Enough Said, Enough Talk!

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!

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

Beautiful Women

A good week to everybody. It is an absolutely fabulous sunny day here in Texas Like the director on the movie set I’m working on said, “The sun here wan be like Kano own”. Kano is one the desert states in the northern part of my beloved Nigeria. Unfortunately, as is the case with most work environments, there seems to be an overcast message reminding me that I am here to work and not to admire the place. It is a bittersweet experience I’m having at the moment; the frustration of being so near my family members strewn across the state and not being able to see them, and the pleasure of working with an old colleague of mine, the director Ikechukwu Onyeka.

I don’t know why but I detest talking about my work; it makes me feel like I’m shoving my work down people’s throat or like I’m bragging about things I‘ve done or blowing my own trumpet. Come to think of it, where did I learn these values from, the bible or my parents? My father, he was a very hard worker who liked recognition for his work, and extolled his achievements with a frankness and matter of factness unique only to him. My mum on the other hand is someone who craves anonymity like no other person I know. Not even her right hand knows what the left is doing if she can help it. All she’s happy doing is doing her work and being satisfied in the accomplishment thereof. I suppose then that I am a marriage of the two; I work quietly with fierceness and let my work do my bragging for me. Maybe that’s why I work hard to achieve perfection in my work; so I can have something tangible to be remembered for after I am long gone. What I will enjoy talking about, on the movie set I’m working, are the people I’m working with.

I am surrounded by beautiful women and I’m depressed. Yes, I can see everyone except the boys rolling their eyes in exasperation. “Kalu and his numerous tales of women and sex!” You wouldn’t understand. The issue of my interactions with the women in my life goes beyond the carnal path you questionably minded people think I’m probably going. The subject of women in my life, I find, is deeply philosophical especially when they are three or more in the same place at the same time. You have this constellation of jewels around you, each vying for your attention and you dizzy from ogling at their sparkling lights, not knowing which to settle on; one for all and all for one. Instinctively you know that should you settle on one the others instantly turn to harpies, and the one you settle on, what happens after the first nuptial flight? It either instantly dulls into a relationship or you are labeled a bastard – yes my friend, that is most times the way of women. Settle for settling on all flowers and you’ll need to tread not only very carefully, but also to employ the wily services of subterfuge, for in vain does a fowler set a snare in full view of the bird he preys upon. Needless to pray for Heaven’s aid should you be found out. Most importantly, you remember the one back home on whom you depend. The one whom you have known for years, been through thick and thin together, has drunk garri without sugar and groundnuts with you, the one in front of whom you fart freely, entrust with your innermost secrets and tells you the truth as it is, in love and no guile. You think about her and wonder which one of the jewels surrounding you will go that mile with you. Alas, the desperately frustrated poet cried out, cast out at sea, “Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink!” I am surrounded by beautiful women and I am depressed. Have a great week everyone.

An Ode to 'No More Bullsh**t'

Minnesota! Minnesota! MINNESOTA OOOO! How many times have I shouted your name?!!! Minnesota will not kill me. Sorry folks, a good week to everyone. I was just lamen- sorry haling the weather here, after it just hailed me. Yes hailed; I thought I had seen every kind of weather until I came here. Would you believe that in just a space of the two hours I went out jogging in the park near my hotel this morning it snowed, then rained before falling as sleet? Yes my friends, I watched incredulously as first the snowflakes fluttered down from the sky, the delicate icy lattice settling onto my jacket with the uncertainty of a newborn kitten, and then fall into heavier drops of water, melting through the fabric in ghostly shapes, before bouncing angrily off it in little icy pellets! What was a sweltering 72F/22C – yes, it is for Minnesota, go suck a lemon! – the day before, plummeted to 34F/1C the very next day at 8am in spring! My total respect in all these goes to the original owners of the land, the natives that lived the land for hundreds of years. Those guys must have been extremely resourceful to have raised families in conditions where boiling water thrown into the air instantly freezes, or where a banana could be used to hammer nails into wood. I hail you guys.

Just got back from Atlanta, the city of woods as far as I’m concerned, for the premiere of my lovely sis Blessing Egbe’s movie Two Brides and a Baby and it was glorious! There are trees everywhere! Tall green majestic friendly looking trees, a world apart from the wintry serial killer looking tree havens you find up here in Minnesota. Yes, you guessed it, I do love trees; they give us fresh air, absorb unnecessary noise, absorb air pollutants and maintain our earth’s surface integrity. Mmm, trees… Atlanta has become one of my best cities in the world; it’s very accommodating, is vibrant; one has the feeling that everyone there is young and moving in the right direction. Even the not so young still have a strong zest for life. As a young African man, I felt quite at home there; I noticed there was in the city a strong black and vibrant community, where people did not seem to be apologetic for their aspirations to being successful in whatever ambitions they had, and for having a zest for life. In the short time I was there I felt the vibe of many cultures interspersed with one another, each with a willingness to learn from the others; Nigerian, Jamaican, Ghanaian, African American, White to mention but a few. It was nice.

Drat! I was supposed to talk about the premiere I came to the city for and got carried away. Everything carried me away, even the premiere and the wonderful people who made it happen. Even though we were two, Blessing Effiom Egbe and I – Stella Damasus and O C Ukeje, the other stars in the movie couldn’t make it – we more than made up for the absence of the others. We were like a bag of lit firecrackers, so full of energy and feeding off one another at press conferences, radio and television interviews and photo shoots. Our hosts, Deji and Jide, owners of Snapflix and their crew were phenomenal. Even though we were caught up in a whirlwind of activities and business meetings the minute we hit the ground, that team never for a moment failed to cater to our every need, however ‘whimsical’ –“y’all know I ain’t no diva”.

What I really want to say is I see a new lease of life being breathed into our entertainment industry, not from governments or from large corporations who want to dole out huge sums of money to make great big movies, but from a crop of young Africans, at home and abroad, who genuinely want to affect our world and the rest of the world around us. Africans who want to tell our own stories genuinely, what makes us laugh, what makes us cry. Why we love our pounded yam and egusi soup, fufu and palm butter soup, dodo and agoyin beans. Why a friendly banter between us might prompt a white lady to call 911 or why we fear our parents more than the child services agency and the police combined. I see a departure from the visionless insipid mush to which our movies have degenerated, to a budding industry that takes itself seriously as both a business and a drive to stamp our own Africaness, rich and vibrant, spicy and exotic, proud and irresistibly different, on the global cultural map. I want to be a part of that industry, even if my only contribution to it is by scribbling these measly lines as an ode to it, I want to be part of it if it is clean and genuine. Have a great week everyone!

Just voted! Yaaaay!

Phew! Just got back from the first segment of the voting process, accreditation. It was blissfully simple, quite unlike the shoving and unruly mayhem I envisaged. Everyone was orderly and the unruly thugs I half expected to turn up and disrupt things were nowhere to be found. Oh, and even better news. On my way back, I met one of the estate officials and asked her what was to become of the rubbish heap that was dredged up from the drainage ways and their disposal. To my delight she informed there were already plans for a tipper truck to come on Monday to cart them away. Humble pie has never tasted so good. My apologies to my wonderful estate and her officials; we have shown ourselves to be a breed apart from the norm!
I finally got to vote in the second segment of the voting process at about a quarter past one pm after spending just forty five minutes in the queue. I feel so chuffed (pleased with myself) being the first time I’ve ever voted in my life – don laff! The last time I tried to do so was when I was nineteen and was turned away on the basis that I looked underage (fifteen) despite my spirited protests. The fact that I didn’t have any id on me didn’t do much to help my case.
Anyway whichever way the votes swing, I will eternally be satisfied that I actually took an active role in making a statement regarding how I want my future in this country as its citizen even if it’s just in a little small way. I’m also proud of the way the elections were conducted on the grounds – free of harassment and peaceful, even heavily pregnant women were relaxed at the venue. Much kudos to the Nigerian government for a job well done – so far. Let’s wait and see. Have a great Sunday everyone!

Apologies!

A good week to everyone. This is a short note to say that there will be no post this week. It is true that I have had a busy week but it is not so busy that I have not been able to make the time out to write. The truth is that I have made out the time to write and it is precisely the fact that I know what I want to write about that is the problem. I want to accord the subject matter the respect, beauty and reverence it deserves and I am afraid of getting it wrong by being too hasty and not giving it the time, dedication and deliberation it deserves. Soup wey sweet, na money kill am! I want to give it a shot this week and hope that a worthy soup be prepared for you next week. Perhaps we can laugh over it too!

I ask that you bear with me, my gentle folks. Wishing you a pleasant week ahead and praying for a much much better Nigeria in these deciding times we’re going through. Ka emesia nu!

Enugu!

Top of the week to all and sundry this fine morning. It’s been an extremely broiling weather here in Lagos for the past month and it has shown no signs of relinquishing its hold on the country. If I were a farmer I would be very worried. Come to think of it, I am an eater so I should be worried and if we go on at this rate with no rain in sight, there’ll be no need for cooking our yams or potatoes when we dig them up with pneumatic drills. I can hardly take a few steps outside without being drenched in sweat. I don’t go out unless I absolutely have to and when I do, it’s either in the morning or at night. Kinda reminds me of Houston, Texas. I went there some sometime ago in June for my cousin’s wedding. Hm, I have never seen anywhere as hot! Must have been at least 40C on a cool day. We used to, my brother, Imaga, and I, when we wanted to go out, dash outside, turn on the engine of our rented car, put the air conditioning on, and dash back into the house to wait for the car’s interior to cool down. I made a note to, next time I ventured into that state at that time of the year, specifically request for a rental car that can be started by remote control. I don’t really know about having such a vehicle here in Lagos because might be someone who may not mind so much driving off in a car whose only impediment is a heated interior. Nevertheless, the point I’m making is that it is excruciatingly hot here and to raise the stakes a little higher, I’ll be travelling to Enugu, which is in the south east of the country, later this week. It is the very town and its characteristic heat that I, on a lighter note, wish to speak.

It was, I think, in the late eighties when the prowess of the Enugu weather made our country proud by enacting the Aesop tale of the fox and the stork. The details are a bit hazy but I do remember the African Cup of Nations football tournament was round the corner and every country vied to qualify for the knockout (second) stage of the tournament. The first stage has different groups comprising about four to six countries with each country playing one another with a view to rack up enough points to qualify for the second round. The competing countries play two matches; one in each country’s home turf. For example if Zambia and Malawi are playing two matches, one will be played in Malawi and the second leg in Zambia. If each country wins in its home turf, then the goal difference between them is racked up and the one with the greater aggregate wins. However any goal scored against the host country doubles in points making it imperative that the guest be prevented from scoring any goals at all (legal) costs. The particular country we were playing with was Algeria and the first leg was to be in their country. We, known for our typical good spirits and sportsmanship, went there to play and got a very cool reception. Our boys were taken to a city in the northern part of Algeria where distant snow capped mountains bordering it glistened in the pale sun. Our boys, unaccustomed to the freezing weather, were unable to cope and played like old women trying to flee a rabid dog, and lost. Our wretched crestfallen boys trudged back home to prepare for the second leg of the match in a last attempt to qualify for the elimination round.

Our incensed sports body hurriedly met to decide how best to both give the Algerians their just desserts and qualify for the next round in one fell swoop. The initial plan was to play the match in Sokoto, a city in the north that is part arid desert and averages temperatures of 42C until one man advised them to designate Enugu as the venue for the match. With some reluctance and after much argument, they agreed. Enugu, which means ‘the city on the hills’, is actually surrounded roundabout by the hills and combines with the extreme humidity the tropicals are known for (and, as far as I’m concerned, is where the ozone layer opened up) to raise the city to the temperature of a blistering pressure cooker. The match was fixed for 2pm. They came, and we played, they kept fainting, and we kept scoring, and they lost and we won, and they complained, and we, we stuck our tongues out at them! The stork triumphed over the fox! It was a sweet joy for everyone, even me – I’m not particularly interested in football except for my beloved Arsenal.

I sit here thinking about Enugu, my beloved valley in the hills where I partly grew up and mull over my work there, running about on barefoot, and possibly half naked, in the scorching weather and pray my days there are mercifully short. Then again, I never know what could jump out at me and make me reluctant to leave; they almost always do, so I will be on the lookout.  Have a great week everybody and those of you in the freezing weather, think about us here while we in our scorcher think of you there. Cheerio!