Of Attractions II

Loyalty. That’s the word; the one that got you there and her here. No, it wasn’t the physical attraction or otherwise. Of course, she’s fine. You can’t deal with anything less. You often pride yourself as a ‘fine girls’ man. But it was the loyalty; her undying loyalty to you that made the difference from the others.

“The others” never did augur well with her. She could never understand why there had to be others. She gives her all; she’d say with explosive passion over and over again. Indeed, she gives her all. She was the best around but something inside you wanted to be sure. Back check is what it’s called at your work place.

Back then, there had been four of “the others” who could have been. Even though, you had nothing with them you preferred to subtly hide it. But she always find out - you are not good at lying – and pestered till you shut them down each time. You had shut several down in similar circumstances. You never placed “the others” above her.

Enter Ayo. You had met her at a professional gathering while you still worked with your last employer. She was not your type but she looked dazzling enough to engage. Three months down the line, you knew there was something amiss.

She changed personalities thrice in three months; probably trying to adjust to you but all you wanted to see was her true self. She was from a good family; no family dramas as it were. Thus, you expected her to have a better overall attitude. Alas, you were wrong.

Enter Claire whom you had written about before now. Back then, you had chased her for a little over a year. She wasn’t ready then. You had silently bottled up your emotions and waited patiently like the underdog. Fast forward a year later, she was ready. But you just wanted a pound of flesh.

K was the girl you had pursued in your undergrad days back in Ife. The same one you who used to drive your old rickety Honda car around campus while you rolled with your friends or jumped okada. Fast forward eight years later; she would call out of the blues. She would assume she could start it off exactly where it was dropped years ago when you still had it “hot” for her. She was looking for who to marry. You played along.

Enter TK, the brainiest woman you had ever known. Circumstances were not right. You knew this. You couldn’t change that.

Change. That’s what she prayed for; for she was getting to her breaking point. You are taking me to my breaking point; she’d say sobbing quietly. You knew you didn’t want to lose her. She had threatened to break it all off if it persisted. You had always begged your way through. She loved you and you knew you didn’t want to lose her.

Break up. That’s what you propositioned to her eleven months into it. The reason had being simple. You were scared as the issues were getting bigger than you envisaged. So you ran like every sane man would initially; hoping to avoid the situation.

That was the best decision; you had told yourself. You knew if you stayed, you’d end up here writing this memo. And now you are here. She had you more than you realized. She must have felt it for she didn’t allow you to stray away for too long. She allowed you to be but was never far away. She was there to receive you back like the prodigal son.

Pity. That’s what she thought you had for her for coming back. She was wrong. You never really left but you couldn’t blame her. Pity is the exact opposite of why you couldn’t let her go. You loved her and she was the best around. You hoped she would realize this someday.

Foye.

STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN IN MILANO II

Hostels in Europe are not for the faint hearted. You can either become firm friends with your fellow boarders or in my case as I did in the not too distant past in Barcelona, get out of bed in annoyance in the middle of the night to shake the legs of one of the snoring roommates. This had to be done in order of proximity to the said roommate as part of the roaster developed in the room by a self appointed room captain to prevent the roommate whose legs we were to shake from snoring for the general well being of the rest of us.

So this time around, I was quite certain to look for a low budget hotel to sleep in. With the events of the day playing in my mind and my desire to maximize my 24 hours in Milano, I got out of my hotel bed which turned out to be a kind of hostel but just that I got a single room at bout 10pm to walk into the city and explore the night life of Milano. Walking around the city close to the famous Duomo with pigeons flying down to pick up food and young people roller skating in the plaza, I noticed a big blue light with the words written in fancy letters, night club, across the lights. So it was in that direction that I headed.

The door was opened by a man whose well tailored suit made me rather jealous. Walking down the dimly lit passage, I could see the club was rather up market. I walked into an empty open space and I was escorted to sit by another suited man at the bar being manned by another well suited lady. What would you like to drink sir? She asked me. Without giving it much thought and also perhaps because of the positioning of the drinks, I requested some gin and tonic. Taking a sip, she said 30 Euros please. The blood immediately drained from my face. Did I hear right? 30 Euros for a drink? Oh Fola what have you done I asked myself.

Slowly taking out my wallet, the friendly bar lady and I struck up an exchange of pleasantries and the fact that the club was empty. It's still early; it gets busier later in the night she said. While she stepped out of sight to get me some nuts, I swung my bar stool around to notice that there were about 10 women or so, all very well dressed sitting in about 3 groups scattered around various lounges in the big room. Quite odd I thought.

When the bar lady returned, what is this place I asked? Smiling at me, she replied, a night club. So many women here I said. Ah, yes she said. People come here later tonight and just dance with the ladies she said. As she causally walked away again, I swung my chair back and stared at the women who all seemed to be in animated discussions having drinks and all looked like jolly good friends. I see you like that one a voice from behind me said. Looking back, it was the bar lady again who said walking away from me, I’ll invite her over so you meet her. Laughing and thinking it was a joke, I was surprised when moments later I was being introduced to Natalia from Romania.

Without asking me, Natalia was asked by the bar lady what she wanted to drink. Of course, left to me, I wouldn't be offering to buy a 30 euro drink for someone which I couldn't even afford for myself. So I secretly hoped I wouldn't be paying for a drink no one asked me about and which I certainly did not offer.

It was slowly beginning to occur to me that I was perhaps in an escort club, perhaps a strip club, I didn't know but I certainly knew I was not in a night club. Natalia, a friendly lady, asked me about why I was in Milan. We spoke briefly about the places I have been to in the city and while I was getting round to ask her about what a Romanian was doing in Milan, the ever present bar lady who I noticed was listening keenly to the conversation, told me that a drink with the lady only gets me a ten minute talk time and it costs 35 Euros.

She quickly added that the best option is to order a bottle of champagne which costs 450 Euros for the night and my time with Natalia would be unlimited. I couldn't help but burst out laughing at the proposition and both ladies joined me in heartful laughter. I replied and said 'no no no, I just came in for a drink and would be on my way shortly’. In any event, I added, looks like my ten minutes with you is up Natalia, a pleasure meeting you I said. The bar lady interjected, in a very rich italian accent, 'Noooo, rich man like youuu, stayyy. Look at Natalia, she's beautiful, no? She deserves Champagne, no? And you get a complimentary lap dance with that.'

Smiling uncontrollably to hide my awkwardness at this stage, she added, 'Or you like me to invite another lady and you buy her a drink? That way you make friends with all the ladies'. By this time, I was about to fall off my chair. The bill please I told her. With a pout, she said okay and Natalia excused us. As I waited for my bill, I heard a voice over an overhead speaker that immediately saw all the ladies get up, walk up to the dance floor and started dancing slowly.

I paid my 65 euro check, the most expensive drinks tab I've ever received in my life and walked out. As the well suited man at the door opened the door for me to get out again, walking away from him, sex club I said, Yes he replied, looking at me like I had asked a stupid question.

Fola.

STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN IN MILANO I

I have always thought of bringing a guest writer on board. So when Fola, my childhood friend and one of my best friends would send me an email about his adventures in the far away Milano, I knew I had found my very first guest writer. And to be honest, I have been too busy in the last few months to write. Alas, Fola has rescued me with this.

Fola writes in the most humorous way so enjoy. Strange things happen in Milano will be in two parts. Here is the first part.

A West African proverb reminds us that no matter how tight a monkey's trousers are, there will always be room for its tail.

Literally and figuratively, last weekend I wore tight trousers and on two occasions, had cause to flee with my tails between my legs. Not that I'm calling myself a monkey of course, because that would be self deprecating although I've had cause to eat a lot of bananas as my staple diet out of a matter of necessity in the past 3 weeks because of how expensive Switzerland is. Maybe that also explains my tight trousers in keeping with the theme of poverty that I've come to appreciate and live by these past weeks. And oh I also thought my tight trousers attracted the affections of a supposedly gay man which made my life generally awkward. But more on that in a separate piece. No more tight trousers for now.

So Milano. I have always romanticized the idea of visiting Italy. The language rolling off the tongue, incredible food, opera and of course the well tanned women with black hair. So my excitement on arrival in Milano should be quite understandable.

A long walk exploring the sights and sounds of the city culminated in a rest in the afternoon shades of the Castello Sforzesco gardens. Sitting in a park and attempting to take unsuccessful selfies, I naturally smiled at passersby including a gentleman of respectable appearance. The kind you knew rode scooters and probably was a newspaper boy as a child in a vineyard village cycling around the village. He nodded and smiled back at me and came to join me on my park bench. This gesture interrupted my thoughts on how racially different Milan was with the number of black people around particularly in the park hanging around, playing basketball and riding their bicycles.

It reminded me of scenes from the classic TV series, The Wire, in Baltimore’s downtown drug infested areas. At this point, I was also thinking how much I miss seeing black people after the last three weeks in Bern. In Bern, there's that unspoken camaraderie of brotherhood in poverty when you see another black man holding a fruit or drinking water because there, that's all your worth can afford and you nod at each other in acknowledgement. But again I digress.

My new friend at the park greeted me in Italian and muttered words I did not understand. I smiled and on realization he was asking me questions, I shook my head to indicate a lack of understanding. He kept on looking at me keenly speaking in low tones and looking confused asking one word questions. I could pick out the word that sounded like Maria repeatedly, but I sure knew he wasn't trying to preach the gospel.

Then it hit me what was happening. Oh no, it can't be. I'm black and I'm sitting in a park. He wants to buy drugs and he thinks I'm a dealer. Oh no. So this time around, you can imagine I was shaking my head more vigorously like an agama lizard and waving my hand hysterically. He seemed to get the message and sat next to me quietly. I was getting ready to leave when a fellow very black man with curly rough hair riding a bicycle stopped right in front of us at the bench. He stared at me and started talking to the man next to me occasionally glancing at me in fast Italian in what sounded like an angry tone. The man was trying to respond whenever he could and suddenly he had a stammer. You can imagine how I played out the conversation I did not understand in my head.

What are you doing trying to buy cocaine from a new dealer? Are you not our customer? I'm going to deal with both of you, cut off your heads and fingers and drop your bodies in the lake to be eaten by the swans. Of course there was a lake with swans in front of us so my imagination was quite vivid.

What I did hear however was a negotiation in what sounded like figures and the man glancing in the direction of a park bench in front but further away from me. Our black acquaintance rode away and the white man opened his wallet, took out a 20 euro note, smiled again at me and said gracias while he walked away to the bench.

Quite thankful for my trademark English gentleman cap which I now wear these days, I observed the man as he sat and lit up a cigarette. It was not long before our black acquaintance rode down again to stop in front of the Italian, let us call this black man Omar, for the benefit of those who have seen The Wire to capture how reverent his presence and appearance had now become to me.

In plain sight, casually, I watched money and a small package exchange hands. As they both disappeared out of sight, I picked up my bags and here, my first story ends with my tail between my legs, in my tight trousers, walking as far as I could out of the park.

Fola.

OF DREAMS AND PREJUDICES

Most times, it’s based on belief. Other times, it’s based on the dream.  Or the inception. The inception of something new. Or something refreshing. Like the beginning of a new relationship not yet past the honeymoon phase. Or the mumu phase if you prefer. It’s always the best part.

Like the orchestra playing your favorite part of the symphony. Like the hmmmm sound your mouth makes when it tastes an extremely good serving of cake or chocolate. Always the best part. Ok enough with the sweet sugary thoughts.

But then, thoughts are important, dreams can be funny and reality can be prejudiced and deceptive at the same time. The world has become insane and the Nigerian society has become a scene for public scorn and ridicule. We are all over the news for the most negative reasons. CNN, BBC and Al Jazeera does know how to make it rain.

 The recent abduction of 234 under aged girls explains it all. Where we are headed as a collective society and nation should no longer be in doubt. Especially if right under our collective noses, the #Chibok girls are kidnapped and our president carries on like nothing has happened. About 16 days after the #Chibok kidnapping, another bomb goes off in the same Nyanya area killing more scores of people.

Black or white. That has always been my definition of everything. However, the real world is a tapestry of face value, deception and unwholesome gray areas advertised in garnished truths and half truths. That pronouncement by the Army that the #Chibok girls have been rescued barely 72 hours after their abduction is the height of deception. No apology has since been made for the error. But of course we live in Nigeria. Anything goes around here.

Our collective dreams and the dreams of our fathers for a better Nigeria seem gloomier now than before. This import has far reaching impact on our fathers. Sometimes, I look at my father and I can feel his frustration on the Nigerian predicament.

His generation has seen Nigeria go from bad to worse before their very eyes with little or nothing they can do to alter their collective fate. Living with that must be a big burden. But then our own generation seems headed towards that.

In our generation, well planned and well coordinated bombs go off randomly at the gruesome behest of our attackers. 234 girls are abducted in a single sweep. Our president dances #alanta and #alingo barely 24 hours after the most cataclysmic course of events befall our nation. Political dance? No?

Our generation might be indeed worse off as we seem headed to the gallows; the alter of destruction. Perhaps we will walk out a better nation and people. Perhaps we will rally together and fight this together as a collective nation.

The various demonstrations in Lagos and Abuja to help coerce the government into acting may be a noble and right thing to do. In fact, in other climes, it would be enough to make the government shift in its space and act accordingly. But not Nigeria as history of demonstrations in the recent past suggests.

Truth be said, after a couple of more weeks, the news on the #Chibok girls will die down whether they are released or not. And we shall go back to business as usual. That’s what this government is waiting for. It has always worked. It won’t be different this time.

God help us all (for those who believe).

Foye.

OF CONTRADICTIONS

Things are falling apart. Everywhere. No, no Okonkwo’s. No Chinua Achebe’s. No Wole Soyinka’s. And no, no Man Died. At least not yet. But the embers are being fanned; the sign of an end. No, not the end of the world. Not yet. Rather, the end of a wonderful association and not so wonderful phase.

Associations and identities can both be exhilarating and dangerous. Exhilarating because it defines your circle of wider relevance and inner subsistence. Dangerous because once misunderstood, one can hardly go back to make correctives. It becomes who you are. That pretty lovey-dovey girl can turn out to be prejudiced. That white color could be a “dirty” shade of grey. EL James is such a badass. No I haven’t read #50 shades of Grey. I don’t think I would.

However, I have somewhat dangled between the grey areas of the contorted continuum called religion. From believer to agnostic to atheistic (hardly however) and then back to believer. The kind of books I read of course didn’t help matters. The God Delusions by Richard Dawkins of The Selfish Gene fame is a befitting example. Bitter scientific truths in there though.

Tolani, the banker lady would seize one of my classic books; claiming that’s what made me agnostic. She never returned it. Another friend would almost label me an atheist as of my association with Wole Soyinka and went ahead to buy me Open Heavens; a daily devotional by the revered Pastor Adeboye.

This I read with a moderate but impressive effort of a new recruit; convert if you like. The range is getting shorter. The intricate questions still remain unanswered however. By the way, Wole Soyinka isn’t an atheist. He’s a proud worshipper of Ogun. That doesn’t qualify as atheism. But that’s besides the point.

Religion, its inherent contradictions and convolutions isn’t new. It would remain so till the end of time as it was from the beginning of time. Things are changing however. They are getting worse. And the world isn’t getting any better. We are more religious but our world isn’t any better for it. Self evident contradictions.

My biggest problem with religion has always been the sheer hypocrisy, fanaticism and intolerance that often come along with it. I have always believed the world might be a better place to live in without the complications of religion. I still believe so. To a fair extent.

It was with utter disdain and shock that I read the misguided missive by a Wendell Simlin aka Mr. Reno Omokri linking Lamido Sanusi with the Boko Haram uprising. It’s more disdainful to find out Omokri tried to catfish using a fabricated profile of a Wendell Simlin. A typical Nigerian letter scam we are popularly known for in the western circles. Such a shame.

Furthermore, Mr. Omokri proved and supported his allegations with purported fake documents. And these are yet to be disproved or otherwise. Such a shame. Again.

In this circle, in this Nigerian circle of ours, religion is a well versed political tool. One we have allowed to be used against us, the citizenry, time and time again. Political calculations and promulgations are made along that faint and feeble line of religion. Because when it comes to religion, we are zombies. Honestly, Fela Anikulapo Kuti has got to be the greatest philosopher out of Nigeria.

Come 2015, we the zombies will likely be played along that line of religion, politics and ethnicity once again. Let’s hope we will be merely played and not raped.

Foye.

Ps 1. Sadiq Abacha, son of late General Abacha needs to shut up. His supposed sanctimonious salvos only worsened his plight to make a hero out of his father. His bestial father was the second worst thing that happened to Nigeria. The first was the amalgamation and the subsequent creation of Nigeria as it is.

Ps 2. I’ve got to salute Madam “Due process” Ezekwezelli. Her remarkable speech at a recent APC congress needs be hugely complimented. It was well researched and delivered with absolute candor. That’s rare these days.

Ps 3. So I made a huge blunder in assessing someone’s character. A curious case of that clichéd expression: Never judge a book by its cover. I gave too much credit for what wasn’t even there. Contradictions. Again.

UNFETTERED…….

Unfettered. That’s the word. The only one that came to mind. A mind filled with skirmishes of the present but more of the past and much more of the future. Unresolved; these skirmishes are. But unfettered they remain. Unfettered they want to be. Like chained slaves of the South American extract. Django Unchained was fun.

Unambiguous. That’s the context. The context in which the present wants to dwell. The context in which the future covets to hold sway. In a limbo of psychological and physiological needs. Both of the Maslow’s pyramid but at opposite ends. But that’s being pedagogic.

Grimace. That’s the expression. Plastered to your face. As you realize once again that plan B seems to materialize than the plan A ever does. Anecdotal. But that’s your story; time and time again.

Misdirected. That’s your anger. At nothing in particular. But at everything. At these decisions. At these implicit things. You didn’t expect to be understood. You are hardly understood. You envisaged disappointment. That’s what you got. You expect more. But a place was won. In your heart.

Dissapointment. Again. Different circumstances. Perfection is what you didn’t expect. But some level of native intelligence was what was claimed or promised. You were wrong. On both counts. Clouded judgement. Or maybe vague descriptors. Some mystery this is shrouded in.

Letters of anomie. And anomaly. That’s what the season is fraught with. Tempted you were to write a long one to all concerned including self. But stuck in cerebral limbo the letter remains. It wouldn’t make you any happier. Or so you think.

Happy. Is what we say we are. Happiest people on earth is what they call us. But happy, is what you reckon we are not. Denial is what we live in. Of our actual circumstances. Of our subsistence. Faith is what we have named it. In higher powers of extraterrestrial intervention. Believer of the word or not.

“One Day I Will Write About This Place”. That’s the book you read as the year crosses into a new one. “It reads like nothing I have read before…..”. That’s what one reviewer had to say. You have the same opinion. Only a tad less positive.

You had read a few more books than the preceding year. You had grown the small library by a few paperbacks. You fell in love with a new African writer. Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani. Author of “I Do Not Come To You By Chance”.

Adaobi didn't come almost made. And she has just a book out yet. But she makes reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie overrated and a tad less impressive. You actually believe that Adichie is overrated. Books. One day you hope to write one.

Time. To move on. That’s what you mutter as you stop typing. But stuck you felt. Somehow.

Happy New Year folks.

Foye.