Angels and Demons

She lifted her upper body up off the bed first, swivelled and dropped her feet to the ground. She scrambled around with her toes until she found the bathroom slippers where she had tucked it away. Slipping her feet into them, she picked her wrapper from the bedside stool where she had carefully folded it and wrapped it securely around her body.

She looked back at the bed where "Johnny" was still lying replete. Like a Boa Constrictor, he was sprawled out on her bed, his chest rising and falling and a stupid grin spreading all over his face.

She had begun to call them all "Johnny", it made no sense listening to the small talk they attempted to make during the long walk from the road, to the one room she occupied in the "face me i face you" compound. Her mind was always on one thing, always after one thing. As she walked languidly, a pace ahead of the Johnny, she would be mentally nilling off her bills against the agreed fee and calculating to see how many more she could accomodate before she could relax for the month.

Monthly rent -   5,000
Food.             - 20,000
Utilities.        -   3,000
Bus fare.       -  1,000
Condoms.       -   1,000
Clothing         - 10,000
Cosmetics.      -   1,500
Treats.           -   3,000

Sometimes, her bills threatened to overwhelm her, especially since she also had to save and send some money down to support her parents. That item on her budget alongside her projections for condoms always made her laugh out loud!

Her parents accepted her money thinking she was working as a "secretary" in a law firm in Abuja.

When her clients rejected the proferred condoms, she never argued with them. It was their choice to choose to play Russian Roulette with their health and lives. She knew she was as protected as she could ever hope to be....

E go better jare! No condition is permanent. If e no kill you, e happen make you learn lesson from am!

Johnny rolled over, got off the bed and walked up to her, attempting to enfold her in a hug but she stepped back and held out her hand. She had met her own part of the deal, his turn now....

He fumbled around and came up with his trousers, extricated his boxers from them and struggled into it. Putting on and zipping up the trouser, he fished deep into the back pocket, brought out his wallet and began to count out the shiny N200 notes. Silently, she counted along. Ten shiny pieces. N2,000. The market value for an hour with her.

Bus fare and condoms covered for the month.

As he stretched out the money and she reached out her hand to take it, he snapped the money back...

"Angela, why you dey do me like dis na? I don beg you make you leave dis pio-pio work wey you dey do. I love you, I wan marry you".

"I love you wen una dey use collect jara for ashi hand ba"?

She hissed at him and snatched the money out of his hands

"Love ko? Love ni! Na today we don dey hear love matter? Abeg leave matter for Mathias joor"!

Wetting her thumb on her tongue, she quickly counted through the money. Complete! She stood, arms folded across her breasts, feet tapping out time on the floor while she waited...

... and waited.

He stood, arms held out by his side, cutting a pitiable sight in his trousers, boxers showing just slightly above the waistline of his trousers. He was a clean shaven boy, with a small diamante studded earring in his right ear lobe. His side burns had been carefully carved and his mohawk of tight black curls stood out sharply against his extremely light complexioned skin. He was a fine boy. It was a bit ironical that he was here, pleading for some love out of her, a mere prostitute, he who could have any woman he wanted at the snap of a finger, he was THAT much of a hunk but.... they had history.

Her insistence on calling him Johnny always brought tears to his eyes...

His insistence on returning to her shanty regularly always brought tears to hers...

She recalled vividly the day she had made the mistake of sitting on the bed while waiting for him to dress and leave. Next thing she knew, he was on her, kissing her the way she had never allowed any of her other clients to. He had fondled her breasts and to her greatest surprise, she had found herself begin to respond to him. From struggling to push him off her, she had slowly begun to thaw until she sudddenly found all her resistance melting away from her, like wax from a candle placed too close to the fire.

That day, she had mentally stopped counting down the minutes in her head and he had opened her up to a new world of possibilities. He had refused to allow her use any of her well practised tricks on him and each time she had attempted to, he had gently pushed her back and continued to tease and thrill her. It was way beyond her wildest imaginations. She felt so vulnerable, like a little child once again.

The best words to describe what she felt would have been a little girl, running around in the rain, naked save for a pair of panties....

She had woken up with a start the next morning to the unfamiliar feeling of being cuddled. The strange familiarity of a heart thudding close to hers at first soothing, then with a start, she recollected herself and pulled herself out of his grasp. As she jerked up, he had sat up and reached out for her..

"Angel..."

"Johnny, abeg come wear cloth make you dey go. Ah don tell you say ah nor dey do TDB"

"Baby..."

"Nor Baby me joor, abeg abeg. Na who wan pay for all this time wey you dey here now ehn? You wan take style collect osho free?"

"Please dear", he scrambled around on the floor, retrieved his trousers and pulled out a wad of crisp N200 notes which he dropped on the bed by her side, "I will pay baby. Please come back here and let us talk"!

"Ah nor wan talk joor. Come dey go, you no know say time na money? Abeg, Johnny, come dey go make I arrange my life joor"!

He turned his back to shield the tears that suddenly sprang to his eyes and missed seeing the sudden flash of despair that flew across hers.

He had left that day and she had collapsed on the bed in tears.

Tears for dashed hopes and failed dreams...
Tears for stolen innocence....
Tears for tarnished virtues
Tears for shattered hopes and misplaced trust....

Some situations could never be remedied, but she was determined to make the best out of it. For herself and her son.....

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Watching her tapping her foot to an unknown rhythm, he felt emotions overwhelm him and reached out slowly for his undershirt and then slipped on his Polo Teeshirt, the straightness of the mallet held aloft by the horseback rider on the teeshirt an attestation to the fact that this was the real deal.

He could not for the life of him fathom what had led Angela down this path and it had come as a shock to him the first day he saw her plying her trade.

Driving past the girl leaning against the lamp post, he shook his head wryly and then almost ran into the car in front of him as his heart took a nosedive, straight into his rectum. He knew that face, as distinctive as the nose on his face. He recalled seeing that face on campus, an eager jambite being led from office door to office door by her parents, he a wizened 200 level student of the same department had chuckled to himself while he observed their slow progress.  He had walked up to them and offered help which she had shyly declined initially, but suddenly set adrift by her parents who had to rush back out of town to attend to other engagements, she had as shyly, walked up to him and requested to know if the offer for help was still open.

Roaring with laughter, he had taken her firmly by the hand and proceeded to sort out accomodation, registration, faculty dues, etc in record time. From then, they had been almost inseparable.

Even though he always felt his heart stirring within him, somehow, he was reluctant to sully the innocence that radiated from her with the actualisation of the thoughts running around in his own head and so he had hovered around her like an over protective elder brother while indulging on frequent short bursts of amorous relationships all over campus.

He knew his presence scared off all the campus lover boys flocking around her like bees around a honey pot. No one could precisely define the relationship between them but no one was willing to risk his ire and attempt a proper toasting. He could also see her gratitude for his "protection" as she always showed up bearing some cooked offering or the other. In addition to her sterling qualities and brilliant mind, she was a good cook.

He had it all mapped out, He would propose as soon as he graduated. That would ensure that during his one year of NYSC, she would be focused and secure in the knowledge that he was still there for her. Then immediately after his service year, when she would be graduating, they would hold the introduction and traditional marriage. The wedding proper would hold just before she was due to depart for her service year to ensure she would be posted back to his state. The future was well planned out, in his head at least. He had no fears of financial security, as the only child of two fiercely competitive business moguls, he had informed his parents that he would consolidate the businesses and run them as one as soon as he finished his NYSC.

As always happened to the best laid plans of mice and men, his parents had proposed a three month stint in the UK, US, Dubai and South Africa to gather research materials for his final year project. As an International Studies student, they felt the experience garnered from the trip would help flesh out his discussion and place it a world above others.

Angela's face crumpled when he told her.

"But Somtee, how am I ever going to cope without you"?

"Don't worry Angel, you will get by. I will make adequate arrangements to ensure you are well taken care of in my absence"

"But...."

"But me no buts!" He growled in the tones of Professor Amanyi, their Head of Department, and she collapsed in laughter.

Tipping her chin up with his hands, he looked deep into her eyes. "Listen my dear, wish me well okay? When I return, I will have a pleasant surprise waiting for you but you must assure me you will continue to do extremely well in your studies. Make me proud of you"

She nodded and he reached down and achingly, brushed his lips against hers. It took all his will power not to ravish her there and then, but the package was meant for him. Why pick at the wrappings?

When she came to see him off the next day, he plucked his gold crucifix off the chain on his neck, slipped off the chain on her neck and fixed the crucifix on it before placing it back on her neck. Turning her hand over in his palm, he slipped off the tiny gold ring she wore on her engagement finger and affixed it to his own chain before placing it back around his neck.

He smiled to himself. Simple gesture but now, he had the right measurement for the perfect engagement ring.

He handed her over to his best friend and room mate Ikechukwu, once again brushed his lips against hers, and got into the back seat of the car that would take him off on his adventure.

That was the last day he would ever set eyes on her.

Upon his return back to campus, Aikay could not give a reasonable account of her disappearance

"My guy, e be like say them say the girl papa want make she marry, me I no know"

"But I for marry her now", he brought out the platinum engagement ring with inset diamonds and showed it to his friend

"You know say women get light brain na. You see na, she no know that one na"

Something about Aikay's responses, something about the cavalier attitude did not quite ring true with him but he ignored the misgivings, resolving to travel down to her parents' house in search of her after his project defence.

She was such a brilliant girl and it seemed unlikely that she would abandon her studies in her final year and vanish into thin air. Her parents were quite comfortable and so the idea of an economic marriage did not quite sound right to him. Her phone lines were not going through and when he finally found the time to visit her home, was repelled by the sudden icy reception he received.

Three years on, he still wore the ring on the same gold necklace around his neck. He had had several relationships, but had sadly broken off each one in the nick of time. There was always a missing x factor. Somehow, his heart refused to give up on his Angel.

What then were the odds that having consolidated his parents' business as threatened, leaving them to oversee the administrative arms of each entity in Imo and moving off to the Nation's capital city to set up and run the headquarters, that he would run into Angel leaning against a street lamp?

What were the odds that taking a short cut to avoid traffic and nipping down a back lane, he would feel his heart suddenly leap out of his chest and gallop six years back down memory lane?

He reversed the car to where she stood and as she leaned in through the window, he saw first recognition, then shock and finally disbelief chase themselves across her face.

"Angel"?

"Johnny, short time or TDB"?

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When he left the room, shutting the door behind him, Angel slowly unfolded her arms, allowing the tension to leave her body.

It was unfair that fate had to treat her this way. From that day he had kissed her on campus, her heart knew. It had known long before then, but it had not been sure the feeling was mutual. When he brushed his lips against hers, her heart took off on a wild tango. She had resolved to wait and had cherished the crucifix he gave her. She ran her hand around her neck and fished it out, still on the necklace where he had placed it, an unwilling spectator to all the depravities she had indulged in, yet a silent reminder of a love long lost!

His was the last face she had expected to see trolling the streets that day. She had been shocked but had succeeded in masking the emotions fleeting across her face. When he persisted, coming out of his car to grab her arm as if in an attempt to shake some recognition out of her, she had raised an alarm and her "colleagues" had quickly gathered around her, eager to shield her from the violent john. He had immediately let go of her, promising to be back.

It was ironic that she had taken such firm measures to protect her self and her son: she never followed the Johnnys home. It was either back to her shanty or no deal. After being interrupted mid session by her then two year old son who had suddenly woken up needing water, she had always arranged to drop him off with any of her colleagues who was "off work", she never cased a street alone and never accepted money on the streets; yet the one thing she had failed to protect was what betrayed her the most now - her heart.

She sighed as she cast her minds back to the events that happened after Somtee left her with Aikay

She had sought the privacy to read that she always had in his room and had used her key to open the door. Aikay was lying on his bed reading and she had greeted him, exchanged the usual banters and sat on Somtee's bed to read. After some hours of reading, she had suddenly begun to miss him and sniffing back tears, was surprised to see Aikay squatting in front of her, offering her a hanky. She took it and blew her nose while he kept "comforting" her by running his hands down her laps, thighs and back. When his hand moved too dangerously close to her breast, she had packed up her books and hurriedly made for the door. He followed and walked her down to her hostel, pleading with her not to misunderstand, that he was just trying to comfort her. She kept nodding and reassuring him there was no problem, but she just needed to get back to her room as quickly as possible.

Since then, she carefully avoided him. Sneaking into the room when she needed to read only when she was sure he would be out of the room. Sometimes, the room would be untidy and she would quickly straighten it up before settling down to read. At other times, hungry herself, she would make a quick meal, leaving a sizable portion for him. She would ignore any obvious gifts left lying around for her and since she had a good idea of their lecture schedules, would leave well before he was due back from lecture.

That fateful day, knowing he had a three hour lecture, she had let herself in early in the morning and sat on the bed to read. She must have dozed off because it was the pressure on her wrists and ankles that woke her up...

Aikay and four of his classmates, one anchored on each of her wrists and ankles, her skirt pushed up above her waist

As she attempted to struggle, Aikay pulled out a sharp and dangerous looking knife and placed the point against her throat

Immediately, the struggle drained out of her, the scream dried up in her throat.

Cussing, he tore open her shirt,

"Harlot. You think i am my friend that you deceive with your innocenti look. Today na today. We go teach you a bitter lesson. Harlot. You go dey tempt man pikin anyhow. Idiot"

He tore off her panties and went to enter her,  felt the resistance and deflated. As he looked up in confusion and met her eyes, he saw the proud determined look in her eyes. They would take her body but not her pride, she would not scream or shout for mercy. She would not close her eyes or blank out the incident. As they raped her body, she wanted them to look into her soul and see an uncowed being.

The anger rose again in Aikay and he forced his way into her. Spent, he moved aside and took one of her ankles. Again, she kept her eyes open, not a single whimper escaped her. Their sounds and raucuous laughter died down as each took their turn defiling her. For each, she coldly stared into their souls and they each went through the motions, because they had to validate themselves to their cronies. As each stood up from her, they could neither meet her eyes nor the eyes of their cohorts.

Since Aikay never mentioned the fact that that rape also doubled as her deflowering, none of them could guess the impact the brutal assault had left on that innocent soul. How in one second, she had metamorphosed from the innocent naive Angel to the hardened fighter they left behind.

She had gone back to her room, packed up her belongings and left the campus same day.

No explanations given to anyone.

She had told her parents she had finished with course work and they believed her, until the vomiting spells started. At her mum's insistence, she went to the hospital where after a series of tests, she was handed two results.

Going home with both results in her hand, she did not know how to approach her parents. She kept putting it off until she began to grow and show

Her angry father had packed her off to the village to stay with her grandmother while she put to bed

Three months after delivery, tired of the taunts, jibes and naggings from her grandmother, she had simply picked up her bag and her baby one day and walked out of the compound. There was no clear destination in her mind until she got to the motor park. At the park, she boarded the nearest bus headed to Abuja and after two nights of sleeping rough on the streets, bumped into a kind hearted lady of the streets who permitted her sleep in her room when she did not have an overnight john, or in the compound when she did. Making the decision to join the trade was easy for her. She simply reached towards that same resolve that helped her face her ordeal unflinchingly, and made the decision to join in her benefactor's profession in order to secure some form of sustenance for herself and her son.

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She walked across the compound and knocked on her friend's door, the door opened to admit her and she walked in to pick up her sleeping son.

Back in her room, she kicked the door shut and walked across to lay him on the bed. Straightening up, she was almost at the door when it burst wide open. Somtee stood there, framed against the door post, breathing like he had jut survived a fall off a very high cliff.

"Angel, it has been almost one year of these games since I found you. I am at breaking point now. If you do not talk to me today, I cannot guarantee you that I will live to see tomorrow"

He saw the flicker of fear pass across her face and moved away from the door to grasp her by the arms.

"My Love, we end this today. Up till now, i have played by your rules. You have agreed to see me only as a paying client and I have obliged. Coming everyday, sometimes paying for more than one hour just to be in your company and keep you off the streets. I apologise for the times I have allowed my body get the better of me and taken advantage of you, but I swear, I cannot hold back from you a minute more. You had such a bright promising future, a family that doted on you and a man that loved you. Yes, you knew I loved you, still do, I can see my crucifix still hanging around your neck. How could you have left all that for this...."

As he spoke, his hand swept around the room, his eye followed suit, fell on the sleeping form on the bed and his mouth fell open, staring......

Angela slowly walked to the door, locked it and walked back to Somtee. She took him by the hand and led him to the bed. As he slumped into it, she pulled out the small stool, placed it by his feet and sat sideways with her profile to him. As usual, since the day of the rape, she reached within her and found the strength to confront the task ahead of her...

As she began to narrate her story, her brash street attitude dropped and once again, he could see the naive little baby he had had the priviledge of knowing way back when....

Her voice, that voice that always melted him back in the days, softly whispering what needed to said...

All her anguish and inner turmoil poured out, her self hatred for being naive enough to keep going back to the room after that first clumsy attempt by Aikay.... but she missed Somtee so much and somehow being in his room was her comfort zone, like a well known and loved blanket wrapped around her....

Her regret for not screaming out and taking a chance that Aikay would have killed her and gotten it over with (he flinched at that one but thanked God for the inner strength that made her go through the ordeal and survive it - His Survivor)....

The beatings, neglect, taunts and naggings, first at the hands of her parents who felt she had let them down and set a bad example for her younger ones, then at the hand of her grandmother who took out the shame of caring for a great grand child without having first taken wine on behalf of her grandchild on her....

She spoke softly, sometimes he strained to hear her. He turned once or twice to look at the sleeping child whenever she made reference to him and surprisingly, all he could feel in his heart towards the boy was love. Pure undiluted, swelling love. He even caught himself thanking God no one would have the guts to step up and fight his claim to this child.

Yet, he felt something had been left unsaid....

As he pulled her up and molded her into his body, she came willingly this time, she had reverted to the sweet Angel he used to know. There was no fighting, no holding back, no reserves and yet......

She pulled back and looked beyond him to her son sleeping on the bed. Her mind went back to the day she picked the results from the hospital. What one report had predicted lay, thumb in mouth, softly snoring on the bed. She walked over to the box on the cupboard, pulled it down and pulled out an envelope. As she walked back to him, she heard the doctor's words playing back, over and over in her mind....

Low CD4 count
High Viral Load
Strain 1
Anti Retrovirals

... She held out the piece of paper to him, the second test results, the contents of whicb she had never breathed to any other soul dead or alive. As he took it, she took a step back, bowed down her head, and waited..........

Thank you for reading

The Call

Verity shook her head as if to clear it.

She glanced around her as it dawned on her that once again, she was the sole audience to the performance going on in her head.

Discordant yet rhythmical, the tunes rose and fell.

And then, it began to crescendo,

Now it rose, now it fell. Again and again, she tried to banish it by gently shaking her head. To no avail, the rhythm persisted. It was here to stay. It pulsated with every beat of her heart and as she looked around at the expectant faces staring enquiringly at her, she knew she needed a respite, and fast.

Beyond the heads, she glanced at her assistant standing at the back of the conference room, behind the whirring projection equipments, and mouthing to her:

"What's up?"

She shook her head at the assistant and reached out a shaky hand to the glass of water standing beside the laptop on the podium. She took a sip and then another, then without pausing for air, gulped down the entire contents of the glass. She willed her mind to take control of her shaky hands as she poured the rest of the water in the bottle into the glass and again, gulped the entire contents down.

As if in response to a magic word, the rhythm sharply subsided: finally, reluctantly, crawling to a halt. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead as she struggled to focus her eyes back on the group seated in front of her. She needed this deal to seal her promotion, almost as badly as she needed air itself, and knew she would need to call up her best skills to talk around what just transpired.

"Sorry", she trilled to her clients, "Seems like a little piece of that marvellous fried fish we had for lunch went down the wrong way".

She flashed her hundred watt smile at the baffled group and turned her attention briskly back to the projected slides.

"Now, I would like to crave your indulgence to flip through the documents you hold to slide 18. Here is where we look at the SWOT of the proposed alliance between your firms and how we intend to nurture a seamless transfer into a mega holding that would best mine the inherent USPs of the individual firms. These we would then consolidate into a mega ......"

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As she turned into the shopping complex on her way back from work, she sighted the couple on the rubbish dump. She had first noticed them about three months ago when they had suddenly materialised as if from thin air and proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as you may please. Setting up home amidst the stench and rot, the male unit would lay back and stretch out his legs. Sometimes, he would sit up suddenly, look up into the stars and commence an excited and highly animated interchange with some unseen being. He would fling his hands around to buttress his point, now he would scream, now he would listen. Now he would curse and spit and at some other time, he would seem almost penitent.

In the background, the female unit would hustle and bustle, rummaging through the shopping mall food court's contribution to the rubbish dump. From her scavengings, she would put together a meal fit for a king, arrange them in any receptacle that came to hand and take them over to her spouse. Going down on her knees, she would coyly present it with a fluorish, remaining there until, rant exhausted, he would look down and notice her.

Washing his hands in an imaginary bowl of water, he would tuck in, selecting one or two morsels and delicately placing them in her mouth, he would tickle her chin, tousle her har and stroke her dimples. Suddenly, in the middle of the meal, he reached out and gave her a sharp jab with his heels, sending her tumbling off the rubbish heap. He fished around in his mouth, extracted something alien he had encountered in his meal, maybe a piece of meat more decomposed than its ilk, and proceeded to wave it at her, shouting curses and threatening brimstone.

Verity smiled to herself as she got out of her car and walked briskly into the supermarket.

Watching the couple in their lucid lunacy, was akin to a night at the movies. The cosy comfort of their interaction, always perversely heartwarming. An attempt to intervene at the instance of the mall owners and relocate them from the rubbish heap by the state welfare authorities had met with such stiff resistance and when they had eventually been forcefully taken away, had resurfaced after a couple of days, and continued "life" as if the interruption never happened.

Shopping done, Verity stepped up to her car and inserted the key in the lock. At that instant, the skin on the back of her neck prickled and she turned to find herself staring, across the distance, into the eyes of the madman. As if transfixed, they locked gazes for a stretch of time. In the far reaches of her mind, the call started.

She could not tear her eyes off him.

Suddenly, he stood and moved towards her. That movement seemed to break the spell. Hurriedly, she turned the key in the lock and tore open the car door, flung her shopping into the car, launched herself after them and dragged the door shut. Pinning the lock just in time.

Heart racing, she fearfully glanced at the face pressed up close to the window. He jabbered at her, motioning for her to open the door, turn down the window, he hammered on the glass with both hands and attempted to snatch open the door. As she glanced around for help, he ran around the car towards the passenger side and seizing the moment, Verity threw her car in reverse and screeched out of the mall.

The sound in her head conflicted with her racing thoughts and her heartbeat seemed magnified so much that she could separate its loud beatings from the clashing rhythm in her head.

As she turned the car towards home, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him, standing with palms open wide, face turned towards heaven and wailing a lament. She hoped the mall authorities would intervene and get them off that rubbish heap before morning

===========================================================================================================================================

Driving into her compound, for once since that crazy day had begun, a wide smile stretched across Verity's face. The sight of the Silver Sienna parked in her compound, engine running, always brought a smile to her face. She slid her car smoothly in behind it and as she turned off the ignition, opened the door and stepped out of the car, she stepped straight into the arms of love. Her love!

She gazed up expectantly and he obliged. Careless of prying eyes, he took her lips into his mouth and kissed her like she was the giver of life.

After a few seconds, he released her and stepped back, holding her at arm's length.

"I missed you my love"

"Missed you too my own. How was your day?"

"Great my love. Yours?"

"As well as could be, since I spent the whole day thinking of you..." She flashed her smile as she answered and leaned back into the car to retrieve her bag and shopping.

He took the car keys from her and motioning her towards the house, began to pick the shopping from the car.  Once inside the house, he pushed the door closed with his feet, dumped the bags on the floor, ignoring her shriek of "careful, there are eggs in there", and walked purposefully towards her. Once again, he took her into his arms and proceeded to, as he always laughingly called it, kiss her properly.

In his arms, she always felt safe. Safe from the call that followed her around all day, safe from the cares and worries of the world, safe from the "big girl, professional, working class lady" persona, safe from her private thoughts.

She was to him, a heady scent. Rising and filling his senses when he least expected, yet once his back was turned, he wanted more of her. He could never get his fill of her. One year into their relationship and the passion between them was still as raw as ever.

He had intended it to be a conquest. Woo her, wine her, win her. Once he had breached the castle defence, he intended to continue on his merry way. He had not reckoned on love.

With her calm, mature ways, intelligent and spirited conversations and instinctive actions, he had found himself falling deeper and deeper into her spell until one day, he turned around and realised he was trapped. It was sweet surrender as he released himself into a proper relationship with as wide a range of feelings as he had prevented himself from ever experiencing in the past.

This was bliss.

This was heaven.

This was..... home.

He broke the kiss, stepped back and surveyed her once again. He had never been one for the skinny girls and her buxomy confidence always knocked him for six.

"Nke mu nwa"

He leaned in for another kiss, slower and more sensuous this time, his hands began to undo the buttons in her shirt. Soon, the shirt lay on the floor and his hands found the clasp and zip at the back of her skirt. As the skirt pooled around her ankles and she stepped out of them, he disengaged from her lips and began to trail kisses down her body, heading towards her secret place.

He pulled her down into the soft pile carpet, pulled up her knees and sunk his face inbetween her hips. Her back arched in pleasure and the moans escaping her lips grew louder and louder as he teased her special spot. Finally, he looked up at her and held her gaze as he began to disrobe. He held her, still clad in her lacy, low cut bra and thongs, just the way he liked it, against his now naked body for a few seconds, then slowly, he plunged into pleasure.

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Verity suddenly sat up as if doused in ice water. It was just gone past midnight. At first, she could not place a finger on what had pulled her out of the deep slumber. She looked around and slowly brought the room into focus. They were still lying on her living room floor, passion spent, clothes strewn all over the place, shopping still lying where they had been abandoned on the floor. From one of the bags, she could see a trail of egg albumen. Tammy was still deep in slumber. His arm in which she had been cuddled a few seconds earlier, still flung out beside him.

All seemed normal, yet nothing was.

It had begun again. The call in her head. The wild rhythm, the crazy beats. She looked around her in terror, searching for the source of this music that now seemed to be playing far within the deepest enclaves of her soul, now without. She shook her head furiously trying to clear it and suddenly, she felt a pull.

The pull.

She felt herself lifted as if by unseen hands and reaching out tremblingly, she unlocked the door and stepped into the enveloping arms of the velvety rich darkness that lay beyond.

Now she jerked along as if manipulated by a puppeteer's string, now she tried to resist, but the pull was stronger than her. She screamed and shrieked until her vocal cords felt sore, yet no sound escaped her lips. The noise was all around her, yet nobody heard but her. The cacophony within swelled until the rhythm began to play out in the gyrations of her body. Now hestitant, now determined. Now arhythmic, suddenly composed. Eyes darting helterskelter, the mind searching for escape from the clutches of the call, the heart pressing on, following the pull to.....

Whatever awaited beyond.

Blissfully unaware, that in her bra and thongs, with her voluptuous and plush figure, hers was indeed a sight for sore eyes.

===========================================================================================================================================

At the break of dawn, three figures were seen slowly making their way out of the town. On closer inspection, the first two were the couple from the shopping mall dungheap, cradling and cuddling a third, slightly familiar figure, dressed in a shabbily poked through garbage can liner, underneath which the faint outlines of a high end shop lingerie set could be seen. Head clasped in her hands, she went.... willingly, hestitantly, sometimes she would stop and look back as if searching for something left behind, then she would jerk as if responding to a pull, a call.... and then plough resolutely ahead.....

===========================================================================================================================================

Tammy struggled out of sleep as the alarm shrilled. Groggily, he reached out to pull Veri closer into his embrace. They always had a few minutes after the alarm went off each morning to snuggle, and for him to get his "Veri fix" for the day. He fumbled around a bit and when he realised she was not there, he sat up, switched on the light and noticed the disarray in the room. Everything was exactly where it had been abandoned while they gave in to the passion yesterday but for one small detail, the door was thrown wide open....

Shura the tailor, shew me a dress...

"Welcome to dressmaking 101. Today, I hope to teach you the rudiments of being a dress maker par excellence, catering to the stars and wannabes! Producing copies from the pages of local and international magazines and generally dressing the fashionable and clueless alike. By the time we are through with this class, you would have properly grasped what it takes to play in the most fluid and unregulated sector of the Nigerian market and any altruistic customer centric notions you signed up with would have been properly realigned."

"Thank you very much sir. Sir, I came with my measuring tape and thimble and..."

"Measuring tape ke? Who asked you? See, forget all those things you heard outside and those impressions you came in with. This is the real deal here!"

"Now, first and foremost, the first time customer is your most important customer. No matter who is wedding tomorrow. No matter who needs the aso-ebi for their great grand mother's second burial in the next two days. Forget about that charlatan whose clothes you have been stalling over producing for the past four months and have been promising "tomorrow, tomorrow", at first glance of a likely maga to join their fold, do all in your power to suade the prospect into your lair. As soon as he comes in, begin to pull out catalogues and samples. Show him that cloth you just bought from a boutique, intending to take apart and study the style. Fish out that sample tbe lady who came looking for you last week with two mobile policemen in tow had brought in for you to replicate..."

Scribbling furiously,"Yes sa!"

"Tell him those were your creations!"

"Interesting Sir"

"Be ni! Show her a picture of Rita Dominic in the latest Encomium or Fashion and Style, lower your voice so that your enemies of progress do not hear the secret you are about to divulge, and let him know that you made the style! Yes ke! Who wan try international tailor like you! You usually take orders from as far away as Alaska. You have not been to London yet, but all the ankara that is worn on the streets of London was made either by you or one of your proteges!"

"Ha Sir, but is that really the truth?"

"Cammon, shat up ya maut dia. " Mimicking her, "Ish dat lilly the truth? Eejit! The truth does not really matter in this our business. Our stock in trade is half truths and whole lies! The blatanter the better! Ish dat lilly... see her mouth. Are you a learner?"

"Sorry Sir"

"Sorry for yaself! See, the trick is to lure them in, unsuspectingly. Play up to their egos and pamper their desire to be identified with the rave of the moment, albeit through the pages of the fashion magazines. Like the spider, spin your web cunningly around your fly. "Come into my parlor..." all you need from them is to take that first step and hand over the material to you. Chikena!"

"I see!"

"Yes o, treat that first time customer like a queen. Pull out all the stops, ensure you tailor the dress to her precise measurements. Produce a replica of the catalogue design that far outstrips the original in visual stimulation, add an extra flair that would make her stand out and be the centre of attraction at the proposed event. Finish her cloth two whole weeks to deadline, call her cellphone and offer to deliver the design to her home, office or place of business. Deliver the clothes with your tape rule hanging around your neck, a pencil tucked behind your ear and a piece of blank paper sticking out of your back pocket. Also arrive with one or two catalogues in case she turns diva on you and decides to change the style and ensure that every little scrap of remnant material must be lovingly folded and humbly returned. Be ready and willing to retake measurements, take apart a perfect outfit and redesign it at a moment's notice. No demand is too much or request too minute for a first timer."

"But sir, why the emphasis on first timers?"

"Because, they do not know you very well yet and will eagerly spread the news about this "different" tailor they just "discovered" to all their friends and associates. Have you ever seen a tailor engaged in marketing? Walking around showing off his designs to people. No! Our first timers spread the news for us. See, our industry runs a revolving door model. As disgruntled customers troop out, eager magas troop in but anyhow wey e be, man must cover nakedness so therefore, tailor must toh continue to dey shew cloth."

"Exciting analyses Sir. But what happens when a customer returns a second time?"

"Ah mah dia, that is where your real skills as a job man begin to show. If she returns alone, render the same service as you did before, but no need to trip over yourself rendering excellent service. Any slight lapses will be magnanimously forgiven since the memories of your initial coup are still fresh. If he returns with a friend, don't fawn over the prospective maga. In fact, ignore the friend and reel in your returnee with another superb service. That will ensure a third visit and guarantee you a new maga in their friend."

"Truly? Hah sir, I am learning a lot today o. I never knew that..."

"Shet up u! Huhn. See her. I am revealing the secrets of the masters to you, so just be quiet, listen and learn! Now, if the customer returns a third time you have a confirmed maga and now is the time to show them where the stool of ughu akpolokpolo the first and second is stored".

"Hah!"

"Yes o! As soon as you take her measurement and she leaves your shop, you have two options: the first, which is a considerable waste of time in my candid opinion, is to actually shape the cloth to meaurement and design, tie the pieces together with any old scrap of cloth and then throw the whole thing into the graveyard of abandoned materials behind you. Serious waste of time, but it at least guarantees you that the customer cannot take that material back or take it to another tailor. We know ourselves for this line na and no tailor worth his onions will dare to collect pieces material already cut by a "fashion designer". So, anywhere your customer like make e rake go, e no get choice but to sew the cloth finish for your hand!"

"Yea Sir. Na sooooo? The second option nko"?

"The second optionis to throw the uncut material into afore mentioned graveyard and await the angry arrival of the customer with afore mentioned policemen three months after you have missed deadline and the customer has had to attend the occassion for which the outfit was planned in jeans and tee shirt or off color aso-ebi! Only apply this second rule if the customer reduced your expectations by a few naira, did not offer you soft drinks when you went to deliver the cloth, left you standing with the mai guard while her housemaid went back and forth with the dresses or did not refer a new maga to you. These categories of customers are evil and need to be taught a stern lesson on how to handle fragile and fluid professionals like us!"

"Hmmmmmm...."

"Now for those you decide to benevolently sew the clothes for, carefully note the following:

1: Always wait three weeks after deadline to sew the clothes. Some of these customers think they are wise and in trying to outsmart us, will give us a deadline that is two weeks BEFORE when they actually need the cloth. Cunny man die, cunny man bury am!
2: When you finally decide to sew the cloth, never under any condition whatsoever, use the agreed design or measurements. Sew any one wey enter ya church mind! Use lepa meaurement sew cloth for orobo and vice versa. When the customer complains tell them: Ah Oga, e be like say you add (lose) weight o! This tactic further assists us checkmate those oversabbe people that will haggle price with us, or give a deadline that is almost two months ahead of when they need the cloth. Who no wise?
3: Hand over the most expensive materials to your apprentices to sew while you relax with one leg on top of your sewing machine and a bottle of agbo jedi in your hand, a toothpick fishing out the debris of the abula meal you just ate from your rotting molars, while you debate the private antics of your favorite Africa Magic Yoruba stars. Don't worry about them spoiling the cloth. They inevitably will! When that happens, just make yourself scarce when the customer comes to pick her cloth
4: Stop picking calls from customers whose materials have spent over a fortnight in your shop. Na wetin dey worry them self wey dem dey call you everyday like say you be their first born. That aunty that you have held her clothes for over 6 months no longer disturbs you with phone call how much less them? Nigerians are generally an impatient lot and part of our job specifications is to teach them the virtues of patience. Shior!
5: Always collect advance from the customer for the purchase of "sekwence" (sequins), "landing" (lining), "korstay" (gumstay), and whatever else comes readily to mind. Soon as the customer leaves your shop, use the money to buy abula with roundabout, amala and agbo jedi. Man must wack! When next the shameless customer comes to harrass you over collecting advance and not sewing your cloth, explain to her that the advance was not enough. Collect more money from her and apply the funds to the same noble cause you applied the initial one. Nothing me ga!
6: Only ever begin to sew the cloth when the customer has visited your shop once or twice and shouted, returned once in the company of her friends and threatened to seize your machine head, and makes a repeat visit with armed MOPOLS. Only when you sight the MOPOL are you permitted to turn out a perfect dress in record time. Wicked people that can call MOPOL for you are capable of evil. Evil People! Fire burn satan!
7: When disturbance from impatient and evil customers, spurred on by the enemies of progress that surround your shop gets too much, change location! Find another shop! If you get christian mind, leave their material with the new owner of the shop. If not, relocate with it. By the time they work out your new address, they go don loyal or humble or else, they will arrive with MOPOL. As usual, when you see MOPOL, be wise! Do not argue, do not quarrel. Immediately stand up from your post-abula stupor and turn out an exquisite design in record time with perfect recall of material, measurement and specifications. Magnanimously refuse to be paid for the service, but only if you see MOPOL.

Don't entertain the fear that your customer will leave you and go to all those shakara fashion designers, some of whom even have university degrees. Na the same blood dey for every tailor vein. In fact, when they have paid tens of thousands upon which their cloth no show, they will happily return to you, at least for your side, they can be assured that you can never charge them too much!

P.S: There are two categories of customers the above rules should never apply to: Those who live in or around barracks or look suspiciously like wives of uniformed men, and those who live in houses guarded by MOPOLS or soldiers. Always treat them like first timers even if they are visiting your shop for the 50th time or else avoid them like a plague".

"Ehehn? Why Sir?"

"Why? Because!"

"Because what Sir?"

"Just because mah friend? Are you kweshioning me? Don't you know that...." Ducks under table at the sound of approaching footsteps and irate voices, frantically motioning apprentice to feign ignorance of his whereabouts.

Down the lane..

*sigh*

Watching the young girls contort themelves into every shape imaginable under the sun, I could not help the sigh that escaped from my lips!

*free education alert* - sigh = hmmmmmmm; hiss = mtchewwwww!

And no, my sigh was not borne of any jealous or envious desire to contort my bulk so willfully. My sigh bothered on amazement and a little bit of disgust thrown in for good measure. The girls all fell within the age bracket of 5 -10 (who else has noticed that from 10, our smallies have started forming "bigz gials" for us and find the art of dancing in parties extremely childish)? The girls were also dancing to some sort of music, the likes of which I am highly reluctant to class under rock, pop, funk, r&b, minor erotica or highlife.

For want of a better moniker, I will call the music "rofuarrrohipop"!

The jerky movements were reminiscent of someone going into an epileptic fit. Now they would crouch down and at the command of the unseen wailer, *sigh*, they would jump up and reach their hands "up to the skayi, to the skayi". Sincerely, I promise you, that was the only phrase in that song that made meaning to me. The rest either sounded like some form of gibberish, or else there was some sort of falsehood stated on my birth certificate as my tired old ears felt like they belonged in another century long past and were unwilling participants in this audio visual time travel my eyes had chosen to embark on.

Now the dancers lean forward and stick out their underdeveloped bakkasis and begin to wind them furiously. Now they combine some weird looking arm, hand, shoulders and leg movement, I fear for the mental health of their knee and ankle joints. *double sigh*. Since one of these eager contortionists is my very own small madam, I resolve to look on the bright side since she is getting some sort of exercise out of this after all and the benefits to me would be a temporary reduction in her current rapacious, voracious appetite, an early bedtime after a warm bath and an assurance that she would sleep as soundly as you may wish.

Still, I could not help taking a brief trip down memory lane and reliving those days when music was music and you were made a star, not by noting how many eardrums were pierced by the cacophony of decibel defying sounds you could produce from your drum set, or how many nude or near nude ladies could be found contorting in your music videos;  not by how close your music videos could flirt with porn without actually being labeled as such; or how high any of the male lead vocals could jump and scream while ensuring they were as fully clothed as eskimos in the deepest reaches of Alaska, while fondling and admiring suspicious looking girls looking like they wandered into the wrong set on their way to shoot a hollywood beach scene.

Those were the days when we had an 80 leaves notebook reserved for penning down the lyrics of our most cherished songs which we eventually learnt by heart and entertained our selves with singing them when the fancy caught us.

Ah, I remember with nostalgic feelings, Phil Collins, Lionel Richie, Michael Bolton, Boys to Men, Onyeka Onwenu, Christie Essien, Felix Lebarty (The lover boy), Mandy Brown, Abami Eda himself, etc...

Of course, there were those who still hammered out gibberish in tune to music, but back then, they were the exception, rather than the rule.

Today, attempt to write out lyrics to songs by some of our homegrown artistes and half way through, you would begin to wonder at what point you missed the program!

Chances are, it would sound either like the lyrics to an adult multiple x rated hard core movie, or it would sound something like...

"Emerememe dancy alingo. E e yah"

"Something something something ua goody bag o"

"Poropotom kpom kpom, awusha awusha"

I recall a couple of years back at a friend's housewarming party, we had gotten into the thick of the party when suddenly, my daughter walked up to me and asked,

"Mummy, what is the meaning of poropotom, ashawo".

I blushed a deep aubergine, well red is unlikely as I am milk chocolate toned, and directed her to the house warmer since she owned the house, was playing the music and should therefore strategically  advantaged to explain better than I could, what those lyrics meant. I also resolved silently then, that however interesting or rave of the moment the music was, when in my company, my daughter would only listen to good wholesome gospel music, or only those secular music I would not be ashamed to explain the lyrics to. The worst for me are the songs crooned by my ethnic brazzer aka "flavour tonight!"

Unfortunately, by dint of association, some of the music and dance steps still filter past the sensors and get embedded in her impressionable young mind and she sees her mates digging it out on the dance floor, knows she can probably best them at it and jumps up to prove it. Poor old mummy, otherwise known as "Le Moi" on the other hand, cringes at the very suggestive natures of the dance steps and trying not to be a spoil sport, lets her dance it out and then holds the all Important pre sleep jaw jaw on the pros and cons, the whys and wheretofores of waist winding dances.

Seriously mothers, are the lyrics of the songs our children sing and dance along to something we would feel proud if they stepped out in a sitting room full of our peers and proceeded to recite? If you cringe at the thought of it, then they probably should not be listening to it.

The dances they watch on the tv and proceed to mimic at parties and events, are they dances we can proudly beat our chest and affirm to have not only been taught by us, but is indicative of how good our musical ears are and how nimble dancers can be traced back far way back in our lineage?

Would we feel exceedingly proud if our daughters dressed the way some of their idols dress in the music videos? Do we actually give thought to the fact that like the sponge, their brains are soaking up all that they see, the eye still being the gateway to the mind?

Have we considered the fact that these music videos objectify and sexify womanhood and reduced them to little more than quivering bottoms and jiggling waists? Do we really want our daughters to grow up believing that where dressing is concerned, the less you can find to put on, the more attractive you appear to the opposite sex who in the meantime, are permitted to cover every inch of their bodies, down to heavy socks and shoes, hoods and hats covering the heads, gloves on the hands, etc! Or would we feel accomplished when we raise sons who view women as sex objects to be pawed and mauled over and discarded as soon as a more daringly dressed one walks past our line of vision?

Little wonder at the rising rate of child rape and molestation by fellow children (in some instances, even siblings), and the lax attitude to morality that is evident whichever way we turn.

We have complained enough about how the present generation of teenagers and twenty somethings have gone to the dogs in thoughts, words and deeds and yet daily, we subconsciously train those that would take over from them in attaining deeper levels of moral decadence.

Let us resolve in this speed of light paced world we find ourselves in, to watch a little more closely, activities our children are engaged in. What do they listen to? What are they reading? What do they watch? Whom are they associating with? What family values do their associations have? If they are still at the age where as Africans you can step in and reshape, remould and restrict in order to redirect, have no shame or fears in doing that. If they have however grown past that age but are still within your sphere of influence, utilise it wisely - have a sit down discussion to reassess values and pray... a lot!

*dragging my weary bones off to bed*, *old fuddy duddy like me*

P.S: Just for fun, which song takes you the furthest down memory lane? Can you remember the lyrics to it? If yes, please share!
       Which present day song gets your goat the most? You may not want to mention the artist's name, but you can hum the most irritating, with a word or two thrown as a clue.

The gift that keeps on giving

It was obviously a "guy's" room. Clothes were scattered all over the floor and hung from every possible appendage in the room. The bed was unmade and from the looks of it, the last time it had ever heard the word make, was when the carpenter said to his apprentice, "Let us make a bed"!

The stench from the ensuite toilet was overwhelming and when I dared to open the door and peep inside, I could feel the jellof rice of two christmases ago begin to rush up into my throat. I stifled a grimace, slowly backed out of the room and stood outside to wait.

Since I had walked in barefoot, I felt it was prudent to wipe my feet before introducing them back into my slip ons. When I lifted said feet, the gunk that had accumulated under was enough to plaster a modest two bedroom bungalow in the heart of Abuja.

I shook my head sadly and sat on a seat in the parlor and proceeded to wait. Minutes later, the dashing young man stepped out of his room and he was every ladies' dream. Tall, dashing, debonair! Even chocolatey complexion, nice sputes, well polished shoes, perfectly scented. It didnt matter that the only car he could boast of was a trekedese benz, he was every woman's dreamboat. You would pick him over and over again if given the choice.

Well people, that was not a fable, but a real life incident.

It is a sorry fact that more often, we concentrate on "training" our daughters on how to wait hand and feet on the man and forget that, especially in these present days, a man also needs to be able to cater for himself and keep house and self clean without relying on a long string of ever present girl friends, each striving to prove to him that they were "properly trained", and therefore "good wife material",  to maintain some semblance of dignity.

In my dating days, the instant deal breaker was the condition of the guy's room/house. It was more important to me than materialistic achievements or physical appearances.

I can actually recall a friend whose 10 year old daughter would stand on a stool and get faithful instructions on how to cook soup and became such an expert at things of the house you sometimes could not tell when her mother had an input and when she did not. Her 12 year old son on the other hand, was permitted to lounge, play video games non stop, run lousy commentaries on Africa Magic movies, in fact, he was being properly groomed on being a future lout and bore.

It sounds a bit idealistic, but I suspect that most mothers-in-law would have less frequent friction with their daughters-in-law if they concentrated a bit on also giving their sons proper home training. The understanding that there is no house chore that is the biological prerogative of any sex. Come to think of it, when we refer back to our first model union of a man and wife in the bible - Adam and Eve- no where does it say that the woman had to practically work herself to death to keep the man happy while he lounges about doing nothing.

But again, this is not about how a marriage is run, but how an adult individual comports themselves.

Mothers, can your sons cook? Wash clothes without the aid of a washing machine? Sweep and mop the house? Keep their rooms tidy? Wash and keep their toilets clean? Sew on a loose button? Can they actually connect with their feminine sides without lapsing into sissies?

Give your future daughters in law the gift that keeps on giving, a properly brought up man with good "home training". Nothing stokes the fires of marital discord more than a woman who has to pick up clothes strewn all over the house by Oga who cannot understand the simple logic behind laundry baskets; waking up in the morning to discover that after a late night attack of the snackies, oga could neither clear up the table of crumbs (cockroach alert), nor wash up the mug or whatever else was involved in curing the snack attack! I had a friend whose pet peeve was that she had to flush the toilet after her husband had done a number two.

Such was the extent of his laziness!

It becomes even more imperative now that ladies not only work, but in most cases are the principal bread winners of the home. In order to prove they have not become "pompous" and "arrogant", they end up returning from work, to start facing the hassles of running the home. Get up an hour or two earlier so they can fit in some of what needs to be done before they leave the house. Oga on the other hand who holds down similar jobs, gets up 35 minutes before he has to leave the house. Poopoos, brushes his teeth, shaves and showers, dresses up and exits the house until when he has to return, eat, release an obligatory fart, and go straight to bed!

Really ladies, let us do us all and the future world a favor and train our sons in the basics of being a human being first. Let them spend time with their fathers to imbibe some of the qualities required of a man, then gently return them to your faithful instruction of how to be in touch with their feminine sides and how to be an independent adult!

Some of our ten year old girls today can actually survive a one month live alone experience than some thirty year old men!

The craziest part? Mainly in Nigeria!

I remember a trip to London in 2006, staying at my aunty's house in London and watching her then nine year old son let himself out of the house on his way to school. His mum was not yet back from work and would just come in to bathe and head out to her second job, his dad held down a regular 9-5 and would leave the house around 8am while his twin sisters would also leave earlier for their schools. He would let himself back in around 3:30 and proceed to warm up his lunch. Eat, and face his chores for the day. By the time some of his family members started returning around 5pm, he was already settling in to his homework and you would never have guessed there was no adult providing support during the hours he was home alone.

I have always maintained that the average 10 year old raised in the western world, had a significantly higher level of maturity than their Nigerian counterpart, almost double! Of course, that has its good and bad sides too!

So mothers, do us all a favor and start early and make it all inclusive. Let the boys stand by you while you teach the girl how to cook and clean and tidy up the house.  If you have just boys or a boy, do not wait until you have a girl to commence your instructions, let them all learn!

The happiest beneficiary from the early start would be not just the boy who finds it easier to keep himself organised in the blink of an eye, but your future daughter in law who would have received a pleasant gift that keeps on giving!

Stop, Rewind...

No, it is not her fault!

Yes, perhaps she should have been able to say "No", but sincerely, honestly, you cannot lay the blame on her doorstep a hundred percent.

There are always two WILLING parties to every transaction and last I checked, in this part of the world, HE must have initiated the contract. He pursued her the way he pursued you, maybe even harder as he needed to convince her that it was indeed a valid transaction to undertake.

He bought her things, whispered sweet nothings when her guard was down, pretended to love, care and understand with her. He broke down her defenses: slowly but surely and maybe perhaps, before she could gather her wits about her, she had invested emotions in him and the rest, was a done deal!

He told her you were a drudge, had refused him intimate relations for the past two or three years, was a sloppy dresser, could not take care of the house and kids, you were planning to divorce him, etc, etc. Oh, how he filled her head with all sorts of stories and made false promises, all the while keeping his eye on a goal. Perhaps when they both ventured into the affair, having invested so much time and effort and emotions, they began to find themselves wallowing deeper into the cesspool of torrid passion they had created.

Her only crime was stupidity and the lack of a solid moral backbone. Blame her of those two sins and I will support you a hundred percent. (maybe a hundred and ninety percent more like).

Maybe, having discovered the illicit affair, rather than take the steps of a wise woman in order to reclaim back your husband, you brought crazy out of the box! You hounded him like a ghost (not even a friendly one at that, like a malicious and malevolent ghost). You had a sharp eye out for his phone and once he forgot it on the dressing table, you would lock the room door shut behind him, escape into the toilet with the phone, begin to scroll through the contents, find the evidence you needed (you Sherlock Holmes, you), and proceeded to confront him with the evidence soon as he stepped back into the room.

You berated and insulted. You fought and threatened. You breathed fire and brimstone and there was no dragon on the face of the earth, living dead or in the Harry Potterverse that could compare to you in your element. You made the house uncomfortable and uninhabitable because he had the temerity to look elsewhere and unwittingly, you helped to achieve that which you feared the most... you showed her up as an oasis in the desert that was you.

Perhaps you even broke the laws of decency and crossed the line of civil behavior, establishing yourself firmly as a criminal in the eyes of yours and his family, the law, neighbors  passers by, heck the world at large. Yes, you... you know what you did! You organised a gaggle of fickle minded floozies like you and went on a rampaging spree. You molested, assaulted, beat and stripped naked someone with whom you had no physical, spiritual or emotional contract. Someone who owed you nothing and you therefore had no business being around in the first place. You beat up the other woman!

Shame on you! Once again, you have held an umbrella over the competition's head while you stand out in the rain and get drenched.

Emotions and support begin to shift from you and skew fairly enough in the other woman's direction. Truth be told, even his friends who had your back (probably kept blaming their friend while the whole saga was playing out for breaking the eleventh commandment, were probably reminding him daily that you do not invest emotion and attention on the other woman to the detriment of the one you entered a contract with), will slowly begin to sympathize with her and maybe, begin to understand when over chilled drinks, the Oga is replete with complaints on how he got himself shackled to the world's worst woman!

Everyone begins to compare the "crazy" at home, to the "angel" who would make a better wife if Oga had just waited a few more years.

But we all know you are not crazy right? Just extremely ill-informed with a posse of malicious friends, some of whom would never employ the tactics they have encouraged you to unleash in their own homes. They will hold their homes together at all costs and even when they catch their husband on top of another woman, would actually stand by and provide manual air conditioning, all in a bid to ensure they keep their home together. Some of your friends are envious of you... they wish they had what you had. Some of them, having employed the same tactics and found themselves husbandless, are keen to initiate the next empty headed woman who thinks physical arsenal can be brought to bear on emotional conflicts into their fold.

Believe it when you are told that not every one that seems sympathetic to your course has your best interests at heart.

So, he was the one you entered into a contract with.

He was the one that promised to love, respect and honour.

He was the one that swore till death do you both part.

He was the one that affirmed in sickness and in health, through good times and bad.

He was the one that made you believe in the project that was you both.

He is the one you have an issue with, never the other woman! Your job description as a wife does not include making it easier for the woman of the streets to steal your man!

I know we all wish and pray we marry a man that never strays. Sadly, even the best of men have their weak moments!

But... a strong and confident woman, has her man! Ahh, she knows what to do. She knows when to bring crazy and when to let issues just slide.

She is prayerful, resourceful and confident in herself and her God! No diabolic or underground behavior around her. She knows how to hold and keep her man without resorting to manipulative behavior or visiting babalawos. Even when the man's eyes strays, his body never follows through because he respects the deep bond with the mature and intelligent woman he has at home.

So, recheck that bond. Reassess your relationship and ask yourself what you want out of it. Restrict some of your craziness as no man wants to be around a Bipolic Paranoid Schizophreniac. Have a firm faith and trust in God. Ensure your home is built around love, mutual respect, faith in God. Then sit back, relax and watch your relationship.

As for the other woman in every relationship out there. I fooled you huh? You think I have your back right? Well two words for you....

DIE

SLOWLY

Three more words...

ROT IN HELL

Stay away from married men you slime! Karma is a bitch and will get back to you sooner or later, and the best part, when you least expect!

Enjoy your week beautiful people.

Chivalry! Did it really, truly die?

To all men out there, potential toasters of all the potential toastees (willing and unwilling) that inhabit the earth, this red alert is posted on your behalf.

Chivalry is not dead - not yet.

Last I checked, it was still alive and there are still a few gentlemen out there struggling to prove to the world that there is indeed some reason why the word "gentle" appears before the word man/men. Else, we would also have Agberomen, Yawamen, Nyamanyamamen, etc!

> Please, do not attempt to jump the queue in front of a lady in a supermarket because you are carrying "only three loaves of bread". That is downright, no-good, toutish behaviour. Even if you are holding only one can of beer, the rules of civilised behavior demand that you queue up like everyone else and wait your turn to be served. Now, need to rush somewhere and feel you could perhaps benefit from being served before the lady in front of you wheeling a trolley full of supermarket goodies (necessary and unnecessary -  c'mon ladies, we know ourselves na)? Here's my suggestion, and how I think a "Gentleman" would tackle it:

Strike up a conversation with her. Make light humorous talk and gently chip in how her trolley is so loaded, etc. Don't toast her, no snide comments. While she is still in a giggly mood from your smashing wit (you better go to wit classes and learn how to make an acquaintance laugh without injecting sexual overtures), point out how you have just this one miserable can of beer and are doomed to wait for her to pass all her purchases. A "Lady" will immediately offer you the checkout first.

That, people, is how it works. Don't think toasting her will work, it won't. Don't think getting a supermarket staff to help you jump the queue will work, it won't. Don't think talking about how women are spendaholics and shopaholics will give you faster access to the till. Truth be told, if there are two of those ladies and they think the way I do, they would take it in turns to stand guard, while the other continues to pile on items in the shopping trolley, just to get your goat and believe me, you don't want your goat gotten by two of the "weaker vessels"!

>A lady compliments you on your speech, outfit, car, mobile phone, etc - No, she does not like you and is not lusting after you. She is just a properly trained gurl who appreciates what she sees in you and might somehow, want to learn how she can obtain same for her guy, husband, brother, father, casual friend, etc. The list, you bigoted, swollen headed, egotist, is endless! For all my male friends who come to me blabbing about how a lady in the supermarket creamed her pants at the sight of them and fell in lust at first sight, I always hand out a crashing reality check and point this out.

Don't go turning on the charm offensive because a lady has just complimented something on or about you. Believe me, even if chivalry is dying, decency still holds strong among a million and one women out there. Please, gather up your swollen head, return it back to normal size, graciously accept the compliment as an acknowledgement of your good taste and not an tempt to "pick you up" *barf*, and return the compliment in kind. Oh and in returning the compliment, you are not at liberty to compliment any part of her anatomy that protrudes beyond the centre line. Keep it simple guys and take your eyes and minds out of the gutter.

>You make a girl's acquaintance and somehow, exchange contacts. (This is my personal pet peeve as I have often wondered so many times if there is something else behind "Start up consultancy" than what I think it is). Next thing you know, the man calls up the lady and starts professing unending and undying "love", a "love" that has only one destination and which will definitely fizzle out soon as that goal is met.

Please guys, a lot of ladies really do love to make acquaintances and new friends and keep the lines as free and as untangled as they can be. I hand you my card and tell you I am a Start Up Consultant and next thing I get are phone calls professing undying love to someone you met at a DSTV/NEPA queue, supermarket, etc! Really, perhaps there are other forms of consultancy in Abuja I am yet to discover, but what I do is offer advice to start ups on how to run a small business effectively and provide hands on support for the first three months, including recruitment, training and supervision of ALL staff with follow up services for the next three months.

Please out of the entire explanation I have given above, which of them sounds like: likes to frolic with strange looking men I just met and had exchanged contacts with in the hopes of getting business referrals? Good thing there is a business line which is switched off once it is past 5pm.

GENTLEmen...we are kept waiting for services and strike up a conversation in order to pass the time. We exchange contacts and there were no sexual innuendoes throughout the entire length of the conversation, then sorry to disappoint you but no, I am not a high class and therefore extremely discreet call girl. I am what I told you I am! Call only if you need my professional expertise to meet some business needs (believe me, I have gotten good business that way), you can call to express your appreciation of the frank, informed and intellectually stimulating discussion we had, but please keep it business. Especially when you have a wedding ring on and the rows of diamonds on MY own wedding ring almost blinded you throughout the length of the discussion. Sheesh!

> Finally (for now), you are single, she is single. You meet, somehow, anyhow, a connection is struck up between the two both of you and you decide to plunge into a relationship. Only initiate sex moves without having wooed the lady properly, if you truly have a death wish. Sincerely men, it is time to get your acts together.

Woo the ladies, wine them, dine them and keep sex in any form whatsoever (yes, when you try to snatch a quick hug, we know where you think it is going to end and no, you are not going to get some!), out of your conversation.

I listened to one silly rant of a video blogger where she says girls should stop asking men for things and have some pride, bla, bla, bla. My dislike of the vlog was made even stronger by the fact that said tart was taking a dump at the time of the rant. My brain could therefore not connect her rant with the obviously silly message she wanted to pass across but each time she vented, could imagine it as a disguise for the cannon ball number two she was about to drop in the loo. (No, ladies don't do video blogs while in the toilet)!

Well, while I also do not subscribe to the girl asking guys for things, I think that the onus is on the guy to prove his worth to a girl he is in a relationship with. Stop putting up all those silly facebook updates about how a girl who does not make demands on you is housewife material! Trash! We know where you are headed with that and we are not deceived. Wine us, Dine us, Woo us, Spoil us silly with gifts (within your means o) while you are toasting us! Ladies, it is your right to be pampered silly by the guy who claims to love you. Accept nothing else and hold out on the little sump'n, sump'n until he has put a ring on it (your finger that is).

Why? Cos soon as you are all theirs, soon as you have become the madam of the home, only the very very few really chivalrous ones continue to pamper, to appreciate, to shower you with gifts and love. To the rest, mission accomplished and they move on to wooing the madam of the streets!

There is a reason after all why hos are considered smart. Unlike the good girls, they don't give it out for free and then proceed to lament after the guy don chop clean mouth, waka on to the next victim, about how they were used. No! You date a ho', everybody plays everybody in that relationship and when the man eventually decides to go, he leaves the worse off because he has invested time, money and perhaps some emotions trying to break through her icy heart and elicit some feelings in return.

Not endorsing "ho"ship ladies, just saying: Learn from them! Never, ever, ever give it out to a guy who is yet to do as Beyonce instructed, out of pity *barf*, or love *double barf*, or emotions *groannnnn*, especially if you intend to give it out for free!

*Do not trail a woman's car in order to express undying love and continue a conversation she earnestly belived had ended!
*Do not continue to toast a woman who sports and brandishes a wedding ring.
*Do not toast a woman and point out any part of her anatomy as the main attraction (how would you feel if I said "Oh, the bulge in your trousers attracted me to you"?
* Do not walk through a door just opened by a woman like the untrained oaf you are and leave her to struggle with it.
*Do not strike up a conversation with a woman struggling with packages and a restive child or two, especially if you have not offered to help carry those packages or something.
*Do not push aside a woman on a queue, especially if you are fighting for bread in Next or Shoprite (really some guys need koboko)

The list goes on and on and I daresay, feminism and the move for gender equality did not advocate for chivalry and all sorts of acceptable civil and gentlemanly behavior to be thrown to the winds. No it did not. it simply moved to advocate for more empowerment, recognition and appreciation of the untapped potentials left lying fallow in our womenfolk because of bigoted male superiority complex issues (or something like that ;-), me ah no know o!)

Having said that, a very big hola to all the chivalrous men who still exist in the world: My Oga At The Top heads the list of course *wink, wink*, my brothers, my bros-in-law has probably perfected the art and a few other gentlemen I know, some of them married to my friends, some of them still single, who give life and attitude to the word CHIVALRY

Wanted... A tethering post. For?... Ahem

Truly, I do not want to say what (or who) the Tethering post is for, maybe if I am properly petted, I will eventually speak.

Here we are in a gathering, different people from different countries, wonderful personalities, all trying to make conversation, get to know each other, make new friends. Suddenly, off to the right, a cacophony of vernacular from a few who are delighted to be different from the pack and cannot wait to show it. Every other person gazes around them in bewilderment, stares pointedly at the source of the noise, yet there is no deterring them. No bad belle person will drop enough hints to make them desist from "brothering" and "sistering" in a congregation where English is meant to be a unifying language.

Buffet time, while everyone is milling around making polite conversation, waiting for the servers to make ready, all the while inching closer to the food. Suddenly, from the rear of the line: "You guys should move now, do you want the food to get cold"? "Please you can move that conversation to one side if you are not hungry and let those of us that are hungry eat now, haba"! While still trying to digest what could be the major source of irritation, the body behind the voice proceeds to jump the queue in the most blatant and rude manner ever witnessed and now at the head of the queue, manifests one of two extremes: suddenly pretends to be on a diet and proceeds to diss every food on the table for being "fattening" or "cholesterol laden" yet is not stopped from packing a heaping plate; or just goes straight ahead to pack a heaping plate, putting together all sorts of odd combinations, maybe even managing to get two heaping platefuls of all sorts (meat overflowing), before stalking off to their seats.

Seated, glances furtively around, whips out a "polythene leather" (Sincerely, I can't stop wondering why those bags are called "leather bags". Do Nigerians actually know what leather is?), stuffs most of the meat and as much of the rice and salad as can get into the cellophane bag, ties the bag closed, reinforces with another bag and stuffs the whole lot into the over sized handbag (Okay guys, now you know why ladies convert travelling bags to handbags when going to parties and occasions , then the most baffling part of the entire operation, proceeds to daintily pick at the remnants on the plate like there is a bad smell hovering over everything while still furtively glancing at the buffet table to see whether any more meat can be scavenged therefrom.

Drinks are served, while everyone else proceeds to take one glass which they try to maneuver and manipulate to last the night, these blessed people proceed to down drink after drink, mixing all sorts, if it is available, even if they have never tasted it before, they will down it and add to the bubbling lava of various cocktails and spirits already squirming in the deepest caverns of their belly.

True Story - Coming back from Summer vacation 2011, we boarded BA to Abuja and after dinner, proceeded to bed down for the night. Lights off, the cabin was quiet when suddenly from the last but one row, someone started shrieking, "I am dying o, I am dying. Stop this flight. Call a doctor. I am dying. Jeeeeeeezus! Pilot, please somebody help me, I can't breathe". Naturally, there was pandemonium all around as we tried to find out what the problem was. A cabin attendant rushed down to the seat where a lady was visibly agitated, her baby dumped carelessly on the seat beside her, while she proceeded to "die"!

Well, soon as the poor cabin attendant got close enough to put her head down and inquire what was causing the "death", the jackass threw up all over the poor lady, all the junk she had been eating while awaiting the call of her flight, her dinner in flight and about 12 bottles of aircraft wine! Seriously! Turns out madam is a teetotaler, but had been informed that the cost of the wine was already inbuilt into the price of her ticket and decided to show the world that she was smarter than Willie Walsh! She had wanted to drink the cost of her flight before reaching Abuja. Suffice it to say, after that regurgitation  she spent the rest of the flight in a drunken quasi coma, her snores prevented anyone else from sleeping, her baby had thankfully bedded down for the night, else... SMH!

I felt so embarrassed for the shameless woman whom upon struggling out of her coma on arrival in Abuja, grabbed her baby and proceeded, in true Nigerian fashion, to fight her way out of the aircraft as if the plane would take anybody who did not disembark at record speed straight back to Heathrow, and into the waiting arms of the law! I walked up to the flight attendant who had spent the rest of the flight in a baggy, blue, dungareeish, formless gown and apologised on behalf of the lady. While making small talk, the attendant mentioned that they get used to situations like this on their return haul to Nigeria.

While I cringed inwards at her comment, I truly could not grudge her that sentiment as I have had my fair share of bewilderment on why we are so blessed, every time I travel outwards and then return inwards with Nigerians. You get the feeling travelling from Nigeria to London that everybody is afraid that Queen Elizabeth could just materialise beside them and chain them to a bus stop for daring to sneeze, everybody acts so civilised you are indeed proud to be a Nigerian. Return haul however, na we get the land and the aircraft, so na wetin we like we go dey do!

Now, a school in Abuja, pretty elitist, tired of calling Nigerian parents to order decide, "to heck with it, you can act uncouth all you want outside the school premises", and shifts their car park about a 200m walk away from the school gates. This was after multiple incidents of parents jumping the drop off queue, forcing their way through the gates with cars not bearing the school stickers, insulting and threatening to beat up the security men at the slightest provocation, shouting on teachers (please don't ask me the guilty party, shame dey catch me abeg),etc. Well, in the new car park, like sheep that need to be carefully herded, there is an entrance that is wide enough to just about admit one car, and an exit with similar specifications. Guess which category of parents would notice a queue at the entrance, force their way through the exit and proceed to create a scene by asking others to back up for them to maneuver.  I begin to get the vibes that but for the fact that this school is on Nigerian soil, they would have long closed shop to Nigerian parents.

Small wonder that Nigerians get attacked when they find themselves on foreign soil. They take all that loudness, rudeness and in your face attitude to climates where people are used to more civilized behavior and then turn around and claim: "South Africans are jealous of us"!, "Ghanaians are jealous of us"! "Jamaicans don't like us in London"!. "American police is always on our case"! Seems like everybody is jealous of the Nigerian who is so myopic, he doesn't even notice that what repels others are their obnoxious, loud and rude behavior

I am always amazed at the huge sums of money Nigerian scammers manage to fleece off the western world. In most circumstances, those they fleece look ordinary  there is nothing ostentatious about them, no show offiness. Simple clothes, even simpler homes, decent looking. Yet when you hear about the hundreds and thousands they have "donated" to yahoo yahoo boys, you quiver.

Our people on the other hand, accumulate maybe a hundred dollars from flipping burgers and you want to wear the blindingest bling, hang with the ghettoest of babes, drive in cars you cannot afford to maintain and basically keep flinging and forcing yourself down people's throats. Small wonder the instant dislike when you bring out a Nigerian passport abroad.

Really Nigerians, I am proud to be a Nigerian, maybe even prouder than most, but I think we need to tone it down sometimes. Imbibe the basics of social living and etiquette and you will find you will begin to be liked by people you mingle with.

Those who act quiet and within the rules of acceptable social behaviour are not just "doing sme sme". They are trying to prove to the outside world that we are indeed civilised. They are trying their darndest best to convince the world not to tar all Nigerians with the same brush because of a few uncouth ones.

Really, I dare ask: hands up anybody that has not experienced a situation where they cringed inwardly and seriously wished that:

1.The floor could open up and swallow them
2: They were not Nigerians at that instant

Really, hands up, I would love to hear about it.

Just going off to get me a really sturdy tethering post and rope and tether all rambunctious, spendiferous fellow paddymen to it. Una too dey fall hand jare!

To Have and To Hold...

Okay, here I am, wondering aloud how all of a sudden, most of the blogs are peppered with advice on how to "hold your man", "keep your man happy", "keep your man from straying", etc...

The advice are so varied and sometimes self contradicting, your head spins trying to keep it all in proper perspective. It was purely coincidental that while I was roiling inside, I happened to stumble on a write up by an excellent writer that suggests women may as well buy themselves engagement rings and get it over with since by the (in my candid opinion, Nigerian) world's perspective... the ring maketh the woman (or maybe not).

Someone else, knowing my constant irritation with "How to attract your man" articles, suggests to me, "why don't you do a similar article for women?". Like, really? I am not going there o, abeg! Reason? I consider all those articles manipulative. Written by some sexist, masochistic, chauvinist somewhere with the sole aim of constantly manipulating women to get his own way. And you do know what they say about manipulation don't you? Oh, you don't? Well, for free: Manipulation is witchcraft!

Here's what I think:

Every relationship, especially when it crosses through to marriage, needs an equal dose of effort from both partners to keep the wheels well oiled and rolling.

It sounds a bit bigotist to expect one person to do all the running around, the primping and the pruning while the other stalks the manor like the Almighty Cockerel. Demanding meals on time, sex on demand, respect on rote, clothes washed without a peep, house tidy, children clean, books well kept, accounts balanced and the inevitable help meet duties (in Nigerian parlance, this means to return home with your salary and hand it over to Oga to be administered as he pleases). Yes, in spite of all the above, the wife/woman still has to work and most times, does not even have the luxury of spending any salaries earned.

I have seen men who bathe their kids while madam is in the kitchen, read stories to keep the kids entertained, sweep the house and wash clothes, take their turns in cooking for the women while they get a chance to put their feet up, shoo the women out the door to go have a night out with the girls while they try to run the home front... And no, there was no JAZZ involved... And yes, in Naija!

It is born of an innate desire to please. When I look at couples that are so relaxed in and of themselves, that are constantly happy, cheerful, have their moments but soon get over them and continue to ride the rollicking waves of relationships, I see people who have understood the (as far as I am concerned), first and basic principle of relationship: mutual respect and understanding.

It does not take much to understand that everyone has made a sacrifice to be with the other in a relationship or marriage. We have all left our familiar zones in order to be with someone that we somehow feel, will make us feel better in the long run. Someone we believe will give us ultimate and maximum satisfaction and with whom we can fulfill and achieve our dreams. Why then, should one of the two slave to make the other more comfortable and to compound their misery, read manipulative articles on "how to keep him happy"?

Fellas, L-O-V-E, Love! That should be the first and only reason for entering into a relationship. Not because she has a big behind, or is yellow skinned. Not because he works in an "oryel compani" or drives the latest cars. Tall, dark and handsome has nothing to do with relationships. Work with the first rule in mind. Can I tolerate this person? Do I really see myself being in close quarters with this individual and not going gaga? Can I overlook a multitude of what the world will see as flaws and still see stars when I look in his/her eyes? Really, it is a no-brainer, when you love someone, you want only the best for that person. No going around on hands and knees, scrubbing the ground you walk on. No worshiping your very presence or luxuriating in the lack of it because you have made yourself the king of the ring!

Go ahead, think of things that will make your partner happy and do it, just for the heck of it. Not because of what you expect to receive back in return.

What do you think would make whatever burden they are faced with lighter to bear? Go ahead and lighten that load. Doesn't matter if your friends walk in on you pounding yam or sweeping the house for your wife/babe! When it comes to relationship issues, wise family and friends know not to go there with "stewpeed" opinions and unsolicited advice.

How do you want your home to be? A safe haven? A comfort zone? Or a military training ground - a barracks? The power to achieve whichever atmosphere is conducive, lies in both hands.

The dog says - "If you fall for me and I fall for you... then it is play"

Last Words: Ladies, please grow a spine or a pair of balls, whichever you feel you are most desperately in need of. If you have to read so many dubious articles and play mind games to keep a man, then you are so obviously in the wrong relationship. He needs to want to be with you voluntarily and happily, else all you have succeeded in doing, is holding yourself captive to an inmate in a prison cell you both call "home".

If it is too much trouble to hold on to, open your hands and let it go - If it is yours, it will come back and if it doesn't come back, heck your hands are free for whatever that is worth!