The Night I was ALMOST beaten by thugs.

Dear Diary,

I really should tell you.

A certain Thursday night, I was returning home in a cab from Bogobiri. You know, that artsy-fartsy place in Ikoyi where people crowd in to listen to music and poetry, and eat and drink (overpriced) stuff and air kiss each other and generally unwind.

As the cab guy pulled up to my gate, I noticed there were about 7 to 10 guys standing on the other side of the road…drinking no doubt. Anyway, they weren’t my concern, I told the cab guy I was gonna rush in and get my wallet to pay him. I heard shouts as I ran inside, I assumed they were from the driver, I shouted back I’M COMING.

When I got out, one of the guys left the Standing Alcoholics party across the road from my gate and walked over to me, I ignored him and walked up to the cab guy trying to make a U-turn and paid him off. As I returned, the guy blocked me as I tried to pass by, he blocked me each time to the left, to the right, to the left again,and then the right.  MARADONA!

Ah Ah?

He, of course, was stark drunk, and yelling at me. Then one other guy (let’s call him Side-Kick) from Inebriation Nation marched over, and the one in front of me (let’s call him Drunky) told him to hold his drink. Then I really was intrigued.

“So now, whats’s your plan?” I asked him.

“My plan is to change things here” said Drunky.

So here I am, with Drunky and Side-Kick planning to change things there and then, possibly the anatomical arrangement of my face or any other body part they deemed fit. What was I to do? Run? Fight? Tip them? Decisions! Decisions!!

What else could one do? I started vibrating. Not quite sure if this vibration was from a place of anger or fear. But boy, I didn’t care. I started pushing Drunky. And Side-Kick was startled. He never expected it. Like, this boy dey mad? He no see say like 10 of us dey here? He no know say we fit kill am?

Anyway, as I was pushing Drunky violently, another one from the Alcoholic Thugs of Nigeria ran over and held Drunky back. I knew this one, he’s always been nice to me since I moved to this area. So cause I like him and he had no business being there at that time of the night, let’s call him P.B (Passerby). P.B was yelling at Drunky, Drunky was yelling at me, Side-Kick was yelling at P.B, and the audience from across the street was all too chemically-induced to care hard enough to join in the fight, so they just watched from the sidelines and shouted for their team member, maybe someone shouted for me. Who knows? One can’t possibly hear everything with adrenaline pumping through every vein and sipping through every pore.

As soon as Drunky was out of my way, I stormed off, through my gate and on home. Someone was shouting “MARVIN GAYE! MARVIN GAYE!! He better not be calling me what I think he is.

I knew he was calling me, that person has called me Marvin Gaye persistently since I moved to Lawani Street, and I have persistently ignored to turn back to see who that person is…and that night was no different. I failed to turn back.

The Saturday afterwards, some other guy, who I will call Cheekboned Stoic (You will find out why) called me over as I was returning from grocery shopping. He came TOO CLOSE to me yo! He kept talking ’bout how I am a king and I carry myself as such and how he admires me, and how of course he hated what those guys did to me that night…even though if they do it again he would support them. “Ask me Why” He said. “Why?” I droned. Because on your way to becoming a King-maker, there are things you must do. Settle the boys. So tomorrow they will be your fans and not your critics.

DEEP!!!!!

The whole while I kept inching back from his foul alcohol breath and he kept inching forward. Our faces were literally at kiss distance. And you know, it’s rude to look away. I already disrespected them once (so to speak), so I couldn’t afford to not look him in the eye this time. Am I mad? Anyway, I noticed he had really high cheekbones, like the type you see on models in Editorial pages of fashion magazines. Hence “Cheekboned” And he was dropping some badass nuggets of wisdom like King Solomon on Hennessy, hence “Stoic“.

He ended his diatribe with “Be free. Live your life. Chop knuckle!!”

That last part confused me until I saw he had made a fist, so I made a fist as well and we bumped fist and that was the end.

And that is the end. Bye.

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Who in the hell is this?

Dear Diary,

     Yes. We should give people a chance. And yes, Nigeria runs a multiparty political system…although, who are we kidding, it’s really a 2 political party government. 

I saw this yesterday. I had to take a picture. I haven’t had time to research or ask questions since then. So I ask now.

1. Please who is this?

2. I know that Lagos is the pot of all ingredients. But what is he thinking?

3. Really. Who knows him?

4. What Political Party is that?

5. What is with that beginning slogan?

6. What does he think he is doing?

I NEED ANSWERS. 

Harmattan Fashion

Dear Diary,
  
Happy New Year.  I took a long hiatus from journaling my thoughts and experiences and hopes and fears. Now I’m back. Partly because I decided to stop making excuses, and also because I have been hounded to the point of exhaustion. So I won’t think too much. I will just write.

Harmattan this year isn’t extremely harsh. Thankfully so. I’ve always hated the season. The extreme dryness has always been the bane of my existence.

Until I discovered the beenie. 

Actually I discovered the beenie last year when I started working out. Then I realised the power of the ease of sweatpants and a sports tank top.

I digress.

I like looking like a bum lately. It’s a very comfy way to look; unbathed, a little scruffy post-workout hotness. Hence, The beenie is my fashion accessory of the season. Plus, it gets dreadfully cold in the morning up until after noon.
Yesterday I rocked a beenie to work. It got rave reviews at work. Of course no-one else would wear one. So they all asked if I was just returning from the US or SA.

Looks great, don’t it?

Anyway, Fall/Winter is THE season for fashion. And here where we live in the Tropics, Harmattan is as close as it gets to Fall. So ladies and gentlemen, WEAR THAT FASHION!!
Don’t just wear dowdy sweaters. Wear the hell out of them sweaters. Layer your clothing. Wear denim jackets. Now is the only time to wear a scarf and not look like you’re trying too hard. Ladies wear your father’s or brother’s or boyfriend’s jacket over skinny jeans and a pair of heels. Go out with messy hair.
It’s cold. Dress up!!!

P.S. when the afternoon heat sets in. You’re strictly on your own.

Avoid Swindlers 101

Dear Lagosians,

* You’re walking down the road or street, MOST LIKELY in possession of a bag, and anyone asks you for directions 

* The place in question would usually sound strange, like Ebony clinic on Awolowo Road, or a famous TV doctor in Idi-Araba, Mushin. 

* You’re kind enough to give off 5 seconds of your time to help someone who seems genuinely in need of direction. 

* Almost automatically someone passes by and seems to know the place and is trying to direct you both to the place…or surreptitiously ‘agrees’ to take you both there on the condition that he or she would be compensated. The ease with which stranger #2 slides into the conversation may go unnoticed to the untrained eye. So. Beware. 

* The stranger #1 asks you with a shaky begging voice to accompany him to the place because he is from an obscure little village in Osun State and they have heard bad stories about the big city or she is from Togo and doesn’t speak enough English to guarantee that she will find that damn clinic (yet her accent is peculiarly Nigerian). And of course you would be the first kind person that offered to help them out in their time of desperation and confusion so they can only trust you and no one else. 

 

 

* WALK AWAY!!!

* SAY NOTHING. JUST GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THERE. 

 

By paying heed to my warning, you would have saved yourself the terrible, terrible experience of being robbed, kidnapped, swindled or killed. 

By making sure you get your friends and family to read this, or by telling them about this, you would have saved them the terrible experience of being robbed, kidnapped, swindled or killed. 

 

The last month of the year is here. Please, endeavor to not get robbed, kidnapped, swindled, or killed.

On Being Caught in the Middle of a Mob Fight

Dear Diary,

        I was at Orile on Wednesday. As I got there, a young thug started beating a young lady up, and she was not having it. She kicked back, screaming and clawing at him. He kept pummelling her, in public. You know how public Orile is. Next thing you know, a bigger thug tore off his shirt and started beating the younger thug. He punched him, pushed him in front of cars, thankfully the traffic was tight so the cars weren’t moving any faster than freshly-fed anacondas. 

A crowd gathered to watch the spectacle, and before I knew what it, everyone started beating each other up. Punches were thrown without a care, spit flew in every direction, bags and shoes were hurled at people. It was a freak show.

And there I was caught in the middle of it.

How I managed to escape the mob action is a miracle.
When I managed to crawl out from the middle of the action without a scratch or being pulled back in, I saw a couple of Police Officers standing by, watching the action and laughing.

The Nerve!!!

THE END!!!

9 Thoughts of an Amazing Nigerian Blogger Boy.

1.   Lagbaja has refused to show his face still. I kinda respect him for that. Or did he open his face at some point in time when I wasn’t looking?
Ego has hereby faded into oblivion. Where did she go sef? Why did she leave Lagbaja?
Ego???

2. D’Banj basically has become a useless whats-his-face without Don Jazzy. Now Don Jazzy is making all the hits with Tiwa Savage and D’Banj must be somewhere out there in the cold, gnashing his teeth, drinking his Koko garri with salt and fish, Or just an energy drink, wishing, just wishing. 

3. Me too I want to do song with Don Jazzy o. Anyone who reads this and knows someone who knows someone that knows him should link us up o. Please. I can be a great star and I am forever loyal.

4. Where on earth is Tara Reid?

5. I had a dream, did a music video with Phyno, the name of the song was………..wait for it………..’Bitch Face’.

Don’t judge me.

6. I will soon start posting videos on Youtube. Videos of me singing of course.
Watch out!!!

7. I think Nigeria is the only country in the world without steady (or close to steady) power supply. I haven’t Googled it. I don’t think I need to. Just tell me if I’m right or wrong. But I feel I’m right. This country is a jungle.

8. I shouted at one man at the International Airport Immigration desk on my return to Lagos. He tried to skip the line and I went out of my way to cause a scene shouting down daggers and thunderbolts on the man. At some point he started to cuss in Yoruba and from the depths of my soul I raged “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!! AT YOUR AGE YOU CANNOT SET A GOOD EXAMPLE BY STANDING IN LINE. FILTHY IMBECILE!!! IDIOTS LIKE YOU GIVE NIGERIA A BAD NAME!!!!

When I was done, the incredible hulk vanished and the immigration officials came begging me to calm down, and of course they made sure the ugly eel was attended to last. And I left smiling, fine as ever.

9. This morning, while I was walking to work, the Federal Road Safety Corps stopped me and tried to arrest me. I asked them why, seeing as I was WALKING, they told me I was too fine to be walking the streets thereby constituting a hazard to those driving past who may be in too much awe of my presence and crash into a pole or other not-so-glorious pedestrians.

*puts on sunshades*
*adjusts shirt*

If only.

So You Think You Can Blog?

Uwa mmebi

Dear Diary,

      OMG.
Remember Jeremy Meeks, the guy they arrested and took a mugshot that has now become the cover shot for sexy criminals all over the world? The one with the steely ice blue stare, the tattoos and the high cheekbones?

Yeah. Him.

Apparently now he has a modelling contract.

LoL. Uwa mmebi. 

They are even contacting designers to provide him with clothes for his court appearances to help with public opinion. Public opinion? I mean, half of the ladies in the world already are hot for him. He could strut out to that courtroom stand in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs and his public opinion would remain unscathed.

God help him if members of the jury are old Jehovah’s Witness men. He is finished.
Let him shaa finish his court wahala.  

Good things happen to unfortunate people.

SPEAKING OF WHICH

A man Viktor Jasinski, 32 went to rob a hair salon in Meshchovsk, Russia. The female owner of the salon, Olga Zajac, 28, an expert karate fighter allegedly overpowered the would-be robber with a single kick, stripped him naked and, for the next three days, used him as a sex slave to ‘teach him a lesson’ – force feeding him Viagra to keep the lesson going.

Boy did she teach him!!!
When she did release him, he had the nerve to run to the police to report the rape and admitted his intention of robbing the salon. Now they are both arrested, he for attempted robbery and she for rape.

LoL.
Uwa mmebi.

Transvestite Child.

Dear Diary,

       Here’s a little throwback to the days of my childhood. I was a happy little child living with my parents and sister somewhere near the University of Calabar campus. At the point of this story I was roughly 6 or 7 years old…or younger. I dunno.

Ego, my sister, and I had childhood friends in the neighbourhood; Nana and Anthonia our Ghanaian friends, Umoh, Etete and Nko, our next door neighbours whose father was a tyrant and whose mother was passive aggressive, and Etekamba or Hassan, the light-skinned boy who the entire neighbourhood of parents and daughter doted on. We all used to play house, dress up and karate.

One day, Ego my evil sister dared me to be the bride.

And of course I, not one to shy away from an act of childish stupidity, said yes. So Ego brought out my mother’s favourite yellow and green lace wrapper, blouse and scarf and made a wedding gown and veil out of it. It was, now I think about it retrospectively, quite genius of an 8 or 9 year old.

The foolish game of DARE was not complete without the traditional bridal walk down the street. And I agreed. What the hell was I thinking??

So here I was, a little boy blithely unaware of the social consequence of being in a woman’s attire, walking rather nobly down the street. What day of the week was this? I don’t remember. Where were all the adults living in that street to stop me and give me a good spanking? I don’t know either. It was like a rapture of the adults.

When I was a good way down the street, maybe 60 metres, Ego shouted “NONSO, DADDY AND MOMMY ARE COMING BACK!!!”

I didn’t need any further warning or a prophet or interpreter to relay to me what kind of danger I was in.

Girl, I ran.

Turned back and started running as fast as I could to the house. Damn that evil girl Ego, she tied the wrapper too tight and I was practically hopping like a penguin. Of course when you’re in trouble, you immediately cease to think straight. All your energy goes into the basic human instinct of survival. “DO NOT LET YOUR PARENTS CATCH YOU IN YOUR MOTHER’S CLOTHES!!”

I ran.
I ran. As fast as I could with my wedding gown’s train following me regally on the dirty street.

I ran.
For my life.
For the lives of my generation yet unborn.

I ran. All of a sudden, my friends; Nana, Anthonia, Umoh, Etete, Hassan, all of them disappeared.
Such friends I had!!!

Thank God I got home before my parents caught sight of me. Ego deftly untied her creation from off me and placed them under the pile of clothes to be washed.
And the day was saved.

I am no transvestite. I have no such desires or inclinations. Thank God. Maybe the thought of my impending murder scared any traces of that out of my system. Cause Mr and Mrs Iwuchukwu would have killed the hell out of me!!!

ARE YOU A SCRUB???

Dear Diary,

       ARE YOU A SCRUB?

TLC said it all. A bit by bit breakdown of who a scrub really is.

Don’t you just love those good old songs that define and explain every word we danced to in excruciatingly painful detail?

Listed below are the characteristics of a scrub.
See if you fit in.

1. A scrub thinks he’s fly.
Apparently such is an illusion because none of the classy ladies see him for the fly fella he thinks he is.

2. He is also known as a busta. I wonder if Busta Rhymes is a scrub that rhymes.

3. He is always talking about what he wants. Basically he talks a good game, classic case of a big dreamer who does absolutely nothing to achieve them.

4. Hence, he sits on his broke ass.

5. His game is weak. Hence he cannot approach a lady with much success. He probably is one of those fellas with lame pickup lines such as “did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” OR “Can I get your number? I lost mine in the ocean.”

6. He looks like trash and is a deadbeat.

7. He hasn’t got a car, so he has to walk. I don’t know why exactly this is a problem. Not everyone can or should have a car. Too many cars pollute the ozone layer. #SAVETHEPLANET

8. He lives at home with his mother. #FailureToLaunch

9. He has a woman but shows her no love and is soliciting the sexual attention of other women. Also known as a two-timing no-good guy.

10. He is broke and putting up airs to attract the attention of a classy lady.

For all of these, a scrub is thus
11. A guy that cannot get any love or appreciation from a classy lady.
12.  He hangs on the passenger side of his friend’s ride trying to secure attention from classy ladies.

Now I have broken it down for y’all, be true to yourselves. On a scale of 1 to a dirty toilet brush, how much of a scrub are you?

And since classy ladies don’t go for scrubs, what then do we call those ladies who do?