Bam bam biyam bam bam… Top of the week to everyone! Don’t mind me please, I have, for some reason been humming the old song by Rihanna all evening. Don’t bother asking me the name or the words of the song because I don’t know and probably never will. This is coming from the lips of someone who nursed a dream of becoming a rock star at the age of six. Thanks to my Igbo father, that dream only saw the four walls of almost every bathroom I took my shower in and was always left there. I did however, have the privilege of meeting someone who actually defied her conservative Nigerian parents’ expectations of what a good Nigerian girl should be; subservient, have a safe professional job, provide both families with a huge litter of kids and give her parents a grand funeral when they’ve passed on.
Faith plays my character’s other love interest in the movie being shot at the moment. She’s one of the most effervescent ladies I have met who affects one almost instantly with her bubbly nature upon meeting her. I mean how many Nigerian women travel widely around the world for reasons other than shopping or hustling – and by hustling I mean honest, legal enterprise which,contrary to negative opinion, is what most of our wonderful ladies do? Faith travels widely on excursions, professional gigs and even skiing trips. Talk about breaking the norm. she had the gumption to stand up to her parents and do what she always wanted to do – music of the rock genre, and is actually very good at it. Like a smart Naija babe too, she made sure she bagged a good university degree, started a business that currently runs itself before gallivanting the length and breadth of the globe in pursuit of her dream. Youth reading this, please take note and be smarter than me. I’m meeting up with her later this week over coffee and that I am looking forward to.
Christmas is almost upon us and from the way things are, it looks like I’ll be spending my Christmas here in the US. I can’t seem to get a flight to Lagos earlier than the 28th so I’m looking to make the rest of my stay here in the States as eventful as possible. Fortunately, I tracked down two friends I haven’t heard from in a while; one’s in New York and the other’s in Dallas. I’m opting for the one in Dallas because my cousin lives there as well and it’s the warmer of the two. Even if I do go there, I wonder what the difference will be apart from the routine stuffing of one’s belly with food and drink; the very reason I want to run away from this place where I am. One of the greatest crimes one can commit, as I learnt from Thanksgiving, is to refuse people’s generous offer of food, especially as it is often a gesture of love in our African culture. Perhaps if we lived in the Roman times when there were vomiting troughs for the relief of overstuffed bellies so their owners could return to their gluttony, it would be a different matter, but my ever slowing metabolism dictates the pace these days.
As I sit here in this gray winter in Minnesota I keep asking myself what one does for amusement in this weather that does not involve drinking, eating, clubbing or the cinema? Ice fishing? Hunting? I can’t even shoot a catapult let alone a - Wait a minute! That’s it! I can go learn how to shoot at a shooting range! And then next time I come, I can take up hunting! Thanks guys, I got it; I got my mojo back! Now I can go to bed. No, I’ll do that after watching two more episodes of Family Guy and Robot Chicken. Have a great week everyone!
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Snow Driven
Good week everybody. I hope you do have a good week because mine is not starting very well here. I am very nervous and I have good reason to be. In a few hours’ time I will be driving out in the typically sedate Minneapolis traffic to run some errands since I will not be on set today. The difference between today and the typically boring Minnesota traffic is that it snowed here last night. What I go out there to face on the icy roads is a stark reminder of the terror I faced two weeks ago, and the new perception I have of the Minnesota driving experience.
I am an avid driving enthusiast. I love to drive in all environs and strive to do so in whatever country I visit, just so I can get a feel of the pulse of its natives. The added challenge of driving on the left hand side of the road, which is the case when I travel to countries like the UK, is one, or mad cities like Paris where cars are used to nudge other cars – with their occupants still inside them- out of the way so they can fit better into parking spaces , or the mad mad Lagos traffic where the proclivity to having an accident is almost entirely dependent upon whether one has a loud functioning car horn or not. Like I said before, Minnesota traffic is boring. One never exceeds the set speed limits on its roads without the risk of getting speed tickets from bored policemen under pressure from overstaffed stations to rake in as much revenue as possible to be able to keep their jobs. Roads are wide and the traffic is sparse. Rush hour in Minnesota means driving ten miles (sixteen kilometres) in twenty minute; in Lagos, rush hour means driving sixteen kilometers in three hours. And traffic jam? Well, let me put it this way. On my way home one day, I hit a traffic jam not two kilometres from my home. Since I was already near, I relaxed, unperturbed, and waited. Three hours and two hundred metres later and almost tearing my hair out in frustration, I pulled over to the side and went into a peppersoup joint. Two odekus (big stout) and two bowls of goat meat peppersoup later, I got into my car and got back in line three cars behind the car that was right behind me when I pulled over at the joint TWO hours earlier. Enough said.
You can then understand my low opinion of the Minnesotan rush hour which Benitez, our operational manager who takes us about to places we need to go, continuously complains about; that is until a few weeks ago when the snow finally fell for the first time. It fell on a Saturday, as had been precisely predicted by the weather forecasters five days earlier and as always, the soft look of the brilliant white sheet over everything thrilled everyone in the room; everyone but the battle hardened drivers in the group who knew what the fluffy innocent sheets portended. We drove out unto the crunchy ice of the just fallen snow on the quiet side streets jabbering animatedly. There were four of us in the car and the plan was to drop the other two passengers off before me because I lived the furthest away. We turned the corner into the main road listening to a tale of some vitriolic prima donna who loved to give waiters a hard time when suddenly we noticed the two cars in front of us were struggling to stop. We followed suit and to our horror, well my horror actually, realized we were on a smooth sheet of ice and car wasn’t going to stop. I watched mesmerized as our vehicles slewed all over the place and ours finally came under control when our quick thinking Benitez turned the wheel towards the pavement (sidewalk) brushing the tyres against the kerb, giving us much needed traction and bringing us to a complete stop. My participation in that conversation ended there. My next and continuous focus of interest was the traffic around me, half expecting to be rammed into from behind by some heavy truck or being T-boned by some out-of-control vehicle that couldn’t stop at the lights. In the course of our two and a half hour journey we observed no less than six serious accidents on the road – it was later to climb to a record four hundred and eighty by the next day). Amidst all this, cars kept whizzing past us like it was summer. I will not lie to you, I was scared **itless.
As I make up my mind to venture going out there on my own, I do with nervousness and a certain thrill of adventure. If others can do it, well so can i. I will not go out there armed with foolishness though; I have asked for tips on how to drive on black ice and how best to control my vehicle when the inevitable occurs. Finally I don’t bloody care what anybody thinks; I am going to drive like a ninety year old grandpa out there. Pray for me somebody and see you hopefully next week. Have a great week everybody!
I am an avid driving enthusiast. I love to drive in all environs and strive to do so in whatever country I visit, just so I can get a feel of the pulse of its natives. The added challenge of driving on the left hand side of the road, which is the case when I travel to countries like the UK, is one, or mad cities like Paris where cars are used to nudge other cars – with their occupants still inside them- out of the way so they can fit better into parking spaces , or the mad mad Lagos traffic where the proclivity to having an accident is almost entirely dependent upon whether one has a loud functioning car horn or not. Like I said before, Minnesota traffic is boring. One never exceeds the set speed limits on its roads without the risk of getting speed tickets from bored policemen under pressure from overstaffed stations to rake in as much revenue as possible to be able to keep their jobs. Roads are wide and the traffic is sparse. Rush hour in Minnesota means driving ten miles (sixteen kilometres) in twenty minute; in Lagos, rush hour means driving sixteen kilometers in three hours. And traffic jam? Well, let me put it this way. On my way home one day, I hit a traffic jam not two kilometres from my home. Since I was already near, I relaxed, unperturbed, and waited. Three hours and two hundred metres later and almost tearing my hair out in frustration, I pulled over to the side and went into a peppersoup joint. Two odekus (big stout) and two bowls of goat meat peppersoup later, I got into my car and got back in line three cars behind the car that was right behind me when I pulled over at the joint TWO hours earlier. Enough said.
You can then understand my low opinion of the Minnesotan rush hour which Benitez, our operational manager who takes us about to places we need to go, continuously complains about; that is until a few weeks ago when the snow finally fell for the first time. It fell on a Saturday, as had been precisely predicted by the weather forecasters five days earlier and as always, the soft look of the brilliant white sheet over everything thrilled everyone in the room; everyone but the battle hardened drivers in the group who knew what the fluffy innocent sheets portended. We drove out unto the crunchy ice of the just fallen snow on the quiet side streets jabbering animatedly. There were four of us in the car and the plan was to drop the other two passengers off before me because I lived the furthest away. We turned the corner into the main road listening to a tale of some vitriolic prima donna who loved to give waiters a hard time when suddenly we noticed the two cars in front of us were struggling to stop. We followed suit and to our horror, well my horror actually, realized we were on a smooth sheet of ice and car wasn’t going to stop. I watched mesmerized as our vehicles slewed all over the place and ours finally came under control when our quick thinking Benitez turned the wheel towards the pavement (sidewalk) brushing the tyres against the kerb, giving us much needed traction and bringing us to a complete stop. My participation in that conversation ended there. My next and continuous focus of interest was the traffic around me, half expecting to be rammed into from behind by some heavy truck or being T-boned by some out-of-control vehicle that couldn’t stop at the lights. In the course of our two and a half hour journey we observed no less than six serious accidents on the road – it was later to climb to a record four hundred and eighty by the next day). Amidst all this, cars kept whizzing past us like it was summer. I will not lie to you, I was scared **itless.
As I make up my mind to venture going out there on my own, I do with nervousness and a certain thrill of adventure. If others can do it, well so can i. I will not go out there armed with foolishness though; I have asked for tips on how to drive on black ice and how best to control my vehicle when the inevitable occurs. Finally I don’t bloody care what anybody thinks; I am going to drive like a ninety year old grandpa out there. Pray for me somebody and see you hopefully next week. Have a great week everybody!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Frostbite
Good week everybody! Honestly ehn, one of the worst things to do is to give birth to your own baby and labour and strive to see it grow. Your whole heart’s in it, you worry endlessly about its future and whether it will make it in life to be able to look after you and your spouse when you grow old and fragile. And just so you don’t put all your eggs in one basket you produce other babies just so if the first one, on whom all hopes lie, fails, the others, with some prayer, hard work and dedication, keep running and by God’s infinite grace carry on the baton to provide for you and your spouse when you still grow old and fragile. Yes my dear friends and readers, I am talking about enterprise or business as people are wont to call it. I am co producing a movie here in the States, one I also co wrote and I find myself worrying about things I never bothered myself with before; marketing, target audience, what title to give it, numerous and endless meetings about any and everything; whom to hire, whom to fire etc. I have the better end of the stick; the other producers are the ones who worry about the money and believe me those robes are3 thorny and heavy. I still have a lot of ideas that I will execute in the course of my partnership with Nkem so if this baby falls by the wayside, the others will keep running.
Okay, enough philosophizing about my secure future, now to the scarier present or should I say immediate past. I just finished my morning jog with not a little relief. I have also learnt to always check the weather conditions before venturing out of the comfort of your home.
I had routinely donned my light track suit bottoms and a slightly heavier sweat shirt with my head warmer tucked in my pocket and run out of the building for my early morning jog only to be run back in by the icy wind that lashed into my face and body through my sparse clothing. I wisely went into my room and put on a much heavier fleece jacket, put on my head warmer and went out again. I had two miles to cover and intended to make short work of them with the aid of the music I was listening to on my phone. I cruised comfortably for about a mile, the wind buffeting my unguarded face with a million icicles when I became aware of a numbness in my legs. Alarmed, I realized I had made another error; I had neglected to protect the lower half of my body by wearing summer track suit bottoms in the hope that the frequent pumping of my legs would generate enough heat to insulate them against the cold which in this case wasn’t seeming to happen. With an even colder dread spreading across my heart, I realized I had I had not protected the lower half of my body, where my crown jewels and best friend junior were housed! Quickly I grabbed at them, fearing the worst – I was not wearing even boxer shorts – and was relieved to find they were still intact, even though they were not quite the size I was used to. The sac in which my future generations were housed had shrunk to the size and hardness of a walnut while junior… Well let’s just say he would not have complimented my masculinity were I to be strip searched in front of prospective female officers. I was suddenly taken back to the days when I was eight, standing at the toilet bowl, struggling to get the pee out from my morning wooded peepee – there was little difference.
Everything is much calmer now. All my bits are intact and in working order, I’m sure, but I have learnt the most important lesson of the day; to always check the weather and dress appropriately before venturing from home. To everyone else, have a great Thanksgiving, To Frieda, happy birthday darling! Your birthday present’s still intact with just a little warming up to thaw out the last of the deeply embedded frostbite! Mwah!
Okay, enough philosophizing about my secure future, now to the scarier present or should I say immediate past. I just finished my morning jog with not a little relief. I have also learnt to always check the weather conditions before venturing out of the comfort of your home.
I had routinely donned my light track suit bottoms and a slightly heavier sweat shirt with my head warmer tucked in my pocket and run out of the building for my early morning jog only to be run back in by the icy wind that lashed into my face and body through my sparse clothing. I wisely went into my room and put on a much heavier fleece jacket, put on my head warmer and went out again. I had two miles to cover and intended to make short work of them with the aid of the music I was listening to on my phone. I cruised comfortably for about a mile, the wind buffeting my unguarded face with a million icicles when I became aware of a numbness in my legs. Alarmed, I realized I had made another error; I had neglected to protect the lower half of my body by wearing summer track suit bottoms in the hope that the frequent pumping of my legs would generate enough heat to insulate them against the cold which in this case wasn’t seeming to happen. With an even colder dread spreading across my heart, I realized I had I had not protected the lower half of my body, where my crown jewels and best friend junior were housed! Quickly I grabbed at them, fearing the worst – I was not wearing even boxer shorts – and was relieved to find they were still intact, even though they were not quite the size I was used to. The sac in which my future generations were housed had shrunk to the size and hardness of a walnut while junior… Well let’s just say he would not have complimented my masculinity were I to be strip searched in front of prospective female officers. I was suddenly taken back to the days when I was eight, standing at the toilet bowl, struggling to get the pee out from my morning wooded peepee – there was little difference.
Everything is much calmer now. All my bits are intact and in working order, I’m sure, but I have learnt the most important lesson of the day; to always check the weather and dress appropriately before venturing from home. To everyone else, have a great Thanksgiving, To Frieda, happy birthday darling! Your birthday present’s still intact with just a little warming up to thaw out the last of the deeply embedded frostbite! Mwah!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sampling Tour
Good week everybody! Yes I’m okay and yes , I am still in the good ole US of A. I’m back to Minnesota. Ha ha ha! I’ve been stalling for time regarding what to write. This is actually exactly two hours since I wrote the second sentence of this post. I was contemplating whether to write about my trip, alongside some friends, to a strip club last week. Yep, the girls were lovely and yes, I did get a lap dance but that is a story for another day. I know my beloved brother Obasi and my darling sis-in-law Nkiru will probably read this and roll their eyes at this black sheep of the family – and I really am! I have done things that the rest of my family would keel over if they heard but an iota of what I’ve done - but hey, I am what I am.;I love adventure. Best part of it was that Frieda was right there beside me watching my leering grin as I ogled the bare necessities of the chocolate siren writhing all over me smelling so nice even though she wore little or no perfume… but, that’s a story for another day. Come to think of it, she has never really told me what she thought of my being entertained by such vivacious ladies apart from the curious amused wonder I caught in her eyes when I momentarily flashed a glance in her direction just in case a missile came hurtling my way from that angle. I feel I may have clinched a deal for a boys’ night out, but I fear it may just be wishful thinking yet.
The Damage premiere tour is finally over here in the US and it’s been such a relief that it has gone very well. It has been a nerve wracking three weeks for me especially since it has been one of the few projects I have truly believed in. I want to thank everyone for their support during this tour, especially Nkem, of course, Nollywoodreinvented, CHI_SOM and every one of my readers. You have been fantastic all you! Now I’m embarking on another one here which I am having to write and act in as well. It is about another social issue; dealing with betrayal and HIV. That is the most I will talk about the project for now until I see it talking shape in the direction I want it to go – make I no go fall my hand. What I will talk about is my newfound freedom; the freedom to jog where I please!
I now have the luxury to jog where I please; nice pavements on which I can jog without being knocked down by veering danfos (commercial mini buses) and snarling okadas (commercial motorcycles). I don’t get stopped by passersby who demand to know why I am being so mean to ‘Angela’. Can’t I just go and die somewhere in peace? Or why I have to act the role of a debauched reverend father and besmirch the image of the Catholic Church, do I want to go to hell? Or well meaning citizens who, never mind that that I’m jogging to burn fat, ask me to kindly tell them what happened in the sequel of a movie of mine they’d just watched. Here I jogged with free abandon, almost too free. Yesterday I happened to discover a jogging trail not too far from my hotel and enthusiastically went down to try it out. It is already deep autumn here, you in America prefer to call it fall, but the bite of winter is already setting in as is clearly evident in the trees already being stripped of their leaves giving the area a very somber look. I had not gone far down the slope I was jogging before I realized I was well alone on a lonely trail with desolate woods and brackish marshy ponds on either side of me. Images of the Crime & Investigation television network I love watching in Nigeria came flooding back to me. Glancing wildly around me, I half expected a hooded figure streaking out of the woods at me armed with a hatchet or a hammer, or a kindly middle aged man asking if I could assist him with his broken leg, and a kindly prick in the back of my neck, or some nutter taking a pot shot at me from the sanctity of the woods. Prejudiced or not, I quickly unlocked my usually secure phone, ready to dial 911 the second I noticed any funny movement around me and dashed furiously through the grove until I saw with much relief some buildings two minutes later. Suffice it to say I did not go back that way.
Well that is my tale for this week. Fill you up with more later. Have a great week ahead mes amis!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Who's Laughing Now?
A good week to everybody! I am just starting to recover from the awful experiences of jet lag. The experience for me is horrendous! I have slept like an absolute fool! Every time I travel across a time zone as marked as six hours and above, I get knocked out for at least two days. It is very confusing to me! It was for this very reason that I refused to watch any movie on the on board entertainment for the entire duration of the flight from Lagos to New York. The seats were business class seats and reclined to full beds so I slept soundly. Why then is the jet lag demon still pursing me?! In spite of that, I’ve managed to do two Damage movie premieres in New York and in Minneapolis, I have made time to enjoy my beloved American meal; medium done steak and garlic flavoured mashed potatoes and broccoli, twice!
I did not come without a plan though. You see, tasty as American foods are, they come with a hefty price attached. Not the price tag, if it were I’d be much relieved; it is the cloying stodgy weight it piles on that is the terror of many, even highly strung children. My plan was to jog every morning for at least four miles and finish it with a punishing regime of a hundred sit ups. To my pleasure, the next morning, even as the first rays of the morning peeped through the curtains, a quick succession of knocks rapped at the door jarring the last vestiges of my dream away. I stumbled to the door to open up to a diminutive Tonto staring up at me in her jogging suit. In a panic I asked her if she’d already gone jogging but she said no, to my relief, she just came to know if I would like to go jogging with her. Thus began my partnership which soon swelled with the inclusion of Moses and three days later, after torrents of excuses of not having appropriate sporting clothing and not having the time to go to the stores to buy some, Uche. There is an adage to encourage people who lag behind in different endeavours; the one who walks will finally get to the same destination as the one who runs. I saw the literal meaning of the proverb when Uche came huffing and puffing up the hill thirty minutes after we’d reached our agreed end point, the first and only day she joined us. Her ready excuse, three minutes after she caught her breath, was that according to her fitness instructor, heavy hipped women were not supposed to run. A likely tale.
What I have revealed here is true. If Uche likes, she can come and refute it in her typically boisterous manner. I will also admit that this is my way of getting back at her for broadcasting to even deaf buildings what a terrible dancer I am. Could anything be more preposterous?!! The painful thing is that people have actually begun to believe it. Well, the buck stops right here! I have taken the pains to show a smidgen of my dancing prowess by adding an excerpt from a video chronicling our Damage movie premiere tour of the United States. This one was recorded at the Mall of America, Bloomington, Minnesota. Please feel free to give me your unbiased feedback and put my ‘haters’ to shame!
Have a great weekend everyone!
(To view the video, visit my facebook fanpage - http://www.facebook.com/kaluikeagwufanpage)
I did not come without a plan though. You see, tasty as American foods are, they come with a hefty price attached. Not the price tag, if it were I’d be much relieved; it is the cloying stodgy weight it piles on that is the terror of many, even highly strung children. My plan was to jog every morning for at least four miles and finish it with a punishing regime of a hundred sit ups. To my pleasure, the next morning, even as the first rays of the morning peeped through the curtains, a quick succession of knocks rapped at the door jarring the last vestiges of my dream away. I stumbled to the door to open up to a diminutive Tonto staring up at me in her jogging suit. In a panic I asked her if she’d already gone jogging but she said no, to my relief, she just came to know if I would like to go jogging with her. Thus began my partnership which soon swelled with the inclusion of Moses and three days later, after torrents of excuses of not having appropriate sporting clothing and not having the time to go to the stores to buy some, Uche. There is an adage to encourage people who lag behind in different endeavours; the one who walks will finally get to the same destination as the one who runs. I saw the literal meaning of the proverb when Uche came huffing and puffing up the hill thirty minutes after we’d reached our agreed end point, the first and only day she joined us. Her ready excuse, three minutes after she caught her breath, was that according to her fitness instructor, heavy hipped women were not supposed to run. A likely tale.
What I have revealed here is true. If Uche likes, she can come and refute it in her typically boisterous manner. I will also admit that this is my way of getting back at her for broadcasting to even deaf buildings what a terrible dancer I am. Could anything be more preposterous?!! The painful thing is that people have actually begun to believe it. Well, the buck stops right here! I have taken the pains to show a smidgen of my dancing prowess by adding an excerpt from a video chronicling our Damage movie premiere tour of the United States. This one was recorded at the Mall of America, Bloomington, Minnesota. Please feel free to give me your unbiased feedback and put my ‘haters’ to shame!
Have a great weekend everyone!
(To view the video, visit my facebook fanpage - http://www.facebook.com/kaluikeagwufanpage)
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
What to do, how to do!
Good week everybody! Right now, you guys are going to forge the road to escapism for me because I am so confused at the moment and I’m unwilling to face the reality before me. Right now as I sit here typing, I wish I was married so I would never have to go through this sort of stress again. Yes, I know that shouldn’t be the only reason one should get married, and believe me, I have a few other reasons to append my mark on the contract, but the helplessness and frustration I feel at the moment is enough for me to make a deal with – not the devil – whichever woman would readily pack my clothes and stuff I need to travel to the US with for a whole month! Yes, yours truly is coming alongside Uche Jombo, Moses Iwang(Sneeze) and Tonto Dikeh for the Damage promotional tour.
I hate packing! I never know what to pack for. I get stumped even when I’m packing for just a few days. How many undershirts and boxer shorts to throw in, T- shirts, polo shirts, shirts, whether to pack a jacket or not! Now most of you will be wondering what my problem is over such simple tasks and such obvious items to pack. The thing is I’m a typically jeans, T-shirt and sneakers kind of person, and my predominant theme when choosing clothing is comfort and freedom. I like to know I can sit anywhere I like, get my bottom dirty, stand up, brush most of the dirt off my arse and still have swag. Trouble is, when I like a particular item of clothing, I worry it to its grave, a trait that earned me the nickname The Sower among my room mates back in university.
I had just bought a pair of checkered sneakers that my size 12/13 feet felt very snug in, a rarity for me in those days, and I wore them almost every day. The tramping back and forth from lectures in the hot sun and my sweaty feet combined to form a resultant ripe odour from my sturdy companion. Tired and spent for the day, I’d hang my faithfuls at the window of the room and go looking for something to eat. Trouble was, the afternoon breeze would waft the wonderful aroma emanating from my shoes into the room and out the other window but not before making the occupants of the room well aware of its presence – and there were numerous wafts on a typical afternoon! I never heard the end of it. My wonderful roommates complained to no end about my prurient sneakers, asking me to take them outside, which I refused to do for fear of having them stolen by the ubiquitous marauders in that hungry hostel. We were a very jovial bunch, I couldn’t ask for better friends, and we periodically took turns at teasing one another. On one occasion, when it was my turn to be flayed, my beloved checkered sneakers became the butt of their jokes. One of the miscreants, a particularly funny guy, Chike, remarked that my sneakers were so fertile that any corn kernel that was sown in them would germinate overnight. The name, The Sower, stuck.
Where was I? Don’t mind me. I’m just trying to delay the inevitable; I have just today to pack for a whole month in the US. I’m supposed to be a celebrity and so I’m not allowed to ‘dull’ myself. I alone have to pick out my outfits for the numerous appearances I’ll have to make across at least eight sates, and no Frieda’s not here to help me out. Let me see, two shirts for each day so people shorter than me – most are, especially the ladies – don’t faint from the ripe pong from my sweaty armpits when I throw my arms round their shoulders. Groan! What happened to the good old days when I’d just throw a rucksack over my shoulder and saunter through customs in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of sandals?
All this jabbering is getting me nowhere. That chaotic pile is going nowhere. The bloody lot are just sitting there staring at me stonily and relishing my anxiety that’s growing by the minute. Like they say, there’s no time like the present so abeg make una no vex, I have packing to do. Have a safe, sorry, have a great week everyone, and wish me a safe trip! A bientot!
I hate packing! I never know what to pack for. I get stumped even when I’m packing for just a few days. How many undershirts and boxer shorts to throw in, T- shirts, polo shirts, shirts, whether to pack a jacket or not! Now most of you will be wondering what my problem is over such simple tasks and such obvious items to pack. The thing is I’m a typically jeans, T-shirt and sneakers kind of person, and my predominant theme when choosing clothing is comfort and freedom. I like to know I can sit anywhere I like, get my bottom dirty, stand up, brush most of the dirt off my arse and still have swag. Trouble is, when I like a particular item of clothing, I worry it to its grave, a trait that earned me the nickname The Sower among my room mates back in university.
I had just bought a pair of checkered sneakers that my size 12/13 feet felt very snug in, a rarity for me in those days, and I wore them almost every day. The tramping back and forth from lectures in the hot sun and my sweaty feet combined to form a resultant ripe odour from my sturdy companion. Tired and spent for the day, I’d hang my faithfuls at the window of the room and go looking for something to eat. Trouble was, the afternoon breeze would waft the wonderful aroma emanating from my shoes into the room and out the other window but not before making the occupants of the room well aware of its presence – and there were numerous wafts on a typical afternoon! I never heard the end of it. My wonderful roommates complained to no end about my prurient sneakers, asking me to take them outside, which I refused to do for fear of having them stolen by the ubiquitous marauders in that hungry hostel. We were a very jovial bunch, I couldn’t ask for better friends, and we periodically took turns at teasing one another. On one occasion, when it was my turn to be flayed, my beloved checkered sneakers became the butt of their jokes. One of the miscreants, a particularly funny guy, Chike, remarked that my sneakers were so fertile that any corn kernel that was sown in them would germinate overnight. The name, The Sower, stuck.
Where was I? Don’t mind me. I’m just trying to delay the inevitable; I have just today to pack for a whole month in the US. I’m supposed to be a celebrity and so I’m not allowed to ‘dull’ myself. I alone have to pick out my outfits for the numerous appearances I’ll have to make across at least eight sates, and no Frieda’s not here to help me out. Let me see, two shirts for each day so people shorter than me – most are, especially the ladies – don’t faint from the ripe pong from my sweaty armpits when I throw my arms round their shoulders. Groan! What happened to the good old days when I’d just throw a rucksack over my shoulder and saunter through customs in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of sandals?
All this jabbering is getting me nowhere. That chaotic pile is going nowhere. The bloody lot are just sitting there staring at me stonily and relishing my anxiety that’s growing by the minute. Like they say, there’s no time like the present so abeg make una no vex, I have packing to do. Have a safe, sorry, have a great week everyone, and wish me a safe trip! A bientot!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
To His Coy Mistress
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!
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!
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