If you're going to be racist...

... at least get it right.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-12030051

Now, if you didn't read the article, it gives a report of a recent incident in which some disappointed football fans in the Republic of Congo took to the streets and attacked Chinese-run businesses, after TP Mazembe were beaten 3-0 by Italian club Inter Milan.

The Fans were unhappy with the Referee's decisions and thought he lost them the game. They naturally took to the streets and attacked all the businesses operated by his fellow Chinese men. Perfectly normal reaction; I mean, who wouldn't take to the streets in a violent rampage after their team lost a match? Just one little problem. The referee was Japanese, not Chinese.

Dear disappointed fans, at the very least have the decency to find out which race you're hitting out at before going buck-wild on their property. I for one would feel pretty stupid if I stormed through several organizations and damaged their possessions, only to find out that the instigating incident did not involve their countryman at all.


Now that the renegades have run roughshod over several Chinese businesses, I doubt any one of them is going to walk up to any of the offended parties to apologize for their "mistake".

"Err, sorry about that mate. I thought the ref was Chinese. My bad, old chap -You orientals all look alike, you know. Case of mistaken identity, that's all. No harm, no foul and whatnot. Well then, Cheerio!"

Yeah... not likely.


This incident is not only an example of ignorance, but is also indicative of a subconsious negative sentiment the Congolese people are harbouring towards the Chinese, whose various copper mining businesses operate within the Republic.*

* Now this could spiral into an argument about neo-colonialism via business operations and how the black man should control his own resources, which in turn could spawn an argument about the inability of the black man to create commercial success for himself, because he had the chance to do so long before the Chinese set up shop, which can further spiral into past colonialism which arguably set the black man back several centuries... and I don't want to go there.

My point is that in a world where black people give white people (and other races) stick for lumping Africans together in one big puddle of oily racial muck, the reverse is also the case, and can have more severe consequences than just upsetting a couple of "Africans". Luckily, no lives were lost in this incident, but this could have easily not been the case.

This once again brings me to a point I often make; where there is division, there can be - and a lot of times there is - conflict. It almost makes me think that the answer to the almighty "Why are we here?" question is "to somehow live in perfect peace, despite all our racial, religious, cultural and ideological differences." Maybe that actually is the answer, and not 42 (follow the link if you didn't get that). Wow, apart from being quasi-psychic, I may just have answered the ultimate question. I never cease to amaze myself.

Now on that self aggrandizing note, I leave you all to enjoy the rest of your day, with hope that tomorrow brings a day free of racism - or, at the very least, jocular racist statements directed at the right races (and at someone who will not punch you in the face for said joke). Oh, and Merry Christmas! - Or "Happy Holidays" to the appropriate parties. See what I did there? Just call me Mr. Politically correct. (Oh darn, I thought I was done singing my own praises. Ok, I'm going now)


- Pat II



* On another note, there's a typo under the picture on the BBC website. Good eye I have, aye? (darn, more self aggrandizement. It hurts to be this amazing!)

Lens is the Word

The word Lens; Now this App is a seriously awesome piece of work. I even had a bit of trouble believing it was legit at first. I'm not by any means an Apple fanboy, but I've gotta say, the iphone's versatility greatly encourages creativity, and this app is just one example of several amazing creations out there. Its about five dollars for each language package (English to Spanish is seperate from Spanish to English), but it is probably worth it for anyone who travels a lot, or anyone who would want to read Spanish literature.

I do have a few questions though - For one, how well does it deal with other styles of text - radical italics, different serifs, etc. I also dont know how well it would deal with written words, as hand writing varies greatly.

There's also the problem of how it deals with incorrectly constructed sentences and misspelled words though... built-in autocorrect, maybe?

Either way, It seems like a decent app. If it comes with a japanese to English package, I'm buying me an Iphone for Christmas!

- Pat II

What they sayin'

This video is a perfect example of how gangstaness/blackness takes meaning away from a song. You hear the lyrics when a brutha spits it, and you say "damn thats tight!", but when you take it apart, word for word, you see just how crude a song can sound.

Nothing against the song or its artistes. I'm just saying, in the words of Outkast, "lean a little bit closer". Its fun to actually listen to a song, and not just hear it. Then, and only then, can you truly know what they sayin'.

Below is the original version.

Resposes to Responses: Article on Women in Nigeria

After reading my previous blog entry, a few people had some things to say. A friend of mine (named Dez) was particularly vocal, saying that Nigeria had bigger fish to fry:

He said, and I quote:

"I think Nigerias problems are WAAAY bigger than any gender issue or role based confusion.
Not to take anything away from this but its like worrying about a flat tire when your engine transmission is toast. How easy is it for ANYONE to make ...it in Nigeria regardless of gender?

In terms of relationships I think you just need to find the person on the same page as you. If you are female and wanna spend day and night cooking and cleaning then you can find the kind of guy that wants a house wife. If you wanna spend day and night hustling then you can find the kind of guy that wants a hustler . If you are more in the middle (and so on). There is no "right" or "wrong" role for women or men. There are just arbitrary constructs people with opinions put forward."





Astute observations, yes - My response is as stated below:








Just to clarify, this isn't a forum for debating gender issues and their place in society. Each gender has their strengths and weaknesses, and we are here to complement each other. This is simply commentary based on my observations, as well as some of my opinions. If you don't agree, that's okay (but you can still go and hug transformer).

@ Dez - astute observations as always. one thing though - I did mention a general perspective. I quote - "discrimination in itself would always have existed in society. As long as there is division, there can be conflict and discrimination." once we are different in any way (sex, race, religion, sexual orientation, tribe) there is room for opposition and oppression. I was just putting things into context for the pertinent issue. Of course there are greater problems, but that doesnt mean the little ones dont exist. To put my 'discrimination' point into perspective, I'll cite a timeless joke by Emo phillips:




Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump. I said, "Don't do it!"




He said, "Nobody loves me."



I said, "God loves you. Do you believe in God?"



He said, "Yes."



I said, "Are you a Christian or a Jew?"



He said, "A Christian."



I said, "Me, too! Protestant or Catholic?"



He said, "Protestant."



I said, "Me, too! What franchise?"



He said, "Baptist."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?"



He said, "Northern Baptist."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?"



He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region, or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region."



I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879, or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?"



He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912."



I said, "Die, heretic!" And I pushed him over.

So yeah, the society probably has bigger problems than the oppression of Northern conservative baptists of 1912 by Northern conservative baptists of 1879, but the fact is that that man still got pushed over the bridge because of it. lol. that joke is hilarious btw.

Just to top things off - my introductory sentence stated that I was prone to coincidences-. The day after I wrote this piece, a lady friend of mine in the gym was being hit on by an older (much older) man, and later came to me (unprompted) bewailing the general attitude of men towards women in the country - objectifying them and making it seem like they are unable to do things without a man's help. I then referred her to my writeup. Shameless plug, I know, but I hereby declare myself quasi psychic. lol

Enjoy your day folks




- Pat II

Women in Nigeria - commentary on Chimamanda Adichie's Financial Times article

I tend to be prone to coincidences; whenever I ponder a topic, something usually happens the next day that teaches me more about said topic. When I learn about something for the first time, the next week I see that same thing all over the place. Maybe I’m quasi-psychic, or maybe it’s just my ignorance preventing me from seeing what I should be seeing until I learn about it. Either which way, I digress. This week’s “coincidence” was a discussion I had with my sister about discrimination against women in Nigeria, and the chauvinistic nature of our society. This discussion was impeccably juxtaposed with our discovery the following day - a Financial Times excerpt written by Chimamanda Adichie, on, you guessed it, being a woman in urban Nigeria.

The day we discovered the article (before we had read it) my sister and I saw a woman in an E/S-class Mercedes Benz and I went “Oya, who bought it for you?" (Tongue in cheek, of course). By sheer coincidence (or was it?) Adichie uses this very example in her article, decrying how women are seen as unable to earn a luxurious living on their own.

While the current state of affairs is unfortunate, the fact remains that there is no smoke without fire. Nigeria has been a patriarchal society for a long time, and the man has often done the bread winning. Several men who have attained vast wealth (notwithstanding how they came across it) often spend it on their spouses, or their girlfriends. Because of this, a high rolling chick is more often than not assumed to have another "source of income" - More so, if the girl is young - it raises eyebrows.

But here I must interject. Young women are not alone in this plight. Young, rich males raise eyebrows as well. While it may not always be openly mentioned (though sometimes it is), there exists a "chopping his father's money" stigma – a label attached to young men whose parents are of substantial means. The son is assumed to live off his father’s wealth, and is implicitly accused of not earning a dime in his entire life. This, to an extent, can be true. The structure of Nigeria makes it harder for young men to gain complete independence early. High costs of living alongside relatively low employment salaries mean that young men are dependent for a longer period of time than in other countries. While some delinquent sons exist, there are several young men working, and working hard, regardless of their parents’ wealth. But still, they are given the label of “carefree rich boy.”

On the flip side (yet again), albeit several young men are attributed this label, society accepts it as a norm, and turns a blind eye. The son is the heir after all, and all that money is his to claim in the long run, right? “So we might as well just treat him right”, society says. He gets the salutes, the “oga we dey hail oh!” and “we dey your side”. The daughter, on the other hand, is distanced, and does not merit the same respect the freeloader son does. She is just another girl who will soon marry a man and become his property. If she’s lucky, that man will be rich and only then will she become a “Madam!” (Note the exclamation mark.) She will still, however, be branded as a man’s acquisition. She will be a reflection of his wealth and authority - nothing more. (The mere fact that the phrase goes “chopping his father’s money “ is prejudiced in itself. Why is it not “his parents’ money”? )
Anyway, here are some points of call for me: Discrimination against women is global, and only recently did it wane in America. Perspectives are still heavily skewed worldwide in favour of men, but times are changing; countries across the globe are becoming more enlightened, and I believe Nigeria will soon follow suit. We tend to copy a lot of things, so here’s hoping we can emulate some beneficial culture as well.

In my opinion, discrimination in itself would always have existed in society. As long as there is division, there can be conflict and discrimination. If women were the higher power, mark my words there would be men writing these anti-oppression articles instead. Complaints of abuse would clutter newspaper editorials with stories of how “that woman stares at my butt at work”, or how female police officers waylay unfortunate men on the highway, inquiring as to whether they had “anything for the girls”. The internet would be awash with male forums and blogs telling of their gender’s enduring suffering, and men’s rights propaganda would litter the streets - assuming that women would let men speak out. For all we know, had they held the reins of power from the get-go, women would still be discriminating against men today, possibly with a stronger hush policy. We all know how adamant women can be, after all. Maybe it’s for the best things turned out the way they did.

All jokes aside, men lucked out genetically. Patriarchy began in ancient times, mostly because of the foundation of humanity, which was hunting and gathering. Men were more physically suited to these tasks, and ended up as the workers/breadwinners, while females took care of children and the households. With such a deep rooted foundation which spanned several millennia, it's not surprising that it has taken the world an equally long time to change its outlook. This prehistoric social structure is the very reason why some male supremacists, (if I may deem them such), argue that feminists are trying to defy natural law – something that has been encoded into our genes from the dawn of time. They believe that women are meant to be subservient and let men do the work.

While this perspective is highly skewed, I firmly believe in the latter part of the statement; that men should do the work. Let me qualify that; women should be cared for, while men work for them, especially (if not exclusively) in the case of marriage. I personally believe that men should work for their spouses. They must till the earth, sweat, and spoil their women with the rewards of their labour. Women are supposed to be cared for because they endure a pain men can never even fathom; childbirth. Women carry the living extension of a man’s being for nine months. Sure, the woman provided half the chromosomes, but she’s the one doing the heavy lifting for almost an entire year. And in Nigerian society, it is likely that the man will want her to do this four or five times. That’s four to five years of carrying a living being within her body. And it does not end there. Each child comes with it at least eighteen years of worry, high blood pressure and stress (it can be a lot more than eighteen years). From the cradle to high school to university, it is the mother that dotes over her child. When the child is sick, the mother is equally sick with anxiety. When the child leaves for school, she frets that her baby will come back with bumps and bruises. When the child matures and leaves for university, she frets that her child is leaving her and going into a world full of influences over which she has little or no control. The mother’s exertions scarcely go unnoticed, but often go unappreciated. The man may claim to worry about his child (and don’t get me wrong, he probably worries), but there is no way he can emulate a mother’s emotions - the feelings projected towards a being birthed from her very own body. Because of this, the married man must do her right. He must work his heart and soul out; ensuring that, save for the concern felt for her offspring, the wife/mother will have no other stress added upon her head. And if such stress inevitably arrives, he must give his all to lighten the load.

However, just because men should work for their women does not mean that females should be restrained in their efforts to make it on their own. Chimamanda’s gripe is especially with the attitude of society towards younger women who have no spouses, and hence no reason not to make the most of their careers and their lives. Young ladies are seen only as potential wives, not as women with potential. Even when they succeed in professional circles, they are ostracized. Strong women are categorized as bitchy, and successful ones in the corporate world are often characterized as being aggressive and manly.

If women don’t succeed, it’s because they are too subservient. If they succeed, they are either bitches (excuse my French), or have done” something” to get where they are. Women can’t seem to win either way in businesses - unless, of course, they start their own. In a patriarchy like Nigeria, such a thing will be an uphill task, and is almost impossible with strong backing from powerful males and females. I believe it is possible though, and I am hoping for more public support (financial and moral) in order to facilitate the ventures of young business women, who can then branch out from fashion, acting and modelling into any industry they wish. Believe you me, I am doing my part.


Till next time, I remain ever hopeful,

-Pat II

Link to Financial times excerpt: http://www.cp-africa.com/2010/12/12/chimamanda-writes-woman-urban-nigeria-financial-times/

"The Fathers have eaten sour grapes...

... and the children's teeth are set on edge." Such are the affairs of the Madoff family today as Mark Madoff, the 46 year old son of Bernie Madoff, was found hanged in his New York apartment - an apparent suicide. The decision of Madoff's son to take his own life is proof that, no matter how much money you make, there is no substitute for integrity.

Mark Madoff worked for his father in the financial company that defrauded investors of millions of Dollars, but he (assumably) and other family members have claimed ignorance, stating that they were unaware of Bernie's dubious dealings. While I find this hard to believe, considering that, as major stakeholders in the company, they must have perused several annual statements, and must have been privy to information regarding major investments, my misgivings are irrelevant in this context - Even if not directly culpable in his father's wrong doings, Mark's suicide is the embodiment of shame; despair brought upon him by the disgrace Bernie Madoff brought to the family and to its legacy.

I know that as sons and daughters, we may not always be privy to the affairs of our parentage, but we must take this message to heart- Human dignity is inviolable, and moreso is the dignity and pride of an entire family. The virture, respect, and self respect of a collective must not be squandered by the actions of just one man. The stigma carried from just one incident can scar several generations, and cases of families changing their names are not unheard of.

At the end of the day, we are only accountable to ourselves. We cannot know the intentions of anyone else, not even our closest blood relative. It is thus up to us to be true to ourselves, and to others. We each hold our legacies in our hands, but in tow with ours are those of our families, and those who associate with us. Do not dishonour yourself. Do not compromise your dignity, for in doing so, you rend asunder not only the integrity of your generation, but possibly that of many generations to come.

Till next time, I remain,

Pat II

Link:

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/4/20101211/twl-bernie-madoff-s-son-found-hanged-41f21e0.html

Lagos Rain: A short story written for a Creative writing Class

Gasping for breath, I leaned against one of the two slender pillars that demarcated the entrance to my former home. I barely made it; no sooner had I stepped under the ledge than the heavens bathed the earth with their fury. Akin to a flash flood, the rain had changed the landscape of the compound in an instant– ankle high water appeared as if from nowhere, and a sheet of rain coated the neighbourhood, extending as far as the eye could see. I had made the right choice to run from my car into the compound. Had I been a second later, my clothes would not have needed their weekly trip to the washers. I sighed - Indeed, I had chosen quite a challenging day to move my belongings.

While I was in university outside the country, my parents had built a new home, but had not moved all my possessions out of the old house. I took it upon myself to do that, but had not anticipated such weather. There was no way I would be able to carry anything from the house to the car without becoming a human sponge. I decided it would be best to wait out the storm. Fumbling for the keys in my pocket as I walked, I tripped on the third stair of the entrance, managing to catch myself before I fell. I let loose a stifled hiss, pressing my stubbed toe against the tip of my shoe in an attempt to dull the pain. Several years of absence must have made me unfamiliar with the architecture of the building, I thought to myself. But as I unlocked the front door and stepped through it, memories rushed to me, as if swept onward by the torrential downpour. In an instant, the house was familiar once more; as if I had never left.

I treaded past the furniture that was left behind, perhaps as a gift for future tenants. I paced furtively, as if not to wake sleeping spirits that lay dormant in that abandoned space. As I shuffled up the stairs, I glanced at the overhead windows; the rain poured ceaselessly, and I was again thankful that I was not outside. As I entered the family sitting room, I realized that, on this rainy day, not much had changed; neither the house, nor myself. When the sun shone, the house was an enclosure – a binding force that I would escape from once I had cut the bonds of assigned school work and household chores. But in the rain, it was the same four walls, with the same boy, now a man, standing within, idle, searching for what to do as the waters fell. Years away from my home had changed nothing. The rain itself stilled time – no, reversed its very flow. Chipped and flaky with age, the taupe paint coating the walls outside the house seemed to take new life, revived by the misty shower - The greyish brownness melding into a glossy sheen provided by nature herself. The hibiscus flowers in the garden glistened and reared their red heads- lifting them continually upwards, if only just to be beaten down by the heavy pellets falling from the skies. On the adjacent stone curb, a snail crawled, making its way towards the leafy plants, sure that no one would impede its path; no children to prod at it with sticks, forcing it back into the safety of its shell; no birds to peck repeatedly at its shell, in spirited attempts to earn themselves a meal. In the rain, the snail found its element – its freedom. These were its better days. And as the soft patter of raindrops upon zinc roofing became nostalgic orchestra, I found my soul cast backwards in time, to better days of my own. To damp days such as this, but when I was more carefree; the days when I was younger -much younger- and my only concerns were for life’s trivialities; for the entertainment I would seek out when the rain barricaded me within my own home.
The television would be my first resort- a haven of pre-recorded entertainment that would engage my senses, taking me far from the bleak wetness of the outside world. My favourite program was “Voltron“, which told the tale of a valiant robot fighting the forces of evil. I always looked forward to watching that show. But that was a pleasure accessible only when N.E.P.A saw it fit to provide us with electricity. And more often than not, the house was without supply. Today is no different; I flick a light switch up and down – as expected, there is no power. I then recall how I would often go to the basket in my room, where an assortment of toys and games lay in wait. I was never for want of activity when it rained, and staring at the gaping emptiness where the basket once lay, I was thankful for my parents, who had done so much for me. Because of them the rain brought no concerns save for when I would be free to leave the house and bathe in the sunlight once more.

With childhood long past, the rain now brings fresh qualms; I think of myself – of my car, which would glisten in the shower, only to become dusty when the waters evaporated and needing to be cleaned again. I think of the commuters, as the rain grinds traffic to a halt. They will be late returning to their homes on this Wednesday evening - and equally late to their offices the next morning. I think of the pedestrians who trudge through the grimy sludge as unpaved roads and rainwater become one, and again I am thankful. Yet I am sombre, for the rain reminds me not only of my fortunes, but of the less privileged; traders in open markets closing down their stalls, lest the deluge ruin their wares; hawkers, who brave the squall, lest they are unable to sell their goods; families whose houses threaten to be swept away with the slightest gust. And, pondering these thoughts, I contemplate the nature of the rain; refreshing the world with its bounty, but equally merciless in its descent, sweeping away everything too weak to resist it. Like a rapturous lover it caressed the earth, but perhaps at times too harshly, leaving moist engravings on its loamy pelt. The rain split my emotions, making me melancholy. Yet I always smiled whenever I gazed upon the moistened ground. It reminded me that I was alive; alive to know of the rain – to bathe in its silken showers; to fear its chilling embrace. Yes, as I straddled the line between past and present, in the place I once called home, I was indeed alive.

The siren cut into my thoughts, stopping them dead, and signalling that the electricity supply too, was once again alive. My eyes caught a glimpse of the television in the corner, which had flickered to life. Someone must have left it on as they left the house, and I would have to turn it off before I left. But before that, I would indulge my inner child once more.

It was an old television; a medium sized, grey model which my parents had owned since their days in University, where they first met. I was surprised they had not taken it with them to the new house, and promised myself to return for it later – it would not fit in the trunk of my car with everything else I intended to take with me. Reminiscence guided my fingers to the tuning knob, and it swivelled effortlessly as I tuned in to NTA 2, channel 5. It was four o’clock, and this time, fifteen years ago, “Voltron” would be airing. The static cleared, and sure as rain and taxes, “Voltron” was on television, thrusting his trusted blade in the face of bio-mechanical threats to the earth and its people.

As Voltron stuck down his final foe, I realized that amidst the action, I did not realize that the storm had waned, the thunderous cascade of water now nothing more than a misty spray. Electricity, “Voltron” and clear skies; I guess good things did come in threes. I turned off the television, perhaps for the last time, and turned towards my former room. There were several fragments of nostalgia for me to move, and the sooner I began the better. I stepped towards the door, but stopped, and took a second glance at the dusty television box.

When I stepped out of the house, I was clutching the dusty grey set to my chest, holding it tightly, as if not to lose my childhood memories; memories of rainy days and of Voltron, when the skies were dark and menacing, and when that grey television set had come to my rescue. Today, that television set was having a grey day of its own, and now I would save it. It would sit in my new room, as close to my heart as it always was. I would never forget it, and I would never forget the rain.

Feeling Safe

As I stepped outside of my house at midnight last Friday, I decided, for some unknown reason, to take in some atmosphere. Just stand in the middle of the driveway, look up to the sky, breathe, and take it all in. As “middle class” Nigerians, a lot of us don’t really set time aside to take in our surroundings. We wake up and move from house to car, to office, to car, to gym (maybe), to car, back to house, to car, to a bar/club (on the weekends), then back to house. We love our enclosed, air conditioned spaces. Yes we do. But as I stood under the midnight sky, with a full moon looming overhead, I began to understand why. For even within the enclosures of my own compound, in what is arguably one of the most secure neighbourhoods in Lagos, I realized that I didn’t feel safe.

I looked around me - The generator remained as always, humming in the corner, giving light to our home as NEPA had not seen it fit to provide electricity for days on end. The illuminated house was beautiful; its magnificence amplified in the moonlight. But beyond the four walls of the compound; literally less than ten meters from where I stood, darkness spread out as far as the eye could see (or not see, as the case was). And Even with the generator engine revving, I could feel the silence; the quietness beyond our physical plane. A silence that signified that at night, Lagos belonged to creatures of darkness; to beings, tangible, and perhaps some intangible, that we would hope never to encounter.
Lagos is not a city where you walk around at midnight; a lot of us hardly walk during the day as it is. But on that Friday night it hit me a little harder; “This is the way we are going to live” - From the safety of our houses to the enclosing barriers of our cubicles in our offices (maybe a corner office if we work hard and get lucky), and then back again - Lather, rinse repeat – for the rest of our lives.

I always seem to draw comparisons to other countries, but can you blame me? Without comparison it is impossible to put things into perspective. In the UK or in the States, I had no fears walking down the streets at night to grab something at the nearest convenience store. Was it the police stationed by the street corner that gave me comfort, or was it the street lights that illuminated the path I walked? Was it the frequency at which I saw people doing the same thing I was; walking with their beloveds, or maybe even going for a midnight jog? Was it the fact that the nearest convenience store was never less than a ten minute walk away from my residence, or the fact that the store felt it was safe enough, and profitable enough, to be open that late? Maybe it was a combination of all those things that put my mind at ease. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was in a country of generally elevated repute compared to my country of origin. In many a street in the New York, outside the main city, crimes rates are high. Even within the main city there are train routes you’d best avoid after midnight. In Hackney, London, there is an alley called murder mile, aptly named for the fact that at least one corpse was extracted from the cryptic pathway every week. In fact, if you went for a midnight stroll in Lagos, chances are no one would touch you; the fact that you ventured out –on foot- at that ungodly hour would probably make most passersby more scared of you than you were of them. Just don’t sport anything too fancy. Wearing designer clothes and a fancy watch is just asking for it.

Now don’t take me up on that. I don’t want to be the cause of one of my friends’ untimely transformation into a tuber of yam. The streets of Lagos may not be that user friendly yet. But even if they ever got that way, would we be motivated to leave the warm, snug, refuge of our abodes? No NEPA means that the street lights will probably not work. A lack of midnight buses or regular taxis means that you can’t really get too far. If you have cravings for late night Mac and cheese, the nearest convenience store is probably a couple of miles away, and NOT open. So what is there to motivate us to leave our homes, even with the safest streets? Pretty much nothing. Now I’m not here to criticize. I’m not going to go on a lengthy spiel about how the stimulation of our night economy could increase employment, reduce crime and make the place generally more habitable. These things you already know. I’m just Captain Obvious, here to save the day – and by “save the day”, I mean just air my thoughts on how miserable I think things are while not doing a thing to sort it all out.

Maybe if I’m lucky some entrepreneur will see this and open a chain of 24/7 Convenience stores/pubs (not nightclubs) around town to get things going. Granted, they’ll probably have to have armed doormen, but hey, it’s a start.

Till then, I remain,
Captain Obvious/Pat II

Revolution

I have not Posted in a while! Apologies (not that anyone's following or anything). Let me just say one thing. The revolution is coming. that is all...

Mini-stars

These be our ministers. A little composure during your press Conferences please. You're just showing the world how tactless you are, amongst other things. At least pussyfoot around the question without hurling insults. This horrendous display doesn't help your cause in the slightest. I mean, didn't you see that question coming a mile away? At least come up with something before hand. If he acts like that on the international stage, I wonder how he runs his affairs in Nigeria where no one can see him...

Belial

I often feel a lot of desicions I've made have been the wrong ones
That the most important things are not given enough attention
Or are not gone about the right way
Or I just plain mess them up.
It really eats at me
A single percieved fault can have me brooding for weeks
As you may have guessed, I just made another blunder
Well, not a blunder per se,
but I could have done so much better
My point though, is not to gripe for the sake of it
it is to make a resolution
For in the upcoming years ahead
I will not let my mistakes define me
I will offset the faults that belie me
I will not let failures bog me down
Though I may stumble, I will rise as many times as it takes
Because I have made a resolution:
My life WILL be fabulous.

The Dishes

I was staying at a mate's flat in Boston, and, while it was amazing, there was only one small blemish; the dishes. left undone for a couple of days, the ever growing pile had just, well, kept on growing. So I took it upon myself to do the dishes, seeing as my hosts were gracious enough to provide me with a residence (and a gym) for a couple of days.

As I stared at the pile of plates, saucers, pots and pans, I was stumped. I moved plates over spatulas, forks over frying pans, looking for where to begin. And I realized that Nigeria was kinda like the scenario that lay in front of me; a humongous cesspit of all sorts of stagnant fluids and quasi-solids that any man would think twice about before plunging his arms into it.


The Nigerian situation did not come about it one fell swoop. Like the contents of the sink before me, Nigeria allowed its problems to pile up, one after another. and no one was ready to do the dishes. Now the nation faces a mountain of fermenting stew, eba, amala and whatnot. And its a vicious cycle, because the higher the dishes pile up, the less willing people are to wash up. but if no one takes the plunge, the plates will pile up until they spill into the parlor and even deeper into our everyday lives.

But as with the pile before me, I am unsure as to where to begin with the country. I guess the best way is to start small, an build my way up from there. So, as I pick up a small, grease laden fork and start to scrub it, I feel a small sense of accomplishment, At least I've started the process. the changes will be nigh unnoticable at first, but hopefully, one day, the difference will be clear (like 7-up. lol).


- P.U II

Inception: Review

Great Movies are few and far between these days. Advanced technology has served to make them more engaging and "Hi-def", but it hard to find a piece that perfectly blends an engaging, dynamic plot with mind blowing Cinematography and choreography. Now I was one of those who wasnt thrown by Avatar. Sure, great movie, wonderful effects, but it didnt grip me as much as many people made it seem it would. It was like being in a playful chokehold; Avatar had my full attention, but it was easy enough for my mind to break away and wander.

Inception, on the other hand, was intense. It was like being gripped by the balls. No, It was like being possessed by the spirit. Heck, It was like having the spirit grab you by the balls while putting you in a figure four leg-lock: It will have your undivided attention, and while you feel that the situation is a tad awkward, you kinda have a warm, fuzzy feeling in your netherregions.

Obvious tributes are made to other masterpieces like The Matrix and Dark City, but these do not dilute in any way the quality of the experience. In fact, they only serve to supplement the already stout cauldron of oozey cinematic goodness that is the main plot; dream diving.

Now I'm not a critic, and am not here to analyze the movie to its bare bones. I'm also not one to criticize a flick just for the sake of doing so, or to see "both sides of the coin". I am an average man, and anything above average usually tends to satisfy me. This movie was, to me, very far above average, so if youre looking for an engaging, thrilling piece, this movie is for you. I have never seen a movie in a cinema twice. this movie may just change that.

- Pat

Top 3 world cup teams/players I’d rather not be right now

In the spirit of the world cup, and how odd this particular tournament has turned out to be, what with certain teams taking shock defeats, and others grasping victories previously thought unattainable, I thought I'd just state a top 3 list of teams/people I'd rather not be right now. Here goes...

3. Rob Green/England: For the country that “invented the game”, these guys have put on a spectacularly poor showing, drawing all their matches so far. People expected them to practically walk over their competition, but they have been less than stellar in both attack and defence. And let’s not forget a certain keeper error that gifted the USA a way to claw one back. (Though the USA was surprisingly resilient during that match, and is currently performing better than expected). Hopefully, they put on a better showing soon, or my jaunt to England may have some very unhappy faces greeting me at immigration.



2. Sani Kaita/Nigeria: This one really hit home, seeing as I am a Nigerian national. Heck, you’d think this guy would be my number one pick for Epic fail/facepalm/FML moment, what with the 1000+ death threats he has already received. And if you haven’t taken a look at his facebook page, please do. Ive seen insults in my day but these blow everything out of the water. Sani Kaita, sucks to be you. And goodluck/godspeed to you when you next decide to enter the nation. ‘Cause You’ll need it.



1. It was a toughie choosing which to pip for the top spot, but I decided to settle for North Korea. Losing 7 to nothing in a world cup game is terrible enough, but when you think of who leads their country... let’s just say Kim jong il will not be pleased. Frankly, I don’t think he’ll care, what with his current beef with S.Korea, and the whole U.N palaver, but you never know. He may be pissed that the other Korea is doing better than his part and decide to go “team America” on his players. Lets just wish them the best, and that they can live this defeat down. I personally think that after 7 goals, I’d just crawl up in a corner and die.

oops, i did it again

I have this bad habit of writing stuff and never publishing it. I guess its because I think they're no good, or that its all random, irrelevant nonsense. Then again, thats all I write, so I guess theres no reason to hold back. Expect more random nonsense coming your way soon.

The village, by M. Night Shyamalan...or not!

From my personal experience, and those of my peers, The annual nomadic cycle of the average Nigerian youth in Diaspora seems to go something like this:

Live in Lagos/Abuja/Port-hacourt
School/work in America/UK/some other country
Come back for holidays (or just have the parents fly over to see you)
*sometimes* Go to the village for Christmas

Everything’s hunky dory! You live in a nice place and can afford to jet set like none other. Great! I’m really happy for you, an imma let you finish, but let me ask you something. How about them village trips?

Yes, the dreaded Christmas village trip. Most of us can’t wait to get it over and done with. We come back to naija from Jand/yankee, enjoy a few days in Lagos, and then start prepping for the villa. We start packing all sanitary materials we can find; dettol, purell, the works. we bring enough mosquito repellant and fleet to kill an elephant, a music player or two or three, a hand-held fan (because god knows you don’t get light in the village. Ever. (If you’re lucky, your family is well off enough to run that generator day in day out.) Then, once we think we’re ready for the trip, we hold our breaths and take the plunge. With any luck, the jaunt to the village will be over and done with ASAP, so we can return to our lives. (heck, with kidnapping at an all time high, most of us don’t even want to go anywhere near those places nowadays).

But therein lies my point. “Returning to our lives”. Several of us have developed a disconnect from the village. There exists a great void, both physical and psychological, separating us from all things ‘village-y’. The village is just another one of those bumps in the road that we can’t wait to pave over once we attain financial and residential freedom (cuz we all know that if we had our own houses in lagos, we’d probably say “abeg burn that village side jor”)

However, the fact that we ‘return’ to the village every now and then signifies that there is something to return to. And I’m not talking about the “link to our grass roots” everyone keeps going on about. Most of us are already way beyond hope in that respect. We’re already knee deep in our Western indulgences; going to the village is just another one of the motions we go through to keep the parents happy while we still live under their roofs. Heck, several of us won’t even pass down our local languages to our children. But that’s a story for another day. I’m speaking of the things that exist on a material plane; things that are our birthright. I’m talking about physical assets: The houses, the plots of land, the farms. Several of our parents still own sizeable estates in our villages. These lands have either been leased out, cultivated on, or may just be sitting dormant, being maintained by select individuals. Some of us don’t even know that our parents possess these things. The fact remains, though, that if they exist, they belong to you and yours. Now I’m not saying you should go prodigal son on your daddy and demand that he disclose all his assets. I just find it interesting to ponder what will happen to all those assets once they are passed on to our generation.

Lets face facts; you’re parents wont be here forever. And eventually, their assets will change hands. If our parents made decisions based on our behavioral patterns and lifestyle trends, they’d probably order their village based assets to be liquidated and channel the fiscal proceeds to our private coffers, so we can continue enjoying the “better life” in developed cities. After all, most of our friends reside in the cities, and we probably all plan to work in the cities. What does the village have to offer us anyway? We have no want for their titles or their people; let’s not lie to ourselves here. Who do you “hang out” with in the village? How often do you talk to your distant cousins, uncles and aunts? This is no time for that self-righteous nonsense. (The pretentious, holier than thou “I love my country and all in it” BullSh** is a story for another day too). Most of them don’t even know your name. If necessary, you’ll send some financial backup to some distant cousin, as long as he has the decency to visit you in your Lagosian abode first, of course. For the most part, a lot of us would rather avoid village activities like the plague.

But our parents probably have a bit more faith in us, and would probably want us to keep the village house as a momento/legacy, at the very least. They would like us to visit the village every now and then, and to foster relationships with the people. So, if we wish to respect their wishes, we’ll probably have to keep the house, and the plots of land, and do more village trips. But therein lies the pivotal question: what the devil are we going to do with those rural monstrosities? (I don’t even wanna get started on the “fostering relationships with the people” part. My brain would melt.)

You may ask yourself, “what do my parents do with those assets?” well, I’m sure they have certain family members in place taking care of these things, and they do visit those sites a lot more frequently than our generation does. All those random weekends away? Yeah, they stop by the village and give the place a gander before they return. Our parents are diligent like that.

But the people our parents have caring for the place are mostly in their generation, and you probably only meet them once or twice when you eventually venture on one of the dreaded Christmas village jaunts (if that), Even then, you may never exchange more than a few pleasantries with them. Like your parents, these people wont be here forever, and even if they lasted that long, by the time you’re old enough to need to take full control of your assets, they’ll be way too old to give a dam about managing your ish. There is the off-chance of your parents retiring to the village, but with the staggering rate at which the elderly are being abducted from the villages, I don’t know how viable that option is. The most that could happen is that they spend a bit more time in the village house, but they’ll probably still reside primarily in the urban regions of the nation. So good luck with getting someone village based to keep the place tidy for you and make sure you don’t come over one day to find some randoms residing in what you once thought was your place. Heck, even our parents aren’t omniscient. I’ve heard of a guy who’s farm got turned into a Weed factory while he was away for just one week. If it happened to someone who inspected the joint on a near weekly basis, imagine what could happen to your estate when you only visit it

But something comes even before finding randoms in your village estate: getting to your village. Now who can drive to their village here, or can at least direct a driver? Show of hands, anyone? I’m guessing not that many. Come Christmas, we just hop in the car and pass out, hoping to wake up in the evening all safe and sound at our villagey abode. A few of us are fortunate enough to have drivers from our indigenous lands. Methinks it’ll be a good idea to have one in the future. (Hmm, staff acquisition/management in the future. That’s a different blog entry entirely. Back to the village.)


Considering how limited our access to the villages are, its small wonder that we don’t really consider these things. And I don’t blame us. A lot of us have been brought up
as Lagosians/Abujans/Porthacourtians. From there, we were shipped off to some foreign land for education. And now we’re in our mid-tweties and getting older every day. Village adaptation is like acquiring technical skills. If you don’t use them, you forget them. And that’s what’s happening to a lot of us right now.


Knowing our parents, they’ve probably set up checks and balances to ensure that these possessions make it into our hands safely. But the greater question is, what do we do with these things once we have them? I’m not here to tell you how to live your life, or how to manage your looming village crisis. I’m still confused as hell myself. Heck, for all I know this little quandary may apply to just me. Everyone else may have themselves sorted out already. That would be awkward, and kinda upsetting. But hey, that would mean that I’d have people to ask for advice. So, if you’re a Diokpa/first son like myself and have already sorted out your future “villagery”, feel free to share some pearls of wisdom. I’ll even pay you! (someone should even start a village asset management company. They could make a killing off our generation) But for now, I’m going back to planning my summer vacation in some other country… Galactus approaches after all.



Yes, I know some of us are true blooded lagosians and don’t have the village assets problem, seeing as Lagos is your true home. To that I say “Oh gooood for you” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrvMTv_r8sA

Leadership; Home and Away

Congratulations to David Cameron, the new Prime Minister of England. The transfer of office was made official after Gordon Brown submitted his resignation to the queen, formally stepping down from his appointment as the Prime minister and as the head of the Labour Party, ending his party's 12+ years in power. Truly a big day in Politics.
Watching the events unfold, I inadvertently began to draw comparisons between how things were unfolding there and how they would potentially unfold here in Nigeria.

First of all, the leader of the country would never resign here. Full stop. Save for falling out of favour with their party's god-fathers, our "appointed" state heads would never budge from their posts, no matter what public pressure they came under. After his unfortunate run in with a certain "bigoted” old woman, Gordon Brown got so much stick for his slip of tongue you'd think he'd just insulted an entire race. Following his gaffe, the man stoically accepted all responsibility for his actions and implied his readiness to resign if he let his party down. In Nigeria, I don’t think I've ever even seen an instance in which the leaders went from doorstep to doorstep, pleading their case with the masses. Those in line for their share of the national cake know when their time will come, so why would they bother with such inconsequential dillydallying? to them, the people are not even worth socializing with on a personal basis, save for the occasional public address, which they probably can’t wait to get out of the way so they can continue doing more important things, like browsing the catalogues for their next private jet. To them, the people's vote has already been cast, the election results foretold; and to the people, this is a far greater insult than being slapped in the faces (or being called a bigot). And when "elected", our leaders become infallible. None of them would even think of stepping down as penance for any of their misdeeds. Matter of factly, these men would much rather die in office than step down for any reason. *Cough*Pericarditis*Cough

One other thing I couldn't help but notice was the subtlety of the power transfer. Brown quietly resigned, and Cameron quietly took power. A nigh stealthy jaunt to Buckingham palace sealed the deal for both parties. Save for the fact that news cameras impeccably covered the journeys of both these gentlemen , one would have been unable to tell that it was national leaders traversing the roads in small convoys.

As a Nigerian, you can’t blame me for taking note of the convoys these two men travelled in. I mean, when the Guardian, a well respected Newspaper, spends half of an article discussing the cars our national leaders arrived in, and only a paragraph on the actual interaction between said leaders, well, I rest my case. But I digress.

The convoy for both parties was limited to a mere three or four cars. And none was a Mercedes Benz. The politicians opted for subtle mid range Jaguars, albeit armoured ones; Traditionally British cars. Makes sense; Obama rides in an American made car. Hu Jintao of China rides a car made in northeast china. The emperor of Japan rides a Toyota It’s a matter of national pride, and displaying confidence in your country. But I won’t judge on this paltry detail. In fact, If our politicians drove in Nigerian made cars, with the state of our manufacturing industry, I’d fear for their safety. Those third mainland bridge breakdowns can be a bitch.

Traffic was not stopped for either party on their way to and from the palace. No sirens blaring, no conspicuous security detail in sight. In nigeria, you could hear the damn convoy approach miles before you actually saw them. Overly conspicuous Security staff would be clearing the streets miles in advance to boot. Heck, anyone who intended to ambush them would have ample time to take out their armed detail while they littered the streets raining abuses on the average civilian, all in the name of clearing the path for their approaching fearless leader.

Let me be fair though. Traffic was not stopped because neither party was Prime minister at the time. Brown had stepped down and Cameron was yet to be officially recognized. Once Cameron is officially PM, His new car will be a lot prettier, traffic will be stopped for him, and the size of his convoy will inevitably increase, though I doubt it'll top the 30+ motorcade the Nigerian President uses (now that's rolling deep!). Furthermore, Traffic here is a tad heavier than over there, so i guess the streets need to be cleared to facilitate travel. Then again, whose fault is that? If those "leaders" actually did their jobs, our infrastructure would be on track, and the daily commute would not be half the nightmare it currently is. And what's with almost every government official (and some ex officials) having irrationally long convoys? If they really wanted to help, they could reduce their convoys by a couple dozen cars. Then they'd have an easier time getting their asses to their destinations.

But let's not forget the kicker; if it were Nigeria, Cameron would be getting a ton of congratulatory messages in the following day’s papers from parties "wishing him well", aka wishing for him to do them well with some political favours. Of course, just taking up an entire page or two in a paper won't do the trick; but don't worry, most of those fogies would have already sent a couple of rams/goats to Cameron's residence to sweeten the deal.

Now I'm not playing the part of the "holier than though nigerian", berating the state of affairs, and going on a rant about how our culture demeans human life by placing more value on what we have than what we are. I'm not going to rave about how materialism has eaten so deep into our culture, and how extravagance and excess seem to define how much a man has achieved in his life, and how, if things don't change, our society will continue on its downward spiral, as our morality erodes to vanishing point. Oh no; none of that for me. That has all been said before, and repeating it won't really do me any good. I'm just enjoying the show. Besides, I have my own problems, like where I'm finding my first million. Maybe I should invest in a few cows and forward them to the governor's office. it'll definitely be worthwhile once I land a solid contract, don't you think?

N.B: Pictured is the New model Jaguar Cameron should be using now. His is black, and costs about £200,00. Me likey!

Friendly Fires

Times change… People change... We change… What happens when your old friends are no longer the type of people you care to associate with?

Now I’m not saying that your former friends have pulled a heel turn, started smoking crack and kidnapping people for ransom. No, it’s the little things; the lifestyle choices they’ve made that don’t mesh with yours: The crowds they choose to hang with. Their manner of speech. The way they text (I mean, if u hd a frnd txtin u lyk dis mst of d tym, I dnt thnk ud wnt dem 2 b txtn u oftn). It’s not their fault. They just chose to live life a little differently. But diversity brings discrimination, whether we want to admit it or not. They’re different from you and you’re different from them. In fact, they may find you just as incompatible/unappealing as you find them. Some of them probably can’t wait to be rid of you. Now it’s not a question of who can’t stand who, and who the bad guy here is. The fact remains that from your perspective, you guys just don’t mix anymore. And, from a purely economical point of view, it makes no sense for you to keep associating with these fellows.

It takes away your time, and it takes away your energy; the effort you expend in an attempt to be social is no mean feat. You send the occasional “what’s good?” message of facebook, and if you ever see them at a social ensemble, you try to hold a conversation with them for more than a minute. But they don’t say anything of worth, at least not to you anyway. To someone else, their words may be glistening, golden baubles of immeasurable wisdom and rapturous enlightenment. To you, however, its crap; Pure, unadulterated cow dung. And it isn’t even the good kind of shit. If you spread that dung on a field you wouldn’t grow nuthin. Seeing them for more than just a minute is just, for lack of a better phrase, a waste of life.

So, what do we do with these “friends”. Some folk say “just ditch em.” A crude but effective solution. Just bail out of the friendship wagon. Downgrade dem fools from ‘friend’ to ‘associate’. Pretty much ignore their existences, perhaps exchanging a few pleasantries when you walk past each other. Just perhaps. Its not much different from what you already do. Heck, you hardly see them as it is, right?

Now I’m not saying you become their enemies (whenever I say that word, the Nigerian intonation of it always comes to mind. Naija folks know what I mean. There’s enemies, and then there’s ENEMIES. But I digress). Your social interactions with these people, or what semblance of them you have, remain almost completely the same. The only thing that changes is your mentality. These people no longer hold a significant portion of your mind-space. A trifling thing, you might think, but mind-space is nigh invaluable. It’s the base for conformity, groupthink and coalescence. It’s how movements get started; how revolutions begin: by allowing someone to take a share of your mind. It’s all about Cathexis; the investment of emotions into an object. When you attribute significance to something or someone, you feel more strongly towards them, and both positive and negative emotions projected towards the object are heightened.

If you attribute “friendship” to a party, you are more likely to agree with them, empathize with them and see things from their point of view. So if you look at things from the perspective of a guy who spits nothing but bullshit, what do you think you’re gonna see? That’s right; bullshit. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not one for having bullshit on my mental windscreen. It obstructs my view; and when cruising down the road of life, I prefer to be able to see my goals. If I have to step out of my cognitive conveyor to clean bullshit off the glass every two seconds, my goals will be a long time coming. It’s probably best to have those shit-spinners take a flying leap. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that stuff.

But, on the flip side, closing off your mind to these people also means you forego seeing a lot of things, though it’s probably going to be mostly (yes, you guessed it) bullshit. There’s a saying that goes “even in a pile of pebbles, one can find a pearl.” It might only be a minute chance, but as long as that chance isn’t zero percent, you just may be able to pick out something valuable from the lives of these people. Maybe all that cow dung isn’t impotent after all. Besides, you never know when you’ll need them for one thing or another, so while it’s tempting to burn bridges, you may want to keep these guys around. Just in case. The downside is that you never know if you’ll ever actually need these people, or if you’ll ever find that valuable pearl. You may just end up having dung flung in your face for the rest of your life.

At the end of the day, I remain at a quandary when it comes to these folks. As I said before, I’m not perfect, and these feelings of social disconnect may be mutual. Perhaps some people may have been trying to get rid of me for the past couple of years but my insistence on social interaction must have been dampening their efforts. If that’s so, then I apologize to those people from the bottom of my heart, for I have been a bullshit slinger; a relentless cow dung flinger. But for those who have been throwing the crap in my face, I could go down the Usher route and let it burn, or I could go with Journey and don’t stop believing. Neither solution has proven itself absolute; after all, each case is unique, and no two friends are alike. So I guess it’s impossible to generalize, and till I examine each case individually, I’ll do a Johnny Cash, and walk the line.

Tezuka Zone (手塚ゾーン)

The first thing on your mind must be “wtf is a tezuka zone?’ Heck, what on earth is a Tezuka anyway? Well, Manga enthusiasts like myself would probably be familiar with the prince of tennis series; A series in which they play, well, Tennis. The captain of the protagonist’s squad is a guy named Tezuka. He’s a really good player. He’s got everything you could ask for; the service, the backhand, the smash. Pretty much your run of the mill great player (oxymoron anyone?). But the young lad also has the ungodly ability to spin the ball in such a way that, after a few exchanges, any return from the opponent flies right back to his racquet. Kind of like a vacuum/magnet. And from then on, the kid doesn’t have to move an inch; all the opponent’s returns go right back into his strike zone. And that’s the Tezuka zone. Awesome, right?

Yeah, I know it’s pretty much impossible in real life, (hey, that’s why it’s a manga!) But I digress.

Now you may be wondering what I’m ranting about. Well, you see, I really like that move. Apart from the fact that it’s Totally Awesome, I see it as analogous for the perfect life. The raison d’etre of lives everywhere. It’s the life all lives should aspire to be. (Right now you’re probably thinking “what the hell? I bust my ass for a bachelors degree/masters and this mo’fo is telling me to go play tennis?”). I implore you to be patient and allow me to expanciate (is that even a real word?)*

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Jimoh Ibrahim. Most Nigerians should know who that is. (Those who are still in the UK/USA, I wouldn’t bet on sha). Anyway, for those who don’t know, Mr. Ibrahim is a prolific entrepreneur, and just recently bought Virgin Nigeria, amongst other things. Now, one thing really amazed me about this encounter. It was not hearing of his exploits, nor was it hearing about the staggering rate at which he acquired business ventures. It was seeing the speed at which all these opportunities came to him. While I was in the meeting with Mr. Ibrahim, he literally had people lined up at his doorstep, waiting for an audience. Several he told to just come back another day. Some fortunate few were allowed the privilege of waiting in his compound whilst he wrapped up his other meetings. One thing in common with all these folks? They all wanted to do business. Some wanted to assist with a takeover; some wanted to be taken over. Others were potential pilots or managers of his most recent takeover (Virgin). There were all sorts, and Mr. Ibrahim had his pick of the litter. If he thought your proposal could fly, he’d buy into it. If not, he wouldn’t move a financial muscle. If he thought your venture had immense potential, you could walk away with millions in the space of an evening, though Mr. Ibrahim would likely make a few more million than you would at the end of the day. Such was his control over things.

Mr. Ibrahim is at that stage of life in which he no longer has a need to hustle; to go out and look for viable areas of growth. They all come to him. All that’s left for him to do is analyze the situation and pick what he thinks to be the most profitable ones. Everything is at his beck and call. The bullets are already loaded. All he has to do is pull the trigger, for he is the top gun. He is at the zenith, the epitome; at the centre of things; He is in his Tezuka Zone**. And I believe, to a greater or lesser extent, that this is where we should all aspire to be; at the center of things. To be the ‘be all and end all’ of whatever we do. We don’t have to make boatloads of money a la Mr. Ibrahim (though that would be nice too), but if we do what we love and strive to do it better than anyone else, money will naturally follow. And moreover, we will be at the dead center of our industries. Nothing will be able to pass from one end of the circle to the other without passing through us first. And because of this, we’ll be able to take a bite out of it if it looks tempting, a la a great white shark.

But it is important to understand that nothing comes without hard work. Even Tezuka has to trade shots with the adversary and analyze him before he can appropriately match his own strikes. In the same way, we have to play the game, and build up our zones with every stroke of the ball, taking everything in stride; Keeping our eyes open, waiting for opportunities, and taking advantage of any openings we see. We can’t expect to have everything in place from the get-go. We must be ready to work extra hard: For we are facing the toughest opponent; life.

So we should give it our all, and aim for the top, creating our zones as we go along. Who knows, we may have a future Jimoh Ibrahim amongst us. But, more importantly, if we play our cards right in the game of life, almost everything*** will come to us, and we won’t need to sweat the small stuff anymore. We can all just sit comfortably in our Tezuka Zones, waiting for an opportunity to land that killer drop shot****.

- Fin

* No, seriously guys, is that even a real word?

**(I guess technically he’s in a Jimoh Ibrahim zone, but that’s beside the point).

***yes, “almost” everything. Tezuka zone isn’t perfect, you know

**** Zero-Shiki dropshot, anyone?

Praying for Clear skies, as Galactus Approaches

Quite the ambiguous phrase, isn’t it? Let me enlighten you; Ive decided on a temporary name for the novel-esque piece of literature I’m attempting to construct; Clear skies. It just sounds so…fitting. Like everything in the world, however, The title is subject to change, so we’ll see how that works out. I also happen to write at the blazing pace of a snail on sedatives, so don’t expect anything anytime soon. Maybe I’ll post teaser excerpts to keep me motivated. Watch this space (then again, don’t)
As for Galactus, c’est moi. Yes, I am galactus. Need I explain? Well, I’m planning a return trip to the States (branching in the UK), and I intend to have an earth shattering good time in both countries, a la Galactus. So yes, I am Galactus; the doom-bringer, the destroyer of planets. I know it’s a lame, nerdy allusion, but I like it. Besides, Galactus is Awesome. And HUGE! So I’ll be visa applying, interviewing, and ticket scheduling, and hopefully, everything will work out. The orientation week of grad school messed around with my travel schedule a bit, but it’s cool. I’ll survive. And nothing would be more apt to finish this entry than a 1960’s comic book caption-esque rhyming one-liner: Citizens of the world, cower in fear, The Advent of Galactus is near! Muahahaha! (still working on my evil laugh).

Carcharodon State of Mind

I have a dream: not one of those enlightening, nigh rapturous dreams a la martin Luther king, chock full and brimming with pearls of wisdom; promising futures filled with harmonious coexistence and opulence. No: I dream of sharks. In my childhood, I oft dreamt of being chased by these beasts; of being captured; of being eaten alive. Thankfully I’d always woken up before the fiends began to feast on my entrails.

I’ve had several of these dreams. And in them, I‘ve been chased by all sorts: huge, mechanichal sharks; robotic monstrosities with rows and rows of revolving teeth, kinda like something out of james and the giant peach. I’ve been chased by red sharks, green sharks, rainbow colored sharks, you name it. Heck, I’ve been hunted by a shark wearing a superman cape.

But why sharks? Why couldn’t I dream of monsters and aliens like any normal kid?
Why those aquatic atrocities? Sigmund Freud would probably diagnose me as having a subconscious infatuation with sharks; Shark envy, perhaps. And, coming to think about it, he might just be right.
What’s not to envy about your stereotypical great white shark (scientifically classified as Carcharodon carcharias)? The blue hued tyrant of the seas just skittles around wherever he likes, and takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants. His line of thinking probably goes something like this:
“I’m swimming… I’m swimming… I’m swimming… still swimming… ooh, I see a fish… and I Eat it! Omnomnomnom!”

Isn’t that the life?

Now lets talk physically: A great white is one of the faster things in the water, and it is one powerful SOB. Those jaws can tear you limb from limb before you can say “bob’s your uncle”. Perhaps more fascinating about the great white is that its one of the species that constantly have to keep moving. They’re in the group of sharks known as “obligate ram ventilators” and need to constantly swim forward in order to ‘ram’ oxygen-containing water through their mouths and over their gills. Simply put, if they stop moving, they die. Kinda crappy, you might think, but it means that those things don’t sleep. Ever. How much energy must they have to be able to do that? On the run from the day they’re born till the day they die. I can’t even imagine human society if we didn’t need to sleep. Things could get very good, or very bad.
And that brings me to my point. Human harks. No, not the strange man-shark genetic hybrids you see on the weird sci-fi shows. I’m talking about humans with that Shark ideology; That Carcharodon state of mind. They’ve gotta be on top. They’ve gotta be king. They’ve gotta take down every adversary. They’ve gotta keep moving or they die. Those be my kind of people.

In this Canis Canis* world, we’re all sharks: each person a different species. But to be on top, you’ve gotta be a great white. As a great white, you can’t slow down for nobody. You can’t afford to be meek; weak. If you so much as give life a chance, it’ll tear you to pieces. You’ve got to be the most ruthless Shark. You’ve got to be the predator. You’ve got to be the hunter. You need to stalk your prey. You need to corner them. You need to sink your rows of teeth into the soft, fleshy hindquarters of your prey and relish the taste of blood on your tongue. Clamp down those reinforced jaws and spin that tubular body; Shake what yo mama gave ya. baby! Rip off chunks of meat and gobble em up. You are Daniel day Lewis. You take their milkshake and drink it. “Gimme some of dat dere life meat. Omnomnomnom.”
You have got to bite. If you don’t bite then you get bitten. You’ve got to tear into the prey that is life. You are the great white. King of the sea. You are champion.

But let’s not get too cocky just yet. Don’t forget about that fin of yours; It’s valuable. It’s your rudder, your cochlea. It keeps you balanced, keeps you swimming; Keeps you alive. And by god isn’t it the tastiest part? Everyone wants a piece of it; they want to taste you: Shark fin soup ain’t a delicacy for no reason. You’ve got enemies, and they all have a penchant for some of dat dere fin soup. Oh yes! They’re out there; those who would rather see you falter, to have you stumble and fall; waiting to use your head as a stepping stone. They’re sharks too. Hungry, cannibal sharks who just cant wait to tuck into your juicy innards. Some may hide in the cracks and caves, others might look like your friends, acquaintances. But don’t be fooled; they only want you for your shark fin soup.
So be careful who you socialize with. Beware the leeches, the moochers, the haters and the loathers. Scorn the yellow bellied backstabbers, and shun them frumious bandersnatches. Those who plan and plot in groups; They only want you for your shark fin soup. They want to take from you all that you have, leaving you with nothing. You give them an inch, and they’ll take a mile and three quarters. So turn the tables on them if you can; eat them alive and Paint the sea red with their repugnant spew. As the good king Leonidas would say, give them nothing, and take from them everything.

But not all battles can be won; pick yours wisely; know when to run. There’s always bigger fish in the sea, but your time will come eventually. So Dart and dodge; swim loop de loops; they only want you for your shark fin soup.

It’s a sharky world out there, and only the greatest of the whites end up on top. You either keep moving or drown. You either fight tooth and nail for what’s yours, or go belly up and die. it’s the world we live in, and it is one cruel mother lover. So to he who dreams, dream of peace, of revolution, of tranquility. Dream of these things for me, for I am unable to. Because when I sleep, I dream of sharks.





* Canis Canis is the scientific name for dogs. My obscure way of saying it’s a dog eat dog (or shark eat shark) world.



N.B: hey, you wanted posts, you got posts (I ain’t exactly sure who “you” is, since no one reads this stuff, but whatever! Let the madness continue!)

Oh my days! Its been a while since I last put something up here. Its funny, because I have quite a few writeups, but they never make it online for some reason. Well, I'm gonna have ta rectify that. Not like anyone actually reads this thing, but it'll be fun to have my wilder thoughts up here. Maybe its better no one actually reads them. =s Haha. Neways, more bloggage promised, be it crazy, random ramblings. That is the point of blogs, n'est pas?