doing what
was not indigenously white or considered European. As I was saying, all of his wives and sons were Muslims, except my mother and I. Your grandmother was Christian, and she would always take me to her Celestial Church”.

“You’re mother was Cele, you were?” Abioshe asked, amused and incredulous, yet
trying to hold back the laughter rising in her throat .

“Yes, we were.” Jaiye answered, smiling and then continuing “it’s not all
you think or picture it to be, though. At least, it was different, when my mother
took me. Principal always tried to convert her, and, especially, me. He did not
like the idea of us going to church, not to mention walking barefooted to
church, because some book claimed that the house of God was a holy place,
which was to be revered”

Abioshe began to recollect the stories her father told about her grandfather, and how she had, from them, formed the portrait of the Principal as a stern, almost impatient man.

“Remember when I told you those stories of my older brother Kazeem, who is now
in Canada. He would go clubbing on some nights, because he thought Principal was asleep. Only he would get back to find that the gates were locked, and Principal would be standing on the verandah, warning him to go back to where he came from or risk being man-handled by the vigilante” Jaiye recounted, looking at the ceiling, as if the tiny perforations on it, helped him remember the minute details of those moments.

“He seemed to have laid down so much rules of what not to do” Abioshe added.

“You are right. He even had a curfew that we were all bound by” Jaiye said,
smiling, as if to trivialize his father’s attitude.

“And on one night, my mother and I went to a Vigil and he did the same
thing that he did to Kazeem, to us. You can imagine, we standing barefooted
outside in the cold night, hoping that he would open the gate” Jaiye said, still smiling, and almost erupting into laughter.

Abioshe was stunned, almost petulant, but lowered her head, below the light, to conceal the look on her face. She tried to understand this man who her father called
Principal and why he was that way. Did it have less to do with his children and
wives, and more to do with him? Was it some kind of unhappiness or
discontentment buried within, that made him cold and callous?

“Did he later open the gate that night?” Abioshe asked.

Her father did not immediately reply. He remained silent, as if he could not recollect what had happened after his mother’s pleadings, as if that particular story, he had stored in the attic of narratives, that his mind seemed to be, ended with him watching his father’s unperturbed and obstinate face.

Abioshe turned to her father, to try to see, through the dimness of the room, if he still remembered, but his face looked like a black satin vieled mask.

“You know my father was very strict, and stuck to his word. He was a disciplinarian.” Jaiye finally uttered.

Then her father stood up from the mattress and moved onto the bed. Abioshe heard him murmur something to her mother, who had woken up, on feeling his weight on the bed. She heard his palms make a clapping sound as he placed them together, and rested his head on them. The image of her grandfather appeared in her mind. From the pictures of him, she had seen around their house in Port Harcourt, he appeared very formal, but from the pictures here in Tejuosho, he was older and more regal. Then she pictured him walking in a public school yard, with rows of grey buildings which had open verandahs and rough cement-plastered floors. In her mind, she saw him ordering
students to get into their classes. Then she thought of Tamunouh, and if he did
well in the Chemistry test, he was afraid he would fail. She wondered if she should call him tomorrow, or if he would call. Before she closed her eyes, she questioned how Aramide felt sleeping in that room, she wondered how the room looked and if it still hinted that an old woman previously lived there. Then all the thoughts seemed to slowly recede, and it was as if a void was left. She closed her eyes, and it seemed her consciousness drifted with her receding thoughts. She slept. Then the void began to fill with thoughts that were lucid and dream-like, in the manner frothy waves arrive on dry and beige sand. She was in her home in Port Harcourt, hurrying with a cup of juice, and suddenly, tea, in her hands, to go listen to her father narrate the story of why the shell of the tortoise is cracked.

One of those things.

2009-03-01T14:35:00.007-03:30

It's the middle of the semester, and I'm swamped with school work. And today, I decided that
I'll update my blog. Truth be told, I am not sure of what I want to write about. But I do
know, that the insides of my head feel cloudy; the hangover feeling. It's like the thoughts in
my head are blurred by this thick miasma, that I can't quite express them, coherently.
Anyway, a friend and I got into an argument, a few days ago, about corpral punishment and its
pros and cons. I've always been very questioning of corporal punishment, and I always did argue
and speak against it, even among ardent Nigerian and black crowds. But now that I'm starting to
realize that one has got to be silent,as it's the wise thing to do. Though, I do feel it's not me to be silent and risk appearing foolish and vulnerable to attack, these days, I'm beginning to understand compromise and commonsense. It's like these two similar things (if you think about it) are manners that I have to learn, and work to achieve!

Back to corporal punishment, which one of my friends corrected and claimed that it is
flogging, whipping and not what I called it. Saying it is corporal punishment is making it sound too grave, too serious like capital punishment, he said. So my other friend made a point that I find really poignant. She claimed that children who are not smacked, but raised under the whole "we can talk it through" way, tend to feel that the world, in certain ways, revolves around them, and that they think that they can solve all problems and feuds by simply "talking it through". And she said this from the point of view that these people tend to feel that others around them will always be there to listen to them, as if it is some kind of duty.

I had always attached this way of thinking to being spoilt, a trait that arises from
having people do almost every thing for you, rather than not being brought up with the whip. When one is brought up, with the maids, cooks, washermen, gateman and the others, one sort of has this
false notion of ones importance and place in the scheme of things. And with these false
notions of self, comes the whole belief that people around you will always be willing to listen,
because it has always been that way. I think that what my friend was doing was equating people
who are not spanked, with spoilt people. And I don't know if I agree with her, but her point,
sounds so strong, almost true. Here in Canada, where you see so many young people doing these
stupid things, as if they never heard of moderation, one wants to ask if it's flogging that will
solve their problems. Yet there are those who have these mature minds, and they were not spanked.
And it all just makes me wonder if corporal punishment inhibits that desire in us to question. I
mean, am I wrong if I say that spanking, sometimes lessens us into people who do not question the
state of things; the right or wrong of things. Does whipping inhibit that desire for us to
questions our own lives and choices, and dig deep into that pile of fears, secrets and motives
in our subconscious that define us.

As children when we were whipped with those cains and "Omoroguns" or "Garri-turners",
sometimes we knew what we did was wrong, yet, we were not aware of why that the thing was
inherently wrong. It was just something we were not supposed to do, and that was it. And I wonder
if this training, makes us not seek the good and bad, or analyze the values placed on us. Is
corporal punishment, one of the other factors, that creates this reactionary society, void of
movements, of people coming out with wild, provoking, questioning ideas. Maybe, I have rushed too
far here, drawing relationships between things that are too disparate.

I do not doubt the efficay of corporal punishment,it sure gets the point across, I still feel it should be questioned, and used less of. Isn't it possible to have a situation where a Nigerian parent before using his whip, the second time in a day, thinks about his action, and tries to speak, admonish or ground their child?

At Forefronts.

2009-01-10T15:41:00.005-03:30

Pepper Soup and since I didn't have yams, improvised with potatoes and with no palm oil, used ranch.

I'm listening to some Naija songs and I definitely love what I'm hearing. The fusion of sounds, beats is just crazy, and it's just so dance-inducing; you can't help but move your body, even the most stoic of us would probably bob his head. There are those who feel that Nigeria's current music industry is a caricature of America's hip hop. Perhaps the industry borrows so much, sometimes blindly from America's hip hop scene, regardless, I believe they've been able to own it and create of it, something with originality, such that anyone who listens to it, will point out that it is certainly different and Nigerian. And to me, this is the beauty of it, because so as the suburban American and British teenager sits in front of his T.V and watches the latest of hip hop, so as the Nigerian teenager. As such that, young people from both sides of the world, regardless of varying environments, absorb similar cultural influences. And this is not to say, that at this time in the world, both young people are exactly the same culturally, there are vast differences as there are striking similarities, and this accounts for why when people arrive in the west, they usually do not experience that much cultural shock. Though I admit that I might have excluded young people who grow up in rural areas, but still I don't think many people will be surprised going back to their villages and towns and seeing young people trying to outdo themselves in the latest hip hop trends and songs.

So this paradigm shift from basing music and art on what we consider indigenous to a more contemporary style, I think, puts today's Nigerian young people at forefronts of greatness. There was a documentary I saw back in Nigeria that praised legends in music history and Fela Anikulapo Kuti was one of them, and it was mentioned that Nigeria was the third in top music industries in the world, and this was when there were the genres of Apala, Afro-beat, Juju and so on. But I wasn't born in this time or wasn't raised knowing that such music was meant for me; it has always being music for my parents, of the older generation. And now, to expect of me to reproduce such music, or in my case to write in the ways of Chinua Achebe, Buchi Emecheta is to expect of me something inauthentic, as I'll be recreating what is not me (and by me, I mean how I've being externally influenced).I listen to Onyeka Onwenu (love Bia Nulu),Fela (he's such a social critic, at the same time he can be easily dismissed as being an idiot, but I like him for standing his ground and immersing himself in his cause), Haruna Ishola (sometimes I feel ashamed that I don't fully understand what he's saying, but there's something that makes him sound so much like a griot), but I don't expect of today's musicians to reproduce what the above-mentioned musicians have done. Finally, what I'm getting at is that modern western music and art and culture has through the west's imperialism come to be sort of a world language that the rest of the world understands and can speak, and for us young Nigerians who comprehend this language, we are placed at forefronts where we can achieve world greatness, only if we own, personalize this language and create of it something that the rest of the world will have to stop to listen and be awed by.

Why I Blog About Africa

2008-12-24T11:45:00.003-03:30

No matter how detached I might sometimes feel from Nigeria and Africa, or view other cultures and then look at mine and ask what it is that hasn't happened yet?, I still feel that I can never abandon Africa. Growing up in Nigeria has greatly influenced who I am, and for this reason, my writing has elements of Africa in it.

Whether I am writing about complexities on myself, fiction or complaining about culture and people, I think it all relates to me hoping that there can be an alternate future for the African continent. That even when I read other African blogs, I go there hoping to find something new that marks improvement. It is the hope that when I visit Niyitabiti, I'll see something really exciting about Nigeria's emerging youth and entertainment culture.

And even being away from Nigeria makes me feel like I see the counrty better. I mean it's understandable that some people might disagree with me thinking I have a better vista, just because I'm outisde. But I feel that being away sought of puts me on some precipice where I can look down and see things that those in the valley might ignore. And I think that is why I blog about Africa, to tell what I see, when I look down.

I tag Jaja, Allied, Naijababe

All these Veges!!

2008-11-27T18:31:00.004-03:30

It's the American thanksgiving today, so a friend from the US celebrated it-but had a Vegan one. So I decided to go over with some friends to try it out, and see how Tofu taste like. After the meal and the usual mashed sweet and common potatoes, boiled carrots and scallops, Tofurkey all topped with mushroom and onion gravy, I thought the meal (most especially the Tofurkey was quite a delightful surprise- and I'm not being sarcastic). It did not taste like Turkey that it was supposed to simulate, but it did taste good and different, yet similar to something I had tried before (spiced Salmon, beans or Moi-moi? couldn't quite place it)...Regardless, it was good.

And that silly, half-thought notion I had, that questioned the sense in people simulating the same foods that they were against its excessive consumption, cropped up in my head again. I mean why try to simulate beef, Turkey, chicken with Soya and the other stuff they use, and call it all these names that try to allude to the real thing. Why don't you just eat the real things in small proportions, or better still make entirely new foods. But now I'm coming to realize and see the reason and concern in these people and even the courage (hope I'm not exaggerating, here)in them. The decision to eat differently from what ones been weaned, really, to eat and crave must be a tough one. Apart from the cruelty some claim eating animal products cause on animals, I was a bit perplexed on how exactly consumption of meat and animal products deteriorates the environment. Then I learnt of this concept Environmental Footprint in one of my Environmental Science classes. This concept measures the impact and demand humans have on the environment in relation to how much the earth can accommodate. So each individual's ecological footprint is dependent on how much resources he uses and the consequent impact on the environment. When I first arrived here in Canada, my footprint and most people from Nigeria as measured by the EC. Ft. website was really moderate, if not small, as compared to other Canadians.But after a few months here, it increased.

So after this my lecture, what I'm getting at is that the more meat one consumes, the higher ones impact on the environment. Also, the higher society's collective demand for meat, the more land is cut down for rearing livestock and then the more "cruelty" on animals.

So now, do I intend to become vegetarian or vegan, NOPE!! and I don't expect anyone to become one, neither do I see any kind of righteousness or uprightness in the people who do. I do admire them for their concern and courage, but as for me I feel that if I ever move towards that green path, it won't be because I truly care for animals or want to save the environment. I think I might be doing it because I want to lead some kind of alternative lifestyle. But who knows, a few years from now, I could become truly concerned. I am not an advocate for saving the environment through the avoidance of certain things like meat (I eat, like it) as I feel the deterioration of the environment can be reduced, through individual self-awareness. That awareness should take form in one knowing that the simple and everyday things one does, adversely affects the environment. Does one really need to spend more than 10minutes in the shower, sleep with the lights on, eat meat products for every meal? I myself am guilty for all the things mentioned above. But, I think I should really try to reduce my impact and I really don't have to follow blindly this western bandwagon of wastefulness and consuming more than what one needs and even expected to want.

Mind, Restless, Tired

2008-11-14T15:33:00.009-03:30

There's been a story in my head for more than a year now. It has crept into crevices of my mind, stayed there, almost parasitic. It saps, whatever it is that doesn't make it dissipate from me, and grows. There are limbs, facial features, that continue to protrude from it, as it rests in my mind. But still it looks like an aberration, totally malformed. And I, the forced sculptor has to mold and make it less of a phantom. Soon, it is done, the sculpting is complete, yet there are hole, tiny and large, that need to be filled.And the story keeps plaguing for its completion, for its holes to be filled. In the most unusual places, it comes to mind. In class, with the boring professor teaching that dreaded chemystery, it emerges. Though this time it is redeeming as it takes me away from my class. I continue to stare at the professor, my eyes partially blind to the formulas on the board and my ears hearing words that sound like that of a seceding crowd. In the absence of my mind, the story reveals itself; its limbs-the corners of the stories, it's features-the complexities and connections of characters. And then I know I must write it, do it and myself a favor. But when I finally did see it on my laptop screen, it looked even more malformed. It appeared like those Asian gods with many arms stretching and curling out of their straight bodies. I did not know how to handle all those corners, flash backs and complexities.It was more than 25 pages (not double spaced, or edited) and I felt it was a mash up. But that was during the summer, now winter approaches, if not already here and I'm writing all over again. It seems to be going alright. This time, there are no flash backs, no corners yet, just starting the story in all its simplicity; just from the beginning. It takes a lot of maturity to write a book, not to mention starting from the end to beginning.

I was disappointed, yesterday, to find out what it meant to be a free thinker. The meaning contrasted with what I had always thought it was. Did I or I did not perceive it to mean one who was free spirited and thought out of the box and even what is deemed reality. But its actual meaning, to me, steals from it what it sounds like. Though the free thinker, by its dictionary definition, thinks outside the norm or tradition, I still feel that his focus on science and logic steals from him, much of his free-ness.

Why do I feel this way towards science- humanity's way of reaching new frontiers. It is too logical, too rigid for me, I've never felt I can contribute to the world through science.

I saw a play yesterday and in the end when all the actors, removed from their characters, took their bows, I felt lifted, inspired. I wanted to act, even though the only time I ever did was in high school. After my first play, I got reactions of both surprise and mockery. Both reactions made me feel good. Still, I want to be a writer! (it should be known) and I cannot imagine my life without exploring these things. Scary, scary images.

This Place...

2008-10-25T01:59:00.004-02:30

I wish the meanings weren't so vague to me.

2008-09-24T16:20:00.006-02:30

Wiseman - James Blunt

Awe - Asa

I think I understand the plea to find home, but I don't get where the Zungo is.

The Tufiakwa Syndrome.

2008-09-07T22:37:00.010-02:30

When this word 'tufiakwa' is uttered, it is usually accompanied with sighs, tightly folded arms, heavy breathing, an almost violent jerk of the neck and shoulders and there could also be the intense snapping sounds of fingers, depending on the severity of the anomaly. The faces of the observers, accusers, critics, analysts, judges, Gbegoruns, Amebos always seem to be in some trance that levitates and traps their bodies in the bubble of the offender's iniquity or the wonder at how anyone at that, would give in to such debasement. Regardless of their positions in the country's socio-cultural, economic and educational strata, that trance-like look on their faces always shares striking similarities. And these shared similarities transcend widened eyes, opened mouths, pursed and pushed out lips that mimic a duck's beak and the consequent sucking sounds that follow, to one of a heated-ness that has the effect of sobering the offender to a state where he does not feel guilt for the crime that has been committed, but for a graver and more sinister one, that he fails to grasp, but his accusers, the Tufiakwa spitters, fully understand.

Though, the word has it's many equivalents-God forbid, Olorun ma je, Abasi Mbo, Jesus is Lord, Wonders shall never end and the very un-razz and still dismissive 'that's just sick'-that have become even more popular than it, it still retains its strength in its condemnation of anything that non-conforming to standards, that have come to be accepted and placed on a high pedestal. A pedestal that people in society strive to reach, even if they have to resort to hypocritical acts.

Having given background information-which might be meaningless info.-on the Nigerian word 'Tufiakwa', I proceed to the main point of this post, which tries to delve into the Nigerian People and our reaction to non-conformity. I will not try to fill this post with the obvious of how the Nigerian society is a conforming one,that sometimes inhibits individuality, but I will ask questions, that hopefully do not end up sounding too rhetorical.

I have always being perplexed, back in Nigeria, with how everyone seemed to be chasing the same things all in the bid to reach some acceptable level or attain success in society-success that seemed so uni-dimensional. To my young mind, it was surprising that diversity in the way people thought and approached life was almost non-existent. I still find myself asking if it is our sense of community or the ease with which we form tribal and gender-specific camaraderie, that makes us feel that we have to live our lives conforming to community or having to meet up to societal expectations of success. And when people do fail to meet up, they become topic of our side talk, something for us to look at with condemning awe. It is remarkable how Nigerian communities even in different parts of the world continue to live by or even create rules, values and moral obligations that sometimes streamlines them. And this communal action of creating sets of values also take form in young people setting up these expectations around themselves that they must meet in order to gain some kind of respect. Is it not alarming the motivations-Plasma screen, Lamborgini, house in South of France-young Nigerians have when choosing careers or the things they want to do? We also have the religious sort, that would even live by doctrines extreme than those in their holy books. Hence, they have to and expect others to conform to these set of values that sometimes remain unreformed. And it is not hard to find scenes of Nigerians reflexively changing who they are, when they get into their community. It is even deemed reasonable that one compromise oneself, in order to fit into community, society at large and consequently reaching that high pedestal.

Sometimes I feel that individuality and nationalism are so opposing, and can be likened to oil and water. There is that feeling that it is impossible for one to represent society, without compromising self. Does it mean that if one is to lead life, knowing that one is but responsible for oneself, and still carry out the selfless task of representing ones society, people or history? Can one truly define ones core identity without referring to one's nation (especially if it does not fully support ones dreams)?
In contrast, there is that part of me that believes that one can still be as individualistic as one chooses, without compromising oneself in representing one's background. There is that part that feels that referring to nation, background and history, when trying to define oneself does not tamper in any way with individuality. So what is stopping me from being nationalistic, without compromising myself? Maybe I have a problem with the way my country reacts to non-conformity, because my self, my core seems so out of place in the scheme of things. Sometimes, I feel that if life in Nigeria was to be likened to a novel, people, that I love and claim to love me, would become antagonistic to me, not for some intrinsic vileness in them, but for the reason that my core contradicts their beliefs and convictions. Yes, this might be the reason why I find the need to use the colloquial "Tufiakwa" to allude to our reaction to anything different, the reason why I feel torn between being the 'true Nigerian' or being my true self. Finally, I've come to reconcile all this, knowing that if I'm to lead a life not filled with mediocrity and compromise, I'll have to disappoint and confuse some people-and maybe live outside the shores of Nigeria.

Cradle......iv

2008-08-13T19:20:00.029-02:30

When the military finally invaded The Cradle, everything around Tade seemed to pause and it felt like time and even things concrete were trapped in unmoving space. And in that entrapment, that seemed to take form as a round ball, everything shook and spun around him. It was raining heavily that day, and from the entrance of the housing estate, hecould here the skidding sound of their tires on the wet tar. The sound of their rifles hitting their trucks and vans , sent chill streams of fear down Tade and everyone’s body. Tade looked out of the window and past the row of buildings unto the Liberation Stadium that stood behind the white oblivious sky.
He saw that the sun made the clouds and everything around glisten in yellow, as it shed itself onto earth. The view, its rejecting people and expanse made him smile as they headed to the entrance of the estate to form a blockade against the military from entering into The Cradle, their home. They all filed out of the building and walked directly to the entrance, with rain dropping on their skins and on tar and releasing drum beats to their songs of solidarity.

Tade had tried to convince Afeni not to join the opposing group that decided to fight for the Cradle-'that they believed in and had laid down so much for'-even if it came down to them using their hands and weapons. He had grabbed her wrists, that night, in her fits of rage, and tried to calm her down. He begged her to join his group that believed peace would be the only way to resolve their problems.

“Peace! you talk to me about peace in this time. What is all this to you Tade? Just your way of separating yourself from the rest of society? Or because you’re the rebellious kind?"

“Afeni, please listen”

“Oh, this is your smart way of reinforcing your superiority over common folks? Look,
this to me is what my life means to me …and to lose The Cradle, is to lose myself” she had lamented and then finally declared “I will fight anyone who dare taint anything I believe in”. Tade had watched Afeni free her slim wrists from his grip and walk out of the room and his life.

They all came down the rain-glistened road, with their fingers pressed together in prayer position. From the view of anyone standing on the military side, with the bullet-proof clad and rifle-yielding soldiers, one would see a group of men and women in drenched clothes, their eyes vacant yet hopeful, walking down the road as if praying. The soldiers announced through their loud speakers, to the praying crowd, to stand back, else risk being shot down. The praying people then stood a few meters away from the soldiers, forming a blockade into The Cradle. Their arms were no longer in prayer position but the crook of their elbows were now linked together. The military barked their warnings again, still the crowd did not move. Then the soldiers moved ahead, using the rifles to break the blockade. They went smashing and slashing, all with intent of breaking this human blockade.

Tade felt the butt of a rifle hit him hard on his chin. He saw blood and its redness around his shoes and on the tar. And as he still linked the crook of his elbow with his neighbor’s, he felt the wind increase the pain of his open wound. But he still held on,even lifting his neighbor who fell to the ground, when the butt of a gun struck him on the stomach. Soon, the blockade began to break as the army began to hit hard with the aid of tear gas.

There was a wet and smoky whiteness over Tade, as he felt the grit of the wet tar on his cheek. He lay on the floor, his eyes barely opened and everything appeared so distorted. Then he saw a face and tried to discern if the image he saw was real. The blue eyes changed to grey as he watched, through the smoky whiteness, and theskin had the color of hay. It was when this strange image pointed something held in front of its right eye to Tade’s face and a purple-white flash escaped from it, that Tade knew it was some foreign reporter. As his eyes closed and he felt he was sinking endlessly into some chasm formed around the wet tar, he wondered if there were any Nigerian reporters covering the incident.

A ball hit his trousers, smearing mud on one leg. He looked at the child, who stood at the other compound, where he had been playing football. The child watched Tade apologetically, at the same time curiously. Tade glanced at the smear of round-edged square patterns on one leg of his trousers and then turned to the child. He tossed the ball at him. The child would normally have uttered a ‘sorry’, but to this strange man or boy who stood for so long in front of a building, he thought better. Tade looked at the building, where The Cradlelites had last gathered and divided into the groups that would fight with arms or peace. It was here that he had last seen Afeni and then he remembered what he had read in the papers on what the government had done to the terrorists that attacked its offices and sent threats. Although, they had all being arrested, he still knew of the ones with rich parents like Afeni, who were bailed out and sent off to other countries. He had not spoken to her yet and he missed her. It was already three months after they had being forced out of this place and it was already filling up with families.

Tade turned away from the building and hopped onto an Okada, he had waved down. As the wind rushed by him in that right speed that had the effect of making one feel the ability to hover and view one's life and choices from a bird’s eye view, he thought about the absurdity of having a Bohemian community in Nigeria. Though this thought had roamed in his head, since the fall of The Cradle, he did not regret his experience there. He was happy that he had been in The Cradle, when he was coming of age, defining and painting a portrait of himself. And yes, when all was done, he was content with the portrait he saw.

Cradle.....iii

2008-08-09T16:25:00.005-02:30

He went with Afeni to her close friend’s house, a converted flat still with traces of its former occupants, like church pamphlets and tiny yellow toys. Afeni introduced him to the people in the sitting room, she referred to as comrades. Someone amongst the crowd had refuted claiming they were Cradlelites and should be referred to that and nothing else.
“Cradlelites or not, we are still comrades” Afeni replied, her vivacious face now
flushed with a rosy sternness.Tade thought it was quite a funny name for adults to callthemselves and Afeni sensed this. She turned to him, her face showing no traces of mirth.Tade had started to get used to Afeni’s mood changes. But, as she faced him, sternly andexplained the idea behind the name, he was slightly taken a back. She told him that thecradle represents one’s beginnings and that was what this place or Krey-city-as somedubbed it-meant to them. The Cradle signified their entry into freedom, self truth andexpression, which she then summed up as the New World. After her speech, which sheonly let Tade hear, he became very sober.

“You know, I don’t like to put down this society’s culture, but I feel we’ve heldon tight to old customs that are so repressive” Afeni said petulantly to her friends, butwith tiny sparks of hope still twinkling in her eyes.
“Afeni, you always put it right, it’s a society that is so blind with its expectations of itsyoung people, that it subjugates them to its hypocritical and overly moralistic ideals” oneof Afeni’s friend with a bald head and square framed glasses stated.
“Yup! Preach that talk, Omo” someone said from behind with a husky voice, passing
something to Afeni’s bald friend.
“I think we all suffer Nwoye’s plight and like him who wasn’t captivated by ‘the mad
logic of the trinity…but the poetry of the new religion…that seemed to answer a vague,and persistent question that haunted his young soul’...so are we. And this just explainswhy a lot of us are attracted or turn to Western cultures. They give answers to thosequestions that disturb young people and don’t rebuke them for asking in the first place” aguy with a checkered beret said ardently, also quoting Chinua Achebe. There was a waveof applause that came rippling from the back of the room, after the guy spoke. He smiledand took the beret off his head, in gratitude for the ovation.

Afeni’s bald friend had passed a joint to Tade and introduced himself as Madu.Tade shook his head nervously and introduced himself. He first inhaled, the smell ofweed that rose from the burning end. He gulped a lump of saliva, and thought about whathe had put himself into. Afeni smiled at him, not in coercing manner but in an anxiousone. Not withstanding, Tade misinterpreted her smile for coercion and took a puff of thejoint. He felt the dry smoke flow roughly down his throat and into his lungs and as hetried to exhale out, he felt his eyes water as he coughed terribly. Afeni and some peoplearound laughed, not in an offensive manner, but in one that welcomed a new member.

The stick was passed around the room and after a while he found himself craving for it.At first, he felt paranoid, as those problems and secrets he had, came flashing in hismind. But when Afeni tapped him on his shoulders, and he saw that her eyes were now arosy-red color, he felt calm and at peace. He gazed at her, at her dark brown skin that feltbuttery under the pelt of sweat on it. As he watched Afeni, he saw her from two planes ofview. He did not have that usual feeling that his mind was that bodiless constituent ofhimself that needed his physical body as its medium of expression. He felt that his mindnow had eyes and lips of their own and they saw and spoke clearly. His mind saw her,beautiful with that smile of hers-even the tiny gap at her right molars enchanted him. Butthe physical plane of view, his face, which she actually saw, was emblazoned with a verywidened smile, with his teeth hanging out. Sadly, he was too consumed with seeingthrough his mind’s eyes, to notice this.

Someone had walked out amidst the people in the sitting room and pranced into
the centre. He could not tell from the curved lips, pointed cheekbones and beanie whichcovered the head, if it was a guy or woman. The person swayed on the dance floor,its’ hips tossing from side to side. And if he was to judge by this, and by the smoothcurviness of its’ legs under the tight jeans, he would have concluded that it was a woman,but when it spoke he saw that it was a man. He was shocked and slightly appalled. Butwhen some of the girls, including Afeni and some guys joined him in dancing, he feltguilty for feeling the way he had felt. That night he realized that The Cradle was not justa New world but a different and free one.

Like a handful of other young people who left home, leaving messages for theirsoon-to-be paranoid parents, who would try every means to find their children, Tade hadleft home and begun living in the Cradle. In the few months at The Cradle, he took to paintingand writing essays for The Cradle journal. Even if he loved his experiences at The Cradle,he still questioned himself on why he was there and tried to make sense of it all. He had to eatand live and Tade was not willing to depend on his parents anymore. He took jobs around town,which would have repulsed his parents and some friends, if they found out. Tade began to live a
Bohemian life in The Cradle, forming friendships and getting closer to Afeni. He formed a circleof friends around Afeni, Madu and Rasheed the androgynous ‘it’ he had seen on his first night. In all, Tade was doing those things he had dreamed of and was living in a place that created and
fulfilled more dreams.

Things started to change when protest groups , against this small and created communityin Port Harcourt, began to sprout around the country. Religious and ‘Moral- conservation’ groups accused The Cradle of promoting and housing vices like cultism,drug use, immorality and most especially waywardness. Newspapers and TV
announcements were made on this community that housed hoodlums and deliquescent
young people. People who had never heard or bothered about this community suddenly
became outraged and then there was a national outcry for the demolishing of this
community. The government yielded to the cries of these groups and its people and ordered a two-week evacuation period for The Cradle occupants.

Cradle.....ii

2008-08-05T00:13:00.007-02:30

He gulped down a glob of air, trapped in his throat that had dried from the bottles ofGuilder he had finally forced himself to drink. How did she know that something was brewing inhis head, not to mention, it needing to be spilled?

“Hi, saw you at the party” he said, trying hard to distract her from his nervousness.

“Oh, I saw you too” she said, her eyes pointing to the beer bottle, held precariously in hands, that trickled beer onto the ground and his sneakers.
He quickly and firmly grabbed the bottle, now understanding what she meant by him justspilling it all out.

They had introduced themselves and shared their concise histories . They continued their conversation, while they walked, dazed and drunk, back to those estates they lived in; they had found out that they didn’t live too far from each other. Their conversation had went on without any halt, right from leaving the party and boarding a bus. He had watched her speak, and in thecrowded and street-lamps-lit bus, her words seemed to hover around like white and fluffy dandelion seeds. He tried not to get too distracted with the fluffy dandelion seeds and so listened
to all she said and contributed as much as he could to the conversation.Afeni had spoken about her thoughts and more elaborately, the things she disliked about society. He agreed with most of her theories and thoughts, and felt she had eloquently structured those disorganized thoughts heoften had. Before she got into her compound, with the unwelcoming dogs barking, she told him that there would be a revolution and they would be part of it.

The revolution Afeni spoke of, was what this place had become, before the military came.Cradle as it was called, was formerly a Housing estate, on the other side of town, wheremostly Civil servants and retired people lived. But the housing estate had changed, with establishment of a Liberal Art training centre by a visiting American artist. There was an influx of art students, who were not satisfied with their restrictive University curriculums, into the Housing Estate. And these artists were of the rebellious brand, some of them, including women, proudly wore their paint-smeared baggies around. Most of them had piercings that adorned their faces and other parts of their bodies. Their skins were canvases to their wild and imaginative minds. They hosted parties which other young people
living around were naturally attracted to. Soon, all these incited contempt from the parents and pious residents. Their lifestyles suddenly became proof for the churches and Christian fellowships around, that the end time was near. Those who could live the estate, left. Those who couldn’t, receded to the outskirts . And that was how The Cradle came to be, with theatre students, writers, socially conscious young people and generally those not content or willing to conform with the outside world, joining in.

Tade had been amazed on his first day at the Cradle. The two storey apartment
and flat buildings were converted into studios, make-shift theatres, bars and homes for the young people. The housing estate had undergone change from a being a quasi-suburban area to a very artistically conscious one. As Tade walked with Afeni, who
strangely preferred to prance than walk, with both of her feet clapping in the air and hereyes twinkling, he admired her and the new look of the Housing Estate. The bare walls of some buildings, which formerly had paint ripping out like molting skin, now had graffiti on them. Some of the graffiti were parodies of former military heads of statesand others philosophical declarations and quotes of people he didn’t know. But there wasone which was inscribed on the wall of a church, tucked in between two houses, that struck him the most. It read;

‘When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.’ - James Joyce

Tade knew that he was one, who sparingly got absorbed by quotes, but there
was something poignant in this one that seemed to give an answer to those many disorderedquestions that all unified to plague him. That thought rioted in his head, as he tried tounderstand those nets in his life and how he would fly by them. And the answers seemed so easy, yet they kept eluding him. They had walked past the church, but Tade who was stilldistraught, felt like asking Afeni on the questions that troubled him. Since, he had met Afeni,there were attributes about her, that made him feel she had answers to his burning questions,yet there was that part of him, that distrusted showing ignorance to Afeni.

"Is everything alright, anything around that you find a tad bit pointed?" Afeni asked,emphasizing the 'pointed'.

"No, not really...uhn, just the quote of the Joyce guy"

"Oh that one, a personal favorite of mine" Afeni said, smiling at a friend of hers

who rode abike, shirtless, down the street.

"What 'bout it do you find POINTED?"

"Nothing more than the obvious, but, do you not think that we have an obligation to honor our country and follow the values our parents pass down to us?

should we not...basically live by those culture and values of the society we belong

to" Tade asked, feeling like a heavy dumbbell, had been lifted away from him.

"Tade, my answer is- that in whatever way we decide to fulfil our obligation to society's expectations, we should never compromise our inner selves and who we truely are. And Tade,every custom or value that is repressive to any group or any person who does no harm, should be abolished. There should be no questions asked about it. None!"

Cradle.....i

2008-08-01T18:39:00.010-02:30

Inspired partly by Another Country

On the mushy ground, he stood, staring at the army of ants marching in perfectly
straight trails. They crawled out of a hole in the ground, veiled by the lusciously green grass, and marched into a crack on the wall. Despite their diminutiveness, he felt that the
march of the ants mimicked those of the military men sent by the government to “sweep-out” the “travesty” that they created before “their very own eyes”. Though, he stood watching the two storey building with green moss on it’s base, spreading out like bodiless tendrils, he did not see the man in his buttoned-up shirt or the other people looking suspiciously at him, he saw a different time. A different time not too long ago, before the military came and destroyed, when they roamed and conquered this place.

He had come here with hopes that the desperation he had for his dreams and desires to be fulfilled would not be too obvious, but his wide and dreamy brown eyes betrayed him.It was not his first time in this place, but it was his first time since it got transformed. He lived on the other side of Port Harcourt; where people lived in detached houses and bungalows built on procured lands, in poorly planned estates with less attractive roads.He, like most of the teens who lived in these houses, was a former high school student preparing for his entry into university to study degrees that ranged from Medicine, Engineering, Law, Accountancy, Mass communication et al. He belonged to one of these groups and had already freed himself into the chains of studying and living by one of these career choices. His parents in their unquestionable love for him had planned for him to study at a British University. The master plan was that he would spend about eight years doing this degree and would come back home to take a core job at his father’s hospital.

All these would have come to fruition if he hadn't met Afeni.It had been one of those parties he was chanced to attend. His parents were out of town and he had been invited by a former class mate. The party was filled with mostly young people a few years older than him. And there seemed to be coolers with ice and beer bottles submerged in water, at every point he turned. He saw some people grab beer bottles, gulp them and some others tossing bottles at walls, jokingly. He left the scene, heading to where everyone danced, hoping that he would find his former classmate there. The party people formed a circle around the terrace of the host’s parent’s house,and in the space inside the circle, he saw people dancing, smoking and drinking.

Everyone seemed to have the same distorted face, as he stood behind the circumference of people , with the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol disorientating him. He did not feel like drinking the Guilder beer, someone had placed into his hands, while laughing madly. His legs buckled almost giving way for his weakened body unto the awaiting and strangely comfy looking ground. But when he straightened himself and shook his head,as if that would shrug off his disorientation and stupidity, he saw her dancing among group of girls. Her Afro hair coiled into twined strips swayed in the black night’s breeze,like her cotton-white dress. She danced as if in a trance and at the same time drank her beer.She was the only one who drank alcohol among the girls around her. He quickly gulped down his beer. Her slim legs sliced the air as she danced and her oblivious but pearly eyes pierced him. A sweat pattern formed like an inverted gable on the neckline of her string-sleeved dress. She didn't seem to care about that or anything as she danced with her full-moon breasts bouncing, and her coral-coloured lips quivering. He was enthralled by her.

It was when she walked past him at the end of the party, that a storm brewed
in his head. He, with his alcohol-induced confidence, had promised himself to talk to her before she left the party. But as he stood watching her back, he punched himself-that is inwardly.

“You know it’s better to just spill it all out” she said, turning to him, with the dim and slow r n b music playing making her voice even more melodic.

The Ijebu Gene

2008-07-18T03:16:00.000-02:30

Though, I am sometimes guilty of stereotyping, I try to desist from it-and focus on the individual not community traits. But, I've come to realize that some stereotypes have elements of truth to them. I'm Ijebu (that's what I was told, that's the 'tribe' of my parents and basically where I go to, during festive periods) and I lived most of life in Port Harcourt. Apart from learning certain values from my parents (which really weren't that 'Ijebuic') and from cousins and uncles (who themselves were ignoring their culture in bids to fit into the western one), I did not have any external influences on the Ijebu culture. The few things I knew growing up were that it was sought of a group of tribes (Ikenne-Remo, Ijebu-Igbo etc) and had its own separate language that sounded like its speakers had their mouths full when they spoke. And the most popular of these traits was that Ijebus were naturally and staunchly prudent. As easily predictable, my father was a true Ijebu man when it came to this particular trait. I grew up learning that money really doesn't have to be spent-why buy, when you can save, really. 'Really?'

"Ah Daddy lets gotto Park 'n' Shop" we would all sing, as kids
"Okay...go get ready"

As soon as we step out of the car, father is already informing us that we won't spend too much. On some occasions he would allot to everyone the maximum amount we can spend.
No doubt, my parents were always there to provide us with what we needed and even most of our wants, still, we had to learn to sometimes settle for less. This left us confused why we couldn't get better, knowing Daddy definitely had to the doe (people had told us).
Father's excuse was however that he went for "value for money, not price".

A haa! (in the Yoruba way of expressing incredulity), when did less expensive things start getting higher quality than costlier things?

Now, at this point of my life, I'm being accused for being too Ijebu-in the "you are too stingy" kind of way. Canadian friends call me "cheap", while my PH peeps declare me an "Akanchichi"
Someone tell me why I should buy a polo shirt that just has an effin crocodile or
polo-stick yielding man on the left breast, when you can get an equally nice one at STITCHES or even BLUENOTES.

So after all my ramblings, the point I am getting at is that I have in some manner-genetically or otherwise inherited this peculiar Ijebu trait from my father. But I'm curious to know if I got it through being influenced by my folks or is there a genetic explanation to this?

To Nigerian Researchers or Khaki-clad white explorers out there: This is definitely a puzzling scientific and anthropological question.

Labyrinth

2008-06-28T22:10:00.000-02:30

Pic of Rumoukorushi, Port Harcourt showing quite a contrast between the suburban shell camp and the surrounding district.

The idea that we are all,in some way, connected first hit me when I was about 6 or 7. I can remember walking back from school with my mother, who was quick to admonish me, on seeing that I played with a Naira note with my lips.
"Do you know where that money has being" my mother commented that day, with her eyes glaring the way it used to, before she realised that constant mannerisms like that, caused a distancing of her children from her. The comment triggered me into wondering where actually that money had been, right from its origins at the Central bank. I tried to imagine who had handled that particular note right from when I took it as change from the kiosk opposite my primary school. The always indifferent-faced woman at the kiosk might have gotten the note from some other student, who was probably handed the money by his pregnanancy-induced slouched mother, who herself might have gotten the money from her middle-class and thrifty husband, who just got paid his forty thousand monthly salary in two batches of 100, 50 and 20 naira denominations.

That idea of of us being all connected by some material thing or common emotional feeling has even intrigued more, with movies like crash, Babel etc. And it reoccurred to me a while ago on writing a non-linear story that chronicled certain troubled Nigerian individuals of different cultural, financial, academic and introspective differences all heading to Abeokuta city; which is the destination of their journey in search of a common desire and need. And I wondered what this common need or rather missing link, that these characters searched for, was. Then, I got transported into another realm of thought, where the idea of equating what connects all Nigerians together as a people to what connects these searching characters, occured to me. In as much as the inadequacies and annoying bustle of our country connects us all together-whether you are in Nigeria or the diaspora, I wanted some other fact or even idea that was more extrinsic and existential that binds us. And by extrinsic, I do not mean some trait in us that is as a result of our tribe or just being part of a geographical region, rather, I mean something that has being built or arrested in us and is a product of living in Nigeria or just being of Nigerian heritage. All I could come up with was the individual search of every Nigeria for self-fulfilment, regardless of our communal and sometimes repressive culture. But, I wasn't satisfied with my conclusion, as I felt the search for fulfilment and individual happiness is a common and universal one.

So, I put out this question to you bloggers or anyone reading, on what they feel connects us as Nigerians together, apart from the country's inadequacies and instability?

Success??

2008-06-15T17:42:00.000-02:30

"Are you happy Afolabi?" Dad asks
"Yeah...Yes Daddy"
"Good, that's...good" dad says with a forced conviction that even leaks through the three perforations of the phone's handset.

This is a poem that is not against success, but questions the kind we strive for and that which is truly ours.

Scribblings for the Trigenarian

That each stage of life is separated by seconds
Is a shame and maiming truth.
Small, yet potent are these changes amidst life’s turns,
That one is thrust from childhood to Youth.
Manhood to Old age, then to
Well, your bible en-lightens that other side to you.

And now, at this stage of my life
I apologize to you, dear Trigenerian;
For not setting a strong foundation,
For that Grand sea-side semi; of your heart’s strife.
Though, I am unsure if you’ll be more forgiving,
I still risk these scribblings as your pardon’s condition.

You crave for the laurelled title; the Ideal man.
And I fear I will not aid in this quest.
Uncertainty spells you response to these words of mine,
Yet, I still offer you words seamed with trust
' In your own differences, I plea
That you find your own ideal.'

FYI: Trigenerian is not in the dictionary!!

6 quirky things about me!!

2008-05-30T00:10:00.000-02:30

I got tagged by Loomnie.

The rules:
1. Link the person(s) who tagged you…loomnie
2. Mention the rules in your blog…
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours…
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them…
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged…
6 quirky things about me

1. I have a high tendency to loose concentration and wander off into different states which is usually about-me thinking of a story that's brewing in my head, a conversation I had or overhead, acting out scenes from characters in a book or movie and even rehearsing what I'll say if I was plunged into possible and sometimes ludicrous situations.

2. I have a compulsion to make fun of religion-christianity, my beliefs and those of others,

and also differences between tribes, races, personalities and so on. I'm not racist or tribalistic, it's just that some of our differences are just too funny when observed.

3. I read in the bathroom and it doesn't matter if it's fiction or even my text book, it goes with

me and mehn do I get what I read in such relieving states.

4. I often dance or hum reflexively to music I like. That's why I try very hard to control myslelf in parties and gatherings.

5. I have a propensity to say things that are just outrightly stupid and later regret opening my mouth. I get too hard on myself sometimes!!

6. Sometimes, I have this very mischievous smile and laughter that some people hate and others are intrigued or surprised by.

I tag mamarita, Onyeka, Afro nuts, big head, porter de harcourt, bitchy

2008-05-10T19:57:00.000-02:30

The Old Cab Driver

I was late, that unexpected morning.
Your cab; a welcoming relief
From the clear and unadulterated morning light
That stung my sleep-calloused eyes.
Still, you were forgiving, too accepting
Of my apology and my poor respect for punctuality.
Worst of all, you capped it all with a smile.
And I cringed deep from my core to crust.
Then, we started the usual cab-passenger chatter.
But, ours was a wide-notch different.
You listened warmly, as I spoke not coldly.
I told you my very clichéd 5 minute life history,
And you told me yours in 2 minutes.
But, yours lasted, it left traces.
“I live alone in a one room apartment” you said, harmlessly.
A stranger, I was, but you revealed to me
Something sad. You lost someone special, your wife, in an accident
When you said it, it sounded painless and repeated
Did you not feel pain? saying this to your half-drunk passengers
I felt something move in me. Emotions?
I doubt, too self-absorbed, too narcissistic for that
But, the truth be told, your undeniable strength and cheer inspired
Dear old cab driver.

Lost Boys, I know what the what is.

2008-05-02T03:07:00.000-02:30

The illustration of a man's face with distinctly negroid features drew my attention to this book. The title which at first sounded quite stupid was even less repelling. I knew I had to get this book, even if I wasn't entirely sure what its contents were about. Hey, I guess that makes me sought of literally vain; judging a book by its cover and title (mehn, my first book must def. have a good cover). The book titled What is the What chronicles the life of Achak Deng Valentino, a Sudanese man presently living in the US, from his days running away from his war-stricken southern Sudan, refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya and finally terminating in Atlanta. What is most stricking about the book which is an auto-biography of this Sudanese man, is that it is actually written by a white guy, Dave Eggers and the book is considered fiction. Regardless, of the inaccuracy in some accounts by the narrator, I still feel this book deserves the status of a non-fiction (and it's not that fiction is of any lesser value than non-fiction). This book is well-written with Dave Eggers making good use of language and imagery. Beyond all the literary talk of the book, its message is important. The war which took place in parts of Sudan has certain similarities to the Nigerian Biafran war. There are similarities in that the more vulnerable part of the country (south) was attacked by the all-powerful and Muslim north. The Northern part of Sudan which consisted of mostly Arabs wanted to enforce Islam and sharia on the mostly-christian and north. This consequently caused the uprising of the South in the form of a rebel group (SPLA). And just like the Biafran war and almost every other war, simple and everyday people got thrust into bloody and directionless wars.

Without trying to bore you with all these details, another fascinating part of the book is the question the narrator's father poses to him, after telling the Sudanese folktale, where God decides to give his people cattle (which symbolizes wealth), but with a catch to it. God decided to give them something else which was called the what. He also did not reveal to them what the what was, but asks them to choose between cattle and the enigmatic "what". The Dinka people in their own wisdom choose what is accessible and already revealed. The narrator Achak Deng is fortunate enough to be considered to migrate to the US, however, he is plagued on the morality of leaving his family behind. His father does however convince him to move to the US, telling him that the what, which has been a mystery all this while is the US.

I REFUSED to believe this, due to my disappointment and notion that America and the west in general does not have to be acknowledged for everything good (wetin!!!). Soon, I soothed my nerves and saw the wisdom in the old Dinka man's answer. The US to him was a novel concept. A concept of a place that offered something different and prospects for a better life. He was not saying the US was the enigmatic what, because of his belief of their undoubted superiority, but the fact that life could be better in a place outside his war-thorn and impoverished Southern Sudan.

The Fear and Dream

2008-03-04T00:18:00.000-03:30

For a moment, imagine what Nigeria would be like if it was a developed country. Still with this image in your head, try to picture it, with this time considering the industrious, creative and brilliant minds of Nigerians you know. For me, I picture that society; where the true talents and skills of its citizens are collectively harnessed for nation growth. My post is actually not what Nigeria could or might not be, but this post describes me as an aspiring writer and the realities I face. It is sad that most of our great minds-in this case writers- have achieved their dreams outside the shores of Nigeria. It is sad that most people, who have dreams outside the typical chain of jobs-doctor, engineer,lawyer and even barrister- have a higher chance of achieving these dreams outside the country. Fortunately, I'm privileged to be in a very structured and proper university (at least when compared to those we have back in Nig.). Prior to coming over to Canada, I always viewed writing as a hobby. But, on coming over here and observing the serious manner in which people take their skills, my perspective on writing changed. Now, writing to me is more than big and sweet sounding words or just telling stories, it means more.
I never had to question my authenticity as a writer before coming over to Canada.Back home in Nigeria, I've always being commended for my writing. But on getting to this very questioning society, one's motives for expressing this SKILL are questioned. At first, I never had a strong answer for this question, other than the usual answer of writing being a means for me to express those rioting thoughts in my head. However, I've come to realise that I do not have any strong answer, other than the fact that I just have to write. No matter what ones skills are, they have to be improved through training and experience. And this is what I intend to do. Although I'm in school for a Pre-medical course (SHIO!!!), writing is still in the front of my head. I'm planning on taking creative writing courses and meeting professors for their advice and suggestions.
The scary part of it all is the Fear. That creeping fear that the dream will not be reached, is sometimes hard to ignore. That fear that the realities of doing what is acceptable and profitable will deter one's dream, scares the hell outta me.
But I've come to this compromise, that I will struggle and work for this dream, that no matter what happens, I'll keep the dream alive.....

...As a result of a Blog Black out

2008-02-23T19:53:00.000-03:30

I wanted to put up a post on how teachers are special, but I felt it was a fact everyone knew. So, I decided to put up some pictures I took and really like. Again, I don't have much to blog , hence the title (blog black out, I hope this makes sense though).

A rarity in the winter

Calling forth

Somewhere downtown Toronto

fowl...Nah, swan

Exploiting Depravity

2008-01-28T23:26:00.000-03:30

I haven't posted any reflective posts for a while now. This is not because I don't think anymore, or I've finally come to the realisation that I might be a pseudo-intellectual. Some of it could be blamed on me being quite busy this semester. However, I have come to realise the reason that I do not think deeply about issues, might be as a result of my present environment having a very low level of depraved issues to think about. By no means is the society that I presently live in, close to an Utopian society; it has its own problems. Still, these problems are not grave enough to arouse deep thoughts and ideas in me. A guilty feeling cropped up in me, as I wondered if I wanted depraved things to happen, in order for me to gain some sought of perverse inspiration. As one of my blog commentators Oyibo put it, he claimed writing about good things is simply bland. I found this statement really true, as we really don't enjoy reading or listening to the good things that happen everyday. We yearn for news or ideas that are sensational, provoking, eye-popping and leaves us with a sense of sadness or better still thoughtfulness.
If we are to cite popular instances, there would be a full list of tragedy that has being exploited. For instance, what would Chimamanda Adichie have written if there was no Biafran war? What would have inspired Wole Soyinka's The Man died, if there was also no Biafran war and corrupt state of government? These literary works are masterpieces that I do not have any problem with, nor am I claiming that they are works based on the exploiting deprave occurrences. It is just the thought of how depravity is exploited for creating entertainment; whether it be in an intellectual form that bother me. There will always be depraved things that happen, and it is the duty of those gifted to recount and account these depraved events. And as I hope to transfer to a bigger city or go to Nigeria this summer, with my adaptors absorbing consciously and subconsciously all sorts of things happening around me. I hope that my motive of putting anything down in paper is to express and inform my readers, rather than exploit depravity for my own benefit.

I wish:

2008-01-09T16:08:00.000-03:30

that I could speak Yoruba fluently. Growing up in Port Harcourt, I felt learning to speak Yoruba was unimportant. I would normally laugh at my Yoruba friends who spoke Yoruba with their parents. To us half-Yorubas who couldn't speak our language, seeing phonetics that are unique to the Yoruba language being accidentally, intentionally and ignorantly used when speaking English was hilarious. And I thought I was refined because I felt my English was unadulterated from the clayey hands of the Yoruba language. When people would ask why I couldn't speak my language, my excuse would be that, it was an asset I did not need in the "modern world". My parents tried to teach us to speak Yoruba fluently with a lot of authority. But, their authoritative measures always came to abrupt ends as their laws of no longer speaking English in the house were suddenly forgotten (they too were afflicted).

Above all, the blame is on me, as I did not put much effort in learning to speak Yoruba. Though, I understand Yoruba very well and can fairly (maybe poorly) speak it , I wish I was a stronger speaker. But, according to my folks, they always encouraged me to speak Yoruba, while still young, lest, I loose the window of opportunity". But I don't think I'm that old, that learning a second language will be that hard. Our native language is one of the ways we identify ourselves as being part of a certain community or tribe. Therefore, if I can't speak Yoruba fluently, where's my identity?

One of my short stories

2007-12-22T20:01:00.000-03:30

More than a Thousand Miles from Home

“There is a wave of stupidity that crosses the regions in the tropics” he explained,

as he drew an invisible line in the air that demarcated the north temperate zones from the

tropics. His cheeks that usually looked bulbous, now had a flat appearance as he

enlightened the listeners on the backwardness of Africa, most especially Nigeria. “All

third world countries have the same brand of stupidity” he said with a grin on his face.

Josephine, whose new pride was being married to him, could not agree more. She placed

her arms that had the color of white chocolate over his shoulders, and for a moment, she

thanked Jesus that her white mother had insisted on leaving Jamaica. The thought of her

walking the streets of Kingston, because of her father’s love for his home gave her mixed

feelings. These mixed feelings bordered between victory in living the west and

amusement of what she would have turned out to be if she lived in Jamaica. She

loved his ebullience that sparked as he spoke of his homeland, Nigeria. He smiled as

Josephine winked at him. He knew what she was thinking in her head. He was convinced

that her adoration for him resonated in her head like a John Legend song. And that gave

him more drive to speak on, as he waved his arms and described to the listeners who were

all Canadian, of the corruptness of his people. He also did not forget to mention the

several cultures that were just evidence of his people’s foolishness.

The Canadians had enjoyed his rant. And one of them had remarked how

theatrical he looked, as he gestured and raised his voice. They were surprised to see him

speak so loudly and unrestrained. The Canadians had never seen so much passion in him,

except when he spoke about the new projects that had potentials for huge profit. May ,

the only female among the Canadians giggled flirtatiously as she commented on how he

spoke badly of his homeland. While, the males laughed loudly as they stood under a tent

peeking at him, the Nigerian and Josephine. May laughed harder almost spilling the

Alexander Keith’s beer on her denim pants, as she remarked on his trying to separate

himself from the stupidity he claimed his people had. One of the males, who was drunk

and had temporarily lost the Canadian politeness, stated that Africans were undoubtedly

primitive but the Nigerian man did not need to state to obvious to them. Their hysterical

laughter slowly dimmed as they all agreed to themselves that what the Nigerian man had

said only proved that guilty notion they had of Africa.

Soon he and Josephine walked up to the Canadians who were about to leave the

artificial palm-leaved tent that stood mismatched in between two tall buildings. He

looked up at the fourth floor of the building, with his eyes focused on the room where his

office was located. A smile was stamped on his face as he spoke to the Canadians.

“The sculpture is beautiful, and what remarkable detail it has” May said, trying to

conceal the guilt she felt on mocking the Nigerian and his homeland. He looked up to the

sculpture that was hung on the wall to give the tent a wild and more African look. He then

smiled briefly at May and turned again to see the sculpture ,which was a replica of a Yoruba

bronze head. The hollow eyes and metallic luster of the bronze head reminded him of his history
classes back in Nigeria. A black framed picture of him sitting in a class and listening to a

lecture on the lost wax-casting process, formed in his head. He could remember his

teacher describe this technique of creating bronze sculptures from wax, brass and clay.

These sculptures that were intricate in their structure and creation techniques that date back to

the 6th and 12th century had intrigued his teenage and impressionable mind. Slowly, the black

framed picture faded in his head. He turned away from the bronze sculpture and continued his

conversation with his Canadian friends.

Revamping....

2007-12-14T01:04:00.000-03:30

I'm now a free man!!!! Free from school work atleast for the next three weeks. I'm staring at my blog that is like an abandoned child, whose mother or should I say father stares at him every day, but doesn't feed it. As a result, I've decided to save my dying blog from starvation. Christmas is already here, and money has started flying out of people's pockets (mine included). Chai!! I just got this i pod touch, which is the most aesthetically pleasing i pod, I've seen. Still, as I stare into this black coloured device that is not more than an inch thick, I fight myself from asking if it is really worth it. Well, I am not going to answer that question to my self. But I will prove to myself in every way possible that the fact that my device has touch screen tech, Internet (wi-fi), 8GB space, and even calculator, makes it worth the price. Even if this task of convincing myself that my new i pod touch is worth it, just shows the extent of how affected I am by popular culture. No doubt, I'm loving the i pod and how sleek it is, but still there's that part of me that knows that the underlying drive for me to suddenly change my mind from buying the "every day" i pod is my "Long throat" and my yearning to be impressive to others. I am not going to put all the blame of this covetous attitude on the Nigerian youth culture of celebrating what is "fly" "tight" "tush" and all those crap talk that glorifies excessiveness and materialism. Still, as I try to understand all that is me, and know if I am a person that is simple or "oloju kokoroed". Maybe, I border simplicity and Oloju kokoro (greed). Anyway, I'm also dying for an i phone too. I guess that makes me fit into the latter side of the border.

YAHOOZEE

2007-10-28T18:04:00.001-02:30

The long awaited yahoozee video. This song is just a feel good song that makes u feel like u're worth a million bucks. The video's okay, still ama sere, jaiye,..eh yahoozee lol. Guys leave ur comments

OJUJU IS COMING

2007-10-07T13:08:00.000-02:30

Last week I got into a heated(boiling) argument with my naija friend in the midst of my other roomies(Canadians). At first the topic was religion and everyone was talking about the bible. Claims were made on how parts of the bible are discriminatory against women. The ever popular issue of the bible not being complete and having books( eg Judas version, incomplete chapters from the book of peters etc). Then, the discussion shifted to other religions and Islam, Christianity's nemesis (you can beg to differ with this) was mentioned. Y'all know there's a lot of BS to be said about Islam. Suddenly, my naija broda claims authoritatively that Christianity is not a religion. I hear some people saying an amen to that. That's alright, we all have our personal opinions. Still, I'm going to break this down in my own way. We're(roomies and I) are all seated down talking about various religions; Buddhism, Islam, Taoism and BAM!!!Christianity should not be put side by side with these others. This claim that Christianity is not a religion implies that it is superior and in another level from other ways of worshiping and communicating to God.

If there's one thing never to do, never argue about religion, In fact I'm never doing it again. Regardless, some Nigerians tend to believe that Christianity is on another level from other world religions. We have this view that other religions are "heathen" and ours is the only true religion. This belief might have originated from the brain washing of the colonial days. While growing up as a kid, I had the belief that my native Nigerian religions were of the devil, thanks to the manner in which they were portrayed. As children we got scared by the names of native Nigerian gods. For reasons that bordered ignorance and intolerance, we believe that those who practise their native religions were devil worshippers. Some people might argue that if you're a true Christian, you should believe that Jesus is the only and true way of communicating to God. Well, the Muslims think the same way of Mohamed. Most "born again" Christians would ask you to choose if other religions( African traditional religions is right or wrong). Well, I do not have any right to judge if the wooden image, or Deity, worship is wrong or right. I can only see it as being a different way of worship.

Porn Palaver II

2007-09-27T13:37:00.001-02:30

I was surprised to visit Linda Ikeji's blog and find the pics of a naked grown man and woman. The pictures show two individuals who were starked naked and humiliated by a mob on the streets. And the crime is adultery. Like wtf, so what if they commited adultery, it's none of the crowd's or anyone outside her family and friends' business. Again, adultery is a moral issue not a crime that should be punished by such jungle justice. Visit Linda Ikeji's blog for a more comprehensive post on this issue.

Don't Tase Me..

2007-09-22T23:08:00.001-02:30

Police Brutality (not really) at its funniest.

Fimisile- leave me alone....yay..I can speak yoruba

2007-09-14T14:30:00.000-02:30

Sorry to all of you guys, who have been visiting my blog, but don't find any new updates. I've been busy and lazy (do these two go together). Well, you get the idea, there's school work and every time I'm free, I get lazy to blog. Anyway, how y'all doing this fall. Life's going good (thank God) for me. I'm more relaxed now, even if my mind can't escape the fact that my dad is travelling via a Nigerian airline. Even if it's virgin or aero, which I hope, I still don't feel comfortable with Nigerian airlines. Honestly, I try to convince people that aviation in Nigeria is not as bad as we see on tv. I mean how many air line crashes or accidents, do we hear of. Still, it's the fear that even when these unforeseen accidents happen, there are usually not good enough rescue services. Also, we hardly hear of the causes of this crashes. So, how can we solve a life threatening problem, if we do not know the causes. Still, I give a short prayer, believing that all will be well.

My classes have been just there. I feel bored in most of them, owing to the fact that it's like I'm learning stuff, I've heard before. Still. I know it's going be better, when we get deeper into the courses.
I'm presently listening to Sunny Neji's Prisoner of love. And, love songs definitely sound differently to me these days. I now understand what Ne yo meant when he said he was sick of love songs. Love, love, love, so many people(which I belong to) really use that word inappropriately. Is it just a physical attraction to someone? or just a deep connection to someone. Unarguably, infatuation can be mistaken for love. They're like cousins. Anyway, have to go now, my roomate just brought this crazy and hallucinatory alcohol drink ever (that didn't sound right. Right?). I'm not drinking though (there's a shot of irony in this sentence). Peace people!!!!!!

Fire On The Mountain - asa

2007-09-04T22:37:00.001-02:30

Asa is back with this original video and good song. I'd love her to add those sweet yoruba melodies to her song though.

History X

2007-09-01T02:43:00.000-02:30

"Hate is baggage" one of the characters in the movie American history X describes. I am a staunch believer that people are generally of good heart, and that a lot of people live lives of hate due to the legacies they have inherited. Regardless of the environment or back ground we grow up in, we often are left with legacies of our predecessors. These legacies shape our lives and determine some choices we make. There are different races, ethnicities, and tribes blamed for promoting various vices. People of a same race are usually stereotyped to fit a certain vice. There are the aboriginals here in Canada that make up a huge percentage of those living in poverty, even with all the benefits that comes with being Aboriginal. I believe they are living under unproductive legacies set by their predecessors. I spoke to someone, considering the state of aboriginals in Canada, and he claimed that a huge percentage of these people are lazy and expect the government to do everything. There was a certain truth to what he said, but I still believe that most of the aboriginal youths, I saw roaming downtown winnipeg were living under legacies set by their parents and elderly ones. They have learnt attitudes and cultures that do not promote their personal growth. Imagine waking up to see your parents depending on welfare, and demanding for benefits. Most people will grow up, and simply inherit such unhealthy attitudes. This is one of the reasons why I do not support that unnecessary benefits and welfare be granted to people in the Niger Delta. Yes! they deserve a whole lot from the corporations making blillions in their land, because these corprations have to compensate the damage done to their land. Still, I do not agree with the exploitation of this right.

Back to the title History X, even if a huge number of us (which I am included in) don't have a deep understanding of our Nigerian history. it is still undeniable that we have a history of a whole lotta bad things. Even after our independence as a nation, legacies have being passed down from generation to another. Unarguably, these legacies are filled with the very infamous and sly corruption, bad leadership, poor and unproductive mentalities and so on. If you go down through our political, social and religious history, the legacies that have been passed down are just terrible. Change can not just occur, we have to enforce it and transfer it from one generation to another. My generation will provide leaders of our country, and imagine these same future leaders claiming that when they get to power, they are going to steal enough money. And these future leaders sugar coat their plans by saying they'll steal but still help. Yeah yeah!! we all know money is intoxicating, once they start, it's the end. The main reason why such mentality is in the minds of young people (which I belong to), is because we have inherited legacies our elders have given to us. We cannot blame our elders for all our problems, because we as individuals that belong to families, we as individuals that are brothers, sisters, cousins have the responsiblity to set examples for our young ones watching us closely and ever hungry to learn something from us. I used to think, that as an individual, I could do and say anything I wanted even with my siblings watching. But the truth is that they learn a lot from what I do. Though, I cannot be perfect, but at least, I could be responsible.

If Anne Frank had a blog

2007-08-25T21:04:00.000-02:30

The name mentioned above might sound unfamiliar. But, if you know who this young girl is, you might already know the world she lived in. A world filled with discrimination, persecution, anarchy and abuse of power. I had read of this young Jewish girl called Anne Frank , and I had the chance of getting hold of the book. The book chronicles the life of Anne Frank and her family in hiding. It is based on real life account of Anne Frank and her Jewish family, who hid in an office building for up to two years, due to Hitler's persecution of Jews. The book which is a recreation of her diary, was to me enlightening to what Jews faced due to Hitler's psychotic hate for a particular group of people. Although, the book is really slow and tiring, since it is basically an account of people living a very boring and monotonous life in a building, it still gives its reader a connection to the characters. Fortunately, I was lucky to tune into the movie which was being shown on TV. It was a black and white movie, in fact, the first black and white movie I have ever watched from the start to end. Surprisingly, even if the movie was in B and W, it still was able to give the audience a very visual version of the book. Also, the movie freedom fighters which is about a class of young and irate teens, who get inspired by their teacher, through the help of the book Diary of a young girl. The students get to meet a real character from the book, and this consequently inspires them.
Anne Frank's diary of her last years, helped and saved these teenagers from the anger they felt inside. Still I wonder what this young lass would write if she had a blog, like most people reading this now.

Porn Palaver

2007-08-18T14:13:00.000-02:30

I should have updated my blog earlier, but i have been quite busy working. And working at the orientation office isn't that bad, I get to work wiith new students and enjoy their benefits.
My head right now is in a riot of issues to blog about. But, I'm going to take it slow, bringing out these issues slowly.
If you are very conversant with what's happening in Nigeria, you might have come across this news. It talks about an hausa movie star(you didn't know they made movies right?) who is been accused of being in a porn flick. While, her partner is really not featured in the news, he is rather named as witheld. Typical right? I don't like being tribalistic and generalizing, but most people from the north are plain sexist. Surprisingly, they are proud of it, and do not realize any depravity in this sexist culture. Sexism is present in every part of Nigeria. It is embedded in our culture, even if it differs in its gravity from one place to another. The overall fact is that most tribes in Nigeria put men and women into certain roles. Even if the Yoruba culture is one of the few cultures in Nigeria that is less sexist, as every gender is entitled to the same things, but we still subject each gender to certain roles. You can't really argue that it is bad, as men and women are different in many aspects, and it is only human for us to assign them into roles based on these differences. The west that we use as a yard stick for measuring what is fundamentally right also puts people into roles based on gneder. Even if they are at a certain level of gender equality, they still assign people to certain roles, based on gender
Back to the juicier issue on hausa porn. The women are always blamed in such cases by the Sharia system, while we never hear anything about the men. I have gotten to know a few hausa men, and the way they regard women in general is quite appalling. I remeber when we had a gateman, and he got into arguement with me on the way women caress men who are not their husbands all in the name of movies. As for me who even thought the romance and sex scenes in Nigerian movies are crap. I was surprised to see that he was offended by it. It was through him that I saw my first hausa movie (never trying it again). There were no sex or romance scenes. That didn't bother me, but the fact that if there was, this guy was going to be angry not at the couple but the woman. We have heard of various cases of women accused of adultery or fornication, and are to be stoned to death. And most northerners I have met are in support of it.
Well, guys that's Nigeria for you, it's so complex with many problems. Hopefully, there will be an end to all these nonsense we hear.

MOVE YOUR BODY

2007-07-30T01:37:00.001-02:30

d banj's new video with the guys from mo ht records. Tight video for naija standards.

Me and the rest of them

2007-07-20T21:26:00.000-02:30

As a victim of growing up under cultural clashes, and being a very observant person of the cultures and behaviors of the people around me, I have observed that the Nigerian culture is a very communal one. The Nigerian culture supports the idea of an individual gaining an ideal status with aid from the rest of the community. This culture encourages being responsible for those in the community you belong to. No matter how large of a city one lives in Nigeria, you are still connected in the very tightly stitched fabric of the community. The community can even range from your extended family, your neighbours, teachers and basically everyone you know. However, the western culture teaches individualism and independence. It doesn't allow reliance on others (even your family) for aid. I have come to observe that people here start getting independent from a younger age. They really don't form bonds with others in the community. I'm not saying people don't make friends, it's just that you aren't stitched to the community, as much as what we experience in Nigeria. I guess this is the reason why capitalism is popular in the west. I recently read things fall apart(which is the only written record of the igbo and even Nigerian culture, which I know of). It's a book about machismo, strength, communalism, colonization, self fulfilment and so on. Chinua Achebe emphasizes on the manner at which the community as a whole is more important than the individuals. Not only is communalism prominent in the east, but in all parts of Nigeria. This consequently leads us to be people who are highly conscious of our society, that when we make some choices, we think of the effects these choices will have on the society. Surprisingly, this subjective choice making is often reflexive.

There is always this constant battle between individualism and communalism. The former allows one to make choices based on his personal reasons and learn from those mistakes, while the latter usually does not give room for those mistakes, as you are expected the follow the laid out rules the community has set up. They both have their pros and cons. Although, individualism is often blamed for causing people to stick in their sometimes destructive shells thereby fostering anti-social behaviors(which is common in the west), while communalism puts pressure on people to place their society in high esteem, even more than themselves.

Still on the topic, and on Things fall apart, there is a part of the novel which I think depicts this topic.

Does anyone remember where Nwoye (Okonkwo's son) experiences an epiphany. On hearing the Christians preach, he embraces this new religion not for its teachings ,but the simple fact that it answers the personal and deep question plaguing him. He connects a hymn of two brothers who were in darkness, to his friendship with Ikemefuna. His personal choice to become christian and shun his community's beliefs enrages everyone, as he is seen as a traitor. Finally, I believe that a fusion of these two ideologies in moderation, can create a stable, free, and well knit society.

Your side of the bar

2007-07-14T14:53:00.000-02:30

I'm recovering from the Nigerian event, I went to yesterday. Okay, I'm exaggerating, it wasn't so bad, that I have to recover from it. Nevertheless, Nigerian events can give someone a serious head ache. It never starts on time, it is unnecessarily prolonged. It was a reception program for one of the commissioners. The event was nice, but just too long. It made me freaking tired that I wished I was back in school. Even the speeches were so long and most of the speakers were just saying stuff that I wished I had an ear plug. There was this guy representing the Sudanese community(mehn!! these people are coal black). His speech was interesting . He reminded the audience of those killed in the Darfur war, which the Nigerians closed to me expressed their shallowness and lack of interest in issues affecting other parts of the world. He specified that there are about 2.5 million Nigerians in Sudan. Honestly, I didn't know that. Of course, the Naija man behind me said "Kini won shen be". Which was what I also thought of. "What are they doing there". This is another proof that Nigerians are in almost every part of the world. The Sudanese guy said a line which I loved. He referred to Africa as "a rich continent with poor people". The commissioner was quite nice and friendly. He was very energetic and outspoken. Most times when one meets people in government, they seem like nice people who don't fall into this corrupt group, we all put them into. Okay this is going to annoy some people. When I met president Obassanjo(not personally oh!!) a few years ago, he was so nice and polite. He greeted everyone and shook hands with people. That impression of him being this cruel and corrupt president didn't match with what I was seeing. It just made me wonder if these people put up a front, and at the back do all the.......I was chatting with someone who isn't Nigerian on Nigeria. Surprisingly, this person who has also lived in Nigeria said there was alot of indiscipline in Nigeria. I know alot of Nigerians will be quick to refute that, and claim there's more discipline in the west. Well, there's indiscipline in both parts of the world. Though, we view ours mostly as not respecting your elders, not following the customs. But, indiscipline here goes beyond that. It's failing to obey the traffic light, because the police isn't present. It means your lecturer trying to take bribes from you , in order to give you good grades, or being disorderly in an event. I have discovered that alot of people place their values mostly on what side or group they belong to.

I had this random memory of when I was writing my exams in high school. I peered at my friend's work (malpractice) to see what he was doing. What I saw made me laugh my ass off, that I was lucky, I wasn't caught.
Here is his answer to this question

Ways of controlling vector insects
Use of insecticides----good
Use of sleeping nets----good
Clapping with hands-----ahhh

SNEAK PREVIEW 5(I think)..

2007-07-08T22:39:00.000-02:30

First of all, I want to say a big thank you to mamarita , for making my one day tour of Toronto exciting. She was sooooo nice and fun to be around with. THANKS A MILLION mamarita(don't want to use ur real name). Hmm, finally, in winnipeg and damn it's hot. I wasn't expecting this, but its all good, just had a barbeque party with my family here(mehn didn't know pork tasted better than beef as burger).
I opened the newspaper and to my surprise I see a column saying a 3 year old british girl had been kidnapped in Port harcourt while she was being taken to school. WHAT!!! I couldn't believe that she was kidnapped by militants while the car was in a traffic jam. The fact that PH city(where I live) is this unsafe scares the shit out of me. Last year my dad called to tell me that parts of shell camp (where I hung out sometimes) was bombed by militants. The question of how a little girl could be kidnapped in broad day light, and ransom is being requested, bothers me. Well, its Nigeria and we have a way of surviving this things. Yes, God protect my family,when they are in PH.

Banky--Ebute Metta- Umbrella Naija Remix

2007-07-04T15:22:00.001-02:30

I heard this and I think it sounds good and funny...ebute metta metta...lol..sampling rihanna's umbrella

K....NOW I'M STUCK

2007-07-04T15:03:00.000-02:30

Why Me!!!!I decide to plan my summer and all plans go bad. My friend who is supposed to take me in Toronto suddenly refuses. It isn't really her fault, since, her family is going through stress presently. Parents divorce and stuff like that. So, I don't have any place to stay. I'm seriously thinking of other options, and the hotels are fuckin(mind my yoruba) expensive. Oh so much for hanging out with my blogger buddies who live in TDOT. All the same, I have no other option but to head to Winnipeg. The annoying part is that I'll have to pay connecting flight to Toronto (scream!!!!)., without seeing around (middle finger to air canada). Hope my summer doesn't turn sour.

BEST NAIJA MUSIC VIDEOS

2007-06-30T05:43:00.000-02:30

Okay, I tried posting clips from the BET awards, but the videos were not showing for some reason. Since I now know how to post videos from youtube and other sources(so easy all along), I have decided to post a compilation of the best naija music videos(in my opinion). And I'm sorry chicala and y'all who couldn't view the clips. Yeah, could you guys comment on this post.

Fight to win

2007-06-30T05:41:00.003-02:30

Femi kuti the undisputed speaker of the people(hmmmn) and the flag bearer of nigerian music has fought to win the spot of no 1 video. It's a classic video which I can show to anyone

cRY by Modenine

2007-06-30T05:41:00.001-02:30

This video tells the saddening story of the song. It's well put together and has an international appeal

Weird MC - Ijoya

2007-06-30T05:31:00.001-02:30

Wierd MC makes animation lool cool and hip in this video. Ijoya awan lan ni joya lol

Why me - Dbanj

2007-06-30T05:06:00.001-02:30

What will a video chart be without the very enigmatic d banj. The Koko master and his crew did a good job in this video.

olori oko - infinity

2007-06-30T05:03:00.001-02:30

I remember when I was about to leave Naija, and this video came out. It's not a very sharp or cutting edge video. But, the sound and the ethnicity of the video makes it smashing

Forever

2007-06-29T23:52:00.001-02:30

tight video no doubt, and the video tech. used is advanced

Never Far Away

2007-06-29T23:48:00.001-02:30

This video is on point. The location Abeokuta is jaw dropping with the vivid colours. The vocals from Ego matches with sharpness of this video. It's a clear example of fusing Nigerian culture with western culture.

p-square temptation

2007-06-29T23:46:00.001-02:30

This video is a cool video,that personifies p square and their sampling antics. Still, it's cool to watch.

STYL PLUS- OLUFUNMI (Nigerian Music)

2007-06-29T23:43:00.001-02:30

When I saw this video and heard the song, I felt naija music was changing for the better. And it's videos like this took the bar higher for the Naija music scene.

2FACE : African Queen

2007-06-29T23:40:00.001-02:30

This video which is quite unrecent and not so technologically advanced looks crisp and will meet any standard whether mtv or soundcity. And not forgetting, its african queen awesome song (mtv music video award...tired of hearing this though)

Lee lee

2007-06-29T23:37:00.001-02:30

When Abiku met Zeus

2007-06-25T20:59:00.000-02:30

Ok, I'm going to be jobless through out this week. I don't have anything to do, just been chillin in my room all day. So, I decided to post the peom I read out during a short story and peoetry reading event. I got the inspiration thinking about Nigeria, and how we would be, if we fused our Nigerian values with western values. It's unarguable that the world is now controlled by the West. The world now runs in a system that is western oriented. You cannot achieve most goals, until you have gone through the system. You have to go through western styled education, gather knowledge on innovations and so on. Nigeria has values which I believe are great, and values can also be borrowed from the west that will be beneficial to Nigeria. Hence, I used Abiku(goddess or spirits known for preying on children if not appeased) to represent nigerian values, and Zeus (mythical greek god, leader of Mount Olympus) to represent western values.

When Abiku met Zeus

The brown grass shriveled in fear as her feet thumped on it
It has lost its essence. Its greenness is now hidden in the dry and grey pelt of pain
Her eyes roll in pride as she is oblivious to the curse she leaves behind
Even the cold and skin sucking wind becomes a storm on trying to caress her legs
Legs longer and straighter than the stream that meanders through our homeland, move in unison to the clump of her hair bundled like compressed black wool.
The sounds of the bronze anklets precariously tied to her ankles and the sobs of the children
Serve as music that inspire her rhythmic moves
Yes, her hips sway moving to the strands of coral beads
Picked from the shores of the sea, where childrens’ tears flow
Yet, her eyes do not loose focus of staring at her reflection on the scarlet sea
Taking glances at the tear impregnated eyes of the children
Leaving a quick impression of captivity in their heads.
"This is our chance" won’t even trickle out from the splintered lips of the children
Their mothers will stand helpless behind the mahogany tree
Even their fathers will be held still, as their spears get blunted by Abiku’s palms
Their gun powder will not burn to propel the wooden sticks that mere mortals dread
They should have known better.
The trees were wiser as they let their branches sway to Abiku’s call
The sea had foresight, as to pour libations at the feet of Abiku
The sea even cast its harvest of fingerlings
Abiku dances casting pain at the enlarged belly’s of the mothers
Waiting patiently for their unborn,
The mothers tighten their hands to their talismans, reciting their prayers
Still dreading the inevitable.
The sound echoes through the dark walls of the chambers
Pillars that hold the slate roof tremble
The foundation lying majestically on the smoky and fluffy clouds
shake as it tries to call out Zeus’s name.
His roar conquers all ears that fail to be covered
His horses pace swiftly, trying to lessen the pain from Zeus’s whip
The steel wheels held to the chariots sculptured by Persian gods
Move over huge clumps of cloud that pass for rocks
His voice startles the eagles that have come to revere him
Thunder bolts tear through the clouds as he roars in anger
All who have failed him are now stemmed to ground as they are lifeless
Like the rocky facade they now possess
Yet, she failed him, The thought intesifies his anger
His eyes gleam in red as he hurries to the traitor who dare defies his wife
His hay-like silver hair shines through the paths that have been darkened
By the ashes from the thunder bolts
The sun starved roses that now creep around Mount Olympus,
Twirl in pity for the traitor
But, Zeus rides ahead, with revenge in his eyes
Soon the wrath of his anger shall befall he that deserves it,
The smell of the traitor clings his nose.
The deed shall soon be done
Suddenly, the rattling of the anklet
The clapping of flesh and singing of beads draw his ears.
He halts, bringing the horses to a rest
He peers through the shrubs on the mahagony tree
Surprise sculpts the face anger had tampered with
Her coal black skin that glimmered, stole his eyes
Beauty like this had eluded him through out his timeless existence
He leaps off his chariot still not seizing her attention
He held her hands and she turned to him, not even venerating his presence
She breaks loose from his hands, and disappears into the woods
He chases her leaving all behind
Finally, he grabbed her and she submits to his powers
A union they formed as they vanished from all of existence

I was watching videos on youtube and came across these short films. I guess they were shown on mnet, and I found them quite interesting and real.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=2LlrHpiPZn4

http://youtube.com/watch?v=lYa2PS1itIo

Sneak preview 4

2007-06-21T21:06:00.000-02:30

My week has come and gone so fast. Did well in my exam, with an A. Relieved I did well. Today was quite exciting. I went hiking for the first time. Honestly, I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know if it was going to be boring or hectic. But, on getting there, it was cool. Felt like I was on survivor or even ultimate search. The hiking was organized by the outdoor group. We were not so many who went summer, guess everyone wants to chill in their house. I made sure I had y sandwich, water, pop, choc bar for hunger. The journey to the cove took about 1 and half hours. As soon, as we arrived cedar cove, the view was already beautiful. The atlantic ocean chanelled through mountains. It was beautiful. The hiking started proper when we all had to climd a fairly easy hill. We then walked through a trail. It wasn't all that exciting, until we got to this spot that had a lake and the atlantic ocean. It was beautiful!!!!. The atlantic channelled through massive rocks and the shores had little rocks that were visible through the clear and transparent sea. We all ate lunch on the rocks, and I daered myself to walk in the water even on hearing that it sometimes is shark infested and freezing. But what the hell, few minutes in the water won't give me hypothermia. I stepped my feet in the freezing water, while the other guys watched me probably thinkin wat this black guy from nigeria is doing. But all the same, I came out alive and we decided to climb the rocky hill. Lucky enough, the hills, had trees and shrubs on it, to make climbing easy. After hiking on the mountain for up to an hour, due to different breaks, thank to the girl who kept getting exhausted. On getting to the top, I had the feeling that everything was worth it. I felt like I was in a scene from lord of the rings. The view of the atlantic from the mountain which was about 4000m from the ground was breathtaking. And a movie was shot in this location starring Jim Caviezel http: outlander . The interaction while hiking was fun also. Especially, with this hilarious guy and chick. The hilariousness starts when she starts talking about a show on discovery about the 40(i think) sex accidents. First, was a man caught humping his old vacuum cleaner and had his jnr cut. Then, this guy caught humping a donkey and got kicked by the animal, and the perverted guy who let a horse hump and got his insides destroyed. And the organiser of the event had this funny name Rich HARD Butt. u but it wasn't spelt like this o!!!. This girl made fun of him for having a name like dick butt. I didn't get the joke until I called out Rich HARD. LOL. Anyway, hiking was great and an unforgettable experience for me. The next day, I performed my peotry and short story at an event. It was okay, but expected better.

Sneak Preview

2007-06-18T13:24:00.000-02:30

WOOHOOO: Exams are over and I'm excited about that. No more studying, at least till september. My exam was good anyway. Can't wait to see my result. Now I'm wondering what to do through out my summer. I'm planning on going to Toronto, that's if all goes well. Probably going to chill there for some few weeks. I wish I knew alot of Nigerians there. Anyway, I'll see how everything goes.

Here is news on Nigeria

Omg, I can't believe this road is still in a terrible state. When my parents are being tight fisted, and don't agree to pay my flight ticket. I usually don't have any option but to jump into Abc. A journey that is just 6 hours takes up to 12 hours. And this happened like last year. So Obassonjo and his cohorts didn't do anything about the bad state of roads. But he was quick to increase fuel price.

Read in one of the Nigerian newspaper website that during Obassonjo's tenure, comedians were asked not to make jokes on the president. Here is a funny clip http://youtube.com/watch?v=r6io2A5rTC4&mode=related&search=I read that the SSS contacted Opa Williams the guy in charge of nite of a thousand laugh warning him of comedians making fun of the president. Nawa O! Where is the freedom of speech. Certainly, I know this isn't libel or slander. Where is it, that you can't make unharmful fun of the president. Here is president Bush being made fun right in front of him http://youtube.com/watch?v=X-oMlBSiX3g&mode=related&search=.

The 2nd edition of the Thisday music festival is holding this year in Lagos. It's going to be held in a 15,000 seater venue. Artists like Shakira (ye!! why am i not there), John legend(cool) UB 40 ( who are they), P square, 2 Face(notin dey happen), asa(really want to see her perform), and a bunch of other artists are set to be on stage.

Here is an interview of p square in Thisday newspaper.

It’s interesting how far you guys have come; do you have to pinch yourselves sometimes? Paul: Yeah we do. But everything is too fast. Sometimes successes like ours takes a long time to happen, ‘it happens gradually.’ In our case, it’s totally different, everything is happening with speed. Each week we travel to like three countries; it’s amazing, it’s something that should happen but it’s happening fast. Too fast.Peter: We expected it to take longer, but it’s all so fast. We go to a country, and we’re like no, this can’t be happening, the name PSquare is heavier than we are. At times we wonder if we’re the ones called PSquare. It’s amazing how far our songs have gone. In Sierra Leone we had 68,000 full capacity stadium.Many people want to take the credit for discovering you, who would you say gave you your breakthrough?Howie T. He discovered PSquare. He did a lot for us. He discovered us. A lot of people saw us, and left us, we can’t deny the fact that he helped us a lot. He saw us and liked us ...we never knew anyone, he heard our song, it doesn’t take him up to a minute to know if you’re good. Then of course, our family members.What if you didn’t make it in music, what was the back-up plan?Peter: Football. We were supposed to be footballers. We used to play football. Paul was a goalkeeper. We were in the same team (Pepsi junior team) with Mikel Obi. Football was our back up. We don’t play football anymore, if we play football, we can’t dance as easily as we dance because of injuries and all that.What would you say has brought you this far, is it talent, good luck or hard work?Hard work! That’s the simple answer. The talent has been there. The thing is if you have talent and you don’t work on it, you lose it. The luck was there too. But what worked for us is hard work. In our videos and songs, we always try to bring out our best. People say we do everything ourselves. Why not? We believe we can do it ourselves and we always come out with the best.Do you still hear people complaining about your interpolations?Peter: They used to but no more. They are now convinced that we are here to stay. They say we’re sampling and we’re still selling records. Everyone samples. Even P Diddy, R Kelly. We used to hear that before but not anymore. People like what we bring out. That’s the most important thing. So, at the end it’s about doing what you do well.And then, to think that they compare you guys with Usher!Peter: That question is for me. People say I look more like Usher. They want to say we are copying Usher because we look like him and we dance like him too. But there are dancers all over the world. They don’t say they’re copying anyone. Who’s Chris Brown copying? Who’s MC Hammer copying? We’ve just kept our fingers crossed because even when we travel abroad, they still say we look like usher.From ‘Temptation’ to ‘Senorita, ‘Best Friend’ and ‘Last Nite, you talk about romantic experiences are any of these personal?Paul: most of them are personal. Sometimes in relationships,... When we started, like me, I was dating a girl and music was rough then, she left and when things were ok, she wanted to come back. And then we started seeing other girls. Temptation will come because of the nature of our work. As an entertainer, you’ll see girls all around and you’ll be tempted.Peter: In every song we do, you’ll see about 25 to 30 percent of what has happened.But Peter, you’re in a serious relationship, how’s it like being in love?I will say having a relationship doesn’t stop anyone from being with me, playing with me, talking with me. I’m involved with someone who knows showbiz. If the person I’m dating doesn’t like it then there’s no point being with me. There are a lot of distractions but my music comes first. My career is No 1. My relationship doesn’t prevent me from being with my fans. I’m not married. I’m still single. The fact that I’m with someone doesn’t mean I’m married, I’m still very single.Are your folks okay with your dating a Yoruba girl?Of course my parents don’t have any problems with that. I can marry anyone I like. I can marry a Muslim tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. It’s my own choice. We made up our mind to be musicians and we are successful. So any other thing we make up our mind to do, it’ll be okay with them.Is marriage on the cards?No, not yet. We’re still young. We’re going to be 27, so marriage is not on the cards for now. It’s not even close because, I don’t think I want to get married now. It’ll make us lose 50 percent of our female fans. Even in five years. I’m not thinking about that yet.Do you see marriage breaking you up?Paul: It’s very possible. Maybe someone like me. I may decide to get married just because I think I’ve seen life, then I settle down to avoid some temptations. By doing that it’ll definitely affect the music. How you relate to people, if you look at most of our colleagues that are married, they’re different.Peter: If we get married now, it can bring some kind of confusion to us. We may have to be at the airport, he might say his wife is sick, or he has to see his son, if one is married, they’ll say the person is a snob. It will bring a lot of misunderstanding. That’s why we’re not thinking about it right now.You think nothing can come between both of you that to separate you?Paul: We’re not God, we can not predict’ even though there’s going to be anything, it’s going to be an understanding, we’re equal partners and we’re twin brothers.But you find cause to quarrel, don’t you?Peter: We argue, we fight, but it makes us better. Arguments bring better songs, better videos. We are humans. I remember when we were recording ‘Get Squared’ we quarrelled for over three months. We were living in the same house, and we didn’t talk. I didn’t like ‘Bizzy Body,’ Paul didn’t like ‘Get Squared.’ And those two songs blew us up.What happens when you quarrel over some things, who has the final say?Peter: I give Paul more respect when it comes to studio production and when we are working on a song. But when it comes to stage craft, he leaves it to me. Musically, Paul handles 60, I handle 40. But on stage, I handle 60 while he handles 40. And at times, our manager, Jude steps in.Paul, looking at Lola Omotayo and Peter, do you at times feel left out? Or you have a partner we don’t know about?I don’t see it that way. It’s a normal thing. I don’t feel somehow about it. The person I’m dating, we go out together when she’s around. It’s the same thing, unless you’ve never seen me with my girlfriend... I’m not that outgoing, I’m an indoor person.So tell me about your girlfriend?She’s a great person. She understands the difference between Paul and Psquare, and at times she doesn’t. We met when I was about to graduate from the University. Her name is Anita. She’s so beautiful. You know I won’t go out with someone that’s not beautiful. And because I’m not outgoing person, most people don’t know herIs PSquare getting married on the same day?Paul: I don’t like it. We are different people. If we do it, it’s just for the public. Even dressing the same, I do not like it, there should still be individuality.By the way, who gets the most attention from the ladies?Peter: For me, I get more attention because I’m a very crazy person. There’s no time I perform that I don’t take off my shirt. When people talk about PSquare, they talk more about Peter. I kiss ladies when I’m on stage, I love playing with people, so I get more attention because I give freely. During one show, I pulled out my jeans and gave it out, it was crazy. The love they showed me was too much. A guy was crying that I must give him something, so I gave him my jeans and ran backstage with my boxers, before then I had given them my earrings, my necklace, everything.Paul: It depends on the ladies. Some of the girls are crazy about the rough guy. They say I’m the quiet guy. Fans are crazy, so they believe its Peter. But when they come closer they believe I’m the right person. Peter gives great vibe. But when they come closer, they find out it’s me.Has there ever been a time when you both had to compete for a particular girl?Peter: There’s never been a time like that. We’ve never had any argument on a particular girl. We don’t do that. Maybe one way or the other we find out that a girl walks up to us... about 65percent of the girls we know walk up to us.How do they even know who’s who? Most people can’t differentiate you?Paul: They know now. Then, they didn’t know because we used to have the same shape, but now, Peter is built so they know. I want my people to love the real me and not what I’ve formed myself to be. That’s why I do not gym. I love when people scream at Snoop more than when they scream at Usher.’ Snoop, why would a lady like him? It’s only for the music, not that he’s fine, or sexy' I want to be loved for my music, if I had a way to look uglier I would do it.Peter: They know the difference now. I used to braid my hair and he had low cut.Tell me the truth, growing up, did you guys ever think you were going to be such big stars? Was it something you thought about?Paul: Personally I always knew. I knew something was going to make us great. It could be music, or football, or anything we’ll do that will be popular even if not me. When I was younger I loved creating things, but all of a sudden those things were fading away. I realised that the product and the person have to be popular.Peter: Yeah we knew. Even when we were little, we started selling some of our stuff just to be in entertainment. We once sold our Xmas clothes to buy a radio, or exchange some of our things for music gadgets when we were as young as 14. Up till now, we risk everything we have for music.Didn’t your parents try to discourage you from doing music, especially since your elder brother Jude, had failed to make in with music?Paul: Using Jude’s example, he was doing music, but no one supported him. He thought maybe what happened to him was going to happen to us, but we were stubborn. Our parents said we should choose between music and school. Later, our dad stopped paying our fees in the University. Our mom was always there. At times she’ll get tired, she just wanted to see where it’ll all lead to... I’m happy she’s reaping the dividends now.And now that you’ve just invested a fortune in your family bakery, they’d surely be proud of you?Peter: They are really proud of us.Paul: They used to think musicians make money and chase girls but they see that we don’t want to go back to where they came from, we don’t want to go back to those days in Jos. It was rough. Hustling and gambling just to make money to eat and all that. We don’t want to go back to that kind of life. It was rough. We’ve invested in music and other areas that we can run back to even if music stops working.You reportedly bought some plots of land in Jos too... tell us about it?Paul: It’s in Port Harcourt. We finished a bakery; “Twins Bread.” We’re hoping to move to Abuja. The land in Anambra is there too but we’re looking at all that. We bought 20 plots of land in Jos. We donít even know what to do with it. It’s so large!And the ones in Lagos?Yeah! like our house in Lagos now.. It’s our property. It’s not easy to pay for a house like this automatically. Even if you are paying for it gradually, it’s yours already. We’ve got a plot of land in Lekki too. We’re just investing in these things.After all the hype and drama, a lot of stars are usually boring and lonely people, do you still keep in touch with your childhood friends?Paul: Yeah, we keep them all.Peter: We were in Jos last week and we invited everyone home to be with us, everyone.. We had a party in the hotel, when the bodyguards were pushing them, we were like no, these are our people, everyone... we were close to tears, even those that had problems we solved as much as we could, we did it and we were happy about it, we can’t solve all but it’s just to show how much we appreciate them.What fond memories of childhood do you have? How was it like growing up?Peter: Growing up was hell.Peter, there was this particular rock behind our house... we’ll climb the rock, sing and disturb everyone... then a woman used to sell “akara,” we’ll buy from her...we were doing that because someone said if we wanted to sing, you have to climb a very high place and sing so people can know you can sing.Peter: When we went home last week we went back to every where we grew up in. I remember growing up, my mom was a tailor and my pop was trying to run a bakery. It wasn’t easy.Now you’re working on a new album, do you think it’ll be better than ‘Get Squared’?Paul: There’s always fear that you can never do better than your best album... it’s like MJ doing better than Thriller... but we do not have any fear, we know people will just say: These boys again! It’s all about making people happy now, music that’ll make you happy.Peter: Our fans, those that love PSquare. Even those that do not like us, they’ll see that we’ve come to stay that we’re here to stay. We are bringing a serious revolution to the music industry, look at our house, someone came here and said, why are you guys always trying to show others how things should be done? We’re bringing out good music because we live in a comfortable environment.You sold your two cars to finance the first videos for “Get Squared’ what if the album had failed?Peter: If the album had failed I would have been somewhere hustling, trying to get myself back to football. Even my dad was like, ‘so you sold your cars because of video?’ But we did it, we knew what it meant, even after that. We took another risk when we were shooting Temptation...we emptied our account, we rented camera alone for £300 per day and we shot for two weeks, we paid for insurance... over £4000 it was a great risk, but we are happy it worked out.What are you thinking of selling now, to execute your new project, or you’ve saved up enough?We don’t have to sell anything now, we have everything we need, we can afford anything we want to do now... there’s a risk but we can afford the risk now, what we’re about to do will shock everyone, we have to do better than what we’ve done before.What’s the greatest thing about being twins?Peter: Twins always have luck... they’re always lucky... two different brains working together.And what are the downsides?If one is wicked or totally different from the others, like if one is a criminal, he can put the other person in trouble, if Peter is a bad person, they’ll always point fingers at Paul.You run your business as a family thing, your brother directs your videos... Another one makes your costumes, one manages you, what are the advantages?Peter: We’ve always worked with different people. They keep disappointing you... but working with your family... you work with one mind, knowing that if you fail, you fail the whole family, then they see you as younger ones, you can always rely on your brothers..And the disadvantages?Peter: When you have your senior one who is working for you, you try to talk to him. And you remember he’s your senior brother... you shouldn’t talk to him, that way, your manager does something wrong, you want to talk to him and you remember he's your elder brother.Your mother has a pastoral ministry?Paul: It’s all about healing and miracles... they see dreams, vision... she has an orphanage home, free people that are disabled and all that, whatever is happening to us today, she had seen the vision, we consult her before doing anything.Peter: She doesn’t mind that we do secular music, we believe in God... we pray always, it’s not wrong to do music, this is what God told us to do.Do you see yourselves taking up her work someday?If God says so. If it’s His will. But for now, we’re still doing what we do best.You make a lot of money, say the truth, when was the last time you paid tithe?Paul: This last Easter. I paid in Lagos and in Jos.Peter: Same thing. We do it for PSquare, we even do more than that. When we were in Ilupeju, there were kids that we were paying their school fees... their father rides an Okada... we bought it for him. We’ve taken up paying the kids’ fees even after secondary school. These are not Christians they are Moslems... About 12 of them. These are things we do for God more than paying tithe. We like to give back and pray that God remembers us for ‘not for putting off our clothes on stage.’ You felt very bad when you didn’t win the MOBO for best African act in 2006, do you really think you were cheated?Peter: We were cheated. We were used. Even at a point in that hall the person that won, let him come and play a show in Nigeria and let’s go and play a show in Ghana, even if it was Lebo that won, we wont mind, but not Batman, we were used, he had been in London before us, the whole thing was a set up.. But the best award one can win is the one from our country. Not the one outside... That’s why we cherish the hip hop world awards... It’s authentic, first and second year, not because we won, but it’s good when we won NMA again, even though we couldn’t go, it was great.And then you shunned MTV Europe Music Awards in Denmark, what were you protesting?Paul: Two things happened and we got the visa late and again when we were supposed to travel was when there was a plane crash, we got our visa and had to return the next day, if we had travelled that day, the weather was bad.. We just thought let’s not go again but the time was gone... we would have arrived the evening of the award, then we saw a mail they sent to the media suggesting that Freshlyground was going to win, so we were like, it’s not worth it, it was painful because we cancelled three concerts because of the awards.Your marketer TJOE keeps giving you brand new cars and SUVs’ what do you think he’ll give you next, a house?Paul: It’s possible. He has done a lot, people used to say a lot of things about him. But they’re wrong. Except he decides to disappoint us tomorrow. He’s been good to us and I believe we deserve it.

Taken from Thisday newspaper interview.

SNEAK PREVIEW 2

2007-06-12T10:47:00.000-02:30

This week has being going well so far, except that I'm pissed at myself for making silly mistakes in my test. In fact, I need to start working hard since my exam's on monday. I don't want to get a low score, since I'm trying to improve my gp. Oh my God! I'm sitting in my room wishing I could be in Toronto for the Nigerian canadian reunion. But, my exams fall close to the date. I have decided to stop blogging till next week, cos of my exams o!! Immediately my exam is finished, blogging starts full force. Anyway, I'm going to write about my weekend. I hang out with a bunch of people. But lately they've been cold to me. At first, I didn't get it. But when I went over to my friends" place on saturday, they gave me the low down of what was on their mind. Firstly, they talked about self respect which is very prominent in their culture here. I don't really mean dobaleing (prostrating lol) or greeting your elders, but just plain respecting other people's ideas, privacy and stuff like that. Ok, the player syndrome that is high in naija is detested here. Shocked and embarrased to know that guys could be called sluts here. They cautioned me on things they didn't fancy about me, and what they said really got to me. So I've decided to change some (not all) of my ways. Later guys..get back to you guys on Monday night...hopefully...WATCH OUT FOR PART 3

My night with David

2007-06-09T12:11:00.000-02:30

I was supposed to post this yester night, but just couldn't, went to this random party. Ok, before anyone starts putting ideas in their head. The title shouldn't be taken directly. I'm just trying to be an attention seeker . Wondering if anyone knows David Suzuki (writer, broadcaster, environmental activist). Anyway, you might have come in contact with any of his works if you study in Canada. Well, it was an honour to listen to the 4th most important person in Canada speak. The guy was 71, and was still very active. The night which I expected to be filled with environmental talk, was exciting. I expected to hear about global warming, ozone depletion and stuff like that. But, I went to the centre where the show was being held. I got two free little tree plants, which I left at the ticket stand. Went into the very huge auditorium. I almost went 360 degrees round hoping to see anyone I know. Finally, I found someone I know. She was sitting with her friend. I was happy to see them, and she offered me to seat with them. I agreed to that and in a few minutes three girls walk up to the stage. They sang folk music which sounded like country(not a fan of that). After their rendition, a guy came out on stage. He talked about when he first met David Suzuki and how he was blown away by his speech. My friend and I went to the front seats so we could have a very good view. Then, David Suzuki smartly walks up to the stage. Everyone stood up to give him a standing ovation. He jokingly said that the audience shouldn't do that yet, but after his speech. He said he was going to talk more about his personal life, wich some people really didn't like. He started the speech by talking about his background living as a Canadian japanese boy with parents who were of Japanese descent but where born in Canada. He talked about the struggles they faced for not being white. They had to move from camps to another, lost their property, lived very poorly. Slides of his early life where shown. He made me laugh my head off when he told the joke of him reaching puberty. According to him he was so horny and wanted a girlfriend desperately. But, his father wanted him to get a Japanese girl, but David said there were only 10 Japanese girls in the camp and three were his sisters. His father recommended chinese, but David couln't get a Chinese girl. His fahter also recommended a Native American(red Indian) girl, but that couldn't work since the natives stayed in another reserve. His father told him to get a black girl then, but there was only one black girl, which David was sure didn't like him. Then his dad recommended a Jewish girl and didn't want any white english girl. But finally he got married to an asian woman (chinese I think). Soon, he "knocked her up"lol. He went on to talk about how he was an assistant professor and was so engrossed in his work, that his marriage crumbled. He shared complete custody of his children. After narrating on his family, he talked about his show "nature of things" . Also, he spoke on how he met his second wife. This time she was a white woman who made him make a good speech. After dating and everything, he got married to her. They both were actively involved in protesting against environmental degradation. They went to Brazil, where the natives were fighting against logging of the amazon trees. He narrated the story of how the natives had gathered to protest against logging and where told by the leader of the loggers that they were going to cut the trees and destroy their houses, but money would be given to them. One of the protesters who was native on hearing this, rebuked the native men as not being warriors they claim they were. She was so angry that she slapped the leader with a machet. The soldiers who were there suddenly corked their guns and aimed at everyone. David Suzuki said he was extremely petrified. After all the fiasco, the native people won and the trees which existed even before Columbus arrived the new world were saved. The woman in particular was wanted and was going to be killed. And it wasn't an issue to kill a native Indian in Brazil at that time. After much delibrations by David Suzuki and his crew, the woman and her children were takken to Canada, where they were promised that a plane will be hired to take them back to their home. The native woman and David Suzuki's family formed a bond together. It was the relationship between these families that inspired David Suzuki's daughter to set up a foundation called ECO (environmental childrens association). Severn Suzuki, David's daughter, through her foundation raised 14,000$ and these were just 13-14 year old children. Here is a clip on her speech in rio de janerio http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g8cmWZOX8Q . It was very thought provoking. David Suzuki's speech was hilarious, yet, he spoke about his personal life infusing it with issues on the environment.

in the hippie phase of his life. lol GUYS LEAVE YOUR COMMENTS. ANY

Sneak Preview

2007-06-01T15:21:00.000-02:30

I never thought I'll be sharing my personal life to other bloggers. But, I am kind off becoming more comfortable to share things happening to me. I'm sitting in my little office(first job) and surprisingly jobless. But that doesn't matter, as long as I get paid my $7.50 per hour. The muscles in my arms are in excruciating pain. I guess this is what I get for trying to attain a fit physique. If you know me, I might be the skiniest person you've ever met in your life that eats 4 times a day. To worsen matters, I consume processed food and typical western fat-filled diets. Yet, I am still this scrunny dude. I am now on a quest to gain weight and mass. I spent $20 just for a small sized protein shake and increased the amount of money I spend on groceries. Those things taste good anyway. And for the first time in my life, I did 20 "real" sit ups. The muscles in my arms and arm pit are aching. The problem is that I haven't even started yet. I have to go to the gym tonight. Just can't imagine the pain I'm going to face. Anyway. it's all good, afterall, no pain no gain. I'm just doing this to get a new image for the next semester. So all these white chicks will know the big stereotype black guy just stepped in. At least, I don't have to give the impression that I'm like this, because, I come from malnourished Nigeria.

In a 100 years

2007-05-30T13:34:00.000-02:30

Now we have a new president,Pres. Umaru Musa Yar'Adua, . This is just a relief that at least we have democracy to an extent in Nigeria. I was reding the guys credentials, and it looked like he is an intelligent and experienced man. At least, he didn't serve in the military for anytime of his life. Its so typical now for most Nigerian leaders to establish facilities as soon as they arrive into government. President(former) Obassanjo on entering into power developed telecommunications( Good work) and life in Nigeria became more free, and people were more outspoken (JUST A LITTLE). Even, the governor of Rivers State Odili put in place free school bus schemes, which after a few years of his tenure none were seen again. He also constructed traffic lights and a major bridge. There are still other cases of government officials who establish positive things in their first year in office. Sometimes, I wonder if this country is developing at this rate, it might take us a 100 years to finally reach a developed stage, by this time the west and the rest of the world would have been a century ahead of us. Who knows Yar'dua might improve electricity supply in Nigeria (ohh love for that to happen). And maybe change our anthem.

IDOLS WEST AFRICA: Inspiring

2007-05-28T13:20:00.000-02:30

Though, I haven't been able to watch the full show on tv, cos I'm not in Nigeria right now, I am still impressed by what I have seen so far. I have seen clips of idols wa on youtube and the website http://www.mnetafrica.com/idols. At first I was disappointed with "The spectacular", because I expected something bigger and better. But the talent and personalities of the contestanrs have been able to carry the show. I also have to admit that I was captivated by Timi's heart felt and powerful performances. And I think that if he is managed and packaged very well, he could be the next Seal. Also, watching him been announced as the winner was inspiring. Even showing the transformation of his very dull and poor looking face to this very bright performer was on itself inspiring. From the show, I gathered he didn't come from a very priviledged home, yet, he has so much talent. This just reveals to us the amount of talented and young Nigerians we have in our society today. Imagine if there was no Idol WA, he'd just be in Bayelsa, and probably his talent would have gone to waste. I really do hope shows like this and other youth empowering shows come up. Less I forget, hope he does get the sony bmg contract and these Mnet people shouldn't repeat what happened to Dare on Timi.

FIGHT THE POWER

2007-05-25T20:12:00.000-02:30

This statement, I guess, brings memories to those who loved rap music during the 80s-90s. "Fight the power" which are the words of the rap group public enemy. In every society, there is injustice, corruption, abuse of power and so on. But there are people (who I call martyrs), that stand up to protest and fight against these vices, even in the midst of opposition and oppression. We have had a couple of these enigmatic and charismatic individuals who have stood up against our very notorious government. However, my point here is the way we as Nigerians treat these fighters. The Nigerian culture always celebrates the rich rather than the worthy. Also, we have the attitude of always accepting everything that comes our way, without objecting. The truth in the words of Fela Anikulapo Kuti "I no won die, ...I don build our, I never build house". We don't have the attitude of fighting for what we believe in. To make matters worse, we sometimes see people that oppose wrong doings as being foolish or simply "ode". Also, we do not honour these individuals that have fought, not to mention continue their legacies.

Here are some individuals through out Nigerian history that have stood their gorund for the cause they believe in.

Definitely, he has be a top gun in this group. Although, he was a radical pan africanist, he spoke and sang against corruption and westernization of the Nigerian society. Even in the face of oppression from the government, he still persisted in his beliefs and spread the gospel of Fela Anikulapo Kuti.

Thank God for him, at least we have people to brag about on how intelligent Nigerians are. He is the first African to be awarded a Nobel prize. As we all know he is the excellent playwright, poet, that also spoke against the Biafran war and recommended peace between the two warring parties. He was arrested under the Yakubu government.

He is one of the few activist in Nigeria that I was familiar with, since I was a kid when he was in active duty. Since, I lived in Port harcourt, his name resounded during the Abacha era and in my house. He was an environmentalist, television producer, and author who was against the destruction and deprivation of the Ogoni land due to the oil exploration. He was executed under the Abacha government.

Chief Obafemi Awolowo who I must mention is from Ikenne Ogun State( where I am from), lead the action group. He believed in Nigeria's independence and nationalism.

Not forgetting greats like Nnamdi Azikiwe, Dele Giwa and so on who opened their voices, so that things could change positivelhy for the Nigerian society. The one way we can repay these people is continue their legacy.

The voyeurs in our midst

2007-05-21T22:11:00.000-02:30

I really am now fond of blogging. It's sort of a diary for me. When I was in London last year, I was inspired by the numerous cameras and cctvs that were in almost every public place. Although, these cameras are highly efficient in creating a crime free society, I just thought of an extreme case. An extreme case, where the world governments have complete access to the life of all its citizens, through cameras and cctvs. I used Nigeria as my focal point. It's also lon, but read and leave your comment.

Oju

I could swear someone was behind that wall, piercing me with his eyes. The wind isn’t blowing

the way it is supposed to. Someone is interfering with it. I know that I am not seeing things, when

I see a silhouette cast on the steel ceilings. It is fleeting and acting like a shy bride that is meeting

her groom for the first time. But, don’t be fooled by that calm face and subdued eyes, those

talons strike like hunger.

“When will you stop staring at that cameras” Tolu burst out. I knew she was

disgusted by my loss of focus. She was whispering to me on her ravings on the

government. She spoke in a manner that I only heard her. No one certainly wanted those

venomous chameleons to hear us. Yet, Tolu told me, how she wished she could see a

butterfly again. She holds me close to her, tears trapped in her in sullen eyes. I knew what

she was thinking. She wished she could see our father again. I close my eyes; I sure did

not want everyone to see me cry. Not here! Certainly not in this ravenous gathering.

Those beasties are still staring at me, watching my every move. I certainly will not give

them the pleasure of seeing me cry. “We are on our own now” Tolu says. I nod my head

in agreement. It is funny how time can be so cruel. One minute I am sitting in the park

playing catch with my father and sister, the next two years I am here in this camp with

my sister. It never was really good anyway. But, it was far better than this. At least, I

could go anywhere, without being chased by these voyeuristic chameleons. My father

would open the newspapers, and rave all he wanted, but now, Tolu can’t rave openly

from newspapers. There are no newspapers, those things are constitutions. There’s no

freedom here, neither is there west. They came like wind and we all danced to their tune

like branches sway to spring breeze. “How did all these happen?” Tolu whispers

covering her mouth. I look at her with an empty face. She isn’t surprised either, she just

pats my head. I know we were all too greedy to see. That life was too perfect to refuse, at

least by our standards. No work, no struggle, we all lay on our backs. We were fed like

dogs owned by the elites. We were all blind to see what would befall us. Those

chameleons placed fear in our food. By this time it was too late, they were masters, and

we were slaves.

The chimes moan, as we all sit, expecting supper. We are all having soup. I know

that. In fact, that is what we have the days the chime rings thrice. The older people are

resting their backs to the walls. Their eye bags impregnated with grief. One would expect

that their skins would have gotten stuck to the walls. They stayed there all day. Even after

Tolu had come back from tilling the field with other adolescents, she still saw them there.

When I come back from the concentration schools, I still met them there. I guess that is

why they are tagged “reliant”, while Tolu and the rest “tiller”. Tolu hated to till the fields.

She would whisper to me, on how there is so much from the fields, but little for us to eat.

We all queued as soup was served.. I really didn’t know if it was tomato or mushroom

soup, it was just soup. I sipped the soup, not expecting my tongue to wallow in sinful

pleasures. This days,my stomach is of higher priority than my tongue. Tolu didn’t look

up, she kept gulping the soup. One of the older men stared into my eyes, while sipping

his soup. He didn’t look at his hands. He really didn’t need to look to steer his spoon, the

soup was cold. He looked at me and then stared at the cameras. “Oju” he blurted. He

looked down into his soup, like he was expecting a chunk of meat. He raised his head to
me and said “the eyes have ears”. After lunch, the chameleons took him. The executioner was sure to have a thrill tonight

DID YOU KNOW!!!

2007-05-18T12:31:00.000-02:30

Apart from blogging, I enjoy writing. Since I was 7-9, and I saw the Alaadin movie, I grew an interest in writing. I write short stories, poems, books(that haven't been published yet). Everyday I wake up in the morning, thoughts and ideas come into my head. I can't go talking to people about these. "Abi were ni bobo yi" (mind my yoruba)will be in everyone's mouth.But writing is the only way for me to share my imaginations and ideas. This is a SHORT STORY I read during the April rabbit poetry and short story reading event. I know it's kinda long, but just read through. I tried picturing the scenario of a woman running with her child away from an abusive marriage and the biafran war.

OMO

The night was drawing near. Its arms were soon going to embrace mother earth. Even the sun was no where to be seen. "This is our chance" she kept whispering to her baby. The faith she had was too strong that she spoke to a baby who was not only deaf from his inexperience with words, but also from the horrific sounds of war. Her legs kept swaying but her head had no idea of its destination. The baby fastened to her back was a burden. But, she cared less. After all, she was running for him. She was tired of that place. It wasn’t home any longer. The thought of her choice kept ringing in her ears. The thoughts clogged her ears, that she failed to hear the voice of the incoming mob. They were furious, each with eyes stinging with hate. They held their batons and spiked edged clubs ready to devour. She stood under the frangipani tree, watching the scarred chested men. Her face had no expression, it was vague. Even her eyes were lax in unconcern. She wasn’t moved my their masked expressions of hate. She had seen it all before. They yelled at her swinging their clubs and batons near her. She didn’t utter any word. Then, a man walked out amidst the crowd. He was stern looking with a tribal marked that traveled from the ridge of his nose to his jaws. He walked towards her with his face focused on her baby. She saw this and turned her back, so her baby wouldn’t see his face. He sensed this and smiled briefly. He surveyed her body like she was a map work. He walked around her mimicking the oblivious mosquito that spun around her baby’s head. She wasn’t a beauty, certainly, if he was to judge from now. But, he had so much experience with women as to see that she once possessed a striking beauty. Her sullen eyes and ridged lips could already tell her story. "Woman, where are you coming from and where’s your husband"he asked. She didn’t utter any word, neither did she look at him. She just kept staring at the red ground. The mobsters wondered what sort of woman wouldn’t reply their leader. "Aren’t you afraid" one of them yelled. She still didn’t answer. Her silence was too piercing for him to bear. She made him look too stupid for a man. Suddenly, he raged at her, grabbing her baby by his neck. She yelled and pushed herself from his grasp. The wrapper she used in fastening her baby to herself, flew off her dead breast.Her eyes were suddenly filled with tear soaked rage. She threw herself into red ground with her arms wrapped around her baby. The man stood watching her with shock and a masked pity. He swallowed very discreetly a lump of saliva . He didn’t utter any word but wondered what pain would befall a woman, for her to act in such a manner. The background noise from the mobsters rioted with the pity he had for this woman. He turned to them and yelled for them to be quiet. They suddenly stopped barking. He held his hands towards her. She didn’t move. He smiled at her in a peaceful way, revealing a set of tainted white and chipped teeth. She took his hands and he raised her up. The baby cried as the man tried to hold his arms. He was used to weeping at the sight of men. This was no different.

As she sat facing the burning and chattering fire wood, she wondered who the mobsters were. They were probably the freedom fighters who fought against the chameleons. The night had finally come. Its scintillating yet conniving arms swept through her skin, as she shielded it from her baby. It reminded her that she couldn’t stay in the same spot. The chameleons would get her. She had to keep on running.

I'm being read

2007-05-18T12:25:00.000-02:30

I didn't know my blog was being read. That's exciting to know. WOW!!! I guess I'll have to improve and update my blog. I really do find blogging an effective way for me to express my self and opinions. Afterall, I'm not a talk show host like Funmi Iyanda or a singer like tu face and not yet a writer like Chimamanda Adichie. But, blogging can be really tasking, especially when you're a student. Notwithstanding, I still enjoy it.I'm going to try my best to blog my opinions and rioting thoughts as much as possible.

BEST NIGERIAN MUSIC VIDEOS

2007-05-16T12:30:00.000-02:30

Hardly, do you find good Nigerian music videos that meet up to international standards. Reasons such as funding, lack of right equipments have lead to production of very poor videos. But, there are still some very memorable music videos that can be classified as good. Though, these videos are not awesome in their use of technology, but the artiste have been able to use the little they have to make good videos.

When it had become the numb for Nigerian videos to be void of graphics, styl-plus changed the scene. Prior to this, most videos were with people singing in front of the beach, village setting and stuff like that. But the Olufunmi video changed the way music videos were made

NIGERIAN ENTERTAINMENT

2007-05-14T22:44:00.000-02:30

Firstly, I'll like to recognise the fact that entertainment in Nigeria, has come a long way. One can now survive on Nigerian entertainment. I'd also like to start with the Nigerian music scene. Without any doubt, Nigerian music is now at an appreciable level. A few years back, most people would rather listen to foreign music. But these days, Nigerian music is the "bomb". This is as a result of the fusion of western style of music with indigenuous Nigerian rhythm, sound, language and so on. I guess we have all been influenced by western culture, that we prefer to listen to music like that only with some Nigerian spice.

Can't blame us, even in China and Japan, music is becoming more westernized.

Thanks to good Nigerian music that fostered the production of other good songs. Eg: Plantashun boys: brought rhythm and r n b into nigerian music scene...styl-plus -adding smooth r n b with nigerian language, who knew that could sound so good..p square-even if they are guilty for sampling other people's works without permission, they definitely deserve an appplause for fusing dance and hot steps into nigerian music. Lagbaja-for also making fela kinda music sound funkier and jolly. Kush for taking the bar higher. Femi kuti-big ups for making nigerian music international. As for videos, we are yet to make good videos to good standards, but we have to give it up to a few people.

Not forgeting those Nigerians in diaspora that are into music . Its cool to know they are infusing their Nigerian roots into their music.

Here are some artist.

Though, Nigerian music is blossoming, there is still a long way to go.

Nayo- has a soothing and mesmerizing voice n she's beautiful

visit her on www.myspace.com/nayo or www.nayomusic.com

He raps really gud. Love the lyric "put by zoom zoom in your boom boom" from collabo with p square.

Visit his myspace on

Don't expect me to show sade or seal, cos I have not heard or seen this people come out to identify themselves with Nigeria.

These eyes sure do say alot!!

2007-04-30T00:50:00.000-02:30

Yeah, your eyes are certainly not decieving you. That is the view of Port harcourt from one of these creepy satellites( Thanks to google earth). I was so excited to spot my house. It brought back so many memories of my life in Nigeria. Looking at this picture, made me giggle. The contrast between the shell staff residential area and the surroundings is extremely obvious. While, the former looks like a very leafy surburb, the latter comprises of buildings arranged in a very disoderly manner(entropy..lol). Though, I do not stay in the "surburb", I am very familiar with the place, as I have access to it. However, my house is very close to it. It was also amazing to note the dark red and rusty zinc cielings that paraded most of ph, and the very few light blue, pink, green,ash, and white cielings. Definitely, we all know the difference in the classes of people that stay in these areas. This reminds me of what I saw on the news about Nigerian. It claims that most of the wealth of the nation lies in 10 percent of its population. Evidently, this picture states that. Somehow, I agree with the claim, but i'll be satisfied it were raised to 20 %.

A world apart

2007-04-27T02:45:00.000-02:30

I just saw the movie "Blood diamond". A very good and educative movie. Also, Leonardo di Carprio did an excellent job. Not forgetting, Djimmon Hounsou who exuded every form of emotion. This movie which is filled with many thought provoking lines and dialogue, is an eye opener to the condition of Africa. The selfish demand for diamonds in the western world and even some parts of Africa has caused so muh anguish. This illegal trade has intensified wars in Liberia, Sierra Leone and so on. Thank God! we do not have diamonds in Nigeria. We cannot go on to blam e the west. Although, the consumerism lifestyle of the western world has lead to the deprivation of the rest of the world. I am also guilty of this. I am fortunate to be from a priviledged background, where I have access to basic amenities. I am currently schooling in Canada. Sometimes, I get a sense of guilt consuming so much here. The thought of those who do not have enough in Nigeria and the rest of Africa aches my heart. This all boils down to the fact that Africa is indeed separated from the world's wealth. The lifestyles of people are so different, that Africa is a world apart. Here, people have choices in their meals and every aspect of life you can think of. But, in most parts of Africa there is little or none to choose from. Certainly, I have no right to complain. I have everything I need and most of what I want. So do most people who read this. Sometimes, I wonder what I can do to make a change. "Education". Who gets the education?. Most international students who come over here intend to get educated and stay here permanently. The fact is that they have already labeled their countries as doomed. But if those who can effect change all run, who will help. The west certainly will never help, when they gain so much from the present state. Africa has to literally join the world, and enjoy the earth's wealth. Africa should be able to enjoy its resources. A change should happen, starting from me and you