SIGNS OF THE TIMES
Once upon a time, I lived in a part of Lagos where friendships were strong and we all knew each other. Then we grew up. One day, we gathered, about ten of us, friends just chatting and talking, then lulu walked through the door. She was in her mid-to-late twenties and she had a young fellow in tow. What first struck us all about her were her good looks. She was beautiful by all standards, well-proportioned and could haver stopped a tsunami dead in its tracks. There was a hush as she came in, a kind of awe as we assessed her. She was about 5' 7", very fair, full lips, full everything (if you get my meaning), she wasn't fat or thin and had gorgeous hair. She was graceful and had knowing eyes that made it clear she didn't intend to do anything with you about her knowing. We looked at her hands, looked at her feet, surreptiously inspected her from the front, from the back, sideways and then we all began what boys and men spend all their lives doing... trying to impress the female sex.
Only one of us knew her a bit, as she had once stayed with him for a few days. lulu stayed out of town, no one knew where, and would reappear in Lagos and stay for indefinite periods. The relationship between her and our friend who knew her was strictly platonic as she soon showed when another one of us in a drunken fit drenched her (lulu) and her former host with beer, in a bid to declare them in a relationship. The drunken sod wasn't entirely to blame. The former host had tried to impress us with hints of something between him and lulu but that was soon laid to rest when lulu spat fire after the beer-splashing.
So, we all began to seek ways to make positive impressions on lulu over the next few days. We paid attention to her every need, just hung about the area at night, former boys in the 'hood, gathering to chat after work. See, I have met many girls, incredible-looking ones, lulu was in the top 3%. She was vivacious and didn't seem to have any particular line of work but dressed like a top-line model.
The really skilled ones amongst us in creating good impressions also sought to impress her younger brother who hung with her. He was as good looking as she was in a manly way, said he was 18 and was in the Nigerian Defence Academy. A trainee soldier. He looked young and fit. We bought stuff for him, food, drinks etc and when brother and sister could no longer stay where they were, another of our friends who still stayed in a house that was up for sale invited lulu and her brother to stay with him. He slept upstairs while lulu and her brother slept on a mattress in the empty living room downstairs.
This arrangement lasted a few days but I had to travel and soon pushed lulu to the back of my mind.
When I returned months later, I asked about lulu from my relative who had made friends with her younger brother, being about the same age with him. He sat on the kerb and laughed a long while, then with tears streaming down his face he told me the end of the story.
Apparently, lulu's younger brother had not been in the Nigerian Defence Academy. He was 15 years old then and was in secondary school.(The quick ones are picking up the scent now) He also wasn't her brother. She had posed as his aunt and had him released from school for some family meeting and had then absconded to Lagos with him where they could make love in peace.
What ruined her well-executed plan was the fact that the boy's parents went visiting their son (It was before the days of GSM in NIgeria)and the boy's Navy Officer father was informed that another 'aunt' had sought his release from the school. They had traced him to Lagos and to my friend's "For Sale" house and had arrested lulu and my friend and carried the under-aged blighter back to school.
I recalled the Defence Academy anecdotes the twerp used to tell us (we all fell for his stories) and how we'd all accepted the scenario. I could laugh at our foolishness though and even yelled a hello to lulu one day I drove past her (as she sat in a taxi) in Ikoyi traffic.
One thing I've learnt- Things aren't always what they seem.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Girl Whisperer
as published in the Sunday Guardian
of 28th October
Desperate Housewives
There is a portion of married and engaged females that considers itself besieged and troubled by a major headache, the cause of which is the other portion of their gender that is not married or set to marry in the immediate future. The Whisperer’s definition of a desperate housewife encompasses any woman whether married, engaged, in gainful employment, or otherwise who lives in absolute fear that someone, anyone, is going to run away with her man. Some married women feel uneasy around single women, whether divorced, separated or single. Therefore, they go to great lengths to protect their ’property’ from this group they consider man-hungry. They phone their men up everywhere they go, search their mobiles for saucy texts and strange addresses and clandestinely sniff their clothes for feminine perfumes or lipstick smudges when their men come home. These actions might result in several things; the irritation of many men at these women who have turned bloodhounds, amusement at the amateur sleuths or downright anger.
Often, women give too much credit to the ability of their men to attract other females and assume everyone who smiles at him by the elevators or at the cinemas must be aiming to share his bed and wake up to his charming smile in the morning. The class of females who are amongst the most feared by the desperate housewives are the students, young girls in universities and polytechnics who have nubile bodies and faces untroubled by the creases of age. I would like to ask you to trust the Whisperer on this one; these young girls are too busy going to raves and clubbing to give much thought to your husbands. If you do not know what a rave is, you can see how far removed from their world you and your partner are. If you say this Whisperer knows nothing because you can swear to many girls of this age who are in full pursuit of men like your own, I would like to say I am not talking of the ladies of the night. The world has always had ‘ladies of leisure’ solely for economic reasons just as it has always had economic refugees; people who do it for the money. Her main interest is the ease your man can add to her life financially. It’s nothing personal.
Then there are the ‘senior’ singles as well as the separated and the divorced, some with their own kids. Those in this category are often too busy building their lives and careers to give much thought to entrapping your man. The assurance of this set of women can be threatening to the insecure desperate housewife because the other woman appears to have everything under control. Male companionship might be important to these people but leading meaningful lives is just as important and these ones will often not settle for damaged goods. I like to think of them as superwomen.
I was told of a club, solely made up of women interested in charity, which refused anyone without husbands to join. Apparently, the single women who had joined them at the beginning had looked at their husbands in ‘funny’ ways. This amused me no end, knowing the lengths some desperate housewives themselves go to, in pursuit of other men, whether single or otherwise. I know one, who travelled abroad, sought out an indifferent ex-boyfriend, arranged a clandestine appointment with him and engaged in activities lawful only between herself and her man at home. She created an alibi by enlisting the aid of another desperate housewife who had travelled with her. That one held on to her phone and fielded calls from the man at home while she was busy elsewhere. It’s a fearful world, I reckon, and we are reminded from time to time as to how debauched it can be.
So maybe, with the desperate housewives, it might be an accurate knowledge of themselves that makes them suspicious of others. I heard advice given to married females once, to follow their husbands everywhere, on every trip and every journey, to drive out other females who come to their homes improperly dressed, showing too much skin or whatever the definition of improper dressing might be, so their husbands would not be led astray. When men are followed everywhere, it creates the impression they are in prison and they will do anything to escape their jailer. All humans crave freedom.
Do not forget the saying, “If you love something, set it free, if it comes back it is yours; if it doesn’t it never was”.
as published in the Sunday Guardian
of 28th October
Desperate Housewives
There is a portion of married and engaged females that considers itself besieged and troubled by a major headache, the cause of which is the other portion of their gender that is not married or set to marry in the immediate future. The Whisperer’s definition of a desperate housewife encompasses any woman whether married, engaged, in gainful employment, or otherwise who lives in absolute fear that someone, anyone, is going to run away with her man. Some married women feel uneasy around single women, whether divorced, separated or single. Therefore, they go to great lengths to protect their ’property’ from this group they consider man-hungry. They phone their men up everywhere they go, search their mobiles for saucy texts and strange addresses and clandestinely sniff their clothes for feminine perfumes or lipstick smudges when their men come home. These actions might result in several things; the irritation of many men at these women who have turned bloodhounds, amusement at the amateur sleuths or downright anger.
Often, women give too much credit to the ability of their men to attract other females and assume everyone who smiles at him by the elevators or at the cinemas must be aiming to share his bed and wake up to his charming smile in the morning. The class of females who are amongst the most feared by the desperate housewives are the students, young girls in universities and polytechnics who have nubile bodies and faces untroubled by the creases of age. I would like to ask you to trust the Whisperer on this one; these young girls are too busy going to raves and clubbing to give much thought to your husbands. If you do not know what a rave is, you can see how far removed from their world you and your partner are. If you say this Whisperer knows nothing because you can swear to many girls of this age who are in full pursuit of men like your own, I would like to say I am not talking of the ladies of the night. The world has always had ‘ladies of leisure’ solely for economic reasons just as it has always had economic refugees; people who do it for the money. Her main interest is the ease your man can add to her life financially. It’s nothing personal.
Then there are the ‘senior’ singles as well as the separated and the divorced, some with their own kids. Those in this category are often too busy building their lives and careers to give much thought to entrapping your man. The assurance of this set of women can be threatening to the insecure desperate housewife because the other woman appears to have everything under control. Male companionship might be important to these people but leading meaningful lives is just as important and these ones will often not settle for damaged goods. I like to think of them as superwomen.
I was told of a club, solely made up of women interested in charity, which refused anyone without husbands to join. Apparently, the single women who had joined them at the beginning had looked at their husbands in ‘funny’ ways. This amused me no end, knowing the lengths some desperate housewives themselves go to, in pursuit of other men, whether single or otherwise. I know one, who travelled abroad, sought out an indifferent ex-boyfriend, arranged a clandestine appointment with him and engaged in activities lawful only between herself and her man at home. She created an alibi by enlisting the aid of another desperate housewife who had travelled with her. That one held on to her phone and fielded calls from the man at home while she was busy elsewhere. It’s a fearful world, I reckon, and we are reminded from time to time as to how debauched it can be.
So maybe, with the desperate housewives, it might be an accurate knowledge of themselves that makes them suspicious of others. I heard advice given to married females once, to follow their husbands everywhere, on every trip and every journey, to drive out other females who come to their homes improperly dressed, showing too much skin or whatever the definition of improper dressing might be, so their husbands would not be led astray. When men are followed everywhere, it creates the impression they are in prison and they will do anything to escape their jailer. All humans crave freedom.
Do not forget the saying, “If you love something, set it free, if it comes back it is yours; if it doesn’t it never was”.
THE IMPOSSIBLE VIRGIN
At least one person took serious offence at the issue of virgins, using strong words to express her disapproval. I chose not to publish.
One thing is obvious though, many women feel very strongly about the issue of their virginity (Or the lack of it). I respect that.
I hold on to the position that the females in my story didn't tell the truth and made themselves out to be what they were not. I have met truth-tellers before.
However, can't we all be friends and bury the weapons of war? (That wasn't a sexual pun, I swear).
At least one person took serious offence at the issue of virgins, using strong words to express her disapproval. I chose not to publish.
One thing is obvious though, many women feel very strongly about the issue of their virginity (Or the lack of it). I respect that.
I hold on to the position that the females in my story didn't tell the truth and made themselves out to be what they were not. I have met truth-tellers before.
However, can't we all be friends and bury the weapons of war? (That wasn't a sexual pun, I swear).
Thursday, October 25, 2007
When Hips Do Lie (Vol II)
Some reactions to Hips Don't Lie and Other Stories made me write this. Some were upset by the recollection but I stand by its truth. Here's another which I had thought not to mention but we're here to educate ourselves, aren't we?
Years ago, even before the other recollection, I met a female, one of the best students of her class in one of the foremost universities in this country. She was very intelligent, petite and all that. We got talking.
One day she told me she was a virgin. I asked, "you got to final year in this university without doing anything? How?"
She said it was the grace of God and I accepted. I'm not very presumptious, really. Those who know, know.
One day, months later, we got too excited in each other's company, things got out of hand and the impossible took place. At the end of our entanglement, out of breath and sweaty, I asked her a question with three words- "What just happened?"
Her answer? "If I tell you, you will never forget". I couldn't figure that out. "Tell me", I said.
Apparently, her former boyfriend had placed his organ used for procreation too close to her thigh as they made out. He didn't penetrate but those little tadpole-like things somehow got into her and made her pregnant.
According to her, the forceps used for the abortion disvirgined her, not her boyfriend. These were her words. I have not embellished or added anything. Before you call her a retard, this girl practically led her class from first year till graduation and went abroad to study after. She was no air-head.
I turned to my cousin, 'bomi and all her girl-friends from the University Of Ibadan, who made the house look like a female dorm during the holidays, and in a quest for enlightenment in my confused state, told them what this girl had said.
One of them, Mubo, looked at me as if I was crazy and led the laughter. "Wolzie, what is the matter with you? The 'tadpoles' have to swim up! You don't deposit them on a human thigh and then they somehow gravitate towards the nearest orifice. She had sex before she ever met you..."
My virgin told me that even her friend who took her to the hospital where the operation took place called her 'Holy Mary' because of the immaculate conception. I didn't have the heart to tell her she was probably being made fun of.
My submission- This is an issue many females have hang-ups about and refuse to face the truth of. I didn't go round in search of virgins. They were the ones who proferred themselves as such and even in the most ridiculous situations, held on to 'their truth'.
Some reactions to Hips Don't Lie and Other Stories made me write this. Some were upset by the recollection but I stand by its truth. Here's another which I had thought not to mention but we're here to educate ourselves, aren't we?
Years ago, even before the other recollection, I met a female, one of the best students of her class in one of the foremost universities in this country. She was very intelligent, petite and all that. We got talking.
One day she told me she was a virgin. I asked, "you got to final year in this university without doing anything? How?"
She said it was the grace of God and I accepted. I'm not very presumptious, really. Those who know, know.
One day, months later, we got too excited in each other's company, things got out of hand and the impossible took place. At the end of our entanglement, out of breath and sweaty, I asked her a question with three words- "What just happened?"
Her answer? "If I tell you, you will never forget". I couldn't figure that out. "Tell me", I said.
Apparently, her former boyfriend had placed his organ used for procreation too close to her thigh as they made out. He didn't penetrate but those little tadpole-like things somehow got into her and made her pregnant.
According to her, the forceps used for the abortion disvirgined her, not her boyfriend. These were her words. I have not embellished or added anything. Before you call her a retard, this girl practically led her class from first year till graduation and went abroad to study after. She was no air-head.
I turned to my cousin, 'bomi and all her girl-friends from the University Of Ibadan, who made the house look like a female dorm during the holidays, and in a quest for enlightenment in my confused state, told them what this girl had said.
One of them, Mubo, looked at me as if I was crazy and led the laughter. "Wolzie, what is the matter with you? The 'tadpoles' have to swim up! You don't deposit them on a human thigh and then they somehow gravitate towards the nearest orifice. She had sex before she ever met you..."
My virgin told me that even her friend who took her to the hospital where the operation took place called her 'Holy Mary' because of the immaculate conception. I didn't have the heart to tell her she was probably being made fun of.
My submission- This is an issue many females have hang-ups about and refuse to face the truth of. I didn't go round in search of virgins. They were the ones who proferred themselves as such and even in the most ridiculous situations, held on to 'their truth'.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Hips Don't Lie and Other Stories
Sometimes in conversations, I remember totally unrelated stuff. This particular recollection is from the days of rage.
Sometime in my past, I met this young woman, who was 25 then. She was a virgin, she said, and I asked her how she'd managed that. She wasn't sure herself, through grace or something, she said. but I respected her discipline or whatever had kept her going.
One day, after a long 'friendship' that lasted more than a year, she called me to offer her honour and I ...em ...honoured her offer. That night, we stayed up offering and honouring but I knew she had lied even though she repeatedly pretended pain. (The more sensitive readers should forgive the graphics here. I'm bleeping as much as I can but please read on. There's a lesson to this story)
The next day, she went her way but sent messages to me that made it appear as if I now held a special place in her heart for all time and me thinking of leaving her would amount to first degree murder.
So I sent a message saying, I was really sorry, but I knew there had been someone in occupation before. A kinder man might have kept mute but I hate injustice of all sorts (I think) and I couldn't bear to think that this young woman would go through life thinking
1) She had fooled me
2) I was stupid
3) Life was full of stupid people.
She didn't reply my message or contact me for many months until one morning my phone rang. It was her.
HER: How are you?
ME: I'm ok
HER: Are you sure?
ME: 'cos I'm sure, what's wrong?
HER: Well, I've been dreaming about you. Every Night.
ME: Yes?
HER: Really bad dreams. Something seriously evil happened to you
ME: What kind?
HER: Don't worry about that. Are you sure you're ok, though?
ME: (Light dawning) Yeah, I'm fine.
HER: (Reluctantly) ok, bye.
ME: Bye.
An undeveloped mind thinking she could stampede me into fear? a re-union? I never told her that having a relationship with a virgin was a condition for a relationship. It was her idea. Unfortunately, her infrastructure couldn't handle her claims. And that bit about me being the victim in her dreams? What a load of rubbish. Does she know how many people spend their nights baying at the moon because of me? Not that I was bad like that but...
But into the now and the lesson in this recollected story- Never lay claims to being what you're not. We must remember the latin maxim- Nemo dat quod non habet- A man cannot/does not have the right to (or a woman in this case) give what he does not have.
THE OLD WOMAN AND THE BROOM
One night at about 10pm, and as I drove on the outskirts of Lagos with a female passenger, my car passed a man walking fast in the darkness and holding what seemed to be a cutlass. Just in front of him, a few metres down, there was an old woman holding a plastic bag and walking very fast too. It was dark at this point in the road, a turn that had only bushes on either side. I slowed down by the woman, at leat 70 years old, keeping a sharp lookout for the man who had been following. He disappeared into the bush the moment my car rolled to a halt, engine running.
So I called out in vernacular to this elderly woman whom I could now see was half crazed with fear, "Mama, what are you doing on this deserted road?". She was afraid to come near me but soon partly overcame her fear and approached the car. Mama, I asked again, do you know the man that was following you?
And then it came out in a rush. She had been coming from Ibadan, her son's home where she had been holidaying and when she got to the expressway by the airport, she saw there were no buses and decided to walk further away from the waiting crowd to another bus-stop where buses might be easy. The man had followed and when they'd gotten to a deserted place had started yelling from behind, "fi 'le", or drop it. This was in relation to the platic bag she was carrying which contained only a broom and N70. Mama had not let go of the 'worthless' bag but had kept walking, half-stumbling.
At this point, my own hackles up, I asked her to get into the car, but her fear, now of me, returned. I spoke harshly, "Mama, if you don't get into the car, I will leave you here." I could already imagine the would-be assailant moving through the bushes to cut me, Super Man, off and deal me a kryptonite blow on the neck with his machete.
My tone jolted her into the car and we took off. She was staying with another son in a remote part of Lagos and knowing his family would have been worrying about her, had decided to start walking towards the general direction of home and until she could get a bus. When I stopped in civilization, she knelt by the car and prayed for me by the roadside. Prayers like that still act as a barrier against those who curse at the stars when they recollect my name.
PAPA, MAMA AND THE FIRE
I was driving on the 3rd Mainland Bridge with little traffic one quiet Sunday, with my friend, Wale, who was half asleep beside me when we saw a car (an old 504) with fire running along its fuselage underneath where it was parked. There was an elderly couple well into their sixties standing behind it, the female helpless and the old man futilely throwing handfuls of sand underneath the car. We stopped just ahead of them and raced back on foot as other cars numbering about 9 or 10 stopped, people hurtling out and racing towards the burning car.
With one mind, we raised the car on its side and began to try to quench the fire, clothes were used to beat it, people had kegs of water in their trunks and one man actually had a mix of soapy water (his own fire extinguisher).
The fire died and there was silence on that bridge. That day, I saw humanity stand to defend one of its own against the elements and I understood the purpose that has brought us all here. Unity. Rising above pettiness. Above inconsequential differences.
Sometimes in conversations, I remember totally unrelated stuff. This particular recollection is from the days of rage.
Sometime in my past, I met this young woman, who was 25 then. She was a virgin, she said, and I asked her how she'd managed that. She wasn't sure herself, through grace or something, she said. but I respected her discipline or whatever had kept her going.
One day, after a long 'friendship' that lasted more than a year, she called me to offer her honour and I ...em ...honoured her offer. That night, we stayed up offering and honouring but I knew she had lied even though she repeatedly pretended pain. (The more sensitive readers should forgive the graphics here. I'm bleeping as much as I can but please read on. There's a lesson to this story)
The next day, she went her way but sent messages to me that made it appear as if I now held a special place in her heart for all time and me thinking of leaving her would amount to first degree murder.
So I sent a message saying, I was really sorry, but I knew there had been someone in occupation before. A kinder man might have kept mute but I hate injustice of all sorts (I think) and I couldn't bear to think that this young woman would go through life thinking
1) She had fooled me
2) I was stupid
3) Life was full of stupid people.
She didn't reply my message or contact me for many months until one morning my phone rang. It was her.
HER: How are you?
ME: I'm ok
HER: Are you sure?
ME: 'cos I'm sure, what's wrong?
HER: Well, I've been dreaming about you. Every Night.
ME: Yes?
HER: Really bad dreams. Something seriously evil happened to you
ME: What kind?
HER: Don't worry about that. Are you sure you're ok, though?
ME: (Light dawning) Yeah, I'm fine.
HER: (Reluctantly) ok, bye.
ME: Bye.
An undeveloped mind thinking she could stampede me into fear? a re-union? I never told her that having a relationship with a virgin was a condition for a relationship. It was her idea. Unfortunately, her infrastructure couldn't handle her claims. And that bit about me being the victim in her dreams? What a load of rubbish. Does she know how many people spend their nights baying at the moon because of me? Not that I was bad like that but...
But into the now and the lesson in this recollected story- Never lay claims to being what you're not. We must remember the latin maxim- Nemo dat quod non habet- A man cannot/does not have the right to (or a woman in this case) give what he does not have.
THE OLD WOMAN AND THE BROOM
One night at about 10pm, and as I drove on the outskirts of Lagos with a female passenger, my car passed a man walking fast in the darkness and holding what seemed to be a cutlass. Just in front of him, a few metres down, there was an old woman holding a plastic bag and walking very fast too. It was dark at this point in the road, a turn that had only bushes on either side. I slowed down by the woman, at leat 70 years old, keeping a sharp lookout for the man who had been following. He disappeared into the bush the moment my car rolled to a halt, engine running.
So I called out in vernacular to this elderly woman whom I could now see was half crazed with fear, "Mama, what are you doing on this deserted road?". She was afraid to come near me but soon partly overcame her fear and approached the car. Mama, I asked again, do you know the man that was following you?
And then it came out in a rush. She had been coming from Ibadan, her son's home where she had been holidaying and when she got to the expressway by the airport, she saw there were no buses and decided to walk further away from the waiting crowd to another bus-stop where buses might be easy. The man had followed and when they'd gotten to a deserted place had started yelling from behind, "fi 'le", or drop it. This was in relation to the platic bag she was carrying which contained only a broom and N70. Mama had not let go of the 'worthless' bag but had kept walking, half-stumbling.
At this point, my own hackles up, I asked her to get into the car, but her fear, now of me, returned. I spoke harshly, "Mama, if you don't get into the car, I will leave you here." I could already imagine the would-be assailant moving through the bushes to cut me, Super Man, off and deal me a kryptonite blow on the neck with his machete.
My tone jolted her into the car and we took off. She was staying with another son in a remote part of Lagos and knowing his family would have been worrying about her, had decided to start walking towards the general direction of home and until she could get a bus. When I stopped in civilization, she knelt by the car and prayed for me by the roadside. Prayers like that still act as a barrier against those who curse at the stars when they recollect my name.
PAPA, MAMA AND THE FIRE
I was driving on the 3rd Mainland Bridge with little traffic one quiet Sunday, with my friend, Wale, who was half asleep beside me when we saw a car (an old 504) with fire running along its fuselage underneath where it was parked. There was an elderly couple well into their sixties standing behind it, the female helpless and the old man futilely throwing handfuls of sand underneath the car. We stopped just ahead of them and raced back on foot as other cars numbering about 9 or 10 stopped, people hurtling out and racing towards the burning car.
With one mind, we raised the car on its side and began to try to quench the fire, clothes were used to beat it, people had kegs of water in their trunks and one man actually had a mix of soapy water (his own fire extinguisher).
The fire died and there was silence on that bridge. That day, I saw humanity stand to defend one of its own against the elements and I understood the purpose that has brought us all here. Unity. Rising above pettiness. Above inconsequential differences.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
The Girl Whisperer
as published in Guardian 'Life'
Sunday 21st October
Sleeping With The Enemy
An acquaintance of mine told me of his life-governing philosophy only a few days ago. According to him, this philosophy, which is steeped in deep-core African tradition, says that there are four sets of people in the world. The first set are those who tell their Maker- “I am off to the world to do good and great things”. The second set resolves to come to the world to prevent the first set from achieving its aim, while the third comes to the world to help the first in reaching its goals. The fourth set simply says, “I’m off to the earth to watch all these things unfold”. A bit simple, you might say, but a close study would show that nearly everyone you know falls into, at least, one of these broad categories.
At some point or the other in our lives, we all have met with people we are firmly convinced have no other purpose in life than to block our progress, stop our happiness or stem our joy. There must be some people nodding in agreement with me at this point and calling up vivid memories of such ‘blockers’, but the oddity that is life often shows itself in different ways. It is not all intimate relationships or marriages that are between friends or lovers. Sometimes, we become ensconced with people we are certain do not mean us well while at other times, it seems we have placed the reins of our lives in the hands of observers who will not lift a hand to help, if, God forbid, we are to fall.
How can you start a relationship with someone who is not your friend or does not love you, you might ask. It is quite possible. I stand to be corrected that the pummelling of a partner does not qualify as a relationship between friends or lovers. You don’t thrash your best friend from time to time, do you? Yet, cases abound. I’ll ignore all the sado-masochists who tell themselves they get kicked around because they deserve it. A lack of support in your passion or life’s work is also a pointer to a serious situation.
You must find a partner who has come to do good and great things or is willing to help in the achievement of these good and great things. Becoming an item with a joy-blocker, for want of a better word, may be the end of all you ever aspired for. There is nothing more wearisome to the spirit than having a relationship with, or living in the same house with a grey cloud.
If you are entangled with someone whose single-minded obsession and mission in life, appears to be to quash whatever satisfaction you might seek to derive from life; you must find the formula to negotiate the rocky terrain that these people make themselves on the route to your happiness. It is a blessed person who is in love with his or her friend.
If you are convinced you are sharing a bed with the enemy, a head-on-collision might not be the best way to correct the situation. Do not forget there are many times when it takes more courage not to react than to react.
On the other hand, if we are fortunate enough to come to a point where we come across those whom we consider helpful on the way to fulfilment, it is a great place to relax and rest. There are many helpful beings out there, and being sensitive when we meet others, will reveal these people to us. We must never forget that not all that is gold glitters, and often, the shine of the diamond is not noticed because it is covered in mud.
It is best to ignore the fourth category, that is, those who come to watch things happen, when you meet them. If you ignore those who are determined to steal your joy, however, and get lured into relationships that might become permanent, you do so at your own peril. It is a wise man who never turns his back on his enemies, remembering the adage that says, if you place your life in the hands of those who do not like you, you mortgage your future.
as published in Guardian 'Life'
Sunday 21st October
Sleeping With The Enemy
An acquaintance of mine told me of his life-governing philosophy only a few days ago. According to him, this philosophy, which is steeped in deep-core African tradition, says that there are four sets of people in the world. The first set are those who tell their Maker- “I am off to the world to do good and great things”. The second set resolves to come to the world to prevent the first set from achieving its aim, while the third comes to the world to help the first in reaching its goals. The fourth set simply says, “I’m off to the earth to watch all these things unfold”. A bit simple, you might say, but a close study would show that nearly everyone you know falls into, at least, one of these broad categories.
At some point or the other in our lives, we all have met with people we are firmly convinced have no other purpose in life than to block our progress, stop our happiness or stem our joy. There must be some people nodding in agreement with me at this point and calling up vivid memories of such ‘blockers’, but the oddity that is life often shows itself in different ways. It is not all intimate relationships or marriages that are between friends or lovers. Sometimes, we become ensconced with people we are certain do not mean us well while at other times, it seems we have placed the reins of our lives in the hands of observers who will not lift a hand to help, if, God forbid, we are to fall.
How can you start a relationship with someone who is not your friend or does not love you, you might ask. It is quite possible. I stand to be corrected that the pummelling of a partner does not qualify as a relationship between friends or lovers. You don’t thrash your best friend from time to time, do you? Yet, cases abound. I’ll ignore all the sado-masochists who tell themselves they get kicked around because they deserve it. A lack of support in your passion or life’s work is also a pointer to a serious situation.
You must find a partner who has come to do good and great things or is willing to help in the achievement of these good and great things. Becoming an item with a joy-blocker, for want of a better word, may be the end of all you ever aspired for. There is nothing more wearisome to the spirit than having a relationship with, or living in the same house with a grey cloud.
If you are entangled with someone whose single-minded obsession and mission in life, appears to be to quash whatever satisfaction you might seek to derive from life; you must find the formula to negotiate the rocky terrain that these people make themselves on the route to your happiness. It is a blessed person who is in love with his or her friend.
If you are convinced you are sharing a bed with the enemy, a head-on-collision might not be the best way to correct the situation. Do not forget there are many times when it takes more courage not to react than to react.
On the other hand, if we are fortunate enough to come to a point where we come across those whom we consider helpful on the way to fulfilment, it is a great place to relax and rest. There are many helpful beings out there, and being sensitive when we meet others, will reveal these people to us. We must never forget that not all that is gold glitters, and often, the shine of the diamond is not noticed because it is covered in mud.
It is best to ignore the fourth category, that is, those who come to watch things happen, when you meet them. If you ignore those who are determined to steal your joy, however, and get lured into relationships that might become permanent, you do so at your own peril. It is a wise man who never turns his back on his enemies, remembering the adage that says, if you place your life in the hands of those who do not like you, you mortgage your future.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
My eyes went red on Thursday.
As I drove up the Ojuelegba Road traffic in my air-conditioned "tokunbo/belgium" car, windows all the way up, musing, strains of "Olorun mi mo wa dupe" filtered in from blaring recordshop speakers.
To my right, a tall man, about 6' 3" with the build of the lead African in La Amistad and Blood Diamond danced by the shop rows to the music. He was obviously an Ibo shop attendant, dressed in well/worn short sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers which had had the hem lowered twice to cover his ankles, but still wasn't doing its job. I could see the lines where the thread had been released. He danced on to the yoruba song, oblivious to the stares of onlookers.
Olorun mi mo wa dupe
Iwo l'oba to se t'ana
Iwo l'oba to se t'eni
O da mi l'oju o se t'ola
Olorun mi mo wa dupe
My God, I've come to give thanks
You did yesterday's
You did today's
I'm confident you'll do tomorrow's
My God, I've come to give thanks
To my left, just by my window, another man, also in sun licked clothing passed, wearing rubber boat like shoes. He carried a torn polythene bag, just going his way. His face told his story. Defeated by life. I sat and watched them both in turns, at how the dice has rolled for us all, by reason of birth, of simple choices made as youths, of parents with money or without, with common sense or the lack of it.
The song continued, Olorun mi, mo wa dupe.
I gritted my teeth, changed gears. Men don't cry.
As I drove up the Ojuelegba Road traffic in my air-conditioned "tokunbo/belgium" car, windows all the way up, musing, strains of "Olorun mi mo wa dupe" filtered in from blaring recordshop speakers.
To my right, a tall man, about 6' 3" with the build of the lead African in La Amistad and Blood Diamond danced by the shop rows to the music. He was obviously an Ibo shop attendant, dressed in well/worn short sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers which had had the hem lowered twice to cover his ankles, but still wasn't doing its job. I could see the lines where the thread had been released. He danced on to the yoruba song, oblivious to the stares of onlookers.
Olorun mi mo wa dupe
Iwo l'oba to se t'ana
Iwo l'oba to se t'eni
O da mi l'oju o se t'ola
Olorun mi mo wa dupe
My God, I've come to give thanks
You did yesterday's
You did today's
I'm confident you'll do tomorrow's
My God, I've come to give thanks
To my left, just by my window, another man, also in sun licked clothing passed, wearing rubber boat like shoes. He carried a torn polythene bag, just going his way. His face told his story. Defeated by life. I sat and watched them both in turns, at how the dice has rolled for us all, by reason of birth, of simple choices made as youths, of parents with money or without, with common sense or the lack of it.
The song continued, Olorun mi, mo wa dupe.
I gritted my teeth, changed gears. Men don't cry.
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