15 April 2010


A work in progress...maybe

The first thing to penetrate his subconscious was the sound of dripping, the constant tap-tap of liquid reminiscent of a leaky pipe, consistent, measured, concise and ultimately annoying.

Next came a sticky wetness, gummy, cloy and clinging. Not water but something viscous and slimy…and putrid. Actually it was the smell that hit him, a tangy, metallic odour assailing his nostrils.

Hesitantly he opens his eyes and a kaleidoscope of light and colour spirals before him, next comes pain…intense, skull splitting, gut wrenching pain. He raises his hand to his forehead, and is suddenly aware of the fact that he is laying on a cold, hard floor in an unlit room. Forcing himself on to all fours he struggles to stand on shaky legs, trying…straining vigorously to remember …where, what, how and who! Most importantly who! “Who am I?” the question screams at him in his befuddled mind. “Where am I?” he wonders out loud. To his ringing ears his voice sounds like a whisper and his larynx feels sore.

As he scrambles about in the darkened room looking for an exit or a light switch he stumbles over an inert object, with his hands he blindly searches the floor for the object and his fingers make contact with flesh…cold, rigid flesh and he knows it is a body. A wave of nausea overcomes him and he gags. His mind races, and again he asks, “Where am I?”

From his position on the ground he notices a sliver of twilight and with lightening speed for one so weakened crawls towards it and notes that it is the bottom of a door. A door leading he knows not where…freedom…captivity…death? Wherever it leads he’d rather not stay in this room, this room filled with the imposing and fetid stench of death.

As he pulls himself to his feet curiosity gets the better of him and he gropes where he believes a light switch should be. Eureka…contact. On goes the blinding glare of the overhead fluorescent bulb and a nightmare-scape unfurls.

On the floor where he tripped lays the naked body of a man. His skin ashen and blood spattered, his eyes duct taped open, his hands bound; a gaping gash where his testicles would have…should have been…and the piece de résistance…a six inch blade through his heart…a macabre work of art from the mind of a twisted sculptor. The dead man’s face is twisted in an expression of abject terror, grotesque; evocative of one of the hell-bound mortals in a rendition of Dante’s Inferno.

About ten feet away is a bed. On the bed lays the body of a woman. Her naked body is splayed suggestively across the bed and her face turned towards the opposite wall so he cannot see her face. Her skin where not splattered with blood still retains a luminous hue, rich mocha coffee avec un petit peu au lait, long, shapely legs and pert full breasts. Total perfection…even in death.

Our man can no longer keep down the bile in his throat that fights to be free and spews out the content of his stomach on the floor. Heaving and retching, he remains bent over for what seems like hours his body trembling from shock. Eventually spent his eyes are reluctantly drawn once more to the gruesome tableau on the bed and his feet of their own volition inexplicably move to the bed. He has a burning desire to see the face of this dead woman. A niggling in his mind tells him that he must.

He reaches the bed and turns her head gently towards him, and his knees buckle. A flash of déjà vu hits him and he knows that he knows this woman in every sense of the word ‘know’. Her hazel eyes are open and though glassy still radiate terror…and something else …pleading. Her mouth is open as if in a silent scream…a scream cut off for eternity…never to be heard by mortal ears. Discoloration around her neck makes it clear hers was a case of death by strangulation. Her hands are long and dainty and a fingernail is broken to the quick and her right hand bloodied, while on her left hand is an engagement ring. The man instinctively knows that he knows this ring.

Tears blinding him he runs haphazardly out of the room, not sure to where he runs but anything to get away from this madness. As he reaches the outer door and runs out on to the street he is welcomed by a blast of ice-cold rain and he keeps running like a headless chicken without direction or destination, but his feet appeared guided by his confused mind to a destination he knows not.

The moon is ebbing in the pitch-black, starless sky and the hour is neither early nor late. Thankfully he meets no one as he continues to run. Suddenly a car horn blares and the driver starts to call out.

“Sean is that you?” the car slows to a crawl “Man what are you doing running around at this ungodly hour…and in this ungodly weather no less?”

The man stares at the driver, trying to force his mind to recall whom this person is, the face is familiar and a name floats in his sub-consciousness and rests on the tip of his tongue…Peter.

The driver continues his monologue oblivious to the man’s reserve, “Get in the car for God’s sake before you freeze to death and let me drop you off”

The man, who we now know to be called Sean, hesitates for a moment, wondering how Peter could fail to see the blood that must obviously be all over him, and then he realizes the rain must have washed him clean…at least on the outside. Reluctantly he enters the car and let’s himself be taken.

“Thanks...Peter” Sean mumbles as he slips in and is encased by the familiar but strange comfort of the Mercedes and rests his still fuzzy head against the headrest. “Why are you out so late, yourself?”

Peter removes his eyes from the road momentarily and shoots Sean a quizzical look. “Don’t tell me you forgot, old boy? I came in from London this evening. I just leaving the airport,” Peter turns his head back to the windscreen and shrugs “I guess you must really have tied one on if you can’t remember we have lunch today to discuss the final details for the acquisition of semi-conductor processing plant in Surrey.”

“My bad, Pete…I’m just tired and really need some sleep” Sean says and hopes that Peter takes it as a sign that conversation isn’t welcome. Luckily Peter does and concentrates on the wet road ahead.

While they drive in silence, Seun does a brief inspection of his pockets and finds a wallet, a set of keys, and a cell phone. The wallet and mobile are both obviously expensive and obviously his. Opening the wallet he sees a Drivers’ Licence with his picture and the name Sean Oluwaseun Oluseyi and a number of complimentary cards with the same name and the designation Vice President, Mergers and Acquisitions. Several thousand Naira notes, ATM cards, and a Platinum MasterCard are in the wallet. In the course of his search he comes across a snapshot, taken on what must have been a vacation, of him and a woman.

In the picture he wears a pair of loud Bermuda shorts and flip-flops and her the clichéd yellow polka dot bikini, the cliché tourista. They face each other, seemingly oblivious to the photographer, totally intent each on the other. His arms are around her waist and his hands cup her bottom, drawing her close to him and her right hand is against his chest while her left hand rests on his shoulder and they are smiling. Her skin is rich mocha with a hint of cream, her hands slender, as is the rest of her except for her breasts. On her hand is an engagement ring, a flawlessly cut 3-carat pink diamond set in an 18-carat platinum studded with 1-carat solitaires. No two rings like it because it was made for her. It was not just any ring. It was THE ring!

An icy hand digs into his chest, clutches his heart and squeezes. The dead woman on the bed was wearing the exact same ring.

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)
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14 April 2010

Death By Politically Correct Means

Death by Politically Correct Means
“The right of the one ends where that of the other begins”


JASMINE: Mom, I’d like to introduce you to [INSERT NAME].
JASMINE’S MOM: Hello, young man, how are you?
BOO: I’m fine thank you ma’am.


MOM: So Jasmine who is [INSERT NAME] to you?
JASMINE: Mama, he’s my unpaid sex worker, I hope you liked him?
Mother turns ashen, splutters and faints

Setting: Hospital morgue
POLICE OFFICER: So Doctor…can you narrow down the cause of death? We’re trying to rule out murder given the fact Mrs. M had no history of heart disease.
CORONER: Well Detective, I’m sorry to inform you it was murder.
POLICE OFFICER: Doctor…are you certain? You KNOW this is a high profile case in the making?
CORONER: Unfortunately Detective, it can be no other way. All forensic evidence leads us to only one conclusion…
CORONER: Mrs. M was a victim of…
Police Officer cuts in
POLICE OFFICER: Damnit man…spit it out already!
CORONER: Mrs. M was a victim of…Death by Political Correctness…as is obvious from the shocked look on her face


Setting funeral.
Enter left stage:
JASMINE: Bye-Bye Mommy (sobbing)
Exit left stage
Curtain falls

I’m kinda tired of bleeding heart liberals…and NO this is not an expression of my political leaning. It is a statement about Political Correctness and its stifling and strangulating grip on freedom of expression. In the course of respecting the rights of others hasn’t the right of self been trampled upon?

I miss the good ol’ days of senseless violence, gratuitous sex and nudity and gruesome decapitations interposed for the shock value and nothing more. I miss the days of self-expressionism and convoluted discordance called art. Now we have censorship of word, deed and thought.

In the bid not to step on anyone’s toes hasn’t the motion of Id and Ego been trampled and regressed by the Collective groupthink syndrome? Point in case, the use of certain words and phrases have been termed offensive, rude, downright spiteful, gender insensitive, etc etc and the use of them frowned upon. The use of everyday words like “chairman” has been substituted with “chairperson” even when it’s quite obvious the person on the dais is of determinable gender. Any word remotely gender bias is taboo, feminism and feminists must be appeased. Use of words like ‘retarded’ (remember the song by B. E. P titled ‘Let’s Get Retarded’ that had to be re-titled ‘Let’s Get it Started’ in a bid to be PC), ‘blind’, ‘deaf’ and co is the quickest route to social suicide, a real social faux pas. The correct words “special”, “visually impaired”, “audio impaired” et al. Now I can understand the need for sensitivity with these but don’t I have the right to be retarded in my speech? And even if I don’t say it out loud does that stop me from thinking it?

As much as regard for the next man…oops sorry…person is essential, my freedom to be un-PC is my God-given right, and even some of the supposedly PC terms are just plain dumb. I was listening to a radio show awhile back and PC was the topic, or rather politically correct phrases for everyday items and situations. I shudder to think how much money the morons, just to tell me that I can’t call a book a book or call my partner “my boyfriend” anymore, spent on research. Nope…no can do anymore, I must now introduce him as my “unpaid sex worker”.

Fuck PC…my boyfriend remains my boyfriend and even if I’m fifty I have no intention of actually letting my Moms know who I’m bedding if it isn’t legal sex…i.e. we aren’t married. And isn’t it even more insulting to call your lover a sex worker…even if they’re unpaid? A sex worker is a hooker plain and simple…whether for a C-note or an I. O. U! Random aside: if a boyfriend or girlfriend is an unpaid sex worker, what’s a wife? According to my Pops she’s a “Home Manager”, according to me she’s a glorified domesticated sex slave…and the bummer is she doesn’t get paid no salary…unless it’s alimony (who’m I kidding alimony and child support do not exist in Naija).

Now the censor is not reserved to just speech, it is extended to all avenues of expression…music…art…film…literature…dress. Every facet of human life has fallen prey to censorship and political correctness. A few months ago the Actors’ Guild of Nigeria’s president was talking about the removal of kissing etc from Nollywood movies and I scratched my head in wonder. Isn’t art also supposed to be a reflection of the prevailing societal reality? If a couple in the throes of new passion are together in a locked room wouldn’t they engage in some heavy petting if not the actual act of getting buck wild? Would their kisses be chaste and bland…or would it conjure up thoughts of fire and yes…raw sexual passion and get one’s blood roaring? Don’t married couples have sex? Don’t people have gratuitous sex and one night stands…without emotional entanglements and sentiment in real life…here in Naija? And who has the right to say what and whatnot I should view?

What about music? How many times have songs been placed on the NBC’s NTBB list for no apparent reason other than the fact that someone in the Commission interpreted a phrase to be suggestive? A case being a song by a Port Harcourt based artist that dealt with childhood, first love and growing up. The use of the word ‘bia-bia’ was thought by the NBC to refer to pubic hair (in their on twisted logic) when it is quite obvious to the listening public (and as explained by the artiste) that the hair referred to was facial hair (i.e. beard or moustache) which pronounces the change from a boy to a man. And what of the song “Big Boy” by El Dee the Don? For the life of me I still can’t understand the reasoning behind that one. Or how about the infamous banning of Femi Kuti’s “Bang, Bang, Bang” which although definitely sexual in nature was not as explicit as the Western music that assaulted and still assaults our ears on the daily with overtly sexual titles and lyrics like “Birthday Sex” by Jeremih and “Re-invented Sex” by Trey Songz are daily on our airwaves.

For children I can understand the need to censor and coddle…their minds are too immature to distinguish between fact and fiction, between right and wrong and shouldn’t be exposed to adult themes, but that’s why a rating system exists n’est pas? But even the prevention of undue exposure is the responsibility of the parent. I mean…really…what’s a ten year old kid doing up by 11pm watching TV?

Censorship takes away my right to decide for myself whether a thing is good for me or not. It removes my right to choice, and actually is a slap on the face because it says I’m too stupid to make a decision. If I wish to watch scenes of violence and deviant sexual acts is it not my right? I don’t really like porn and I think it is exploitative thus I don’t watch it…my right…my choice, but just because I don’t watch it doesn’t mean I’ll say everyone else shouldn’t watch it…their right…their choice. I will not impose my moral codes and beliefs on them, that would make me a dictator!

Worse still, censorship is a form of mind-control, the powers that be wish to determine, create and control the thoughts of the individual. The creation of automatons and “dolls” preconditioned to think, feel and speak no new thoughts, bring no new wisdom and most importantly brook no opposition. The imposition of the collective ideal stems and stifles the growth of radicalism and radical minds. And change is brokered by the radical…and the expressionist freethinker. Those in the position to impose norms and ethical standards are themselves not more ethically minded, or of a superior moral grade than those they would control, but tend to be more debase, but as the Pharisees of old preach the gospel of “do as I say not as I do”.

So I say death to censure, death to censor, death to groupthink that wishes to turn us all to mindless conformist drones, death to stifling repressions of expression, and death to political correctness. Viva la libertie…long live freedom. I know many will disagree with this evaluation…as is their (and your) right, but feel free to add your thoughts on this by leaving a comment.

And my parting shot…If God in His infinite wisdom gave Man the Gift of Freewill…abused as it may be…who is the man that shall dare to take it away?

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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13 April 2010

My Neighbour’s Wedding

First off this is a highly delayed post, for those of you that follow me on twitter you’ll know I’ve been bitching for over a week that I’ve been unable to access blogger to post nada. And also I spent several tweets expressing my displeasure and dislike for the wedding thingymijig. Well today I’ve gotten lucky and I’m uploading all the junk I had in my trunk-like noggin…and will proceed to systematically inject it into your brain-stream like an intravenous…line by line, post by post. Enjoy…I think!!!
On Saturday 3rd April 2010, I witnessed a union of two bodies as one in the ceremony of holy matrimony. The bride looked stunning and the groom looked bored. Typical of most weddings I have attended, however this wedding was unusual in that the couple had already been married for years and had two kids to show for it, the eldest being five years old and the Little Bride at the ceremony. For me the ceremony was needless, after all by Nigerian law isn’t Traditional marriage as recognized and as valid as all the others? Or is what I learned during all those boring Social Studies classes null and void? Anyway the couple invested no small amount on the ceremony what with hiring of cars, paying for the dresses of the bridesmaids and their hairdos, hiring the hall for the reception, the civil ceremony and the church service. All needless expenses in my book.
A lot of people who’ve been reading my posts for awhile might think me anti-marriage but I’m not, I’m just practical about love, sex and marriage and wonder why the need to spend vast amounts on a one day event.
The money isn’t the only expense, however it is the only one that can be quantified. Time spent on wedding planning is time better spent on other things.
When my sister got hooked in 2003 I had the responsibility of almost single-handedly planning the wedding seeing as Madam and her husband were based in Lagos and the wedding was taking place in Port Harcourt. I almost had a coronary making sure the caterers arrived on time, and that the hairdresser and make-up guy got to the bridal suite on time. The printers in Lagos screwed up last minute with the wedding programmes and I was forced to find a printer to do the job in Port Harcourt in roughly 36 hours, in time for the traditional wedding. As if that wasn’t bad enough…the morning of the wedding the bouquet was MIA and I had to hop a bike and dash to get one, arriving at the venue just as the Bride was scheduled to come down from the car. Dirty and hair unmade I had 5 minutes to beautify, get dressed and mobilize ushers to serve guests because the hotel that we rented the venue from reneged on their promise to provide ushers. And to crown it all I wasn’t even on the wedding program at the end of the day. Let’s just say…if and when I do get married my sister owes me big time.
The whole attitude regarding marriages or should I say weddings is baffling (I’m such a dude when it comes to this…blank stare), why the fuss over a 1-1 ½ hour ceremony? For months…if not years…women hunch over wedding magazines scouring for THE dress, planning and purchasing even before she’s found the man to ‘ball and chain’. Almost from day one of the relationship she’s already started practicing variations of her surname…Mrs Him…Mrs Her-Him etc, and thinking wedding colours, cake designs and ashebi. The groom is totally in the dark…unaware of the trauma he will unleash on himself and his bank book when he gets down on one knee (this is still essential) and says “baby be mine!”
While at the reception venue…where we arrived way too early…sitting in the car whiling away time with my neighbour and her fiancé I started musing and wondered out loud why the need for the fanfare and not just a simple civil ceremony and be done with it. My neighbour was stunned and insisted her own wedding would be a flamboyant extravaganza…I saw her fiancé’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed saliva and mental reconsidered his proposal.
I then asked her was she planning to pay for the carnival called a wedding and she stated that she would contribute (this was said with little or no conviction). This got me marginally excited so I asked at what ratio, she said 60-40, sixty for him, forty for her. I laughed. At which I reminded her that the white wedding was a borrowed culture and therefore if it must be done it should be done properly. The expense of the white wedding and the rehearsal dinner is the responsibility of the bride’s father; the groom has absolutely nothing to do with it. Not a farthing or brass nickel should leave his pocket for the ceremony. All he has to do it rent a tux and enjoy the bachelor’s eve.
She pooh-hoo’ed this and literally put her hands over her ears so as not to hear another word on the topic. If I’d known I wouldn’t have started the discussion because a small battle started when she turned to her fiancé and asked him his opinion on my “registry then home” theory, as can be expected he supported my idea and the temperature in the car dropped to –10°C even with the blazing sun outside. If looks could kill he’d have had a cardiac, the look she gave him was enough to wither his nuts and cause them to drop off…which they did cos the next statement from his mouth was…”whatever you want baby…it’s your day after all” (men are such pussies *shaking my head vigorously*).
Now I have no problems with the fairytale wedding if you can comfortably afford it…emphasis on the words comfortably and afford (I mean…seriously… NO wedding isn’t worth soaking garri for)…but I have a problem with the double standards bit. After all the years of shouting “women’s rights” and “female emancipation” why be a kept woman now, after all it is your wedding day, the man is just a prop in the whole shindig so why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and be a ‘big girl’ and fork out your dough for your ‘dream’ wedding, ni? Why put all the years struggling for equal pay and recognition on the back burner for a fluffy white gown that you’ll most likely toss in a trunk the day after.
Now when (and if) I do get married (I can hear my mother’s shouts of hallelujah already) I’m going to KISS (Keep It Small and Simple)…a civil ceremony on an obscure day of the week with the minimum number of witnesses, then maybe a night out on the town with a few friends and family. If I’m feeling really generous we’ll book a suite in a hotel…you know the type with a massive lounge, open the buffet (sorry it’s a paid bar…y’all can get drunk on your own dime) and mingle. Or I might just do what my friend did. She and her fiancé (now husband) flew from their base in Germany to New York and brought a Justice of Peace to their hotel room, she in a black très sexy cocktail gown and a white orchid in her hair and he in a debonair smoking jacket and dress pants got hitched with no fanfare, and then hopped on the next plane to a tropical location, complete with white sands, coconut trees and blue water, for the honeymoon.
And that’s all folks, me and my rants on weddings et al signing out. That said here’s a quick question for all my single ladies (and guys) what kind of wedding day do you want and who should pay for what?

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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Why Do Fools Fall In Love?

“Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” is both the title of a song done in the 60s by a singer called Frankie Liman and a movie done in the 90s about the same singer’s rise, fall and tragic death starring Halle Berry, Vivica Fox et al. it is also a question that has undoubtedly been asked by every poor sap who has ever had the molecularly devastating experience of having fallen in love…particularly with the wrong someone…i.e. 90% of the human race.

But seriously…why do people fall in love? I used to believe it was a matter of choice, we ‘choose’ to love an individual! Plain and simple…no neuroscience involved…simple choice. For reasons best known to the ‘faller’ they fall for the ‘fallee’.

My Dad “the fountain of all relationship wisdom”, has another theory…and I kinda like this one… “Falling in love is a form of psychosis”. Well at least in the early ‘heart racing, dry mouth, tingling nerves’ stage [NB: These symptoms are nearly identical to those experienced during the onset of a stroke, so kindly see a physician before assuming it’s love…you just might save a life…your own! *tongue in cheek* K] A veritable cocktail of mental and physical ailments.

Let’s look at it…what else but love, drugs (on a very bad trip) and mental illness (pregnancy included) can have a person run a gauntlet of extreme emotions in the space of five minutes: euphoria, racing pulse, tears, dryness of throat, palpitations, constricted breathing, sweaty palms, lack of concentration, excessive perspiration, temporary loss of speech, forgetfulness, daydreaming and manic depression. Love is SO good it makes you ill J. Now that, as I said, is Dad’s view *the genesis of my cynical p. o. v with regard to relationship maybe?* and it doesn’t help the case of love that the chemicals released by the body when in love are the exact same ‘feel good’ endorphins generated by something as innocuous as eating great chocolate. If I was running an ad for a choco bar it would read….

“Wanna feel real love? Without the heartbreak? Eat *Insert product name* and NEVER fall out of LOVE”
And an added point in choco’s favour is that dark chocolate is even kind to your heart…unlike love.

Another school of thought believes we love “just because”! Just because it is our nature to love. Those of a religious incline go a step further and say because our cosmic Creator is pure love we in His image are love and gravitate towards love. Nice try…but if I reference and loosely paraphrase the Bible (or even the Q’uran, Torah etc) and use modern day “religion’ as a reference point “Man by nature is bloody EVIL and sits down all day crafting, plotting and planning MASSIVELY GREAT mischief to do” (very, very, very loosely paraphrased but you get the drift, abi?)…and so saith the Lord! Now who am I to contest the word of the Highest Authority? Then again we were made in His image (depends on your religious p. o. v) and as the saying goes in Christendom “God is LOVE” so maybe be we ARE structured emotionally and spiritually to be givers and receptacles of love.

Whatever the reason (chemistry, biology, spirituality etc) LOVE is, has been, and shall ever be the elusive El Dorado that treasure seekers have sought, seek and will continue to seek. So the question still remains…why do fools (*points* YOU…yes you…you follow too) fall in love? If you know please let us know too, thanks…ok bye!

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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