“Okada man slow down”, is a statement often said to the men who drive okadas, the deadly necessities that invaded every nook and cranny of the bustling city of Lagos. Being the fussy teenager that I was, I refused to use this terrifying means of transportation and preferred to walk miles than to risk riding on this infamous motorcycle. You see the problem was not with the motorcycle itself, but the riders. Everyone agreed that with the speed and recklessness that the daredevil drivers rode with, the okada riders had signed their death warrants. As I overcame my fears and started ‘biking’ (the art of okada riding), it dawned on me that I may have also signed my death warrant.
I remember the first day I mounted an okada, I say mounted because everyone said I did it the wrong way as if I was mounting a horse. “What is the right way?” I countered, as I placed my foot on the left pedestal, swung my right leg across the seat and settled in. A few more rides and bruises taught me the experienced way of climbing in safely, but that was all the safety I was going to get. As time went on, the combined fast pace of Lagos and my life led me to bike at every opportunity. I biked to and from school, I biked to my religious meeting, I biked to run errands, and I biked to make my hair. Yet each time I got on an okada, my heart will beat at a tornado’s speed and I always got to my destination feeling heady.
One day my father saw me alight from an okada and nearly screamed my head off. My first reaction was, “Am I expected to ride a donkey? I am not chauffeured to places. Of course, I muttered those words under my breath. ; I could give every excuse under the stars why I had to take an okada; Lagos traffic, racing against time, and impassable roads. Despite my father’s irate remarks and my anxieties, I continued to use the okadas, even on major roads. My frequented routes were Onikan to Lekki, Yaba to Lagos Island, Lagos Island to Victoria Island, Yaba to Ikeja, Ikeja to Ogba, Yaba to Ojota, Third Mainland Bridge, and Carter Bridge, but I was not deterred. Every time I said, “This would be my last okada ride,” especially when the rider attempted to kill me with his reckless weaving in and out of traffic, it turned out to be a big joke.
I witnessed a couple of okada accidents myself and said a long “hmmm that could have been me” each time. Soon enough, I too had my share, three nerve racking and road skidding accidents. The first one was on a Sunday morning. I was running late for my religious meeting and my rough calculation showed that walking would get me there ten minutes late, so I called an okada. We had barely gone 15 seconds and my mind was off the road when I saw a bus halt abruptly in front of the bike. Screeeech! In a jiffy, I was on the floor stunned as a blind man regaining his sight. A couple of good Samaritans helped me scramble to my feet and as usual, there was a tirade about who was right and wrong between the two parties. Needless to say, I got to my destination a whole 40 minutes late, bruised and shaken, while vowing that this will be my first and last okada accident, but as it goes in Pidgin English, Na lie!
There is something worse than riding on an okada, riding with a second passenger. Now this is something that I do not like, but circumstances change like the weather. It was a fateful night and I was coming back from an unproductive venture when my worried big sis came searching for me. That night, Chelsea and Manchester United were playing the English premiership finals and the roads were deserted. In her haste and worry, she took an okada for she did not want to be stranded in traffic with a car. Upon her arrival, we combed the streets for a commercial bus to return home, but all to no avail. After walking some miles, we found one of the necessary evils and set off. As we approached a road under construction, my inner voice told me to get down and walk, but before I could say, “okada please go slower”, we were smashed into the rocks of the undulated road. My sister’s leg was trapped in one of the tire’s spokes and she had several bruises. I cried more than her as we were helped home by more good Samaritans, then to the hospital by her husband, and back home at well past midnight.
That incident really shook me and I did do a great deal of walking and busing for several weeks, but eventually I went back to riding with the daredevils. My third okada accident was with my immediate older sister and boy was this driver speeding. We screamed all the printable pleas one can think of, “Okada we are young oh, Okada do you want to kill us, Okada drop us now”, but he seemed to have lost his sense of hearing and his willingness to live another day for he rammed into an approaching vehicle in a matter of seconds. My knee was badly bruised and I thought I had broken my leg. My unscathed sister calmly reassured me that I was well for I thought I was dying. After much sobbing and babbling, I regained my composure and hobbled for the rest of our journey.
Once beaten, twice shy, the saying goes, but for me, it is thrice beaten and not near shy. It can’t be an addiction for I actually hate using an okada and I brace myself with the thought that this may be my last minutes alive until I reach my destination. Nonetheless, I still find myself hollering for an okada across the road. Therefore, I have resigned myself to the facts that not only have these reckless and terrifying riders signed their death warrants, so have I.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
DAYDRIFTING
Have you ever seen a ship moored at dock? It looks sturdy, serene, and safe. This view can be enjoyed at night or day. However, there is something this ship needs to buoy itself, an anchor. Without the anchor, the ship will drift away from the dock and be exposed to the dangers of the sea.
We tread, swim, and float in the murky waters of life every day and are very similar to vessels at sea. Trained from infancy, we were gradually taught how to set our sails and meander our way. However, many of us have seen people who are very dear to us drift away. Just like that ship without an anchor. Drift away from what exactly? From the dock of values and ideals they learned and were persuaded to believe. Most ships are known to drift away at night time, when the crew and dock watchers are fast asleep, but the type of drifting being discussed is different. It is daydrifting.
In broad daylight, you watch someone dear drift, sometimes unintentionally and at other times, a deliberate effort. Such a person may choose to remove the anchor that helps him or her to stay afloat with the hope of gaining independence and ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’. Strangely, daytime provides excellent vision for both the person drifting and the individual watching the drift take place, but that is where confusion stems from. Everyone expects that anyone can see this someone drifting in daylight, so anybody can help this somebody who everybody is watching drift. Surely, that sounded twisted and so is the situation of daydrifting.
Thinking of such dear ones paints the picture of a person who finds himself in deep waters without any clue on how to swim. Initially, the person started out with a float, which slackened off with the passage of time. It was a really long time. Frantically, with flailing arms he tries to maintain balance at sea, but the float is gone and there is no one in sight. So, the person gives up and succumbs to the demands of the sea.
That is not the same with you dear ones that have drifted, although it may look similar. We are standing at opposite sides of a circle’s diameter and that protruding mound of despondence makes it seem that way. If you could just call out or listen to my voice as I call out to you, then it will be possible to guide you back to safety. All hope is not lost and neither are you.
This is not a condemning piece, pointing fingers at the reader for that is not my intention. It is just a heart that bleeds for dear ones drifting. We saw you drift in daylight. Sorry that we did not reach out immediately, but we want to help you swim back to the dock for you are exposed to the dangers of the sea. To us, you are as good as dead. For the hope that we will see you again is very dim. Therefore, we are armed with anchors to help in any way we can, to bring you safely to the shore. We yearn to say, “Our dear friend was dead and came to life again; he was lost and was found!”
We tread, swim, and float in the murky waters of life every day and are very similar to vessels at sea. Trained from infancy, we were gradually taught how to set our sails and meander our way. However, many of us have seen people who are very dear to us drift away. Just like that ship without an anchor. Drift away from what exactly? From the dock of values and ideals they learned and were persuaded to believe. Most ships are known to drift away at night time, when the crew and dock watchers are fast asleep, but the type of drifting being discussed is different. It is daydrifting.
In broad daylight, you watch someone dear drift, sometimes unintentionally and at other times, a deliberate effort. Such a person may choose to remove the anchor that helps him or her to stay afloat with the hope of gaining independence and ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’. Strangely, daytime provides excellent vision for both the person drifting and the individual watching the drift take place, but that is where confusion stems from. Everyone expects that anyone can see this someone drifting in daylight, so anybody can help this somebody who everybody is watching drift. Surely, that sounded twisted and so is the situation of daydrifting.
Thinking of such dear ones paints the picture of a person who finds himself in deep waters without any clue on how to swim. Initially, the person started out with a float, which slackened off with the passage of time. It was a really long time. Frantically, with flailing arms he tries to maintain balance at sea, but the float is gone and there is no one in sight. So, the person gives up and succumbs to the demands of the sea.
That is not the same with you dear ones that have drifted, although it may look similar. We are standing at opposite sides of a circle’s diameter and that protruding mound of despondence makes it seem that way. If you could just call out or listen to my voice as I call out to you, then it will be possible to guide you back to safety. All hope is not lost and neither are you.
This is not a condemning piece, pointing fingers at the reader for that is not my intention. It is just a heart that bleeds for dear ones drifting. We saw you drift in daylight. Sorry that we did not reach out immediately, but we want to help you swim back to the dock for you are exposed to the dangers of the sea. To us, you are as good as dead. For the hope that we will see you again is very dim. Therefore, we are armed with anchors to help in any way we can, to bring you safely to the shore. We yearn to say, “Our dear friend was dead and came to life again; he was lost and was found!”
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
DOES THE FINISHING LINE ENERGIZE OR PARALYZE YOU?
Picture a situation where it suddenly seems that you cannot go on anymore, although you can almost see the end in sight. Let us call those situations races, for in actual fact, every individual is involved in a race. Today, I encountered one of those races during my swimming class.
The class instructor wanted everyone to swim the length of the pool with the front crawl stroke. I took off with a nice push and transitioned to the full stroke. As the wall of the pool came into sight, it felt like I had exhausted all my energy. Worse still, I felt like stopping, since I could not go on anymore. Then, it dawned on me that despite the fact that I could see the finishing line, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by what exactly? Perhaps, apprehension of drowning, doubts in my abilities, and worry that I may not reach my goal. Petty things you may be saying. However, this is what confronts every runner in a race, albeit not the drowning part, nonetheless, the principle remains.
Scrutinizing my swimming experience isn’t it interesting to note that I was motivated in the deep end! Could it be that there were less obstacles swimming in the deep than in the shallow? I do not think so. The deep actually poses a greater struggle than the shallow for there I can drown. In the shallow end, the depth did not bother me; it was imminent defeat that elicited concern. I was paralyzed instead of energized by the finishing line.
Dissecting the crux of the matter, one may want to start with what the finishing line represents. It is the evidence that hard work has paid off, the prize received for a personal victory, and evidence that you triumphed against all odds. Sounds like quite a lot to give up for a moment of temporary, undue anxiety. Sometimes, we tend to forget that before we saw the finishing line in sight, we had contended with weightier things. With arms literally locked in combat, we huffed and puffed and prevailed. Yet, the finishing line approached and our determination transitioned to apprehension.
While swimming, the finishing line was the other end of the pool, but it can be anything that you are racing for. Some are in a sprint race, while others are in an ongoing marathon. Whatever the case may be, see the finishing line for all that is. Do not give up some few meters away from the finishing line for not every race can be re-run. Run the race that is set before you with endurance (Hebrews 12:1), while keeping your eyes set on the prize.
The class instructor wanted everyone to swim the length of the pool with the front crawl stroke. I took off with a nice push and transitioned to the full stroke. As the wall of the pool came into sight, it felt like I had exhausted all my energy. Worse still, I felt like stopping, since I could not go on anymore. Then, it dawned on me that despite the fact that I could see the finishing line, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by what exactly? Perhaps, apprehension of drowning, doubts in my abilities, and worry that I may not reach my goal. Petty things you may be saying. However, this is what confronts every runner in a race, albeit not the drowning part, nonetheless, the principle remains.
Scrutinizing my swimming experience isn’t it interesting to note that I was motivated in the deep end! Could it be that there were less obstacles swimming in the deep than in the shallow? I do not think so. The deep actually poses a greater struggle than the shallow for there I can drown. In the shallow end, the depth did not bother me; it was imminent defeat that elicited concern. I was paralyzed instead of energized by the finishing line.
Dissecting the crux of the matter, one may want to start with what the finishing line represents. It is the evidence that hard work has paid off, the prize received for a personal victory, and evidence that you triumphed against all odds. Sounds like quite a lot to give up for a moment of temporary, undue anxiety. Sometimes, we tend to forget that before we saw the finishing line in sight, we had contended with weightier things. With arms literally locked in combat, we huffed and puffed and prevailed. Yet, the finishing line approached and our determination transitioned to apprehension.
While swimming, the finishing line was the other end of the pool, but it can be anything that you are racing for. Some are in a sprint race, while others are in an ongoing marathon. Whatever the case may be, see the finishing line for all that is. Do not give up some few meters away from the finishing line for not every race can be re-run. Run the race that is set before you with endurance (Hebrews 12:1), while keeping your eyes set on the prize.
A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS
As I contemplate traveling to my home country Nigeria this December, I cannot help but contemplate on the bittersweet experiences I have had in the hustle and bustle of the Lagos metropolis. The food, the noisy crowds, the transportation system, the erratic power supply, which no Nigerian ever forgets, and the struggle to make a substantial living are facets of a Lagosian’s life. Sometimes, it seems like it may be difficult to adjust to life in Eko after a fifteen month sojourn in the United States, which brings me to the reasons why I want to go home.
With the passing of each day in the American city I reside in, I can’t help but notice that I am a very exotic fish in this sea of people. The questions just do not stop pouring in. What kind of meat do you eat in your country? What kind of pets do your country men keep in their homes? You see, I move with friends that are very deliberate about their choice of words, so they try to keep away from the “popular” questions that range from do you have naked people that still climb in Africa and do you live in the wild with lions and tigers at your beck and call?
I remember the first time I attempted to answer “the meat question.” It went like this: “We consume different types of meat from the cow, goat, dog, snails…” My list halted when I saw the expressions on my friends’ faces, so I decided to focus on the cow, which was a huge mistake. I went on to describe the tastes of Pomo, “Shaki”, “Fuku”, “Roundabout”. My response was covered with a blanket of silence as everyone seemingly turned to what they were doing prior to my bizarre revelation. I sought to redeem my carnivorous image by searching through the internet for the “common scientific” names of these meats and I shared this new piece of information with them, but the damage had already been done. I briefly chuckled to myself as I considered the thought of telling them about the “Isi-Ewu” and “Nkwobi”, joints in Nigeria, but I decided to spare them the part two of my “horror” tales.
I have greatly digressed, which is a usual occurrence for me. Nostalgia tugs at my heart as I recall hopping in and out of the red and blue BRT buses to commute from the mainland to the island and vice-versa. Scenes of the irrational CMS bus conductor harassing women, men, and children for 20 naira keep replaying in my head as I reflect on those lazy days that I refused to take the 10-minute walk from City Mall, Onikan to the US Educational Advising Center. Sometimes, it feels like I am losing my hustling spirit, but do not get me wrong for things do not go smoothly here. However, nothing compares to Lagos atmosphere.
Definitely, there will be many changes in Lagos when I return and I hope on a positive note. Also, I will return a changed person who is eager to learn more about my surroundings and the people who occupy them. Don’t be surprised if you see me armed with my notepad and pen at every passing second (except when I’m asleep), taking notes about the types of meat Nigerians eat and adequate answers backed with evidence for whatever question I may be asked when I return from my December homecoming.
With the passing of each day in the American city I reside in, I can’t help but notice that I am a very exotic fish in this sea of people. The questions just do not stop pouring in. What kind of meat do you eat in your country? What kind of pets do your country men keep in their homes? You see, I move with friends that are very deliberate about their choice of words, so they try to keep away from the “popular” questions that range from do you have naked people that still climb in Africa and do you live in the wild with lions and tigers at your beck and call?
I remember the first time I attempted to answer “the meat question.” It went like this: “We consume different types of meat from the cow, goat, dog, snails…” My list halted when I saw the expressions on my friends’ faces, so I decided to focus on the cow, which was a huge mistake. I went on to describe the tastes of Pomo, “Shaki”, “Fuku”, “Roundabout”. My response was covered with a blanket of silence as everyone seemingly turned to what they were doing prior to my bizarre revelation. I sought to redeem my carnivorous image by searching through the internet for the “common scientific” names of these meats and I shared this new piece of information with them, but the damage had already been done. I briefly chuckled to myself as I considered the thought of telling them about the “Isi-Ewu” and “Nkwobi”, joints in Nigeria, but I decided to spare them the part two of my “horror” tales.
I have greatly digressed, which is a usual occurrence for me. Nostalgia tugs at my heart as I recall hopping in and out of the red and blue BRT buses to commute from the mainland to the island and vice-versa. Scenes of the irrational CMS bus conductor harassing women, men, and children for 20 naira keep replaying in my head as I reflect on those lazy days that I refused to take the 10-minute walk from City Mall, Onikan to the US Educational Advising Center. Sometimes, it feels like I am losing my hustling spirit, but do not get me wrong for things do not go smoothly here. However, nothing compares to Lagos atmosphere.
Definitely, there will be many changes in Lagos when I return and I hope on a positive note. Also, I will return a changed person who is eager to learn more about my surroundings and the people who occupy them. Don’t be surprised if you see me armed with my notepad and pen at every passing second (except when I’m asleep), taking notes about the types of meat Nigerians eat and adequate answers backed with evidence for whatever question I may be asked when I return from my December homecoming.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Jun1110 Excuse Me
Jun1110 Excuse Me
I cannot help but publish the link to Victor Ehikhamenor's piece on my blog. It is time people "call a spade a spade." Convincing oneself that poison is juice and drinking it does not prevent one from dying. "Waka Waka eh eh, Tsamina mina Zangalewa." May all the matches end in a draw. Yes,I said so.
I cannot help but publish the link to Victor Ehikhamenor's piece on my blog. It is time people "call a spade a spade." Convincing oneself that poison is juice and drinking it does not prevent one from dying. "Waka Waka eh eh, Tsamina mina Zangalewa." May all the matches end in a draw. Yes,I said so.
Friday, June 4, 2010
THERE’S AN EMPTY SPACE HERE(Part Two)
At break time, I calmly remained in my seat as I contemplated running down to the mini kiosks to buy my favorite coconut candy and toast bread from the women positioned near the back gate or playing “Ten Ten”, a hand clapping and feet stamping game) with the girls at the playground. Finally, I opted for playground which was already teeming. Screams of delight and voices rang so loud that my brain found it difficult to locate any familiar faces.
“Ifeyinwa, Fify baby”, boomed a voice from across the field. My feet froze abruptly at the sound of my name. As I searched for who the voice belonged to, I saw Oluchi sprinting towards me, I squealed excitedly at the sight of my former classmate. She dragged me along towards the group of girls she had left behind to fetch me. At the moment Oluchi attempted to introduce me to the group, an ebony skinned girl with her hands folded across her chest, disengaged one of her hands and interrupted Oluchi. She stepped forward from the perfectly formed circle of girls and addressed Oluchi in such a way that I felt like I was the size of the ‘Tambolo’, a minuscule stinging ant my mother had repeatedly instructed me to be on the watch for. “What is this Oluchi? Remember that we are a clique and we comport ourselves, not running around the school like you are being chased by monkeys and laughing like you have been infected by a pack of hyenas on the loose.”
I was momentarily dazed and I grappled for an appropriate reply to cut this “Miss Perfect for I might be ruffled if you pass by me” to size, but taking a second look at the group surrounding me, I realized who they were. They were known as the “Flow” girls; the letters, F, L, and O coined from Fehintola, Lamide, and Olohi, the official founding members of the group which had been in existence since my third grade, while the letter W literally represented ‘Whomever’ was admitted into the group. Needless to say, the W person changed every school session as the Flow girls always sought after “efikos”, the brainy ones, to compensate for their apparent weakness.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” I remarked onomatopoeically. "Oluchi, how could you degrade yourself to collude with these users?” Taking some time to run them through with my black, long eyelashes, I continued. “These nincompoops who want to exploit your academic genius?” Those were huge words for a fifth grader’s vocabulary.
My siblings had always commended my command of the English Language and I decided to seize this opportunity to flaunt my talent and oppress my tormentors. Unintentionally, our high pitched voices complemented by swift neck twisting and finger snapping had attracted a sizeable group of people towards our direction.
“Oh Lord, I hate drama” I muttered under my breath. At the same moment, Fehintola the loud mouthed leader had issued commando instructions to Olohi to slap me. My brain told me to locate the nearest escape route, but I really wanted to fight back. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a weakling, however my family had instructed me sternly that on no uncertain terms should I be involved in a fight at school and I had no plans of ruining my impeccable record of excellent behavior in my fifth year, so I suppressed the urge to react. As Olohi, made her way towards me, I began to brace myself for the pain, when all of a sudden someone called out from the balcony overlooking the playground and diverted everyone’s attention.
“Ifeyinwa, Fify baby”, boomed a voice from across the field. My feet froze abruptly at the sound of my name. As I searched for who the voice belonged to, I saw Oluchi sprinting towards me, I squealed excitedly at the sight of my former classmate. She dragged me along towards the group of girls she had left behind to fetch me. At the moment Oluchi attempted to introduce me to the group, an ebony skinned girl with her hands folded across her chest, disengaged one of her hands and interrupted Oluchi. She stepped forward from the perfectly formed circle of girls and addressed Oluchi in such a way that I felt like I was the size of the ‘Tambolo’, a minuscule stinging ant my mother had repeatedly instructed me to be on the watch for. “What is this Oluchi? Remember that we are a clique and we comport ourselves, not running around the school like you are being chased by monkeys and laughing like you have been infected by a pack of hyenas on the loose.”
I was momentarily dazed and I grappled for an appropriate reply to cut this “Miss Perfect for I might be ruffled if you pass by me” to size, but taking a second look at the group surrounding me, I realized who they were. They were known as the “Flow” girls; the letters, F, L, and O coined from Fehintola, Lamide, and Olohi, the official founding members of the group which had been in existence since my third grade, while the letter W literally represented ‘Whomever’ was admitted into the group. Needless to say, the W person changed every school session as the Flow girls always sought after “efikos”, the brainy ones, to compensate for their apparent weakness.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” I remarked onomatopoeically. "Oluchi, how could you degrade yourself to collude with these users?” Taking some time to run them through with my black, long eyelashes, I continued. “These nincompoops who want to exploit your academic genius?” Those were huge words for a fifth grader’s vocabulary.
My siblings had always commended my command of the English Language and I decided to seize this opportunity to flaunt my talent and oppress my tormentors. Unintentionally, our high pitched voices complemented by swift neck twisting and finger snapping had attracted a sizeable group of people towards our direction.
“Oh Lord, I hate drama” I muttered under my breath. At the same moment, Fehintola the loud mouthed leader had issued commando instructions to Olohi to slap me. My brain told me to locate the nearest escape route, but I really wanted to fight back. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a weakling, however my family had instructed me sternly that on no uncertain terms should I be involved in a fight at school and I had no plans of ruining my impeccable record of excellent behavior in my fifth year, so I suppressed the urge to react. As Olohi, made her way towards me, I began to brace myself for the pain, when all of a sudden someone called out from the balcony overlooking the playground and diverted everyone’s attention.
Monday, May 31, 2010
TOILET BUSINESS
It is very difficult to come across a female who publicly declares her intentions to visit the bathroom/toilet/latrine/lavatory/restroom to execute either number one or two. I am not implying mounting a loudspeaker, but the mere thought of others (especially males) finding out that one is in the bathroom ( are people who visit the bathroom abnormal? Trivia question). For this reason, it is not uncommon to hear a female turn on the shower to distract the attention of those within hearing distance from her toilet business. On the contrary many males proudly boast about their toilet exploits even when apprehended about how foul smelling their number two was, the response given often is: “That is evidence of good living.” I know this is a very private business and uncomfortable topic, but please we need to release majority of the female population from the shackles of toilet usage (This is not a behavior exclusive to females, for some males have demonstrated such traits, however it is more common in females).
During my stay in a boarding home for a number of years, I was introduced to several euphemisms coined for business #2, such as “blasting” and “blocking”. For we females these terms where used only in the inner female caucus, despite the fact that the males expressively threw these terms wherever and whenever. It was at this point that it really hit me hard that majority of females refuse to acknowledge that they do business #2, regardless of the option of the above sugar coated alternates. Now, do not bother about preaching the sermon of how it is unladylike to make your intentions clearly known. In fact, 2 Face Idibia’s words in his song, ‘Nfana Ibanga’ ring clear in my head, “I noe go come dey form like say I no dey shayt.”
This is not an attempt to be downright nasty, but an appeal to the female population to accept that it is natural for all animals/mammals/humans to excrete waste products from their body systems. Honestly, things are becoming very critical, I have witnessed a situation where a lady was having a conversation with someone and then suddenly requested to be excused without giving any reason. Of course, whomever she was talking to thought she was trying to make an escape, so the person detained her and my poor lady was in dire straits. Oh yes, I have been a victim of such “ladylike politeness” in former times, but I have come to realize that there is nothing wrong in requesting to be excused to go use the restroom.
On a lighter note, it will help to think about the embarrassing moments you may have encountered while in the bathroom. I will take the first turn. Recently, I hurriedly made my way to use one of the restrooms in school and as soon as I got done with my business, I washed my hands and stretched them out to get a paper towel from one of those hand motion sensor devices. (You know, those things can be very annoying). As I turned to leave, the entire box came crashing down to the floor and it sounded like I had just blown up the entire bathroom. Calmly, I tried to collect my thoughts in this rather unfortunate moment while attempting to reset this exasperating device back, but all to no avail. Finally, I decided to set it on the sink and take the walk of shame out of the restroom, bearing in mind that the next person using the facility after me will wonder what had happened. Feel free to share one of your embarrassing toilet business experiences (definitely, you have had several) whether you are male or female.
FACE LIFT? FACE LIFT, NOT?
It is a regular school day. I wake up fifteen minutes before my first class with the usual complex of what clothes and shoes I should wear. Aware of the time constraint I have, I take a quick shower and put together similar hues from my wardrobe. As I glance at my reflection in the mirror, I am confronted with a question I battle with daily; should I wear makeup today? Or let my ‘natural beauty’ shine through?
Sometimes, I find these questions ridiculous; however, many of my age mates have their minds made up without much thought, when it comes to the question of wearing makeup. Before I make this imperative decision, I reflect on my schedule for the day (the pains females go through). Am I going to do a lot of walking? What is the weather outside like? No one appreciates looking like a steaming kettle. Do I have a class presentation today? Am I going somewhere special after classes? And if I do wear makeup, should I keep my make up simple, ‘natural’, or smashing. That is the crux of the makeup problem. These three looks have what is hot and what is not about them. If you are still confused, three scenarios with these different looks will be painted together with their repercussions.
The simple look comprises applying my mineral power foundation, minimal strokes of my no. 2 eye pencil, and my magical pink, translucent lip gloss. That simple look takes approximately 10 minutes and I race into my morning class, breathless, right before the instructor walks in.
All females will agree that the ‘natural look’ takes as much time as the smashing look. For the ‘natural’ look I strive for the ‘I always look like this’ appeal. Firstly, I ensure that my application of foundation and brown powder blend perfectly with my complexion, while a concealer and primer may be considered. I carefully examine each eyebrow to ensure that there are no stray hairs, and if there are, the tweezers are prompt to act. Total concentration is channeled as I carve my desired arch with my eyebrow pencil. Two coats of lip-gloss are perfect for luscious lips in my case, as I blend a chocolate lip-gloss with a tan lipstick, while not forgetting my lip balm foundation. Did I mention that the ‘natural’ look needs daylight in order to be achieved perfectly? It never hurts to pull up my blinds for the daylight to stream in.
Regardless of the fact that I am late for my first class, I cannot afford to taint my natural look, so I walk cautiously on air into class, ten minutes late, but guess what? I heard a couple of people mention that I look effortlessly pretty.
The smashing look is elicited if I wake up with the urge to be a head turner. I follow the same routine as my simple look with a few additions such as applying a bronze shade of eye shadow to my eye lids, a darker shade to my eye crease, and a little shimmer to glimmer. How could I forget my mascara, my lash blast mascara, to give more volume and length to my stunted eyelashes? A swift application of my lipstick before applying my lip-gloss follows, which I apply, after lining my lips.
As I strut into class ten minutes late, I catch the unmistakable smiles plastered on my classmates’ faces, while I boldly strut into class ten minutes with all the audacity I can muster, blended with a “Mr. Lecturer please understand the plight of females” look.
Nonetheless, as a college student with a huge time debt on my hands, these scenarios hardly come to fruition and I often opt for going to class without wearing makeup. My early arrival enables me to set out my class materials for the day and eagerly anticipate the day’s lecture. As the lecture progresses, I cannot help, but chuckle to myself while I appreciate the time, energy, and effort made by some of my female classmates, who make late entrances into class with the simple, ‘natural’, or smashing makeup looks.
Sometimes, I find these questions ridiculous; however, many of my age mates have their minds made up without much thought, when it comes to the question of wearing makeup. Before I make this imperative decision, I reflect on my schedule for the day (the pains females go through). Am I going to do a lot of walking? What is the weather outside like? No one appreciates looking like a steaming kettle. Do I have a class presentation today? Am I going somewhere special after classes? And if I do wear makeup, should I keep my make up simple, ‘natural’, or smashing. That is the crux of the makeup problem. These three looks have what is hot and what is not about them. If you are still confused, three scenarios with these different looks will be painted together with their repercussions.
The simple look comprises applying my mineral power foundation, minimal strokes of my no. 2 eye pencil, and my magical pink, translucent lip gloss. That simple look takes approximately 10 minutes and I race into my morning class, breathless, right before the instructor walks in.
All females will agree that the ‘natural look’ takes as much time as the smashing look. For the ‘natural’ look I strive for the ‘I always look like this’ appeal. Firstly, I ensure that my application of foundation and brown powder blend perfectly with my complexion, while a concealer and primer may be considered. I carefully examine each eyebrow to ensure that there are no stray hairs, and if there are, the tweezers are prompt to act. Total concentration is channeled as I carve my desired arch with my eyebrow pencil. Two coats of lip-gloss are perfect for luscious lips in my case, as I blend a chocolate lip-gloss with a tan lipstick, while not forgetting my lip balm foundation. Did I mention that the ‘natural’ look needs daylight in order to be achieved perfectly? It never hurts to pull up my blinds for the daylight to stream in.
Regardless of the fact that I am late for my first class, I cannot afford to taint my natural look, so I walk cautiously on air into class, ten minutes late, but guess what? I heard a couple of people mention that I look effortlessly pretty.
The smashing look is elicited if I wake up with the urge to be a head turner. I follow the same routine as my simple look with a few additions such as applying a bronze shade of eye shadow to my eye lids, a darker shade to my eye crease, and a little shimmer to glimmer. How could I forget my mascara, my lash blast mascara, to give more volume and length to my stunted eyelashes? A swift application of my lipstick before applying my lip-gloss follows, which I apply, after lining my lips.
As I strut into class ten minutes late, I catch the unmistakable smiles plastered on my classmates’ faces, while I boldly strut into class ten minutes with all the audacity I can muster, blended with a “Mr. Lecturer please understand the plight of females” look.
Nonetheless, as a college student with a huge time debt on my hands, these scenarios hardly come to fruition and I often opt for going to class without wearing makeup. My early arrival enables me to set out my class materials for the day and eagerly anticipate the day’s lecture. As the lecture progresses, I cannot help, but chuckle to myself while I appreciate the time, energy, and effort made by some of my female classmates, who make late entrances into class with the simple, ‘natural’, or smashing makeup looks.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
YOU ARE HOT AND YOU'RE COLD AKA THE BATTLE OF THE SUN AND THE SNOW
As an international student from a country with a warm tropical climate, I had only seen snow on television and in pictures. Therefore, I was very eager to experience my first snowy day in the United States. On December 4, 2009, our favorite weather forecasters announced that Berea, Kentucky was going to get about 4 inches of snow in the evening. I didn’t understand how deep it was going to be, I was simply glad it was going to snow. The morning turned into afternoon and evening finally came, yet no snow. I was very disappointed, but I was soon going to learn that this was a Kentucky custom (The official state with bipolar weather disorder in the United States).
The next morning, I was brushing in the bathroom when one of my floor mates walked in. I heard her call out to me from one of the stalls. I promptly headed in her direction as she pointed to the window and voila, it had snowed. In one word, it was breathtaking. As I stared out marveled I heard her say, “This is merely a dusting. Where I’m from in Massachusetts, it could have been a couple of feet”. Excited, I hurriedly put on my clothes and my boots that I had reserved for this special moment then I raced towards the elevator to get a feel of the snow. As I stepped off the steps and onto the snow covered pavement, it felt so good. After I had taken a couple of steps, I realized that my feet felt cold and wet. “No way, I had worn my wool socks with this boots to keep my feet warm”. When I asked one of my friends what could possibly have gone wrong, she brought it to my attention that I was wearing a pair of suede boots, so much for my feet staying warm and cozy.
As winter progressed and as more inches of snow settled on quiet Berea, my joy turned into dismay as I bundled up with as many coats as possible to keep the fiercest wind chills away. Not forgetting my head warmers, thick socks, boots, scarves, and gloves (even in buildings and so much for those who poked fun at me), which tend to wear me down and contribute further to my sadness. Often, snowy days arouse the nostalgia of my warm, sunny climate back home. In order not drown in my misery; I have decided to view each snowy day as another day for me to appreciate God’s wondrous works. Perhaps, one of these snowy days I will go sledding and appreciate more the beauty of snow.
As humans we find it hard to be content with our present circumstances for we desire to live a life of comfort, free of hitches. Now that the snowy months are dead and gone, it is so blazing hot at frying temperature and it is difficult to believe that it is hotter than this in Lagos. Hard is it may be to admit, I know I am officially a whiner (along with millions of people) when it comes to acknowledging that the weather is just right. Therefore, my plan for this summer is to soak up all the sunlight and heat I can in my memory, safely tucked away for my recalling pleasure during the snowy months.
This article is my cooling therapy to get over the unbearable heat (aargh)
The next morning, I was brushing in the bathroom when one of my floor mates walked in. I heard her call out to me from one of the stalls. I promptly headed in her direction as she pointed to the window and voila, it had snowed. In one word, it was breathtaking. As I stared out marveled I heard her say, “This is merely a dusting. Where I’m from in Massachusetts, it could have been a couple of feet”. Excited, I hurriedly put on my clothes and my boots that I had reserved for this special moment then I raced towards the elevator to get a feel of the snow. As I stepped off the steps and onto the snow covered pavement, it felt so good. After I had taken a couple of steps, I realized that my feet felt cold and wet. “No way, I had worn my wool socks with this boots to keep my feet warm”. When I asked one of my friends what could possibly have gone wrong, she brought it to my attention that I was wearing a pair of suede boots, so much for my feet staying warm and cozy.
As winter progressed and as more inches of snow settled on quiet Berea, my joy turned into dismay as I bundled up with as many coats as possible to keep the fiercest wind chills away. Not forgetting my head warmers, thick socks, boots, scarves, and gloves (even in buildings and so much for those who poked fun at me), which tend to wear me down and contribute further to my sadness. Often, snowy days arouse the nostalgia of my warm, sunny climate back home. In order not drown in my misery; I have decided to view each snowy day as another day for me to appreciate God’s wondrous works. Perhaps, one of these snowy days I will go sledding and appreciate more the beauty of snow.
As humans we find it hard to be content with our present circumstances for we desire to live a life of comfort, free of hitches. Now that the snowy months are dead and gone, it is so blazing hot at frying temperature and it is difficult to believe that it is hotter than this in Lagos. Hard is it may be to admit, I know I am officially a whiner (along with millions of people) when it comes to acknowledging that the weather is just right. Therefore, my plan for this summer is to soak up all the sunlight and heat I can in my memory, safely tucked away for my recalling pleasure during the snowy months.
This article is my cooling therapy to get over the unbearable heat (aargh)
Saturday, May 29, 2010
DRIFTING AWAY
“The dichotomy and misogyny prevalent in our society today are endemic and corrosive issues that we need to be consciously aware of and work hard to eradicate, despite the fact that these issues are being ignored in our patriarchal society…”, says my feminist philosophy instructor as she reads from the textbook. I cannot take the flamboyant grammar and inconsequential discussions anymore, so I do one of my favorite things; I tune out. I tune out and I start drawing up my TTD (Things to Do) schedule for the rest of the week (Fun stuff).
Anyway, I tune in for a second and hear another tirade about Mary Daly, so I tune out again. This time, I decide to reconstruct and put finishing touches to a poem I had begun composing about a particular neighboring area, which takes approximately 45 minutes to get to from the city I currently reside in.
A great majority of the people that live in this particular area do not have a lot in terms of wealth, but they do have something in abundance; trees. Therefore, I decided to write something about the beloved Jackson County trees, which I encounter very often. Enjoy!
Don’t maltreat me because I am tiny
Water me because of my potential.
Nurture me, although I might become clingy,
Remember I can produce sustenance for all.
If you choose not to cater to me,
I will choose to sprout and tower high
With my roots implanted
And my branches reaching the sky.
I refuse to yield to selfish longings
Making space for my brothers, sisters, and cousins.
Always willing to divide my share of sunlight and soil,
For they too need to stretch out and grow.
Anyway, I tune in for a second and hear another tirade about Mary Daly, so I tune out again. This time, I decide to reconstruct and put finishing touches to a poem I had begun composing about a particular neighboring area, which takes approximately 45 minutes to get to from the city I currently reside in.
A great majority of the people that live in this particular area do not have a lot in terms of wealth, but they do have something in abundance; trees. Therefore, I decided to write something about the beloved Jackson County trees, which I encounter very often. Enjoy!
Don’t maltreat me because I am tiny
Water me because of my potential.
Nurture me, although I might become clingy,
Remember I can produce sustenance for all.
If you choose not to cater to me,
I will choose to sprout and tower high
With my roots implanted
And my branches reaching the sky.
I refuse to yield to selfish longings
Making space for my brothers, sisters, and cousins.
Always willing to divide my share of sunlight and soil,
For they too need to stretch out and grow.
Friday, May 28, 2010
STORIES FROM MY VILLAGE
I am a native of the Eastern part of Nigeria and of the Igbo tribe. To be more particular, Abia State, which people claim is derived from a Biblical source, thus its motto is “God’s Own State.” Quite a number of people believe that the vast majority of Igbo girls are pretty, so they chuckle when they discover a pretty Eastern female, but my situation is different. Each time I mention my hometown and village, people familiar with that location exclaim and say if they attempt to marry me they will be killed, cooked, and eaten (literally), then they laugh it off and say they are joking (really?).
You see the name of my village is Abaye in Isialangwa North Local Government and I must say we are not known for the most palatable stories, but hey that is where I am from. I was not given any list of villages to pick from at conception or birth, so think twice before you stereotype my kinsmen and me as human eaters. In fact, I enjoy terrifying people with stories about my village and due to my plethora of village stories, one of my good friends in high school mentioned that I once told her I lived in the village for a long period of time. A conversation my razor-sharp memory cannot recollect occurring. Anyway, here is another one of my tales from the village. Enjoy!
The year was 1998 and my family and I travelled to my village in Eastern Nigeria for my great-grandmother’s funeral which coincided with the advent of home telephones in Nigerian cities. Mother had come along with a telephone for our grandparents and they were excited over having the latest thing in fashion. As expected, grandmother warned the young ones to keep away from the table where the telephone was placed like a monument. Although, she issued the command in Igbo which we did not understand, her exaggerated gestures and animated tone conveyed her message clearly, “under no circumstances should you touch the telephone”. On this fateful day, my brother, my immediate older sister and I were alone in the living room when the phone rang, at the instant that my brother picked up the phone, grandmother appeared in a flash with a five feet long stick. We all took to flight as she chased us in hot pursuit while I began to weep out of exhaustion and my innocence.
Fifty meters had gone by and grandmother was still on our heels, bearing in mind that she was seventy years of age, my brother decided to jump over a medium sized wall which I could not attempt to the same. To my utter dismay my grandmother jumped after him. Even though she did not catch up with him, she returned and gave my sister and me a thorough trashing. Everyone found it difficult to believe our story and I did not have the nerve to sit in the living room again for fear that the phone might ring. I was deeply touched by the extent to which my grandmother could go to preserve her precious possession and that phone still retains its position in my grandparents’ house, although it has ceased functioning and my grandmother is dead.
You see the name of my village is Abaye in Isialangwa North Local Government and I must say we are not known for the most palatable stories, but hey that is where I am from. I was not given any list of villages to pick from at conception or birth, so think twice before you stereotype my kinsmen and me as human eaters. In fact, I enjoy terrifying people with stories about my village and due to my plethora of village stories, one of my good friends in high school mentioned that I once told her I lived in the village for a long period of time. A conversation my razor-sharp memory cannot recollect occurring. Anyway, here is another one of my tales from the village. Enjoy!
The year was 1998 and my family and I travelled to my village in Eastern Nigeria for my great-grandmother’s funeral which coincided with the advent of home telephones in Nigerian cities. Mother had come along with a telephone for our grandparents and they were excited over having the latest thing in fashion. As expected, grandmother warned the young ones to keep away from the table where the telephone was placed like a monument. Although, she issued the command in Igbo which we did not understand, her exaggerated gestures and animated tone conveyed her message clearly, “under no circumstances should you touch the telephone”. On this fateful day, my brother, my immediate older sister and I were alone in the living room when the phone rang, at the instant that my brother picked up the phone, grandmother appeared in a flash with a five feet long stick. We all took to flight as she chased us in hot pursuit while I began to weep out of exhaustion and my innocence.
Fifty meters had gone by and grandmother was still on our heels, bearing in mind that she was seventy years of age, my brother decided to jump over a medium sized wall which I could not attempt to the same. To my utter dismay my grandmother jumped after him. Even though she did not catch up with him, she returned and gave my sister and me a thorough trashing. Everyone found it difficult to believe our story and I did not have the nerve to sit in the living room again for fear that the phone might ring. I was deeply touched by the extent to which my grandmother could go to preserve her precious possession and that phone still retains its position in my grandparents’ house, although it has ceased functioning and my grandmother is dead.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Don't Miss SYTYCD'S Season 7 Premier
On Thursday May 27, 8/7 c, grab a drink, hot dog, fruit, akara, sushi,and anything that makes you happy as you watch the two hour season premier of So You Think You Can Dance with favorites such as Twitch, Mark, Ade, and Courtney. Why you may ask? SYTYCD has "ama-lity" and "zing-iness", which makes it amazing and yes I formed the two words above.
Also, watch this space for hilarious stories of my seasonal struggle to watch SYTYCD
THERE’S AN EMPTY SPACE HERE
I held my backpack and water bottle close to my chest as I clumsily walked into my new class. “Now remember the first rule in this class, always be punctual to class, tardiness is not tolerated for whatsoever reason,” the teacher reiterated as his piercing eyes settled on me, the unfortunate scapegoat. Stuttering, I uttered a few words of apology as I tried to avoid further embarrassment by promptly locating the nearest seat amidst the stares from my classmates who were already settled down.
As I wandered down the front row towards the back row, I heard someone call out, “there’s an empty space here.” Edging towards the available chair, I offered a grateful smile and attempted to sit without drawing more attention to myself. Hello my name is Ayo Shonuga. It was the voice again, which I noticed belonged to the fair skinned boy seated beside me. Breathing heavily, I told him my name was Ifeyinwa Dinma as my pen and notebook fell to the floor noisily. Why must I be accident prone? I silently pondered while Ayo picked up my materials. I can imagine how you feel he offered cheerfully as he handed my rebellious belongings back to me. I gave him my nervous smile and nod of approval and turned my attention to the class teacher who was trying his best to ignore my seat partner and me, but I did not hear a word he said. All I could think of was the bold, nice, and attractive seat partner I had.
(What do think, should this story be continued?)
As I wandered down the front row towards the back row, I heard someone call out, “there’s an empty space here.” Edging towards the available chair, I offered a grateful smile and attempted to sit without drawing more attention to myself. Hello my name is Ayo Shonuga. It was the voice again, which I noticed belonged to the fair skinned boy seated beside me. Breathing heavily, I told him my name was Ifeyinwa Dinma as my pen and notebook fell to the floor noisily. Why must I be accident prone? I silently pondered while Ayo picked up my materials. I can imagine how you feel he offered cheerfully as he handed my rebellious belongings back to me. I gave him my nervous smile and nod of approval and turned my attention to the class teacher who was trying his best to ignore my seat partner and me, but I did not hear a word he said. All I could think of was the bold, nice, and attractive seat partner I had.
(What do think, should this story be continued?)
IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL
It is Sunday, a reminder that tomorrow school and its hassles will begin. Well, this Sunday is different, unfortunately not for a good reason. It is raining cats, alligators, lions, and dogs. However, the rainstorm did not prevent me from attending my religious meeting. On a more positive note, I had a friend who
accompanied me to the meeting.
So, the delightful meeting is over when my friend requests that we return to school in order to meet up with the Sunday brunch. Now, I have not attended the Sunday brunch in six months, so I do not set my expectations high bearing in mind that it is school food service. We arrive at the food service, pick an empty table by the window, and thankfully the rain outside has abated. I look at the fruits section and I screech in excitement, bananas! I am absolutely in love with bananas right from my childhood and I have “interesting” stories as proof. Oh! Here I go digressing from the gist. Where was I again? Yes, the fruits section. From the fruits section I head towards the main line aka the market place where I load my plate with green beans, ham cooked with pineapples, sausage, biscuit, fried potatoes, eggs, and red pepper flakes to add some flavor.
After my prayers, I start eating and chatting simultaneously with my friend. Not long after, others join us at the table and then Gilbert arrives. Oh Gilbert! What shall I do with him? Okay, so here is my quanta aka wahala or issue with Gilbert. My friend asks him with religious group he associates with and he goes on and on about how he does not have anyone in particular since he attends different churches, but he is originally Baptist because he grew up in a community where they had only one church which was a Baptist church. Here I was thinking to myself, what a long response. Being the budding journalist that I am, I ask him where he grew up. I know Gilbert is from Cameroon, but I wanted to know what community he was referring to. Gilbert’s response: “It depends on what you are actually asking about. Is it the village, city, town, or country.” You can just picture my facial expression. I retorted with “did you grow up in the village?” “No”, Gilbert replies.
Wondering where the thought of me inquiring about his village came from, I re-ask him the question. Then he says, “I grew up in Etoude, Yaoundé, Cameroon. He didn’t stop there, but went on to tell me that he spent more time growing up in the high school he attended, so I ask him what school he went to and he answered with lycee…………… in ………………………… Therefore, I tell him that means he grew up in that town. Gilbert, Gilbert, he then tells me that he always returned home from school occasionally, so how could he have grown up there. At this point, I am exasperated while my friend laughs. I ask why he is so difficult and he mentions that he just thinks and speaks logically and philosophically. Jokingly, I inform him that by the way he did not seek permission from my friend and me before dining with us, so we could ask him to leave if he does not behave himself.
Curious about the poor roommate that has to put up with him, I ask him who his roommate is. Josiah Thomas was his reply. The name did not ring a bell, but I pitied him instantly. In an attempt to place who the person was, I ask Gilbert what dormitory he was in. Mistake number two. He tells me that he does not supply answers that people know already. I inform him emphatically that I may have known his dorm, but I have forgotten because I did not regard that information about him as something to be stored in my long term memory. Finally, I recall what dorm he is in, which is coincidentally beside mine. After deciding that I had enough I say my goodbyes to everyone at the table and wish Gilbert all the best in his endeavors. This was after my friend had left the dining hall.
As I walk towards the door, it starts pouring again, I suck it all up and continue trudging in my wedged platforms. Upon exiting the building I encountered a male student who was walking in the pouring rain without an umbrella. I offered to share mine and we walk towards the crosswalk together. I ask him which dorm he was heading to and he mentioned a dorm that was right beside him. “Nice”, I said. I start to make small talk about how the person who built the sidewalks made them to slope deliberately, so we could wade to our destinations. He totally agreed, then I request if he could hold the umbrella since he was taller. He agreed. So, “what is your name”, I boldly ask, “Josiah”, he said. Prodding further, I ask for his last name, “Thomas”, he replied. “No way”, so you are Josiah Thomas, Gilbert’s roommate? He affirms my statement, a bit surprised that I knew his roommate, to think that I pitied this guy even before I met him. After relating a summarized version of my conversation with Gilbert to Josiah he laughs and says “Gilbert is an interesting individual”. Really, I mutter to myself.
After several additional puddles and a couple of minutes I learn that Josiah is originally from Haiti, but has been in the United States since 2008. When I asked if he had family in Haiti, he informed me that his parents were missionaries in Haiti and he was born to an American mother. After processing all this new information, I search for an avenue to share the May 2010 Watchtower with the cover title, “Has God left us” and its captivating picture of a woman clutching her baby in the aftermath of an earthquake. I offer o walk him to his dorm’s entrance since it is my umbrella and he expresses his gratitude. At the doorstep, I offer him the magazine together with its companion, the Awake and he says he will love to read it. “Bye Josiah”, I say.
Finally back to my room, I hang my soaked wedged platforms to dry. The day was not so bad after all because I had a friend accompany me to the meeting and I left two magazines with Josiah, despite the rainstorm and Gilbert.
accompanied me to the meeting.
So, the delightful meeting is over when my friend requests that we return to school in order to meet up with the Sunday brunch. Now, I have not attended the Sunday brunch in six months, so I do not set my expectations high bearing in mind that it is school food service. We arrive at the food service, pick an empty table by the window, and thankfully the rain outside has abated. I look at the fruits section and I screech in excitement, bananas! I am absolutely in love with bananas right from my childhood and I have “interesting” stories as proof. Oh! Here I go digressing from the gist. Where was I again? Yes, the fruits section. From the fruits section I head towards the main line aka the market place where I load my plate with green beans, ham cooked with pineapples, sausage, biscuit, fried potatoes, eggs, and red pepper flakes to add some flavor.
After my prayers, I start eating and chatting simultaneously with my friend. Not long after, others join us at the table and then Gilbert arrives. Oh Gilbert! What shall I do with him? Okay, so here is my quanta aka wahala or issue with Gilbert. My friend asks him with religious group he associates with and he goes on and on about how he does not have anyone in particular since he attends different churches, but he is originally Baptist because he grew up in a community where they had only one church which was a Baptist church. Here I was thinking to myself, what a long response. Being the budding journalist that I am, I ask him where he grew up. I know Gilbert is from Cameroon, but I wanted to know what community he was referring to. Gilbert’s response: “It depends on what you are actually asking about. Is it the village, city, town, or country.” You can just picture my facial expression. I retorted with “did you grow up in the village?” “No”, Gilbert replies.
Wondering where the thought of me inquiring about his village came from, I re-ask him the question. Then he says, “I grew up in Etoude, Yaoundé, Cameroon. He didn’t stop there, but went on to tell me that he spent more time growing up in the high school he attended, so I ask him what school he went to and he answered with lycee…………… in ………………………… Therefore, I tell him that means he grew up in that town. Gilbert, Gilbert, he then tells me that he always returned home from school occasionally, so how could he have grown up there. At this point, I am exasperated while my friend laughs. I ask why he is so difficult and he mentions that he just thinks and speaks logically and philosophically. Jokingly, I inform him that by the way he did not seek permission from my friend and me before dining with us, so we could ask him to leave if he does not behave himself.
Curious about the poor roommate that has to put up with him, I ask him who his roommate is. Josiah Thomas was his reply. The name did not ring a bell, but I pitied him instantly. In an attempt to place who the person was, I ask Gilbert what dormitory he was in. Mistake number two. He tells me that he does not supply answers that people know already. I inform him emphatically that I may have known his dorm, but I have forgotten because I did not regard that information about him as something to be stored in my long term memory. Finally, I recall what dorm he is in, which is coincidentally beside mine. After deciding that I had enough I say my goodbyes to everyone at the table and wish Gilbert all the best in his endeavors. This was after my friend had left the dining hall.
As I walk towards the door, it starts pouring again, I suck it all up and continue trudging in my wedged platforms. Upon exiting the building I encountered a male student who was walking in the pouring rain without an umbrella. I offered to share mine and we walk towards the crosswalk together. I ask him which dorm he was heading to and he mentioned a dorm that was right beside him. “Nice”, I said. I start to make small talk about how the person who built the sidewalks made them to slope deliberately, so we could wade to our destinations. He totally agreed, then I request if he could hold the umbrella since he was taller. He agreed. So, “what is your name”, I boldly ask, “Josiah”, he said. Prodding further, I ask for his last name, “Thomas”, he replied. “No way”, so you are Josiah Thomas, Gilbert’s roommate? He affirms my statement, a bit surprised that I knew his roommate, to think that I pitied this guy even before I met him. After relating a summarized version of my conversation with Gilbert to Josiah he laughs and says “Gilbert is an interesting individual”. Really, I mutter to myself.
After several additional puddles and a couple of minutes I learn that Josiah is originally from Haiti, but has been in the United States since 2008. When I asked if he had family in Haiti, he informed me that his parents were missionaries in Haiti and he was born to an American mother. After processing all this new information, I search for an avenue to share the May 2010 Watchtower with the cover title, “Has God left us” and its captivating picture of a woman clutching her baby in the aftermath of an earthquake. I offer o walk him to his dorm’s entrance since it is my umbrella and he expresses his gratitude. At the doorstep, I offer him the magazine together with its companion, the Awake and he says he will love to read it. “Bye Josiah”, I say.
Finally back to my room, I hang my soaked wedged platforms to dry. The day was not so bad after all because I had a friend accompany me to the meeting and I left two magazines with Josiah, despite the rainstorm and Gilbert.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)