THE SEX LIFE OF A LAGOS MAD WOMAN

This place is not my house, but I live here.

It is not the type of place you want to call your home. Sometimes, I wonder how I have managed to call it mine since my uncle died, that should be five years ago, or six or seven.

It is a very smelly place, that’s what people who pass make you believe, because they are always covering their noses.

 But me and the grown men who smoke Indian hemp every morning, every afternoon and every night in that corner, always wonder why they cover their noses.

This place is very cold, because there are no doors, no windows, nothing. But there is a roof. That’s where the cars pass; plenty during the day and very few at night. The other ones who don’t pass my roof usually pass my frontage and I love watching them, especially those ones that are as big as houses and you can’t see the people inside because the glass is always black like charcoal.

I see a lot of things every day. A lot of things. I will tell you some and then one that happened today. The one that made me swear that I was not mad and I can never be because I couldn’t have done what the woman did.

It is sad that only one man here knows that I’m not really mad. That shameless one with his beards and hair dread locked like my pubic hair. Rosco. He hisses and shakes his head at me during the day like all the others in his gang. But I and he know that I am not mad. Because at night, very late in the night, when others have gone, he will call me into his danfo bus, and I will do to him what that stupid igbo he smokes cannot do to him.

I do not let him know I look forward to it. How can I? Then he will stop squeezing that N100 note into my left hand every time he gets up after he has pounded me to his heart’s content. He must think he has just raped a helpless mad woman as he zips his pants. Fool. He does not have any idea how my legs shake uncontrollable and how my bowels tremble and how the hair on my body stand still when he is inside me. Only that he is always too quick. I don’t know why, but I can’t complain. I have to wait till the next day or the next.

I’ll continue to let him believe he is raping me but deep inside me I know I will die if he does not call me like that for three days. I don’t ever want to return to those days of touching myself. How can I even think about it? Evil thoughts go back to your sender, please.

Back to what I was saying…the things I see here every day.

In the morning, I wake up with noise. Loud noise.

“Ojuelegba – stadium – barracks!” repeated four times in a roll so quickly; if you don’t live here you will think it is a call to war. I wonder where that is; a place whose name sounds like sport and war. Other times it is, “Itire – Lawanson” that I can hear louder.

Where do I even know? I’ve not left my house for many happy-new-years now. This is where I shout it every time it is time to shout it.

Then Rosco will wake up and start the engine of his bus. He will switch it off again and then go across the road and come back with water in a bucket. My eyes always go with him because I don’t want any careless early morning driver to knock him down. When he gets back to the danfo, he will go close to one of the tyres and bring out that his big thing to urinate. That is when I always wish he would call me, but never, the fool will never even speak to me, he will just shake his head like the others when they look at me. I have to wait till it’s very dark.

Then he will remove his clothes and leave his shorts on, pouring water on himself with either a bowl or his hands.  When it is time to chafe just below his waist, he will keep his hands in there for too long. This is why I know Rosco is a fool. Can’t he just remove the shorts and wash properly? Who else is watching?

When he finally leaves with his noisy danfo, I’ll turn my attention to the road. If I feel hungry, I will get up, re-arrange my house and make sure no one stole anything while I was asleep and then walk across the road to buy what I’ll eat.

Oh how I miss the woman who sells that early morning akara. She doesn’t come again these days because of Fashola’s people. So now I go to the aboki who prepares tea and indomie noodles and egg. Only Rosco’s thing is sweeter than that Indomie and egg in this life, you have to believe me. But the fool will not use his plate to serve me like other people, so I have to always remember to bring my own plate. He says I’m mad, yet, he knows how to collect my money and give me change. He doesn’t toy with my change any more since the day he saw me bite someone with these my teeth for calling me “Reveren sistaa”.

I hate that name. I hear those are the people who never do the thing me and Rosco do. They must really think I am one. Fools.

It may be better to ask me what I have not seen here than to ask me to start telling you the things that I see every day. I have seen rich men carry prostitutes away at night; I have seen a corpse dropped from one of those charcoal cars one night long time ago. I have also witnessed many fights between different gangs like Rosco’s group where they use machetes on themselves and left blood everywhere. I have also seen many okada people die like chicken from too much speed, especially at that junction over there. Only last week, a speeding trailer climbed one okada rider’s head spilling its content to the ground. I couldn’t eat for days after that. Let us not talk about it, please.

Yes, I promised to tell you about the incident that made me know that I am not mad, right? Actually that day I was just sitting on my own and I noticed a woman selling Coke, Pepsi and LaCasera that all these people buy and drink and then shine their teeth gleefully after only a gulp.

Suddenly she brought down the big container of drinks from her head by herself as if to sell to someone. Then she began to go round the container. Then she began to dance. Then I stood up. I wanted to understand what was happening. Then she started singing, and clapping like the people in those churches where they wear only white.

Then she untied her wrapper and used it to cover her wares. That’s when other people began to notice what I had been watching since. Then she removed her buba, revealing rounded breasts that made me jealous, only protected by a very fine bra with some shine-shine on it.

“O ti n ya were o!” a bus conductor yelled as his bus passed and people stretched their necks to catch a glimpse, saying the woman was experiencing the beginning of madness.

Then the men who were walking began to stop and look. I’m sure they were waiting for her to remove the bra. I took my eyes away.

I can’t worry about her too much, because I myself I have a problem growing in my stomach, I feel like vomiting, and I am very dizzy and I am very worried. 

I am very worried because I know what it is, this problem. Just like those films I used to watch in my uncle’s house. They would do the thing without rubber and next thing, the stupid girl is running outside and vomiting, and then the mumu man says it is not he who caused it. Fools! As if I was the one who did. And it is the same story in every film oh, yet, they never learn. After, they would say I’m mad.

I left the woman of the rounded breasts, with a dozen eyes glued to them, and went home – I thought I’d have plenty of time with her when she became my new housemate. But you know all these mad people and their waka waka, I’m still waiting for her. Like I was saying, I left because I had to sit down and think. Think very well because I cannot let something like what happened to the first thing happen to this one. God forbid. 

The first thing is why they are calling me a mad woman. My uncle gave it to me. By force. He used to do me any chance he got -maybe that is why I like Rosco doing it to me, I don’t know.  Then my aunty took it away. By force too. She made me drink two tablets like that and I slept off. When I woke up, I didn’t have a large tummy again, I cried and cried ehn. This thing that didn’t allow my uncle touch me again. This thing that allowed me breathe for two minutes without my aunty asking me to do unnecessary chores. This thing that I used to speak with every time, telling it all my plans and secrets. They took it away.

I still talk with it to this moment. People point and say I’m talking to myself. Fools, they don’t know I’m holding an intelligent and proper conversation. In fact, it was it who assured me nothing would happen if I put otapiapia in their meal that night and just walk away - you see, Uncle had started again and Aunty beat me thoroughly when I told her. I did.

After thinking and talking to it, I have decided to give my daughter, yes it’s a girl because this one dances and sings, unlike it who used to jump and kick, to the “Reveren Sistaa” that I see preaching at the junction. Next Sunday, I would go and wait for their white bus. She would be a “Sistaa” too and pray very well for me, then maybe God will manage to forgive me. She will also never do the thing Rosco and I do, very sweet but too much wahala - see me naw. I cannot even take care of her, talk less of feeding her. I would breastfeed her all the food she needs for life if I had the rounded breasts of that mad woman, where is she sef?

 So, I am not mad oh, I am not! Fools.

N.B

The story y'all just read was a competition organized by this phenomenal author, ‘Seun Salami (please Google him). The first part of the story; in bold format, was written by him, and the latter part; in normal font, by my humble self. i didn't get anywhere in the competition (see the grief, apparently i don't have up to eighty friends to vote online for me, to help in achieving my dreams, so sad, anyways..) the competition was to find a writer who completes the story best. Don’t you think i should have won? Please, join me by the "washing" machine; it’s necessary to do your laundry yourself a times, hehe... hope you enjoyed the story tho'? It was all for your reading pleasure. Peace and love.

 

MUSIC, CARRIED OCCUPY NIGERIA (UNCUT)

If ‘Occupy Nigeria’ was a successful revolution or not, is a debate I’d leave to pundits; preferably political. I would follow such a debate critically and make my own judgments, based on the opinions of the speakers and what little knowledge I possessed before.  Also, I would not miss the chance to chip in a few words here and there, you know, with a tone of finality simply because I don’t (and can’t) bear the name looku looku - an onlooker!

 I can say authoritatively though, that, music carried ‘Occupy Nigeria’.  Yes. Music is the reason why ‘Occupy Nigeria’ (as I would refer to the NLC/TUC strike action that occurred early this year throughout this piece) lasted the one week or so it did. Music alone is the sole reason why we can call it a success, if we would.

Every Nigerian (and interested foreigner) has the basic gist of ‘Occupy Nigeria’ and the major characters involved - the President and his cronies, the labor leaders, social commentators, heads of civil society groups etc.  They were the ones occupying our TV screens and newspapers front-pages, pushing to the background the real major characters; the people, the masses!

The union leaders were fighting, on our behalf, the President and his cronies attempt at trying to alleviate our suffering. The heads of civil society groups convened rallies at which social commentators spoke. All good and nice except that, none of the above actions could have been thought of, talk less of it happening without the people. Yes, the common man is why the President removed the fuel subsidy, why the NLC/TUC embarked on strike…well, you know the rest.

‘Occupy Nigeria’ probably took off in Eagle Square, Abuja before spreading to other parts of Nigeria. Freedom Square, Ojota, Lagos ultimately became the headquarters of the movement. I was travelled home for the holidays, so I occupied at Liberty Square, Lugard Roundabout, Kaduna.

Nothing happened on day one at Liberty Square, Kaduna. Well, there were a few of us; about fifty, mostly educated and about a hundred policemen. Kaduna has quite a history of violence hence, the two to one ratio of policemen to citizens. We all just milled around, discussing the situation and coming up with strategies for a better protest. By twelve noon, we were done, leaving behind our contact details.

Day two, I got to Liberty Square and our number was still dire. Doubt began to settle in, as I walked over to a few faces I recognized. I shook the lads and wove at the ladies; they were mostly Muslim. It was all talk again until a TV crew from a local station showed up and we promptly elected a barrister to speak for us. By twelve noon, we were all dispersing for houses again, everyone determined to pull in more crowd.

I arrived promptly on the third day, wearing a maternity mask and a smile. The maternity mask we had selected the previous day as a symbol of our protest (and I strongly suspect also as protection against the harmattan dust the north is notorious for), the smile because we were finally a crowd! We had agreed to embark on house to house campaigns and public speaking – a primary schoolmate of mine, now an imam, spoke at his mosque. We had a little talk, educating the newcomers, after which a Christian prayed and then a Muslim - it’s a moment I’d never forget.

Next thing I heard, banging loudly out of the speakers, was, “food e no dey, brother eh, water no dey...” African Chinas’ ‘Mr. President’ was blaring out of the speakers as everyone sang and danced along, as another strategy paid off. Next was ‘Jaga Jaga’ by Eedris Abdulkareem and by this time, Okadamen were parking their bikes and joining in. We; hundreds of people of all religions and tribes, were all moving in a big cycle as we shuffled our feet to Felas’ ‘Suffering and Smiling’ – we were finally having ourselves a protest.

Someone may argue, as people did and are still doing, that it was a protest and not a concert or party. Firstly, I dare you to tell that to the Negro slaves who sang while they picked cotton, to the South Africans before 1994, to the Jamaicans on the streets of Kingston, to the Israelites in Babylon – music has always being the voice of the oppressed. Secondly, how do you keep people engaged all day in a cause on just talk, mere talk? Lastly, the only voices the people are going to listen to are the voices of people they love and are familiar with. Voices they hear every minute of every day on their streets, from their radios etc. The voices of musicians! While everyone played a role, none was more important than that of the musicians who came out in their numbers and carried the occasion with their music. Music, carried ‘Occupy Nigeria’.


N.B
I entered a shorter version of the above post for the Super Bloggers II competition on Omojuwa.com, I came in 7th. That version was also edited by the owner of the blog, the title changed to Music and Occupy Nigeria. So, a few people liked it and I have decided to share the original with you my budding and almost non existing audience, hehe. I'm also working on a short story based on this.
Also,  the competition is still on going albeit in its third session; Super Bloggers III, send in your stuff if you've got what it takes. Then, apologies to y'all who read the article before, thought I'd give you the uncut.
Have a good week people. Sala'am.

Introduction To Grants' Thoughts (Consider It My Mission Statement)

Hello people. It’s my second post and I’m not yet tired, yaay.  Lol! The excitement is much, on my part, and if I can get you to feel only a little of that, my job (more like hobby) here would be totally worth it. Really. So, thanks once again for being here on this blog (and thinking those thoughts that would basically answer the question – do I want to follow this blog?) when you could have been on any other blog in the world, I really appreciate it!

Now, back to the question I stated in the past paragraph – do I want to follow this blog? – let me quickly say a few things that are gon help you answer that as truthfully and quickly as you can, without the emotional pain and drama -lol. A quick “something” to start.

I follow Michael Skolnik on twitter and amongst other things; he’s the political director to Russell Simmons. He also gives character to the term social activism. Due to his tweets and later, articles during the Occupy Wall Street protest, KONY 2012 and most recently, Trayvon Martins’ murder, I was forced to get involved in these issues. I read up on them and decided to take stand – on twitter mostly! Now, while a lot had/has to be done to contend with these issues, there’s no denying the huge part the social media now plays – a full write up on this soon. So, when someone tweeted at me saying “some people take panadol (a pain relieving drug) for other peoples’ headache” I knew she couldn’t understand. How could she possibly understand the effect of twitter when she’s on it to amass followers and the shallow satisfaction that provides? How could she know that it was only by tweeting that people could get informed about issues and hopefully be motivated to do something about it? That it’s only on twitter, and other social media, that you can easily find people, like minds from every walk of life possible, who together through collective action achieve an aim; whatever it is? That it’s all our single voices that become the loud noise that disrupts and causes action? How could she understand?

 The Occupy Wall Street Protest, KONY 2012 and Justice for Trayvon Martin achieved whatever level of attention (and success) they are garnering due to our individual voices. Michael Skolnik showed me I had a voice I could and should use - on twitter. I have decided to take it further by creating a blog; a place where I can shout so loud till somebody hears me. That’s the primary reason for this blog!

My profile reads evolving activist, creative enthusiast and aspiring writer so I’m gon be “shouting” on a whole lot of things, with focus on the three outlined traits – there’s gon be something here for everyone, if not more than one thing sef. The language I would be using in my posts is gon switch between formal, semi formal (like this one) and informal, depending on what a particular post is about. There are gon be posts on personal experiences and personal opinions (although I seriously wonder how personal I can get? Shout out to all the bloggers who are basically writing/filling electronic diaries – you are very strong oh, the thought of how you can share the details of your life with the world comfortably is one making the constant rounds in my head. Who knows, I might be able to do it?). There are also gon be very objective posts whose sole purpose is to educate, no sides would be taken, I’d just simply be stating the facts. I’m gon be writing on everything yo! So best you see it as one exciting journey that’s never gon end – kinda like “The Magic School Bus”, who remembers the cartoon series?

My posts are gon be concise and straight to the point (I hear my ‘predecessors’ ramble on and on, hehe). They are also gon be very engaging so feel absolutely free to (and please always endeavor to) use the comment section. I’d also love to know what you’re thinking! Err, what else? Hopefully, I have succeeded in convincing and not confusing you (last statement use to be a favorite closing line for debates then in high school. I wonder if anyone still uses it.) on why this blog should be bookmarked, Favorited and visited constantly.

Peace y’all.