6 quirky things about me!!

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

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.

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

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

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

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:

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?