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