On Two Religious Fucktards: Pat Robertson & Erastus Akingbola

I’d planned to pen my opinion on the Umar Mutallab issue then I figured the world has moved on. Yeah, there’s more to life than an undie-bomber, or a sick-head (heart?) president.

Ayemidun’s post expressed my opinion on the issue more articulately.

To hell with the gods of Erastus Akingbola & Pat Robertson.

These great guys worship some strange kind of gods, obviously. Let no one worry that I’m sending the gods to hell. It’s just for a little vacation. That said, I’m sure my head is saved from being mauled at any torturedom. Who cares anyway? Neither they nor their gods read this blog. Notwithstanding, I’m covered by the blood of Blogger.

A quick one on Pat Robertson. Don’t worry if you don’t know him. You can take a visit to Wikipedia or just save yourself the trouble by accepting my conclusion that he is just another conceited dickhead with the capacity to assume a God-figure persona while taking his followers on the blind path of stupidity.

Here is my miff with him. He went on TV and declared that Haiti was hit by the earthquake because the small Caribbean country had sworn a “pact with the Devil”. W.T.F? I’ve never heard anything as blatantly absurd in my life. His revelation is nothing but insensitive to the victims of the quake, and in fact, to humanity at large. It beats rational understanding how a so-called man of God could utter such a stupid statement during a moment of great human suffering. My thinking: Pat is suffering from a mental condition, a rare form of hallucination yet to be named Robertsonosis.

Fcuk and Fcuk you Pat. Haiti is not Sodom.

On the home front. Nigerians were alerted by the story of how a certain Erastus Akingbola - Man of God & now-dethroned CEO of Intercontinental bank, was involved in siphoning money into personal coffers. His list of crimes, according to the EFCC, includes money laundering, theft, capital market manipulation, tax fraud, obtaining money through false pretences, criminal granting of loans and facilities, insider trading and abuse of office, all amounting to the tune of N346 billion and 10 million pounds.

And I ask… a man of God?  

     

I may be wrong, but I think there exists in the society a template that frowns at some levels of sinfulness by certain people, especially those inducted into positions of moral superiority: clergymen (& politicians alike). True, no one is holier than his/her neighbour but society has handed us different rights of sinfulness. Fela can sleep with as many women as he wants, it can be overlooked or pardoned as creative waywardness. But let the Pope dare the same, even hell will screech at the headlines.  

      

Sadly, the Nigerian society is a sick one. One would have thought that Mr. Erastus’s extracurricular privilege as a clergyman would readily get him nominated for a public humiliation in the mode of Judas Iscariot. But hey, this is Nigeria. Anything goes.   

 

Even the media does not think his foolishness is newsy enough to attract, say at least, a month-long media-murdering of his image. My recommendation would be a one-year of non-stop embarrassment that will climax in his appearance beside Jesus on another crucifixion night where he will also be nailed, preferably at the groin. He will look at Jesus with tired eyes in front of the vexing public and ask, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” and Jesus will reply… “Verily, verily, I say unto you, today you’ll rot in hell, you asshole”.

bloghead

sudden. a strange dim and a numbing slug

until solace spun a winsome visit. dear blog,

i’m back to the way i am

let thoughts spew like napalm

until time holes me up (again) like a crab

let words flap and rap on this naked slab

no, it’s not a birthing or a reborn

... a carver’s re-come to finish the undone

yes blog, i took a wee puff of dope

hold me down this last time. else i lope.

image courtesy E. N (colleague. despite the troubles she gets from me)

Dear blog

So sorry, this is where I pull the curtains.

I don’t know where I am. But I’m not at home.

Like shit, this happened.

Cheers.

Sex, Dicks… and Advertising!

WARNING: Readers’ discretion is advised.

What the fcuk is this?! What the fcuk are these?! I stared and stared.

The swivel chair halted. Only my eyes maintained their business of winking. And my heart beats at such rate it almost wrinkled its corner of my shirt.

It’s my corner of the office. I was practically held enthralled like a teenager experiencing his first orgasm?

One of my agency’s Creative Directors passed by. He stole a look at my computer, as usual (for a reason only the two of us knows - I wasn’t browsing my Real Player or youtubing Chris Rock and Jon Stewart at that moment).

He was halted too.

He spoke from behind my shoulder. “Wetin be dis?” he asked, pidginly.

I ignored his question. I wasn’t ready for any argument. I’ve had too many of the same argument, on the same images, in the same corner of the office. Does sex sell? Do dicks sell? Puritanicals versus Liberals. Churchies versus Non-churchies. Conformists versus Rebels. I know where I belong. Don’t guess please!!!

Question: How far can (or should) advertising go on its use of sex? These ads are meant to promote a condom brand!

Advertising Agency: Troy, Brussels, Belgium

Creative Directors: Xavier Bouillon, Antoine Wellens

Art Director: Xavier Bouillon

Copywriter: Antoine Wellens

Photographer: François Chevalier

Published: September 2008

Feeling Nerdy

Who should we thank for roadside booksellers? 

I can’t believe I read a book in record time considering my incurable slow reading pace. I stopped by at a roadside bookseller to see if I could pick anything interesting. Interesting in this case means the lucky book must have a please-pick-me cover and an arresting blurb. And hopefully, it could also have a string of endorsers from notable writers and critics.

I don’t care how roadside booksellers get their merchandise. A friend has too many theories about their source; the most telling is that they are stolen. But I begged to say some of the books were give-aways. Charity. Why should I care anyway? After all, I’ve bought some books that I may never have stumbled at in most of the bookshops I know. I buy them at ridiculously cheap prices. Hey! Save the jest, I buy expensive books too! It was from this same seller that I bought The General’s Labyrinth, written by the Nobel-winning Colombian writer Gabriel Marquez. Surprisingly, most of all the books are new. 

I digressed.

A regular customer, I stopped by as usual. Took random glances at the scattered books.

There it is! There! I blinked, maybe twice. I shucked off doubts from my eyes. A section of the cover page, where the author’s name is written, poked out from underneath the thesaurus that rested on it. Slimely, I moved closer to the book. I measured my step in such a way as not to suggest to the seller that it’s a big book I was about to pick… lest he decides to inflate the price. You can’t trust these sellers!

Author, J. M. Coetzee. Book, Elizabeth Costello.

I picked the book. I didn’t bother to read the blurb. What matters only was that it was written by an author whose work I have longed to read. J. M. Coetzee – South African-born Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature (2003), two-time Booker Prize winner (1983, 1999).

Written like an abridged biography of its major character – a distinguished Australian novelist, Elizabeth Costello is a starkly interesting and haunting book. It has eight chapters, each chapter represents different philosophical musing of the major character. In some cases, her musings are responses to other people’s stance.

It’s the first book by the author that I’ve read. It does suggest to me Coetzee’s brilliance. His presentation of serious issue in less serious language is remarkable. How he built a fictional character to argue serious matters, matters that are largely discoursed in academic writings is baffling.

It’s a good read, considering the style of writing and the fanciful dramas the author wove together. There is a part of the book where Elizabeth, the main character, compares the treatment of animals in the modern world to the Holocaust. Gush!

One of my favourite parts is the part where John, Elizabeth’s son anticipates his mother’s response to a question… “What led you, Mrs. Costello, to become a vegetarian?”

“You ask me why I refuse to eat flesh. I, for my part, am astonished that you can put in your mouth the corpse of a dead animal, astonished that you do not find it nasty to chew hacked flesh and swallow the juices of death wounds.”

I almost made a decision to turn to a vegetarian after reading that excerpt. But nothing can stop me from eating my Suya (skewered meat!) 

“To Elizabeth, our oppression of animals – keeping them in captivity,… and breeding them in order to kill them on an industrial scale – arises from an unwarranted privileging of man and the faculty of reason,” says a critic of the book.

Hopefully, I’ll read other books by this author.
__________________________
Status updates on some of my books

The Tesseract, by Alex Garland – been struggling to go beyond the second chapter. Beautiful narration but no humour, maybe when I read further.

Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt – been reading this lovely book since five months ago. I just can’t pass the first chapter. I’m afraid other chapters may not be as funny as the first.

Ibadan: The penkelemes years by Wole Soyinka – second reading actually. My brain has been on a slow-mo for Soyinka, lately. I don’t know where I stopped. Forgot to dog-ear. 30+, bookmarker is not working.  

The Culture of Narcissism, American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations by Christopher Lasch – Serious book that I’ve been reading unseriously. 

The Audacity of Hope by Barrack Obama – 2008 most over-hyped book. I’ve finished reading this…. wait for it… after seven months ;) My favourite chapter is the last one, “Family”.
 
___________________

An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away. ~ Mae West

Lost

maybe I’m the one left behind
as the world moves in hurrying paces
or am I the first at the seashore – the
lone survivor of this mammoth wreck?

maybe I’m just another grown toddler
who marks time on wobbling feet
perhaps I’m an adept swimmer
who glides ahead of the herd

giddy. these sands are shifting.

am I a tossed coin on a gambler's table or
another Gulliver who lost his map?

Lagos, and more...

Lagos. One can hate the city, but can never love it enough. It’s a strange romance. And lately, I have been so caught up in this romance, being an unfortunate lover, that I can’t yet divorce myself form her lustful grip. 

Plus every other thing, the ttttrrrraaaaffffiiiicccc in Lagos is killing me.

I have been away from blogging. I haven't resigned. A friend called and said he has a feeling I landed a job in Barack Obama’s campaign team. Very funny. But sincerely, the after-effect of writing his speech sure feels like an after-sex exhaustion.

Things have been crazy lately. And fun too. From defending myself for writing “as sexy as hell” (a poetry line I wrote and meant to be understood in the context of the poem) to futile attempt to find a place where I can purchase the Season One of “Everybody hates Chris”. From engaging in some office bickering to missing the theatre to watch Wole Soyinka’s “Madmen and Specialists”, from attending a programme at the Teslim Balogun Stadium to attending the christening party of a boss’s baby and resisting every temptation to spend that evening in Femi Kuti’s shrine instead – somewhere in the neighbourhood. 

I paced up and down in front of the shrine, secretly relishing one of Fela’s songs as it played in the background. The ambience was somewhat riveting – the smell of tobacco and ganja mixing with Fela’s saxophone, men and women – some of them with heavy swathes of locked hair, pacing up and down, some with cupful of alcohol, some with cigarettes expertly placed between their fingers and occasionally sandwiched between their waiting lips. Puffs! Whiffs! Salutation to Abami Eda. I don’t smoke. But I love the smell of smoke.

Well, during the past week, I resumed my multi-book reading habit – reading six to seven books at a period – dropping one and getting bored, picking another, starting from the centre, getting distracted, stopping, reflecting, admiring one author, disliking the other, going back to the first book, picking a new one, restless anticipation of humour in some of the pages, reading the blurb again, switching between radio stations, the TV remote very close, forgetting to dog-ear where I stopped, blablablablabla… I’ve been reading all the books for about six months. I’m an incurable slow reader, with a low attention span.  

Besides, my naughty friend is temporarily back in Lagos, after some months-long hideout in the North. I’d thought we were going to resume our evening-long hanging out. The stupid boy lured me into making preparations for his visiting Yankee girlfriend. Every preparation possible. “Do this”. “Don’t do that”. “She would like this”. “She won’t like that”. “Blow her head off” (whatever that means). Rehearsals. Cautions. And internally, I was warning myself to keep a distance from them, knowing how much they will frustrate me with their public show affection.

And help. Help. Help. I think I’ve lost my collection of poems. It’s driving me mad. I just don’t know where I dropped them.

In another related news, I’m on a bet with a fellow blogger, TosynBucknor. I'm on a mission to be the first to make comments on her next five posts.

For all those who cared to know wassup with AlooFar, thank you. And for those who keep yelling at me…. Your time is coming.

Obama's Speech on Nigeria

Once again I’d like to show my appreciation for everyone who stood by us over the course of our campaign. Indeed it’s been a defining moment, not just for our party but for our country.

I want to specially thank the men and women who have been walking with me in my journey to become the 44th President of the United States.

I understand the importance of America’s democracy to the overall welfare of our planet. But I haven’t known until lately the extent which the world has shown great interest in our affairs.

Just yesterday, I watched on the television the rousing ovation that accompanied the announcement of my nomination, not only in the United States but especially in the farthest regions of the world. What that tells me is that our neighbours, far and near, are interested in the kind of change sweeping across the American nation. What that means is that our message of hope resonates beyond the geographical boundaries of this country. And that is significant - because it also means the rest of the world endorses my candidacy. I’m humbled.

But I must not pretend that I accept all the congratulatory messages without some misgivings. Pardon my impoliteness, but I’d wished I’d not received some messages from certain quarters of the world.

I love Africa. I love the Nigerian people. But certain observations call for serious concern.

I’ve been reflecting over the possibilities of my emergence as president, if I’d been a citizen of the world’s most populated black nation. For obvious reasons, I’ve not been able to curtail my amusement at such misguided reflection, knowing well the odds stacked against such ambition.

I will be 47 this August. And this November, I’ll be marching up to become the next Commander-in-Chief of the United States. If this were Nigeria, I would have been told to wait and allow older people to run as though the amount of grey hair in ones head translates to the person’s level of political or moral maturity. Moreover, its present president is its first graduate president since independence.

More surprising is that his victory during the elections has become a classic illustration in the textbooks of fraudulent electioneering. It will be unfair to bother you with the fact that many Nigerians never knew how their present president looks like until the morning of inauguration day.

American politics is definitely not perfect. But the American people sure have a lot to teach the world in matters of politics. And the Nigerian nation has even more to learn. Our candidates here move from one constituency to another to woo voters, to sell a vision of leadership. But in that West African state, it is the responsibility of a powerful oligarchy, party chieftains, self-appointed godfathers and their band of thugs to impose candidates on the party and the people. The American people definitely understand that a nation is best governed by laws, not men; that we are all equal in the eyes of the laws; that we can be free to say what we want, write what we want – after all the law is there to defend our freedom of expression under reasonable conditions.

Nigeria is a republic – at least that’s what the books say. Sadly, that’s where it ends too. Ones political success is directly related to ones affiliation to established dynasties: tribal dynasty, family dynasty, business or religious affiliations.

The significance of my candidacy has been highly trumpeted – and hasn’t been made less phenomenal by the media - a son of a Kenyan father married to a white woman - a black man who is now riding on the horseback of the American Dream. I guess I owe my late father a lot for successfully planting me in the belly of a white woman. Maybe it’s my mum that I should be grateful to for accepting a black man’s romantic advances. Now my dad has become a source of inspiration of some sort - a source of inspiration to all would-be immigrants to the United States. I guess the chase for the elusive US immigrant VISA has just been heightened. However, let it be known now that the US immigrant VISA will not be any less easy to acquire when I become president.

Mrs. Clinton has fought a good fight. Among other aspirants for the Democratic ticket, she has traveled the farthest. She has made history as the woman who has done what no woman has done before. What are her chances of coming this close to the presidency of her country if she had been a Nigerian? If she ever dared to announce such an aspiration she would have only succeeded in waking up the demons of sexism, and waking up the monster of a culture that says women are to be seen, not heard. She would have been reminded that women are to remain in the background because men, only men, have been destined to occupy the open space. Certain societies are adverse to female dreamers.

Mrs. Clinton proved to the world what it means to lose politically. She didn’t talk of joining another party or even registering another. She has a strong guiding principles and her declaration of support for my campaign is a demonstration of her bravery even in the face of defeat.

I hear Nigeria makes a metaphorical claim as the giant of Africa. That claim, I make bold to say, is not only unfounded but absurd. Forgive my observation, that country’s claim of gianthood is only proved by the relative size of its population. 48 years after bidding farewell to colonial rule, that nation is still struggling to get on its feet, like a toddler. Nigeria has clearly failed to be the beacon of hope for other African nations.

Will the Nigerian people ever speak of their country as that where leaders make unselfish calculations that prepare them for the challenges of the global economy? Will they ever speak of a nation where every child, male and female, has a right to achieve his or her dream? So long as people are trapped in poverty, so long as there are evidences of gross marginalization of certain regions, so long as opportunities are opened but not for all - the dream of a true nation will remain out of reach.

Not too many countries are as religion-loving as Nigerians. On a more ridiculous note, Nigeria also ranks high on the list of corrupt nations. Too much spirituality. Too much corruption. I dissociated myself from my former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright. I condemned the statements of Reverend Wright that have caused controversy, statements that have the potential not only to widen the racial divide, but views that denigrate the greatness and the goodness of our nation. But I still respect him. How many Nigerian clergymen, considering the size of the followership they command, can bluntly condemn unpleasant activities of the government? Bloody hypocrites.

Let’s leave Nigerian problems for the Nigerian people.

The American people deserve change. They are tired of politics and policies that do not address their immediate challenges. They now have a choice to determine whether they will recycle the same of the same or will give the leadership of this nation to a man who will give them the future – a man that embodies hope and change.

One thing though… when I become the president, will the White house be called the Black house? And I’ve promised myself not to allow the Obama girl to come close to the White house. I’m afraid she might be my administration’s version of Monica Lewinsky.

I’m grateful for your attention. I’m more grateful to the writer of my speech. He sure deserves to be a part of my administration.

Thank you. God bless you. God bless America.

Disclaimer: You read this speech before it's been delivered.

Please note...
This writer acknowledges the input of others knowing well that the essence of this speech will discourage a possible lawsuit.

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Campaign against mothers who smoke: "Women who smoke feed more than milk to their children"

NIVEA : "For extra strong, extra long nails"

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Creative or what ya think?

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?

I made this post last year. It has since been attracting some misgivings from some people, who, in their respected opinions, consider it “sensitive”. I have declined every urge to make a post on their rejoinders. I still wonder why they couldn’t drop their comments directly on my blog instead of emailing me.

One of them, a well-known blogger (no, I won’t link him), stumbled at me on yahoo messenger. Before then we’ve been having some nice chats on about anything. Little did I know I was about to abort our correspondence when I posted this poem. On that faithful day, I logged on to my messenger, only to be welcomed by a long and anxious queue of offline messages.

"Spam!" I thought.

But to my surprise the messages, minus two, were a chain of biblical verses filled with curses, yes – CURSES! My blogger friend had leafed through his bible to fish out portions of that holy book that seem designed as suitable words of retaliation against a perceived sacrilege.

"What a joke!" I thought.

By coincidence, he was online at that time. And then I asked him, “Mr, to what do I owe these prayers?” I guess he must have been pissed off by the cheekiness of my question. He replied with yet another stretch of biblical passages, the difference only being that, this time, they came so hurriedly that most of the words were misspelt. How else was I supposed to understand the depth of his anger? I didn’t even bother to reply. All the while the chat box was busy saying #### is typing a message …until he signed out.

Just few days ago, I got a text from a friend who, after visiting my blog, ordered me, I mean ORDERED me, to retract (his word) that part of the poem that reads, “What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?” because, his reason – it is blasphemous. At that point I went back thinking about how far I’ve come with this poem, and who knows – how far I’ll go.

I wrote this poem during my undergraduate years. I still remember the rabid feedback I got courtesy of that part of the poem. A classmate of mine will look at me then and say, jokingly… You are the anti-christ! And then I would smile. One actually told me she has stopped reading the departmental press board because an “unholy poem” was once glued there. To quote a lecturer-friend, Your case is a sorry case. I avoided arguing with him by replying with a smile too.

But of course, I got some interesting and encouraging comments too.

Let's see how many blog friends I have (or will remain as friends). This is the poem, titled “What If…”

What if…

What if everything is but a dream
cast nude on this jagged plane, unreal?

What if the silhouette is but the real thing
and the substance is its shadow?

What if sight is but blindness
and voice is but dumbness?

What if that animal perceives you as "animal"
itself- human, created in His image?

What if the womb is our grave
and the grave is but the cocoon pregnant with life?

What if white is but a precious gloom
and rose is but the embleem of death?

What if it’s not sleep after all
but Death tickly calling?

What if it’s foolery finely cloaked
masking as Love?

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil
and fanning Hell’s furnace is The Lord?

What if righteousness is but a sin
and Sodomy, the Hallowed?

What if we are just characters
existing only in the dreams of some gods?

What if…?