A fortune in the flowers

I think I finally have found an answer to the meddlesome query- ‘When will you marry... This year, next year, sometime or never?’ - that the more nosy fraction of my acquaintances seems to be throwing at me lately.


My mum was trying to establish eye contact, but I wasn’t having it. We were seated across from each other, separated by a yellow and gold laid table in a room which had on this day exploded in an infusion of lime, gold and olive. It was a wedding reception, the programme had just progressed to item number nine and the MC was announcing, even as I pretended not to be listening, that it was time for the bride to throw the bouquet. Already the DJ had cranked up the music and we, ‘the single ladies’, were already being serenaded by Beyonce’s aptly titled rendition of our plight.

It was for this reason I sat, staring determinedly into my glass of five alive juice, while glances around the corner of my eye showed my mum, eyes fixed steadily on me, doing everything she could to get my attention, willing me to look her way so she could send me for the bouquet. I continued sipping my drink, feigning ignorance, and trying to pass the time looking at anything but my mum- my phone, my shoes, my plate of left over jolloff rice- till the MC stopped requesting ringless hands to catch the posy. But you know how fickle the eyes can be, attracted, even when the owner isn’t, to forbidden sights... My eyes stole a quick glance at my mum and before I could murmur ‘oh sugar!’, she pounced on the opportunity of my wary attention and began urging me to go for it.

Trust me, I declined; and had just finished communicating my terse refusal when an aso-ebi bedizened friend of the bride, as if secretly commissioned by my mother for this sole purpose came at me, snatching my bag off my laps, and handing it to my mother before herding me towards the burgeoning crowd of hopeful brides-to-be. And it was to my mum’s utter delight that I submitted shyly to the stranger’s high-handedness and made way towards the nuptial accelerating flowers.

My mum and I, we both knew, or thought we did, that if the bouquet landed on the ground before my feet, I’d be more inclined to give it a kick back where it came from than stoop to pick it up. It isn’t that I do not plan to get married or frown particularly at what I consider to be yet another item off the wedding programme. It’s just that after a few years or so of having this same face-off with my mum at every wedding party we attend together, and following a 24-day period of prolonged exposure to open insinuations and theatrics about my matrimonial prospects and my mum’s wishes to 'have had a wedding or be planning one by December’ (her words, not mine), I was tired of the hassle.

The victorious bride danced on the podium, flinging her bejewelled hand every which way, all the better for us to appreciate the rings that had only recently taken up residence on it; urging us to dance and feinting left and right before finally hurling the missile into the crowd. I watched in passing interest as everything sprung to action- the bouquet somersaulted crazily mid-air as if trying to decide whom to choose, three of the girls closest to the careening garland struggled amongst themselves, succeeding only in grabbing each other’s hairpieces, hands and legs scattered every which way while their energetic bodies crushed the flowers between them. I laughed, amused at the sights before me, wondering which of them would catch the bouquet before my eyes registered that the bunch of flowers had freed itself from the prison of their united embrace and dropped to my peep-toe clad feet.

I battled with my inner devil, should I pick it and give my mum something to crow about; should I not, and prove to myself and to others how disinterested I was in this whole palaver. All this happened while I wondered why the girls in front of me were still tied in a three-body tango in an attempt to grab hold of the elusive bunch which still laid docilely before me. Perhaps it was knowing how much they wanted the bouquet that finally determined my decision to lay my stubbornness aside, pick the bouquet and sashay off with the flowers to present it to my mum, and tease her about the need to begin planning a wedding.

I was called back to the table for all the rites. Here go MC and I:
MC- What’s your name?
ME- Sola
MC- What a nice name!
ME- Thanks. (A nice name for a boy, a girl, a hermaphrodite or a donkey)
MC- So you are going to be our next bride
ME- Shy smile.
MC- I’m still single oh, will you marry me?-
ME- Yeah, I will. (Not likely, at least not unless you quit your MCing and get a day job or strike it hard enough to be the next Alibaba)
MC- Hope you'll give me your number before you go
ME- Of course (not)

And off I went to be congratulated by all and sundry; you’d have thought I was the bride herself.
An older lady on my table who had noticed what went down between my mum and I even went so far as to say ‘and you were refusing to go earlier, why were you trying to deny your destiny?’ I wanted to laugh or maybe cry or maybe ask her what her business was.

So, now I have caught the bouquet and people seem inclined to believe that this one feat predicts glad connubial tidings for me this year, what next? Will the elusive mister husband finally deem it time to show his person? Will I finally stop getting chatted by players or OWH’s (other women’s husbands)?

Whatever the case though, with immediate effect I am throwing the gates open for applications. Any young man wishing to tie the nuptial knot this year should apply forthwith. There’ll be a screening process, but never fear, even if you do not own a car, your application will be considered (the bit of wisdom I got from the wedding is to henceforth be polite to guys in buses – it was inside one that the bride and groom first met, and there’s no telling that mine won't be the same). It should be noted, however, that having a snazzy car, a pretty face, a buff body, your own business, a home in Lekki or VI, or earning what might equal an armed robber’s salary can only be beneficial to your application.

As for the boys who like to put ladies like me on a long thing, coming to hold fingers they have no intention of adorning, I’ll tell them this one thing and they’d better take me serious- If you see me coming at you, cross the road; if I head towards Sapele, run for Adamawa; because if you risk toasting me this year when you haven’t the slightest intention of putting a ring on it, it just might be last toast you make

This is my year, so say the flowers, and in advance, I say ‘I do!’

body language

In a feat of daring when I was ten, I cut my buttock on one of those jagged green and transparent glasses placed on fences as a deterent to thieves- the equivalent of the modern barbed wire. This happened while I was scaling the fence into my watching neighbours’ compound and it was amidst their cheers and my siblings’ that I returned home in a bloodied gown with the white fat of my butt exposed. I underwent six stitches and three weeks of painful sitting.

That wasn’t the hardest part of my experience, however. That came when my ten year old self agonized over whether I’d ever get a man to marry me with my now imperfect butt. Yes, even then when I didn’t know the difference between a 38G and a 32A bra cup, I knew that my body mattered. The question, however, is how much should it really matter?

My stitched butt was only the beginning of my agonies over perfection. After that followed self consciousness over my underbite dentition (my lower teeth being in front of the upper, reversing the normal arrangement) which needed braces my parents either didn’t have the finances, or didn’t think was important enough to my self esteem, to provide for me. For years, i couldn't smile, especially at cameras.

Next was my tongue which in an earlier post I admitted to having hurt as a child and which till date sports scars of an injury I cannot now remember. Who would ever kiss me knowing my tongue was scarred, I despaired, thinking the possibility of my ever getting French kissed was about the same as that of a catholic mother Mary ever getting laid.

Other agonies were my wishbone type legs, which I couldn’t bear to expose till I had to wear my short Virgin Nigeria uniform skirt; my flat (ok, not quite so much anymore) butt, even though I have child bearing hips for my slim stature; my skinny arms which I also couldn’t bear to expose to public scrutiny till the advent of the spaghetti strap top, the beginning of university and the need to attract a testosterone driven male or two made it absolutely necessary. Last, I had the gall to worry about my cleavage which had grown from mosquito bites in my first year (of university, in case you are inclined to think earlier) to veritable grapes (large citrus fruits) by my third year.

It is female to always worry about our bodies; when others could kill for our hourglass figure, we bemoan the fact that we are too curvy; when we could rival America’s next top model we lament our stick figure. Men are permitted to flaunt their beer guts and XXL Jay Z sized lips but we females kill ourselves over the smallest imperfections.

Truth is I have since found guys to administer the French kiss on me… eight and counting (A tad too many, maybe. but hey, I have something to prove!). When I stripped before my boyfriend, he was too busy copping a feel of my bum to notice the tiny scar on a cheek.

We’d all like to be perfect but we’ve got to admit that no one can ever be. Ashwarya Rai has the most painfully beautiful face I’ve seen but also the makings of a flat butt. Omotola Jalade is stunning but might always need a padded bra. Ok, so Beyonce is damn near perfect but i bet you couldn’t keep up with the exercise regime from hell she’d have to do to burn off that natural inclination she has to be fat. And Will Smith for all his gorgeousness has ears like a hare's.

So what if when you pull off your bra your breasts make way toward your belly button, your smile makes the sun shine and your skin looks like spun gold; what if those pendulous buttocks of yours are cellulite city, when they shake they cause a quake in guys’ hearts, and have a hypnotic quality.

I read in some interesting magazine that chances are almost absolute that if he’s been busy trying to get you in bed, he’s scarcely going to be bothered by the fact that you have pimples for breasts. His eyes may briefly register shock when he sees the double D’s come away with the bra but he’s hardly going to be yanking up his shorts and making a run for the door.

You are perfect just the way you are. Take time to admire what you’ve got going for you and spare fewer thoughts for those which you cannot change. Do not avoid the mirror (not that I imagine any female can. Me, I can forge a lucrative career from looking in the mirror; in fact life wouldn’t be worth living without it) if you must, get one that very kindly stretches you and converts that horizontal well fed girth of yours to height. Appreciate what’s great about you and you’ll nurture your confidence. As for the less perfect parts of you, forget them! There aren’t any cops out there looking to arrest you for ditching your insecurities. Enjoy being you, and others will enjoy being with you.

ESCAPING THE CRAZIE FROM LEYTONSTONE

I hurried from the rain to stand under the bus shelter at Leytonstone Station and the first thing I noticed was the toxic fume of nicotine from His cigarette. I rolled my eyes thinking ‘these London smokers have come again oh! Wo n kuku ri otutu soju' (They must always smoke especially when it’s cold like this!) When he walked around and came to stand in front of me looking at my face, I thought I had perhaps made my derision too obvious to him.

We waited at the bus for fifteen minutes and even when I wasn’t looking, I sensed his gaze. My bus came, I got in as did about seven others; I scanned the passengers, my gazer wasn’t in the bus and just as I was about to settle down in relief, my instinct already buzzing with subconscious knowledge of something I couldn’t put a finger on, he came in and the door immediately shut after him. He stood before me where I sat and I concentrated on looking away determinedly… I was going only two stops after all.

I came down at my stop with several others and I knew before I glanced back to confirm that he had alighted too. Immediately I stared power walking, not waiting for the passenger lights on come on to stop vehicles before crossing in order to give myself a head start. I also all but glued myself to a girl I suspected to be Nigerian while we were walking, someone who thankfully hadn’t lived in the UK long enough to be uncomfortable with me encroaching on her personal space as I matched her step for step. When however I saw that ‘my guy’ was closing in on us, I ditched my body double and resumed my fast trek.

I was panting by the time I got to the turning of my street. I turned in and kept walking but fear of having my follower chase after me in the dark, deserted street kept me rooted on one spot trying to decide if to change my course and head instead to the corner shop on the next street. It was this that afforded me the opportunity of seeing a male figure sidle into a small alley at the beginning of my street.

I stood where I was in fear, forgetting the threat of the resident fox on my close who lives just behind where I stood and whose ‘home’ I’d always given a wide berth at all times of my passing. Indecision immobilized me- was it he? Was it not? Should I make a run for home, a mere hundred metres away? or should I seek light and company at the corner shop, risking going back towards the alley and the man who might even now be lurking in wait for/ pursuit of me?

It was indecision that made me stand in front of the bushy property of our fox (who had diminished in importance next to the possibility of my being stalked and staked out) long enough to see him- I recognized him by the cap he was wearing- emerge from his alley, look at me and stand there; perhaps trying to determine what to do now that I didn’t have my back turned and had obviously noticed something amiss. We stood five houses apart, looking at each other for a few heartbeats before I blinked and he was gone back into the alley. I stayed for moments that seemed interminable, waiting for him to emerge, deciding what to do. I saw him emerge again briefly and retreat. I started to walk towards home in haste, looking back with every step, waiting for him to follow, my throat prepared to let out a scream the kind of which the quiet English neighbourhood I live in hadn’t heard before.

I reached my gate, ran in leaving it unlocked in my impatience, my heart beating fast. More scared now for not being able to see if he was coming at me. I inserted my key in the lock, which is known for not picking its stubborn days well (it would never open with one try on days when you are hurrying in from the rain or carrying a ton of groceries or trying to escape a crazy stalker). After what must have been about fifteen seconds but seemed like a year and half, the door swung open. I hustled in, enclosing myself in the comforting darkness of the two by two foot space between my front door and the second door.

It was in that safe dark space that I could then acknowledge that I had begun suffering from stomach cramps which always happens whenever I let fear get the better of me. I turned my key in the lock, sighing at the loud click that signified my safety. But in the few, dark moments it took me to find the light switch and turn it on, I convinced myself the lights would come on to reveal my stalker welcoming me home with an evil grin.

Of course that didn’t happen; I was home safe. But if paranoia could kill I’d have died today of fear of the unkempt, shifty looking, black man who saw me off home.

THE SOUTHBANK STATUE

It was a nice summer day today, went out with my family and wound up around covent garden,the london eye and the millenium bridge where there were sights to thrill the tourists that were about. I danced to 'no woman no cry', a bob marley song performed by a two-man band, made friends with a nosy, middle aged trinidad and tobago lady, laid in the sun in Southbank park, licking a lolly; and enjoyed performances by magicians, dancers and jugglers. And because i didnt have a child with me(the youngest in our group is sixteen years) i contemplated the statues sitting, standing, cycling, posing around and got into- i like to think so- the mind of one of them. Enjoy...

You sit in the sun, feeling its rays warm your neck and attempt to tempt a smattering of sweat from your glistening skin; no, you think, this isn’t good for the silver. You reach down, trying to take your mind of the heat, and spread out your bilious ball gown, arranging it in a neat pleat around your silver shoes. You sit up, spread your fan wide as if to work at giving yourself that much needed breeze and then strike the pose, one leg crossed delicately over the other, your wide brimmed silver hat tilted just so.

You sit there in the grassy park whatever the weather or temperature, not for the same reason as the tourists gathered about you, but for a living. You are the Southbank statue, the living version of an English queen long dead… and true to form, for looking at you, nobody would think there was any heart beating beneath your breast. You make sure to look the part- silver spray paint, the best, ensures that you look like a grey stone sculpture just polished; your nails, your lips, the nape of your neck, your hair, your entire body- except your teeth which flash briefly in a smile when you hear the chink- none escape the silver spray.

You sit with your back ramrod straight; gown and fan spread wide, and say silent thanks as the sun dips briefly, letting cool air waft over your painted flesh, and you allow your mind to wander off to Thomas- the magician drawing a crowd on your right, your boyfriend. You are interrupted by a friendly wave from a little girl. You wave back and her mother seeing she likes you urges her to take a picture with the lady statue. You hear the chink, look down briefly to check: 50 pence, not bad but not generous either; and move to the side as graciously as the lady you personify would to let the little girl sit by you, your hand resting ever so gently across her tiny shoulder and look at the camera lens as the mother registers you forever in the future.

You cannot begin to imagine how many albums, both physical and virtual you must grace after two years being a statue by the London Eye, but judging from still having to show up here every morning when you had only planned a three-month stint as a living statue, then not nearly enough albums, you figure. The picture takers don’t count- those who stand two feet away and click away endlessly at the spectacle you make but don’t come near enough to drop a stipend in your silver basket. If each of them dropped a penny, you’d be rich now

Little girls like you, like sharing your stool and having your arms around them, boys stare, puzzled, even fascinated. But adults, those who have no children whose fascination they can share, look at you in contemplation, perhaps wondering how good the pickings are for a day, wondering if to ditch their day jobs to become stationary freak shows; or asking themselves if their neglected postures could permit them sit like you, striking exactly the same rigid pose the whole day. And to think you get off easy with sitting, you often wonder how Rick, the King George statue nearby hasn’t taken ill with arthritis after five years of standing on one leg with an arm pointing a sword in the sky.

The daylight is almost gone, you sigh with relief; a day’s work is done. A few more chinks in your basket- a pound here, five pence there and a shower of copper coins after. You stand up stiffly- as would be expected of a walking statue; advisable as it might elicit some more generosity from the crowd around, gather your basket and stool and set off for The Lantern to have a cold beer. Thomas will join you in a while, when he is done cajoling coins out of the pockets of his audience with his unicycle juggling act. But first, you count your day’s earnings- 16 pounds 53 pence, slim pickings for a lovely summer day and the large outdoorsy crowd, who unfortunately seem to think that statues don’t need spending money.

welcome to London 2

The differences overwhelm me. The relentlessness of daylight forces me to eat supper at 12 midnight since my subconscious only acknowledges night-time after the sun has buried its head- late as it gets in the summer. I sleep fitfully, and am awakened by the sun’s glare at five am, by which time it has already gained a few hours’ head start progressing west.

It was wet out yesterday, forcing me to tot a giant red umbrella. It might be windy tomorrow and I’d feel my toes getting lifted off of the ground, with only my bulky jacket managing to keep me grounded. Today is sunny, a throw back to the diabolic heat of Lagos. I mop my brow with a soaked paper towel, and I’m tempted to peel off my little tee-shirt which is already shaded darker under the arms due to perspiration from my armpits. I make a mental note to buy a strong antiperspirant roll-on.

I get on the bus, climb to the top, move forward and take the left seat on the first row, all the better to make my heart jump in my mouth anytime we approach a bus-stop or a turning; believing each time that the inevitable crash would happen, until surprisingly, we glide past looming sign post, or car or pedestrian and I exhale with relief. This is my favourite seat on the bus and each time I wonder why I put myself through the mini torture of seating at the extreme where everything looms closer, worsening my misgivings about the big red buses snaking through London’s already narrow streets

It’s funny the driving practices here. How a motorist has to wait to allow traffic on the left, where I come from, the motorist on the right welds, or attempts to weld, his bumper to the boot of the vehicle before him, and blocks off the attempts of ‘traffic on the left’. He pointedly ignores the other driver’s not so subtle appeals and drives off; somewhat regretful that he couldn’t get the joy of rolling up the asphalt road in his wake.

I see a car half the size of a picanto popping its little bonnet out of a street to join the traffic on the road… ‘chancing’ my big red double decked bus. In my favourite Nigerian city, only the most daring of drivers could attempt this, and even then under the influence of some potent alcoholic concoction or failsafe ajesara procured from some ogbontarigi herbalist. And to think my bus driver had the fortitude to place his foot on the brake to allow the little bugger go before him. In the place I continue to think and speak so fondly of, one of three things would have happened. The driver of the little car would have had his heart blasted out of his body by the trailer-sized honk of the yellow molue he was trying to get ahead of. If he survived this horn blast, his brain would have immediately sent an unbidden impulse to the nerves controlling his foot to activate a counter reaction to acceleration, and he would have looked on, pretending to be deaf and blind as he was subjected to curses and the five fingered profanity of our tribe, even as his car was battered by feet and arms and elbows till he feared the roof collapsing on him in the heat of such a violent rebuke. Now if he did manage to squeeze in before the molue, he would have experienced the joy of having a lovely yellow streak bestowed on the nose, or flank or butt of his (hopefully for his sake not tear rubber) vehicle as reward for his daring.

The little car gets in front, and I get none of the lovely scenarios that had been playing in my mind. We move on and I look down on people, see the ladies in their summer outfits, flesh exposed. And they say we do not dress decently where I am from. But to be fair, at least we have the advantage of year-round decent weather so we do not have to expose bum-cheeks and white stomachs at the first hint of the sun.

Now to those white stomachs- guys have been known to complain that ladies in my country have stomachs that are not pretty for being too large. Large, I agree they may be, but they aren’t distended like those that can be found here. My Nigerian sisters are fortunate enough to bear their projections with dignity, having them stand firmly below their bosoms with the tenacity of a leather ball. Here, their stomachs bear down with the consistency of jelly bags, seemingly in need of an extra extra strength packaging. The stomachs are so formidable that they spread into the flanks of their bearers. The cute versions of these phenomena are called love handles, but the gross bands of fat obtainable on the white babes cannot be mentioned in the same breath as the word ‘love’. They sag over the pubis and undulate in an endless dance with each step their owners take. No wonder liposuction is so popular around here, if I had to lug that belly around all day, I’d consider going under the knife too.

I am racist, I decide. I do not like white skin that turns pink or is decorated with the smattering of brown spots they like to call freckles. I do not like red spots on white cheeks or green veins beneath porcelain flesh. I do not need a colour spectrum on a human. I see them clinging to and touching each other oblivious of the nasty colourations on their bodies but I hold a special grudge against black brothers draped over white flesh that can in an instant turn pink or red or blue or grey. I like Greek/ Latino guys though… such lovely golden skin

And they say we are dirty, I think as I get off the bus and hop foot to foot to avoid the dollops of phlegm of different grades of opaqueness dotted on the side walks. Maybe we are just as bad at spit projection in my country but at least our sandy ground allows our expulsions to bury themselves rather than cake into formless masses on the roads.

I like the dressing here- it follows one easy rule and that is to pile on the colours. You can never go wrong once you bear in mind that you can never have on too many colours. Just garb yourself in a red top, blue bag, purple pants, orange hair band, white belt, green shoes and fuchsia g-string. Anything goes, unlike the obsessive colour co-ordination we practice where I’m from. The practice here makes everything so nice and colourful and makes them look like peacocks at the prime of their reproductive life.

I enter the supermarket, intending to hook myself up with some sweet bread as the sugar-less excuses for bread I get here makes me long for some fresh Agege bread. I look in the aisles; finally find the ‘brioche’ I’m looking for and am about to pick it up when I see the variety of the lot. Cinnamon brioche, orange peel and lemon brioche, crusted brioche with currants, honey and nuts brioche, low calorie brioche … all manner of brioche but no sign of a single, regular, no frills one. I give up trying to discern which would be the safest of the lot and stalk out of the store sans brioche, my intended purchase literally spoilt for choice; leaving me wondering with a bad temper whatever happened to having in stock just one simple, useful product.

My vexation increases as I go past a single twined form which gradually breaks apart before my eyes into two individuals before melding itself together again as one. You see them everywhere- on escalators, on the train on the street corners, in the shops, on the pavement, anywhere but inside a room where they should be if they are that pressed to consummate their love. The ubiquitous lovers who can’t take their hands off each other, clinging, oblivious to passers-by and the discomfort it might be to the not-so-fortunate-to-have-a-partner ones amongst us. But I trust my Nigerian people though, no such expressions of love for them. Never have I caught one such couple of a black origin in the entire period of my observation. They simply won’t take the risk- what with being the highest number of black immigrants here, hence the ease with which you can bump into Aunty Iyabo, your mother’s aunty’s cousin, while riding on the escalator where you are trying determinedly to take a furtive hold of your partner’s erection. Hell no! Also, our black boys, programmed by nature to be polygamous would allow no such intimacy in public even if in private he would stop at nothing to bend your nubile body all the shapes of the alphabet and munch ravenously on your urine and discharge stained panties. On the street though, where girlfriends numbers one to infinity might catch him and punish him by ‘closing shop’ or breaking into his house and blinding the eye of his newly purchased Plasma HD, he’ll pass on the public love.

The sun has disappeared as it usually does; it’s getting chilly and a few needles of rain have pricked my exposed forehead, I quicken my steps to catch the train and brush past a shivering form. I feel like standing before her and crowing hehehehe while I grip my sides in painful mirth. She is clad in a leather skirt the length of a paper napkin; a red cropped spaghetti top with pink bra straps on show. She obviously woke up to the golden glow of the morning sun and decided to make the most of it without reckoning on the fickle nature of the London weather. I give myself a mental back pat for not having ditched my faded black jacket and get on the bus.

I click on the button at my stop and make a mental note to sanitize my hands the first chance I get. It’s a touchy society- you touch in and touch out of train station barriers, click on elevator buttons, lean on and let your fingers trail the escalator hand rails, press the stop buttons in buses, hold on to bus poles and all the while you think of the airborne swine flu and hay fever making the rounds and that terribly graphic advert on Sky TV showing how fast germs can spread from a single sneeze.

It’s been a long day but when I get home there’s electricity to power the cooker and make myself a nice hot plate of indomie noodles. I go into the bathroom to get that much needed soak and water gushes out of the shower, with the temperature varying however I like it. I pad into the living room and put on the TV, watch one programme while I record another and pause or rewind or forward through adverts as it pleases me without fear of NEPA ‘taking the light’ and plunging me into darkness and frustrating suspense over whether Gabby is caught cheating on Carlos in my abruptly terminated TV show. An insistent knock on my door is simply a TESCO delivery and not a signal for me to cower under the bed in fear of a robbery. I can walk on the streets without donning the menacing version of my face because I know no one is at large waiting to grab my bag or hypnotize me into counting electric poles. Food is available, plentiful and cheap, and apple juice isn’t a luxury reserved only for when a visitor comes around. It’s a nice society, I admit, even if I have to encounter distended white bellies and caked spittle everyday I live here.

welcome to london

Still filled with nostalgia from leaving my family behind, I went through the emigration procedures and eventually boarded the plane about an hour after saying goodbye to my parents and two younger siblings. I was spent, and soon after the plane successfully made an ascent to the desired altitude in the dark clouds, I began to feel claustrophobic. The cabin of the British airways plane that was conveying me to London, conveying me to another life with my older sister and her husband, was cramped, smaller than any other I ever flew. The seats, three deep, were about the size of those plastic party chairs of a variety of colours, around which we haltingly danced the chair dance game at those parties of long ago. I wondered how uncomfortable it would be for the mammoth female sitting next to me, I was finding it uncomfortable enough, and to imagine that I am about the size of a strand of boiled spaghetti. The backs of the chairs were straight as rods and just as rigid. And legroom- The airline when making design specifications for the aircraft had, I guessed, simply decided that passengers in economy had no use for that on the five and a half hour journey that it took from Lagos to London, Heathrow.

I tried to see a movie on the little screen in front of me, I was excited to see that they had Slumdog Millionaire, a recent multi award winning movie, on the in-flight entertainment movie list and I decided to see it, regardless of the fact that I had spent a very frantic three hours, the day before my flight, trying to beat the wiles of PHCN by viewing the movie on a laptop. Exhaustion took over, and I only realized I had fallen asleep when I was seduced awake by the uncanny knowledge that snacks were been served. I got mine from the cabin attendant, and began viewing another movie, The Secret Life of Bees, while wincing at the sweet, spicy taste of the pretzels I was snacking on. The madam sitting next to me, perhaps thinking I was in need of more nutrition graciously handed me her own pack of pretzels, I was too tired to argue that I wasn’t enjoying it enough to desire seconds, so just as graciously I accepted, and proceeded to dump it along with the litter when the attendants came collecting.

A few minutes into the movie and deciding it was rather slow, I switched of the entertainment unit and shut my eyes. The Public Address system of the plane woke me after a while as the captain announced that we were approaching London. I continued my movie but kept being interrupted by programmed information on the estimated distance from, and temperature at destination- eight degrees, I wondered how cold that might be because even the twenty three degrees my younger sister absolutely insisted on in our shared bedroom at home reduced me to shivers after about thirty minutes. I eventually gave up acquainting myself with the secret life of bees as the cabin was prepared for landing by the flight attendants.

We landed in rainy London, I went groggily through immigration, tiredness stifling the fear my sister had expressed about the possibility of my being deported for the flimsiest of reasons, this fear having been inflicted by her penchant for viewing episodes of UK Border Force from the comfort of her east London abode. I scaled through immigration, tried to get in touch with my new immediate family without success, stepped out into the cold outside the airport, and finding myself at the mercy of the wily wind, as it stroked my scalp with its feathery fingers, and playfully pushed my steps faster, I hopped a taxi.

A black taxi, one I’d been expressly warned by my sister to avoid, one that reads a meter, one whose fare you might have to get a loan to pay if you were unlucky enough to get snagged in traffic. But I needed a warm place; my slightly oversized jacket was making space for the London breeze and my torso was soon tickled, my nipples puckering to two painful points in acknowledgment of the cold. A black cab was all I, the JJC could find for a warm place at the time, and I decided it couldn’t be as bad as she had made out; UK border wasn’t like she had feared after all. I settled in the back seat, and began the drive.

Half way through I realized I had to call to let my sister know I was on my way home already. I had no airtime on my MTN sim, though it had now conveniently switched to the T-mobile network to enable me make UK calls. I had exhausted my airtime the night before saying unnecessary last minute goodbyes to every friend I could think of while I was waiting for the plane to push back.  So now desperation forced me to discard any hang-ups about begging my cab man for use of his phone. Thrice I tried, and thrice he seemed to not understand my demands, I wondered if my Nigerian accented English was so difficult to comprehend; but who was he to complain or discriminate, I thought, he hardly possessed a sterling Queen’s speech himself, as his English was of the Pakistani variety. I gave it a rest for a while but eventually my need to reassure my sister won out and I made new attempts, enunciating determinedly. Persistence won, and he grudgingly dialled her number for me on his phone. She raved her annoyance and even attempted to persuade the driver to drop me off halfway in order to avoid the exorbitant fare. She gave up eventually, but not after injecting me with a healthy dose of panic.

My ride was ruined; my enjoyment of the lovely cocoon of warmth deserted me. I stopped admiring the scenic view and old structures of the city and fastened my eyes to the meter, my heart breaking in instalments at every change on the fare indicator. My heart beat accelerating as the figures leaped with every hundred meters we covered. And oh, the red lights! I cursed London, this place where there was a red-light at every corner, every turn, every few yards. I was in trouble. I was resigned to going bankrupt; starting a new life begging for handouts and living from hand to mouth. We crawled home through narrow roads, often having to stop to allow traffic flow from the opposite direction and still the red characters of the meter flashed at me like swivelling neon signs.

The journey seemed interminable, I began to wonder if the cab man took a longer route to get me to pay more, but no, my rational mind said that could only happen in Lagos. My driver seemed lost; I was about to ask him if he knew where he was headed when he proved to be truly lost, making a couple of wrong turns and then retracing his way. ‘On my money!?’ I wanted to explode in anger, finally happening on a reason to avoid paying the fare which had already climbed above the limit I considered expensive. But his uncertainty was only for a beat, definitely not the escape I sought. A minute’s hesitation was not enough reason to abscond with his fare, I thought fairly, not that I imagined I would have gotten away with it too. In a few minutes we were on Forest road, tracing my address. I pointed the house to him and almost tore at my hair in frustration as he zoomed past the house, the engine still running, the meter still running, the numbers still changing on the indicator. He reversed, and finally stopped in front of the right house, and I hopped out as he blessedly shut the meter. 88.80 pounds, he rounded it up to 90, phew! Many pounds over my limit, a considerable portion of the money I had to my name. Double what I’d have paid if I had been patient enough to have my sister send a cab over, that’s if I’d have paid at all, she probably would have footed the bill. I didn’t know if to cry at the waste or rejoice at having escaped bankruptcy.

I sighed as knocked on the front door of number 235 and welcomed myself to London.

WORSHIP OR SHOWMANSHIP

Surrounded by about a thousand other worshippers, it seemed like I was the only one who wasn’t feeling the vibes that seemed to be continuously sweeping through the church on Hoe Street. Voices were raised mid song, hands outstretched for the embrace of the Holy Spirit, tongues wagged as lips formed what to my untrained ears seemed to be gibberish. The congregation bounced on feet that refused to be grounded for the joy of their experience. Heads shook in awesome wonder, limbs quivered as the spirit filled their beings. They were believers. And I?

Well, I stood there trying to connect to what the collection of them was experiencing, but my mind seemed to be more interested in having an out of body experience. It watched amusedly as I futilely raised my palm upward as if to seize something before me, trying to imitate the grasping motion I saw some people making, only I didn’t know what I was trying to take hold of. I tried to shake my head, giving my mind the permission to embrace the wondrous emotion I should be feeling, but compared to these connoisseurs even that movement seemed watered down. I resorted to clasping my hands together before me, as if in prayer but rather than being a participant, I became an observer.

I wondered if it was just me in this mass of people who didn’t have it in me to be taken over by the spirit or if there were a few others like me who wondered with some longing what it was like to be moved in this way. I questioned yet if it was learnt behaviour, that maybe because it was my first time of being there and consciously trying, I hadn’t yet perfected the motions. I imagined that just like me, many of them had tried unsuccessfully to will their sane tongues to yammer away, their bodies to quiver anxiously and their voices to tremble in awe before finally having it down pat. The lady pastor who led the worship songs on the podium was a sight to behold, any more movement and she would have bounced against the wall and ricocheted into the un-noticing congregation of the spirit filled.

Even as I wished to believe that all this was real, I lacked the conviction that it was anything but show, that this act wasn’t some holy garment to be worn within the four walls of the church and then discarded as soon as those same worshippers saw daylight outside. Meanwhile, the pastor sauntered in with an assistant behind him bearing his notes. There seemed to be a wave of anticipation sweeping through the church as he made his way to the podium and positioned himself for full effect before them. Then reigned silence as I imagined every one turned to him, willing him to cross gazes with them, his presence in the eyes of this crowd was larger than life. He stood there in silence for a few more seconds, the better to enable them appreciate his unfathomable aura, before proceeding with the day’s sermon.

He was good, I hung on every word and forgot to observe. My attention was fixed on him as his words seeped into my mind and made enormous impact. when I could tear my gaze away from his arresting presence, I noticed they all hung on his every word, parroted his phrases and that many of them had whipped out little notebook and pens to jot every verse he recited and every word he spoke. The most accomplished of lecturers could never have achieved the kind of rapt attention he commanded. And when he made a self deprecating remark or some particularly funny illustration of something, the crowd laughed, too loud; grateful that he deemed it fit to exchange with them this small unflattering confidence or brief humour. And he in turn rewarded them with the briefest of smiles, a quick flash of dentition.

I wasn’t such a pessimist, I wasn’t one to disregard the awesome power of God but I disagreed with the showmanship. God is awesome, He was present in the congregation but He wasn’t a presence that required meaningful pauses, and agitated arrest. I liked to imagine him calm, all powerful, all seeing, not the flashy existence that the pastor and his disciples made him out to be. I thought there to be more merit in a quiet, peaceful contemplation of Him, but then we Nigerians knew how to create a spectacle and milk it for all it’s worth. I didn’t necessarily think they were a fraudulent crowd putting up an act, I just thought they weren’t more holy than those who received the spirit with calm. They seemed to be trying too hard to convince others and maybe themselves that they were spirit filled but I didn’t see why that was necessary, I thought the spirit was something to quietly receive and cleave to, so I marvelled at the show.

For the sight they made, this crowd of believers, you would have been hard pressed to think there’d be any wickedness in their part of the world ever again, but out they would be turned, and they would cast off their cloaks of honour. I could almost imagine an invisible layer of piousness discarded outside the church, shrugged off quickly in a hurry to catch the bus away from church or proceed with the rest of the day’s business; and hence would continue the spate of wickedness from this same Godly group. Husbands would proceed to be snatched, girlfriends jilted, people’s efforts undermined, jobs sabotaged, everything that could go wrong would be made to go wrong till next Sunday, or till the midweek service when again piousness would be donned like a previously peeled off sock.

The hypocrisy I observed is not exclusive to Christian worship, under bilious gowns and solemn expressions many muslim women hide intolerance, hate and corrupt hearts; and even as on the outside their men sport beards meters long and prayer burns on their foreheads from observing every zakat since they were born, malice continues to command the mind within. Exam malpractices, adultery, religious clashes, genocide and other sins continue to be rife amongst the most religious of people, would you blame me then in suspecting that even as I sat surrounded by people who with every other breath proclaim hallelujah, envious glances were being traded, hateful words being hauled silently at others, lewd visions being entertained of the nubile beauties within the congregation.

Simply put, we cannot stop being imperfect people, we can only keep trying to imbibe the spirit of God and improve our lives and our thoughts. We do not have holiness down pat and there’s no need to pretend to ourselves or to others that we do. It is an unending journey to Godliness, hardly ever totally accomplished so we can only try with real sincerity of heart to achieve it, and if we are lucky enough to, we do not need high-strung acts, nuances or exaggeration to ensure that others acknowledge this change; they’ll just see it in our attitudes and actions. That at least is the truth I believe in.