Heyy blogsville,
I have something to brigten up your weekend. My friend showed me the message below on facebook, and I decided to do (another) post on the random messages that I get on f.b from these wierd, and may I add grammatically incorrect Nigerian guys in the world! I have copy and pasted them EXACTLY as they have been sent.
Enjoy!
"Hello my sweeetieeeeeee.....You have a nice username,I
am 32 years old,I just register into this personals
but just searching for new friends and someone to have
serious relationship and never seen someone am
interested in until I get to look your profile.Your
profile looks so cute,responsible,faithful and i will
like to know you more because something in me is
already telling me that you will be the woman of the dreams.I have
been heart broken several times..I also tried to date again
but I was surprised when I found the Person I called
my love on bed with my best ..friend.
Oh.. I wept like a
baby.Thats why I dont want someone to Play with my
emotions anymore.Please lets be real here even though
we are distance apart but I can easily fly to meet you
wherever you are.I am a young gentle man am into
sales and buying.I am caring honest faithful in love,I
can't promise you that dark clouds will never hover
over our lives or that the future will bring us many
rainbows. I can't promise you that tomorrow will be
perfect or that life will be easy. I can promise you
my everlasting devotion, my loyalty,my respect,and my
unconditional love for a lifetime.I can promise that
I'll always be there for you,to listen and to hold
your hand,and I'll always do my best to make you
happy, and make you feel loved.I can promise that I'll
see you through any crisis,and hope with you,dream
with you,build with you,and always cheer you on and
encourage you.I can promise that I'll share my dreams
my world,and every aspect of my life with you.Here is
little about me below on my profile :
Body Type: avrage
Eye Color: brown
Hair Color: Black
Ethnicity: black
Education: Graduate Degree
Marital Status: widowed
Smoking Habit: Non-Smoker .
I am online now please add me to your list on blabla@
..yahoo.
com.. .
email me on b@yahoo. .email me to send my picture to
you.you can call me numb +234......"
"Subject: SWEET BABY!!!
how are you today ,hope u are during well,by the
way,my name is Mr baba, from west
African.precisely Ghana.i read Ur profile and u are
looking beautiful like an angel.i will be glad to
known more about u and your country.if u woud,nt mind this is my
e-mail address
blabla@yahoo.com.hope or 00233...... ,to hear from u soon.thank
u.bye"
"Subject:Captivating
hi there, i couldn,t scroll any longer when i saw ur pics, baby u r pretty, no wonder i av to text to ask if u'll be my friend. Am T and i stay in Ikorodu, Lagos state. I need a friend n that's y i was searching b4 i finally get to ur page."
"Hello Baby........?
How are you doing today? well I am of the hope that you are doing fine. I'm sitting here listening to a wonderful CD by Hikaru Utada called Deep River and writing this letter to you. My name is O.M as you will know, am a very simple honest, sincere, romantic and nice shape too Smile... quite honestly, It has been a day for me when i saw you in face book.Despite that I have not seen you in person, something really give me a nice pleasure to communicate with you. Hope we can make a good friend, cos the best place to be is by the side of a good friend.
I believe that friendship is a gift that is fair in all things. It roots from one's heart and involves memories that stay not for a while but for a lifetime. " My heart welcomes you" Am looking forward to meet a loving, honest and responsible Women. So I wish we could be flowers cos I believe you will appreciate a nice and interesting man in search.
You can reach me with my email and we can chat very well please this is my email address @......
Thank you very much.
Looking forward to meet with you soonest.
Bye for now. "
"hello,ope ur aite babe, i like wat i see in ur profile nd u look really nice i wuld like 2 know u, ur looking very very hot, nd i ope to know u better nd see if we can meet 4 a drink or something it would b fun, trust me, well holla bk @ ur admirer babe luv x"
"really can't say you are not the best have seen on facebook all this while. but the fact is you look very nice and lovable. i saw you on one of my friends page and i was prompted to add you. i actually want to get to meet you in person to see how much nice you would be the more when we get to meet. angel or better still we disclose more fact about our self before we continue. love to hear from you soon ... "
"Wat' up with you my name is S i got you on face book and you are really looking nice God has really done an Extra work on your beauty i hope you dont mind if i get to know you more better and probably stay connected with ya my number is"
Miss B
xoxo
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Monday, 1 March 2010
The Northern Prince Part 2
Hey blogsville,
Northern Prince Part 2
The sight of Jamal at the door sent Nabila’s heart beating faster. It was like she had been caught cheating. Theirs was not a marriage you advertised and to speak ill of it- despite the truth contained- was equal to a violation of their wedding vows. Nabila could only stutter...
“Do you want me to hang up?” Amaka whispered
Nabila nodded like Amaka could see; but as best friends do she somehow got the message and soon Nabila heard the soft click of disconnection. She still kept the phone to her ear because putting it down would mean giving Jamal an answer; and he eagerly awaited one as he had barely flinched from the doorway. When Nabila noticed it, the enjoyment he was deriving from putting her on the spot, her embarrassment ceased to feel appropriate. Her husband was not hurt by her remarks but he intended to milk his disapproval nonetheless. Then the reverse happened. She was hurt that he wasn’t hurt. To her, it was equivalent to not feeling jealousy at the sight of another man with your wife. The Lack of Care; the very same lackadaisical attitude that left her feeling helpless; exhausted at being the only one who gave a damn that they lived like zombies confined to the same tomb. He was still standing there...
“Amaka” Nabila answered tossing her blackberry on the blue sofa. It landed on a pale green scatter cushion
Jamal drained of his former amusement uncrossed his feet and shut the door. He tossed his keys alongside hers in the silver tray and proceeded to walk across the living space to the stairs. Their ritual was about to begin... Jamal would climb up the curved staircase slowly using the banister to hoist himself a little higher; almost like his weight had doubled since he got home. Nabila didn’t want the war dance again. She rushed behind him; her abayah trailing behind like a bridal train
“Dan Allah. Ka yi hakuri” she apologised. Nabila had never said sorry before and this stopped Jamal in his tracks; he spun 360 and faced her. It had been months since they had stood in such close proximity and Nabila looked at her husband’s full lips; sensual and soft. She wished he would kiss her.
“Apology accepted” he replied and continued upward and out of sight. Nabila leaned on the oak staircase and traced the decorative grooves in the wood grain, ran her fingers along the hand twisted metal that separated the steps from the hand rail. She remembered when Jamal would come back from work and jump her. She would lie on the couch pretending to sleep and he would begin to kiss her, smelling like the vanilla air freshener in his car. Every day the same game, every day the same result. They barely made it upstairs and would have to scurry away like naughty school children when they heard the cook come in the kitchen, prepared to make a late lunch. She did not remember when last that happened. She could cast her mind back but it would only depress her further.
Nabila could not hear it but she knew the shower was turned on now. Her husband was in there, alone, without her. His lynx shower gel making soapy suds; he would leave his wet towel on the bathroom floor too and close the door behind him giving no chance for the steamy room to clear out. She missed having to scold him about that. Now their shower times were so different they may as well have separate wash rooms. At lunch he sat opposite her on their dining table and his hair stood in disorganised curls from the forceful towel drying method he had adopted. Nabila looked on as it dried and the curls magically became discreet. The ridges of his hair cut tapered down to his thin sideburns which slimmed to a very thin goatee shaping his jaw line. Yes, his hair is the first thing she noticed all those years ago, and still was what made her stare. She loved the variations of brown within it: rusty, sandy, bronze, and russet. He hated it and had wanted it dyed black. She loved it; especially in the sunlight. The shades were easily distinguishable then.
The blue Pyrex bowls were trooped out one by one and laid out in beautiful presentation and the cook, as was his way, informed them dinner was in the oven and he would be retiring for the evening. As she did not cook, Nabila utilised a catering service which sent out domestic helps. They were loaned out to her on a monthly basis and arrived an hour before Jamal left for work in the morning. Breakfast was prepared for her as well when she finally woke up and whatever else she decided to munch on. On Jamal’s return from work, ‘late lunch’ would be served, and dinner was kept warm in the oven. As it was, Nabila’s fridge, although alien to her was never short of food. There were bowls of stock juices for speedy stews and soups; sachets of marinating beef and chicken pieces, jugs of kunu, and lemonade and pre-kneaded dough in the pantry. Meat pies, masa, chin-chin, kuli kuli, puff puff, were all produced at her bequest.
Nabila had not asked the name of this cook this time and as he placed his time sheet by the salad bowl for Nabila to sign, she pretended not to see him. I have barely begun my meal she wanted to scream at him. She focused instead on the sardines, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbages, slices of hardboiled eggs and baked beans tossed in mayonnaise. Nabila knew what it meant when the cooks were in such a hurry to leave; he had probably double booked another family. Usually off the books and for half the price; collecting money behind management’s back. As she had no proof, she could not report him but the idea annoyed Nabila and so she ignored him, wasting his time. He waited beside her quietly
“Bring it here” Jamal ordered. The cook handed the sheet to him and Jamal signed it. “Thank you sah.” From the gratitude in his voice Nabila was sure Jamal added on hours the cook had not worked.
“I hope you beat traffic in time” Jamal said with his mouth full
“Ah sah I hope o. I suppose waka before” the cook said
Before his wife could stop him, Jamal reached in his wallet and handed the man a wad of fifty naira notes. “Take okada” he instructed. The man thanked him as he hurriedly ran out of the house. Nabila raised her gaze to her husband; his shoulders were forward, braced for an attack but she could already see how it would play out. Jamal would call her a social snob, insist she knew not of the hardship people less fortunate than themselves went through to put food on the table. Ask her why she cared who made the catering business money and lord it over her that it was not theft but merely a chance to double their earnings. She would accuse him of promoting bribery by encouraging the cooks to go against the rules and facilitating their corruption by chartering them to secondary locations. Why did he have to give the man money? Jamal would start his speech of how it was his money and he gave it to whomever he chose. Nabila didn’t see the point in going down that road today.
“How is work?” she asked
Jamal said nothing but stared at her like she had grown two heads. ‘Another argument averted’ his expression seemed to say. He mumbled a monosyllabic answer and focused on his jollof rice, tearing into the herb baked chicken like he had a deadline to meet. The silence stretched out for a millennia and Nabila began to wish they were arguing, at least he would be speaking to her. That was probably why she picked fights so often, for the minutes they spoke at each other he was forced to acknowledge her presence in the house. Her frustrations were lashed out at him, hidden behind mundane issues like time sheets and petrol for the generator and DSTV channel switching from his base upstairs; switching her Movies for Super Sports or whatever it was called. Nabila was a slow eater and Jamal inhaled his food, so she was just finishing up when he raced upstairs and came back down surrounded by the aura of Davidoff Cool Water. He wore an ecru printed T shirt under a grey slim fit jacket and vintage wash black jeans. Casual class came easy to him.
“Are you going out?” Nabila asked all innocent.
Jamal shook his head at her then, certain a centurion being had taken the place of his wife. As this was his routine most nights he did not understand her question. He did not even bother to nod; as this must surely be the lure of a fight she had spent her day brewing. But merely grabbed his keys and honked the horn for the gates to be opened. She saw the Benz car lights drive out and Nabila stared at her empty house. Her husband could not get away from her fast enough. That was her marriage.
During the weekend Nabila sat waiting in Maitama district for someone who could not help but be late, all the time; no matter the urgency implied. Luckily for her she always had the best excuse available. How do you argue with someone that saves lives? Rabi ran in from the heat and burst through the doors of Hitonia Health Club. Her personality seemed to envelope everyone at once like a giant sheen emanating from her. Right away, everyone greeted her, like an old friend.
“It’s not my fault I’m late” she said heading for Nabila
“Haba Rabi” she scolded although the minute her sister walked in Nabila had forgiven her 40min delay
They hugged briefly and Nabila made to pull away but Rabi rocked her from side to side singing “This is my sorry for 2010 and I ain’t going to mess up again...” Nabila started laughing, of all songs to sing her sister chose the most random.
“It’s okay. Ya isa mana” Nabila feigned annoyance at her clinginess. Rabi giggled her infectious laugh and they sat down for their weekly pamper sessions. The health club was the best spa sanctuary in Abuja. Hitonia was located in Wing C of the Nicon Hilton Hotel and this made a secret haven whose location was privy to a select few. The sisters first stumbled in here by accident after overindulging themselves on Mediterranean dishes at the Zuma restaurant overlooking the water fountain. It started with a pedicure, and then grew to a facial, then an exfoliating body scrub, followed by a 50minute Thai ritual massage. Needless to say Nabila and Rabi became hooked...
“Madam Rabi welcome” their regular beautician greeted them
“Thank you Yemi, see my sister”
“Yes ma. Welcome madam”
“Uh huh” Nabila responded focused on her sister. Rabi looked different now that she could study her up close. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.” Rabi shook off her gold sandals and shook her head pitifully at her cracked heels and peeled red nail varnish, “that is because I had to cancel our last two sessions.” she replied. “I know Yemi” she said to their attendee who could not contain her frown at their sight, “Without you, I would have skin like an alligator.” Yemi giggled and opened up her pouch displaying the tools of her craft. Nabila shook her head; this was why an exclusive health club that had a strict arrive-5mins-before-your-appointment rule could not care less when Rabi showed up almost an hour late.
“But you look good though” Nabila informed her
“Work is tough wallahi. Did you know that being a doctor is hard?”
“I’d heard the rumour”
Rabi sighed. She had just graduated medical school and was an intern at National Hospital Abuja. Nabila let her moan about work; but being Rabi her annoyance didn’t sound genuine. She moaned because that is what she ought to do, because in Nigeria loving your job was unheard of. Yes, she was tired, and barely slept and had fallen behind on her favourite shows but that was life. “Besides, it sounds kind of silly to rush home to watch Grey’s Anatomy when I have real patients that need seeing to.” Nabila shook her head and dipped her feet into the hot scented water Yemi had put down. She thought of the 80+hour weeks Rabi had to put in to fulfil her internship, and her insistence at volunteering once a week at the fertility centre in Nisa Premier Hospital due to her interest to pursue obstetrics and gynaecology “I couldn’t do what you do.” Nabila concluded
“I kill every living plant within ten yards. Oh if I had your green thumbs...I’d create my own Garden of Eden. That would be my talent.” Rabi said as she stared at the cluster of bell shaped dusky blue African lilies in the large rectangular vase. It was true, Rabi could kill a cactus.
“If I had your face I won’t need a talent” Nabila countered
“If I wore your dress size I’d be a model” Rabi said. Her size 14 was beautifully clad in a jersey maxi dress with bands of bright colours running down. She pinched her arms.
“If I had your height, I won’t need these heels” Nabila gestured to her three inch block heels. The Moss green matched her Prada leather tote bag, her feet were so sore she wondered why she bothered
“If I had your feet, I’d be able to wear more heels” Rabi wiggled her size 8 feet in the warm water, causing Yemi to slap her knee to be still. The sisters went on, babbling their short comings to each other and wishing to be more like the other person. As always Nabila had more characteristics in praise of Rabi. Her smarts, her boobs, her nose, her long lashes, her height, wide circle of friends, her personality, her infectious laugh... Rabi couldn’t keep up and Nabila mused that her only ups were her gardening instincts, her skinny frame and the fact that she hardly sweats.
Yemi’s colleague had begun on the sisters’ hair. And she parted the thickness with a huge black comb; having to step back with her arm movements. Neither Nabila nor Rabi had ever relaxed their hair; there was no need besides they preferred the curls. And secretly, they knew it was the only genetic link to one another. The one thing they had both inherited from one parent, mama. Other than that Nabila was the short, dark, skinny sister and Rabi the tall, fair, chubby one. After the wash, they admired their painted toes and laughed at their Martian heads as the foil paper used for the Protein steam made crackling noises underneath the dryer. Nabila looked at her beautiful sister and brought up the taboo topic between them. The issue of her arranged marriage to Alhaji Gidado Tukur.
“You don’t have to marry him”
“I haven’t said yes Nabila”
“But you haven’t said no either”
“I don’t see the reason to”
“How about the fact that he’s a year older than Baba and already has a wife. He has kids our age. He’s a grandfather.”
“That entire aside...” Rabi reasoned
“This is stupid Rabi. You’re an educated woman”
“Exactly. Do you know how long I have left before I obtain my license to practice? Seven years Nabila now tell me which man is going to wait that long. We have known Alhaji Tukur for a long time.” Nabila wanted to add that for the mere fact that he once wiped her runny nose and helped Rabi onto her bicycle; it was disgusting. But her sister was speaking rapidly, denying her a chance to cut in, lest she spoke over her. “Baba is his close friend. He is kind, thoughtful and does not impose archaic rules. His wife spends most of her time in their house in Dubai anyway, she basically lives there. So I will be alone; no one to disturb me. All the kids are grown they won’t give me grief. They know I am not in it for the money. Besides this is merely a guarantee that I will be someone’s wife, he is not carting me off to his house tomorrow.”
Nabila looked at her sister, since mama suggested the match last year it was like every time they discussed this, Rabi had stronger arguments about why it was right.
“You don’t have to do everything mama tells you to”
“I don’t. She wanted me to study law remember”
“And instead you chose medicine. Yay you are a big rebel kenan. Clap for yourself.” Nabila hissed and rolled her eyes for good measure. Rabi got annoyed
“You act like your marriage wasn’t a hook-up as well”
“Because it wasn’t” Nabila spoke as she would to a child who had just made a stupid comment
“Saboda mama didn’t join your hands together, does not mean it was not a convenient social arrangement. You guys barely dated six months before his relatives brought the geyisawa, dowry to our house. It was like they heard you resided in the same university and it was naturally assumed that you would wed.”
“It had nothing to do with us”
“It certainly didn’t. Did Jamal ask you to marry him or did mama call to say his relatives were interested.” Rabi adopted the same tone Nabila had earlier, like she asked the question to a child
“I love Jamal” Nabila smacked her lips together
“Then you are lucky, but I don’t have anyone I feel that strongly about and I need the security of a husband and the freedom to practice my medicine. I am being offered both”
“Mama is just being hypocritical; forcing you into a polygamous home when she herself is Baba’s only wife”
“She wouldn’t have minded if Baba married someone else along the way”
“Yes she would” Nabila answered with absolute certainty. Rabi chose not to argue because she knew it was the truth.
By the time they were lying face down and having essential oils massaged into their skin their conversation had slowed to a halt. Yemi enquired if Rabi was alright, because they were used to Nabila’s standoffishness but non- bubbly Rabi was rare. Nabila didn’t want to fight with her sister; she was tired of fighting as a whole so she utilised her new found apologising technique
“Haba Rabi, let’s not fight. Kinsen I want the best for you ne. I only push it because I think you are making a mistake, Allah”
“I understand you disapprove but when it comes to it I expect my sister’s support.” Rabi summed it up. “To ba komai, no problem” Nabila responded
With that they were chatting away again and occasionally made ooh noises when the tea tree oil was absorbed into tight muscles. They paid the hefty bill and walked out hand in hand scenting like mint tea leaves with shiny exfoliated skin. They proceeded to the Fulani Pool Bar at the other end of the hotel for lunch. With its traditional thatched roofing, mats and statues, the ambience was just as enjoyable as the barbecue a la carte specialities they ordered. As their meal arrived in large calabashes, the head waiter greeted Rabi and Nabila enthusiastically. They were regulars. They ate in beautiful friendship and took in views of the landscaped gardens. In the evening, Nabila escorted Rabi to her car and hugged her goodbye. “Don’t let them kill you in that hospital fa” she begged and as Rabi got in her car, her phone rang. She glanced at it but ignored the call “Hey that could be your future husband calling” Nabila teased. Rabi pulled her nose causing her to yelp, and then got into her car.
She watched Nabila cross the parking lot to her Grand Cherokee; her phone began to ring again. Jordin Sparks was screaming on her ringtone to get armour because love was a battlefield. Rabi couldn’t agree more, still each time the ring tone died down, it started again because Jamal Mujahid would not stop calling. Please stop she pleaded silently, leave me alone, haba you’re married to my sister. Still Jordin sang on...it was as though he was hitting redial repeatedly. A car honked and Rabi looked up to see her sister drive by her slowly, dialling a number. She was sure it was Jamal’s. He must not have picked up his wife’s call because her phone still rang. Nabila waved and drove off. As Rabi put on her seatbelt; a text came in:
Rabi I meant everything I said last night. Please pick up. Jamal
By S.B
So the second part of the story has been completed, after so much debate between me and S.B. Part one can be found HERE. Enjoy
Northern Prince Part 2
The sight of Jamal at the door sent Nabila’s heart beating faster. It was like she had been caught cheating. Theirs was not a marriage you advertised and to speak ill of it- despite the truth contained- was equal to a violation of their wedding vows. Nabila could only stutter...
“Do you want me to hang up?” Amaka whispered
Nabila nodded like Amaka could see; but as best friends do she somehow got the message and soon Nabila heard the soft click of disconnection. She still kept the phone to her ear because putting it down would mean giving Jamal an answer; and he eagerly awaited one as he had barely flinched from the doorway. When Nabila noticed it, the enjoyment he was deriving from putting her on the spot, her embarrassment ceased to feel appropriate. Her husband was not hurt by her remarks but he intended to milk his disapproval nonetheless. Then the reverse happened. She was hurt that he wasn’t hurt. To her, it was equivalent to not feeling jealousy at the sight of another man with your wife. The Lack of Care; the very same lackadaisical attitude that left her feeling helpless; exhausted at being the only one who gave a damn that they lived like zombies confined to the same tomb. He was still standing there...
“Amaka” Nabila answered tossing her blackberry on the blue sofa. It landed on a pale green scatter cushion
Jamal drained of his former amusement uncrossed his feet and shut the door. He tossed his keys alongside hers in the silver tray and proceeded to walk across the living space to the stairs. Their ritual was about to begin... Jamal would climb up the curved staircase slowly using the banister to hoist himself a little higher; almost like his weight had doubled since he got home. Nabila didn’t want the war dance again. She rushed behind him; her abayah trailing behind like a bridal train
“Dan Allah. Ka yi hakuri” she apologised. Nabila had never said sorry before and this stopped Jamal in his tracks; he spun 360 and faced her. It had been months since they had stood in such close proximity and Nabila looked at her husband’s full lips; sensual and soft. She wished he would kiss her.
“Apology accepted” he replied and continued upward and out of sight. Nabila leaned on the oak staircase and traced the decorative grooves in the wood grain, ran her fingers along the hand twisted metal that separated the steps from the hand rail. She remembered when Jamal would come back from work and jump her. She would lie on the couch pretending to sleep and he would begin to kiss her, smelling like the vanilla air freshener in his car. Every day the same game, every day the same result. They barely made it upstairs and would have to scurry away like naughty school children when they heard the cook come in the kitchen, prepared to make a late lunch. She did not remember when last that happened. She could cast her mind back but it would only depress her further.
Nabila could not hear it but she knew the shower was turned on now. Her husband was in there, alone, without her. His lynx shower gel making soapy suds; he would leave his wet towel on the bathroom floor too and close the door behind him giving no chance for the steamy room to clear out. She missed having to scold him about that. Now their shower times were so different they may as well have separate wash rooms. At lunch he sat opposite her on their dining table and his hair stood in disorganised curls from the forceful towel drying method he had adopted. Nabila looked on as it dried and the curls magically became discreet. The ridges of his hair cut tapered down to his thin sideburns which slimmed to a very thin goatee shaping his jaw line. Yes, his hair is the first thing she noticed all those years ago, and still was what made her stare. She loved the variations of brown within it: rusty, sandy, bronze, and russet. He hated it and had wanted it dyed black. She loved it; especially in the sunlight. The shades were easily distinguishable then.
The blue Pyrex bowls were trooped out one by one and laid out in beautiful presentation and the cook, as was his way, informed them dinner was in the oven and he would be retiring for the evening. As she did not cook, Nabila utilised a catering service which sent out domestic helps. They were loaned out to her on a monthly basis and arrived an hour before Jamal left for work in the morning. Breakfast was prepared for her as well when she finally woke up and whatever else she decided to munch on. On Jamal’s return from work, ‘late lunch’ would be served, and dinner was kept warm in the oven. As it was, Nabila’s fridge, although alien to her was never short of food. There were bowls of stock juices for speedy stews and soups; sachets of marinating beef and chicken pieces, jugs of kunu, and lemonade and pre-kneaded dough in the pantry. Meat pies, masa, chin-chin, kuli kuli, puff puff, were all produced at her bequest.
Nabila had not asked the name of this cook this time and as he placed his time sheet by the salad bowl for Nabila to sign, she pretended not to see him. I have barely begun my meal she wanted to scream at him. She focused instead on the sardines, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbages, slices of hardboiled eggs and baked beans tossed in mayonnaise. Nabila knew what it meant when the cooks were in such a hurry to leave; he had probably double booked another family. Usually off the books and for half the price; collecting money behind management’s back. As she had no proof, she could not report him but the idea annoyed Nabila and so she ignored him, wasting his time. He waited beside her quietly
“Bring it here” Jamal ordered. The cook handed the sheet to him and Jamal signed it. “Thank you sah.” From the gratitude in his voice Nabila was sure Jamal added on hours the cook had not worked.
“I hope you beat traffic in time” Jamal said with his mouth full
“Ah sah I hope o. I suppose waka before” the cook said
Before his wife could stop him, Jamal reached in his wallet and handed the man a wad of fifty naira notes. “Take okada” he instructed. The man thanked him as he hurriedly ran out of the house. Nabila raised her gaze to her husband; his shoulders were forward, braced for an attack but she could already see how it would play out. Jamal would call her a social snob, insist she knew not of the hardship people less fortunate than themselves went through to put food on the table. Ask her why she cared who made the catering business money and lord it over her that it was not theft but merely a chance to double their earnings. She would accuse him of promoting bribery by encouraging the cooks to go against the rules and facilitating their corruption by chartering them to secondary locations. Why did he have to give the man money? Jamal would start his speech of how it was his money and he gave it to whomever he chose. Nabila didn’t see the point in going down that road today.
“How is work?” she asked
Jamal said nothing but stared at her like she had grown two heads. ‘Another argument averted’ his expression seemed to say. He mumbled a monosyllabic answer and focused on his jollof rice, tearing into the herb baked chicken like he had a deadline to meet. The silence stretched out for a millennia and Nabila began to wish they were arguing, at least he would be speaking to her. That was probably why she picked fights so often, for the minutes they spoke at each other he was forced to acknowledge her presence in the house. Her frustrations were lashed out at him, hidden behind mundane issues like time sheets and petrol for the generator and DSTV channel switching from his base upstairs; switching her Movies for Super Sports or whatever it was called. Nabila was a slow eater and Jamal inhaled his food, so she was just finishing up when he raced upstairs and came back down surrounded by the aura of Davidoff Cool Water. He wore an ecru printed T shirt under a grey slim fit jacket and vintage wash black jeans. Casual class came easy to him.
“Are you going out?” Nabila asked all innocent.
Jamal shook his head at her then, certain a centurion being had taken the place of his wife. As this was his routine most nights he did not understand her question. He did not even bother to nod; as this must surely be the lure of a fight she had spent her day brewing. But merely grabbed his keys and honked the horn for the gates to be opened. She saw the Benz car lights drive out and Nabila stared at her empty house. Her husband could not get away from her fast enough. That was her marriage.
During the weekend Nabila sat waiting in Maitama district for someone who could not help but be late, all the time; no matter the urgency implied. Luckily for her she always had the best excuse available. How do you argue with someone that saves lives? Rabi ran in from the heat and burst through the doors of Hitonia Health Club. Her personality seemed to envelope everyone at once like a giant sheen emanating from her. Right away, everyone greeted her, like an old friend.
“It’s not my fault I’m late” she said heading for Nabila
“Haba Rabi” she scolded although the minute her sister walked in Nabila had forgiven her 40min delay
They hugged briefly and Nabila made to pull away but Rabi rocked her from side to side singing “This is my sorry for 2010 and I ain’t going to mess up again...” Nabila started laughing, of all songs to sing her sister chose the most random.
“It’s okay. Ya isa mana” Nabila feigned annoyance at her clinginess. Rabi giggled her infectious laugh and they sat down for their weekly pamper sessions. The health club was the best spa sanctuary in Abuja. Hitonia was located in Wing C of the Nicon Hilton Hotel and this made a secret haven whose location was privy to a select few. The sisters first stumbled in here by accident after overindulging themselves on Mediterranean dishes at the Zuma restaurant overlooking the water fountain. It started with a pedicure, and then grew to a facial, then an exfoliating body scrub, followed by a 50minute Thai ritual massage. Needless to say Nabila and Rabi became hooked...
“Madam Rabi welcome” their regular beautician greeted them
“Thank you Yemi, see my sister”
“Yes ma. Welcome madam”
“Uh huh” Nabila responded focused on her sister. Rabi looked different now that she could study her up close. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.” Rabi shook off her gold sandals and shook her head pitifully at her cracked heels and peeled red nail varnish, “that is because I had to cancel our last two sessions.” she replied. “I know Yemi” she said to their attendee who could not contain her frown at their sight, “Without you, I would have skin like an alligator.” Yemi giggled and opened up her pouch displaying the tools of her craft. Nabila shook her head; this was why an exclusive health club that had a strict arrive-5mins-before-your-appointment rule could not care less when Rabi showed up almost an hour late.
“But you look good though” Nabila informed her
“Work is tough wallahi. Did you know that being a doctor is hard?”
“I’d heard the rumour”
Rabi sighed. She had just graduated medical school and was an intern at National Hospital Abuja. Nabila let her moan about work; but being Rabi her annoyance didn’t sound genuine. She moaned because that is what she ought to do, because in Nigeria loving your job was unheard of. Yes, she was tired, and barely slept and had fallen behind on her favourite shows but that was life. “Besides, it sounds kind of silly to rush home to watch Grey’s Anatomy when I have real patients that need seeing to.” Nabila shook her head and dipped her feet into the hot scented water Yemi had put down. She thought of the 80+hour weeks Rabi had to put in to fulfil her internship, and her insistence at volunteering once a week at the fertility centre in Nisa Premier Hospital due to her interest to pursue obstetrics and gynaecology “I couldn’t do what you do.” Nabila concluded
“I kill every living plant within ten yards. Oh if I had your green thumbs...I’d create my own Garden of Eden. That would be my talent.” Rabi said as she stared at the cluster of bell shaped dusky blue African lilies in the large rectangular vase. It was true, Rabi could kill a cactus.
“If I had your face I won’t need a talent” Nabila countered
“If I wore your dress size I’d be a model” Rabi said. Her size 14 was beautifully clad in a jersey maxi dress with bands of bright colours running down. She pinched her arms.
“If I had your height, I won’t need these heels” Nabila gestured to her three inch block heels. The Moss green matched her Prada leather tote bag, her feet were so sore she wondered why she bothered
“If I had your feet, I’d be able to wear more heels” Rabi wiggled her size 8 feet in the warm water, causing Yemi to slap her knee to be still. The sisters went on, babbling their short comings to each other and wishing to be more like the other person. As always Nabila had more characteristics in praise of Rabi. Her smarts, her boobs, her nose, her long lashes, her height, wide circle of friends, her personality, her infectious laugh... Rabi couldn’t keep up and Nabila mused that her only ups were her gardening instincts, her skinny frame and the fact that she hardly sweats.
Yemi’s colleague had begun on the sisters’ hair. And she parted the thickness with a huge black comb; having to step back with her arm movements. Neither Nabila nor Rabi had ever relaxed their hair; there was no need besides they preferred the curls. And secretly, they knew it was the only genetic link to one another. The one thing they had both inherited from one parent, mama. Other than that Nabila was the short, dark, skinny sister and Rabi the tall, fair, chubby one. After the wash, they admired their painted toes and laughed at their Martian heads as the foil paper used for the Protein steam made crackling noises underneath the dryer. Nabila looked at her beautiful sister and brought up the taboo topic between them. The issue of her arranged marriage to Alhaji Gidado Tukur.
“You don’t have to marry him”
“I haven’t said yes Nabila”
“But you haven’t said no either”
“I don’t see the reason to”
“How about the fact that he’s a year older than Baba and already has a wife. He has kids our age. He’s a grandfather.”
“That entire aside...” Rabi reasoned
“This is stupid Rabi. You’re an educated woman”
“Exactly. Do you know how long I have left before I obtain my license to practice? Seven years Nabila now tell me which man is going to wait that long. We have known Alhaji Tukur for a long time.” Nabila wanted to add that for the mere fact that he once wiped her runny nose and helped Rabi onto her bicycle; it was disgusting. But her sister was speaking rapidly, denying her a chance to cut in, lest she spoke over her. “Baba is his close friend. He is kind, thoughtful and does not impose archaic rules. His wife spends most of her time in their house in Dubai anyway, she basically lives there. So I will be alone; no one to disturb me. All the kids are grown they won’t give me grief. They know I am not in it for the money. Besides this is merely a guarantee that I will be someone’s wife, he is not carting me off to his house tomorrow.”
Nabila looked at her sister, since mama suggested the match last year it was like every time they discussed this, Rabi had stronger arguments about why it was right.
“You don’t have to do everything mama tells you to”
“I don’t. She wanted me to study law remember”
“And instead you chose medicine. Yay you are a big rebel kenan. Clap for yourself.” Nabila hissed and rolled her eyes for good measure. Rabi got annoyed
“You act like your marriage wasn’t a hook-up as well”
“Because it wasn’t” Nabila spoke as she would to a child who had just made a stupid comment
“Saboda mama didn’t join your hands together, does not mean it was not a convenient social arrangement. You guys barely dated six months before his relatives brought the geyisawa, dowry to our house. It was like they heard you resided in the same university and it was naturally assumed that you would wed.”
“It had nothing to do with us”
“It certainly didn’t. Did Jamal ask you to marry him or did mama call to say his relatives were interested.” Rabi adopted the same tone Nabila had earlier, like she asked the question to a child
“I love Jamal” Nabila smacked her lips together
“Then you are lucky, but I don’t have anyone I feel that strongly about and I need the security of a husband and the freedom to practice my medicine. I am being offered both”
“Mama is just being hypocritical; forcing you into a polygamous home when she herself is Baba’s only wife”
“She wouldn’t have minded if Baba married someone else along the way”
“Yes she would” Nabila answered with absolute certainty. Rabi chose not to argue because she knew it was the truth.
By the time they were lying face down and having essential oils massaged into their skin their conversation had slowed to a halt. Yemi enquired if Rabi was alright, because they were used to Nabila’s standoffishness but non- bubbly Rabi was rare. Nabila didn’t want to fight with her sister; she was tired of fighting as a whole so she utilised her new found apologising technique
“Haba Rabi, let’s not fight. Kinsen I want the best for you ne. I only push it because I think you are making a mistake, Allah”
“I understand you disapprove but when it comes to it I expect my sister’s support.” Rabi summed it up. “To ba komai, no problem” Nabila responded
With that they were chatting away again and occasionally made ooh noises when the tea tree oil was absorbed into tight muscles. They paid the hefty bill and walked out hand in hand scenting like mint tea leaves with shiny exfoliated skin. They proceeded to the Fulani Pool Bar at the other end of the hotel for lunch. With its traditional thatched roofing, mats and statues, the ambience was just as enjoyable as the barbecue a la carte specialities they ordered. As their meal arrived in large calabashes, the head waiter greeted Rabi and Nabila enthusiastically. They were regulars. They ate in beautiful friendship and took in views of the landscaped gardens. In the evening, Nabila escorted Rabi to her car and hugged her goodbye. “Don’t let them kill you in that hospital fa” she begged and as Rabi got in her car, her phone rang. She glanced at it but ignored the call “Hey that could be your future husband calling” Nabila teased. Rabi pulled her nose causing her to yelp, and then got into her car.
She watched Nabila cross the parking lot to her Grand Cherokee; her phone began to ring again. Jordin Sparks was screaming on her ringtone to get armour because love was a battlefield. Rabi couldn’t agree more, still each time the ring tone died down, it started again because Jamal Mujahid would not stop calling. Please stop she pleaded silently, leave me alone, haba you’re married to my sister. Still Jordin sang on...it was as though he was hitting redial repeatedly. A car honked and Rabi looked up to see her sister drive by her slowly, dialling a number. She was sure it was Jamal’s. He must not have picked up his wife’s call because her phone still rang. Nabila waved and drove off. As Rabi put on her seatbelt; a text came in:
Rabi I meant everything I said last night. Please pick up. Jamal
By S.B
Sunday, 28 February 2010
How to Make Lasagne
Heyy blogsville,
I'm sure you can guess what this post is about. Thanks to the movie Julie and Julia I bought loads of recipe books and I've been trying them out. My Nigella Lawson one just arrived, and I cant wait to try it out.
For those that don't know, Lasagne is an Italian dish made from layering sheets of pasta, minced meat, white sauce and cheese. If you have never tried it, its best to try it out in an Italian restaurant first so you know what its supposed to look and taste like before you attempt making yours. In Jand, Pizza Express, Bella Italia, and Zizzis all do excellent Lasagne.
xoxo
Miss B.
I'm sure you can guess what this post is about. Thanks to the movie Julie and Julia I bought loads of recipe books and I've been trying them out. My Nigella Lawson one just arrived, and I cant wait to try it out.
For those that don't know, Lasagne is an Italian dish made from layering sheets of pasta, minced meat, white sauce and cheese. If you have never tried it, its best to try it out in an Italian restaurant first so you know what its supposed to look and taste like before you attempt making yours. In Jand, Pizza Express, Bella Italia, and Zizzis all do excellent Lasagne.
I got my recipe from VideoJug HERE, its a great place to learn new recipes cause they are really basic, and the videos instruct you step by step.
I got the recipe for the bolognase from Gordon Ramsey's website HERE, which I can highly recommend because the mince is the most important part of the dish. The difference with Ramsey's recipe is that he uses tomato puree which makes it rich and adds a bit of milk which makes it creamy, perfect for Lasagne.
I added a bit of chopped red and green peppers to mine, just to give it some body, and because thats how my aunty used to make hers.
I made some mistakes as well. I did not cook the pasta sheets before I used them, as on the pack, it said it could be used dry. Instead of cooking mine in hot salted water as recommended, I just soaked it for a bit, which left the pasta kinda chewy. Also, I used cheddar cheese instead of Parmesan. Big mistake, because cheddar gets so brown really quickly, I had to turn the heat down low in order for it not to burn, so definately stick with grated parmesan.
Regardless of this, it was so so delish, and I would recommend the Dolmino Bolognase sauce, as it was so rich and creamy.
I hope you guys try it out and let me know what you think. A friend of mine tried out my previous recipe and loved it, so even if just one person tries it, it makes me so happy:-))
I got the recipe for the bolognase from Gordon Ramsey's website HERE, which I can highly recommend because the mince is the most important part of the dish. The difference with Ramsey's recipe is that he uses tomato puree which makes it rich and adds a bit of milk which makes it creamy, perfect for Lasagne.
I added a bit of chopped red and green peppers to mine, just to give it some body, and because thats how my aunty used to make hers.
I made some mistakes as well. I did not cook the pasta sheets before I used them, as on the pack, it said it could be used dry. Instead of cooking mine in hot salted water as recommended, I just soaked it for a bit, which left the pasta kinda chewy. Also, I used cheddar cheese instead of Parmesan. Big mistake, because cheddar gets so brown really quickly, I had to turn the heat down low in order for it not to burn, so definately stick with grated parmesan.
Regardless of this, it was so so delish, and I would recommend the Dolmino Bolognase sauce, as it was so rich and creamy.
I hope you guys try it out and let me know what you think. A friend of mine tried out my previous recipe and loved it, so even if just one person tries it, it makes me so happy:-))
And don't think I have forgotten my task to watch all the Oscar nominated movies before the Oscars on March 7th. I try and watch a movie a night, but thanks to work I tend to be too tired most weekdays. But I wont let you down, I will post who I think should be the winners on the 6th, so we can judge how accurate the judges are!lol
xoxo
Miss B.
Friday, 26 February 2010
Book Review: Say You're One of Them
Hello Ladies and Gentlemen of the blog world and welcome to my third ever book review for naija daydreamer. There really is no need for a standing ovation. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin:
Say You’re One of Them
Uwem Akpan
“Selling your child or nephew could be more difficult than selling other kids. You had to keep a calm head or be ruthless as the Badagry-Seme immigration people. If not, it could bring trouble to the family. What kept our family secret from the world in the three months Fofo Kpee planned to sell us were his sense of humor and the smuggler’s instinct he had developed as an agbero, a tout, at the border. My sister Yewa was five, and I was ten”
-Excerpt from the story, Fattening for Gabon in “Say You’re One of Them”
No one has experienced the Oprah effect quite like Uwem Akpan, author of Say You’re One of Them. I had heard of the book previously from a friend, thought it had a catchy title but that was it. Cue a mention by the phenomenon that is Oprah (Fattening for Gabon is her favorite story), the prestigious title of Oprah Book Club Selection for 2009 and lo and behold, this book rises from mediocrity of having only sold 31,613 copies since July 2008 to being one of THE MOST coveted books on Amazon.
Oprah had never selected a collection of stories for her book club before; neither had she ever chosen a Nigerian. Infact Uwem Akpan is the first living African fiction author to be featured. The publishing houses got it. Immediately, 650,000 new copies of the book were ordered and Uwem became a bestselling author practically overnight.
Now let me state right away and for legal reasons that this book is not for the faint hearted. The stories alone are mind-boggling material to absorb, then factored in the narrators are children; it is a very difficult pill to swallow.
This book masterfully captures the innocence and the horror of what children in the continent of Africa face. It is a collection of five short stories tackling poverty, prostitution and religious wars and tribal violence across Kenya, Benin, Ethiopia, Nigeria and Rwanda. Still here? Okay snuggle up…
In “An Ex-mas Feast” young boy, Jigana, tells the story of his family’s life in a shanty makeshift home on the streets of Nairobi where his 12yr old sister, Maisha, works as a prostitute to help the family survive. On the night before Ex-mas, she leaves with white tourists who pay her to have sexual acts with a monkey, so the family may have enough to eat. The family sniffs glue to keep hunger pangs at bay and eagerly await her return.
I believe this was the perfect opening story, as you quickly discover if this is your cup of tea or not. The book holds no punches neither does it softly integrate you into the poverty-stricken lives of its narrators. It also introduces Uwem as a poetic writer. Each sentence reads like a verse and you unconsciously expect a rhyming couplet. As Jigana watches his mother decant the glue she intends to sniff, “it glows warm and yellow in the dull light” and when she had poured enough “the last stream of gum entering the bottle weakened and braided itself before tapering in midair like an icicle.” Such beautiful wordplay…
In “Fattening for Gabon” a brother and sister, Kotchikpa and Yewa, are held captive by an uncle who has sold them into a child trafficking ring for the price of a motorcycle. They are manipulated into believing it would be a better life with “Godparents” from an NGO who had previously saved their parents from ‘the aids’ and now had come to bestow their goodness on them as well.
This story has one of the best opening paragraphs I have ever read, you know this is not going to end well and yet you wish it so. Also what was interesting is how no character was placed as a villain for too long. The uncle is not a bad person; he is infact very kind to his niece and nephew and loves them dearly. After the scene in which the ‘Godparents’ meet the children, you begin to hope that they maybe have better lives ahead. The poignancy in this story sets in the fact that as the reader you know right away what the fate of the children is and this makes their excitement and enthusiasm to go to Gabon ever more painful to read.
Kotchikpa says “I began to think of how kind she must be to her own children, if she could be so motherly to us on our first meeting…she was my first contact with an NGO…I couldn’t stop thanking God in my heart for bringing such a woman to us.”
In “What Language Is That?” two little girls- one Christian one Muslim- are best friends until religious intolerant adults around them threaten to tear them apart. They do not understand why they are suddenly banned from speaking to one another and as a result have to develop a secret language in order to communicate.
In “Luxurious Hearses” 16yr old Muslim boy, Jubril hopes to escape the ethnic violence that has destroyed his city and as such disguises himself as a Christian so he may board a bus to safety. This story was the most difficult to read and in an oxymoronic way the most enjoyable. Maybe it’s because I am Nigerian, and so understood the lingua franca better than in other stories. Jubril himself is a conservative Muslim and so battled with mannerisms the entire story.
Situations such as women arguing with men disconcerted him, because where he grew up women weren’t allowed to ride on the same motorcycles as their fathers, husbands or brothers. Where he grew up single women were given a three month ultimatum to marry-even if it meant being third or fourth wives- or face losing their jobs. Where he came from he had participated in fire-bombing churches alongside fanatic friends.
The length of the story you hold your breath, praying he reaches his destination. Every time he is asked a question, you hope his Hausa accent does not slip out. Every time he is jostled by a passenger you hope his amputated arm does not poke out of his pocket. Like I said the most difficult and enjoyable to read…I like to think this is where the title of the book is derived from.
“Suddenly, it seemed the women were everywhere. Because of the crowd, some were pressing in on him. Many of them wore trousers and shorts, and some did not cover their heads. The voices of the younger girls floated in the Harmattan wind like a strange, sweet melody. Then his dispassionate attitude toward these Christian women shifted to humor then irony. To Jubril, they looked funny in their makeup and tight fitting trousers. He caught himself thinking about all the hijab and niqab and abaya that would be needed to cover them and shrugged”
In “My Parents’ Bedroom” nine year old girl, Monique, talks about the Rwandan genocide as she witnesses the terrifying insanity of her relatives. This is the story that will qualify you for therapy. I guarantee that…
“The big-bellied man asks me to hug him and looks at the younger man mischievously. Before I can say anything, he wriggles out of his yellow trousers and reaches for me. But I avoid his hands and slip under the bed with Jean. He pulls me out by my ankles.”
I guess what troubled me was the fact that although the book is fiction; the stories are real. Heart breaking works of fiction that parallel real lives for children in Africa.
They are absent of sentimentality and contain nearly unbearable-to-read violence toward children. His stories span Africa and as a result the book is a multilingual patois. Quickly you must acquaint yourself with glue-sniffing, brush up on your French, remind yourself of the constant threat of living in diverse religious areas and realize that Hotel Rwanda was not just a movie. Uwem’s gift is his open-mindedness, abhorrence of tribalism; he is comfortably able to inhabit the skin of others. The tales of horror are filtered through the wide eyes of the young as they observe the happenings around them, process the pictures they see but do not understand. They lack the words to express it and he cleverly speaks through them. Thus intensifying the horror they go through and shining a beacon of the unyielding hope that African children are inherently blessed with.
UMEM AKPAN studied philosophy and English. He was ordained as a Jesuit priest in 2003 and has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan.
Watch the full Oprah webcast with Uwem Akpan here:
http://www.oprah.com/oprahsbookclub/Watch-Oprahs-Book-Club-Say-Youre-One-of-Them-Webcast-Video.
Say You’re One of Them is available at the one and only Amazon.
By S.B
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
An Interview with Myne Whitman!
I finally tracked down the 1st lady of blogsville and asked her the questions we are all dying to know. Enjoy.
1) Could you please explain your name?
Myne Whitman is a name I coined myself when I began to write seriously while still in secondary school. Most of the books I read were in English, and since I was writing in English too, I decided my name would be the same. So the pseudonym is a play on the transliterated words of my maiden name.
2)When did you realise that you had a flair for writing?
I was a reserved child, a bookworm and with a keen imagination. When I finished reading all the books around me, I started doodling the stories from my day dreams on leftover exercise books from previous terms.
3)When did you first start writing fiction and what was your first story?
I started writing when I was still in primary school. My first story was a children’s adventure when I was in secondary school. My readers were mostly my siblings and a few friends. I stopped writing for a while when I was overtaken by teenage fever for Mills and Boon romances but before I finished my first degree I was writing again, short stories and poems.
4) When did you realise you could make a career of it?
I always dreamed of holding a book in my hands with my name on the cover as the author. I was discouraged earlier on when I tried to pursue a writing career after my first degree. I was rejected by a couple of the publishers we had in Nigeria in the nineties. I began thinking about a writing career again in 2009.
This time also I sent out queries to several publishers and agents but finally decided on self publishing. I now enjoy writing as my full time career and also act as my own agent and publicity and promotions manager.
5) Any advice for wannabe writers like me?
I will say that you should keep at it. A lot of wannabe writers are actually very talented and just have to continue polishing their craft till opportunity knocks. It was Petina Gappah who said on her blog "A writer is a person who writes...You, at your computer or with your notebook, writing, and writing, revising and writing, and revising again." A writer thus has to persevere, have a story they want to share and push till it's in a forms others can understand and appreciate. I wish you and everyone the best.
6)What did you do as a job before you started writing full time?
I have been a primary school teacher, NGO consultant, banker, skate-hire attendant, researcher and government worker in both Nigeria and Scotland.
7) What are your other hobbies and passions?
My major passion is in the health sector and how systems can be improved and made accessible. I have loads of interests, and not enough time...LOL. I love reading, travelling, meeting new people, sight-seeing, I call myself an adventurer and something of a thrill junkie. When I'm indoors, I love listening to music, playing games and watching TV.
8)Could you give young girls like me some advice on maintaining a healthy relationship?
I am not an expert by any long shot, but one thing I can say is that communication is key. Make sure both parties know where you stand on your beliefs, values and goals and work together as a team. With love you can work out the remaining differences especially when you inject some light-hearted fun stuff in the equation regularly.
9)Do you have any plans on relocating back to Nigeria?
There are no concrete plans right now but it is not entirely ruled out. A lot of my family is in Nigeria as well as friends and fans and it is likely I will be visiting often in the meantime.
10) And the question all of blogsville wants to know is how are you able to make your blog rounds so consistently and comment. I am one of your most avid readers but I rarely leave comments which is so bad cause I always value your comments so much!
Let’s just say I’m a career writer and blogger…lol. I try to be very professional in everything I do. And I love blogville and the citizens so much, so many people, so many stories, I just love it.
xxx
Miss B
Monday, 22 February 2010
Jungle Justice
I just saw this video. I think it pretty much speaks for itself. I cried.
My bro thinks its sad but it was the only way to deal with this persitent and dangerous problem of radicalism in northern Nigeria. These people went to shut down the university, burning building and threatining people because they said education was evil. They also went and released people from jail and beat up the police men. They were becoming a menace to innocent civilians and drastic action had to be taken to deter other eager fundamentalists.
I understand the reason why Nigerians in particular and most people, believe in capital punishment and jungle justice. It gets hard for people to keep working hard everyday, suffering daily struggles while others try and rob you of the little you have. Everyone has a breaking point
Anyone who watches this video and does not sympathise must be inhumane. What could these guys have done to get burnt alive and then beaten. I don't believe in capital punishment and believe there are hardly any circumstances that warrant robbing someone of the right to life. At least not for the crimes these people have committed. The people that should really be burnt are sitting in mansions and villas somewhere.
I am a lawyer and so believe in upholding the law, but Unfortunately the Nigerian police and justice system does not work, so its unrealistic to expect people to allow things to go through due process.
It begs the question what are the alternatives?
I don't know the answer to that, but anything is better than this. Anything has to be better than publicly shooting people face down on the street. Anything has to be better than publicly burning people alive slowly.
Anything has to be better.
xoxo
Miss B
Thursday, 18 February 2010
An Interview with a Witch!!!
Yes people, you read the title correctly. I think this might be my most interesting title yet!
I just started a new job at IBM on Monday, it is going ok so far, although all the i.t and information systems training is going over my head. I am terrible with computers!
Anyway, the most interesting thing about the place is the people. It has really given me an insight into how oyinbo people think. They can be so brutally honest sometimes, its almost scary. I see why they can get frauded now, its cause they are so damn honest and trusting. Its an admirable quality, but as a Nigerian, we have been taught to treat everything and everyone with caution. The fact that I am a private person to people I just meet, also makes me shocked when I meet people who tell you the story of their life in 5mins.
Anyway, there is this girl called Naomi, and during lunch she started talking about how she doesn't believe in God, and then she said she's a WITCH! I wasn't really paying attention, but as soon as I heard that word, I looked up and said, say what??????
She then repeated that, yes, I am a witch! But its nothing like you see in Harry Potter or Sabrina, its much simpler than that, and we don't all do evil.
Me I was not even thinking Harry Potter witch oh, my mind had gone straight to Naija film, blood sucking night flying witches, yes nollywood fucked up my childhood lol!
I then proceeded to interview her, as in I asked her loads of questions, and I wrote it down cause I found it so interesting, albeit very disturbing! I thought, my blog followers have to see this oh, because how may of you guys have interviewed witches?
I think this might be a blogsville exclusive actually! Your girl is going to make an excellent journalist someday!
So here's my interview with a witch!
B: How did you get into witchcraft?
N: I was questioning the whole concept of religion as a teenager, as most people do, trying to understand the world and the reasons why things are the way they are in the world. I did some research and found Paganism. Its exact definition is varied, but it is technically the oldest religion in the world, and each individual makes up their own rules to suit them. There are various types, but I prefer the Greek mythology, and so I worship the Greek gods. There is no particular book although there are various practices.
B:Are your family pegans as well?
N: Far from it, my dad is catholic and my mum is Church of England. They do not really practice, but they definitely will not agree with this so they do not know, and I do not plan to tell them. My dad in particular would throw a fit because he is very judgemental, and he is against anything that's alternative to the church.
B: Do you know any more witches?
N: I have chosen not to join a convent because some people carry negative energy which I do not want to interact with. Although my boyfriend is also a pagan, I worship on my own.
B: So can you do wicked things to people?
N: Yes I can, but I choose not to because I am a white witch and practice white magic. Because anything you do, you get back to you in threefold, so if you do good, you get good back in threefold. Same goes for those people that choose to do dark magic, they get evil back to them threefold. I can put spells on people but choose not to.
B: So what powers do you actually have?
N: I am still learning alot of it, as I have only been practising for a couple of years. I can sense negative spirits and evil. I can also see and speak to spirits. I saw the spirit of my grandmother the day she died. When I was in college, I saw a ghost that walked through the walls. Apparently, she committed suicide because she was a cleaner and was in love with the landlord but could not be with him. Her ghost has been living there for a long time. Seeing the ghost was not scary at all, more peaceful.
I am also learning to read tarot cards. Unlike what people think, they do not predict the future. All they do is tell you is that if you continue on the path that you are on, this is a possible outcome.
You can also teach yourself to "astroproject" through the various planes of the universe(this was the point where I knew the babe dey kolo!)
B: So what is your view on Science?
N: I think science is a way for people to try and explain things they do not understand. I am not against science at all, but I do not believe in the big bang theory and things like that, as its just trying to explain the universe.
And finally she doesn't dress up as a witch for Halloween because it mocks the whole religion.
Before I could ask her any more questions, our break was over. I am sure the babe is scared of me cause I asked her so many questions, but she seemed really delighted to explain it and felt like she was talking to someone who was understanding her. If only she knew!
So what do you guys think? Is she really onto something that we haven't caught onto or is she just stark raving mad???LOL!
Enjoy
Miss B
xoxo
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Pancake Day!!!!
Today is pancake day! I just googled it, and it originates from the 1st day of lent and catholic fasting. I just found this out today, but I just like celebrating any holiday. I celebrate everything, cause am all about 1 love!
So in the spirit of holidays and my new obsession with cooking, thanks to Julie and Julia, I made pancakes. Its one of the easiest and most versatile meals to make cause you can create your own. I learnt this from visiting Ihop last summer in Yankee where they put everything from nuts to pineapple to toffee!!! I LOVE IHOP!
So here's my pancake recipe.
Ingredients
2 eggs
Milk
Flour
Sugar
Salt
Butter
Beat the eggs, milk and salt. Add the flour and beat until well mixed. Add the sugar and a little bit of salt. You can add whatever you like at this point, I like white choclate pieces, banana, or strawberries.
Melt butter on low heat, when butter starts to bubble, spoon the batter in little batches onto the frying pan. This makes it thin, crispy and light so they are like mini pancakes. When the bubbles start to burst on the batter and get brown, flip it and let it get brown on the reverse side.
Put it on a plate, spread with nutella and roll up. You can drizzle pancake syrup or toffee sauce on it!
Mmmmmmmmmmm..........Yummy!
Enjoy!
xxx
Miss B
So in the spirit of holidays and my new obsession with cooking, thanks to Julie and Julia, I made pancakes. Its one of the easiest and most versatile meals to make cause you can create your own. I learnt this from visiting Ihop last summer in Yankee where they put everything from nuts to pineapple to toffee!!! I LOVE IHOP!
So here's my pancake recipe.
Ingredients
2 eggs
Milk
Flour
Sugar
Salt
Butter
Beat the eggs, milk and salt. Add the flour and beat until well mixed. Add the sugar and a little bit of salt. You can add whatever you like at this point, I like white choclate pieces, banana, or strawberries.
Melt butter on low heat, when butter starts to bubble, spoon the batter in little batches onto the frying pan. This makes it thin, crispy and light so they are like mini pancakes. When the bubbles start to burst on the batter and get brown, flip it and let it get brown on the reverse side.
Put it on a plate, spread with nutella and roll up. You can drizzle pancake syrup or toffee sauce on it!
Mmmmmmmmmmm..........Yummy!
Enjoy!
xxx
Miss B
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Saturday, 13 February 2010
After His First Love.......
"i don't care how long it takes
i don't mind, i'll sit and wait
till the sun goes down
and comes back up again
cuz you're the best thing in my life
without you it just ain't right
so take as long as you like
i'll still be waiting"
Neyo.....
I wonder if Neyo was talking about a love gone sour?Knowing that poignant songs are all he ever sings, I think even my little niece would answer a yes to that question.
The circle of relationships and dating are tedious enough with all the issues that come with every boy meets girl story.
The added puzzle of dating a man fresh off the demise of his first major heartbreak is a herculean task to unravel. It comes with the added hassle of your insecurity, of the potential return to this love of his life, as well as the management of his healing process , from the scars left behind after Titanic sank,with you still coming off at the end as datable and not his new best pal.
I personally run east once I notice any signs of this situation, any form of wistfulness in the tone of his voice when referring to his ex,or excessive mention of her name regarding every topic,or extravagant requests and gestures still being granted to lil Miss "Created another insecure he will try to be a player" are tell tale signs for me to take a bow and exit. But I have been told my intolerance to mediocrity is my reason for being single.
To serve justice to open mindedness, I analyse the suggested reactions and tips to this situation that I have been offered. The first is to decline any further discussions of this past relationship. This advice came from my man eater friend Suliat. In fact I believe her exact reaction was:
"Lc, seriously? Why would u even tolerate a man talking to you about his ex. Honey she is out and you are in. He should be talking,eating,breathing you,unless you have not been putting your back to it"
Now I truly believe a relationship should start with open honest communication and stories of past relationships shared, often showcase a persons character and relationship mannerisms. The extent of details shared is subjective,however a persons past can not be taboo.
The second advice I received was to shower him with compliments and elevate his Ego. This advice I found difficult to implement, since my major attraction to men is their confidence. However upon further consideration and testimonials I found this to be a very positive and effective approach to the situation.
i don't mind, i'll sit and wait
till the sun goes down
and comes back up again
cuz you're the best thing in my life
without you it just ain't right
so take as long as you like
i'll still be waiting"
Neyo.....
I wonder if Neyo was talking about a love gone sour?Knowing that poignant songs are all he ever sings, I think even my little niece would answer a yes to that question.
The circle of relationships and dating are tedious enough with all the issues that come with every boy meets girl story.
The added puzzle of dating a man fresh off the demise of his first major heartbreak is a herculean task to unravel. It comes with the added hassle of your insecurity, of the potential return to this love of his life, as well as the management of his healing process , from the scars left behind after Titanic sank,with you still coming off at the end as datable and not his new best pal.
I personally run east once I notice any signs of this situation, any form of wistfulness in the tone of his voice when referring to his ex,or excessive mention of her name regarding every topic,or extravagant requests and gestures still being granted to lil Miss "Created another insecure he will try to be a player" are tell tale signs for me to take a bow and exit. But I have been told my intolerance to mediocrity is my reason for being single.
To serve justice to open mindedness, I analyse the suggested reactions and tips to this situation that I have been offered. The first is to decline any further discussions of this past relationship. This advice came from my man eater friend Suliat. In fact I believe her exact reaction was:
"Lc, seriously? Why would u even tolerate a man talking to you about his ex. Honey she is out and you are in. He should be talking,eating,breathing you,unless you have not been putting your back to it"
Now I truly believe a relationship should start with open honest communication and stories of past relationships shared, often showcase a persons character and relationship mannerisms. The extent of details shared is subjective,however a persons past can not be taboo.
The second advice I received was to shower him with compliments and elevate his Ego. This advice I found difficult to implement, since my major attraction to men is their confidence. However upon further consideration and testimonials I found this to be a very positive and effective approach to the situation.
The third advice was to ensure a total and complete lack of similarities between your character/ mannerisms and that of the ex. Because the last thing you want to be is another woman's impersonator.
Now this, I completely agree with. So perfumes,dates,restaurants,fashion style,hair styles,sleeping arrangements,pet names and the works all have to be different. Never subject yourself to events or re-enactment of any memories that they shared.
My favourite piece of advice however was to take your time,cultivate a friendship first and trust your instincts. And never compromise on your self esteem or lower your expectations. This means if your instinct tells you he is not over his ex, he probably isn't, you are not just being paranoid.
Now this, I completely agree with. So perfumes,dates,restaurants,fashion style,hair styles,sleeping arrangements,pet names and the works all have to be different. Never subject yourself to events or re-enactment of any memories that they shared.
My favourite piece of advice however was to take your time,cultivate a friendship first and trust your instincts. And never compromise on your self esteem or lower your expectations. This means if your instinct tells you he is not over his ex, he probably isn't, you are not just being paranoid.
Settle for a friendship and move on. You deserve to be another mans leading lady and not his best supporting actress.
By Miss L.C
Friday, 12 February 2010
Baked Potato and Tuna.....
Thanks to watching the movie Julie and Julia, I have become more interested in trying new recipes and I promised to shaare my recipes with you. I bought 101 Low Fat Feasts, which so far is great. The recipes are easy, cheap and tasty. Its a great way to start cooking simple meals. I tried the baked potato and tuna casserole tonight and it turned out great so I thought its only fair to share it with my amazing readers! I hope you guys try it!
d
1)All you need is potatoes, cut in wedges with the skin left on. Put it in a baking dish and toss with oil, salt and thyme. Put in the oven for about 25mins at 200c.
2)While the popatoes are in the oven, chop onions, red, green and yellow peppers and fry in a pan. Add tinned chopped tomatoes and fry with whatever spices you desire.
3)Add the tuna to the tomato sauce when its done. Take out the potatoes and turn the sauce over the potatoes and toss until well covered4)Bake in the oven for about 15mins or until nicely browed, and serve.
Enjoy.
xoxo
Miss B
d
1)All you need is potatoes, cut in wedges with the skin left on. Put it in a baking dish and toss with oil, salt and thyme. Put in the oven for about 25mins at 200c.
2)While the popatoes are in the oven, chop onions, red, green and yellow peppers and fry in a pan. Add tinned chopped tomatoes and fry with whatever spices you desire.
3)Add the tuna to the tomato sauce when its done. Take out the potatoes and turn the sauce over the potatoes and toss until well covered4)Bake in the oven for about 15mins or until nicely browed, and serve.
Enjoy.
xoxo
Miss B
Thursday, 11 February 2010
A Lost Generation
I belong to the lost generation of Nigeria.
I am part of the youth that has been robbed of the opportunity to be proud of my country.
I was born just as things in Nigeria began to rapidly decline, after the hope that came with independence slowly began to look more and more like a distant dream.
I was born around the time Nigeria started suffering from the biggest brain drain in Africa, with young people trying to seek better opportunities left the country because they started to loose their hope in Nigeria.
My dad was not one of those people. He got a scholarship to study in France, and lived there for about 10 years but regardless of advice from his friends who are still scattered around Europe till today, decided that he had to go back to Nigeria to help his country develop its untapped potential and become one of the greatest countries in the world.
He said he had encountered a lot of foreign students from India, Malaysia, China and Egypt, all on government scholarships as well, who spoke of nothing but the ways they were going to go back home and improve things.
He was filled with so much hope, ambition, and dreams for his motherland, and also spoke of how things were going to improve as soon as democracy was instilled. Boy was he wrong.
My dad is one of those people that could never live anywhere else in the world, he is a Nigerian to the core, and believes in the Nigerian dream. But at the same time he is their biggest critic.
This post was inspired by our conversation last night, as I got a job, and I have decided to stay here for a while as opposed to going home.
And he said, the saddest thing about your generation is that you have been given no reason to be patriotic. My generation robbed you of the opportunity to believe in your country. You grew up in the age of degeneration, Nepa, water, fuel crisis, religious conflict, armed robbery, Niger delta, kidnapping, poverty, failing universities, strikes, bad roads, no health care, greed, selfishness, and the worst corruption humanly possible.
How can you believe in a country when this is all you have ever known. He said when he was growing up, yes they were poor, but so was everyone.
There was no mass accumulation of wealth that created a ridiculously wealthy upper class in the fastest time known to man.
There was a dream then that could be fulfilled with hard work-- go to school, get educated in a school that doesn't strike every week, with infrastructure that works and lecturers that care. Get a degree you worked for, not paid for or gotten through a number of disturbing ways and apply for a job.
Although the jobs were few and far between, they were chosen based on merits, and there was a chance to make something of yourself aka "the Nigerian dream"!
Don't get me wrong, there are people that are living out this dream everyday, but its harder with our generation because we have lost hope.
We have not lost hope in ourselves or our abilities, because the Nigerian spirit is too strong for that. The Nigerian music industry is the greatest example of that, an industry that is fuelled entirely by the resilience and talent of the youth.
But we have lost hope in Nigeria as a nation. When we think of our future, we don't think of how we can improve the country, but how we can improve ourselves in the country.
We see it as being out of our hands, the country is beyond what we as individuals can do to make it better. It doesn't help that the few people in Nigeria that have tried to do good have been made examples of. During military rule it was arrests of Ganni Fawemi, Abiola and death of Ken Saro-Wiwa and Dele Giwa.
During my time, the hell that Dora Akunyili, Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, El-Rufail and one of my icons Nuhu Ribadu have been put through proves that its not worth it to try and "change" Nigeria unless you are ready to die.
And Nigeria is definitely not worth dieing for. The deaths of Bola Ige, Mr Dipo Dina, and Funsho Williams, all show that people will make noise for maximum one week, no one will be arrested or be held accountable and whatever point you were trying to prove will die with you.
We live in a country where people don't vote because we believe our votes don't count. We do not protest about anything because we believe it is a waste of effort and nothing will be done about it. We do not give feedback or take part in citizenry because you as an individual do not matter. We do not count. Our opinion means nothing. What is going to happen will, and we have accepted that our hands are tied, if we even have hands at all.
So the million dollar question is what should my generation do? Do we keep holding on to this dream that "e go better" even when we know that it most probably will not. We seem to getting to a point where something really drastic has to happen before we rally up and say enough is enough.
At this point we have to ask ourselves, will I be willing to lay down my life for Nigeria and all it stands for?
Miss B
xoxo
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