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

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

Breaking Rocks In a Hard Place.

A good week to all and sundry. I am still the good old country called Ghana. I get to sleep with the beautiful roar of the sea by night and bask in the peaceful calmness of Accra by day even while I’m hard at work. I can finally touch my toes without bending my knees after a week of rigorous martial arts training. I get delirious when I raise my arms and feel that searing pain shooting through my muscles and tendons mostly because pain equals result. In no time soon I’ll be ready for those area boys when they crawl out of their holes to accost me when I’m stuck on the third mainland bridge or those rogue LASTMA traffic officials who always lie in wait for any erring road user. Yeah, I know, new found power always has a way of getting into its owner’s head but that’s the adage’s business; it’s my prerogative; I can what I wanna do – thanks Bobby!

On a more serious note, I am on a strong learning curve here. I am learning a lot about patience and endurance which are largely fueled by focus and drive towards where I want to be in this volatile entertainment industry. It is especially hard to humble myself to learn the vital instruments I need to take me the level I want to get to – to still be relevant as a versatile actor for the next forty years. It’s so easy to let the adulation and accolades one gets from the general public, the media and professional bodies get to ones head – and they do seep in no matter how hard you try to keep them out I find that they leave one in a false world where one sees little need to improve on ones self especially when it requires that one to lower himself or herself to the ‘lower’ status he or she just struggled to rise from - a place he or she would rather go to considerable lengths to forget; make everyone else forget. What makes it swallowable is focusing on the goal (hopefully worthwhile) one wants to achieve. The biblical adage; in order to live, one must first die, comes true here. It has been even harder to find people with whom to share the same vision – not those who just talk (and they are cheaply available) but those who actually work towards perfection. So far I have managed to find just two diamonds in the deep recesses of the quality mine. I apologise for not elaborating more on this but you will understand that there is a time for everything and at the right time, my basket mouth – as you my dear readers can attest to – will surely leak. I am not in a pretty place right now but I am convinced that the culmination of all these travails will bring a lasting smile in my body, soul and spirit.

Today is my off day – thank God – I’m going to take my aching limbs to the bed, snooze for about twenty minutes and amble off to the cyber café and deliver your goods. So I’ll see you guys next week yes? Have a great week everybody! Groan...

Misdemeanour

Good week everybody! Thanks for the feedback on my conquest last week. It goes to confirm that we are united in counting our numerous little blessings in preparation for bigger things to come. This week began on a rather funny note; one that that I hesitate to narrate because it shows me in a not very sunny light. Still keen on knowing what I did? Well you’ll just have to be patient and hear me out.

It was a lovely sunny Sunday afternoon and I was on my way to a business meeting on the island. It was a rare Lagos that was sprawled before me; there was very little traffic on the road. I was in high spirits as I barrelled down the Mobolaji Bank Anthony way in Ikeja. I like to drive fast; it’s the closest I come to flying. It is almost like if I try hard enough I’ll take off into the air. Well, someday, sometime… Anyway, I was flying towards the GRA intersection while on the phone (with a hands free device of course!) with Frieda arguing amiably over some not-so-good script I’d received some days ago. I looked at the traffic lights which didn’t happen to be working so I slowed down, just enough to be prepared should any vehicle emerge unexpectedly from either side of the road, when I saw at the very last moment a police woman frantically waving at me to stop. I stamped on the my brakes very hard, rending the air with the loud screech of my tyres and smelt the pungent stink of my rubber and brake pads as they wafted past me. She hadn’t been standing in the traffic-signalling booth like she was supposed to so I didn’t see her on time. Try telling that to the Nigerian police when they’re on the lookout for a hapless victim to break the jinx of a boring day.

I looked back at her with the most apologetic smile I could muster, fearing the worst, and was greeted with a surprisingly understanding smile; the kind a mother gives her errant child. I smiled again in relief. Beside her were two other witnesses to the incident, two men who were standing beside a motorcycle that had a flat tyre. Oh, did they go off like rockets?!!! They began shooting their mouths off about arrogant people who have no consideration for others and just think the road is just for them alone. That just because I have a ‘big’ car doesn’t mean I should tread on other people like ants. I ignored them and apologised to the police lady, thanking her for letting me off. That brought another tirade from the duo: “Oh yeah, why not? They think they own the police as well, don’t they? You knock us down and we’ll probably go to jail for staining your car, won’t we?” She waved me on to go. I thanked her and began to move off.

The two idiots who insisted on drinking the paracetamol meant for someone else’s headache weren’t done. “Go on. Don’t stop. Go on and smash…” I lost the rest of what those two girls nattered about but I had by then run out of my tolerance reserves so I put my head out the window, shouted a hearty “F$#@ you” and finished it off with a very forceful five finger (shege) salute to them.
As I retreated into my shell, something made me look at the other side of the road and to my horror I saw a long line of cars waiting at the lights on the oncoming lane, their drivers watching what was going on. I didn’t know where to look except forward and fervently prayed that as little of them as possible would recognize me. Never mind the ear ripping I got from Frieda when I told her what had just happened. I won’t bore you with the details of how she went on about she’d always warned me about the way I should comport myself in public and blah blah blah. Never mind me the aggrieved one, who should let himself be insulted and not say a word back. Anyway, all that is past; I forgive all three of them for they know not what they do!

It is increasingly becoming clear to me what responsibilities are thrust on the shoulders of the public figure. It sometimes seems unfair to me that I have to be the one to work more on restraint and self control than the other party is obligated to, being that the spotlight will invariably land on me should any fracas occur between us. Then again, I am the bigger man and should continue to work on being one. Have a great week everybody and drive safely wherever you go!

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!

The little girl

Good week everyone. Firstly I want to thank everyone who has visited and read my blog for the patronage. You have made it worth my while. The feedback, the comments have been so heartwarming and the others hilarious. Thank you. And whoever it was that withheld his/her name, please don’t tell my mum I rode on a bike without a helmet! My past week has been uneventful save for an incident at a petrol station that had me confused.

I had gone to a petrol station in the neighbourhood to fill my tank up. I prefer this particular station because the staff is quite friendly and one of them in particular, Tosin, always welcomes me with a winning smile; naturally I gravitate towards her to the exclusion of everyone else. On this particular morning I drove to her petrol pump and as she was attending to a customer before me, I patiently waited. Presently a young lady sidled up to me and asked for alms. I looked at her and was a little surprised.

She was quite young, between the ages of eleven and thirteen … What was unusual was the age and demeanour of this beggar. The ones I’d seen were either younger scruffy children of five to eight or adults who had some form of deformity or the other. This was the first time I saw an adolescent begging. And she looked clean too, scrubbed, like she’d just run away from home. I also make it a rule not to give alms to children as I feel that patronage would further encourage their parents to keep them from school where they are most needed. I would rather give the parents themselves or the handicapped and/or the elderly. I looked at her and told her I had nothing to give and she left me alone. By this time Tosin had finished with the customer before and come forward to attend to me and I made to open my tank for her to commence her fill up. As I did so, another car, a Honda, drove up and parked at the pump beside mine. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the young girl walk up to the car, bend down and begin to speak with the driver. I thought nothing of it and turned back to Tosin, asking her how her weekend was and if the dreaded menace of the fuel shortage was going to rear its head again. I heard a car door slam and turned round. The young girl had entered the car and I stared as it started up and drove off – without getting any fuel!

I desperately hoped he was some relative of hers or even perhaps a neighbour who was taking her back home. Somehow I knew it wasn’t so. Maybe if I’d given her the money she asked for she wouldn’t have been compelled to go with the stranger or perhaps demanded to know what business the driver had with her. I just stood there nonplussed, guilt wracking my insides.

This is an issue I have only questions and no answers for. Why children? What is there about that girl to savour except innocence? Innocence she needs to metamorphosize into a fulfilling adulthood? Aren’t we going to be parents some day if we’re not already ones now? Why? Never mind the children; they are not to blame. Their hearts are the enclave of foolishness anyway, so guidance is the only way to put them on the straight and narrow. Aren’t we guides anymore? I’m at a loss for what to say except to say this: “The child is the father of man.” The children of today are the drivers of tomorrow’s world. Let us never forget that. I still await answers to my question and in whatever torrent they come, I will welcome them. Have a great week everyone.

A Memorable Ride!

Good week everyone. Once again I hope everyone had a good weekend? Mine? Mine was good, albeit speckled with highs and lows from trying to coax my ancient but beloved Beth into going easy on her thirst for fuel during the fuel crises, to the joyful news of the grand entrance of a new nephew into this world. Welcome guv’nor, hope you can handle it!

Last week, I spent time whining about the challenges I went through last year. This week I’ll spend whining about the rest of the year …. not! I’ll dedicate this week to extolling God’s mercies on a rascally young brat like me. Hmm, Kalu, your own no go spoil o! I hope my kids don’t give me as many heart wrenches as I give my loving God and my loved ones. (If only my mum knew!)

It was earlier on this year when I was working on a movie set somewhere along Alpha Beach road in Lekki, Lagos. I’d parked my car at my friend’s, JB, house as the crew had come to pick me up for the day’s work. It turned out however, that for the sake of logistics, my scene would have to be the last scene as my venerable colleague, Uncle Olu Jacobs had a crowd scene to shoot at a church that served as a location. This meant that I had about two to three hours to kill. I immediately called JB to come pick me up. I specifically told him not to come with his car but to come with his newly acquired ‘touring’ bike.

JB, my very dear friend, is an avid lover of motorcycles, especially the racing kind. In his living room leans a relic of his hell raising days, an indistinguishable mishmash of plastic and rusting iron mercifully covered by a large tablecloth. A glossy calendar of various models of the classic Harley Davidson adorns a wall, an attestation of the undead embers of his passion for bikes. In the same living room equally with its pride of place sits his new bike, a grudging compromise and a symbol of hope for better things to come. It’s a budget Chinese replica of a Harley. I hesitate to name the make an model, fearing to invoke his ire, as he has preemptively sprayed it over with black spray paint. It’s an impressive display of chrome, plastic and steel complete with swooping lines of twin mufflers and handlebars. The rider’s seat and pillion are low slung giving it the classic look of a touring bike until one looks up the engine capacity on the manual, the obvious testament on the tank being obliterated by the ubiquitous spray paint. The heavy bike is powered by a 150cc engine which with the extra load of its rider is very much like powering a large Mercedes Benz limousine with a small Toyota hatchback engine.

My phone rang, heralding his arrival at the church gate where I had been waiting. Admonishing him on his tardiness and for making me wait, I gleefully hopped on the pillion and put my helmet on. It took some trouble moving off as the road was sandy and, I supposed, JB getting used to an extra weight on his bike. The bike struggled to find some traction on the loose sand and on finding some firm rock, finally took off and we were on our merry way. It was a sunny Saturday morning and the road was already abuzz with people going about their business. Children played under the tables of their mothers’ roadside stalls while customers haggled over prices of wares displayed. Hawkers milled about, some sashaying with their laden trays proudly borne on their sturdy necks, making one not sure what wares were being advertised. Young men and women, the colour and drive of any society, dominated the atmosphere, different motives in their footsteps. Observing the atmosphere, I took off my helmet, a considerable part of me wanting to be seen on this fine bike, a sharp contrast to days on an okada (commercial bike), rushing to get to an airport or escape from a taxi stuck in traffic. I hadn’t a care in the world, cruising along the road with my friend amidst playful banter until we got to the expressway at the end of the road.

The junction was a medley of commercial buses, motorbikes and conductors and commuters at the bus stop and all manner of vehicles zipping past on the expressway. I waved heartily back at some passers by who waved a greeting on recognizing me. With some difficulty owing to the bulk of our vehicle, we negotiated our way through the maze and finally got on the expressway. We got to the roundabout and did a u turn in the opposite direction and headed towards his house. Traffic had already built up due to a busy bus stop a short distance ahead and weaving our way through the columns of vehicles was hard going. The under powered bike struggled labouriously through gears and curses of embarrassment from us and blares of irritation from the much more nimble okadas behind us until we got past the bus stop. The road suddenly cleared as vehicles sped away from the busy stop and we made to do the same when our engine suddenly stalled right in the overtaking lane! In a wild panic I looked behind me and saw a huge sand laden misshapen ten wheeler truck trundling toward us. Even at a distance of about ten metres the bumper and grill loomed well above our heads. The windscreen was barely discernable so I waved frantically and screamed at JB to get us to the side of the road in the prayerful hope that the truck driver would at least spy my flailing arms and begin work on his brakes. We managed to get to the slow lane only to veer into the path of a flat nosed midsized commercial bus pulling out of the bus stop. My long arms and expressive face must have struck a chord with the otherwise typically impatient driver because he actually slowed down and let us pull over to the side of road before hurtling past us into the distance..

We rode home in silence; on my part because I didn’t want to spark off an argument while we were still on our journey. The rest of the journey was uneventful and suffice it to say that I never quite looked at that bike the same way after that day. While not a little shaken by the incident, I also realized how much God protects us every day from things we take for granted. This also gives us the impetus to live our lives to the fullest, work towards realizing our dreams the best way we can in the knowledge that someone has our backs at all times. Moral of the story: Beware dodgy bikes and even dodgier riders! Have an incident free week everyone!

Bed of Roses

It’s funny how simple decisions lead to big achievements, and big trials. Here I was ready to change the world and create a better place for me and mine. So armed with my little crusading sword of truth, integrity and commitment to quality, I stormed my beloved Naija with a vengeance in January. I quickly hooked up with an acquaintance with whom I’d (earlier in the year) discussed the modalities of placing structure into my career.

I went to visit the gentleman in his office and was met by his effusing staff at the reception. I was asked, very politely and apologetically, to wait a little while as their boss was in a meeting with some clients. That was okay with me as it was only 11am and the traffic was still moderate enough for me to dispense with a few other things before going home. You see, I have a healthy respect for Lagos traffic and always take her into consideration when going about my business. Come out at the wrong time in this city and you’re fried! You’ll spend hours trawling through traffic, jostling for position with irreverent drivers brazenly trying to cut into your lane and at the same time being careful not to hit them, or should I say trying not to let them hit you, in the knowledge that they, with their battle hardy Danfos and cabs, have nothing to lose. On hitting you, they’d simply alight, prostrate before you or, if the damage is considerable, they’d think nothing of laying down in front of your vehicle and beg you to run them over as compensation for the expenses of fixing your car which you’d never get from them. Or to be stuck in traffic going uphill behind an aged petrol tanker that’s lilting precariously to one side. You sit there wondering if the tanker will lose control, roll backwards and depend on you and the ten cars behind you to stop it or worse still, should it be leaking fuel from a faulty valve and a smoker somewhere in the queue throws his half spent cigarette out the win....

I was ushered into his office five minutes later and the man stood up from behind the desk and enveloped me in a warm hug. Feeling very good about things to come I sat down and surveyed the place. It was a nice office, more so because it was so alive from the large windows that generously admitted the daylight without being overly intrusive. The colours of the walls were a quiet serene pastel light green and the tiled floor a muted gray. His desk was expansive but did not dominate the room. The posters of movies he’d funded on display on a wall on one side of the room, while noticeable, knew their place. It was a good meeting. I listened attentively as he enthused about his plans and structure he’d put in place to skyrocket my career through the glass ceiling. Leaning forward, he told me, in confidence, that the people he met with earlier were from a bank and had come to seek his help with a project and was toying with the decision of accepting or rejecting it.

He then proceeded to regale me with his clientele list; two of them very respectable and the others… Well, they showed quite a lot of promise otherwise they wouldn’t be worth his time. He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a waif like man appeared whom he introduced to me as his accountant. He rattled out a series of instructions to him and dismissed him telling me on his departure that he had to bring the accountant on board in anticipation of the impending work load that would be coming in the weeks to come. (The travails of a much sought after man I could see.)
Observing and taken by his self assured nature and optimism I agreed to sign the necessary documents, hand over my contacts of producers and directors and begin a new phase of my career.

A week later, my contacts called me up to let me know there was work and I, in adherence to my contract, and to their amazement, referred them to my manager to talk. They, understandably, asked what happened to our usual arrangement, whether they’d done anything to offend me to which I replied that I had a new structure I was working with to give them the best possible service. They agreed, met with my manager, and called me back! They complained that he was being difficult; He wasn’t even willing to listen to what they had to say let alone concede in any small measure to their requests with a view to finding some sort of balance to do business. With a promise to find a workable relationship I promised to have a word with him. I met with him and asked him how it was all going, if things were going according to plan, and what the outcome of the meetings were. He began by bemoaning the illiteracy and unprofessional nature of the marketers and how they were not up to par with his level of understanding. Opening and then shutting my mouth, I thought the better of what I wanted to say and humoured him by presuming not to encroach upon his field of expertise.

A month went by and with some anxiety I confronted him, demanding to know what had become of my state of affairs. In his typical grandiose manner, he haughtily replied that it was not his fault but theirs. He was the architect of his well thought out structure and if they were not going to bow to his structure and his way of doing things then so be it! I stared at him in silence. I looked at him again and saw a man that loved being the boss but was not prepared to climb up from the mailroom. He did not seem to understand that as a manager he ought to have his clients’ best interest in mind and to avoid burning bridges- In short, the man ‘burned my cable’ big time!

The next few months were spent clawing back the confidence of the people I worked with. Some of them are still out in the cold and there’s still a lot of work to do, fences to mend but hey, the road to greatness is all roses; one has to get past the thorns first. How have I been able to claw my way back? Enter Nkem, my new manager, and boy, does she have her work cut out for her! The poor Gem has been making do with three to four hours of sleep every day trying to plug holes I blew wide open. Hope she knows I appreciate all she’s trawled for me.

For me, this was the dawn of my first lesson – never entrust anyone with your hard work until they prove themselves to you…
This bit has been particularly hard for me to write especially as I’ve had to admit to my errors in judgment and the challenging time I had last year. I do so in the hope that I might in some small way encourage someone passing through some challenge or the other. In saying this I am glad I have gone the same path as my good friend the Agama lizard who, after jumping down from the top of the iroko tree, acknowledged to himself that he had indeed accomplished a great feat even if no one else would. Have a wonderful week ahead everybody!