'Nights of the Creaking Bed' by Toni Kan

Nights of the Creaking Bed

 

In spite of the widely acclaimed offence of immorality that Toni Kan's Nights of the Creaking Bed purportedly commits, the book indeed reflects the power of confidence that proper narration could exude when it is told with apt words. With the consciousness of what could have been transpiring when a bed suddenly creaks and squeaks in the night, I had had it at the back of my mind when I was picking up the book that I am about to settle down with what might re-enliven the thought I was always having when a lady appears in a scarcely covered top that reveals much of her cleavage and gives a good view of the tiny-tiny dots on the two water melons that cushion her front. Night of the Creaking Bed flings what you are always hypocritically ashamed and timid to say in public in your face before you are through reading its first page. Nights of the Creaking Bed is Toni Kan's tireless skilled effort at bringing to discourse what is stereotyped to be an all bed-room affair; ditto the lewd words and statements that we can easily identify and evaluate are used to pass the messages in the book across.

As erotic as Nights of the Creaking Bed is, it still does so much with its literary effort at not only regurgitating the affairs that are normally associated with Poverty, Underdevelopment, Immorality, Third-World Superstition, Religion and Extremism; but also narrating the stories as if they are thoughts running in your mind.

Nights of the Creaking Bed is a collection of fourteen independent short stories that share and interpret different themes.

 

RUNDOWNS

Nights of the Creaking Bed:

The only man Andy knows as a person who plays fatherly role to him and his brother, Meze, is Uncle John who never relents in making his mother's bed creaks whenever he visits their home. Despite the frosty atmosphere Uncle John's regular visits leave between Andy, Meze, Mama Andy and their neighbours, who are keen to judging her and pelting her with allegation of sleeping with someone else's husband, Mama Andy takes comfort in the pleasure that the creaking of her bed by Uncle John gives her. Mama Andy's boat suddenly loses the wind to sail further when Uncle John slumps to death atop her. The day her bed stops creaking and rocking after Uncle John's death is the moment her death's clock starts ticking faster until she dies too.

The Passion of Pololo:

Paul's (Pololo) mysterious and insatiable sexual adventure, that has so much to do with personality-disorder and post-infant-sexual trauma begins when he is confronted with the nakedness of their neighbour performing acrobatic stunts on the stark nude body of his mother when he bursts into his mother's room after a short tennis game he had with his dad. The memory of his mother's 'naked breasts heaving, one hand outstretched in a plea and a finger on her lips urging silence' makes Pololo to embark on a journey that only him understands. When Pololo can't solve the mystery his mother's very nakedness leaves him with from sleeping with numerous girls, he goes back to finding answers by summoning enough courage to have a taste of his mother's flesh of supple heaving breasts.

The Echo of Silence:

Tony wakes up one morning to the sight of the corpse of his neighbour laying at his threshold. He is left to meander between two options; to be late to catch the official bus of the company he works with and fail to make ready his presentation at work or come up with a faster solution to evade the trouble the presence of his neighbour's lifeless body can bring if it is found at his doorstep. He settles for the latter as he hauls the lifeless mass into his sitting room. Tony spends his entire day at work with the fear of what he is bound to deal with when he returns home. His calculated plans to deal with the trouble is trivialised when the lifeless body speaks to him on his opening the door after his unsettled activity at work:

''You lock me inside''

 

 

Ahmed:

Ahmed's dream of making it to the city to engage his eyes with what normally spices his brother's story up whenever he, Yinusa, returns from the city with his truck, leads to his death. Ahmed's mother might have sensed what lies in wait for his second son in the place that illuminates his whole dream when she refuses Ahmed's many pleas to follow Yinusa to the city. Ahmed religiously promises her mother that he won't be lost to the 'wave' of the city like his brother, Yinusa. Ahmed becomes the happiest man when his mother finally allows him, after many attempts, to go the city with his brother who plies a transporting business. His ignorance as a Hausa village-unintelligent-pastoral boy cut his dream and life short when he mistakes a life-electricity wire that was obstructing his brother's truck on the road for a rope that could easily be swung over with bare hands.

 

Broda Sonnie:

The narrator in this story idolises the character of the main act, which is why he fondly calls him Broda Sonnie (Informal name for Brother Sunday). This little piece precisely tells the story of how one's belief can become roguery when it is taken to the extreme. In 'Broda Sonnie', the gap of religion differences is widened. Mufu, Risi's brother, won't let Broda Sonnie, a Christian-Lagos-bus-conductor to have anything emotional to do with his sister. All hell is let loose when Mufu knows that Risi has given them a false date of her coming home for holiday in order to spend a day with her lover, Sonnie. Sonnie is attacked by Mufu, when his one-night tryst with Risi is discovered. Sonnie is clubbed and mauled to pieces of meat by Mufu and his fellow Islamic fellows, the Ayatollahs, whose furies are ruled by extreme belief rather than sheer contempt for premarital sexual stint.

 

My Perfect Life:

Sylvia's perfect life is distorted and punctured when her past surreptitiously crawls into her present. She has everything working for her as a mother and wife – a car, two children, a fairly handsome husband and a good home. Her visit to her regular shopping mall, Shoprite in VI, turns everything in her perfect life around. Her once-upon-a-time lover, who fate never gives a chance to receive approval for his relationship with Sylvia from Sylvia's father, because he is a Yoruba man, resurfaces after 20 years. Sylvia can't help her clitoris from going all wet because she is unable to control the sensation the memory of Seun's virility causes her immediately she sees him decades after they parts ways in an uncontrollable circumstance. She is unbridled; she wants to have the bite of the masculine power of Seun's manhood again and feel the soothing pleasure of his semen. She won't set for herself a boundary as a married woman with two kids; she is ready to feel again the unusual way Seun uses to bring her to climax each time their bed creaks in the past.

 

Onion:

How cruel can life be? As unequal as we are in all status, no one wishes to put a basket of goods on a minor on a day when festive mood hangs in the air. Poverty can make one become abnormal. The story-teller, Dele, is the little boy who all odds are up against because his father abandons his mother in wretchedness, and his mother drinks gin to madness to drown her sorrow. The boy is forced to hawk onions on a Christmas day amidst sobs when his peers are swaddled in celebratory clothes with matching shoes and toys that correspond with the mood of Christmas. The boy wills to go back home against his mother's order after a short hawk on Christmas when no one is interested in buying onions. He knows the pain his decision will make him face, but he seeks succour in the meal Seni's mother, his friend's mother, has promised to give him on Christmas day.

 

 

The Phone Call Goodnight:

Onyinye's husband's, Ndu, usual call of few minutes before arriving home unexpectedly changes into a distress call when he is captured by men of double dealings just some inches' away from his gate. At that instant, Onyinye quickly understands what it means to suffer the trepidation of losing a loved one. Just like her mother, who goes haywire searching for her when she can't be found at a party she accompanies her mother to, Onyinye launches a frenzy search for her husband in the dead of the night. Not even the rift she initially bears her husband can stop her. She serendipitously later finds her husband on one of the bridges in Lagos stripped naked and beaten.

 

God Is Listening:

The innocent cry of a little girl whose maturity stage into womanhood goes through the same turbulence that blithe her life shrills in the reader's mind; bringing the reader's mood to empathy.

Angei becomes an unprotected child from external forces that parenting bars out when her parents die in an inexplicable auto accident. She is left with nothing as her father's brother, Uncle Thomas, swoops on her father's properties. Her siblings sacrificed their slavery on Uncle Thomas' farm so that she can be allowed to finish her SSCE. Bright light starts illuminating her dark life when she perceives a great future in the promise her lover, Goddie, who assures her to open her legs for sponsorship through school to study her dream course – accountancy. Unknown to her, Goddie only eggs her on to have what seems impossible with his wife at home – a male child.

God is indeed listening when her mother and father crash to death. The Creator truly isn't deaf when Goddie dumps Angei because the x-ray shows she is carrying a girl-child. God is even paying attention when Angei uses her virginal to pay her rent to her landlord. God is looking, maybe smiling and just taking note when Angei finally dumps the girl child in a trash can and is afterwards raped by a watchman who exploits her naivety.

 

The Car They Borrowed:

''We need your car for just four hours... Don't go to the police. We are not stealing your car... When you pick it up...., there will be something there for you.

Brunor mind ranges with anxiety when his newly bought car is borrowed by the marauders. Everything that he has worked for seems to have come to nought with his car that is borrowed. True to the assurance he is given, his car is returned to the spot he is told to do the pickup. His reward for lending his car out is also found intact and neatly kept for him. But for the blood stained clothes at the backseat and the smudges of blood that he discovers, he would have kept mum. He later forsakes the warning of the men who borrowed the car and went straight to the police station to report the case. To Brunor's surprise, the officer that attends to him at the police happens to be one of the men who borrow the car, as the officer says:

''Didn't I tell you to stay at home?... Didn't I tell you to take what we left for you and go home?... Get out of here!

 

 

Buzz:

 His name is Buzuzu, but he is called Buzz. His detective job as a police man is more of a calling to him than a daily-living earner. And as such, he does his work with utmost passion. After the last man that is supposed to help him to join the army falls to gruesome death, Buzz takes it upon himself to unravel lurking puzzles in any murder case. To Buzz, No 7 means two contrary different things; a place of pleasure and horror. It is the night club where he knows what the two succulent breasts of Nana look like, and the spot where he traces the murderer of Nana to when she is assassinated.

 

Sad Eyes:

The absolute dreadfulness and uncertainty of life without one's parents is seen in the life of Stella, who shoulders the whole responsibility of fending for his three younger brothers. A normal and pretty lady with unusual psychical power like her would have seen an escape in being tipped by boyfriends and admirers because of the sexual appeal she readily commands, but the task of dating a lady with three other mouths to satisfy scares any confident guy away from her anytime. Not even Osa whose encounter with her brings love to him again can settle for her. The reason is simple – her excess luggage of three brothers to look after. Stella's breasts are later hacked off and her body dumped in a ditch by her silencer.

 

Age of Iron:

This story is a lot poetic and philosophical. One is too scared to agree with the ominous view of the writer. The prognostication and evil prophecies of this story on the happenings of the goings-on in Nigeria political terrain is too grim that it is not edifying to give it a thought or imagine how real it can be. Age of Iron is the story of a city which fell to the wickedness and evil of her leaders. It is the thoughtful visualisation of the writer about a place where everybody feeds on their own rage without food in the belly, where the things that matter and sell most as valuables are iron of swords.

 

The Devil's Overtime:

When the devil is at work, there are moans and bitter tales to tell. But when the very devil with two horns and a tail stretches his time causing groans, then, no one can be crestfallen about how much hurt people will writhe under. It is the devil's overtime when Daniel's mother is trapped in the village by irresponsible pregnancy. The devil outstretches his hours as Justina is killed with her pregnancy ripped off her stomach and kicked around like football by religion-fighters. The devil isn't also too fair to Daniel when he is abandoned by his mother at a tender age to decide his fate under Lagos' bridges and slums. The Devil can't have been reasonable this time around. No, he can't have been, maybe he doses off, when Michael, Daniel's friend, dies before Michael, even when he isn't suffering from any disease like his friend, who is battling with liver-crisis.

You‘ve Got Time! Maximise It Now!!!

The Definition:

You do not have to stretch the pinna of your ears before you hear people sorrowing on why their limited time wouldn't allow them fulfil some tasks or attend social events. Why? It's very simple; it is only when we start realising that time is not what nature can be so generous about in adding few seconds to the individually allotted 24 a day that we can start evaluating how better it will be maximising it. In a ridiculous definition of what time means; time is the same commodity that always demand positive dynamic outputs. To make it more simpler; time is that same resource that never increases in size as you make use of it over the years, and yet become more valuable to our very existence as we are able to accomplish more tasks successfully with it than we did in the previous days, months or years.

Do I take shortcuts then?

No! I wouldn't advise that. Most shortcuts-taking are really not worth taking at all. You would soon realise that doing them will only amount to an accumulation of things you ought to have done well before; bringing them down on your neck all at one instant. This is when you have found out that what you took a shorter route for is not giving you the defined result you had at the back of your mind before settling down on it.

Start increasing your speed!

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So many articles have been written with well laid out step-to-step plans to follow in managing one's time without nailing hard on the reason why you have got to increase your speed. Speed plays a pivotal role in getting things done on a platform that is set out to become fulfilled without increasing its resources. Haven't you ever wondered and stamped you right foot on the floor in anger that as you grow more old, advance in your pursuits and increase in your responsibility taking; the time never changes at all? It is just that same twenty four damn hours that you had when your mum gave birth to you toothless!!! Gush!

If you are set to attain new height with the same time you have, then start doing things twice as better as how you were wont to doing them in the past. When you are good at accomplishing some works, it most of the time reduces the time you spend on them, safe you the sweats that surge out of your pores and ultimately increases the speed at which you do them. It is very important that you go for external help that can assist you in horning your knowledge about what you are doing now to achieve the required speed that will compress the time you normally spend working on some works for other things that you have on your schedule.

How do I increase my working 'speedometre'?

You see, everything is all about getting upgraded to work faster. Always know there is nothing you are doing now that somebody on this planet's surface hasn't some knowledge about. This is to say that they are materials you can go for and people you can talk to, those who know better than you do on the things you are always wasting a great chunk of your time on. Imagine if we were still left with the Microsoft Word™ processor of '96 edition in handling document preparation that demands we submit as report in the next few minutes in this era. Can you even imaging a world where you have to simultaneously run different programmes without slowing down the operation of your system on Pentium II system or on a computer with 50kilobytes worth of RAM in this present time when we are addicted to keep so many social websites running at the same time as if they all sustain our breath? Can you figure it out yourself now? You now have the grasp of the import of what I have been rambling on - It's all about upgrading your skills to get hands on so many assignments without crashing out!

Just double in speed with that little work when next you lay your hands on it, acquiring more knowledge to deal with those repeadted issues in subsequent handlings, and you would start shaking your head bitterly at how much time you've really got if you had done things differently.

Be WARNED!

Prioritising can also be helpful in getting more out of your time. You do not have to fix everything every time; it could gravely affect the quality of your results and disturb your psychology when you start becoming anxious and nervous with everything. Do things that are only necessary and in connection with the successes of subsequent chores.

·         Please, strike out the standalones and time-wasters, they could roughen your day.

My first Blabbering (A Review of a Friend’s Dream)

 Today, I never thought that Omotayo would surprise me. I should have thought better when he called twice and I had to call back. But all of a sudden he came in with what had been our dreams for long: a baby. Yes, a baby! That device that would enable us have a better view of the world that is with us now and the one that would shape the future of the world: a baby. Yes, a baby! That machine that has kept our world simply connected for ever. One that has made friendship a matter of some clicks. It has been long we have been ruing our lot on this other side of the divide: a world with an epileptic access to the net. But now the baby has come and the light is here. We will be able to dance and dance around our world basking in the euphoria of the new found baby. With this bundle of joy, we can smile and the world smiles too; we can blink and the world blinks as well. It is the wonder of the new baby that has come and put an endless joy in our world. It can sit anywhere and make us walk our world.

 

·                      This is a review of my HP mini done by a friend, an uncle and teacher, Mr Adebiyi Rasheed. The notebook was bought on Friday, 23^rd, 2010. Mr. Adebiyi Rasheed's literary 'restlessness' can be found on his blog: www.talkingdrum.blogspot.com . You can also hook up with him on Facebook through his mail: biyicrown@yahoo.com

 

A Heart to Mend

'A Heart to Mend' by MYNE WHITMAN

You will be mistaken if you think Myne Whitman's literary birthing, A Heart to Mend, is among the charade of romantic novels that could always be predicted with the end of '... and they live happy ever  after'. The unusual writing confidence that exudes in this romantic novel is observed as the different plots in it are independent of their messages built on different themes and conflicts. The inspiring aspect of the novel is how it dances around themes that only tilt to the main message of a stormy romantic encounter as seen in the lives and times of the two major characters, Edward and Gladys. As unfamiliar as the Nigerian literary scene is with the genre of Romance that Myne Whitman seems to walk shoulder high in, the author still undoubtedly tailors her messages through the prism of versatile writing skill. With this, the reader is tethered to the curiosity to know what the outcome of the climax will be and how each character that is connected with the conflict survives what definitely will become the aftermath. Questions will battle for answers to know:  Where Aunty Isioma's sudden disposition of favour towards her niece, Gladys, will lead to? Will Gladys ever give in to the pressure of Edward's pre-marital sexual advances? How will Edward be able to weather through the take-over crisis in Bestman Company without depleting the harmony in his relationship with Gladys? What is the purpose of Edward's former foster parents, Mr and Mrs Okrika, for resurfacing to open the can of worms that has been long covered? Why is Gladys tarred with the same brush as the detractors of Bestman Company? The story is foremost a written-capture of the life, struggle and the love affairs of Edward and Gladys, which choose no other path than to ride unsteadily on the storms that characterise their lives.

This is not just a piece that buys room for the vapidity of stilted narration that only awkwardly centres on romance; it is a literature that reflects our fears and desires through the different traits and voices of the characters.

MARKS AND GASHES:

It is a deskilling effort when Myne Whitman cluttered the book with conversations that are purely of the terminologies used in the Stock Exchange sector. Though it shows a glaring in-depth knowledge the author has about the activities of the sector, it rather makes the reader feel bored and lumbered with just flipping the pages till when it gets to where stories that are importantly knotted to the main message that concerns the main characters are. However, this situation is later rescued by the strong suspense that holds the heart of the reader bound. The effectiveness of the technique, the strong suspense, is in how it is used at the brink between the conflict and the climax of the story.

What one should always look out for in a book is not only the knowledge of what will become of the characters, but  when a writer goes at some extra lengths at educating the reader of things, places and cultures which the reader wouldn't have assessed without the book, then, the book becomes more endearing as a priceless jewel. The broad-ranging and cosmopolitan intelligence of Myne Whitman makes her to breeze through the descriptions of places, especially the places and activities that blatantly depict Lagos in the book.

 

SETTINGS:

The book is set between two significant eras in Nigeria history – the time when socio-economic activities of her populace are muddled up before the advent of technology and the season when Nigeria seems to be taking the world of intercontinental business by storm with the cutting edge technology that makes information gathering easier. Aunty Isioma's marital woes and the strain it put in the relationship that exists between her and her brother's family wouldn't have been if there had been a mobile technology that guarantees easy communication. She indeed confesses to this situation in the revealing discourse between her and her niece, Gladys:

 

"I tried all I could to make him (Aunty Isioma's husband) change his mind, but he was unwavering on the issue. I had to choose between him and the children and your family. There was nothing I could do even if I wanted to. I had no money I could have sent to your family or any way to send it. It was a very tense period; he monitored and even restricted my movements and calls. Of course there was no email or mobile phones in the eighties."

 

Gladys is able to transport the message of her new job to her mother in Enugu all the way from Lagos on the spur of the moment when she receives the letter of her appointment from Zenon Oil.

 

''Gladys moved between the sentry palms into the dining room, taking her mobile phone from her jeans pocket at the same time and punching in her mother's number.

"Mama, it is me, good evening."

"E'hem, how are you?"...

"I got the job Mama."

 

The book is geographically set between Nigeria, London, New York and Barbados. The topographic descriptions of these places are just awesome. The ambience Skyline view of Victoria Island in Lagos, the ferry ride at the upper deck in Manhattan in New York, the touristy experience of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island are just aptly detailed.

 

THEMES:

 

Deception & Comeuppance: 'Where there is muck there is brass' is the philosophy of Mr Odusote, the expert broker, who sees nothing wrong in enriching himself on the ignorance of others. He is always badgering Edward, intercepting him at every occasion, sending mails back and forth and starting up unscheduled meetings, just on the need to use the clout Bestman Group has as a listing company to carry out his (Mr Odusote) illegal reaping of the market when the fruit is ripe. He is punished in his own tricks after his plan with Chief Okrika to take over the management of Bestman Group from Edward falls through, breaking into rubbles of regret and financial loss. Mr Okrika is also paid in his vices when he eats a humble pie as the recording of the secret and expository conversation he had with Gladys, which proofs that he is the one behind the take-over crisis, is played to him. Chief Okrika is tricked by the informant, Edward's secretary, who is the conduit that readily leaks the in-house activities of Bestman Group to Mr Okrika. Mrs Okrika's repercussion catches up with her when Chief Okirika knows the truth behind her disgust for Edward.

 

Chauvinism & Frailty: Aunty Isioma's life in marriage is a perfect depiction of male chauvinism and female-marital frailty. Her awful story with her husband lucidly shows that the worst slavery that has ever happened to humanity is the one that occurs silently between weak and strong partners in various homes. Aunty Isioma is restricted by her husband not to step a foot near her brother, Gladys' father, when he was sick. Aunty Isioma's husband makes an effort as far as cutting his wife off her friends, monitoring her calls, and deceiving their children after her brother later dies that all what is left of what represent their mother's family are gone. Two options is given to her; 'it's either she chooses to stay with the children and the subsisting marriage or break up and stay with her brother'. She only regains her freedom after her husband passes on. Hers is the deep portrayal of the male superiority complex that gravely rocks homes.

 

• I must confess that my belief of reading a purely ubiquitous Love Story in this book was totally proved to be a misconception after the reading. The book is an array of events that could easily happen to Me and You. Please, amidst your books on the shelves and reading desks, meld A Heart to Mend with them, so that whenever anybody asks if you have got A Heart to Mend, you would answer truthfully.

 

BOOKJAM 5 AND ‘ALL MALE’ THREE WRITERS

It was as if the 5th edition of the BookJam which was held on the 26th of June, 2010 will never come to reality as the time was delayed 30minutes later than the official 3:00pm time. This administrative strategy later eventually paid off as readers, writers and literary enthusiasts started filling chairs that were before dotted by early comers. The Bookjam 5 had writers like Toni Kan (author of 'Night of the Creaking Bed' and 'When a Dream Lingers too Long'), Abraham Oshoko(author of June 12: The Struggle for Power in Nigeria) and Kunle Ajibade (Jailed for Life). In no time, the invited writers at the BookJam started talking about the books they have written.

It was shocking and at the same time amusing when Toni Kan said that the title of his collection of short stories, Night of the Creaking Bed, was a publishing-mistake.The creaking in the title was a publishing-mistake, don't mind the man. The 'creaking' in the title should have been 'squeaking';. This is where the squeaking from the title came from; "when I was still poor, when all I had was a bed of springs, each time I slept on it, it was always squeaking". When Toni Kan was asked if he had been attacked in any way before based on the 'sex' that features dominantly in his book. Toni Kan humorously stood up to show that the tallness of his body and the broadness his chest could scare any attacker away. Toni Kan however didn't deny the fact that he has indeed been attacked. He alluded to an attack of words that were hurled at his book by a Unilag student sometimes ago because the student considered 'sex' in literature unnecessary.

The rendition of Kunle Ajibade from his book, Jailed for Life was refreshing and mesmerising. Kunle Ajibade carted the rapt attention of the audience with his powerful and absorbing reading from his autobiographical note, Jailed for Life. The taste buds of the readers were whipped up when Kunle Ajibade read from a part of his book. The part in the book lucidly captured the travails of Ajibade in the vicious hands of 'khaki boys' when he was in prison for the infraction he never committed. The story read from the part of the book was also the awful itinerary of Ajibade in cramped rooms called prisons. The attentive audience almost fell off their chairs with laughter when Ajibade read,"...I looked at the piece of the jewellery (handcuff) on my hands, and I saw 'made in Germany' on it. In response to
questions, Ajibade said; "To be hopeful could be difficult, but I was always happy during my times in the prison. There is this force that keeps you going even when everything is not working. While I was in the prison, I was always happy even when the military guards would think I would be sad. At times, the guards were even scared by my happy disposition. I know they would be saying; this man, e be like say him get one power way he believe in o. No, no, no... I was never detached. My relationship with them (his captors) still remains cordial. You would be surprised to know that these Hausa boys were just trying to survive in the system too. If I see Abacha's daughter now, if she is beautiful, I could say; hi girl, how are you doing? You know what I mean?"

Abraham Oshoko was creative with his reading from his graphical illustrative book, June 12: The Struggle for Power in Nigeria. He only read quotes excerpted from words of past national leaders and statesmen; words that give diverse views and perspectives on the nationality and unity of the country when peace was about to be punctured in the land because every region wants power. Though he read a little from his book that looks similar to a comic book because of the comical pictures of its characters, it was very brief. Oshoko was disagreed with by a person from the audience when he said we are a country that hates taking down history. The disagreeing person backed his proof up that things are actually changing going by what writers are now doing.

If you were sitting in the front row like True Talk did during the monthly literary event, you might not know how large the population have become until the 'buy a book and be qualified for a raffle draw' time came up. The scramble for book by literature lovers was massive. The lifestyle store, where the event was held, suddenly became buzzing with people that were going from one shelf to another to pick their favourite books. Three winners were selected from the raffle-draw box, out of which Joseph Omotayo was the first prize winner of David Wej(D.W.) shirt.

BookJam is now having a strong footing on the literary scene; attracting people like Odia Ofeimu, a poet and essayist, Adunni Abimbola of the Punch and author of Under the Brown Rusted Roofs, Jumoke Verissimo, the author of I am Memory, Wole Oguntokun, the writer of the Girl Whisperer in the Guardian newspaper,etc. Kafayat, the guitarist cum singer, performed brilliantly when she refreshed the audience with her sonorous voice when she sang 'Times are good. Bidemi's recital of his poem titled 'Black', which was accompanied by tunes from Kafayat's little piece of music, guitar, was magnificent and quite novel too. The 5th edition of the BookJam is really an occasion that will long be remembered. After the two-hour reading, we were all itching for more talks from the writers and questions from the audience. It was indeed a programme not to miss.


NB: The fourth person in the picture with a black and red face-cap was a guest writer during the reading.He is a francophone writer, whose participation was just a complement to the programme.

From Caves Of Rotten Teeth: A Nigeria Story Told With Clarity

Though the book written by A. Igoni Barret is a collection of short stories that has the potency to keep the reader glued to every of its pages from the first to the last, what can also not be discountenanced is the fact that no matter where the reader decides to take his reading from, the strong centre theme of brazen rottenness will still resonate through out the book. Like an eight-day old child that takes his parents’ privacy to the market-square for unprecedented interference, From Caves Of Rotten Teeth’s imperceptible reprimanding touches down on each of the hypocrisy that this sleeping giant of ours has always been known for – the hypocrisy of religion, the hypocrisy of individual survival, the hypocrisy of tribal supremacy and the hypocrisy of marital ‘co-habitation’.

Review:

‘The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit’ is the story of a religion dramatist called the Pastor, the ignorance of a diseased Father, and the tale of an unjust victim called the Son. The Pastor’s wall comes crumbling down on him and his cohorts when the tricks used in performing make-up miracles that intoxicates its recipient with the flexibility to perform acrobatic stunts as a sign of being ‘healed’ and ‘delivered’, cannot make a little Son, whose Father claims to have been the source behind his diseased leg, shake in a frenetic manner, even after the Pastor has conjure thousands of Holy Spirit down from heaven by speaking in tongue. The Son is put in critical condition when he is beaten black and blue by the Pastor and the elders of the church all in the process of getting delivered. The Son ironically wins the sympathy of the congregation, who has earlier call for his head for being the problem in his Father’s life, when they realize that he is just a little boy that intends no harm to anybody.

‘Dream Chaser’ tells the enthusiasm and the excitement a boy uses to decide his destiny, by plying the trade that would only give him his dream in cramped room called cyber café. He jettisons his academic pursuit for the ‘bright’ future that he sees in the magical power of the internet. He is very frank about it when he tells his father that all he wants to be doing in his lifetime is to sits permanently behind a computer screen surfing the web. He converts his feeding allowances, the accruals from his thieving expeditions and fares to school to the money he uses to buy the tickets that sustain his time in the cyber café.

‘A Loss’ catalogues the bitter but untoward experience of a man, whose happiness is soiled when he discovers, rather lately, that he has been dispossess of his money in the bustle and hustle of getting a bus. However, this leaves him with another story to tell the bus conductor, who with manly and tout-like grunt, asks for his fare.

‘On a Night with Two Friends and an Empty Oil Drum’ narrates the plan-of-theft of two friends, Saamekpe and Kozi, which is carried out at Saamekpe’s father’s filling station during the five week long fuel paucity that disrupts the economic activities of the city. The multi-thousand naira plan is messed up when the ‘doro’ is left at home before coming to the filling station. The encounter they had with the police-men exposes the rottenness in the security system of the country. For want of what to present as evidences for the expended bullets the policemen use in the shootout they engage in with an armed robbery gang, they almost kill the two friends in order to use their dead bodies to ‘make’ report. The timely intervention of Saamekpe who offers the policemen his life savings gives them back their freedom. The man, called Oga, who leads the police team, says; ‘One, because if I no produce the body at the station that we use the bullets for, it is me and my boys who will pay for them…’

‘Early Retirement’ is the humorous story of Miss Mizodenayam Pondei, a 28-year old engineering graduate, whose father’s string-pulling can’t get her the desired job in the Ministry of Works but a job to work as a primary school teacher with 6 months probation. She later secures a loan with her academic certificates to assuage the pain the money that pays her fare to her place of work puts on her. The 28-year-old engineering student receives the shock of her life when she is retired from work after 5 months as a person who has worked for 35 years with a pension and gratuity she never works for.

Boniface Doa in ‘The Heat’ rises above the tedium and the suffering of the extreme heat from the hotter-than-hot weather by having a sexual stint with the Orjinta’s maid, Bola, a Francophone girl. When Boniface’s blurting of the smithereens of the Pidgin French he can still recollect can’t help him make Bola to accept his advances; he is quick to resorts to giving her his 22-carat gold necklace, which finally thaws her unfriendly disposition towards him.

In ‘Pot Pourri’, Mrs. Uju (Augustina Lilyrose Patience Odenigbo ‘Mama Uzo’) Orjinta meets her marital waterloo during the screening of her favourite T.V. programme, a weekly half-hour show, Pot Pourri, which she loves so much to a fault. The comforts she gets from watching her favourite weekly half hour programme is shattered when she flinches at the sight of her husband, Mr. Orjinta, who ought to be in office, on the left side of the screen with his lover-bird, where he was so much engrossed in crooning loving words into his girlfriend’s ear. The rendezvous of Mr. Orjinta incidentally coincides with the venue of the weekly half-hour cuisine show, where the chef of the hotel used is the guest-cook on the show.

The long-aged Child Abuse syndrome stares in the face of the reader in ‘Pluck Today Tomorrow’s Wilted Flower’, as the burden of sustaining a family rest on the faltering shoulders of a little, poor and helpless girl. She is taken to the park every morning by her father, who only stays back in a shade in the motor park to while away the day with kola-nuts and cups of tea bought from the daily pittance the girl gets from wheedling strangers who comes to the park to board a vehicle or from those whose buses’ destination terminates at the park. The little girl faints on the day when hunger taut her stomach after several hours of nothing to show for her effort of begging, but a wilted flower that decorates her hair. She is rescued by a stranger whose care and self-pity translates to money and food.

Odion’s manhood is tested and found wanting by the avalanche of letters purportedly written by his runaway father, which Odion’s mother gives to him on his eighteenth year old birthday in ‘The Letters’. The letters profess the undying love of Odion’s father to him. The letters give flimsy excuses to make up for his (Odion’s father) absence in Odion’s life when he needs him most. Anxiety creeps in on Odion when he does not know how to tell the mother that has always been there for him that; he has finally forgiven his father despite his misdeeds. He summons the courage to break the news to his mother after the fear of telling his mother makes him to wet his bed. In desperation to look for his father, he angrily steps out to look for his father, but is taken aback and shocked when his disappointed mother said; ‘What if I told you that I wrote them, to show you, and prove to myself, that I have indeed succeeded. You will never be a man.’

‘The Tempest’ is a literary documentation of a bereaved mother, Onari, who despite her ‘expectant’ posture (pregnant), still commands the attention of numerous admirers who swim around her like flies vying to perch on an overripe mango. Bayo, the winner in the contest for Onari’s love, dumps Kelechi, his fiancé. The ground under Onari’s feet gives way when Bayo jilts her and returns to his first love, Kelechi. Hunger becomes Onari voluntary companion afterwards and as a result, Onari is delivered of a baby in an early labour. Onari is bereaved after two weeks, when a furious tempest takes her house’s roof off the house to a faraway destination and carries away her baby to an unknown place. Just like her missing baby, Onari mysteriously leaves her tenement before the search party formed to look for her missing child arrives.

Despite Ifedior Idoko’s propitious augury in investing in his wife’s (Godiya) education, he is dominated upon and emotionally oppressed in ‘Domination’. After series of fruitless search for job vacancy for Godiya, a graduate of Angronomy with first class honours, she later acquiesces to the price that comes along with the new part-time teaching job she is given by the headmaster of a school; the price which leaves a love-bite on Godiya’s supple and succulent breast. Ifedior Idoko sees this when she is breastfeeding their baby. He raves and rants, but penury dominates on his anger and suppresses his manliness as he comes into the arms of Godiya like a crying baby.

In the ‘Phoenix’, Tartius Abrachius destiny and dream is almost smeared, if not totally destroyed, by the irrational rashness of two tribes who war for supremacy. Though he is the luckiest one among those lynched upon in the fiercest battle that takes place between the decade-long enemies, he is only left with his two arms chopped off from his shoulder. Like the mythical story of the Phoenix, Taritus Abrachius gathers the broken pieces of his life and becomes more resolute to achieve greatly in life. He later excels in his trade of road-side tailoring as he entertains his clientele with the rare dexterity he displays, even without his two arms, with the sewing machine – this is the rebirth from when his first dream is shattered when his hands are viciously severed. Tartiuis Abrachius completes his lifecycle like the proverbial Phoenix when he is mistaken for the thief he is helping to nab with his fleet-footed feet and burnt to death. At this point, Tartius Abrachius is believed to have lived the life of a Phoenix – a first death he dies when his two hands are amputated, a second death which sorrowfully snatches him when he is passed for the thief he has been pursuing and set ablaze.

‘Even As An Angry Wind Leaves Nothing In Its Path’ shows how a story in few words, if properly presented, can explain a whole lot that could have been written in a whole book. The writer uses the experience of a character, Barinada Kpee, to expose the not-too-well and decaying man-made problem that always plummet the fledging structure of a dying nation. Through Barinada Kpee’s various encounters, the stinking and rottenness of a failing nation is laid bare. The story mirrors the negative effect of colonisation, the immaturity of those who rule an independent nation with an ability that is far below mediocrity and the grief and suffering that the citizens are used to as a normal way of life.

‘They Would Be Swine’ is a story-in-a-story. The short and brief story is a story of two friends whose journey to having wealth almost destroys them, it is the story of a bus which almost had an accident because of a bad story that is shared by its passengers, it is also the humorous story of a man whose bag’s content turns out to be the ‘smiling’ head of a girl when the bus he is travelling in is stopped for a search by policemen.

My Pen Critiques:

The book is no doubt a powerful book that shows that its writer, A. Igoni Barrett, has indeed paid his dues. I admire the rare diction employed in conveying the writer’s imagination which makes the story to appear ‘real’, as to how it affects and relates with the people the messages are meant for. What I however could not understand is how the writer almost spoils the broth with gratuitous ingredients. Some stories could not be easily understood, leaving the reader to keep pondering on the necessity of the tasking words that are not in anyway needed. The writer’s presentation of the story is too ‘shakespearely’ that one wonders if the messages are really for those whom the messages are directed to. The pen of the writer pays too much attention to the story without deeming it fit to pull out the weeds that can destroy the good crops. It has always been believed that only the weak tries to prove their strength to people. A piece with strong messages does not need to be peppered with too much far-fetched dictions to be able to glean acceptance and wide readership. The appeal of a piece is in its messages and not in the too-much-dictions and words that leave the writer struggling with the method to pass his messages with. It is the ineptitude of a writer to properly express his messages that warrants the use of unworthy and unnecessary statements and phrases; which only makes the writer to writhes in the pain of the method he has adopted.

With all these said, it is indeed worthy to praise the unusual deftness the writer uses to sustain the book’s main theme through out the literary collection without any unreasonable deviation – let the literary guns roll out their shots to exult the literary adroitness of A. Igoni Barrett. I never regretted reading the book. Thumps up!

Between Alexander and Akinlaja

As coincidence of lessons will have us learn from the woes and greatness of others; the story of Alexander and Akinlaja was artistically reported in a national daily (The Punch) on 5th and 6th of December, 2009 respectively.
Between Alexander and Akinlaja is a success and determination that are worthy to be imbibed by go-getters. Between Alexander and Akinlaja is defiance to poverty with youthful restlessness, even when poverty was their next door neighbour. Between Alexander and Akinlaja is a similar thirst that resultedin different ends. Though they were separated by vastness of lands and countless waves of oceans and seas, they shared in common what can only be described as rare ability of youthful ingenuity. They (Alexander and Akinlaja) racked their brains to save their destinies from rack and ruin. Alexander and Akinlaja strained their precocious dexterity beyond limit to triumph over the strain their fate bequeathed on them as a result of their birth that gives them no silver spoon in their mouths but a rusted metal that they would have to sandpaper to uncover its beauty under rust. As every workman is worthy of his fame, Alexander became the master of urban ringtones and the producer of the finest and most expensive suit, while Akinlaja was only honoured by EFCC’s clamp-down as one of the greatest ‘phishers’ of modern technology. It is obvious that their ends differ from each other, but no one can treat determination involved in their mission as a mere child’s play.
Like any other child with feelings, Alexander, out of frustration of not being identified within his school because of his social classification; he ventured into a scheme that if he had been forced into, can be tagged as child exploitation or abuse. In a desperation of not being a pariah in the midst of kids who only speak and make ‘waves’ through the flaunting of the labels of their wears; he became a newspaper vendor (fondly called by him as Paper Round) at the tender age of 12. Hear him speak; ‘’We call it paper round in the UK... I was attending a public school and I wasn’t communicating well with the other kids. I had no friend in school at the time. I was just the ‘African Kid’. My clothes were Pony. Those who wore such a label were seen as very poor people. All the other kids’ wears were Nike, Adidas and other wears. But I realized that the popular kids were those who wore nice clothes and labels. My grandmother couldn’t afford to pay for such. I had to think of a way to buy those things. Fortunately a newspaper agency gave me a job and they said they would pay me 10 pounds every week to deliver 50 newspapers every day.... I saved 10 pounds for five weeks and it came up to 50 pounds. I used the money to buy my first trainers (Nike).... Remember that I had been in that school for nine months and nobody had spoken to me. But I walked in with my trainers on that day and suddenly, everybody wanted to be my friend and talk to me. That was what made me to decide, at a very young age, that this was what I had to do to fit in – making money and getting rich.’’ It is often said that when you deodorise your moist armpits, even the most hygienic and cultured will always want to have a taste of the pleasant smell with their tongues. But when a child defecate in his pants and rub it over his head, the most caring mother will always hesitate a little and recoil at it before cleaning him up. Suffice to say that success will give you more relatives that are never connected to you by birth or blood. Such was the story of

Alexander at his early age of 12. Akinlaja got it right at the first instance too, when he swindled some of Brig. – Gen. J.O. Komolafe’s friends and bilk them of their money and recharge cards. Akinlaja must have also been oppressed by the affluence of his peers to measure up with their social lifestyle like Alexander; he developed a peculiar means of swimming in thousands of naira without having to deliver newspapers for 5 weeks like Alexander did. His technological craftiness was quickly deployed to active service. Listen to him speak (after he had been caught with his evil enterprise); ‘’I will not say I didn’t do it. I am guilty of the crimes. One day I went to the cyber cafe and designed the web page. I sent this web page to numerous recipients, asking them to change their Yahoo identification and passwords. I have the software that can divert all responses to my mail box where I now get their contacts. The general’s own was part of it.’’ Before we pass a gloomy judgement on Akinlaja, it will be very sentimental of us not to note the skills and drive he used in performing his enterprise. Designing a webpage is something a philistine in the use of web designing softwares like Adobe dreamweaver , iWeb, etc., cannot do. A thumps up should however be given to him. Akinlaja’s skill and adroitness can be lauded, but the negative effect of what he channelled them to, should be loathed in all ramification.

Alexander took his entrepreneurial taste to another level when he had a foray into Cleaning business, which was informed by the 20 pounds his pregnant aunty gave to him for getting her house cleaned from head to bottom, though he never dreamed of receiving anything from her. Alexander enthused; ‘’My aunty was pregnant and she asked me to clean her house.... So I cleaned the house from head to bottom and I didn’t even think much of it. ...she came back and gave me 20 pounds. I walked out of the door and I scratched my head. I asked myself of ‘how many pregnant we had in UK?’ I ran home and I designed a flier that read, ‘Care Clean Agency – if you are pregnant, call this number.’’ Alexander mercantile intuition was matched with positive action, he seized the only small ace up his sleeve and made great success out of it; ignoring the ignominy that such endeavour of his could stir up among his peer-group. It will be proper to believe that the manner by which Akinlaja designed an electronic interface to defraud unsuspecting public; he should be able to do more than one or two tasks with Desktop Publishing applications (Microsoft Word, Microsoft Powerpoint, Microsoft Excel and adobe Pagemaker), which if harnessed, can get him employed as a Computer Operator in some of the Business Centres that we have around. But because of his impatience in wearing the kinds of brogues and ‘designer’ cashmeres that his friends were using, he saw the proceeds from such employment as one that would not be enough to foot the bills of the luxuries and comforts that he dreams.

Alexander became a master of urban ring-tones when tedium made him to press the buttons of his phone than usual. In this process, he was able to observe the composition of different musical tone of each button on his phone. This consequently gave birth to the company that he later sold for 9million pounds. If only Akinlaja had looked inward and utilized the unusual skill he possesses, he would have known that if only he could further in taking courses in electronic programming that will sharpen the blunt sides of his ability; picking up a job in any company of his choice as a System Administrator will be with ease. He (Akinlaja) only allowed his technological understanding, that does not go beyond imposing others identities to play a fast trick on them, to rob him of his promising future by getting him behind bars that would only open to his freedom after languishing for 7 years. And as it was reported; “By the time he is 28, Olufemi Akinlaja might have spent seven years in prison. He can only be saved from this predicament if the court is lenient when he faces it over charges of Internet Scam and obtaining money by false pretences.”
Olufemi Akinlaja did what he only knew could give him an uplift from the seemingly awful circumstances; that he must have claimed to have prompted him to the crime. He did it with the required determination and resoluteness, and he got a free accommodation of a room with crater-like door and walls smudged and strewed with human wastes and body sweat.

Alexander Amosu’s passion against wallowing in abject penury, when it was at its zenith, got him a place with Kings and Queens of honour. He walked a rare path which is dreaded by the slothful, and the sonorous sound of his footfalls is pleasant and clear to everyone’s hearing. His footpaths become an inspiration to many.

For Alexander Amosu’s story: http://www.punchng.com/Articl.aspx?theartic=Art200912052234631
For Olufemi Akinlaja’s woe: http://www.punchng.com/Articl.aspx?theartic=Art200912063461878

CHANGING A HABIT

Habits are repeated actions over a period of time, it is a routine carried out on an everyday basis.
According to an online encyclopedia, Wikipedia;
“Habits are automatic routines of behaviour that are repeated regularly without thinking. They are learned, not instinctive, human behaviours that occur automatically, without the explicit contemporaneous intention of the person.”
From the fact stated above, it is obvious that habit cannot be formed without the helping hand of its possessor. The intention of whoever possesses a habit is sought through the repetition of such habit. It is never instinctive or inborn, it is not learned overnight.
It is medically proven that whenever a behavioural pattern is performed, neurological connections are built, the more it is repeated, the stronger the neurological connections become, and the harder it (habit) is to drop. This is why we have to be careful on what build our strong neurological connection on.
In spite of our determination to dump a habit, it reoccurs so often to our consternation. The reason why the wall of our determination to do away with a habit keeps crumbling on us is because we have always failed to carefully map out a step-by-step approach to it.
The following steps are therefore necessary to adhere to in changing a habit.

CLARITY: You cannot change a habit you do not know. An enemy can only be attacked when it is properly identified. Before you can overcome a habit, clearly pinpoint the habit you will like to change and the good one which is to replace it. This step is very important because it is the foundational process.

WHY: A thing will always fail when it is not backed up with strong reasons. Before you got fed up with a habit, there must have been a reason. Your reasons (WHYs) for wanting to change a habit can be to prevent something bad from happening, to help achieve success and victory, or to help against facing a future embarrassment. Your reasons should also include what the good habit you intend to change to will do, the impact it will have in your life and on a situation. In the adventure of changing a habit, difficulties abound; only your strong reasons will sustain your determination and drive. Every habit is not unchangeable when will cite as much reasons as it (bad habit) has to stay to put it away.

FUNCTION AND REPLACEMENT: The important thing to note about a habit is that it is not formed or cultivated just because we want it; it is formed to satisfy some functions and needs. A good or bad habit is repeated to serve a purpose. For example, a person who hisses every time he gets angry or irritated must have developed the habit of hissing to serve as an outlet to his anger or distaste for something. It will be very difficult for the person to change such habit without identifying the function it performs and replacing it with a good habit that fits well into the same function. In finding a proper solution, the habit of hissing could be substituted with taking some cups of water to relieve the hold of anger whenever the person is consumed with anger. Please be realistic when looking for what to replace your habit with, so that your aspiration of replacing an unwanted or bad habit will be a daydream. It will too foolhardy for a person who is kleptomaniac by habit to tie the replacement of his bad habit to when he steals the amount that would make him comfortable. He may never see the end of the habit. Such replacement is unreasonable and impractical

SET THE RULES: Make it hard on yourself to return to your old habit again. Whenever the strong urge to return to it comes, try your possible best to clear it off your mind by engaging yourself in a breath-taking activity that won’t give you the time of nursing the thought of having the old habit in your mind. Thought has the potency of waking up an old or bad habit when it is not stifled. Also, make you life more interesting by participating in activities that are entertaining; like reciting to yourself the poem you composed on the consequences of having a bad habit. Old habit can rear it head again during the time of boredom and idleness. Always fill your mind with materials and thought that will only invigorate and whet your thirst for having a good or desired habit.

SELF-MOTIVATION AND REWARD: Bringing to memory of how you succeeded in doing away with a habit for some days can be self-motivating. Appreciate the initial gesture you took at destroying a habit. Motivate yourself by saying: ‘if I could muster enough power to put it (unwanted habit) away from being till this time, I will always have the power to bring it ti its total destruction. Reward yourself by giving yourself a special treat. If you are a person that loves bread and beans as a meal for example, cook a pot-full of it to make yourself happy.

A habit proves difficult to dump when it is borne at of what we love doing; it gives us every reason to stay and feeds on our weaknesses. A wise word says; ‘No one has ever drown in his own sweat.’ You cannot keep tilling a field of changing a habit by turning it over in your mind, you need an effort. As days go by without the repetition of a habit, the momentum of the habit becomes weaker. Don’t be discouraged, whenever the habit seems too chronic for you to bear; never fail to seek the help of God, but always remember that it is also your responsibility to seek ways of changing an unwanted habit. Have it also that you are a human with his falling, and not an angel. Do not be discouraged. Your habit, no matter how used you are to it, is changeable!

It Doesn’t Matter… (Individual Issue)

“It doesn’t matter if I play a fast one on that supervisor in the exam hall…”
“It doesn’t matter if I ‘help’ (though negative) myself as heaven helps those who helped themselves”.
“It doesn’t matter if I do it the other way round and have it my way”.
“It doesn’t matter if I employ the aid of academic machineries during the forthcoming examination”.

These are the words you don’t have to strain the pinna of your ear to be able to collect their sound waves, provided you can chat up anyone who doesn’t handle his responsibility as a matter of importance in achieving his set goal(s). It would always make one wonder at the way people tend to watch their lives with indifference, while it gradually slip into self induced abyss, without making an effort to somewhat save it. ‘It doesn’t matter…’ comes into use and become very handy to quickly resort to when facing a crisis, in order to give a non-commensurable pats to ourselves. Would it not be better if we make a public show of our inadequacies and get the required direction from those that have travelled the journey before?

It matters a lot to discontinue the use of the phrase “It doesn’t matter…” in every of our conducts and activities. This word would always only bring to your memory others that have failed due to their resignation in the face of the difficulty involved in their task. It would never remind you of people who kept trudging the same mountain you are climbing now without sloughing off their responsibilities and finally ascended into victory. “It doesn’t matter…” is invariably resonated with stories of woe, failure, weakness and not of success. A common word says: ‘What you do not fight and struggle for, you don’t get’. It is only a person who has made up his mind about pulling out of an activity that gets FAILURE as his identity tag.

We have become so dilettante in our approach to almost all things that whenever we are stalked in a quandary for sometime, we easily make references to a story to support why our lackadaisical attitude, which equaled to poor result, shouldn’t matter. Whoever doesn’t put every little and tit-bit of details into consideration will never matter in his society and to the people around him. It is time we made every thing matter in our lives, so that we don’t become castaways of our self destroyed ship - everything in life will always matter. When a thing ceases to matter, it becomes a matter of rottenness and extinction. We cannot afford losing time and resources by stashing away our quart into a pint pot. Every hand must tenaciously hold onto his tool of social and personal revival, as we cannot make a ‘fried egg’ without breaking an egg. All, for success sake, will always matter!

‘It Doesn’t Matter…’ (Not a Country)

This sentence permeates the whole gamut of the ways through which the affairs of this country is run in this present time, which corroborates the fact why the gait of this country is shaky and weak. Of what matter will it be when the festering wound of this country is peeled open again through the cursory dealing of this piece with the already battered image of this country? Many have through their eclecticism of the pen already dealt a deadly blow to the nonchalant temperament of the leaders that have always been captaining this rudderless ship (Nigeria) that has no destination and where to berth, making it to sail against the tide of selflessness in service. As much as I considered myself and this writing not worthy enough to penetrate the hush of this desolate entity, called Nigeria, I wouldn’t want to join the league of honorable men and women, who have always been crying their voices hoarse through the pen, because I am not ready to bear the cross that comes with the responsibility of brandishing the pen as a weapon in the war against the ever-long standing war of corruption in a situation like ours (may the soul of Bayo Ohu rest in peace and others that died for the just cause they believed in with their tooth and nails).

It does not matter as the helmsman of a political cult, People Destroying People, has succinctly posited that nothing will ever be able to stop the wheels of the party from running on with the blood sucked out of the innocent as a source of powering it (pun intended). The party was determined to achieve this through their parochial diktat, which has inflicted pain on those robbed of their voices and mandates.

It doesn’t even matter as a matter-of-fact if these agbada vested leaders keep parading and junketing around the globe (which it is now named and isolated from as a pariah in the interest of securing world peace and combating modern terrorism) with the grin sustained and refreshed with the wealth gotten from public pillaging of the innocent’s inheritances. Why should one fight with his might, sweat and blood to bring down the wall of Baber of this nation and pleasantly chew the possibility of escaping death at close shave, when those who gave it their all tasted the everlasting dust before their appointed time?

We have, since the life of this despoiled democratic terrain began, been tempting fate and tottering on the brink of infirmary. Would it not matter if we regurgitate the meal served us by the Minister of (in)Justice some weeks ago? He said in one of his ways of stealing the storm in the loyalty race to the president of ‘Umoru, they say you are dead. Are you dead or alive?’, that; the ‘dead or alive’ president can perform his executive role from any part of the world. Few days after this not-too-crafted infantile exhibition, a friend of mine on Facebook applauded the statement of the Attorney General of Corrupt Tendencies and Clique of Thievery. This friend suggested a way of going about the Presidential Inter-territorial system of governance successfully without itch. She said to strengthen her suggestion that; ‘the extension of the ‘Es’ of e-dating, e-commerce, e-religion and e-learning to the governance of the absconding Umoru of Nigeria, will without let or hindrance make provision for the suggestion of the rule-from-anywhere governance’. If this happened, the pockets and purses of the sworn electronic hackers and ‘fishers’ (phishing) will be swollen from great catch of technological illiterate leaders, as it will be very easy to disguise as the Minister of (mis)Information and Special (mis)Advisor of the president, whenever the latter is to update his knowing to stay abreast of the current yarns being spinned to maintain his subsisting chair in the Aso Rock from the purported and controversial sickbed in King Fiasal’s Hospital in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. It would also afford the unrepentant members of the MEND the opportunity to release the Almighty Ralia Odiga (a benign but most destructive virus) into the server of the e-governance, without having to bear the weight of carrying guns and grenades when fighting the ‘it doesn’t matter…’ of leaders towards ameliorating their social and environmental sufferings by upping the ante of the revenue allocation that is always churned out to them.

In the flagrant display of the ‘It doesn’t matter…’ idiosyncrasies of our leaders to the detriment of the country, so many questions beg as a matter to be considered, but the ears and attention of those who are to guide, ‘watchdog’ and balance the equation of the power which is now over gulped; by invoking the power of our porous constitution leaves too much to be desired.

It was once said as a matter of fact that it would have been better if our ‘proud’ son of the soil, Umar Yaradua - sorry Farouk, the attempted underwear bomber, had thought it better to birth his ‘bravery’ and destructive sleight of the hand at Aso Rock and the National Assembly that shelters the real enemies of the Al-Quaida of Nigeria (I mean those that fight the irresistibly the brazen wickedness and show of shame of their leaders), instead of discomforting the nerves of the defenceless people, who were enjoying their Season of Christmas.

JOSEPH OMOTAYO

YOU CAN INSPIRE!

The reason why we have always been lax with everything we do cannot be unconnected with the fact that we fail to understand that on our shoulders are responsibilities that are not only ours. Killing people and generations are not only done physically. We dent others’ future with so much sorrow through the negative attitude we have towards our responsibilities. Sometimes we abdicate it, and at times, we carry it out shabbily with lackluster.
Fame do not make men, men’s positive attitude to responsibility make fame for them. Inspiration in its simple meaning means the sudden stimulation of the human mind that helps to develop ideas while tackling various challenges in life. What inspiration does to us is to give us the enthusiasm and fervour that the challenges we are facing requires. Iron does not sharpen iron when facing a task that needs to be tackled with rare dexterity. You can not be heart saddened and expect creativity to flow. All you ever need is what will keep you over the situation – inspiration is it! Inspiration imbues in you the joy that would take you to the level of skillfulness needed to accomplish a task. No human life on earth has been left untouched by the potency of inspiration. Before inspiration, comes the longing to inspire others. In the process of affecting others, inspiration sprouts up.
Things that we get inspiration from today were things done by people who had had us in mind during the time they were putting their crafts to work. It would be going against the rule of the thump if are not preparing to get others inspired through the inspiration we got from some other things or people. To be able to inspire others, we must be ready to accept responsibility for our actions and inactions.” The opportunity to inspire others comes but we do not notice it. It is almost all the time drabbed with taking responsibilities” (Paraphrase). We cannot keep searching and seeking inspiration from others and things that they have created without refining it with our adroitness and redistributing it to others that need it. A food soon becomes poisonous when its waste content is not passed out through excreta. Inspiration is better got and maximally used when it is given as inspiration to those that stand on our shoulders to see what they would not have seen, had they not stood on us.
We can all inspire when we realize that our success and achievements will not only bring encomiums and accolades to us alone, but also to those that would take cue from it and re-route their steps by emulating our encouraging deeds
A maxim reads: “The lantern hung on our window posts is not only to give light to our backyards; it is also to give hope to the hopeless traveler; that he has not lost his path yet.”
You too can inspire!

THE POLYMER NOTES: THE CHRONICLE, THE JOY AND THE PAIN

When the polymer banknote system was first introduced some few years ago into our financial system, precisely 2007, it won the hearts of many. We gave it our welcome claps and ovations, we were also agog for it. It gave a new look to our #20 naira note, as it was the first note that was first changed into polymer. It did not only give the said note refulgent beauty and peculiar uniqueness. It gave it a seemingly protection from the harsh handling that are used to handling our banknotes. How stark wrong were we proved to have been as time gets spent and our moral starved manner climbs down steeply from mountain of retardness to valley of deterioration.
At first, we thought nothing could make it wear a disgusting and irritating look. It was said that not even the moist that oozes from breasts cupped in tight bras, the suffocating heat that causes rashes to the scrotum carefully packed in pants or the way it is mangled, squeezed and tied at the tail of our wrappers would ever ‘diminish’ its facial value. We were later given a bitter concoction to gulp when the new polymer notes (#20) began to lose its colour from rough handedness; it faded in colour like a new dyed cloth would fade after its first dip in water.
The first time I saw this rare artistic work that our polymer note has turned out to be was in a commercial bus. I never thought it was the same #20 naira polymer banknote that was introduced some months ago. This happened after a short time from the date of its inception. I was more surprised when someone paid his fare with a faded and twisted #20 polymer note. The spittle in my mouth became so bitter that I could not swallow as I wrinkled my head at the attitude of indifference, which the bus conductor wore like an expensive garb when he collected it without hesitation or questioning the giver. He quickly inserted it into the avalanche of folded banknotes in his left hand, which included various banknotes of the country with amusing tenacity. I shrugged helplessly as it would be of no benefit if I raise a dust of contempt. I had been once told that you do not argue with a mad man when you are sane, if you do; the line of partition between sanity and insanity would be too thin to distinguish you from the mad man. No one I later thought would understand the hate I had for the wriggled called polymer. Everybody’s mind in the bus was differently fixed on where they were going. I later inferred that the conductor must have seen lots of the note in this degenerated state.
People were quick to shore up hope in the new polymer note, saying that it will still be able to stand the test of the abuse we give to it, inasmuch as it is cannot be torn-out like the other notes. It was paradoxical when the note began to come in different designs with different kind of cello-tapes, which was used to hold its torn sides of the notes together. People started wondering about the kind of technique that would have been involved to give it this new face. Some were quick to give a rejoinder that as brazen our bad manner could be exhibited with utter cruelty; the notes could have been subjected to different kind of destruction test to prove its validity. It was learnt that maiming the polymer note was an evil medium some clique have found to channel their grievances to the government for the obvious misappropriation which was involved in the polymer project. Their grouse was not unconnected with the statement issued by one government official, which nearly blighted the joy the polymer was received with. It read: ‘the money used in printing this note cost more than the monetary value of the note’. What a waste and another way monetary corruption has waltzed, the people thought.
Before other notes (#5, #10 and #50) joined the charade of polymer, it was very easy, as if one possess a magical wand, to feel the specific amount of money one is bringing out of one’s pocket without having to bring out the whole amount in your pocket, purse or wallet. This is done by feeling the plasticity of the #20 polymer note and making a quick count of the number that would commensurate with whatever you are parting away with in every transactions. The polymer gave an helping hand to professional lying. One could pretend to have brought the amount he all has while leaving others in his pocket in a swift groping. People who resent giving offerings to God in any religious gathering during offertory sessions, found solace in the polymer. For them, since the introduction of the new #20 naira polymer note, they could without stress of shoveling and rummaging through notes in their pockets, offer the bit they would like to give provided they could feel the plastic texture of the polymer.
It was praise, jubilation and celebration without end when #5, #10, and #50 followed suit in the modification of paper notes to polymer. It was be unbelievable to have heard that this so called change has turned into a pain in the necks of the citizenry. During a church service that I much remember, sadness was lighted on some peoples’ faces. It was later known that those that had formed it an habit of basking on the opportunity of the plasticity of the #20 naira polymer almost gave all what they have in their purses when notes of #50 naira were given as #20 without knowing. Retail traders have also got scarring experiences by this. Some, in a business rush-hour, had give #20 as #5 for a change to their customers, thinking they had given the right amount. They later discovered the magnitude of their woes when the money made during business time could not make for what was sold – what a pity!