Tomato Money

The baby cried. She cried so hard I was scared. Her cheeks trembled as she wailed. I was confused.

It was cold and hard. She scrambled for the last piece. It had abaited her tears at least. She gave me a half smile through oil stained lips. But her eyes, her eyes. They seemed to tell a story. They glistened under the light of the setting sun. I was sad.

I knew.

The baby did not need to know of such. She did not need to grow up this way, not in this manner.

"Ma-ma!"

I smiled, holding back a well of tears. She managed to stand again and was able to grab onto my skirt as she fell. She began laughing. She was resellient.

Augustine had not returned. He did not have to.

Old yellowed newspapers, an amputated table, an oil lamp and a rotting pot of soup. That was all that was left.

This year was not good.

Augustine tried, he really did. The roads did no good for his chest disease. The dust, hustle and bustle of the city did not suit him. But he tried.

Augustine cried the night I told him there was a baby. He was not happy, he cried. Then, he had not started working the roads. He came home always with blackened palms.

"I want to start business.." I said with a lofty voice as I cleaned his palms with kerosene from the lamp.

"Its not time for that, pampam. Rest, you are still pregnant"

Soon enough Augustine saved a little money. He bought it but had to pay every month for it.

"Sorry, sorry.." I cooed as I massaged his chest with warm water and my old torn wrapper.

"I think this work is not for you..."

"Shut up, what do you know?"
I continued to massage his chest.

The baby was born, it was a girl. Augustine cried again. He was not happy. She had his eyes.

Augustine came home one night. He came home without it.
"Where is it?" I asked "The police took it from me at Isolo"

I knew that was the end. The begining of the end at least.

The market with its familiar putrid smell was noisy, hot and crowded. The baby was at home. Augustine was with her.

"Madam con buy na! Buy your tomato jos here oh"

The tomatoes were rotten.

The baby was sad. She had not had anything to eat. Augustine was no where to be found.

She shuddered as the water ran down her back. I washed her clean. It was reddened.

This year would be better. There would be change.

The baby was growing. Her hair thick, dark and beautiful. Its long natural curls fell to her back as she sashayed her way to school. My rival.

The market with its familiar putrid smell was noisy, hot and crowded. The baby was at home. Augustine was with her.

I massaged his chest. They were curled up, the hairs on his chest, just like the baby's. But his were gray now, he was getting old. He was still working on the roads but his palms were still blackened. He worked hard to fend for us. I cleaned his palms with kerosene from the new oil lamp I had made from an old can of milo.

I gave baby her bath. It was reddened again. The arch of her back, her smooth skin. It all sparked something within me. Jealousy.

The full moon was beautiful. Transfixed by its sheer radiance, I wondered when this would end. His calloused hands rustled around, and reached beneath a wrapper to loosen it.
The beast between his thighs needed taming. It was not my wrapper he loosened.

I believe she enjoyed it. She must have. She never complained to me. Never.

Augustine was ill. His chest. I had to care for him. Or did I?

The room was quiet upon my return from the market. There they lay. Him and baby, his hands all over her innocence. Her innocence was reddened. Her thighs were blackened by his palms. They asked for privacy. I obliged.

I had money now. Tomato money.
I was confident.

I did not mean to do it.

He lay on the floor naked. My shame. My husband. Bleeding from his head. Heaving, holding his chest, begging for help.

I had seen the way he looked at her. How he played with her curly hair, how he placed her right in between his thighs.

I had seen his stubby fingers reach for her middle. I had seen it at night, under the light of the glistening moon. I had seen her broken smiles. I had seen her special place reddened.
Day after day, countless night after night.

I had seen her eyes question me, they queried my motives. I had seen them ask me "Why?"

I had heard my heart beat with guilt. I had felt my throat harden.

"Ma-ma!" I had failed her, over and over for so many years.

I was a little older than baby when my parents gave me to Augustine.

But now I would make things right. I would take baby and we would run away. I had tomato money now.

Pastor came today. "You must be submissive!"
"But I have tomato money..." I muttered under my breath.
Augustine was back from working the roads. He had a bandage around his head.

He seemed helpless.

Maybe baby and I would run away with tomato money another day...

'DWN

Jungle Justice

Kabooooooooooom!
(Dont laugh, that was the sound I heard jare lol)

I ran out, onto my balcony. What the heck was going on?? The electricity in my house went off. Sparks began to fly.

People had gathered. The scene was rife with absolute drama. A range rover had run smack into an electricity pole. The pole had fallen and landed on the range rover.
Well meaning citizens helped the driver out of the car.

"Kpokom!"

A bottle had been cracked on his head.

"Oloshi ni bobo yi sha!" yelled a sweaty passerby

The glass shattered all over the driver. The red of his blood was a contrast with his dark skin that glistened with sweat.

Ehn! Kilonshele...

A little mob had gathered around him and had began pummelling him.
The man lay there, limp in a pool of his own blood. He didnt try to defend himself.

In their little uniforms, tears filled their eyes. They were confused.

"I bin say make I take dem go school! Na school we dey go I take God beg una! Na me be dem papa!" the driver lamented.
It was saturday.

"my pikin! my pikin! joyce... my pikin" she shrieked. She ran forward and held one of the frightened children in her arms.

The crowd thickened. The driver's hands were tied to his feet now.

Did people just walk around with ropes in their backpockets?

"gbosa!" A tree branch landed on the drivers back. He screamed in pain. The branch broke in two.

"Can't this man speak up for himself?" I wondered aloud

There were six of them, all wailing now. Holding hands.

"Na my oga, na my oga oh! Him send me. Him say make I bring any pikin wey I see for road! Him need the small small ones oh!!!"

At this point I didn't think the crowd could have become any more livid than they already were, but they did. The crowd was wild.

Soon enough someone got a carjack and took off the tires of the range rover. The purpose was not vandalism.
The cigarette lighter surfaced next and PMS found its way right to the heart of the matter.

"This man is suya today..."

There had been a car chase. Realising he had been spotted, the driver sped off. But he didnt know his way around the neighbourhood. He ran into the electricity pole.

Six children had been missing for two days. The driver had kept them in the range rover over night. He was transporting them to his boss in the next town when he was spotted at a filling station with a truck load of crying children.

What if no one saw him as suspicious? What if no one went after him? Where was the police in this particular case?

Nigerians have had to resort to being their own police. Infact we have employed traditional institutions such as guards from the Oduaa peoples congress, amongst others, to safeguard our lives and personal property.

"Pour the fuel jare! Ritualist!" screamed a voice from somewhere deep within the angry mob.

Anyone who came to the scene with hopes of pleading for mercy on behalf of the driver, would be seen as an accomplice. No one dared to do such a thing. He or she would have their neck ardorned with a beautiful tyre.

Jungle justice.

The cases of kidnappings are on the rise. The militants who popularised kidnappings must be watching in disgust as their cause has been mocked and reduced to a mere business venture.

The kidnappings seem to be no respecter of social status. The same can not be said about the alacrity with which the police find the victim and bring the criminals to book.

So why are we so shocked about the lynching cases that grace the front pages of the newspapers?
As an ordinary citizen, If I lose my property, I'm not guaranteed that the perpertrators would be found and punished. Of course that situation is not entirely peculiar to our country. But one has to admit that security in the country is a woeful apology.

So If I happen to apprehend the persons responsible for the loss of lives or my property loss or my kidnap, why shouldn't I met out the punishment I believe is suitable for the crime committed?

I will strangle him, cut him, gouge his eyes out! Parade him for the world to see. But, what would that turn me into? A criminal as well...?
Omo gbagbe oshi jare! (forgerrit)

Why shouldn't I, especially as the police has a reputation for setting a criminal free when his sponsor shows up with sufficient cash to grease the right palms?

Wait. Wait oh.

What if the driver was innocent.
What if by some crazy means, the torture metted out to him coerced him into confessing to a crime he didn't commit?

Would we go and wake his burnt ashes, apologise and tell him it was all a joke? A mistake?

Would we breathe life back into his stiffened bones and his skin would somehow fall back into place?

Would we 'un-cry' the tears he shed as he burnt to death...?

Would we 'un-feel' all the pain that rushed through his whole being as he was set ablaze?

I heard some one called the police that day. The police did not come to the scene.
They said their wagon had no fuel.


'DWN

Terror

It had been a tough journey but I'd made it home. Just like that coca cola advert, I had made it home.

Too tired to wake up for church, I slept late into the day. Groggy and hungry I got up and headed straight for the kitchen. With cereal and cold milk in my bowl, I turned on the tv. The news, my favourite.

Something was on, something sinister was happening. Duh, its the news.
Is that a woman crying with her hands on her head? I had to go closer to the screen, my glasses were out of sight, no pun intended (was that even a pun?)

There had been an explosion. In a church. On christmas day. Here, In Nigeria.

"Religious sect."

"Several dead."

"Responsibility claimed"

I had absolutely no Idea what to think. There was some noise in the house.
My family! They are back!

I heaved a sigh of relief. I did not even live anywhere near the state the explosion happened in. But I was relieved to see them all. Ten fingers, ten toes. Complete.

My cereal was soggy. I couldn't eat. I was unhappy. I wondered about those who had died.
Had some people cried for help? Did they know they were going to die?

I wondered about the people who like me could not make it to church that day, who could not be in that church that particular day.

It could have been anyone. The families, they could have been my neighbours, they could have been your relatives...

I thought about the children. The little children who lost their siblings, who lost their parents.

I thought of familys who all sat in one pew arguing about who got to seat where.
Fathers berating their wives for taking too long to tie their geles.
I thought of the mothers, the women in the christian women association who were trying to out do each other with their 'christmas lace' and gold jewellry. Where there single people in church that day? What happened to the reverend father? What about the choristers? The altar boys...?

I couldnt stop. I went on and on.

Did the bombers know the attackers? Did the terrorists watch the faces of the church members light up when they sang 'Oh come let us adore Him' just before they murdered them?

Did the congregation even get to sing that song? Did they live 'til that part of the service?

"We are close to the suffering of the Nigerian church and the entire Nigerian people so tried by terrorist violence, even in these days that should be of joy and peace," said the Vatican

"This was another manifestation of blind and absurd violence which has no respect for human life and seeks to enflame more hate and confusion".

Little did I know that it was just the begining. The begining of very confusing times.

For me, it was difficult to understand why anyone would want to cause others such pain. It was difficult to see why one would commit such murders as well as his own. Its hard for me to understand. What is more difficult for me to understand is our government's "bark no bite" attitude to the situation at hand.

Its 2012 and Uncle Jona hasnt made good on his promises. Hold on, what promises? The country is still beseiged with attacks from the same group.

His replies to questions concerning terrorisim are likened to one who has no inkling of the gravity of the matter at hand.

This is where politics comes into play. But I nor be politician. But should human lives be subject to political strategies?

What a tumultous year.

I'm here in an entirely different part of our country. It is easy for me to be unconcerned. Its easy.
But I am concerned not because its the 'liberal-world-peace-united-nations-thing' to do.

I am concerned because my safety is not guaranteed.
I have been shown that as an average citizen of this country, if I happen to die by such means, my death will be avenged by no one.
It would be just another death due to uncurtailed terrorism. Ces't fini.

Call it selfishness but it is our concern because you and I may be the next victims.

"Why I nor go hide for inside aeroplane? Haaa if i get chance me I don move commot." I heard this passing comment about the Nigerian stoleaway

As someone said on the radio the other day," "They don't care, the government just doesn't care"

As christmas day approaches, I wonder which house of God would be hit this year. What part of the country would it be in?

Hopefully none.

Hopefully, we are allowed to celebrate the birth of our saviour, this time with peace.

'DWN

#

2012

In 2011, I heard that the world was going to end in 2012.
"Alright, lets get there first" I said, cracking jokes whenever the issue came up and secretly hoping the '2012 thing' would just go away.

Its 2012.
And as the predicted date of 21st December approaches, a small fear grips my heart.
The fear of the unknown is potent in my heart.
The fear that the earth may be knocked out if its orbit and I would no longer have internet connection. Fear.
Or that the world will freeze over and I won't be able to exfoliate, maybe the world would be invaded by aliens and we would be forced to wear those hideous 'colour block' outfits.
Fear.

"Its a lie oh the world cannot end jare. Ive not finished my IT the world can not end oh" my brother said.

I swear, Im thinking almost the same thing. So much I havent achieved and the world wants to end?
Iro nla!

In my quest for knowledge, I read wide. I ended up in utter confusion.
The doomsday clock, the mayan calendar, the 12-12-12 theory, the nostradamus theory... Aaahhh! The list is endless.

Then the issue becomes "What theory do you believe..?"

Being human, we often find ourselves knee deep in conspiracies and propagandas. These conspiracies are created by mere men. Mere men who In my opinion are inspired by nothing but fear.

I wonder then, does man not see himself beyond the year 2012? Are we so overcome by the fear of the unknown that we seek refuge in shelters of paranoia? Why then have we allowed our fears and innermost thoughts to be preyed upon by mere conspiracy merchants?

"madam this is my space, I was here first!" she screeched. "No I bin dey here, I go collect deposit form" The bank was agog. There were so many women in the hall.
"If nor be dis 12-12-12 tin, you nor go see me for dis place!" Others on the queue nodded in agreement.

"Oga teller, what do you mean I cant clear my account? My frien' give me my money!"

A group of women huddled by the water dispenser. Sadly their voices were still pretty loud.

"See ehn whether the world wan end or not I go collect my co-operatif money oh"
"nor mind dem esusu people wan collect our money go afterlife, God nor go gree dem!"

Church conventions, all night prayer sessions, a desperation to do all you've never had the opportunity to do.

Act on impulse. Give to the poor, repent, forgive, maybe even set that long awaited p.
Aren't all these acts due to fear?
Fear that I may not have lived up to my full potential, that I may not have done the right things or that for the things I have failed to do, I will be punished by my creator..

And so as the world is purported to end on the 12th, 21st or whenever, Im here with a tonne of memories of earth, both good and bad.
I am coming to terms with how I have lived my life. I realise that I have had the opportunity to do so much but I havent taken these opportunities. So why feel cheated if the world ends today?

"If you dont stand for something, you'll fall for anything..."

Here I stand: "For God did not give us a Spirit of fear but of power and love and sound mind"

'DWN

What a Covenant...

My thoughts are running amok. The news is filled with so much. So much is happening at the same time.

*I believe in Jehovah Jireh. I Believe theres heaven, I believe in war, I believe you when you say you've lost all faith. But you have to believe in some thing. Something.....*

200 students were expelled from a university a couple of days ago. Not from just any higher institution. From an institition pupurted to be 'Gods university'.
For crimes ranging from not wearing ties, loitering to smoking pot. Whether these numbers and crimes are accurately reported we will never know. But my question is: has God also expelled these students?

But one may argue that these students and their guardians fully understood and agreed to the terms and conditions. But should the house of God operate on terms and conditions?

Let me put it to you this way:

From my understanding, the school is a representation of a system which aims to inculcate the proper Christian beliefs in young people, generally in persons under its tutelage. Yes? Yes!

So my guess is that students who are enrolled in any course of study are expected to be taught these positive christian values.
But like every human being we have short comings. No matter the amount of positivity we are exposed to, we have shortcomings. How then is it feasible to banish students who come short of these expectations?
My interpretation of such expulsion is: "get out oh sinner who can never be of any good to anyone or the kingdom of God"

Rather, I believe such erring students belong in these institutions of God. If students are being expelled, its not just proof of their human shortcomings but clear proof of the failure of the higher institution concerned.

I believe expulsion is contradicting the message of love and forgiveness that The Christ went through such great lengths to pass on.
I am of the opinion that our churches should offer a remand system to these students. Infact not just these students but everyone in the society, from those who commit murder to thieves, rapists etc.

I have visited and spent time at remand homes in lagos and I have never seen any church come over to speak to the young people who are left at the mercy of the government.

*I don't believe that we are wicked and I know we sin. But we all try...*

I know for a fact that Jesus Christ died in order to redeem us sinners. Who are we to banish trangressors? Who are we to pass a complete and final judgement on the lives of people?

I wonder if after expulsion the schools keep in touch with these students?? All I can do is wonder...

If the church says it can not can effect change in the lives of young people, who then can? The government?

I believe the efforts by the household of God to change young people's lives for the better should be relentless. Our Lord told a wonderful parable about the shepherd who went out of his way to find that one lost sheep.

Each and everyone of us is that lost sheep. If I loose my way, will no one come for me?

'DWN

Hydroqui-none for me!

So there I was in house girl mode. Then I heard it. I heard 'my song' on tv. Hahaa lool I did the 100m sprint straight to the front of the screen. Then my part came. Ghen ghen!

"Where have you been all my li-li-li-li-life...." I broke into the dance. Ehhhn Kimon! My little cousin joins me and we show rihanna how its done lool

Thats how the epic struggle for the tv remote started. Jesu! That girl was strong.
"Aunty Dewu, give it to me now! Im a growing child, I need tv" she screamed. Not today abeg I'd had enough of the disney channel.
Amidst our struggle, something happened. I was instantly struck by her beauty. It was her. Her dark skin glistened so beautifully, Alek wek!!

Breaking my trance, I heard a voice.
"You need deliverance" she squeaked.
"Who is this mad woman in our house" I thought to myself
"Look at how you are dressed, you are dressed like a man, so indecent" she squelled on.

*Yepa! Ori mi scarra! Somebody hold me oh...*

Fortunately someone does. The lady and I become acquainted. Shes from 'the church' -__-

Focusing on the positive, Alek wek was still on tv.
" who is this blackie?" She asked. I looked on, nah this woman isnt trying to start up a conversation.

She seemed too relaxed. She had dark patches under her eyes like she had placed them there with black shoe polish. Her cheeks looked burnt. And her knuckles were black as soot. She was Toning, as we Nigerians would say.

"Let me even tell you now, you had better not walk around lagos looking like this woman on tv"

*Now this lady was really getting on my nerves*

"If you want to find a good man and get married you had better lighten yourself up, you are too dark my dear"

*Ye! Did this woman just say what I thought she said. If I call her ignorant now she would say im rude*

So I try to focus on the rest of the show. Alek wek was being interviewed about how she started out her career. How it was being and looking different from other models in europe.

"Im sure that woman is not married yet. As old as she is. Very ugly."

So I had to descend to her level. I asked her, "Aunty why didnt your 'toning' prevent your husband from runing away with his secretary. Please I want to know.."

She turned red or was it bluish-green? I couldnt tell with her 'skin of many colours'.

There, I had been rude. But I was left puzzled. Puzzled as to why anyone would give such advice. But this lady wasnt to blame or was she? She was just one of the millions of women think the same way and have similar practises.

I headed to my favourite spot. The balcony. There, I began to think.

I realised a lot of people didnt have confidence in their appearance. At least at one point or the other we have all doubted our appearance, you know your swag
*(common stop lying there jare, you have! Lol) *

But we all handle it differently. A new pair of shoes, new hair do or a completely new wardrobe often does the trick. But some of us go the extra mile for so many reasons.

I hear a lot of my peers lambasting people who lighten their skin. And the first thing I say is: "Why you dey vex, is it your body?"

But I hear it all transends my point of view. There are the very important health risks associated with all the types of skin lightening remedies. These risks, it seems, no one is bothered about. For me they are paramount.
And according to a friend "theres no peace of mind mehn. As your bottle of 'the stuff' is finishing, so are you. Finishing" lmaooo!

But it seems its all embedded in a deep obsession with one's self. Well who isnt self obsessed?

What then is the difference between me changing my haircolour, the colour of my eyes with contacts or the length of my hair with extensions or the apparrent smoothness of my face with makeup and lightening my skin tone?

So I put it to myself. And I ask: "why arent people cooking up potions to make them darker?"
Apparently, some of my people have been raised to believe 'dark is wack' *le sigh*

There in lies our problem. Self worth and self image. I probably write too much on the aforementioned topics. But what I would say here and now is:

if you feel that 'lighter' is better and for some crazy reason, superior to 'darker' and you feel that making your skin an example of this 'great discovery' is your obligation, be my guest.
For my stand to critics remains: "Is it your body? Why you dey vex?"

But I must say, hydroqui-none for me. Thank you!

'DWN

Thirst (1)

"We have another one!" Yelled the orderly. Now my strait jacket itches. It itches and smells. It reeks of blood. Is it his? The blood, is it his?

It tastes good. The blood. I nor be Damon or stephan. I just like blood.

That which courses through my veins and gives life to me.
I sat back, my back on the soft cushioned walls, to mull over how it had all gotten here. How I had stood naked before this pool of blood.

My naked body before my blood. Its deep dark texture just like my skin's. Dark. Darkness.
Darkness, please turn to light. Please.

It tickled. His beard. When we kissed it tickled. "Everything would be just fine" he said

A rusty fan spun somewhere far off. Muffled voices filled my head. My head! It aches. The darkness, its deafning.

"Oya stand here! Stand!"
That hot boiling cauldron. The heat. It didnt help. The baba tried, but the voices didnt stop.

The blood of a goat in my palms. I licked it.

He began to dance. To spin. He was in a trance. "Purge her!!"
Rather, the voices mocked me. They told me, the blood was my birthright. I had been chosen.

"Kiss me" I whispered. "Take off your clothes" I ordered.
He looked worried. "You don dey change oh, I cant anymore. I think you should face the realities on ground"
On ground? I was on the ground. infact at that point I was the ground. Flat on my back. Writhing in confusion.

Its what you are, who you are.

I bolted out of the room. To the next street. I needed release. Can someone turn off that rickety old fan?? Haaa! Abeg!
But to that room I returned, to claim what was mine. Him.
His blood was everywhere. It felt and tasted different. It tasted like sin. I wasnt sorry.
Did he know I meant to hurt him? I never understood why he understood so much.

The grime on the walls spoke to me: "Thats the cannibal" "what a beast"

There I stood. Blood on my hands, mud on my feet, emptiness in my soul.

"Sister, I need your help. Help me with wan human head abeg. I need money"
I helped him with his.
Darkness.........TBC

'DWN

I am Woman

Clunk! That was the sound my eyeball made as I rinsed it in a glass of water. The left, then the right. It had been a long night. Asa's 'be my man' softly slighthered through the speakers of my bedside stereo.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. She nodded from her cage.

I needed to have a bath. 'Thud!' As my head landed on the table. "Careful.." I muttered to myself as I unscrewed my head from my body. Thank God, no blood this time.

I took off my hair. Yes my hair, haba I bought it with my money now. Then peeled off my scalp, opened up my skull and checked if my brain was intact.

I had to do that. Becuse if my brain was intact, all this would never have happened.

You see, all that we are as women has been reduced to mere body parts.

Unlike Asa I dont want to be your woman everyday. Did I even want to be a woman?

"Ahaan sister, your driving is bad oh. Stop driving your oga's motor anyhow now. na woman you be, you nor suppose dey drive sef" Said the lastma official. Now I'm pissed. I drive off.

It seems we women even in the 21st century still grapple with so much discrimination. Was I being too emotional about the lastma official? Am I crazy because I felt offended that he assumed that my car belonged to a man somewhere? Or am I just too dramatic....?

So Im here, laying in my bed. A beheaded body because the only compliment I got today from a man was "You have a beautiful face...". So I place my head on a pedestal above every other part of my body. No wait. He also told me I have beautiful eyes, so cleaned them to keep them pristine.

*knock*knock*

Its about time. In comes my dignity and self respect, looking really tired after a long day of arguing with men in court.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. But little did she know that at that point, I didnt care.
I send her off to the cage at the far end of the room. She'll spend the night there along with the others. The others being my soul, dreams and hopes.

I dont feed them tonight because no man has appreciated their beauty. They remain in the cage because I have been told that to survive in 'a mans world' I need to murder them.

"But they are a part of me" I whisper. I whisper to no ones hearing but mine.
I hear it. I hear them. Struggling to break free. To show me that they deserve a beautiful body like mine.

Its morning. Just like Asa, I have beautiful imperfections. But today, screwing my head right on, I put my body together. I let my soul in. My self respect and dignity stand tall, my dreams and hopes go before me.

You may reduce me to mere body parts but I do not reduce myself. That, that is what is most important. I've discarded that cage along with the unwholesome need to betray myself.

You know what, its my world. A beautiful world. And I am a tonne of Woman!

'DWN.

Goodmorning!

"Good morning omoge, baby mi how you dooo...." whispered Brymo to me :)
Okay, not me. Just through my phone, as my alarm tone. Brymos music ahhhh! *le swoon*. This is just one of the perks I enjoy as an avid fan of our nigerian music industry.

I set my alarm on snooze, roll over and I wonder what everyone elses alarm tone is. From my friends who have terry g's free madness waking them up at 5am to the others with d'princes 'goody bag' lool Thankfully, the list is endless :)

I couldnt have said this 8-10 years ago about our music industry. This is not to say that music was not available at that time but theres a huge difference between what obtains now and then.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a massive jolt as to how far our music has come. Home alone, I heard some kids singing an thats pretty regular for where I live. But they began to scream in really high pitched voices. Looking out of the window into the next house, I began laughing hysterically.

Heres the picture; one kid had climbed onto a closed well ( the stage) and was wielding his microphone ( a tree branch) and about 7 other children were down on the ground. The kid on the well was yelling "Ema dami duro ooooo..." And the kids beneath him screamed "emi omo babaolowo!..." And there seemed to be this other kid who was the hypeman making beats with his mouth.
I watched on as the performer jumbled and fumbled through the rest of the lyrics and I was impressed as a little girl, no more than 5years old was dancing like her life depended on it.

This is how much music influences not only young people but every single person. Im of the opinion that in this country music for many is a means of escape. When ASUU goes on strike, when our president brings us surprise 'gifts', when a bus conductor doesnt give you your change, when NEPA is just being NEPA, when you are studying for finals, when your favourite jeans gets ripped, when you meet that special 'someone'..... aaaah! Naija music has been there! lol

I believe there are different types of listeners. There are the people who have wtched Dagrin come out of his environment and can relate because they are in similar situations. And they believe that if Dagrin can be such a success so can they in whatever sphere of life they choose.

I am inspired by the confidence and audacity some of out musicians have. Its easy to ask why young people dont get inspired by doctors or lawyers as much as they are by musicians. And I believe that not only is their craft always in our faces but their stories are easy to relate to.
Their artform gives us confidence, their lyrics trigger memories, their carriage motivates us, their rhythms set the scene for some of our greatest dreams and fantasies.

Our music has made me question myself and my motives as an individual. I wonder how I can make an impact as well. I wonder how I can create something from nothing and not have to wait on 'the system'

So Whether its via headsets, loudspeakers, street djs, internet radio, tv, the kids on your street or from Iya basira you hear the music....
Keep tooting the naija music horn!

*Good moning omoge baby mi how you....*
There goes my alarm again. Oh crap I'm late!

'Dewunmi Nation.

6:15am

6:15 am
It smelled, rotten, like decayed faeces.
It was a dead body. At my doorstep.
A man, young seemingly. Was this an idea of a practical joke? I was scared stiff, more by the pungent odour than the atmopshere of death. What to do? My milo was getting cold. I could just go back and wait for someone else to discover it.
That's just what I did. I shut the door and returned to my laptop. "The stock market waits for no one, especially not with this recession palava..." I said to myself.

12:00 noon
Out the back door into my car and off to my michael's place. No dead men for me. Only real men.
Oh no. It was her. "Her!" Funke had been at Michaels place. Overnight.
"She spent the night?!" "You are moving on..?"
The closing bell had been wrung. It was over. The stockmarket, Michael. Everything. Or was it...?

12:00 Midnight
Real men do not exist. At least not in the real world.
Driving, "aaaargggh!" I hate driving. I hate the weight of this revolver more.
"He's in his room, lets put his body in the car..." said Funke.
Funke gave me a new world, a new way of thinking, feeling. With every emotion came warmth yet a degree of intensity with Funke. Michael had no clue.
My Funke and I do not fit the status quo. My sweet mother, brother my exes never liked the idea of Funke and I. "It's not natural" "God hates that practice..." they said.
But Funke my transient fantasy, my doorway to a new world, a new understanding.
Funke's beautiful neck broken, cracked like a piece of china.
There they lay, Funke, Michael, dead. I was more disturbed by the horrid decor than the 'deathness' of them both.

6:15am
It smelled bad, rotten, like decayed faeces.
It was a dead body. At my door step. A man, a real man. Young, seemingly.
This, this was a practical joke. Very practical.
My milo was getting cold. Somewhere, 'awon boys' under the carter bridge would discover whats left of my Funke. Best to wait for the police now...

DUMPED!

Dumped by the ex boyfriends named employment, money etc etc You get the drift...
So i woke up this morning with itchy fingers. No, i mean literally itchy. Red bruised palms and I was scratching them like they owed me money. "It means your money is coming..." Said my aunt. "Shey ori woman yi pe ni??" I said(of course 'for my mind'), as I squeezed on a bottle of hydrocortisone Now why so violent you may ask. Simple. F**k the world. Yea I said it.
Ok Im sorry.

You see the thing is I've suffered quite a number of disappointments back to back. Now I'm trying to figure out how to get back the 2minutes of my life where I bashed my head against a brick wall of all my fears. My fears that had somehow morphed into tinny goblins... Err Ojuju calabars rather, taunting and dancing around me, letting me know that 'wahala dey'. And no please I do not need to go to prayer city. This is all figurative... Or is it?

This morning for me is about God telling me "Dewunmi write, write! " During yesterdays third mainland debacle, as I stood stranded in the middle of the gazzillion foot long bridge, admist thoughts about the stories I heard about 'awon boys' who miraculously get on the bridge, rob and maim you, I pondered on what my place in life was. There I was with my brother and we were trying to flag down total strangers who were driving at cut-throat-scatter-bodi speed. Hahaa! Where did I think I was?

I knew where I was. I was in a near hopeless situation and I stopped to look at the view, to appreciate the scenery, you know maybe I might get a good photo for instagram lol. Looking far ahead I noticed the shanties at the far ends of the bridge. And no it wasnt a humbling moment for me. I wasnt thinking about how some people had more than I did or that some people earned less than a dollar a day or that my degree gives me an edge over them. No.

For once I realised that that manner of thinking brings mediocrity and a satisfaction in ones miniscule victories. Rather I thought to myself that in as much as the little victories are important, the big victories are equally important. Running away from big challenges makes you a big loser. "Challenge yourself Dewunmi" I muttered. I saw that my people who live in horrible conditions of abject poverty here in our country, aren't poor, rather Im the one who is poor. I am poor because I know I do not have the strength and mental capability to be in their shoes. They are the people who have true strength, they are a large part of our population and they are the true Nigerians. So I drew inspiration from that view, that magnificent view. The view of our reality. My real, my true.

Then it hit me. It hit me as a yellow bus sped by, causing the salty ocean breeze to smack me accross the face. It hit me. Mesmerised by the strong ocean current, I realised that my place is where I make it. Its here. My city, my people, my life!
Still stuck on the bridge, seconds after my great earth moving epiphany and Aha! moment, a miracle occurrred (a story for another day).

And so this is how I've tucked my white flag back into my backpack and I'm hopeful this day not for my exes to return. No. Hopeful for new relationships with laughter, confidence, adventure, risk taking, depth and endless possibilities. So as I erect my flag of 'Dewunmi Nation', with my superbite and lacasera in hand, I'm screaming "lebete! Lebete! Lebete!!!!" at the top of my lungs :)

'Dewunmi Nation.