My Journal

Discipline or Child Abuse?

Life Changing the World: A Phoenix's Aria

To begin this post, in high school, I kept a journal and wrote down all of my thoughts, fears, and hates! After this incident, I stopped writing.
Once upon a time, I was fourteen and kept a journal. Much like people writing blogs these days. I would write sometimes three and four entries a day depending on that days events. Over all, I think I was a pretty good kid. Didn’t drink or do drugs and let’s face it… I was terrified I would be killed if I ever did.

One time I did skip school and got caught. I was fourteen and my boyfriend and I had decided to have sex for the first time. So, we skipped school together. As a teenager you don’t consider the ramifications of your choices.
The school called my step father at work to let them know I had skipped and when I…

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Basically my weekend was…

Yesterday Vivienne dragged me to a wedding.
In Ikeja.
As her date.
Much younger date.
You know,
younger men…
older women…
All the rage now.

Anyway, the wedding, I don’t want to diss it, but I will summarise it all:
the rude caterers, the waiters that bluntly refused to serve us food or drinks, the rowdy guests; more than half of which of course are unknown to the bride and groom, the few polished people that looked so uncomfortable seated amongst the uncouth majority, the male and female M.Cs that were deeply not-funny and whose jokes grated on my nerves, the passersby who saw a wedding party and crashed it to eat free food, the people who went around with crisp N100 notes to sell for those archaic people who still spray money on newlyweds during their first dance despite CBN’s ban on that Naira-bastardizing act, the simply awful people who hid their plates of just-finished food under their tables and then said to the waiters “Since I came, I haven’t even seen water to drink.”,
I summarise it all with this picture of the plate of small chops I finally received.

Today, Service was great. My old friend I don’t get to see often, Kezi came to my church and since people seem to think we look alike, I took him round and paraded him off as my brother and everyone fell for it.

He so vain, ain’t he?

It’s raining profusely. It’s Segun’s birthday

and he (left) Gbenga. (right) and I(nowhere in sight) were supposed to go see X-Men together but alas, the rains would not let them even near Surulere. 😦 ߘȰߑ

Tomorrow is the day I shall summon the courage to inform my boss that I am off to South Africa to partake in a televised music talent competition show. I hope he takes it well, and says yes. If he doesn’t, well, I’m still going shaaa.

Happy Things today.

Dear Diary,

     Here are a few things I love today.

1. Family.
     Happy Birthday to my beautiful little (not-so-little) sister Obumneke Deborah Iwuchukwu.

If I had favourite sisters (which I don’t) she’d be it.
Ego no vex. It ain’t you.

Debby, I’d totally call you but alas, you’ve gone through more phone numbers than George Clooney has had girlfriends. Hence, I do not have a number to reach you with. But happy birthday sweet little lady.

2. Speaking of family, isn’t this simply a vision?

I know her. I totally know her. God. I know people that look this good.
She is a fashion designer.

I mean, of course she is.

I hope to God I look this good at his age and have a woman that looks this good and have children that look this good.
Le sigh.

3. Music.
My friend. Yes. My friend, Phrance

Fancy name, right?
Phrance is an amazing rockstar in the making. He just released this song that has made my day. The song is called “Ocho”. It is deep, beautiful, powerful, thought-and-tear-provoking.  

You know what?
Here’s the link.
»» http://t.co/WNKqq2WH7y #RockMusic

You’re welcome.

4. Work.

Got my payslip today.

Tank you JESUS!!!!! That 10 naira beside it is all the kish I have left. Talk about living from hand to mouth. LoL.

Nkechi’s Revenge

Dear Diary,

        Remember the two rats that ravaged my house back then; Chinwetalu (who Jerry killed and his mother called Animal) and Okonkwo (who turned out to be a child-bearing Nkechi)?
Well, Nkechi is back with a vengeance. Hell hath indeed no fury like a widowed female rat scorned and with a deathly appetite for household food and vengeance.
See me here keeping my Agege bread carelessly because I thought to myself “Alas, the breadwinner has been killed, Hence the wife shall retreat and shan’t bother me anymore.”

But alas, I was wrong.
Nkechi returned and ate the entire loaf of N100 Agege bread. She ate it all and left crumbs on the chair, under the chair and in the bathroom. How she did that, I shall never know.
She scattered the contents of my dustbin bag and tore it to shreds. And at sundry times, I see her patrolling round the house.

Dear Diary,

           I am scared. I know how dangerous women are when they’ve had enough. I.e. Tanya Harding, i.e. That little girl that poisoned her husband and his friends at their wedding ceremony in the North, i.e. all the scorned women in the world.

p.s. It rained the day before yesterday and flooded my house and after I’d cleaned it up, Nkechi came strutting in to inspect the house.
p.p.s. She left and returned with a friend.
p.p.p.s. Perhaps she’s already done mourning her late husband. The little tramp. She is already being seen with another suitor.
p.p.p.p.s It rained again today and I’m away at work. I hope I don’t go home to meet disaster.

I hope Nkechi doesn’t attack me in my sleep.

If you’re reading my journal and have any thoughts, please let me hear them. Post your thoughts down below. Thanks.

Most Eventful Saturday EVER!!!

Dear Diary,

           Today has been the most eventful Saturday EVER!!!

1. House-hunting.
   I am still on that parole my dear. 
Mr Agent took me to the end of Kilo, to Itire. You haven’t seen hood like that hood. I was scared for my life. Those rats that terrorise me at home were just lying dead all over the dirty streets. Even the children are trained hunters. The place was filthy. EVERYONE ELSE was yoruba (I’m not a ‘tribalism’, please don’t judge me. Try to understand. I would live with all Yoruba folks in Lekki or Ikoyi, not Itire). And my house was at the very end of this street, Karunwi.
I just couldn’t.

2. Crazy ex-girlfriends

I ran into this girl I used to talk to back in University. She was a nut case back in the day; all suicidal, low on herself and what-not. I had talked her through a rough spot in her life and she mistook my kindness for affection. Girl started writing me love letters and what-not, but I had to set her straight, I was liking someone else…who happened to be her friend.

Girl was not having it.

she just couldn’t!!!

When I started dating her friend, she took to her Facebook wall and started pouring out all her angst. Called her all the nastiest names you could ever think up. And yes she shut me out, and we’d practically been incommunicado.

Till now.

She wasn’t with her phone so she asked me to get her number (thank God).
I ain’t gon’ call her.

I just can’t.

3. After walking all around Surulere’s thickest hood to find house and an episode with crazy big chest sister, I sure was thirsty, sweating like a whore in church. So I go to buy a drink. The guy doesn’t have change so I have to buy a 1.5 litre bottle of Fanta. There is no way in God’s earth I’m gonna finish that. But mere holding it, I got preached to, scolded, stared at and ‘yimu’d’ by all the people on my way from Kilo junction to my house. People kept asking me “you wan die?” “Do you know diabetes is real?” “God will punish your greed!!” and so on and so forth. It was all really funny. Even census market came to a standstill to watch me straw my Fanta from such a humongous bottle.
Mind you, I hadn’t even gone near half of the bottle and all this negativity I attracted.

I just couldn’t.

4. I decide to go shop for denim. My only pair tore in an unholy place and I need a pair to wear to stand before God’s people and belt out notes to the glory of His name. Hence I decided to go to Yaba to buy jeans. I tag along with my dear friend @kayitonwokedi. We reach the market and the real day begins. We are grabbed in every conceivable part of our body by all the traders hawking their goods. We go to a shop and all the men troop in to sell us their different jeans. They called us ashawo boys.

And once again, I just simply couldn’t!!
Apparently, ashawo boy is a term they use for someone they perceive as fine, fashionable or whatever they think is good. Not the actual meaning of the word you are thinking of.
I kept saying NO to every wash of denim they brought. They were over-the-top, skinny and just plain tacky. We sat there for hours before we were able to find good straight-cut jeans that fit and didn’t look gay as a fruit basket on Christmas morning.
Those men will say or do anything to sell their market. They will stroke your ego by any means possible and in some extreme cases, stroke certain parts of the body. But my God whom I serve did not let me be violated once more after that conductor did that thing I’d love to forget to me.
Yaba market jeans sellers.
I just can’t.

So I am now a proud owner of a pair of ‘Tagman’ jeans. Ever heard of Tagman?
Didn’t think so.
That’s why I am unique.

And that’s why right now, you just can’t.

Random Thoughts on TV and Movies

 

Dear Diary,
            Please, who are these ugly cockroach girls they use as extras in Nigerian movies?
          Who casts them anyway?
Why are they always classless and don’t know how to put on makeup properly?
Why is it that whenever they open up their mouths to speak, it is always rubbish that comes out? Either that they have bad dentition, or they can’t speak English, or they are just plain bush girls?

This trend is predominantly found in Asaba where a lot of movies are shot. I should know this, I’ve been there.  

On a slightly unrelated note, why are our actors mostly type cast
1. Why is Patience Ozokwor always the evil mother-in-law?
2. Why is Tony Umez always a weak son?
3. Why is Jim Iyke just useless? And what’s up with that silly reality show of his anyway?
   Speaking of reality shows?
Does anyone even watch that show anymore ?
The one time I saw that show…well, I just couldn’t do it anymore. They call it “Jim Iyke: Unscripted” shebi? That is the most foolish show since “Rich Kids of Beverly Hills”.

Speaking of which

That show is the worst idea for TV since….since….
See? I can’t even think of any worse way to waste time watching TV. The children are spoilt rotten, arrogant, obnoxious, foul-mouthed and just plain stupid. And mind you Dear Diary, I am not hating on them. I love rich kids that behave like they have brains up in their heads and don’t behave like the world revolves around them.

Omotola’s show….what’s the name? shebi they said it raked in more views than Oprah’s talk show on its best day? Whoever said that should be wrapped in pig fat and hauled off into the lagoon.
Ok I am pained!!!! Goodbye!!!!

p.s. Captain America is amazing!!
p.p.s. Noah is a crappy movie. Whoever told a godless buffoon he could retell a Biblical story and take God out of it and make silly additions?
p.p.p.s. I am still house-hunting.

I like this rich girl I can’t chyke

Dear Diary,
          There’s a certain young lady I have had an eye on for some time now in church. She is a stunning beauty, petite, eloquent and kind. I have wanted to talk to her for a while, get her number and see how far we can go.
       But I can’t.  
You see, cliché type situation, I’m a hustler, and she’s a diva. And this is not the Jay-Z/Beyonce type of situation. I mean I’m an actual hustler. She’s a rich babe, you know what I’m saying? She wears fancy perfumes and dresses, she lives in Lekki, she has a car and I don’t have all these things.
Now before you go all “money isn’t everything” on me, let me lay down a few points.
1. I love the idea of a strong, independent woman. Yes I am a feminist at heart. Like Chimamanda, I believe in the economic, social and political equality of the sexes. I love that she (my church love) has her own thing, a fancy job in which she is a ‘Marketing Executive’. Hmmm. 
2. Despite all that, I am a man. I want to be able to provide for my woman. Abi girl. (lol). I want to be able to give her the things she needs, take her out, buy her things.
3. Hence, her financial and economic status being much higher than mine currently has impeded my ability to profess my feelings for her. Shall I buy her a rose when people are buying her rocks and gadgets and perfumes?
4. Don’t you dare go all “If she loves you she will accept you the way you are” on me…cause I will finish you with my Mexican third eye.
5. I really like this girl. But I guess I am really not a feminist. Perhaps my support of ‘Girl Power’ isn’t as authentic as I thought. When she gave me her card, I just knew that was it. No way.
6. Am I really intimidated by her? I think not. I just know right now I can’t provide for her. And that makes me feel less than a man.
7. Hence, I shall like her from afar. And work and wait to be able to walk up to her and say “Miss Thing, would you be my girl?”

I wrote a song to this effect. Coming soon to stores near you.

I got grabbed

Dear Diary,
A conductor grabbed my butt.

Really!!

I was entering into a bus that was moving. The conductor was being really impatient and shouting that I should hurry in to the bus. As I climbed in, he grabbed my butt and shoved me in.
Emphasis on the grabbing here!!
I have never felt so violated in my life. Ever!!
Ok except that one time back in University Mr Omonijo, aka Mario, aka Lil’ John smacked my behind with his hand. I went to his office to request for a bank exeat because
1. None of the hall officers agreed to give me a bank exeat to go to the bank.
2. I was broke.
3. It was my birthday.
4. I was hungry. On my birthday. And broke too. So I couldn’t buy food to eat. On my birthday.
5. It was my birthday!!
I went to Student Affairs and stood outside with Quincy…whose name I shall not mention (I know I just did). Next thing Mr Mario comes and tells us to leave the doorway and smacks my behind.
#VIOLATED
To think I didn’t even get the bloody exeat. I starved that day. My birthday. And I was violated too.

Now this conductor feels he has the right to do same and go scott-free. I was determined to say a few bold things to him. But as I turned to give him a piece of my mind, then I notice he is a big menacing fellow, a thug, a stoned-looking thug with bad dentition and a really big chest. So I accept my violation with a sealed mouth and gratitude to God that I hadn’t spoken sooner. I may have been killed or worse, he wouldn’t have given me my change.

Le sigh.
#Lagosbusexperiences

I been fired

Dear Diary,
          I got fired today.
Damn?
Not really.
          As a matter of fact, I learned a valuable lesson today. I hold on tight to a lot of things I shouldn’t and I let go and move on from the things that I shouldn’t. 
I got a part-time job as a copywriter at a prestigious firm. That should have been awesome, right? It wasn’t. Regardless of the fact that I love to write, I didn’t enjoy it, it wasn’t the kind of writing that brought me any sense of joy or challenge or fulfilment. But because they were all so nice to me, I was being a goody two shoes and couldn’t quit. So it affected my job performance. 
My stint wasn’t that long with them, I got a call today and was fired very nicely. Very very nicely. They said something about our relationship needing a break until we’re ready to try again. Hmmm. Supukwa!!!

But it taught me a lesson. I’m not afraid amore. I have been fired and I haven’t died. I feel more inclined to try something new. Something that I really genuinely want to do. I’m not yet quite sure what it is, but when I find it I will know it. I’m only irked now that I was too timid to take the first step and say “I do not want to do this anymore” before they did. But all’s good.

I do hope this whole epiphany doesn’t disappear by the time I wake up tomorrow morning.

Help!! My dad’s on Twitter

Dear Diary

Help!! My dad’s on Twitter.
Wanna know what’s even worse? He made me open the account for him.
Call me a bad son or whatever you feel like, but I’m sorry I’m not having this. My dad and I have fought over a few of my posts on Facebook. Like one photo I posted of myself and tagged it “Feeling sexy”. It was Word War III over the phone between us.
Over the phone because I live in Lagos and my family lives in Calabar.

On Twitter I am a no holds barred kinda tweeting guy. I will say it with no reservation. Not like I post anything sexual or obscene. But please, I’m not about to fight with my dad because of Twitter. If the small one I do on Facebook gives him a heart attack, then Twitter will just plain kill him.

So please dear diary, don’t have a big mouth. Please just keep it between us.