Jealosi

From the beginning, it was quite clear where I was heading with my life. Like my mother, everyone thought I was sweet. I was the most lovable kid in Church, or so our Pastor would say. I guess he said so in a way to woo my widowed mother; but nonetheless, I think he was right, for my lovability abounded for all to see. For though I was the youngest choir member, and though learning the drums proved forever difficult, I was always the one who would come first to church to set up for rehearsals. I was that committed, I was that much of a Church Boy.

Happily, I was showered with much attention for being the last and only son. And for that, I was the envy of my three elder sisters. Particularly, Comfort, the eldest, would knock my head at any given chance, as if to remind me of my place. But mother would always come to the rescue, lessening the sting of my sister's abuse. She'd explain that my sister was suffering from a disease called jealosi. She reminded me that I was the one with a bright future and it was only natural for others to be green with envy. She said I had greatness inside of me, waiting to come out. “Just keep living your life to the glory of the good Lord”, she'd often say. I believed her, and I was truly inspired.

 As a result, I talked a great deal about how I wanted to become a chemical engineer and a doctor all at the same time. Chemical Engineering was going to be my passport into one of the oil companies in Nigeria – where the salaries were fat. As for becoming a doctor, I just wanted to be like Ben Carson, the world famous neurosurgeon who was black and successful. How I was going to achieve both feats was not my problem. I was just simply young and vibrant, and of course, mama's boy.

Mr. Bash

I remember watching my good ol’ friend, Mr. Bash, stare at his telephone for an approximately good ten minutes. If you ask me, that’s a pretty long time, considering the fact that the object of his attention was a black boring electronic device and that he, Bash, stared with an eerie fixation in the presence of an intrigued me, seated alongside with him in a quiet room – except for the sounds of the whirling fan and the ticking clock.

We were in his sitting room, and from across where I sat I had a good view to tell, with good authority, that the communicating machine was not the slightest bit interesting, like ringing off the hook – in fact, it was obviously the blandest piece of equipment in the room. But, eventually, it all made sense when Bash looked up at me and asked, quite directly, “How come I never hear from God?” BAM!

Now, I can’t really say if the dude actually expected God to ring him up at that particular time via his telephone. And I don’t know if God would have communicated in such a way, but seeing all things are possible with God, who knows, He could have done it, with a sense of humour. However, there’s one thing I know, I can empathize and relate with Bash’s desperation over not being able to hear from God. 

I know it does suck to have just a one–way connection to the throne of grace and not have an actual exchange. You seemingly find yourself praying and not getting a reply.

It sucks even more to hear people close to you say that the Father speaks expressly to them – giving them guidance, encouragements, and even filling their hearts with the knowledge of His will, when you on the other hand hear nothing but zilch.

Virtuously Bizarre, I Think

At the risk of coming across as one who’s gone off his rockers, I’d like us to consider for just a moment the notable virtues of the man I saw visiting the bank in stripy boxer shorts. True, say “bizarre and strange” and I would totally agree with you, but let’s not rush too quickly into conclusions and think this man is nothing else but a wacky fellow. In my own opinion, I think he’s a very rational man and I dare say, wise, too.

It all happened last Thursday, at lunchtime, when I went to the bank to use the cash machine. It was while I was waiting my turn that I had the pleasure of seeing this spectacle of a man: black as coal, tall as an iroko and wide as ehh...I can’t really say – anyway, he was a big, big, full-grown man. He was a man in a gray long sleeve shirt and of course, a red and white striped boxers. Undoubtedly, he was the most interesting sight I had seen that dreary Thursday.

Naturally, to all that saw him that day, he may have appeared a mad man.  For to walk into a banking place situated in a bona fide urban area like Alagomeji, wearing what seems to be his favourite boxers (just guessing), is nothing short of lunacy. But what does it matter, especially when there’s a great chance of a good reason behind his action? By merely looking at his form and gait, you could tell there was something driving him. Something we might never know except he told us himself.

However, on this occasion, there was no way under heaven I would have asked him why a seemingly sane man as he would go outdoors in that fashion. No way I’d risk an insult. Nevertheless, with keen observant eyes anyone could tell he was at least driven by a touch of purpose, thus, the reason I admire him.

With stern dark eyes, he was a man fixed on a goal, looking straight ahead, looking neither left nor right. He wasn’t bothered by the eyes all around him. There consternation was none of his business. All that mattered to him was the task of withdrawing some money. That was his only concern.

And by the manner in which he ignored the world around him, he showed nothing but sheer mettle. He showed the way we ought all to carry ourselves in whatever we did that mattered to us. He demonstrated focus by paying needless attention to what the world might think about his dressing - a thing of lesser importance. To him, all that counted was the achieving of his goal. For that, he couldn't have had any reason whatsoever for embarrassments.

Now, why the man went out scantily clad might be a question for debate. But why should anyone even bother. Like the proverbial frog, I don’t think the man hopped in broad daylight for no justifiable reason. At the time I watched him, I wasn’t so much concerned about his dressing (though I was well taken aback by it) as I was about the way he carried himself. He carried himself without concern for anything but his business - the business of getting that cash. Don’t get me wrong, his actions were indeed out of the ordinary. But who says there’s nothing to learn from even the most outlandish of things.  Who says?






*Cartoon by Osazee Igbinosun

The Big Madams of Lagos

Just out of the blue, a strange incident happened as I waited at the bus stop for the usual Danfo ride. I was heading home, it was after work, and I was standing under the glare of the afternoon sun when the sight of eight Yoruba women swaggering toward the road caught my eyes.

Their dresses suggested they were on their way to a Friday party. But quite noticeably, they had a particular air about them. It was of a blaring sort I believe - a mix of self-worth, audacity and pride.

The way they strolled, talked and gestured made them a spectacle worthy of interest. And by looking at them, even the least suspecting man could predict an ensuing incident in the making. So with rapt attention I joined fellow spectators hoping and waiting to be entertained.

Surely, it happened our prayers were answered. We witnessed as these women literally laid claim to the major road, Queens Street, as if it were their own. And at that moment, even though it was just for a few minutes, Lagos undeniably lost one of its streets to the madams.

Yes, these women were familiar Lagosian who strutted in peculiar confidence. Yes, the eight of them, stout and plump, were regal, for they were attired in rich colourful aso e bi and crowned with huge headdresses – the gele. However, it wasn’t necessarily how they looked that intrigued me the most. It was their deeds, which spelt in bold letters: “I KNOW WHO I AM, AND YOU BETTER SHOW ME SOME RESPECT”.

It was with assertive force that they arrested all attention when traffic on Queens Street was completely brought to a stop on their account. Not for just a minute or two or even for five but for a whole ten minutes, and it was all because the big madams demanded that they must cross the street in style, and that was exactly what they did.

First, the biggest of the lot walked to the centre of the road, then, with the abruptness and firmness of a military officer, she raised her hand and commanded the coming vehicles to “Stop there!” Imagine that. All the motorists did stop, and they did so without any complaints at all. Oh how dazed I was! As if in awe of a spectacular performance, I stood with a gaping mouth.  I couldn’t believe the sight.

As the women traversed the street, not more than one went at a time. It was a typical fashion parade as they each carried along with calculated grace and elegance. It was a procession of mirth and positive enjoyment for them – all at the expense of the buses and cars waiting to be on their way.

Not in Lagos do you find things like these happen everyday. On the streets this was an offence warranting the usual expletives, “Your papa, Na you get road?” or “Abegi comot for road jare, you done craze for head abi?” In the Lagos I know, insults like that would very much be in order. But as I said, to my shock, all the drivers just sat in their cars and obeyed the stop-command like little docile kids. Not even a word did they utter.

Did the madams cast a spell or juju as we call it here in Africa? I cannot say, but when I think about it, apart from the kick I got from the whole excitement, I can’t help but note a viable lesson: These women walked in the reality of who they believed themselves to be. They weren’t ready to be taken for granted. The common thing would have been to run across the road in fear of the impatient Lagos drivers. But they did the uncommon. They stood their ground with dignity and exerted themselves as the big madams that they were, in every way true and authentic.