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This is Sparta!

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This is Sparta!

This is Sparta!
What’s a little broken bone
Can a knife stop the true warrior
We live to die
In death our legend lives forever!

This is Sparta!

Put on a brave face
War comes!
We mingle our sweat with the blood of our enemies
Paint our faces with their entrails

This is Sparta!

New borns tested in the ocean depths!
Let the true Spartans float
The rest to the fishes be consigned
Little spartan fingers! Give them the hilt of the sword!

This is Sparta!

The soul of the spartan lives forever
Death is a transfiguration
We fight on in the sinews of those who live
See the muscles glisten! We bring death and destruction to our foes!

This is Sparta!

Love is war!
But the keenest blade is too blunt.
I am confounded!
Sweet words live in my head
I woo my fair lady only in my dreams

This is Sparta!

A thousand spears before rejection!
A million cuts but spare me “No!”
Let me lay down my life for my brothers at arm.
Let me go first – cut short my despair!

This is Sparta!

Welcome Home

Link

2

Welcome Home

There were lots of people from a certain tribe on the plane from Madrid to Lagos. They all seemed to know each other or possibly were traveling together.

I asked the gentleman seated next to me about the language they were speaking. He asked if I was a Nigerian and I answered to the affirmative. He then fished out his passport from his back pocket, opened it up to the bio-data page, showed it to me  and asked me to look at his name (Sunny OS*O). He then said, “We are the real Nigerians.”

His move to show me his passport instead of just telling me where they were from was highly suspicious. Besides, there was a lady screaming at the back of the plane. The lady had at least one Spanish “minder”. I noticed the group discussing the lady (with a woman remonstrating with someone else “that they felt that way because they were already successful” – I suspect the other party might have been un-supportive of the lady in distress). I asked the gentleman what was going on with the lady. He answered that the lady was being deported to Nigeria but was not from Nigeria. He seemed to be understanding of the Spaniards’ position with respect to deporting people that are liabilities to them as he added something along the line of “Even the Spaniards are hungry. They don’t want other people sticking spoons in their pot of soup unnecessarily.”
It’s possible this group was from say one of the border areas of Lagos for example, but the fact that it seems the woman was speaking the same language as theirs and the woman wasn’t Nigerian makes for some obvious deductions i.e., they were probably not from Nigeria either 🙂

So either they are all from Nigeria (and the lady in distress was just using being non-Nigerian as an excuse to avoid deportation) or they are all from some close neighboring country but claiming to be Nigerians. I thought I heard Ikorodu a couple of times but that may just be where they are headed. I hate to say this but the look and dressing of some of the ladies definitely put their character into question.

I may upload a recording of part of their conversation. They practically talked nonstop, were loud, and as soon as the seat-belt lights went off they were all over the place.

Some lady in the group who happened to be in business class (and who the rest of the group had questioned how she managed it)  comes to ask the chap next to me to help her bring down a suitcase from the overhead cabin.

The chap tells her (and turning to me jokingly for confirmation): “Me, a man with 4 wives. A woman can only be proud if her husband has one wife. You can’t be talking to me any-how.”

They started the party early as they had brought their own drink (gentleman next to me says “we are doing birthday” implying people should be understanding of the raucous).

home2 home1
I think the cover had “JB” written on it.

One of the ladies offers me a cup of water (she would be one of the dueling party below). “Bros. 10 Euros for a glass.”

I asked if it’s water. I laughed and said that’s a lot to pay for a small plastic cup of water.

She passed it over, winked and said “you are free.”

I sniffed at it. It was water. The stuff they were drinking had a pale yellow colour.  I drank it. I think it was just an extra cup they got when they asked the hostess for water and didn’t know what to do with it (cos she had a tray in her hands and that was the last cup on it).

They kept referring to one of their party as “chairman” or “chair”.

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

Like all such gatherings, when the handshake gets above the elbow, there is bound to be some friction. There had been some teasing and flirting earlier.

Not sure how it started but there was some reference to the word “prostitute” several times during the subsequent heated argument. From what I could make out, it might have been the lady involved in the fracas that used the word (possibly on a lady-friend of the chap seated next to me who wasn’t on the flight). It seems the chap might have struck back with some reference to the woman’s son.

“I am almost 31. My son is 14 and I am proud of it. Why must you always look at my waist. Should I always be afraid when I am with you?!”

“When I date, I date for love. She’s with you only because of what she can get from you!”

“Why should you bring my son into this!”

(Lots of shouting from both parties, interspersed with input from other members of the group – mostly trying to pacify both parties.)

The chairman came over and talked quietly to the chap next to me for a couple of minutes. Other ladies in the party asked the lady to apologise to the man. Which she sort of did later.

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

After we landed, it appeared some people further back despite the tight confines of the Iberia plane (if I had been a couple of inches taller, it would have been impossible to seat straight in the seats) wanted to leapfrog the people in front to get out the door (this was despite the fact that no one had yet exited the plane and we were at the front of the economy section so nowhere near the exit yet. It soon devolved into a shouting match with some man threatening to beat up a lady. The lady retorted that there was security outside and if he lays a hand on her, he would be arrested. I guess the man reconsidered his stance and changed his assertion to the fact that he had a wife on board and would get his wife to beat up the other lady. From comments from others near them , I think the lady was at fault.

“Are you mad? …  Then I will slap you and I will beat you … Am I your mate, am I your mate. Am I your mate … You are stupid … Let me get you outside … am I your mate … I have a wife in the flight. I will tell her to beat you … I will beat your husband … You are mad! … Stupid somebody. … Buuulllshit! … You are stupid! …. You are very stupid somebody! … You are mad.”

A short recording (2 mins) below:

Welcome Home

Above all the screaming and yelling, I smiled and said to some fellow close by whose facial expression said it all: “Welcome home”.

World War II

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World War II

Don’t ask me how I know, but I do.

I am in this house with four other people. Two women and two men. Hell has broken loose. It’s the second world war. Really. Because the Nazis are there. We needed to escape. The house looked like a richly furnished manor/farmhouse. We were in a hurry. We had to get out. Somehow we were in possession of some of those hand grenades that look like torch-lights (German?). We rigged a couple under some brick-a-brac that once moved will set them off. Nice welcome present for the Nazis.

We piled into the car and drove off at break-neck speed. Not a moment too soon. The Nazis were already in the compound. It was a bright-sky day but the noise of war; the confusion; the shear number of people and the dark black smoke that filled the horizon spoke volumes.

Some of the Nazi soldiers and officers eyed us as we drove past and you could see in their eyes that they felt there was something wrong and they should stop us, but we made it through.

We had one of those open-topped officer’s military jeeps. The freckle-faced dark haired Caucasian lady seated beside me on the back seat was my fiancee (don’t ask how I knew). The dark curly haired young man seated in front of her was her younger brother. There was an exchange between them that was important but which I can no longer remember. We drove all day and all night. Finally we got to some sort of deserted hotel.

We checked in and in the morning we decided we needed to hurry up and put some more distance between us and possibly the war or our pursuers. But the other lady insisted she needed a bath. We all joined in to convince her that we had no time for such things.

For some reason I decided I needed to change my trousers. That was when the matron of the hotel descended the wide stairs from her quarters. My sister (who had somehow appeared on the scene) said”I shouldn’t be changing my trousers with the woman coming down the stairs and into the room”. The woman decided to back me while we had a conversation but it was obvious she wasn’t really bashful and was worldly-wise. Another interesting conversation but I can’t remember what it was about any more.

We finally got on the way again and I had the feeling we were in France (while the original house was in Germany).

No I didn’t make this up. It was a very vivid dream. Strangely I don’t think I have watched any second world war period piece recently. But the chaos when we stepped out of the original house and the look of the German soldiers was so real, I felt I could have actually had some sort of flashback (or to people that believe in such things, I might have been reliving someone else’s actual past (life event).

20-03-2014

Musings

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Musings

What is a muse
A muse?
I write for my muse
For my muse?
When she’s gone, so is my ink
My ink?

Shall I tell my muse
Shall I?
Will dreams be shattered
Shattered?
Like a plane of glass
Pane of glass?

News. News.
Will this news find welcome
Find welcome?
What news?
This news. This same news
Same news?

Whoosh! Whoosh!
Better than cursing
Better than cursing?
Shush! Shush!
Secrets lightly kept
Kept secrets?

Life is hard
This Life? Hard?
I can’t see for the smoke
Deliverance comes on the heels of disappointment
The heels of disappointment?

Troy, Persia, all the kingdoms, all fall
All fall?
We stand tall for a minute
Tall, for a minute?
History is at an end
An end?

But my muse
A thousand lines written in a blink
A blink of an eye?
A thousand words kissed silently into the cold of the night
The cold of the night?

Where is my muse
My muse?
Lying on my bed in the dark
Thinking of you
You? Fair you?
My muse.

30/03/2014 4:51am

Taxicab

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Taxicab

So I get in a taxi (at the Immigrations office in Ikoyi) bound for the office in Victoria Island. The taxi man proposed N1,500 as the charge. I countered with N1,000. Back and forth and he finally asked me to get in but hoped I would “add” something.

Driving a Taxi must be a lonely job to a large extent. Between clients, you are probably just driving around. Then people come into your live for brief periods of time, most will not leave any last impressions, but some will (including the guy that pulls a stickup on you and robs you of your day’s takings). So generally, taxi drivers are ready to talk. I am usually ready to listen – especially if you don’t expect more from me than the brief responses that indicates I don’t mind you going on or that I am at least listening.

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

Taxi driver: “You see. It’s the fuel scarcity. If you check in the back of my cab, you will see several jerrycans there. The queues in the petrol stations are horrendous. In addition, they are hoarding the fuel.”

(I looked in the back and only saw a tiny 4-liter oil can so I said jokingly, “I don’t see any jerrycans here.”

“I just dropped them off because I needed to carry some heavy stuff for a client.”

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

“My wife just delivered twins after many years of trying. My family had advised me to send her away. If not that we already had one child from several years before it would have been difficult. But I stuck with her. What’s the alternative? Get a new wife? Besides, you can’t trust most of these young ladies of nowadays. They are prostituting themselves all over the place.”

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

“You see in fact I am fed up. This taxi is not even mine. Though I hope God will bless me this year and I will be able to buy my own. It’s on lease. I came all the way from Sango this morning to pick it up. See (holding up a ticket), this is a railway ticket in my hand. Sometimes, when I drop a client, by the time I drive round and get another one, my fuel is almost gone. If you don’t want to suffer, make sure you are out of this area before 4:30PM.

The petrol stations have fuel. They are just hoarding it. In some stations, they took delivery of 3 huge tanker-load of fuel about two to three weeks ago. We saw them. They locked it up claiming that the federal government wants to hike up the price. What’s their concern with that? This is fuel they took delivery of several weeks ago at the current price!”

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

“When you are driving, be careful of these Maruwa (commercial tricycles), they can get one in trouble. They behave like chickens on the road.

If you are still in this neighborhood by 4:00PM,  you will know that Jesus is not a Nigerian (referring to the traffic-jam). My body is aching all over. See how dirty I am all over from the oil. But I give thanks to God all the same.

Yesterday when I leased this car. I was fortunate enough to repent quickly (“Olorun lo je kin tete ronu pi wada”). I just parked it. For over an hour and a half, not even one client!

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

“When they reopen this station (we were passing by the NNPC station under renovation) , it will be very fine. I suspect someone else must have bought it over. I heard they have taken it back from the previous owner. That they owe a lot of money (“won je iya-laya gbese”). But I am sure they have sold it to one of the cabal.”

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

“Beans is expensive in my area (I suspect the reference is to the Yoruba association of beans with twins). It’s N200 per Derica (measuring can). I was fortunate last week. While waiting to pick up clients, I went with a friend and found these Hausa traders. They are more reasonable. We got the beans at N160 per Derica.”

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

The traffic in V/I was already bad. At the Sanusi Fafunwa junction, I asked him to pull over. I said I would walk through Sanusi Fafunwa to Karimu Kotun street. He asked if that wasn’t too long a walk but was quite grateful when I insisted. I brought out everything in my pocket (N1,205). Handed over N1,200 for which he was even more grateful.

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

He needed to find water to top up his radiator. We parted ways at that point.

Home

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Home (A.K.A. Lonely)

He ran away.
He ran away to China
Far away
Far away across the seven seas

His face was dark
Dark against the moving crowd
His head was high
High above the sea of pensive looks

His ways were odd
Odd from those around his darkish form
But he liked the rice
Eat with sticks; eat with hands
With hands?
Lonely for home 🙁

He went to the sea
Right beside the sea ship heading home
So he paid his way
Made his way again via the seven seas

Was he lost at sea?
Long days into stormy nights
But one day he heard the noise
He felt the heat
Home at last! He thought

But where is home?

Dead-man’s Pass

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Dead-man’s Pass

Up in the hills
Where the wind whistles through the trees
There is a tiny pass
Where men have given all they had
To control that which was there before their time

Their ghosts still haunt the rocks and ravens below
Stay still for a moment
See out of the corners of your eyes their fleeting form
Feel their breathes upon your shoulder
Looking for what – it’s difficult to tell

Both slaves and free alike
Rich and poor the same
All perish alike – food for the worms
No forge has yet minted the coin to stay death’s withered hand
For when upon the shoulder it rests
Not even the cords that bind can save a soul

Up in the hills
The patched earth kills the very grass that holds the soil in place
The vultures’ bones are just as white as the bones of the men who fought and bickered and died
I stood still and let the winds carry away my thoughts
Replacing them with the whispers of men long dead
Their desires and aches
Their loves and hates
At Dead-man’s Pass

Folktales and Fables

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I think I drew the picture below as a sample many many years ago when I was supposed to illustrate a planned new edition of the book “Folktales and fables” by Currey and Itayemi (not me . That’s Mrs. P. A. Ogundipe nee Itayemi. Most people would know her from the “Practical English” secondary school books and the “Brighter Grammar” primary school books series.)

folktales

On the edge

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On the edge

Why do I teeter on the edge of fatness
It is the food I eat
Threatening to build a band around my waist
Can I keep the cholesterol at bay
When the sugar, the Suya and the Cola conspire to dissolve my resolve
Lo and behold
I have tried to bend my mouth to my will
But success is as fleeting
As the Coldstone ice*
The niece suggest I tried

Who will save me from my folly
The second musketeer says to try the beer for it is the drink of the gods
But confusion galore abounds
For isn’t it the belly of beer
That prompted the guard at the door
To inquire who the pregnant party was
When a friend and his love
Burst upon the shores of liberty
The land of the brave
Who trust in nothing but God?

The third musketeer of smaller girth
Abhors the beer
Instead supping on stronger fare
Is it 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 percent
Nothing less will do
But the liver has a finite life
And if it dies before I do
It’s as certain as rain and taxes
That I would follow shortly

So shunning the advice of friends and foes
Setting my shoulder to the till
Every breaking dawn
10 minutes running like the hounds of hell were fast on my heels
Drop and give 50 I imagine the drill serge shouting
6KG raised 60 times per hand like the labours of Hercules were fostered on me
It barely keeps the bands at bay
But I shall not be deterred from my singleness of purpose
Even though I teeter on the edge of fatness!

 

* Suya – peppered roasted beef
* Coldstone ice – icecream from a shop called Coldstone