THE FIRST MAN IN MY LIFE.

The day had started as my usual work day- full of hectic commitments, meeting, running up and down the stairways in a bid to meet with deadlines.

In between my hectic schedule I tried to find the time every hour to view my private phone, in case there was a call missed or message received.

Then the unexpected call came through. At first it was missed and since it was family I decided to return it as soon as it was convenient. It was then I heard the words I did not want to hear. The words that every time I had looked at him, I had dreaded the day I would hear them.

Yes I had thought of it earlier; not once but several times. Ever since we had struggled with his health seven years earlier, the thoughts had refused to go.

The first man in my life was awesome. That is how best I can describe him. He had the best fighting spirit I knew and made sure we inculcated that. I cannot be certain of the first time I met him but from the stories that revolved around me I knew it must have been soon after my entrance into the world. The bond we formed was instant. They used to say that if he traveled without tell us (my brother and I) his destination, we would fall sick and would not get better until we had heard from him.

In him I saw the picture of everything that was perfect.  I used to think that he was the handsomest man that ever was. Who would not? His set of teeth was white and neatly arranged, and he had a way with his smile.

He gave up himself to ensure that we had a lot more than the basic necessities to go through life as well as the best values any living soul could have. As I grew up, I began to see a few flaws in my all-perfect man. Because I loved him so I began to pray for him. I had found out that he had little spirituality in him so did not believe in going to church for weekly worship. Somehow I adored weekly worship and wanted this love to be caught by him too. He would hear no argument about it so I took it to the Lord in prayer. And the Lord gave answer some nine years ago; he made a full and total commitment to the ways of the Lord. Like everything he held dear, he clung to his new found faith like it was all that mattered. After surviving the test that was put before him, he was more than ready to put aside anything or anyone that would stand in the way of his faith.

But then the trials left him broken and very disillusioned. It was like the beauty of life was being snatched from him. But he stayed strong and faced life with all of the strength that was left in him.

I loved to sing his praises. It was easy for someone in love. I would tell my friends what he had survived and with every story I found strength and pride. If anyone dare to complain I would tell them that they did not know the real him. That did not mean that we did not have our fights, because we did as my ideal man was also stubborn. They were times the fights were even very frequent but beneath each I could see love. I always hoped he did. I did not talk to him about it because I did not want to either upset or weaken him.

Two days after I received the call, I was told an acquaintance that he was the one who got me my matriculation number at the university and he stared. Yes, the first man in my life was committed like that.

I stared at down at his lifeless remains and tried to be strong; for my mother, for my brother, for my sisters and for him. But as I went into the quiet of my bathroom I let the tears flow many times and many days afterward.

“He ought to have known that this would happen”, I told myself.

He knew that even if he could always count on me, I was not as strong as he was.

The tears have not stopped flowing and I know they will not just yet; but each time they flow I say to him, “My daddy, you deserve more than just a few tears”

My Prayer? That he rests in the Lord’s bosom.

Still Keeping Faith.

ANOTHER BORING CONVERSATION?

 I stared at him with ease.  I was no more the little girl growing up in the quiet Ughelli so it was easy. Besides I was sitting directly opposite him. I tried to put my feelings into words- Cockiness, Confidence, Victorious, Strong, Anger, and Pity. All these flowed through me as he spoke. 

“Hmmn! This Indian”, I thought to myself. “Just who did he think he was?”

Time truly has passed. We live in a country where anyone in white skin was glorified and treated with too much respect. I call it backward colonialism. I could not understand why someone would rather than settle for the old colonial rule where our roads were all tarred with sidewalks decide to glorify another mortal who would disrespect you and ill treat you for nothing. 

My thoughts were formed early. Maybe because I still topped my class in spite of the presence of white boy Richard or because I was used to seeing Kelvin, a mixed blood, hawking tomatoes when my family eventually moved to Warri, I simply did not see anything extra ordinary in being white that would allow for first class treatment especially on my Nigerian soil.

I do believe in respect. Anyone; white or black, deserved this. But when the Indian wanted to take me for a ride I had to bare my fangs.

It reminded me of the encounter I had with one of his kind in the penultimate month where I had, in the line of work, gone to demand money owed. The man, feeling superior, had refused to see me initially. Imagine the debtor; but I blame am? The manner of people who give them rights in the street gave him the audacity. When he saw I was having none of that, he came down and after all the talk he felt sorry that this small girl (my apologies to my stature) was talking to him like that. 

Now back to this one before me. He said my words sent him to his sick bed and that if he dies I will be held responsible for his death. At that point I had to control myself and not laugh out loud. My small size must really be deceiving them.

In case you are wondering what the bone of contention is, it was nothing out of a routine as it applies to landlord and tenants in this city. 

I decided to shift from the contentious angle that he was in. So I asked him to invest in Nigeria. He began to curse. He ended by saying he will never do that even if a gun was put on his head. With that word I decided it was time to hit the road and push this man out of my sight. I said my goodbyes and I was off. As I journeyed down the road I could not help but think that I would never even in neighbouring Benin Republic and act like I was a Don.

What effrontery does this man have to speak all my ears heard? 

My Conclusion, we need a shift of values we must move to begin appreciating our own even if it’s the man by the junction who owns little but makes an honest living!

Keep faith.

COLOURS, COLOURS, MORE COLOURS.

The first time I fell in love with law was in my primary school days. There was this Pears advert- Yes the same old baby Pears- where a little girl had taken her mother to a kiddies court for denying "baby and her the joy of Pears". The face of the kid-judge struck on my young head as he/she asked the accused mother whether she was guilty or not. The idea of a court grew with me from then onwards. I would insist that at least one of my Christmas outfit was a corporate fit. Together with my parents' support I tailored my studies towards satisfying my life dreams.

I love law. I remember when I prepared to go into university and I told my friends that I had no other course preference except for law. Some of them wondered what I would do if I was not offer law in the university while others felt that with the passage of years I would change my mind if I was not admitted.

Inspite of my love for law, I knew very little about it. But it did not bother me. I knew my higher institution would fix that for me. So off to school I went.

The first thing I enjoyed about law was the colour. It was mainly dark and sombre. Usually with a tincture of white but that that did take it away from being sombre. Swaying in these colours did not excite me as much as the comments friends from other departments made in admiration. The distinction these colours gave was also awesome. However all these became boring to look at with time. Call it familiarity or what you will but by the time I was leaving the university the colours were nothing but dark to me.

I still love law. I brag about this to anyone who would ask. I remember my Call. The hall had been decorated with black and white ribbons and balloons looking so 'lawyerly' but when the commentary was being run, the commentator described the hall as beautifully decorated in those colours. New meaning definitely. I had never ascribed that adjective to those colours.

Then practice began. Pride was in those colours. One day something different happened. I met a lawyer who was angry at a female colleague who dared to wear a red-coloured camisole underneath her collaret. Even if was not visible to the court, the lawyer in question, who was male by the way, queried the effrontery that made our female counterpart disregard our revered colours.

When I left that scene, I did not think much of until I had cause to be in another court, a superior court according to the law. Proceedings that day were long as usual and I had to kill time somehow.  I started looking for a familiar face to chat with and soon found one. I was chatting away when somehow my eyes fell beneath the chairs and I saw socks in different colours. I was amused and surprised all at once.

“They do it these days”. My friend answered to my - whatever happened to our revered colours question. I quickly clicked on my phone's camera and snapped away. As I did that I that I thought to myself, we definitely need more colours of balloons and ribbons.

Keep faith.

BIG BROTHER

The first time both words came together as a concept for me was in 2003. I was trying to round up my school year and proceed to serve my nation when the reality show hit the television stations. We talked about it in between discussing what was holding back a classmate's results as well as which department would miss service year. 

The show ended few weeks before I started my service year and all the talk continued. So much that the family house where I initially stayed conferred the title on another corper who had the habit of looking after our interests.

That was the first season. The struggle to meet up with set goals swallowed up whatever interest I had developed in the programme so much that it wasn’t until the fourth season that it featured in my conversation again. Then it got stronger with every new season. Somehow, in between hectic work schedules, watching a few persons from different parts of Africa live their life in a confined space was entertainment to me.

“What do you enjoy in that programme?”, Someone would ask once in awhile. Often times when I try to respond, the person would put up a disinterested look as the answer was usually too long. It does not bother me though. Big Brother Africa was the only programme I watched with such zest.

“So you are also an addict?” a friend once asked and I smiled. I grew up associating the word addict with drugs but over time I have come to understand that addiction could take upon anything. Thank to my newly acquired Walka I can actually enjoy my BBA outside the comfort of my home. It helps to go through the boredom that is associated with some seminars and meetings and also keeps me away from the usual beauty parlour’s hot gist. I also get frustrated when the silly Walka tells me that signal is poor. Much as I fight between these anxieties and anticipations, I had no choice but to truthfully give my friend this answer – Yes, I am an addict.

“That programme should be banned”. Now at this statement, I usually get hyper. Like, what would be the reason for anyone to feel this way? Some say it’s destroying youths of the nation. I think that notion is highly exaggerated. The destruction of our youths is caused by our faulty foundational structures which are exclusive of BBA. If I should judge BBA, I would call it a scorecard by which the development of our youths can be assessed. Thankfully the programme protects explicit contents and has further fixed a price for its availability. I also get surprised when people talk about how their kids appreciate the housemates. The programme is rated 18+, why would we expose kids to it as well as to many other age rated programme.

“So what benefits are there?” Aside from the money for grabs for the winner, I get an entertaining opportunity to learn more about most parts of Africa, parts that I would not have thought about. I know now that Ethiopia has thirteen calendar months, that I must not forget my national anthem amongst others. It has given someone back faith. I love to listen to Africa’s numerous accents and appreciate the continent more.

All that has been said are my feelings. I am not unhappy with my addiction. It feels good to have one and while this season closes, I consciously look forward to the next. And don’t ask if I ever wish to be there someday cos I don’t but from the thousands that are auditioned each year, I know we will never lack contestants.

Keep faith.

DRAMA ON THE RAIL

Like most Nigerian adult, the first time I knew about the train as a means of transportation was in my elementary school days. Like the majority of Nigerian adults it took a longer time to see a train. I remember how excited I was in my undergraduate days when I learnt a railway was going to be built in the town where I resided at that time. My thoughts were, ‘at least, I will get to see a train’. It did not matter that the route was a ‘goods only’ routes.

ENTER LAGOS

I did not grow up in Lagos. The first time I visited Lagos is what I would not want to talk about right now. However the first time I saw a train was remarkable. I mean saw a real train, not one of those in pictures. That day I looked, sorry, I stared. I fact, I kept staring until the enormous sight disappeared.

Then I began to want to be inside one. This time it was just for adventure. I began to strategize how I would go to the train station whenever I was in Lagos and board one. Try as hard I could, my programme just did not allow me. Until the appetite disappeared. 

I don’t like the fact that I lost my appetite (not for food though) but the circumstances that  led to the loss could not have had any other effect. 

I was in a bus when I saw people hanging from all sides of the train. They were even passengers on top of the train.

“WHAT!” 

I did not let go of the first convenient opportunity to ask the reason for the hang-ons on the train. The reasons were varied: inadequate transport means, fast (no hold up on the rail), and of course, it is cheap. I really did not get to find out how cheap it was but I was getting excited and asked more questions.

“Be careful, they are very vicious” one of those I inquired from said.

I did not understand what he meant until I was walked down the road on evening and saw people running away from stones being hurled at them. When the commotion had stopped, I asked a bystander what it was all about.

 

“Is this your first time here? The train passengers use it (stones) to stop onlookers from taunting them in any way.

What a way, I thought to myself as I worked away from the commotion site.

One thing was definite for me. If this is what a train ride is, I will not be getting in it soon.