SlackJaw.

“Men? What good is any of you? Half the time you are all hanging limp, the only time you look any purposeful is when you are erect and even then you aren’t the type to give a top performance barely beyond two minutes before reverting to being almost lifeless. What good is any of you?  Heh? That is why you are so quick to start wars and be assholes. That is why you need to build muscles, and act tough. You can’t stand that it is always so limp, like a tail between your legs. It drives you crazy-it drives you all crazy, so you go displaying machismo all the time to not only deceive the world but deceive yourselves too. Coward men! Coward! After all it shrinks when you are intimidated; your cowardly 'manhood' shrinks when confronted!”

She paused now as if composing her thoughts, then started again, her voice an octave lower but not fully hiding the anger behind it. If anything, she sounded more intense, the venom dripping purposefully, calculated to do the maximum damage. She pointed a finger at him and said;

“Now you want me to pound your Foo-Foo, I will pound that and even take your drunken pounding. It is the woman in me that can take a pounding, you can only give a pounding not take one. I’d dare say, if I, woman is any judge, you men don’t know how to give a satisfying pounding.......!”

He rushed at her then, having latched on to the venom of her words but caught himself halfway, his raised fist suspended in mid air, a great looming tool of his anger, towering over all in its path. Then the fist dropped, slowly, a shrinking tool becoming....limp. She stood looking at him, a faint bored look in her eyes. She wasn’t flinching, she just did not care.

 He sighed and walked out of the room, he thought he could hear her calling after him; coward! Coward! Coward! And could hear it as he got on his scooter rode off. He was tired of the fights, for what? He could not remember what led to this one; the eruption of putrid pus from a long festering sore.

 

He rode the bike to nowhere really, feeling the breeze blow his robes into a billow; he throttled the little Vespa harder, seeking to get away from the familiarity of his surroundings. It gnawed at him- everything, everyone, everywhere- and his only reprieve was to get away. By the time he got to Giwa, it was dark and he had tears streaming out his eyes but only because of the breeze against his unprotected eyes than due to any peculiar occasion. His friend, Tamuno James, lived in this part of town and Tamuno was crazy. Everyone said basically the same thing of him; CRAZY. Tamuno James drank like a fish, smoked a lot of grass and popped a fearsome quantity of Tramol pills. Then he would talk a lot, the things that people said made him crazy. But for now, crazy was good. He needed the unfamiliar, the crazy, and the different; from the constant suffocating mundane his life reflected. He saw Tamuno James sitting outside his house, reading a book. Tamuno read a lot of books too. Plenty odd stuff, he had some smarts no doubt, interesting how the crazy ones probably had it up there than everyone else.

He parked by the side of the house and climbed up the Veranda stairs to meet his friend. Tamuno until then only looked up from his book, putting it away and reaching out for a hand shake. Then he burst into a long hard laugh as if only seeing the curio before him for the first time.

“DO you want to use my toilet man?”

Apparently something was very funny to him or was it the regular crazy?

“You look like you could take a shit, man” he continued, ”Why, you even come up here crying. What is the matter? Who died again? Wait, she finally poisoned you heh?”

More laughter.

Classic Tamuno James. Always, he hit you with words before you could say anything. With him, you could not go with the flow, you had to go with his flow. One time, as the legend went, Tam-James was sitting in an uncompleted building smoking some grass. Some nosey busy-body had noticed and reported to the police. When the men of the NPF came, Tam-James coolly told them he had no qualms following them to the station. In fact, he would be grateful if before getting to the station, they shot him in the head and dumped his body in the nearest gutter. He told them in no uncertain terms the plans to end his own life-as soon as he was done smoking this joint-he was going to jump off the community bridge. They had dared not interrupt his plans or he would commit to taking one of them along-he did not care! The bewildered men of the NPF naturally thought they were up against some regular stoner who would cower in dread before their black uniforms, not this. According to some narrations of the legend, one of them even offered his Calidon’s Varga gin tonic and some words of sympathy. Suicide, even if pretended was not the NPF’s forte.

“you got a drink?” he asked Tam-James.

“Sure, sure...”came Tammy....”some Alomo and Red Rose man”...he reached behind his seat and brought out two bottles. “So, what is the problem? If you are going to share my drinks you might as well share your problems. I don’t care.”

A few hours later, there is nothing left in the bottles, only the intermittent glow of a joint. Tam-James takes a long drag before passing it.

He says to his friend; 

“look man, you shouldn’t hit your woman. Am sure she loves you very much.”

“She has a big mouth”. Came the reply.” She just pisses me off so bad, and I can’t imagine why I love her so. Why can’t we just chill and talk, make love and smoke a reefer like all the other couples? Is that too much to ask? “

“That won’t happen because you beat her. You are always beating her. She is your partner man...”

“Oh please! Don’t give me that shit, Tamuno! You beat your woman too....”

“No, I fight with my woman not beat her. There is a major difference my friend.”

“You are drunk.”

“Yes, seeing as we have both been drinking, you are factually correct. Also, drunken people tell the truth so look here man, when my woman and I have a disagreement; we sit down and sort things out. I do not go beating her because she is a woman, she is my equal, or so she says. So, we have ourselves a good fight. Sometimes I win, sometimes she wins. Fair and square as they say.”

“You are crazy.”

“Crazy is not as bad as people make it seem.”

“You fight because she is obviously bigger than you are.”

“Of course....”

“Wait a minute, that time you broke your jaw and had to be at the hospital that was her right? “

“Shut up man! Look at this, you’ve gone and wet the joint butt. I should roll another and let this dry.”

Pause.

“She is smaller and softer, we couldn’t really fight you see. I’d run her over every time.”

“Then you shouldn’t beat her anymore. Hell hath no fury like a woman they say. One day, she’ll douse you in petrol and set you on fire while you sleep.”

Longer pause.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t enjoy beating her. I would rather she fights back even. Every time I hit her I feel like I lose.”

“It does not make me feel any better that you do not enjoy beating her. And who told you she doesn’t fight back? She doesn’t hit you and you are off on your scooter crying into the night. You’ve lost the fight and she knows it. She knows you hit her because you cannot win otherwise.”

“Hey easy man, I wasn’t crying.”

“Whatever. Pass me the lighter man, this Lamidi grass is some good stuff.

He lights up the joint he has just rolled then reaches for his cup to drain it. The cup is empty and he flings it away. It crashes in the corner; the sudden noise gets the neighborhood dogs barking furiously. A female voice from indoors, obviously angry cries out;

“Tamuno! You don shack again abi? You noh go compose yer sef? Noh make I kon buss bottle for your head o! You dey craze?”

Tam-James grins and calls out; “sorry babe”. “You see”, he continues in a whisper, “that’s a woman that fights back man. You have gotta apologise or else it could get messy. I remember when she broke my jaw. I couldn’t feed properly for weeks. Just fluids and smashed bananas man, mean left hook. We’d be in bed and I’d have to take it slow. Couldn’t eat it.”

It took a minute or more-with all the alcohol and reefer in his system but he finally figured out what Tammy  James meant by “couldn’t eat it”. He broke into laughter. Tammy James was laughing too. They both laughed hard. He felt lightheaded now, for a while he felt good.

He got home past midnight. Used his key and let himself in. The room was partially dark and he did not put the light on, there was no need. She was on the bed, turned away from him. Her body partly covered her figure defiantly sensual, alive, yet so resentful of him. Her figure rose with her breathing, almost imperceptibly, you had to look long enough to be sure she was breathing. There was a slight sheen from the humid air, forming around her neck and back and in the soft pale moonlight glow that poured through the open windows, as she lay there; bearer of fury and desire.

She must have felt him watching at some point because she turned and pointed to the table where a dying candle flickered.

“I have pounded your foo-foo.” She said simply, then turned back to sleep.

He wanted her, badly; he wanted to tell her that he was sorry and maybe more. But his jaw would not move to form the words. Or was he too drunk? She could probably see his desire, the desire of her animal, woman-a-thumping husband. The one she had crushed completely without raising a finger, she who took his pounding and pounded his foo-foo.

He looked at the table where the covered meal was, no, he could not eat that he realised. He looked at her for longer, reaching unconsciously for his jaw as he did so. What was the point? To what purpose? In two minutes he was over, Alomo be dammed.

He sighed softly, took off his robes and climbed into bed beside her.

The candle had long since burned out.

Illuminati Fanny.

   I read @RealFFK ‘s the curse of power  and I thought it was about as enlightening as discovering what color the sky is. I did find it quite amusing though and could not comprehend the grim exclusivity that he tries to render. I assume such matters are discussed over a cigar and what else- an imagery befitting the “presidential pastimes of the Illuminati”*.

  You read on death after death, ticking off where a familiar name comes up-yes, Akintola, Awo, yes, -against your memory. But what is he driving at? That these folks in power and close to power have been dropping off routinely-and, like every other Nigerian? But other than your sheer perverse curiosity concerning death of our “dear leaders”- knowledge we had respectably not been privy to- what else strikes you? That FFK can spin a good yarn. Thus he enthuses; 

“Now sit back, relax, fasten your seat belts, prepare for take –off and come fly with me. Here it goes...”

And this yarn is a constant stream of conjecture anchored on our predictable gullibility over theology. Says he;

“Are these “inevitable acts of God “or is it the work of the devil? Is there such a thing as a curse or a jinxed existence or place? Most of us believe in blessings and blessed places yet can we believe in blessings without believing in curses? Can we believe in the power of light and God without believing in the power of darkness and the devil?”

And in all fairness, a quick review of the deaths of the principal figures of this country is a bloody pointer, an acute indicator of the levels of violence in these climes naturally replicated in high office. And that is exactly where @RealFFk fancy takes flight.

 My childhood was as innocent as the stains of gbomo-gbomo would allow-it wasn’t just the Clifford Orji infamy, it was real then as it is real now, missing persons, frequently mutilated bodies messing up the streets-some bodies, trampled into the pavement.  Do you dare to imagine the number of ritual murder everyday across the length and breadth of the country? It is the extrajudicial “murdering”NPF, the hit and run drivers, the trigger happy robbers, acid pouring lovers, religious violence, cutlass politics, Boko Haram.....

And then there is the “Death Void”- that death or calamity that awaits us as basic healthcare is expensive. It is the Heavens Forbid natural disasters , the “Act of God“ air mishaps. Thus, the death void is the greater chances of death or grievous bodily harm arising from lack of Infrastructure-Security, good affordable healthcare and a functioning emergency response, social welfare, good roads... 

The average, resident, Nigerian is a walking target suitably living in a death culture. The definition of a miracle therefore is that we wake up alive every day. Suddenly it strikes you that unlike us, victims; losing our lives and limbs, friends, countrymen at every right, left, centre, these “leaders” have better prospects sef.

For every long list of “pain, anguish, betrayal, humiliation, persecution, misfortune, hardship, loss, death, strange ailments and tragedy” for” those who reach the top” there is an infinitely longer list of “pain, anguish, betrayal, humiliation, persecution, misfortune, hardship, loss, death, strange ailments and tragedy “ for those other Nigerians whose raison d’être concerns living in death culture Nigeria.  

The next time that @RealFFk wants to “ooh” and “whoa” us with his paper back novel writing dexterity, let him take into account every avoidable death in the “history” of Nigeria-and tie that tally to the geographical entity that is Nigeria and realise that it is not really the “villa curse” but the “Nigeria curse” 

Little Blue Car.

1983, somewhere in Sabon Gari, Kano.

The man in the dark 504 salon chain smoked. He had just gotten into position and was trying to get used to his new surroundings. From here he had a view of the road as it stretched down in the dusty sunny weather of midday Kano. His target’s house wasn’t visible from this side of the street, you’d have to drive into the first connecting street on the right or walk down if you were so inclined. He had established that his query lived in the large compound with his three wives and children but, with the property well manned and, his target hardly ever alone, he knew a quiet job would be impossible. Not wanting to risk being noticed and giving up his shaded spot, the man just waited. 

Get a feel of the place said he, stay here all day if I have to. ...

 BAM! BAM! BAM!

He jerked round suddenly to find a hawker peering at him. His dark face did not frighten her as she stood by; seemingly surprised he’d be sleeping just when she’d be hawking her goods.

“Kai! Shegeia!” He cursed bitterly.

The girl blinked as if she understood not a single word then walked away as quietly as she had crept up on him.

He looked at his watch, angry that he had let himself sleep off unguarded and even worse; unsure of his subject’s movements. One hour! He had been asleep an hour? 

“Kutuma.....!”

He sat up in one fluid motion and adjusted his mirror seeing that he looked haggard. His eyes were sunken, his beard untrimmed and his lips swollen twice their size in the rigor of sleep.

The man cursed under his breath then got out of the car. The neighborhood was a quiet residential one and that meant it had a little above 10 adults prowling its streets, most residents had gone to find a living. The little kids squealed and jumped around in the heat. Their little black, dusty, bodies moving in all directions as they played and chased after one another. A stop further down had a faded, rusty sign that read: "Tandi."

He walked in and signaled for a drink, turning around slightly to relate his position with his targets’ house. The Dongoyaro trees obscured his view and he couldn’t really tell if the query’s bus was still parked in so he asked the boy who brought him his drink if the master of the house opposite was in.

“I could ask if you wish to visit for I just resumed duties and am not really sure if Mallam Ali is indoors.”

He made to call out but the man called him off.

“No friend, I will visit him after this drink; I merely wanted to say hello, nothing you should be bothered about.”

He finished his drink and pushed his chair back, the cool shade-so refreshing from the blaze of the outdoor heat. Slightly tipping his hat down his nose he made to watch the entrance from the corner of his eye.

He woke with a start, his hat falling off, his legs shooting out, and his eyes opening, all in one continuous progress that resulted in an inquiring look at his intruder, his face contorted into a big expressive “whaaat?”

The boy was saying something and pointing down the road. His eyes followed the stretched hand’s direction to a lone figure walking down the road then back, and then back to the road again before realizing what was going on. He got to his feet and paid for his drink, nodding slightly at the boy on his way out.

                                                         

                                                    * * *

The man ahead walked slowly, sure of his movements. He walked to the Volkswagen beetle and rapped at the window. The door opened and he climbed into the back seat. There were two men in front, a young driver and his friend, Dan Lami riding shotgun.

"You don’t suppose they’d be done with the burial by now do you?"    He asked his friend.

"Well, we have to get there first to know now don’t we?"  Came the terse reply.

They started off slowly finally gaining momentum on the stretch road as the bug sped along leaving a dusty encore. The rest of the journey was a quiet one with neither man talking much. It seemed Dan Lami was more interested in gauging his young driver’s proficiency. There was much to be said but now wasn’t the time apparently. There would be ample space at the burial. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his lips muttering wordlessly as he pulled his Tesbih.

                                                      

                                                       * * *

The man in the 504 had to overtake two cars at full speed to catch up to the little blue car ahead. He hoped he had not made himself obvious by doing so. He was tired and he knew it, sleeping on the job-so unprofessional! Damn! He reached into the glove compartment box and brought out an old revolver. He had two bullets left and with everything happening so fast he had to make some sort of decision. Wherever these men were off to would only increase his operational costs, he couldn’t stay back either, who knew if his prey would be back? Should he follow? and for how long?

He put the Peugeot in fourth gear and brought the car a little distance behind the Volkswagen. He could see the man's cap through the screen ahead and a thought occurred to him. Flooring the gas, he drove past the Volks peering in carefully as he did so. Three people, just two in the chamber. The road ahead continued into the distance with an intersection on the left lane. He pushed his accelerator going a little over eighty; he could see the beetle in his rear view mirror.

He reached behind and pulled down his window on his right back seat, careful not to lose grip on his steer then brought his speed down to fifty. The Volkswagen was coming up, apparently driving straight ahead into Daura. As the car went by on his right he pulled up his gun, maintaining his speed, the Volks slowly coming up his rear. He looked back into the car, waited a bit for the face in the back to come into view through his window, brought his gun level and fired.

Blood splattered across the seats and windows shattered as the little blue Volkswagen car veered off the road.

Hark o Hack!

   So am scrolling through my TL at past 11pm Monday night. A friend RTs @enspireATV’s tweet concerning Abuja’s first hackathon-good idea!! It’s scheduled for the next day, Tuesday from 10a.m to 4p.m in Maitama with the aim of introducing and meeting Abuja hackers, identifying new technology ventures and opportunities, and, creating an international standard for technology incubation platform.  I have no illusions about the benefits of technology to business; I have been interested in the dot com rise since the 90s and more recently, researching the business implications of adapting this model in Nigeria.  It is the future we have been sleeping on no thanks to a critical lack of internet infrastructure.

An Abuja based hub, finally!! The guys at @cc_hub (Lagos) are by now probably tired of me shooting random accusatory tweets their way, well they should be relieved and rightfully so. I go through my mind trying to put together just what I know about code writing, not much, – you’d probably write it all on a coin and still need a magnifier to read it with, and, with such dismal  thoughts I fall asleep.

   Its raining hard in the nation’s capital and I am late for the Hackathon event thanks to my erratic internet network-I just couldn’t print my e-ticket , and a newbie cabbie who got lost twice….

The enspireATV hub is located on the top floor of the NEPZA building in Maitama and the guys are way past introductions by the time I sauntered in. I manage to grab a seat unbalancing the projector, and, interrupting the guy currently giving his speech in the process. Somehow my awkwardness sparks a round of laughter allowing me to settle down quick and tune in. Participants are seated around tables, some quietly typing on Ipads and laptops and my horror grows. Surely these guys aren’t going to let hours go by trying to teach this rookie the rudiments of code writing, I really should have no fear as there are an equal number of business minded participants at the event who have never been the ‘techie’ type. Plus the hub has plans to get people into learning code writing but not today.

   The informal setting allows for discussions, questions and jokes. We listened to @deeman01 explain how the hub is structured to provide an environment that nurtures hackers, legal concerns, and business plans using individual participant’s experiences as reference and subject material. He was the middleman, the half geek prince-the other half being consultancy business. Then came @dasersoft and he was all geek, straight to the glasses too. He has a wealth of experience in the field and is recently working on a project that involves Geo-tagging locations in Nigeria. The idea is brilliant; think banks, hospitals and maybe ATM locations I might add. I also like the fact that he’s invented a means of mass-coding where even school kids can hack in no time. By this time, I am ready to kidnap the fellar for my private schemes.

Mike comes in too and talks expansively about the egg and chicken paradox, with the egg being tech and chicken being business. Which comes first? Should say, apps be developed for business or should business be developed for apps? There is no answer really, in this context, a synergy provides the needed results, and Mike knows this. He is a business man himself and wears a nice suit. He looks good in it too.

   It is rather a very exciting experience at this point with tea mugs hardly touched, @BankoleToba jokes about this and voila! Frosty soda cans and meat fillings appear almost magically. While this hub doesn’t hit target, (not a lot of hackers showed up, Abuja hackers are reclusive or worse, lost to Forex as Mike puts it) it does trigger the passion of its participants who are most mostly web developers.

I spend an hour more after the event is over chatting and networking in the viby green office surroundings. Some of the participants I talk to are brilliant, @fikitout has a video online library, and is a mechanical engineer so we spend more time talking about this project he has that models mechanical component parts and computes variables in test environments.

 It’s a wonderful experience and you should have been there, am glad I did and I tell @BankoleToba so.

Follow the guys @enspireATV or just walk into the place, they aren’t just happy idealists, they will shatter your silly ideas but will do so nicely, I’ll be working with this bunch, they’ve got me fired up proper!!