London Marathon 2007

The Persian armies invaded Greece in 490 BC.  The Greeks won the battle of

Marathon and Miltiades (Greek Army leader) sent word of the victory to the King via

a runner Pheidippides.

Poor (or patriotic) Pheiddippides ran to the Palace and promptly died after delivering

his very important message.

If Pheidippides had died in my village, the elders would have called a meeting to

decide that all indigenes be forbidden to run that kind of distance.  Europe however

is not Africa.  42.2 Km is the distance we will be running at the London Marathon

come 22-04-2007; so help us God!

Back to the present (21-4-07 3.30pm)

I am driving down the M25 to the Excel Centre to register for the race.  Paul Play’s

Angel of My Life is playing but don’t angels sprout wings and fly?  All my people are

voting for our next Nigerian president back home.

At the Excel centre, I join a queue and hand over my letter bearing my running

number, 15900. I was handed a bag, which contains a computer Champion-chip to

be attached to the trainers while running so progress can be tracked, and

identification labels bearing my running number, for my bag and vest.

22-04-07 6.30am

D Day!  Lazy in bed, felt stiff from all that driving from Birmingham to London.

Showered, and then adjusted my coral beads (my latest fashion statement - the

South-south look).  The necklace had to be shortened and held down with safety

pins to make running easier.  At this point, I thanked God that I didn’t have breasts.

I was running late and left by 7.10am.

At Sutton station there were no trains and I was soon on a Coach to West Croydon

to arrive at 8.10am.

I was late and sweating.  The race starts at 9am for elite women, 9.25am for the

Wheel Chair Marathon and 9.45am for elite men and the masses (me) and you sabi

say the only African time that will be on display will be the victory times of the

Kenyans or Ethiopians.  Get there late and it will be ‘come back next year thank you’.

I had hurriedly put just £5 in my pocket and left my wallet and credit cards back in my

cousin’s place.  Train transport was free for all runners who display their running

numbers so I thought I didn’t need money.  I began to rehearse how I would

convince a cab driver to take me to my Blackheath starting point on credit. It will be

sad to go home without a medal.

As I came off the coach, a chap called me.  He was looking lost. He was from

Northampton and needed to get to the marathon starting point.  I on the other hand

knew the area.  Off to the cab office, £23 to Blackheath. His mum brought out the

cash. Halleluyah!  Shebi God said, I will go ahead of you….

Race 10am

I ran for ages and got very angry at the first sign, ONE MILE, only??!!  25 miles to

go!  God help us!  At 3 miles, I saw the Vittel water sign.  The water had finished.

Runners began to lust after the half empty bottles on the road side floor.  Soon

runners were grabbing bottles off the floor. ‘If you cannot beat them.….’

At 12 miles, it was time to cross Tower Bridge.  I began to drink like a camel, but

unfortunately didn’t have a bladder like one.  We were peeing in the bushes.  It was

like everyone had a full bladder but marked their time to see who would go first.

Once a chap made a detour for the bush, any bush, it gave everyone a licence to

urinate.  If the bush was high enough the women joined.  Not so for the elite runners

though.  We heard they just did the business down their legs.  With over £100,000 at

stake, I don’t blame them.

Spectators

If no spectators come, there would be no race.  The noise from the crowd is like a

petrol nozzle up your engine.  It fires you on.  There was a slight problem though,

Babawilly doesn’t translate well into English.

One woman shouted ‘come on Babawilly, prove it!’

Next year, I will have BABAWILL on my T- shirt.

The Wall!

I hit the wall at Mile One!  By Mile 20, I had hit a planet.  I was so hot; I smelt like

Suya on a grill.  Then the hamstrings went into cramp.  Next thing, the muscles

began to talk to me.

‘Babawilly, Persin wey say Peroneus no go sleep, im sef no go sleep’.

I was glad to queue for the toilets and rest.  Then there’s the friction burns.  The

thighs rubbing; the buttocks grating; the toes on the trainers; blisters on the heels

and the nipples being sand papered by the T-shirt; and the scrotum against the

thighs. Then, once the skin gets raw, that salty sweat stings up the whole place.  I

guess that’s why we apply so much Vaseline for the moving parts and plasters over

the static parts.

Mile 24

Running along the embankment, you know the end is nigh.  My whole body became

one massive lump of cramp and I had to walk to the finish line - from here on, no

toilets.  There are crowds everywhere, so no chance of Bush action.  I just couldn’t

pee on myself so I suffered.  This must be the closest a man could get to labour

pains. Cramped up body, six hours of sun, full bladder and I couldn’t cross my legs.

I was about ready for my Caesarean section!

FINISH!

Mile 26 you are grateful to see Big Ben and Buckingham Palace.  I suspect this race

course has been designed to psychologically programme you into associating all

good things with the British Parliament and the Royal family.  When I finally went

over the finish line, I begged for two medals as I felt that my efforts deserved two.

She smiled and gave me just one.

The Chicken Witness

Chickens make the world go round and eggs ensure the course remains constant.  Where would the human race be without the chicken and the egg?  

I was recently at a wedding and noticed the great contributions made by the chickens to our enjoyment.  We ate chicken, jollof rice and cakes made with eggs.  It made me reflect on my long relationship with eggs.  As a child, I had my boiled eggs in my special egg cup holders and life was sweet.  With age I moved onto chicken oblivious to how the chicken made its way to my plate.  The day I saw a chicken being killed in the flesh for the first time was a life changing experience.  Its two legs were trod upon and its neck was slit as it gave its last cry. This  gave me a phobia for seeing the knife put to any throat but I still eat chicken.

At this wedding with medical colleagues in attendance there was a clear difference in the way each physician related to the chicken on the plate depending on their specialty.

Paediatricians

‘This chicken is too big for our ward’.  Refer to the adult ward.  Need I say more?

Orthopaedic surgeon

Every profession has its tough guys who love to play with tools and toys.  Orthopaedic surgeons are the area boys of medicine - bone setters with a love for ‘Black and Decker’ and ‘plastering’.  These are the ones who grab the chicken and bite into it like a great white shark - they disarticulate the femoral head from the acetabulum with spicy juices flying everywhere yet they leave their eyes wide open.  They eat bone and sinew with jaws that look like they were manufactured in a Russian Steel plant.

The Haematologist

These ones ignore the rice, dodo, moin moin and fish and go straight for the drum sticks.  They peel away the flesh; crack the thigh bone open and start to suck on the bone marrow.

Psychiatrists

I saw this at close quarters.  When the steward served my colleague his plate of delicious food, he beamed with joy, grabbed his cutlery and suddenly a dark harmanttan cloud descended on his face.  Then he dropped his cutlery and said to the lady who served him his food, ‘this chicken looks tense on the plate’. She looked bemused as did most people on the table, all except his wife who kept on eating.  I suppose after thirty years of marriage one accepts two things - all men dey craze smol smol and why change your man?  You will only change the type of craziness you live with but the crae=ze always remains.

Our psychiatrist told the table he suspects the chicken had a rough childhood.  Perhaps, a separation anxiety occurred when its mother was abducted and taken to the local KFC.  He asked the waitress if she knew if there was any family history of psychiatric illness in the chicken’s family.  She replied that she never had the pleasure of meeting the chicken while alive.

As I write this, I fear I have developed auditory hallucinations.  Maybe it is that song the DJ was playing.  I keep hearing voices asking me, ‘what is your baby’s name?’ and before I can answer, the same voice tells me the answer is Panya.  I must remember to ask my wife if she has acquired a new nickname.

Neurologist

They served him jerk chicken and he postulated that the chicken died from Status Epilepticus

Rheumatologist.

One look at his chicken and he asked for a slender knife with which to take a muscle biopsy for further studies for he noted wasting on the chicken’s Quads.  He put the tissue on his mouth which also doubled as a histopathology lab and declared the muscle was normal.

Gynaecologist

He refused point blank to have a piece of chicken.  He asked for a whole chicken served in the lithotomy position on a platter.  He shouted at the waitress as she walked away, ‘I need size 7 gloves’.  The manager of the hotel was told about this unusual request.  He obliged as he figured that today’s rich guest might be tomorrow’s client.  Soon after, a full chicken appeared with its bum in Lokoja, its belly facing the sky and one leg up the Niger while the other one was up the Benue.  Our gynae star donned his gloves and began to molest the poor chicken.

General Practitioner

The GP told the chicken it had to be eaten in ten minutes and politely asked it if it had any strange ideas, concerns or expectations.  Met without a reply, the GP asked for an interpreter for he thought a language problem existed.  Soon a waitress who was an expert in talking to the dead was found and she communicated with the spirit of the chicken.  She said the chicken was in Chicken heaven and hated being disturbed this way.  However, it expressed concern that part of its carcass was at a wedding but its legs were at the indoor market on sale.  This it found disrespectful.  The GP asked if the spirit of the chicken wanted a referral for psychological therapy and the rude reply was, ‘shut up and eat my remains’.

Anatomist

He cut through the skin of his chicken and asked the wedding photographer to capture his beautiful dissections on film.  He kept calling the photographer back and forth as he beautifully carved up the carcass of the chicken exposing nerves and blood vessels much to the delight of himself alone.

The dentist

Asked for the head and neck of the chicken and threw a tantrum when the request was not granted then he said, ‘I am unfamiliar with anything neck down’.

Plastic Surgeon

Drew diagrams on napkins plotting how to make the chicken look prettier

Chemical Pathologist

He just kept on tasting every item on the menu.  He was saying something about salt and potassium content but by now everybody was singing that their baby’s name was Panya and no one took any notice.