Naija- sweet and sour

Well, I’m back in Naija, where I’m no longer sure I want to be. Don’t get me wrong, while holidaying in Jand (UK) , I’d missed my country bad, but now as I take fatigued steps off the airplane and have the humid heat slap me like a hot towel, effectively snatching a gasp from me, I’m suddenly not as happy to be home as I had thought I’d be.

I look up at the sun, something I had made a mental note to do in those cold transitory days from winter to spring, at those times when the sun would shine brightly but would also adamantly refuse to work at getting any warmth across to me - the poor visitor hurdled in my faded winter jacket, hands in pockets, walking briskly (At a pace I could never have achieved in Naija) to keep the cold away; and all the faster to get home or into Tesco, Next, Primark, Assesorize, WHSmith, the tube, the W15 bus… anywhere, with a central heating system.

Anyway, here I am back on terra cognita, where the sun did work, and not only worked but did overtime and went into overdrive for full measure. Gazing into the sun, I am immediately sorry I do as it shoots powerful rays into my eyes, totally blinding me. As if that isn’t punishment enough, I practically feel the heat singeing my eyelashes (or maybe that is just my imagination talking because they - the lashes, that is - are still there, still scanty, when again I check). Ok, so the sun doesn’t succeed in turning my lashes to ashes but I can feel it slowly but very surely bringing my melanin back to fore, recalling it from the one-month leave of absence it took during my trip abroad.

And I can almost hear you thinking it now; ‘Oh so she spent just a month away and we won’t hear word again!’ But I promise you, I’m not really like my people who go to the UK and bring back a South-American drawl as proof of their travel. No, I’m not. But I must say that as I sit in the car, being whisked towards home by my dad, Naija was taking a lot of ‘returning’ used to.

I don’t know if it is just Lagos but I can tell you it all comes rushing back to me. I am forcefully brought back to reality and I wonder how I could ever have forgotten .No nostalgic rediscovery of what I have missed here, no sir! Rather, I receive my welcome with a full body slam. The sights… brimming gutters, cauldron sized port holes, shanties and kiosks, posters adorning walls and bridges, creating awareness on any and everything. I am reminded about the upcoming elections when I see Tunde Fashola’s face whiz by one, two, three… twenty times in quick succession. I wonder if posting about a hundred posters on a long stretch of ‘under bridge’ is for the purpose of reinforcing the message as many times as there are posters.

Anyway, now come the smells… I must say my heart longs for long denied Nigerian food as we catch up with and eventually overtake the profound smell of bean cakes frying in the noon day (I have been starved of what I consider real food for a whole month and can only hope my mum has deemed it fit to welcome me back in the way she knows best how to – with fresh fish stew) That one good aroma didn’t last though as we almost immediately speed past a refuse dump… God, what a re-awakening, I had forgotten that waste smells this bad. Generally however, that original Naija, or is it Lagos, smell pervades. That cumulative smell of various milder ones trying to assert supremacy; the combined smells of unwashed bodies, vehicle exhaust, the ubiquitous fish smell and many others jostling for first place in the nostrils of the resigned populace.

Then the sounds… I can’t begin to explain it. How can anywhere be so noisy? This type of noise is dangerous. It can pierce eardrums, render infants deaf. It gets into the brain and stops thought. It is relentless, merciless. And I am at its mercy – at the mercy of the okada rider who has installed a trailer’s horn and is now registering his impatience at a bus driver stopping to pick up a passenger by placing his hand on his torture instrument and simply forgetting said limb there for, yes, all of two minutes - by which time I am almost crazed. Still I am subjected to the keening calls of pure water re…la casera… rishaj cards and all-what-nots from the hawkers trawling the roads.

It is a desperate situation and I am about ready to kill for some quiet, odourless and preferably unlit (so I wouldn’t have to see a thing) space, hopefully at home.

But the ones to whom I am back, for whom I am here – family and friends - are waiting for me on my return home and for each hug, back slap, plucked cheek I get, I think, hey Naija is it! I am back to my people, wrested from the claws of the unrelenting solitude I have gone through for four weeks. A life where chances were you didn’t know your neighbours nor did you talk to them, and in the odd instance that you did speak, it was about the post (you or they have been kind enough to collect a package from the postman). Or about the weather: ‘Oh it’s five degrees going on zero today’. I have finally escaped a time spent wandering the house on Forest Road like the ghost of a dead prisoner; dreading the cold air outside yet wanting to escape the deafening silence within. No noise of lively political arguments there or the next door neighbour screaming blue murder. No, there, the loudest noise was that of birds chirping – a sound I never quite made out in the chaos that is Lagos.

Aaah! I exhale as I take my first fork-full of well cooked rice and (yeah, you guessed right) fresh fish stew. I feel the pepper burn my tongue and say a silent praise; melted wax almost dripping from my ears at the intensity of it. Yes, I am back home, where pepper plays its God- given part in food. No more the bland, tasteless English cuisine or the Naija food wannabe of the Nigerians in the UK side of diaspora.

I love Nigeria, I decide suddenly, I love hanging with friends, all decked in the latest fashion, pretending to be cooler than we are as we visit entertainment spots and stores, I love the gossip, the ever present gist. I love browsing expensive supermarkets, rich toaster in tow, knowing he’ll snap up any item I so much as glance at (no such luck in Jand sha). I love that the currency is, well, normal and I don’t have to make compulsory, if often inaccurate, multiplications by two fifty every time I have to make a purchase.

I love knowing that if I get tired of the effusive welcome I am getting now, I could get up, go to my neighbour/ friend’s house, go up to her room, lay on her bed, doze off mid-sentence, wake up to filch the last bar of bounty from her fridge, bid her farewell and sashay home certain she will be there tomorrow, ready for another visit at the sight of me at her door, without need for an appointment.

I don’t just love Naija, I conclude, I am smitten with it. But remind me of that tomorrow when I am crushed between four other passengers, sweating my way from CMS to Ikeja in the dreadful traffic; taking in, albeit unwillingly, carbon monoxide from the molue backfiring beside me; and trying unsuccessfully to avoid brushing my nose with the hairy, unwashed armpit of the orobo sitting next to me.

Yes, remind me then how much I love Naija!

Swine Flu??? Oh God, No!

It started yesterday, dry and itchy throat, loss of appetite, nausea and a hint of diarrhoea. Later followed headaches, chills, and me feeling muscles I hadnt previously acknowledged existed.

I had been telling my sister that i was steering clear of anybody sniffling, sneezing or coughing in a ten-yard radius, saying that since many of those who were said to die from swine flu had immunity compromising conditions, i didnt want it to be said in reference to me that 'she had an underlying medical condition' a la my sickle cell genotype.

Anyway, yesterday, i found that despite my best efforts- which included covering my nose with a tissue and banishing politeness when on the train, a woman sneezed next to me- i matched about six of eight swine flu symptoms.

I am fine still and hope to remain so. And i have called my GP who advised me to monitor it today and not use tamiflu too soon because it might cause me to puke my intestines. I do not plan to let swine flu or whatever this nonsense is get the better of me; at least i havent started racking up my lungs in coughing fits yet, and neither have i started blowing my brains out of my nostrils, so i'll be fine!

But to all my friends (who needs enemies, when they've got you. lol!) who have been laughing at me, crowing that i have swine flu, refusing to visit like planned, and threatening to not let me into their houses if i show up on their doorsteps this week; what can i say... watch your backs oh! the way this swine flu thing is flying around you may not be crowing for much longer or be lucky enough to get my kind, which for now seems to be as gentle as swine flu goes.

But despite all, i pray that God rids my body of this flu and brings me back to health again.

Koko Mansion: And Lilian left first!

I admit, I wasn't such a fan of Lilian but I see no reason why D'banj should have chosen that contrary, snooty, little bird called Chioma over her. And if D'banj says Chioma is passionate about her singing career- even if in my opinion she wouldn't be able to sing if she was ailing from cancer and singing was the cure- then what did he think Lilian was with her dancing? I can't count the number of times I saw that girl going at her dancing even (and this is important) when she didnt have an audience.

D'banj, this one you no try oh! Dont let it repeat itself. Please send the ones with the issues away and leave the ones that actually stand a chance of fulfilling your ideal of the ideal woman.

One warning: Leave my Chidinma there for me! If she ever comes up for eviction, which I pray never happens; you had better save her pretty neck. Otherwise...

Last Week!

It's been a while I posted last; I've been busy taking a creative writing course and working to strengthen my creative juices, hoping that I'll catch sight of the muse one day. Meanwhile, I just received bad news that a favorite blogger of mine Is leaving me out in the cold on the edge of my seat but I guess she has her reasons. I'll be posting one of the short stories i was able to write in the course of my course (pun intended) as soon as i'm able to quit procrastinating the editing of it.

It rained quite badly last week but's sunnier and warmer today, Thank God! Though I know British weather isnt to be predicted and that as I write, the nice twilight coming on might give way to hailstones. You see, I think I am afflicted with Seasonal Affective Disorder, that condition that makes individuals depressed in the cold dreary months, and lively and productive in the summer. So this rain that is infringing on my summer is not at all tolerable.

Basket Mouth came to London last friday and I missed it because by the time I wanted to buy my ticket it was sold out already. I'm sure he gave a good show though. He's the best.

I've been a skinflint lately. I got a bus ticket to attend my one-week course rather than spending double the amount buying a week tube pass; and did my body pay what my pocket had refused to with approximately five hours of commuting on bus the distance it would have taken me only one hour to cover daily. Am I penny wise or pound foolish or what? Never again will I in MI's words "spend my life to buy money" because i now know i can't "spend money to buy life"

I met up with my classmates from secondary school yesterday and it was nice seeing them and getting complimented on my improved looks- I admit I was no belle back in those days. But speaking with those two made me realize that I had missed out on the whole secondary school dating thing while I was busy being a growth-challenged ugly duckling- To think that both of them I met up with had dated each other back then and then gone on to date each other's partners again. Mehn a lot happened in high school oh! A lot I missed for having always been immersed in the mills and boons collection I was so fond of reading while more exciting things were taking place around me unnoticed. I hope I wont look back on my life in a few years and realise I have made the same mistake.

Have a lovely week!

To all of my Michael Jacksons: Vitiligo or not!

We all thought Michael Jackson would live forever or at least outlive our passion for him such that in the event of his passing, we'd be able to earnestly pay out respects to the music icon and proceed with out affairs.

But news of his death almost two weeks ago, hit the world hard. and many hearts (like mine) are still bleeding at the suddenness of his death and the sadness that took up a lot of his highly successful life.

While it is tue that the planned 50 concerts with o2 in london might have worked to revive his career, which had been put on a back burner due to the child molestation accusations, his reclusive lifestyle thereafter, and the increasing public attention to new acts like diddy, usher, fifty cents and akon among others; it has served to increase the grief at the resurrection that wasn't to be.

I mourn Michael Jackson, the talent that was, and the new phase of his career which we hoped would take off after his london concerts. I mourn his gentle, giving soul, his love for children and his shy smile and soft voive.

I mourn him as the young dark skinned, snub nosed boy with the soprano voice who sang his heart out to the ABC song; and I mourn him as the paper skinned effeminate and almost anorexic man he was at his death; and all others in between.

Even after his death the question lingers about his drastically altered physical image: was he really diagnosed with vitiligo, that rare condition that causes a gradual, patchy lightening of the skin? Or was his fairer than white skin a result of the various plastic surgeries he was alleged to have undergone in the efforts to renounce his black origin? (The same black origin he proudly proclaimed in the 1993 interview with Oprah, while he beat his white chest and declared himself a proud black man.) Or maybe his whiteness was a result of the efforts to unify his skin colour after vitiligo had unleashed its patchy, variegated wrath on the once black man's skin.

I and many others are resigned to never knowing the truth behind Michael Jackson's fading colour but we continue to be in awe of his talent, kindness and tenderness. we will continue to hold the fonest thoughts of him, as the smiling, afro haired, brown skinned boy of 'gimme one more chance'; as the curly haired, shy voiced, adolescent boy of 'thriller'; as the handsome mullato of 'beat it'; and the pointy nosed opaque skinned effeminate waif of 'rock my world'.

We miss you MJ, we miss the innovational dances like the moonwalk and anti gravity lean; we miss the yells that punctuate your music. we miss the passion in your music, we miss all that you've been to us for four decades. And we regret what the world put you through.

Random Things About Me

1) I imagine that inanimate objects have feelings and i try to be kind to my clothes, car, books, photo albums... anything at all.
2) I am not scared to die now, but i fear that as soon as i find something to live for, it'll happen
3) I love my brother more than my parents or sisters
4) I dont like people around me to be on a diet; so i always try to sabotage their efforts
5) I am mostly melancholy, partially phlegmatic and slightly sanguine
6) I am totally unambitious
7) I think i lost my virginity at age 6 from falling off a table
8) I am attracted to sexually adventurous friends
9) I have a great big crush on Banky W and often fantasize about being his kele. (hook us up somebody!)
10) I was a late bloomer, i started menstruating at 18 and grew breasts at 19 but my body has more than compensated for the delay- i wear a double D cup now
11) I like to play with sand and I eat it even, it tastes really nice. I thought I had outgrown it but i just ate a scoop of fine, golden sand and does it taste good! I know I ought to lose my appetite for it though, because at my age it's beginning to seem rather retarded
12) I have a fetish for pens and shoes
13) I'm a quitter who knows she needs to persist
14) There are some things i'd rather steal than buy with my money eg cups, trays, q-tips, facial wipes
15) I injured my tongue badly as a child, and can only be grateful that i can still taste
16) I'd be taller but for my slightly bow-legs. I'm 5'7" now
17) I give a long rope, i have a temper and i find it very easy to apologise (contradictory???)
18) I remember many things others cant (maybe cos i eat a lot of eggs) and i often have to remind my siblings of things that happened to them or friends they had before.
19) I thought babies were born through the clitoris (where you pee from) till i was 19... guess i never fully grasped the reproductive system in biology
20) I am at a stage in life where i've grown weary of praying... i dont seem to have had many of my prayers answered in recent years (forgive me if i'm wrong, Lord), so i do not bother to speak with the Man above so much anymore.

Koko Mansion: I Take Back My Words!

Now i know why and how a girl like Rita could have gotten into the Koko Mansion. She has the important ingredient called Confidence. She may still misplace her 'h's and disregard all the rules of grammar; but she is bold, humorous and possessing of a certain fierceess that can make her a force contend with, if, only if, she can make use of the self development platform that Koko Mansion might be turning out to be.

On a presentation exercise, during which some of the her comtemporaries literally lost their voices for the apprehension of standing before the Koko Master and his panel of judges, Rita controlled her environment and ended up turning the session into a lively episode while requesting that they (the judges) ask her questions. She also asked D'banj to do her the 'favour' of removing his famed stunners and looking her in the face.

She mada a final impression before exiting the interview room by enjoining D'banj to 'appreciate with all his heart' the gift of a statue of a chief she was presenting to him.

Wish I that Rita had the gift of oratory to match her bold humour... then she'd be MY winner!

I'll leave you now to return to Koko Mansion; and of course to make myself a good helping of humble pie.