A night out with the Arojah Royal Theatre and Sofia Freden's Hand in Hand

When we got to the gate of the Ambassador's Residence, we needed to stop and show our invitation. I had not printed one out, but I had a saved e copy on my device and showed that to the gateman.

Wonder of wonders. He crosschecked against his list p my name was nowhere to be found. However, my friend who I had invited to tag along as my "plus one", was boldly inscribed on the list. We laughingly signed in as "her plus one", and I jokingly told her that if they were catching people, na her name dey for paper as evidence, not mine.

Past the security and we were directed towards the small ante room where the Arojah Royal Theatre was doing a final rehearsal of their command performance of Sofia Freden's #HandInHand for the Swedish Embassy in Nigeria.

Arojah was staging this play as part of it's "Cultural Diplomacy Production", through which it strove to encourage theatre without borders, adapting plays from different cultures and perspectives to suit the Nigerian narrative.

We were quite early, 45 minutes to be precise, and so just hung around and got a few drinks while the stage was set up and the lights were dimmed.

Hand in hand follows the story of Nina, a free spirited Swedish lady who was given a flat by a much older man, Garry. Since he handed her the flat "no strings attached", she had moved in with her boyfriend Alan and lived there for a year. Suddenly, Garry called out of the blues to announce he would like to come visit Nina in the apartment.

In desperation, Nina threw her boyfriend Alan out. As she tried to make ready for Garry's visit, an admirer came calling. Aaron, the admirer, had lost his house to a fire and needed a place to stay.

Nina welcomed him in and while she struggled with the decision to let him stay, Alan returned and attempted to throw Aaron out. This move forced Nina to take a decision. Aaron would stay, they would both stay.

Confused? Don't be... yet!

A knock on the door brought in Peter, Aaron's brother who also needed a place to stay. Nina let him in too and left briefly to sort out a few things.

Her neighbour Nadia comes into her house, sees Aaron and convinces him to fall in love with her. Peter, Aaron's brother comes into the room and it turns out Nadia was the girl he had met in the hotel the previous night, fallen in love with, and given his brother's money too.

Just as the tension in the love quadrangle  (or menage a quinze) was beginning to build up, Garry comes in and turns out to be Aaron's father.

Alan orders everyone out of the house and as he tries to hit Garry with an iron rod, misses and hits Nina instead. That knock on the head snapped her out of her apparent confusion since the first curtains opened, and she took a decision to remain with Alan.

Phew.

A satire about the Swedish society yes, but easily transposable to the Nigerian society. How indecisive we seem to be in terms of what we want and how we hope to achieve it and how we keep throwing all sorts of incompatible variables into the mix.

Reaching all sorts of deals and making all sorts of compromises in search of an ideal that might have been sitting right beside us from the onset. Perhaps we all need a collective knock on the head to jolt us out of our confusion.

Perhaps!

The actors did justice to the plot with Longret Dalong as Nina, bringing the character to light in such a convincing manner that the audience lived the whirlwind of emotions she portrayed in the short space of about 70 minutes the play lasted.

Costume and make up was perfectly executed and helped to bring out the different scenes, mannerisms and characteristics of the different actors.

I whispered to my friend who asked once why the lights were dim at a point, that lighting in stage plays are an integral part of the story. They assist the characters portray their moods and emotions and help to bring the storyline to live for the audience.

Perhaps because the ante room that was used for the play was a bit small, as the creative director of the Arojah Royal Theatre, Omo'Oba Jerry Adesewo jokingly called it - it was a parlour performance - there were one or two points were there was a slack in the use of lighting, but of course that would only be visible to the trained eyes.

Overall, it was an excellent performance and like the Swedish Ambassador, Mr Svante Kilander mentioned in his opening remark, hopefully as the play begins its tours and showings, it can challenge people to think and draw parallels to the society they currently live in, and foster a deeper union between Nigeria and Sweden.

If you would like to catch a rerun of the stage play, it would be showing at the Ladi Kwali Conference Hall of the Sheraton Hotel and Towers Abuja today the 31st of October 2015, at 3.00pm.

The gate fee is a modest N1,000 only.

Pictures from the stage below...

Your Eyes... by Emily Iduseri Osa

What does it take to get an original Emily Millionaire poem? Well, I put up my big eyed picture and get not one, but two instant, drop it like it's a flaming pat of hot amala poems, straight from the stable's of one of Facebook's finest Instapoets.

Thanks, Emily Millionaire, you do me proud.




For Viola Ifeyinwa Okolie

Beyond the smile
The journey of miles
Behind the eyes
What lies

The strength from within
The courage to begin
Taking it all,
Still standing tall

Building the wall
That would not fall
Beyond the smile
Beyond the eyes
Treasures of gold
Within her breast lies.

For Viola Ifeyinwa Okolie 2

Le Picture which sparked off Le poems and Les big big eyes!

Let me sink
In your eyes
That I may rise
In your smile

Let me be lost
In your eyes
That I maybe found
In your smile

Let me into
Your paradise
That forever
I maybe illuminated
By your smile

Let me dip
In the pool of your eyes
That I may rise
To the kiss of your smile

Let me,
Let me
For my heart
Is hypnotised
By the spell
That is your eyes.

copyright: Emily Iduseri Osa. 27.10.2015

Mac and Goat...

We were at the shops the other day and Small Madam stopped by a row of pretty plates.

"Since you like to take pictures of your food and put on Facebook, why don't you at least get some less embarrassing plates?"

*side eye*

I know what I'd like to get, a pair of socks for stuffing in someone's mouth.

Anyway, didn't buy the plates, but am still taking food pictures anyway. I am sure one of these days, a very embarrassed Small Madam is going to drag me to the food picture police for attempting to embarrass her silly.

Yeah, where were we?

Food!

Oyinbo have their mac and cheese, we have our mac and goat. Same concept (or maybe not), different eengreejens!

*feeling like a proper chef*

For our mac and goat, you will need:

1 pack of pasta (your choice of brand and shape and blablabla)
200 grams shredded goat meat
1 large sweet green pepper (you do know they come in different tastes I hope)
1 large red bell pepper (tatase)
2 small red onions
2 scotch bonnets (feeling like ajebo. Actually known as atarodo)
2 large carrots
1 cup fresh tomato puree
About 2 soup spoons of vegetable oil.
1 wrap of knorr cubes
1/4 teaspoon salt
And if you swing that way, curry and thyme powder.

Remember this is "cooking from the couch, stirring with your hoof, easy does it" style? No pressures!

Okay, how do we start now? Hmmmm...

Set a pot on the fire with about a litre of water, one tablespoon of vegetable oil and half a teaspoon of oil. Bring to the boil and place your pasta in the boiling water.

Cover, lower the heat a little and allow to simmer for, emmmmm, can we agree 10 minutes is okay?

We can?

Good.

While your pasta is boiling, slice, dice and shred your goat meat, carrots, peppers and onions.

Ten minutes on the hob, strain your pasta in a colander (sieve to the natives), and dunk the pasta filled sieve in a bowl of cold water to stop the cooking.

Drain.

Set empty pot on fire, dry it out and turn in the vegetable oil and salt. Add the onions to the oil, fry for like a minute, then dump in the goat meat. Stir fry for a few minutes and in go the atarodo and tomato puree. Cover pot and allow to simmer for a minute, then throw in the carrots and yeah, we nearly forgot the pasta didn't we?

In they go.

Cover pot, allow to simmer for two minutes. Taste and correct seasoning if need be (I'd say why bother?), then stir in the red and green bell peppers.

Take pot off the hob.

Turn to mix in properly.

Serve.

(This is the important part)

Put your feet up on a shiny glass table, and tuck in.

Bon appetit!

Phew!

This recipe wan be like say e come long pass as I been dey plan o. Abi how una take reason am? Abeg, if you get an easier recipe, drop it in the comments box below , and next time oyinbo gushes about mac and cheese, feel free to gush about ya own mac and goat.

You can thank me layra!

Ngwa byeeeeee!

Amazon!

What???

Grace could feel the blood vessels about to pop in her temple.

What? Who dared to drop that kain silly comment on her thread? Must be a first timer. E be like say the person no know. Dem no tell am before say person no dey just take anyhow waka on top her wall?

Kai!

She hit both sides of her head with her open palms, then picked up her phone. She gazed into the distance briefly for a few minutes while she composed her thoughts and decided which words would send a barb straight into the heart of the commenter.

Make she just kill am finish one hand.

Yeye just dey smell up and down. No be hin fault.

"What exactly do you mean by asking who authorised me to dispense marital advice? You, by what authority are you constituting a nuisance of yourself all over social media?"

Almost as soon as her comment dropped, the "likes" began to pour in.

Comments:

"The Amazon".

"We know say you  no see the comment since na hin make you no respond."

"Who be the baggar wey dey make our Amazon vex like this?"

And so on and so forth. Faithful followers of the posts on her wall where she dispensed no-nonsense, no-holds-barred, no-punches-pulled relationship advice.

Today for instance, someone had come inbox and sought advice on how to handle a husband who was not being as responsive as he used to be.

"Please help me and put this up on your wall Aunty Grace. Please hide my identity and let your readers advice me on what to do".

She had put up the long story on her wall. Something about the man not responding to his wife's sexual advances. He would come back from work with a very sour countenance, eat his meal grumpily, get into bed and turn his back on his poor, long-suffering wife.

The poor woman had tried everything to get her husband to pay her some attention.

Music...

Perfumes...

Scented candles (she alomst burnt down the house with that one).

In desperation, the anonymous but frustrated young wife had written to the tough-talking Aunty Grace in search of a solution.

Grace had put up the story on her wall in her usual fashion, then proceeded to add her opinion underneath:

"This is why I said that women especially should shine their eyes before they marry. What sort of nonsense is that? How will he finish eating and then turn his back on his wife? I don't blame him. I blame the wife who continues to give him food when ordinary sex, he cannot give her back in return. Nonsense. Divorce him and marry a more caring man joor".

And the "likes" from the regulars on her wall who were more wary of being at the receiving end of her sharp tongue than they were of their abilities to sound like a gaggle of geese, endorsed and echoed her opinion. 

Except for that one comment.

That dared to oppose her? Nonsense comment, she was sure that in his small brain, the person believed he was making sense when he said, "Grace that is too harsh. Divorce for what? The man might be passing through work and other life stress, perhaps she should seek counselling or involve trusted parties to find out what the issues were".

Grace was not in the mood for that kind of yeye talk.

"Is he a baby? Why should she have to go through all that stress and cajole him to get him to talk? Chai. Women are suffering o. Arrant nonsense."

"But Grace, are you married? If yes, is that how you would handle it if it were to be your husband?"

"First off, my marital status and issues are none of your concern. Secondly, I will not even think of marrying a man who will not confide in me as soon as something begins to disturb him o..."

"Hmmm, that might be easy to say but in a marriage situation, you have to take your partner into consideration most times."

"That is for the Proverbs 31 woman, not me. If any man tries that nonsense with me, I will deal with him properly."

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

Grace clicked on the status update button.

"What's on your mind," the social networking app asked her.

"Plenty", she thought as she started typing a rant on husbands and how they would attempt to manipulate their wives into waiting on them hand and foot.

She ranted about "equal rice for human beans" and how marriage was just a piece of paper. If it was her decision to take, she would just scrap marriage and stop the oppression of women by yeye men masquerading as husbands. She would just promulgate a decree that would allow people just cohabit and bear children.

Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she heard the security gate sliding open. A quick scan of the status update for errors and finding none, she clicked on "post update", then stood up and adjusted her dress.

Just as she switched off the device she had been using and slipped it in between the couch pillows (she would hide it properly after he had gone to bed), and switched on the smaller blackberry phone where she was the admin on a few virtuous women prayer platforms and meeting groups, the door opened and her husband came in.

"Good afternoon Sugar,"  she greeted, bending one knee slightly.

"Hmmmph."

"How was work today?"

"Hmmmph".

"Baby talk to me now, what do you want to eat?"

"Nothing."

"Hah, you can't  say "nothing" o, baby. You have not eaten my food in the past seven days. Please baby, okay tell me what you want to eat and let me start cooking now. I made your favourite yam porridge with vegetables but if you don't want it, I can pound yam with vegetable soup instead. Please baby. Please, just talk to me."

The Conversation...

"Hello".
"Hi Stella, how are you"?
"Ummm..."
"Stella, are you there"?
"Ummm, yes I am".
"So why did you hesitate before answering"?
"Sorry, I was trying to get into a comfortable position. I am okay now. How now"?
"I dey o, how your side"?
"Very well. I arrived Nigeria two days ago and have been calling you since then. Didn't you see my calls? Why did you not pick"?
"Sorry, I was busy".
"Busy with who again? All these men that keep taking your attention from me"?

She laughed and made herself more comfortable on the bed.

Jeremiah had seen her picture on a friend's Black berry profile and had worried him until he got her contact details. That was a couple of years ago.

Their mutual friend had chatted to give her a heads up and then sent her Jerry's picture.

Average height, average looks, averagely dressed, she placed his age at about late 40s to early 50s.

There was nothing spectacular or breath taking about him, he was an average man. But she had also spent quite a lot of time chasing the spectacular with little or no results. Scratch that, loads of heartbreak, disappointments, cheating... as each relationship ended, she left a little bit of her soul behind.

She was tired of spectacular.

She could do average.

Matter of fact, she WOULD do average.

Bring it on Jeremiah Adeife!

They had never met physically, but had spent countless hours on phone chatting, skypeing, instant messaging... you name it. Meeting physically would be for formalities sake, they had planned his return to Nigeria carefully.

He would come and meet her first and they would have a chance to assess each other physically, confirm that all that chemistry while they chatted on phone could translate to the physical, and maybe they could take it from there.

Just to be sure though, they had gotten engaged over the phone.

"Are you there Stella"?
"Yes"!
"You just laughed now, tell me, I hope none of those small small boys are chasing my property around o. Shebi you know you are mine".
"I told you no na, I always warn them off and tell them that I am already engaged".
"Good girl. So, what will you keep for me when I come"?
"Ah, abi no be me go ask you wetin you bring from abroad"?
"Wrong answer babe. That was not what I was expecting from you".
"Oh sorry darling, what do you want me to keep for you"?
"You know what I like now."
"Honey remind me now".
"Breast"!
"Oh"!
"What do you mean "oh"? You know I have a soft spot for breasts na. And you will give me to suck morning, afternoon and night ba"?

He loved sex. Or at least he said he did.

He talked about it a lot whenever they chatted and over time, they had started to sext and then watch each other masturbate over the internet.

She was not too captivated by sex, but had been priming herself for his obviously high sex wiring.

She was not surprised to hear him talk like this, na him way.

They chit chatted for a few minutes and made elaborate plans for when he would come to visit her.  He promised her he would come see her parents and then they blew each other kisses over the phone and then dropped.

She stood looking at the phone in her hand after he had cut off his line.

He had called her about an hour ago and they had had a disagreement over some trivial issue or the other. He had dropped the phone in anger.

She had had a rethink over her position and dialled his number only to realise she had run out of airtime on that phone.

So she had reached for her other phone. The emergency line which always had airtime however little. The number she hardly gave out or used to place calls.

There were just one or two little things wrong with the conversation that just ended.

Maybe just one.

Her name is NOT Stella.

The Marks of Time - Guest blog with Chidinma Onyejiuwa

Under my eyes are puffy pads surrounded by dark circles, each unfortunate feature trying its best to call attention to the other. My wrinkles materialized overnight. Now the lines in my face remind me of my palms. When I raise my eyebrows, my forehead pleats, and when my eyebrows come down the pleats stay.

Just this year, my jaw, the Maginot Line of facial structure becomes surrendered to the force of gravity. Once I had a right-angle profile; now there's a hypotenuse between my chin and neck, with its double choker of lines; and my chest, creased like crepe paper; and my shoulders and arms, which are holding their own for now except the elbows, which are rough enough to shred a carrot. I don't yet have loose skin on the underside of my upper arm - you know, the part that keeps waving after you've stopped - but I can see it coming.

The truth is I'm not crazy about my looks but I can live with them. What jolted me out of my low-grade body image blues was the death of a friend felled by cancer last week. After the funeral, I saw my body, not as face, skin, hair or figure, but as the vehicle through which I could experience everything my friend would never know again. Ordinary pleasures seem so precious now that I vowed to set my priorities straight before some fatal illness did it for me. I now focus on things that matter for me in life. And I can assure you that being able to wear bikini isn't one of them.

Chidinma Onyejiuwa is a Nigerian blogger who resides in the USA. You can connect with her at www.chidinmaonyejiuwa.com

Roving penises and the burden of priesthood...

So, having sat before a congregation and preached day in, day out about fidelity and it's evil cousin infidelity, a bishop gets his foot caught in his own cassock and comes crashing down.

His penis more like, but hey!

Sex in holy places... no be today e start.

My problem is not with the fact that Bishop Anselm Madubuko is guilty of adultery and should immediately step down and stop making a mockery of Christianity, my problem is with his partner in crime.

Or rather if society and his church members are to be believed, the only criminal in this whole matter - the other woman.

If the news reports are to be believed,
"Madubuko, came on the pulpit on Sunday to confess that he has dated Kike for three months. He said she came to him as a prayer warrior and he didn’t suspect foul play till it was too late".

Once again, the man commits adultery, wipes his penis clean and absolves himself of all complicity.

It is the woman.

She made me do it.

What are we? Back in the garden of Eden?

No Pastor, the burden of priesthood is upon you and you will not shake off responsibility so easily.

Assume, just assume that just for the sake of argument she came on to you, who is the holy one? Who is the mature one? Who is the one filled with "da spirit of da rod"?

It is you sir.

You should act the man and take the blame a hundred percent. But to turn it to a "the woman deceived me and I fell" situation, then have the congregation actually expel her from the church?

Reminds me of when the adultress (who was apparently making love to herself) was caught and brought before the Lord then for condemnation and subsequent mob lynching.

"Pastor" Madubuko, I dare you - if you are truly a man of God, to find that portion of the bible, read it and confirm to me that you truly understand the burden that priesthood imposes on you.

Victory...

"To slap you just dey hungry me".

She kept quiet, head bowed and heart racing. Sometimes she was confused how to respond to his rantings.

Some days... "No be you I dey talk to? Why you dey keep me quiet? Abi you don turn "bebe"? Okay, you dey do me "silence is the best answer to a fool" ba? Come on..."

Gbish! Gbash! Gboosh!

On other days... "Na who dey talk wey you dey talk back give am so? E be like say you don craze finish! You no well. Like Mama like pikin. Like say your mama carry her nyash siddon for one place you for learn how to respect man. Idiot. Come on..."

Gbish! Gbash! Gboosh!

What was that saying again?

Damned if you do and damned if you don't.

The other her, the posh her, knew all the fancy sayings and cliches. Her fantasy world always welcomed her with arms open wide and whenever she chose to escape, she could be whom she wanted to be. Live the high flying life of a fast paced, career woman.

No furious fists to compel obedience at the end of the day.

Gbish...

Oh dear. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had walked into a "silence is the best answer to a fool day" without even realising it.

The force of the slap forced her first to her knees and then as if by instinct, she rolled onto her back and curled into a ball.

Gbash...

The force of his feet colliding with her back jolted her and she snapped back, then quickly recoiled herself tight as a foetus. Her mother protected her from her father's wrath, this was beyond her now.

She had someone to protect too.

Gboosh....

On her head. That was a new one, he had never done that before. He always hit her where bones were and then pulled his punches almost at the last minute.

The intention was always to cause pain. Deep pain. Long lasting pain. No visible traces.

She would wince as she walked, ate, bent and did the housework but could not point an accusing finger at the exact spot causing her pain. He  was THAT good.

As the blows and kicks continued to rain all over her, her toughened body refused to uncoil. He did not know it yet, but it was better she remained coiled for both their good. Her mind remained fixated on that one kick to the head, even as her body twitched from the blows and her mouth let out matching whelps.

Not feeling pain when he hit her usually called for sterner measures. Otherwise known as "the belt". She didn't want to meet the belt today, she might be unable to guide its course and protect the vulnerable one.

So she remained coiled, her mouth uttered sounds her mind did not give a damn about,  while her thoughts remained fixated on that one kick to the head.

Maybe if her mother had stayed at her father's, she would have learnt how to absorb all the thrashing and still remain meek as a mouse. But her mother had gathered them all up one day and walked. Never looked back.

He didn't look like her father, where her father was all muscles and brawn, he had looked soft, cuddly and gentle. Too late to realise it had nothing to do with appearances.

Too late.

The beating stopped as soon as they had started and she listened to his chest heave. She listened for the sound of him reaching for his belt. Nothing.

That meant the belt was not needed today, and since his trousers would not be around his ankles without the belt to hold them up, there would be no post-beating sex.

Rape her friend called it.

Not just her friends, the books did too.

But he said it was his right to sex her anytime he wanted, anyhow he wanted. Sometimes he beat her first to make it sweeter. Other times, he just put it in, came, and pulled it out.

"Come on stand up from there. Ashawo! Your mama better pass you, she burn full house. You just dey there, you no gree carry belle. Weight sef you no gree ad because every time, you no go dey make yourself happy. Weensh."

She dragged herself up wearily, the pains had already started.

"Enter kitchen go fetch me water make I drink. Useless woman. I marry man like myself put for house. Yeye."

She got to the kitchen, picked up a glass from the shelf and rinsed it out thoroughly. Exactly the way he liked, and then wiped it down with a kitchen roll.

She ran it under the cold water dispenser, and filled it to the brim.

She stood staring at the glass for a few minutes, then walked over to the sink and tipped out some of the water.

Just enough water.

He was seated on the couch, one leg lazily sprawled across the armrest when she came back with the water glass in a saucer. Pure white saucer, he loved cleanliness and purity. Like her, she was a virgin when  she met him, as pure as they come in both body and soul.

She handed over the full glass to him, just as she noticed the belt lying on the floor and his trousers zipped open. His turgid member peeked out through the flap, throbbing as he picked up the glass and took a sip.

"Come on kneel down there".

By force of habit, she knelt almost without thinking and watched eagerly as he began to drink from the glass. Her breath caught as he paused and looked at the glass, then raised it slowly to his lips and drained it.

His member pulsated with every swallow.

Without asking his permission, she stood and motioned to the glass. He handed it to her, then raised his hand to his mouth and slowly wiped his lips.

"Take it away, off your clothes and come back here. You know I love you ba? Only say you too dey like to dey make me vex, but I don forgive you. Oya, go keep the cup come quick quick. Today na today".

She stood in the kitchen and slowly reached for the hem of her dress. Ignoring the aches and pains she pulled the dress over her head, then stepped out of her panties. She left her bra on, he thought it was foreplay to take the bra off and then forcefully push himself into an unprepared woman.

She had long learnt not to complain.

He looked a bit constipated, but she kept her eyes averted as she walked back into the sitting room, pushed aside the coffee table and lay down with her legs spread apart.

He could not understand why his limbs were suddenly heavy, he did not beat her as much as he did the other time. Whish kain winsh be this when he don ready to gbains?

Anyhow wey e be sha, I must show her say I don forgive her so I must fuck her today o.

He struggled out of his trousers and positioned himself between her legs.

His arms were too heavy to reach behind her and unclasp the bra but as he struggled and fumbled, she kept her eyes fixed on his.

Sweat broke out all over him as he finally undid the clasp. He laid his head on her breast and felt his eyes closing a little.

No! He must do this now.

As he poised himself to thrust, she placed her hands on his shoulders. Surprised at this turn of events and wondering why his heart was racing so violently, he looked deep into her eyes and was scared by what he saw in there.

Victory!

"Baby, you know say you na useless man, from day one wey I don marry you till today na so so beating you dey gee me chop. If I carry belle, you go beat me sotay e go commot".

A haze descended over him as he struggled to hear her words. This woman no dey fear o, make he fuck her finish first, he go use belt show her Oba Bini today.

"But I love you baby shebi you know na," she continued as he shook his head in confusion. "God don bless us, I don carry belle now for the past tiri months".

He struggled to form words as his eyes widened and his penis went limp almost simultaneously.

"No worry baby, I go train the pikin well. You no need to worry but you no go ever beat me again as e be so. Na Godwin".

As he rolled off her and wondered what was happening to him, she leaned on his chest and looked into his eyes, savoring every second.

The last thing he ever saw or heard, was her face lowering until her nose almost touched his, and with her lips hardly moving, she breathed out...

"Oya go well you hear? I don forgive you finish".