TOUCH ME IN THE HEART

Have you ever found yourself, broken, on the floor?

Face against the carpet, you're staring at the door

And when it creaks open slightly, in that little space

From the corner of your eyes, you see a tiny face

The face of a young girl, your daughter

Looking back at you, her mother:

Face against the carpet, staring at the door

Begging…her father not to hit you any more?

Have you every tried to rise

To rise up to your knees

And for those children you decide to bite back your cries?

Shielding back of head and neck

Shielding vital organs

From this same man that walked you to the altar

Begging him – "Please, don't hit me in the belly

Hit me in the back or face, but please don't hurt my baby?"

Have you ever tried to stand huddled in a corner?

Trapped between his jealousy and his raging anger

Knowing that the line is thin between his love and hate

And his fury may not wane until it is too late?

Have you ever sat and thought:

My God, where will I go?

How will I start my life again?

How did I end up here?

My children sleep in the room next door

I cannot leave them here

Have you ever sat and thought:

I'll stay because of them?

Sometimes, the thing we think is strength, my friend, is truly weakness

To think someone who hurts you loves you, that is truly madness

To think, somehow, to see you battered will make your children better

To think someone as old as you is too old to start over

Sometimes, the thing we say is Truth, my friend, is truly nonsense

To think someone who hurts you loves you, that is truly madness

To think it virtue - staying on until the bitter end

You need to get up, get up now, and walk away, my friend

For Love is not these broken ribs, this hiding in the dark

And Love is not to be afraid, to fear even to speak

Love is not when lovers' hands are quick to grab your neck

And land those punches on your face, then kick you in the back

No. Love is gentle. Love is kind. And speaks with measured voice

Love will catch you when you fall, not trip you up and shove

Love is patient. Love is wise. It has no need for force.

Love will catch you when you fall, not hold you down and squeeze…

Ah!

Can it be?

Beautiful woman

No one ever made you see?

Not in the face. Not in the back. 

Not in the middle of your swollen tummy…

The only place Love should ever hit you

Is deep inside your heart.

Image taken from:

http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Society/Pix/pictures/2009/4/17/1239968413109/Survivors-of-violence-Eth-003.jpg

The lady in the picture is Ms Margaret Aberdeen, a dedicated activist against Domestic Violence. To learn more about her work, you can visit her website:
http://margaretaberdeen.com/

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Just because it's such a lovely song, sometimes, I catch myself singing it; "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know…" Ah! But that's how far I'll go tonight. My brother, I grew up in Lagos, spent most of my childhood Christmases in the village; so, truth be told, there is nothing 'white' about the things I remember.  So, let me respect myself, and tell it like it was…

 

I remember the harmattan haze. And waking up as the sun was rising. The crispy chill of a Christmas morning. The house would be silent, just the sound of my heart beating, with the excitement only a child can feel at thought of what that day would bring…

 

I remember the smells of Christmas cooking. The unmistakable smell of okpa freshly unwrapped. The scent of akamu just made. The sweet aroma of dodo, sizzling in a crusty pan. The sight of large women in faded wrappers, sitting on wooden stools over open fires, in a dimly lit kitchen, stirring large pots bubbling with the promise of Christmas rice…

 

I remember those Uncles and Aunties, with bell-bottom trousers and freshly cut Afros. Hair twisted with black thread into long, sinewy strands. Skin gleaming like polished copper from the generous application of Vaseline. Teeth white like chalk from those hours of scrubbing with chewing stick. All smelling of medicated soap and talcum powder; all shining like kings in their Christmas best…

 

I remember the enigmatic sound of the drums, booming out of the heart of the jungle, calling us to the market square to come and dance with the masquerades. Ah! I remember Ojoko, the ugly one, dancing with nimble feet in the golden-brown sands of home, while my cousins and I would taunt him, daring him to chase us, us the fleet-footed, dusty-skinned children of that primordial land. And when he did, we would run like the wind. But not because we were afraid…

 

I remember that bruises didn't heal quickly that time of the year, that licking your lips only made them drier, that gates and doors were always open, and grown-ups walked around with loose change in their pockets so that whenever we – little children – came up to them and said, 'Uncle, Aunty, donanu, gbara m Christmas', they would give us enough to buy a handful of sweets…

 

I remember the songs we sang at night. The simple stories that showed us what was wrong and what was right; the tales that taught us to believe that, no matter what happened, the Darkness would never triumph over the Light. I remember the face of the Storyteller, half in the shadows, barely illuminated by the flickering flame of a kerosene lamp. I remember her voice, quivering with passion as she sang, 'Orioma le le le e! Orioma!' Telling us that the world was full of danger, but those who walked with conscience clear, would never have reason to fear…

 

I remember how heavy my heart would feel when the sun began to set. But, inevitably, at some point, someone would sit us down and say: 'Remember, children; Christmas is not all about fun and games, food and drink, song and stories. No. It's the birthday of Baby Jesus. Don't you see? Whenever God looks down and sees that something is missing in the world – maybe some laughter, maybe the cure for cancer – He takes it, whatever He sees is missing in the world, and puts in a tiny, little baby.'

 

Yes. I remember those sermons. And the soft whispers my father made as he stood in the darkness praying over me; the loving presence of my mother, sitting in the darkness watching over me. I remember the nearness of brother and sister. I remember listening to the wind whistling through the Pine Trees outside our window. I remember lying awake on some of those Christmas nights, imagining it; that I too had been born with something the world was lacking…

 

 And so now, even though I am no longer a child, I still believe - in the laughter of children; in the rough and tumble of brothers playing; in the crackle of presents being unwrapped; in eating dinner around a table together. I still believe that God so loved the world that He gave it His son; that everyone is born with a reason, and Christmas is the season to remember that Love is what gives Life its meaning…

 

True. These are the things that have stayed with me; and these are the things that I want you to see, as I stand here and wish you a very merry Christmas.

 

 

Image taken from:

http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium/tales-by-moonlight-eziagulu-chukwunonso.jpg

 

MY FRIEND, ABU

We were sitting on the floor when Abu rolled his head around, cocked it to the right and said. "I want to go to Airforce."

"The one in Jos?" I rotated my feet like helicopter blades. "I did their interview last year."

"Really?" He had his right leg drawn up, so his chest was resting against his thigh. "How did it go?"

"You will have to remove your shorts. Then someone will hold your scrotum in his hand, to make sure you have all your testicles." I kept a straight face.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Abu asked, "Which one is scrotum?"

"You know the sack…" I pointed downwards.

He screwed up his face. "Is that what they call it?"

I nodded.

"Testicles?"

I answered calmly, "Your balls."

 "That's why I don't want to go to the kind of ajebo secondary school you're going to." Abu laughed. "I'm sure they won't be calling it 'testicles' in the AirForce Military School."

"They called it 'blokos'."

"Ehen!" He nodded his head in approval. "So, they made sure your own was complete?" He drew up the other leg and repeated the stretch. "Is that all? My own is complete. No problem."

"That's not all." I said it a bit angrily. "How can that be all? You also write tests."

He turned sharply to look at me. "As in maths?"

"The normal things now. Quantitative Aptitude, Verbal Aptitude…" I purposefully let my voice trail off. Abu shifted around a bit. After a while, he sighed out loud, "I just want to be somebody."

Ah! The way he said it made me feel bad. I looked away. And he just sat there, very quiet, as if he'd forgotten I was still there. I traced a line on the concrete floor. I was even about to say, "Don't worry, Abu, I will help you with maths", when he snapped up, and dug into the black nylon bag beside him. True! It happened that quickly.

"Abu?" I whispered harshly, looking around. "What are you doing?"

He pulled out a plastic cup.  Two packages wrapped in transparent foil followed - granulated sugar and the unmistakable yellow of Ijebu garri. And he fished out a sachet of water as well, and tore open the corner with his teeth. "I'm hungry."

"What?" We were sitting at the back of the hall. But there were people everywhere. Anyone could see us. I looked around again. Abu didn't care. He was already slurping on a dripping spoon, eyes shut tight. And if you were watching us, you would have sworn that I pinched him, the way he jumped again, to rustle through his bag. Another wrap came out. This one had groundnuts. The next spoon he took carried the whole combination. I tell you, the look on his face was like how you would look if you were finally urinating after holding it in for a very, very long time

"Abu!"

He opened one eye. "Do you want some?"

I shook my head, scanning the room frantically. "Are you mad?"

 "Ajebo!" He laughed.

I elbowed him sharply. "I am not an ajebo."

"If it was custard cream now, you would be eating it with me."

I looked at him. Custard cream biscuits and a cold bottle of Orange crush… The thought made me swallow.

So, we didn't see Hassan at all, until he was standing right on top of us. But he wasn't interested in me. He grabbed Abu's ear and pulled him up. Conked him twice. "Stupid boy! Are you supposed to be doing this now?" Another conk. Abu gritted his teeth. "Can't you hear them calling you, eh?" He dodged the fourth conk; but Hassan had him by the back of the neck and was dragging him off.

That was when I heard it, crackling over the loudspeaker. "Abdullahi Mohammed! Blue corner!" I froze. "Dike Chukwumerije! Red corner!" And, I tell you, before I could even think of turning anywhere, heard it again: "Dike!" No use running. I took a deep breath and waited patiently till my 'ogo' had been properly slapped. "Are you deaf?" Che snapped. "Where have you been?" But he didn't wait for an answer. He was already wrapping the bodyguard around me, and pushing me forward. "Too tight!" I gasped as he tugged at the cords. "Shut up!" My brother said. And slackened the cords.

We were at the edge of the ring now, the worn wooden floor marked out with masking tape. Che snatched off my glasses, handed me a head guard, and shoved me in. Because the centre referee was indicating impatiently, pointing at the spot where I should have been standing. I ran to it. Abu was already there, both arms rigid at his sides.

"Cha rhyut!"

I snapped to attention.

"Kyung nae!"

We both bowed.

"Kyorugi choon bi!"

I did a fairly civilized battle-cry, "Ah-hay!" Nothing too fanciful. And shifted into my own favorite posture, right leg behind, arms dangling down, bobbing gently on the balls of my feet, like a ship in calm waters. But Abu? Bloody showoff. His scream reverberated around the hall like a pack of rabied dogs.

"Saijak!"

I'll explain it to you. Look, I'm more like a hit-and-run driver. They're plenty of them in Lagos. Even if it's not your fault. True! Even if the person ran, leaped over two stalls and dived beneath your front tyres, once the people around lay their hands on you, you and the car you're in are going up in flames. So, everyone runs. That's how I fight. I bounce on my toes, change the positioning of my feet from time to time, keep my guard low, so you think I'm sleeping. Then, just like that, I'm in and out. Pam! The sound of a point scored.

But Abu has my medicine, because his own specialty is counter-attack. He just waits like a rattrap. They drill it into them at Stadium. Sometimes, he would stop moving so he can hitch up his trousers. They're always longer than his legs, that's why he folds them at the bottom, but not enough times, because he still has to stop and pull them up from time to time. Don't mind him. It is all 'sense'. When you're attacking him, he will tell the referee he needs to fold his trousers.

So, most of the first round, we circled each other - rat versus rattrap. The referee got tired and warned us. He jabbed two fists together. Fight! I feigned to the right and, to my surprise, Abu bought it. So, I shot out my leg and caught him in his lower belly. But his turn-around-side-kick returned like a bullet.

The bell rang.

One. One.

Che poured water on my head. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I was breathing too rapidly to answer.

"Combination!" He moved his hands like dance partners, slapping one side of my bodyguard with his right hand and then the other with his left hand. "Pam! Pam!" I nodded several times. He clenched his jaws. "Go and win this thing."

Abu was moving around a bit more now. He rolled his shoulders to throw me off, jiggled his hips, wobbled his knees, shuffled his feet - trying to 'fake' me. But I knew he was tired. That's what he does when he's tired. So, I raised my leg and hopped towards him. He stepped back. I put the leg down and kicked. He stepped back again. I attacked!

Che was happier. He pummeled my thighs with his fists. "Good. Good."

But I was a bit afraid. You see, the last time we fought, Abu waited till the last round to do that turn-around-jump-kick that switched the lights off in my head for a few seconds. But, this time, he was dragging. I could see his intentions from far away, as if his body was having trouble keeping up with his brain. It was too easy, side-stepping everything he was doing. And just at the end, I blocked his kick and punched him in the chest.

"Kalyeo!"

I was blinking back sweat, as the corner judges conferred. The center referee came back. When he swung my hand up, I actually dangled on one foot. Not a good thing, because that ankle was throbbing. Che grinned and patted me on the back. But everything was muffled – the loud cheering around the hall - like there was cotton wool in my ears. It was the Inter-Club Championships after all, not some weekend tournament; the Junior Heavyweight Finals, at that. And Abu and the other boys from Stadium were iron fisted; if not for Taekwondo they would be breaking into cars. I put my glasses back on. Ikeja Club was for custard creamers and Orange Crushers. That's what they liked to say.

I slid to the floor, and studied it. Ah! The ankle was already swelling.

"I'm not good at maths", Abu said.

I glanced at him. "I can teach you."  Still gasping out our words. "It's not that hard."

"To you, maybe. You know what? Even if they don't take me, I'll still join. I'll join as a recruit."

"Why?" I wiped my forehead on drenched sleeves. "Why do you want to join the AirForce?"

"That's a stupid question." He had already pulled off the top of his dubok and was using it as a towel. "I'm tired of being…down."

"How?"

He glared at me. "Didn't you hear me? I said I want to be somebody."

It didn't make sense to me. I reached over to touch my ankle gingerly. "Was it Mister Nobody that gave me this swollen leg?"

Abu laughed. "Mister Nobody? I can't believe you are in secondary school already. That is not what I meant…"

I raised my hand. "Is your name Abdullahi Mohammed?" I shook my head. "No! Just answer me. Is your name Abdullahi Mohammed?" Abu looked at me. "If it is, I don't care, you are the 'somebody' I beat this afternoon."

"Beat?" He wrinkled his forehead and looked away. After a long while, he hissed, "I shouldn't have eaten that garri."

 

DISCLAIMER

Just in case the people who made cameo appearances in this story ever read it, let me confess, this particular sequence of events NEVER happened. But, yes, I had a friend called Abu, and, yes, we used to have interesting conversations, and, yes, there were days those conversations were interrupted by competitive fights with each other, often for the title. Because Abu and his brother, Jafar, were my only real competition in my weight category. And, yes, in those days, our big brothers didn't mind 'conking' us, from time to time, to set us right. What can I say? Love works that way, sometimes. And, as long as you respect the rules, a bit of fighting can actually end up bringing you closer. True.

 

 

Image taken from:

http://www8.idrottonline.se/ImageVaultFiles/id_239571/cf_107699/tae_kwon_do_belts.jpg

 

AND THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE

I'll admit it; there have been times I felt mis-educated. You see, I was told that I should not take things that didn't belong to me; or tell lies to gain the advantage, even over an enemy. My father told me that I should strive for The Good always; that there are things in life that have infinitely more value than money. And my mother said that a real man is comfortable with his feelings. That Love is the greatest force in the world.

So, that evening, after Mister Wilcox's class, I was packing up my books when Bon and Tracy started arguing. Till today, I don't know what it was about, but Bon kicked her with his Timberlands. I didn't think it was right, so I pushed him into the chairs. When he scrambled back up, I knew I had a fight on my hands. No yawa. I took a deep breath, and clenched both fists.

 

But, you see, Ja'afaru is not just my friend; he is my brother. And when he saw what was about to happen, he came from behind, locked both arms around me, and said, 'No, Dike…Don't do this.' And because I didn't think it was right either, to struggle with a brother, I watched – everything in slow motion – as Bon (nobody had gone to hold him) launched a fist. Ah! I tried to turn away, but it still broke my glasses when it landed, cut me too, just above the left eye.

 

And I thought: 'THIS – right here – is what Love (or Integrity, or whatever name my parents want to give it) does; it pins you down so the bad guys can punch you!' Honestly, it made me sad. So, I told Jafar later – 'Why did you hold me, man?' But he only shrugged. You see, this particular friend of mine is not one for lengthy explanations. So, one day, when I asked him to teach me how to shoot a basketball, he got up and showed me, once. And when I kept getting it wrong, said: 'Bend your knees. Extend your arm. Let your wrists snap, as you release the ball." And after another period of silence, added:  "You know what? Close your eyes. Forget the basket. Just focus on how you're shooting."

 

So, I did. I still can't play basketball to save my life. But, my brother, I will never forget the lesson Ja'afaru taught me that afternoon. You see, if all you care about is getting the ball through the hoop, then it is quite easy really; just throw it in any how you like. But! If you want to be a basketballer, then (no pun intended) it's a completely different game. It's exactly what my parents said. You can talk your way into anyone's heart when you don't really care how you do it. The downside is you'll never find the real thing; for when it comes to true love, there's no way round taking off the mask and telling the Truth. Even at the very real risk of rejection.

 

And that is what makes greatness – REAL greatness – so hard to find; it occurs at the rare junction where conscience and success meet. Like when you shoot a basketball with eyes closed, totally immersed in executing the technique. And you stand there waiting, till you hear your friend whooping loudly. And, even then, you still struggle to believe it.  That the ball you launched in total darkness, trusting only in the principles you had been taught, had found its target, perfectly.

 

So, yes, my friend, I think Madiba is truly great. For, in this same world, where good people are too often disadvantaged, he didn't reach for hate or anger, and (imagine that) still scored a sorely needed point. Not easy to admit it, but the old man proved my mum right – Love (when it works) does put on the greatest show on earth. It's just that, honestly, mastering how the thing works is extremely difficult, especially now I've grown accustomed to getting stuff at the slight touch of a fibre-optic screen. But, yes Mum, I won't stop trying.

Image taken from:

http://www.buro247.com/images/tribute-to-nelson-mandela-philakashi-designboom02.jpg

GOOD LUCK!

There are many shades of black. I know because the girls sitting in the row behind me couldn't really keep their voices down. So, let me tell you, there is a kind of black that is 'shining black'. "That one is good. Like that guy over there in the pink shirt. I can marry that kind. But, ah, let nobody come near me with 'mechanic black' o. You know, that dirty, dusty kind of black…" My brother, I had to glance over at the guy in the pink shirt, then down at my own hands.

 

But, apparently, being too 'fair' is not such a great thing either, at least not for a man. Too feminine. So (just guessing) the best combination would be 'shining black' man and 'yellow paw-paw' woman. Truly, I like this stage of things; when the page is still blank, and you're blissfully matching star signs and skin complexions. So, how does it go now? Choleric does well with Melancholic? Water Signs go with Fire Signs? Wide hips should marry athletic shoulders? Ah! Who will 'fit' me?

 

Hmm. I remember writing a long list - from (and this was 'non-negotiable') 'can cook beans very, very well' to 'does not complain when she has to come back from work and enter the kitchen', even 'says thank-you after constructive criticism from me, for instance (yes, the vision was that clear), "This your food is a bit salty" and she says: "Thank you, dear. I will do better next time".' My brother, honestly, these lists whittle themselves down.

 

Because, a REAL woman – now, I don't care which Church, Mosque or Shrine she attends – will look at you, first. (If you have seen that look, you will know what I'm talking about.) And, if she's anything near the 'perfect angel' you married, will just do a low 'hmmf' under her breath and go away. But do NOT make the mistake of thinking to yourself, 'Oh, that went rather well'. No. She has gone to wait for you at that very junction where you must pass. Try it. Three nights later, when you reach across to rub her back, she will tell you that cooking that food you said was 'too salty' has now made her 'too tired'.

 

Honestly, you cannot reduce any human being to bullet points on paper. No. No matter how many the points, or how long the paper; we will still surprise you. My wife did, just the other night. Famous world over for her aversion to horror movies and gory pictures, you can imagine my shock when I walked into the bedroom and found her watching, 'Wives Who Snap And Kill Their Husbands'.

 

My brother, what do you do? Put two hands on your head and mutter, 'Jesus Christ of Oyingbo'? No. First, go and sit gingerly on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, and watch the thing with her. Now, if she's taken time to make popcorn as well, and is now munching it noisily, please, proceed with greater caution. When you are ready, reach across and touch her arm gently. She will say, 'Hmm?' Don't say anything yet. Wait for her to turn away from that TV first, and look at you. Now, ask (VERY, VERY respectfully), "Baby, o di kwo mma?"

 

True, it is the very unpredictability of human nature that can make this whole thing fun. You know what? You could even end up loving them for just that thing that made you cross them off at first. Can you imagine? Or grow totally blind to it - what they weigh, how far their hair line has receded, what new wrinkles have appeared on their faces, how closely they, in actual fact, especially when you look from a certain angle, resemble the link evolutionists are looking for. Honestly, my sister, when you find yourself sitting across the kitchen table from them Saturday morning after Saturday morning, still laughing at their 'dry' jokes, it really stops mattering whether they are white, yellow or 'mechanic black'.

 

And that's when it hits you, lightning bolt out of clear blue skies, 'My God! I'm one of the lucky ones!' One of those who unwrapped the mystery every human being really is and found True Love underneath. Because, you see, no matter how well you do your homework (and you really should do it very well), and no matter how many lists you draw and compare people against, there will always be an element of Luck (or if you like, Grace) to ending up truly happy. So, if it is still applicable to you, my friend, I sincerely wish you some.

 

Image taken from:

http://www.desiglitters.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Good-Luck-With-Love.gif

 

TALES BY MOONLIGHT

"When I became Health Prefect there were cases I could handle by myself. But there were also cases that I couldn't. It's true. The saddest, saddest one was that of Haruna. He was asthmatic and had an attack in the middle of the night. By the time I got to him, he had slumped. I closed his nostrils and breathed into his open mouth. Then, I pumped his chest. Nothing. His hands did not feel like human flesh. They felt like cold rubber.

 

Did I not tell you? This was why I was made a School Prefect, because, even though I was holding Haruna's hands and they were as cold as rubber, I found myself very, very calm. So, I said to the students who were standing over me; "Go and call the Senior Boarding House Master! Tell him that we have to take Haruna to the hospital now!"

 

Then I, along with some other boys, lifted Haruna up to our shoulders and ran with him to the school gate. The Senior Boarding House Master was already waiting, with the engine of his car running. It was past midnight and a full moon was shining down. As we laid Haruna in the back seat, his head fell back and his eyes rolled upwards. In the silver light, I saw a bit of water trickle down from the side of his mouth. My heart fell at that moment.

 

At the hospital, they just shook their heads. They did not even allow us to bring him in. They just said; "Take him to the morgue. There is nothing we can do."

 

His parents came the next day. They wanted to speak with me, ask me what happened. His mother cried, but his father just nodded. "Insha Allah", he said. "It is the Will of God." Then, he looked at me, into my eyes, and, maybe, at that moment he understood the trauma of a child that had watched another child die. Because he pulled me into his arms and said; "Thank you."

 

It is not easy to be an angel in this world that can be so dark and dismal. But sometimes all it takes is opening your hand to the little boy pleading with a conductor that he has no money to pay the bus fare, or coming out to check that the children passing by your broken window on their way to fetch water are not being maltreated, or ignoring your own pain when you see that the child in front of you is suffering terribly under the burden of growing up. Because this journey always ends in death, and only angels have wings to fly. It is true.

 

I am talking like this because I am now in form six. It is all part of growing up. Please, bear with me…."

 

Ah. That was the voice of Pips McQueen, in a small excerpt from my novel, 'URICHINDERE'. But, you see, this particular story is a true one. One night in K.C, I watched a boy die. I did everything I knew, everything I had been taught, to save his life. But he still died. And I knew it the moment we put him in the back seat and I saw his face in the moonlight. There was no light that night. There was no clinic in school we could take him to. There was nothing – just us, teenage boys, and the Senior Boarding House Master's broken down car. It was just the way Secondary School was. But, somehow, we came through with our spirits still shining bright. Let it be.

Image taken from:

http://www.theschooloflife.com/assets/Uploads/James-Attlee-Moonlight.jpg

 

SHOW TIME!

Sometimes you wait till the gyration is loudest; one of those services where the Pastor is encouraging everyone to leave their seats and dance for another year successfully lived through. No road accidents. No plane crashes. No asphyxiation in the middle of the night from inhaling diesel fumes. That's when you wind your tiny waist over to where she is; pretending you're 'in the Spirit', when the only thing you've been into for a long time now is her.

 

No yawa. I understand. We all need help sometimes to say these things, especially when we really mean them. Love can be like that, hitting with a force that shakes a few things loose, your first name included. Be honest. Have you never forgotten it before, just as you were about to introduce yourself? Opened your mouth and found it mysteriously dry? Both knees behaving like they were not made of bones? My brother, don't worry; the loss of liver is very normal.

 

Once, in Primary School, I stalked a girl; tailed her all the way home, searching the whole time for confidence. So, now, I can tell you CONFIDENTLY; there is nothing as intimidating as a pack of girls all high on Capri-Sonne and chattering away, when the particular one you're eyeing is in the middle. Especially after you've heard the horror stories. That babe that spins around and shouts (on a crowded corridor too), 'How many times will I tell you? LEAVE – ME – ALONE!' 'What is it?' I have been told that this is how you must respond in a situation like that, just as loud, just as aggressive. 'Can somebody not ask you for an eraser again?'

 

But – let's face the facts – there is NO gentle way of saying, 'No.' If they want let them dip it in syrup, roll it in chocolate, sprinkle it with two fistfuls of sugar, when you come home, you must still lie down on your bed for a while, cover your eyes with the crook of your arm and think about your life. And, my brother, if you're not careful you could get up from that experience with a phobia; needing 'God', henceforth, to do the talking for you.

 

Ah! This is where things can get ridiculous. Imagine - 'I had a dream and I saw Jesus under a Jacaranda Tree. He took me round to a silver stream and I saw you sitting on a rock beside it. He led me to where you were sitting and, before I knew it, you were standing. And I heard a voice from heaven, three times, saying – Behold, this is your wife!' And she thinks to herself – This is precisely why I don't come for Night Virgils.

 

Let me tell you something. There's NOTHING wrong with you. It doesn't matter how many people have told you they cannot be with you because you're too short, too fat, too thin, too bald, or (my personal favorite) too 'dry'. (Yes – sadly – once upon a time, my idea of 'going out' was climbing up the rocks at Usuma Dam and watching the water together.) No yawa. Everyone is entitled to his or her own idiosyncracies.

 

But – be warned – whenever you meet that person whose box of preferences you actually tick, you will still need to reel them in. And if you don't bring some swag with you on that particular day, well, let me put it this way – not saying it convincingly when you mean it can have consequences that are just as sad as saying it convincingly when you don't. It's just the way this thing is set up. Ultimately, you will walk off into the sunset, NOT with 'The One', but with the one you are able to convince.

 

And, believe me, it doesn't end there. Your ability to KEEP them convinced, long after the last firework has crackled into silence, is a big, big part of 'happily ever after'. So, I beg you, don't choose the wrong day to slack. It is true that I love you (or could love you) just the way you are. But it still wouldn't hurt if you took the time, whenever the occasion demanded, to take my breath away.

 

 

Image taken from:

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5D0yw7_OKKB1D2HJTlnebmgcbn8XZpAEKlh6U9lsVQdTdtwBqt30Foka5J2jhURiZoFlasqR2PHWhgJFiclfQ_xwmJqiBtKLawiFlQWQupT0Byk23fHErZt9daJrNebleNs33SnHE9Co/s1600/showtime.jpg

 

EKWUEME (My Word Is My Bond)

If all is well, then on at least one night between engagement and wedding, you SHOULD wake up with a cold sweat. True. If you don't, well, it's probably because Machiavelli (and I don't mean Tupac) was right. He was the one that said you had to be standing on the mountain to really see the valley, and you had to be standing in the valley to really see the mountain. In that context, let me write this down in plain English – being single is a beautiful thing.

 

Yes, yes, I don't know your mother, how she calls weekly to pray over your 'condition'. And how weekends are SO difficult, with nothing to do and no one to do it with. But, sis, weekends are no picnic either, when he wakes up and decides it is the perfect Saturday for EPL re-runs and that Pounded Yam only YOU can pound. Did you know? This is a serious question. Did you know that a baby deer will stand on its own feet within minutes of being born? Well, look in the mirror – YOU ARE NOT AN ANTELOPE. Your own babies will tie you down for a lot, lot longer.

 

So, looking back now, one of the best reactions I got when I told people I was getting married was Segun Abdul's; he sort of half-smiled, 'Have you guys fought yet?' Another good one was my Dad's; he sighed to himself, 'Are you sure about this?' (In the same voice you would say, 'Come and take it', if your fourteen-year-old wanted the car keys.) It all made me ask me – ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS? Because, Dike, you're not bringing people, some of them thousands of miles, just to update your status three months later – 'Ehm. My wife and I are separating. Irreconcilable differences. Please, respect our privacy.'

 

My brother, it may look like it is, but it is NOT 'beans' – the way some people still laugh after decades, still spend evenings watching love movies from the '70s. As resilient as Love is, it is still vulnerable; like that game we played in school, where you had to carry an egg in a spoon and run a little race. Ah! How do you do it? How do you find Love that lasts forever?

 

If there's an answer, I have not found it. At least, not one you can decode from how soft her lips feel when you kiss them; or how desperately he makes you cling to the belief he loves you even when he's mopping the floor with you every morning. Please, let me just say one thing. A broken nose is a broken nose. Good sex is good sex. True love is true love. If you've mislabeled these things, no wahala; go and quietly update your status. Life is too short.

 

What I'm actually looking for are those difficult, yes, but walkable paths to life-long happiness – you and me tossing and turning till daybreak; hurting each other without meaning to; so much in common, but never short of quarrels; wanting to be together, but not wanting to lose ourselves. It IS frightening to know that, regardless of how good we look in photographs, there's nothing that says it will last forever. But – and it is comforting to know this – there's nothing that says, it will not.

 

So, barring the unforeseeable, I intend to DO THIS! For that reason, I refused to repeat generic lines. It's too easy, when you're parroting the Officiating Minister, to under-estimate the true weight of words. And, if you think about it, that is what Love REALLY is – to keep a promise. Yes. Even the ones they didn't know you made. So, I sat up at night and thought these things through, eyes wide open. When I was done, I wrote my own vows. Because – imagine it – from that sad day when Love died, if we start walking backwards, we will come to the moment when we first broke our word.

 

Image taken from:

http://www.lettertag.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/holding-hands.jpg

BECOMING A MAN

My mother always said, 'The day I fall asleep in the backseat, that's the day you know you're a good driver.' Now, I don't know how it happened for you, but my elder brother asked me one day, 'Do you want to learn how to drive?' It was the Christmas season and, at the time, we always spent it at 'home' (interpretation: the village). So, he said if I could move Dad's Beatle round without knocking down any of his palm trees, that was all to it. I can't remember how old I was, but definitely not old enough to salivate at the prospects of gripping a steering wheel.

 

But, it came, inevitably – that testosterone-induced desire TO DRIVE. So, my other older brother got into the passenger's seat beside me and pointed things out in rapid succession – brake, clutch, accelerator. But, every time I wanted to change gears, no matter how fast the car was going, I would look down at the round knob of the gear stick, because the manufacturers had helpfully drawn a tiny schematic there to let you know which gear went where. So, my brother, not famous for his long fuse, hissed in disgust – 'You want to kill me, abi?' - and told me to let him out.

 

And I almost did (kill someone, that is). Sometimes, you just cannot get through the thick skull of a teenager. I HAD to conquer that thing. So, I grovelled for the chance to dash to Ajuwon to grind tomatoes, just so I could DRIVE. It was mostly private, empty roads there and back, so someone shrugged and said – 'Okay'. First time alone in a 504; I was so cautious a Kenyan could have gone past me. But it still happened; when I was coming uphill, the nylon bag of freshly ground tomatoes un-tied itself. I should have stopped, packed, THEN turned to try and scoop tomato slurry back into nylon bag. But I skipped the first two steps. Honestly, I looked back up only because I heard a thud. Two people (no lie) dropped off my windscreen - a woman and a small child.

 

Speed kills! But, like I told you, my heart was racing faster than that car at the moment of impact. So, the only person that ended up getting hurt that day was me, because the husband of that woman and the father of that child (thankfully for me, one and the same person) was sitting just by the accident (being at his duty post as a diligent mai-guard); he pulled me out through the car window and slapped glasses and (I swear) a few pimples off my face. But! This is not about that story. It's about how I was traumatized by the images of human bodies on my windscreen, and kept seeing them even after I shut my eyes. But my mother – still don't know where she found the nerves – put the keys in my hand again that night and said, 'Drive me home.'

 

And she (like we like to say in these parts) took it upon herself to teach me right, clutching her handbag on her knees in the backseat and screaming – 'Slow down!' – even when I wasn't actually moving. I remember snapping once (Leave me alone, mummy!) and just flooring it, and she retorting in a voice that was suddenly very, very calm – 'Go on and kill us both. At least, me, I've lived a little.' Another time, in the middle of Idumota, she leaned forward and said softly, 'Careful now. This is Lagos. If you knock anyone down here, they will burn you, me and this car right here.'

 

So it came to be, a while later, on the road to the village – me and my younger ones were in the back of an old Station Wagon when I noticed that the one-eyed driver was sleeping. So, I reached out, held the steering firmly, then whispered in his ear, 'Nna…' And when he opened his good eye, I told him (just as gently) 'Please, I beg you in the name of God, clear'. Then I took a deep breath, slid into the driver's seat, and took the wheels myself. That was how I drove us all the rest of the way - all the way from Enugu to 'home'. And when my dad heard, he turned round and gave me a quick look, then grunted and said, 'I can see you're a man now.'

 

But, to be honest, it wasn't that day, really. It was some time before; to be precise, the day I had looked over my shoulder – a bit surprised at how silent it was in the back – and found my mother, side head against the rolled up window, sleeping. THAT was the day I glanced in the rear-view mirror...and smiled to myself.

Image taken from:

 http://ireporterstv.co/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/how-to-drive-in-Nigeria.png

LONELINESS

Abuja can be a funny place. True story. An afternoon like any other. The phone rings. This is before mobile phones, so I run out of my room, into the sitting room, and snatch up the receiver. It's my first semester holiday, first year. I cannot remember. But I think I was 'expecting a call' (if you know what I mean).

 

Hello? But there was just quiet breathing at the other end. Then a female voice, speaking English with the faintest whiff of an Hausa accent: 'Who is this? Where have I called?' I take the receiver off my ear and look at it, put it back and say – Did you not call this number? 'Okay' replies the voice and (honestly, not one word of embellishment), 'I live in Area 1. My husband is away for a while. Can you come over?' My brother, sometimes I still wonder what would have happened to me if I had taken a taxi to Area 1 that day. Or what would have happened to me if, nine years later, I had taken the train to Newcastle. Because – if I am lying, let me grow a small pimple – it happened again.

 

Middle of the night. Trying to find warmth under my duvet. The phone (mobile this time) rings. After a few seconds listening, I politely explain that, 'this is the wrong number'. But it rings again. 'I'm really sorry to call again. But…you have such a lovely voice.' (If there is something I should have said in response, I still do not know it.) What comes naturally is - 'Eh?' - in my default accent, no forming. The one I grew up with, not the one I manage in London. But she doesn't seem to mind. It IS, after all, the night before Christmas. 'Why don't you take the train up to Newcastle? And I'll meet you at the station.'

 

Hmm. I don't know, but I strongly suspect I have no head for alcohol; that half a glass will do to me what six bottles did to Obaino that day at Uni. He left me in the room to go and 'quickly' get something from a friend, staggered back, an hour later, DRUNK. He tried to tell me what happened, in between burps and hysterical giggles; how he walked into some sort of party, and every time he tried to leave someone shoved 'one more' into his hand. He, eventually, passed out in the middle of the room. And nothing – read my lips, NOTHING – we did woke him up, till he was done sleeping.

 

So, I understand. Honestly, after a while, Loneliness will do you like six bottles of 'manya'. In that state of mind, every crooked road branching off the one you're walking down suddenly looks like the highway to heaven. Just because it's been so long since someone said something nice to you – noticed your hair, or the color of your eyes, reached across the cold aisle and offered you a hand.

 

But! Not so fast. Maybe (let me just agree with you) the midnight voice actually belonged to a beautiful woman; what if she was with a group of men, all carrying garottes in their back pockets? Some people have developed this skill to the level of dazzling proficiency, exploiting the spaces others carry around in their hearts, like that girl who orders the whole suya on the first date, chomping holes through your back pocket, or the man who colonizes your car, leaving you to hustle buses to work. Ah! The things we endure for fear of being alone.

 

But you need to see the way these things really work. True Love acts a lot like you or me, a little put off by THAT look – the one that says you NEED me, can't do without me, always thinking of me, will die without me. Honestly, the only people genuinely attracted to desperation are people looking to mop the floor with others. Just remember – not many things will convince someone else that he or she can enjoy your company as surely as this one will, watching you enjoy it yourself. And even if, at the end of the day, no one worth the trouble ever shows up, believe me, you would still have lived a complete life.

 

 

Image taken from:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/923882-3x2-940x627.jpg

 

Tribute to Professor Chinua Achebe

Hello,

The You Tube link below is a poetry performance done in tribute to the late Professor Chinua Achebe by Dike Chukwumerije. 

It was premiered in  Abuja on Friday, October 11, 2013 to very positive reviews.

It is a riveting and touching performance. And I would like to share it with you.

Thank you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsDJ5CUCafI

FLORENTINA

I grew up in the darkness because there was always something wrong with the transformer in our estate, on the boundary between Lagos and Ogun. This was 1992 when Sango-Ota was still a quiet backwater. And the roads in Ojuore were all sand, and crooked. But my brother had a guitar. And at night he would sit, with a lantern at his feet, stroking strings at the edge of the kerosene-scented halo.

We sang his songs. None of them ever played on the radio. But I heard them, even in my dreams. It’s been many years now and sometimes I don’t remember that I still remember. You know what I mean? Then I was lost in Rome, one day, trying to find my way on the metro, surrounded by people some of who looked at me out of the corners of their eyes. I never understand when people have souls but don’t use them to see. Because I sat in a restaurant with a friend, but the waiter would only speak to him, never to me. And when I walked into a Post Office, the lady at the counter preferred dealing with the people that looked just like her.

It makes you paranoid, things like these. So, I too glanced out of the corners of my eyes, searching for shadow racists. Till the name of my stop flashed past – Laurentina. And I saw my brother again, in my mind’s eye, with the lamp at his feet. He wrote a song once, you see; called it – Florentina – the name of a girl another brother had fallen in love with. It is what brothers do for each other – put an arm around your shoulder and whisper, ‘Be strong’; or give you words when you lack them; find you when you need to be found. And, on that cluttered metro, I found myself again, singing lines from my brother’s old song: ‘There’s something I see in your eyes when you’re looking at me that tells me, that when I was gone you were thinking of me. And you were not complete…’

Ah! I tell you this, my friend, if you had walked over, and pulled out the empty chair at my table, you would have discovered that I glanced out of the window one day and fell in love; that I have pictures of my children on my phone and I can’t wait to talk about them; that I prefer taking the bus because I like staring and wondering where the people on the sidewalk are coming from, and where they are going to; that I have never been shopping in Italy, but I have walked for miles just to stand outside the Coliseum; that when it rains I sit on my verandah and watch it; and there’s a question you carry within you, a question you will never answer until you talk to me.

Because we are all incomplete. Not because there’s something missing. It’s just that the Universe is not an extension of our selves and no one has found its end yet. No. There is always something more; something different. Try it. When next your heart (or your conscience, or whatever it is on the inside of you that still remembers the songs that made you dream once) dips its toes in new waters, follow it. Who knows? You might just end up – perfect as you are already – a better person. For it is the one who holds it that is held back by prejudice, never the one against whom it is held. So, when I opened my eyes again on that metro, it was all I saw – people, as broken and tired as I have been many evenings on my own way home, looking back at me. And, this time, when someone caught my eye, I didn’t ask why, I just smiled, until they looked away, or (imagine that) smiled back.

Image taken from:

http://www.allpsychologycareers.com/images/racial-prejudice.jpg

QUICK LESSONS

The other day - in the middle of something else we were doing, something completely unrelated to what she ended up saying - my little girl looked up at me and said, quite cheerily too, 'One boy in school today said that my dress was ugly.' That was it. And she carried on playing.

 

As you can imagine, I stopped. And took a deep breath too. It's what growing up does to you. You see a clear plastic bag and you don't think space helmet, you think suffocation. You see the railings of a staircase and you don't think – Oh, shiny new slide – you think broken bones and hideous head wounds. You see an empty parking lot and (Heaven help us all) you think muggings, rape and child abductions, not make-shift football field or new kingdom to explore.

 

So, I thought to myself, what was so ugly about a dress everyone else was wearing; or didn't she wear her uniform to school that day? This is how it starts, isn't it? (Paranoid thoughts refusing to be calmed down.) Soon, it would be – your teeth are crooked, you have pimples, your breasts are too small, your legs are too hairy, where were you when God was sharing hips? In fact, I think you're too fat.

 

And, before you know it, she's skipping breakfast, throwing up lunch, stuffing gelatinous bags through surgical incisions on the underside of her perfect breasts, dating the ones 'they' say are 'cool', having the eighth child in a desperate search for her husband's heir. Is this how it starts?

 

I took another deep breath. Don't be silly, Dike. You KNOW how it is. Sometimes, when a small boy likes a small girl he says to her – I think you're very ugly. (Because, sometimes, when a father is proud of his son, he hisses and says – Coconut head!) But, to be totally honest with you, I've become a lot less rational since she was born.

 

So, the other day, someone said to me, 'Dike, abeg, can you teach my daughter a few moves? I think she's being bullied in school'. My brother, paranoia or not, here is a fact - you cannot legislate away playground oppression. And there are many people - on both sides of the bully/bullied divide - who will not out-grow this thing as a matter-of-course.

 

So, I stood her in front of me, barely eleven years old, and said – 'Listen, if someone rushes at you in school to push you like this…' And I shoved her gently, so she understood EXACTLY what I meant.  'I want you to move your hands like this…' She giggled. Like this? Asked it shyly. 'Yes.' I nodded 'Just like that.' And we kept at it, till she was laughing out loud, parrying my hands, and throwing me to the floor.

 

Because, even though they both provoke similar behavioural patterns, there is a world of difference between Fear and Love. And it's one thing to do something because you care how someone feels, and quite another to do it because you care what they think. So, I stopped (it is the Divine right of parents, after all, to over-react) and told my little girl what to say.

 

But you can never really tell with children. That's why you make them repeat sentences. It annoyed her a little, seeing as she was in the middle of something she ACTUALLY cared about - combing out the tangled hair of her doll. But I threatened a smack, so she giggled and said, 'I like my dress.' Looked me straight in the eye,  'And what is your own business sef?' That was it. And we carried on playing. 

Image taken from:

http://www.medepage.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/selfconfidence.png