Apology to Usain Bolt

Apology to Usain Bolt

13 January 2014 at 01:09

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Dear Usain Bolt,

                                                                    Letter of apology

Happy New Year!

I know that the arrival of my letter may induce some degree of puzzlement or even hilarity but these things are what they are. Fate and circumstance have joined forces to bring me to this point. It was not too difficult to find your agent’s address thanks to google, and here I am or perhaps I should say, here is my letter.

Now, I will go straight to the point. A few hours ago, I had a dream. And no, it was not deeply rooted in the American dream. It was just one of those dreams, but this one was different. You see, I dreamt that I defeated you in the 100 meters Olympic final race in Brazil 2016. I then woke up, went in front of the bathroom mirror and slapped my face as punishment for the audacity to conceive such an improbable victory.

‘What nonsense!’ Even in dreams should one not know one’s limitations?’ I thought. On getting back to bed I found that my movements had woken the lady of the house.

‘Why are you up?’ she asked.

‘Oh, nothing’ I answered.

‘You were kicking in your sleep’ she said

I became suspicious. Perhaps I had also spoken in my sleep I thought. I was now keen to go back to sleep, and to avoid a potentially long line of questioning, I opted for telling the truth.

‘I dreamt I defeated Usain Bolt at the Olympic finals’ I said.

She began to laugh.

‘In the 100 meters’ I quickly added. She laughed harder.

‘I was not expecting Ice Hockey. It had to be athletics’ she said between fits of laughter.

‘I suppose you were running for Nigeria’ she said.

‘No, it was actually Pakistan’ I replied.

You may not believe this but she laughed so much that she fell out of bed. I became concerned. You know how it is, falling out of bed at 2am. What will I tell my friends, family and in-laws if she gets injured falling out of bed? Soon the laughter adopted a wheezy quality and I switched on the lights.

‘Darling, let’s forget I mentioned anything. Let us just go back to bed’ I said as I stood over her slim frame that convulsed in laughter on the floor’.

‘Why yu no run for Naija nau?'

‘Woman, I no sabi make we sleep. It is only a dream’ I replied.

‘So what did you do when you won?’

‘I ran to the crowd, leaned to the side and pulled an imaginary arrow, standing with my legs wide apart. The crowd went wide’

‘Nigerian or Pakistani crowd?’ she asked and kept on laughing.

‘I am not sure. They had green passports for faces. I then ran around waving a flag bare footed’

‘You had no shoes?’ she asked

‘I had no shoes’ I replied.

We didn’t get to sleep till one hour later.

The next day she suggested that I write to you to apologize for the insult. Yes, she deemed the dream an insult to you and the good people of Jamaica, since I was nothing but a snail dressed up in a pair of Nike trainers. I refused initially but however had to concede (for peace sake).

So here is my letter. Please accept this apology.

Moving on, a lot of things have happened since that dream. I told it to my friends and most found it funny. Some however thought that the whole race could be a metaphor for some great feat I was due to perform. Others told me to start training hard. They said I could beat you. Perhaps they have not listened attentively to your surname and the images it triggers. I would need a lot of steroids; both anabolic and barbaric, mixed with Banga soup to get my body into such a peak condition that would make me able to defeat you.

Another philosophical friend of mine said that the dream was possible to realize. If I did not achieve it then my children would. Food for thought there. (Or maybe when you are 90 years old my grand children might out run you).

Did I mention that in my dream, not only did I beat you but I run a new world record of 9.3 seconds?

You needed to have been there to see the crowd go wild my man. Sorry, you were there. In my dreams.  

I was running around the stadium with the Pakistani flag held aloft by my hands proudly held high.

Anyway, I would end here. I need to write another letter of apology. You see, when I slept the second time last night, I meet Mike Tyson in the ring at his prime. I knocked him out in Round One.  

My regards to the family. 

Babawilly

11-1-2014

Glad to be Nigerian

The proponents of gratitude as a way of life are sometimes asked the question, ‘what is there to be grateful about?’

This question reminds me of a tale I heard about the customer in an exclusive designer shop

who asked the shop assistant ‘how much is it?’ when faced with a beautifully crafted bracelet.

The rude answer he got back was, ‘if you need to ask Sir, you just cannot afford it’.

Perhaps some questions prove to the hearers that the one asking is beyond hope. Yet we live in hope.

In the abundance of blessings to be glad about some insist on not seeing anything to smile about and it is all down to focus. Concentrating the mind of the negatives kills off our ability to so much as see a glimpse of anything praise worthy. Like the serpent of Moses gulped up all the serpents of the Egyptian sorcerers, so can a negative thought swallow up every positive thought in our minds.

A few years ago I bought a CD by Nigerian Gospel singer Lara George which contained a song, I Am Glad. This was a song I couldn’t understand till recently. The chorus went like this-

Chorus
I am glad
Glad to walk the earth
I am glad
That I was born in Nigeria
I am glad
Glad to be alive
Glad that I was born (oooo yeah)
I am glad
Oooo I am happy
I am glad
To be a part of destiny
I am glad
Glad to have the earth
Glad that I was born.

The glad to be born in Nigeria bit was a struggle because my country men and the local and international media had done a ‘good job’ and given me a subconscious believe system that being born Nigerian was a handicap. Some might say that this sort of thinking is harmless and not worth writing or thinking about however gratitude is good, and the first step in being thankful if being happy to be alive.

To be alive, one needs to be born and to be born one needs parents and always they come with a nationality for you to inherit. When one considers self, one’s race and nationality come in. The joy in being alive would be strangled out of anyone who is not happy in their own skin or DNA. One not at home in a geographical location of birth and hoping for a life elsewhere brings conflict. Once one cannot be grateful for the life we have, which is the most important thing a human being has, then it becomes impossible to be grateful for other things.

This song by Lara George challenged my beliefs about Nigeria. I wondered how one could be glad to come from a country with problems which are well documented. Many have made a career from documenting these problems and it sometimes gets to the point where the country’s reputation precedes it.

Once the nation is mentioned people expect a negative piece of news to follow. E mails and telephone calls from the country are viewed with deep suspicion. No one wants to be associated with a negative image but what do you do? Change your DNA? Change your parents or change your motherland? Whatever the new passport looks like, your DNA stays the same and it is more important to love your DNA first before anything else. If an organ fails in a foreign land you would always seek a donor from ‘home’.

 Gratitude is important. Listing the blessings, we have and being grateful for them increases their value in our eyes. Breathing clear air during the morning run, drinking water, sweating normally, eating, working, joking, selfie obsessions, reading my bible and understanding what I read, these are a few of my favourite things (Na Julie Andrews dey teach mi).

It has been a long time coming but I can now say I am glad to be a Nigerian. The negative news headlines cannot dampen my faith or hope. I was born to hard working parents who provided for me. I received a state sponsored medical education and I graduated with no debts. The government had its problems but I gained something and I am grateful for that.

I write comedy from a Nigerian perspective and I am proud about that. I wrote the first on line Nigerian Pidgin English dictionary – Babawilly Pidgin English Dictionary of Nigerian Words and Phrases which has helped many in their research of Nigerian lingo and a few linguists have referred the work. Now I have not made money from this but this is still a huge blessing for me. I possess the gift of self -expression. My pidgin version of the Psalm 23 has proved popular with my country men and this is a blessing. A Nigerian blessing.

The things we have the ability to do need to be listed and appreciated. That aids our focus and appreciation always leads to magnification. We spend long hours on these valuable talents, sometimes without remuneration but over time it all works out.

I was chatting with my son recently and making a point about the power of gratitude and using what you have to get what you want with Whizkid, a Nigerian pop artiste as an example. This performer has quite a few hits but it wasn’t until the song Ojuelegba that he came to the attention of Drake. A pure Naija song of nostalgia and gratitude that contains the lines

I am feeling good tonight

This thing gat me thanking God for life

I can’t explain it

Now who would have thought that international fame could come from singing about Ojuelegba. The road I travelled on for five years as I went from my family abode in Suru-Lere to St Finbarr’s College. Akoka. Lagos.

Whizkid embraced his Nigerianess and memories and expressed it in music. The same can happen to anyone else in whatever field of work they find themselves. There is always something of value in our past experiences and we need to harness these nuggets to help us contend with present day battles.

Like they say no knowledge or experience is ever lost.

Greek and Roman Juju

The dominant culture has a monopoly on history. They also name everything to their liking. Just look at the Greeks with their mythology. Every planet is named after a Greek or Roman juju. (Is mythology not juju?)

Apart from the Earth, the Sun and Moon, the Greek and Roman jujus have a name on every rotating lump of stone. For an example just look at Neptune a name the Romans gave to the Greek juju of the seas and earthquakes that had Poseidon on his original birth certificate.

There are planets called Venus the Roman goddess of beauty, Mars the Roman god of war (if a relative of Mars bar chocolate I will eat no more), Saturn the Roman god of agriculture, Jupiter the chief juju of all Roman jujus and his Greek counterpart Uranus. (Who is to say that Jupiter and Uranus are not the same person holding two passports illegally?)

Pluto has little light being so far from the sun and it is also called Hades. This planet is named after the Roman god of the dark underworld. Nigerians would have called Pluto by a better name which is Nepa (Defunct National Electric Power Authority).

Mercury is the Roman god of travel, commerce and 419. Mercury’s nickname is Hermes (Please check the prices of Hermes bags).

On the day these names were chosen someone looked at these planets and felt that they reminded him of mythological figures. Now the whole world has to call these planets that belong to no nation on Earth names dictated to them by the ones living in the dominant culture of the day.

Well we can change the names as they are not set in stone. And while on the topic of stones, how in the world did a Mountain in Morocco acquire a name like Atlas mountain? I grew up thinking that some poor fellow on crutches had walked for months to the summit and on getting there screamed, ‘Here at last, here at last, thank God almighty I am here at last’. (Apologies to MLK.Jnr).

Imagine my dismay to find out that Atlas was not derived from ‘at last’ but was named after Atlas, the cursed Titan who lead the battle against the gods of Olympus and lost. The loser Titan was sent to Africa to hold up the sky. He had a child called Calypso and for some strange reason Perseus wanted to make sure Atlas never left his post, so he showed him the severed head of Medusa which turned him into stone; the present day Atlas Mountains.

This is how dysfunctional European gods are deported to Africa to bring bad luck! Just imagine Africans travelling to the Alps and renaming Mont Blanc Mountain Shango. Yet we have names in Africa like Lake Victoria and Victoria Island. For what? These names need changing and don’t even tell me it would be a Herculean task.

I just cannot get over the fact that Atlas the Titan god of endurance and astronomy has a Mountain in Africa. I move that we temporarily rename that mountain Mount Viagra (endurance and seeing stars no ni) till we can come up with a better name. Those Moroccans sef. Dem just siddon dey look.

Another thing is the West African coast line has the Atlantic Ocean on its doorstep. Dis Atlas rig election abi na wetin? How did he acquire a Mountain and an ocean? We might as well call it Shiloh Ocean or Yemoja Ocean but we just have to drop this Atlantic name.

Back to the planets, I have some suggestions. Venus could be changed to Osun second wife of the former the Oba of Oyo called Shango. I hear she was a beauty Queen in her day. Jupiter can be called Orunmila, a Nigerian juju of Wisdom and medical know how who must have gone to Harvard and Uniben. The rest of the planets and their moons and stars can be named after the twelve tribes of Israel. Come to think of it, Angels Michael and Gabriel should get a planet each. (I know you have all read Scramble for Africa by Thomas Pakenham. Well the scramble just went into outer space. You are witnessing the scramble for the Solar system by Babawilly).

Apart from the planets the Greek jujus have cornered sports. The biggest sporting event in the world is named after the hangout of Zeus, Hermes, Aphrodite, Apollo et al which was Mount Olympus. If I could change the world, I would make the games the Blessing games. As for space travel out of the USA, Apollo seems to have cornered that market. In his day Apollo was a healer and was famed to have daily moved the Sun across the sky in his four wheeled chariot (he didn’t tell anyone that the Sun was static while the Earth revolved around it).

The world has many peoples and beliefs and this should be reflected in the naming of heavenly landmarks. I for one do not want the heavens above my head named after jujus.

And while I am at it, that is my complaining mood, just what is the point of having Egyptian corpses on display in the British Museum.

Egyptian mummies? I am not interested in looking as their dead bodies. A write up and photographs will do. Now who in today’s world goes into a country to exhume their royal corpses, then take the ‘dead body illegal aliens’ into a foreign land with no passports. Every country has its royal graves and no one is allowed to exhume them just because they have bright and wonderful coffins. That is not scientific study but grave raiding. But if the countries involved decide to have a bilateral agreement allowing Kings, Chiefs, Obas, Pharaohs’ and Queens to be dug up and displayed in museums around the world, the people will call for a referendum. Rest in peace should mean just that.

University drop-outs, drop-ins and Drive-by schoolings

27 February 2014 at 21:44

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University drop-outs, drop-ins and Drive-by schoolings.

I come from Nigeria where we love to see letters before and after our names. The problem is that letters come from Universities and study is both time consuming and mentally tasking. Why read when you can Azonto? Pepper souping, point and killing, shacking Gulder and watching Barcelona FC are much more relaxing in the tropical heat abi? Give lazy and creative people a task and consider it done. Viola we have invented the solutions namely a. Drive by schooling (Honorary certificates from Bitter leaf league Colleges) b. Creative CV writing AKA lying. C. Exaggeration (you drove past the gates of Unilag and a Doctorate in Philosophy flew into the back seat with your name written on it AKA your miracle will locate you). D. Grab your copy! Just e-mail a bogus university on line, pay the fee and grab your Doctorate AKA if you cannot make it, Fake it). All the above are examples of University drop-ins. Gate crashers to the party of the intellectually gifted.

Now for someone who has been called Doctor since 1987, some might say I have forgotten what it is like to have no title. That is true. I am indeed a titled man and perhaps I lack empathy with those which a strong desire for titles (every Nigerian). I for one know that there is a price to pay for my title and it also comes with prestige and responsibilities. However, since prestige is sweet, many want the pleasantness of prestige but do not what to pay the intellectual prize. Reading old Nigerian newspapers can be an eye opener. In the 1970s almost everyone was a Mr or Mrs apart from the clergy and members of the armed forces. In today’s print media everyone has a title. Dr Gala, Prof Gala, Ambassador Gala, Otunba Gala, Chief Gala, Engineer Gala, Mechanic Gala, Rev Gala, Street Beggar Gala, First Lady Gala, and then you get the crazy combos- Prof, Engineer, Snorer, Millionaire, Otunba, Double Chief, BMW owner, Senator, Aspiring Billionaire Gala. Fitting names and titles onto business cards has become an art form. My friends tell me of a time they sat pepper souping at a bar and one of them was bitten by a mosquito. The victim slapped hard at his forearm but missed. He looked sad about this for he felt cheated of his precious blood. ‘That stupid mosquito escaped’ he lamented. My friends all swear that the mosquito on hearing the insult flew back and began to shout at the victim thus, ‘I no blame you. Na me suck your nonsense blood nau. See your dirty mouth. Do you know who I am? Never you call me mosquito in your life again. I am Elder Mosquito Esquire. Next time address me correctly. Nonsense’!

So you see my predicament when I am confronted with people who are University drop-outs. I just cannot get my head around it. Nigerians are so desperate for University drop ins and that is what I am used to. In my university days you couldn’t even approach your parents to ask to take a year off talk less of dropping out. Now, it has become alarmingly common to drop out.

Dropping out is made somewhat acceptable in the eyes of some when they consider the men of substance who dropped out of Universities and went on to make a name for themselves. They name Bill Gates (Harvard drop-out and Microsoft founder), Mark Zuckerberg (Harvard drop out and Facebook founder), Jan Koum (San Jose University drop out and WhatsApp Co-founder), Steve Jobs (Reed College dropout  and Apple Co-founder) and Larry Ellison (Double chief o! University of Illinois drop out and then later a Chicago University drop-out. CEO of Oracle Corporation). However these are clever people who knew more than their teachers. Unfortunately Olodos (dunces) who presume rather erroneously that they know more than their teachers and parents are opting to drop out of education. Hunger will teach them a lesson they will permanently remember!

The above listed five are what can be called the modern day founding fathers of successful drop-outism. I would briefly mention a few things about them so that we all understand in simple terms what they did. A kind of why we struck vibe from the Five Majors.

Bill Gates worked on his school’s computers from the eighth grade (1968) and was exempted from Maths classes to give him more time. He worked many long hours on codes. By the time Bill Gates dropped out of Harvard he had been programming nonstop for seven consecutive years. He had formed a Microsoft University in his mind and graduated from it with flying colours, so there was no need for Harvard and more. His parents were supportive of his plans (and so we can safely assume they were not Nigerian).

Mark Zuckerberg worked hard on his dream of setting up Facebook. He also dropped out of Harvard to do his own mission. He worked much harder and longer than any student would and it all paid off.

Jan Koum left University when he no longer could combine it with working for Yahoo as an infrastructural engineer. He left Yahoo and later worked extremely had to make a success of Whatsapp.

Steve Jobs dropped out of Reed College due to a lack of funds. He stayed back however to attend lectures while sleeping on the floors of fellow students (squatting in Uniben parlance). He kept on working hard and never stopped.

Larry Ellison dropped out of the University of Illinois due to a family bereavement. He subsequently got a job and put in the hard graft required.  

In summary, as it was with the frog doing an impression of Usain Bolt in broad day light so it was for the five majors. They were either being chased by something big or they were chasing something great. Bill Gates and  Mark Zuckerberg were chasing a dream, while Jan Koum, Steve Jobs and Larry Ellison were being chased by circumstances and home troubles. In the end they all left university and worked long and very hard persistently.

Now back to Naija. We also have five founding fathers and mothers  of University drop –inism and drive by scholarism. Bogus certificates.com, cash for honorary Doctorates.com etc etc. But no bi mai mouth you go hear say Oba no brush im teeth. Please do yua own research and find out as I no wan enta gbege for free. To put you in the right direction study Politicians and some lecturers. There are rumours abound that as their wives pile up enormous make up on their faces to the point of ojuju-fication, the Politicians also Mary Kay up their CVs to make them look like US Senators. The problem is when these people are exposed to have fake certificates that actually match their fake hair, fake accents, fake completion and fake integrity, nothing is done. They have no shame and the electorate has no memory as election season cash induces amnesia in Naija.

There is another dimension to University drop-inism and that is simply longa-throat. Those who graduate tend to have their graduation pictures splashed everywhere in the family home and might receive gifts almost akin to what one would expect on a wedding day. There are so many examples of stingy Nigerian Uncles who would suddenly get ‘delivered’ of severe thrift and dish out large monetary gifts when they hear a relative achieved a First-class. They go, ‘First class ke!? Ah-ah. Where is my cheque -book. Well done my daughter. Where is that champagne I have been saving. Ah, John, go and switch on the generator!’. The graduate gets attention and we all what attention. Some of us will seek that attention via legitimate means but some have no patience. They want the glory so they embellish their pali (certificate). The oju-kokoro practitioners observe keenly the traits, skills and qualities that gain the admiration from on lookers in society and mimic those qualities. You know the type, born dark skinned but become light skinned over night because of their perception that many men like light skinned women (Abeg help me ask dem weda dem wan marry many men able one man wey laik dia market? Wen man grab woman by 2am for darkness, how the skin colour wan help matrimonial bedroom action??Most people no dey open eye for prayer meeting and for love meeting). These greedy people want what others have gained either by the blessing of genetics or through hard work. Unfortunately they lack the genetics and will not do the work. Such people are never satisfied with themselves. The funny thing is you could have ten Phds on your CV but when you sit to talk, your words will expose you as a fraud for we don’t talk to CVs, we talk to human beings and if notin dey brain, notin go commot, CV or no CV. It is like having an air brushed picture on Facebook to cover all the craw craw and when we meet you we cannot recognize you at the party because your display picture on social media no resemble you. Abeg wear your pimples with pride and stop falsifying your facial certificate joor.

So in summary, if you are a special talent, a one in a Billion brain with opportunities to fulfil your dream and are willing to work fifteen hour days for five years straight, you can drop out. If you are Naija and you love titles, go back to school or pay for a Chieftaincy title. If however you love to Azonto once in a while and are not willing to put in too much hard work, please stay in school. Do not leave because you are bored. I promised you, an empty stomach is much more boring. Dats all

Babawilly

Dr Wilson Orhiunu

27-2-2014

Boxing

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The head is such a sensitive place. Essential gadgets abound from the eyes, to the mouth and the most important of all; the brain. Now the brain is a vital piece of technology for from it stems the desire to steal pieces of meat from the pot. Such an organ needs protection under federal law. Nature indeed protects the brain from injury with a hard encasement; the cranium. A good idea I must say. The law chips in and adds in health and safety laws which stipulate the wearing of helmets on building sites and crash helmets on motor bikes all with that noble aim of protecting the brain from injury.  With that in mind, let us discuss boxing. Can someone tell me why a man should be put in the boxing ring with the hardest puncher among the Earth’s seven billion inhabitants and be denied the comfort of a crash helmet? I tell you why? We love to protect the brain and we also love to destroy the brain in the name of recreation. Absurdities exist of men wearing crash helmets all day at work and then retiring home to relax with the aid of chemicals with proven efficacy in the area of brain damage.

Boxing springs to mind. That noble art form. A game where the pugilist is introduced to the audience by the number of brain concussion inducing punches he has thrown in previous fights.  Technical knock -outs. Now what is technical about hitting someone so hard on his centre of consciousness that he goes to sleep in public?

Duplicity is a talent which I possess. I love boxing. I grew up watching Mohammed Ali and his slogan

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,

your hands  can’t hit what your eyes can’t see

was an essential part of my early education  (University of life). Boxing teaches so many things. Fitness, stamina, discipline and courage. These are qualities sadly lacking in so many people today. Nelson Mandela engaged in boxing in his younger years and I believe that in addition to helping him dispense of excess energy it also helped with his mental discipline. How I wish the modern African leaders all took up boxing for two hours a day. African leaders need the fitness.  I hereby move that men all over the world should start boxing. This will change the world and make it a better place. I also move that grown men should not play computer games, more so if they are out of work. That time should be best spent developing and cultivating a six pack and a ‘sweet left hook’.

Now I must confess that my relationship with boxing falls into the stop it, I like it category. As a physician, one is opposed to all manner of intentional violence, yet as a sports fan one not only wants to see the gloved human fist turned into a general anaesthetic apparatus, one also wants to join in with the referee as his swings his arm making that beautiful count to ten. Oh, the jubilant as the disoriented boxer staggers on all fours on the canvas trying in vain to retain his mouth guard and some remnant of dignity.  Yet for all the barbaric activities in the ring, it is a noble sport. No punches are thrown after the bell, punches are kept above the waist and the conduct between opponents is generally gentlemanly. Most important of all, there is no reserve bench as occurs in football. Boxing is a one man show and you just cannot signal to the bench half way during a fight pointing at your hamstrings and doing that circular motion with the hands which indicates a desire to be substituted.  This I believe teaches responsibility for one’s actions. The buck really stops on your head as a boxer. The next important thing that boxing teaches is that you only fight in same sex contests and with people in your weight catergory.

It is a vital piece of education that if fully understood will greatly reduce the fighting that occurs in homes worldwide and in various parliamentary buildings. I am not sure that women will ever want to challenge the sex discrimination that exists in the boxing ring for it exists with good reason. Men are simply physically stronger, so it would not be a contest to see men fight women but rather good old fashioned bullying, which in itself is neither entertaining nor competitive. The weight discrimination is also expedient for apart from a certain fight between a David Jesse and Goliath, size really does matter.

Boxers are thus placed in various categories which include featherweight, welterweight, and flyweights. Cruiser weights light heavy weights and heavyweights. All men should know this but they don’t.  One particular man from my village did not know about the sex or weight discrimination that should be engaged in during fights. He unfortunately spent every spare minute he had on Grand Theft Auto and Fifa 2013, computer games that taught him nothing he did not know. A Nigerian cannot be taught about stealing having read about financial crimes in the newspapers from birth. As for football, that is the National obsession. He should have been busy in the boxing  ring like Madiba  but the silly man did not box or even own a skipping rope for that matter and what a huge prize he paid for his ignorance and indolence.

It was a hot day in October and he returned home to a note that his food was in the oven. His wife had gone to see her sister who had just given birth. He took exception to this and refused to eat for he felt she should have waited for him to return, served his food before venturing out. He sent the three kids to bed and went on his games console and started jerking all limbs as he indulged his addiction.

His wife returned close to midnight and after a few angry words he slapped her across the face.

‘Ochuko you slapped me? I don suffer’

He was back on his games console and without looking up he said , ‘Go and warm up my food if you know what is good for you’.

At this point his wife sat on the floor and began to cry.

‘If you don’t shut up and I will slap that cry out of your mouth!’ he threatened.

Alas camel’s spine was fractured and his wife lost her temper. The last time she had been this angry fifteen years ago a family meeting was convened in which she was forbidden to ever lose her temper. This was many years before she met Ochuko.

‘This world is not your home, you are just passing through…’ she began to sing, as that was how she warmed up when she was ready for a fight. She too was in need of the tutelage boxing offers, for she weighed a hundred and twenty kilograms compared to Ochuko’s fourty nine kilograms.

Ochuko stood up to make good his threat and she blocked his hand like the National Judo Champion she used to be and lifted Ochuko clean off the ground narrowly missing the swirling blades of the ceiling fan. She held him as if asking God if He recognised the imposter she had found in her house. God remained silent and so she decided to bring him down forcefully on the glass coffee table which scattered into a thousand pieces sharp debris. Their flat shook and the children ran out. They caught a glimpse of mummy picking up a concussed daddy by the belt and collar and flinging him across the living room straight to the flat screen television. The sound produced was a mixture of scattering glass, a minor electrical explosion and human suffering. Ochuko slumped to the floor and blood came forth from both nostrils and mouth.

‘Mummy, leave dad alone!’ the kids cried out but when mummy looked up and met their eyes, they all fled and hid under their beds in the room. The rats and cockroaches picked up the scent of fear and asked the kids why they went out black and returned Caucasian for they were that pale and sweaty with fright. They told the tale and the rats and roaches fled next door soon to be followed by the mosquitoes. Hell had descended on the flat. By now mummy was shouting at the top of her voice.

‘Ochuko is killing me o! Somebody help me o!’

The kids went back to see daddy’s miraculous turnaround in this clash of the domestic Titans but it was a ploy. Mummy was also in the drama group many years back in University and she had skills. They watched her crying loudly while she lifted Ochuko into the air, this time connecting with the ceiling fan for they saw a shoe fly across the room. Luckily Ochuko’s foot was not amputated. His wife threw him across the room crashing into the aquarium.

‘Shebi you like fish eh. Delta man. Ogbaje man. Mammi water idiot. Marine spirit devil. Nonsense man!’ she screamed and Ochuko laid flat on his back surrounded by jumping fish fighting for their lives on the carpet. 

The neighbours by now had almost broken down the door. Mildred, for that was Ochuko’s wife’s name tore her blouse , calmly walked over to Ochuko and scooped blood off his face and applied it to her face and chest. She then collapsed on the floor.

When the neighbours broke through, Ochoko had to save face. He stood up like a drunk  surfer  on choppy waters  totally disorientated and was shouting, ‘Hold me o! Hold me! I will kill this woman today’. The men held him back and the women covered Mildred up and took her next door.

The good news is Ochuko only spent two weeks in hospital and has since started his daily boxing classes. Another family meeting was convened behind closed doors and Mildred got a strong telling off from her family. Ochuko found out during that meeting that Mildred had won a Commonwealth Silver medal in Judo back in the day.

Babawilly

Dr Wilson Orhiunu

2-2-2014

I might as well put it in writing (Waiting for June 12)

I might as well put it in writing (Waiting for June 12)

18 January 2014 at 08:04

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(Babawilly-Dr Wilson Orhiunu)

I might as well put it in writing my darling, I might as well put pen to paper my love. My reasons are simple, you can read. And to that great insight, I add that just like the elephant, you never forget. In addition to that similarity I would venture to say that your footprints have left an indelible mark. I know that there are cynics out there who will say ‘she walks all over him’ on reading this, but just look at me. Since you walked into my life, things have never been the same.  My life has improved a hundred fold.

Now it is written, this becomes an everlasting testament to the intrinsic forces that drive me and thereby induce gratification seeking behaviours of the sporting kind.

Every arrow has a target and so does this letter. Chinua Achebe told it well when he said that the tortoise invited to the party in the sky claimed the food served him and his fellow guests was for ‘All of us’. Like the great man, I too say this freshly made hot epistle is served from me to ‘all of you’. To my Achebe quote, I add a bit of Iyanya to embellish my thoughts and words. Yes, this written affidavit is for ‘All my ladies’. My wife, daughters, my mother, nieces and all female in laws; alas! a great company of beautiful women. I would not even mind if my male friends borrow a leaf from this epistle for their personal use. Sharing after all is caring.

Now to the matter at hand (no puns intended), I have come to realise that repeating myself is not in keeping with my nature as I am not one of those athletics commentators who take delight in telling the world over and over again that a track and field record which stood for 200 years has just been broken. Just like the wedding vows, I like to keep it brief. ‘I do’ and that’s all.

That is how I roll. All those who need to hear things thirty times before they comprehend meaning and truth can ask for copies of the wedding video. So in truth, what I write is reference material for all my ladies, internationally.

You see my beloved, we are in a world cup year. A year so special that I have tactically changed the TV set and turned the furniture around to accommodate it. I have booked 4 weeks annual leave and I need everyone to be in no doubt as to what will be happening during that tournament. June 12 means something to my Nigerians, so I know you will remember this date. (Any Nigerian who forgets  the  Maradona United Versus Abiola Babes final for the Aso Rock Cup deserves to loose their citizenship) Tell everyone, on land, water and in the sky that Anita Ward (Ring my bell; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kU9faERbno0) is not on my play list come June 12 when Brazil takes on Croatia.

I shall not be available for any activities whatsoever 1 hour before and after every game. (I might be partial to a bit of post  match romantic cheering up if the results are not to my liking, so I implore you in advance to consider putting your good offices to therapeutic use when the time comes). I will not be taking any phone calls or attending to any emergencies, both medical and otherwise.

Anybody with plans of celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, or promotions should do it around my time table if they view my presence there as important. As for bereavements, there is a rumour doing the rounds that the grim reaper has promised the pope a three week death amnesty to avoid funerals during the games in Brazil. (Please don’t quote me). 

For the said period, I would eat meals that do not require me looking to see what goes where. No complicated meals like pounded yam and ogbono soup or 5 course dinners. No my love. It will have to be single independent entities like Pizza, roasted corn or pieces of chicken. I say this for my eyes would be in Brazil through the wonderful miracle of Satellite television while my body will still remain in my chair.

I may not shower during this period but do not be dismayed. I toyed with the idea of a portable loo in the living room just in case, but I suppose, that can wait till half time. I would be all yours after the cup has been given to the victors in the final game. However I must add a caveat to that. Should Nigeria win the coveted cup, I would be moving back to the land of my forefathers to celebrate for 3 straight months.

I already know what you are thinking. What is it with twenty two men chasing a ball all over the park? I will set the record straight on this solemn day. That way all may know and fully understand the importance of football.

First and foremost, it is not just chasing after the ball. It is more than that. However, the chase is important as well. Where would man be without chasing? We run for office don’t we? We chase contracts. But beyond the chase, football my dear is a metaphor for life. A dramatization of its ups and downs, played out in 90 minutes with an interval for those with weak bladders called the half time. This drama joins all men together in brotherhood. We see ourselves on the field of play. The one who has received queries at work for the umpteenth time really understands the yellow card flashed at a player and shortly after he rejoices in the red card shown. At least he has not been sacked from his job yet and in seeing a miserable player walking sadly to the bench, solace is generated in the heart. Seeing others suffer what we fear might happen to us is redemptive.

 The corrupt politician is afforded a rare privilege to scream at the injustice of a referee awarding a penalty to a player who dived. The armed robber is torn asunder with indignation when a player guides the ball into the net with his hands and thereby display what is that lowest of all human despicable character traits; the suppression of a conscience for personal gain. In a way these criminals see their lives flash before their hypocritical eyes on the field of play and who knows what redemption might be born in their hearts of granite?

My darling, men love a fight. A contest. A war. Life is what it is. The fiercely contested battle is the stuff of legends. In the arena of battle humans beings twist and turn, display  lightening speed, acrobatic alacrity, aplomb on the pass and poise in the ball control. Things lacking in men’s lives are experienced by belonging to a team full of talented heroes. We are able to enjoy the euphoria of scoring improbably goals by belonging to the team. We dress like the team, clap for the team and wave at the team. Well we belong but don’t get tackled by the opposition, at least not physically. The opposing fans sing songs aimed at our weaknesses. In the stadium we are kids in the play ground once again without a mortgage to think of.  We sit in the stadium excited and kicking at the ball in reflex action as if we were on the field of play. I once had a patient who strained his neck as he headed a phantom ball as he watched the corner kick being taken. He was one with the striker. Yes my love, he was so willing to see that ball cross the white line he jerked his neck like he was in a seizure. We are one with the team, and it is a beautiful thing when the whole world is one with a team.  Why do I feel you are not convinced?  Maybe I should get personal. You see my dear; I was born with two balls. (Just like Charles Miller who returned to Brazil in 1894 with two balls and introduced a country to the beautiful game) They move in tandem and help me see the light. My sight is owed to two eyeballs. When ever I see a football in the center circle just before kick off, I think of an all seeing eye with a pupil in its middle. An eye similar in morphological appearances to my first source of sustenance, for I was indeed breast fed as a child. Who can escape his or her childhood? Who can break free from the shackles or blessings of early family life? My fate was sealed before I cut my first tooth. I will forever love to gaze at that sphere full of wind that men love to play with.   The whistle goes and they kick the ball. Life starts afresh at that moment. Do we not say of things regenerated that they have been kick started? At a kick, all fear, all pain and sadness evaporates and gets carried in the wind right out of the stadium. The round ball in flight reminds me of the planet we live on going round the sun. Imagine this ball of sand and stones going 60 thousand miles an hour around the sun and rotating at a thousand miles per hour at the same time. And you thought you were the only one who could multi-task on the planet. I have seen balls twist and turn in wondrous ways as they sojourn from the free kick spot to the back of the net. God bless the guy who invented slow motion.  There is nothing more beautiful than a ball in flight. No I lie, for even more beautiful is when that ball’s flight is stopped, suddenly halted by the quivering goal post net and the madness starts. The crazy rejoicing at a goal achieved. Just like the birth of a child or the liberation of an oppressed people, the joy is pure poetry. The fan as he raises his hands in victory is speaking to his dreams unconsciously. ‘I will overcome and celebrate my personal goals being achieved one day’ he says by his actions. All cultures celebrate a goal with the same smiles, squinted eyes and raised hands for all men and women are wired to celebrate achieved goals.

So let us get back to my life. Dad was a referee and later a football fan. He watched IICC Shooting Stars and Enugu Rangers and appeared happiest after a match was won. So the link between sporting success and domestic bliss was sheared into my formative mind. I went on to attend St Finbarrs college, Akoka and some of the senior students notably Stephen Keshi and Henry Nwosu went on to play for the National side. I watched them train daily for the Principal’s cup during the football season and that leaves a mark. I did ok academically at school but there were things I picked up that have stayed with me to date and were not written on my O level certificate. The music and dance during debating society invitational events, the record quizzes, the pride felt winning the Principal’s cup, Father Slattery’s high moral standards, and going past the students of University of Lagos daily and vowing to be one of them one day. Most importantly, I picked up a fascination with our ‘sister school’ Our Ladies of Apostles. It was almost an official requirement to fancy a girl in that school and I fancied Isabel. The biggest crush a teenager could have. She was my apostle and I was her convert. How can I forget that literary and debating society event at their school in which Isabel took part in the fashion parade? (Na today? A certain Will in this UK marry wife wey him see for fashion parade) She cat walked to the tune We’ve got the funk by Positive Force; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BjtgdNSyxs.

Let us just say I have never recovered. She was the picture of African beauty and my cerebral hemispheres just took flight and left my head for  romantic asylum on planet Venus. Did I ask her out? Did I tell her how my teenage heart ached and yearned? No, i did not. I was much too shy and feared her rejection. We all had such a morbid fear of rejection that we called the process ‘nailing’. No one willingly puts his body at risk of being nailed through by a girl whose hammer was her beauty. What has all this got to do with football?? I will tell you my darling.

When that doddering striker is in the six yard box refuses to shoot or pass the ball while the whole stadium sensing the opportunity bays for a shot. When he hesitates till the opposing defender dispossesses him of his chance and clears the ball, when we all crouch down holding our heads at the lost opportunity, it is not just the goal that slipped away we mourn. We lament the Isabels in our lives. We regret the examinations failed for lack of effort. The business opportunities missed for lack of foresight and courage; diamonds that slipped away. Suddenly  we straighten up our backs and linger no more on the lost opportunity for the game must go on. The referee blows for a goal kick and hope is rekindled. There are things in life we lose due to our indecision and lack of courage. That has to be dramatized on the field of play, so we learn and failing that, we take solace in the fact that we are not the only ones with missed opportunities. There is always another chance. The tide always changes, so we wait. No matter the score at half time we never go home. We wait. We learn hope. We sing songs of victory when we are 3 goals down. That is faith, believing that results will improve and our aspirations will be realised. Now you know why so many unfit men are never inspired to get fit watching soccer players all day. We never see them; we just see our peculiar circumstances on the field of play. (Unlike all my ladies who feel fat whenever they watch models on TV).

The funny thing is most attacks do not lead to a goal. The striker just spits, shrug his shoulders, scratches his groin and moves on. Taking about groins, last week a player took a ferocious shot in the groin and collapsed. Everybody in the stadium dropped their hands to their groins to protect their testis. That is being one with the game. We all feel the pain.

Imagine if space women came over from Venus to some famine ravished worn torn corner of the globe and they asked to be shown what earthlings consider as sports. Which arena would they be pointed to? The Hunger games? The war games? No no no. It will be to the beautiful game. Did we not sing He has got the world in his hands in Sunday school? That is what I remember when a goal keeper cradles the ball. Our collective hearts reach out  as if to say, ‘please don’t drop it’. ‘God will never let the earth drop down so please don’t drop our hopes and dreams’.

I think I have made all the points I need to make. I am sure you want me to be a guy who never gives up till the very end. Do you not desire a perfect gentleman with restraint in all things and who is in control of his all his faculties? You would love a guy that can be controlled by a whistle or a whisper. One who does not chicken out of taking big decisions just because he is afraid of hearing you say ‘I told you so’ if the decision turns out badly. Well, that is why I must watch soccer for the full 90 minutes and extra time if need be. That is why I must endure the emotional and psychological high stakes of a penalty shoot- out that can send one country into ecstasy and another into despair with just one miss. I need to learn how to take my own penalty kicks in life. I know what you are thinking. That you also need a guy with a six pack and that perhaps I should pick tips from the games I watch.   Frankly my dear if you need a six pack, go to the gym and get one yourself. Life is so mysterious and full of unanswered questions. India has 1.2 Billion people and China has 1.3 Billion citizens yet they cannot produce eleven guys to win the World Cup. I will be contemplating that till June, so if you see me thinking, don’t ask me to tell you what is on my mind because I am telling you now.

It is a World cup year and these are my final words. Please train the bin on how to take itself out on Tuesday nights ready for collection or just take it out yourself. Do not disturb me during the World cup.

I want peace but should you ignore this letter, then I will move into a hotel with the guys for the world cup games and you will be paying the mortgage for June and July 2014. (Perhaps you might need to pay for August and September if Nigeria wins).

I love all my ladies and I promise to put my ladies first in everything I do after I hear that final whistle on the 13th of July at the Estadio do Maracana, Rio de Janeiro.  You will always be beautiful to me but please know that there is room in my heart for two beautiful things. There is space for you and there is space for the game. 

 If Nigeria wins eh!!!!!

The Glutton's Visit

Happy at departure

Though hungry at arrival

The pot’s so so empty

Poor  host is suicidal

Please visit no more!

Hospitality annulment!

Poverty on the horizon

He ate down to my last cent

Inviting an elephant disguised as a gazelle?

My hands hold the mountainous blame

He shovelled salt on every morsel

Chewing at speed with no hint of shame

More than food

He ate our joy

Perpetually famished

He nibbled at our dreams

There was no grace in his belches

He criticised all the plans that we told him

I rejoiced to see that guest go

Family now hungry, angry, sad and slim

Dr Wilson Orhiunu

Babawilly

18/5/16