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!

My Wonderful Valentine

     Good week everyone! Right, how many things do I have in my head today? Not many, but I do feel a swollen head from the enormity of the thoughts in it. First is a song or should I call it classical music piece that I have been playing in my head over and over, and over again. Lovely piece though and since I’m have no clue on how to write music ( my droll music teacher in secondary school killed it for me) I’ll simply refer everyone to the movie I heard it from. The movie is called the, I think, "Valentine Caveman" starring Samuel L Jackson as a homeless classical music genius who had so many spirits playing in his head, both good and bad. 

Now I know why the blues I’ve been feeling have been playing this song over in my head! Valentine’s day and Frieda. I had a horrible Val’s weekend and she’s still not talking to me. All we’ve talked about since then have been plans of what we want to do for the next three months, business, what to do, which family to call but no playful pulling of the cheeks, even the “I love yous”  have been brassy. I wouldn’t even dare smack her on the bottom let alone venture between them – but, hehehe, I do know that when it does happen, it will be well worth the wait! That piece has been playing in my head ever since and has been so apt via the one star instrument I know that comes nearest to expressing complexities of my thoughts that even the spoken language cannot, the piano. Its ability to make me transcend the normalities around me to the pure subliminal sphere where my mind always wants to be, with its erratic yet consistent and purposeful fluttering like that of a butterfly, makes her my favourite of all musical instruments.

 The fight was about one of the stalwarts of any relationship, finance. And it was my fault, too. We had agreed to set aside some money for a project this February but I went and used it for something else thinking I’d get the money needed from someone who owed me from a project I’d done a week earlier. Alas the money was not forthcoming and the bubble burst when she suddenly asked me about it, with love shining in her eyes, on the stupid lovers’ day. You should have seen the stunned shock and then the hurt that filled her eyes before they completely frosted over and then came the metallic tone she always uses when talking aggressive business. My day took the plunge of a parachuteless skydiver. It’s been business and courtesy ever since although I must say she has been thawing out gradually and steadily – trust my skills now; I’m a bigz boyz!

 It has taught me though, and it’s painful too, that I’m not a sole proprietor anymore and that finances in a relationship should never be joked with, even with the sweetest of them, and trust me, she is, if I’m ever going to live in peace and harmony in a co-habiting relationship. So baby, I’m sorry, I promise to work hard at not doing it again. So as regards tonight, all sanctions lifted? Still thinking about it? I’ll wait im-, patiently…

  This week’s post is dedicated to an illustrious son of our beloved country. Like I said before, my dear country is too bigz to be brought down; we are an amazingly unique people. We may not have had the kind of leaders committed to steering us in the right direction but we, the collective, never fail to shine as stars. Just when we were groaning under the weight of the shame one of ours, a would be terrorist, brought on us, another, has the dream of representing us in the coming winter Olympics 2014, after he’s done beating his leukemia! Yes my friends, as I write now Seun Adebiyi has just had a, and I hope successfully, bone marrow transplant. That the least of his feats. You should go to his blog and feel the full force of the positive energy emanating from this young man. The man loves to live and clearly loves to share too. I don’t mean the desperate clinging onto life because you’re terrified of the unknown. No, I mean the celebration of life so much so that you notice the beauty of the little things in life; the smile of a labourer trudging home from work as he sees his little ones rushing out to greet him and seizing his bag of weary tools, remembering the best summers in your life while going through its worst blizzards and so much more. His winning smile alone embodies his whole perspective to life even with his swollen face from the abrasive drugs he’s been pumped with to fight organ or tissue rejection. I’d go on and on and still not do Seun any justice but I enjoin all of us to rally round him and give him our best support; he embodies our good nature and strong will and desire for success. I will be following his progress and will write on him from time to time. (Seun's Blog)

  Okay this is getting a bit long so I’ll have to pen off here till next week. Let’s be happy, be more prayerful, not give up dreaming and work hard to achieve our dreams! Have a great week everyone, and me, I hope I get a Valentine’s day extension – tonight!                  

A Sub Space Adventure

 Good week, and morning, to everybody. I wish I was in a very bad mood right now but ‘unfortunately’, I’m not. Why this absurd wish? Well one of my beloved readers, Formerly Stealth Reader – God I love that name!- once said on my post, Carnival Free , that I always sound so jolly and that she, I think it’s a she, wants something angry from me. Frieda laughed so hard at that one. The times she’s had to play nursemaid to my endless frustrations, anxiety and uncertainties are legion. But then again, she is a true woman; she always makes sure my laundry is thoroughly washed clean before hanging it out to dry. So Stealth, your wish may be a long while to come but come it may, owing to the fact that Nigeria has a lot of anger in her. It’s been fuel scarcity for the past three months so for now let’s hope that that the patriotic citizens of this country, and they are in the majority, prevail over the traitors in keeping her as a unified peaceful whole. Not perfect I know, but it is the first step to taking us to the road to prosperity AND accountability.

  Last weekend was sublime. I had been invited to go along with a professional body to inaugurate an upstanding citizen as the patron of the body. The occasion was to take place in Warri, our host’s hometown, an oil producing city in the Niger Delta area of Nigeria. We were to, after the ceremony, spend the night at the host’s holiday resort in Escravos, and island about a hundred kilometres from the coast. Enter stage left, my first miracle, the airplane. No, it wasn’t just any airplane, it was a propeller aeroplane! I had been longing to get into one because I’d heard about its flair for depositing one’s ingested dinner onto the one’s, or his/her neighbour’s, lap by way of turbulence. I’ll fast forward to where I excitedly boarded the plane after ogling the pretty black propellers that looked like magnified domestic fan blades made from liquorice. I stooped all the way down the small cabin to my window seat which was positioned right beside the wing, buckled my seat belt and waited for the engines to start. They did, with a whirr, but the blades didn’t turn! And then they did! Faster and faster they went until they became a very fine blur. I wondered what it would to be like to be deaf and walk backwards into them. Would I feel the pain? Would death be instantaneous? What would the blood spatter be like? Would it be all over the wings and fuselage? My fixation with Dexter is getting the better of me. We taxied to the runway, turned, and began to hurtle down the tarmac with unbelievable power. In fascination I watched as the wheels were retracted into the overhead wings and we were airborne. I must admit I watched with some trepidation we climbed reluctantly higher and higher. I will also admit that take offs and touch downs scare the daylights out of me. I always feel like the engines might give up on take off and send us crashing back to earth. I thought of Frieda and wondered how the news would be broken to her, what falling back to earth would be like. Would I scream or even have the time to soil my boxers? All these and more I thought about as I looked at the miniaturised busy Lagos plan shrinking further away beneath me. The seat belt sign went off and the apprehension passed.

   It was a pleasant flight; the sun was out and the coast along which we were flying was clearly visible apart from the occasional fluffy clouds that dotted the skyscape (is there a word like that?) beneath us. I could tell when we got to the mangrove swamps from the large bodies of water and numerous spider web networks of the same element that transversed the area. As I watched, the undercarriage came out as we began to prepare for descent,  and I felt like we were a big bird about to swoop on its prey and I felt my belly drop in my mouth when we did swoop. I’m sure my face went a few shades lighter as I watched the wings bank this way and that, my fingers digging into my armrest, the aircraft readying itself for a smooth landing while staring at the hypnotic veneer of the landscape looming closer and closer, wondering if the two would be married together in a perfect mesh. We landed.

 For me it was an adventure. It was an adventure because it had all the ingredients needed for any adventure, endeavour or enterprise: will, excitement, research, faith and fear, and the acknowledgement of all five in one. These, I think, are what make the experience of an adventure so exhilarating. The fact that one conquers ones fear, powers on with his will and faith, is motivated by the excitement and contains risk through research is what makes it an accomplishment no matter how small or big. I for one can say I have accomplished a propeller planed adventure to Warri. I would love to hear yours, big or small, in your anticipated comments on this post. Have a great week everyone!               

       

The Cassandro!

A pretty week to all. This is Kalu calling for the umpteenth and repeated time. In vain do you cast charmed circles around… Don’t mind me! I just remembered Wole Soyinka’s famous poem ‘Abiku’, which I did in secondary school about the errant arrogant child changeling that comes to torment its mother in repeated cycles of births and subsequent deaths. Don’t ask me why I thought of this little poem of all times in my life ‘cause I don’t know. Oh maybe it’s to do with the endemic corruption that’s threatening to grind this beloved country of ours to a halt. I had a horrible day yesterday. Well not so horrible; the first half was fine. Did my workout, prayed and went about my business for the day and when I was done, went about looking for petrol for my thirsty Betty. Hardly any petrol station was selling fuel and the ones that did had mile long queues trailing behind them and causing traffic snarl ups. I joined one of them with the intention of filling up my tank and a twenty five litre jerry can in my boot. After about three hours I managed to get fuel but managed to fill my jerry can three quarters of the way – for the same amount of money I would normally fill my tank AND my jerry can with! It was painful – still is. Bit like flushing one’s hard earned money down the drain in a country that’s the eighth or ninth largest oil producer in the world.

The situation in this country is becoming unbearable and what makes it even more annoying is that no one heeded my suggestions in my earlier posts on ways to deal with this prevalent problem. I cried, shouted, begged to no avail. Everyone thought I was talking rubbish, until now. I have now become like Cassandra of the Greek mythology whom Apollo, the god of the sun had cursed after she’d repeatedly spurned his love advances. She would be able to see the future but no matter how much she cried and clamoured, no one would believe her. I’m Cassandro on two counts.

Firstly, did I not, in ‘A River Runs Through It’ suggest that we patriotic Nigerians, and in legion, go to the central corridors of power of the country and empty our bladders and offend them into action with the stench of their corruption? Did I not? We would not be here now if we did as I bid. Secondly, did I not, in em - bo! I can’t remember which post - did I not beg for support in joining me to ask Frieda to let me buy a motorbike. Not a sports bike but a touring one. Would I be bothering myself with the fuel scarcity going on now? I’d be riding free as the bird without a care in the world. What Betty uses in a day my new girlfriend would use in a month! But noooo, you lot just had to focus on the dangerous side of an only ten percent accident rate that occurs among bikers! As if I’m a teenager who perpetually throws caution to the wind. Indeed! But, all is not lost; I’m a very reasonable man who understands that people do err when they don’t see the big picture. So now, with the current and likely chronic fuel crisis, can you dump Frieda’s wagon and get on mine and try to convince her to let me get a bike so I can discharge my pressing duties with ease. I love her and do intend sticking around for a while so I’m not going to be reckless. Remember, one good turn deserves another!

I’ll quickly post this and rush off to Maryland (Lagos) to see my colleague and friend and get some black market fuel for the day – hint, hint! Have a great week nevertheless everyone!

The Carnival 'Free'

Another good ‘fortnight’ to all my good people. The dreaded night arrived; the night my mettle as a monarch with the royal dance steps would be tested, the night that would validate this talented artiste as a competent carnival scion or ridicule this ‘bloody’ actor who thinks just because he’s some celebrity he can jump out of nowhere to come and wrestle the crown from those in the know and in the system and have actually worked hard to get where they are. I could see it in their eyes as we made our way to our stand past some other stands. The blaze of colour across the length of the different stands was amazing. The vividness of colour went even beyond the spectrum – red, scarlet, fuscia, rusty brown, turquoise, lime green, lime yellow, colour that would shame the brightest plumed parrot or peacock. It was a pleasing rarity seeing people take absolute pride in their work even if it was going to be showcased for just a fleeting night.

I hid under the shade of the mermaid costume that my queen was to strap unto her back away from any possible person that might recognize me, biting my lips and almost my nails as I went through my routine on that damned vast stage and her theme music I would regally dance to while pushing the winged cart all over the place over and over again in my mind. Then it was our turn. I was already strapped in complete with my bow tie, robe, sceptre and orb. I wheeled myself out close to the ramp I was to push myself up only to face a huge barrage of flashing light bulbs. There was a solid wall in front of me, of dark figures from which the blazing eyes kept winking. I fought back. I just stood there staring at them with a stolid baleful look in my eyes, my face set as flint. I know how I looked because I refused to give them anything until I’d finished the dreadful business of the night. I wasn’t going to waste the precious reserve of energy I’d built up that evening only to burn myself out when the rubber hit the road. My band leader came up to me, a worried look in her eyes, and asked me if I was okay and I told her I was fine and wheeled myself up the ramp unto the stage to the booming voice of our narrator and my theme music feeling the weight of every one of my band members on my shoulders.

I got unto the stage and immediately began executing the ‘M’ formation I’d so diligently rehearsed without my props or costume in my head. I tried to dance in rhythm to the music and at the same time tried to manoeuvre my winged wheeled throne and quickly abandoned the dancing bit feeling very silly. Seeing the vast waves of faces looking up at me and the bright lights looking down at me from around the stadium, I made for the front end of the stage and quickly found myself looking over its edge at the dark abyss miles below me. Almost panicking at the thought of toppling over and having the ‘obong’ and all his regalia landing unceremoniously in a heap among his ‘subjects’, I made to turn back towards the centre of the rear stage to execute the second stroke of my
‘M’ formation only to find I couldn’t turn. I tried again and still couldn’t move! Subtly panicky and smile still frozen in place, I cast surreptitious glances at both ends of my wings to see if they’d been caught by the overhead cables but they were free. I then saw the wings fluttering and realised what had happened. The huge wings had caught the attention of a hearty breeze and the resultant drag prevented me from turning. After straining for a lengthy while of about half a second, or two, I obeyed my wings and turned back to my audience, my tight smile now straining against my ears and wondered how I was going to get out of the mess.

It was at that moment I remembered who I was; the obong! These were my subjects in front of me – the judges, the governors, everyone! This was my stage, I wasn’t answerable to anybody, I wasn’t bound by any stupid rules; I made them and tonight I was going to bend them to my will! Turning and facing the right side of the stadium, I lifted my hand and waved as sedately as I could, my smile softening into a benevolent one. A huge roar rose from that side of the wall. I tried to turn again and found myself rewarded with a gentle push from behind towards the place I’d previously aimed and found I only had to struggle mildly to turn around again to make for the left side of the stage. I waved again, this time with a million watts on my smile and got an even greater roar in response. I moved to the centre front stage and showed myself off in full splendour. It was rapturous. I turned, left the stage, went down the ramp into another waiting wall of flashing bulbs exploding in front of me and answered them in kind with my thirty two, sorry, thirty one pearly whites. My band leader came and hugged me tightly telling me how unbelievably regal I looked on stage and how she couldn’t believe it was the same person who had been fooling around on stage earlier in the afternoon.

Suffice it to say we won the coveted king award, among the numerous awards we carted away in the course of the competition – and it was fierce; a product of dedicated teamwork from everyone in our band of whom I was merely the icing. All that is nothing compared to what is happening on the other side of the world, Haiti. Let us spare a thought and many prayers, if that’s all we can offer, for our brothers and sisters across the lake. I haven’t been brave enough to even conceive what it would be like having almost everyone I love or know being wiped out in a matter of minutes. May God never let compassion and empathy die in our hearts. This post is dedicated to all Haitians, living and asleep, God be with you. Have a great week everyone.


PS: I am most likely to end my carnival experience here but if, and only if, you my dear ones want a post on the carnival proper then please do let me know. Otherwise you can let me know through your questions what you’d like me to write about so we can feel more connected with one another. One love!

The Carnival 'Too'

Good week everybody. I’m sure everyone’s begun the year with that typical sombre look that always heralds the aftermath of an indulgent festive season. Most patriarchs or matriarchs of families bear that look of, “I shouldn’t have eaten that much! How in “$@#’s name am I going to lose this fat?” Or, “You’ve done it again, Father Christmas! Gone and given all your money away to grabbing relatives that would sooner pour wet concrete than throw in a rope were you to be stuck in a hole! How are you going to pay the children’s school fees now? God, shoot me dead if I ever, ever go to that village again for Christmas!” Fortunately, for now, I have no such worries; I’m still single but heck, who knows, might have enjoyed my last Christmas of irresponsibility and by God I did, hopefully, go out with a bang! So, where was I?

I sneaked out of the hotel in disguise and jumped straight into the waiting arms of my friends who were waiting for me in the parking lot. I made sure I dived into the car before the three sisters knew what hit them and before we began smothering one another with hugs and kisses. The reason for sneaking out? Well my reason for being in Calabar was supposed to be kept secret and to hide my identity, I was to remain in the confines of the hotel until the carnival was over. Try entrusting a tuber of yam in a goat’s care! The congregation of even the mildest hedonists, sorry, revelers would not have forgiven me if I’d stayed cooped up in that glorious tomb during such a festive haven. We went to the cultural centre first, I think it was because one of the girls had a stand there, to have a drink or two. I, for some reason, stuck to water for the duration of my time there. I tried some ram suya but abandoned it almost immediately on account of the meat being too tough. Why people love to punish themselves I’ll never understand. They might as well season it with salt and pepper and eat it raw; that way you know you are suffering for suffering’s sake. But, being in the company of such a bevy of beauties more than made up for the lacklustre stimulation provided by the beverage and I really hammed it up as they jostled one another for my attention. Hehehe, king of the hill! We went to one other bar, where I stuck to my water before being dropped off at the hotel at about 1am. There was a sticky moment on our way to the hotel though. A friend of theirs, who offered to drop me off at the hotel before dropping them off at home, while at the steering wheel, suddenly turned back to me and asked how I was. I said I was fine hesitantly, observing he had a knowing look in his eyes. “Do you remember me?”, he asked, a smile playing on his mouth. “I, I’m not sure…” I hesitated. “We met at Annie’s baby’s dedication”. And then it clicked! “Ah, yes I remember! How you dey now?” And then I sank my foot in it. “How’s Christie? She didn’t come with you?” I could kick myself in the shin ten times. What if he had a girlfriend among the five ladies that were with us? What trouble had I brought upon him? “She’s in Lagos .“ was all he answered, and smoothly too. I slept very fitfully that night because Christie happens to be like my baby sister; always extorting money for phone cards from me and gives me a lovely hug and a smile whenever I go to see her in the bank. But, that is a matter for another day.

The next day dragged in at about ten in the morning. I had a lazy breakfast with the ubiquitous twins, Uti and Ajibade, the two rascals shown in the pictures with me in The Carnival 1, before going off to the stadium for the dress and tech rehearsals in preparation for the night’s kings’ and queens’ competition. Our band leader, the senator, came with us and made sure we were comfortable with the size of the stage. The stage. I had been stumped by that phenomenon once before in university and I was not going to let it happen to me again. This time I drank in the vastness of the intimidating arena and also made sure I was well accustomed to its every corner. As if that wasn’t enough our leader came up to me with the theme music for my appearance and told me I would have to dance to the rhythm with the grace fitting for an obong (king)! Me, Kalu, that am famed for dancing with two left legs, dance to the rhythm? Well, I tried to do as she asked and got laughed at to derision for my troubles. I looked at the senator and saw the genuine fear in her eyes. “Aunty”, I said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, I never go into anything and expect to lose. I will uphold my own end of the bargain. Don’t mind these faithless hooligans”. I know she didn’t believe me but hey, what else could I say?

The kings’ and queens’ competition that night? Well that will come, hopefully, at the same time next week. In the meantime, have a blessed week everybody!

The Carnival Won

Good celebration week everybody. I hope everyone’s week was just as colourful as mine – never mind that I haven’t slept for more than ten hours in the past five days. It has been a very interesting week for me; from experiencing things I haven’t experienced since my tramping days in secondary school – I walked for nine hours and still bore a grin all the way - to modelling clothes on the catwalk. I’m back in Lagos now and am fully rested. My main headache is trying to put my experience in Calabar on paper in the best narrative way.

I will not bore you with the details of my journey from Lagos to Calabar. The truth is, there really is little to write about it except to remind myself of the anger and irritation I felt at the flight delays that are synonymous with Christmas holidays in Lagos when people try to travel down south. The jostling, hurling of abuse - and getting sprayed in the face in the process - bribes and ... The hotel, when I finally did get to Calabar, was nice and comfy and I quickly settled in and reminded myself that there was still work to do. The sweaty nightmares I’d had in the weeks before of the heavy burden I’d be carrying on my shoulders and being forced to smile as I walked hundreds of kilometres to cheering crowds I wouldn’t dare drop dead from exhaustion in front of, were going to have their prophecy validated, or not, that night as I went to try out my costume. Oh, did I forget to mention that I was to be the king of the band I was representing, to be in direct competition with the kings of other bands in the carnival and this was to be taken oh so seriously? So seriously that I was squirreled into a secret room, sorry hall, in the basement of the hotel where there were about twenty different seamstresses hunched over their machines and spinning furiously away as though the devil himself bore down behind them with a curly hydra headed whip. There were heaps of coloured twisted nothings or should I say i-know-not-whats in the far corner of the hall as the senator, the leader of the band excitedly showed me my orb and sceptre I would be using on my throne. She also helped me decipher the different layers of the heap of leather, textile and wire by showing me what they were for; costume for the children’s band, the mermaid’s tail, drapes for the truck and so on. All this I looked at and listened to with just half an ear – all I wanted was to see what load I’d be hauling for the length of my time on the streets.

I met with Daniel, an amiable shirtless Trinidadian who had designed the throne I would be hauling about. Let me regress a little. The reason for my anxiety and trepidation was because I was told that I would be carrying my own throne that was designed in such a way that it would seem that I was sitting on it. The import of it meant that I would, while hauling that heavy contraption about for tens of miles, look like a true king, relaxed, smiling and waving at his subjects while concealing the strain and stress seething underneath the mask. I had enough reason to be worried – I take my work seriously when I am committed. If I had committed myself to being the king of the band, I was going to be a true king all the way – no short cuts or quick fixes! The first question I asked Daniel when we were introduced to one another was to be told how many kilograms I would be hauling about and he said to my utter relief, no more than ten. My heart grew even lighter when he told me that instead of carrying the weight, I would be pushing the throne while walking along. Crimson butterflylike wings spanning about twenty five feet from one end to the other were attached to both sides of the throne and I got into it and walked about in it, in the darkness of the hotel’s courtyard of course – too many spies about, testing the wind resistance of the wings.
It was a much happier and relieved man that went upstairs to have a shower, change and check out what the balmy Calabar night had to offer now that most the headache had gone away. A drink with friends, go clubbing or go seeking out local thatched out of town taverns to sample fresh palm wine and bush meat or fish were on the menu as I pulled my baseball cap over half my face as I sneaked out the hotel lobby thirty minutes later.

The rest of the story, are they not to be revealed in the weeks to come where I hope to exhaust the experiences and delights I had with different people in the wonderful city called Calabar. I also wish to, once again, apologise for the late entry of this post; I have been inundated with a backlog of work that has been waiting for me and I had to attend to them to free my brain to attend to you my good people. Welcome to a new decade and have a great week everyone!

**More pics to come! Just having problems uploading them to my laptop**