This Is Just A Misunderstanding

“A baboon laughs at the buttocks of another baboon.” – Kenyan Proverb

This place, a section of Kaduna’s prison, is where they keep me along with the ones they call the “civil lunatics”. In my own opinion, the state prison service couldn't have come up with a more admirable name for mad criminals.

Admirable too is the way Prison warder Jubril introduces the inmates whenever the politicians were visiting for inspection. With a prideful smile, capped with bushy whiskers, he would say, “You are very, very much welcome to The Prisons of the Civil Lunatics”. As though, with proper scrutiny, one couldn’t tell too quickly that the prison was not the same thing as the place for the gifted students of Kakuri Immaculate College. It wasn't a place to be proud of but a place for sick, crazy people, of which by God I do not belong.

My cellmate, Felix, feels the same way too, feels he doesn’t belong here. But the difference between us is that he is really mad. Yet in all his jabbering, he makes a good case – a case he's made to everyone by now. “I need help!” you'd hear him say coherently, and then in between he'd go on and on with a peculiar language that the rest of us still find hard to understand. But usually, the conclusion of his talk would bring, with some measure of clarity, the point of his argument, “I'm really not mad, this is just a misunderstanding”.

*Photo Courtesy of the BBC

From A Man Against The World

With my pen and journal, I write not just for the sake of my sanity, but also for whoever may care to see from where I stand:

Right now, I should be in ABU Zaria attending to my studies.  I should be at my 5th and final year by now, top of my class, with the bright prospect of making everyone at home very proud on graduation day. But that’s not the case, for I’m in prison.

They’d like to say that I had it coming, that my ears were deliberately deaf to the sirens, that I ignored all the warnings that shouted, “Stop!, Stop!, Stop!” But they’d never care to hear my own side of the matter.

It all began when I exercised my freedom of speech, when I started preaching my WEED RELIGION: Marijuana is far safer than tobacco; In fact it's even medicinal; Yes, it has tar but so does cigarettes too; Nicotine, the evil, evil substance responsible for lung cancer is found only in legalized tobacco but not in my weed, so why can't a man get legally high, and in peace.

Well, it seems now that only my friends would agree with me. Of course, only those who’ve once shared the meaning and experience in a lighted stick would know. 

Squatting in a close circle, I can still recall Biggie passing me the joint when it was my turn to take a drag - long and slow - and then I'd pass it on to Shehu, Shehu would do the same and give Ijide, and from Ijide back to Biggie – and so the circle continues until the last puff. Those were the good times.

Anyhow, there's one thing I know: if the lawmakers, the police, and all those who opposed my reasoning would just take a chance and smoke my weed, I'm sure they'd consider changing their minds. If that ever happens, they'd be making, for the first time, a conscious effort in seeing the big picture. That's all I'm asking.

Sadly, who would understand? Here such arguments hardly hold water. Basket minds are what you'd find in the Nigerian courts and big parliamentary houses – makers and perpetuators of an ill-informed law. For with a mixture of their collective ignorance they've created a law that has made the streets quite unsavoury. Even in the nooks and crannies of my beloved Kakuri, the mere scent of pot would set the police against you as if you were the most wanted man in the land. They've even succeeded in making it out to be a noble cause: The War Against Cannabis.

However, I sometimes feel I should have kept my mouth shut. In this world, if the bulk of the population chooses a belief, false or not, one man should have no business carrying placards in full view that say: ME AND MY WEED DISAGREE WITH YOU. Then again, I guess I would have been a coward if I had not shouted in the streets, the joints and, in the university – where I woefully thought perceptive minds existed. Anyway, with the help of a good smoke, how can a man not speak – how can I not speak my mind, of the lovely hemp plant, Cannabis Sativa!

"There’s a reason why the other man thinks and acts as he does. Ferret out that reason – and you have the key to his actions, perhaps to his personality". – Dale Carnegie

I Am Like My Dog

Momo is gone. For four days now, he’s gone away. I don’t know how to find him or where to find him. He’d made certain to keep his whereabouts vague that no sniffing on my part would find his trail. North, east, west, south, I wouldn’t know. 

Still, I’d like to know why Momo would leave in the first place. For quite intentionally I had been a very, very understanding owner; I wasn’t like overprotective and controlling as the neighbors were to their own dog, Isis. I gave my dog more space and respect than Isis or any other dog in the neighborhood could ever wish for. I never even treated him like a pet dog, never cuddled him to the extent of shaming his manhood. Or neither did I put on his neck the forbidden leash. He had carte blanche, as Nana would say; absolute freedom from his duties of being a pet, a protector and a best friend. I also didn’t starve him, if I might add. All I asked was that he comes home as soon as it was fully dark – 8, or 9pm at the most.

Now he's gone, either dead or taken. And I am helpless to bring him back, even now that I feel I sent him away, that somehow it’s my fault, I think, for two reasons – the only explanations I have.

Less important of the two reasons, is that I was a little bit inadequate in keeping his waywardness in check. You see, Momo’s been gone many times through the wee hours, but many times he’d come back before the first light of dawn. And since he always did remember home, I wasn’t too strict. A little abandon won’t kill; and by the way, I myself wouldn’t like to be restricted and deprived of adventures. 

However, in that, lies the second, more important of the two reasons that I think it’s my fault: I treated Momo the way I wanted to be treated. Free, loose, with no inhibitions. To save myself the guilt of being hypocritical I had to be patient and understanding. But now he's gone, either dead or taken. And I wonder if this is a lesson for the two of us. 

“FOR THOSE WHOM THE LORD LOVES HE DISCIPLINES…” – Hebrews 12:6

*Photo courtsey of Curiousphotos.blogspot.com

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.

Love, Lust & Wisdom

So, so unwisely have I spent myself on many fields not my own. I have sown seeds that sprout nothing but nothingness. Nothing of love, sacred and beautiful - just of glands, of hormones fired in search of a thing that only lasted for a while and left me exhausted and empty, yet with greediness for more.

But now, I search for meaning! For the time has come, and it’s clear, in fact, clearer than any other thing that has ever dawned upon my heart. For I see now to forsake my lust and fix my mind on searching out my woman. I can no longer continue my youthful exuberant mediocrity. I cannot go round about anymore, spilling my streams on the streets – fornicating enough to earn the name, Don or Igwe, the King of Girls.

What is such a title, when somewhere out there my lady waits with a heart full of love – love far more precious than my aimless lust and yearnings marked with nothing more than a self-seeking streak? It was never about me, but about us, about our love. More so, it is of love versus my lascivious ways that the matter arises, my stringent quest for common sense: Which one would I live for? Is it to continue to gratify myself under the pretense of having a blast, or rather, the spending of time in finding the wife of my youth, my good wife, whose bosom and warmth I am deeply certain would satisfy me more than all my past sexual tomfoolery combined.

And not just for a while I know would she satisfy me, but always; and then, it would not be just sex, it would be the making of love, passionate and fervent. So I search for my heart’s content, for the one who alone is, for me, enough.

*Inspired By The Book Of Proverbs 5

  

Half Letter [A Silver Lining In Gaddafi’s Mess]

Dear Colonel Gaddafi,

Shoes don't come falling down for no reason. These shoes, embedded with the meaning, “we hate you and we want you to disappear from our lives forever,” were all along going to find your head eventually. You should have known you had it coming. You should have prepared, and saved yourself the pain of being stoned, loathed and insulted by your own people.

But that is not the issue. It is not the reason I have decided to write to you, my comrade and friend. I write to you for a bigger cause, and in the midst of your present crisis, I trust that what I have to say would cheer you up, lighten your mood, and at least, make all your vain attempts at controlling the Libyan uprising count for something. I'd like to call it the silver lining in all the mess and commotion you have created in Tripoli and the rest of Libya. 

As a fellow oppressor, I think I have learned a very meaningful lesson from your predicament. Thanks to the event of your woes, I wouldn't have seen it. It came to me like an epiphany, in three words: “Dictators Are Buffoons”.  Why, for the first time I realized the reason people revolted in spite of our efforts to contain them with fear and………

Okay, okay… I think now is a good time to stop writing this letter. If I continue I fear I might begin to mock too seriously. The man Gaddafi deserves some sympathy, at least….a little tiny bit. I confess I don't know the Colonel personally. I am not a despot like him, I am neither his friend nor comrade, and most importantly, I wouldn't want to treat his difficulties too lightly. However, if I were truly his friend, I might have sent a letter to him in such a fashion as written, of course, without the ridicule and malice – for I would be but a true comrade.

For the purpose of the letter, I would have said the obvious to him: “domination is never foolproof”, especially against the enduring power of the human spirit. For never has cruelty and oppression lasted well with humans - who like birds want nothing more than to be free.

If only Gaddafi had sought to inspire his people rather than oppress them over his four decades as head of state, I think his leadership would have ended well with a legacy to be proud of – one of love and respect. Now, for his methods and ways, he has lost all credibility and influence as a leader.

I point to this because I believe it cuts across every form of leadership and influence in human relations. In the story of Muammar Gaddafi, I think we all have a lesson to learn. I'd bet on it that we'd all prefer and choose the love of our families, friends and influences over their shoes.  For a true and lasting legacy lies not in things, but in our relationships, in the hearts of those we love and care for. 

*Cartoon by Liza Donnelly 

IN THIS ONE, CURIOUSITY SAVED THE CAT

Much like a scientist, I once had a deep interest in  practical experiments. In my case, my test subjects were never other humans (or animals) but my very dear self. It is I, so to speak, you'd find sprawled on the dissecting table, at the mercy of my own poking and scrutiny. Curiosity was essentially my middle name, and I did seek experience with the singular purpose of taking the ride for myself -  experimenting on everything that tickled my fancy. 

So in light of this, I'd like to beg the reader's indulgence in regarding me, even if for just this moment, as an authority on the subject of “Trying It Out For Yourself”.

You know, firsthand knowledge is always the best, far much better than any other means of getting to know about a thing. For instance, I wouldn't have fully grasped the high-marijuana­- induced-feeling expressed by the nameless protagonist in the book, The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born, if I hadn't tried it out for myself. Though his arguments were quite convincing about the benefits of smoking weed, I still had to get high to know exactly what he meant…as intimately as possible. 

In like manner, I have tested and explored the flagrant life of a Casanova. With exuberance and with much, much alacrity I have dated many different girls, particularly based on their geographical representation - all in the name of sampling. And the reason was simply that I wanted to know: like, how does the Tiv girl differ from the Calabar, the Hausa from the Yoruba? Bad, bad I know, but wait... I didn't stop there, for  against my better judgment, I have even tried out what it would feel like to be a drunkard within a testing period of six months. Even the thrill of gambling didn't fall below my radar; for all the betting joints knew me very well. And at the end of all my shenanigans, I genuinely could say that “I had been there and done it all”.

However, in spite of my debauched tendencies, the goodness in me also cried out for some adventure. I wanted to take the trip to know God for myself. And although my interest was inspired by the words of the preacher, I wasn't - as usual - contented in just being told how it's like. Instead, I wanted to prove with my own eyes and mind all that the pastors claimed in their Sunday sermons. Was it truly possible for me to live a life of liberty – a life free from the corruption of this world? Could I really possess powers qualified as incomparable? And most tantalizing of all, is there a chance under heaven I'd actually get to know a spirit God on a personal level? Such were the questions that rambled in my head. But they all remained bull (of course, without the “shit”) as long as it all ended with what the pastors said.

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.