Be warned! This is not a post…

It’s an interview I did on a fellow blogger (http://www.isisplayground.blogspot.com/) for a national paper.

The venue is convivial this sweltering noon, and her office is a stone throw from here as she sends heads swaying and necks creaking towards the sound of her squeaking steps. She appears, looking resplendent in a dark brown blouse on an ash skirt, her personal pendulum swinging towards adoration as she catwalks into the La Saison Café off Raymond Njoku. Profusely, she tenders unreserved apologies even though the hour-hand of the clock is yet to strike the appointed time.

Her book, Eko Dialogue, a collection of short stories, is a matinee of experiences in Lagos hinged on the ambivalence of love and frustration, howbeit, portrayed in hilarity. “I said let me just document Lagos in a humorous way. I wanted the book to be able to gather laughter and at the same time make people think,” she avows breezily.

“Although I didn’t get to learn how to write easily, at the end of it I got a hold on it,” she confirms about her writing voyage. On what gave rise to the passion. “I just like writers like some people like doctors. It just seemed to me as if they are intelligent. So, I said to myself I want to be a writer.” As she speaks, her lucidity highlights her ardor.

With a clear vision of her chosen genre, she goes with a swing, “I think I have the liberty as a writer to take advantage of the word ‘short’, and I did that.” The shortest story in the book, “Frustration in-law”, which satirises the bride price system in Nigeria, is just a page. She tells this reporter that she could have extended that particular story to three or four pages but that she felt allowing it to be a page would make more impact than it being lengthy. This story will touch your heart and wrap itself around old hurts of obnoxious practice. “And for me, a short story can go as short as possible,” she reaffirms surely.

What explanation does she have for “Abi, is the sex not sweet?” in “Close your doors and stay married!” She indulges a girlish mirth, “You see, that’s the problem with Nigeria. What is wrong with the word sex?” She convulses into another bout of infectious laughter. “There are no sexual innuendoes of any sort, seriously,” she says dismissively.Even with imparted nuance, the pertinence of the content still remains “comedy and it is food for thought,” Bewaji offers. At the same time, she says the book is a read for anybody, children inclusive. “Every single Lagosian should read it, seriously, because you relate to it one way or the other. The least that can happen if a 10-year old decides to read it is that he will look at the word and say mummy what is sex? And it is the duty of the mother to explain to the child that sex is a grownup thing.”

Her book may nest comfortably with the complementarity school of thought sanctioning equal rights for both genders. She opines that women should not be seen as second class citizens in marriage. “I don’t see it that way,” she chips in sotto voce. “It’s a union, a partnership that two people agreed to be together. It’s not like you are doing me a favour by marrying me. So, I shouldn’t be maltreated in anyway and I do know that we have a way of keeping quiet to those kinds of maltreatments in Nigeria.” Sensing she torpedoes, “With all love and respect for everybody in Lagos, I just decided to capture that scenario without offending anybody,” she allows a broad smile, clasping her hands on the table.

Some stories in the collection are quirks. With a resounding chuckle, Bewaji says “Yours voraciously” is an embellished personal experience. She admits that she has to spend on clothes to keep up with the trend of her age and status. Dismissively, she adds “I don’t think am yet a ‘shopaholic’ but I have the tendency of spending.” Interestingly, she queues “Serving Time”, and reflects soberly, “Am going to write another book very soon. Marriage is a complex thing for me. It’s not what you always expect. It’s not as if it’s bad.

But it’s just that life doesn’t change when you get married.” She trails off, “The reason people get married is because they love each other. But people get married and they forget themselves. They get into their job, they get into their children and they forget their husband and their wife.”

In Bewaji’s book, Pastor Amuna psyches his congregation to pay a whooping N50,000 for “special blessings from God” and some members oafishly pay up. “It’s crazy. I have gone to churches like that. It’s everywhere, and the pastors are like something carved out of G-Q magazine while the congregation are people who can’t even afford three square meal a day and you are still taking from them and telling them that it’s God’s money?” She says quizzically as a frown creases her forehead in a swelled activism. Accepting that religion is the opium of the masses, the budding author stoically maintains that people are whooped into such idiotic frenzy because of their longing for what to eat.

With her gesticulations falling unfalteringly, answers surging forth, the giant Panasonic air conditioner wafting soothing air, and the blinds keeping the scorching sun away, the lure to stay longer at the café grows unappeasably. But then, duties call for both the interviewee and the interviewer.

Just venting…

Am really vexed!

This is not a post per say. Even as I type my two left fingers are tentatively on the Ctrl and S keys…guess you all know what that means. Just because electricity supply has stubbornly become intermittent. THERE’S ALWAYS NO LIGHT! I have really missed my blogville and have lagged behind in my update too.

I know the light will go off any moment soon…make I rush post sef…

Shhh! Don’t tell my colleagues…

I was barely 2months old with the new company having left the former to pursue a more promising career. With nonchalance I had watched the gang of new job seekers troop into the office premises that morning. I observed them from the safe distance of my desk. In earnest, the test commenced and was followed immediately with the oral interview.

In turns, the timid (lol) candidates went in to confront the company’s team of interviewers. I chuckled, remembering how the hound nearly skinned me with questions on my day.

“Excuse me, I want to use the toilet.” She crooned into my ears, startling me to reality. Panic shit, I thought to myself. Well, it happens.

Calmly, I stood up. Went out and pointed the direction of the toilet to her. Even in distress, she still looked beautiful. The oblong of her face accentuating into her full sized mammary with a well proportioned backside to compliment a nice height. But all that was not her immediate concern - It was to get her business done in the toilet.

“Thank you,” she offered in a sotto voce (perhaps, induced by her stress) and left towards the direction to deposit the meshed devil. Anyway, I went back to continue with work. But my peace was short-lived as she resurfaced. “Ehmm…there’s no tissue in there.”
Amidst voicing this, I noticed trickles of sweat form on her forehead. This must be serious. Her misfortune didn’t give me any hint to think the situation was funny. I had found myself in same situation too that I had to alight from a bus mid-way to my destination to take a throw in a bush.

“Hold on, I will get the Admin (that’s what we call the head of Admin) for it.” I assured her and quickly disappeared to fulfill my promise. But Admin was nowhere to be found. He had gone out to run company’s errands. And didn’t leave the keys to the lockers behind.

So, I volunteered to go buy a tissue roll on my own fee. Called the maiguard and was giving him orders before she appeared again from the blues.
“Pls, ehmm… em, tell him to buy pad instead of tissue…”
Like a deafening decibel, my ears stood erect and my brain refused assimilation as our eyes locked…

Interviewing Don for the SUN

Yah! It was the same Don I told you guys I visited in Right for Wrong? Don, a senior staff of MTN Nig is the author of the novel, Delayed Not Denied. After the interview with him, I also did a book review on his novel. They were some of the few freelance stories I did for the Sunday Sun. Published in January 11, 2009.

Now sit back, pull a cushion (not trying to steal 2Face Idibia’s flow) and relax as you read through the abridged version of the interview. Enjoy the grub! I hope you might...

The time was 3pm, Ketu the venue, and the essence of such assignation is the literary modicum that is keeping you glued to this page. A tap, perhaps two, at the door saw it ajar with my host clutching to the handle. One hand battles to keep a phone to the ear, leaving a little girl in his trail as he receives a phone call, with eye contact as greetings.

My unfussy humility re-echoing a sense of social etiquette. My snickers quickly give way to release my feet to the terrazzo floor before beating a hasty entry into the tastily furnished sitting room. But that was not before acknowledging greetings. The banters were equally good after the long walk to keep the date. No one toys with the magnanimity of a host on impromptu arrangement. Boarding a bike to the venue was a no-go area, not after the law instituting the crash helmet.

Suave, baby-faced, clean-shaven with dandified meticulousness on a well sculptured physiognomy may make for the least adjectival superlative to describe this handsome writer. Perhaps, intelligence should count too, and Amaeshi does not disappoint in that department.

Initially set out as a memoir that was never meant for publication, Amaeshi’s debut novel, “Delayed Not Denied”, may not have taken a full swing to make a must read. Nevertheless, it surely has a way of gaining its own acceptability. Even this acceptance still astounds the author who revealed that he was yet to shake off his initial scepticism in publishing the book. “But really I didn’t set out to publish. I only had that inclination to write at that point in time. I was only expressing myself at that point. It was a kind of memoir sort of. I never intended to publish it until I was advised and persuaded to.”

The book is more of a life experience. It’s a factual thing.” He dragged for emphasis, “What we have in the book are really what happened but told in different light.”

Would you want to address the issue of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) in the book? The question escaped; before it could be recanted, making it sound like it did not come out right. “Well, the female genital mutilation in the book is symbolic, portraying women as the down trodden. They don’t have the same right as their male counterparts. It’s more like an ego thing, trying to damage their self esteem. So, it should be looked at as a symbolic expression, not necessary what it is in the present day situation. One has to do a kind of exposition to further explain that issue on female circumcision in my book. Really, it should be seen as symbolic.”

Asked if he believed in FGM? The black colour leather upholstery squeaked to accommodate Amaeshi’s adjustment. And then he did it again as if pricked with a needle rather than conscience before offering an explanation to douse the fact that he might have been misconstrued. “If I didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t know. That’s why it’s good to do a kind of exposition on certain works. For me, it has nothing to do with my beliefs. It actually symbolises some other things, apart from what people can deduce from it on the surface level.”

As a young writer in the modern age, why did he choose to dwell on the primordial rather than tackle modern day issues? He had a quick answer. “Actually, the book was published in 2002 but I wrote it between 1995 and 1997. My inspiration was from my immediate environment then. It took me a while to get published because of my financial standing. I couldn’t publish until during my youth service in 2002. So, I think the setting has to do with where I was at that point in time, and I was at the village then.”

“For me, if you want to compare, what are you looking at?” He threw back rhetorically, suspecting a conspiracy when asked if he would want to juxtapose his work with Achebe’s. “Well, I don’t really see any reason for comparison. First, this is my first book and Achebe is a known writer. He has been there for a long time. I draw a lot of inspiration from his books as I enjoy reading them.” He offered, almost in obeisance to Achebe.

But don’t you think Achebe will not be comfortable knowing that writers dread to compete with him? The quip went in, making the youthful author to seek out a rebound on his earlier posture. “Anyway, it’s not for me to compare. I didn’t write to adopt his style. At the point I wrote the book, my only intension was to express what I felt….But if you are looking at the setting, you might discover that we both have the traditional rustic setting,” he offered, and at the same time smiled away with satisfaction.

But then, who would discuss Amaeshi’s Delayed Not Denied without picking out the male child factor in the book. Do you think it is still a problem in the modern day African society? The grilling went on. “Well, considering setting in that day and age, that was obtainable. But looking at it in this modern time, am someone who doesn’t make a fuss about things like that. Right now I have a daughter and if not for pressure, I would stop at that. And if my next child happens to be a girl I will stop at that, no matter what. So, for me I don’t think it’s an issue.”

Until the retreat from the venue, the question on whether Amaeshi who maintained the factuality of his work was the storyteller, Iheukwumere, whose destiny was delayed but not denied, was never considered witty. It does now.

Sometimes I derail…

Even as I write this, am already derailing. Am supposed to be exhuming my short story project and making it a novel, yet I seem incapable of doing that. In Busting my Nephew, I apologized for writing in late with a thoughtful promise of updating this blog regularly. But it took me longer than I perceived to put up something here after that. To write no be yam o, let alone writing a novel! I really don’t envy Achebe as a person. Not even his fame matters to me. I only envy all the prize monies the old man has garnered for himself all over the years. You see? Am derailing big time here. Why talk about Achebe?

Ok, first one. I seriously think am in the wrong profession. Or as my friends would tell me, in the wrong job. Writing. How can I be getting unrestricted pleasures from the fact that anybody who seemed to have read my write-ups calls me (if they do get to me or have my digits) to tell me they get literary satisfaction with my choice of grammatical leverage and appropriate language usage. That’s all? Nice write-ups but wey the money na?

No money in journalism. I agree. But shouldn’t I ve worked enough to buy myself a car at this stage of my career? Don’t answer, not your question. That’s the question I always ask myself. I have been in the mix for 5yrs now. Again, shouldn’t I’ve listened to friends and gone into banking, at least corporate affairs. They said there were openings but I chose to ignore them for the love of the pen. I love writing. It gives me power of creation. But now, I dey think twice o!

I derailed when I left the sciences for arts. Then I derailed again at the university when I was asked to choose between Mass Comm and English Language. Ok, I went for… see them, they want to know abi? Forget it! Ok, I will tell you. But not now.

However, I think the biggest derailment is going to school. Yes, forget your shock about what I just said. How many rich people are educated? Calculate the ratio na. If I had realized one didn’t need to be educated to be rich, I should’ve dropped out of school at JSS3 when the in-thing was to learn a trade as at then. Am sure, at this age I would’ve been controlling 4 shops and apprentices calling me oga. I th ink the sound of oga sounds appealing. Money wouldn’t have been an object the way it is now for me.

Y’all know I probably wouldn’t know how to read and write well. Right know, I can’t even remember any damn thing I was taught in junior secondary school. But from primary school, I can remember stuff. Never mind, who needs to know how to read and write when you can get the services of graduates and pay them with jokes? Isn’t that what salaries are worth? Jokes! They never seem enough no matter how much.

As I think all these things out and the steps I shouldn’t have taken, my mind flickers with nostalgia to the inevitable. Am about to get married soon, though I don’t have a serious relationship going. But when the time comes to walk the isle, won’t I derail again and marry someone not meant for me? Fear dey catch me o!

Busting my little Nephew

Apologies for not writing before now. My brethren, stress too much, especially when you are busy trying to get gossip that will make for irresistible read. Or I should blame it on the PHCN. Those guys surely know how to toy with the switches, so much that one doesn’t get to have electricity supply when one needs it. My desktop runs on that.

March 1 was my nephew’s birthday. But I hadn’t time to write on it till now.

The little boy, Gozie, just turned one but already in Primary 4, so it seems. Smart you would say, wouldn’t you? He’s in Primary 4 in the house re-arrangement department, or if you would be mild, Interior Décor. The little boy was so much in a haste to start his practice that he began walking at 7months. At 8months he had constantly made rigmarole of all the rooms in the flat. And before he was 11 months old, he had learnt the tricks of maneuvering the little blockage set for him to prevent him from getting into troubles with domestic items.

For instance, the centre table in the sitting room had long ceased to be at its rightful position. Isn’t it supposed to be at the centre as its name suggests? But it now forms a partial wall in front of the musical gadgets. Anyway, no problems. I think the guy likes the sound of music. He dances to hot beats like D’Banj’s “Igwe”, P-Square’s “Do Me”. In fact, anything hot on the beat interests him. Perhaps he could become a musician one day. And hopefully I will be around to affirm to his interviews when he tells them he started listening to music at a tender age. Isn’t that what all musicians say? “I started singing when I was …blab bla? I will tell them my nephew broke all records. He started before he was one. You need to see him demonstrate his steps in vertical dimension with hands flying up as if he wants to hop. That’s how my Gozie likes to dance.

Wait, perhaps the little boy may want to be a computer guru or a writer like me. Why my suspicion? I will tell you. The computer, formerly nestling comfortably at a corner in the room before the boy was born, now has its fair share of disturbances. He wants to type on the keyboard each time the objects catches his fancy. Its mouse has often found itself on the floor, causing it to be ruptured and replaced. Still, no problems, except that he may cause more scare being a writer than a computer wiz kid.

But I seriously suspect his dad, my elder brother, may not want him to be any of that, especially since I haven’t made it big yet. He bought Gozie a ball as soon as the boy started walking. Who wouldn’t, considering the mouth-watering endorsements and sign-on fees footballers get these days. Put on paper, a Mikel Obi plying his trade in England with Chelsea FC possibly earns more than what the whole of his community earns. That’s true! Check how much that lad earns per annum. But why football? Why not get the little boy a stethoscope to take after him? I mussed to myself. Hope my brother doesn’t get to hear my thought.

Don’t worry, we are still on course…the guy is barely one. He has a whole lot of his life before him. He has his choice to make when he’s of age. At least, his father and I agreed on that.

The in-thing now is that one of Gozie’s gifts for his birthday (a little puffed leopard-skinned-puppy with a “Wild about you” tag sticking out of its mouth) is scaring the shit out of him. At least, the house now knows a little peace as the toy gets placed at any corner or close to anything you don’t want Gozie to touch.

As I watched him run for safety each time he sighted Bobby (that’s the toy’s name), I smiled to myself “truly, it’s only the eyes of a child that fear a painted Devil.” Whoever said that must be right!

Wait! Strangers also scare him… what a kid! But with family members or known faces, Gozie could cause you more stress by following you around. He likes to play. Phat..phat..phat…that always heralds his foot sound on the tiled floor. And this is often!

Mum, do you like being a woman?

“Why not?” She avowed softly. She knew shouting was out of it because it wouldn’t get me off her. She only cast me a knowing glance. I’ve been known to ask such questions. And on that day, I didn’t disappoint. This conversation took place recently.

“Why are you asking?” Mum asked, searching my mischievous thought….and I liked the suspense I was getting.

“Look at it. I just came in now and you quickly rushed to get me my meal while dad still sat where he was. Not just that alone, you packed and cleared the table after I had finished eating. I know you will tell me it’s a mother’s love. But don’t tell me fathers don’t like their sons too. Ok, am sure if I were a girl, you would have asked me to go to the kitchen and get my food.

As I talked, I made a gesture, angling my right arm in a superman fashion so that I could kiss my bicep. And I actually did kiss it. That act beggared amusement from dad who had been watching us all the time.

“What’s the meaning of that?” Mum asked.
“It simply means a man will always be a man, no matter what.”

As we talked on, severally reasons why mum should be a man in her next world (if there was anything like reincarnation) rattled for space in my fertile mind. I withheld them, but couldn’t help an elaborate reminiscence of how I used to serve mum and dad their meals after cooking. I used to be the family cook back then, bla bla bla…Now the table is turned.

Hey, would you rather retain your sex if you had an opportunity to make a change? For me, certainly I wouldn’t want to be a human being. Being an inanimate object will be better. Perhaps water…or better NIGHT…so that I can scare everyone. Even you!

Right for Wrong?

I had for some time planned to go see George who told me he worked with the Champions’ newspaper. We were course mates at the university. I got his digits from another course mate after 7years we left school. Gave George a call, and it was all screams! The banters were reassuring, and so our bond reformed. We put up several appointments which we never kept. But we spoke often on phone…we allowed it that way.

Then suddenly his phone went dead for weeks. It never bothered me until another course mate called from Imo State complaining of his inability to reach George. Then I decided to go check him up at the Champions’ House.

Abi, Champions House no be office for person wey dey work for Champions newspaper Lagos branch?
But I got there. Nobody seemed to know my friend worked there. They swore they never heard that nomenclature. I told them he worked in the editorials (my assumption) and that the last time we spoke on the phone he told me he was on permanent night. A check was run. Still, nobody knew him. My friend is not the funky type…so I couldn’t bring myself up to think he could’ve changed his name.

“Are you sure that is his name?” The receptionist jolted me to reality.
“Yes Sir, that’s his name. We were course mates at school.”
But on a second thought…Maybe George uses another name there. And I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Na im I carry my skeletal frame comot there at once.

As I headed home, I reflected on the chilled palm wine I had at Don’s place an hour ago. These hawkers certainly know how to step up their game. I never knew anybody could chill and sell palm wine. But there it was before me.

“Guy, this palm wine cold o…” I commented, wondering when my friend chilled it because he bought it in my presence.
“Na so the guy dey sell am.” Don offered an explanation.

Don truly knows how to treat me to choice drinks. The last time I visited, Irish cream, Guinness and Gordons Spark littered the table. Just the two of us. But today, I needed a clear head for I had gone there to seal up a deal on the new website we were working on. We too want to join the millionaire club na. Who no like better thing?

Fayose sings again…not my kind of song!

“You know the kind of person Obasanjo is. Even if he takes your wife, he will still not apologize.” Yah! You read it right. But I didn’t say them. These were the exact words of Mr Ayo Fayose, the former governor of Ekiti State, yesterday at 8pm on a TVC programme “Fireworks” with Ugochukwu Emezue, the anchorman.

My gawd! That Ugochukwu guy has guts, and fears no hits from anybody. His questions are unexpected and punchy. I had watched him take on various politicians and public figures in merciless interrogative sessions. That’s why I took to him even far back then when he presented Head 2 Head on STV. The programme has the same bite as that on TVC. It’s a no-holds-barred. If only most TV programmes are like this, guess, evil doers will sit up.

Ever since his removal from office under controversial circumstances and on-going prosecution by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), Fayose has been singing like the canary bird. He likes to be heard.

Earlier on Linktrip that same day on TVC, I had watched Yori (the ex-anchorman of Sunrise Daily on Channels) and Ugochukwu play hosts to Dr Kayode Fayemi, the AC governorship candidate in Ekiti State. My lachrymal glad swelled but I fought the emotions as people phoned into the programme to heap praises on the guest. As I watch him speak, my mind went to the late youthful president of America, JF Kennedy. And I couldn’t help the comparison of him with JFK and the contrast with Fayose.

Fayemi is sound, highly educated, eloquent and bright with ideas. He stands out on intelligence. Shouldn’t he have been the governor in the first place considering the slogan of the state “Fountain of Knowledge”, but here in Nigeria the popular candidates don’t always win elections. Did I say popular? Yes, I did. I have not met Fayemi, and have never talked to him. But I drew my inference on his popularity from that programme I watched. Please, don’t say am myopic. He was in Lagos, faraway from Ekiti. Yet, callers from different divides called and hailed him. All the callers had nice words for him. Doesn’t that speak volumes?

Well, back to Fayose. He blames Obasanjo (Chief Olusegun Obasanjo, ex-president of Nigeria) for his woes. But who would’ve forgotten how he extolled Obasanjo during his days as governor while their political romance lasted. As I type this, I smile to myself remembering his famous comment, “If Obasanjo tells me to slap someone, I will slap the person without asking why.” So, why is he (Fayose) crying blue murder now? Doesn’t he know that what goes around comes around, and that the law of karma still exists? Now, I know say the guy don know how far.

So, stop singing, Mr. Former governor. Let our ear drums know peace!

…through the door

Finally, the blog frenzy has caught up with me. And like a willing participant I have appended my consent and decided to write…hope it doesn’t turn out graffiti. Hence, it will be me listening to the blend of expressive tremolos of my keyboard as I put Knotty Thoughts out here. A regular upgrade I foresee.

Yah! I know am a little bit old school, having started now when most bloggers have almost forgotten what it took them to register. I console myself, “I will catch up with them. Abi no be to write anything? I go soon pass them.” I say, thumping my tiny chest with a wane smile on my face.

Promisingly, this won’t just be writing for writing sake. It shall comprise commonsensical and didactic engagements. Not necessarily moralistic. I shall not pontificate to that terrain. Shall we discuss the S word here? Did anybody ask? Definitely, love and relationship matters could come in handy. Politics and daily life exigencies are certitude too. In fact, anything that catches my fancy will deserve mentioning here. It’s intimacy unveiled…No go think am!

Now, pump your kind of Champaign…forget your stress, misplace your worries, let tomorrow be now…lets merry. A new dawn is finally here with us.
Jah bless.