2008 ME awards.

I deserve an award! Okay, maybe not, but then again, if I can't get any, I can at least give 'em.

So in recognition of the good, the not so good and the downright ugly, here goes the winners of my very own (spelt ME) awards.

Enjoy…or warreva.

Movies

Worst Movie: Meet the Spartans (what on earth were they thinking?).

Second Best: Juno (flows like a string of short, funny commercials).

Best movie: Quantum of Solace (Yeah, I said it. What?).

Food

Worst Meal/Snack: Mosa (It's the one made with plantain, right?).

Second Best: Chinese at Big Treat (You gotta love the steaming plate).

Best Meal Snack: ọtọ (it's an Abiriba delicacy made with cocoyam – or is it wateryam?).

Drink

Worst Drink: Mango Tango (NEVER EVER try it! – something tells me you will).

Second Best: Power Horse (Dunno, kinda like it).

Best Drink: A mixture of all citrus juices (Look, it's my list!).

Music

Worst Song: I don't even know the title, but it's something by Ashanti. (Arrrrrrrgh!).

Second Best: "Hustle" by M.I (Yes, the brova's som'n).

Best Song: "Nwa Aba" by Fuff Con (I no send you. Aba boys are doing some good stuff).

Moment

Worst Moment: Having to stand my own ground (it was me against the family. You understand na).

Second Best: Seeing my home boy get married last week (oh, and it was in Aba).

Best Moment: When she lit up like a Christmas tree (anything for you, love).

Fashion

Worst Kit/Accessory: The Mohawk (what the heck is that?! – and yeah, it's not a fashion accessory, but I gotta put it somewhere, right?)

Second Best: A good watch (Like anything silver, a good watch highlights the black skin in a shade yet to be crystallised – beautiful).

Best Accessory: Sneakers (Take me anywhere baby!)

Toy

Worst Toy: My phone's Bluetooth headset (If no be sey na me use my money buy am ehn, I for don smash am for wall!)

Second Best: My lapi (if I no mention am now, e fit crash...so here's to you, laptop!).

Best Toy: My LG Home theatre system (just got it, so e still dey shack me).

Person

Most Difficult Person: Popsi (then again, you don't choose your family, do you?).

Second Best: My mad boss (I shall not mention names. If you be my boss, and if you mad, na you).

Best Person: House (c'mon, who's better than the mad doctor himself?).

Favorite Blog Post

By another blogger: Shine – the seven year itch (what can I say? It's a good one. I enjoyed reading it).

Written by me: To each guy his own penis (make I blow my own trumpet na).

Lesson/Skill

Worst Lesson/Skill: What to do when you have a heart attack (no real life situation, so how do I know it works?).

Second Best: How to open a bottle of wine without an opener (caution: will work for only some bottles).

Best Lesson/Skill: Some things, you can only do alone (trust me; your life will depend on it).

Now, I tag YOU (yes, you)! Who wins your own award? Go on...

Finally, I breath!

Okay, so when t comes to politics, i I get all wired up. I'll start talking ideology, governmental style, the involvement of the youth, as well as my own political ambition (yeah people, in the near future, I'll be asking y'all to vote for me).

I love politics. As cliche as it may sound, I believe in the politics of service and not of money and looting, and so help me God, I will bring about a change n Nigeria. I've always known that our children will study me in school (LOL). Tall ambition ab?

Well, we go see.

Anyways, so I started a different blog (it was my first blogging experiment actually, but I abandoned it about two-ish years ago, but now i've started again) to rave and rant and generally discuss about my views on Nigerian politics.

This week, I bring you "madness, what madness? THIS IS NIGERIA!", a.k.a., the Nigerian Alliance.

Hope you enjoy it.

How she move

She moved like she was on fire, fuelled by the beguiling rhythm of deep desire. And even though I tried to move along with her, I was stuck – mesmerized more like – to my place. I could only move my head. Even then, I did so cautiously, knowing that my head could not fully capture the essence of the spirit that poured forth through every rhythmic beat, every drop of sweat, every gasp and every humid release of air.

 

I remained stuck to my place.

 

Though the lights were off, she stood in the limelight. As her voice echoed through every inch of the orifice that was my ear, I felt a slight tremble as we became one. Her story became my story; her pain, my anguish; her laughter, my joy; and her tremor, my earthquake. At that moment, we were one.

 

We continued the secret dance that was ours, oblivious of the presence of any other in the room. Truth be told, we cared less. The world be damned. This was our time. Enthralled and totally vanquished by her, I let myself float in to her world.

 

I saw life through her eyes.

 

She didn't need to talk anymore. Just a smile, a glance, a subtle tilting of the head was all I needed to read the deep thoughts that ran through her mind. At that point, we were one.

 

As she dismounted, a pained smile danced across my face. She was good. Compelling. Deep. Persuasive. She was gone.

 

As the lights came one and all the actors took their bow, I was glad I had seen the stage play, SARAFINA. The actors were good, but the lead actress was – well, just too good.

 

Kudos to our South African brothers for a story so deep and moving, it should be called the African story. Kudos to the lead actress, Sarafina.

To each guy his own penis...

To each guy his own penis;
To every girl, her pair.
This is not a post about sex,
Now why on earth would I go there?
Freaksho’s already done it; Aloofar’s shown off his dicks,
Nothing compared, I tell you, to blogsville’s crazy chicks.
Now to the matter at hand,
Shall we get ahead?
Something dey vex me and
My head is in a bend.

Why people too dey compare,
Why can’t we be content?
Some people too dey show themselves,
Others dey pretend
Sey dem no be who dey be,
Or sey dem hol’ too much
Others too dey yarn dia size,
Like sey e go win dem prize.

Ehen, does size really matter?
Is it guaranteed to please her?
Is it having sex or making love?
Don’t ask me, ask ibiluv!

I don’t have an opinion on everything,
So you can’t sue me.
I’m just rattling off some random thoughts;
E get as e dey do me.

I may not be Obama, but I'm getting me some attention!

That's right! The world must remember my name. Muhahaha! This week, I slip into the deep recesses of my mind, drawing out a me that's always been around, or some dude lurking in the dark, desperately trying to see the light of day. Today, he gets his wish! Ladies and gentlemen, behold Muse the canibal. Along with this, here are two poems: one dark (sorta), and the other, well just plain ol' me.

Enjoy.

Oh, and by the way, Obama rocks!

------------------------

The sons of men
In Abassi’s eyes
Lay naked
Under the noonday skies
Though they covered be
Through a mastered craft
That we do not see
For we have believed
And we now forget
What we really are
In Abassi’s eyes
We are sons of men
---------------------------

My soul is deep
And dark it is
My soul does weep
And gnash its teeth
For bitterness has eaten deep
Now brokenness and sorrow sit
Enthroned, rulers of a wretched being
Whose only hope of solace is
A fitless, eventless eternal sleep.

Shave my legs and call me grandma! ...otherwise known as wow!

The Nigerian music scene has got me dusting up my old dance moves, making me hop, step n twist like never before. Never mind that all these are happening in my head, ‘cos if truth be told, I can’t dance to save my life.

Thank God for Yahoozie! At least people like me can now lay hold on to a dance step – no matter how ridiculous.

Anyhoo, back to my initial line of thought. Omo boys dey hot like fire! I recently laid my hands on some tracks from the yet-to-be-released album (don’t ask me how) of some new dude called M.I, and man...um, man...well, he’s good. He’s got the rhymes, the attitude and the smarts to be 9ja’s next big rap star.

He’s not the only one.

There’s also this other chick called Nyore (fellas, I hear she’s hot!) who’s got me um...dancing (you know warramean). These group of new school artistes seem set to put Nigerian music on the world map, and like never before, I’m proud to be Nigerian!

But the guy that’s got me on a roll right now is that Benin bobo, Oriri! His album, Sisi Eko (which is also the title of his hit track) is off da hooooooooooook! I’m annoying my colleagues right now by playing his album over and over again! LOL!

Oh, and by the way, I started jogging. Yeah! Two days down the line, and I suddenly feel sympathetic towards the poor sods in the military that have to do this every morning. My joints ache like mad, and my thighs and calves feel like Samuel Peters took out his revenge on them. All because the lady doesn’t like the belly that much. What on earth happened to “I love you the way you are”?

Well, here’s a toast to the 9ja music scene, and wishing me speedy recovery (or woreva), cos as God is my witness, come tomorrow morning, I’m going jogging again!

Well, tie me up and call me a puppet.

AND NO! NO POEM TODAY. C’MON GUYS, EVERYDAY’S NOT A HOLIDAY (Asa...).

we who are about to die salute you...

Morituri te salutamus. You probably know this famous greeting ill-fated gladiators made to the Emperor, when he was gracious enough to bestow upon a fight, his presence. Not the most exciting thing to look forward to, I must say. But, hey, they had a job to do right?

In many ways, I feel like a gladiator.

Okay, make that one way. And believe me, it's not an easy way. You see, I'm a copywriter, and my job demands that I come up with creative ideas and strategies that sell whatever message, service or product my client wants to pass across to his Target Audience. It may seem fun at first, but when you get down to the nitty gritty, you get to understand that a lot of brain power goes into producing one single communication material (or ad). Well, then again, a lot of brain power is supposed to go into it.

Here lies my pain.

Today, a lot of the ads on the pages of the papers and on TV make me want to shoot myself. No, really! It seems everyone's doing a wam, bam, slap-it-on kinda job, thinking the rest of us humans out there suddenly developed the intelligence of mules. I mean, who on God's green earth approves the stuff called ads these days?! Who's the sucker that pays for them?

What does my ranting have to do with Russell Crowe and the other half clad men in leather? Nothing. Except for the fact that credible copywriters are fast becoming extinct, and are slowly being replaced by half-baked, 419ing, pretentious usurpers to the ad throne.

E dey pain me oh!

Where are the writers?! Stand up before someone runs us out of the scene, and we become, just like the gladiators, a people of past glory and fame.

We who are about to die salute you.

 

With tears that knew not whence they came,

And laughter that knew not why,

We fought to live, our rage to tame;

In truth we lived a lie;

Only to turn back and reclaim

With heaves and many a sigh;

In death we'll live past this wretched game

For while we live we die.

7/7/2005.

Sleepless in Lagos.

Another week, another set of challenges, and plenty new oportunies to...well, just do it (only this time better).  

My life's been on a roller-coaster ride:  so many briefs to handle at the office with so little time to do so; me and my girl having a major misunderstanding; my co-workers trying to give me a heart attack; and finding a companion in that annoying, miserable, irreverent doctore, House.  So far, life's been interesting.

Again, I have to say a big thank you to incoherent, who seems to always have the words to encourage me to put up a post.  Thanks, babe!

Today, I'm sharing a poem I just wrote (after so many years!).  It portrays the battle going on on the inside of me, as well as the questions I think we all ask every now and then.  It may not be a great way to start a Monday morning, but hey...what other way to start the week than by musing about who (or what) we are?  What is our sum total?  

For those who enjoy poetry...here's one for you:

I do not know what I’ve become;

It’s clear now that I’m no more me,

Maybe I was, but now I am,

Or not

Maybe now I was.

 

The darkness in my soul shines forth

The light, subdued, is put to flight

Now reigns the terror of the night

Or not

‘Tis the despot that is light.

 

So lift your heads o gates of hell

Let loose your fury from your well

For I have answered the reaper’s knell

Or not

I am free from my cell.

 

Plunge deep your sword and let me rest

Draw out the pain in my breast

Now I am free; I’ve passed the test

Or not

Maybe I’ve just begun my quest.

 

                                                                                1/9/2008.

I'm in one of those moods...

Ever felt like you were suspended in space? You're neither here nor there; neither happy nor sad, but knowing that there's something tugging at your heart. Well folks, I'm in one of those moods today. I know I should perhaps sit and brood, but I'm too restless to do so.

Whatever.

Anyways, here's a poem I wrote some time ago (I seem to have suddenly experienced a block in the past few years). As is usual with me, I'm sharing it with you (yes, you).

Oh, one more thing: big ups to the Queen. You're one heck of a writer!



Untitled.

The song I sing is a song of love

Bequeathed to me by an immigrant dove

With a broken wing and a song to sing

Many tales to tell, many bells to ring.

The dove did a solitary candle light

Within myself, did start a fight

Blinded by each ray of hope

Yet wishing still in the dark to grope

To hold on to a broken heart

Afraid to be born anew, to start

A journey long since left behind

A weakened spirit, a fragile mind.

15/12/2004.

Something for the incoherent one...

I know. Been gone for some time. Don't know who or what to blame. Work maybe, or just plain laziness. Anyways, since Incoherent made me feel like I had something upstairs (by her encouraging comments), I'm putting this up especially for her. Oh, and one more thing Incoherent - be sure that the love's mutual. :)

Have you ever felt yourself rebel against someone or something, only to find that that very thing you fought against was actually YOU? That, I have found out is the story of my life. This poem is a personal one, and I just feel like I should share it with you guys, starting with Incoherent. Enjoy...

You and Me.

I tell myself I hate who you are,

That I will never go that far,

That I love my life and liberty;

Yet I see yourself in me:

The life you lived

The day you saw

And so much more.

Is how it was before?

I am tempted to push and fight.

I know my stance; it is my right.

Yet I turn and say to you,

“I hate the things that you do.”

Still I myself must be true –

I am not much different from you

We must learn to take our paths,

Free from hatred, free from fear,

For if you don’t it will tear

You apart;

To the brink of madness bring you near.

Yet I see it is true,

You were me, and I am you.

Now I understand who you are.

You are the wrong that I must right,

The bitterness I must fight,

The hatred I must shun,

The love I must beget.

You are you, I am me,

You were me, I am you.

at the end of it all...we are what we are

This week, I don't plan to go into some long discourse (primarily because I have nothing to talk about, AND I'm too lazy to even think). So, to keep my blog going, I'm posting this poem I wrote sometime ago.

I hope you enjoy it:


The sons of men
In Abassi’s eyes
Lay naked
Under the noonday skies
Though they covered be
Through a mastered craft
That we do not see
For we have believed
And we now forget
What we really are
In Abassi’s eyes
We are sons of men

exodus of a mind in captivity

Huddled beneath the crushing weight of a thousand angry words, the little boy couldn't but hate himself. Somehow he didn't blame the world - couldn't, shouldn't really - for its anger at him. There was only one person to hate, and that was his maker.

why, o, why did He deem it fit to create him this way? Why did He create him at all? Was it just for the fun of it; having grown weary from the worship of a million years, He now wanted something to taunt at? A new toy?

Why?

He wished he could change himself. Maybe he would start with his hair, or maybe his hard-done skin. Maybe he would learn to speak differently, or even put on another skin.

They told him he was evil, and he believed. He was told that he existed in darkness, and this he received. What was his crime; his disease; his curse?

Nothing. Hurdled beneath the crushing weight of a thousand words, he suddenly realised there was nothing in the world wrong with him. Suddenly, he couldn't but love himself. If the world hated him, then, he decided, they were a victim of their own ignorance, a self-loath which they had yet to know. He thanked his maker, and standing proud and tall, he proclaimed for all the world to hear...

I am African.

I was made from the loam of the horned land,

Shaped as I am by the Lord’s hand.

From my curly hair to my rounded nose;

And my thickly lips to my princely pose,

I was made African.

I was made, and so I am

As dark as Mazi Agwu’s farm;

And I’ll not claim my soul is white,

For it is as dark as my sprite;

I was made African.

My blood is the Niger River,

My vein, the roots of the yellow guava;

My spinal cord is the Iroko,

The colour of my blood is indigo;

I was made African.

I was cooked in the open fire,

I was made with much desire.

There is no dross in me, I’m pure;

I’m all you are and so much more.

I am African.

An evening in nothingness...

Have you ever felt at some time that you were lost? Floating in space with no clue as to what on Earth is going on around (or in) you. As if you were another person in your suit of skin. As if you were living a borrowed life. I've been there a couple of times, and I still visit there now and then. It is a place from where we'll never be free, but a place that offers some respite in a crazy world, nonetheless. Still, even in the midst of all this madness, something within us still fights to anchor us on Earth. A solitary candle glow.

Enjoy today's poem, and just float away to a place of sweet nothingness...

In a hidden part of a broken soul
Lays a solitary candle glow
Which has as its only goal
To mend the shattered golden bowl
To make it shine again as though
It never knew the fatal blow
That made it many pieces be
Thus making different parts of me
Dispelling any certainty
Of who I am.

burn, baby burn!

I want to burn some fat! Okay, I'm not entirely a blob of fat rolling happily on, but I'm not a "knock-ye-down six-packer" either.

But boy, do I love them sweet things.

So, what's to do? I need to go on a diet - that I know- but which one? That's where you come in. Yes, you! You've got to help me! *sob* *sob* *sob*. I just wanna lose the tummy...and the laps...and the (oh, you get the drill).

Adivice, anyone?

Of death and dieing…

I've always been fascinated by the subject of death. Not so much the act itself, but the subtle message it passes across. I'm constantly amazed at how people associate death with the extremely negative, yet like Tu Face said, "Nobody wan die but dem wan go heaven".

Amazing.

So, death. What does it mean, really? Is it just the end of life as we know it, or the beginning of another? Is it a reminder of the fragility of life, prompting us to live better lives, or an annoying fun police prompting us to enjoy every teeny weenie bit of life before he comes for us?

I believe in the Christian belief about death. But most importantly, I view death as an ever-constant reminder that we should live our lives ultimately to lift up others. And when we do die, we will be judged by how we lived. Our names will either live on or die. In this case, death is the ultimate test of life.

As usual, another poem, a distraction from all the heavy stuff.

Untitled.

Man was made for joy and woe.

So said the poet of years before.

'Twas rightly said,

For now I know:

Man was made for joy

I was made for woe.

In the darkest night shines the brightest light

Yet beneath the light lays the deepest fright.

Thus begins my journey

And my plight:

Will I make it

Through the night?

Don't fail me now, O gleam of hope.

Let me not fall, let me not grope.

I know I'll yet drink from that well;

I do not know, I cannot tell.

I'm standing tall, I'm lying weak,

How do I find that which I seek?

Man was made for joy and woe,

I'll find my joy, for man is woe.

ok! ok! i you win! i've been tagged!

Rules (who needs 'em?):
1.link the person who tagged you. That'll be aloofar
2. Mention the rules in your blog…
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours...
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them…
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged...


i. When I was younger, I wished (or was it knew?) I was cyclops (X-men).

ii. There's always something urging me to jump from high places.

iii. I'm anti-establishment.

iv. In the dark, I close my eyes and feel my way around (I have no idea why).

v. I'm pretty sure I was in the secret service in my former life.

vi. I used to pronounce bridgestone (the tyre makers) "bridget stone"!


Now, I hearby tag...freaksho, smaragd, loomnie i'll tag the rest o'y'all later.

Take a chance on me!

Adba. Yup, that group we all grew up with (or in the case of some of you, you grew up with the remixes of their songs by some silly boy bands - no offence intended).

Yesterday evening, some smart guy decided to make us all nostalgic by playing some of Adba's hit songs like "knowing me, knowing you"; "take a chance on me" and the rest. It woked. Now I'm nostalgic. For real.

I miss the good 'ol days when we did nothing but laze around, eat, watch TV, laze some more...you know the drill.

Then your voice cracks. You like the girl sitting next to you at school. You ask for her pencil - or better still snatch it! You start growing up.

Life.

So, here I am just wondering, "how much of life is chance"? How much of life do we plan? Do we have any control?

In the light of our uncertainty of life, here's a poem I wrote last year that somehow touches on the subject.

Enjoy:


Heaven is just a breath away
And life is but a sigh.
The grass will fade like yesterday;
The end of time is nigh.
So pack your bags and wash yourself,
And rest while still you can.
For night is just a wink away;
I know not of the day.
2/2/2007

of puppets and puppeteers...

"For God's sake, act like a grown up!" I often wonder at time what the benchmarks for manhood are (well, aside the beards and other hairy showings and biceps - which in my case are hidden). Somehow it seems that the more we progress, the less we do. Figure that one out for yourself.

Today, I'm putting up one of my poems here, just to share my thots with you...you...you...you...

"Grow up!"

Untitled.

The birth of the man

Is not the babe’s demise,

For it will return

In quiet steps

Subtly rehearsed,

And reclaim its place,

Banishing the man

To eternal sleep.

Or maybe not;

It may decide

To vanish,

Yet live side by side –

An impact here,

A showing there.

Ever the perfect

Puppeteer.