Rants on May D and other phenomenon

Dear Diary

I was coming home from a prayer meeting in church (p.s. I never knew those could be so refreshing. p.p.s. The small chops afterwards….Lord have mercy!! I might just switch from choir to prayer squad)
P.P.P.S. Doesn’t the name “PRAYER SQUAD just sound like a team of holy ninjas kicking demon butt Corinthian style? Cool, huh?

Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted by my own wandering mind, I was saying I was on my way home late from the meeting and the bus radio (YES. THE BUS!!!)
FOCUS NONSO!!!

The bus radio was playing May D’s only hit song “So many tins”. Anyway, the point of this isn’t to pick on May D for his obvious lack of something I am not going to mention but I am guessing you already know Dear Mr (or Ms) Diary.
What I want to ask you dear diary is why. Why has the word ‘things’ turned to ‘tins’ in Nigeria? When did they summon a meeting to discuss this change? Why didn’t I get a memo?

I have so many tins to ask you sef.
1. Why do we like to say things two-two times? Like follow follow, ten ten naira, talk talk and others.
2. How come our famous artists can’t sing? And how come the ones that can actually sing are forced to sing crap just to sell?
3. When did skinny jeans become the fad?
4. Why am I always bored?
5. Why am I just an amazing person? I mean. I just can’t…I can’t even….i mean.
6. If NAMA, NCAA and NiMet finally merge, will I be fired along with most of the people that shall go?
7. Why did God create hunger and fatigue? Why do we have to eat and sleep?
8. Why is this agbero man sitting beside me peering into my phone and looking at me?
9. Oh God. Am I safe?
10. I cover myself with the Blood of Jesus! !! No weapon formed against me shall prosper!!!

Le sigh.

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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 wanna be a singer so freaking bad!!

Dear Diary,
          Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?
          Well, I’m already grown up. But still. Do you wanna know? I bet you do.

A singer. 

Yes. A singer.
When I was very young, I had this dream. In it I stood before a large large, very big crowd of people with sparkling clothes and flashing lights. And everyone was silent waiting for me to sing.
That’s it. I never did sing before I woke up.
That dream has haunted me every other night since then till now. That’s more than 15 years of the same nightmare.
So what am I doing about it, you ask?!
Well, I don’t really know. I’ve tried a few things, but nothing seems to want to work out the way I desire.   Music is hard. There’s a lot of crap out there and people aren’t ready to listen to lyrical art. They just want a beat and talentless crap sung over it. (no offence to the hardworking folks running the show these days).
It’s a long story. But I guess I won’t stop trying. I’ll be damned if I go to the grave without sharing my gift to the world.

I am Nonso, and I am a singer and a songwriter (And in the words of the great Dream Girls showtune) “And You, And You, And You, You’re gonna love me!!!!”

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.

What God has for me is for me

Dear Diary,
            I went to visit a friend yesterday. 

Hey. Don’t be surprised. I can actually do that. Visit someone.
                  Sometimes.
Anyway, I did that. He got talking, as usual, cause he always does the talking and I do the listening and then after I get a headache from all that talk I remember why I never visit people in the first place. Well, the point is, he got an amazing job somewhere I cannot tell anyone… (Microsoft) and his pay is STUPENDOUS!!!

Don’t judge me. For a nanosecond I was jealous. Envious really. Why wouldn’t I be? Anyone working where I work and earning what I earn would be. I won’t tell you where I work. (I really won’t this time)
As a matter of fact I wanted to grab his talkative mouth and hurl him into the dirty ocean.
All this was just for a nanosecond.

But then all of a sudden I was happy for him. Genuinely so. And I told him so, and meant it. I’m sure the Bible somewhere admonishes us to rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn. So that’s what I did. I rejoiced. He gave me a sachet of pure water and we celebrated.
I know what God has for me is for me, and when it comes no one can take it away from me.

So my dear friend, I am happy for you and I hope you keep soaring higher and higher. But if I hear one more time from that your mouth how amazing your job is and how much free food they give you and how many times you will travel to everywhere in the world, I will grab you by the arm and throw you overboard to be eaten by sharks and mammy water spirits!!!

To God Be The Glory.

I’m locked outside my house…this night

Dear Diary,
       I locked myself out of my own house and am upstairs at my neighbour’s. Nice job Nonso. Nice job!!
      They have on some Nigerian movie. I cannot possibly roll my eyes hard enough. Emeka Ezuro-whats-his-face, Jim Iyke and some other people who’s faces I know but names I don’t. The acting is so…well you know how terrible movies shot and produced in Asaba are. I would know this, because I visited Asaba one time. Please don’t ask me what took me there. All I will say is a certain Vivienne Nkem chick took me there.
The night we got there Whitney Houston died.
That’s the end of spontaneity for me.
And that’s also the end of this crummy movie in which Mike….ehen, it’s Mike Ezuronye, not Emeka, abi am I mistaken? What’s the name of that fair guy who is always angry or arrogant in his movies?
The wigs the ladies have on in this movie ehn!!!
Where is my Jackie Collins novel anyway? I’d rather be reading. Oh yeah, I left it downstairs…with my key, and everything I own…which isn’t much…but it’s all still mine.
Crap!!!

Oops. I meant “To God be the Glory”

Death In The Family

Dear Diary,

It has been quite a day yesterday.
I lost an uncle. My mother’s eldest brother. I know he’s a Bishop and stuff, but we called him Papa, perhaps cause he bore a striking resemblance to (abi is it ‘with’) my grandfather.
Or maybe not.

The interesting part of this story is that, his wife, his very much educated wife is accusing my mother of killing him.
Interesting, right?

There was a bit of a land tussle between both siblings. My grandfather left ‘em all some land and houses and stuff. My uncle had his church built on the family land beside my late grandmother’s house and no one questioned him. Then he felt like expanding his reach and tore down the fence of my grandmother’s house, which was built by my mother. My mother by the way, is a typical Margaret Thatcher, so you can imagine that she opposed him.
I won’t bore you with the entire story. But shaa, some other brothers sued him to court.
Next thing, he was dead.
Next thing, Mrs Nonso’s Mother is responsible for Papa’s death.
Oh yeah, I forgot to add. Papa was a raging diabetic. He was even more hypertensive, and he was diagnosed at some point with plastic anemia. But no, my dear mother who has now been hailed a witch, killed Papa. No one seems to imagine that if she were indeed a witch, she would have killed him long ago when this really started, no one would’ve had to spend time, energy and money on the court case that had already started dragging on.
And I thought stuff like this only happens in Nigerian movies.
Thank God no one is taking aunty Papa…I don’t know her name…seriously, for otherwise it would not have been funny. Well it still isn’t funny now, but it really wouldn’t have been funny.
But regardless of it all, a man is dead, a good man, and he was my family.
So RIP Uncle Papa. Not cool of you to suddenly succumb to all your numerous ailments, you were always a fighter. Certainly not cool what you did about this land thing though. But you were a Christian, so I hope you make it to the skies. RIP Uncle Papa, RIP.

And please Dear Mrs Papa’s Wife, my mother did not kill your husband. He was ill.
Family.
I sigh.