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.

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