No Title

“Ehhh...emmm…Excuse me sir.”

The voice was unsteady, not sure of its request. But still it caught my attention. I turned, looked backward to see where it originated from. It was a guy. Already I was in no mood for a chitchat. My heart was in sores. I had left a bank that morning in a rage after I was told I couldn't withdraw from my account. Reason. It was dormant. And I needed few bucks for the weekend.

I finally stopped. The guy hurried up, spotting a slight limp as I thought he was trying to catch shelter under my little umbrella. It was raining. And the rain was doing justice to the day, trying to nail it to the earth and waste its morning. It was one of such days you wished you didn't leave the house if you were married.

“Good morning sir, did you teach at...(names withheld)?” He asked, regaining his voice as he finally caught up with me.

I took a closer look at him. A handsome plump dude of average height. His face marked with fading bruises around the corners of his right cheek and eye. The face registered. “Wait! I blurted out as he attempted to say his name. “Wait, don't say it. I will remember it.” 10 seconds later, it registered. “You are...The mention of his name sent him into rapture.

We exchanged banters. Talked about life and did a bit catch-up. He wasn't longer interested in furthering in his education after a sad incident that left him scared. He told me he was into miscellaneous businesses, trying to make ends meet. I encouraged him, advising him to stay off illicit deals and the quick cash syndrome.

“Unclelo, abeg take this,” he dipped his hand inside his pocket as we moved to part. Brought out some naira bills and squeezed them into my reluctant hand. I could have rejected outright but I remembered such refusal might bruise a man's ego. Most especially if the gesture was done out of sincerity.

“E no matter jo. It's just my little way of appreciating you,” he said, as if he read me. With his squeezed bills clasped in my hand, I thanked him and we parted.

I didn’t teach this particular guy. His class was almost leaving when I was hired. That was six years ago. But I knew him too well because he was one of the big boys in the school, and I was the youngest among the teaching staff. I was just fresh from the university. Naturally, they saw me as their peer. I was barely five years older than some of them. And my lean size, and baby-face never made it any easier for me. But I made sure they obeyed my instructions, their assignments promptly done and submitted at the right time. No excuses. Either that or defaulters faced my cane.

Sometimes though it did cross my mind suppose these kids ganged up against me after school hours to show me hell for my perceived strictness? (Am laughing my skull open here). There were cases where the students had had to slap or beat up other teachers. And the irony of it is that their targets were always those teachers who were soft on them. I bet students know who have their best interest at heart even when you discipline them.

I had on several occasions run into some of the students. Either they curtsied, paid accolades or gave me tips. It never mattered to them that I had changed two jobs and was looking better since I left the teaching profession. And that my wardrobe had been beefed up (insert evil smile here, pls).

That morning incident was not the first for me. Not even a second. And I believe won't be the last. Such encounters often leave me nostalgic. Wish I could go back to teaching. But hey, won’t a guy do what he ought to do?

A Father’s Day Without a Father

...just the way it is!



Not much I can say here. For I only know a little. But just a piece of advice you might use:
For those who still got a father, learn how to appreciate them and God for still keeping them alive...
And for those whose fathers are dead, like mine, thank God for making them part of our ancestors.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!

The Verastic Xperience

Shock. Then surprise. My jaws dropped. Quickly, curiosity stared apace. What could Vera had written about me, I asked when I saw the title of her piece This-one's-for-kennknotty on my blog. The curiosity soon heightened. But before I could click to assuage it, power struck and my PC went off. I quickly connected to the inverter, bringing back the PC to live. I rushed to read, finishing under few seconds. I then did a second read, slowly.

I had on a few occasions made comments on Verastic.com. Some being sarcastic, others either cocky or cynical. I had on one comment even requested she told me about the time of her menstrual flow as I jabbed her of becoming mushy mushy. The request was jokingly done. But I soon discovered Vera does not play soft. It was the reply to such an inordinate (really?) request that gave birth to the aforementioned. Be careful what you wish, that’s what Charles my friend would always say. I got what I asked for.

Vera, I hope you don’t mind me letting fellow bloggers into the secret. Well, it’s out already, lol. Some of the bloggers wanted to know who that Kenn-knotty whom Mighty Vera devoted so much energy to was, after reading Vera’s piece. They soon flooded my blog, pouring their condolences, sympathy, advice, and encomium on my late dad. Vera's piece drove traffic to my blog, and made me two friends.

I give it to Vera. She could write. Vera, let this not pump the blood flow in your head. And don't be quick to smile for there is a price to be paid for that. Vera had stylishly entwined the not too palatable experience of menstruation with her condolences for my late dad whom I had earlier done a tribute on Daddy Where Are You?

As Vera became descriptive, I momentarily muffled my sorrow. I took the emotional gag effortlessly … I had thought apart from losing blood, that the compulsorily monthly napkins were the only discomfort women felt. I never knew they felt diarrhea too. I repeat, Vera could write. Wish someone could kill her for her skills (that's the price). I need to inherit her writing prowess.

I tell you, burial for Igbo land no easy o! Especially with the obnoxious “Umu-Ada” beliefs. The Umu-Ada would make outrageous demands, haggle over what you give them if it’s slightly an inch less, quarrel among themselves when splinting their spoils, and at the end dust their cursed bums and leave without helping out with errands. Am sure, bloggers from the eastern part of 9ja will easily identify with this.

Okay, let me even forget the longer-throated Umu-Adas. After sobbing myself dry in Lagos and getting rewarded with severe heart ache, I had thought my lachrymal gland would show a bit of maturity at the village. But that was never to be as I soon launched into another round of broken rhythm immediately the hearse brought in what was the remains of my dad into the family compound after taken him to his maternal home.

Even in death, dad still looked undeniably handsome. His pointed nose was untouched, and the grey of his hair still glittered. He was clad in white lace material. I had loaded a camera I borrowed from a friend with film for that occasion. My intention was to snap away, at least to recapture the memory and be kept in my archive. But I soon realised I didn’t want to be reminded of that moment when I beheld the stillness of the man who was my father only few months past. Am no lilly. And effeminate doe not exist in my lexicon. But how I withered still surprises me.

A blogger has even enjoined me to blog some of the pix (the photographer got many). But I jokingly told her some of you bloggers might want to use it for screen savers...Lol. Seriously, my dad was handsome, even in death. He was successfully laid to eternal rest on May 22, 2010.

Me, and an invincible witch doctor

Out of curiosity I followed a link on FB (Face Book) after I had read the quiz test of a friend. I quickly commented on the result about “What does your birthday say about you.” The comments were correct about her. I wanted to find out about myself as assumption is the worst form of ignorance. So, I keyed in. Born on January 9..., I quickly entered other details, and the result starring me in the face is what you have below:


Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach and be taught. Always looking at people's flaws and weaknesses. Likes to criticize. Hardworking and productive. Smart, neat and organized. Sensitive and has deep thoughts. Knows how to make others happy. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses but prone to colds. Romantic but has difficulties expressing love. Loves children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet easily jealous. Very Stubborn and money cautious.


At the end, I realised that 92%, maybe 97%, of the comment is actually me. Though I must quickly add, the first and last sentences are not me! But how did these (White) Witch Doctors find out the ones they did? You might want to check urs too!

This Yerima is truly Yem-nri-ma

Who hasn’t heard of Yerima? Think hard. I bet you too must have. Like a goldfish, Yerima doesn’t hide. Nevertheless, Yerima isn’t a fish, let alone a goldfish which is known for its sterling qualities. Yerima is a man, a true Nigerian by birth from the northern enclave of the country. He is heavily bearded. Many argue he would have been handsome if not for the blanket of vegetation on his jaws…and… No, wait! That’s not a rational way to introduce this man who has done so much attention drawing, not just for himself but for our dear nation, Nigeria.

Yerima, whose full name is Ahmed Rufai Sani Yerima, is a 49-year old two-term former governor of Zamfara State, north of Nigeria on the platform of the All Nigeria Peoples Party (ANPP). First elected in 1999, and reelected in 2003. Before he left, he introduced the Sharia Law (Am tired to proffer its definition) to the state which caused so much ripples nationwide. He has since moved to the Senate of the Nigeria 6th National Assembly to represent the Zamfara West Senatorial District at the expiration of his tenure as governor. I mean he is a serving Senator in Nigeria, and was born on July 22, 1960. Yerima will be 50 years old next two months... Just making sure my mathematics isnt failing.

Still, this is barely a perfect way to introduce him. Well, I really don’t like reeling out his CV. Wont even envy his publicist. But I believe a sure search on google will definitely throw up veritable articles on my subject of discourse.

Recently, the media became inundated because of him. He knows how to hit the spotlight. He is always in your face. But regrettably, only for the wrong reasons with his numerous controversies. He just took a fifth wife after divorcing the fourth. But that’s not the issue here. Not even the fact that he has not sponsored any bill since getting into the Senate. After all, there are many sit-down-look Senators like him. And if it were the number of his wives, I won’t be boring anybody with this mind-boggling piece. After all, a certain Nigerian has 86 wives (joking apart). The context of this content is Paedophilia. Does that word still exist?

Yerima’s new wife (call her number five) is a 13-year old Egyptian girl. You see? Didn’t your jaw drop at the mention of the age? A 49-year old getting married to a 13-year old. The same thing happened to wife number four who was barely 15 when he married her. Right now she is about 17, and has a baby for this distinguished (truly distinguished) Senator Yerima. But she is back at her parents' house after the divorce.

For the latest marriage, it was reported in the media that he paid a mouth staggering $100,000 (about N15million) as bride price for the child in question. Obscenity! Obscene wealth! The people’s tax money! Where else can such madness happen if no be 9ja? Abeg, we too much jo! Though sadly for the wrong reasons.

On a serious note, I thought men are moved by what they see. Or has that noble conception changed? Maybe not. I still have troubles with my flab whenever my eyes stray. Now, what possibly could Yerima had seen in a 13-year old girl to have taken her in as wife? I may be naive, but naivety itself is not much of a crime if we truly seek knowledge. I seek that knowledge. So, I want to know if at 13, any girl would have had well developed boobs, firm thighs or a portable backside that are the delight of most men. Ok, even if she has started paying her monthly dues, would she have possibly known how to pad up and change her sanitary wares? Perhaps, this Yem-nri-ma guy must be more intelligent in women affairs than in Senatorial matters. And he is not telling.

My people say if one must eat a toad, then one should endeavour to eat the rotund ones so that when one is called a toad eater one should feel proud to take up the appellation. Now, let’s even expand that analogy. If this child bride of Yerima were an amphibian, wouldn’t she still be a tadpole, considering her age? Not even a toad, let alone a rotund one.

There must be something Yerima is chopping/eating in these child brides that he is savouring with so much relish. And we dont get it. But if not, let us hastily diagnose peadophiliac insanity.

While the moralists in the Senate are already armed to the teeth with petitions for his suspension, the women rights activists are already in the trenches calling for Nigeria's Child Rights Act of 2003 to be revisited. Yet, Yerima is defiant that he has not violated any law by marrying a MINOR! Adult age in Nigeria is 18, mind you.

By the way, Yem-nri-ma in my half baked Igbo translation means, “Give me let me eat.”

Daddy, Where Are You?

I have tried for the umpteenth time to write this. But each time, my fingers turned numb avoiding the pitch blackness and doted white spots of my keyboard. Even when I had to force them to hit the keyboard, they go stubborn with numbness. My body system seemed to have collapsed, and my blood chillingly congealing.

I tell you, it’s not easy at all when that numbness overrides the ceaseless flow of blood in one’s system. No matter how hard one fights it or wishes it away, one is still going to…look stupid and unstable. I was recently tested.

Dateline was April 18, 2010. Time was 11:15pm, so I was told. The incident that was to affect my life presented itself. And I silently wept in the confines of the room. The walls shamelessly looked on, daring me to control the unabated sobs as I began mourning my father. It was barely five minutes he passed on. He left this world of nothingness in a hurry and took a long walk from its insanity to the land of no-return, to have a deserved rest. The sobs, as if they looked for an escape route, struggled to tear my ribs apart. The more I tried to control that flow, the stronger the build up became. It just poured.

Innocent Chikezie Francis Anyanwu, known by business associates as Innofrance (name on his complimentary card) or Anyanwu by his colleagues, and Dee Inno by his wife, my mum, and other close relatives, was born 65 years ago. He never had the opportunity of a tertiary education after Standard Six which he passed at Merit level. He would tell us he couldnt go any further because his elder brother who would have seen him through school died as soon as he was out of elementary school.

He later trained as a Mason. In popular parlance, he was a bricklayer. And he never hid the fact of that profession which he treasured. He would humbly and jokingly too refer to himself as a poor and struggling “Nwa Bricklayer”. But he was a classical example of a worthy father. He gladly, though painstakingly did what most of his peers felt was impossible. At a time when it was an aberration to see the children of a common labourer in the tertiary institution, dad did his best to see us through the type of education he never had.

Despite his inability to make it to a higher education, my father tasked himself on reading books and newspapers. He was my number one fan when I started my writing career. As I hit the keyboard, the flashback of how he would peruse some of the editions of the paper I had worked for are made vivid. Dad would often parade copies before his contemporaries with that little show of pride 'My son wrote this and that' he would say.

Dad was an unapologetic workaholic. He could write and read very well, in spite of his short education, thereby denying us his children the bragging right of writing his letters like most of his colleagues would get people to do for them. But he never got around to using the GSM. He never liked it, and never bothered to use any phone we bought for him.

He was a one-woman man. It was his strong beliefs in the institution of marriage that strengthened my resolve to be a good man to any lady I will decide to spend the rest of my life with, no matter what. He never raised his hand on my mum in spite of his temperament. He was the disciplinarian of my parents. He taught us the virtues of honesty, bravery and hardwork.

Just like a typical choleric, my father, and father to my other five siblings, was one of the finest, honest, straight forward, dependable, brave, fearless men this earth will always be proud to have produced. He liked being historic whenever situation called for it or when we asked questions about our clan or kinsmen. In fact, he would effortlessly reenact the history of my town, my forefathers, and what have you.

And I ask again 'Daddy, where really are you now?'. Who will tell us those stories about our clan? Who will...no need asking any more. I know he will never get to answer my simple questions.

But I can sense the knowing smile that goes with that answer. I know, just like every good man, that dad is somewhere comfortable in the bosom of the Lord.

RIP dad!

We shall try to supersede all you did.

Muammar Gaddafi might be right on Nigeria

Sshh! Don't say it! Ok. Talk, but dont talk too much. No, talk too much but not in public. That line of reasoning seems to be the trailing path for most of public office holders, and politicians in Nigeria.

When has it become atrocious to air the truth, even though truth is bitter? When has truth become so much abominable that lies and hypocrisy are preferred? Why are we now quick to cover the mouth with the palm and call for the head of the man who attempts to voice such truth? So many whys and whens. But I will pause here.

And I say again, Muammar Gaddafi the President of Libya, might be (is) right! Just being mild with language. He didn't just say what was on his mind. He said what most Nigerian leaders fear to say, at least in public. Especially those from the South East and South South regions of Nigeria.

Like many onlookers I had stood aside to watch events unfold in my dear country, Nigeria. And now I ask ,“What was Gaddafi's crime?” Let me seek recourse to history. He was recently quoted by a Libyan press to have said that the practical solution to Nigeria's unsurmountable ethno-religious crises given the sour thumb that is Jos, Plateau State was for Nigeria to split into two nations. Muslim and Christian nations. He must have offered that hand of help having seen the more than five hundred corpses that were the aftermath of the crises in Jos within three months.

Then they said he stoked the fire. He proffered that Nigeria be divided along ethnic lines rather than religion as he had earlier suggested when some angry Nigerian politicians called his suggestion the wise thinking of an insane man. In fact, the Nigerian Senate President, David Mark, dismissed Gaddafi as a madman and called on the Senate and Nigerians to ignore such verbiage from him. The press and media became inundated with comments, rejoinders, lambaste especially that coming from the Nigerian Senate.

I may be out of hearing and as such couldn't have heard much of reasoning. That is why I am still lost as to know if what Gaddafi said was out of sync. He said Nigeria should get such solution as to end the senseless bloodbath in the country, and our leaders are crying blue murder. Do our leaders really mean well for us?

Perhaps, the problem with Gaddafi's comment was that many tried to analyse the messenger rather than the message. Agreed, the Libyan leader might have raised some controversial moments in the past. This piece does not seek to resurface such moments. Doing that will be tantamount to ambushing clear-thinking.

With the benefit of clearheadedness, his comment on Nigeria cannot be said to have emerged from a controversy ridden-mind, following the March 2010 cataclysm in Jos. I may not be learned enough to know about international diplomacy, but am vehemently sure that such a diplomacy as the Great Britain would have done is covering the mouth with the palm so that truth cannot be voiced! That's what makes the difference between the US and Britain.

Let me even ask: Was what Gaddafi said about Nigeria worse than what the US report released in March 2005 said about Nigeria that the country will split before 2020 or what some of the highly respected Islamic clerics who purported to have visited and spoken with the ailing Yar'Adua in Abuja recently are saying with their body language and deceiving Nigerians? Why bring back the issue of Yar'Adua when the Acting President Goodluck Jonathan is already carving a way forward for the country. Are the clerics not insinuating that come what may, Jonathan should not be running affairs as the country's president simply because he's not from the North and certainly not a Muslim? I leave you to answer all that.

My Otolo, Our Jos

Few days ago after the March 7, 2010 crisis in Jos, Plateau State northern Nigeria, and before the March 16 incident in that same city (that was the third crisis in Jos within three months) I was with a friend, Otolo, at his business premises. My friend runs a thriving business, has a handsome chubby 10months old son and a smashing pretty wife whose beauty gives him the world’s pleasure. After banters, we launched into the Jos debacle.

My friend wasted no time, just like me, in condemning the senseless killings that took place in restive Jos. But we soon differed. While I rated what happened in Jos worse than what could have happened in any war situation, Otolo (in his persuasion) said I shouldn’t even compare both, let alone wish for a war. He sounded sagacious, so I thought. My friend is an intelligent guy. His words are wise sayings. But I humbly submit here that on that argument, my friend sequestered reasoning. I heatedly thought otherwise.

According to him, many people would die were it a war. And I asked him if people didn’t die in that senseless Jos imbroglio or those hundreds (media reports conflictingly recorded between 450-500 in the second attack while the first was more than 250, and the third 12) who died were not people enough? I even argued that they died worse than in a war tore situation, because they were butchered and not shot or blown apart with bombs. He went with a swinger, “You are thinking of war because you are not married. If you were married, am sure you would’ve thought differently.” My mouth went agape!

Could that be it? Is that why most Nigerians are docile? Just to stay awake and enjoy what is left of emotional bliss and matrimonial consummation why the country bleeds for lack of courageous men to defend her even against internal intruders? Is that why our leaders are truth shy? They don’t want to stick out their necks for the fear that they might be targeted and murdered? Does life really worth living if there’s no legacy to be left? Talk, you will surely die. Don’t talk, you will surely die. Isn’t it better talking even if it means being killed? Isn’t that why America we keep referring to is better than us and other nations? Because her citizens will always rise to challenges why we don’t? Think about it.

Yes, I may not be married yet even though I have plans for such in the nearest future. But I do have loved ones too to think of like my friend. And come to think of it, those who were killed in Jos, aren’t they someone else’s loved ones. Married or not? Am sure my friend and many others like him would feel that way because none of the corpses at the Jos pogrom were related to them or were they someone they knew.

Please, permit me to present you with just a few of the pictures to let you into my world of thought… Please, dont view if you have a soft stomach like me! I warned!

…Just silence

How time flies when you let it slip just a bit. I mean just a bit!

It’s more than a year since I posted. How time flies! Whoa! At a time I started thinking to myself that other bloggers who read me might think am dead. Ya dead, owing to the manner people die these days.

The gist was this: When my Internet access got disconnected a while, I decided to post my write-ups through the public café. Then something happened.

First, it was my phone that caught the virus… I had my saved work on my phone and had to download from it.

Then my PC followed suit. I had to upload from my PC to my phone and then post at a café.

My PC crashed, and I lost all my typed stories.

Weeks later when I got it fixed, I decided to take a break thinking I wouldn’t miss this page. But now I know better!

However, it didn’t mean I stopped reading other bloggers. I did read. Though I couldn’t comment on them, I was always on the move.

Hey! Kitten, and Tigeress, you guys kept the fire burning. You made me see what I had lost for not writing this long. Imagine, even Roc stopped writing. Writers bloc?

Now am here…I promise to push the pen more. My only fear is that I might deviate into more serious fields; such fields as those facing my dear country as it were right now.

But I still got the follow up to my last post. I never knew I saved it on my PC in the office.

Do I still deserve a pat for this comeback? Really?