I have to ask you to read the following with an open mind.

The first time I saw him, I must admit I was drunk. Being drunk for me was not a crate of Star lager beer; it was more a couple of cups of Amarula.

Six months ago, there was a small get-together to send off a colleague who was moving on to greater things. The “party” started at one of the posh clubs on the Island and I was about to call it quits when the clock was bent on pointing at midnight. But contrary to my better judgment, I went with the rest of the team to a popular club at the big mall just off the Island heading towards the Lekki area.
I usually don’t drink, but my undoing is usually the sweet liquor called Amarula or the much more well-known Irish Cream. I can’t resist the haphazard watering nor the natural climate control (according to the advert) that gives birth to the bottled taste of heaven called Amarula. A half glass on the rocks and I am “flowing” with the best of them. I suddenly looked at my wrist watch and noticed two was looking right back at me. Bidding my colleagues goodnight amidst lots of attempts to make me stay on, I headed out to the parking lot and got into my car.

The only thought in my mind was that I had to get home in one piece. Thus, gripping the steering wheel like I was holding it in place by sheer physical force, I squinted out into the glare of the head lights and kept my speed just short of a hundred.

In order not to drift off and find myself hugging the side railings or worse down in the murky depths of the Atlantic, I turned the radio to a station playing loud fast-tempo tracks. I remember thinking I was lucky not to be in a developed country with the likelihood that some officer of the law would be administering a breathalyzer test to me or asking me to tell him the number of fingers he was holding up on his right hand. Suddenly, the music degraded into some static gibberish and I thought it may be due to signal quality on the bridge. Following immediately, the AC became so chilly, my teeth were practically chattering. I turned the knob off, but the AC did not switch off, it was still going full blast and it was colder than my deep freezer at home. Looking quickly into the rearview mirror and my side mirror, with no car obvious in the vicinity, I took my eye off the road partially and tried to see what the matter was with the AC.

That was when I first heard the sound. At first I wondered how a car could have caught up with me so quickly out of nowhere. Looking into my rearview mirror again, there was indeed the one headlight shining in the dark. I couldn’t make out the car, and for a second I thought it might have been a motorcycle. I strained harder and though the light was obviously gaining on me, I still couldn’t make out the car. The sound continued. It was weird.

Soon, the car pulled out from behind me and drew level with me on the passenger side. I glanced briefly at it and went back to looking straight ahead. Then I did a double take. Sitting behind the wheel was obviously a man with a pair of glasses on. The strange thing was that despite the brief glance, I knew I could see through him because at that very moment, one of the lights on the bridge had illuminated the inside of the car. I looked again and there he was sitting looking straight ahead. With my heart racing wildly, I had forgotten I was driving and almost lost control of the car. That was when the figure turned in my direction, and gave me the thumbs up sign. He stayed level with me for what seems like a millennia but which in reality was about a minute. Then he pulled ahead and I could better see the car. It was floating on air as there were no tires in the wheel wells!  I didn’t realize it at the time nor did I associate the two, but once the car was out of my sight, the AC went off (and something I realized much later, the digital time on the dash had stopped at 2:59AM)

I had unconsciously reduced my speed to about fifty and though shaken, I was able to make it all the way across the bridge and to my house. I laid on my bed, unable to sleep and convinced I wasn’t drunk enough to have been hallucinating. Tossing and turning for several hours, I finally fell into a fitful sleep early in the morning dreaming of racing against several cars being driven by talking animals. I woke up with a slight hangover and feeling as if I hadn’t had any sleep at all. For some reason I still can’t explain, I did not leave the house throughout that weekend. Fortunately, there was food in the house. I still can’t explain what I did either. I didn’t sleep especially long, and I didn’t read nor watch the TV. The main thing I could remember was trying not to remember and ironing my shirt on Sunday night in preparation for going to work the following day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That was the first time I saw the man. It wasn’t knowledge I could share with friends or colleagues. Even though I knew I wasn’t “that drunk”, I still found myself doubting what I knew I saw on the bridge. It was the sort of story that may cause people to doubt your mental stability and I didn’t need that sort of attention with corporate annual job reviews just around the corner.

I was told later that I became even more withdrawn than usual. I guess my mind was pretty occupied despite all my attempts to the contrary.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As my workload increased due to a change of roles, I was able to forget the matter for most of the day, but it was a constant partner during my free time and when once ever so frequently, I lie awake in the dark unable to sleep due to a combination of the heat and lack of power supply from the grid.

I tried not to think of it as an obsession. After all, I haven’t actively done anything else and I couldn’t very well stop the thoughts from popping into my head. Are ghosts real? Dusting off the thin layer of dust on my Christian Bible, I tried to hunt down all the stories involving contacts with dead people. Most seems to point to the fact that ghosts are manifestations conjured up by practitioners of black magic and not necessarily representation of people who have actually passed on to the great beyond.

As time passed, I started to doubt my recollection of the event. Maybe I was drunker than I had thought.  And after a while, I was more or less able to convince myself of this issue and was able to largely forget the whole matter.

Fast forward to four months after my initial encounter. A client had an issue and I had to assist in resolving it. This took the whole day and the very early part of the next day. I found myself driving home when all reasonable folks where safely ensconced behind locked doors. As usual, I had my radio on and blaring loud music from a CD I recently bought in the holdup going to the Island. The artiste was “up and coming”, and his lyrics were catchy, so I found myself singing along to some of the tracks on the CD.

Suddenly, the sound from the player became practically inaudible. I was berating myself for buying a substandard product from a hawker on the road, when the AC started working overtime. I turned the knob almost all the way down, but that didn’t appear to have any effect on the temperature. I was fiddling with the knob and wondering how I would make it to the mechanic’s shop to have it looked at, when the eerie sound started up. That was when I remembered and I knew as I looked into the rearview mirror what I would see. There in the dark, starting to get brighter was the single headlight.

With my teeth chattering, I followed the light in the rearview mirror and then switched my attention to the right-side window, and surely, the car was alongside me. I looked forward and backwards, and no other vehicle was in site. I kept my eye on the road but could not help glancing right every couple of seconds. The car must have been going at the same speed I was. I could see the man at the steering wheel, or I should say I could see through the man at the steering wheel. All I had had all day was a bottle of Coca Cola. I wasn’t drunk – I was hungry! A couple of minutes later, he gave the thumbs up sign and pulled ahead. There were no wheels on the car. I wasn’t sure how it happened, but I was going quite slowly. The AC was now almost off and the music from the CD had resumed. I made it home and went straight to bed despite the fact that I was hungry. I locked the door to the room, blocked it with the big dresser and got into bed fully clothed except for taking off my shoes. Thankfully, there was power from the mains, so I put on the air-conditioning full blast, left the lights on, and got under the duvet. Yet, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was occupied by what I had seen on the bridge. I must have drifted off at some point because the next moment, I was waking up to the sound of my mobile phone ringing insistently. I glanced blearily at the clock on the wall and it said 9:00am. I answered the phone with my boss on the other end asking for a status report on the issue with the client. I was able to tell him briefly that it had been resolved and I would be in the office the following day since I didn’t get away from the client’s office till early in the morning. Thankfully, I was able to drift back to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I do not understand how something so frightening can cause one to be so inquisitive. I haven’t been able to get the apparition out of my mind since that night, yet the very thought of it makes me break out in sweat and shiver.

I have heard tales about the kitted up riders on the Third. Dressed like Robocop: I have heard they have license to kill. I don’t doubt it much as each one has a pistol and a submachine gun and I suspect is sporting a bulletproof vest under the heavy duty rider protection gear. I wonder how they do it in this tropical weather with the temperature easily in the 30s during the day?

After much hesitation, I approached one of them on a day when the weather was relatively cool and the traffic was light by all accounts. I guessed they should be in a more relaxed mood and be more tolerant of having their secure space invaded.

After pulling over, I sat in my car for several minutes and watched him with some apprehension. Then the thought hit me, that staying put for too long in itself might be misconstrued. I had packed a couple of car lengths away. I put on my hazard light, moving slowly intentionally, I alighted from the vehicle, closed the door and raised my right hand in what I hoped looked like a friendly gesture and with a strained broad smile on my face, greeted him and asked if I could come over.

He looked at me for a few seconds, then gestured for me to come over. I walked slowly towards him, ensuring my hands were at all times visible. I greeted him again, thanked him for keeping Lagos safe and expressed appreciation for the effort it took to do so. I then jumped in head-long into my question. I told him something happened to me on the bridge some days ago and wondered if he had heard or seen anything. He asked what it was and sounded a little irritated and gruff.

I narrated my contact with the car on the bridge to which he listened attentively. I was expecting him to dismiss me forthwith as a lunatic and ask me to step back and into my car and drive away. Instead, he looked contemplatively for a minute or so, and told me that if I repeated what he was about to tell me to anyone and it comes back to him, he would completely deny it. I agreed immediately to which he told me the following.

Several months back, while he was on night duty, he had got a radio call asking him to proceed to the bridge on the double. As he approached the popular juncture at which a side road forked off the bridge, he could immediately see signs of trouble ahead. Bits and pieces of a car and some smoke. He approached carefully to find a wrecked car which had obviously collided with the side of the bridge. Around about the same time, the ambulance stationed on the bridge arrived and the paramedics attempted to attend to the single occupant of the vehicle. As they pulled him out, it was obvious he was in a bad way. A quick look and he could see the man’s chances of making it were slim. As the medics laid him on the stretcher, he kept repeating the same thing. At the time, he had assumed he was delirious possibly from blood loss or concussion. He kept making reference to some man he saw who had given him a thumbs up and then a thumbs down. How the man wasn’t there. But it was obvious by talking to the paramedics later that they had met no vehicle coming their way, so there was obviously no other car involved in the accident.

I thought he was done because he hesitated for a while – checking out the traffic streaming over the bridge into the Island. Then he said, “I have seen him too you know. I was riding home after one of my shifts early in the morning when I saw him. He followed me for a while and I was becoming irritated and was about to pull to the side and ask him what his problem was. Then he pulled level with me, and for a minute I thought it was my visor that was playing tricks on me or maybe I was too tired and wasn’t seeing properly. Then he slowly gave the thumbs up sign and almost immediately he was gone into the distance. After that, I reduced my speed and when I got the other end of the bridge, I found one of my colleagues who was not in a hurry to go anywhere was still there. I tried as much as possible to appear nonchalant as I asked him if he had seen a car go by in the last 20 minutes or so. Of course, it was such an odd question but he guessed I was the first person he had come in contact with or seen in about 45 minutes. I couldn’t press him too much without arousing suspicion and in my line of work, any issue that may cause your mental state to be in doubt is grounds for dismissal. After all, you can see we all spot enough ammo to cause some major damage to the public.

Since then I have tried to avoid the early morning shift as much as possible, or alternatively, I just stay at my post until daylight and then make for my house. I have only seen him that one time and I hope never to do so again. But I can’t put what the man in the accident said out of my mind – what did he do to get a thumbs up and thumbs down signal? Some would probably call it some evil he had done in the past. But I think it unwise to risk meeting the man again.

There was an uneasy silence between us after that. Fortunately, the traffic picked up and I thanked him for his time and made my way back to my car. He gave no response, and neither did he look away from the bridge.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For some reason, knowing I wasn’t mad, drunk or losing my mind gave me a reprieve. The issue took a backseat in my daily affairs and I had practically forgotten about it – or I should say I had come to terms with it. All that changed again several months later when I gave a colleague a lift home. We had worked late on a proposal for a client that was due the next day. Finally, at about 2:30AM, we mailed the completed document to our unit boss and headed home. I do not need to repeat what happened on the bridge at 2:59AM.

He has been avoiding me since that day and we have never discussed it.

Obsession is a bad thing. I can’t remember exactly when it was I became obsessed with the man on the bridge – I had resolved not to think of him as a ghost. I was losing sleep; I started checking the FRSC site for any accidents on the bridge daily; listening to several radio stations for news about accidents; maintaining an Excel sheet on accidents and causalities; carrying out various searches on the Internet and surreptitiously asking colleagues at work about anything they saw on the bridge.

I did find out one thing. That there was an accident on the bridge shortly after it was declared open by the then Military head of state. No one was sure what happened. By the very few eye witness account at the time, a car with a sole occupant who was thought to have been a man went over the side and into the waters below. The section of the railings affected was quickly repaired and due to the political situation of the country at the time, the matter was hushed up and no attempts were made to recover the vehicle. There was some hint of foul play. The only semi-official reference I found was on the back page of a faded soft-sell magazine of the time which has long since gone out of print.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I tried as much as possible to appear normal, but it was hard for me to pay attention at work. My boss called me in one day and said I should take a week leave off. I protested profusely, but he put his foot down and said it’s either that or I start looking for a new job. He said my work has been shoddy for a while, and he has had to ask a junior colleague to redo several of the assignments I had turned in in the previous couple of months. That the only reason I hadn’t been given a query was because of my stellar track record in the office until then. He asked if there was anything I needed to talk about and apologized for not having asked long ago. I was tempted briefly to tell him all about the man, but then I had second thoughts. If he didn’t believe me, I was definitely out of a job, as who wants to work with a crazy subordinate. I needed the money – I had rents to pay and several other responsibilities.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Things are much better now. That one week off did wonders. I got out of Lagos and drove inlands. Stopped at a random hotel that looked OK and did nothing for the whole week except eat, sleep and watch the satellite stations. The amount of calamities befalling people around the world somehow made me put my “problem” in the proper perspective. I returned to Lagos rejuvenated. The only decision I had made was that nothing on this side of eternity would make me cross that bridge again once it was after midnight. Nowadays, I do not stay out after midnight. And if my official engagement holds me till after 12, I stay there till morning or sleep in my car. I haven’t seen the man on the Third for about a year now, except in my dreams and in the dark on depressing nights.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am neither the writer nor owner of this journal. The owner is no more. It seems that like Job in the Bible, what he dreaded most happened to him.

I was the first on the scene. How he had survived till early in the morning still stumps me because after reading his journal I was sure I knew when the accident had happened.

I guess the human will is indeed powerful enough to preserve life (mind over matter) even if only for a short while when to the observer, it shouldn’t have been possible.

With his dying breath, he made me promise to look in his bag for his journal and make sure the public learns of what happened to him. That he had to cross the bridge. That the matter was urgent. I was still calling 911 when he died.

As he had made me promise, I looked inside his bag which I found in the car’s wreckage and found the journal. I had to squirrel it away immediately because it would have been difficult to explain his request to the police. I was a little bothered about leaving him there, but it was obvious there was nothing more I could do for him. I thought it better to honour his request than watch over his lifeless body. Besides, the early morning traffic would start to build up and the proper agencies would soon be around to attend to him.

I am making this last entry so that people know what really happened according to the man. I have anonymously sent this journal to a widely read newspaper house. If you are reading this, and feel the need to verify the details above, the newspaper can supply you with the man’s details. I have asked that it not be included in the article out of deference to the man’s memory and the privacy of his family.

I do not believe in ghosts and you would not in general find me out and about late at night unless it is absolutely necessary. But these days, I make it a point not to be on that bridge any time after midnight.

I am not taking any chances of meeting the man on the Third.

Having said that, I have at several times tried to be prepared for the inevitable. Probably the only aspect of my existence without procrastination – sad. So I tally up the dos and don’ts; who do I owe; who have I wronged; who have I stolen from; who do I have a grudge against; who might justifiably have a grudge against me; which of my affairs may constitute a burden to those I leave behind rather than a blessing; try not to repeat stuff I am told as people sometimes seem very comfy telling me stuff they would probably not tell other people; and so on. I can’t say I am satisfied with the outcome of the review but in general, I find that with most of my shortcomings, I am accountable to only the big Kahuna upstairs. Well, that’s not strictly true, because by not achieving my full potentials, there are ripple effects on all those around me - who might I have given a hand or leg up;  more holiday trips for the folks; better schooling opportunities for some relations or even better donations to some other charitable causes, etc.

I have always known there was something wrong, something missing,  but didn’t know how bad it was. Well, not until recently. Now I know what it is, and I am surprised that I didn’t guess all along. Yes, people are going to say things about you, some of which will be true and others false. Some you should rightly ignore, but some you should look into. To be filed under “ignore”, is if you hear that you are dead (usually happens to celebrities). Well, if you are dead, you certainly won’t be “hearing” about it. To be seriously investigated are those things that sounds as if they may have some element of truth in them no matter how unpalatable. Which brings us to the crux of this post. I recently found out that I have a bad character. So here I am going through my memories for the past 9 months or so (hopefully that is the date range for whatever I have done or failed to do whatever it is I did do or shouldn’t have done).  I am ticking a lot of stuff off, but nothing stands out as the obvious flaw (of which there are plenty) that I can think of as part of my character that makes it bad. I would assume shortcomings that are if anything detrimental to my own wellbeing and progress with no direct negative impact on others don’t count. The most obvious thing that I can think of, I wouldn’t equate to a bad character. I have tried not to write anything negative unless it’s obvious about people or at least anonymize them if unavoidable. I try as much as possible not to step on people’s toes or rub people the wrong way. I know you can’t satisfy everybody, but at least I try not to annoy anybody. But yet, there is that act or omission that equates to a bad character . I have thought hard, but it still eludes me. Maybe someone reading this can set me straight so I can go about fixing it or if impossible, well, I can give up knowing I tried my best – maybe I can justify this post with that reason?

Bad is of course better than evil. So maybe, I should take some consolation in the fact that I have a bad character. Evil would have sent me running to the cathedral crying “Help me, Lord help me” and hopefully I would get the answer “When you cry, I cry, I cry along with you. When you smile, I smile, I smile along with you,  . . .” just like the song goes. On the other hand, bad may just be as bad as evil. After all, who wants a bad man for a bedfellow? Or a man of bad character for a close friend? Or as a baby-papa? Or as a father? This may actually explain why I am typing this by my lonesome self in a dark room while some of my friends and colleagues are having a jaw-jaw with families of 5 (God forbid anything larger in this day and age) or less, which explains why I am taking this seriously (I hope).

One more thing, that stuff about coming to terms with my mortality? It’s simply not true. One can only say that, mean it, and have it be absolutely true, when one is faced with a situation where that mortality is truly being tested with the outcome almost certainly death, and only very few lucky people actually live to tell about it, and much fewer tell the whole and absolute truth – undiluted with Adrenalin and the need to be some sort of hero.

I think we should stop saying “God bless Nigeria” – as in a prayer; as in a future hope. What did Brother Paul say about faith? It’s is the substance of things hoped for (things not yet in existence). So why do we pray? We pray because we have faith God will answer. But should we pray for things already present, available and manifested in the physical?

God has already blessed Nigeria beyond our fair share with a good climate, minerals, land, water, vegetation and oil. But we have refused to do anything reasonable with it. So what does that make us? Exactly like that fellow that hid the talent (money) his master gave him rather than trade (and make goodly returns) with it. So next time you are in your place of worship and the man on the pulpit uses that parable to illustrate some point, and you nod sagely in agreement and think how could someone be so wicked or lacking in understanding, look inwards and around you, we all make up Nigeria, and individually and jointly, we embody that man that hid his talent.

So when we say or pray “God bless Nigeria!”, if God were the master in the parable or if He was a man, how do you think he would feel? Exasperated if nothing else!

So, Nigeria is amply blessed by default. We (citizens) along with all the thieves and sellouts at all levels of government (and that includes the average citizens too – after all, we govern our pockets, houses, behaviours, interactions, tongues, eyes, etc) should decide to set greed and selfishness aside, and do something with the enormous blessings God already deposited within the geographical boundaries of this country well before it was formed!

Let us look under our feet and around us first. And after having harnessed the abundant resources for a better now and a greater tomorrow, we can then thank God for what is, and pray so the future can be even brighter by saying “God bless Nigeria!”

And all the evils of the day can kiss my bare feet while I watch an action movie and drink a can of Malta Goodness!

Let me re-iterate what’s said on the topic by people who should know – it can be pretty dangerous and the side effects can be long lasting.

Having said that, while I haven’t (and hopefully won’t) tried it myself.And I can’t for the love of all that’s reasonable think what a spoonful of Cinnamon in the mouth feels like, I have some observations that may just make some of the more adventurous ones more likely to succeed, claim the crown and win some 15 minutes of YouTube fame.

So what is the Cinnamon Challenge? Put a spoonful of Cinnamon in your mouth and swallow it within a minute.

The first thing to note is that it appears the experts say the challenge can’t be won if done by the books. Simply because our salivary gland is not designed to produce as much saliva as needed to wash down a spoonful of Cinnamon without adding water.

So how do I think one can win this challenge? My thoughts are below (all pure conjecture and completely theoretical)
- Let’s start with the pretty obvious – different people produce different amounts of saliva, so this is going to be slightly easier for some than others
- Next, not all spoons are equal, try and find the smallest spoon that would not disqualify you from the challenge
- “Spoonful” is a relative term – some heap the spoons while some make little heaps
- Practice makes perfect – practice on your own but ensure there is someone close by in case you need emergency help
- Practice makes perfect – I understand the challenge has been around for a while, so no need to hurry to win. Start with say a fifth of a spoonful and work your way upwards, that way, you can find your limit pretty quickly without harming yourself seriously in the process
- More obvious (which is probably why you shouldn’t do it with peers at the beginning), you have one minute, use your wristwatch, clock or a timer, don’t rush, hold it in your mouth as long as possible while working your jaws to stimulate saliva flow. Give yourself say 10 seconds for the actual swallow – extending the time it stays in your mouth should improve the chances that you would produce enough saliva to turn the cinnamon from powder to mush, making it easier to swallow
- Cheat a little, drink some water before starting.
- Also, generally, if you leave your mouth open while looking at the ground, your saliva production/flow should increase – do that for some seconds before taking on the challenge.

Having said all that, this is a dangerous challenge, and you should go through the list of possible side-effects and complications that can occur as a result (hopefully, that should put the fear of … in you), but who did that ever stop?

http://theweek.com/article/index/225425/the-cinnamon-challenge-youtubes-dangerous-new-craze

Carefree.

Love is inherently selfish
You are probably wondering what do I know to make such a statement (and you may be right – given the infinite amount of knowledge in and about the universe, whatever I may claim to know is not worth the finite amount of time it would take to express it nor the minute amount of ink I would use to write my name) But stay with me awhile, I do not promise new insights or knowledge (is there anything such as that? For all knowledge by virtue of its definition exists for all time, it’s only that we do not “know” it), I hope to at least make you go “Hmmmn”

Now, let’s talk about the selfishness of love.

Let’s open with that love that most people assume is more or less universal: the love parents have for their offspring (while I am tempted to state that the converse is true, I believe lots of examples exists to make that a much more complex matter). Now this love is selfish. Due to human limitations, we probably shouldn’t expect otherwise. This love is based on the sole premise (to the parent) that here is someone that literarily came forth from my loins – a part of me – mine. So while the bible (JC) summarizes the law into 3 “little” loves, the truth is that for most parents, loving all their offspring equally is hard enough, talk less of the neighbor: the little unkempt urchin down the road that taps on the car’s window does not feature on the love radar – he is just an inconvenient bleep that appears from time to time on the pity radar – and that radar’s coverage is notoriously unstable – shrinking and expanding on what sometimes defy all logic (should we use logic and love in the same sentence?) So the parent’s love is indeed selfish.

Now let us take things up a notch. We will next consider the love of married couples and sometimes “partners” (in more liberal climes). We will consider this outside the context of moral and religious requirements as to what is wrong and right. So, a partner in a relationship (marriage or “committed”) “betrays” the other partner. The other partner gets angry, can’t forgive. Love turns to hatred in a moment based on a single “action” (not necessarily going all the way, may be hitting second base for example). The “betrayed” partner is ready to do grievous bodily harm to the “betraying” partner and whoever he/she committed the betrayal with. So how should we define this love, or is it conditional love (based on reciprocal action)? Is it still love once we stick the “conditional” label on it? Or should we call it something else? So, yes, not everyone necessarily react the way we have described, some are just hurt and can’t forgive. Some “forgive” but seek a separation nonetheless. We are not saying any of this reactions are wrong (except the first one of course), but they still all show that the love is conditional, and the participants “give” mostly as long as they except to “get”.

On to that fast playground from which most commitments ensue – “dating”. Dating is some sort of (pre?) romantic  involvement between two people (hopefully of opposite sex) – I am too lazy to look it up in the dictionary. The perennial boy-girl tango. What is known as dating today is not so easily defined. Some people use the term as a catch-all for everything ranging from what some people will term outright sin on one end through to the supervised/chaperoned no-physical-contact-allowed pre-marital get-togethers at the other end. But here, we shall gravitate towards the mid-point: post-teen adults involved in some way. Now, what does a “qualified” man equate to?  To some girls/ladies: his ability to guarantee a good time – and what is a good time? Outings to the mall/cinema, shopping trips; car rides, clubbing, etc. I was listening to a radio talk-show for singles looking for relationships and I thought I heard the host read out one such request from a girl looking for “a man with a house” (he might have been joking). What about the man – he expects shows of affection, implicit permission to parade the lady so his “mates” can see how good he has got it, not always does he necessarily expect that the lady will cross that all important line (no matter from whose point you look) of sex (which is another ballgame altogether – sorry – in another ballpark entirely – sorry again –arrgh!) even though this is becoming more of a “given” except to supposed “prudes” and “religious stick-in-the-mud” types (we are happy to say we fall into this category). What if the man does not have a car – does that mean he is not ready or qualified? I believe the concept of men taking care of women (in the financial sense) should not have blanket application in today’s society. It was okay when women were stay-at-home moms, and men went out to work and bring home (all) the bacon. In today’s society where both sexes work and in some cases where the woman earns more than the man, the flow of “consumables” should not only always be in one direction. Now, if the man loses the ability to provide a good time, does that end the love (immediately or after some “reasonable” perseverance or longsuffering by the woman?). If for some other reason, the woman loses interest, should that turn the man to evil thoughts of what evil he can bring upon the woman or wicked tales to others in order to spite the woman or cause her to be looked upon in disdain by the society? So is this love? Or is it selfish? Sounds conditional.

Now we will end this piece by considering a more controversial subject: the love of God for us sinful humans. Now, at first glance, it looks like we can dip our paintbrush in that inkpot of selfishness and paint this the same colour as all the other examples above. After all, God loves us in spite or despite ourselves, and does not want us to love Satan. But hold on a minute, selfishness implies detriment to one of the parties involved, so we are tempted to say that in this case God’s love towards us is selfish, in that it is intended to keep us from Satan. But fortunately, since we know that Satan does not truly love us and also that if we “go” with Satan, there are eternity-determining negative consequences whose principles of cause and effect have been put in place before we were born, then we can safely state that this love is not selfish, rather it is unselfish love meant to keep us from spending eternity in pain with the son of perdition. So we conclude by stating that this is the only true love. All the others above are best effort at this one true love by tainted humanity – though worth commending all the same!

On a lighter note, let us conclude with that well-known saying that “Happy is the man who makes more money than his wife can spend; and happy is the woman who finds such a man!”

28/02/2012

The Sun was intent on drying me out like old leather. With my shirt sticking to my back I walked down the wide street with old houses on both sides. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back and pooling in my shoes. I am dressed like some old movie cowboy with a gun belt round my waist and a holstered gun at my side. I had to get out of the sun. I had a thirst like a camel fresh off the desert.
I spied some activity at a building further down the street and hurried in the direction.
The sign out front says “Little Joe’s”
I walked in through the double-door and paused in the doorway briefly to let my eye adjust to the darkness inside. I felt better already. It was much cooler in there.
Feeling kind of out of place, I headed for the nearest table with only one occupant – an old man. I sat down and greeted him politely. He looked in his cup and grunted – I took that as a reply.
“You new in town?” he asks.
“Yes.” I said. I could also have told him I had no idea where I was.
“Joe. Bring a mug over here for this fella.” He said.
Joe came over with a tall mug of lukewarm beer. I nodded my thanks to both of them.

I could see more of the interior of the place now that my eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Most of the tables were occupied with what looked like townsfolk.
And right across the room from me was a table occupied by only one person. A young woman with her hair piled high. She was definitely a looker. Even at that distance, I could see she was her own person and had an easy grace about her. She didn’t seem to be interested in anything going on in the room, but yet you get the impression she knew every person in that room, except myself of course. I am a stranger.
I stare intently at her – trying to catch her gaze.
I asked the old man who the lady was.
He grunted. “Let her alone. There is a reason why she is sitting over there by herself.”
My eyes roved around the room. No one appeared to be paying me any attention, yet I had an uncomfortable feeling I was the subject of some unspoken undercurrent heaving and ebbing in the room.
I couldn’t help myself as there was no other distraction in the room.
“Young fella. You had do yourself a world of good to look somewhere else.” the old man says.
I tried. Truly I did. But soon I was back staring in the same direction. There was something familiar about the way she was seated. I couldn’t quite place a finger on it. I mentally ran through the list of women I knew who were about her age – almost none – no one jumps to mind.
I wasn’t a man to court trouble, but for some reason, something at the back of my mind seemed to indicate I needed to go over to her table.
I stood up and casually walked over. I casually looked round, but no one in the room seemed to be paying any attention to me except the old man.
“Hi” I said.
No response.
I am idling. I needed to say something.

I spied what looked like a tattoo on her left shoulder
“Do you mind?” I asked pointing at the tattoo. She shrugs.
I think it was the sense of some familiarity I had about her. I reached over and slightly shifted the collar of her shirt – no skin contact – the tattoo read “D. K.”
I could not help noticing the gentle swell of her breast.
“What does D.K. mean?” I ask.
She shrugs again.
There was a snigger behind me and a voice said “Double Kill” followed quickly by another voice that whispered “D*** Killer”.
She looks at the butt of my holstered gun and asked what “A.I” stood for.
I looked down at the gun and wondered how it got there. I was no gunslinger. But the inscription on the holster said “A. I.” which were my initials.
I toyed briefly with the idea of telling her my real name, then instead simply said “Artificial Intelligence”
“What does that mean?” she asks
“It would take me some time to explain it”
She shrugs.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask. If she accepts, that would be my excuse to sit down at her table.
“My mug is empty, the day is young and it’s a free world. You buying, I am drinking”
I signaled at the barman “Can you refill her cup?”
There was another snicker from some dark corner of the room.
“Come get it yourself.” the barman responded.
I walked over to the bar, paid for the drink and ferried it back to her table.
She took the cup, took a swig and said a low thanks.
That took me aback a little as I wasn’t exactly expecting it.
“Are you going to sit down or not?”
For some reason, I looked back at the old man, and noticed the barely perceptible shake of his head.
I dragged back the seat opposite her and sat down on it.
“So you interested or what?” she asks.
“Huh?”
She slid a little piece of paper across the table. I looked down at it and all it said was “The challenge”
“The challenge I assume. Well, why not?” I responded. Though I didn’t know what it was, I thought what could it be? I needed to display some male brashness.

The room seemed to come alive with my acceptance of “The challenge” – whatever it was. Even though my voice was barely above a whisper, I was almost immediately surrounded by all the people in the room except the old man. They were chanting “Challenge!” repeatedly.
The lady got up, stretched luxuriously, winked at some of the bystanders and placed both hands upon the table and looked me straight in the eye for the first time. There was something familiar about her eyes.
She smiled at me and said “Let’s step outside, shall we?”
For the first time I noticed the two holstered guns in the gun belt around her waist.
“Step outside for what?” I ask.
“The challenge of course. The duel.”
The crowd switched to chanting “Duel!”
I felt I was missing something.
“Duel?”
“Yes. What did you think the challenge was?”
“Duel. With what?” I ask for want of anything better to say, though I had a sinking feeling with all the obvious guns suddenly in plain view it would be a gun duel.
With the crowd chanting the same word over and over, she said “See you outside” and gracefully walked out the double-door. I couldn’t help but admire her gracefulness, until I was suddenly propelled off my seat and into the blinding sunshine outside.
She was standing with legs slightly apart about ten yards away. Her hands hanging loose by her side. I could swear I remember that stance – but from where?
I looked at the gun by my side. I tried to think of all the John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies I had seen. I wasn’t really going to go through with this duel, was I?
In the meantime, I assumed what I hoped resembled the easy stance of Clint in one of his many cowboy movies.
The chanting died down and was replaced by an expectant silence. This wasn’t really happening was it? How had I gone from drinking lukewarm beer to dueling in the space of thirty minutes?

Some disembodied voice that sounded like the old man said “Ready.”
I looked at her again. The smile was gone. Replaced by a look of determination without hatred or malice. Just a concentration on the task at hand. She hadn’t moved in the last couple of minutes.

I took a deep breath. Though I wasn’t exactly scared, my blood pressure had gone up a notch . Probably the Andrenaline. I tried to remember everything I knew about guns – from films and books. They were heavy, they had a recoil, a trigger, a safety latch.
It hit me again.
This would have been ridiculous if it wasn’t real.
This is 2012 and not 1812 – or was it?

Suddenly, there was loud rap music coming from somewhere in the distance. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a slim lady walk up in 5-inch heels lugging a boom box. She sets the boom box down, smiled, and said “Good day ladies. Is this a duel or duet? Are we gonna see some action or grow old from boredom while you ladies pick your nails?”
She said it so light-heartedly, for a minute I forgot about the possibility that in the next few minutes, I might be lying in the dust bleeding to death.
“Uncle” she says with a smile.
Uncle? I was not sure if she was addressing me or not, but she sounded so familiar that for a minute I was almost certain this wasn’t our first encounter.
“You are looking in the wrong direction” she said nodding in the direction of my supposed opponent.
I had forgotten about the lady with the gun for a minute. I sensed rather than saw her move. She was quick and I doubt if I would have beaten het to the draw even if I had made the first move. There was a glint of sunshine in her hand and a flash of light.

She winged me. I looked down at my arm. No blood, but it hurt. Blank bullets?

“Cut! Take 10!” someone shouted. I spun around, but the Sun was in my eyes, so I couldn’t make out the face of the figure descending from up the nearby scaffolding. Suddenly, the mood changed. People started bustling around, joking, chatting, and a gathering slowly formed round a huge table behind one of the houses. A big spread of food was the focus of attention.

I was confused. What was going on? Am I on a film production set of some sort?

She walks up to me. She lets down her hair and started to strip off some synthetic skin make-up stuff from her face.
“Hi” she says.
“I know.” I smiled.

21/02/2012

The particular event I attended was organized by the British Council and Glendora books. The central band was a British band known as “The Invisibles”
In case you meet up with them, the group is made up of 3 gentlemen (one on the drums and the other two playing Guitars or alternatively one Black who sang most of the vocals and two Caucasians – not meant in any racial way, but so you can recognize the group if you do see them – and they are very good)
They were ably supported throughout by several Nigerian artistes such as Diana Bada (a bundle of energy and a surprising voice), Edwardo (I may have this one wrong) as the gentleman sang some seriously energetic songs in the Fela-style in “hardcore” Yoruba language (unless he is trying to emphasize the Brazilian heritage of some of our freed slave forebears), and the incomparable Yinka Davies (a true entertainer who should be more appreciated than she is). I have forgotten a few names but they all gave great performances.

The event started 30minutes late (not that I am complaining, but pointing out that “when in Lagos” … even the … abide by the concept of “African time”
But I must say the 2.5 hours or so I spent there went by very quickly and I enjoyed every minute of it. It was a great evening of very good music and I will gladly attend again in future if the opportunity arises.