tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27029460052872309562024-02-02T09:39:28.460-08:00Segun Adekoye WritesPoetry, Prose and Personal opinions of Olusegun Adekoye.segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-29114324512413085452015-10-01T00:30:00.000-07:002015-10-01T00:30:10.057-07:00I have too many Scars…A 55 year old mom writes!<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMAWJZ0JlZXERRQZeS5IgT-nr_yu4dFVwNBTUJziiQyPgKzoA13YyFlDZGvG5-1FDIe1mZyxpCHBiixjQzm9cpXwu0xJhRM7XwLlIwk8P8vdH3WccKgLcUf4CMrSErXjoP7tsTk9AKC-_/s1600/beautiful+black+women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMAWJZ0JlZXERRQZeS5IgT-nr_yu4dFVwNBTUJziiQyPgKzoA13YyFlDZGvG5-1FDIe1mZyxpCHBiixjQzm9cpXwu0xJhRM7XwLlIwk8P8vdH3WccKgLcUf4CMrSErXjoP7tsTk9AKC-_/s1600/beautiful+black+women.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">How
would you react if I said I had 55 scars all over my body? Scars in places you
can see and you can’t see. Lol. Ok! I don’t have 55 scars but I do have many
scars. Trust me. You know how it feels when you don’t ever seem to grow up in
the eyes of your parents and they ‘cage’ you. The moment they set you free, you
flyyyyyyyyy. Like you’ve never seen fresh air. You will glide and tumble and
roll in pain but you won’t mind the pain. The pain is better than the cage. You
will learn from that pain. #Sigh. I did.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">I
didn’t move out of my parent’s apartment. They did. They moved out of mine.
Don’t think too hard. It’s our tradition. When children grow to a certain age,
parents move out of the house and leave it to the eldest child to control.
Fortunately, for me, I had no nuclear siblings. I was the only child. As my
parents moved out of the home, I became excited. I had too many admirers. I
invited them over. Men. Some stayed the night at my place. Others stayed
nightsssssss and didn’t want to leave. SMH. Men! Some of them just want to take
advantage of a naïve young lady just because her father is a rich man. Hmmm. I
have learnt a lot. In between the affairs, I got pregnant. It broke me. I was
at war with myself, my emotions. I gave birth to triplets. No one was there to
claim the children. Growing up with these kids was not easy. Trying to make
them love one another. I have watched them laugh and cry together. They fight
more often than they unite. Sometimes, they come to me asking if I’m their
mother. Other times they are asking if they are related siblings. You won’t
understand this if you’ve never had such experience. Bearing the weight of
three kids (who now have children), a broken heart and a family inheritance
that is almost inexhaustible, I have survived a lot. What doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">See
my grandkids now (with focus the girls), Chioma, Blessing, Chimamanda, Falilat,
Mosunmola (to mention a few); they are doing very well. I am proud of them.
What of the boys? Phil bagged some awards abroad. Wole is in a world of his
own. Attahiru is admired by his peers. Am I not a blessed woman?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Make
I leave Tori for tortoise. I found love recently. Yes! Even old women can fall
in love. Some of my kids have found out. His name starts with B! Good luck if
you know him. I am happy with my choice. I want you to be happy for me and wish
me well. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Like
I said, I have scars. They are innumerable. But with scars come experience. I
am more knowledgeable than I was 55 years ago. I am a champion (even if you
don’t tell me). I deserve one of #TheWAwards (even if you don’t nominate me).
Things can only get better. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">I
won’t be sharing my too much about myself on a public blog. I’ve learnt people
do not verify information. They copy and paste. Dem say… dem say. That Naija
factor. Besides what is Naija. What dictionary was it coined? Can Edelokun be
the same as Edek? No, never.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">My
parents did not christen me ‘Naija’ at birth. #IAmNigeria</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 3.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Long
Live I. Long live you too.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<o:p></o:p>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-79231083438021033912013-03-22T06:36:00.001-07:002013-03-22T06:36:58.213-07:00Why Chinua Achebe’s death is a big deal<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H1jsOGRK1QGlK7hZ4tYgzkrVWgNZaxW0yww6H-8R636NglNKvVJMe2DXXCGg-FByp9v-ly8HXFCkTjcHojiNb6EgBSutKsfqkGWhTjG5IeIndIgRWMThc8J2ZzimkesfmKaXPD04_U2-/s1600/1+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H1jsOGRK1QGlK7hZ4tYgzkrVWgNZaxW0yww6H-8R636NglNKvVJMe2DXXCGg-FByp9v-ly8HXFCkTjcHojiNb6EgBSutKsfqkGWhTjG5IeIndIgRWMThc8J2ZzimkesfmKaXPD04_U2-/s320/1+(3).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
I weep. My tears are that of joy mixed with sadness. Chinua Achebe was a man who stood at the forefront in African literature. He was that man that you could point to, even when you felt ashamed of your nationality and be glad to be Nigerian. He was that unassuming man, with many lines on his wrinkled face who made you appreciate your local dialect. He set a standard for African literature that many find hard to reach.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Chinua until his death was regarded as a man of the people. A man who stayed true to his ideals, values and integrity. A man who wept when you wept and laughed when he saw you roll on the floor. A man full, so much of wisdom, that wherever it spilled, on whichever pages it did, became a bestseller. May have been on the wheelchair for a while, however Chinua Achebe’s legs were firm, made of steel, unshaken, unwilling to shift, to compromise. Here is a man who rejected national awards, from a country that consistently disappointed him till he passed.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Respected for his contributions in literature, Chinua has carried many great giants on his shoulder. Award-winning authors such as Chimamanda Adichie, Ben Okri, Jude Dibia, Prof Odi Akachi, Eghosa, Uwem Akpan, Cyprian Ekwensi, Binyavanga Wainaina and many other African writers have all been directly or indirectly influenced by his works.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Generating a lot of controversy when he authored “There was a country”, Achebe shared his memoir on “The Civil War” with the world, and expressed his honest opinion through his work. Some saw it as a bid to break the country apart. Others saw it as a lesson, a school.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
News of Chinua’s death has, this morning, filtered across all the popular blogs and sites worldwide, CNN, BBC, Guardian UK, WSJ, Bloomberg everywhere because of his great works.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Every Nigerian child that drank from the country’s primary or secondary educational sector have passed through indirect tutelage of his books. The Things Fall Apart, his popular novel was made into a Nigerian Television Series which brought into limelight, veteran actor Pete Edochie.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Condolence message pouring in from all over the world cannot but emphasize on the impact that this Man Booker Prize winner has contributed into the literature in Africa and in the entire world.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
He will be greatly missed by all but his works will live through time.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
***********************************************************************************************</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Chinua Achebe died at age 82 on the 21st of March, 2011. He is the author of the worldwide best-selling ‘Things Fall Apart’. He died in a private hospital in Boston, Massachusetts after being ill for a long time.</strong></div>
segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-4439946932116944592013-01-22T07:49:00.000-08:002013-01-22T07:53:40.589-08:00A week in Africa by Eric Schmidt<b>When the executive chairman of Google, Eric Schmidt visited Africa, this is what he had to conclude about the Technology sphere of the continent.</b> <b>It is both interesting and insightful that he could get so much of the challenges and prospects of each country in a week-long visit. Read here:</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXec4Uk8XbjFhD35JN6k6RdqiPOH64NXfdlk4Ci2fzOz6vYQ74ieAVn8dGfueCrES1L8dPz5W-n2G4FxFreabibK88ZfdcqkzPHntF8FYPKP8jRsXSi5sEdJV02pX2YH6vfNVk-_G8zr9y/s1600/Eric-Schmidt_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXec4Uk8XbjFhD35JN6k6RdqiPOH64NXfdlk4Ci2fzOz6vYQ74ieAVn8dGfueCrES1L8dPz5W-n2G4FxFreabibK88ZfdcqkzPHntF8FYPKP8jRsXSi5sEdJV02pX2YH6vfNVk-_G8zr9y/s320/Eric-Schmidt_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">After a week of business meetings in the cities of sub-saharan africa, we can surely say three things are new for the continent:</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">a) the despotic leadership in Africa from the 1970s and 1980 is in decline, replaced by younger and more democratic leaders</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">b) a huge youth demographic boom is underway, with a majority of the population of 25, or even under 20</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">c) mobile phones are everywhere, and the Internet in Africa will be primarily a mobile one</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Many of the older problems are still severe, including a lack of electric power, the general trend of rural to urban migration, and pervasive corruption. Every country we visited had an internal security problem, or a significant border problem, and the elites are sheltered from this pervasive concern behind guarded walls, hotels and restaurants with gates and security checks, and ubiquitous guards. I try to imagine what the US would be if we had the types of security problems in Africa.. how would WE deal with such threats?</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Connectivity is much more important for security than many analysts think. Societies who are not connected lack opposing viewpoints and are much more subject to easy radicalization. The virtue of having more connectivity is that people will have more choices, and more choices lead a better understanding of the value to go to school, the need to treat women equally, the choice to not demonize others, etc.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Nairobi has emerged as a serious tech hub and may become the African leader. A combination of relatively stable politics, the British legal system, and a benign climate seem to attract a significant share of foreign investment. Incubators are hosting potential solutions to many problems, including connecting M-Pesa (their mobile money solution on simple phones using SMS) with payment systems for local stores. If they manage to get through the upcoming March elections without significant conflict, they will grow quickly.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Rwanda is a jewel with a terrible past. High economic growth and the development of a significant middle class is threatened by the withdrawal of aid due to UN complaints over the Congo. Rwanda feels like Singapore, an island inside of Africa whose small size allows great focus and a dynamic, stable government. A visit to the Genocide Museum in Kigali, and a trip to the Volcanic National Park where eight groups of eight can trek to see the gorillas made famous by Diana Fossey, are well worth it. Gorilla treks are also available through Uganda and the Congo, over the same mountains.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">After fifty years of war, South Sudan is the worlds newest country. In a country where every issue is an urgent one, mobile networks can unify a poor country with isolated villages, significant flooding in the rainy season, and the constant threat of attacks from rebels from the north. A courageous group, the Satellite Sentinel project. uses satellite data and other sources to document ethnic cleansing in remote areas of Sudan (the northern Sudan) and serve as a record of the terrible ongoing violence against innocents.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Chad is a poor petro-state, with a long history of conflict and one pipeline and one fiber link. Africa has submarine fiber cables on the west and eastern side. Landlocked countries are at the mercy of their neighbors, and all have learned that competition with multiple fiber connections from differing borders dramatically reduces costs. Chad like some others, has determined that future spectrum should not be auctioned as that only increases the eventual mobile costs and are simply allocating it to a set of competitive carriers. Less than 1% of Chad has electricity.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Nigeria, known as a land of oil corruption and the ubiquitous 419 email scams, is the biggest surprise to a first time visitor. Nigerians are entrepreneurial, stylish, educated, and have the belief that their country can emerge as the next Brazil. With 170 million citizens, and a record breaking eleven years of civilian elected government, the compound growth and the shared memory of real internal conflict almost guarantees their short term success. Future growth of Nigeria should help with its international image problem, as the real story of its success gets out.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The emergent model of the African internet is a set of competitive fiber suppliers to the capital, a set of fiber rings owned by local telco's, and 3G and 4G networks. Some of the countries are late with licensing plans for 3G and 4G, a costly delay for countries that have very little residential broadband. Solar charging can help with the power needs of handsets, but the electricity needs to be more reliable or costly backup systems will be built at each tower. Many of these countries have telecommunications as a major contributor to their GPD (Cote d'Ivory is about 12%) and even Somalia, which we did not visit this time, has a profitable competitive telecommunications industry.. the most profitable legal industry in that country. Some countries are reluctant to turn on the data portion of their telecommunications industry, another costly delay to their future digital commerce, education and entertainment industries.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Many Africans will be last, unfortunately, to be connected to the rest of us. For them, the best short term outcome will be feature phones (inexpensive voice and SMS phones) and a private network of microSD cards that can be traded behind oppressive authorities to get information in and out of trapped, occupied and remote locations. Information is power, and more information means more choices. Documenting abuses, getting pressure from outside to fix real problems, and solving illiteracy are just a few functions of even the most limited of feature phones.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The demographic dividend in Africa of young people is their greatest hope, in my opinion. Today high rates of unemployment show an economy underperforming to its true potential. This new generation expects more, and will use mobile computing to get it. Optimism is appropriate for Africa, as the people we met will do much more with less than we can imagine, and the devices and systems built in the first world will be used in the most creative ways in the emerging new world of Africa. </span>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-56320781778682444212012-11-28T05:57:00.003-08:002012-11-28T05:57:51.140-08:00To err is human<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PpZ87R0prBs3R0IN6imgcKSB5XWmS_nBbvhOae4ZOQNphaZkRv5RygbF6k_UGycCj-CukXTlyX9BPp4p4SMXXP1UCxM8vBoGubbjSGdBOAF8-KLy8I_V1ltIhyphenhyphennpinKjvpxXN4j3WiNX/s1600/forgiveness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PpZ87R0prBs3R0IN6imgcKSB5XWmS_nBbvhOae4ZOQNphaZkRv5RygbF6k_UGycCj-CukXTlyX9BPp4p4SMXXP1UCxM8vBoGubbjSGdBOAF8-KLy8I_V1ltIhyphenhyphennpinKjvpxXN4j3WiNX/s320/forgiveness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">To err is human.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">placing the square pegs</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">in round holes,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">is a peculiarly humane gesture.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">
To err is mortal,<br />
errors have a life,<br />
as short as that, which is ...<br />
made of clay<br />
<br />
To err is civilized,<br />
while perfect-itude speaks military gibberish<br />
streaks of inadequacies,<br />
make beautiful khakis.<br />
<br />
To forgive is divine,<br />
this double-syllabled seven-pointer<br />
is the divide between that which pretends<br />
to dwell in high places<br />
and That which inhabits The Highest Place.<br />
<br />
by <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=622095929" href="http://www.facebook.com/segunsd" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: initial;">Segun Adekoye</a> ~ 28/11/2012</div>
segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-58425606771671095522012-08-16T18:00:00.000-07:002012-09-04T09:09:39.757-07:00Kasuwa, Jumia, Konga, Kalahari and the business of making money online in Nigeria<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBmkZZjZoBEGn4OH7rEzZftiA1Eyp0EgLm-aK-z8XT8Y4i7I6YNjICIAy5YOAd9eSqJcXq4_Zlhpw6a5ctphovpExlaaNJot1JG9DTGJbZZyPvbRr2PFsZ3fWqLuVA7MOV5WogLyUDGOy/s1600/jumia-formerly-kasuwa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBmkZZjZoBEGn4OH7rEzZftiA1Eyp0EgLm-aK-z8XT8Y4i7I6YNjICIAy5YOAd9eSqJcXq4_Zlhpw6a5ctphovpExlaaNJot1JG9DTGJbZZyPvbRr2PFsZ3fWqLuVA7MOV5WogLyUDGOy/s320/jumia-formerly-kasuwa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have always wanted to write something about this group of people for a while. They have
something in common. They are e-commerce sites and they are modeled after the
success of Amazon.com. Amazon is the world’s largest online retailer and one of
the most successful internet empires on the face of the planet. However,
duplicating Amazon’s success has been a bit of a challenge in sub-saharan
Africa. Naspers closed its operations in Nigeria in 2011 after stating that its
ability to make near-term profits wasn’t probable. It shut down Kalahari.com.ng
in both Nigeria and Kenya at the same year. It commenced operations in Nigeria
and was only alive for twenty months. It sounded like a less-strategic move as
one would wonder “I thought they said Africans were consumers, why then did
Kalahari fail?”. I think Naspers failed on the Kalahari e-commerce projects as
it didn’t really understand the terrain it was playing in as well as logistics problems it encountered. I’ll explain a bit
further. Online business in Africa, especially Nigeria is a bit of a challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What is Nigeria’s problem (really)?<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A lot. Not
exactly a lot but Nigeria has a lot of challenges on issues pertaining to the
internet. One is the speed of the internet service providers. Another is their
reliability of these service providers. You won’t understand this until I
illustrate this. Imagine you needed to get something important from the
market and the buses (ISP) to convey you
were not available, what will you do? Sit at home. Nothing ventured, nothing
gained. In this case you cannot trek (surf without connection). The way forward
is to either wait for the buses or take another kind of vehicle, maybe a plane
but then it is more expensive. Another problem is power and electricity. This
means that the buses needed to transport you are available but there’s no fuel
in it. So how do you get to the market. Yet another is the slow adaption of
Africans to internet banking, credit card scam fears and the cash-carrying
culture. What does this imply, I finally access the stores and I cannot make
purchases because I don’t have electronic money. So, business cannot be done.
The last of the major problem should have been the first. How much are people
aware of your market. For God’s sake, am I a wizard? How on earth would I know
that there’s a market in Nigeria called the Tejuosho market if you don’t scream
about it? Please you must advertise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Does the online strategy work at all
in Nigeria?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Did you just
ask that question? Are you kidding me? It does! You require strategy and money
or patience and consistence? Or you require both. There are a couple of sites
that have made a lot of money online. Let’s forget the information sites such
as BellaNaija and LindaIkeji. Let’s leave out all the newsy, newspapery, bloggy
and techie sites that are strewn all over the internet. Let’s ignore the
dominance of forum sites like Nairaland and Naijahotjobs. Let’s forget the
traffic-pulling service jobsites such as Jobberman and LatestNigerianJobs. We
should overlook the necessary-evil sites such as the banking sites and public
service sites. Let’s look a bit more at some success stories in e-commerce. I’m
typing at the speed of a cheetah and might leave some important ones out by
mistake.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dealdey.com: This site has with
customer service, innovation, capital and media support stayed above the pack
and shown that e-commerce can be viable
in Nigeria. It offers discount-buying in the likes of sites like Groupon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Buyright.biz: One of the earlybird
online shopping sites in Nigeria. They had/have the Kasuwa kind of interface
and were not doing so bad online. At that time mobile money payment was
non-existence and it was harder to do business but they thrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Konga: This site is niche specific
(beauty and cosmetics) and is a sister company to Dealdey. They are not doing
badly at the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Taafoo.com: And when all hope seems
to be lost, while Kalahari makes its sad exit, Taafoo thrives on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">3stiches.com: I have also watched this site grow and the response from people has shown that it is an active clothing store. This online clothing brand has against all odds grown. Maybe it is because Nigerians love clothing accessories. Maybe it's their business strategy but 3stitches remain nevertheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">These sites
listed above have continually evolved (not all) to fit the demands of their
consumers and are all general merchandise e-commerce sites that easily and
readily come to mind because of their strategic advertising.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Other categories
that are not shopping sites:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Iroko TV:
Jason Njoku’s brainchild will continually explode because it has a hungry
market and he has been able to evolve his business as the market evolves and
demands more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Bloovue: Is
an online advert publisher that is beautiful to see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Paga: Mobile
payment platform<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hello world, we have brains in Nigeria?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s time to
stop all the unfound comparisms between African tech startups and Global
established brands. Come on! If we establish Iroko TV, they will quickly say it’s
the African version of Netflix. Then Dealdey is like Groupon. Spinlet is like
Spotify. Adplacers is like Google Adsense. Yookos is like Twitter.
SearchNigeria is like Google. The list is endless.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The truth is
that most African techpreneurs think about some of these startups but funding
and facilities are major issues. This is why some successful businesses online
set up the site operations and management outside Nigeria and do their
logistics in Nigeria.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have
thought about several ways that would enable people order for Pizza online and
pick it out of the next Piz-vend machine with voice prompts (just kidding). But
we have a lot of ideas brimming in Africa but investors do not see the profitability
in them quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some people
spend a lot of their life coding and developing a certain kind of website and
then the problem becomes marketing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Is there still space for
techpreneurs?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hell yes!
There’s a lot of ground to be covered online. We need people to support,
develop ideas in those capacities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Agriculture:
We need online farms. We need online farm produce distributors. People should
be able to get fresh tomatoes online, delivered to their homes or offices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Niche
specific markets: You don’t want to compete with Kasuwa (Jumia)if you don’t
have the logistics in place. You may just end up swallowed by competition.
Niche specific markets such as justbags.com, shoedomain.com, brazillianhair.com
will work in a Nigerian market.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Location-specific
markets: They will work too. You don’t need to be everywhere immediately.
Online businesses such as yabamarket.com will always ring in the minds of people living around Yaba
axis that they can make order and get deliveries on that site.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Online studios
such as online television stations, online radio stations has the chance of
blooming. We still need locally relevant money-exchange systems like Liberty
Reserve. We need sports-booking sites like Nairabet that can accept payment
online and stop using agents. We need . We have onlinenaira.com already. We
need online cartoon sites. Spicebaby.com is doing great at west African
cuisines cookery online.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can go on
and on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back to Kasuwa and Jumia<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wonder why
they changed their name from Kasuwa to Jumai. I personally admire the name
Kasuwa and I was thrilled to watch them climb out of oblivion into number 24 of
the Alexa’s list of top 500 most visited sites in Nigeria. They achieved this
in a space three months. It would be foolish not to acknowledge how much they
have spent and how their ads are splattered on all google adsense sites in
Nigeria as well as on Facebook ads. Kasuwa has grown rapidly and steadily and I
have watched them increase their products catalogue with the passage of time.
Immediately I read of their name-change on CP-Africa to Jumia, I facebooked the
name Jumia and saw it existed in Egypt with 10,000 likes. So, I wondered if
Nigeria’s biggest shopping site was in the process of being acquired by Jumia.
I am a bit disappointed at the name change. I feel it is a bit too early and a
bit too hasty and done probably too excitedly. The name Kasuwa goes perfectly
with its sister brand Sabunta. This name change reminds me too quickly about
Econet Wireless Ltd. We believe Kasuwa will continue to give its first rate
service delivery however.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This was
supposed to be a tweet. I wonder how it became a long story. What are you
questions, comments, opinions and grievances. I’d like to hear from you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You can
follow me on twitter <a href="http://twitter.com/segunsd">http://twitter.com/segunsd</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Or email me
on <a href="mailto:segunsd@yahoo.com">segunsd@yahoo.com</a> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-77803228683669792002012-07-27T02:26:00.001-07:002012-07-27T02:42:48.303-07:00Bomb<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 10.85pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68Co3Ye1AU6_EwdbOPV4HYKR0sXpxM76oKK3FLaAKkIh2wp0jMwXT2YWDofwS-lAJIQqClR8yGh7JEg6lnARzrJ3l2QHi-CQdFrUfN8EbuHxz8gB6q8fDLDPZd9moon8nOJu-ybVl-NiV/s1600/bomb_scare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68Co3Ye1AU6_EwdbOPV4HYKR0sXpxM76oKK3FLaAKkIh2wp0jMwXT2YWDofwS-lAJIQqClR8yGh7JEg6lnARzrJ3l2QHi-CQdFrUfN8EbuHxz8gB6q8fDLDPZd9moon8nOJu-ybVl-NiV/s320/bomb_scare.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">The newspaper vendor’s hoot came to a halt. His lean frame
bent forward, peered and scurried away. The ice-cream cyclist swerved to the
other side of the road, bumped into a waste bin. The old beggar standing
nearby hobbled towards the lamp-post. Honks. Clenched fists peeped out of a
braking Camry at the flustered cyclist followed by a resounding “God punish
you”. A swarm of startled faces turned towards the speeding car and then back
at the bicycle-man. He shrugged, adjusted his bike and pointed away. Some
pausing to see the source of his distraction, maybe lunacy. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">Nothing else was
more evident than the imposing structure of a 25-storey building; Amex Plaza.
Some ran gazes along the walls of the building, and its rusted metal-work to
its top till their hands visored their eyes. A few looked back at the
ice-cream seller, shook their heads and shifted their feet as more people
pushed their way out of the teeming crowd. He pointed again towards the
building but at something else. An overweight silver trash can. Worn-out
blankets sitting against the grey pavement. Condom packs. Plastic bags. Crisp
dry leaves and broken twigs. A bent, folded Ghana-Must-Go bag. Rustling
polythene bags. Rats, cats or snakes perhaps. It didn’t make sense to those
dressed in suits, whose laptop bags chafed against their buttocks whenever they
moved. They left, at first in twos, then in threes.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">”Something there! Maybe bomb”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">He sounded like he couldn’t put his words together as he
pushed his bicycle out of the area. A young lady hawking oranges in an
ash-coloured tray staggered as she heard his last words, spilling her
trade into the road. Noise was thrown in the air such that it bobbed from Amex
Plaza down to Sanusi’s Place at the far-end of Broad Street. Traffic
pooled around the corners of the area. Amex plaza and its frontage stood out
like ring worm around kinky hair. People darted as soon as they appeared. Some,
because they saw someone else run. Others because the echoes of bomb filled
their ears like a surround sound system. They ran towards nearby buildings.
They peeped from the stall of the woman selling roasted plantain at the far end
of the road. They perched with Olisa, the unkempt, dreadlocked man, that always
laughed with himself. They scampered into the Stallion building that stood many
yards aloof long-desolate Amex. Alarm systems went off everywhere like those
from a Prison Break movie. Nearby buildings came alive. Blinds raised. Windows
opened. Necks peeping out, staring downwards, eastwards, westwards. All towards
Amex plaza. Some looking with puzzled faces from 10, 11, 12 storey-floors high
above the ground, at the dots of heads on the shimmering tar, running aimlessly
on a Tuesday morning. The sound of “bomb” faintly carried by the gentle June
breeze from a dark-skinned, bare-chested version of Sylvester Stallone gazing
up at the skies. Doors flung open throwing the screams of people into the road
as they rushed out of their offices to stay a safe distance away. At the car
parks, behind balustrades, cobblestoned-walls, they waited. Some glanced at
their wrist-watches waiting for Amex to explode into pieces of tine and debris,
thrown unto the roof of WBank head office, a few meters away. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">Siren and
screeches followed by the prompt disengagement of the Anti-Bomb Squad on the
corner of Amex building. They came clad in their Khaki uniforms and
bullet-proof vests . Their shiny, dark-blue helmets collecting the view
of the whole of Broad street. All eyes sashayed across the road from the
arrogant outfit of the bomb-squad to a grey-haired lady who stood at the foot
of Amex Plaza. In front of the trash can. Her feet suffocating a squashed
tomato. Her bag, standing next to her on the floor. Her hands clasped on her
chest. Her mouth open, frozen in its state.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">Go away from there. Move away madam!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">The pleading voice of the uniformed men seemed to be drowned
by the curses of the onlookers.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">Useless woman. Kill yourself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">A mixture of tantrums and pity rolled across the
street and stopped at the foot of the woman who bent at the trash. Her hand
buried somewhere in the refuse. The men stepped backwards, holding each other
at bay. A man standing five buildings apart covered the ears of a lady standing
in front of him. She threw her hands round his waist and buried her face on his
chest. Some people covered their ears. Some covered their eyes and turned their
backs away from the scene. Many put their hands on their heads and yelled one
word as though remotely controlled.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">Ha!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">The woman gently worked her hands out of the garbage and
slowly and with tears on her cheeks lifted up the exhibit; a living Baby.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-56450159166808508552012-07-25T03:53:00.002-07:002012-07-25T03:58:37.842-07:00Reflections: 10 things I learnt from the Seunwrites #endthestory Contest<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWSdA3BlsQr6XEjYRqG4in_e7owEDJzSNIC7gEFZ4_rxjVJwVIiTzBzSepc3vZ_ODAapo3WD7ir4PvixTxzm60YWId1m72ZFusDmCXl8nVLCs7-yu49q9mV-zgCJe2r3bKS56nVIC4X55/s1600/water-reflections.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWSdA3BlsQr6XEjYRqG4in_e7owEDJzSNIC7gEFZ4_rxjVJwVIiTzBzSepc3vZ_ODAapo3WD7ir4PvixTxzm60YWId1m72ZFusDmCXl8nVLCs7-yu49q9mV-zgCJe2r3bKS56nVIC4X55/s320/water-reflections.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.5pt;">I recently entered into a short story competition which ended a
couple of minutes ago (I am posting this 200 minutes after). The competition
had a twist to it. Okay, let me tell you about it. It is a short story contest.
The intention of the organizer was to #endthestory he had initially started.
The story is titled "</span><a href="http://seunwrites.com/2012/06/04/the-sex-life-of-a-lagos-mad-woman/" style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.5pt;" target="_blank">The Sex life of a Lagos mad woman</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.5pt;">". Sincerely, I
really can't be bothered if you don't know where Lagos is. Google it. So, as I
was saying, the winning entrant ought to get a Blackberry Playbook (not that I
can't afford it eh-squeeze-me) and might be considered for a publishing contract
(the juicy part) and some other mede-mede (additional benefits). </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Anyhow, the rule stated that we should type in Times Roman Font,
blah-blah-blah (the technicalities will bore you) and write a convincing end to
the story that would not be more than 500 words. So, I wrote something that I
felt would do justice to #endthestory. You can read it here "<a href="http://seunwrites.com/2012/07/16/entry-17-by-olusegun-adekoye/" target="_blank">entry 17</a>".</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The twist about the contest was that you needed to get as much
votes as you could to get to the top 10. Nice concept or good thinking as that
is some sweet profiling for the coordinator and smooth traffic (smiles) as well
as an opportunity to push your story out. Then, after getting to the top 10,
you can then go through the judging process(fair, as I presume) to emerge among
the top three. Great stuff. The voting process has come and gone and the
results out. Guess what? I know you already know. I didn't make it to the top
ten. I must have stood on number 12 or 13 from my own deductions. You can check
the voting results<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://seunwrites.com/2012/07/25/endthestory-top-10/" target="_blank">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The 11th person would have been Ariyike Akinbobola, a fantastic
writer also, her<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://seunwrites.com/2012/07/16/entry-30-by-ariyike-akinbobola/" target="_blank">entry is here</a> with 75 votes. Followed by<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://seunwrites.com/2012/07/17/entry-74-by-ugwu-allen-chidi/" target="_blank">Ugwu Allen</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>with
69 votes and then myself with 66 votes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, the question is:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>How
do you feel about it pretender? Stop sounding all nicey!</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Hahahahaha! I feel great. I do not feel any form of regrets or
disappointment. You know why? I learnt #10 important things from the contest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">1. Keep Pushing:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">See! I would have just written like some
other people and given in to luck or hope to help me make a few clicks. But no,
I didn't. I kept promoting on my blackberry (my pin 235AF7D1. It's public
domain. Nothing is really private nowadays), my Facebook, Twitter accounts and
Pinterest (talk of a social networking strategist)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">2. Talent is never enough:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">See! I worked with a boss called<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://olakunlesoriyan.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Olakunle Soriyan</a> who
always emphasizes on<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Doing The
Needful.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></b>It is not enough to
be a good writer. If you can't promote your skills and you're waiting for
people to promote them for you then you're on a long thing (Ask D'Banj). The
bible records that the people that were given the talents<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>went out (</b>that is<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>marketing<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></b>in today's world<b>).</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">3. Know your numbers:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Do you really know your numbers. Come on!
A lot of us want to start businesses and we begin to calculate that there are 6
or 7 billion people on the earth, 160 million Nigerians blah-blah-blah. Oh
really? I had 66 votes. Let me tell you my deductions from my network. I have
1948 followers on Twitter. Over 2000 Facebook friends and over 300 people on
Blackberry. My story was shared over 100 times, let's say by about 60 people
(based on the voting result- polldaddy will not lie na). If one person that
shared my story had 10 friends, that means a potential 600 must have read my
story (let's ignore that I have 2000+ friends). Ok. Let me save us the maths.
It didn't work like that. Some people came and didn't vote. Some voted and
didn't share. Some shared and didn't vote and some even came to vote down (The
heart of man is desperately wicked). How many people really voted? 66. How many
people will really support your foundation, buy your goods, use your services?
It is the realistic number. When you know the realistic number, you will know
how to put in more efforts and strategize better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">4. Never be too proud to ask for help:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Come on! Who are you yet? Have you won a nobel prize?
Ngwanu? Ok. Sorry<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Omo Baba
Olowo no vex.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></b>Everyone needs
help at one point or the other. Ask for it. Nobody is psychic enough to know
your needs. You need to ask for assistance when you need it. Businesses,
everyone needs help even eagles need a push to soar. I asked a lot of
peeps to vote for me or share my story and they did. Gracias. To be 13th out of
80 entries in terms of votes no be small work. I could have tried harder
though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">5. Look beyond what you see:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Truth is that at a certain point in the
voting process. I was losing hope. You know why. I went through almost all the
entries regularly and noticed people had over 200 tweets while I just had 40.
I went through the lists and discovered that about 14 people had more
shares than I had. This was partly because you couldn't count your votes, hence
I could only draw inferences from the number of shares. Anyway, the long and
short is that some people had over 250 shares on the social networks and didn't
come out with up to 30 votes. Ridiculous shey! Some people that had less than
50 shares had more than 70 votes. So it wasn't a game of numbers, it was
a game of value. Pastor Kunle Soriyan would say,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>if all you see is all your think
there is to see then you're blind. Gbam!</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">6. Learn how to negotiate:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Look! Some of the top 10 stories may not
really be the best stories but who cares? Life gives you what you negotiate not
what you deserve. I read many fantastic stories that didn't even make it to the
top 50. Yeah. The top ten people were dogged, resilient and tactful. Yep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">7.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Build your
network:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></b>Hello. How many
times have you heard that your network is your networth. Ehen! So you think say
na cliche? My friends it's true. I could only have gotten as much votes as I
did because I had wonderful people in my network (I can't mention names but you
know yourselves). I'm grateful. Thanks for supporting me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">8. Relationships are everything:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Forget attitude (I didn't mean that
though). Ms. Hermit, I don't like talking to this person or that. I prefer to
keep to myself. Blah Blah Blah. Let's see how far you can go with that
attitude. Relationships are key. The reason why a lot of people are in search
of jobs for too long is because they lack relationship skills. Most of the top
ten winners have wonderful relationships with people (even if it is social
network-based). A lot of people know and are ready to support them. See, it is
not enough to have 2000 friends on Facebook like me and relate with only one or
two or none regularly, you should check up on people and find how they are
doing. These people will help you someday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
9. Competitions are games:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Now that a part of the game is over, what
do you want to do? Take a noose and kill yourself? You want to hide in shame?
Truth is people don't remember when you lose. If you doubt ask someone the last
match that Nigeria lost. Our minds are wired to celebrate and record victories
not losses. No one does. If you want to remain in the faces or minds of people,
strive to win, win, and win again. This contest was to test me and see how I
fared against people and trust me my entry didn't do badly. There is always
room for improvement for any writer/author. If you don't win keep trying till
you make it. It's pretty simple. And it's just a game, quit hating and
don’t take life too seriously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">10. Get out:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I said don't take life too seriously so I
don't expect that you will be offended right now. What I mean is<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>go out there, get out.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></b>The best way to build confidence
in yourself and in the people's confidence in you is to create a track record.
How do you create a track record? As a writer or blogger or whatever you do,
get known. Publicize your art. Let people know what you do. A lot of people
didn't know that I am a writer of short stories till I started urging (begging)
them to vote for me. They were shocked. I was shocked that they didn't know but
the truth maybe I never really promoted my works. And the truth really is that
I have never promoted any of my works as much I did for this #endthestory
competition (because a prize was attached). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">To round off my nonsense-talk, what did I gain from the
competition?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Everything.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></b>What did I lose?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Nothing.</b><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">You can follow me on twitter <a href="http://twitter.com/segunsd" target="_blank">here</a></span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-13571473729469446212012-07-03T09:23:00.000-07:002012-07-03T09:23:07.090-07:00African Economy Growth, Foreign Investments and Local Participation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmumPrd2aInfLINFOM6EtZcYAR5b91oQ9BQC1t_c75J3A1koj_8cGWpCMyp4kUf4VDvuEnX7CLZrkbxUUtcraMavgYxO4JIxXLBEQhIkrpkIxR5nN9ZFejE94tgf6VBpsAiOYdWP43X6BI/s1600/200px-Africa_(orthographic_projection).svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmumPrd2aInfLINFOM6EtZcYAR5b91oQ9BQC1t_c75J3A1koj_8cGWpCMyp4kUf4VDvuEnX7CLZrkbxUUtcraMavgYxO4JIxXLBEQhIkrpkIxR5nN9ZFejE94tgf6VBpsAiOYdWP43X6BI/s1600/200px-Africa_(orthographic_projection).svg.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">Indeed a new economic era dawns for the continent of Africa. Amid its well-publicized setbacks and fragments of societal imbalance, foreign investors are pushing their ways through into the continent. In the heat individual national dysfunctions and disorders such as the apartheid that scarred the South Africans or the genocide in Rwanda, Liberia’s civil war or the Egyptian revolution that ousted Mubarak, the continent picks up again. Nigeria had its share of the civil war and currently battles with terrorism. Libya is preoccupied with the creation of a stable government after toppling several years of dictatorial governance from Ghaddafi. Somalia is recuperating from economic starvation and stagnation as the conflict brings itself to a gradual halt. Malawi recovers from corruption and is being charted to stability by a visionary leader. Kenya also wrestles with its share of terrorist attacks. It is therefore acceptable to state with verifiable facts and figures that Africa rises. Although all may not be fully well with the thriving economy, it is evident that it will end well.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">Africa’s progress rate in recent times is encouraging. Kenya is solidifying its position as Africa’s technological hub by releasing globally relevant technology solutions more frequently. It was recently named among the top outsourcing locations in the world. South Africa’s economy grows such that its local companies begin to look upwards to other parts of Africa for investments. Gold was discovered in Malawi recently. Ghana has many promising tech start-ups. The Nigerian technology industry is growing while its entertainment sector becoming more lucrative and exportable. There are government initiatives to help start-up companies and Small and Medium-Scaled Enterprises to expand and help eradicate issues of unemployment in Nigeria. Individuals and corporations are cautiously investing in Somalia. The advancement-call is endless especially if we took it from one African state to the other. These apparent but unhurried development is clear to the observant international community of investors.</span><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">Corporate organizations in Pakistan are catching the buzz. The Chinese government is deepening its roots further into the continent and is acquiring stakes and partnering to develop the continent as well as make profits. The United States is supporting as well by recently activating policies that would encourage US Companies to invest in Africa. The UK football scene is not doing less as can be evidenced Sunderland FC’s latest partnership program with Invest In Africa to support the continent’s soccer sphere. Investments in Mogadishu are ongoing. The European community making strategic partnerships and endorsements. The US secretary of State, Mrs. Hillary Clinton encouraging American investors to put their money on Africa. The Indian capitalists are trooping into Nigeria everyday to make calculated affiliations, mergers or acquisitions. These interests run across all sectors be it financial, oil and gas, commodities, automobile or even entertainment.</span><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">In spite of these laudable interests, progress and achievements, it is worrisome to anticipate the plans of Africans for their own domain. Trying to take a bird’s eye view on the African economosphere in the next 20 maybe 30 years, with the average African’s perspective, it would not be shocking to find a thriving business arena with Africans owning less than 50 per cent of the best businesses on the entire continent. Several things are still being outsourced such as printing works, major construction contracts among others. Much more is imported ranging from manpower through raw materials to finished goods. Much of the African’s instruments of purchase do not remain in the continent, they go out of the system eventually even if they linger for a longer while. It is impossible for a continent to survive solely by producing what it does not consume and consuming what it does not produce.</span><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">How easy will it be for the differing economies in the continent to meander through the labyrinths of counter-productiveness? How much are the governments supporting entrepreneurial activities in their domiciles? How business-friendly are the implemented policies? What strategies are in place into ensure mutual exchange or some sort of barter that encourages commodity swap between countries involved in import and export trade? How much more are the entrepreneurs engaging professionals that can sustain their businesses? How positioned are the financial institutions and banks of industries such that their funds are easily accessible? How much of support is the local market willing to give its businesses intentionally? These are questions addressed at the average African who doubles as the market and as the enterprise and at his leader. </span><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">It is pertinent that the local products be equally supported in order to maximize economic growth and reforms, so that the African majority become beneficiaries. Ghana recently launched an initiative through Ghana Television to promote Ghanaian products and services more regularly. The station made 60 per cent reduction in advertising fee on its channel for all local companies and individuals whose activities were focused on promoting Ghanaian products.</span><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">While it is plausible for the eagle-eyed investor in Japan or Pakistan or Germany to find gaps and affix his conglomerate onto the soils of Africa, it is also imperative that Nigerians, Ghanaians, Kenyan and all other concerned African seek and begin to fill those tiny gaps in the economy that their resources can. There are boundless opportunities in Africa. There are hundreds of opportunities waiting to be executed on the internet timeline. There are service and product gaps to be filled in the economy. There are local products such as laundry soaps, cosmetics, processed foods with a waiting market ready to buy. People with surplus cash should find local entrepreneurs to invest in and strategize to yield better return on investments than throwing cash on frivolities. Micro businesses should seek workable means of aggregating to create more potent businesses that are capable of supplying export demands rather than waiting on government grants. The average SME in the continent will survive better when they get all support they can from the markets, the media and the ministries in control.</span><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><br style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; outline: none;" /><span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;">There are business opportunities in Africa indeed and they may not linger long enough for the average African who looking for all the money he can amass over the years before kickstarting his viable idea.</span>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-55118002056985455132012-06-21T15:18:00.000-07:002012-06-21T15:45:10.477-07:00Letter to the Nigeria that raised me up<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihC0vmCmiSk4vAlRPhpwY1P4ioUvO_pV86SW879ZkjhH48gTjhooJg4Cp_H36sNI260P_PNPFJ7Hq8qxkYvAtciVnRXu_KevsGn0lshjtZ0qVkZm4gUai5BmzIC9HeDy2_oh0QRbiuYQvC/s1600/111214115357-letter-writing-illustration-story-top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihC0vmCmiSk4vAlRPhpwY1P4ioUvO_pV86SW879ZkjhH48gTjhooJg4Cp_H36sNI260P_PNPFJ7Hq8qxkYvAtciVnRXu_KevsGn0lshjtZ0qVkZm4gUai5BmzIC9HeDy2_oh0QRbiuYQvC/s320/111214115357-letter-writing-illustration-story-top.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother, do you recognize my face? See I haven’t changed
much. You remember my sheepish smiles. I still wear them. I have tried
severally to remind you about who I am but you seem to grow more distant. I
swear I’ve changed. I’m older and wiser and stronger. You remember how you
shove NTA at me and stuffed all its
contents down my throat. Well, that was what you had at that time and
I’m grateful for them. My childhood memories, hang, like my muffler around my
neck. I remember Cadbury Breakfast Telly shows and all the cartoons I watched.
I doubt you remember watching some of them with me. There was Superted, Fraggle
Rock, Muppet Babies, The Little Prince and Jabber Jaw. How will I not speak of
Sesame Street, 3-2-1 Contact, Kidi Vision 101 and Voltron. Oh no! there was
Doctor Who, Fawlty Towers, Some Mothers Do Have Them, The Adventures of the
Famous Five, Rent-a-Ghost, and Behind the Clouds. Little Mama would give me One
Naira and Fifty Kobo to buy a loaf of bread so that I could eat as breakfast
with Pronto and Dano Milk before going to school the next day. You were not
exactly the perfect mother at that time but I wasn’t complaining. Maybe I knew
too little to complain. Mama provided my basic needs and I thought she could
sustain providence because of your benignity towards her. As little as I was, I
was an observant child as well as a keen listener. I didn’t have 2000 channels
in my face or the internet tugging at me. I could observe, eavesdrop, relay and
remember as young as I was.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adolescence ushered me into one of the best Federal
secondary schools in Nigeria and if you recall, I passed my WAEC very well at
one sitting. Then, I attended the university. All done in your lifetime. It
baffles me when I hear that students now are failing WAEC and JAMB massively.
Mother, your grandchildren are failing because the education sector cannot help
them again. Those who pass through schools under your care are not employable
because the system does not produce many employable graduates. Most of them
need to pass through school again under the tutelage of your friends in Europe.
Many business started under your care since you were born, how many of them are
around. Some left for your cousin’s place Ghana. They complained that you were
too harsh and insensitive. I remember how you would throw your hands back in
disdain and hiss after them, throwing more of
their luggage after them. So how
much as this helped you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother see the wrinkles on your face. You are fifty one years
and you look seventy already. Is it this government job that is taking a toll
on your health. See your fine black hair are becoming white hair, running down
your neck. Mother speak. In the absence of speech, write. We need feedback. We,
your kids have contributed to your well-being. Alas! You pride in gallivanting
with rags. How do you think I feel whenever Warri reports to me that you still
bed wet and that you haven’t mastered your excretory system. You keep people
and things you should have long flushed. Nnem! What have you done to yourself.
I heard that you suffer burns in your pelvis. Kaduna, Borno and Jos narrated
how you suffer itch from serious burns
every day. You have been invaded by microbial and inconsequential
entities that explode in your body every day. My lecturers called it <i>Gonorrhea. </i>This is something you should
have dealt with a long time ago. It will continue to terrorize you till you
reach menopause if you don’t address it now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I wonder in my mind, I don’t have the courage to
ask you though. I sometimes think that you are a prostititute. Please don’t
mind me o. I’m just thinking out aloud. The rate at which vagabonds come in and
out of your room is alarming. The funny thing is that they keep carting away
with your valuables and they never give
you anything, yet you still swing your legs open with delight. Do you remember
the word called <b><i>dignity, </i></b>that word that hides somewhere in your pledge? Do you
still have any of it left, I dare to ask?<b><i> <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things are going wrong under your watch and you kept quiet.
When I expect you to twist ears and give dirty slaps to the ones that deserve
it, you do not. You know the way you used to slap us, especially those of us
who obey your bidding to the letter. The annoying thing now is that you haven’t
kicked the bucket yet some of your
children have strategized on how to divide your properties and split earnings.
You have still kept quiet. Is it only your eyes that you lost? Have you lost
your ears as well. My friends have come from far and near. They have decided to
support you and rebuild you but you are not helping. Your concubines are
frustrating them. If Polyandry isn’t making you a better person, why don’t you
try monogamy. Mother, I’m tired sincerely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How do you do it mother? How are you still able to sit in front
of the fire and clasp your hands in prayers that God will help you from the
trouble you have put on yourself? Is it hard for you to see? Do you know that
you are suffering in the hands of the people you have given your life to. You
are slaving for people that should serve you. How are you able to sleep with
this leakage. Mother your body loses lots of oil and blood everyday and you
still toss your head to the side like a drugged woman and gibber “It is well”.
Things are not well o mother. Things are not fine and I am not complaining.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t intend to write an epistle because I know you will not read it. It is another wasted
effort on my part but I will keep
trying. I will not keep quiet. You have neither listened nor attended to
our numerous petitions in the far or recent past. Here are my few cents. If
this letter does not come from my hand, let it reach you through the people
that you have sold yourself too. You remember the adage that says that the
house rat should take heed and inform the bush rat. That is the situation now o. Mother, go and
see a doctor. It seems like a joke but I’m serious. Forget about those doctors
that tell you that you are HIV negative when you are indeed HIV positive. Let
him advice you on how to stop oil leakage, mineral wastage and blood spillage.
When he prescribes drugs for these ailment, kindly ensure that you use it well
as prescribed. When you are well, you will have the energy to cut all your
excesses, get more capable people and perhaps fix the electricity issues in
your home. Until then, you won’t be able to teach your grandchildren
practically because you also lack what you teach about. It is not enough elect
the people that will serve you well, you should also create a maintenance
department that will ensure the sustainability of their projects.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother, I have a lot to write to you. I was trying to tell
you that I have changed and maybe that’s why you don’t remember me or some of
your other promising kids. However, I have come to understand that it is you
that has changed ma. You are different from who you used to be. Your make-up is
all so artificial and as much as you try to hide it, I see the lower eye lids
sagging in sadness. Don’t feign happiness. We know you are not happy. We aren’t
happy too. We know your Naira was valued for two British Pounds at a time. We
also know that you were ill-advised at another time and you lost your dowry
value. However this current state of yours is calling for serious attention,
maybe rehabilitation. We need you to help us help you but you must first
remember who you are.</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><br />
Much regards, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Segun Adekoye </span>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-75518555295765498512012-04-23T13:28:00.001-07:002012-04-23T13:28:18.947-07:00A private matter<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A private matter<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIM1_Hs9Y4rBe2wdK48sVF5Gj7qSraZ7r10DrVHIp7kgjgEo6bWuSIYVOeDIZcmufhWWmh0RopJ59dXGAYzBz5pzPvb7MpWgKN5qN1xXCW2HbDBVas2cviwl5HT9KkGBZ1B8IpNDNEm_O/s1600/molue-bus-lagos-nigeria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIM1_Hs9Y4rBe2wdK48sVF5Gj7qSraZ7r10DrVHIp7kgjgEo6bWuSIYVOeDIZcmufhWWmh0RopJ59dXGAYzBz5pzPvb7MpWgKN5qN1xXCW2HbDBVas2cviwl5HT9KkGBZ1B8IpNDNEm_O/s320/molue-bus-lagos-nigeria.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
started like a preacher. His face, grim and unsmiling. His eyes,
narrowed, unfriendly and fixated on nothing but moping at everything. He wore a
navy-blue shirt, neatly tucked in a pair of brown cashmere trousers, streaked
with black zigzag lines. His belt, brown, broken and bent at the tip held his
trousers high, above his abdomen. I couldn’t help but notice the belt-holes
around his waist and how they overlapped on top of one another like the
tightened tip of a garri sack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Treasures appear in subtle packages my
dear” Keffi nudged at me. She seemed to knock me out of the climax of my
daydream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hmmmm”. I was wondering why she made
such statement in this 49-seated-99-standing lorry. The air smelt of roasted
fish and tomatoes and sweat and rowdiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That may be your future husband” Keffi
chipped in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“God forbid! Tufiakwa” I retorted, twirling
my hands above my head and dusting them over her head. “It’s your portion
Keffi. Not mine”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I already have my darling Kunle” She chuckled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Yeah
right. </span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I giggled. My stomach
tightened. I shuddered at the thought. My eyes darted to and fro the preacher’s
body and lingered on his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">What
kind of love or desperation would make someone like me marry a man like this? </span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His shirt, faded, missing a button
somewhere above the belly. His hair, uncombed, divided like ridges on a cassava plantation. He had thick upper lips
slightly parted by two rabbit-like incisor teeth. He didn’t even have the looks
that I wanted in a man. His body structure, small and frail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Who
knows? He might not even have eaten for
days.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Even if he did, by the miracle of the
beauty and the beast, have the looks, he certainly lacked the svelte composure
that turned me on, the type that Keffi’s fiancé had.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I hissed loudly turning my face towards
the window for a dose of air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Balende! Obalende!” the bus conductors
yelled in unison propping themselves against the entrance of the door of the
slowly moving bus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Enter with your correct money o. I nor
get change” One of them bellowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His mouth seemed to be releasing
aerosols of some strong drink, like Scotch Whiskey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“If you are going to Oshodi” the
preacher cleared his throat “If you are going to Oshodi come down here. This is
Oshodi bus stop. This bus is now heading to Obalende”. A half-smile ran across
his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“ Is he going to be transported
free-of-charge to his destination for his free advertisement because I don’t
understand o” I whispered, pinching Keffi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She winced. “Leave me joor. That’s not a
new thing in these kinds of vehicles. Maybe it’s because it’s your first time”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I shrugged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A lot of things were strange to me in
Lagos. The way police stopped us at checkpoints, collected money from
commercial bus drivers with unsmiling
faces, and looking away as they returned their hands to their pockets. The
manner that hawkers splashed at you when you called for one of them to buy
fifty Naira Gala. Another was how one would be so stuck in traffic on the third
mainland bridge that you’d watch the slow appearance and disappearance of
fishermen on the face of the Lagos lagoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nana, my aunt had lived in Lagos all her
life yet she complained after every power outage, after every setback she
experienced like she was new to them. If she didn’t say “God of Mercy”, she
would yell “Christ! What a life” or she would say nothing, press her fingers on her temples and
shake her head slowly. I imagined how her eyes would pop out and her mouth
partly open, if she learnt that I went on a <i>molue
</i>ride. She would be angry because she pleaded with me not to ever go on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I turned my face towards the windows.
The houses raced back faster than before, and the lines by the sidewalks became
a blurry streak along the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The preacher’s voice seeped into my thoughts “Heaven is real
and hell is real. Where will you spend eternity?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I chuckled. Heaven is what I experienced
in London, with Osagie, my ex-boyfriend. Hell is the matrimonial home that my
father had prepared for my mum in his hometown in Lokoja.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“How did your date go yesterday?” Keffi
said, snatching my Blackberry from my
hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Fine” I didn’t realize how hard I had
clenched my teeth when I snatched the phone from her till I bit my tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“ Haba. Relax now. I didn’t even want to
go through your messages”. The disgust in her tone was obvious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sorry. That was pure reflex action”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She ignored me and looked on straight
ahead at the standing preacher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“God is calling you today” His quivery
voice wafting into my ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Funny thing is that I have been calling
Kunle since yesterday and he has neither picked nor returned my calls” Keffi
said fiddling with her Galaxy Tab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Really? That’s quite unlike him” Phlegm
seemed to get in the way of my words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
hope he’s okay” She heaved her shoulders and slowly dabbed the droplets of
sweat off her face gently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I looked at her cheek, smooth and
velvety. Her black mascara enunciating the outlines of her almond eyes. Dots of
sweat pooled around the tip of her pointed nose and below it a tiny mole. Keffi
was gorgeous. She was the slender,
caramel-skinned, thin-waisted kind of lady that you would love to watch from
behind while cat walking on a pair of <i>Guiseppe
Zanotti </i>stilettos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“My brother and sisters, mummies and
daddies I need your assistance.” The preacher waved his hands in the air “I am
the fifth born of a family of fourteen”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His voice was buried by the noise that
resulted; a mix of laughter and chortles and jeers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shuo! Ya papa na Diego Maradona? Abi na
Lionel Messi. How he take score fourteen goals. Abeg I need that medicine” An
anonymous male voice shot towards the man from somewhere in the bus. There was
laughter everywhere. I smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman seated next to Keffi clapped
her hands, in a way that expressed disappointment. “Na money you need and you
come start to dey preach like say you be pastor”. Hilarity swept along the
opposite end of the bus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The preacher tried to calm the amused commuters and bring the mood of the
bus back to its former, semi-quiet
state. He raised his hands and pleaded but people ignored him. He
sounded more like a politician that had read an unintelligent manifesto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I am not a preacher” He yelled “I am a dying man”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">They didn’t listen but he continued “Up
till yesterday, I was a member of the sect that was responsible for the
bombings of several people in the northern part of Nigeria”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At that point, the bus suddenly went
quiet. You could make the sound of wind whooshing against the glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A man holding the grab-rail, beside our
seat row blurted “You mean you be Boko…”. He covered his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The preacher-man nodded slowly with sad
eyes. He unbuttoned his shirt. There was a device, like a timer, fastened to
his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Blood
of Jesus” I screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">There were similar screams everywhere.
Keffi grabbed my hands. I could feel the wetness of her palms against mine. She
shifted on her seat and moved close to me. I shook my head. I wasn’t really
sure if this was an American film. We were on Third Mainland Bridge, somewhere
around the middle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">”Driver stop. Bomber on bus” People
screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The man interrupted “Driver, if you stop
I’ll release the bomb. It is a
timed-bomb. It can be triggered. Don’t stop the bus. No one should come near me”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The fat woman that had earlier insulted
him untied her scarf and tied it back on. “Biko” She pleaded “I use Chineke beg
you. Don’t do this please. I have kids at home”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He shrugged “ I will do what I will do”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Chai!” she cried as she held her head
between her palms “Chimo! God take control”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Everyone seemed to ask her to shut up and not put us into
further trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The bus became quiet. The
preacher-turned-bomber, too had become lull, speechless. The only sound that could be heard were the
revving engines of the bus and the occasional clunk that was made when the bus
driver changed gears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I watched the passengers seated around
the man move away, giving him a bit more space. I heard gentle sobs behind me.
Some of those standing, bent their heads and closed their eyes. Some brought
out their rosaries and kissed. Some stared, dead in their gaze, watching with
half-closed mouths. Some still, like me looked out of the window, admiring the
faint view of the high-rise buildings
seated in front of the <i>lapis lazuli </i>sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Is
this how it all ends? My life? No life. No love. No child. Is this really the
end of the big-bellied, fat-lapped, chubby, chocolate-loving, back-stabbing,
nose-poking, Cambridge-graduate called Me?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We had heard of the bombings but it
didn’t matter to us as long as it wasn’t brought to Lagos. They died in
hundreds but it had become a norm. The government didn’t really care, neither
did we. As far as the we were concerned, the bombings were just fiction and the
people that lost their lives were mere statistics, nothing spectacular. The
international community carried the news, but they returned and left with more
news and no solutions. Here, in our midst was a self-professed suicide bomber, in Lagos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I simpered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Are you out of mind?” Keffi pinched,
her voice barely audible. The plastic furrows on her face getting more
pronounced. “A suicide bomber is here and you have that smirk on your face?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I elbowed her. “Please let me be. Okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The bomber spoke, distils of sadness in
his voice “They promised me life, money and freedom”. He smiled. “They said my
family would never lack” his eyes blinked. “ It’s not my will but this is the
only way”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Jesus is the way.” Someone shouted from
the back of the bus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t preach to me” He had never
sounded so angry “I know the truth.” He held up a copy of the Holy Bible and
the Holy Quran up in both hands. He smiled, showing his big-teeth, like someone
that had just won an argument.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He continued “I see a place, a throne room, where I will be
king over queens”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This is madness. I thought<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I sighed. Nelly furtado’s <i>All
good things come to an end, </i>playing in my mind’s sound system. Truth was
that I always wanted to see what the interior of these <i>molue</i> buses were like. Keffi decided we embark on the adventure. <i>This is crazy.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He pulled the button of the shirt aside.
“Ten minutes more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Noise rose again, cascading from the
back and ending in front of the man. I bent my head, tried to pray. I couldn’t
find the right words. I didn’t know how to articulate it. I felt something cold
on my feet. I bent to look at the liquid. It smelt like urine. It began to dawn
on me how close death called. My tongue was still hurting from the self-inflicted
bruise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh
Lord! My sins are many<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Keffi stared at me, a tear running down
her cheek. I stared back, wondering what was in her mind. I couldn’t find the
words to use to explain to her that her fiancé and I had been making out since
I got back to Nigeria two months ago. I looked at her thin lips, the one Kunle
said wasn’t as seductive and enthralling as mine. I purred when I recollected
how he buried his lips deep in my mouth, searching for the chemistry that was
absent in Keffi. How do I relay my escapades, even last night’s sand rolling at
Alpha Beach with her fiancé. If I was to go to hell now, she would go down too.
Didn’t she know that I admired Kunle before departing for the United Kingdom.
Did she forget that I introduced both of
them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Keffi touched my forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What’s wrong?” I said. I was lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You were sweating. I cleaned your
sweat. Don’t worry. We will be alright” she said putting her arms across my
shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I felt bad. She was still my best
friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Jumai” she started “I have a confession
to make to you”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Me too” I replied not giving her the
chance to finish. “I have grieved you badly. I need your forgiveness”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The bomb-man broke the flow. “I will die
alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Amen.” People thundered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“But on one condition” he interrupted.
“You give me what you have, your belongings or we die together”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Keffi was the first to give away her
Galaxy Tab. I had five thousand Naira on me and handed it over to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Someone prodded me from behind “Abeg,
help me gave am this crate of La Casera”. I grunted as I passed the heavy stuff
to him. It was interesting to see how people gave their wristwatches, food,
money, valuables in exchange for their life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He glanced at his chest again. The timer beeped.
“Two minutes left” he said. “Driver stop. Let me come down here”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The driver didn’t stop. Maybe he didn’t
hear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">People started screaming and cursing and
yelling at the driver. He looked alarmed. He pulled over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We watched as the preacher trudged
towards the door. People parted ways and avoided him like a disease. Maybe they
were afraid to trigger the detonation of the bomb. Maybe they were afraid, like
I was, that he could change his mind. As he alighted somewhere along the Third
Mainland bridge, we watched him walk, waiting to see him explode, expecting to
feel the bridge vibrate from a ghastly explosion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But we heard nothing except
thanksgivings and praises and murmurs from inside the bus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That guy na fake bomber” A man said
throwing his hand back in disdain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">No one said anything. It might have been
a scam, it might have been for real. Keffi looked at me without saying anything.
I looked back at her. I could see the questions in her eyes. It was a brief
moment in heaven and hell, something that would linger forever in our lives.
The rest of the journey was quiet. I decided not to remind her confession
because I didn’t want her to ask for mine. I was certain no one would hear anything
about this occurrence not Nana, not Kunle, not even the governor of Lagos
state.<o:p></o:p></span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-82725625119663774992012-01-12T10:36:00.000-08:002012-01-12T10:52:15.888-08:00When we GEJ out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKFgL3MMd_c_7QJfoXtqFIsHj22kbO1WS4OEjU-MiXCRl-qIAMskiV2NFRyCDyYqOXgqnqntwW7jWUN0N29r4n1eyCC0H2gTWbybpAcGvNODzUepAikxQfbbxYodXVWpZ-Iqq3J6tiaE4/s1600/occupy-nigeria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKFgL3MMd_c_7QJfoXtqFIsHj22kbO1WS4OEjU-MiXCRl-qIAMskiV2NFRyCDyYqOXgqnqntwW7jWUN0N29r4n1eyCC0H2gTWbybpAcGvNODzUepAikxQfbbxYodXVWpZ-Iqq3J6tiaE4/s320/occupy-nigeria.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 21px; line-height: 24px;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You slightly touch your belly. It’s strike day four. Papa’s forehead shines in the distance as he raises his hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Fellow Nigerians”. His voice makes you retch. It is a mixture of Hennessy and hypocrisy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You bend over and let out soft moans. You can feel Natalie’s eyes on your skin. You feel it every month when you bend like this. Her silence doesn’t annoy you. She is like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You feel a grip on your arms. “Madam, hope no problem”. The grip is so tight that you can hardly breathe. You are certain it belongs to a man and you want to sue him for battery. Yeah, battery. Mr. Olajumoke, your torts lecturer mentioned it last December. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m fine. Thanks” you wrench his fists away from your arms without looking up. Your gaze is dim. You can hardly make out your dark brown slippers from the brown sands on the ground. You blink your eyelids and that leeching tear drops.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Who pulled me into this battle? </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You ask yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Two hands wrap themselves around your breast, pulling you up away from the swirling dust thumped up by the swarm of legs.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ozioma ndo. You will be okay”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You are wondering if Amarachi’s “sorry” was directed towards your menstrual cramps or your bleeding heart. You appreciate that she understands that you are bleeding inside-out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You find the strength to hold on a little longer. You stand up from the army of shadows to be greeted by the fury of the frowning sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“My brothers, we are not fools and will not be taken as such. Our children cannot feed well anymore. The prices of commodities haven risen in geometric proportions. We will not accept this…” A husky, baritone voice breaks out of the public address system. You stand on your toes, trying to look over the black grains of heads that are scattered all across Freedom Park. All you see ahead is blurred outlines of your father’s Ankara. He holds the microphone and gestures melodramatically.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“We won’t stop till the FG reverts the pump price of fuel to 65 Naira. Nigerians say a big no ,to subsidy removal”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You cover your ears from the deafening claps and shouts that follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You feel nauseated by the momentary unity, short-sightedness and lack of in-depth knowledge by many of the protesters.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I love my father” your sister shouts, beaming with the smiles of a newly-kissed bride.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh shattap! Your thoughts say, subtly masking your grimace with a half-smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Freedom park, Ojota looks like a Barak Obama presidential rally. The whole place is filled with people, who have the same anger burning in them. You had often wondered if there were more cars in Nigeria than there were people because of the traffic jam that greeted you every morning first in Ojota and then on Eko bridge , on your way to work. You shudder now that the traffic you see is not vehicular but pedestrian. The once busy Ikorodu road, that is synonymous with BRT buses, the black-and-yellow-danfo buses, cart pushers, tomato hawkers is now a large crusade ground with people who are saying the same prayers. You wonder where they were when they were asked to come out and vote during the last presidential elections. Your face morphs into the expression of one heaving huge sacks of rice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You close your eyes in thoughts. <i>Why are Nigerians so easily fooled? Did they think that a president who asked D’banj to conduct his interview had sincere plans for them. Did they forget how much he allocated for the celebration of the 50<sup>th</sup> independence anniversary. Why did they have to wait till their pockets had to shriek every time they spent. Why did they wait till now? Why did they have to watch the demise of the kobo and the gradual disappearance of the five Naira note.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You do not realize that you have tied your brown pashmina scarf around your waist for the umpteenth time, sub-consciously aware that you might have stained your light brown trouser pants at the back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Your sister adjusts her dark sunshades and claps so hard like she does whenever pastor says “clap for Jesus”. You let out a hiss loud enough for the people around you to pave way for you as you move out of choking congregation. You find a place to sit on the pavement just in front of the desolate Total filling station. Your father is a political science analyst who spent most of his life outside the country. He got an appointment to work with the Federal Government when he was in the UK. He refused the offer. You could tell he disliked Nigeria from the way he twirled his hand over his head when he said “tufiakwa”. You remember how futile mother’s efforts were when she tried to persuade him into allowing the family relocate to Nigeria to contribute its quota in the development of the nation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Where is this nation going?” a man who looks like he is in his mid-thirties asks and looks at you like you are his most intelligent student. He is answered with opens hands, clasped palms, deep sighs, shaking of heads and a few snorts.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“God bless Nigeria” You could hear your father’s voice trailing off as he stepped away from microphone and took his signature bow; the type he did at the end of any family gathering. You disliked how he cursed the country whenever the police collected a tip from him or whenever PHCN took away power supply. He was always quick to criticize and swear like he could do a million things better.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Not that you were in support of the incumbent president who is the cause of all these people’s misery because you didn’t even cast your vote for him but that you wish you were on the podium, speaking, in the place of your father. Not telling the people to strike just to reduce the pump price of fuel, but to enlighten the of the importance of love and unity and peace and progress.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You look up at the man who asked the question and say “Sir, Nigeria will continue to remain where it is until we all learn to curb corruption in our homes, from the security men who work in our homes, offices and eateries who beg for a tip. This nation will move forward when our policemen act in accordance to the national pledge. We will move forward as a nation when we come out to vote and fulfill your civic duties. Nigeria will be better that time when you spank your child for throwing litter on the road.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You find boldness to speak as more people gather around you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“People have fought and died for this country. Real men and women. I don’t need to mention names. They have been fighting for the good of the nation before 1960. People will continue to fight and die until they have a mind shift; a paradigm shift. The future of Nigeria is in what you teach your children in action and in deeds. When you make them understand the importance of priorities, then they would know how to build refineries or repair them before removing subsidies. When our religious leaders come out and criticize the actions of the presidency and the faceless terrorist groups. How do we with one voice speak and influence different associations who directly or indirectly control the price of goods, commodities and transportation. Why is it so easy for the NLC to fight the government and leave out the trade unions. I don’t support the fuel subsidy. Don’t quote me wrong. What would you do if the government reverted to 65 Naira per litre and the commercial transporters do not return the bus fares to their former prices? Would you protest again? There is no price control for anything. This is the one of the problems we face in Nigeria”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You feel glad that your sister finds you and leads you out of the growing crowd in the nick of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Nigeria will get better when we all stop being selfish. Right now we need to GEJ out of here”<o:p></o:p></span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-14240785379982646022011-11-10T17:26:00.000-08:002011-11-10T17:26:46.770-08:00Meet me on the other side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmA7JLoGHY4L47ODeOcYh2gEKT44fQq0v9GGxTPfPDWt43gHWmo3jFmBphLKmTKmxoFPLyexC3OFI-3bxIxPGRlDOhsXzvKUIeatnJfMaXqxjUI9jXo8LDgfVgdVUseZV4f-lHDYl8n83z/s1600/Lonely-man-qpps_639785690757762.LG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmA7JLoGHY4L47ODeOcYh2gEKT44fQq0v9GGxTPfPDWt43gHWmo3jFmBphLKmTKmxoFPLyexC3OFI-3bxIxPGRlDOhsXzvKUIeatnJfMaXqxjUI9jXo8LDgfVgdVUseZV4f-lHDYl8n83z/s320/Lonely-man-qpps_639785690757762.LG.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Eventide rose and fell as did the chill of the night into the bonfire at the centre of the village square. Chisom pulled me to side and tugged at my wrapper.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Listen Emeka. You must do it. You don’t have a choice”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The drums were loud, too loud that I could barely hear what he was saying. I only understood what he said by the deep furrows on his face that formed a scowl and how his lips moved as they did in the early afternoon on our way from the farm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I stared at him deep in the face. “I’m scared. I don’t know yet. Brother I really don’t know”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was revered by all the young men in the community probably because I was taller than all of them or my big belly and wide shoulders intimidated most of them. No one dared challenge me to duel. The old women will plead with me to pluck some oil palm fruits, for which our village was known whenever I passed by their compound. They would tease me and call me the husband to their unborn children even though they knew my <i>Omalicha, </i>my beautiful one. The King had promised my father that once I became of age and proven myself as a man, I would become the next in command to his chief guard; the second highest position in the Igwe’s palace. My father had long prayed for this day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Make me proud my son” He said as he looked into my tear-filled eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wept for my father had suffered much. He made misery his bed and sorrow his meal ever since he lost his wife to the palms of death. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Remember papa’s condition”. Chisom’s voice cut through my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His eyes were now wearing the hues of the azure moon. He had a slightly diminutive stature but he was my elder brother; the firstborn of the family. I didn’t respect him enough to advise me about how my life should be run. After all, he showed back into our lives few months ago after his two-year marriage with Ify fell apart. He narrated how she had packed her belongings and followed an <i>oyinbo</i> man, for whom she worked as a nanny, to Lagos. If he was man enough, he would have fought to keep her. If he wasn’t a lazy man, he would have known that money exerted more power than muscles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I joined my peers in the revelry of the night. I could feel the ground move under my feet. Maybe the earth was inebriated by the <i>ogogoro</i> spills from the benevolent fiesta. Maybe it was the joyful stampede of the young men who danced vigorously in anticipation of their individual moments that sent tremors. Maybe it was my fears that were pushing hard on my chest and asking for a wrestling contest.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The pace of the drumbeats changed. My turn had come. Nnenna and I had asked for the <i>Atilogu </i>drumbeat. Time had sped past like a man under lustful chase by a naked madman. Nnenna’s dark eyes glistened red in the blaze of the fire. Her shoulders dropped as she let out a deep breath. I could feel her veins pulsate faster as I led her by hand to the slaughter house.</span></div><a name='more'></a> <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The slaughter house was dreaded by most of the girls in the community but what could they do? It was a ritual which took place every two years. Men from our village, Taazi were forbidden from marrying from Komocha and other neighboring towns because the women must have been slaughtered and had their blood poured on a white handkerchief and placed before the shrine of <i>Ugbugbu </i>before the next sunset. All unmarried young men looked forward to this night because this was the only way you could prove your manliness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We slowly arrived at the tent. It was dark and warm and musty. It smelt of blood, urine and tears and of death and victory at the same time. The full moon’s shimmer through the open windows led us to the “slab” upon which our mothers and their mothers were slain. I watched sadly as Nne pulled her blouse slowly. I had nothing on except the <i>Ankara </i>wrapper which was wrapped round my body and knotted over my shoulder. Nnenna had undressed and I could see her full, curved breast in the twilight glow. Her shoulders moved up and down quietly in a manner that showed she was sobbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m sorry Nne”. I could barely find the words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Just do it” She yelled. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I saw the flush in her face as her tear sparkled in the reflection of the night. She lay on the damp mat. It smelled of sweat, good sweat and bad sweat. I lay beside her. I held her hands the same way I had done on the night that I swore by my life before the river goddess that I would not deflower her in the insane, cruel way that other women had lost their virginity in the <i>slaughter house</i>. It was terrifying for her because her mother died during her own childbirth. Maybe it was connected to the ritual, maybe that’s why my mother died mid-age too but only the gods knew. She had been betrothed to me since we were young and I had grown up to love her so much like I loved my mother. We ran by the riverbanks together and hurled banana skins after each other. We would hide behind <i>Iroko trees </i>and watch how some of the young girls who also came out for the <i>Virgin dance </i>tonight made love secretly under raffia tents. We would giggle and run away before we were discovered, into the forest to fetch the firewood we had cut before dusk fell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m sorry. I can’t” I said as I fastened my wrapper around my neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her face looked more relaxed like someone who wanted to smile but was trying hard to retain its glower.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But you have to”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before she finished, I was at the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No erection” I told the local priest who stood by the door to collect the bloodied handkerchiefs and ascertain the authenticity of the act. He blew his flute. It signaled trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My brother rushed towards the tent. He knew that I had kept to my words against his advice. I sniveled as I saw my father weep while I was being led away by the guards. He knew that might be the last that would be heard from me. My heart was heavy but I wanted to be out from all the sorrow and pain and setbacks in this village. The penalty for failing to deflorate one’s fiancé in the traditional slaughterhouse was tantamount to twenty years banishment from the village and eternal ridicule. I closed my eyes and quietly prayed that the river goddess would bless me with the love that I had fought for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nnenna’s soft voice quietly whispered into my ears as she pressed our sacred tokens into my palms.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ll meet you on the other side at dawn”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(c) 11/11/2011, Olusegun Adekoye</span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-18289257355891936862011-11-07T18:08:00.000-08:002011-11-07T18:08:24.649-08:00This Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTegSXt6A8KDsco1wwBy1z-NJYczIO-dIf19OSWRdyslnfIbH5Gdv2kOkiHgrjAqR97l-uM0VJyL2J1As5g6bYjN1FYfFDof_CAqNpQj7Pi5gW5lmN3sSprzY4IEZmNyK208fgaMFHxB0K/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTegSXt6A8KDsco1wwBy1z-NJYczIO-dIf19OSWRdyslnfIbH5Gdv2kOkiHgrjAqR97l-uM0VJyL2J1As5g6bYjN1FYfFDof_CAqNpQj7Pi5gW5lmN3sSprzY4IEZmNyK208fgaMFHxB0K/s1600/rain.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">This rain is a downpour.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">It drops cats and dogs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The mice scurry to the pig’s sty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The gander ogles at the rooster’s droppings.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">This rain is an exodus.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Curses dart across the sky,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">And immortalize those gluttonous politicians</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">One tribe makes the bow, another makes the arrows.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">This rain is noisy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The noise is lethal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Riotous rounds of ammunition are dispersed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The bushman finds solace in the Eskimo’s igloo.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">This rain is colourless.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Yet, this flood is blood</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">As cadavers sail in untimely exit,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The veil of empathy shrouds the racial disparity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">This rain is human,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Orchestrated via testicular technicalities</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The dialect may be different,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">After all, the body language is one.</span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-47011674209874253202011-11-07T08:49:00.000-08:002011-11-07T18:42:00.757-08:00The Famished Plain (A Poem)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95HKDCcBQ-_QEiz-UcBxbSY2-CBRjUOlHxL8TVXNNShxfMrtkEc1N-u0WJXp6-cc7TXWvkFPuoGkO3pzeAzR4MP3PMF_zJ5Bmj5WhVxUs_-f4J48Gxcs-BTt2bWLV2QFFfgqXk0HPteSb/s1600/walk-through-the-plain-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95HKDCcBQ-_QEiz-UcBxbSY2-CBRjUOlHxL8TVXNNShxfMrtkEc1N-u0WJXp6-cc7TXWvkFPuoGkO3pzeAzR4MP3PMF_zJ5Bmj5WhVxUs_-f4J48Gxcs-BTt2bWLV2QFFfgqXk0HPteSb/s320/walk-through-the-plain-lg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The sculpted frames crawl, crawl</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Into thickets of twine and thistle</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The sky’s orange eye peers, pries</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">On the Iroko’s listless shade</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Fallen west</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The gorillas’ percussions buried</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Beneath the Omele and Gangan’s enchantment</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Rhythms splash against the gourd’s back</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Shielding the palm wine-drunk ground</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Belches savouring the seasoned bones of the Impala</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">As shadows lost under feet, all</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The dial points home; eastwards</span></div><a name='more'></a>The travelling vane of the opponents<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Of the mild crimson sun</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Heads roll back to homeland banks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Camels trudge across borderless sands</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Like the tortoise’s endless voyage</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The village now with silence, domed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">The crown has been immersed in joyful-sorrow</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Six feet in the palms of the grave</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Plains drunk with the envy of the fiesta</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Yearning to inflict yet another monsoon of wails,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">A breath of stillness</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">On the inhabitants’ consciousness</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Gbam! The giant white sphere sticks to the dark skies,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">A bellow thunders, quakes the ground and seizes the seas.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">I am death,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">King over the farmlands,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">Lord of the famish.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span lang="EN-GB">(c) 2005, Olusegun Adekoye</span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-89218506414013685362011-11-07T03:57:00.000-08:002011-11-07T03:58:56.015-08:00Identity<div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcEXBNZSBcjInGRjEedHjcIqH89h9OvA8HALyByZ32LKRU6Wwjmfpv24K6qxh1jTfMU9uQFSUECSHLJb9xiIeeFrLL5AB1MpgdAavwYJzKk3nnv1R1v1bSMPr_9eG6rDsFS8gSJwCy2a_Y/s1600/homelessness-america.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcEXBNZSBcjInGRjEedHjcIqH89h9OvA8HALyByZ32LKRU6Wwjmfpv24K6qxh1jTfMU9uQFSUECSHLJb9xiIeeFrLL5AB1MpgdAavwYJzKk3nnv1R1v1bSMPr_9eG6rDsFS8gSJwCy2a_Y/s320/homelessness-america.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I kept silent. I wasn’t weary of repeating the same things, yet I was tired. I gazed into the air like someone without an ambition, but I had so much hope in things that were hard to explain. The harder I tried to explain, the more misunderstood I was.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The sun’s rays looked like rain, as it leaked through the mango canopy that sheltered me.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I looked on and a young boy walked by. He didn’t greet. I launched forward angrily.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">“The gods will punish you”.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">He was hurried away by a young woman. “Don’t look back” She said “He’s a mad man”. She looked back at me with disgust and threw her hands over her head. I hurled stones after them but they had disappeared too soon.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I returned to my seat. I was angry. I hated them all. They were hypocrites, them – the men. They had snakes knotted over their collars. That was their new identity. I had my tattered Ankara wrapped around my chest in the usual manner. I had retained my uniqueness. I rubbed my backside back-and-forth against the trunk of the tree with half-closed eyes. I enjoyed my tradition. I was loyal to myself and to my community and I was despised for it. No one dared to tell me, but I read it from the way they crossed to the opposite side of the road when I approached and how they took to their heels when I crept up behind them to say good morning. They all knew me, and even told their children about me but I was never a subject of discussion. I didn’t make any sense to them, as did the ambience of their native land; their culture; their hard-fought society.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I walked over to a vehicle and took a bow at my reflection. My dark brown face was smeared by black strokes – like our tigers while they lived. I smiled. My brown hair hung loosely over my eyes, begging to be combed. My lips were dark; pitch black. I stretched my hand, to touch my lips, my face on the mirror, to feel how tangible my other self was. I reached but before I could, I screamed. The young girl in the car was unaware that I had been standing beside her for a few minutes. So, she screamed, and I had yelled back. I stood dumbfounded as I watched her speed away. I shook my head in wonder. I did not understand anymore.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Life had changed entirely outside the walls of the hospital. How I got out remains a mystery, but I was glad to escape the needles of sedation. I disliked how the white-robed women peered into my face and reiterated that I would recover, when it was them that needed recovery.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Outside of there; here life had spun too fast. The dusty brown roads were gone, and had become charred – coal burnt. I searched for trees but only found heaps of papers. I asked the walls where the mud houses and thatched roofs had gone but they pointed to high buildings that touched the skies. And the river – although it remained, had a large crown of oil and plentiful dead fish afloat.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I could smoke several sticks of marijuana per day, but only one of these moving vehicles puffed more smoke in a day, than I could in my entire life span.</div><div class="yiv960744592MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I picked my cane and returned to my concrete bed. These people have lost their identity. I smiled. “And with this stick, I would heal their madness”</div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2702946005287230956.post-63067912615922266992011-11-07T02:16:00.000-08:002011-11-07T02:16:22.403-08:00Seven and a half<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuBibR-Pm1U1e17-BLS4oB0JRwyIV1jfI5QrI3pHgrJYn869vcAzWdlceY5gX-NDAfzT0s9bgIRABbgLF9WXg58ew49PdWBcD9NT6G_X_hhlS88-at2fpWMZL4YG48FBtR8pTC2qU1IOd/s1600/crying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuBibR-Pm1U1e17-BLS4oB0JRwyIV1jfI5QrI3pHgrJYn869vcAzWdlceY5gX-NDAfzT0s9bgIRABbgLF9WXg58ew49PdWBcD9NT6G_X_hhlS88-at2fpWMZL4YG48FBtR8pTC2qU1IOd/s320/crying.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Kero walked the comb through the few strands of hair left on her head. The sharp pains that she always felt in her kinky hair were gone. She closed her eyes. <i>So this is it, the end</i>. Just half an hour ago she had put a call through to 767, the police hotline.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Hello, hello. Please I need help” She screamed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Calm down madam. What is your name? How can we help you?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> “My name is Ovu” She gasped. “I am calling to report a murder at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">24 Aremu Olatubosun Street</st1:address></st1:street>, Mafoluku”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">She hangs up the phone and looks at the phone booth manager probingly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Why you dey look me like that abi na crime to call from your shop?” She barks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Aunty no vex o! I was not hearing your phone call o. I want ask if you know that two buttons don comot from your shirt”. The boy drops his gaze.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">She takes a sharp glance at herself to find that her left breast had leapt out of her black silk shirt. She quickly re-adjusts herself and looks around.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Thank you dear” She gives a half smile as she hands him a dirty fifty Naira note.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Keep the balance”. She yells as she hurries away with her luggage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Her tortuous six-hour, five-on-a-seat journey from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lagos</st1:place></st1:city> to Sapele did not have as much impact on her as did the untimely fall of a giant.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">She had been married to Tade for seven and a half years. They had been dating each other since her first year in school. Tade had studied Architecture, a four-year course and she studied Law for five years. She had known him too well and trusted him all the way. Though he had graduated a year before she did and had gone on to do his National Youth Service, she still saw the flames in his eyes, which she saw on the eve of their first courting anniversary when he told her “I love you Ovuokero”. He had never lied to her.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Cupid, the god of love seemed to have dwelt in her marital home while the god of fertility refused to accept whatever tokens she offered. For seven and a half years she contested the position of the most barren with male pawpaw trees in her compound. The pleasant memories of her marital life were buried in the gold-plated jewellery box that Tade bought for her two-years ago, on her thirty-fifth birthday. That was two weeks before the doctor had told that she had cancer. She watched tears streak down Tade’s cheeks. She knew he cared from the way he grabbed the doctor and shook him hard till cry wrenched away his grasp from his overcoat. He had shown her support and had promised to love her till the end. He lied. He began to avoid her like an HIV patient after her birthday, the thirty fifth. He had hit her hard with his fat fists on several times.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Seven and a half days ago, He walked into the house with a short fat woman and a chubby little boy. She did not need an introduction as she could see her husband’s genetic signatures boldly written all over the boy’s face.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Ovy” His voice quavered “Meet Wale, my son. This is Halima, his mother. It happened in Bauchi eight years ago during NYSC.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Kero passed out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Eight hours ago, Tade staggered into her room early morning, smelling of beer. He dragged her out of bed and pulled her into the kitchen. He pulled with what had remained of her falling hair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Male pawpaw.” He called as he hit her in his drunkenness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">She reached for the big knife with the brown handle and hit him till she saw him fall onto the tiled floor after his blood. She packed her bags knowing she had buried all her pain in his lifeless body.</span></div>segunsdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15589564309864671514noreply@blogger.com0