Cradle.....i

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

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

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??

"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!!

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.