Thursday, 3 January 2013

2012.



Of Joy.
Ayo graduated.
Shalewa got married.
The viral "Happy Anniversary, Etisalat" poster
Quite a number of encouraging and inspiring emails
Helped someone land a job.
Helped someone get a scholarship.
Daring the devil in some really crazy ways and enjoying the outcome.

Of Toys.
Kindle Fire
MacBook Pro 15"
iPhone 5

Of (awesome) Apps.
Flipboard
Pocket
TED
Google Drive
Fancy
Instagram

Of Events.
Being a best man
Being a groom's man
Getting worried about mum's health
Properly ridiculing a police officer for his indiscretion.

Of low Moments.
Not making it to the two major events I had hoped to attend outside the country.
Facing some unscrupulous clients in which it took me a lot of restraints not to hurt their feelings in a way I'm capable of, and especially because someone's intimate relationship was at stake. And so, I had to take in some crass comments about my person. (Tolerance is a virtue).
A tiff at work (a certain Tunde, amidst other skirmishes, threw at me the most laughable jab that my angst is because I "wasn't promoted." This will still play out unless... !). Even worse was the most unnecessary & stupid apology I was compelled to make.
Of a generational issue that manifested in form of an MD who, being ignorant of what "epic sh*t" means, embarrassed me. (I was only propping up a team).
Finding out that a supposed close friend has a shady history with those I've once and I'm intimate with.
Every time I was in Lagos traffic!

Of People.
My siblings, Solape, Segun Oladiran, #TeamKwirkly, SOJ, Olumide Abimbola, Benson Eluma, Gbola Adiamoh, Pius Ojemen, John Ajayi, Lanre Okunola, Tunde Dosekun, Chike, Buki Bassey, Naomi Lucas, Celine, Kome, Blessing, Taiwo Badejo, Opabisi Oluwaseun, Collyde, Ope Aikomo, Ivan Raszl, Waldemar, Sebastian Jerez, Peter Fogtdal, Sunkanmi, Dr. Abiri, Nadine Nedrebö, Funmilola Akinòsì, Olushola Aromokun, Tony Hertz, Jacquie N Kariuki, The Lumors, The Oderindes, The Odeniyis, Tosan, Funmi Ibiyode, Wunmi, Laide Olabode "exschoolnerd", Funmibi, Bajo Dada and Ify, Ohimai, Sam Adeoye, Opabisi Oluwaseun, Tolu Agunbiade, Dr. Olaniyi Owoeye, Omokeri, Seyi Owolawi, Ayeni Thegreat, Jesse Oguntimehin, Bibhuti, Usher (the electrician), Kenny (the driver). And of course, Oluwababy and Homer Simpson.

Of Inspiration
(PS: Not exhaustive)
Paul Graham, Aaron Levie, Andrew Sullivan, Ezra Klein, Ajaz Ahmed, Carl Johnson, Salman Khan, Susan Cain, Chris Anderson, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Ken Robinson, Ji Lee, Simon Veksner, Scott Goodson, Scott Belsky, Seth Godin, Chris Guillebeau, Jeff Goodby, Steven Johnson, Jonah Lehrer, Jason Fried, Tunde Bakare, Rei Inamoto, Lee Clow, Salman Rushdie, Eric Schmidt, Andrew Keller, Maria Popova, Nicholas Kristof, Pete Cashmore, Andy Borowitz, Seth Macfarlane, Alex Bogusky

Of Books
(PS: Each book is linked to its Amazon page. They're all highly recommended. The list excludes some that I borrowed and I can't remember. I quite invested in books. These are the ones I've read. I know someone will ask why the books are particularly non-literary)
















All the Wired, FastCompany, RollingStone, Monocles I bought as well as magazine apps on the phone.

Hi 2013, let's get better.

Thursday, 26 April 2012

Untitled

Is this your utmost stretch, man?
A knifing on the back of trust.

Did you not keep vigil in your house of
shit and scheme the fall of an empire?

Nothing will cure you. Not
forgiveness. Maybe self-lobotomy.
Or a shower of pebbles in Jamarat.

Man, this man.
A piteous mass of sham & shame.

How do you sleep, Brutus?

Monday, 26 September 2011

With Love from my Toto*


Did they not chook** me with their cacti
and fill me with bilious waste – those
whose scrota should be jaundiced with
stings from wayward bees?

Did they not claw me with callous talons
and grip my vexing veins – those
whose hands will remain guests
to rheumatoid rust?

Did they not mock my wailings
and cause my teeth to gnash – those
whose nights should witness
harmonies of terrors and bitterness?

Did they not defile my thighs
and maul my breasts – those
whose paths will forever
quake with anguish?

Did they not tear me apart
and watch my navel suffocate – those
who should be bobittised with blunt scalpels?

Some pricks should be snacks for hungry hyenas.




*           Nigerian Pidgin for vagina.
* *         A variant of fuck in Nigerian Pidgin English, sometimes used to exaggerate coital thrust.

Monday, 15 August 2011

holy starvation


written in 2005.

"what ritual!
some kind of flagellation?"


“well, it’s just a time we keep
away from food and sex
to ask for more food and sex
and blessings”

holy logic.
comedic crescendos.

“but after lunar fullness,
we resume…”

resume what?
routine madness?!

the rude sun
unleashes hellish spells
on those who buy seasons
to keep god deafened with
bleating supplications.

how easy to impress god!

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Born This Way

Versatile and Stylish Award.
I think everyone has done this except me.
I'm supposed to share 7 things about me.


Good Morning.
I mentioned it before: I’m most mentally alert in the morning. It’s nearly impossible to do anything personally satisfactory during other parts of the day, except if the tasks had already started in the morning. Unfortunately, I spend all my mornings in Lagos traffic with all the highway distractions that come with it.

But then, one has got to work before 8:30... because the middle name of the man monitoring the register is Ivan the Terrible.” Go figure.

Food
I am a big fan of food but it’s hard for me to eat! This has become worse lately. I can go two days on water only, maybe a Scotch egg & Lucozade Sports in between. Or just indomie noodles (with Mimee spice) plus a cold drink. Chikena. I’ve taken all the pills possible to rescue the situation. Nothing worked or works. I’ve given up on all medical recommendations. (Sorry Pharm. Yomi)

PS: Weirdly though, I manage to eat like a normal person in the company of certain people. I can’t explain why.

No, Boss.
The idea that someone can lord over me gives me the fever. That I work in a corporate institution is a laughable contradiction. I’m surviving though.

Laughter.
Make my day… share that joke with me, or link me up with a good comedian. I crave laughter, almost more than s*x. You can tell if I’m not getting enough of laughs. Watch my mood.

Hollyweird
I write Movies/Plays, direct Movies/Plays, star in Movies/Plays, accept Oscar plaques for all these roles… all in my head.

Routine
It kills me. It kills me. It kills me. This is the reason I’ve turned down all those offers to be a columnist for a newspaper/magazine. But count me in if you can give me the freedom to do what I want, at my own pace.

Secret Woman.
Now, this is no longer a secret. We’re both pen friends. She only lives in my memory. We’ve been exchanging notes for a long time now. She dropped mental notes to me. I save my response as Drafts on Gmail. This has been going on for a long time. There’s a little break now.

Bonus

Self.
I'm never comfortable talking about me, which makes this meme a daunting task. I don't like Naijalines.

PS: Post title. Sue me Gaga.

Thursday, 10 March 2011

before the morning of your last evening

(We) give her sadness and the gift of pain,
a new moon madness and a love of rain.
- Dorothy Parker "The Godmother" (Bracket mine)


the minaret already booked the hour
and the pall bearers will come for you
three times three times they’ll knock
with sad gongs and saddened drums
a corpse. you’ll answer.
“we walked your wet corridors
and we are here to carry you to a lasting rest.”
a procession. men stretch like a serpentine bridge.
... thronging like rabid elephants
“we dug your grave with axe and machete
we’ll salute you with forbidden salvos”
meet damilola. singer and witness.
hear him sing you the dirge of your own funeral
meet duro. three-times abiku.
and quickly learn the vocabulary of the dead.
it’s the morning of your last breath.
you will see with your dead eyes
termites foraging on your innards

good night in advance.
or shall we mold your vagina with granite?

Thursday, 20 January 2011

The Last Kid Standing


One recent memory I love to recall about my kid brother was the day I came home after an exhausting day at work to find him in bed hugging his guitar in a pose that had me wondering how he got himself so contorted with his wooden friend. The pose perfectly imitated a foetus as his wooden companion reared its long head and stringed body from the little passage between his clinched legs and arms. John Legend’s Cross the Line played in the background. A closer look brought the image of the flying witch and her broom; the bulk of the guitar bore the pressure from his butt. Suspecting a possible injury, I failed in my attempt to save the two friends from themselves. Kid brother, let’s call him Sean from now, despite been lost in sleepland, resisted all my redemptive moves. It was the fight he gave that made the scene weird. He would have exerted the same amount of energy if he were conscious. He held tight to the guitar’s neck and mumbled some words. Not giving up, I muted John Legend and lo, instantly, Sean sprung up. His heavy sleep bags disproved my suspicion of a mischief. Muting John wasn’t supposed to be part of the tactic to separate the sleeping friends but hell, it took only John to shut up for him to return from sleepland. Odd. I could have blamed my exhausted self for my failing but Sean already had a reputation for sleeping and clinging with instruments. Drum sticks and the guitar are regular sleeping partners.

Such is Sean and his numerous quirks, some of which are outright annoying and require extra measure of tolerance to cope with them. I once informed him that his “transfer” into my house was just a plot by the parent to see less of his troubles. He objected, claiming it can’t be true since the same parents, especially mum (He calls her “Fine Girl”), calls him every-now-and-then to tell him how much she has missed him - “Those people really miss me you know”.

“Yes, your troubles!

What sort of last child stresses parents more than other siblings did in combination?

One evening, before the transfer, my dad called to inform me to warn Sean. Such calls are frequent. The old man had got home and was shocked to find a gadget he has just bought dismembered. The usual suspect had taken some parts away for whatever experiment - musical or scientific. He got home later and returned the gadget to normal.

I have been a victim of several experiment of this young chaotic mind.

He had used my laptop the evening before a major presentation at work. I had saved some documents in it which I forgot to transfer to my office PC. On the day of presentation, few hours before, I turned on Bunmi (My laptop pet name). Bunmi’s screen beams with what looks like a mathematic gibberish. 20 minutes into it, Bunmi won’t go back to normal. The office IT guy couldn’t fix it. “This one is beyond me,” he said. Whooom! I hit the road. Blood temperature already hitting Hell-Degrees-Celsius. I asked him what he did to Bunmi. He took her from me and embarked on a surgery while I stood beside him like a fleshy mix of fury and frustration. And then, laptop went back to normal.

It’s a common thing for everyone to warn him to stay off their stuff. He doesn’t spoil them but he sure does more than what the manufacturers intend them for.

It’s only unfair that combined with his untamable gift of curiosity, Sean is as funny as funny can be. Few days before his big age, my other brother, his elder, had joked that Sean is about to clock an age where he will be prison-bound if he impregnates a lady. Sean paused a bit. He threw a curious look at me, and yelled, “So why are you people just telling me that? I should have been told a long time ago when prison wasn't an option if I impregnated a lady!”

Sean. Lover of the dark. Admirer of Norbert Wiener. Lover of soccer. Ronaldinho’s enthusiast. Jazz-addict. Technology enthusiast. iPhone-freak. Buristos-eater. Best Indomie noodles maker. Fitness evangelist. Drummer. Reader. Book spoiler (Our major cause of quarrel). Rules breaker. Mum’s boyfriend. Funny man. Receiver of constant tongue-lashing (from sister). Music whore. And…

and…

… proud member of the skinny jeans generation.

Sean clocks another year. I thought I should make a deserving post.

Happy Birthday Baby Bro.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

2010.


“It wasn't the best of a year, but nearly the worst of the ones ever lived, it was the year of wisdom – wisdom, as yielded by a tangled adventure in foolishness, it was the epoch of laughter, and of love-lessness, it was nearly the season of darkness, excepting dispersed lights, doses of relief, from kind friends and siblings, it was a test in hopefulness, it was the ending of despair, it is the end of despair.” (AlooFar Dickens, excerpt from A Tale of Year 2010)


(I bet Charles Dickens is smiling too.)

Tuesday, 26 October 2010

Farewells

The Cunning Linguist



Maybe farewells are the hardest things to write. I’ve cancelled this section more times than I can remember.

I read about the death of this guy from Fantasy Queen’s blog.

The Cunning Linguist was a fantastic blogger. In his active days, he ran one of those blogs that you quickly visit to get some dose of humour, wit, and sometimes irreverent intelligence (same as Jaja, Atutupoyoyo, Chxta, Afrobabe, Porter deHarquort , 30+, Allied, Naija Fine Boy, Tayo Odukoya, Naapali, Hyena’s Belly, Omoalagbede, NigerianDramaQueen, Moody Crab, Jinta, iGwatala etc etc)


I remember those fun days when it was very common for bloggers to express their cyber love for other bloggers. Then, “Blog Crush” was a common term on Nigeria blogging space. In the midst of all the reading and writing, female bloggers will “fight” amongst themselves at the slightest instance if they suspect that another lady blogger was encroaching on their “crush” territory. I often wonder how the male bloggers felt being “owned” mostly by people they’ve never met. It was a funny time. Ozaveshe was crushed over by a lot of them. By Bumight too. One of them (I can’t remember her now) made a post on him that she met him one-on-one, and that post triggered another form of envy from other female bloggers. Dude had a way with the ladies. I suspect he is the reason Afrobabe never hit on me. (Maybe she was in denial)

It took a while before I knew that I know the face behind the blog. Someone at my former place of work showed me his picture and I was surprised that his path and I had crossed before. A lady was involved. She was my friend and former classmate. Ozaveshe was making advances towards her. I used to ask the lady why she won’t give in to a fine boy like Ozaveshe who, by his demeanour, oozed a great deal of comportment.

I think I was already reading his blog at that time. Another mutual acquaintance we shared – Emeka, once asked if I knew a “certain blogger called Ozaveshe”. I said no until he gave me his blog URL. “Oh, I know him. I know him as The Cunning Linguist”. It’s easier to know bloggers by their blog names than their URLs.

Sadly, he lost his battle against cancer.

Only memories will serve us now: that he made people laugh, that he shared his intelligence, that I once asked if his blog name was a deliberate visual distortion of “Cunnilingus”.

Good night, blogger.

In another unrelated news...

"Overrated” was perhaps my closest pal amongst my colleagues. Great dude. I’ve known him before I joined the agency: first, as the guy who sat opposite me at a Chinese restaurant for a send forth occasion of a friend who was leaving the country. He maintained a smug pose. I’m not sure now, but I think he strolled in late with his lithe frame carefully balanced on a pair of crutches. Second, as the guy I was going to have a long and heated chat with some months after in which he confirmed my suspicion that within that frame of his is a brain bursting with enough energy for disruptive marketing ideas.

Few days ago, he walked towards my corner of the office, rather briskly, with an indecipherable tinge in his eyes. I knew from the approach that he wasn’t coming to “test” an idea with me as we were both fond of doing. (Our last “experiment” was The Impossible Brief. We both came up with loads of ideas, challenging each others’. Exhausted, we left it - left it to exchanging blames on who gave up. I had the last say when I yelled “Leave me, I didn’t kill Jesus). Whoever solves that brief should be awarded all the categories of The Nobel Prize, I think.

Maan mi, I’m resigning. Now!”

I was convinced he wasn’t joking when he unmouthed those words. It was a startling decision. He stood motionless in front of me for about 5 seconds. The expression on his face fluctuated between fury and frankness. I’ve never seen him like that before. The idea of resigning had not crossed his mind before that morning. I know. So, what the heck? I gave a puzzling look as he moved to his seat.

He did drop the letter for whatever reason(s).

Stupid boy. Now I look back and see that his exit has ushered in a rather uncomfortable relief. We used to exchange banters, poke fun at anything possible, clog each other’s official email address with internet links, laugh at annoying clients etc.

An intelligent and extremely restless dude, he exhibits the temperament of a tortured artiste who will fight against any incursion to bend his art. He writes for a marketing magazine. I will miss editing those write-ups, and especially those moments when he excitedly rushes to my seat to share an idea or act a gaffe or spit some dirty thoughts rummaging in his mind.

Yo, I wish you the best as you conquer other territories.

May I not write any farewell soon!

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

New Job. And a Few Irrelevant Gist.

WARNING: Long random post. Call the cops!

New Job.
To write about my new place of work will require a whole post, or two. This is a preview.

One gets a strange feeling when joining a new place. Say, a new school. Everyone in the class is sizing you up against certain expectations. Their chins are dropped against their chests as though they aren’t looking at you. It’s a lie. You’re already the new specimen in their brains, to be marked up or down against all subjective criteria they’ve drawn out. It makes a lot of sense to do random checks to know if your fly isn’t unzipped. I did on the first day.

If this were written a month ago, it will definitely be about some new characters I’ve seen here, the drama that ensued before I agreed to accept their “offer”, the general working culture, the position of my seat, the whiff of melancholy that comes with the thought of working in Victoria Island, and perhaps, the tiny tie I’m sporting right now (Who is laughing?).

Generally, it’s been a fun place. Fun people. Crazy dudes. Sinfully beautiful ladies. Mad deadlines. Workaholics. Music on repeat. Laughs. Pranks. Laughs. Jabs. Laughs.

Funny how I’ve seen a few colleagues on Blogger homepage. Hey, holla. Skinny new guy is AlooFar.

One thing I have to deal with, though - I’m quite bothered about losing my freedom (of thought) to the demands of a client who plays God. And God knows I’m not interested in pleasing God.

Yeah, two months. Hopefully this will be the most interesting mind-blowing job ever!

Creativity Manager.
Now I have this mouthful job title that ranks me almost in the same revered position as Robert Oppenheimer. You’ve got to love corporate titles…! Will I save the world now? Keep checking the newspapers.

Reading.
I’m presently reading the most mesmerizing but annoyingly big book. (Thank you, Love.)

Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts is a literary work of exceptional beauty. At the time when I unpacked it from other gift items, I’d thought it will be another never-to-be-read addition to my library, the reason being that it’s a big book. And big books scare the shit out of me. I have the most fitful attention span in the history of mankind!

The last writer whose pen moved me to orgasm was Frank McCourt. Not every writer can pull that feat. Sue yourself if you haven’t read Angela’s Ashes or Teacher Man.

Holding readers spellbound, especially suckers for good writings, takes more than a foreplay that peaked at the second page of a 400-page ream. It’s against the law of performance to exhaust all energy on a mere pre-coital episode. Writing, I think, should flow smoothly from the first page to the last dot of the blurb. Good writing should move one to orgasm. Or God, at least. Write from the heart my dear!

If you love to read books full of vibrant characters, and visceral descriptions that truly impresses… read Shantaram. In the heart of it is a precise and insightful description of the human experience back-dropped against the mysteries of Bombay, passionate love, slums, shanty hotels, prison agonies, prostitution dens etc.

I want to go to India!

Doug.
This brother defended theism with such gusto that I wonder if he use his brilliant brain to do anything else. We had a session on Google Talk after which I decided I will never chat with him if the subject bothers on why God has written all the good books. I really can’t be bothered, man. Can we discuss women next time? At least, that will require fewer brain cells. Thanks for the exposition. ;)

Google Wave.
Funny how I’m having “copyright” issues on some of the collaborations I’ve had on Google Wave: letters, poetry, and essays. Hey guys, na by force to put my name? Can we take the case to The Supreme Court?

How not to put asunder…
(My response to a soon-to-be-married friend who disagreed that the possibility of having beautiful kids is not one of the criteria that a woman considers before agreeing to marry a man. PS: Don’t take me serious. I really don’t have an opinion on women.)

“You see, I suspect that in every woman is a demon craving for beautiful kids. And that’s fucked because it puts every man’s balls on a reputation test. It’s a sad fact of life that not all men are good-looking. One day, she will look at you or conjure you up in her memory while a side of her brain will conduct some weird permutations to check all the possibilities of having beautiful kids with you. Gosh forbid that on her first visit to your crib, you’ve shown her pictures of your family members, both distant and immediate, and she spot in one of the village-set pictures, your distant old uncle who has the dentition of a walrus and a face so smeared with pimples that only a blind person with a genius understanding of the Braille can decode his facial conjectures. At that moment, her heart will skip in nanoseconds. Because. Because she is already afraid that if she gets pregnant for you, some genetic pranks may play out in form of reincarnating that said Uncle whose forehead bears R.I.P.
Dude, you’re screwed!”

After I made my point, the stoopid boy told me his fiancée has been following the chat all the while.
And then he said, “Dude, you see what you’ve caused? Now she wants to go through my family picture AGAIN”.

I logged out.

Big Brother.
I’m a fan of Big Brother. No, I don’t spend time in front of TV watching it. I just enjoy all the fights put up by the few saints among us who are opposed to grownups playing hide-and-seek and having orgies in front of millions of Africans.

Keep a date with your vendor and the internet.

I have an idea. How about a Christian Reality Show? The housemates will be taken through a series of tasks that will test their vulnerability to sins. For instance, put Brother Mathew in a room and place pornographic literatures alongside Christian ones. Let’s see how far he can resist the devil. Or replace the candles in Sister Mary’s room with objects that look like phallus.

In want of a name for the show… “Big Brother: The Jesus Edition”.

Apathy.
Everything about the reality of the Nigerian society disgusts me at the moment. I’m not sure history has a record of a people so dementedly confused and who, by extension of their shortsightedness, are endowed with the capacity to delude themselves that their society will get better even in the face of glaring impossibilities.

Good citizens make a good society! Stop praying. Stop hoping. Just be the change you desire in your society.

F*ck the leaders.

Where are the cops?