2017 Mid-Term Report: So Far So Far

Sigh. 2017 has blasted six months. It is half-past 2017. Six months to go. In January, I wrote 40-something things I wish to achieve this year, or stop doing. For instance, I set a goal of making one billion naira by December; well, I haven’t done so badly, it’s just remaining 999 million, 990 something thousand naira. No, I haven’t done bad. I also promised to stop abusing politicians. Well, although, I still think that Rochas is an impersonator of reality who should be made to carry a keg of palm oil with his ‘my people, my people’ head and made to trek from Owerri to Okigwe with a bag of warm pure water to aid him. But I don’t say this aloud, I am a changed man!

2017, how far? So far.

I woke up this morning and I couldn’t find my legs. When I found them, I couldn’t move them. Well, I tried moving them, they wouldn’t budge. Good God, what has happened to my legs, my legs? I pushed hard and my bag fell off the bed. I had placed the bag on the bed in order to pick the clothes for my journey to the village to start the talk over my marriage to the policewoman I love, and I fell asleep mid-picking and now the bag stood in the space for my legs.

I am grateful to God for two healthy legs.  I might not be rich, hunger might have made me abuse you on Whatsapp, but if Nigeria is invaded by aliens tomorrow, I am surely going to outrun you and 170 million people. What would it profit you to have the whole world and end up in the belly of a vampire?

Bad as it is, I have done some good. I have a few achievements this year so far.

1, I met a policewoman

She is tall, slim, chocolate, with full hips, flat tummy, well-formed br… in short, believe me, she is beautiful. Plus those arresting lips. Plus she has a sense of humour; a great conversationist, a compassionate listener who can cook, pray for more than one hour, and does not eat pizza more than once a week. What else do you want from a lady? I have picked my marriage date, November 2019. Save the date. And stop laughing, idiot.

‘Mr Kingsley, would you accept this handcuff as a token of the love of your Queen, to be handcuffed and beloved, till death do you part?’ ‘Why not?’

2, I still polish my shoes.

What is the big deal you ask? Nothing. Just that if you go into any kiosk or shop or mall, whatever, and ask how much kiwi polish costs, you would appreciate the fact that I still polish my shoes daily. And mind you, half of the people in Nigeria use grind charcoal and the other half wear Aba made Converse.

3, I wrote a small ebook.

37 Ways to Survive Nigeria. The book is expected out this July but I am angry. Some group of half-educated, poorly educated, socially handicapped, mentally crippled yoots in the North threatened to ‘mop-up’ my people if they don’t leave ‘their’ land by October 1st. I would not release the ebook until after my anger over the ‘quit notice’ from the aspiring looters.

Does it mean I am taking their words seriously? I am. But I am more angry with the politicians who refused to arrest the criminals and jail them, or even seriously condemn them. This Nigeria doesn’t deserve my book. Not now, maybe never.

But I wrote a book this year. Ihuuuuuuuuuuuu!

4, I am still friends with my landlord.

My landlord drives me crazy. I don’t smoke weed, I don’t carry women except for one of my church members who sometimes visit Brother Kingsley (half of the compound smoke weed and the other half carry a variety of women who are not their church members). I don’t come back in the middle of the night to knock on the gate; I don’t play music in deafening decibels; I come out for monthly sanitation. I am an ideal tenant.

But no, the man won’t let me be. Whenever he sees me he would pluck a bill from the air and ask me to pay. Nepa bill, security, grass-cutting bill, suck away pit packing bill etc. How many times did I shit in this house, yet I am expected to pay for suck-away evacuation? This is injustice!

And he has a way of giving unsolicited advice and turning up like a ghost without a funeral when you want to mind your business the most. I am tired.

But we are still friends, wow!

5, I am not owing anybody.

Since I left the university I had had the fortune (insert good or bad) of working where my allowance/salaries do not exceed the 15th of the month. Which meant, I usually had cause to borrow before the end of the month. But this year I have not borrowed anything except if you wish to count the time I collected lighter from my neigbour . Even if I did borrow something tangible, you won’t know. The person that would come to the comment box to say he lent me anything, that person should just write his will because I have connections with Italian Mafian special cross-country snippers. Hehe, or,  better still,  I would chew you alive, swallow you and vomit you out whole.

And I am not owing anyone except, of course, one or two girls I owe pension. And this pension, I am not the only one owing. The Federal Government owes pension. State governments owe pension. I owe pension, no big deal. You are free to abuse me on the comment box.

6, I have conquered coke.

Yes, I used to drink coke nearly every day, sometimes twice or even thrice a day. No, I am not moved by the bullshit about seven cubes of sugar and coke will kill your sperm or give you diabetes nonsense. But I hate addiction and every form of it. I hate being in a position of craving for anything. Obsession annoys me, makes me feel like a slave, belittles me and insult my intellect; so I put a giant full-stop on coke.

I went a day without coke, I survived.

I went a week without coke, I survived.

Went a month, I survived.

Now I take coke occasionally which is twice or thrice a week. And this last month, I took more Pepsi than coke so what are you talking? I defeated coke in victory.

And having disarmed the powers and authorities of coca-cola, I made a public show of coke. Where O coke is thy sting? I am free. God has broken the power of soda in my life. Praise the Lord.

7, I have two working legs

Whatever happens, I am so glad to have my two bony legs intact!

Pass me the bottle.

Tweet me on @oke4chukwu. If you wish to abuse me privately, use teamokechukwu@gmail.com

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Obituary: Comrade Garri (1300-2017)

Garri is dead. Garri is the latest victim of the locomotive destroyer we call change. Garri, gone! Garri, the defender of the broke, the student companion, the official first-aid of the Republic (OFR), a friend indeed; Garri, the minister of defence, the Prince of wails,  the calmer of storms, dead.

Garri is dead and there’s total silence. A powerful comrade, saviour and supporter, is gone and we are silent. Murdered by this regime,  yet no outrage, no black dress, no tears, people are going about their businesses (or pretending to) as if nothing happened.

I won’t take this.

Someone once said that noodles have done more for this country than the national assembly. Absolutely right, he is. But not just noodles; so many things, the list is endless, have done more for us than the national assembly. Including kiwi polish, generator, twitter etc.

On top of the of the list, for me, is Garri. Garri. Garri, in a voice that rustles. Garri had been saving lives since our fore forefathers first walked this land as hunters and gatherers. Garri was there when the first Obi of Onitsha emerged from the sky, Garri was there when the Benin Empire ruled South of the Niger, Garri was there when the Alaafin of Oyo shot those arrows in the four corners of the world. Garri preceded the Sokoto Caliphate, Garri, Right Honourable Garri, was our first foreign exchange before the white colonialists decided humans were better cash crops.

Garri, the history of our nation was written with Garri. Lord Lugard had a bowl of soaked Garri with sugar and coconut the day he woke up and decided to amalgamate the southern and northern protectorates of King George the Fifth. His girlfriend, Shaw, had a spoonful of Garri in her mouth when she called the new country Nigeria.

Garri was served during the first meeting of the first political party in Nigeria, the Nigerian Youth Movement, founded by the erudite Herbert Macaulay. During all the constitutional conferences from Richards to Macpherson, Garri was the only item seven. When, in 1953, Enaharo moved the motion for independence Garri was before him. in fact, he was inspired by Garri to make such seminal move.

During the Second World War, when Nigerians fought for the British in India and Burma, Garri was the key player. The appearance of a Nigerian soldier full of Garri in his stomach and grit in his eyes was enough to send a battalion of Japanese soldiers scampering for safety. Garri practically won the Indian-Burma Sector of the war for the Allies.

Garri survived the painful civil war, survived the directionless rule of Gowon, survived the free for all loot that was the second Republic; Garri survived the first (warning) coming of Buhari, the IBB disaster and the lethal insanity of Abacha; Garri not only survived the return of civilian rule Garri ruled in Aso Rock.

Below is the video of President Obasanjo gleefully enjoying Garri.

Garri was honoured under Obasanjo. A scarcity of sugar towards the end of Obasanjo’s regime nearly started a nationwide mutiny. A song emerged, in Hausa, ‘Obasanjo drank Garri without sugar/Who told us this?/Atiku told us’; that was sugar (the companion of Garri) scarcity, not Garri, Garri scarcity was unthinkable.

Garri survived the onslaught of noodles.

Then the APC comedians came with their brooms and the rotten change. And Garri died.

I won’t take this.  

Garri, Oh, Garri, my grand old friend, a handy substitute, my personal assistant during my university days. Yeah with 50 naira in those days one can drink Garri. 10 naira tin cup of Garri, 10 naira tot of milk, 10 naira sugar, 10 naira groundnut and 5 naira cold pure water; you get five naira change! But today, under this change you need roughly 200 naira to soak and drink a decent Garri. Minimum Wage in Nigeria is 18 thousand. 600 naira per day. So you need one-third of your daily pay to drink Garri.

Noooooooooo!

This is wicked, this is a humiliation of a national hero, a founding monument. This is the greatest injustice to befall the common man since the Slave Trade. Taking Garri off the table is a declaration of war against life, against survival, against prosperity, against humanity. The whole world must rise up to this Garrious genocide. First, they lied to us that Garri causes Lassa fever. We didn’t buy so they snatched it off the table. Evil ones. Terrorists of the commonchop. They took Garri away!

Comrade Garri would be missed. Garri doesn’t discriminate, it goes with moi-moi, it goes with coconuts, it goes with biscuit, it goes with German stones, it goes with groundnuts, it goes with cashew nuts, it goes with joy, it goes with gratitude, it goes with happiness; and they took it away.

Leave me, let me cry and mourn the demise of the founding father of Nigeria. He who has never drunk Garri before let him cast the first stone of dissension at me. I hereby declare the next seven days for the mourning of Garri. Flags would be flown at half-mast. Nobody must eat meat or have sex (now this one would cause trouble, but I insist, I declare every zip shut—there is a national padlocking of skirts and trousers as we mourn the departure of our great ancestor; loosening of bra strap is not permitted). Everyone must don black and black all through. There is a dusk to dawn curfew. By six o’clock everyone is expected indoors to weep and mourn the Great Loss; and all our airports, seaports and land borders are slammed shut.

Anyone who disobeys this order would be taken to Ijebu-Ode to farm cassava and produce Garri for seven years. You have been warned.

Pass me the bowl.

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