Archive for the ‘Deep’ Category

I logged onto Twitter and saw Kofo tweet, ‘RIP Niggydip’. I remembered a friend who shared same name but I knew he could not be the one, he was too alive to die.
Then I saw someone describe the deceased as a humorous person. This was looking too much like Niggydip so I checked a mutual friend’s BBM update and it was confirmed.

When friends go, you remember moments in vivid detail. My remembrance of Dipo is distilled to three experiences.

Dipo Samson Egbedeyi

Dipo Samson Egbedeyi

On Friday, I noticed Dipo doing pushups. He was a funny soul and I knew he had a funny reason to explain his new physical fitness quest. The next day, he was off to contest at the Gulder Ultimate Search trials. Now, he was recounting his experience: The guy who drank the entire contents of his six cans before contesting, the person who almost drowned, the one who was already planning how to spend his winnings before even getting into the jungle. It was a funny account of the reality show’s entry competition. A story of his own trial and failure was being presented as humour.

Niggydip stayed in a lecturer’s boysquarters. The area was called ‘Computer’, because it was close to the computer laboratory built by Zenith Bank. I came around the BQ at night and Dipo was outside with clothes. He called me and said he had some clothes he had and wasn’t wearing, pointed to a bunch of clothes, some not worn and told me I could have any (or everything). It was a wonderful assortment – a Man U jersey, some denims – it was really exciting for me, the unexpectedness of it all. I tried to thank him but he was more concerned explaining to me how he had never worn most of them.

Niggydip always had something funny to say about anything. I’m not talking about conditional humour. I am talking about self-deprecatory humour, which is the best kind. So say something bad happened to him, expect him to joke about it.

He is gone now and I don’t remember things like his oil company job, the cool car he had as an undergrad or that he was one of the first people I saw with the iPod Touch. What I remember are scanty conversations in the night, chance conversations at the doorway, random run-ins.

I don’t remember the things we spend our life living for, but the moments. It makes me fear; if I go now, do people have any swear word free moments of me?
Out beyond ideas of right and wrong, there is a field, one filled with moments. What are yours and mine made of? When you lay in the earth and vain accomplishments do not mean a thing, what will people remember?

I will always remember Dipo as a smile, a laugh, a streak of light, an easy soul. Keep making beautiful moments up there bro!

R.I.P NiggyDip.

Parting Shot

You’re invited to my event next month

The Unsaid

The Unsaid

What’s your pattern?

Recently, I’ve been reading ‘The Accidental Public Servant’, Mallam El-Rufai’s new call for attention. What struck me was a conversation he had with Baba Iyabo. Mallam told Obasanjo that he should not go for the Third Term because in his life, everything he struggled for never came to him. The only things that came to him are the things he did not put much effort into.  And in his opinion, that was a pattern that had constantly played out in Obasanjo’s life.

OBJ ignored him and went on with the 3rd term thing, and we all know the end.

Everyone’s life has a pattern, I’ve been thinking of mine and came up with something. Anything I really put effort into is not the decider. Most things that mean a lot to me are the stuffs that were largely ‘play’. Lemme give you an example. No, 2 examples.

In secondary school, the first exam we had was NECO GCE, that was like S.S.S 3 First Term. We liked it cos it took place outside the school and we had to wear mufti. So we were always having a dressing competition and when we got to town, we would sneak to Mr. Biggs and buy stuffs for our girlfriends.  Understand? It was just cruise-all about baffs, town and stuff. That’s the result I’ve been using till now. The WAEC and all that I really read for, I’ve not even collected it from the school.

My finest ex till date; the one I did not deserve, the one whose picture I keep years after the break up, the one whose name I drop in conversations. Lol, you get the gist sha? Finest babe I’ve ever gone out with. I did not do much too. I just said ‘You look like Ini Edo’ and another time, I said ‘I like your natural smell, you should not bath too often’. That’s as much toasting that happened. There was no heavy artillery and stuff.

Disclaimer: The blogger does not in any way endorse the use of cheesy lines.

Eez nuffin

Eez nuffin

And there are other things I really hustled for, but now, they are not that important or I hustled to leave them. So I just saw that Woh! when things are too hard, it’s not what matters. The way my life is, I just always feel God makes what is mine come to me, and that’s a pattern.

 

I’m not an Ordinary Tenant.

Lagos is not easy o.

Rainy season came and everyone was tweeting ‘Weather for 2’, while I was scooping water out of my room. It was like magic. First rain of the year, as the rain started, I thought I was outside.

I say one day it was raining and I went to stand outside in the rain. I don’t know how it happened but the one in the room was more than the one raining outside

What of the day I had visitor? She woke me up in the middle of the night and said, ‘Osis, what’s this?’

I said ‘Err…whenever it rains, it trickles’

She said ‘Trickles ko, schmikles ni’. That’s how guest left in the night o!

I asked my friend for advice/help. He said ‘Osisiye, obu onye n’eeme nkpotu a? You cannot be more than what you are. Come back to Bariga’.

So today, I just closed eye and called Fire Man. He charged me for cement, sand, slate, 2 rolls of roofing sheet and owo epo (money for fuel). I don’t know what concerns fuel and roof repairs.

IMG-20130511-00096

Most Valuable Tenant

Hopefully, this works and I am not washed away one of these nights.

Imagine a Linda Ikeji Headline: ‘Blogger and pet dog drown in own room, landlady distraught, condemns builders and vows justice’

Lol. Out folks!

Temidire is all you could ask for in a man. He isn’t handsome neither does he know book like that. He often forgets to wear matching stockings. He is what Jemila and Rukky call ‘presentable’ or ‘just there’. All he has going are good intentions and an infectious laugh.

During the years of reckless abandon, you and the girls shunned all Temidires. You had lovers to warm stormy nights and laze Sunday mornings away with, lean muscled men with beautiful smiles.

As the seasons changed, you sang sad break-up songs and watched ‘Pretty Woman’ over and over again.

Several birthdays later, you realized a Temidire was exactly what you wanted. No, not wanted. All you needed in a man. Hardworking. Smart. Dedicated.

Yesterday, he asked you to be his woman, to wrinkle, and lose your sight and hearing with him.SAM_1074

To build colorful dreams of owning a small bungalow outside Lagos, with wide windows that bathe the room with warm sunshine, and capture the open fields.

There would be dogs and a truckload of children.

You would perhaps die together like that couple in the movie, The Notebook.

Perfect. It was all you often dared to dream of, wished upon stars and cast lucky pennies in fountains for. You should be happy and giddy with excitement. But you want more, or perhaps less, or a little bit of both. You want everything and nothing. Maybe it’s the fear. It’s too perfect. Who are you to truly have all your dreams come true?

You stare at the keys on the table, reach out for a pencil and your weathered notebook. You begin to write,

My dearest Temidire,

Today’s post was supplied by Toluwalase

My phone rang. It was Ferdy. He was outside my house. I dashed out of the compound, followed by Simba in hot pursuit. The usual pleasantries were exchanged.

‘Tafa, dis your dog don grow o’

Simba as a 3 weeks old pup

Simba as a 3 weeks old pup

‘Yeah’, I replied.

Such comments are expected from folks who knew Simba as a three week old pup. Then, he slept wrapped up in a towel, could not see  (dogs don’t see for a while after birth) and always fell from the table where he slept.

Ferdy’s and other comments remind me of the painstaking medical attention, care and food that has gone into my son. It also reminds me of the fortune I have spent in the quest to be among (and remain in) the elite group of dog owners.

***

My house is a trekkable distance from Spar. So this is what happens on most days of the week. At 8: 50 p.m., I set out of my house in a dead sprint (I hope my heart forgives me) and get to the mall at 8:58 p.m., just when the security man hovers at the gate. I am very aware of their closing hour, 9 p.m.

On this Thursday, I beat the closing time by just 30 seconds. This day was more important than others because I had run out of dog food. At the check-out counter, I frowned at my bill-it was high. The bulk of my purchases were the cans of Jojo dog food spread across the counter. I knew I could not continue like this. Giving my dog canned food would ruin me. I had to find a cheaper alternative, and fast.

The solution was not long in coming. It presented itself in the Kfa Event Center; a place where the high and mighty come to celebrate every weekend. I had a word with the security men who guard the hall. It was agreed, that every Sunday morning, I would come and get leftovers.

More recent picture of Simba. Ready for an early morning game of 'Fetch'

More recent picture of Simba. Ready for an early morning game of ‘Fetch’

***

I have no illusions about my place in society. I attended a Unity secondary school and transferred to a private school at the expense of plenty ‘scratch-body’ moments from my father. I then moved on to a Federal University. I am the typical middle-class kid. In the course of my experiences though, I have gained a form of civility, not unlike the refined graces of one from well-heeled roots.

So when I got to the Kfa Centre on my first morning and met drums of leftovers, I was repulsed. Bones, empty bottles of water, crumpled napkins, moldy wraps of amala-all stood in drums. How would I dig into these heaps of left over chow? I met a man there. He was digging into the drums-hands first. He kept unearthing treasures-chicken bones, cow leg and uneaten chunks of fried chicken. We struck up a conversation.

From our conversation, I got to know that he was packing food for his dog, an Alsatian called Lady. He once had many dogs. They were the pride of his life and terror of the area. Then, a bank which needed dogs for security purposes offered him seventy thousand naira for each dog. He sold them all, except one. He laughed when I told him how I had placed my dog on a sole Jojo diet. He said it will allow me to je gbese (get into debt). During our conversation, he kept throwing things into my bowl-a piece of pomo, chicken bones, a half-eaten samosa…

Soon, he picked up a cup, and exclaimed, ‘See as dis rich people dey waste correct glass cup’. He threw it into his bag. That was definitely not for the dog. Soon, some pieces of silver cutlery followed. And when I saw some unopened packs of toothpick, I passed them to him. He gratefully accepted. It soon became known to me that my partner came to get leftovers for his dog, but would not mind some souvenirs for himself also.

***

Soon, we had enough to last our dogs for a while. He got some discarded bottles of water and used the contents to wash his hands. We walked out together. We exchanged numbers.

***

On my way home, I pondered. When did this happen? When did he cross the line between dog food packer and scavenger? When do we also cross the lines-between using the official car for personal errands and stealing billions, indifference and hate, confidence and pride, heartbreak and murder, despair and atheism, research and agnosticism…? When do we cross the line?

I have had a rethink

Posted: June 12, 2012 in Deep, Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

Nothing should waste. Even bad things. If bad things shouldn’t waste, that means nothing is truly bad ba? Let’s leave philosophy for another day.

Last week, my heart was heavy. It sunk to the bottom like water under oil.  I made a post and couldn’t bring myself to respond to comments on it. Blog faithfuls, I hope you understand?

In the wake of those events, I have had a rethink on so many things. Let me share them with you.

If I was there, I would have used not a few swear words at the airport. I do that when confronted with bureaucratic procedures and a little delay. I would have grunted grudgingly at the hostesses and stared down at the loud person making a call just before take-off. I would have been human.

In the wake of it, my family members who haven’t seen me in a year would mourn a memory. My friends (few) would write notes about me. Most of these notes would contain information I already have in my CV and not memories.

I have had a rethink on so many things.

I really should go and see my people. It’s been a while. Technology is a thief. She rips us of what is important and gives us the chaff. You get so comfortable with listening to metallic voices on the phone and watching BBM updates, that a physical presence become secondary-a vestigial organ that can be done away with.

I have toyed with the idea of having my younger brother over. You know, have a weekend with him, take him to the mall-pick up a few stuffs that catch his eye. Go to the cinemas, play ‘monkey post’’ at the beach as we used to when younger-that kinda thing. The plan has always remained in my head. Well, I have finally fixed a date for it-July 27th. It’s gonna gulp a fifth of my salary, but what-the-hell?

I really should tolerate my friends some more. I can’t count how many people I have deleted off my list for simply having ‘wrong updates’. ‘This girl only knows how to snap her boobs’, ‘This boy is always misspelling stolen lyrics’ and pam-pam! I have deleted them. I really should take a Chill Pill.

And yeah, my job. There should be more to life than waking up at 5 a.m every morning and hoping I get to work before my supervisor. There should be more than thinking of the electronic gadget I am going to get at month’s end. The world out there to conquer is bigger than my air-conditioned cubicle. This one is still a thought in formation sha. I will think about it tomorrow.

‘I have filled my tank. If this continues, I will just pick some clothes, you and Tola and head for the border’

‘Haha! I doubt if it will come to that’.

This exchange occurred between me and Bryan in the wake of the ‘Occupy Nigeria’ protests and Christmas Day bomb blasts. Tola is his girlfriend.  It was a time when events were at a standstill and the idea of leaving the country for good crossed not a few minds.

June 3rd, five months after, the same air descends on the country-the air of ‘To what end? Where are we headed with all these?’. This is owing to an event which will infamously go down in history books as ‘Black Sunday’. The day in which Nigeria experienced twin tragedies of a bomb blast in Bauchi and a plane crash in Lagos which claimed all 153 lives aboard.

This time, Bryan did not store petrol. He spread around open Bibles and talked about affliction, cleansing the Land and Moses. This time he prayed and sadness hung in the air like harmattan mist at dawn.  It was the sort of event in which a part of us all died.

Events like this, what options do you have but to leave or just pray…pray.

‘Osisiye, why are you always wearing this shirt’?

‘Eh?’

I looked at the red T-shirt again. It hugged my thin frame in a very nice way. The neck line is superb-fitted but not strangling. It has the picture of a mouse on it-the mouse is kicking out like in a kung-fu class. This T-shirt is my classic stay-at-home wear. Come Thursday, Friday, Saturday-you will find me wearing it. If I am not wearing it, then it is on the line.

That T-shirt was once an outing shirt and I had so many memories with it. I wore it on the day me and Folu went to Savannah.I once wore it to a bar with friends and from there, we had an impromptu slumber party so I had to wear it all-night, then run into school at 10 a.m. in a frantic bid to meet up with a lecture.  I also wore it when…. Let me not bore you, but me and this cute red T-shirt with the yellow label, we’ve got history.

Now I have converted it to a knock-about.

You can never feel alone wearing such a shirt.

So many of the things we do are products of memories, and don’t they make them all so sweet?

It’s just like listening to ‘Hit the Road Jack’ by Ray Charles. You only full appreciate and love that song after watching the movie ‘Ray Charles’.

So here, use the comment box people, let me know things you do, wear, say, places you go to that are all based on the memories these bring up.

Some Love, Osisiye.

 

PostScript: For the next two weeks, I’m gonna be blogging everyday, so help me God. Call it a two week blogger challenge. Show some love people and come on in everyday. Better still, follow this blog so you get a daily mail delivery of this. Cheers

what happened to the lord?

Posted: September 11, 2011 in Deep, Political

My family was the typical. Father was the lord and mother was the propitiator. When the lord got angry, mother would go on her knees and beg for mercy on the soul of the offender. Whenever the Lord got angry and was about to excommunicate any member, he would shout ‘No Jupiter can stop me’, then sometimes mum’s knees and the soft click of the bedroom door would stop him J. That was before the yusufaris got to town-those people who hid knives within their long flowing robes. They walked around the community saying what should be done. Dad charged from his bed intending to confront them while mum held onto him and begged for him to keep his cool. He threw a look of pity at her and stomped back in. Alas, the confrontation could not be postponed for on a certain day, we heard a rude knock which rattled the hinges. Dada opened the door and there was one of the yusufaris-white robe billowing in the wind, black and grey headgear making his head look three times bigger and only his red eyes showed. There was a brief argument and for the first time, I saw the lord’s shoulder slump.

These days, the yusufaris jump on their bikes and set off at high speed towards the Kwatungwai area of town where most churches are located. They always leave with a polythene bag held loosely. ‘They have bombs in the bag which they throw into any church that’s occupied’ my friend Kareem whispered to me at the square yesterday. And now the soldiers are in our community, they harassed Aisha the other day-pulled her hair and asked her to show them the location of the yusufaris, one of them slapped her and spat on her whilen she crumbled to the ground heavily. They ripped her head cover off and when she came home sobbing, dad looked at her briefly as if he did not want to notice the bruises on her knees and told her to go meet the mediator. I expected him to stomp out towards the soldiers who still strolled around carelessly but he stomped toward his room and talked in hushed tones the whole day. esterday, the soldiers shot sporadically for hours on end, the lord dived under the bed and his legs shook continuously. When we stood up after hearing the sound of the truck drive off, I saw a wet patch on the lord’s baggy shorts. The lord doesn’t shout again and he speaks in hushed tones as if someone’s listening. I wonder on most days what happened to the Lord.