Hello and a good week to everyone. It’s been a funny past week here in Nigeria, what with the scare of the predicted acid rain that would fall in this region and cause skin cancer to many. It’s been hilarious watching even bus conductors, market women and truck pushers scampering frantically for safety in the nearest shelter. The white patches I have seen on my car after the rain have given me some concern; curiously enough, soon after this discovery, my skin has begun itching ( I’ve been caught out once or twice by the rain too) on my forearm. I’m wondering if the itches are imaginary or real. No one has tested the rain to know if it is acidic or not or is the government stopping scientists’ mouths to prevent a panic as some of us conspiracy theorists are wont to believe? There, just scratched an itch again.
I had a unique experience from a movie set I’d just concluded; I was “fallen” in love with. Is that correct English? Perks or hazards of the business as they say. Anyway, I had this actress who played my love interest in the project where some really intimate scenes came up. We had talked at length about what each person’s boundaries were regarding kissing and touching intimate body parts on set. She was a very good actress who took her work seriously and even though she hadn’t done very much as regards screen work, she showed a remarkable grasp of understanding the tools available to her as an actor – and she used them well. Because she made the character she played so believable, I found my work with her to be a breeze as we meshed in unison.
One of the scenes we played was one where, I, sorry, the character I played, had been an absolute bastard to the woman he loved, denied her a position he was empowered to give her even though she was more than qualified for the position, eventually realised the error of his ways and had crawled back to beg for another chance at love. The scene was a very deep one I had been dreading – I absolutely hate weepy scenes because they force me to go to depths I’m not comfortable with sharing with the outside world. Fortunately the director did what she could to make it as comfortable for us as possible by removing everyone from the room save the camera man, the boom man and the continuity person. The lights were soft, the air conditioning on and the stage set for an evening of romance – just joking! I shuffled towards her with the proud desperation of an egotist who recognises the time when pride has to be swallowed to avert being swallowed up by depression. I went down on my knees and clasped her right leg, saw the full hips at my eye level, felt the soft body beneath the denim fabric I was grasping and remembered why I was begging. Sorry, I went down on my knees and begged her forgiveness having seen the error of my ways, from which I was pulled up and very reluctantly professed my love for her. The character I played did this with his eyes averted, looking everywhere else but her eyes while he made the painful confession and when I finally looked up at her eyes they were flooded with tears as we closed in for the kiss. Everyone applauded.
The next day, she asked if she could have a moment with me. I acquiesced and we went outside. She told me she, for reasons she did not know felt very attracted to me. I smiled, because I remembered the very same thing happening to me some years back when I did a stage play with someone I regarded as a sister who played my love interest. We had this love scene during rehearsals where we had that moment. It was like this weird chemical love spirit that just passed through us at the same time and we both looked into each other’s eyes and knew we were hit without being able to explain why. I couldn’t sleep that night or for rest of the week for that matter. I knew it wasn’t right but I couldn’t explain or ignore its power and I could see my relationship with my then girlfriend, who was very dear to me, being threatened. Funny enough, a few days after the play ended my strong feelings for the lady in question began to dissipate. I realised then that I had temporarily opened up a part of me that was vulnerable but crucial to my craft as a tool for interpretation of my role. I also realised that an actor while delving into his reserves and emotions to do his work, must also have control over them and recognise their use in any project for what they are; transient. I explained as such to her and encouraged her to play around with her emotions without getting too caught up in them, because our job at the end of the day is just what it is, a job.
I haven’t heard from her ever since we wrapped up so my belief is that she’s okay now. Just thought to share that with you guys so amidst everything else, do have a great week everyone! Hi Frieda!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Knackered
Good evening/week everyone. I’ve been sleeping like a dead man for the past twelve hours and still counting. I’m trying to get this out so I can get back to sleep. Been too tired to even eat anything for fear that there might be grease in the food. No, there’s no need to freak out on my statement; it’s just the way I usually feel the morning after a good night’s clubbing except that I didn’t go clubbing last night; I went drinking. I’d finished a gruelling fortnight of working on a set somewhere towards Epe in Lagos, sleeping an approximately four hours every night. You can then imagine the relief we, my colleagues and I, felt when it was finally a wrap. We headed straight for the bar, especially since the ever attendant Lagos rush hour traffic was still firmly in place even though it was ten thirty pm. I ordered the very thing I had been craving – an ice cold Odeku (the formidable Nigerian Guinness stout) and thoroughly relished the best part of any beer; the very first draught that opens up the parched throat like a virgin maid to her lover, the bubbly icicles coursing through the dry bed spreading its goodwill through my veins as it went. Bliss! The rest was just routine; drinking, flirting, talking about any and everything.
It’s the second day of writing this post, eighty thirty am to be exact. Had to stay up for most of the night with Frieda who’s down with a very bad cold; the silly stubborn girl just won’t take her medication and it’s affecting her studies. It is mostly my fault though – this is so galling, I always seem to be the one at fault. The next time it’s yours Frieda, I’m broadcasting it to the whole world! – and anytime she’s upset with me or anxious about me, she forgets everything else and all I need to do is just calm her down, talk it over and she’s bright as rain. But oh, what a talk that is. It goes on for hours and hours and sometimes I just want to tell her to leave me alone to sleep until I remember that one does not go chasing after rats when ones house is on fire. The end result is always worth the labour when we start laughing and joking again and she starts fussing over me again. I guess you guys would have figured out how spoilt a brat I am, one who loves attention from the ones he trusts. Anyway, enough of this sappy stuff, where was I?
I’m still feeling queasy after the other night’s binge; I have been drinking water like sand even after downing almost five litres of water. I can’t stand the sight of food for fear that there might be oil in it and still don’t feel hungry after one and a half days of not eating. I have to go out for a couple of meetings and hopefully I’ll manage to pick up my beloved Cotonou pineapples and gorge myself silly with them. And then my piece de resistance, my fave fruit, agbalumo/ udala, is in season again! The unfortunate thing is, it is a pain to buy. This is because it takes an expert to spot the few ripe sweet ones from the sour vast majority. Buy the wrong one and your mouth will screw like a light bulb on account of its sourness but the sweet ones are really rewarding. Enter stage right my wonderful neighbour Osamede who has graciously opted to buy them for me. I think I’m going to have a wonderful day today when I get back. I’ll sleep, surrounded by my little ones, my agbalumos, wake up, go to the loo, eat two, watch a movie halfway, pause it, sleep again, wake up again, watch the rest of the movie, eat a pineapple and five more agbalumos then – I think you get the message. I’m off to the shower so I can get out and be done for the day and finally rub my hands with glee. Have a great week everybody and apologies for the late post. Much love to y’all!
It’s the second day of writing this post, eighty thirty am to be exact. Had to stay up for most of the night with Frieda who’s down with a very bad cold; the silly stubborn girl just won’t take her medication and it’s affecting her studies. It is mostly my fault though – this is so galling, I always seem to be the one at fault. The next time it’s yours Frieda, I’m broadcasting it to the whole world! – and anytime she’s upset with me or anxious about me, she forgets everything else and all I need to do is just calm her down, talk it over and she’s bright as rain. But oh, what a talk that is. It goes on for hours and hours and sometimes I just want to tell her to leave me alone to sleep until I remember that one does not go chasing after rats when ones house is on fire. The end result is always worth the labour when we start laughing and joking again and she starts fussing over me again. I guess you guys would have figured out how spoilt a brat I am, one who loves attention from the ones he trusts. Anyway, enough of this sappy stuff, where was I?
I’m still feeling queasy after the other night’s binge; I have been drinking water like sand even after downing almost five litres of water. I can’t stand the sight of food for fear that there might be oil in it and still don’t feel hungry after one and a half days of not eating. I have to go out for a couple of meetings and hopefully I’ll manage to pick up my beloved Cotonou pineapples and gorge myself silly with them. And then my piece de resistance, my fave fruit, agbalumo/ udala, is in season again! The unfortunate thing is, it is a pain to buy. This is because it takes an expert to spot the few ripe sweet ones from the sour vast majority. Buy the wrong one and your mouth will screw like a light bulb on account of its sourness but the sweet ones are really rewarding. Enter stage right my wonderful neighbour Osamede who has graciously opted to buy them for me. I think I’m going to have a wonderful day today when I get back. I’ll sleep, surrounded by my little ones, my agbalumos, wake up, go to the loo, eat two, watch a movie halfway, pause it, sleep again, wake up again, watch the rest of the movie, eat a pineapple and five more agbalumos then – I think you get the message. I’m off to the shower so I can get out and be done for the day and finally rub my hands with glee. Have a great week everybody and apologies for the late post. Much love to y’all!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
9ja Woman
She looked more like a beauty queen for a movie scene…. I look at her with anger flashing in my eyes, frustrated because I don’t know what to do while she, she just stands there aloof, not caring a hoot what I think. I, at the same time, know she’s keenly listening to my thoughts even though I refuse to express them in my anger. I can tell this from the stillness of her posture as she cocks her head slightly to one side, facing away from me, eyes cast downwards and slightly to the left. I know it is slowly turning to a battle of who will be the first to say “I’m sorry”. I walk out, partly because I don’t want to say anything that will cause a huge fight and eventual irreparable damage, partly to make her stew in it and let her see the error of her ways so that if (God forbid) I venture to apologise, she in her eagerness for peace, and with the least of shakara, does not let me beg for too long. The naija woman. Good week everybody!
She is beautiful, whether light or dark in complexion, small or big breasted. Her gentle undulating hips she carries with the gentle sway of a breeze through trees on a hot summer’s day. Her bottom, if spare, when she walks, swishes gracefully with the slight wave of a fish’s tail in water and if generous, with the gentle roll of a distant thunder. She is aware of the magnetic effect she has on men around her as she walks down the road or into the office. She understands now the warnings of yesteryears from her mother of how so pregnant she will be should she sit beside a man. Her father and brothers are fiercely protective of her as they remember their own relentless pursuits of her in other bodies from other homes, lands and climes. When she ‘winds’ her waist to her man on the dance floor, she does so with abandon or with measured modesty, ‘unaware’ of what she’s doing, her hips dipping and jerking at various angles, her bottom jutting out provocatively as they quiver with the nervousness of jelly on a spinning washing machine. Her man, if she has one, smiles confidently in the knowledge that he is the sole proprietor of those hips and that she mischievously teases all and sundry to show them a taste of what they can never have.
At home, she’s a different being altogether; focusing her attention on matters at hand worrying about the future of all her loved ones. She is a deep well of different and very complex emotions and thoughts that are always running through her mind. She defers to her man recognising him as the head of the home but also in the knowledge that she is the engine without which nothing can run. She smiles at the initial stage of the relationship when her man lays down the rules dictating what goes and what doesn’t. She smiles because she sees much further than he can and wisely dedicates her time to studying him so she knows how to get the best of him. Even in their initial lovemaking, she ‘tires’ easily, with a view to gauge his strength, and by the third or fourth time has already known his capabilities and begins to push for what she wants, gently stroking his ego as she advances steadily towards her crescendo. She knows how vulnerable he is to the wiles of her competitors outside and jealously guards her territory, juggling work at the office with cooking the meals he loves the most at home. It is hard to discern to whom her breasts belong; her man or her children – they serve either master with equal vigour. She looks so gorgeous when she goes off to work, a small smile playing on her lips in the awareness that her man watches her warily in the knowledge that she will be hit upon by many in the course of the day. She knows this will keep him in check knowing that many want to take his place. She knows he knows she will not go astray but also knows not to take her for granted.
She is not always sweet – and we like it that way. When she is on the war path she is unstoppable. Her emotions when they rise to the surface are a volcano and we match her, fire for fire. Actually, we choose our battles with her, knowing when to shut up and when to face her. Her hormones, when they begin to rage, cower all before her – no exception. The deference mostly due to remembrance of the times she has accommodated our tantrums and also images of what she went through bearing our children. That is how we like love our 9ja woman, like our meals; with lots of red hot chilli pepper and spice otherwise we’d throw up at its blandness! I know this not a befitting tribute but it is a tribute all the same – in honour of the naija woman. God bless you; we love you. Have a great week everyone.
She is beautiful, whether light or dark in complexion, small or big breasted. Her gentle undulating hips she carries with the gentle sway of a breeze through trees on a hot summer’s day. Her bottom, if spare, when she walks, swishes gracefully with the slight wave of a fish’s tail in water and if generous, with the gentle roll of a distant thunder. She is aware of the magnetic effect she has on men around her as she walks down the road or into the office. She understands now the warnings of yesteryears from her mother of how so pregnant she will be should she sit beside a man. Her father and brothers are fiercely protective of her as they remember their own relentless pursuits of her in other bodies from other homes, lands and climes. When she ‘winds’ her waist to her man on the dance floor, she does so with abandon or with measured modesty, ‘unaware’ of what she’s doing, her hips dipping and jerking at various angles, her bottom jutting out provocatively as they quiver with the nervousness of jelly on a spinning washing machine. Her man, if she has one, smiles confidently in the knowledge that he is the sole proprietor of those hips and that she mischievously teases all and sundry to show them a taste of what they can never have.
At home, she’s a different being altogether; focusing her attention on matters at hand worrying about the future of all her loved ones. She is a deep well of different and very complex emotions and thoughts that are always running through her mind. She defers to her man recognising him as the head of the home but also in the knowledge that she is the engine without which nothing can run. She smiles at the initial stage of the relationship when her man lays down the rules dictating what goes and what doesn’t. She smiles because she sees much further than he can and wisely dedicates her time to studying him so she knows how to get the best of him. Even in their initial lovemaking, she ‘tires’ easily, with a view to gauge his strength, and by the third or fourth time has already known his capabilities and begins to push for what she wants, gently stroking his ego as she advances steadily towards her crescendo. She knows how vulnerable he is to the wiles of her competitors outside and jealously guards her territory, juggling work at the office with cooking the meals he loves the most at home. It is hard to discern to whom her breasts belong; her man or her children – they serve either master with equal vigour. She looks so gorgeous when she goes off to work, a small smile playing on her lips in the awareness that her man watches her warily in the knowledge that she will be hit upon by many in the course of the day. She knows this will keep him in check knowing that many want to take his place. She knows he knows she will not go astray but also knows not to take her for granted.
She is not always sweet – and we like it that way. When she is on the war path she is unstoppable. Her emotions when they rise to the surface are a volcano and we match her, fire for fire. Actually, we choose our battles with her, knowing when to shut up and when to face her. Her hormones, when they begin to rage, cower all before her – no exception. The deference mostly due to remembrance of the times she has accommodated our tantrums and also images of what she went through bearing our children. That is how we like love our 9ja woman, like our meals; with lots of red hot chilli pepper and spice otherwise we’d throw up at its blandness! I know this not a befitting tribute but it is a tribute all the same – in honour of the naija woman. God bless you; we love you. Have a great week everyone.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Once again.. an apology
Hello Everyone,
This is Nkem, Kalu's manager. Just got a text from him saying this, "Nkem, could you put up an apology post on my blog!! The internet access here is s@#$@, I can't seem to log on and I have to go back on set. Sorry for missing my deadline...again!"
I am sorry about the "non-posting" and I promise, you will have a post next week even if I have to lock him up in his apartment.
Have a wonderful weekend!!
This is Nkem, Kalu's manager. Just got a text from him saying this, "Nkem, could you put up an apology post on my blog!! The internet access here is s@#$@, I can't seem to log on and I have to go back on set. Sorry for missing my deadline...again!"
I am sorry about the "non-posting" and I promise, you will have a post next week even if I have to lock him up in his apartment.
Have a wonderful weekend!!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Apologies!
A good week to everyone. This is a short note to say that there will be no post this week. It is true that I have had a busy week but it is not so busy that I have not been able to make the time out to write. The truth is that I have made out the time to write and it is precisely the fact that I know what I want to write about that is the problem. I want to accord the subject matter the respect, beauty and reverence it deserves and I am afraid of getting it wrong by being too hasty and not giving it the time, dedication and deliberation it deserves. Soup wey sweet, na money kill am! I want to give it a shot this week and hope that a worthy soup be prepared for you next week. Perhaps we can laugh over it too!
I ask that you bear with me, my gentle folks. Wishing you a pleasant week ahead and praying for a much much better Nigeria in these deciding times we’re going through. Ka emesia nu!
I ask that you bear with me, my gentle folks. Wishing you a pleasant week ahead and praying for a much much better Nigeria in these deciding times we’re going through. Ka emesia nu!
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