What A Month

The first time I experienced claustrophobia was in a commercial intercity Hummer (also known as Hiace) bus, in the back row. It's barely two months ago.

It was on my way back from work, and the time was about 6:30/to 7pm (ish). It was almost dusk.

Of course I had myself to blame for ignoring a sharp premonition to rather walk a bit farther down to another bus where there was more room to relax in a much better position.  

The bus conductor was partly to be blamed too. Typical of conductors' tenacious nature, (especially when there are more than enough buses to convey the limited number of passengers available), this young man, was all up in my way, barely giving me enough space to breathe, because he wanted  to make sure I got into his bus. So, before I made to wriggle past his advances, he had already yanked my laptop bag off my shoulder as he pleadingly tried to usher me into the bus.

I was helpless.

My target position was close to the window on any of the second, first or third row in that order. Seeing that the window spot of the first and second row were already occupied, my last option was the third row. Not bad, I reasoned. 

However, before I could advance closer to the entrance, a chunky man beat me to it, so that I was left with sitting close to him. My other option was the right window, but before I could recover from my sulkiness and frustration of losing my target, someone else beat me to it. I could also opt for another bus, but because I wasn't equal to the conductor's unyielding and exhausting grit, I reluctantly got aboard, close to the man whose massive body frame blocked my view of nature and man's architecture through the window.

I was barely seated before the bus accelerated, so as to beat other competing buses to the next bus stop, I guessed.

The air in the bus reeked of stale cigarette smoke.  I suspected it originated from the neatly dressed young man directly in front of me, who acted like he was also intoxicated from his slurs of "F@&k! Goodluck should give us a language...." and a host of other disjointed-solo gibberish, followed by short laughter. His utterances was the least of my problems, so I paid him no attention. I couldn't concentrate even if I wanted to.

At that point, unconscious panic set in. I felt crammed in like I was in a sealed box. Beads of sweat broke out. I could hardly breathe. I thought I was gong to pass out. Frantically, I looked to my right, hoping for some light, fresh air or a trail through the window. I needed to break away. Obscurity and  darkness were all I saw instead. I placed my laptop bag to the floor in an attempt to create enough room around me, hurriedly fished for my mouse pad and started fanning myself vigorously. I was sure the chunky man noticed my struggles, because I noticed he reclined and slid the louver backwards in an attempt to maybe let in more air. Unfortunately, that didn't help.

I couldn't bear it anymore, and needed to urgently jump off the bus. Just as I was about to ask the driver to stop, the driver, by way of telepathy brought the bus to a halt. I desperately made to get off the bus, but had to wait for two ladies in the middle row who could only beat me because of the time I wasted having to wade through the two occupants by my right, who were also on the last row as me.

However, instead of alighting as I planned to do, I chose to sit in the more expansive second row the two ladies vacated. It meant I was finally sitting directly close to Mr Language Advocator who then assumed the close-to-the-window spot. By then, he still hadn't stopped rambling or reeking of cigarette, My consolation was that I was much closer to the door, and got more air. 

After I settled in, I heaved a sigh of relief.

The depressing, dull, trying days of this January have been stifling, I have to deal with a whole bunch of issues all at once - the HEAT, a mediocre service (that deserves blogging about) and my missing camera (it's really an expensive camera). The feeling is almost reminiscent of my bus experience - overwhelming, suffocating and distressing.

Thankfully, the month is almost about to run out.

I JUST WANT OUT....

Cristiano Ronaldo Wept

I DON'T LIKE CRISTIANO RONALDO!!!

I had to write this fact in capital letters, so that you understand the intensity of my emotions.

A lot of people attribute my sentiments to jealousy, same way they did in the past when Thierry Henry was the object of my resentment. Other people who know me really well think any one in superiority rivalry with my beloved automatically attracts my dislike.

While these accusations may or may not be true, I can't deny the fact that I was one of Ronaldinho's voltrons, who labelled it a taboo to equate him with Thierry Henry or anyone else. However, I still can't categorically say that was the reason I didn't like Henry. He was plain annoying  and so was my cousin who was teasingly sure that Ronaldinho's favourite movie was "Shaka the Warrior" or any of those other unintelligent movies where the protagonist fought pointlessly with unruly villains who made animalistic noises, and hopped from place to place like monkeys, sharp opposite of elegant and intellectual "The Usual Suspect", Henry's kind of movies. Well, that's my cousin's baseless theory. "Ronaldinho would still kick his a@& anytime", I'd defend.

Looking back now, I have to admit being a Ronaldinho unsolicited representative was one of the most draining nonpaying jobs I've ever had to do my entire life. I'd exhaust myself arguing to the point of coarseness and throatiness. 

And what did all that hullabaloo earn me? A nickname, "Kokodinho". And then there was a particular neighbour who would have sworn that my hairstyles were Ronaldinho inspired, as bizarre as that sounds, even to me.

Oh Ronaldinho! I miss him!

The way his hair and arms flipped as he ran, all uniting to frustrate charging opponents. The three steps backwards after he had positioned the ball on a mark, the assertiveness and abundance in his straddling and akimbo pose, the way his eyes focused in absorbed calculation whenever he wanted to take free kicks/penalties, a style C. Ronaldo adopted but never delivered with the same finesse.

With C. Ronaldo, my dislike is different and identifiable. He is egotistical (the premium reason he doesn't appeal to a lot of people), but then so is Balotelli and that doesn't make me hate Balot. If anything, I'm amused by the Super Mario. If this be the case, then attributing my feelings towards C. Ronaldo to his ego will be flippant.

Cristiano Ronaldo is a hungry lion and driven a lot by his opponent's (in this case Messi) feats. I am an ardent devotee of Spanish La Liga and his vehement efforts to score in replica of/equality with Messi, and the mask of frustration that covers his face when he fails can't be hidden. This is more intense especially when Real Madrid games succeed Barcelona's and Messi scores. He can't hide this trait, and I'm sure he doesn't try to. 

He is competitive and wants to score goals even from the most difficult and outrageous positions, many times singly. I'd be lying to say he hasn't succeeded in most of such situations. His pursuit may have been to attain self prominence, but again, I'd be lying to say his efficiency hasn't favoured his clubs, past and present, and country as well. 

So yes! You can say I dislike him because he's hard working and driven.

Typical of his nature, he took advantage of Messi's absence due to injury and piled up goals for himself, broke records and like a giant stood tall above every other last year. I tipped him to beat the other top two contenders, so it was no surprise when he was announced the winner of the 2013 FIFA Ballon d'Ór.

Having come second to the little man for four times in a row, no one felt the pain of falling short especially after immense hard work more than Ronaldo. I could imagine the air of liberation that might have overwhelmed him so strongly to the point that he sobbed when his name was finally called out. I was sure I saw him mouth the word "finally".

I'm used to his whining and water works theatrics on the field, but for once, there's no denial that the tears that dropped on the floor of the concert hall in Kongresshaus, part on his son's hair were tears of relief and joy. They were genuine tears.

At that moment, for the first time ever, I felt a little surge of love for Cristiano or it was just an admiration for the cute little boy that was on the stage with him.

However, I can't say I was happy he won, because that'd be blatant dishonesty, and considering I had planned to revel had Ribery won. A whole part of me still wish that happened.

Regardless, I say good for him and his fans.

My Africa

Happy Wednesday : D

Before I delve into the topic of the day, I wish to make an announcement... One of the prevailing feedback/criticisms that I have received so far about this blog is the tasking technicalities of the comment section, as majority of the complainants indicated that most times, they are too impatient to go through the "type in the code...to prove you're not a robot". verification processes. Well, since I'm equally irritated as well and as a matter of urgency, I sought to remove the authentication protocol (oblivious of the repercussions though), and succeeded. Yes! I have consciously permitted robots to also read and comment on my blog. What is good for the goose is also good for the gander.

Okay, back to the topic!

Some time ago, I watched an astonishing video exposé that also had me feeling somewhat infuriated. Unfortunately, I couldn't recall the specific source of that ridiculous video. I wasn't successful googling anything close to it neither. otherwise I bet it would have made for an impressive watch for you too.

The video was a sampling of some American college students on their general knowledge of Africa. The questions bordered mainly on identifying countries in Africa and the typical characteristics of Africa and Africans. With no intention to be hyperbolic here, not one of them could name more than two countries. A greater number of them named only Libya, while the rest, amidst giggles and shrugs of nonchalance, declared they didn't know. Apart from Libya (due to the notable revolution in the country then, I guess), South Africa, Egypt, Nigeria and Djibouti, no other country, of all the other remaining 52 was mentioned.

And what did they have to say when they were asked about their impressions about Africa? Third world, disease-ridden and poverty stricken. I remember one of them (a lot more well-informed than the others) rightly described the colourful culture alluding specifically to Africans' colourful mode of  dressing.

Like I have effectively emphasized already, I was upset, but not beyond reasoning that by way of post colonial power relations and the enduring influence of negative stereotypes, (most of which is manifested on the distorted and inbalanced image of Africa portrayed on the western media), these students may have been influenced.

The reason for these negative reportage about Africa is not far-fetched as it is deeply rooted in supercilious need of the western world to feel overly superior and the popular definition of news as the negative. Oddity as well. The more negative and odd the news, the more lucrative.

So it's like, dig for more of those mind-blowing poverty induced child labour stories similar to the Kenyan Boku, an eight year old boy who become the breadwinner of his family after his father died and his mother fell sick after she lost her shop to an inferno or graphic pictures of naked Mamma Sassey who died during childbirth, more images of hunger and disease stricken naked children in slums swarmed around by flies, a land of barrenness devoid of lushness and healthiness, pictures of crises and war, corruption, greed and the ostentatiousness of Africa's leaders and elites, just about any of such stories that are mostly the perverse opposite of the western world.

And in all these accounts, on the other side of the coin is the real Africa, the Africa they never show us because it is submerged beneath these negativism.

It was her first visit to Nigeria and Africa generally, so I had to guide Edith (a Mexican) to various places in the first days, until she became familiar with her new environment and could cope independently.

I taught her myriads of local slangs (from Igbo to Pigin) she was likely going to hear everyday and the need to commit such words/phrases as 'change' (money wise), 'how far', 'no wahala', 'onye-ocha', 'onyibo' to her memory. The speed she assimilated them still amazes me, and now she jokes about being full blooded Nigerian. That's by the way.

On our first visit to a shopping mall, at the cash register, while she tried to extract some money to pay her bill, she held unto her wad of Naira notes so tightly and close to her chest in a probable attempt to shield her money from hawk-eyed crooks that were likely lurking about in wait for loose fisted Mexican. Because she later asked me to explain some geographical facts about Nigeria she sourced from the internet, I concluded her money clutching could have stemmed from information she could have also obtained from research about Nigeria before she embarked on her journey..

It was an opportunity to promote the real Africa.

Jovial, warm and welcoming are the nature of the majority of the people you will meet, I told her.

Already, she's living it: the shop attendants that always ask if she needs her moi-moi/meat-pie/cake warmed in the microwave (a privilege that had existed to my oblivion because no one cared if I ate my moi-moi frozen even. I was never asked), the Ogene cultural troupe that chanted specially composed tunes and struck the local ogene (gongs) as they twirled around Edith, who coyly covered her mouth with her hands, unaware of the appropriate dance step to adopt. And so on. "Everyone is so nice", she hasn't stopped eulogizing. This is the real Africa they never show.

The typical and extraordinary twist to the Big Brother Africa reality show in season one required that as a reward for passing a cocktail-making challenge, Gaetano trades places with the Big Brother UK housemate in season four. Scott Cameron. Gaetano relocated to Big Brother house in Hertfordshire, England while Cameron moved to South Africa. Cameron was smitten by Africa's  warmness and was reluctant to leave when it was finally time up. This is the Africa they never show.

In the street of Berlin, Sierra Leonian Bassey's Ankara-made pants were the centre of admiration among Germans. In Bassey's words," rocking my Ankara pants in Berlin and white folks go like...I luv your pants". Again and unfortunately, this is the Africa they never show.

Regardless, this is my Africa. The continent of warm sunshine, high mountains, tropical jungle and lush grassland of diverse peoples, diverse languages, diverse cultural identities. It is my home, and home to Nelson Mandela, home to Haile Selassie, home to Kenneth Kaunda, home to Nnamdi Azikiwe, home to Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka, home to Miriam Makeba, home to Joke Silva, home to Jay Jay Okocha, home to Tuface and Prezzo.

PROUD!

New Year's Resolutions

If you're reading this post, then you made it to the year 2014 with me. Yay!!! I bless God who made it possible.

As this is my first blog post of the year, I'd love to first of all wish you a Happy New Year. I hope you have a marvelous 2014. Take it from me, everything you require to accomplish and manifest your dreams and desires are already inherent in you. Tap into these potentials and make them happen. Good luck and cheers to a year overflowing with success, love, happiness and (insert benefits).

Okay!

This morning, I stumbled across a Facebook post by one my mentors that inquired thus, "what's the first thing you are going to do for YOURSELF to improve your life in 2014"? This question propelled me to some brainstorming, and to my greatest mortification, I realized the major obstruction that has prevented me from being as productive as I should have is the Solitaire card game on my computer.  As stupid as this may come off, I've lost counts the number of times I've taken undeserving breaks to "cool off" or postponed finishing a report/article/letter until I have had five straight streaks. No, Solitaire has to go! Seriously! That's number one.

Read more

It's a habit that I've gradually started to imbibe few years back, but intend to intensify this year. Reading! As a child, my father strongly instilled the reading culture among all his children. Somehow, either by way of indifference or just sheer lethargy, that habit eluded me. He never really tried to shove it down anyone's throat, but in case any of us needed to visit a friend or run errands with neighbours, we were always likely to hear, "I bought all those Childcrafts and novels for all of you, pick up one and read like I am doing, you're not going anywhere". Need I say the futility of arguing with a voracious reading father preaching about reading books? Many times, we'd oblige, quite openly where he'd notice and likely reward us with a pass, even though very rarely.

Speaking for myself now, I understand his purpose, because being the biggest bank of knowledge I've ever known, my father's intention wasn't necessarily to nurture me into the home-lifer that I have ended up being (not complaining though, as long as I have my family, Al-Jazeera/Super Sports, ipad, phone and chewing gum), but to raise intellectually powerful individuals like (or more than) him.

Well, I intend to impact similar culture on my kids, more stringently and exemplarily. I'm sure if that has to be possible and effective, reading has to be a habit, plus it will also transform me into the great writer that I aspire to be.

Around the Bible in one year

It is true that a deep knowledge of oneself comes with a deep knowledge of God, and a deep knowledge of God comes with a deep knowledge of self. The word of God is God. What are the books of Nahum and Haggai about? Honestly, I do not have the slightest inkling.  It is the year to know.

Be more outdoorsy/in touch with friends and relatives

I know I said that I wasn't complaining about being a home-lifer earlier, but that didn't mean my stupid hobby/gadgets meant more to me more than my relatives and friends. As much as I love them, none of Frank Lampard, Messi or Dawson knows or cares about who the hell I am. People that do deserve my attention via calls, text messages and visits at least.

Keep my bar raised

I deserve more respect, more politeness, more kindness, more happiness, more love and refuse to settle for less.

Be more

A portion of the Bible I read this morning, Luke 6:37 said, ".....for the measure you give is the measure you receive back". Life is like a mirror, you smile, you get a smile back. People are more likely to react to me the same way I act towards them. Common sense! Therefore, if I want more respect and kindness, I've got to be more respectful and kind to others. It's that simple.

Being more also entails dedicating myself to be more aware of the less-privileged/needy, be a source

of inspiration to others through my behaviours and write-ups.

*With fingers crossed and eyes lifted up* So help me God!

Now, I understand, as human beings, our tendencies to detract from our code of conducts. If you do, instead of feeling ashamed or an urge to throw in the towel entirely, recommit yourself and pick up from where you detracted from, and hope for the best 2014.

All the best!

I'd be more than delighted to read your own New Year Resolutions as well in the comment section below. : D