Family, Love, Marriage and Other Ramblings

I am traveling home for Easter. I need to see my mom and father and kin and kith. I had planned to go during Mothering Sunday but I was going to take a girl out-to watch Rangers versus Enyimba. You didn’t go to see your mother because of a girl? Wow, terrible! Yes, carry a gun and shoot me. I called my mother and explained that I was tied up and wouldn’t make it. She was fine with it and said till Easter. So you can cry more than the celebrant, from now to August Meeting, if you like, it doesn’t move me. Your eyes, your tears. Is it not my mother who has been making noises about marriage—well, I was taking my future iyawo out.

Future Iyawo indeed. The girl is beautiful, soft-spoken, smart and a terrific cook. But she doesn’t entirely trust me, she kept saying that a part of her felt I would end up hurting her. I can never hurt a fly, I would say and you are my dove. If I can’t hurt a fly why should I hurt a full dove?

So it came to pass on a certain day, I appeared on bae’s door unannounced.

“Who is at the door?” she said in response to my knock.

“Your landlord,” I replied.

“Go away landlord, I don’t owe you.”

Hehehe. I opened the curtain. She was seated in the middle of the room. There was a yellow chap seated on the chair behind her. I lost one “he” in my “hehehe”.

“But you didn’t say you will come now,” my sweetheart told me. What a way to welcome your man after a hard day in the office.

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“I was passing by and decided to drop in.”

“Should I bring a chair for you?”

Outside? Ahh! “Not necessary,” I said.

Awkward silence.

“How was work?” she asked.

“Fine.”

Another silence. Awkward.

I went home, walking like a deflated tyre that the owner forced on the road. She didn’t even see me off. I don’t blame her. The fire in my eyes would light an oven. I was the one who was going to hurt her, remember? She must have watched so many Who Wants to be Millionaire episodes? Fastest fingers first.

Bae has been calling since then but chere, kam je village first. The yellow guy could be her cousin, her pastor or “just a friend”. Perhaps. For now, I am occupied. I don’t like the way my supervisor at work looks at me and I can’t remember my aunt’s blouse size. When I returned to Enugu I would have her time. I could go to her house with my sword, and shout Yellow, Yellow, like Brad Pitt called Hector out. When he comes out, I would say now you know who you are fighting.

I am going home. If my people know how I feel now they would suspend all silly talks about marriage till farther notice. What is a marriage? But look at this thing o. Like play, like joke, I would go and marry and become a responsible father for the rest of my life. One last excitement, please. I would turn my hair to dreadlocks, pierce my ear and draw a tattoo on my shoulder then I would wear a sleeveless shirt and fubu three-quarters and go and sit down in bush bar, order point and kill and hum at the beats.

Talking about marriage, Linda Ikeji is engaged and I am not the man. No, I am not crying; it is onions that entered my eyes. It doesn’t yet sound real to me. Before I know it, I would just go and fall in the lagoon. Better watch me. But there is no lagoon in this city, you will say. There will be o. The rate at which I am crying, I would cry her a lagoon and drown in it. It is not like I am crying over spilled Linda, it is the onions. I work in an onion juice factory. I am happy for Linda.

hidden stones

And the guy who stole Linda from me is somehow yellow (I am not sure about his yellowness but I already have one experience with a yellow guy, I now see yellow guys everywhere, even in my dream); that’s two yellow guys in one week. I am not doing again. I am going home to mama. To a place where no yellow man can reach.

My little brother is not coming home this Easter. They would make me kill the chicken. The last time I killed a chicken was in 2012. I was holidaying in Lagos, in my sister’s place. So the chicken was to be killed. I haven’t killed no chicken for a while, so I just went behind the house and cut the nigger’s throat. I went back to the sitting room where the Super Eagles were playing Liberia (I believe we won 6-1). While on this, my sister’s first or second son came to the room and said, “Uncle, the okuko have wake up.”

What! I ran out. Yes, the okuko has resurrected. It stood with bloodied throat watching me, daring me. I rushed to it and removed the head and took the head to the sitting room.

Sigh. I would be killing another okuko. The thing I do for family. I believe I would use a machete. One blow and the bitch will lose her head. A headless fowl cannot resurrect. Call me Jon Snow.

Easter is coming. It is coming sooner this year, why not? Now that APC has joined the Pharisees and the Sadducees in the negotiating with Judas Iscariot to betray the Lord Jesus Christ. At last, APC can count this as their achievement. Early in the week, someone, on Twitter, challenged Nigerians to name one project Buhari and APC initiated and completed in their three years in power. She was offering 20K for the answer. As of Wednesday, the amount has risen to 150k, no answer. You could have mentioned this Easter just that APC didn’t initiate it. It is there forefather Herod who began the whole denouement.

I need to go home. In fact, I need to start building my own house. When I get home, I would ask my father to give me a land where I can build. If I do nothing in the land, I would clear it, get a lorry of sand on it and have an engineer come check it out. Then I would run back to Enugu and tell everyone that I am building a house in the village. No one would know that I have only succeeded in denying a yellow man from growing cocoyam in the land.

cocoy

I have to go now. I need to go and rest poor head. Too much things have happened to me in one week. The other day, on Facebook, someone sent me a message saying they have the power to give me lucky charm, promotion, money etc. On the head of the list was “make your ex come back to you”. Hehehe. Like this. X.

But come to think of it, they say Linda Ikeji’s fiancé was her ex-boyfriend. What an ex! A good ex. What really make a good ex? A good boyfriend goes on to make a good ex or a bad bae turns out a good ex? Which is it?

Me, all my exes belie definition. Recently, one called me to ask if I had bought a car. A cheap shot. The other time, I told one on her birthday that I would surprise her. I didn’t get her anything. That should surprise her. She surprised me first. Shebi na me and Nigerian girls, just leave us alone. The person who throws the other down, let them take their glory to the market square.

In another news, Lagos State was shut down yesterday because the president was coming to commission a bus stop. A bus stop! A holiday for a bus-stop. I am laughing. It is not funny. I am laughing my cry. A cryter. Well, let this not be the memory you of Holy Thursday. Let me tell you a story about Holy Thursday. You know Holy Thursday is the day Christians commemorate the Last Supper; Catholics take this a step further by having a leg-washing session.

So after playing football that year, we were ten or twelve, still dripping sweat, we went to the Cathedral to have our legs washed. Personally, I wanted only the bishop to touch my bony legs. A stout steward drove us away at the door. Just look at him. If it were in the Bible, someone would have said, “Let the dirty urchins come unto the Lord.” To say the truth, our legs were stinking dirty. I think even Jesus wouldn’t want to touch our legs without hand gloves.

Mehn, let me go and have a head-cut. Honestly, I am not happy with my barber. He is no longer the wise barber I used to call personal barber to the White House. But in defence of Tunde, I am angry with many people nowadays. I am angry with my landlord. My rent is due in weeks and the closer my rent, the angrier I get with my landlord. And I have resolved not to pay him the rent once. I will drag the rent and pay him in three installments. It is not as if I do not have the money. Although, I am building a house in the village but that is not the reason. My landlord is a wicked man. That is why.

Let me give you an instance. You will come home tired. You will drag your carcass to the bathroom and turn on the shower. And the shower isn’t running; urhahhh! You will call the landlord and he will tell you that one tall boy on the third floor brought a girl home so he decided to switch off the showers in order to reduce their enjoyment. “This place is not a whore house.”

What a terrisome person.

You know that the MMM founder nigger died on Monday. A few months ago I wrote a story “When the devil says yes”. Now, he is gone to be with the devil his ancestors. Call me prophet. Nigerians began to make it look like the guy stole their money. He didn’t biko. When you went to the bank it was Aliyu or Abulu or Ufuma that you paid, not the Nigger of Russia. Keep believing he took your money if that makes you happy and pretend his death has healed you.

Let me come and be going. This Easter is blessed. May the chicken submit their throats unto thee. If not, just remove the head, put it in your purse and go away. Let the fowl resurrect headless.

In case you have time in your hand, read my Easter Rice brouhaha story from 2014. It will crack you up real hard. One of the most read posts on my blog. You may also read my New Year resolutions. It is a shame that this great blog has been reduced to a monthly affair. It is well, at least I am still coming here from time to time to kill you, and when I do I give my all. Nearly 2000 words and I am going away only because my Uber driver is waiting. Haters will say it is Ubachukwu the keke rider. Pay them no heed. My Uber driver. I am outta here. Have a great Easter everyone.

Minus yellow men.

 

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Eleven New Year Resolutions from the Angry Nigerian

January has wasted thirteen days as it is now. 25 days to go. Yeah, yeah, I failed my maths, I know, I know but January is always a long month. Last year’s January lasted 55 days. Mehn, saw my eyes with my ears. First, MMM waylaid me on the highway and stole the money I was reserving for Christmas. I got paid on the 19th and on the Boxing Day, le salary was bleeding profusely through the nose. By the end of the end of the month, I buried my transport money in my bra to avoid stories that touch the left side of the chest.

When I came back to Enugu in January, it was a total angry man (not me) that was walking the roads and parading himself as myself. To add injury to salt, one babe like that was carrying face over allocatory matters. January is as long as your bank account. This year, January, God pass you. In fact, let’s not bother the Almighty with this, I can handle this particular January. The Lord has given me victory and I have made a public show of January 2018 in front of Diamond Bank cubicle in Garden Avenue.

That is by the way.

I have resolutions. Normally, at the beginning of the year, I release prophecies but since I went to the synagogue and prophesied that a woman will be president of the United States and the last son of Lucifer became president, I have decided to respect myself.

Resolutions! Eleven of them. Why eleven? Well, a certain Man of Galilee had twelve disciplines and one of them betrayed him because of thirty pieces of Zimbabwean dollars or something like that. I don’t care. I don’t pay close attention to the deeds of villains. Man’s not hot, I have decided to do with eleven resolutions. Keep the Judas. Have you ever seen a bicycle in a filling station?

1, I will laugh more often.

I laugh once a year. Hehehe. That’s all. Till next year. My Instagram bio described me perfectly. Writer, blogger, sadist. Anger is my facial default setting. I am angry until someone annoys me. I never laugh. Those who know me will say it’s a lie. What do they know, because I laugh on phone with you? Let me confess, it wasn’t me. I have a broken tape with which I recorded a laugh. So when you crack a joke, it is the recorded laughter that laughs with you. Yeah, one robot to another. I am waiting for you to end the call, so I can save my battery.

If I were a character, I would be Stannis. Stannis of the House Wailers. I will lead my army to the capitol, capture Jibril and set Aso Rock ablaze. Hehehe.

I have already laughed two times on this post. One last laughter for the rest of the year.

2, I no longer have a special barber.

I came back from the village this year with a bushy head because I didn’t want anybody except my barber cutting my head off. Plan was to go to my personal barber first thing on arrival but nigger was too tired, nigger rested his bones, nigger went to work the next day with bushy head, scattered sideboards and overgrown beard. Wasn’t so proud of me. After work, at night, midnight I think, I got a New Year message from my colleague on Whatsapp. She wrote:

You coundnt even cut your hair. O gini?

I died a little. An early shot on target. Wow.

My barber’s name is Tunde. Before Tunde, Olaniyi was. Before clipper, razor was. Before I came to this town, I have had haircuts.  He’s the only one who understands my head and all. Vanity, says the barbee. All na wash. Wanity, if I may. Who my barber help? If my hair gets due, I will get the nearest barber to cut my head off.

I am handsome with or without Tunde. The style of haircut on my big head has little influence on my crush and crushed, why kill myself? Monkey no fine, says Tekno, but im mama like am…

Wait o, are you trying to call me a monkey? It is your village igwe that is a monkey. Oloshi.

3, I will no longer woo girls.

I have been toasting, yarning, and chyking and lying to girls since 1924, what have come out of it? Nothing. I am done. I am going to face my allocatory matters. Think I have used this word before, but I can’t suffer to invent a new word then use it once. Allocatory matters. Back to the wooing decision, take a look at this list.

Uche Jombo,

Sinach,

Noella,

Linda Ikeji,

Etc.

All of them rejected me. I am done chasing girls. If you like me, block me on the road, shoot your shot, buy me shawarma, sing my name to high heaven, after all said and done and undone, last, last, I will give you a wrong number.

I am proving hard to get.

4, I will buy my second car this year but haters will say I don’t even have one car. Pay them no heed.

5, I will make one billion this year.

Paul and Silas, they prayed

After praying, they sang

After singing

The Holy Ghost came down.

 

I the dreamer, I dreamed

After dreaming, I wished

After wishing

I made my first billion.

 

You the reader, you laugh

After laughing, drink your garri

After drinking

Watch your back for your village people are coming.

6, My landlord will not make heaven.

But this is not a resolution. Whatever. That man will not make heaven. He cannot. Last month, one fine morning, I was whistling, on my way to somewhere or nowhere, he saw me and I said, “Morning, sir.” He said morning, then added: “I hope you remember that your rent expires on April 27.” Imagine the dickhead. He never remembers my name but somehow he knows the exact minute and hour whence my rent hits the end. How can such man see the Holy Son of God?

(Note that April 27 is not the day my rent expires. I don’t know. Only the man who will not see Jesus knows. I am saying this so that if in July you mistakenly pinch for a loan and I say I don’t have because I just paid my rent don’t call me a liar.)

7, This is item seven. Well, that reminds me of my desire to cook more often this year. I was unable to sleep some night ago so I decided to analyse the sources of my food.

Tea and bread and noodles and eggs and sprite and Nutri Milk = 30%

Zinc restaurant = 30%

Restaurant = 20%

Home-cooked by those who will not be mentioned = 5%

Home-cooked by he or she who shall not be mentioned = 3%

Home cooked by this nigger writing this = 1%

Other = 10%.

My goal is to increase the times I cook real food for myself to 3%. The guy I buy gas from is my friend and he expects me to buy the gas more often. So I will cook and I will cook difficult traditional food like akidi, fiofio, okpa, osu une, agada, usana, pripri, kpikpi, njanja etc. (For your information, 70% of the food doesn’t exist anywhere. Swallow your saliva and take your pot belly westward, you glutton!)

8, The state of war still exists between me and Nigerian tailors.

This one is not a New Year resolution. It is an old beef carried over into the New Year.

Sunny, hello, Sunny? Please open the door. I just want to talk to you.

hidden stones

 

9, I need more rich friends this year.

I am sick of friends who complain over Nepa bill and who moan and whine over fifty naira increment on some provision and stay away from the internet for days because of “MB” and have heart attack over buying boo a handbag. I love you but this year I prefer to be more with guys who talk like this:

“Victor came back from Turkey since July and has been staying in a hotel, eating breakfast, lunch, dinner in the hotel and entertaining friends every night.”

“Emeka bashed his Toyota on a pole and bought a Ford Edge the next week.”

“Agatha apologized to her boyfriend by taking him to Dubai for a weekend.”

A Facebook philosopher once said if you don’t have up to ten people on your friend list who are able to give you 100 thousand naira loan on a short notice, you are a broke ass. He is right, you are as broke as the five people closest to you. Being wealthy has a lot to do with psychology and the unconscious so the people and atmosphere you create around you matter.

Psqaure said, “If I no get money, I get where to borrow.” Last year, I had a problem with EFCC and they froze my three accounts, I needed to raise 30K urgently for something. Ordinary 30K you people couldn’t raise me; you people were swearing on your grandfather’s grave that you don’t have. Is over between us. Go away, it is people like me that have Wizkid, Davido and DJ Cuppy as friends. I know what to do this year. Don’t be emotional about this. Go and make money.

Signed management.

10, I will walk down the aisle this year.

As a best man or one of the men in suit. Since my mother gave birth to me (before is it your mother that will give birth to me?) I have never been part of a wedding train. A train is going too far. Never been part of a wedding motorcycle. I can’t take this. I am putting an end to this, this year. Where are thee, you sons of guns that call theeself my friends? Take your ass off that Betnaija shop and do the needful.

11, I want to be more forgiving this year.

It is a fact universally unacknowledged that it takes me a while to forgive. No, I am not talking about Jibrin and Rochas and Kogi’s Bello and Fulani herdsmen and Femi Adesina and Lauretta Onochie etc. These people don’t need my forgiveness. Their matter is already out of my hand. It’s for the gods and the oracles of the hills and the caves to decide. Any other person not on this list and who is not my landlord I free from my heart and offer a hand of friendship forget-me.

No, I won’t forgive that babe who sent the “You coundnt even cut your hair” message to me. Baby, watch your back, I am the oracle that kills one when her life is in the sweetness.

I will destroy you.

Tweets to @oke4chukwu