I Do

With a saddening smile I wake to view her face,
Expressionless, stale yet beautiful, filled with grace
Lips made for laughter but now filled with scorn I do watch, I believe it’s just a phase
It has to be,
A fleeting phase to bring forth the calculated beauty
A transitory phase meant to saturate all the melancholy in the world  .  .  .  .  .  .  . . .   Crystallize it to apt anticipated glory
But how long am I supposed to wait?
Her downhearted nature sinks the most jovial of hearts
To the deepest reaches of desperation, desolation, distaste and wrenches them apart.                        
I do love her, or so I believe
Even though that love may not be enough
Enough to save her
I do love her.

I take my time to glare at this woman, examining, smiling, filled with belittled joy
The sight of her exhilarating, frightening, yet comforting, confusing and coy
She’s what everyone dreams of
She is what anyone dreams of
She possesses it all, the charms, the acumen, the fervour,
She has entirely things that make men tremble and seek for favour
Yet
She kills herself from within
Poisoning her soul with derogatory actions which to her now are kin
Heeding to words that defame, rape, bludgeon her consciousness to stupor
And murder her self-esteem.
Oh... She is indeed beautiful…
But I do not think she knows it…or perhaps she does  
Her actions, reactions, affirmations and poise suggests she possesses such information,                      
She carries herself gracefully in the midst of her peers and folks who regard her with much awe
But deep down, however, all these are just a ploy
A ploy to make others think she matters,
A ploy to find, chase, gain the love of others
In doing this, she forgets the one who truly loves her, I love her
Yes, I do love her.
I love her in the presence of her flaws, insecurities and everything noxious
I love all
I have decided to bear the burden of showing her how gorgeous she really is
Of telling her, informing her, convincing her of how magnificent she is outside and in,
She is powerful, a roaring typhoon, a raging bull which can dissimilate all who causes her grievance,
But she is meek too, with akind-heart, fair and noble, married with lenience
She is dominant, a ruler, a ferocious warrior, and a queen befit arrogance.
She is Regina
She is divine.
She is Nigeria.
And I do love her.
Tami Koroye

VIRGIN WIGS

This is the tale of a lawyer, fresh out of law school and into the world of reality. It was penned by Jerry Chiemeke, a budding young lawyer who blogs at pensofchi.wordpress.com.
Enjoy!

                    VIRGIN WIGS 

“Counsel, how old are you at the Bar?”

That question pretty much sums up what has been a long day at the temple of justice. Yes, it’s you, a fresh wig, a green horn, a courtroom virgin (never mind those few appearances you have racked up), standing before a judge whom it seems to you woke up on the left side of the sheets, subjecting you to those words that do not exactly show kindness to your dignity and ego as a young legal practitioner.

True to those feelings you had been nurturing from sunrise, that day had pretty much assumed the shape of what was going to be a really long one. You had woken up with heavy eyes, much against your will, with that not-so-polite 6.25am “show up at the office” phone call from your boss. (Everyone you know who shares the same call-to-Bar date with you has a boss; starting up a law firm less than a year after earning licence to practice would be seen as a combination of bravery and stupidity.) Of course he knew you couldn’t have possibly had much of a night: there had been those seven hours spent at the state police headquarters trying (unsuccessfully) to negotiate bail for a land speculator the day before, and there were those three written addresses which he had instructed you to work on. Well he couldn’t have been bothered. Your eyes were the brightest in the firm and still (relatively) white, so he could summon you at will. He had revealed his reason for the call as soon as you arrived. There had been a mix-up in the diary, and a case which he didn’t know had been slated for that day was coming up in another local government area ninety minutes away; he had only found out via a 5.00am text message from the client. From the tone of his voice, you had already known what that meant.

There had obviously been no preparation on your part, but you knew what to do: go there, take notes and ask the court for a short adjournment. That was pretty much what you were good for anyways at this stage, besides motions and drafts (you had not earned enough trust to conduct a full trial). You had picked up that gown which always gave you away as a baby wig, grabbed the case file and relevant authorities, and set out to the day’s ordeal, but not before taking that selfie in front of the office, for the love of Instagram. Lawyers and intense heat are best of friends no thanks to the attire, public transport doesn’t make it any easier, and the only respite you had gained was three-quarters into the trip when you got a lift in the opposing counsel’s car, praying that your client wouldn’t see you when it was time to alight from that Bugatti.

Being a junior wig meant that you had to wait a little longer before your case would get mentioned, and your body had succumbed to the effects of a long previous day and short night, only stopping short of snoring. Your slumber had been judicially noticed, and when it was finally time to call your case, your response to the judge’s inquiry as to why you made a bed out of the Bar had been “we can’t cheat nature, mi Lord”. There is no way to tell man’s thoughts from merely staring at the face, but what followed had made you realize that your response had been without regard to his mood, and after a torrent of abuses, came the unflattering question you were presently faced with.



This is by no means the first time you had been subjected to the “how old are you at the Bar” question. There had been that kidnap case months earlier, where your boss had been away and you had been berated by the judge at your city of practice for appearing alone in such a sensitive case, particularly given your inexperience, and the accused whom you represented had requested to do the cross-examination herself. There was also that day at a lower court where you had been without your diary, and taking an adjournment had come with a reprimand. On both occasions you had responded meekly – less than a year at the Bar – to much sneering from the gallery, but this time you react differently.

“I don’t know how that question relates to the facts of the case. My Lord”, you reply.

The question is repeated, and your answer is pretty much the same. You eventually respond appropriately after some coaxing whispers from your senior colleagues, but the judge is already incensed, and he is having none of your apologies. An appeal from the older wigs saves you from being committed for contempt, but you are made to stand outside the courtroom for nearly fifty minutes. The judge’s disciplinary measure does a lot to your confidence on the day, and by the time you get back in, nervousness has become a friend of yours. The request for an adjournment is granted, and the client reluctantly pays the much-anticipated appearance fee after feeding you with sob stories of bereavement and business shortcomings. “At least this one paid”, you tell yourself. You remember the client from three weeks earlier, who bolted to the door as soon as he heard “case adjourned” and zoomed off in a motorcycle. It’s a long ride back home for you, as the events of the day get you thinking and pondering whether you are actually cut out for legal practice. Yea, your ego has been battered that much.

You return to the office pretty exhausted, and your boss splits the day’s appearance fee into two unequal parts, taking the larger share. He then chides you of not properly arranging some files in the office, and your mind drifts to the office secretary, who earns twice as much as you do for doing next to nothing. No, you don’t want to think about your salary; that brings tears to your eyes, especially when you consider that the meagre sum doesn’t even flow in regularly. Your attempt at taking a short nap is interrupted by two clients; one who, ignorant of the concept of front-loading, complains about you to your boss for not being vocal enough on the last adjourned date, and another who gets you to draft a Power of Attorney for which you will be getting nothing from either him or your boss (who has since put the cheque in his pocket).



You finally get to leave the office by 5.45pm and on your way home, your phone beeps. It’s Ene, a lady who constantly turned you down during your university days, but now uses your photo as her Display Picture on a regular basis ever since you got called to the Bar. She is “just checking on you and hoping your day was smooth”, though you know it’s because she wants you to assume responsibility for the next couple of Blackberry Internet Subscriptions. You also get that text from Charlie, reminding you of the six thousand naira he begged you for two weeks earlier. You laugh inwardly and shake your head, blaming your formal outfits for all the false impressions. If only they knew how things really were. The first thing you do upon getting home is to do justice to the pile of dirty laundry in your wardrobe. You know better than to save that for Saturday, knowing how unpredictable your weekends could be. Yea, that Sunday afternoon where you had to get to the police station barely twenty minutes after returning from church and negotiate bail for a teenager held for alleged rape is still fresh in your memory. You sink into bed after a bath which you almost skipped out of fatigue, but sleep only comes after a brief reflection on the day, during which you sigh deeply in the realization that you’re up for a long ride through this career path.



Jerry Chiemeke tweets @Le_Bouquineur. 

DRIVING WITH CRAZY Episode 6

                ONE DAY, LOTS OF TROUBLE.

"Alex, you're bleeding!”
He looked down at his arm and saw the blood that had stained the part of his shirt that covered his upper arm. He gently lifted the cloth off his arm to reveal a bloody cut on his arm. I looked around and saw no one with a gun. Where did a bullet come from then. My mind was already processing the worst possible scenario.

 "Aisha oh, Spiritual bullets are after you!" 
Very interesting, that imagination of mine. I stepped closer to Alex to inspect the injury. 

“Oh, thank God. The bullet didn't pierce your arm. It just tore past your skin."
I stylishly turned away to wipe the tear that was about to drop from my eyes.

“Well, it tore enough to get the blood flowing.”
He must have seen the terror in my eyes because just then he said, “It’s not that bad Aisha. I’ll be fine.” His attempt at reassurance didn't help much though. I was visibly shaken and my eyes kept darting from left to right.

“Who could be shooting around here?” He asked, surveying the forest. The universe decided to answer his question. We started to hear footsteps, approaching quickly. Like that of a man running. We headed quickly for the car. We couldn't let this guy perfect his aim on our bodies.

He saw us. We couldn't get out of sight before he saw us.
"Wait! Wait! You with the blood.  Wait nah! I sorry. I no want to shoot you!"
I jumped when I heard the voice. It was slightly high-pitched and strangely loud. I definitely was not about to trust any words formed with that high-pitched voice. He could have been a hungry cannibal for all I knew. How had I managed to amass so much bad luck in just 24 hours?

He peered into the car through the windscreen and saw the blood on Alex’s arm and all of a sudden, he started to talk even louder.  Then he jumped on the bonnet of the car and continued begging Alex to come out and let him atone for his mistake. When that didn't work, he got off the bonnet and got a log large enough to block the road. All this happened while we sat tight in the car wondering what exactly was playing out before us. After this obviously Hausa man blocked the road, he came around to Alex’s window and continued begging us to come out so he could clean Alex’s wound. I was so tired.  There had been so much activity in the past few hours and I thought being a Chief Bridesmaid was stressful. I swore to myself that when I got married all my close friends would have to drive down to the wedding, even if it was a destination wedding!

When the pleading at the window didn't work, he went back to the bonnet and camped there.  Which kind life? We couldn't move forward and kill the man or reverse and throw him on the ground so we stayed put. After pleading and rolling up and down on the bonnet, he sat up, still on the bonnet and started to talk through the windscreen. " Ayam a hunter. I saw moving, trees moving and something sounding. I think it was animal. And I shoot. I sorry. I very sorry. Please let me clean it. I have leaf to clean your hand." He said pointing at Alex through the slightly tinted glass. It was then I took a good look at him. He was slim, almost gaunt and dark with a very apologetic look in his eyes.  Apparently, Alex's voice bore some similarities to that of an animal. Intriguing.

   
 I took some tissue from the car and cleaned the blood around his injury. He looked up at me as I dutifully cleaned the blood. “Thank you Aisha. "

“It’s nothing. "

“Not just for this.

“I’m sure this is the craziest trip you've ever been on too. And it would have been a lot harder if you weren't with me.”

I smiled coyly. “That’s not entirely true. If I didn’t come on this journey with you, we wouldn't have stopped for the meat or picked up the pastor and then we wouldn't have lost our money and had to gamble at the village and be on the verge of missing the wedding.”  He threw his head backwards and laughed. “So you really are the cause of the bad luck we've had on this trip. Who is chasing you from your village eh, Aisha?”

“Please jor, even with all my bad luck; you’re the one who managed to sound like an animal and get yourself shot.” We both laughed at that.

“You’re wicked oh. You don’t know I could be dying.”

“You sure don’t sound like someone who is dying oh” I said giggling. “We can’t stay cooked up in this car forever though. And it’s getting very stuffy.”

“So we should come out and listen to what the man has to say? I don’t think that’s wise.”

“No, definitely not.  We can wind the glass down a bit so we can hear what he has to say.”

 So we did just that.  We called the man and let him explain yet again how he saw Alex from afar and thought it was an animal as he had been out hunting without being able to catch anything for the past few days. After he teased me so much about the Old man wanting me because he thought of me as fresh meat, he was turning out to be the one with the coveted meat on his bones but I didn’t have time to share my joke because the man had moved on to begging Alex to let him apply his herb that would stop the pain instantly.  It was the verge of daybreak and we didn’t even know how far from Kaduna we were and as if that wasn’t bad enough; Alex as if he was brainwashed, opened the door and followed the money to get this ‘cure’. Hadn’t we just had a mental agreement not to pay any attention to the man and he had just followed him so God knows what could be applied on the injury. After the man had mixed the herb with some seed and pounded them together into a greenish-brown paste; he rubbed it on the affected area and told Alex to sit still.

“Alex, come. Does this thing even look normal to you? I mean with all your Harvard Education, you’re just as primitive as this man. How can a herb be a pain reliever for an open wound?”

“Where do you think drugs originated from?  Most came from leaves and the man knew what he was doing. It’s easy to talk when you’re not the one feeling the pain.” When I heard that, I let it go. It would have been insensitive of me not to so I let him have his way.  Alex sat on the stump for a few more minutes before he started to yawn.

“Why are we still waiting for the man?” I said taking in the view.

“I don’t know. He said to sit still.”

“Please let’s go. We’ve gone through too much to miss this wedding now. Does it feel better now?”

     “I really can’t tell, but I’ll rather not take the chance of driving. The GPS would help you though; it’s already programmed to get us to the house.”

“OK, but why do you sound like you won’t be beside me the entire way?”

     “I feel really drowsy all of a sudden. I might have to crash in the back seat after a while.”  I went around to move the log that had been blocking the car and came back into the Driver’s seat to get going. “OK, no more stops this time and no more incidents till we-“ I looked at who I was supposed to be talking to and Alex was sound asleep in the chair.

      “Alex, wake up,” I said tapping his arm. After repeating this with more intensity each time for a few minutes and waving my hand back and forth under his nose to double check that he was alive; It dawned on me that I was going to have to make the rest of the drive alone. I laid my head on the steering wheel in utter frustration.  “God, please I don’t think I can take another surprise today. Please just help me get to this wedding once and for all.”

      And so I drove down the bush path with Alex passed out beside me.

LIB DYNASTY: END OF AN ERA?

For seven years, she dominated the Nigerian Blogosphere, feeding the bulk of the Nigerian savvy-tech society with instant updates from celebrities around the world and latest gist and happenstances around the country. She appraised us with the petty squabbles celebrities involved themselves with. She was the first to inform us of what that particular hotshot male celebrity wore to that dinner. For seven good years, she did these, and many more.
For seven years, she managed to inform us of political rallies and political promises which are never meant to be fulfilled. She made it a point of duty to inundate Nigerians with political accidents and politically motivated killings. She was as reliable as a television news broadcast in such matters. In fact, any story found online about a celebrity could be said to have originated from her blog.
She posted other peoples’ stories, people posted hers, Permission was an implied irrelevancy. Her stories were always short and straight to the point, almost as if she never had the time to sit down to pen a proper news item. But Nigerians forgave her brevity and overlooked it because they always got what they needed: gist. Her works were sometimes riddled with grammatical inconsistencies, and her fans took their time to lovingly point it out.
For seven years, hers’ was the most widely read blog in Nigeria, with the most comment on each story. She sometimes averaged 200 comments per story, and some comments did run into thousands. The comment section of her blog offered most Nigerians the opportunity to display the limits of their irrationality, and unwillingness to apply wisdom in simple cases. Reading the comment section of her blog was tantamount to watching a stand-up comedy show. And this was one of the major selling point of her blog. She took care to verify each comment before it becomes visible on her blog, which creates the impression that she actually reads each comment before posting. But the smart ones will know that she hardly does. Time is a luxury so inconsistent with a celebrity.
For seven years, she made serious money from blogging. So serious that it could buy her the latest designer shoes and latest cars. She took great care to display these newly acquired wealth on her blog, with the latest being a 2014 Edition Range Rover (if I am not mistaken). She took pride in narrating how God raised her from grass to grace, and how her hustle was blessed with immense success.
And for seven years, she made her millions through blogging with a free blog domain. When she could had so cheaply purchased her own site. I remember wondering how a blog as big as hers’ could still be using BlogSpot. With all the millions of Naira she purportedly earned. Now, she could afford a Range Rover from the proceeds of her hustle, but she couldn’t afford to host her own domain? She confessed just this week that she doesn’t know much about Internet Technology (IT) and the exigencies of the internet. But can it be said that she couldn’t afford an IT expert, even if only a part-time basis to put her through the modalities of the internet. No, she preferred to enjoy the status of being Nigeria’s No 1 Blogger on a free site.
Good things do not last forever, and through to this syndrome, several “badbelles’ from her village seem to have sworn an oath to put her end to her unprecedented successes in the blogsphere.  With just the simple tactic of “divide and rule”, they have managed to destabilise the major source of income of our major gist provider.  Now, who these bad-belles are, is a question which only she herself can best answer. She claims that it is one jealous MrAyeDee on Twitter who is behind her tale of woes. She is a Nigerian, and Nigerians are known to be irrationally jealous at times. So can it not then be postulated that as a reasonable woman, she ought to had foreseen the possibility of this unfortunate event occurring?
When Netherlands defeated Spain 5 goals to 1 in the Group stage of the 2014 Brazil World Cup, all the tabloids screamed that it was the end of an era. The end of 5 years of the Tiki-Taka Monopoly. With the same analogy I prefer to term this unfortunate saga as the end of the LIB Dynasty which has dominated Nigeria for 7 good years.
Everything happens for a reason, and in Nigeria especially, there is a motivating factor behind every reason. I have already obtained a front row seat to watch the ensuing drama which has befallen this calamitous lady.
Free things do not last forever, but it is good to enjoy the free thing while it lasts.

DRIVING WITH CRAZY episode 5

                                                         THE ROAD WE TRAVELLED.

To read previous episodes, kindly go here

  

    The deafening sound rang in my ears. I had to wait a few seconds for the ringing in my ears to stop. Somehow, we had ended up with our backs against a tree. Alex had obviously regained his hearing before me because he reached out to help me up so we could get back to the car.

‘Alex, what’s that on your hand? Oh Jesus, you’re bleeding!’

________________________________________________________________________________

   

         I could only stare. Was this some kind of practical joke? April Fools’ or Candid Camera? Or did this huge man actually think I was going to marry the pot-bellied old man sitting and gambling in there? As if he heard me, he looked at me sternly and said “Iyawo Oga mi, Oga say make you no comot.” How was it possibly going to get any worse than this? Stranded in the middle of nowhere and finding yourself suddenly betrothed to a man with an illiterate as his P.A . Of all the things happening at that point in time, the scariest thought was that Alex and I wouldn’t make it to the wedding. Let’s call it the fear of Nena. It was then it dawned on me that I didn’t even know where Alex was. He couldn’t possibly be any worse off than me. I couldn’t imagine any old woman forcing him to marry her. He was probably waiting at the car or better still watching, and maybe even laughing, from a distance.

   I wouldn’t blame Alex if he actually was laughing. I mean it really was a funny sight. Me, standing in front of the door with the massive man holding his hands out so I wouldn’t escape and moving back and forth between Yoruba and Pidgin. One thing was sure though, my children wouldn’t lack bedtime stories.

   Seeing as I couldn’t escape, I turned around and walked back into the makeshift casino. The old man who was probably celebrating inwardly that he had acquired fresh meat looked up and smiled at me through his MTN-yellow teeth “Iyawo mi, se o tide.” I rolled my eyes “ Baba, kini gbogbo nonsense eh?”. Between me and you, I barely understood what I was saying. “Why is that man outside disturbing me and who is your iyawo?”

“Ahah, Omoge mi. Cool nah”

Then the old man stood up and walked towards me as if to explain something “Oya, come. No be vexing for me. Take it cool.” All of a sudden, Nena came to mind. If she was the one being struck bullet after bullet with the remains of English language that this man was speaking, a bomb might have gone off in her brain. The girl couldn’t even pretend to stand bad English. She had once walked out of a job interview because the interviewer kept repeating “What year did you graduated?”She said she couldn’t work with that kind of person and she never went back. Extreme? Maybe.  Anyway, my problems were bigger than Baba’s English or the lack thereof. This man seemed to really think I was about to marry him. Of all the ‘yawas’ I had found myself in, this had to be the most confusing. From going to someone else’s wedding I had managed to be courted, proposed to and become engaged without even knowing it. 
"This is the kind of divine intervention people mark attendance at Redeemed Camp for oh.” My mind and her twisted sense of humour.

    Baba escorted or rather stalked closely behind me so I had no choice but to walk to keep from being absorbed by his pot belly. I found myself at a mud house. On walking in, it was the matchmaker herself, the old woman sitting on a mat at one corner. She started smiling the moment she saw me, I couldn’t fathom what they were all so happy about. The old man said a few things in his thick Yoruba dialect that were beyond my understanding. The woman stepped out and came back some minutes after with a big plate of something I was obviously supposed to eat. It was not until both the old man and his wife had left the room that my stomach started to make those funny sounds. I had told myself I wouldn’t eat the food but I wasn’t strong enough to hold back. The betrayer in the centre of my being caved and I rushed at the plate. It was when I was rushing the food that It occurred to me that wherever Alex was on planet earth, he hadn’t eaten since we left Lagos. I left some food on the plate making a mental note to give it to him if he came for me.

     I woke up suddenly on the mat. I didn’t realize I had slept off. All that scheming and gambling must have taken my energy. Or maybe that old woman had drugged me. My phone was dead and it was pitch dark in the room. “Are there any windows in this thing?” Just then I heard the sound of a twig break outside. I couldn’t see anything but I sensed that someone was coming. My heart started to pound again. I felt around me for the plate or anything else to use as a weapon. And just like in all those horror movies, there was nothing. I got up slowly and moved against the wall. Whoever it was would be entering the room soon. “It had better not be that old man.”

    The door opened slowly with the person trying to make as little noise as possible. I couldn’t even make a guess at who it was still. Where was the moon when you needed it? I couldn’t see or shout or escape so I did the only thing that seemed sensible. Roundhouse  kick!  How I perfected the art of kicking is a story for another day. Anyway, the person fell and landed with his/her head landing square in the plate I was frantically searching for earlier. Just when I was about to jump over and run the person grabbed my ankle and pulled me to the ground. “Jesus! Aisha you’re a wrestler.”

 “My God! Alex, why didn’t you say it was you?”

“I wasn’t sure you were here now. I don’t even know if I can still stand.”

“Sorry, sorry. Where have you been?”

“Your Bobo had me kept in one tiny room somewhere. I managed to get out and i started going from house to house to look for you.” I couldn’t see his face so he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate the look I gave him that night. My bobo indeed.

“Ok, let’s go now please. Enough drama for one night. What’s the time?”

“It’s almost 1am. Do you still have the money?”

“Yes! Come before someone wakes up.”

    I wasn’t at peace till we had bought fuel and driven about thirty minutes away from what could have become my village by marriage and I couldn’t thank the strange man who sold the fuel to us in the middle of the night enough. I was awake as Alex drove. He kept on laughing and teasing me about ‘my bobo.’ The only good things that came out of stopping at that village was the money for the fuel and whatever it was that woman had given me to eat and of course, I got an opportunity to kick Alex! At least I had something to retaliate with while he was laughing at me and my bobo.

“You’re extremely bubbly for someone who hasn’t eaten all day. I  kept some food for you but you face planted into it.”

“Who says I haven’t eaten? When I was going from house to house looking for you, I entered one where the woman had left some stew to cool overnight and there was rice in the pot too and my feelings for rice and stew haven’t changed.” I remembered how Alex used to be a maniac for rice and stew. It was one of the things that made him stand out as abnormal back then. He took it as a service to humanity to delve into every plate he came across. I really do mean every last one.

“So, you stole someone’s food?”

“I like to think of it as tasting.”

“Ok, how many pieces of meat did you ‘taste’?

He looked at me with one guilty look in his eyes. “ Four.”

“Ahh, Alex. Ole! By tomorrow, they’ll be searching more for you than me.” He burst out laughing.  
" You know you just jilted a chief?"
I looked at him like he was speaking another language. "What are you talking about?"
"Your bobo was a Chief now. Why do you think he was confident enough to consider you acquired on first sight? Apparently, Chiefs are allowed to pick and choose any lady they please. You should be flattered really." He stifled a  laugh as he winked at me.
" And you know all this how exactly?"
"The man that led me to my room told me. He kept talking about how if I didn't cause trouble, the Chief would be very kind to me for bringing him a new wife. So you see, even with my 'Harvard English', I can still communicate in a village."
"That explains a lot then. And the fact that you managed to understand doesn't mean you can communicate." 
"You must always have a comeback though." I grinned, celebrating my little victory. We talked  most of the way. I told him about the Old man’s English and thrill I got from gambling and we laughed till our jaws began to hurt.

       At about 3am, Alex made a turn off the express into a bush path. “Why are you turning off the road?”

“The GPS says this is a short cut. We can cut off more than one and half hours of the journey this way.”

“Hmm, are you sure?  We can’t afford another situation oh.”

“Relax; we’ll get to Kaduna soon.”

  So I listened and relaxed, the bush path looked like an illustration of Robert Frost’s The Road less travelled. It was lonely and covered with twigs and leaves and seemed to be narrowing as we went further. I decided not to say anything so I didn't sound like I was nagging but I was sure he noticed it too. We drove a little more and came to a part where a log had blocked most of the road. We both got out to move it off the road.  We moved the log, locked the car and decided to walk further a bit to see if the road was actually motor able.

  We’d walked a few minutes and were just about to head back to the car when we heard a deafening sound. Maybe it was fear or some force but we both found ourselves against a tree. After a few seconds when the ringing in my ear had reduced but with the confusion still lingering I heard Alex say “Was that a gunshot?”  He reached out to help me up so we could get back to the car.

‘Alex, what’s that on your hand? Oh Jesus, you’re bleeding!’

QUIET IS SOMETIMES VIOLENT

       We are all born with dissimilar characteristics and traits, although in the long run these traits make us akin to others who share similar behaviours. There are some who are loud and outspoken, while others share the personae of the quiet folk. I, personally fall into the latter category. I had, note the past indicant, a natural abhorrence for those who I deemed raucous, for I felt they always caused unnecessary commotion wherever they happened to be. However, my perception of these individuals has changed over time. I have found out that sometimes quiet is indeed violent. How is this feasible? I will explain in due time in the voyage of this article.
Most quiet people have been identified as violent, for once the pent up anger and frustration of these individuals’ ruptures, it tends to lead to inconceivable fallouts. However, that’s not the angle I’m to use to elucidate on the phrase ‘quiet is sometimes violent’. Over the turn of the century, it has come to my knowledge that the voice of the populace is a very potent weapon against irregularities in society, as seen in the Arab spring, the war against AIDS,bringing it closer to home, the fight against the subtraction of the fuel subsidy (although most tag that as a fruitless venture) the rejection of the establishment of the gay rights (some still view this as oppressive and archaic). There’s virtually nothing impossible to achieve or desist from in our present day society if the populace cries out in a lurid unified voice concerning such. If the populace cries out I said. If that’s the case, why are there so many visible persistent anomalies present today in our society? If vox populi can cause for the eradication of despotic governments, the enactment of favourable public policies, why then is the Nigerian society facing numerous deficiencies, depriving it of becoming a developed nation state? Simple, we are quiet.
The American society, from the little I’ve imbibed through the mass media and other mediums, is premised on the concept of freedom of all, which is therefore inculcated into the average America citizen at early stages of development, therefore a simple American would fight with his last ounce of blood once he recognises that his freedom is been taken off him without his prior consent. This generalized freedom encapsulates the freedom of speech also, and do believe when I insist they do exercise this fundamental right of theirs to optimum. To the best of my knowledge, we Nigerians do share same fundamental human rights, and so I ask, why don’t we implement it? Sure, there were certain times in the history of this blessed nation when spoken words or written accounts awarded you either an assassination request, or a jail term, but I do believe those dark days have been left behind in the murky past were they do belong. We practice the democratic system of government now, or so we are made to believe, why then don’t we talk out? Why don’t we come out in our numbers and address the ills in our society? What are we scared off? Have we all become complacent while our nation state implodes, inside out?
Keeping quiet while a wrong is been committed invariably connotes that we are, impliedly, in support of such activities. In other words, if we sight an individual degrading our environment through activities such as littering and we do not rebuke such, we are impliedly consenting to it. We can all come to a consensus that most parents, especially those of the African breed, do not hesitate to scold their younglings whenever an act considered wide of the mark is committed, even the bible did give such instructions on the upbringing of children, thus ensuring that these younglings grow to be upright citizens of the society. They do this because they do not agree to these actions. If this is the accepted way of life, why then have we, as Nigerian citizens, failed so to do? Why have we neglected the fact that our great country Nigeria is our child, and therefore we owe it a duty of care of restructuring it to the standard set by developed countries? One major defect majored in the psychology of Nigerians is that of selfish feats, evading and ignoring the crystal clear datum that whatever ills affect and defect our society, affect and defect us as well. Three out of ten Nigerians, at their closet mind you, insist that this Nation of ours yearn a long awaited revolution. As I do subscribe to this belief, I must spell out that the revolution I personally speak off is not one involving gun flares and explosive powders, but rather a revolution of the mind, where an average Nigerian knows his legal rights, and is well abreast of the remedies awarded him once such legal rights are breached. How would this fantasy become a tangible fact? Many would give different answers; mine would be in line with this article. I strongly believe and perceive that when (I have faith we would) we speak out, not in our closets, but to listening and pruning ears, many of our problems would be addressed. If we notice something defaulting with our constitution, we should not wait for a messiah to come forth, we need to speak up. If we notice some irregularities occurring in our present environ, we speak up. if we notice our fellow course mates or co-workers engaging in some shenanigans which at long term be harmful not only to the environment, but to them as well, we speak up. Gone should be the days where we wait at the side-lines hoping a courageous individual would spring up and try to correct the wrongs we’ve made. We shouldn’t wait; we all should be that individual with the notion of changing our environment. We should inculcate this notion of change into our systems for the successive generation to do same, and lots more. Quiet is indeed violent, and I urge you, Nigerians, be silent no longer.
As a closing remark, I will paint a scenario which transpired during my criminal law class. Our nimble yet petite lecturer posed a question on the meaning of corruption, whilst an answer was proffered, she posed another, on how we, in our individual way, strive to eradicate the blight known as corruption from our environment, and the question struck home. Now, I ask you all, faithful enlightened readers of this blog, how have you, in your own personal way tried to change your environment?
My name is Tami Koroye, and I have chosen not to be quiet.
  

GIVE THANKS!

Exactly a year ago, I posted If We Don't Pray For Nigeria, Who Will?
I remember we celebrated Independence Day last year amidst ASUU strike and other pestilences which were plaguing Nigeria. To many persons, there was really no need for celebration, as there was very little to celebrate about. Even our President accepted this obvious fact when he ordered that the Independence Day Celebrations last year would be low key. However, plans were already being made for this years' celebrations, as the year 2014 purportedly marks a hundred years of the existence of the political entity called Nigeria.

Indeed, fifty-four years ago, Queen Elizabeth II (what is her surname sef?) handed over the administration of Nigeria to Nigerians, to be managed by Nigerians and for the benefit of Nigerians. After years of toiling, agitating, begging, and demanding, Nigerians were finally able to have ultimate control of things which concern them. This day fifty-four years ago, Nigerians were celebrating on the streets and dancing in their homes (I was of course smiling at them from heaven).
Khakistocracy, corruption, nepotism, God-fatherism, ethnicity, insurgency, kidnappings, economic oppressions, spiritual negligence, moral latitude, sexual misdemeanours, and the likes were conspicuously missing from the vocabulary of an average Nigerian.
The words we had in our vocabulary were patriotism, nationalism, one Nigeria, chauvinism, jingoism, autonomy, xenophobia, unity, harmony, accord, etc. But just fifty-four years after, we seem to have forgotten all these lofty concepts.

There were indeed several national catastrophes which befell the nation this year. But the rain which falls on the evil man is the same rain which falls on the righteous. Only God can provide an answer to the little and great mishaps which occurred this year. But it is not in our place to question the Almighty.

As the Good Book says, in all things, give thanks! The very fact that you are alive to read this post, and that you have a country which you can (proudly) call your own is sufficient to prima facie be a cause for celebration. There are many displaced persons in the Middle East who do not have a place of abode, not to talk of a country to call their own. Come to think of it, our national defence policy may be shaky, but it has still managed to repel aggression from all external forces (both para-military and spiritual).

This year alone, Nigeria managed to curtail the spread of the deadly killer disease which has stigmatised other West African countries. We were able to do this in a little less than four months! In fact, the World Health Organisation (WHO) admitted that Nigeria's response to the Ebola threat was very swift, which is one of the primary reasons why we can still move about in our daily activities.

We also recorded national prowess in international sporting competitions this year. We won several educational and intellectual international trophies this year. Our artistes and comedians conquered new grounds this year...

In all things, give thanks.
For me and the Legal Watchmen Team, we are greatly appreciative to God for fifty-four years of national harmony.

Ramblings of a Patriot. 

LET’S GO A-DRINKING

“Don't take alcohol, you will get drunk and not be able to control your actions ...“Don’t smoke, except you are tired of life and really hate your lungs” and hey, ”it is unchristian to smoke and  get drunk”.

These are what most persons know about the effects of alcohol and smoking, but, there’s more to it than meets the eye.

We  begin by saying that smoking and drinking are two lifestyle habits that get a lot of negative criticism in the health industry and for good reason. They both cause multiple complications in the body, which eventually would range from mild sicknesses to lethal conditions, such as;

EMPHYSEMA

This is simply the abnormal accumulation of air in tissues, especially in lungs. The lungs, originally are pliable organs that need to be elastic and flexible to move properly. Smoking causes the lungs to become damaged and it compromises their elasticity. This in turn leads to a condition called emphysema where breathing becomes labored, even with minimal exertion. Smoking is responsible for 80 to 90 per cent of all cases of emphysema, according to PDR [Physician’s health reference].

LUNG CANCER

Smoking is one of the leading risk factors for this disease. This could emanate from first-hand smoking or second-hand smoking. Second-hand smoking is the smoke you breathe in from other people’s “business”, some call it the TATAFO PUFF. This unhealthy threat can linger on in a room, even hours after a smoker has left.

ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION

AHA!!! THIS ONE WILL GET YOU GUYS ATTENTION, if nothing else will. To achieve an erection, males must get a steady flow of blood going to the penis. If this flow of blood is compromised due to excessive intake of alcohol or incessant smoking, erection dysfunction can occur. MayoClinic.com views both excessive tobacco use and unremitted drinking as risk factors for erectile dysfunction.

HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE

When you drink excessively and smoke, you increase your chances of getting high blood pressure. This is defined as having a reading of 140/90 mmHg or above. If left untreated, high blood pressure can cause congestive heart failure, heart attacks, stroke, kidney damage and vision loss, notes the American Heart Association.

HIGH CHOLESTEROL

Cholesterol is produced naturally in the liver and it is used by the body for hormone and cell production. When levels become elevated, plaque can form on the walls of the arteries and obstruct the flow of blood to the heart. Smoking promotes this process by damaging the blood vessel walls. In addition, smoking lowers the levels of “good” cholesterol, thus putting the body at risk to hormonal malfunction, amongst other things.

CIRRHOSIS OF THE LIVER

The liver is a major organ in the body that produces bile which breaks down fat; the liver also helps purify the blood in addition, the liver performs glucose break down and serves as storage for iron. However, heavy drinking over the course of time can cause liver damage. In the worst of cases, a condition in which the liver slowly deteriorates and malfunctions due to chronic injury.

WRINKLES

ALL MY LADIES!! you really need to read this. The skin, amongst other things is composed of elastin and collagen fibre, however, nicotine and other harmful chemicals found in cigarettes damages this skin components, which in turn leads to premature wrinkling. This could take place anywhere on the body, including the face and arms. HEHE…SO IF YOU DON’T WANNA LOOK LIKE YO GRAND MA, you really need to quit the habit, if you are already engaged passively or actively! pronto!

**Now, it is pertinent to note that the foreigners that we in Africa tend to copy, smoke and drink partly due to their cold weather in other to generate body heat, the weather in Washington DC ranges around 24⁰ C /17⁰ C , while that in Nigeria about 86⁰ F /71⁰ F. Even to one who really isn't  good with figures, this difference is alarming. the question is WHAT ARE WE TRYING TO HEAT UP? IS IT OUR ALREADY HOT WEATHER IN NIGERIA OR OUR ALREADY SWEATY BODY?

This article would be a failure without proffering suggestions on how to quit smoking. Thus, here are a few tips;

-Self-help books provide advice and useful techniques.

-You can find free information leaflets at your local health institution or library.

-Your doctors or specialist may be able to refer you to a stop-smoking group.

-Nicotine replacement; chewing gum, sprays and patches can help in the early stages of giving up but is not suitable for people who have already had a stroke.

**Public Health England’s Stop-tober campaign is back for its third year – encouraging the nation the nation’s 8 million smokers to stop smoking for 28 days. If you can stop smoking for 28 days, you’re five times more likely to stay quit. You will begin to experience financial, physical and health benefits including a better sense of taste and smell and a reduced risk of stroke, lung, cancer and heart disease, you can join England in this adventure, distance is not a barrier. You can watch the Stop-tober promotional movie on YouTube or search for more information about it via goggle.

-The NHSSmokefree Helpline can also help you discuss the different ways you can give up the addiction, that is, if you are already hooked. Their helpline opening hours are Monday-Friday 9am-8pm and Saturday-Sunday 11am-5pm. Call Smokefree on 0800 022 4 332 or log onto www.cantstopsmoking.com .

-According to one researcher, women should not drink more than two to three units of alcohol a day but if one is pregnant it is advisable not drink at all. This will do no damage to the body as well as ensure the sanity of the person.

-Although doctors support a less than moderate unit of alcohol in a small glass of wine, or a single measure of spirits or half a pint of beer. the writer of this article does not vouch for this though, thus, if you want to be clean, be clean and not have spots because the negative effects of these twin pillars greatly outweigh the positives. OH WELL, EVERYONE IS EENTITLEDTO REVIEW THE OPTIONS.

Conclusively, we are all free to make choices, but, the consequence of our choice is what we are not free from. So make the right choice today, LIVE HEALTHY, DDON'TDIE, ONLY STAY ALIVE!

               By JOE-RAY

gpojehumen@yahoo.com

THE TRUTH THEORY

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free!

This biblical statement insinuates that we have a duty to find out the truth, and this said truth is meant to release us from all shackles of bondage.
What does it mean to know the truth? The answer to this is not farfetched. To know something means to have an intimate knowledge of that thing. Hence, knowing the truth implies an intimate knowledge of that which is not a lie.
Now, what is the truth? This is a question which is somewhat hard to answer. There are two main approaches to answering this question. These are the correspondence, and pragmatic theories.
The correspondence theory which was propounded by Plato proposes truth to be an agreement with reality.  This means that true statements should correspond to facts, while false statements do not. For instance, if one says that “Bini people fly at night”, this statement can only be true if a reasonable man has indeed seen a Bini man flying at night before. However, Plato came to realise the fallacy in this theory when it was discovered that the theory does not allow for false belief. Bertrand Russel, a 20th century British philosopher took the pains to show the unsoundness in this theory by reasoning that if a belief is false because there is no fact to which it corresponds, it would then be a belief about nothing and so not a belief at all. the simple explanation to this is that if a man believes that Bini people do fly at night, but there has been no such recorded incidence of a Bini flying at night, neither is there any other circumstantial fact/evidence to support this claim, then this ‘belief’ is fundamentally invalid because it is not founded on any known premise.
In the late 19th Century, American philosopher Charles S. Peirce offered another answer to the question “What is truth?” He asserted that truth is that which experts will agree upon when their investigations are final. This came to be known as the pragmatic approach. Pragmatist believe that that the truth of our ideas must be tested through practice, not through lofty theoretical postulations. This simply means that we must have a first-hand experience with our claims before we dare postulate that it is indeed the truth.
My humble self proposes a balance between these two theories. Of course, it would be somewhat impossible for everyone to adopt a pragmatic approach to life. For instance those who are disadvantaged by virtue of the unfortunate circumstances of their positions in life or events surrounding their births will not be able to categorically make statements of facts. If they indeed do so, it would not qualify as truth.
To our initial exposition, when can it be said that one knows the truth? Does such a person have to have a first-hand experience with the alleged truth before it qualifies as such? Or is a mere unqualified belief in the existence of a state of fact enough to qualify as the truth? The law (at least the Nigerian law) allows for the latter. The defence of Mistake which is applicable in a criminal trial is premised on this.
Now, let us not forget that there is an injunction on us to know the truth. According to Philosopher Francis Bacon, the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making, or wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature.
Therefore, it is not satisfactory to hold a mere belief, no matter how honest that belief may sound in the existence of a state of fact.  We must, in a bid to ratify the veracity of our human nature, make sufficient inquires of the truth.
Only when we have made sufficient enquires to verify the truth can it then be said that we have an intimate knowledge of that truth. And no doubt, the act of verifying the truth shall make us intimate with the subject matter of that thing. It would be a wonder if one wouldn’t be released from all bondages and shackles of doubt after a thorough verification of the truth.

Indeed, you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free!


To read THE LIE THEORY, Kindly click here.

DRIVING WITH CRAZY episode 4

                                                HERE COMES THE BRIDE?

       We had the car packed by the side of the road. Turned off to save the small amount of fuel we had left. No fuel, no food, no money and in the middle of nowhere. This was not what I pictured when I imagined my best friend’s wedding.
   The only thing more disturbing than our present situation was MY present situation. Alex hadn't said a word to me since we found out Pastor Pilferer had robbed us. Well, yes it was slightly my fault; but how was I to know we were giving a ride to a smooth criminal, an incredibly smooth one oh. As in,  I was stealing glances at this guy the entire time he was in the car and I never saw any indication that he was doing any funny business back there.  Anyway, we were stranded and Alex wasn't speaking to me. We stood at opposite sides of the car. He was probably thinking about what to do next while I was busying myself with how much I could make if I sold the events of the trip as a movie script. At that point, I really felt like I was on the trip from hell!
    I decided to act some drama to get Alex's attention and maybe even sympathy. So the forming began, I started to groan. First lightly, then more frequently and even louder.  Hehehe and of course, he noticed and asked even though half heartedly.
 "Are you ok?"
"Please open the door, I need to sit."
 More forming.  Now I had his attention.
“Ok, Aisha but please you can't get sick on me. That’s about the only thing that hasn’t happened today."
 And in true Naija girl fashion I turned it on him.
 "So, now you're talking to me?" He heaved a sigh and went
"I just needed to think for a bit."
 I was beginning to sound too cheesy for my own liking so I just dropped the act.
"Look, I'm sorry for making you pick him up. I guess being wicked is good a times."
 He looked up from the keys he'd been playing with.
"Come on, Aisha. You know I'm not wicked. You don't even believe that."
 I didn't but I couldn't reply because at that moment my phone rang. I don't know which was more puzzling; that my phone hadn't been stolen or that there was enough network to receive calls.
"Aisha, Where are you people? I'm about to go mad! Are you still far off? "
At this point, we were at least seven hours away and without fuel but Nena didn't need to know that.
 “We are a few hours off but we'll be there soon. What’s bothering  you? "
“It’s Ola! Imagine, she came down here and she hadn't done her hair; she hadn't even fitted her dress. When I complained yesterday she said she hadn't had the time in Lagos and that she would sort it out....".
Now usually I'm all for listening to Nena's complaints. I actually envy her ability to totally pour out her heart to someone. I've always been more self-reliant. I guess growing up with boys does that to you ;but today I was just tired, even a bit sleepy and I wasn't even sure of the next time I would see civilisation so I was zoning in and out of the conversation.
 "... Aisha, are you still there?"
"Uhh, yeah.  I couldn't hear for a second there. "
“Wait, where exactly are you? Because it doesn't sound like you're on the road and Alex's phone is off. "
 Alex had put off his phone to save his battery; incase we couldn't figure out a way to get back on the road and needed to call for help but I still couldn't tell her what was going on. She could actually have a panic attack. She was ‘ajebutter-ish’ like that.
“We just stopped for a bit."
"Probably for the best, it'll be dark soon and I don't think it's smart to drive then. By the way, you sound well so obviously Alex hasn't slipped into any insane delusions yet.”
I laughed out loud. Alex turned to look at me. If he didn't hear what she said, he was about to know we were talking about him." He's been good so far but don't get excited until you see me sha."
"I told you!  Wait, mumsie is calling. Hopefully Ola is ready to get her hair done now. Please you guys should drive fast oh. You have to be here before the wedding starts. You know daddy's  11 is 11. Be safe oh. Please say hi to Alex for me. Tell him I said to be careful 'cus he's carrying fragile goods. "
“Do you mean me or the shoes?” She laughed her mischievous laugh." You know what I mean."  The yeye girl was worrying about her shoes while I was stuck in the middle of nowhere.
 “Why didn't you tell her?”  I’d forgotten for a moment Alex was in the car as I was mentally communicating with my future husband and plotting how to pay Nena back. There had to be some shade in there somewhere." No, she has enough to worry about already. We'll find a way to get there before 11."
"11? Is that when the wedding starts? I hope we make it in time. "
“Well, we won't if we keep sitting here. It looks like there's a small town ahead. Let's lock up and see if we can, by some miracle, get some fuel there. "
     We walked about forty-five minutes and it was almost eight o'clock. The 'let's walk into the village' idea didn't seem like such a good one now. This was becoming a trend, bad idea after bad idea. The people we had tried to explain our dilemma to hadn't even listened to us, maybe because Alex was bringing grammar into the matter.
 "Please madam, we were robbed and ran out of gas. Please could you lend us some of yours and the good Lord would bless you for your deed."  Or it was "Excuse me young man, do you by any chance have a jerry can of fuel to spare. Please, from one citizen to another."
  And don't forget the accent oh. I mean these people were villagers in the middle of nowhere. There was not even a school in the vicinity.
"Alex, abeg your Harvard English isn't helping us. Let me do the talking from now on." After I'd told him, I figured it might have been a bit harsh but he wasn't taking it too badly so I didn't bother with an apology. At the end of the day, my molue-certified Yoruba didn't get us any help either. For those who don't know Molue-acquired yoruba or molue-certified Yoruba is The yoruba dialect which is acquired during commute in Lagos buses. One lady was kind enough to tell us that some men were gambling nearby and maybe Alex could win us some money or maybe she said some men were gambling nearby and Alex could sell me off. I chose to believe it was the former though. We found the place that was supposed to be a casino; it looked more like an abandoned kiosk though. For a second it looked like there was hope until Alex confessed he had never gambled a day in his life.
  "Were you really expecting me to say I was known in a bar somewhere for my gambling skills?
“I don't know jor. How can't you know how to though. I mean my brothers gambled all the time. Yusuf always cheated and won and I was always his accomplice. "
“Wait, if you cheated with your brother; then you must know how to play? "
“Well, no, not really. I mean, I cheated with Yusuf and I knew the basics but they never really let me play. Something about girls not gambling and gibberish like that. "
“Aisha, you'll have to be a guy tonight oh. we need to leave here by morning and we need fuel. And you need to win. Let them not catch you cheating oh. Those men look vicious. "It was remarkable how fast the accent and grammar had disappeared.  I turned to look at the vicious looking men. Believe me, he wasn't exaggerating.
“You have to be there oh. You can't leave me in this place and you have to be ready to run when I've gotten enough money ."  So it was agreed. Worst idea yet.             
       My molue-acquired Yoruba was really put to the test that night oh. The men didn't want to let me play. They were all grumbling and swearing and I could only understand bits and pieces of what they were saying. It literally took Divine intervention for them to share cards to me. The old woman who had suggested to us to go to the casino walked in and whispered something to one of the men sitting at the table. He was probably her husband. I just figured she had pleaded with him because the moment she was done whispering to him he looked at me from head to toe, smiled and whispered something to  some guy standing a few feet away. This other guy looked at me funny and then brought me a seat.
           I let one haggard looking old guy have the first win. I had put in N200 out of the last N500 we had to our names. I used the first game to study the players. This was no game. It was either we won or start our lives as hunters in the bush where the car was parked. The second game came; I won that. We had  N2500 in the bag,N7500 to go.
  The thing about gambling was no one wanted to look weak so more money began to appear as the night went on. I had just barely won the third game, by applying some of Yusuf's ‘skills’. They had started to get suspicious. Who wouldn't? I had walked in and managed to amass fourteen thousand. Alex was signalling me to get up and leave but I was enjoying myself too much. About five minutes into the game, the man beside me started complaining about something in his Yoruba dialect that I couldn't make sense of. I knew there was trouble when they started looking at me in turns. I looked up at Alex; he had taken it as his cue and was already stylishly making his way out the door. I really wanted to finish that game but then the glances turned into stares and my Lagosian spirit started to make a fuss.
With my heart pounding palm kernels in my chest, I used my molue Yoruba to say I needed to excuse myself. They suspected I was going out to change cards and all but forced me to drop my cards. Dropping it would have given me away so I opted to show the guy next to me two of my four cards. He looked at me with pity and joy in even proportions after seeing them probably thinking "Lai, lai. This one can't get you anywhere."
     I headed out hoping no one would figure out my plan to vanish. I got out the door and suddenly felt a grip on my arm. Someone dragged me to the side sharply and covered my mouth tightly so I couldn't scream. All I could do was think "Not today!"  The person who was holding me finally let go and I turned around to look. It was a tall, muscular, scary-looking man. I looked at him carefully and realised I had seen him earlier. He was standing beside the old woman’s husband  who had brought me a seat. 
“Are you insane? Why are you trying to suffocate me?"
With the most dutiful and unrepentant look he replied "Iyawo Oga mi ko le salo "
Even with my half-baked Yoruba, I heard perfectly "My master's wife cannot escape."

BARRISTER, THIS IS NIGERIA

This article is an insight into the world of actual realities. Many persons, especially those in professional callings live in a world of illusory Utopia where they believe merry things will accrue to them by right. However, this is not always the case...
This article was written by Omoya Yinka Simult and reblogged with permission from omoyasimult.wordpress.com
Enjoy!

BARRISTER, THIS IS NIGERIA

You are presently watching the President of your country speak live on AIT. His party, the leading party, is holding a zonal rally in Tafawa Balewa Square in Lagos. Other top brass of the party have spoken. It is the turn of the President to speak. The most powerful masquerade dances last, they say.

The President starts by declaring a minute silence in sympathy with those who lost their lives in the building collapse of an international church. He expresses his heartfelt condolence and promises to look into the cause of the collapse. He then appreciates the supporters of his party in South-West. He says they have been doggedly loyal despite the challenges of the party in their zone.

The President seems to be saying all the right words. Although you have lost count of how many times he has uttered the word ‘promise’, with the way he speaks, it is still obvious he knows the plights of the masses. He recounts the achievements of his administration and promises as always not to relent in his efforts.

‘We are not here to campaign,’ the President announces. ‘It is not time for that. We have only come to interact as a family.’

You shake your head slightly at this. ‘This politicians must think every other person is dumb. Didn’t a chieftain of the party just say something now about the need for the people to support the President with their votes come 2015?’ You ask yourself.

You recline fully on the cushioned chair you are sitted on. You place your legs on a stool and stretch them out.

The President is now talking about his administration’s ‘giant strides’ in creating job opportunities for the teeming youths. At this you sit up and fix your gaze defiantly on the Samsung 29″ television.

Your younger sister walks in and checks what has so captured your attention raptly. She hisses as she sees the President speaking on air. She goes for the remote control and changes the channel to Hip TV, a station that plays indigenous and foreign Hip Hop songs.

King James, the latest song by MI Abaga, is what the station is playing presently. Your sister jumps up frenziedly and sways her hip to the rhythm of the song.

‘Yo! See me gathering stamina. We been to Canada. We been to Ghana. Been balling in SA like Bafana Bafana, rocking that Dolce and Gabana. Been taking shots like a camera…’ Your sister sings after the musician with contagious enthusiasm. You are tempted to get excited too, but you restrain yourself. Something more pressing must be addressed.

You are stupefied by the behaviour of your sister. Did she switch the channel out of disregard for your person or out of contempt for the nation’s President? You want to know.

‘Bola, why did you change the channel without my consent, seeing that I was watching something when you came in?’ You demand, giving your sister a benefit of fair hearing.

‘Eh! Eh! Boda mi, hold it there! I said hold it there! Don’t wash me over with saliva because of any stupid thing. Can I not watch what I want in my father’s house again, en? Your mates are outside there working and making cool money; you are sitted here watching some President. If watching TV is now your job, go and buy one and keep in your room. After all, you are old enough to even live independently. White cock that doesn’t know he is old!’ She hisses and walks out on you.

You are dumbstruck and transfixed where you are. You want to call her back and ask her to repeat what she has just said, but you seem to have forgotten her name. You look for an acid comeback to her statements, but your tongue is helplessly glued to the roof of your mouth. You want to go after her and make her realise that whoever opens her mouth like that to pour out such venom is ripe for a thorough beating, but then your legs have become heavy like bags of sand and your hands have now refused to be yours.

You sit back in your chair and bite your lower lip very hard. The truth is bitter. Yes, you know, and that’s what your younger sister has dished out to you. The fact that she has not told a lie makes you unsure of what to do.

You are a lawyer by training. Yes, law was what you studied in the university. When your fellow lawyer friends write their names, they pride themselves by putting ‘Esq.’ and ‘LL.B (Hons)’ at the back of their names. You don’t believe in all those frivolities and so do not write such things after your name. You went to law school as well, the one in Abuja.

To a common citizen of your country, you made good grades both in law school and university. Second class (upper division) is what you have written on both certificates.

One would think with such applaudable performance, jobs should come seeking for you. Well, things are not so in this nation. Only the ones who have ‘long legs’ get something to keep their hands, and more importantly their teeth, busy. It’s either one has someone or one uses something to pull oneself up. So, in a nutshell, you have been carrying your certificates about for two years. Yes, two whole years!

It is not that there are no jobs per se; it is that there are no befitting jobs. Having spent five hectic years in university, a frustrating year in law school and an exhausting year serving the nation, you don’t think you should stoop for just any job.

You are not the only one suffering from this. Sometimes, this fact consoles you. Your fellow learned colleague, Kola, has found comfort in the ICT world. He now designs websites for organisations and companies, programmes and sells softwares to earn a living. You don’t know where he has thrown his certificates to; it is not your cup of tea.

This is almost the same story with Demola and Abiodun. Demola has picked up a career in journalism. He now works for one of the popular newspapers. Isn’t it funny how a lawyer holds a recorder to the mouth of a politician, jostling with the crowd to get a chance to interrogate? A lawyer?

Sad, isn’t it? But you see, when the desirable is not available, the available becomes desirable. About Abiodun, the gentleman has gone into business fully. He now runs a shop where he sells electronic gadgets and appliances.

Some of your friends are actually practising law though. Most of such friends are working in private chambers, where they are made to work assiduously only to earn meagre stipends at the end of the month. On the other hand, few who have these ‘long legs’ have been employed by the goverment. It is these ones who can wear wigs and hold their shoulders high in their suits. You don’t have such ‘long legs’.

Your uncle comes to your house frequently. He never ceases to give you advice. Now, he says lawyers are making notable headways in the world of Literature. You want to ask him whether that’s what they are trained for, but he is not the type to be interrupted when he speaks. He speaks and maintains that one could advocate through writing too. You do not dispute this fact.

Now, your uncle grants you a chance to respond to all he has heard. You waste no time to ask the question that turns your stomach and sits precariously on your lips.

‘But sir, are these things what lawyers were trained for?’ You ask quickly, as if the question was a hot piece of yam.

Your uncle laughs; he laughs so much that his legs are lifted up above his head. You wonder what is it that makes him laugh so raucously.

Did you make a grammatical error? Is there no sense in your question? You begin to wonder.

Your uncle calms himself down. His eyes are red now, and traces of tears are obvious on his eyelashes. He is holding on to a side of his stomach that must be aching him after such laughter. You sit up and stare at him, feeling ridiculed, waiting for an answer or a mockery or a correction or … anything.

‘Barrister lawyer,’ he replies at last, with a hoarse voice now, ‘you are in your fatherland. Here, you don’t necessarily practise what you were trained for; you practise whatever brings food to your table.’

‘But why?’ You seek to know.

‘Barrister, this is Nigeria. Nobody cares why here,’ your uncle responds and stands to leave.’The money I have, I have lent you.’


I am @omoyayinka on Twitter

HE WHO MUST EAT MUST WORK!

Greetings everybody. Wow! it's been long. Any way, my article today seeks as usual, to say the hard truth, in the frankest manner, notwithstanding whose ox is gored. As you might be aware by now, I say it as it is. A flaw? I don't know. A commentator once criticised my writings, albeit truthfully, when he said that I cannot 'paint words.' But I believe my inability to sugar-coat the truth has earned me the little status I've gained thus far. A little story behind this article: After writing this article, it was sent to two different places to be published. It was instantaneously rejected. From the subtle rejection that it was too long (when previous longer articles have been published), to the more outright rejection that it was too sensitive (where harsher and brazen articles have been published) and as such, it couldn't be published.

Well, am not bothered though. For I know, no matter how long falsity reigns, the truth will one day conquer falsity and take its pride of place. The truth, no matter how twisted or trampled can only grow stronger with time. And as usual, it is you my ardent readers that this piece was written for. You remain the ones to say how well or bad my endeavours have been. Please read and drop your opinions-whether good or bad. Enjoy reading.




A popular Igbo adage goes thus: “aka aja aja n'ebute onu mmanu mmanu.” This proverb loosely translated into english will go thus: “dirt on the hands brings oil to the mouth.” The Igbo race of south-eastern Nigeria are world renowned for their hard working ethics. Whether it is the man at Alaba International, with his one-shopped, single-headquartered international group of companies limited plc, beckoning on you to come patronise his shop because he has exactly what you want (as if you were just entering the market from his house); or the skinny, heavily pregnant woman, struggling with the 6-month old baby on her back and the tray of boiled groundnuts on her head in the hot sun; or the wiry, lean barrow-pusher, with his taut and over-stretched muscles strong enough to lift a house, or even the barely five-year old girl hawking pure water in the rain, one indivisible thread binds them all. That is the Igbo enterprising spirit. They've over time come to appreciate the connection between the oily mouth and dirty hands. Dirt as was used in the proverb certainly cannot be far-fetched from dirt as a result of laborious work. For the ancestors of the Igbos were well-renowned in farming, trading, blacksmithing etc. It isn't that some incipient ones don't exist amongst the Igbos. But the Igbo race clearly understood the revered reward that comes with dignified labour, thus they are inspired to engage in all manner of meaningful employment. It runs in the blood; this Igbo ethos. However, a general mistake being peddled by non-Igbos is the fallacious reasoning that the Igbos are too money-minded. The non-Igbos create a sovereign world of fantasy, a patchwork of few statistics, rather as if they were to classify the whole Igbo race by generalising the whole from a minute occurrence. This writer will not seek to engage in the validity or otherwise of Igbos loving money or not, but will clearly seek to unequivocally portray that the one who seeks to eat, must be ready to work. And the major preoccupation of this piece will invariably be the current attitude of priests and pastors and their families living in affluence at the abject mercies of their church members.

If we are to righteously scrutinise the trending way Nigerian priests and pastors are living in majestic grandeur and kingly splendour, we will certainly be alarmed to find out that they truly don't deserve such. St. Paul, the beloved, while setting an examplar of true priesthood was a tent-maker in any of the places he went to preach. Paul could easily have lived off from the means of his lodgers, but he worthily set examples of true priesthood. And so it was with Jesus' apostles, majority of whom were fishermen, a major preoccupation of that time. It could have been very easy for Christ's apostles to demand for anything-anything at all- that they ever wanted from people; after all, Christ was doing what was unheard of, so the people ought to pay for whatever miracles they received. But that wasn't the case. Prophet Elisha understood this great concept of priesthood, that the God that has sent one to become a priest will certainly provide for such an individual, that is why he unhesitantly passed over to Gehazi Namaan's leprosy, after the former went behind him to collect gifts from the latter. What am I saying? The unesteemed, ravenous and rapacious way in which pastors especially in Nigeria tend to acquire worldly possessions at the deep expense of members pockets, leaves much to be desired. They obviously have come to accept private jets as a normal everyday occurrence. If they are not thinking of buying a long convoy of the latest automobiles, they are negotiating the price of a choice mansion somewhere in US or Dubai. There's certainly everything wrong with living in such affluence. One, the inducement of interests and the sense of duty are both concurrent in such scenarios where the pastor seeks such worldly acquisitions. If the pastor feels he must gain enjoyments for carrying out his heavenly duty, then the mortification and self-denial which such work requires will be a grievous and uphill task for him. Though he might only choose to submit through necessity. Such worldly acquisitions can only make many a pastor to lose his uprightness. Moreover, it is glaring that in today's world, the road of duty is so plain that the man who seeks it with an upright heart cannot greatly err from it. Thus, pursuing with ardour the duty of priesthood requires the priest to perfectly resign his cares and worries in the hands of God who called him into such ministry.

The last time I inquired, God did not host priests and pastors in heaven with private jets and exotic cars on display for them to choose from. God has never at any point decided to randomly rain down jets and cars from heaven for priests-or even anybody- to pick up. Such acquisitions, as pastors tend to use are bought by the church members. The constitution of the Nigerian priesthood today is in anticipation of having a long line of cars and living in affluence. And the only advantage I am able to conceive from such principle is sadly that the church members are left like ships at sea without crew, to be tossed and carried about by winds and tides as they happen, while the priest is engaged in the pursuit of riches. Little wonder today, there is a general lukewarm attitude toward so-called 'christianity' and the church. Upon entering into a life of priesthood, there is an imputed accountancy which every priest takes upon, “to render a moral obligation to those he aspires to shepherd.” He ought to see to it that the sheep do not stray from their natural cause. I need hardly mention, that the Bible, which is the grundnorm of every priesthood, clearly forewarned the disastrous consequence of failing in that obligation, thus: “Who shall offend one of these ones which believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea!”

Happiness and achievement in life can only result from hardwork and diligence. However, the baits with which Nigerian priesthood currently is furnished has made laziness the main priority of any priesthood. It has made priests to lose their personal ingenuity, and resort to milking their members dry. I won't deny however, that there are genuine men of God. Perhaps, it is because many priests-and aspiring ones-know that religion is a deep-rooted thing amongst Nigerians that they sadly ride on the dumbfoundness of many Nigerians. The whites folks will ascribe logical reasoning to every pronouncement made by any priest. Each statement will be carefully weighed and measured to see if it truly emanated from God. From this remarkable disparity between the two mentioned climates, Nigerian priests then carefully developed a knack for skilfully and subtly weaving inescapable mazes around their members, such that even if such members are plainly dying from administrations of their priests, they wouldn't dare question the antics and dogmas of such priests.

Priestly obligation and even common sense requires that the pastor manifestly be engaged in a venture and labour that will feed him and his family, not church offerings, or the proceeds from marketing his anointing. From whichever angle we look at it, we will always return to the same conclusion: namely, that the engagement of preaching the gospel and any other axiomatic act that follows it, i.e miracles, is a heavenly task which will only be rewarded by heaven as Christ himself had demonstrated while on earth. It will nevertheless be clear from what I have hoped to achieved by this write-up that I am not seeking to debase nor devalue any person occupying the office of a priest or pastor. Rather, I am only seeking to render movement and will to the general voice which derives its generality from common interest, and in which each member submits as a matter of expediency that,“every man who seeks to eat must be engaged in meaningful work- priest or no priest.”

In the final analysis, applying Paul's advice to the Thessalonians in 2nd Thessalonians 3:6-12, and the Igbo enterprising lifestyle, the obvious facts will be thus: “I command every Nigerian in the name of Jesus Christ to keep away from pastors who are living a lazy life...Paul and his co-preachers didn't accept anyone's support without paying for such support; rather they toiled and worked hard, day and night so as not to be burdens to the people they were with...they did this not because they didn't have the right to demand for support, but because they wanted to show good examples...” And so, he who refuses to work should not eat- priests and pastors inclusive.