The Year He died

The Year He died

It rained the year he died
Big drops
From God’s eyes
Up in the skies

I slept the year he died
Strange dreams
No seams
Running together like cloth reams village streams

I drove the year he died
Lagos, Ibadan, Ilesha
Four wheels
Petrol Bills

I laughed the year he died
No memories why
Strange looks
Many moods and song hooks

I cried the year he died
I wonder why
I died the year he died
They wondered why

I lived the year he died
Words, whispers
Remembrance, hope, solitude, multitude
Heaven – gratitude

 

19:30pm 22/05/2013

Ramblings

Ramblings

Stepping out into the midnight
I feel it will be alright
fire in your eyes
fire in your words
fire on the phone
fire in your voice
fire in your text
fire in your mail

in the distance the siren wails
A wall of sound
I fight the urge
i am evil
i am not evil
i am not nice
i am nice
i am terrible
i am not terrible

no use looking back
but the memories lurk in the shadows
dark shapes whispering dark words
Oh how I wish it would rain
rain down on me
maybe I should give in
in to the walking dead
“Here, my arm. Take a mouthful”
let us be one

burn me up with the fever
when I rise again like the phoenix
I shall have conquered my past
No idea of the future
hell hath no fury …
what?
A thing; living in the present
never to dream again
free for all eternity
but what is freedom?
what is the price?
what is the prize?

What nonsense!
Get over yourself already!

 

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NOTE: this is just a placeholder. I think I wrote it without actually thinking in about 10 minutes. It has no merits; no saving grace – so don’t look for one.
“Someone” (VIP) asked today if I still write: if I still put anything up on this blog. I am actually writing 3 short stories (or maybe 4 or 5 or 6, definitely under 10 :-), but I have been slacking off. Only one is currently being written – slowly.
So if you read the above, thank you. You should then promptly forget it. I have: maybe.

Nothing Changes

Nothing Changes

Time passes. Nothing changes. Nothing remains the same.

I parked in front of the the health center  I walked to Awo hall. Past the Porters lodge at the entrance. I passed in front of the old meals hall. Where students probably sat two to a table to have their meals: that died way before my time. I went down the walkways towards block two. Students passed by: I could be one of them.
Cloths spread out on the fields to dry. Students reading. Students doing their washing. Students playing football in the field between the 2-story hostel blocks two and three.
I remember once when people tried as much as possible not to walk through that field, it was OK as long as you didn’t stray from the tiny winding path that runs through the field. Because in the overgrown bits lay mangled remains of decades of destruction, everything broken and rusted: beds, chairs, bottles, plastics, etc.
One wrong step and you are off to the Medical Center.
Then one idle Saturday the students decided to fix up the field for football. I had thought it was an impossible fit, but the spirit of the game came over them. They couldn’t have worked harder if they were paid. All that day they laboured to move the junk and tip it over the fence behind the hall.
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The old empty tiled fountain place is still there.
I was here that night when they (Black Axe) came for “Afrika” (the student union Sec. Gen.). The immediate artificial blackout once students realised what was going on. The shots. Come morning 5 students lay dead.
I crossed the open space and went under hostel block 7. “Tope” lived there I remembered.
I entered the meals hall. A few heads turned in my direction. Maybe it is the echo of my heels on the terrazzo floor. Maybe not.
I walked randomly to a table and sat diagonally across from some guy reading his “hand out” and making notes in an exercise book.

I put my phone on silent. No mobiles when I was a student. Is there a rule against phones ringing in the reading room? How is it enforced?
I put my phone on silent.
I write this.
The “Man-o-War” group jogs past outside on the road towards Mozambique. Blowing whistles and singing songs. Some will be brilliant enough to juggle extracurricular activities with their studies and still make good grades; most will barely make a passing grade. Some will fail.

Time passes. Nothing changes. Nothing remains the same.

I drove to the Sports Complex.
An Olympic sized swimming pool is in place. The supporting structures are under construction.
I used to go watch the body builders do their thing. The place seems locked.
I am on the concrete walkway that separates the main field from the several fenced courts for various other games.

There are groups of students. Various little groups. Evangelising. Fellowshiping.
A lady walked to and fro in one of the fenced courts. She is praying probably in tongues.

I listened in on one of the groups. The speaker says “Keep praying. God wants to see your perseverance.” He used Daniel as an illustration.

“The Realist” is otherwise engaged. I should be going.

The praying lady has disappeared. Replaced by many more groups in different enclosed areas. One man lies down on the hard tarmac face down with his head in his hands. One holds on to the chain linked fence. Three guys pray in a tight group. Some girls walk up carrying musical instruments.
Several fellowships will hold this evening (as usual) I think. More people are showing up with Bibles and walking past.

One group is using one of the covered arenas. They have a VIP table (for the event anchors I think) with a couple of people. Girls are always more spiritual than boys. Most of the group are girls: possibly 45 of the 60 or so people.
It’s time to go.
Seventy-seven kilometers of the wide open road are ahead of me.

If she is happy, then it is OK. That’s all that matters. My sins might not be forgiven nor forgotten, but they shouldn’t matter as much.

Time passes. Nothing changes. Nothing remains the same.

Nothing changes.

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That morning

That morning

Had a weird dream this morning. “”They were shooting Spider-Man in the house where I was. And they had this really tall steel structure with some attachment to the house. And the Spider-man was swinging around this. He of course had several safety ropes attached which I guess will be digitally removed. The director was explaining the intricacies of the 3D work and so on. We were maybe 6 or 8 floors up. My mum was there as well. A floor or so below me. The director was on the ground I believe. The house had no guard railing in the front at all, so you could literally leap down.

In the blink of an eye about half the steel structure was gone (they had finished filming). My mum should have used that to get indoors (not completely sure why not on the floor where she was ). Anyway, she first walked the ledge with the vertical drop to her left. Then she jumped down one floor. Then dropped to her hand over the ledge (holding on to the ledge with her legs dangling free) , swung back and forth and landed on the next floor (which was sort of receded). All the while praying that I would not have to carry her (she was literally praying this out loud) while doing all this dangerous calisthenics! And there I was thinking maybe she should wait while we try and figure out how to get the steel structure back so she could get into the house. She made it safely though!

07:30am 11/March/2013.

 

I put the following on FaceBook yesterday (08/05/2013) then removed it immediately. I think even the premise that one can announce he/she is about to make restitution (implying making up for some negative act in the past – as if …) is probably an indication of a proud/haughty heart (not what I was aiming for). I am putting it here because I like how it read (and it is my blog after all 🙂

“Time for restitution. This is not a one-time offer though it may be time-limited in its current iteration. If I have taken anything (money, joy, property, etc) from you, or the reverse (given you pain, sadness, etc), I am truly sorry. If it is or can be converted to material things, I will add something on top (after all, there is always interest to be paid even on legitimate borrowing) but I can’t go full-scale “Zacchaeus” (I don’t have that kind of resources … yet). If not, let me know the type/kind of restitution required.
But seriously …”

Ife

Ife

Ife the city.

Ife the Yoruba word for love.

Ife.

Today (Sunday) I stopped at the old tollgate just at the entrance to Ife (on my way back to Ibadan).

“How much?” I asked the lady with the tray of bananas. One of several women trying to sell me fruits of various kinds including oranges, pears, etc.

“N200” she said.

“But these bananas are small.” I said.

“That’s how we found them.” she said as a form of apology for the size of the bananas.

I haggled half-heartedly because it was expected.

She insisted on two hundred Naira. Her face took on a pleading look. I relented.

She put the bananas in a plastic bag and handed it to me. I paid.

The middle aged man in the “Yellow Fever” uniform standing along the road with the fruit sellers asked if I would be kind enough to give him a lift to Ikire. I was sure he wasn’t completely sure he would get a positive response. I asked him to hop in which he gratefully did.

He was somewhat dirty and didn’t smell too good. But who would after being in the African midday Sun all day?

I noticed his eyes were bloodshot even though he had on a pair of dark glasses. I thought I smelled some of the local gin on him.

He told me he was transferred from Ikire to Ife (or was it the opposite?) early this year and he had not yet secured accommodation locally so he has been shuttling between the two towns (probably a distance of about 40KM).

I put on the radio. A call-in Yoruba programme was on air. People called in or sent in SMS asking the radio presenters to “beg” their loved ones (husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, lovers, etc.) for wrongs they had done to them. They would give the person’s name, their names, and ask for forgiveness. The presenters will then plead on behalf of the caller.

Time passed.

We came to a point on the road. A small white car had run off the road into the brush just by the road side. I don’t think it was too bad as we could still see the driver’s head and he seemed OK. Their was also no urgency in the actions of the FRSC officers diverting traffic at the point. There was a huge trailer on the road trying to turn around. I suspect it might have caused the small car to run off the road.

I dropped off the traffic officer at the Ikire junction.

I was on the road again when I got a call from “The Realist” (a friend; a sister; a kindred spirit; :-).

Which reminded me of the previous day’s events. (Not that I had actually forgotten).

I had gone on a little adventure on the campus grounds with “The Realist”.

The highlight was a visit to the zoo.

Which still consisted of a lot of virgin forest. Hanging vines. Dark paths. The whole setup very Indiana Jones like. Broken here and there by the enclosures of various animals. I might have missed a couple but the animals in the zoo consisted of the following:

A couple of lions. They didn’t look well fed nor happy. They were locked up. The tip of their ears raw with the flies bothering them. Despite making lots of noise to get their attention, they were too disinterested (or ill?) to even give us a look. One was lying in its own piss and feaces. It was all a little depressing. I had read on the Internet the day before that there were only 34 lions left in the whole country. I guess these two were part of those 34. I wasn’t sure how long they could survive in that setting (maybe we will soon be down to 32).

There was a dwarf crocodile lying completely still in the Sun; a river turtle; a crested “something-something” bird; a couple of ostriches.

A hyena which we didn’t see on the first pass of its enclosure partly due to the “little” jungle in its enclosure. It was visible on our return journey. The enclosure wall was about waist high, so I guess hyenas can’t jump or climb. All the same it was disconcerting.

We took some pictures.

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A little python. I understand from “The Realist” that there used to be a huge long black python there as well. (Maybe it had gone to snake heaven).

We came across an enclosure with “Maxwell’s Duiker” on the little signboard, but the animal(s) were absent. Maybe gone the way of the big snake as well.

There were some monkeys as well. Their enclosure wall was very high. Probably close to 20-feet in some places. I guess it is needed to keep the monkeys in. I should have taken some pictures.

While we were there, only one other group (probably from Ife town due to the mix and look of the 6 or so people) showed up. So much potential unrealised (a reflection of the country).

We still enjoyed the visit though. It was also some exercise as we were both sweating due to the exertion (the terrain was undulating).

We left the zoo and visited some other areas of the campus.

At some point we were in front of the “Dramatic Arts” cloister of buildings. I remember I used to go to there when I was still a student to go look at the statues put up by the Fine Arts students; sometimes I would go to the workshop at the back to watch them work.

The campus had changed a lot. Lots of construction going on. Lots of cars.

All good things come to an end. I dropped off “The Realist.”

I went to “Ajose Lecture theatre” by myself but the place was locked up due to renovations going on. I looked through a crack in the door and could see all the new seats wrapped up in cellophane.

I drove to the staff quarters to the home of a close friend. I was going to stay the night with his family.

I almost didn’t make it to church this morning (Sunday). I wasn’t keen but the wife was just a little (gently) persistent enough to make me change my mind.

I was glad I went for the service. I didn’t know my friend was going to preach. He was actually one of the church elders!

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Back “home”, I dozed on and off after the well-made meal of yam and fried eggs 🙂

Five thirty and I got on the road for the trip back to Ibadan.

I got to Ibadan about an hour later.

It was mentioned in church that this is the month of grace. May the good Lord be gracious to all of us.

Oblivion

Oblivion

I went to bed with an ache in my back. You haunted my dreams. I woke up trying to decide whether I was daydreaming or truly dreamt of you.

No exercise for me this morning. I will lump it together with tomorrows. The room is in shambles. I have to fix it, but not this morning. I grabbed the barbing kit, put a N1000 note in my pocket and went out to the next street to the tree under which my barber plies his trade.

There was a MOPOL (mobile policeman) on the seat. He was having his head shaved while having a lively conversation with the barber. He got up once done and started to walk away.

The barber asks for payment.

“I paid you last time” the MOPOL replied.

The barber called after him “419 MOPOL.”

We all smiled.

I sat down and told the barber that I was trying to grow my beard. So not to shave it off but he could “shape” it.

The MOPOL walked by again, and said he was going to the next street. The barber commented that the exercise was good for him, and added when he was out of earshot that the MOPOL needed the exercise, or how does he explain his sizable potbelly (which the policeman needed to lose).

Once done, I handed him the N1,000 naira note. His fee is N200. I told him to add the balance to the other “thing” (a side “venture”). He knows what I am talking about. I had given him N2,000 several weeks ago. He said he still had N1,200. The N800 should put it back at N2,000. No pain no gain.

Work was work. I should go (to the church) for (the weekly) fellowship, but various things were going on, and I watched 6PM come and go. Inertia. I couldn’t get up to go. Excuses. A colleague mentioned that Oblivion (the film) was out. I checked the Genesis Deluxe Cinema’s website and found that the last showing was for 8:50PM. I decided to go see the film. I left the office at 8:10PM only to find a gridlock on the road. It didn’t look like I would make it to the cinema before the film started, and I hate to miss the opening sequence of any film. I would try. I got to the cinema about 5 minutes late. Parked my car in a vacant lot between two jeeps and went in.

Paid and walked into the cinema hall. Fortunately, they were still showing previews of other films.

I walked up the aisle and found that a choice seat almost where I would have chosen even if I had come in earlier was still available. An Indian couple sat at the edge of the row, and several girls sat towards the other half so the seat almost dead center was free.

I sat down to enjoy the 2-hour film. The Indian couple talked from time to time. Not too much. It was nice (for them) not to be alone. It seems a lifetime ago when I was sitting in that same cinema (maybe even the same hall) next to you. I was glad I was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt because I could feel your arm against mine. I didn’t move it, and neither did you. The feeling was delightful. I could have sat there till the Sun went down, and the moon came up. But that was a lifetime ago. The wheels of time move quickly.

Tom Cruise delivered as usual.

It is 11:15PM and I was the last person out of the hall.

There were suddenly lots of young people coming up the stairs unto the top floor. Strange for that time of night. I walked past them and out into the night. I see a “Department of Medicine, LASU” bus. Maybe the throng just arriving were students. They looked young enough.

I walked towards my car. I passed a man leaning against his car. He said something to me that though I heard did not register at the time “That car has hit your car.”

My car was in view and there was a Toyota Corolla next to it. It was too close for comfort. In fact, it looked as if it was physically resting against mine on the driver’s side (of my car).

I was a little alarmed. I could see into the car and it looked as if the driver had his head on the steering wheel. I walked up to the car and tapped the boot. The car came alive and the driver reversed a little and drove sideways and stopped a couple of feet away. The driver came down. A young chap about my height (or maybe slightly taller). He looked at the front of his car.

I looked at my car and there was almost no damage. There was a small scratch on the side of the bumper that could have been made by something as small as a screwdriver.

Then he came round, tried to smile and apologized. He asked about my car and I told him there was almost no damage. He stretched out his hand and I shook it. I found the situation odd, so I asked him if he was drunk. He shook his head (difficult to tell if that was a yes or no). I noticed there was a girl in the passenger seat with her head in her hands. I asked if she was OK. She raised her head and looked in my direction. The chap opened the door and held the girls hand. I guess she was OK but probably embarrassed. She was really pretty.

The chap went back to look at the front of his car. He seemed to have run into the wall more than he had run into my car. He staggered a little. It was obvious he was more than a little drunk. He realized it and he was obviously embarrassed.

I asked if the girl could drive. He said no. I said I don’t think he should drive. He said he is not driving right now. I told him I think he should chill a little. Maybe get a drink of water.

He apologized again, shaking my hand. The other fellow that had spoken to me while I was approaching my car had walked up to us. He inquired if the damage wasn’t too much and the chap responded that he had run more into the wall than into my car. The other fellow went away.

The chap went back to sit in the driver’s seat. He leaned over to the girl with his arm either around her or on the back of her seat. Not sure what he was saying.

I drove off, then reversed again. I wanted a look at his license plate. If we meet again, I wanted to remember. His plate number read “EPE 4xx AL” (I am leaving out the 2 middle digits – replaced by the “xx”).

Hopefully, he would stay there for quite a while: Oblivion was just a wrong turn or decision away (for him and maybe for the girl also).

I am on my way home.

Another day.

Just like the rest.

Alone.

Hopefully to oblivion.

Innocence

Innocence

I wish I had left my mind in Ibadan
A shell driving a shell to Lagos
Ignoring the statue at Challenge
Via Ijebu but not quite Epe

I wish I had left my heart in Ibadan
Then I wouldn’t have to “off” the radio
Because words like “Love, really?, drama, form, familiarity, talking, seriously?”
wouldn’t bother me so much

I wish I had left my past in Ibadan
Forgotten Geography
along with places such as Akobo, Mokola, Theatre, Bodija
Remembering nothing that quickened my heartbeat

I wish I had left my body in Ibadan
6 feet below ground
unmeasurable distance above earth
looking down with no care for love or lust or infatuation

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

It was broad daylight when I left Ibadan, so I decided to take the old Ibadan-Lagos road  from Ibadan to Lagos. It took me through Ijebu-Ode along the Lagos-Epe road.

The Church

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I can’t help but marvel at the church above (the few times I have taken this route – always from Lagos to Ibadan except today I was going in the opposite direction and it was during the day). I pulled over, got out of the car and went to stand in front of the fence. I was tempted to go inside because there was the outline of 2 apostles on the metal double-door.

The bridge
This bridge below is just before the church (below). Not sure what it is called. But I guess the Federal Govt. “Omotosho-Epe-Ajah 330KV DC Transmission Line” at one end of the bridge should serve as a reference point.

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I parked the car after going over the bridge (I couldn’t stop for some time so I parked a fair distance away from the bridge). Then I walked back (taking pictures along the way). Anything to keep the thoughts going through my mind at bay.

It all reminded me of my father. A surgeon (first class) and a farmer. He had a love of the land. Sweating under the mid-day Sun as he made the yam mounds. I still remember once the non-nonchalance with which he used the hoe to kill a snake that suddenly popped up once when he was making those mounds. He practically didn’t miss a beat.
Of course at the time (every Saturday spent on the farm), the gnats weren’t so nice, but we still had to fertilize the corn, weed the cassava fields, and clean out the piggery if necessary (actually fun getting in the pens with the pigs). And there was the fish ponds, the cattle, and the goats and sheep. There was the Mango trees, the sweet Agbalumo tree.
What wouldn’t I give now to spend a Saturday on the farm with him.
I think the fact that you could find me with slippers in the house and walking barefoot outside on the road/compound has something to do with my growing up 🙂

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While taking photographs of the “creek”, a boat man came rowing midstream. I greeted him and asked if I could take his picture. He said to go right ahead. he even turned around the boat so I could get a good picture of him. He asked where I was from, and I said Lagos.

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The other end of the bridge. The PHCN construction is just to the right.
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The first “joint” where the bridge more or less started.
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The pictures below were taken after I leaned over the bridge and greeted them. I asked if I could take their pictures. They didn’t understand me at first, but once they realised what I meant, they enthusiastically agreed.

Since they responded in Yoruba (but with the location at the back of my mind), I asked if they were Yoruba. The oldest boy told me that they were not Yoruba. That a lot of tribes were represented there. There were Ijaws, and other tribes. He himself was Togolese. I asked if he could speak French. he said very little. I greeted him “Bon joule”  to which he responded “Bon Joule madame”. We all burst out laughing at his mistake which he realised and I corrected (use Monsieur for men and madame for women)

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Innocence.
Even the naked one in the group was willing to have his picture taken. I was the one that kept saying he should get in the water (since I was going to put up the pictures on my blog 🙂
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Michael I think his name was. The most willing out of the group. He came up on the bridge afterwards to look at the pictures. Reporting to the rest that the pictures were very good.
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Putting on a show for me (Michael I think). The little guy came up on the bridge, and jumped down into the water below! I asked him if he had done it before (jumped). He played along and pretended he hadn’t and it may be dangerous. I told him he was very brave. That I wouldn’t do it even if I was offered money!
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Since they were all on the metal pipe, I told them I wanted to take a few more pictures. They decided to put the naked guy in the middle!

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Back in the water!

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I asked them what they did and they said “fish”. I said I didn’t think there would be big fishes in the water. they responded that it wasn’t the right season. That for now only small fishes are in the water.

I said goodbye. Once of them responded that I should “wash” the pictures. The others made fun of him!

It seems there are two ways we lose our “innocence” (the simple joy in being alive; in the wonders around us): age (growing up), and education.
Just after the bridge was a shed with a couple of kids under it. They were properly dressed and the bungalow in the background was probably their house. They were tending to a tray of smoked fish. I asked if I could take their picture and the boy said “Koni she she O!” (impossible!). Of course, it may just be superstition, who knows what I could do with the picture? Maybe “remote-control” them into slavery or money-making rituals! It contrasted heavily to the response I got a few meters away from the children and even men who were “closer” to the land.

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The 25-liter plastic jerrycan collecting the real deal (palm-wine) from the palm tree!

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The shed had various domestic items in it. I could also see a bottle of “Alomo” or whatever the aphrodisiac in the small green plastic bottle is called.

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The other end of the bridge.

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Village visit or consulting the “Babas”?

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The car in the picture is a 2-door coupe.

The state of Nigeria

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The old toll gate
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The Epe bridge?

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Loot from the Route!

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The watermelon cost N600, the 6 mangoes cost N100, and the real poison (palm-wine) cost N500. After taking the pictures of the boys, it suddenly dawned on me that it would be a crime to leave the area (with all the palm-wine smell heavy in the air) without sampling some of it. There was a shed just a few meters up the road from where I had packed my car selling the good stuff 🙂
The plastic bottle is for size reference purposes. I bought the Mangoes and Watermelon at the T-junction (Epe/Ogun/Lagos).
I find it difficult to haggle too much with people selling food stuff. I think about all the effort it takes to grow them, the farmers and sellers under the fierce Sun … and I think how easy I may spend the same amount on something not even relevant such as a bottle of drink or a lunch …

The girl behind the polka dot

The girl behind the polka dot

It was the third of June
the rains beat down none too soon
for the heat, the heat was strong enough
to cook the brain

The rains lashed down
but I was safe behind the screen
the wipers screeched their protest
idle since last year
now venting their despair

The red carpet was out
the man ahead lost his footing
the cameras flashed
his shirt was dripping
the TV crews – shooting

The hall was crowded
the lighting occluded
the fashion impressive
the models attractive

Her face haunts my dreams
her vision my days
the rain washed away all:
sins and signs
things and grime

Love, affection, infatuation
gasps,whispers, exclamation
heaven, earth, and in between
death, taxes, all that lives within
lighting, thunder, lightening

silence …

It was the girl behind the polka dot.

Rumble in Rhodesia

Rumble in Rhodesia

The third war has come
…. and stayed

Oil was all that mattered
Oil is all that matters
They will kill you just because you have a car
Then kill you a second time for the oil in your car

I have a gun
Every other bullet is a blank
The lion facing me is not all lion
Neither am I all man
We both are part flesh, part machine
My watch tells me I am 70
My body is only 40
The lion has armour
The man has armour

I could end it all
If I popped one in the mouth
But a coward I am not
Cowardly – yes, from time to time
Reminds me of what the girl said so long ago
I have spent a life time and a half making it untrue
I wonder where she is

The lion advances
It radiates neither hate nor love
It was engineered for one goal:
Its purpose

I was caught
Stealing food for one of my kin
No kin in the flesh
But kin because we roam the wastelands together
Together by chance and challenges
She has a baby
Not mine
But a baby is a baby is helpless

Look at the map of the world
If you can find one
Back to the conference in 1845 with a smattering of 1914
Old alliances, new allies
All enemies, no friends

It is just one long evening
Am I alive or is this a memory chip in some computing grid
The claws felt real enough
The pain went from my back up my spine to my brain
… and back

I put the lion down
But no joy in victory
The third war is still on
Hell has come to stay
We did not go down
Hades came up

No matter how hard I pray
I know I still have to pay

So I am sending out my thoughts
If you receive them
I hope you will answer
Look for me in the never-ending dusk
A mist; a wisp; a whisper; a memory; a Shade
A man
A machine
A thought
09/April/2013