Aloof and Far

With Love from my Toto*

2011-09-26T11:36:00.000+01:00

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.

holy starvation

2011-08-15T14:27:00.003+01:00

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!

Born This Way

2011-03-24T13:54:00.000+01:00

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.

before the morning of your last evening

2011-03-10T15:18:00.008+01:00

(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?

The Last Kid Standing

2011-01-20T09:32:00.000+01:00

Onerecent memory I love to recall about my kid brother was the day I came homeafter an exhausting day at work to find him in bed hugging his guitar in a posethat 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 longhead and stringed body from the little passage between his clinched legs andarms. John Legend’s Cross theLine played in thebackground. 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 possibleinjury, I failed in my attempt to save the two friends from themselves. Kidbrother, let’s call him Sean from now, despite been lost insleepland, resisted all my redemptive moves. It was the fight he gave that madethe scene weird. He would have exerted the same amount of energy if he wereconscious. He held tight to the guitar’s neck and mumbled some words. Notgiving up, I muted John Legend and lo, instantly, Sean sprung up. His heavysleep bags disproved my suspicion of a mischief. Muting John wasn’t supposed tobe part of the tactic to separate the sleeping friends but hell, it took onlyJohn to shut up for him to return from sleepland. Odd. I could have blamed myexhausted self for my failing but Sean already had a reputation for sleepingand clinging with instruments. Drum sticks and the guitar are regular sleepingpartners.

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

“Yes,your troubles!”

Whatsort of last child stresses parents more than other siblings did incombination?

Oneevening, before the transfer, my dad called to inform me to warn Sean. Suchcalls are frequent. The old man had got home and was shocked to find a gadgethe has just bought dismembered. The usual suspect had taken some parts away forwhatever experiment - musical or scientific. He got home later and returned thegadget to normal.

I havebeen a victim of several experiment of this young chaotic mind.

He hadused my laptop the evening before a major presentation at work. I had savedsome documents in it which I forgot to transfer to my office PC. On the day ofpresentation, few hours before, I turned on Bunmi (My laptop pet name). Bunmi’sscreen 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 isbeyond me,” he said. Whooom! I hit the road. Blood temperaturealready hitting Hell-Degrees-Celsius. I asked him what he did to Bunmi. He took her from me and embarked on a surgerywhile I stood beside him like a fleshy mix of fury and frustration. And then,laptop went back to normal.

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

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

Sean.Lover of the dark. Admirer of NorbertWiener. 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’sboyfriend. Funny man. Receiver of constant tongue-lashing (from sister). Music whore. And…

and…

…proud member of the skinny jeans generation.

Sean clocksanother year. I thought I should make a deserving post.

HappyBirthday Baby Bro.

2010.

2011-01-05T11:04:00.014+01:00

“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.)

Farewells

2010-10-26T11:13:00.001+01:00

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!

ode to old flames

2010-09-27T16:34:00.030+01:00

i was looking for some collection of limericks in my external drive when i stumbled at this material. some current of unease ran through me as i read the words that i’d typed a long time ago. this was written in the middle of some weird retrospection. i was going to edit it but resisted the urge to do that. it’s better left as “purist” as it has been, i figured.

note: preceding alphabet on each verse is the first of real names.

shall we talk of times spent relieving under feline palms

until the estuary of laughter burst into unceasing rain of cobble stones?

shall we talk of the sudden surge of air

that came on the hour of suffocation?

or the sparing water that trickled down, alas, from

god’s middle finger?

who broke up with you?

i know the one who packed his sharded re-

mains

mother theresa of the kogi river.

of course, we’re poles apart

but do I look like the demons your pastors talk about?

listen mother, even the gods sleep with men.

how was your jesus born?

oh, those songs behind campus listening walls.

those secret nightwalks along craggy lanes

dodging guards and marauding canines

those needless excursions to god’s own door.

with angels (demons?) prying down from the steeple

of that friday under soluble sky

when silence spoke in operatic accents

and fingers tip-toed beyond the hovering sheds

and the strangeness of it all –

of the two gapping years

of you at the towering edge

of this memory and legacy

that love knows no age

that love is age-less

the rigmarole of stupid promises is over.

those pestering speeches

of berlin wall melting into mediterranean sprawl.

but thanks due for the memory of sleek laughs

and accented vexations.

thanks due to the memory of frothful kisses.

and randy yarns.

of sweet musings that marked your paw marks

and of the tears

streaming into frothless beer.

damn ogun and this metal beadboard

stubborn daemon…

damn those fare-wells and

damn your tears. damn it all.

but doc,

will you unbelch this belly of this nuclear reaction, the one

your america ignores?

ps. even if these words read like hieroglyphics to your

hippocratic brain, yours is the heart that was desired.

New Job. And a Few Irrelevant Gist.

2010-07-21T12:47:00.003+01:00

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~~-blow~~ing~~ 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?

This happened

2010-04-29T12:49:00.002+01:00

My farewell message to my (ex)-colleagues as I move on in my career as an advertising executive.

Role Models is a funny movie. It is, and everyone who has seen it will agree, that it can pass for a brilliant comedy invention. It didn't force itself to be funny like those Nigerian sitcoms that I torture my eyes to view only at some joints where I need to grab something cold to drink. And that happens very often.

Some of the scenes, however, are boring. They make you just want to hit the pause button with your fist and reach for the 15-day old meat pie in your refrigerator. Just when you’re still at that thought, you realize that the refrigerator is a distance closer to the sun. What do you do? You just keep the faith, and hope that the God of Seth MacFarlane will control the next drag. Yes, you’re lucky. After a few minutes, there is a sudden flush of happiness on your face, the two major characters are goofing, and you can’t but laugh. The throw-pillow that was your comforting mate during the boring scenes suddenly turned to a fart-suppressing device, because no one, not even your neighbours, will believe that a movie is causing the uncontrollable discharges. Damn it, it’s your ribs having a good crack of their life.

But one scene has stood stubbornly with me. I have equated the whole of the movie to that scene. It’s the scene where Wheeler grabs the microphone at a surprise birthday party that his colleagues had organized for one of them – Danny.

Danny and Wheeler are closer to themselves than they are to other colleagues. Despite that, Danny doesn’t consider Wheeler close enough to him to merit how Wheeler defined their relationship. He cuts in to correct Wheeler when he takes to the centre to refer to Danny as “my best friend”. Wheeler replies, “No, we just work together. Not best friends”

Gbosa!

If not for Wheeler’s bubbly nature, he would have spent the rest of the party sulking like a teenager experiencing her first love break-up. That’s not what you expect when you choose to affiliate yourself to a supposed close friend, albeit public. But let’s face it; it’s the way of the world.

What’s the lesson for me?

Notwithstanding the length of time, some people at your place of work will become your friends, some will not merit that title, some will play Danny and use their words to hit you like a “cudgel” (Sorry Boss, lol), some are so damn nice they’re almost taking the place of your siblings, etc. In this agency, I have been endowed with too many of the latter. And that’s where the fun has been. After all, life, in the words of Forrest Gump, is like a box of chocolate, “you never know what you're gonna get”

My time here has been a great experience. What I have now are memories. I couldn’t ask for more. It’s fun working with people who know how to work, and who do it with a lot of passion.

Yes, this happened.

I wish the agency the best of the years ahead.

George Carlin. The man I sleep with.

2010-03-23T15:50:00.000+01:00

How I met George Carlin. It was sometime in 2002 or so. My brother got some DVDs and asked me to make a pick so we can watch together. I settled for Dogma. I was drawn by its somewhat quirky title.

The movie starred Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Chris Rock, Salma Hayek and George Carlin. George played the role of a publicity-stunting Cardinal (Glick) who, in one of the church scenes, unveiled a new image of Jesus to a group of reporters. Armed with their cameras and writing pads, the reporters listen to Glick as he takes to the podium to give a speech on his conviction that the soon-to-be retired crucifix was wholly depressing and no longer fit to be the symbol of Christianity. Oh my! The Church, he argued, need to adopt a more soothing and upbeat image. And so, he moved closer to a veiled object by his side and pulls the cover to reveal a smiling Jesus giving the “thumbs up” sign. He asks, “Isn’t this better?”

I quickly hit the pause button and launched into a fit of laughter.

That scene is the only part of George’s role in the movie that has remained unforgettable to me.

Fast-forward to a few years after. I bought an edition of one of Newsweek or Time Magazine and read an interview of George Carlin. His picture on the page was quite familiar but I couldn’t link it to any memory until his role in Dogma was referenced. Until then, I didn’t know him as a popular comedian. The interview made me do a research on him.

Enter Google.

Based on my research, I discovered a comical genius whose brand of comedy involves lots of intellectual ponderings, especially political, philosophical, religious and human behavior; a cynic, who is critical of the American life and the way the English language is used; a rebel, who has the least regard for societal norms. In his words, “I think it’s the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.”

I saw some of his materials online and was literally in stitches. His jokes vary from takes on mundane observations to satirical jabs on politics, religions etc. A friend says Carlin is to comedy, what Bernard Shaw is to play writing.

But that was it. I didn’t hear from him again until 2009 when KT whom I once told about Dogma acquired some audio and HBO performances of George Carlin and gave me.

What followed were long days and nights of listening and watching George Carlin. I was experiencing a comedic ecstasy. As soon as I had a free time at work, I call my earphones to duty. St. George Carlin has some words of admonition.

I could care less about the monster called Lagos traffic. Bring on the drag; I’ve got Carlin as my company.

I began to send some of his punch lines as text messages to friends, and so became a self-appointed converter of disciples to the Cult of George Carlin. I asked a friend – also a standup comedian, why we don’t/can’t have Carlin’s type of comedy in Nigeria. He retorted, “You don’t want to hurt people’s brains, do you?” It was a funny, but profound response.

Some months ago, I got two books by Carlin: Brain Droppings & Napalm & Silly Putty. The books quickly shove Jerry Seinfeld away from my bed. Jerry’s tenure as my sleeping partner was over. His book, that is - SeinLanguage.

It’s no surprise that some of my favourite comedians - Jerry Seinfeld, Stephen Colbert, Jay Leno, Chris Rock, Jon Stewart - consider George Carlin as their biggest influence. He is ranked second on the Comedy Central list of 100 greatest stand-up comedians. My ranking will put him on top of the list.

Here are some of the short takes that Carlin is fond of sharing with me in bed. They’re some of my favourites.

Welcome to Carlinism.

“Try explaining Hitler to a kid.”

“I call him Governor Bush because that's the only political office he's ever held legally in this country.”

“Catholics – which I was, until I reached the age of reason.”

“If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn’t it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted?”

“Never forget, Hitler was a catholic”

“There's something I like about the clitoris, but I can't quite put my finger on it.”

“Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?”

“Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist”

“I don't understand why prostitution is illegal. Selling is legal. Fucking is legal. Why isn't selling fucking legal? You know, why should it be illegal to sell something that's perfectly legal to give away? I can't follow the logic on that one at all! Of all the things you can do, giving someone an orgasm is hardly the worst thing in the world. In the army they give you a medal for spraying napalm on people! In civilian life you go to jail for giving someone an orgasm. Am I missing something?”

“One can never know for sure what a deserted area looks like.”

“Some people see things that are and ask, Why? Some people dream of things that never were and ask, Why not? Some people have to go to work and don’t have time for all that.”

“When you’re born you get a ticket to the freak show. When you’re born in America, you get a front row seat.”

“The reason I talk to myself is that I’m the only one whose answers I accept”

“I have as much authority as the Pope; I just don’t have as many people who believe it.”

“I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot more as they grow older; then it dawned on me – they’re cramming for their final exam.”

“In the United States, anybody can be president. That’s the problem.”

“Just when I discovered the meaning of life, it changed.”

“I tried to give up heroin, but all my efforts were all in vein”

“The Jews are smart. They don’t have a hell.”

“An art thief is a man who takes pictures.”

“Do you know why they call it a blow job? So it’ll sound like there’s a work ethic involved. Makes a person feel like they did something useful for the economy.”

“The IQ and the life expectancy of the average American recently passed each other going in opposite directions”

“As far as I’m concerned, humans have not yet come up with a belief that’s worth believing.”

“You can’t argue with a good blow job.”

Carlin died in 2008 at the age of 71. Oh yes, you can accuse me of necrophilia.

His legacy includes winning five Grammy Awards for his albums.

George Carlin on YouTube. There’s a playlist by the right. Be sure to click them for more videos.

PS: Abbie, if you’re reading this post, remember you promised me George Carlin’s autobiography Last Words. In the interest of world safety, fulfill your promise!

I’m going to bed.

Birthday Blues

2010-02-23T12:03:00.001+01:00

“I'd thought I was immune to growing old. Now it’s happening to me."

- My Facebook status on February 14th

I always look forward to my birthday for the reason that it doubles as the universal day of love. It’s fun. Everyone remembers your birthday, at least before the rompishness of Valentine sets in to cause momentary amnesia in some people, including angry exes. Believe me, the mushiness of Valentine’s Day is worse on people born on that day. That’s my theory. But it’s good that one enjoys the compensation of doubly greetings: one for birthday, one for love. I’d wish, though, that I got double gifts for both. A girlfriendless status put paid to that. Yuckk!

It turned out to be a day full of surprises, and lots of laughs. My siblings, as usual, had queued to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. My sister especially had called few hours earlier to announce that she is beating everyone to be the first to wish me a happy birthday otherwise she won’t give me a cake the size of a BRT Bus. That night, as I read Wole Soyinka’s Climate of Fear while torturing my ears with shuffled songs from Michael Buble, E. T. Mensah, and Jaheim, the first sms came in. Time, 12:01. Funny, it wasn’t from my sis. Not from any of them.

Lots of calls. One particular case, I had to beg my mum who had jokingly complained that “some unknown people won’t let her talk to her son on his birthday”. And that’s because she got “number busy” for six times on her phone while trying to reach me. I asked who these “unknown people” were. She said, “Six women!” Six WHAT?! Geesuz!

Lots of messages. Lots of CRAZY messages. I think I’m in the wrong circle of friends. Mad people.

Angela’s email: Roses are red. Violets are blue. Quickly make your bed. I’m sending Jenna Jameson to you. Happy Birthday. PS: 24 hours service paid for.

Bukky: Hey horny monk, I’m snowed in here but I wish you lotta ~~ho’s~~ this year.

Tobena’s: Omo Ogun. You made it again. Stupid you. Happy birthday.

I really should start auctioning for new friends.

I’d sufficiently harassed a lot of harassable friends before that day, on facebook, G-chat and on the phone. In a grand fit of excessive fantasizing, I had carefully marched some people to each item on my wish list: iPhone “iSolate” Dock (Boye), Full sponsorship of birthday party at Transcorp Hilton Hotel (Tope), Limited edition of Johnnie Walker with my name engraved on them (Dammy & Wemmy), Audi SUV 2010 model (Yomi), HONDA CR-V 2009 model (Blessing), a new high-end laptop (Prof. T), a puppy St. Bernard (Dr. Femi). This is not an exhaustive list. One of them suggested that I should consider becoming a Sugarboy to Ita-Giwa if half of my wish will materialize. I’m working on it. Wish me luck.

Big surprise. I haven’t been more convinced that Jesus is indeed the lord until I unboxed the gift - a pair of ankle shoes from crazyfella extraordinaire - Dami. I hope it’s not one of his numerous pranks. I’m guessing I would be pressured to pay back in the future. I don’t trust that brother.

So a close friend - her new name will be Amanda, decided to include movies into the birthday menu. Amanda suggested Galleria. Hell no! Don’t quite like that place, except its bookshop. City Mall? Proudly ditched. But now I look back and regret insisting on going to see a movie at The Palms. The traffic on the road to that place is second to itself, which makes me wonder all the fuss about living in Lekki. All the while as she drove, I kept poking my head from the sunroof partly to demonstrate my concern for her plight. Valentine’s Day tickets were sold out, so we settled for Everybody’s Fine. Good movie. I don’t know why it didn’t do well at the box office. And going back home was even worse, but the warm conversation was enough to make up for the drag. I tormented her. That’s not fair considering the shirts and lovely cards. Lekki traffic is crazy.

Happy belated birthday to birthday mates, Spicy and Tisha.

There it goes. Now all I do is muse over my Facebook update, and stare at unopened bottles of wine.

bloghead

2010-01-19T11:24:00.003+01:00

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

2009-03-11T10:15:00.000+01:00

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!

2008-11-07T14:35:00.005+01:00

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

2008-10-16T12:59:00.005+01:00

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

2008-08-12T11:11:00.001+01:00

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...

2008-07-25T19:08:00.002+01:00

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

2008-06-18T20:13:00.000+01:00

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.

Creative Advertising

2008-05-25T19:42:00.000+01:00

Some pictures from the beautiful world of advertising!

Campaign on verbal abuse against women "Verbal abuse can be just as horrific"

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

NIVEA : "For extra strong, extra long nails"

Durex XXL

Creative or what ya think?

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?

2008-05-09T17:06:00.002+01:00

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…?

Just Images

2008-04-15T13:07:00.000+01:00

Creative Advertising. Beautiful Ads. We'll soon get there in Nigeria.

Writer’s Block or Writer’s Cramp?

2008-04-05T13:05:00.002+01:00

These words are just spilling out. I'm not sure if this will turn out to be a sensible piece. I'll follow the drag.

Most times I get nudged to write, either by some experience, or just by the common writer’s need to give a disturbing thought a lettered face. In some cases, it is the struggle to marry conflicting views together, and writing becomes the only leeway for a settlement.

This often comes with its misfortune. I realize that while employing writing as a means to resolving the conflict, I end up inviting some other voices, different shades of perspectives, of voices once muffled, or once inexistent. Of course this is good. But first, I’ll pause, aghast at my self-infliction. Should I continue to write? Should I just give up? Should I just engage someone in a discourse instead of resorting to writing? Questions. Probings. Doubts. And then, the words will take a life of their own. As they begin to spill out from their enclave, I’ll negotiate my way through them, and then some kind of light - a strange glow of revelation, will bear on the naked slab. Thoughts will begin to interact with one another: agreeing, disagreeing. Before the first yawn sets in, I would have written a piece. Before I know it, I would have dotted the last sentence.

Now I have to digress. It’s often the lot of a writer, especially when what is to be written is yet unformed in ones mind, that funny situation where thoughts fly mischievously, playing hide and seek, resisting every attempt to strewn them into sentences; if not to make a sense out of them but at least to ease the writer’s unsettled mind. Even when the thoughts are well formed, ready to be typed out, they start another form of mischief, this time confronting the writer with where and how to start. This is a familiar terrain.

When nibbled to write, I do not wait for long, before I resign into calmness, into a state where I’m likely to be uninterrupted. And if that occurs in the morning, the better for me, since it appears I’m mostly alert during that part of the day. It’s usually a strange bonus if I get to write anything at all before night calls it a day.

Now, I’m supposed to write. The impulses are right. I just don’t know how to start. This is it! That dreaded state. Writer’s block. A distracting clog on the wheel of invention.

"Maybe there is no such thing as a writer’s block," I ask myself sometimes. Maybe it’s just ones perfectionist tendency pressed beyond tolerable limits, and resulting into some kind of cooling down after a tenuous mental exhaustion.

All the same these are not the words I planned to put down, I think I’m blocked.

Asa, Mama Waidi, reviewed

2008-03-17T11:58:00.000+01:00

I love Asa. By the day way, who doesn’t? Here is a brilliant review of Asa, her eponymous album. I hope it will be a first-time consideration for any recognition the album might be up for.

Asa's voice. She works it delicately it threatens to break at every high pitch-- but it doesn't; and the listener's racing heart takes a reprieve. Until the next crescendo, that is. But the message she delivers is arresting hundreds across the world.

Of course, as some have agreed, Bob Marley will love her. Fela will see hope again. Wyclef Jean will be impressed. And she might make friends with such atypical performers as India Arie and Macy Gray. She performs moving poetry on love, human rights, the ordinary life. The manner in which she handles the songs, the reverence, suggests that she didn’t know what she was on to until it arrived fully formed, the mixture of reggae, soul, hip-hop, folk, and rock. And she is left with the enormous challenge to name it, although it appears she won't be able to.

The music is bigger than the musician. Asa stands, maybe, 5ft. She doesn’t at once look like superstar material. Her voice, well, is unusual. Strange. Yet her virtuosity outpaces these distractions, even though she sings like an unpolished village girl, with heavy stress points on her consonants and an attraction to accented English. Her 11th-track, Beautiful, for instance, consumes a great number of songs-for-mother that came before it. Presenting from a refreshing perspective, her flow reflects a robust emotion deserving of a tribute to one who made the giving of life possible.

If the comments on her website and YouTube channel are to be believed, the 11-track CD, Asa, captivates audiences everywhere on earth. The appeal in Europe, America , and Africa is tremendously promising. At home, since the album arrived with the single, Fire on the Mountain, it might have achieved this huge popularity for its significant difference in tone and content, threatening to remove the ground from under what Nigeria was beginning to accept as its own voice: Afro-hip-hop, the standard.

Over the years, from her days as a university dropout who took to the guitar, a weird girl guitarist on the streets of Lagos, to the troubled days with former associates, Question Mark Entertainment, Asa's art has grown up. She is adding frills to her stage performances, too. She can now tour the world as her own woman, not an inconsequential opening act for other people.

Will she win a Grammy? Will she merely be nominated? It's a question that has been asked. If she does win a Grammy or something very prestigious, then it confirms the widespread belief that Asa is world class indeed. If she doesn't, it may not reduce from her magical attraction.

Her drawback, eventually, maybe in the showmanship she puts into her stage performances. That she can conveniently hold concerts for hours has not been convincingly projected either. And, most importantly, how long will this type of music enrapture the world? Some have said it will soon fade away, being a distraction from the dominance of hip-hop and rap. If it doesn't, it's on Asa's shoulder to prove that her first album didn’t happen by luck. She needs to show, in her future work, that she won't cut and paste the rhythm and melody from this one.

And the voice. God don't let it collapse. It's the witchcraft that holds all these in place.

And I strongly think Amy Winehouse comes second after Asa ;)

Tribute to an Insomniac Poet

2007-05-05T19:41:00.001+01:00

This is about someone whose poetry I like to relish. I had it in my plans to meet him someday. But as death will have it, that plan never materialised.

Tribute to an Insomniac Poet

I got Ebereonwu’s anthology, "The Insomniac Dragon" as a gift from a friend. My friend had wanted me to see that there are Nigerian writers who employ poetry as a medium to express their zaniness. He must have burdened himself with the task of browsing through the Literature section of the University of Ibadan bookshop to fetch out that beautiful piece of unusual anthology in order to refute my claim of a dearth of such poetic content in the Nigerian literary landscape. A few days before, we had argued over the proliferation of ‘political’ and ‘African’ poems in the country. I was emphatic in my assertion that as much as I do appreciate poems with such content, that it was high time we started reading poems with real existential leanings… with a stress on an individual’s quest for meaning in life, an individual’s struggle against life’s strange tides, an individual's rebellion against the conventional etc., etc.

Sooner had I leafed through The Insomniac Dragon, than my hunger for existential poems (from Naija) was satisfied. I think Ebereonwu was mad. If death had not callously taken him away from us, it might have been necessary to request for a psychiatric examination of his brain. I oftentimes find myself captured in awe of his crazy ideas and also wonder that his inspiration cannot but be from anything less than the bottle. No sane man could have chunked out such screwy lines. Or what shall one say of a poet who wrote:

The cobra’s venom is my cough syrup

(“Mankind”, The Insomniac Dragon)

or of these poignant and depressing lines:

I have drowned a river in the ocean

And buried the night in the dark

I am my parents’ unrealized ambition

My lover’s promise never to be fulfilled

(“Next door”, The Insomniac Dragon)

As though this were not enough, Ebereonwu sequeled "The Insomniac Dragon" with yet another outlandish collection aptly titled "Unpublishable Poems". If I were to offer a change of title, I would have suggested Unpalatable Poems because if poetry is meant to be savoured, the poems in this collection are definitely too tart for the tongue.

In this new collection, one either gets stunned by his personal jabs on erstwhile president of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), Odia Ofeimun in the “Ode To The Odd Man” or totally gets knocked away by the rather cynical poem, “SINFUL WORLD” where he wrote:

Judge me not so that you shall not be judged

You don’t have to break your own law

Just to see me punished for getting involved

Throw me not into the lake of eternal fire

I wouldn’t do that to you if you were a sinner

(“SINFUL WORLD”, Unpublishable Poems)

Ebereonwu’s poems are particularly disturbing. Well, maybe to a reading audience that is constituted of religious bigots and fanatics. He is daring in his ideas. They are unconventional. Pretty wonder that he wrote that:

My poetry is the graffiti

On the trunk of a jacaranda

(“Just a poet”, The Insomniac Dragon)

I wish I knew more about Ebereonwu’s personal life beyond what is profiled in the blurb of his books. He cannot be any less different from his poems.

Ebereonwu, in your demise I found muse.

HERE

Your spittle harpooned the shark of bigotry and norm

Your voice unsettled the moon even in its abode up high

In your mortal strides, you caused cherubs to fret and sigh

You’ve gone, leaving behind your prepuce and venom

THERE

It isn’t the fool anymore, let them know

It’s the wise and strong that treads where angels fear to go

So with your pen, cause ripples over there

Unsleep their slumbering stare