There I was in the dark.
My eyes widened in unfamiliar darkness. I heard children running around somewhere upstairs.
I ran.
I ran up the stairs as fast as my legs could carry me.
I ran into a strangers house.
I had never been inside one before. By the time I had realised where I was to take the scenery in I had began feeling faint.
I was in a 'face-me-I-face-you'. It looked like it.
Walls blackened from years of stories untold.
"Have you peepo close the door?" She shouted
I didn't respond. I couldn't. I was a mute.
Through the spaces in the walls of the brick stair case, we stared into the street.
A woman in the house went downstairs to lock the door. She struggled with the simple hook at the back of the door
"As if that would provide any form security..." I muttered under my breath.
She came up the stairs and looked at us as she ascended.
"Ejo e ma binu ma..." I said to her in the most genuine yoruba accent I could come up with.
"Ah binu ke? Dont worry, what are we here for if not to help each other."
I did not know her from Adam.
This stranger had offered a lady and I her stairwell as a hideaway.
Was I still in Lagos?
I looked on through the spaces in the brick wall. I saw the streets, they were empty.
The police, civillians, touts, all gone.
How did I get into a face-me-I-face-you in the dark with a total stranger??
The man was suddenly running in my direction when he fell. I thought nothing of it.
I thought nothing of it until he twitched on the ground and a violet-red substance oozed from his body unto the brown earth.
Somebody shot him.
The policeman shot him.
The police was everywhere. Here, there, everywhere. They weilded there guns. Guns with necks as long as those of girraffees.
You see, I knew those were guns. I never realised they actually made use of them. I knew those weapons were not for fancy. But I just never thought I would see its use first hand.
Quiet had returned to the street. The woman who ran into the strangers house with me began crying.
"My pikin oh... she dey road. she just dey come back from school. I'm calling her now her phone number is not available. Chaaaii"
I wondered if her daughter was the second person I heard had been shot. I could just imagine her laying on the ground, school uniform stained. Or was she somewhere hiding just as we were?
I was back to being mute. I could not utter a simple statement to console her.
She asked me where I was headed when the riot broke out. I was still mute.
She must have thought I was rude.
I just could not find words, a first in my life.
All I wanted were photocopies.
As I beheld the man twitching on the ground, there was no thought in my head. None whatsoever.
Now that I think about it no one told me to make my next move.
I ran.
I ran so fast I could feel my heart thumping against my rib cage. There I was with all the important documents I had acquired in my little life. And I was just running.
I didnt care about where I was running towards, whether it was towards greater danger, I had no idea.
It was in the home of that stranger that I realised I still had my documents intact.
Minutes later I remebered why I had left my house. The photocopies.
I sited a small storey building during my survey of the street.
'MAKE YOUR COPIES HIA'
Do I bolt out into the adjacent house?
Guess what?
I thanked one of tenants of the face-me-I-face-you. Unbolted the door, shut my eyes and ran as the crow flies across the street.
Stupid.
But I had to get those copies made.
It was a small room. If I could imagine a prison cell, that was exactly what this looked like. But this cell had about 6 old school computers crammed in it with a copy machine.
A copy machine!
It was hot. It was hot and it smelled.
The room was filled with relatively young men all typing away. Rather copying and pasting the same messages to God knows who on the other side of the globe.
Waiting to get my copies done, I realised if the EFCC walked in there I was dead meat.
I was in the midst of 'yahoo boys'
I was right there with a folder in my hands, wearing pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. I fit right in. LOL
No cell phone to even call home with. LoL
Naaaahhhh. Two horrible things couldn't happen to me in one day.
I was finally done. Still stunned, I paid and did not even wait for my change.
I still do not know how I got home.
Back in my bed, pyjamas still on. I mulled over all that had happened in the 'safety' of my house.
I wondered who the man was. I remember seeing his eyes roll back as he bled to the ground. What did he see as he passed away?
Did his life flash before his eyes? Did he live to see me running for the hills?
Would I have opened my doors to total strangers? Strangers who were runing at top speed?
I doubt it.
All I remeber was that my concern was getting home with my photocopies made. Was that sheer madness or determination?
I mean I had one of the greatest deals of my life the next day to prepare for.
Cut me some slack.
Hold on.
Aren't the Nigerian police supposed to protect me? Why were they firing into the crowd towards me?
Why did I perceive this air of normalcy despite the chaotic circumstances? Could it be that people had become used to this kind of irrationality from the Nigerian police?
All I wanted were some damn photocopies.
Today, I realised that admist chaos there is still so much to be grateful for.
There are kind people out there. They live in the most unlikely places that we may look down on.
One never knows who HE would send to be our guardian angel.
On my way out tomorrow I would probably pass by that face-me-I-face-you. I doubt I would even remember what street it was in talk less of the particular house.
But tonight I will pray for that woman and her family. I will pray for the man who passed away. I will aslo pray for the lady who was looking for her child. The yahoo boys, the nigerian police, I will pray for them. For this country I will also pray.
I will pray that my children would not have to see what I saw today.
I will pray that they will not inherit the knowledge that the government and politicians of their fatherland don't give a shit about their lives.
That stray bullet could have hit me.
But it did not.
So I will do the only thing I know how.
Pray.
'DWN
Monday, 21 January 2013
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Sun ré
Don't cry
don't cry
don't cry....
Error...! lol
Face full of tears and snot. I remember you today as I have everyday.
I wish I could talk to you again. Just one last time.
I miss you so much.
Mama your bébé is grown up. Your 'Dewunmi is all 'growed' up.
I remember holding your frail hands and your wise cracks about my untamed eyebrows. In the face of death you were still a comedian. I was your number one fan until the end.
It was hard. The first birthday, first christmas, new year, graduation. All without you. But here I am mama, years down the line.
I still miss you so much.
They said it would get better. But truthfully it feels just like yesterday. In fact it feels like its happening all over again today.
I honestly wish you were still here. But God loves you way more than I can ever love you.
I'm standing here at your favourite spot watching the rain drops making little ringlets in the puddles.
Watching those 'white-rose-like-plant-thingies' flourish.
I remember how you used to pluck one flower a day for my hair and tell me I was the most beautiful creature ever.
I hear you speak to me. I hear your smooth silky laughter.
I can feel you hold me. You tell me what you've always told me: "You'll be fine bébé..."
You were right.
You said you won't be able to speak to me as much from then on. You said you would always be with me.
I miss you so bad.
I remeber after you left, I would see someone who I thought was you in a crowd. I would chase the stranger down the street hoping it was you.
Hoping it was all a bad joke.
Hoping you were coming home later that night.
You never came.
I went from having strength to being frail and then I went to the Father. The One who comforts the sorrowed.
He told me you were fine. That He needed you to be with him.
He said to trust him.
I did.
I could swear I saw you yesterday. You sat right there on the wing of that 787.
Dressed in your african print boubou. A beauty to behold as the sun rose and cast its bright light upon your smiling face.
I heard you: "Adewunmi oyinlola oyemipo, ka ka ka ti n ya aja le nu... Sho o wa pa?"
The mischief, rife in your voice. LOL
If I had one more chance to see you I would just hold you.
I would just hold you to feel your touch once again.
There would be no need to speak. There would be no need for tears.
I would just hold you.
Through it all I have taken all of it to the Father. My hopes, dreams, tears...
He keeps telling me trust him and to hold on.
The one truest and greatest gift you left with me was the the knowledge of He that changeth not.
So mama here I am everyday sharing the lovely memories we had with anyone and everyone who cares to listen loool
I still don't know about that massive wedding you wanted, still on the hunt for 'le one'. -___- It's a jungle out there mama! Lol
But I'm here, I am now and I will never forget your words:
"Bébé don't ever settle for less than you are worth. You can do anything so long as your mind can conceive it. You can be everything and anything..."
I might have settled for less at several points in my young life. But that's why today comes once every year to remind me of all the values you taught me.
Everyday in my walk with the 'I AM', I pray that he fulfils all the dreams you had for me. And that in the hollow of his hands I attain all that I hope to.
I also pray that I grow to love and understand Him as fully as you've always wished me to.
Iya mi, sun re ó
'DWN
don't cry
don't cry....
Error...! lol
Face full of tears and snot. I remember you today as I have everyday.
I wish I could talk to you again. Just one last time.
I miss you so much.
Mama your bébé is grown up. Your 'Dewunmi is all 'growed' up.
I remember holding your frail hands and your wise cracks about my untamed eyebrows. In the face of death you were still a comedian. I was your number one fan until the end.
It was hard. The first birthday, first christmas, new year, graduation. All without you. But here I am mama, years down the line.
I still miss you so much.
They said it would get better. But truthfully it feels just like yesterday. In fact it feels like its happening all over again today.
I honestly wish you were still here. But God loves you way more than I can ever love you.
I'm standing here at your favourite spot watching the rain drops making little ringlets in the puddles.
Watching those 'white-rose-like-plant-thingies' flourish.
I remember how you used to pluck one flower a day for my hair and tell me I was the most beautiful creature ever.
I hear you speak to me. I hear your smooth silky laughter.
I can feel you hold me. You tell me what you've always told me: "You'll be fine bébé..."
You were right.
You said you won't be able to speak to me as much from then on. You said you would always be with me.
I miss you so bad.
I remeber after you left, I would see someone who I thought was you in a crowd. I would chase the stranger down the street hoping it was you.
Hoping it was all a bad joke.
Hoping you were coming home later that night.
You never came.
I went from having strength to being frail and then I went to the Father. The One who comforts the sorrowed.
He told me you were fine. That He needed you to be with him.
He said to trust him.
I did.
I could swear I saw you yesterday. You sat right there on the wing of that 787.
Dressed in your african print boubou. A beauty to behold as the sun rose and cast its bright light upon your smiling face.
I heard you: "Adewunmi oyinlola oyemipo, ka ka ka ti n ya aja le nu... Sho o wa pa?"
The mischief, rife in your voice. LOL
If I had one more chance to see you I would just hold you.
I would just hold you to feel your touch once again.
There would be no need to speak. There would be no need for tears.
I would just hold you.
Through it all I have taken all of it to the Father. My hopes, dreams, tears...
He keeps telling me trust him and to hold on.
The one truest and greatest gift you left with me was the the knowledge of He that changeth not.
So mama here I am everyday sharing the lovely memories we had with anyone and everyone who cares to listen loool
I still don't know about that massive wedding you wanted, still on the hunt for 'le one'. -___- It's a jungle out there mama! Lol
But I'm here, I am now and I will never forget your words:
"Bébé don't ever settle for less than you are worth. You can do anything so long as your mind can conceive it. You can be everything and anything..."
I might have settled for less at several points in my young life. But that's why today comes once every year to remind me of all the values you taught me.
Everyday in my walk with the 'I AM', I pray that he fulfils all the dreams you had for me. And that in the hollow of his hands I attain all that I hope to.
I also pray that I grow to love and understand Him as fully as you've always wished me to.
Iya mi, sun re ó
'DWN
Monday, 7 January 2013
Irapada
"Stop pushing my head up and down, just cut it well now..!"
He sat in a plastic chair scratching the "lapa lapa" that had spread as wide as the map of Africa all over his scalp. The scaly whites of the infection fell like snow flakes onto his green and brown ankara shirt.
"Which kind dance you dey doooo... Azonto!" Yelled on the boy who was the barber for that sunday. He whistled on the tune of the song as he stretched from his 4foot height to reach the head he was trimming. I wondered how he kept the hair he cut out of his mouth with all his singing.
"Saheed nor cut abolo for me oh... Or else Ma fun e ni ese" The next victim.. Err sorry 'customer' promised saheed as he punched the air showing saheed a sample of his abilities. The other boys whilst waiting on their turns argued about the technicalities of the soccer match showing on the television.
"Allah hu hakbar..!!"
I turned to the left, a couple of boys had begun their prayers. On mats of woven rubber coloured orange and blue they worshipped, and gave thanks to their creator.
There I sat on a bench in their hall. The orange from the rays of the sun shone in. They shone illuminating the room, seemingly giving life to the dust particles suspended in mid-air.
The figures of the boys cast shadows onto the yellow wall. The shadows on the wall gave off strength and strongwill, they were those of men not boys.
It seemed like something from somewhere I had never been.
The boys were courteous yet curious. Each one passing by managing to mutter a quick 'Good morning ma' as they went about thier business.
Short, tall, dark, fair, boys from different tribes. All Uncle Fash's children.
He caressed the blue and white beads in the palm of his hands. Saheed was saying the rosary. His eyes deep set. Eyes that had probably seen it all. They seemed to have their sight set on something. Something very far of, far away, somewhere I probably could never imagine.
He probably had his sights set on somewhere in the future. Or was it the past?
"Here amongst us there are doctors, there is even a president here.."
Did they believe that? Was she just giving them hope for hope sake? I wondered if they felt this lady was telling tales. I wondered if there was truly a president-to-be of our country at this chapel service.
For the first time ever, I had met a church group that had come to speak to the boys. The woman who spoke to the boys spoke about taking ones life into his hands and making the best of a hopeless situation. She spoke of breaking free from perceived limitations.
You see, I don't doubt that statement. But some part of my mind did. I must admit, I doubted if any success stories were going to come out of this room.
I wondered what Saheed thought about the womans speech. I hoped he believed he could break free and probably he could be that 'president in our midst'
Somewhere in the far corner of my mind I asked myself if I believed the words of the preacher. Did I truly believe that Saheed could break free and be a success? I mean here he is in a correctional institution for boys. How was any breakthrough going to happen?
I had no idea of how long boys like Saheed where to be in the facility. But I had only mere ideas regarding the conditions which had turned them into Uncle Fash's children.
Some of these young boys had committed heneous crimes ranging from armed robbery to rape. Others had simply been the grass when their parents, the elephants, clashed and realised they could no longer fend for their wards. There were also those that were simply lost and could not find their way back home.
As always, I placed myself in their shoes. And of course, I could not even properly envisage being without the comforts of a home, of a family. How would it feel to be lost? To literally not be able to find your home, your family? To have to make unfamiliar people family, to accept a new destiny. How would that feel...?
It's not just about feelings. The scheme of one's life would definately change.
But for the young boys who had tasted the bitter cider of criminality so early, it is a chance for a turn around, for 'irapada' (redemption).
At the chapel service, I looked at the faces of the boys. Each one different, each face with scars. I wondered what stories lay behind each scar.
"Okeke! Okeke! Come here... Your mama wan see you." Called a domitory leader.
This call caused a flash, a lightning bolt in form of a boy to speed past everyone. If there was any form of hope for any of the boys, it was definatley a visit that did the trick.
The next boy Isa, was not in such a hurry to see his visitor. Isa was no more than 5 feet, he dragged his feet along the corridor, he tarried. This boy seemed detached from all the other boys. I assumed he was new. I wondered what contempt he had for his visitor. I overheard wispers that he had committed a crime against his own family member. Was that the family member who had come to visit?
The realities of the boys home had began to dawn on me. Of course, I was moved to realise how priviledged I have been. Here I was at front row seat watching the other side of life. But at this facility I had no new realisation. None whatsoever, or so it seemed.
"I will beat you today ehnn... You think you can get away..."
They had pounced on each other and were going at it for a couple of seconds. The guardians came in an separated the two boys. The boys had scuffed their ankara sunday wear. Dare and Abel were kneeling down now, facing a wall. They had defaulted. The correctional facility had a 'no-fighting' rule. Fighting around these parts was the greatest sin. The boys guardian seemed worried. He stated that the two boys were new and needed time to adjust and that they needed more counselling hours. It seemed like he was apologising, I felt it was unecessary to do so.
"When boys under these conditions have a little scuffle, everyone is terrified and they run away. But when the aje-butter kids fight people say they need counselling" said a guardian at the home. I laughed and realised the truth in his words.
We easily write off people under such circumstances. Was it a human thing to do? A trait?
I had done just that in the deep recesses of my mind. I had reconsidered the preachers words when she said that a president of the nation was in the chapel. What if he truly was there? It seemed corny and cliched.
But what if a future president was there in that chapel standing next to me in ankara sunday wear? Would I treat him any different if I knew who he was? Would I 'famz'?
Was I wrong for writing off Saheed, Isa, Okeke, Dare, Abel in my heart? Or was I just being realistic that they might all amount to nothing just because of the nature of their formative years?
Did we donate to the boys home just because it was the cosmopolitan thing to do? Or maybe it was because it was the world-peace-united-nations thing to do?
Or were we donating to rid ourselves of the guilt of living so lavishly?
Uncle Fash had provided for the boys. It was their home. They went to school, played ball in the afternoons. They were fed properly, clothed and of course sheltered. Several of the boys had learnt all sorts of arts and crafts. Some started a cane furniture business and proudly displayed their craft. Others made tie-dye 'adire' fabric whilst others were masters at tailoring the fabric. It was mandatory for each boy to learn a craft, a means of income when they leave the facility.
"Come unto me all yea who are heavy laden and..." His voice echoed throughout the hall as he read a bible passage during the service. That was samson.
He said he loved to read and was hoping one day to be a writer. He had suffered horrible burns all over his body in a fire that had claimed the lives of his parents.
Another version of the story was that he was set on fire by a member of his family that night but he survived. No one had come looking for him, from the night of the fire, to the hospital and now here at the facility. No one.
Over time I have found strength in the most unlikely places and people. This was no different. These boys evoked strength. The had nothing, absolutely nothing.
Nothing but the clothes, food and shelter Uncle Fash had given them. They had their whole lives ahead of them with nothing. But in that nothingness lies the greatest strength of all.
This situation was a perfect example of the birds in the sky. No one goes out of their way to feed them or care for them. But they still grace the skies, they are still existent in all their radiant beauty.
This place has truly been a home. A home for the lost boys.
Say a prayer for them this festive season and at all times. And if by any chance you are in Nigeria, make it down to Lagos and head to Kudirat Abiola way, Oregun. Stop at the welfare bus stop, go in and share some goodwill with Uncle Fash's boys, Our boys.
I realised one thing though.
I realised that the outcomes of the lives of the children here was not in my hands or in that far corner of my mind. The outcomes were in their own hands. It was their choice to harness their strength to propel them to the lives they desired, right at the top.
Musiliu was leaving the home the following week. He had started a tailoring and embroidery business. He was about to be airborne. From being a petty thief to Uncle Fash's son and now owning his own business.
This was his big victory.
This was his 'Irapada'.
'DWN
He sat in a plastic chair scratching the "lapa lapa" that had spread as wide as the map of Africa all over his scalp. The scaly whites of the infection fell like snow flakes onto his green and brown ankara shirt.
"Which kind dance you dey doooo... Azonto!" Yelled on the boy who was the barber for that sunday. He whistled on the tune of the song as he stretched from his 4foot height to reach the head he was trimming. I wondered how he kept the hair he cut out of his mouth with all his singing.
"Saheed nor cut abolo for me oh... Or else Ma fun e ni ese" The next victim.. Err sorry 'customer' promised saheed as he punched the air showing saheed a sample of his abilities. The other boys whilst waiting on their turns argued about the technicalities of the soccer match showing on the television.
"Allah hu hakbar..!!"
I turned to the left, a couple of boys had begun their prayers. On mats of woven rubber coloured orange and blue they worshipped, and gave thanks to their creator.
There I sat on a bench in their hall. The orange from the rays of the sun shone in. They shone illuminating the room, seemingly giving life to the dust particles suspended in mid-air.
The figures of the boys cast shadows onto the yellow wall. The shadows on the wall gave off strength and strongwill, they were those of men not boys.
It seemed like something from somewhere I had never been.
The boys were courteous yet curious. Each one passing by managing to mutter a quick 'Good morning ma' as they went about thier business.
Short, tall, dark, fair, boys from different tribes. All Uncle Fash's children.
He caressed the blue and white beads in the palm of his hands. Saheed was saying the rosary. His eyes deep set. Eyes that had probably seen it all. They seemed to have their sight set on something. Something very far of, far away, somewhere I probably could never imagine.
He probably had his sights set on somewhere in the future. Or was it the past?
"Here amongst us there are doctors, there is even a president here.."
Did they believe that? Was she just giving them hope for hope sake? I wondered if they felt this lady was telling tales. I wondered if there was truly a president-to-be of our country at this chapel service.
For the first time ever, I had met a church group that had come to speak to the boys. The woman who spoke to the boys spoke about taking ones life into his hands and making the best of a hopeless situation. She spoke of breaking free from perceived limitations.
You see, I don't doubt that statement. But some part of my mind did. I must admit, I doubted if any success stories were going to come out of this room.
I wondered what Saheed thought about the womans speech. I hoped he believed he could break free and probably he could be that 'president in our midst'
Somewhere in the far corner of my mind I asked myself if I believed the words of the preacher. Did I truly believe that Saheed could break free and be a success? I mean here he is in a correctional institution for boys. How was any breakthrough going to happen?
I had no idea of how long boys like Saheed where to be in the facility. But I had only mere ideas regarding the conditions which had turned them into Uncle Fash's children.
Some of these young boys had committed heneous crimes ranging from armed robbery to rape. Others had simply been the grass when their parents, the elephants, clashed and realised they could no longer fend for their wards. There were also those that were simply lost and could not find their way back home.
As always, I placed myself in their shoes. And of course, I could not even properly envisage being without the comforts of a home, of a family. How would it feel to be lost? To literally not be able to find your home, your family? To have to make unfamiliar people family, to accept a new destiny. How would that feel...?
It's not just about feelings. The scheme of one's life would definately change.
But for the young boys who had tasted the bitter cider of criminality so early, it is a chance for a turn around, for 'irapada' (redemption).
At the chapel service, I looked at the faces of the boys. Each one different, each face with scars. I wondered what stories lay behind each scar.
"Okeke! Okeke! Come here... Your mama wan see you." Called a domitory leader.
This call caused a flash, a lightning bolt in form of a boy to speed past everyone. If there was any form of hope for any of the boys, it was definatley a visit that did the trick.
The next boy Isa, was not in such a hurry to see his visitor. Isa was no more than 5 feet, he dragged his feet along the corridor, he tarried. This boy seemed detached from all the other boys. I assumed he was new. I wondered what contempt he had for his visitor. I overheard wispers that he had committed a crime against his own family member. Was that the family member who had come to visit?
The realities of the boys home had began to dawn on me. Of course, I was moved to realise how priviledged I have been. Here I was at front row seat watching the other side of life. But at this facility I had no new realisation. None whatsoever, or so it seemed.
"I will beat you today ehnn... You think you can get away..."
They had pounced on each other and were going at it for a couple of seconds. The guardians came in an separated the two boys. The boys had scuffed their ankara sunday wear. Dare and Abel were kneeling down now, facing a wall. They had defaulted. The correctional facility had a 'no-fighting' rule. Fighting around these parts was the greatest sin. The boys guardian seemed worried. He stated that the two boys were new and needed time to adjust and that they needed more counselling hours. It seemed like he was apologising, I felt it was unecessary to do so.
"When boys under these conditions have a little scuffle, everyone is terrified and they run away. But when the aje-butter kids fight people say they need counselling" said a guardian at the home. I laughed and realised the truth in his words.
We easily write off people under such circumstances. Was it a human thing to do? A trait?
I had done just that in the deep recesses of my mind. I had reconsidered the preachers words when she said that a president of the nation was in the chapel. What if he truly was there? It seemed corny and cliched.
But what if a future president was there in that chapel standing next to me in ankara sunday wear? Would I treat him any different if I knew who he was? Would I 'famz'?
Was I wrong for writing off Saheed, Isa, Okeke, Dare, Abel in my heart? Or was I just being realistic that they might all amount to nothing just because of the nature of their formative years?
Did we donate to the boys home just because it was the cosmopolitan thing to do? Or maybe it was because it was the world-peace-united-nations thing to do?
Or were we donating to rid ourselves of the guilt of living so lavishly?
Uncle Fash had provided for the boys. It was their home. They went to school, played ball in the afternoons. They were fed properly, clothed and of course sheltered. Several of the boys had learnt all sorts of arts and crafts. Some started a cane furniture business and proudly displayed their craft. Others made tie-dye 'adire' fabric whilst others were masters at tailoring the fabric. It was mandatory for each boy to learn a craft, a means of income when they leave the facility.
"Come unto me all yea who are heavy laden and..." His voice echoed throughout the hall as he read a bible passage during the service. That was samson.
He said he loved to read and was hoping one day to be a writer. He had suffered horrible burns all over his body in a fire that had claimed the lives of his parents.
Another version of the story was that he was set on fire by a member of his family that night but he survived. No one had come looking for him, from the night of the fire, to the hospital and now here at the facility. No one.
Over time I have found strength in the most unlikely places and people. This was no different. These boys evoked strength. The had nothing, absolutely nothing.
Nothing but the clothes, food and shelter Uncle Fash had given them. They had their whole lives ahead of them with nothing. But in that nothingness lies the greatest strength of all.
This situation was a perfect example of the birds in the sky. No one goes out of their way to feed them or care for them. But they still grace the skies, they are still existent in all their radiant beauty.
This place has truly been a home. A home for the lost boys.
Say a prayer for them this festive season and at all times. And if by any chance you are in Nigeria, make it down to Lagos and head to Kudirat Abiola way, Oregun. Stop at the welfare bus stop, go in and share some goodwill with Uncle Fash's boys, Our boys.
I realised one thing though.
I realised that the outcomes of the lives of the children here was not in my hands or in that far corner of my mind. The outcomes were in their own hands. It was their choice to harness their strength to propel them to the lives they desired, right at the top.
Musiliu was leaving the home the following week. He had started a tailoring and embroidery business. He was about to be airborne. From being a petty thief to Uncle Fash's son and now owning his own business.
This was his big victory.
This was his 'Irapada'.
'DWN
Sunday, 23 December 2012
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
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
Monday, 17 December 2012
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
(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
Saturday, 15 December 2012
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
#
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
#
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
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
"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
Friday, 7 December 2012
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
*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
Thursday, 6 December 2012
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
"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
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
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
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.
"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.
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.
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