Apapa - Kirikiri 2

So! Where did we stop? Ah, yes, so we kicked the sitting preacher and his female train out so we could commence with the most important event of the day – our birthday. Just kidding; we did usher them out but not unceremoniously. By and large the preacher soon came to an end of his message and after the prayer the co-ordinator or host, or compere, who was, incredibly, an inmate, stood at the podium to thank the group for choosing to celebrate its Easter day with them. He was very presentable in his well ironed short sleeved light coloured shirt and dark coloured trousers. He had a large sized head which seemed to tilt this way and that when he spoke and I couldn’t help wondering if he were to lean forward to inspect at his shoes, whether he would be unbalanced by his great head and topple over. I shook myself out of my reverie and paid attention. He was in control of his environment and was at complete ease with the congregation, even the presence of the comptroller – di oga of di prizin – did not seem to faze him as I curiously tried to, as he spoke, imagine what it was he had been convicted for. It had to be fraud or ‘sharp practices’ I surmised because the man was obviously a smooth and educated talker. He spoke very eloquently with the very dry sense of effortless humour typical of the Warri and Sapele people of Delta state; he soon introduced our E Taylor to the podium.

Our man stood up to an uproarious cheer from the entire hall which made Mary and me start, look at each other and turn to observe him more keenly. He walked to the podium, hugged our 'brainy' host, received the microphone, turned around with his head bowed and without saying a word, walked toward us and stopped in front of the comptroller. He began to speak softly, almost inaudibly and began to thank the comptroller,Mr Tunde Ladipo, a very nice, unassuming man with a quiet steely strength about him, for giving him the opportunity to see the people that meant so much him. He began to move towards me and thanked me for taking out the time to make an appearance, moved to his wife seated beside me, took her up by the hand and introduced her to us telling all at the same time that they both shared the same birth date. As he spoke, still softly, making some of us strain our ears to catch what he was saying, he began humming softly to himself inching towards the inmates when he suddenly thrust his right hand powerfully forward and froze as if waiting for a response – it did come. A thunderous roar emanating from three hundred throats deafened our ears. By the time we looked back at E Taylor from the crowd, the sixty one year old man was already crouched in a dancing position as the choir had already struck up the beat that was obviously familiar to everyone else in the hall save us. The man danced with the dexterity of a very dignified P Square duo as the congregation clapped and urged him on. He was such a delight to watch as he cavorted this way and that, making us will the music not to stop. When he held his hands up, too soon if I may add, he began to address the inmates with a fondness that betrayed his beautiful heart as he brought out the reverse birthday gifts he brought them. Even more magnificent than the silver haired titan were the main stars; the inmates and the comptroller himself.

There was a passion in them that could be matched only by children in the way they sang, the way they danced and the rapt attention with which they listened to the various speakers. There was an energy in all of them that reverberated off the walls of the building making us wonder who the real prisoners were; us on the outside or they who were inside, a little reminiscent of Fela A Kuti’s masterpiece “Beast of No Nation” where he questions the veracity of us on the outside calling ourselves free. There was a strange light shining in their eyes, like my grandmother’s goats’ used to whenever their favourite fodder is dangled before their noses, as if every moment they spent in that hall was to be savoured before they were sent back to their dreary enclaves. All inmates, from the most animated to the most docile, seemed to be threaded with the same intense yarn, from the same source and towards a common goal until it hit me, freedom! Freedom was the one thing we from the outside had that they on the inside didn’t. The one thing we took for granted was what these incarcerated men found as priceless as the very air they breathed. It pervaded everything they did; it was in their walk; the nervous energy in their step, their heels barely touching the ground, it was in the way they sang; their faces facing upwards as if waiting to be caught up and away by some invisible force, it was in the roaring ‘amens’ they punctuated the ending of every prayer declaimed and was in the way they followed our every move with their eyes– I suspect my colleague Mary garnered most if not all the eyes in that hall, and rightly so; she is a lovely girl.

I did eventually leave that hall but not before I gave a speech (bowing of course to the venerable Taylor’s gentle prodding), danced till I sweated my shirt darker and had refreshment with the others in Mr Tunde Ladipo’s office. I had in there with strangers, a much better time than I have had out here in years, excluding loved ones of course and as I sit here writing, trying to piece together my thoughts, I ask myself how free I am. Am I making full use of the freedom available to me? What is my freedom for, to ensure that I make my life as pleasurable as I can to the exclusion of others, or is it to make others’ lives better? I find that even with my so called freedom, I am still buffeted from all sides by my obligation to family, friends and society at large, by the desires raging inside me that I fight every single day; desires that fight against the goals I strive to achieve and instead try to steer me towards the very things I abhor. If you ask me, I would say that I think the inmates of that walled prison I visited seem to have a better understanding of the prison they are in than we outsiders do of our wall-less prison out here we carry everywhere with us. I aim to visit that prison periodically even if it is to remind myself of where I am. Have a great weekend everyone!

Apapa - Kirikiri 1

A good day to everybody! Immediately I went through the Kirikiri Prison gates I spotted Evangelist Taylor (the good looking white bearded man in the photograph) and another dear colleague and friend of mine, Mary Lazarus waiting patiently for me along the road. E Taylor was particularly pleased to see me and hugged me very warmly and led Mary and I towards the prison gates, my first prison gates.

The gates looked formidable while trying to look friendly and inviting with their fresh paint and casually lounging guards sitting on the gnarled exposed roots of a nearby tree; I wasn’t fooled. I waited, we waited behind Taylor, Mary and I, as if he was our only genuine reassurance that all would be safe with us behind those gates. I didn’t know what to expect to behold behind them. Would a strong heady wave of the stench of unwashed bodies come rolling out to us, or would we be walking through a gauntlet of dark mazes with flinty, beady eyes peering at us from the darkness barely held at bay by dim pools of light provided by even sorrier looking light bulbs up above? To my disappointment a small bye door etched from the gate was opened to us and we walked through to a considerably large cavernous reception hall. It was lit up by the natural light coming from the courtyard about twenty metres away and while not being very well lit, one could not only see that it was spotlessly clean, but one could catch a whiff of the slight pine smell of mango trees hidden from view. We were asked to hand in our phones to an officer behind a mesh wire fence, dashing hopes of sneaking an insider picture or two of the potential goings on within the facility. As we walked in, I glanced at my watch and silently promised myself I wouldn’t stay an hour longer in the place before I left for other more ‘lucrative’ engagements, my conscience suitably elevated from my charitable deed of the month; it was 11.30am. We walked into the courtyard and stopped short, Mary and me.

It was breathtaking. The forbidding walls enclosing the prison were just a façade because a completely different picture lay spread out before us. There were no high concrete buildings with porthole windows and security turrets with armed guards standing watch. It looked more like a prestigious secondary boarding school from colonial times, and the typical prison colours cream and dark green were accentuated by large green mango trees and long rows of low shrubs covered with bright yellow flowers emblazoning the yard with their brilliance. A row of colonial buildings formed a perimeter around well manicured lawns, a modern basketball court, a football pitch and, I’m not sure if a lawn tennis court was present but I could definitely make out a table-tennis table or two. Oh, there was a mosque and a church as well, and into the church we went.

It was a large hall and was filled to capacity with the seated inmates occupying most of the space from the mid front row to the back of the hall. They wore mufti – a military term for civilian clothes, I learnt that from boarding school – and most of them wore poly-foam bathroom slippers. The front row was occupied by about twenty young men in uniform colours of the same printed fabric. They were better groomed than the others and all wore shiny black leather sandals. From the musical instruments before them I could tell they formed the prison choir (would you believe that since childhood I am still tempted to spell ‘choir’ as ‘quire’?). We were ushered to a row of chairs adjacent to the front facing inmates and sat to listen to the preacher.

Interestingly, I noted that the preacher preached a message of hope, not the typical ‘waiting to get to heaven before you get your reward’ but offered hope to not only re-entering the outside world of freedom but also the freeing of the mind from prison and going out to achieve great things. Great men who had once been imprisoned were made examples of: John the Baptist, Joseph, Obasanjo, Mahatma Ghandi; great men who were once vilified as these ones seated were. It might seem inconsequential to some, but for me, it was a huge step in the right direction. It swelled my heart with pride that our government, and private groups actually cared enough for erring citizens to invest in their future through genuine rehabilitating programs aimed at making them even better members of society.

Sadly again, my motor mouth and my love for painting pictures has brought us to another annoying end to this post, but, gladly, even the least hope is not lost as I will be rounding off this story not a later than May the 2nd, the day after tomorrow by hook or by crook. I want to thank you for your patience so far and I would also like to use this opportunity to thank Tracy for her encouraging words plus a huge welcome to my irreverent Formerly Stealth Reader who is still the ‘master’ of stealth as far as I’m concerned. Welcome back to the fold, lost but found sheep – you have been missed. Have a great a day everybody and see you very soon

Apapa - The Journey

A good week to everybody! I sometimes wonder that I may have spoken too soon last week regarding keeping my joy. I have been tested sorely to know if I could really back up my claims I made regarding my sweet joy. I have had feuds with my friends especially my dear Ario who’s still not talking to me. Lola had yet another incident yesterday and is currently at the hospital (mechanic’s – beginning to wonder if I’m being scammed or not by these notoriously wily but short sighted fellows). It’s just one thing on top of the other, The most infuriating thing of all is that no one has lifted a finger to find my two hundred plus daughters who were kidnapped up north except for their parents, well wishers and foreign nationalities who till today are still ‘helping’ us wipe our smeared backsides in full view of the whole world; a case of the outsider actually grieving more than the bereaved. No matter, it’s of little consequence anyway; in a week’s time we’d have forgotten about the heartbreaking story of the hapless early teenage girls carted away far off north to fill violent men’s bellies, and have their bellies filled in return, and thank God it didn’t happen to us, until it does. Like I said before, I’ll vent my spleen, and then grab my joy back.

I had some real joy on Easter Monday last week when I went to visit the medium prisons at Kirikiri in Apapa, Lagos. A friend and colleague of mine, Evangelist Taylor, had invited me to join him in celebrating his 61st birthday at the Kirikiri maxim- sorry, medium prison which I curiously accepted but not without some angst. You see, the Apapa traffic is one I have a serious dread for. This is because being the main seaport of the country, the traffic, owing to the ubiquitous trailer-lorries laden with all kinds of goods, and their drivers who are a law unto themselves, routinely cause traffic snarls all over the place, adversely affecting businesses in the area. It is also important to point out that 70% of these trucks are forty years old or thereabouts, and as a result, are prone to breaking down all the time and consequently blocking traffic. Be foolhardy enough to vie for the right of way with them and you’ll be given a ‘crash’ course on the demerits of fighting with a forty year old truck: no brakes, 75% blind spot, ability to move only in a straight line as every attempt to turn even an inch to the left or right requires al the manual assistance of the driver’s mate, and above all, a very silly and stubborn driver! I say all this to say that I only dared go to Apapa because it was a public holiday and so I knew there would be no truck on the road.

I got to Apapa without incident and drove past very long rows of parked trucks until I realized too late I had made an inadvertent illegal turn at a market square – there were no road signs warning against this error. I only knew about the error from the menacing way the police and LASTMA officers came hulking towards my car, almost licking their lips in anticipation. They didn’t know that one whose buttocks have been stung by a soldier-ant is always cautious of where next he plants them. I leaned forward, my nose almost to the windscreen, grasping the steering wheel tightly with two hands, a fierce look of concentration on my face looking this way and that, as if trying to look for a familiar landmark, a look not unlike that of a sixty year old granny daring to pick her grandchildren from pre –school. I squinted my eyes and tried to look as stupid as possible as the officers pounded their fists at the car for me to stop. One of them even attempted to jump directly in my path but jumped back immediately when he seemed to realize that he might get crushed by this clueless driver who did not even seem to know his bearings. That was how I was saved from paying for some official’s child’s school fees for him.

I finally got to the prison gate and the rest of the incredible experiences I had there, are they not to be written in tomorrow’s conclusive post; this post being in the danger of being excessively long? Be sure to sign in tomorrow to read about Apapa – Kirikiri. In the meantime I leave you all to a glorious start to the week. Have a great day everyone!

Keeping My Joy

I really don’t know what the point of driving a new car in Lagos is any more! Good week everybody! I’m in a very good mood this day of our Lord. Why you may ask. Nothing I say, I just will myself to be in a very good mood because I have seen that it is the only way one can frustrate evil in this world. I know what I’m talking about. It’s as if no one has the right to be happy and content. When I’m done hurling lies at you, walk into your office or place of work and loudly announce how ecstatically happy you are. The first question you’d be asked is the source of your joy; is it the lottery, is it a new promotion, great night with the spouse? Say yes to the former and the evil demon invites itself in either of two ways: first, by your invitation. Everyone, feeling it’s their God given right to share in your good fortune, suddenly remembers how close you used to be and so cajoles or compels you to remember you owe them an obligation to share in your wealth in its entirety – until it is spent. Second, you say no. You’ll find out how one mouth can be more deadly than twenty thousand open graves – and that’s the nice ones. The not-so-nice-ones, well, put it this way. You would be well advised to relocate yourself, your family, aged parents from both sides and leave your belongings so they think you’re still coming back – a self imposed exile from your beloved community

Regarding the latter, the great night with the spouse, hmm, Frieda once told me that if ever the topic of our sex life were to come up among her female friends and her, she would lament my total lack of prowess – in equipment and in vigour – in bed. Laughing, I asked her why she would mock me thus to which she replied that when women see something good in their fellow woman’s possession, they don’t want one like it, they want that very thing that’s been tried and tested. To my mischievous nieces and nephew sneaking to read this piece, sex is after marriage and not before! Uncle Kalu was delirious while writing this piece! Office workers reading this know only full well the perils that come with announcing a new promotion too brashly – brandished daggers stabbing from all sides that would make Julius Caesar’s assassins’ humble with respect. Demons everywhere trying to steal your joy. Like I said before, I don’t know what the point of driving a new car in Lagos is any more.

My poor Lola has been bashed and nudged so many times that if all her nudges were to be likened to love trysts, she’d be branded promiscuous or a victim of abuse – which she is. One would simply look at the paint smudges left on her body and count how many lovers she’s had, and from their colours, racially profile them. In fact were I to go to a body shop to give her a paint job, her body would serve as my catalogue to pick one colour out of the many samples on her person. In Lagos traffic, if you don’t go looking for trouble, it will come looking for you: drivers who feel they’re smarter than everyone else and drive into, and block oncoming traffic, LASTMA officials waiting for whom to pounce on, dreaded police checkpoints lurking under desolate bridges, disillusioned people who, beset by society’s numerous pressures, suddenly walk out into the road to be mowed down by you. Thank God the era of street parties are over. Sometime in the past, while it was still in force, I have had it in my head to park near one of the odious parties, surreptitiously tie a rope to the furthest table to me at the other end, tie it to the back of my car, wait till the guests are served food and drinks, and drive off in the opposite direction. It just never ends.

In conclusion I have found that no one has the right to steal my joy no matter what. Being and staying joyful is my prerogative and no one else’s. If you hurt me or annoy me, I would simply take some time out, rant and rave, deal with the situation and mentally go back to my state of joyfulness; it’s all with good reason I tell you. What’s the point of venting your frustration from an earlier accident on an innocent acquaintance who may have the intention of introducing you to some lucrative deal, or you impatiently brush aside some youngster who has admired you all his/her life, scarring them forever? When I’m in Lagos traffic now, I’m very calm, I don’t fret. I simply toss my impatience out the window, reach into my joy and think all the thoughts I haven’t had time think about; what I’d do if I had a helicopter, what if a meteor came crashing down to earth, how best I should play this role or that, what would make a good story, why is the blacked out SUV in front of me bouncing up and down, are there empty bottles in this car should I need to ‘go’? Point is, a positive outcome can never be the offspring of a negative mind so guard your heart with all diligence for out of it flow the issues of life. Have a great week everybody

Seven times out of Ten!

Good week everyone! It’s a beautiful day I see outside my window, the morning sun peeping through my dark blinds and even the melodious sound of a (I-don’t know-what) bird trills above my neighbour’s noisy generator. Yes my friends, I’m sorry I have to drag you into my now cantankerous and no-electricity morning but as they say, there’s love in sharing. Ah bless! The power just came back. I tend not to praise my local power company when they give us the power we actually pay them for, it being their job but the main reason I never praise them is I found that any time I praised them for a job well done, a range of two to twenty hours of power in a few days, I’d end up not having any at all for the next four days, and this has happened seven times out of ten. I now see the genesis of superstition, tradition and culture. I actually like this topic – I was going to talk about my misadventure at my friend’s dad’s funeral in Ebutte Metta, Lagos but I suddenly want to try making some sense of this in my head and throw it out to you my folks.

The majority of us, if not all, tend to follow tried and tested, sometimes handed down formulas that lead to successes ranging from immediate gratification to reaping profits from long term investments, personnel and material.. Once these endeavours succeed seven times out of ten, they are likely to be adopted as a winning formula and then a tradition and consequently culture. A man driven to distraction by hunger and seeing no other way out of his predicament than to burgle a house for the first time in his life weighs the cost of his intentions. He prays to God to understand his predicament and to shield him from discovery and shame, to understand that he only need fill his belly and nothing else. He embarks upon his desperate act and ends up not getting caught. The euphoria of his success drives him to try another venture, and then another with resounding success; a winning formula is born – until he is eventually nabbed.

Take my new found ‘superstition’ as an example. When I praise the power company for transmitting uninterrupted power for a whole day – a rarity in these parts and find that seven times out of the ten I praise them for their services, I suffer blackouts for an unusually extended period of time, I would subconsciously or otherwise, sense that some indescribable force is against me praising the company for its services and doing so would be to my detriment. I would therefore, from then on, refrain from praising any improvement on services provided by the company lest some dark force comes along to snatch away what little service I have hitherto enjoyed and plunge me into its fraternal darkness. I ‘learn’ not to acknowledge any strides the company makes to improve upon its services, however phenomenal, for fear of being let down, and I subsequently compel my family to adopt this ‘secure’ and ‘proven’ tradition. We thus learn a culture of criticism and cynicism through our ‘tried and tested’ tradition of non gratitude and non encouragement; and if some bemused outsider, perplexed by our culture of negativity, asks us why we never acknowledge the laudable efforts of our service providers, we smugly reply that it is to ensure the status quo remains the same so that we never regress; and argue further that the culture of criticism is actually a form of reverse encouragement to our service providers. If then this tradition works out for us better services, or at worst keeps us in status quo, what is to stop us from applying it to other aspects of our lives. A dear friend travels through the treacherous roads from Benin to Lagos upon hearing of your hospitalization bearing the Benin fruits and Auchi groundnuts you love so much, huffs and puffs his/her way round to your bedside to give you a hug to which you, with ‘good’ intentions, ask what took them so long without so much as a word of thanks because you know you’re encouraging them to do better – seven times out of ten.

One of the greatest gifts we have as human beings is the power of individual thought even though most of us rarely utilize it for fear of drawing the ire of, or standing apart from others. Almost as crippling is our unwillingness to ask ourselves the plain truth no matter how painful it may be. Hence we sometimes go through life holding tenaciously onto outmoded beliefs and traditions of yore handed down to us by our forefathers or parents or even by our own hand. I think one should assess and evaluate whether their tradition is taking them to the destination they are going or drawing them back. If it is then all well and good, and if not, then they should know it is in their power to either amend it to suit their purpose or jettison it outrightly. We oftentimes abuse much of the power we have by being too afraid to exercise it to our hurt. Tradition and culture were made for man and not the other way round. Have a great week everyone!

Valentine's Day in Lagos

A good week to everyone! The 14th of last month was Valentine’s day and thankfully, on that day, I happened to be working in the midst of a wide range of extremely beautiful ladies, from slight/slender to the outright BBW – big beautiful women – but sadly, like the proverbial man who, carrying watermelons under each arm, trudged to the watermelon market with the very intention of buying more, I simply resigned myself to admiring, or ignoring the fruit on display. I haven’t had a Valentine’s day date in Lagos in such a loooong time, and if I ever do, it will definitely take the planning of a wedding of feuding families to effect it. Why?

You and your significant other decide to give yourselves a full Valentine’s day treat by planning to see a long anticipated movie and then wine and dine at your favourite restaurant with a view to ending ‘tins’ with a bang, or maybe something slower with more emphasis on the romantic. You both kiss each other your goodbyes as each one, or one of you, goes off to work, with promises or assurances that you will meet at an agreed rendezvous from whence you’ll commence your amorous itinerary for the rest of the evening. Everything going on around you in the office, from the commencement of the business day to the pm still in its toddling stage, only serves to bespeak just how deeply the goblet of love will be drunk: the office secretary suddenly squealing in delight at a couriered package, the office aloof beauty whose desk paraphernalia, desktop computer inclusive, have to make way for the legion of love cards, love cakes and love wines to be displayed. Even the normally routinely dreary office lunch gets a love lift of its own with jollof rice on the menu being served with heart shaped dodo – fried ripe plantain slices -, softer cubes of beef and the sweating and unusually overly made up dinner lady serving up extra helpings of meats with coquettishly batting eyelashes, to the object of her affection, who’s studiously oblivious to her advances. Then the magic hour, 3pm, strikes, your cue to rush out to meet your object of desire.

You grab your presents, your laptop bag and oh, your car keys, start out, stop abruptly to cast a cursory glance at your desk to check that you haven’t forgotten anything and with a parting general farewell to any who cares to listen, you dash out to your waiting car, phone to your ear warning your sweetheart she’d better not be up to her usual tardiness. With ears pushed to the back of your head on account of a beaming neon smile, you generously tip the security guards, hop in your car and drive out into the largest car park in the world, Lagos traffic! Add to that the mobile phone network jam reminiscent of the wee hours of New Year’s Day and you can be sure whatever cracks existed in your relationship in the previous weeks will metamorphose into yawning craters. You try unsuccessfully to call her, your eyes still on the banner by the traffic lights you’ve been staring at for the past three hours of sweltering traffic and she, her frustration building, remembers that picture of you with the office beauty, her arms wrapped suggestively around your waist, your strident denials of unwholesome behind-the-door liaisons, and your delay and ‘switched off’ phone only serve to confirm her niggling doubts. You finally get to her office block and as you’re driving in you espy her chatting amiably with a small group of junior staff. You park nearby directly in line of her vision and call her cell phone and miraculously this time, it does go through. She doesn’t seem to hear her phone ring because she carries on her conversation regardless, her laughter ringing out louder and above everyone else’s. You finally get the hint after the third ring and humbly exit the car to walk to her. As you reach her she suddenly exclaims to the crew she has to go straight home on account of a blinding headache and swiftly turns around and sashays towards the car leaving you bemused with no choice but to give your onlookers a brave smile, grab whatever is left of your self control and apply a step after the other towards the car. In the course of the silent drive home, you seething with rage and she fixated on her phone and its incessant annoying message beeps, still have some presence of mind to stop over and grab a bottle or two of ‘bubbly’ or her favourite wine and…

Far be it from me to go delving in other people’s private lives, so, on that note I will have to end here. But, would it be so bad if, even if the wine is not drunk and you both cart your icy weather to bed with you, she unusually clothed and facing the other way, you surreptitiously sidle up to her to gently spoon her, your free arm creeps around her hips and navel, and upwards to the soft globules you know so well until she deftly but gently moves it away. You, feigning resignation, sigh, kiss her left shoulder and relax in the first throes of slumber. A moment of silence, an imperceptible shift of her rump into your groin and a slow smile spreads across your face. As the ice thaws and the hands fumble, the tent is raised and the stone is rolled from the well’s entrance. As you begin to draw water from the well, you begin to verbalise your indignation at being so poorly treated in the presence of outsiders. She screams out her accusations of putting another before her on such a special day, and it’s not clear what passion she’s (s)creaming) from but you know it prompts you to draw water faster and faster as you both argue back and forth until she vents her frustration in one long final shuddering scream as she clasps you tightly to herself. An hour later, or considerably less, depending on the ardour expressed and the self control applied, two of you polish off the hitherto ignored bubbly and reminisce on the day while cooking up what excuse to give for not being able to turn up for work the next day. Valentine’s Day in Lagos might not be such a bad idea after all. Have a great week everyone

Snow Driven

Good week everybody. I hope you do have a good week because mine is not starting very well here. I am very nervous and I have good reason to be. In a few hours’ time I will be driving out in the typically sedate Minneapolis traffic to run some errands since I will not be on set today. The difference between today and the typically boring Minnesota traffic is that it snowed here last night. What I go out there to face on the icy roads is a stark reminder of the terror I faced two weeks ago, and the new perception I have of the Minnesota driving experience.

I am an avid driving enthusiast. I love to drive in all environs and strive to do so in whatever country I visit, just so I can get a feel of the pulse of its natives. The added challenge of driving on the left hand side of the road, which is the case when I travel to countries like the UK, is one, or mad cities like Paris where cars are used to nudge other cars – with their occupants still inside them- out of the way so they can fit better into parking spaces , or the mad mad Lagos traffic where the proclivity to having an accident is almost entirely dependent upon whether one has a loud functioning car horn or not. Like I said before, Minnesota traffic is boring. One never exceeds the set speed limits on its roads without the risk of getting speed tickets from bored policemen under pressure from overstaffed stations to rake in as much revenue as possible to be able to keep their jobs. Roads are wide and the traffic is sparse. Rush hour in Minnesota means driving ten miles (sixteen kilometres) in twenty minute; in Lagos, rush hour means driving sixteen kilometers in three hours. And traffic jam? Well, let me put it this way. On my way home one day, I hit a traffic jam not two kilometres from my home. Since I was already near, I relaxed, unperturbed, and waited. Three hours and two hundred metres later and almost tearing my hair out in frustration, I pulled over to the side and went into a peppersoup joint. Two odekus (big stout) and two bowls of goat meat peppersoup later, I got into my car and got back in line three cars behind the car that was right behind me when I pulled over at the joint TWO hours earlier. Enough said.

You can then understand my low opinion of the Minnesotan rush hour which Benitez, our operational manager who takes us about to places we need to go, continuously complains about; that is until a few weeks ago when the snow finally fell for the first time. It fell on a Saturday, as had been precisely predicted by the weather forecasters five days earlier and as always, the soft look of the brilliant white sheet over everything thrilled everyone in the room; everyone but the battle hardened drivers in the group who knew what the fluffy innocent sheets portended. We drove out unto the crunchy ice of the just fallen snow on the quiet side streets jabbering animatedly. There were four of us in the car and the plan was to drop the other two passengers off before me because I lived the furthest away. We turned the corner into the main road listening to a tale of some vitriolic prima donna who loved to give waiters a hard time when suddenly we noticed the two cars in front of us were struggling to stop. We followed suit and to our horror, well my horror actually, realized we were on a smooth sheet of ice and car wasn’t going to stop. I watched mesmerized as our vehicles slewed all over the place and ours finally came under control when our quick thinking Benitez turned the wheel towards the pavement (sidewalk) brushing the tyres against the kerb, giving us much needed traction and bringing us to a complete stop. My participation in that conversation ended there. My next and continuous focus of interest was the traffic around me, half expecting to be rammed into from behind by some heavy truck or being T-boned by some out-of-control vehicle that couldn’t stop at the lights. In the course of our two and a half hour journey we observed no less than six serious accidents on the road – it was later to climb to a record four hundred and eighty by the next day). Amidst all this, cars kept whizzing past us like it was summer. I will not lie to you, I was scared **itless.

As I make up my mind to venture going out there on my own, I do with nervousness and a certain thrill of adventure. If others can do it, well so can i. I will not go out there armed with foolishness though; I have asked for tips on how to drive on black ice and how best to control my vehicle when the inevitable occurs. Finally I don’t bloody care what anybody thinks; I am going to drive like a ninety year old grandpa out there. Pray for me somebody and see you hopefully next week. Have a great week everybody!

No Pain, No Mirth

A good week to everyone. Been a long time hasn’t it? I have been in the wilderness of nail biting. Seriously though, I hope everyone’s okay. My heart goes out to the victims of the Lagos flood that happened on Sunday. I took one look at the rain and knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I began to get uncertain once the rainfall passed the two hour mark, then it went on to three and then up to five before the pictures started to come in, on my phone by beeping in with pictures of submerged vehicles ranging from tricycles to even SUVs. Someone took a picture of their sitting room with exquisite lime green leather armchairs, a settee and an ottoman. A portrait style television hung on the wall at the far end complete with its accompanying home theatre system and the speakers that stood tall on either side of the television. A dark shimmering floor that looked like the best resin coated marble floor ever, completed the picture. The only trouble was, the floor seemed to have risen halfway into the furniture, giving it the look of a quasi Japanese sitting room, famed for its extremely low furniture. The picture began to get darker as images of corpses of people being carried along by the rushing waters of the canals began to filter in - as if we Nigerians don’t have enough natural disasters in the pompous forms of our ‘leaders’. This is one aspect of pain that is serious and leaves a sombre taste in the room with much shaking of heads after such tales of irreparable loss have been spent. Let’s spare a prayer for them.

The other aspect of pain is one from which people derive a lot of mirth and pleasure. Heck, some even make a very lucrative career out of it – comedy. Has anyone noticed that nothing is ever funny without the basic foundation of pain, suffering and loss. For a joke to be funny there must be one, two or all these three of the named ingredients. Take for example this joke. Two merchants who were also friends were walking home after a successful day’s business. They decided to make their journey even briefer by taking a shortcut down a narrow alleyway. As they walked down the alley, they noticed a gang of hoodlums emerging from the shadowy walls of the alley and advancing towards them. It dawned on them that the inevitable was about to happen to them. Without missing a step, one of the merchants reached into his bag, took out a smaller bag that contained all his takings for the day, turned to his friend and said, “Tony, here’s the five thousand dollars I owe you.” See what I mean? People getting mugged and one trying to be smarter than his pants is found to be funny. Why? Is it the punch line? Or is it that the recounting of the painful experience of the teller evokes memories of a similar painful experience from their audience to generate an abundance of mirth?

I remember recounting an experience I had MANY MANY years ago in a company gents room to my friends in the UK. I had gone to the rest room for some much needed relief which soon turned out to be a rather noisy affair. I had only been there a few moments before I heard others come into the lavatory. Alas the sluice gates had already been opened and there was to be no holding back; the noisy torrent had to run its course. There was a respectful, almost embarrassing silence afterwards for just about two seconds before I heard taps open and then the splash of washing hands with seeming deliberation. I did not move – the other occupants of the room seemed curious to know the perpetrator of the leaden bombs and the staccato gunfire – it was not going to be me. All through the repeated washing of hands, the metallic roar of the blow drier and the clanging of the hand towel machine, I remained cemented to my throne, long since done, and resolute. Only when after an extended silence, a quick flush and an even quicker exit to dissociate myself from the offending toilet booth did I, after washing my hands, make a dash for my office and avoided detection. My friends literally rolled on the floor with laughter. To them, my story was funny but not as funny as the fact that it gave voice to the hidden embarrassments they felt under the same situations I experienced but could not talk about. My pain, their mirth.

I will in a few days’ time give you an example of some pain I experienced and what it cost me, for your mirth. In the meantime I would like some of your thoughts on why people’s pain is a source of joy to many. Have a great week guys!

Dem don gba me!

A gooooood week to everyone and may all our troubles be put behind us or flushed down the toilet! It is so good to be jaunty again. I have my cousin visiting me for the week and he is eating the house down. He just graduated from university and is serving out his paramilitary cum volunteering service to the nation also known as youth corps in Yobe state, and arid semi desert area in the northern part of the country. He came in gaunt and went straight to bed – for two days! Now he’s eating like a caterpillar, except he is not getting any fatter! God I miss those days you eat, eat and eat and it just doesn’t show on your body. Anyway I’ll just let him run riot and then sadistically release him to sandstorm city! Heh, heh, heh!

Seriously, thanks everyone for your support in the past few weeks; it meant a lot to me. I observed some interesting comments on my posts though, especially the last one. May I reiterate that this was a singular experience with a particular production company so let’s please not paint other production outfits or any country with the same brush. It is easy for this to degenerate to a level we have no business going so let’s put things in perspective. Thanks! Now for this week: I’ve been stung by a bee. That was last week on my way to work when I was taken (gba) by a fuel pump attendant.

I had stopped at a busy petrol station on busy highway quite close to the domestic airport in Lagos and decided to top up my fuel tank so I’d have enough fuel for a few days, actually two; Betty’s so thirsty. One of the attendants, a lady, beckoned me over and so I parked at her pump. She was filling someone else’s car on the other side of the pump so I waited patiently. When she finished, she brought that pump on the other side, they usually have long hoses, over to my side and inserted the nozzle in my tank and asked how fuel I wanted. I told her to put two thousand Naira’s worth. Obviously I couldn’t see the metre from where I was being on the other side. I think she saw the questioning look in my eyes because she asked if I’d like to come round and check that the correct amount of fuel I requested for was being pumped. She looked at me coolly, a small smile playing on her lips as she waited. I looked at her, studying her. She was plump, not particularly groomed and so apparently not too bothered about her looks. I surmised that she probably had kids and so was a responsible person. Plus, it was drizzling and I didn’t want to get wet. I took a chance and asked her to go right on and looked hard at her while she pumped away. There was an intermittent gasp, or so I thought.

She finished pumping, closed the tank and I paid her and went on my merry way. As I was driving I kept my eye on the fuel needle to watch it climb like I always do. It kept climbing until it stopped – well short of the place it should have rested! Oh! I smiled. Lagos don gba me! And worse still I was already joined another highway and couldn’t turn back. Not that I could if I wanted to anyway because I was going to work; I had little time to waste. I’m going back there again. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’m going back there again. Well at least it’s given me something for us all to laugh about.

Got to go guys; my producer’s on my neck to come on set so please do have a great week everyone and, please get out of your cars to check your metres! Ciao!

A Rare Touch of Nature

A very hearty good week to everybody. I don’t know how many times you have to hear my excuses for not putting up posts when I should but things just happen sometimes to upset the cart. Don’t worry, it’s not just you; Nkem’s been on my neck about my posts as well and I say I can’t get a good story sitting in my couch; I have to go out and get it. She’s so anal about me getting things done on time. She should give me some peace! Yeah right. Darn it! This means I have to tell a good enough story if I don’t want you guys eating me raw. Hm, let me see… Okay, here goes… Once upon a time two weeks past, when lizards had multiplied from ones and twos to hordes scurrying about scratching all over tin roofs and bobbying their heads over termite infested faggots for fuel, there was a young(ish) man who dared venture from his concrete hut in his concrete village screaming with mechanised wagons and bicycles to the much more serene and chirpy villages in the very borders of his living memory.

A tad melodramatic I know, so I’ll come down to earth in plain English. We went to shoot the bulk of a movie in the rural parts of Ogun state. It was supposed to be a sort of fantasy horror movie and we were looking for a very lonely derelict hut in the middle of nowhere. The director, Moses Iwang, whom we fondly call Sneeze – don’t ask me why – who, gladly, takes his work seriously, had insisted on a really spooky location to generate the eerie feel and to make the ‘crappy’ actors’ (us) work easier. The bloody nerve of him! This ‘aesthetic’ feel drove us from the comfort of our homes in Lagos to this remote village four hours away in our own cars! The upstart even had the nerve to leave his own car behind – it was too posh to go – and ride in Uche Jombo’s. The good thing is she made him drive for the entire duration of the shoot. Funny how much liberties people take when they know they are loved – and it does irk me to admit that he is good people.

We got there at about four in the evening, disembarked and looked around us. It was a peaceful village. There were no electric poles in sight and it was refreshing to see chickens pecking for food all over the place. I watched in amusement as a hen with her brood of chicks ‘snarled’ at one of the local dogs that ventured too near one of her errant children. It tucked its tail and slunk away and I couldn’t help wondering what the dog was thinking at the time. “Time was when you wouldn’t dare try that with me if not for these meddlesome humans who force this anomaly upon us.” Not too far away a large she-goat butted a much younger he-goat (probably her grandson) that had been amorously sniffing at her rear end. Half naked children played with wild abandon with one another while some older ones of ages nine to twelve herded docile looking cows to juicier pastures on the outskirts of the village. There weren’t many adults to be seen except for the nursing mothers and the aged men and women. It was quite easy to spot the aged women on account of the fact that they walked about topless, stretched triangular folds of skin flapping over their ribcages as they walked with still very sturdy legs. We stared bemused at them wondering why it took them so long to get their kits off. I guess they followed the maxim of exclusivity being the key to increasing demand. Perhaps they chose to bare their spent reserves as a reminder to the much younger ones of what fate had in store for them and for the discerning ones among them to make hay while the sun still shone.

After taking in our fill of the environment and making jokes (the silly Sneeze asked me to take a chance with one of the rare topless beauties and maybe I’d get lucky – idiot!), Chioma Akpotha even twitted about us time travelling back to 1935, we went off into the spooky grove to commence work. Sadly I have run out of the space allotted to me in this post so maybe I’ll talk about the rest next week so until then, do have a great week ahead guys! A bientot!

Make Believe

“…That planet earth turns slowly…I’d rather stay awake when I’m asleep... ‘cause everything is never as it seems.” “Fireflies” by Owl City’s been playing in my mind for days now and I only just knew why. The thoughts of the make believe world is sometimes what keeps us sane in this rough world. Who says we don’t need a break once in a while. Good week everybody and welcome to a new week.

My next two weeks are going to very hectic, started on Monday, with the very schedule I hate the most; hopping from one set to the other and then back again. Yes my friends, some unfinished business from a previous project has come back to haunt me so I have to make time to, in the middle of this one, finish the former and then come back to wrap this one up. I think this is the type that gives me the most stress and may be steeped in for the few months to come. In situations like these I try to see the things I like and look forward to in the projects that I commit myself to.

In the first project, Tinsel, I play an evil don, Masters, who runs a smuggling and drug ring and id currently looking for legitimate businesses to acquire and sink his claws into. I love bad guy roles because they give you the chance to let out that inherent evil in you and make you have a feel of what you would have been like had one been on the dark side. The catch is, especially in this one where the evil is from within; I don’t have the luxury of smashing people’s heads open or wrenching screaming babies from their wailing mothers to collect debts owed me, I actually have to think I’m evil to be evil. It’s a delicious far cry from the goody-two-shoes roles I usually play.

The other project is just as wonderful in its weirdness. I play a man in a book that comes alive whenever anyone opens the book to read. He goes through a harrowing journey with his family and the story changes whenever a different person reads the book. I’d love to say more but as you well know, I’m bound to protect the story from ‘industrial’ spies so let’s just say it’s wonderfully weird and the director, Sneeze, is just as weird – just how I like my directors; they bring out the best in me. Our last project together, Between Two Worlds, I played a ghost who’s still trying to have sex with his ‘new’ girlfriend - he died just before he had the chance to consummate their relationship. I was severely punished during that production. That was the project I talked about in a previous post, The Stuntman, where I talked about the leg cramps I suffered while chasing after cars ‘effortlessly’ as a ghost and getting knocked down by cars while going to buy condoms. Only God knows what Sneeze has in store for me this time – it’s supposed to be in a forest. Oooh I love sick!

At least my hectic week had a good jumpstart during the weekend. Went over to a friend’s with Nse my bosom friend and stuffed my self silly with pounded yam and sublime bitter leaf soup! I made sure I carted some home with me and needless to say, it’s all gone. Anyway, thought I’d share, as usual, my week with you guys. I have to rush off hit the road before the hydra headed Lagos traffic catches me in its fangs. Have a great week everyone!

A Love Scene

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!