A good week to everybody! I’m writing with two intertwining emotions as I speak. On the one hand is the emotion of despondency from the reaffirmation that my betters at writing painfully abound; and elation that I share a kindred spirit with one of my betters. The sage of whom I speak in this instance is none other than Andrew Marvell on his poem “To His Coy Mistress”.
I remember treating this very poem in my first year in university, although at the time we were too petrified of our lecturer, then Dr Inyama, and his promise that only half of us would make it through his course. Our fear of him seemed very well founded on account of his stern and austere demeanour. In fact throughout my four year course in the English Literature department, no one ever saw Dr Inyama break into a smile for even a moment. Ah, I err; I did see him sharing laughter over beer at the senior staff club with his colleagues. Oddly enough, he did seem quite at home with this phenomenon, mirth. Interestingly though, our wariness of Inyama began to thaw by the end of his second lecture on satire in poetry and short stories. The man’s wit and humour was as keen as a red hot blade. He introduced me to my favourite poet of all time, Alexander Pope, the writer of “The Rape of the Lock” – but that is a story for another day. “To His Coy Mistress” was treated on the first day of our lecture with him and my fear of his course at the time blinded me to its beauty. A young friend of mine was to reintroduce the poem to me only a few weeks ago, over a decade after my initial introduction to the poem.
I was flirting amiably with a younger colleague, an actress, about twenty one years of age, on a movie set some weeks ago. She was very pretty and well endowed in the right places, and I did not hesitate to tell her so. She smiled back at me coquettishly and with an impish smile on her face told me she was a good girl and would never have any dealings with men. I liked her, mostly because she was quite intelligent and accurately interpreted my flirtatious advances as being just that, which gave us free hand to pit our wits against one another to see who would win in the end – Frieda look at both my clean palms in the air o, nothing happened! We fenced and parried one another’s thrusts until Nikky, at length, told me that if I must possess her, I would have to court her the way Andrew Marvell courted his coy mistress. The name suddenly rang a bell in my head and I asked her about it. She told me the poem was her favourite and recommended that I go and read it up. Immediately we were done for the day I went back home and searched for it on Google and was amply rewarded – I had found another of my mentors. I settled down to a good read.
The poem is basically about a virgin maiden fending off the amorous advances of an older man. She insists on keeping a vow of chastity and the preservation of her virginity. The man replies with the most gentle and piercing wit, peeling away the young lady’s reserve and defences with the skill and ease with which Hector peeled off Achilles beloved friend Patrocles’ stout armour in Homer’s poem The Iliad, until the latter stood before him, naked and ashamed. He answers her with the lightest sarcasm, telling her that if both of them were granted time, he would begin wooing her ten years before Noah’s flood began, then he would dedicate a hundred years towards wooing and admiring each breast on her chest (chei! See rhyme!) before applying another two hundred years to the rest of her body save for one problem – time would not wait for them. So, in order to forestall Death’s handmaidens – the veritable worms – from deflowering her in the grave where there would be no romance, where all her rosy beauty would succumb to the dust, they would best make use of the youthful fire still coursing through their veins entwine themselves in one fiery ball and tear through the impeding iron gates of chastity!
Isn’t that just heavenly? If there was any such thing as reincarnation, I probably am Mr Marvell come again but, since I don’t believe in it, I’ll be content with the knowledge that many more of my kind roamed the earth centuries before my father carried my mother across the threshold and successfully baked the bun – me. I enjoin you my dear folks to read the poem and let me know what you think. Have the greatest weekend everyone, and my love for you has not diminished even after such a long spell in the wilderness but, that is a story for another day. A tout a l’heure!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Meet n Greet!
Good week everybody! Forgive me if I sound incoherent at times this morning. I’m still a bit groggy from the euphoric reception, the hard work and eventual hard partying I, alongside the rest of the crew, Nonso, Uche Chibueze, Bola, Juliet and Sneeze, wounded myself with during our day’s stay in Port Harcourt for the Meet and Greet promotion for the movie Damage. My left hip still hurts. I don’t know if it was as a result of exertion from displaying my skills on the dance floor at Wine bar. I think I’m getting better and better at this dancing thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the butt of jokes regarding my dancing prowess among my colleagues but the guffaws are quieting down ever so subtly.
On touching down in Port Harcourt, we were driven straight to the Wazobia FM radio station to talk live about the Meet and Greet expedition. Here’s the interesting twist. Wazobia’s language is usually spoken in Pidgin English instead of normal English. This meant that we had to show our Pidgin speaking skills on air. As we settled down on our stools in the studio I began to notice worried yet amused looks on some of the people’s faces and they were all directed at me. I asked if anything was the matter and of course the ever boisterous Uche (yes JOMBO), spokesperson for even those who did not invite her to speak for them and Defender of the universe jumped up with that loud voice of hers. “They are worried because you, like your dancing, cannot speak Pidgin to save your life”. Chei chei chei! It was as if an ant had stung my ear! Eh! Me! Kalu the son of Egbui Ikeagwu, not speak Pidgin. Uche Jombo even had the temerity to ask me to try and keep up with her! Ten minutes later, that same Uche began floundering all over the place like a fish that has lost all its fins. Even the DJ had to remind her three times to stick to Pidgin when she kept running off her trolley. When it got to my turn to speak, hmm! Believe now! I went into it with the dexterity of a Waffi guy! If I was a girl I would fallen for me there and then! I was so good with my flow and nuances that I could from the corner of my eye spy Bola Aduwo nodding her head enthusiastically at me. In fact I had to scale back a little so as not to detract from the reason we were there; speaking out against domestic violence, a result of the humility in me I suppose.
After stamping my authority in the place and leaving with a noticeably humbled Uche, we all headed for the hotel where we had just about 10 minutes to freshen up before going to the Meet and Greet event at Icinemas. I was to sell popcorn to the paying customers and Uche was to sell tickets to them. We had bickered about that at the radio studios – she wanted to use her clout to snatch my task from me by announcing to a live audience that she was going to sell popcorn before I corrected her on the same air. It was a very hot affair, dipping my trowel in the hot popcorn and shovelling tens of bags full with the hot fluffy kernels while taking care not to burn my hand on the overhead mini halogen bulb at the top of the case. But it was all worth it because the fans were a delight; very friendly and politely asked if they could take photographs with us. By the time we finished, Uche, as rambunctious as ever bustled over to my cubicle to brag about how much money she had made from sales – never mind that her tickets sold for N2000 apiece while my popcorn was a humble N500. Then again, that’s short people for you – always have to have the last word. Let’s see how you’ll beat me in this one. Nonsense! I still love you sis.
We sat down together to watch the movie Damage and were pleasantly surprised by a rousing applause from the audience when it ended. It felt good to be part of a team that worked so hard to achieve something. We did the normal red carpet photographs and took off to the Wine bar – a nightclub to party. I did not fail to deliver. In fact I grooved so well even Uche had to take back her vile earlier words the server. It was a very good weekend indeed. The only drawback was that I didn’t get to eat my favourite Port Harcourt roadside dish, roasted ripe plantain and hot pepper palm oil stew with smoked fish. Darn it, my mouth’s watering already! This weekend we go to my home state Abia to check it out. Will keep you updated with the goings on this weekend. I’m trying to think of what delicacies to look out for: Egusi cakes, ugba and okporoko etc. Please let me know if I’m missing anything out. Have a great week everyone!
On touching down in Port Harcourt, we were driven straight to the Wazobia FM radio station to talk live about the Meet and Greet expedition. Here’s the interesting twist. Wazobia’s language is usually spoken in Pidgin English instead of normal English. This meant that we had to show our Pidgin speaking skills on air. As we settled down on our stools in the studio I began to notice worried yet amused looks on some of the people’s faces and they were all directed at me. I asked if anything was the matter and of course the ever boisterous Uche (yes JOMBO), spokesperson for even those who did not invite her to speak for them and Defender of the universe jumped up with that loud voice of hers. “They are worried because you, like your dancing, cannot speak Pidgin to save your life”. Chei chei chei! It was as if an ant had stung my ear! Eh! Me! Kalu the son of Egbui Ikeagwu, not speak Pidgin. Uche Jombo even had the temerity to ask me to try and keep up with her! Ten minutes later, that same Uche began floundering all over the place like a fish that has lost all its fins. Even the DJ had to remind her three times to stick to Pidgin when she kept running off her trolley. When it got to my turn to speak, hmm! Believe now! I went into it with the dexterity of a Waffi guy! If I was a girl I would fallen for me there and then! I was so good with my flow and nuances that I could from the corner of my eye spy Bola Aduwo nodding her head enthusiastically at me. In fact I had to scale back a little so as not to detract from the reason we were there; speaking out against domestic violence, a result of the humility in me I suppose.
After stamping my authority in the place and leaving with a noticeably humbled Uche, we all headed for the hotel where we had just about 10 minutes to freshen up before going to the Meet and Greet event at Icinemas. I was to sell popcorn to the paying customers and Uche was to sell tickets to them. We had bickered about that at the radio studios – she wanted to use her clout to snatch my task from me by announcing to a live audience that she was going to sell popcorn before I corrected her on the same air. It was a very hot affair, dipping my trowel in the hot popcorn and shovelling tens of bags full with the hot fluffy kernels while taking care not to burn my hand on the overhead mini halogen bulb at the top of the case. But it was all worth it because the fans were a delight; very friendly and politely asked if they could take photographs with us. By the time we finished, Uche, as rambunctious as ever bustled over to my cubicle to brag about how much money she had made from sales – never mind that her tickets sold for N2000 apiece while my popcorn was a humble N500. Then again, that’s short people for you – always have to have the last word. Let’s see how you’ll beat me in this one. Nonsense! I still love you sis.
We sat down together to watch the movie Damage and were pleasantly surprised by a rousing applause from the audience when it ended. It felt good to be part of a team that worked so hard to achieve something. We did the normal red carpet photographs and took off to the Wine bar – a nightclub to party. I did not fail to deliver. In fact I grooved so well even Uche had to take back her vile earlier words the server. It was a very good weekend indeed. The only drawback was that I didn’t get to eat my favourite Port Harcourt roadside dish, roasted ripe plantain and hot pepper palm oil stew with smoked fish. Darn it, my mouth’s watering already! This weekend we go to my home state Abia to check it out. Will keep you updated with the goings on this weekend. I’m trying to think of what delicacies to look out for: Egusi cakes, ugba and okporoko etc. Please let me know if I’m missing anything out. Have a great week everyone!
Friday, August 12, 2011
The Event
Good week to everyone! How has everyone’s week been? Mine’s been so busy doing nothing but networking and promotions; my initiation into the vile impersonal business world. I have recently found out, and this is just a hypothesis, that the most boring and humourless people in school are mostly the richest people today. They are usually the bankers, businessmen and accountants of today. I refuse to believe that it was because they had no sense of humour but that they maybe saw art, fun and humour as major distractions to be avoided at all costs even if they have to scrooge themselves doing it. I suppose the end justifies the means. At least, like Scrooge, they might get the chance to be unscrooged later in life. For those of us who began our lives with art, idealism and daydreams and having to learn scrooge language later in life. I wonder what our stories will be as night falls. It was a strange feeling for me at the Damage movie premiere two weeks ago.
The three days leading up to the date of the event were very physically depressing for me; I almost threw up in the bathroom an hour before I picked up my car keys. I usually hate watching myself in movies I’ve done because I keep seeing mistakes I make, and things I could have done better. It’s sometimes so bad I hide behind my couch to watch; it’s like watching a horror movie, the difference being that I must have company to be able to watch the latter. You can imagine how it felt having to watch myself alongside hundreds of fellow professionals, prodders, directors, investors and most nail biting of all, critics. Couple that with the fact that I was playing the role of an angry, violent wife beater who shouts himself hoarse for the most part of the movie, which, God forbid, might end up not being so convincing, and you have the perfect bowl of bowel pureed nerves.
The red carpet part went without a hitch although I did leave it with an aching jaw from yapping incessantly to legions of journalists and flashing bulbs, repeating myself over and over again while trying to look like I was uttering the heartfelt words for the first time. The last journalist to interview me took the largest slice of the cake. He looked in every possible direction there was but mine as he interviewed me as I talked; it didn’t last long and it was the last. I left there and headed for the cinema, was ushered to my seat and I sat. Not long after, the movie began.
It didn’t take long for me to realise why oyibo , sorry, our counterparts across the pond are always so skinny; I was humongous! I thought I was looking at a funny mirror! Every step I took was like King Kong was entering the building. I desperately prayed for some vestige of acting prowess to at least cover up the offensive smell I was looking at. All through the movie I kept ticking off the boxes in my head with my invisible pen, my buzzing ears not even registering the audience’s reaction, with my sweaty finger poised over the stopwatch of my watch. It wasn’t as bad as I anticipated it would be. In fact the audience loved it. If you know how unforgiving a Nigerian audience is, you’ll appreciate the sense of relief I felt every fifteen minutes – yes, I had divided the movie into sections of fifteen minutes to measure the overall ratio of the parts that were bad versus the good – yes, in that order. I even noticed some quips and quirks I unconsciously chipped in here and there of which I was pleased and took notes of. It ended well.
What’s that saying again? Nothing ventured, nothing vanquished? I’m not sure if I got it right but that night was a definite victory for me. I learnt to believe in myself more, to trust my instincts more and the value of working with a visionary producer and director. Three cheers to you Uche Jombo and Moses Iwang( Sneeze)! Great job on the movie Damage! Have a great weekend guys and please please please do go watch the movie Damage. It’s showing in cinemas nationwide at the moment. Ciao!
The three days leading up to the date of the event were very physically depressing for me; I almost threw up in the bathroom an hour before I picked up my car keys. I usually hate watching myself in movies I’ve done because I keep seeing mistakes I make, and things I could have done better. It’s sometimes so bad I hide behind my couch to watch; it’s like watching a horror movie, the difference being that I must have company to be able to watch the latter. You can imagine how it felt having to watch myself alongside hundreds of fellow professionals, prodders, directors, investors and most nail biting of all, critics. Couple that with the fact that I was playing the role of an angry, violent wife beater who shouts himself hoarse for the most part of the movie, which, God forbid, might end up not being so convincing, and you have the perfect bowl of bowel pureed nerves.
The red carpet part went without a hitch although I did leave it with an aching jaw from yapping incessantly to legions of journalists and flashing bulbs, repeating myself over and over again while trying to look like I was uttering the heartfelt words for the first time. The last journalist to interview me took the largest slice of the cake. He looked in every possible direction there was but mine as he interviewed me as I talked; it didn’t last long and it was the last. I left there and headed for the cinema, was ushered to my seat and I sat. Not long after, the movie began.
It didn’t take long for me to realise why oyibo , sorry, our counterparts across the pond are always so skinny; I was humongous! I thought I was looking at a funny mirror! Every step I took was like King Kong was entering the building. I desperately prayed for some vestige of acting prowess to at least cover up the offensive smell I was looking at. All through the movie I kept ticking off the boxes in my head with my invisible pen, my buzzing ears not even registering the audience’s reaction, with my sweaty finger poised over the stopwatch of my watch. It wasn’t as bad as I anticipated it would be. In fact the audience loved it. If you know how unforgiving a Nigerian audience is, you’ll appreciate the sense of relief I felt every fifteen minutes – yes, I had divided the movie into sections of fifteen minutes to measure the overall ratio of the parts that were bad versus the good – yes, in that order. I even noticed some quips and quirks I unconsciously chipped in here and there of which I was pleased and took notes of. It ended well.
What’s that saying again? Nothing ventured, nothing vanquished? I’m not sure if I got it right but that night was a definite victory for me. I learnt to believe in myself more, to trust my instincts more and the value of working with a visionary producer and director. Three cheers to you Uche Jombo and Moses Iwang( Sneeze)! Great job on the movie Damage! Have a great weekend guys and please please please do go watch the movie Damage. It’s showing in cinemas nationwide at the moment. Ciao!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Lastma
A good week to everybody! Yes, I know I owe you a strong tale of a mishap that befell me me last week, or was it the week before that? I'm trying to type from my Blackberry phone and I have no idea how to put paragraphs in this thing. Nkem, you'll have have to sort this thing; it's what I 'pay' you for!. So where ever you read me shout 'paragraph!', you put one. You read? Good. :-) Paragraph!
It was a lovely Saturday afternoon and I had hitherto decided to spend the whole day lounging in my home. I had my books that I hadn't read and some delicious movies that I had saved to watch alone.; I like to rewind a lot so I can 'chew the cud' on special moments. Yes, I am not everyone's favourite movie partner. In preparation of building my cosy cocoon around me, I had bought my beloved cod fish which I was going to season with garlic, grill and devour with sauteed fluted pumpkin leaves (ugu). I'd cleaned out the fish, seasoned it and went to turn the grill on only to realize I'd run out of gas! Not to be deterred I unhooked the gas cylinder from the the cooker and drove off to the gas man's shop to fill her up. I filled my canister up and it occurred to me to indulge my sweet tooth as well. I drove to a nearby store to buy some fruit juice and my favourite potato crisps, sour cream and onion. I parked my car on the bustling road right behind another parked car and went into the store to grab my goods. I had just taken my purchase to the cashier's to pay for them when a woman rushed into the shop asking for the owners of the cars parked outside. Thinking an accident had just occurred we, the owner of the other car and I, both rushed outside to find out what was going on. To my utter dismay I saw the dreaded LASTMA tow truck already reversing into the back of Betty, its towing appendage already extended! 'Paragraph!'
I quickly ran up to the LASTMA official in charge and tried to explain to him that I had no prior knowledge that the road I was parked on was a no parking zone. He patiently listened to my entreaties, nodded understandingly while Betty was being hoisted up in the air and told me I could come and explain the situation at the office they were taking my car to. Meanwhile the other man smartly jumped into his car and zoomed off to safety. In a matter of seconds I saw my impassive Betty being carted away unceremoniously. I was nonplussed. I was at a loss of what to do. My pleasant evening was going up in smoke in the back of my car. I was still standing there looking dazed when one of the onlookers ran up to me and urged me not to let them take my car to their station otherwise not only would I have to pay a hefty fine – an equivalence of about $400 – but it would take about a week for me to get her back. I did not need to be told twice. I quickly hailed one of the okadas (commercial motorcycle) passing by and ordered him to give chase after the retreating miscreants. We soon caught up with their truck and I tried to hail them to stop so we could talk. The chief officer refused to stop and encouraged me to meet them at their station. All sense of propriety and decorum had by now left me. From where I was seated on the bike I held on to the door of the towing truck and refused to let go not caring who saw or recognized me in such an undignified position. We must have looked quite a spectacle weaving all over the road or my persistence must have paid off because the truck was soon forced to stop. They opened the door for me to get in. 'Paragraph!'
I dispatched the okada with a quick hundred naira note and clambered into the truck’s cab with the officer. I told them I had never broken a traffic law and I had merely gone to buy baby food at the shop with no knowledge that the spot I parked on was a no parking zone owing to the non existence of any warning sign to that effect. The officer turned to me and sympathetically told me that the meter had already begun running; they would have to give an account of the vehicle they had towed at the office.'Paragraph!'
The long and short of the story is that I parted with four thousand naira (about $27) before Betty’s dignity was restored to her and we were left to go on our merry way. I went back to the same store – I parked properly of course – and bought exactly the same crisps and drink I have gone to buy before. Surprisingly the store keeper refused to take my money and let me have them for free. Well that’s it folks, my misadventure on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Till next time then, do have a great week everyone!
It was a lovely Saturday afternoon and I had hitherto decided to spend the whole day lounging in my home. I had my books that I hadn't read and some delicious movies that I had saved to watch alone.; I like to rewind a lot so I can 'chew the cud' on special moments. Yes, I am not everyone's favourite movie partner. In preparation of building my cosy cocoon around me, I had bought my beloved cod fish which I was going to season with garlic, grill and devour with sauteed fluted pumpkin leaves (ugu). I'd cleaned out the fish, seasoned it and went to turn the grill on only to realize I'd run out of gas! Not to be deterred I unhooked the gas cylinder from the the cooker and drove off to the gas man's shop to fill her up. I filled my canister up and it occurred to me to indulge my sweet tooth as well. I drove to a nearby store to buy some fruit juice and my favourite potato crisps, sour cream and onion. I parked my car on the bustling road right behind another parked car and went into the store to grab my goods. I had just taken my purchase to the cashier's to pay for them when a woman rushed into the shop asking for the owners of the cars parked outside. Thinking an accident had just occurred we, the owner of the other car and I, both rushed outside to find out what was going on. To my utter dismay I saw the dreaded LASTMA tow truck already reversing into the back of Betty, its towing appendage already extended! 'Paragraph!'
I quickly ran up to the LASTMA official in charge and tried to explain to him that I had no prior knowledge that the road I was parked on was a no parking zone. He patiently listened to my entreaties, nodded understandingly while Betty was being hoisted up in the air and told me I could come and explain the situation at the office they were taking my car to. Meanwhile the other man smartly jumped into his car and zoomed off to safety. In a matter of seconds I saw my impassive Betty being carted away unceremoniously. I was nonplussed. I was at a loss of what to do. My pleasant evening was going up in smoke in the back of my car. I was still standing there looking dazed when one of the onlookers ran up to me and urged me not to let them take my car to their station otherwise not only would I have to pay a hefty fine – an equivalence of about $400 – but it would take about a week for me to get her back. I did not need to be told twice. I quickly hailed one of the okadas (commercial motorcycle) passing by and ordered him to give chase after the retreating miscreants. We soon caught up with their truck and I tried to hail them to stop so we could talk. The chief officer refused to stop and encouraged me to meet them at their station. All sense of propriety and decorum had by now left me. From where I was seated on the bike I held on to the door of the towing truck and refused to let go not caring who saw or recognized me in such an undignified position. We must have looked quite a spectacle weaving all over the road or my persistence must have paid off because the truck was soon forced to stop. They opened the door for me to get in. 'Paragraph!'
I dispatched the okada with a quick hundred naira note and clambered into the truck’s cab with the officer. I told them I had never broken a traffic law and I had merely gone to buy baby food at the shop with no knowledge that the spot I parked on was a no parking zone owing to the non existence of any warning sign to that effect. The officer turned to me and sympathetically told me that the meter had already begun running; they would have to give an account of the vehicle they had towed at the office.'Paragraph!'
The long and short of the story is that I parted with four thousand naira (about $27) before Betty’s dignity was restored to her and we were left to go on our merry way. I went back to the same store – I parked properly of course – and bought exactly the same crisps and drink I have gone to buy before. Surprisingly the store keeper refused to take my money and let me have them for free. Well that’s it folks, my misadventure on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Till next time then, do have a great week everyone!
Friday, July 15, 2011
No Pain, No Mirth
A good week to everyone. Been a long time hasn’t it? I have been in the wilderness of nail biting. Seriously though, I hope everyone’s okay. My heart goes out to the victims of the Lagos flood that happened on Sunday. I took one look at the rain and knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I began to get uncertain once the rainfall passed the two hour mark, then it went on to three and then up to five before the pictures started to come in, on my phone by beeping in with pictures of submerged vehicles ranging from tricycles to even SUVs. Someone took a picture of their sitting room with exquisite lime green leather armchairs, a settee and an ottoman. A portrait style television hung on the wall at the far end complete with its accompanying home theatre system and the speakers that stood tall on either side of the television. A dark shimmering floor that looked like the best resin coated marble floor ever, completed the picture. The only trouble was, the floor seemed to have risen halfway into the furniture, giving it the look of a quasi Japanese sitting room, famed for its extremely low furniture. The picture began to get darker as images of corpses of people being carried along by the rushing waters of the canals began to filter in - as if we Nigerians don’t have enough natural disasters in the pompous forms of our ‘leaders’. This is one aspect of pain that is serious and leaves a sombre taste in the room with much shaking of heads after such tales of irreparable loss have been spent. Let’s spare a prayer for them.
The other aspect of pain is one from which people derive a lot of mirth and pleasure. Heck, some even make a very lucrative career out of it – comedy. Has anyone noticed that nothing is ever funny without the basic foundation of pain, suffering and loss. For a joke to be funny there must be one, two or all these three of the named ingredients. Take for example this joke. Two merchants who were also friends were walking home after a successful day’s business. They decided to make their journey even briefer by taking a shortcut down a narrow alleyway. As they walked down the alley, they noticed a gang of hoodlums emerging from the shadowy walls of the alley and advancing towards them. It dawned on them that the inevitable was about to happen to them. Without missing a step, one of the merchants reached into his bag, took out a smaller bag that contained all his takings for the day, turned to his friend and said, “Tony, here’s the five thousand dollars I owe you.” See what I mean? People getting mugged and one trying to be smarter than his pants is found to be funny. Why? Is it the punch line? Or is it that the recounting of the painful experience of the teller evokes memories of a similar painful experience from their audience to generate an abundance of mirth?
I remember recounting an experience I had MANY MANY years ago in a company gents room to my friends in the UK. I had gone to the rest room for some much needed relief which soon turned out to be a rather noisy affair. I had only been there a few moments before I heard others come into the lavatory. Alas the sluice gates had already been opened and there was to be no holding back; the noisy torrent had to run its course. There was a respectful, almost embarrassing silence afterwards for just about two seconds before I heard taps open and then the splash of washing hands with seeming deliberation. I did not move – the other occupants of the room seemed curious to know the perpetrator of the leaden bombs and the staccato gunfire – it was not going to be me. All through the repeated washing of hands, the metallic roar of the blow drier and the clanging of the hand towel machine, I remained cemented to my throne, long since done, and resolute. Only when after an extended silence, a quick flush and an even quicker exit to dissociate myself from the offending toilet booth did I, after washing my hands, make a dash for my office and avoided detection. My friends literally rolled on the floor with laughter. To them, my story was funny but not as funny as the fact that it gave voice to the hidden embarrassments they felt under the same situations I experienced but could not talk about. My pain, their mirth.
I will in a few days’ time give you an example of some pain I experienced and what it cost me, for your mirth. In the meantime I would like some of your thoughts on why people’s pain is a source of joy to many. Have a great week guys!
The other aspect of pain is one from which people derive a lot of mirth and pleasure. Heck, some even make a very lucrative career out of it – comedy. Has anyone noticed that nothing is ever funny without the basic foundation of pain, suffering and loss. For a joke to be funny there must be one, two or all these three of the named ingredients. Take for example this joke. Two merchants who were also friends were walking home after a successful day’s business. They decided to make their journey even briefer by taking a shortcut down a narrow alleyway. As they walked down the alley, they noticed a gang of hoodlums emerging from the shadowy walls of the alley and advancing towards them. It dawned on them that the inevitable was about to happen to them. Without missing a step, one of the merchants reached into his bag, took out a smaller bag that contained all his takings for the day, turned to his friend and said, “Tony, here’s the five thousand dollars I owe you.” See what I mean? People getting mugged and one trying to be smarter than his pants is found to be funny. Why? Is it the punch line? Or is it that the recounting of the painful experience of the teller evokes memories of a similar painful experience from their audience to generate an abundance of mirth?
I remember recounting an experience I had MANY MANY years ago in a company gents room to my friends in the UK. I had gone to the rest room for some much needed relief which soon turned out to be a rather noisy affair. I had only been there a few moments before I heard others come into the lavatory. Alas the sluice gates had already been opened and there was to be no holding back; the noisy torrent had to run its course. There was a respectful, almost embarrassing silence afterwards for just about two seconds before I heard taps open and then the splash of washing hands with seeming deliberation. I did not move – the other occupants of the room seemed curious to know the perpetrator of the leaden bombs and the staccato gunfire – it was not going to be me. All through the repeated washing of hands, the metallic roar of the blow drier and the clanging of the hand towel machine, I remained cemented to my throne, long since done, and resolute. Only when after an extended silence, a quick flush and an even quicker exit to dissociate myself from the offending toilet booth did I, after washing my hands, make a dash for my office and avoided detection. My friends literally rolled on the floor with laughter. To them, my story was funny but not as funny as the fact that it gave voice to the hidden embarrassments they felt under the same situations I experienced but could not talk about. My pain, their mirth.
I will in a few days’ time give you an example of some pain I experienced and what it cost me, for your mirth. In the meantime I would like some of your thoughts on why people’s pain is a source of joy to many. Have a great week guys!
Friday, June 17, 2011
Too Sexy Two!
Hello once again and a good week to everybody! Ehen, where was I? hurim hurim hurim… yes! So I went to take my solo shots while my lady finished up her makeup. When I finished those, I changed into a pair of jeans and rolled them up to my calves. I also changed into a short sleeved shirt as our concept demanded but not before I had completed three sets of twelve push up repetitions in the hope that my heaving chest and brawny arms would steal the show, until she floated in.
She was wearing nothing except for a white muslin loincloth and her hands over her breasts. The skimpy clothing rode above her hips but surprisingly, there were no essentials visible to the sight except for part of her pert bottom. She came in with three handmaidens, actually it was the makeup artist, Tyna and the assistant director, who flitted about her as if to protect her modesty, and the essentials from any risk of being bared. I just stood back waiting, like a king waiting for his dinner, wondering how long it would take for those fences to come crashing down. She walked very well, head held high atop a slender neck, straight shoulders and back almost immobile while her long duiker legs floated before her with the practised step of the runway model that she was, oblivious to all around her. She came up and stood beside me, and there we stood, two gladiators in an arena.
She smelled nice, and shy. I know it’s weird but uncertainty does have a smell, not at all unpleasant, especially when it is unencumbered by alienating agents like perfumes, deodorants and soap. It can only be detected up close but becomes more palpable when two people have just disrobed before one another for the first time, each one unsure of how the other views them stripped of all armour. This earthy aroma, devoid of any pretence, and aided by body heat, radiates to fill up the personal space around both parties, leaving the skin contracted by goose pimples from the sudden loss of heat. it seldom is the same afterwards. I put my hand on the small of her back, a gesture to reassure her that I wasn’t an ogre. Tyna gave a thumbs up sign that all was set for work and we began the shoot. That was when the nightmare began.
I had carried milady before, playfully, when we were clothed, just to test her weight, and she was a breeze, weighing just over 50kg – I could handle that. This time, however, when the director gave the signal, and I swept her up in my arms with a flourish, her palms still pasted over her glands, and I, standing proudly with my weightless cargo waiting to be blinded by a sudden flurry of flashes, stared bemused as the assistant ran up to us, my arms beginning to strain. She took her time in arranging my colleague’s arms, making sure her breasts were covered and then told me I was lifting her too high, I should lower my arms a little. I did, and that when the strain really began. A few snapshots went off before the director, Tyna, lowered her camera and told me my face was too relaxed, I should strain it a little more. Wasn’t that the whole point of it, to be the strong soldier carrying a damsel in distress effortlessly? “Nope,” they said, “we want you looking strained, and we want it to show on your face.” Another round began, each time the sadists came at us, primping us this way and that until even my lady shed all attempts at decorum and left it to the hardworking loincloth to hold the rest of the fort. The worst was yet to come.
After a period of about thirty minutes, which felt like ten times that, my arms, especially the right, were aching and had begun to quiver from exhaustion when they suddenly gave way and milady stumbled onto the floor. Instinctively I reached out to her, both to steady her and to cover her modesty – there were two other men in the room – when everyone began laughing. Wondering what they were laughing at, I looked down and saw that her hands had ‘made’ it to her breasts right underneath mine! I was horrified at the implication. Quickly I protested my innocence; I was merely trying to protect her, but from the ‘knowing’ looks and smiles of my tormentors, men and women alike, I was fighting a losing battle. The guys’ smiles said, “we’re not judging you man, we understand perfectly”; the women’s, including mine truly, as she looked up at me, smiling in resigned amusement “men will always be men, no matter the shroud”.
Here ends my lofty tale. We had another session after that where she was completely nude and we were both doused in so much powder; I was shirtless and hid behind her and so didn’t even have to suck my tummy in! What I did come away with were very aching arms and a very sore elbow from propping myself up on it and trying to look like I was in love. Suffice it to say that I told Tyna that from the experience, I had perished any thought of pursuing a modelling career. There you have it folks, laugh all you want, I am not perturbed; I have exorcised my demons as far as I’m concerned. Have a great weekend everyone! Thank you for helping me complete this second part of my post! XOXO
She was wearing nothing except for a white muslin loincloth and her hands over her breasts. The skimpy clothing rode above her hips but surprisingly, there were no essentials visible to the sight except for part of her pert bottom. She came in with three handmaidens, actually it was the makeup artist, Tyna and the assistant director, who flitted about her as if to protect her modesty, and the essentials from any risk of being bared. I just stood back waiting, like a king waiting for his dinner, wondering how long it would take for those fences to come crashing down. She walked very well, head held high atop a slender neck, straight shoulders and back almost immobile while her long duiker legs floated before her with the practised step of the runway model that she was, oblivious to all around her. She came up and stood beside me, and there we stood, two gladiators in an arena.
She smelled nice, and shy. I know it’s weird but uncertainty does have a smell, not at all unpleasant, especially when it is unencumbered by alienating agents like perfumes, deodorants and soap. It can only be detected up close but becomes more palpable when two people have just disrobed before one another for the first time, each one unsure of how the other views them stripped of all armour. This earthy aroma, devoid of any pretence, and aided by body heat, radiates to fill up the personal space around both parties, leaving the skin contracted by goose pimples from the sudden loss of heat. it seldom is the same afterwards. I put my hand on the small of her back, a gesture to reassure her that I wasn’t an ogre. Tyna gave a thumbs up sign that all was set for work and we began the shoot. That was when the nightmare began.
I had carried milady before, playfully, when we were clothed, just to test her weight, and she was a breeze, weighing just over 50kg – I could handle that. This time, however, when the director gave the signal, and I swept her up in my arms with a flourish, her palms still pasted over her glands, and I, standing proudly with my weightless cargo waiting to be blinded by a sudden flurry of flashes, stared bemused as the assistant ran up to us, my arms beginning to strain. She took her time in arranging my colleague’s arms, making sure her breasts were covered and then told me I was lifting her too high, I should lower my arms a little. I did, and that when the strain really began. A few snapshots went off before the director, Tyna, lowered her camera and told me my face was too relaxed, I should strain it a little more. Wasn’t that the whole point of it, to be the strong soldier carrying a damsel in distress effortlessly? “Nope,” they said, “we want you looking strained, and we want it to show on your face.” Another round began, each time the sadists came at us, primping us this way and that until even my lady shed all attempts at decorum and left it to the hardworking loincloth to hold the rest of the fort. The worst was yet to come.
After a period of about thirty minutes, which felt like ten times that, my arms, especially the right, were aching and had begun to quiver from exhaustion when they suddenly gave way and milady stumbled onto the floor. Instinctively I reached out to her, both to steady her and to cover her modesty – there were two other men in the room – when everyone began laughing. Wondering what they were laughing at, I looked down and saw that her hands had ‘made’ it to her breasts right underneath mine! I was horrified at the implication. Quickly I protested my innocence; I was merely trying to protect her, but from the ‘knowing’ looks and smiles of my tormentors, men and women alike, I was fighting a losing battle. The guys’ smiles said, “we’re not judging you man, we understand perfectly”; the women’s, including mine truly, as she looked up at me, smiling in resigned amusement “men will always be men, no matter the shroud”.
Here ends my lofty tale. We had another session after that where she was completely nude and we were both doused in so much powder; I was shirtless and hid behind her and so didn’t even have to suck my tummy in! What I did come away with were very aching arms and a very sore elbow from propping myself up on it and trying to look like I was in love. Suffice it to say that I told Tyna that from the experience, I had perished any thought of pursuing a modelling career. There you have it folks, laugh all you want, I am not perturbed; I have exorcised my demons as far as I’m concerned. Have a great weekend everyone! Thank you for helping me complete this second part of my post! XOXO
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Too Sexy!
A good week to everyone! So long apart, yet so long together. In the latter I revel to keep buoyant when I sink to the murky depths below until I bob back to the dizzying heights I constantly reach for. Well, that’s my stint at poetry this morning; my little way of expunging the little madness that has built up over the night. I expunged yesterday’s by, on a whim, opening up Betty’s bonnet, climbing onto her engine and jumping up and down it. I was gentle though; I just wanted to feel like I was on top of things. It sounds crazy but it worked; my mind was clearer afterwards, not minding the curious amused looks I got from my neighbours. I had a unique experience in modelling recently. It was a photo session that was for a photo gallery and of course I would get copies of the pictures for my own use.
The photographer, Tyna, showed me some photos of celebrities and models in various poses; some shirtless, others in more daring revelations. I told her point blank she could perish any thought of me going shirtless to pose for anything until I get my six pack back, or anything coming close to it. It is now I’ve begun to really empathise with our women who have just given birth and the battle fought to regain, or hang unto, ones youth. Long and short of it is I said no. We perused some concepts and settled on some fairly safe concepts where I wouldn’t be terribly compromised. In one of them, I would be the strong silent type rescuing a near nude damsel in distress from some horrible calamity. I would carry her in my arms while she, near fainting, would still have the presence of mind to clasp her naked breasts with her hands – which I looked forward to with some fever. We fixed the date for our shoot.
The day came and I showed up at the studio quite early as I wanted to be done and leave before the rush hour evening traffic began. I was introduced to the model I would be working very closely with. I can’t remember her name because it was a very unusual but lovely name. She was quite pretty, not strikingly so but the kind that grows on one and never lets go once the claws are latched on. She was dark complexioned and lithe in stature, and had full lips that I could tell were quite soft to the kiss – yes, I do look out for things like that. Anyway, we got talking, ostensibly to get to know one another better to work up good chemistry for the impending shoot. We flirted with each other quite a bit, which is where the fun lies; to dangle carrots before one another with sultry hints of what could be but walking away without eating the fruit. It’s like having really good foreplay and walking away before having the sex that will condemn one to getting annoying phone calls in the middle of the night for want of attention or silly questions regarding what I’m thinking of or if I’m thinking of her. I can hardly get my arms around Frieda’s wahala (and I have very long arms) let alone ten other babes’. I needn’t have worried because she was a professional; I could tell it was just work for her and nothing else, which suited me very well.
We went to do our make up where I, to my annoyance, and at Nkem’s insistence, had to shave my ‘unibrow’ as she calls it – the continuous growth of hair between the eyebrows. That, as far as I’m concerned is how I was made and I don’t see how I have to pander to those pansy perfect ‘pretty boy’ looks just because it’s perceived as ‘clean’ and what female fans want to see! I even had mascara applied to my lashes, to the extent that they were clumped together in twos and threes! You know those lashes they show in magazines where two or three lashes join to form sharp points at the end? That’s how mine ended up. The makeup artist swore blind that they would not be seen by the camera and their sole function was to give me an intense look. Don’t laugh I beg of you lot; I write this with a lot of bravery and consternation which means that my readiness to open my vulnerable sides to you in future will depend on the outcome of this post. Readers beware! Anyway, simmering down and moving right on, I finished mine quickly and went into the studio to take some solo shot as my colleague was still doing her make up – she was to spend a further hour and a half finishing hers before coming to join me.
The rest of what I went through, are they not written in the post to come in just a few days from this one? Is not this post restrained by space to compel me to halt this one right now and am I not emboldened to wish that everybody has a great week ahead? They are, it is, I am!
The photographer, Tyna, showed me some photos of celebrities and models in various poses; some shirtless, others in more daring revelations. I told her point blank she could perish any thought of me going shirtless to pose for anything until I get my six pack back, or anything coming close to it. It is now I’ve begun to really empathise with our women who have just given birth and the battle fought to regain, or hang unto, ones youth. Long and short of it is I said no. We perused some concepts and settled on some fairly safe concepts where I wouldn’t be terribly compromised. In one of them, I would be the strong silent type rescuing a near nude damsel in distress from some horrible calamity. I would carry her in my arms while she, near fainting, would still have the presence of mind to clasp her naked breasts with her hands – which I looked forward to with some fever. We fixed the date for our shoot.
The day came and I showed up at the studio quite early as I wanted to be done and leave before the rush hour evening traffic began. I was introduced to the model I would be working very closely with. I can’t remember her name because it was a very unusual but lovely name. She was quite pretty, not strikingly so but the kind that grows on one and never lets go once the claws are latched on. She was dark complexioned and lithe in stature, and had full lips that I could tell were quite soft to the kiss – yes, I do look out for things like that. Anyway, we got talking, ostensibly to get to know one another better to work up good chemistry for the impending shoot. We flirted with each other quite a bit, which is where the fun lies; to dangle carrots before one another with sultry hints of what could be but walking away without eating the fruit. It’s like having really good foreplay and walking away before having the sex that will condemn one to getting annoying phone calls in the middle of the night for want of attention or silly questions regarding what I’m thinking of or if I’m thinking of her. I can hardly get my arms around Frieda’s wahala (and I have very long arms) let alone ten other babes’. I needn’t have worried because she was a professional; I could tell it was just work for her and nothing else, which suited me very well.
We went to do our make up where I, to my annoyance, and at Nkem’s insistence, had to shave my ‘unibrow’ as she calls it – the continuous growth of hair between the eyebrows. That, as far as I’m concerned is how I was made and I don’t see how I have to pander to those pansy perfect ‘pretty boy’ looks just because it’s perceived as ‘clean’ and what female fans want to see! I even had mascara applied to my lashes, to the extent that they were clumped together in twos and threes! You know those lashes they show in magazines where two or three lashes join to form sharp points at the end? That’s how mine ended up. The makeup artist swore blind that they would not be seen by the camera and their sole function was to give me an intense look. Don’t laugh I beg of you lot; I write this with a lot of bravery and consternation which means that my readiness to open my vulnerable sides to you in future will depend on the outcome of this post. Readers beware! Anyway, simmering down and moving right on, I finished mine quickly and went into the studio to take some solo shot as my colleague was still doing her make up – she was to spend a further hour and a half finishing hers before coming to join me.
The rest of what I went through, are they not written in the post to come in just a few days from this one? Is not this post restrained by space to compel me to halt this one right now and am I not emboldened to wish that everybody has a great week ahead? They are, it is, I am!
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