The Art of Musing

Its hardest when you were nearly there...

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 03:44:00 +0000

...that's when its easiest to lose it. That's when we ought to take care not to lose it. That's when we very often don't . We are undone when we tingle with the first, the faintest, the most teasing touches of sweet triumphal currents. And then..an unforeseen smack in the face. A blast of icy water amid a feverish chill. A brusque shake in the wee moments of dawn, at the sweetest peak of exquisite slumber. Like the linear asymptote, we approach our goal arbitrarily closely but never quite touch it. Failure is hardest to accept when you were nearly 'there'.

Focus man...focus!

P.S - Danny Bagucci and I have started a joint blog right here:

-------------> LINK TO A VERY COOL BLOG :)<--------------------------

Be sure to check it out and possibly leave a comment :D

Dear YHWH

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 17:16:00 +0000

Dear YHWH,

I know you're tired of hearing this, but it's different this time...

This time I remember...

I remember what You asked of me. What I promised to do. What You promised in return. How I started. How far I've come. What I lost. How I lost it. How I changed. Why I changed....

I remember the tang of hopelessness; its glutinous substance trailing through my innards as it writhed and wriggled through them like a fat mollusc...

I remember my tears...I remember Your Presence...it was all there was anyway...

I'm grateful for how it all turned out...

And I'm sorry I let go...

I know you're tired of hearing this, but it's different this time...

This time I remember.

PS – I cannot end this post without saying a word about two incredible friends I made on blogger, who helped me keep my sanity through a confusing period. Danny, whom I met when he came to Lagos and will be sure to stick with for a VERY long time. And Buttercup, my very best girl.

There was also Rita, though still a distant acquaintance wrote me two of the best emails I have ever received.

And Caramel....whom I owe a lot of apologies...

PPS - I have recently made another acquaintance whom I shall refrain from mentioning just to be mischievous :D Peakaboo...I seeeeee you

The night in monotones...

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 09:38:00 +0000

Dawn approaches. My hands are placed firmly over my eyelids, fruitlessly bent on locking out the millions of searching shafts of the rising sun that will soon violently invade the haven of my room through the open window. If I cannot see them, perhaps they do not exist.

Perhaps I can coax the blissful night to keep her dark blanket around this exquisite gloom. Perhaps I can forever break the timeless rota of the loathsome Sun never relenting in making a grandiose entry at my stillest, most tranquil hour. This loathsome dawn...this unforgivable harbinger of yet another painful day...my hands press harder...my eyelids squeeze tighter...perhaps it will go away...this hateful sunrise.

My soul is a broken gourd. Once bursting with a swirling mass of feeling and life, its gaping chasm discharges my very essence in bursts and spatters, resolute in holding nothing but an airy void...I feel empty. I drift...float...filled with nothing, imbibed by everything. My hands ache from pressing harder still...perhaps it will all go away.

My soul is a withered plant. Its roots severed from the earth’s nourishment; parched, shrivelled, its flower flips faintly about in the evening breeze...

The vivacious tune of my heart is tapered to a bland monotone of groans and teardrops...I lose myself in its grievous resonance....sigh’s...”drip drop”s... “pitter patter”s...

I feel empty...alone...lost...

Perhaps...my hands press harder...

"Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it so that the other half may reach you" - Khalil Gibran

Aloofar…through my bespectacled eyes

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 14:43:00 +0000

FOREWORD - I have been really intrigued about the assumptions we make about bloggers from reading their writings and so I decided to do posts on the idiosyncrasies of specific bloggers. These posts will be totally fictional, quite random and perhaps unstructured to allow a lot of flexibility, and most importantly will not represent ANY actual knowledge of the blogger in question. However I should mention that I have no desire to eulogize anybody. It's not in my nature and frankly I would find it to be quite boring. I'm more concerned with expressing their perceived quirks ***evil grin

Aloofar was one of those creative types who had a genteel manner of representing their creativity and the mechanisms by which they sustained it. One of such mechanisms which he had devised was to glide through the first few hours of his day with a pervading mood of feeble melancholy. The first couple of Aloofar's waking hours he considered to be a series of objectionable rituals. Ever since those abhorrent days in boarding school, when the prefects and teachers had tried to stifle his naturally freewheeling mind, Aloofar had justly acquired a virulent dislike for even the minutest forms of routine, however beneficial they were supposed to be. In keeping with this, he had a ritual everyday of mentally pulling the restraining nails out of the corners of the overhanging closet on the wall of his father's room, leaving it to go crashing down on the loathsome alarm clock, smashing it to pieces when it rang at the customary quarter past four in the morning. The clock was one of those round, biped, mechanical antiquities from a generation before, that could startle the soul out of a person when they had occasion to unleash their cruel ringing.

'Curse the damned thing!' he thought spitefully, acutely aware that he'd now have to lie wide awake, being the light sleeper that he was, until it was time to make preparations for work that day. He customarily spent that window editing many unfavourable recollections while playing them out on the screen of his ceiling. The one on his mind at the moment was his little cockfight the previous day with Yemi, his boss at the office. The ceiling had a number of interesting contours formed on its surface from dust and the irregular swish of Aloofar's brush during his D.I.Y attempt at whitewashing a few months before, and he had refined a laudable faculty for identifying familiar faces amongst those contours during this daily ritual of reflection. The less congenial of his acquaintances always got to be matched with the most defaced patches on the ceiling. Squinting hard at the moment he was certain he could make out Yemi's despicable face somewhere in the mangle of little protruding wires and a small glob of dirtied paint somewhere in the upper left of his makeshift screen. Ah yes, there it was, in all its ugly vileness.

Yemi was the object of his loss of face the previous day. The office was a large floor divided by aisles into five rows of equally sized cubicles each terminating in an exceptionally larger cubicle occupied by the project-lead of that row, the row being an atomic project unit. Each cubicle became something of a sanctuary for its owner and messages were relayed via intercoms and Instant Messengers for as long as one did not violate a deadline or annoy the project-lead in some other equally unacceptable manner. Yemi had unceremoniously despoiled Aloofar's inviolable space on account of his having committed the unspeakable crime of making him look bad in a brainstorming session with the higher-up's, where Aloofar had yanked the show out from under his nose.

'When next you feel the urge to make independent projections like that at such a meeting, please do the rest of the team a favour and shut your pecker!', Yemi had advised, at the height of the exchange – and of his voice. The original event had Aloofar assuming a quietly defiant look and Yemi making a smug retreat to his space in full view of his colleagues, but the beauty of this morning ritual was that he could here now change the course of events, and insert an Oscar Wilde-style witticism, a front-tooth dislodging left hook and a commendatory promotion, from the higher-ups, to the last cubicle for having rid them of such a deadweight as Yemi. A fly currently perched on Yemi's contour on the ceiling, adding to his already gruesome 'face' the appearance of an ugly mole, much to Aloofar's delight. He smiled impishly at the digital clock on his phone. 'How time flies when you're having fun' he mused, swinging his feet off the bed and walking over to put off the soft music that had been playing in the background during his fantastical confrontation.

On his way to the bathroom he had a ritual, of seizing the head of the electric fan and taking a mischievous pleasure in the frantic click click-ing's of appeal the poor thing made to its remorseless assailant. He was all the more merciless this morning seeing as the crest of the fan bore a new resemblance of that despicable boss of his. After a few more blissful click click's he made his way to the bathroom and began to freshen up, swathed in a familiar scent of sunflowers that he liked to perpetually pervade his bathroom these days since he met Norah. He had discovered a curious trait in himself of recollecting past episodes in his life by the most prevalent scent of the time. The sunflower fragrance of his air freshener reminded him of his most recent headlong plunge into that abyss of imbecilic sappiness that often comes with the feeling of 'falling in love'. Despite his constant pretension to coldness and restraint, he was quite the romantic and had penned portraits of several successive empresses of his heart in sparkling verse. He caught himself grinning at himself in the mirror with several long streaks of toothpaste foam streaming down his mouth. He could feel the creative juices running now...where was that poem book when you needed it?

P.S - I've gotten a couple of messages from a bunch of bloggers about my absence. I'm sooooo sorry. I got robbed yet again last weekend and they took the laptop I got as a replacement for the other laptop which was stolen two weeks ago. Again it was at gun point. I guess someone somewhere hates my swagger.lol! Anyway these two incidents have put a bit of a damper on my tendency to [in the words of that bugger miz-cynic] 'leave layabout comments' on all your blogs. I will get round to doing blogrounds later tonight. Until then, as Ms. Mowcher said in David Copperfield: '"Bob swore" as the Englishman said for 'Good night' when he first learnt French, and thought it so like English"

P.P.S – 'Bob swore' is a jocular corruption of the French 'Bon soir' [Good night]. Lol

P.P.P.S – Don Bagucci, how much will your hitmen require for a mafia-style communion on miz-cynic and Afro?

On thinking and belching

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 20:10:00 +0000

A thought is a psychical belch. It is a quick expulsion of an intangible essence; it having probed our innards and been strongly tinged by our distinctive flavour. It bears a faithful witness of the substance of our bellies, giving a whiff of it to all whom it besets. Its flavour is, taken at different times, of many various descriptions, depending on the present substance of our insides. It comes often in a stream, like so many fluid motions of an adept painter, each brush-stroke dabbing its constituent piece of a vivid portrait; each dab a gesture towards the finished work, 'like a finger', as the Buddhists say, 'pointing at the moon, but not the moon itself'. When we take in the dabs, with a sense of this truth, we can without a physical meeting, piece these parts together and form a mental representation (whether correct or not) of the person whose thoughts we observe, the nature of the finished work depending largely on what pieces we have at our disposal as we assemble the picture.

Our thoughts emanate smells that paint pictures. Our words express our thoughts. We write to have a tangible testament of these otherwise insubstantial things, and to share these testaments with those who find nothing unbearably disagreeable in the tang of our belching. Having found such a one, we belch repeatedly and delightfully, until our tastes are jaded, and sour and sweet blend easily into a gratifyingly bland olfactory nothingness. Our pictures no longer change. She is who I think she is, whether or not the flavour changes, for it all smells the same to me...

What do you say...can I belch with you?

[RANDOM UPDATE]: I was chatting with a blogger whose identity I will not reveal for fear of her practicing the lethal technique I am about to write about, and she said the following:

doug: [RANDOM QUESTION] Do you know yet, what region to strike with a kitchen knife in order for a man to lose the ability to procreate?

Killer Blogger: sever his spermatic cord!

doug: You're now officially a killing machine

Men of blogsville, before you go off getting besotted by some anonymous female blogger....know that she might know where your spermatic cord lies.

Interlude

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 01:59:00 +0000

Hindsight is that remarkable gift of the simpleton; an uncanny grasp of the obvious. By it, I am told that I should not have taken the 2 minute walk to the eatery with the rucksack strapped to my back. The barbarous enterprise of a leisurely walk down a busy road, when made in the first hours of dusk, must be hampered by the stipulation that the only valuable to be found on ones person be a buck or two to purchase a biscuit. This is plain old common sense I am told. No one in their right mind walks about unarmed with a – horror of horrors – laptop! I should have stayed behind had the gopher go buy me the meal. I, and the rest three blokes, who were walking with me, should have formed an offensive formation with the only empty-handed person keeping up the rear. Bollocks! All of it. Easy to say, 24hrs after the fact!

Anyway, the bottom-line blogsville is that I got robbed. At gunpoint. The gun was held to my neck as I was stripped of my rucksack. It had my laptop and harddrive in it [sob sob]...and many other things I need not mention.

I was soothed by all the love I got on Standtall's blog after she put up my interview. I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who said a kind word. I feel rather humbled by all the positive comments I have gotten from so many people in blogsville even way before the interview. It's probably contributed to the bloggers block I've been battling with...the pressure for a post.LOL.

In other news, I was handed a handbill for a Church program slated for Valentine's day a few days ago that said "SINGLES THOU ART LOOSED". Maaaaan, there's no hope for the single dude in Lagos o!

O Love O Fire!

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 15:00:00 +0000

'36-28-37'. I recall that being Nnamdi's take on the woman's 'statistics' when she'd been brought out of her fiery flat, in the last extremity of fright and quite oblivious of her own exposure. 'She's quite buxom' he had said. Femi had crawled, with the hysterical woman on his back clinging tightly, out of the hole in the wall, and it had taken a few moments for her to regain some measure of composure, tear herself off Femi's back (though I suppose he was not in such a hurry) and return to her previous hysterics, this time for the rescue of her husband who had yet to emerge from the hole – all this in the nude. Not a shred of cloth covered the tiniest inch of her body as she grabbed one flummoxed man after the other screaming 'My husband!' and totally unperceptive of her bare, jiggling pompoms having left the poor artisans quite discomposed for several moments. Luckily the young honeymooner had managed to find his way to the hole and crawled out in the middle of the spectacle. O the many wonders of the female form. Even two months after, we still make a private joke of it.

'So you're saying you didn't leave the gas on?' someone asked for the umpteenth time, to the noticeable chagrin of the young lady – and myself I might add. She had been narrating the story to us – at least as much as she could amid paroxysms of sorrow and fear - after we'd dropped her wounded husband off at the hospital and brought her to Femi's family house to spend the night. According to her, the honeymooners had left their generator running all through the night (I presume they were romping) and after turning it off the following morning, her husband had brought it in, placed it next to a gas cylinder and gone back to have some…umm…dessert.

The first explosion must have been from the petrol in the generator. It was what got their attention. The young man rushed back to the kitchen and froze at the sight of it wreathed with roaring flames. At the other end of the room and swathed in flames was one of their exits. I reckon he might have set off a mental stopwatch, grabbed his wife and made for the other exit, had he the benefit of foresight. His wife presently joined him at the door, mirroring his perplexed expression – probably 20 more seconds gone. I reckon the man set off his stopwatch at that point for, according to his wife, he in an effort to retard the spread of the fire, reached into the sweltering kitchen and pulled the door shut, flaying his arms in the process. That move might have cancelled out the loss ot time from his earlier hesitation but out of concern for his scorched arms, his wife took off her dressing gown and tried to wrap them, losing more time in the process. Probably 30 more seconds gone and 'Boom!' - the second explosion sent the gas cylinder crashing through the kitchen wall and into the sitting room, effectively sealing off the last exit from their flat. To compound their difficulties, it was a week day, and few homes were not empty.

Vicious realization and a concomitant panic came crashing through the woman's mind and she tore off to their bathroom window, beating frantically against the burglar-proofing and screaming for help. Femi's bedroom window overlooks their house, and he and his friend Nnamdi were in the balcony, no doubt engrossed in their ever-prurient discussions, when he caught sight of the woman's jiggling pompoms, and almost instinctively grasping the method to her madness, he ran off to get his brother and they both ran off to get some artisans who then ran off to get their tools. They all then ran for the house, scaling the dividing wall demarcating the estate and made their way to the bedroom window of the honeymooners. By then, several snaky rivulets of smoke had reached under the room door, gradually enveloping their room inch by inch like the tentacles of some fiery, fiendish mollusc; an unwelcome spectre of a looming tragedy.

The artisans went to work using a rather intriguing expedient. They rapped on successive portions of the wall and could tell from the report whether or not the other end was burning. When they had found a spot they were satisfied with, they smashed a hole through it and Femi went in on all fours to the bathroom and brought the woman out in the manner I described earlier. She was immobilized by fright and he was in a mild shock from the burning of his arms so it is hard to say if they would have made their way out on their own. As such, Femi now fancies himself to be a hero as few others have a story to match his feat of derring-do. I have questions as to what how decisiveness might have fared had it been a naked man in distress, but I shall label my thoughts envious and afford him his credit.

I came upon this spectacle at the very end of it when the woman was clothed – tsk! But I heard the story and saw the house. It's been two months now, give or take a few weeks. I saw her the other day come to hand over the keys to the flat to their landlord. Upon asking about her husband's state of health, her eyes grew misty. The answer was lost in the twilight of her sorrow. He will be buried in a little while I am told. They were married for a month. It is beyond me how she lost him to a pair of burnt arms, but c'est la vie I guess. She looked more like a 34 to me though. Or perhaps she's lost weight.

P.S - I just read a post over at someones blog where she called someone else 'blogsvilles powerful female member'. LOOOOOOOL!!! I don't know about you but that sounds so hilariously connotative. I shan't mention their name's but the observant ones amongst you who've read the post ought to remember.

Charles Dickens on maximizing the New Year

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 22:22:00 +0000

My first post for the year is an excerpt from Charles Dickens 'David Copperfield'. It contains what has become a very popular maxim on procrastination - one of my greatest 'vices', and one that must be conquered this year.

'My dear young friend', said Micawber, 'I am older than you; a man of some experience in life, and - and of some experience, in short, in difficulties, generally speaking. At present, and until something turns up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow but advice. Still my advice is so far worth taking that - in short, that I have never taken it myself, and am the' - here Mr Micawber, who had been beaming and smiling, all over his head and face, up to the present moment, checked himself and frowned - 'the miserable wretch you behold.'

...

'...My advice is, never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time. Collar him!'

...

'My other piece of advice, Copperfield,' said Mr Micawber, 'you know. Annual income, twenty pounds; annual expenditure, nineteen ninety-six; result, happiness. Annual income, twenty pounds; annual expenditure, twenty pounds ought and six; result, misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf is withered, the God of the day goes down upon the dreary scene, and - and, in short, you are for ever floored. As I am!'

Does anybody hear her?

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 13:31:00 +0000

'If judgment looms under every steeple...If lofty glances from lofty people...Can’t see past her scarlet letter...And we’ve never even met her.'

I found those words on a friends facebook profile and googled them thinking them to be an excerpt from some brilliant text on Law, or perhaps a quote by some famous poet. I was quite surprised to be directed to a video on GodTube titled 'Does anybody hear her?' by Casting Crowns.

The artistes meant it to depict the judgmental attitude christians have toward many people looking for refuge in the Church; how our attitudes alienate people from the very message of hope that they need to be saved. However, because they brilliantly succeeded in delivering the lyric generically, it has been adapted to a broad spectrum of related situations. The central theme however, is about people fighting pain, depression, and loneliness who yearn for a caring word and only find a condemning gaze. Amazing how we write people off without ever even getting to know them huh?

Seeing as I'm not always up-to-date with the music scene, it's possible that this is a popular song and you're already familiar with it. If this is not the case, I urge you to take a moment to listen to it. I think you'll find it worth your while. The message is true and many-sided. Beneath the video, I have pasted the lyrics.

“She is running
A hundred miles an hour in the wrong direction
She is trying
But the canyon’s ever widening
In the depths of her cold heart
So she sets out on another misadventure just to find
She’s another two years older
And she’s three more steps behind

Refrain:
Does anybody hear her? Can anybody see?
Or does anybody even know she’s going down today
Under the shadow of our steeple
With all the lost and lonely people
Searching for the hope that’s tucked away in you and me
Does anybody hear her? Can anybody see?

She is yearning
For shelter and affection
That she never found at home
She is searching
For a hero to ride in
To ride in and save the day
And in walks her prince charming
And he knows just what to say
Momentary lapse of reason
And she gives herself away

If judgment looms under every steeple
If lofty glances from lofty people
Can’t see past her scarlet letter
And we’ve never even met her

If judgment looms under every steeple
If lofty glances from lofty people
Can’t see past her scarlet letter
And we’ve never even met her

Never even met her

He is running a hundred miles an hour in the wrong direction”

A Dream, a few Vodkas and three Haikus

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 02:40:00 +0000

I never was the best poet. I was puzzled by everyones poetry and everyone was puzzled by mine, and so I have diligently stuck with prose. Tonight however, my restraint being utterly overwhelmed by the spirit of the season, the memory of a dream, and a flirtatious bottle of Vodka in which I have overindulged, I have dared to scribble these three haikus - in the conviction that I cannot possibly be a worse poet tipsy - to describe what I felt when I dreamt a dream in January, pursued it till October, and subsequently watched it dashed to the rocks.

Try to be humane with your comments.

The birth of a dream

First notes of a tune.

.........Wreathed grandly in dips and tones,

.........is a heart in bloom.

The pursuit of a dream

A mind sore anxious.

Heartbeats a wild percussion.

To be or not to?

The death of a dream

Cheeks charted by springs

.....flowing in step with a dirge,

.........streaked by a dark grief.

PS - My awesome voice is up on geisha's blog.

PPS- I'm waiting for your reply to my emails Standtall!

Me and the Ninny Folk...the last tear I shed

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 22:45:00 +0000

I did everything but what I was supposed to do today. I don't know why. Perhaps something in the air...or my mood...or the incredibly annoying client I was dealing with. I don't know. I tried to write a proper update but there never could have been a blogger as afflicted with the block as I was today. I don't know if it was from the week-long flurry of interest in my pecker or some unwitting affront to my muse but whatever it was, Life took a veritable interest in my dreaminess today, setting up several inviting nests for my fluttering mind to perch on from time to time. Sure enough, it nestled briefly on another 'bubbly young lady' while we sat telling silly old war stories and grinning idiotically at each other. It's positively infuriating the way some girls do that to you. Robert Jordan put it quite aptly:

Anyway, just as I saw the young lady off, a friend called on me asking for a favour. It was terribly bothersome I must admit, but I hold myself a debtor to this friend of mine (unbeknownst to him) for many a time having done me an uncommonly noble service in time past. In one of such, we were arbitrarily arrested a few streets away from home one evening on account of being suspects in a fallacious robbery purported to have taken place a few minutes before we strolled by. I remember catching a glimpse, in the corner of my eye, of the grubby looking ninnyhammer closing in on my friend and I from the rear, and closely accompanied by a searching stench of cheap liquor.

Ist Uniformed Ninny: 'Heyssss! May we know you' came the signature bark right as his partner completed his sprint to our other side and cocked their single rusty weapon.

2^nd Uniformed Ninny: 'I'm Sergeant Oseni' he said, flashing his ID card several times faster than the supposed frame-rate of the average eye.

Me: 'I'm sorry, I didn't get a good view of the card bef...'

Click click 'You still dey talk!!!? Take them away! They fit de description. They will be identified at the station. My friend move! You bloody criminal'

I should pause here to note that at the period in question I was the epitome of dorkiness. It was many years before I got my dreadlocks done and ditched my glasses for contacts. I was several years younger (remember this when you're dropping your comment), kept an afro...no actually I had a scraggly mass of untended hair on my head (I went to the barbers once or at most twice a year...yeah I know, so put a sock in it!) and wore rather large round glasses with my trademark red lips and babyface...and they called me a criminal.

A third Uniformed Ninny presently joined the charade.

3^rd Uniformed Ninny: 'Are these the criminals? You're in trouble today. WHERE IS YOUR GUN??!!! WHERE DID YOU HIDE YOUR GUN??!!!'

Did he say GUN? Did I mention that at this point my mind was in a blur as I keenly inspected each twitch of their facial muscles for the slightest trace of a snigger, in the hope that I was being pranked? Did I mention that my breath was under tight control and discharged in quick terse gasps from hard-heaving lungs and that little dull aches were poking at my palms with increasing frequency from the tensile strain of fingers locking the thin air in an unyielding vice-grip? In short I was in a terrible panic. Was I to be whisked off to Kiri-kiri and locked up for twenty odd years without a trial? Or perhaps just shot somewhere on the way there? Breathe doug...breathe.

Well we were whisked off to the rundown station and shoved behind the counter where there was a single bench nailed to the ground at both ends. The closest cell was within view of where I sat and while I waited to be attended to, I played audience to a young Ibo man being stripped and shoved into the welcoming fists of its occupants.

Thud! Thud!! Whack!!! Twangggg!!!

'Eyy! Why you dey beat me na? Wetin I do you na' enquired the young man of his faceless assailants.

[silence and more methodical and curiously rhythmic thumping]

'Eyyy! W-w-why n-na? Eyy! Eyy! W-w-w...' I should have bequeathed him much credit had the young man been able to repeat his sentence in the reciept of such a frightful and resounding pummeling.

[silence as the rhythm faded smoothly, broken only by a few brutal spikes]

More silence. 'Omo hinna oshi' [Stupid omo nna – Stupid Ibo boy]

I was suddenly acutely sensible of my being from across the Niger - or at least somewhere in the middle of it.

Gulp! 'Officer, please I'm asthmatic' Frigging shameless lie. My mother has a chronic case of it, but that's as much history as I have with that horrible ailment.

4^th Uniformed Ninny: 'Off ya cloth my friend'

5^th Uniformed Ninny: 'Bo igo oju e' [Take off your glasses]

'E jo! E jo! Yeee...!' 'Thump! Thud!! Whack!!! Smack!!!' The Occupants were playing the gracious and grateful hosts of another guest.

'Officer, but...officer wait...hold on a second...' I was stuttering, and my clouded eyes were glistening with the earliest heralds of a downpour.

Wunmi: 'Ok Officer, put me in the same cell as my friend' I had almost forgotten he was there. Wunmi is one of the friends I have as a direct consequence of being my older brothers brother. They're goodfellas in the 'Goodfellas' sense of the word. Not Mafioso of course, but just tough guys – unlike my whimpy self of those days. His master plan was to step in ahead of me and at least throw a few punches, briefly exhibiting our guts before they were subsequently splattered about the filthy cell. He matched the Officer slang for slang, bark for bark, glare for glare, until they agreed to his terms.

I was yet mulling over what profit this was that was being presented to me - being pulverized in the company of a friend in preference to bearing it myself - when I heard a commanding voice call out to someone in my direction.

Boss of the Uniformed Ninny Folk: 'Hey! What offence did that young man commit?'

4^th Uniformed Ninny: 'He's one of the criminals waiting to be identified sir' Who the frig was I that they'd care to address me by name?

Boss of the Uniformed Ninny Folk: 'This one? With his glasses? Did he...'

Me: Perceiving the dimmest glimmer of hope 'Sir, I didn't do it. I live at xyz tgf. I was doing blah blah blah' I assaulted the Boss with my story.

Boss of the Uniformed Ninny Folk: 'Don't put him in the cell. Chain him to the bench behind the counter. But if he tries to escape, gun him down!'

And thus I spent that night. Chained to a creaky wooden bench in Ninnyville, wondering what my family was wondering was the reason doug was wandering about so late. I gravely observed as the slow-flowing sea of heads all round the surrounding streets ebbed to a trickle. I observed the chirping birds hopping and fluttering up in the tree above my window, my chains and their freedom poignant reminders of the things I routinely failed to show gratitude for. I listened to the Officer on night patrol remarking while stretching out for the night, after arresting another batch of boys:

'Ki lo ku ju ki a bere idariji lowo olorun' [what else is left but for us to ask for God's forgiveness]

'Friggin he-goat!' I whispered to Wunmi who sat silently beside me through it all, till we were bailed the following day. Our intimacy was significantly advanced by his deportment that night.

It was bothersome doing him the favour he asked of me this morning, but he's done a tonne of bothersome things for me in the progress of our strange relationship.

I still have no idea what I'm going to blog about today.

We had a lover’s quarrel...and I stormed out of bed

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 17:49:00 +0000

The first thing I reached for on Saturday morning was my phone. It had been switched off since the night before, right before I stocked my backpack with that evening's supply of fast (junk) food – my staple for God knows how long now. There were a number of people with whom I had some business or other and I knew they'd have cause to call sometime during the 'sulk-time' I had so meticulously arranged for myself, but I'd sooner have ripped my liver out before I'd have cared. I had gone through a deal of pain to darken my mood the previous night, and I wasn't about to let anyone ruin it. As I switched on my phone, I recalled the events of the previous day that had led to my waking up angry.

I had maintained a merry demeanour through the day having decisively licked a long-time rival at a board game. I was yet in these transports when the drama over the fellow who collapsed in front of our building deflected my mood down a more sober lane. Apparently the fellow in question had come to Lagos all the way from Ondo state to visit a relative, and had the sore misfortune of being 'One Chance'd ('Once chance' is what Lagosians call the buses used in the ritual-killing/robbery racket). Fate was in an atypically magnanimous mood though, because he somehow was set free after he'd been voodoo-ed in some way (I'm quoting him here) and he stumbled around in a daze for a bit before collapsing in front of our building. His appendages had assumed a rather grotesque arrangement when he'd fallen, giving his body the appearance, at first glance, of being lifeless and amplifying the buzz he'd garnered enough that someone thought it fit to notify us of there being an unconscious man lying outside our building. We glanced up, absorbed the news, and carried on fiddling busily with our computers as though the subject were of a wounded sparrow.

I, in truth, had thought the thing to be a joke of some sort until someone with a greater supply of common sense finally got up to verify it, came back and announced drily that a man had in fact collapsed in front of our building. We glanced up, absorbed the news, scrutinized him intently as he strode across the room and reassumed his position, and carried on fiddling busily with our computers as though the subject were of a wounded sparrow.

Have you ever wondered how calloused most hearts are in Nigeria? How it often takes a medieval-style barbarity to pierce far enough through our battle-hardened skins?

'Tsk! Come the frig on joo!' I snarled at my phone, having held the power button a tad longer than was usually necessary.

The minutes passed after we heard the news about The Man Who Fainted and our curiosities were finally roused sufficiently to prod us outside to personally witness this unfolding drama. Everyone else, it turned out had locked their gates and drawn the blinds, orchestrating enough of an alibi to feign ignorance when the no-good policemen came around to take away (or rather arbitrarily arrest) 'suspects'. Fortunately though, the young man had still been alive. I tried to piece together his story when he came to, but his dialect was rather unwieldy and seemed to rise and dip in a strangely sonorous cacophony. The substance of it was that he had narrowly escaped getting finely ground (or some other barbarous fate) and composed into a money-spinning talisman of some sort – no doubt some nameless fellows ticket to the good life. All through his narrative, the poor bastard's lower jaw had been quivering, his face contorted in a blend of anguish and self-pity, and he could barely manage more than a few sputtered syllables without breaking into violent sobs.

We got him something to eat, sorted him out as best we could and went back inside. I wasn't satisfied and felt we had a duty to accompany him to a police station where he could sleep through the night and begin his journey home the following day but all my colleagues said '[they had] no power for police wahala'.

Have you ever thought that our hearts might have become calloused because it's often either foolish or a real hazard doing the right thing in Nigeria? Ever known someone who was arrested, detained and tortured as a suspect after reporting a crime or had a relative die on you because a doctor would not treat a person who was shot or stabbed without a police report? Ever known someone incapacitated in an accident who was simply pulled as much off the road as not to be obtrusive and then abandoned for a day or two before being finally taken to a public hospital where he was left lying on the floor until his blood caked into a glutinous red gel, binding his ripped buttocks to the floor and sealing his fate? How was his fate so sealed you ask? Well because our thitherto invisible patient's very literal bind did not suffer him to be conveniently moved off the floor when his moans were finally heard, and so he had the meat of his rear end severed with a machete and died less than two days after. A remarkable doctor that was that attended to Alhaji.

'You have 9 voice mail messages. Press 1 to read your messages....' The voice was as always expressionless, impersonal - more irritating than normal.

'...no power for police wahala' – I had mused on those words while I wrapped up my thanksgiving blog post, methodically ignoring a pesky bugger who unaccountably fancied himself to be quite witty. As I trundled glumly out of the building on my way home, I was annoyingly sensible of my colleagues merrily making ready for their Friday night grooving, with no trace of a remembrance of the quivering jaw of the lad from before. We might well have gone outside to observe a wounded sparrow. 'he'll find his way abeg, I no want trouble' right?

'Here's your change sir' Said the girl at the fast food place, tentatively interposing in my reflection. I have a habit of thinking out loud that most people find disconcerting – actually I more than think; I frown, growl, laugh, smile, gesticulate and whatever else it is my present musings include. Whatever emotions had bubbled through to my face from my simmering innards must not have been welcoming, if her countenance was anything to go by.

I finished my business and headed home.

'Blast!' By everything noble, I swore, the darned phone would stay off for as long as I bloody well pleased! So what, if it had nothing to do with my frigging mood? A strong current of bilious thoughts coursed steadily through my veins, increasingly embittering my heart, goading me to starve this cursed world of my voice, a minute for their every drop. 'The blasted phone will stay off dammit!' I snarled lying on my bed, my eyes ablaze, burning my last conscious thoughts into the ceiling.

Blast! And what the frig did it matter if I didn't have a well defined frigging reason as to why the frig I was angry? 'And who the frig were all these frigging voice mails from?'. I wondered as I pressed '1'.

It was mom panicking again. Blast! Why does she always get her knickers in a twist when I don't pick my calls? I have been on my own for a number of years now haven't I?

'Blast! Why did I even have to wake up that Saturday morning anyway?' I fumed as I stormed out of bed...

'And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world' – Robert Frost

I’m thankful for...

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 14:15:00 +0000

Ok I completely forgot to do mine until I went to Vera's blog, so this is backdated – better late than never though.

I consider myself a chief figure in the world of goal-setters (and go-getters). I've set countless goals in the past, falling short - as I'm compelled to admit - of the vast majority. My failures though were not for a lack of trying on my part, just so you know; I suspect that Fate derives a sadistic pleasure out of occasionally plucking - with impeccable timing - some critical cog out of the wheel of my life. My grand plan was at this stage to be, amongst other things; a billionaire, a Phd, a high-flying politician/diplomat/activist of some sort, leader of a missionary/charity organization like the 700 club, and a published writer.

Obviously I fell short of every one of those goals, but in failing at them I daresay I've had about as fascinating an experience as I might have had in achieving them - or perhaps I'm merely consoling myself. My partner asked me in an IM conversation today what motivated me to go to work every morning. My answer was '...my future. I always keep in mind that whatsoever I receive acclaim for having achieved in the future will simply be a sum of the effort I put into each day. With this in mind, I push myself everyday to outstrip every achievement of the previous day. I ask myself everyday what I've done towards being the me I see tomorrow' – or something to that effect.

And so, having learnt all that I have in the pursuit of my dreams, I am thankful foremost for the God who chose this young man for no great virtue of his and entrusted him with the lofty missions He has. That being said, I'm equally thankful for:

The privilege of having dreamt them; having attempted and failed at attaining them in such a period as I thought to be possible; and in so doing for having learnt, as Edison said, the various ways not to attempt them.
My circle of acquaintance which God has enlarged - despite my consistently sabotaging his efforts (or so I think) – to include some of the most remarkable people on His green Earth. I'm working on gradually subjugating my me-ness enough to tell them how much they mean to me.
My family, dysfunctional as it is, who have maintained their unflinching belief in me for reasons I may never fully understand.
The life of a father whom I quite despised till I faced the fear of losing him.
The guidance of a mentor, who taught me both to look before I leap, and to know what jumps are at the present time, beyond me. As the Chinese saying goes 'One cannot leap a chasm in two jumps'.
The many loves I despised and the one I embraced.

I started this year with a resolve to live hard, passionately, with all I had. I'm thankful for that having never changed in spite of all the challenges I faced.

P.S - I should also say thank you to the nice bloggers who've popped in at some point to read my ramblings. They're most notably, and in no particular order; NDQ, Lareine, Standtall, Paradigm, Aloofar, Vera, Shubbydoo, Ohakim and Kat. Notice that this text is smaller? I went through a great deal of trouble to find a means of shrinking this Post Script to the point of near or complete indecipherability. Unfortunately my efforts were not adequately rewarded and this is how far I got. I guess you guys win this one.

I know the thoughts I think toward you says The LORD

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 10:54:00 +0000

Interlude...The Bible Experience...The Abolition of Man

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 16:23:00 +0000

Just got a copy of the New Testament part of The Bible Experience. It's a lovely work in my honest opinion. By miles the best audio bible I've listened to.

Don't know if I can make out the time to write anything today; had a bunch of meetings, write-ups etc to do. Took up lots of time.

I have to give it to bloggers maaan, blog-runs are about as draining for me as the physical activity by which they're named. How on earth do people do it? I'd much rather follow a select few. I guess blogville fame is not for me.

I'm currently rereading a rewording I read (funny combo huh) earlier this year of CS Lewis's 'The Abolition of Man'. It nicely simplifies that excellent text on the absurdity of relativism.

Some day when I'm in my 'sitting at the edge of a cliff overlooking a waterfall' or perhaps 'livid from a fiery debate with an Islamist' mood, I'll write about my view on the issue.

Here's the link to the article by the way. The dude has other interesting Christian articles there too.

See you next post - whoever you are...if you're there.

On failed resolutions – I should never have grasped those conundrums

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 18:37:00 +0000

Seeing as the New Year is approaching and with it the common proclivity to draw up lofty, mostly unrealistic goals and personal policies, it seemed strangely appropriate for me to first confess to my failings as touching the goals of the closing year. I shall address each in its on post and title them in the following format "On failed resolutions: xyz", providing of course,I get to writing about another one after this.

I used to be a fan of Television in time past but, for a while now it has only gotten on my nerves. I read a quote somewhere a few years ago, the author of which I cannot recall, that said "I find the television to be a truly educating appliance. When one is turned on, I move into an adjoining room and read a book". Of course I do not share such a radical dislike for TV; I still love the Discovery Channel, National Geographic, CNN etc. Anyway as a kid I absolutely loved "The Wonder Years of Kevin Arnold" and "Doogie Howser" above almost every other show. Kevin and I walked hand-in-hand through his thoroughly riveting tale of imagined romances, filial bonds, uneven battles etc etc. I guess I even had a thing for his girlfriend Winnie which might have badly bruised our fantastical friendship had the series not gotten unceremoniously yanked off TV.

While I yet nursed the agony of losing Kevin, along came my namesake Doogie Howser. He was of course a radically different character – a prodigy who scored perfect in the SAT at the age of 6 (I think) and went on to become an M.D at 14 or 15. Doogie, despite an inability to relate with his peers (with the exception of his faithful friend Vincent) had to find love amongst them if he were not to send some older lady to jail for the felony of having sex with a minor. And so he, with the help of Vince and his girlfriend whose name I do not recall, began to learn a little of what it meant to be a real 15 yr old.

In one episode, Doogie had a misunderstanding with his girlfriend and felt she was being irrational (aren't they all most of the time?). They were on the brink of a break-up and while he was sitting solitarily in his room close to the end of that week's episode, his father walked in and, while offering him advice, closed with this statement which I have never since forgotten – "No matter how prodigious your intellect, the conundrum of women is a difficult thing to grasp".

Vincent, it turned out, had been eavesdropping from just outside the window and as soon as the elder Dr. Howser took leave of his son, he came charging in, his eyes straining at their sockets, whispering in muffled excitement "YOU GRASPED HER CONUMDRUMS???!!!" Of course Vincent knew nothing of what the word meant so I would suppose, knowing his character, that having isolated the last syllable of the word 'Conundrums' he naturally associated it with the first component of her anatomy he found to be likewise rounded and plural.

It was a stroke of ingenious tomfoolery that never left my memory since I watched it as a kid. And as is the case when a thing is lodged so firmly in a crevice of the mind it came tumbling out of my mouth on the faithful day when I made the first step in abandoning my long-standing sexual fortress to the knackers (yes, there are also men out there who don't take the subject of sex lightly). For the purpose of this post, I shall call her Eros – in reverence of the almost messianic purpose of mind with which she schooled me on the ins and outs, the subtleties and vagaries of sex when she learned the 'shocking' truth that I had had no previous experience of it.

During our first encounter, Eros waited patiently for us to be alone then asked tentatively, after much pointless preamble 'How long have you been a Christian?'

'Probably since I was old enough to understand what it was about .' I replied, 'But I've been pretty much a heathen this past year and I'm trying to find my feet again' I added with a laugh.

'Are you a 'V'?' She enquired.

'What in the world are those?' I asked, assuming my blankest poker-face. Of course I was merely feigning ignorance to stall while I frantically searched for an appropriate answer.

'I mean... like a...'virgin'' She breathed the last word; softly, deferentially.

'Oh of course not' I replied with a wave of the hand 'There've been a few mortal sins strewn around my Christian walk.' That was another lie. And yes, I do speak like this in real life.

Apparently I underestimated the quality of my poker-face for after a bit more bland chit-chat Eros impassively straddled me and gave me what turned out, unbeknownst to her, to be my first (and I might add, quite efficient) lesson on how not to kiss.

'Might I possibly feel your pompoms?' I ventured matter-of-factly, as though there were something remotely suave about my choice of words.

Eros for reasons yet mystifying to me, found that endearing and allowed me.

In retrospect, I consider that to have been the point where the proverbial cookie crumbled. I popped my cherry – shredded it actually - and then proceeded to tell her that I was indeed the letter of the alphabet she had tried to classify me with earlier on. Her facial muscles tightened abruptly as she absorbed the news. Gradually, they eased into stage after stage of conflicting emotion – befuddlement, admiration, wonder... anger.

'Why the f#$k didn't you tell me' She fumed, making me flinch almost visibly, as I'm not the biggest fan of the 'f' word.

'What on earth does that have to do with anything? And how did you expect me to say it seeing as our positions ought normally to be reversed?' I retorted, adding with an extra silly falsetto 'Oh Eros, receive me gently...I'm a 'V'?'

'Whatever!' Came the still livid response 'You should have told me! I this I that, blah blah blah whatever whatever' And we continued this lame back-ing and forth-ing over what I was convinced was an inconsequential issue.

I think she really found it hard to reconcile my physical appearance with these 'outlandish' principles I espoused. Well, eventually when tempers where calmed she made some remark about how she could never have told from the way I did 'it', and then proceeded to initiate several months of wild, uninhibited, ridiculously postured and, in my case, loveless sex.

Larry Wilde, in one of his jokes told of a Frenchman who while arduously trading yarns with an American about all the sexual positions he'd experimented with, ended his ridiculous tirade with a position which had the woman hanging up-side-down from a chandelier. When he was done the American began his tales with the 'missionary' position. Said he 'well first, there's one where you lay the chick on her back and you lie on top of her...'; before he could go any further, the Frenchman interjected, whooping in stark wonder 'oo la la..zees I 'ave never heard before'. The preceding accurately describes my tryst with Eros.

Don't get me wrong though, it's not something I endorse. It was a huge mistake; the result of a gradual lowering of my standards over the preceding months. It was a mistake that, as I expected, took me many times more effort to correct than to make. I have always been a rather 'religious' person and thus I was myself bewildered at the abruptness of my about-face. Case in point; when I got home that night after callously ripping my cherry to shreds, I all but propped my eyelids open with my fingers to keep myself from falling asleep because I was gripped by a quiet but very real conviction that I would die in my sleep.

I hung with the boys, played Xbox, watched movies, star-gazed, and all the while silently begged God for mercy – to my mind I was doomed. I don't know when or how I eventually dozed off but it was with great pleasure that I welcomed the familiar dull early morning headache – I was alive. However several more acrobatic sessions with Eros made me rather cocky, but I tried hard to set things right eventually. One can never really forget who one is and where one comes from. We may stray abroad sometimes but when we do, it is because we condition ourselves to be content with the feathery whispers - whether real or imagined, be they ever so soft - of home lingering, ubiquitous, in every flowing draught. When the pangs grew too strong for me, I knew it was time to retrace my steps...and thankfully I did.

What resolution did I break? It was that of simple obedience to my faith; I had grown lukewarm, yes, but I'd suspected myself for a while to be on the brink of doing something silly. Of course I fell wildly wide of my stated goal. I guess I should never have indulged the first few innuendoes that so casually flew amidst our conversations. But then what the heck, people have those all the time – I must say I find it rather intriguing. Truth be told, the trouble really began when I grasped those conundrums...

Killing the little devils

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 18:14:00 +0000

I can't tell if the video above is visible 'cos my browser has issues installing flash player, so just in case you can't see it here's the link. I do hope its visible here though; I suspect that a mouse click might be an enormous load of work for some :) [sarcasm intended]

A friend of mine was looking through this site and I happened to be peering at his computer - in a none intrusive way I must add :) - at the exact moment when a little girl who'd had a 3-inch nail driven into her brain was being talked about.

And here I was about to write about how I grasped those "conundrums" (don't worry I'll explain what that means next post) earlier this year. Its sad the spate of human rights abuses that go on in this country up till now. When I cared more (not saying I dont care now, just talking in relative terms) I was a part of a number of human rights organizations and missionary outreaches, my primary area of interest being womens' and child rights. If you're amazed at the audacity with which that Bishop from Hell in the video talked about his 110 murders and innumerable human rights abuses, it will interest you to know that that his case is by no means isolated.

In the vast majority of injustices occuring in rural areas the perpetrators are protected mostly by the local traditional leaders/courts and the loyalist citizenry which unfortunately include the local police in most cases. Case in point; a relative of mine -whom the tragedy I'm about to narrate robbed me of the privilege of acquaintance with - was caught in the middle of a longstanding inter-clan land dispute (typical african stuff huh?) and lost her life courtesy of a fatal blow to the head delivered by a member of the other clan while she was strolling along in the wee hours of the morning on her way to the university.

Her family lived in a part of Uyo (I failed to mention that this happened in Akwa-Ibom) that was was predominantly occupied by Anang people. My relatives are Ibibio (they are my maternal relatives) and Anang people historically have a strong contempt for Ibibios. When they sought justice from the local police department who were of course predominantly Anang, they were locked up and tortured for their trouble. The severity of their travails I cannot tell, but it was injustice all the same. All this it turned out was on account of their having recieved some sort of moral backing from their much revered traditional ruler. Ask the bugger and he'll probably narrate some historical B.S about how their founding fathers had their fish farms robbed by Ibibio game hunters...tsk. I hear that the case had to be taken to different Local Government before they could even gain audience. The case is yet to be resolved.

And how could it be? There have been innumerable instances of traditional rulers being involved either directly or by proxy in heinous crimes and I am yet to hear of one which ended in a prosecution. A glaring example was the young Ibo man up North who was released BY THE POLICE to a bunch of Hausa Muslims who then beheaded him and delivered his head on a stake to their local monarch. His crime - his wife wiped her baby's poop with a page of some holy book of theirs which she picked out of a TRASH HEAP. But the point is why did these people feel a need to 'honour' their ruler with a souvenir of their 'conquest' . Who is it that sensitizes the illiterate masses of the North into refusing vaccines in suspicion of a plot to exterminate them? Who has enough influence to send these people out on killing sprees everytime a Christian bird poops on some sacred Muslim relic? What sparked the killings of '99 in Sagamu and Kano over a prostitute violating the curfew during an Oro festival? Is it even lawful for a curfew to be placed on an entire town under the auspices of some jerk of a ruler in honour of some disgusting, blood-thristy deity? In the words of Pastor Tunde Bakare "NIGERIA IS A REPUBLIC AND NOT A KINGDOM!!!!!". Why do we persist in honouring these people/practices? Is the catalyst for social advancement not a sustained commitment to continual review and ammendment of laws and public policies. Why do we cling, as onto our lives, to the very menaces which numb our souls? With amazing diligence, we incessantly snatch defeat from the jaws of the victory we fight so hard to wangle.

About two years ago, a move was made to pass a bill outlawing child marriages in the North. If you've ever watched a documentary, or personally witnessed the evils done to little girls in the name of marriage in the North, I'm sure you understand why its been a prime focus of many NGOs. Merciless men, their consciences seared as the Apostle Paul put it "with a hot iron", marry little girls and then go about the lifelong business of physically and emotionally marring them as best they can. Its no news that a girl below 18 stands the risk of contracting vesico vagina fistula or rector vagina fistula which is the damage of the bladder because of the immaturity of the pelvic bones during child birth. After birth, such a girl begins to leak urine uncontrollably and everyone rejects her because of the smell that oozes from her body. Guess what the darling husbands do to them when this happens.

Knowing this, gaining sympathy for such a cause ought to be a snap huh? Well it was thrown out of the Senate having been voted against by the required majority on the grounds that it could potentially subvert their culture. CULTURE???!!!

Why we insist on sustaining such barbarous practices in the name of culture is beyond me. What we have in that video above is a masking of native practice in pseudo-christian worship. How else would a man stare straight at a camera and announce with such deadpan ease "I want to kill that small girl"??!! And the Bishop says there are 2.3m witches in Akwa-Ibom? Thats 200, 000 souls shy of the stated population of the State according to the 1991 census, so to rid Akwa Ibom of all her fiends why don't we just wipe the State off the map?

Witch-hunting and other forms of occultism are practices deeply rooted in the histories of Akwa Ibom and Cross River as any native will attest to. This man and others of his ilk, know that gaining mindshare with people of these communities is a cultural thing. And this is over a century after Mary Slessor fought to end the murder of twins in the very same region. Where is the progress?

Tsk...the gen is about to go off [God bless Nigeria]. I'm hoping you watched that video. If you did, then what you saw is just one of the myriad shapes that the protean monster of human rights abuse takes right here in 21st Nigeria. I had strayed far away from these issues since I left my last human rights group some years ago...it hurt too much. Then again, we can turn a blind eye, a deaf ear or any other conked out component of our anatomy, but there's a good chance it'll come back and bite us in the butt. After my long absence, I think its time to get back in. How did that old lady in Charles Dickens 'David Copperfield' put it? "Let us have no meandering".

Matchstick musings

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 10:38:00 +0000

I stumbled upon a lovely collection of comic strips at a site I visited today and selected some that I felt expressed things I'd like to say. The dude is a programmer. Makes me proud.lol. Enjoy!

what people think of eccentric/nerdy/bookish bloggers. Its blurry here so you'll need to open it in a new tab/window (right-click, Open in new tab/window)

when I find 'her', I hope we'll be like this...without the mines though. Similarity rocks!

At least its a lot better than my ex (see proof below).

I absolutely never knew there were people who liked this too :)

this dude's totally wasted

007...smooth to the last breath. I sure wish he'd finally take the bloody last breath, the guy's become annoying. Just like that lame Jack Bauer dude. I stopped watching Bond since two installments before Die Another Day. Cant even remember what the title of that one was

this one reminds me so much of me its not even funny!

this is my favourite, in case you're hyper-sensitive, just ignore the profanity at the end and focus on the rhetoric...lol

The Admiral and his men

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 18:17:00 +0000

"Unfortunately the admiral will not be dismissed and his aides will get away with a rap on the wrist.

We'll all be enraged, but the rage will gradually simmer as our focus drifts to the all-consuming task of daily survival in our dear country.

Sad, but not a total defeat. I think that with every new show of barbarism our cries get louder, we rally round much better and the attendant effects get stronger. We're getting there...

As a side note though, considering that that lady was a military brat (and I mean no offense by this), I would've loved to know what she said/did when she jumped out of her car and grabbed the aides' horsewhip."

The preceding was my response to a friends post about the Uzoma Okere issue. Its impressive how much attention the episode attracted primarily through the initiative of the person who filmed the incident and the bloggers who've spread it all over the internet. Proves the point Thomas Friedman was making in his book 'The World is flat'.

Anyway not to digress, Ms. Uzomas ordeal coming right on the heels of a momentous victory of the American civil rights movement in the form of Obama's victory helps put the event in perspective. Aside from an almost flawless campaign, and a remarkably shrewd political sense, Obamas victory was, as everyone knows, a culmination of several years of advocacy, discontent and protests - think Rosa Parks and co.

Its a darned shame that stuff like that goes on in Nigeria in 2008, but all in all like I said above, I think with every new one, we move toward the society we dream of. Call me quixotic, but pessimism has changed no worlds.

A Long Postscript:

I was looking through my news feeds on my facebook profile and found a link to an interesting article in a friends status update. It extrapolates my earlier theory about there being a possible twist to this story. In this case, it questions the moral right of Col. Okere, the lady's father to spear-head the proposed court-marshalling of Admiral Arogundade.

Here's the link.

And here's an excerpt from it:

"It is absolutely irrational that the National Assembly, a law-making establishment, could be where innocent Nigerians would be intimidated by security agents on the pretext of order from the above."

-- Agonizing lamentation of a Nigerian brutalized and stopped from gaining entrance at the gate of the 'White House' to listen to proceedings on 16 Dec, 2004.

On this day, 16th December 2004, the Chief Security Officer [CSO] of the National Assembly, Col. Emeka Okere [rtd] according to reports, supervised the beating, slapping and intimidating of innocent Nigerians that have come to the National Assembly, probably to listen to parliamentary proceedings. According to reports, disappointed Nigerians at the gate of the white house started asking questions about the desirability or fitness of this man -- Col. Emeka -- on this job, when under his nose one of his wards, supposedly a female police officer in mufti, slapped a fellow on the pretext that he was obstructing the entourage of the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Alhaji Masari.

Word of advice to daddy Okere - the crusade would fare better if the focus remained on Uzoma. Journalists have an uncanny knack for digging up dirt.

Back!

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 13:44:00 +0000

Wow! Who’da thunk I’d post something before the close of the year. So much for my 100 post target for this year; God only knows where I missed it. I think lareine called it ‘prolonged writers block’ or something like that. Had it merely been that, I might have written a few lines every now and then at least to keep the sparse following I had attracted after much toiling and blog-running...hehe. The thing is I also developed a curious disdain for the combination of keystrokes that made up my blog url. Curious indeed...

Anyway’s the king is back..dan dan dan...where ma crown at? If you ain’t a fan of Nas (the rapper) you won’t get that. As I was saying the king of rants has returned, and guess what? I tracked down the queen. She’s an absolute weirdo...a cute one though :p I tracked her down on facebook (don’t ask me why) and the first thing she said was ‘Egads!’. I mean....’Egads?’. To all those who considered me an unstylish nerd, behold my absolution. You know it’s all love, don’t you lareine? [wink wink] Seriously though it’s amazing how people grow up worlds apart and wind up so alike. We’re doing a language blog soon. The idea was spawned from a mutual flare for languages. Of course as yet, the only language I speak to a significant degree of fluency is English, but that’s changing; I’m currently learning French and Japanese. Sugoi!!!

Oh by the way, I’d like to take the liberty to advertise for WAPi here. Can’t remember what it stands for right now, but it’s an initiative of the British Council for promoting arty people . Musicians, poets, artists, sculptors, writers, dancers etc get to do their thing every month or so in front of an audience and a number of luminaries who, make no mistake about it, take pleasure in feeding your liver to the swine if you have the effrontery to assail their sensibilities with substandard material...hehehe. Of course I’m joking about that last part, but really it is fun. You should check it out when you get the chance. I think they have a facebook group.

The November event took place a week ago so I guess the next event will be the last for the year. The last for the year – amazing isn’t it? Its been one heck of a year for me, I must say. I would say that I’ve evolved in several key areas of my life, some as a direct consequence of previous occurrences from last year. I’ve met some interesting people, burnt some bridges, achieved some goals and failed at others; through it all though the central theme for me was breaking out of the mould. I did achieve that, but at what cost? And was it worth it? If I could do it again would I do it the same way? Would I be more, less or just as ruthless? And into what am I evolving? Will I like the end of it as much as my fantasies would have me believe? Obviously none of this will make any sense to the reader but do indulge me for now, I shall carry on a more intelligible blog-roll from the next post.

The other day, I got a call out of the blue. It was from an ex, who seemed to think she could attain her seemingly elusive closure from taunting me about her new obsession - amongst other things. At least that seemed to be the only logical explanation for calling an ex who had from al indications lost all awareness of your existence, to tell him you had a new Adonis in your life and that you had no intention of talking about it. I mean, hello??? You called me to tell me you didn’t want to talk to me about your new dude whom I didn’t even know you had??? My first instincts were to be brutally rude and then proceed to sever the last brittle tie I had kept with this pesky relic from my dishonourable past but I guess that if this will give her her much needed closure and me my much needed peace of mind, then I shall indulge her for a while longer. Forgive the harshness of my words but if you knew the story, I’m certain that at least some of you would understand my irritation.

That relationship has taught me, amongst other things, that the learning curve for a relationship between people of radically different personalities is way to steep, and most people [particularly people with a patience problem, which includes me] will simply burn out before they make it. What seemed ‘cute’ in the beginning will eventually become jaded and irritating.

Enough of that now, I seem to have exceeded my self-imposed 650 word target, however conscience shall not suffer me to disregard saying a few words in memory of a fallen Soldier. Mby Johnson of Trusaintz lost his mom a little while ago. Going over to see him made me aware of just how much those people mean to me. They lay her to rest on the 29th of this month. I’m rather impressed with the way they’ve taken the loss I must say. They’ve pulled together and braved it remarkably well. I wonder what I’d do if I lost my mom? Hopefully such things will remain in the realm of reflection for this glow worm.

My regards to standtall, paradigm and lareine. Sorry ladies, I don’t know what came over me in the last 6 months. Think you could forgive a brother?lol

"Some people say they haven't yet found themselves. But the self is not something one finds; it is something one creates. " - Thomas Szasz

You win some you lose some...but we should have won

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Wed, 21 May 2008 23:54:00 +0000

I had a really great day today and had so many things I wanted to talk about from the humongous lady at Microsoft to the colony of amazons at one of the meetings I was in and maybe even an update on the Twinkles episode, but a series of annoying occurences are threatening to send me to bed feeling miserable.

First, Chelsea lose the Champions League on penalties to, of all teams, Man Utd. We shouldve won, we were the better side... c'est la vie I guess. And then Twinkles goes all moody on me and doesn't want to talk...you know what, I don't want to talk about this. Take care everyone...and welcome aboard "paradigm". Hope you stay.

Passion for purpose

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Tue, 13 May 2008 10:13:00 +0000

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a firm believer in the concept of divine purpose. I could’ve tapered this to speak of purpose in and of itself in an attempt to paint with a broad brush but that would not be faithful to my fundamental values. I believe strongly in God, the God of the Bible; not a “Supreme Intelligence” or “Ubiquitous force” or any of the myriad “learned” qualifications with which man has attempted to define Him. Rather I believe in the living, thinking, feeling God. I believe that He created man in the beginning and that “…before he formed (him) in the belly, He knew (him)”. I’m persuaded that a distinctive path is laid out for every partaker of this transient humanity that leads to the realization of a defined and common goal, and it behooves us to find this path and walk it with integrity.

In the words of Karl Jaspers “However minute a quantity the individual may be among the factors that make history, he is a factor” – and a definite factor at that. If definite, then it follows that we can only grasp our authentic being through deliberate and disciplined devotion to the dictates of our purpose. The first step of course is finding that purpose, and therein lays the problem. In doing this, I have always defaulted to the question “what is your passion?” This is the question that indirectly inspired my current train of thought. It started when I saw my friends’ status message on facebook. It read “looking for my muse. Where art thou?” He’d been saddled with the responsibility of managing a large project for a large enterprise and suddenly found himself going through each day feeling languid and dull, a familiar feeling indeed.

My question is, should the pursuit of meaning be hinged on something as dreadfully erratic as passion? I was initially inclined to question the validity of a passion that was prone to dwindling but the honest-to-God truth is this – people burn out. It happens every day and more so when a person possesses broad general interests. When the focal point of your passion changes, particularly when it is a radical change, does it connote a change in purpose? Is purpose particular? I believe so. I believe that passion is a choice and can be fired up or left to flicker out. Were it not a choice we would spend our entire lives flitting from one thing to another and spreading ourselves thin. A defined purpose helps us discover “the decisive point” and focus on it.

To live an effective life, one must devote himself continually to defining that “decisive point” to the minutest detail and to gradually direct all activities towards hitting that mark. The catch is that it is 90% perspiration and 10% inspiration. That’s where most people stumble. Passion is a choice. Self-discipline is a choice. Attitude is a choice. Love is a choice.
Once, in a Bible prophecy that talked about the Jews’ apathy towards God, God said “…there is none that stirreth up himself to take hold of me”. Even that is a choice. Inspiration is a trap Ohakim (that’s my friend. I know he’ll read this). The control of the sensibilities is a major distinguishing point of a leader. When you lack passion, ignite it. As for me, remember what I said when you were going on about needing a muse? Well, she’s my muse right now. And she said she adores me. Hah! Life is good. :-D

“We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms -- to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.” - Victor Frankl

Legs of a tripod

noreply@blogger.com (doug) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 15:57:00 +0000

When it comes to letting talents lie fallow, I guess I’m one of the guiltiest around. I discovered my arty gifts at a rather tender age then spent the rest of my life momentarily drawing on them once in a blue moon; primarily when I needed a form of escape from some of the less memorable periods of my growing up years. I found this the other day:

Nothing spectacular, but then it was only my fifth portrait and the only one that could fit into a scanner.

I had developed a weird fascination with the female form (big grin) and so all the portraits I drew then were of models in varying degrees of undress. I’d rather leave the question of the healthiness of such endeavours to a later time. Anyways I also found some poetry I wrote during this period. Good Lord I was hopelessly besotted! Sorry, but derelict as my blog may be, I can’t risk the possibility of blackmail in future so I dare not post such sissy stuff. The guys would bone me for life. I was such a sentimental schmuck!!! Probably still am but at least you can’t see it through all the layers of... whatever I’m layered with (Is that a good thing, I wonder?).

Anyway I’ve decided to revivify some of these hobbies, including music, whatever’s left of it. Dreadlocks and a guitar... keewwwwwl duuude!!!. Of course the models will be clothed now. I can’t speak for those “controlled professionals” for whom it’s simply “art” but in my experience the mind can be dreadfully difficult to tame without feeding it such evocative material. There, I’ve said it. Sincerely though, I was controlled most of the time, but having such an awfully vivid imagination there were times when for instance, while laying idly at home, the scandalously clad girl straddling the motorbike on the Xinqi billboard advert would slowly slide off and glide toward me, hips swaying in a well-rehearsed provocative rhythm ... anyway the point is kids, your folks are right (whether or not they adhere to it themselves): that stuff isn’t good for you.

I always tend to go off on a tangent don’t I? I was talking about undeveloped gifts. Yah, there was also chess, which I started playing at 9 (same time I started playing scrabble) and developed quite rapidly at until my friend filched my board. After that I didn’t play again till my very late teens (ditto for scrabble). Mom and dad just never got round to buying me another board. Which brings me to another point – if you’re not ready to bend over backward in ensuring that every, and I mean EVERY, talent of your child’s is developed to its fullest potential, do your unborn children a favour and stay the bad word away from the bad word lectern... moooshaa, moooooooshaaaaa.

So my ingenious strategy for honing my chess, art, guitar and writing skills is... play, draw, strum and write (that’s why I blog even when no one reads) :-). Simply sublime! I never cease to amaze myself (chuckle). As someone once put it "If you want to be a writer, write". Whether it’s taking great photographs, working with little kids, old folk or the sick, galvanizing people for community service or hunting down rare birds in Kenya, I find that we all possess some secret passion we think about while balancing accounts, slicing and dicing people or cadavers, or punching cryptic code sequences into computers. A number of these things really don’t take that much of an investment in time and those that are less accessible can be planned for, but alas “the countless nothings of life”...

It is my (newfound) conviction that - at the least - all abilities I innately possess are unique and requisite pieces of the puzzle that is doug. If I’m wrong, I will at least have had a blast and gotten a few things to teach my little ones, should they be interested. So I leave you with a line from (of all people) actor and martial artist Chuck Norris’s personal code:

“I will develop myself to the maximum of my potential in all ways.”

I hope you take it to heart.

"We cannot tear a single page out of our lives but we can throw the entire book into the fire" - George Sand