MURPHY’S LAW

King of Cool

In it’s basest explanation, Murphy’s Law states that: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Ironically, everything appears to have gone very right for one Edward Regan Murphy.

You’ve heard the narrative: a black ghetto child can’t make it out the ‘hood. Eddie burst out of the hood and took over the Hills. He owned Saturday Night Live and his comedy specials, Delirious and Raw still keep audiences laughing hard, decades later. With a long list of movie classics to his credit, audiences say he’s fallen off because his more recent offerings have been more kiddie fodder than adult frolics.

I’m not going to go into detail about whether he has soared or sunk. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion but one should consider that his kiddie movies have kept the man PAID! However, sticking to character, I digress 🙂

Why have I all of a sudden decided to write about one of the funniest famous people ever (I know non-famous people that are HIGH-larious)? Well, two reasons:

1. I caught the TV special, Eddie Murphy: One Night Only recently on Comedy Central and the tales told, tributes paid plus footage aired brought back memories of his comedic genius and also reminded me that Eddie Murphy is the definition of bad ass!

2. Of late, the unintentional comedy of Lagos ‘big boy and girldom’ has had me fascinated, so this Eddie tribute put ‘big boyism’ in perspective and the wheels started turning…

If you are unfamiliar with Lagos Big Boys and Girls, count yourself lucky (because you don’t have to put up with that BS) or unfortunate (because you’re missing out on some good comedy). Basically, they reckon they are the biggest, baddest and best at everything. They pop bottles in the club for everyone to see but what they hide is the fact they more often than you’d believe pop on credit. It’s a marriage of keeping up with the Joneses and Keeping Up Appearances. Hyacinth Bucket would be very proud.

Anyway, watching stars, past and present, share tales about Eddie (yes, he’s one of those super-duper stars with single name recognition like Michael, Elvis, Madonna, Jack, LeBron), I couldn’t help but think, ‘So called Big Boys and Big Girls, you need to STUDY Eddie Murphy to understand what it really means to be a BIG.’ To paraphrase Jay-Z, “He be the only Big Boy that the Big Boys watch!”

Two stories in particular stood out for me. One by Chris Rock and the other by Keenan Ivory Wayans.

According to Rock, himself, Eddie, Keenan and a bunch of other black guys were out and this white girl came about gushing how Eddie was her favorite, how much she loved him and all that. She really wanted to kiss Eddie and asked if she could, pointing out that she’d never kissed a black man before. As Rock tells it, Eddie responded, “Well, you can’t start at the top baby, you’re gonna have to kiss one of these broke ass niggas.”

The ‘hood’ response to that is, “Like a bawse supposed ta!” A fitting Nigerian response would be, “See levels!”

The Keenan story truly defines what you would expect a Big Boy to be. Boss of all bosses type stuff. The way Keenan put it, night clubs back in the day had a “two brotha minimum” and himself and Eddie were at the door with about 10 other black dudes. The bouncers were like, we know it’s you Eddie but we can only let like four of you in. So Eddie says no problem, instructs four members of the crew to go in and tell every beautiful woman in there that there was a party at Eddie Murphy’s house and in 10 minutes, the club emptied out and everyone headed over to Eddie’s house. About two weeks later, Eddie returned to the club about 20-deep and the ALL GOT IN!

Big Boys and Girls, real or imagined, that’s how the Biggest Boy does it. In the words of Tip Harris, “What you know about that?”

To quote my favorite writer, Bill Simmons, from this fantastic piece about Eddie on his Grantland site, “He was a [Saturday Night Live] cast member at 19, the show’s meal ticket by 20, a movie star by 21, and a full-fledged superduperstar by 22. Tell me when we’ll see that again.”

I honestly can’t tell him – can you?

 

Yes, you just read about Eddie Murphy flossing like it was a serious issue

I Am Random!

DON’T SWEAR TELEVISION

NOTE: There will be foul language used in this post to drive home some points. Yes, it could have been written without the cuss words but then, it would defeat the purpose. If you’re fine with that, read on, otherwise, look forward to some nice, wholesome, likely irrelevant, definitely random, posts to follow soon. Oh, and this post is rather long, too and all over the place. Smile.

You know how we take things for granted just because they’re always there? Like a chair, for example. You just know it’s there and you park your butt in it, not giving a second thought to its existence; like how it got there. You know, was it once a tree that bore beautifully delicious fruit? Was it a cow mothering playful calves (no, not ‘yams’ as in calf muscles but baby cows, where one is a calf. Don’t get it twisted now. You probably took THAT for granted too! Digression in the first paragraph? *sigh*) before being reincarnated as a Lay-Z-Boy without prior consultation or negotiation? At this point, you’re probably thinking – why do I care or where is Johnny Random going with this? (Would you be surprised, one bit, if I said I didn’t know myself?)

Well, here’s where I’m going. Since the 1980s (80s baby, holla!), well, 1990s in Nigeria, cable television has become a fabric of basic human existence. You just had to have cable television, otherwise, what would you watch? VideoMart, VideoNet & Mega Movies (all video rental clubs, for the uninitiated) could not provide on-demand entertainment. So the rise of MFP, ABG and all other pretenders (be it transmitted via satellite dish or rooftop antenna) was imminent and welcome. However, as the years advanced, a powerhouse rose to monopolize the cable game – DStv, promising ‘so much more.’

Most subscribers incessantly curse DStv for offering limited channels, even though they offer over 250 (or is that 350?) but they go bonkers when the ‘limited’ service is unavailable. For a man of simple tastes and such easy virtue (read that statement however you like, heck, I don’t even know why I wrote it), as long as I can watch the NBA, Around the Horn, PTI and SportsCenter on ESPN and catch the Barclays Premier League on SuperSport, I’m good. Any channel that airs classic sitcoms and movies (okay, and corny T-movie classics like Mega Piranha get airtime too – T-movie: since movies are classified as A or B movies, these programs are too terrible to rank high on the movies’ alphabetical rate scale. And being terrifically terrible, trivial and thrilling, these tearjerkers [from laughing so hard at the unintentional comedy, not from the highly emotional nature of these moving pictures] totally take on a T rating) as well get a look in from me.

Anyway, this isn’t about what or why I watch, neither is it about people’s complaints on viewing limitations. However, if you live in Nigeria, in a major city, chances are you have DStv at home, work or your local beer parlor. The monopoly is real (hitv turned bye-tv real quick) and it is part of your life – DStv is just there!

So here’s what it is – for years, I never thought about what the D and S in DStv stood for. All I knew was that I had DStv and there it was. It was never a big deal because it had become part of life, something that was just there because it was meant to be:

“What’s that?”

“It’s DStv!”

“Oh, ok. Pass the salt, please.”

However, the random generators kicked in one day while watching an old movie, I forget which, and I realized that the D stood for DON’T and the S for SWEAR! DStv is DON’T SWEAR TV! Anybody know what I’m talking about? Well, whether you do or don’t, lemme get into it.

Watching a movie on DStv, do you realize that cuss words are muted? For example, let’s say an angry character goes off, what you’re likely to hear is, “What the ____ would you do if you were me?” or maybe, “Could you please stop?! I don’t need this ____ right now!”

You might sit there thinking, “So why exactly is he complaining; isn’t censorship a good thing? Kids might be watching!” Well, I have two major issues with it:

One. It disrupts the natural flow of the movie/story and just pisses me the hell off.

Two. What then, is the point of their parental guidance feature and the little animation in the top right corner that tells you the age rating of the program and whether it contains N(udity), V(iolence), S(ex) or L(anguage)?

Surely, if the L is highlighted, we know there’s going to be F bombs dropped in there. Yes, I know we cannot control what our children watch all the time but there’s also the parental control function, however, most won’t even bother learning how to activate it, it is, after all, ‘such a hassle.’

Anyway, my issue is not with subscribers but the service provider. You chose to air a movie you advertised to me, the viewer, and then show me an altered version of the movie. What’s that about?

One. Why show it at all, then?

Two. Why bother with Parental Guidance, then, if you’ve gone in to alter already?

It beats and bugs me for real.

However, beyond the colorful ‘fucks,’ ‘bitches’ and ‘shits’ that get no airplay on DStv, the words ___ and _____ are not allowed either for some reason. Why are you confused? Oh, you don’t know what words those are? Well, maybe I don’t either because DON’T SAY TV won’t let the words come out of the characters mouths!!!

Anyway, the words are God and Jesus. I haven’t realized nor paid enough attention to ascertain whether Allah, Buddha and other religious figures receive the same treatment. Homeland is on DStv now, so I may try to catch an episode and keep watch. So, if a guy is trying to plead for his life onscreen, you’re likely to hear:

“Please, for the love of ___, don’t kill me!”

Or how about the startled young lady that didn’t notice her lover sneaking up behind her?

“Oh _____, you scared the ____ out of me!”

I would sure love to watch The Passion of the Christ on DStv. Don’t know how I only just thought of this. However, it seems the censorship is limited to MNet Channels as TBN for example would be something to watch with a ban on ___ and _____, no? I mean, they’d have to blur the name on the screens as well, no? Like the works of the LORD (I believe you’re allowed to say LORD but I may be wrong, thinking someone meant to say ___ when they actually said LORD), the reasoning behind the censorship is a mystery.

So, thinking it was a choice between DON’T SWEAR and DON’T SAY, I learned there was yet another DS while watching Higher Learning on DStv one day. (Oh wow, I just realized that my mind went to work while watching a movie about higher learning – what, you didn’t get that from the title? – so I’m not a total doofus :D) In case you’re unfamiliar with this John Singleton movie or just can’t remember, it focuses primarily on racial tension and self discovery as the transition is made from boys to men and girls to women.

(Possible SPOILER Alert but the movie is about 17 years old)

A pivotal scene in the movie depicts the rape (or attempted, depending on how you look at it) of a female student by a male student (while that might seem the obvious sequence, you’d be shocked), both white. The girl’s roommate is black and she is called a bitch (at least, I believe that’s what he called her, as DStv was sure to hit me with a _____) by the white guy when he calls the room to talk to his victim. You know the sistahs don’t play that, so she calls her black buddies and they are more than willing to mobilize and head over to the guy’s dorm, where an all-white party is in full swing and deliver a can of whupp ass!

Here’s the thing, the rape scene was filmed but it wasn’t anything disturbingly graphic like Monica Bellucci’s rape scene in the disturbing yet brilliant Irreversible. The couple, a bit tipsy, was actually getting along and fooling around. She was willing to have sex with him but her issue was his refusal to wear a condom. He kept going, convincing her it was ok and she started trying to fight him off but he was already inside her. The scene depicts her struggle, fear and anger as she tries to fight him off of her. It goes on for a while before she successfully shoves him away and frantically scrambles out of the room.

Why speak about this scene? Because on DStv, it quickly cuts from them on the bed, her saying no and then to her scrambling away and out. So, having never watched the film, you may think nothing happened because she was able to hustle away from the situation before it went far but he had actually penetrated her and was having unprotected intercourse with her, much to her dismay. I can understand that rape is a very sensitive and touchy subject and they felt some responsibility to downplay it but it is a part of the movie, a pivotal one at that, which you’ve decided to air and again, you have your Parental Guidance ratings in play. Also, the movie was airing after midnight.

So in essence, DStv is also DON’T SEX TV!

In the movie Sex and the City 2, Charlotte has a well-endowed nanny that is averse to wearing bras. During a scene where she’s bathing one of the kids and has a vest on, the kid sprays her with the shower head and of course, it’s wet top city. DStv didn’t show the result of the spray. A Samantha sex scene is also omitted. It has Sex in the title but hey, what do I know?

The premise of Hall Pass has two wives giving their perverted husbands ‘hall passes’ which gives them a week off from marriage to do whatever they want to do. One wife gives her husband one but the other refuses to give her husband the ‘privilege.’ The scene features him going up the stairs behind his wife and when she says there will be no nookie for him that night, he says he forgot to take out the trash and the next scene has him being handed over to his wife by the police with nosy neighbors looking on but DStv would rather have one imagine why he got arrested. The reason is alluded to but can easily be missed. It turns out ‘taking out the trash’ turned into him masturbating in his car and being caught by the police. It was just his chest to head in the shot but his trembling arm and facial contortions pretty much gave it away but I guess DStv would rather have you guess why he got arrested.

Anyway, I have broken it down to DON’T SWEAR, DON’T SAY and DON’T SEX but DON’T SWEAR is the top contender and the reason I say this? I once watched The Original Kings of Comedy on DStv…

Now pause for a minute and let that sink in… The… Original… Kings… of… Comedy… on… DON’T… SWEAR… T… V! Yes.

In case you haven’t seen it or you don’t remember (I seriously doubt either applies to anyone reading this blog), the show closed with the late Bernie Mac breaking down the word, ‘motherfucker’ to the audience. He described it as a noun because “it describes a person, place or thing,” which is why black people use it so much.

Watch the video here and either refresh your memory or witness comic genius at its finest.

So, in closing (finally! yes, even I am tired), I have this to say:

Can someone tell _____________ DStv that they ain’t gotta censor every _____________ program they _____________ air because that _____________ ____ be pissing _____________ the ____ off. Trying to watch a _____________ classic ____________ of a movie and these _____________ here have to go edit out all the _____________ cuss words. What typa _____________ ____ is that? I mean, really, who _____________ does that? So, listen to me clearly you _____________ DStv operators. I pay my _____________ subscription every month, to watch some _____________ quality television and you _____________ keep _______ with the _____________ broadcast, pissing off a ____________! Just _____________ stop and show the _____________ movie the way it was meant to be _____________ shown and stop trying to be some _____________ holier than thou _____. If you keep pulling this _____________ ____, I swear to ___, one of these days, I’mma come on down to your _____________ office and whoop the ____ out of some _____________ ___, comprende?

And I’m out this ____________!

Yes, I really just made you read through 2000+ words of drivel.

I Am Random!

WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE 3: WHEN THE WHEELS COME OFF

NOTE: This is the third post in a three part entry. View the first part here and the second part here.

Previously on WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE…

I had planned to have a nice, quiet weekend.

My darling dearest asks me, “Do you think I can make it from Onikan to the house driving on a flat tyre?”

I close my eyes, clutch my boy tight, swallow then exhale, “I’m coming to get you…”

So as we get to the street where this mishap occurred, there’s a guy frantically pointing towards the passenger side of my car and he said to me, “You have a flat tyre!”

Sunday… dusk

After viewing Act 2, someone asked me who I offended; someone else said, ‘When it rains it pours,’ and on cue, on this fateful Sunday, the rain started to pour…

CALM DOWN!!!

If it really did start to rain, I’d be too traumatized still to write this piece. With all else that had happened, I’d really seek out whoever I may have offended. But rain falling would have made a more enjoyable read for you, right? Wicked somebody!

Anyway, I ‘woosah’ knowing I have two flat tyres to content with. A voice tells me it was on one of those two aeroport runs that this mishap occurred and I got the flat. The problem is, my tyre pressure gauge is permanently on and the failsafe options in the manual haven’t worked and the service center mechanics are clueless as to what’s up, so a manual check of each tyre (which every good driver is supposed to do, anyway) before I drive off is what I always do, however, remember the situation – stuck Missus, cranky son, setting sun – I was in, so a quick getaway was all I was thinking of. But really, what are the odds of having a flat tyre on the way to sorting out another?

Sigh!

So, I finally get to where the wife is parked and she has a huge expression of relief on her face and quickly thanks me; before bypassing me and going for her son. Yeah, I’m used to that by now, no grudges. It is a stress free weekend after all, eh? I notice about six – eight grown men, not 20 feet away, playing football in the streets with tyres (the irony) as goalposts. Yes, the wife asked these gentlemen to assist her with changing the tyre and the said, emphatically I might add, if for nothing else, drama’s sake, NO!!! As I stood there gripping the tyre iron, I thought to myself, ‘What would Van Damme do?’ And it came to me…

He’d go there and politely interrupt, saying he didn’t mean to interrupt, in his awful accent which would be more responsible for their confused faces than his actual interruption. He would then explain, while absolutely murdering the word ‘chivalry,’ that it is rude not to assist a damsel in distress. One of them would make a rude remark, the others would laugh, the leader of the gang would poke his chest while informing him it was in his best interests to return to his woman and stop ruining their game.

What would follow is the lone Van Damme taking out all these muscular football players with a combination of the tyre iron, their football, makeshift goalposts and a belt. Oh, I like the sound of that but the tyre iron looks up at me and says in a very heavy Waffi accent, “But bros, you no be Jean Claude, na?!” I look at them in disgust one more time, as they play on, clueless to the fact that a talking tyre iron just saved them an ass whooping but I digress.

So, we’re parked in front of some office building and when I go about looking for bricks to wedge the tyres, the security dude starts walking towards me, I’m guessing to tell me I can’t park there. I think the devil in my eye (yeah, just the one eye) made him change course and his plan entirely as he said nothing, walking past instead. The wife is now in my car with the son, while I set to work on her car. I lose some valuable minutes of daylight because her car jack instructions are not written in common sense. That’s what you get with a Skoda, eh? (Yeah, blame the manufacturer for your nincompoopery but seriously, it wasn’t straightforward, at least, not to my hot head).

So, I get my straightforward Toyota jack – set, insert pin and keep rolling, rolling, rolling like Limp Bizkit – and get to work on her tyre while getting all sorts of grease all over my body. I failed to mention that I’d just had my bath for the first time all lazy weekend about 15 minutes before the distress call came. Yeah, and now, here I am, a little grease monkey. While I’m changing her tyre, their football comes within inches of me and I’m fuming, contemplating whether or not to deflate their ball but the wheel knot in my hand says to me, “Bros, even Chuck Norris no dey first find wahala.” Yeah, it had a point and I was racing against daylight but the ball retriever – yeah, they are dogs, aren’t they? – was smart enough not to make eye contact with me for if looks could kill…

the flat tyre mafia

I’m actually proud of myself as I make quick work of her car and set off to face mine, while she and Sonny Jim move into her car. For the first time, after having this car for about 18 months, I realize that my spare is the hilarious doughnut, at least, that got me smiling a little bit. So, after I jack the Toyota up – shoulders killing me at this point but I summon the healing power of Wolverine which has my exhaust in hysterics, amused by my continued idiocy – I get to loosening the knots which are really wedged in there. It’s getting darker now, so the real fear is misplacing the knots, so they have to be carefully placed. After I’m done with the knots, I get up to remove the tyre but it won’t budge. I’m like, “Oh, hell no!” I shake it, I hit it, I try to roll it, I hug it, sing to it, offer it some gum… nada! The tyre ain’t having it! I want to just collapse to my knees, drop everything and cry but my son would at that point in time learn how to walk and proceed to get out of the care and slap the [offensive content of his diaper] out my mouth. So, instead, I ‘woosah’ again. I try to get the tyre out for a few more minutes but no joy. My wife gives possibly the most sympathetic look that has ever been recorded in human history. Wish I had a photo.

the stubborn tyre and the teased doughnut

So, defeated and dejected, I start to screw the knots back into place on the flat tyre then proceed to lower the car and watch as the tyre flattens against the concrete. I get up to start throwing all the stuff into the trunk and somehow, the rolling pin for the car jack manages to scratch my wrist and via some security lights in the distance, I notice a little blood. ‘Just great,’ I think. ‘Typical to still add physical pain to the emotional and spiritual turmoil I’ve already endured on this stress free weekend.’ Anyway, all loaded up, I ask my wife to drive behind me as I… as I… drive the car from Onikan to the house on a flat tyre!

the cut

Who is in the garden?

I Am Random!

PS – The lesson I got from this is, always give proper answers to questions you’re asked and save everybody a lot of hassle. That said, I must be the worst student around as my answers are more roundabout than Ibadan’s Ring Road. If anything, got to spend time with the family, eh? And that cut wasn’t as little as I thought. While it thankfully wasn’t too deep, it was rather long and its leavings now serve as a permanent reminder to not make any plans.

the scar

Have I learned my lesson, though? Of course not! This weekend, I have PLANned to watch all four movies in the American Pie series without fail. If I’m not too ashamed, I’ll tell you how that goes.

The index and the middle!

WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE 2: ROLLIN’ IN THE DEEP

NOTE: This is the second post of a three part entry. View the first part here.

Previously on WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE…

I’m learning that making plans isn’t always a good plan.

I had ‘planned’ to have a nice, quiet weekend where I did didlee squat; yet, I now embark upon my second odyssey to the aeroport in about an hour.

On Sunday, the wife once again handed the little man over to me as she was on her way to get her hair braided, so that was the day gone.

Little man was very good until he started getting a bit cranky towards the evening.

My phone rings and it’s his mother. My darling dearest asks me, “Do you think I can make it from Onikan to the house driving on a flat tyre?”

 

Sunday evening

So, here I am warring with a cranky infant and I now have a panicky mother/wife on the phone. It’s about six pm at this time and my ‘naff-all’ weekend is going splendidly… NOT! So I say to her, after some heavy sighing, “Well, you can if you have money to buy a new tyre.” Not the most helpful or nice thing to say but understandably, I’m rather irritable at this point. She lets out a classic, ‘Ah!” which needs no further explanation – shelling out N13,000 – N19,000 on a tyre (which I would have to go buy, by the way) is so not in her plans. I go, “But there’s a vulcanizer (anyone besides Nigerians use this term?) at the top of that street!” She responds, “Yes but he’s not there!” It is, after all, a Sunday. It’s hard to find anyone, anywhere actually working. She utters some indecipherables and I close my eyes, clutch my boy tight, swallow then exhale, “I’m coming to get you, hang on…”

So much for stress-free, eh? So, I put the lil’ chairman down on his mat and he screams non-stop as daddy runs helter-skelter, apologizing frantically while wading in the dark… Yes, the dark as there’s no electricity and the bloody inverter might have been made as a public primary school Science project. Ok, I tell myself, get his bag… get some milk… clean diapers (yes, plural)… nappy rash cream… change of clothes? No sir, he’s not going for a sleepover, he’ll be fine… get some water as well…   get some wet wipes… toys… bibs… WHAT ELSE??? I’m just grabbing blindly at this point but hope I have the necessities. This will be a very short trip, after all, no?

Tick… tock…

I manage to hustle little man into his car seat and strap his hollering self in. I wonder what any neighbors that saw me must have thought, what, with a screaming infant in one hand and a bag, keys, I think shoes (Oi! Don’t judge me) and whatnot in the other. That’s their bee’s wax. Anyway, I get him in and then there’s a little dilemma… his car seat is behind the driver’s seat and is now an issue as I won’t be able to see him. My options are: get in and go, trusting he’ll be fine or lose the 45 seconds or thereabouts of daylight moving it to the other side would cost me. Thinking… ok, I’m not ready to put in another 14 months just yet to get another adorable, hollering poo monster to replace this chairman and even if I was, I’m not physically equipped to do that as I know the Missus (who put us in this position, mind – yeah, twasn’t intentional but still…) is not even interested. So I swap the seat’s position and head off. Guess who’s still crying all this while… ME! Ok, I was just crying out like a likkle [approved term for female dog] while my son was confirming his vocal chords were in tiptop nick.

So, as we get onto the street where this mishap has occurred, there’s a guy frantically pointing towards the passenger side of my car. I’m highly upset at this point and throw him a cold stare like, ‘Doesn’t this dude think I know there’s a huge scratch on the side of my car?’ But there’s something about the way he’s pointing, so I stop the car, exhale, back up then roll down the window. He opens his mouth to speak and as the words form, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You’ll never guess what this man said to me…

“You have a flat tyre!”

1 + 1 is greater than 1 x 1!

I Am Random!

WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE

With each passing day, well maybe not day, but more and more as my life progresses, I’m learning that making plans isn’t always a good plan. Sure, it’s good, scratch that, wise, to be prepared but for certain things, coasting and just going with the flow is the best course of action.

Why this realization? Well, a few weekends ago, I had ‘planned’ to have a nice, quiet weekend where I did didlee squat! This includes not powering up the PlayStation as its position in the house doesn’t allow for horizontal gaming 😦 Who wants to buy this lazy boy a La-Z-Boy? 😀 So, watching movies/series on the sofa/bed did fall under the didlee squat agenda.

However, since my life is a bad sitcom, you know that wasn’t happening. There just had to be some drama. The events of the Sunday have made the Saturday events a total blur as I cannot recall what went wrong at this point in time but my Monday assessment of the planned weekend was #EpicFail! (Yeah, I discovered twitter and being ha(r)sh to tags) meaning Saturday couldn’t have been so good but Sunday definitely took the cake and ate it too!

THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED ON SATURDAY!!! (Never underestimate the power of taking a dump. Being enclosed in the confines of a well ventilated bathroom works wonders for the memory and creative juices. Thanks to WordPress for the BlackBerry, my writing may drastically improve if I do more porcelain throne inspired musings :D)

Anyway, my big bro had been in town for our cousin’s wedding, some work stuff and some hard rocking (not necessarily in that order). When it was all said and done and time for him to skiddadle back to the UK, I was charged with driving him to the aeroport (just something about that word I like and besides, there’s air everywhere, so the atmosphere in itself should count as the AIR port, no? Again, characteristically, I DIGRESS!!!) early on the Saturday morning of my ‘do naff all day’ day. Ideally, noon was the earliest I should have gotten out of bed on such a day but here I was on my feet from about seven on the AM.

So, off I go with my bro to the aeroport and I think there might have been a little traffic but it was a pretty stress free journey; we had a good chat, said our goodbyes and then I turned around to head home, happy that I might still be able to get some well-planned shuteye. Got home, track pants off, Greg Louganis type dive into bed and on to some classic Zs we go!

NO!

Huh?

I said NO!

But whyyyyyyyyyyy?

Yo mama wants YOU!

Sigh!

“Hey mama, how are you? What can I do for you?”

“The driver isn’t here yet and he’s stopped picking up his phone and my flight is in about an hour. Can you drop me off at the airport, please? Thanks honey, I only carried you for nine grueling months and raised you, that’s all I did.”

Ok, of course she didn’t say that last bit but she didn’t have to. Mothers never have to but they know how to burrow it deep into your skull, psyche and conscience so as to guilt trip you all around the world.

So (worry not, I’m out the stinker and now lying in bed. Dame Judi Stench has been air freshened up. So much air in this piece. Maybe I should rename it ‘HOT AIR’… Digression!!!), I man up, grab her 50 pieces of luggage (another maternal staple – plenty load!) and log them into the car and embark upon my second odyssey (what, you’ve been reading this long and haven’t caught on to my penchant for exaggeration?) to the aeroport in about an hour, this time to the new domestic wing to see mama off.

We get there in good time even though I couldn’t put the pedal to the metal like I would have liked to because the mother told me numerous times to calm down while she clutched unto her safety belt, so I had to ‘Woosah’ my way on. So we made it, said our goodbyes and then I hightailed (now, is it high-tail or hot-tail? Either way, what the hell?) it on outta there, destination: bed.

Finally got home and received some sympathy from the wife who promptly handed our adorable infant son over to me to mind for the next few minutes or so as the nanny was off for the weekend. If I hadn’t realized it before then, by this point, I knew my plan had failed, at least, for Saturday. So I sucked it up and looked forward to a stress free Sunday.

I did manage to sleep quite a bit on Sunday but once I woke up, the wife once again handed the little man over to me, only this time, she was on her way out to get her hair did, braided no less, so that was the day gone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my son to death but he’s an infant, which involves a lot of crying to get what you want; vicious slaps to my face I can’t return and Niagra Falls levels of drool. Let’s not even talk about poop. Yes, this is what I signed up for but not on my lazy weekend! Thoughts of lacing the milk with booze did cross my mind but with everything else that had gone wrong, I didn’t see any positive results coming from that, so adhered to the voice of reason on my shoulder and did not tamper with his bottle.

To be fair to the little man, he was very good. Not much crying, if any at all and he slept quite a bit. We chilled and enjoyed each other’s company until he started getting a bit cranky towards the evening. In trying to calm him down, my phone rings and it’s his mother. “Please, let this be a call asking me what I want from Tastee Fried Chicken and not any more bad news,” I thought to myself as I answered.

This is me we’re talking about, right? So, my darling dearest asks me, “Do you think I can make it from Onikan to the house driving on a flat tyre?”

Why am I ending this post like this?

I Am Random!

RANtDOM

So, I recently found out that I could make blog entries on my BlackBerry and have decided to give it a go to get a feel for how it really works.

So far so good, although there’s a lot going on I really don’t follow, much like the PC-based website. Ok, it’s 0132hrs and I really should be asleep. Head is throbbing but bottom line is this – since the modern man’s addiction to his technology, most especially his cell phone, suggests that phones are forever in one’s grasp, I now have even fewer excuses for not writing regularly with this new BlackBerry option for publishing text.

So, to my four loyal readers (you know who you are – I thank you), I won’t let you down. The pen is mightier than the sword and the ink got mo’ flow than Biggie. I shall act accordingly and do the write thing.

How random am I?

I Am Random!

IN MY ELEMENT

Growing up a member of the middle class, an in-built superiority complex was part of the package. Not intentional, not planned but just a by-product of the environment. You may mean well but come of as condescending or uppity instead. Sad but true. Sometimes it’s written all over my face, other times it’s in my tone and/or body language. Although, for the most part, I just do not like to be disturbed in general. If I’m having a lie down, everything I could possibly need is within grabbing distance or I convince myself I don’t need it. In other words, I don’t even like being disturbed by myself! Ask the wife, she’ll just say I’m lazy! So, don’t ask her.

Anyway, what does that have to do with anything, let alone elements, you might ask (there should be a ‘?’ somewhere in there, yeah? Not in here, out there, gosh!) Well, it’s that type of mentality – subconscious or otherwise – that has me intrigued when I hear something I wasn’t expecting to hear from certain people. Like, a taxi driver saying, “Is like this place is block! Let me just reverse back and follow an alternate route.” You can see how everything is wrong with those statements but the use of ‘alternate route’ in the right context makes me smile. Or a cleaner saying, “I didn’t like to use this type because the chemical composition of the something, wood surface doesn’t used to like that type of such.” Yes. Throwing in ‘chemical composition’ is like “WOW!”

My default setting doesn’t process them knowing how to use such terms in the proper context (shame on me), so it has me all giggly (I have a wife and child, I’m allowed the use of the odd girly term) inside. I’m like, maybe things aren’t really as bad as they seem. We just need better leadership and a more level playing field and there’s hope.

So this write up is about one such experience when I was again moved by the proper use, in context, of a turn of phrase (I wrote that last statement hoping it may be wrong and someone calling me out on it – any takers? No? Okay. Moving on…) that had me smiling. I was going my merry ole way when I came upon an accident scene featuring an animated man telling his story, at the top of his lungs, to the gathered crowd and it went a little something like this (for best effect, picture a rugged guy screaming in an annoyingly loud voice [like a bark] with saliva spraying, as his neck veins look like they’re about to pop, while gesticulating heavily, plus, if you can translate to Yoruba, all the better for the full on experience):

“I tank God say I de for my element because if I no de my element, I for done die finish for here today. Na another person for tell you this my story!”

I was seriously taken aback! He was in his element thus avoiding a possible fatal crash, amazing! It made me kind of sad to have missed the event because I would have loved to see him in his element. Was he like a Hollywood stuntman; a ninja; agile like a cat? What was his element? What did he do? How did he do it? Most of all, of course, like the word police (read: geek) I am, I was most intrigued that he knew what it meant to be in his element.

Shame on you, you condescending middle classer you!

Anyway, I broke out of my daydream to keep listening, hoping that he, or a witness, would be able to break down his element with movie like precision. And then, he explained it:

“See the okada driver way carry me, now. Shebi na ambulance come carry am now go hospital? That na because he no de in own element! You give me element make I wear but you no come wear your own element and see wetin done happen! Element de save life o!”

 

Is Form Five the middle class in Senior Secondary School?

 

I Am Random!

 

PS – I have heard it called ‘element’ on several occasions but that story never really happened. Not to me, anyway.

 

I Am Super Random!

RAT IN ME KITCHEN: THE SQUEAKUEL

NOTE: This is the concluding post of a two part entry. View the first part here.

Previously on RAT IN ME KITCHEN…

So, I’m chilling downstairs, watching bad TV and out the corner of my eye, what do I see, skip-skipetting out of the kitchen into the dining area? It’s a jet-black, fist sized, stinky, sneaky rodent!

A loose rodent is all I need right now. Paranoia sets in… I just want to make this go away quietly with the wife never finding out.

I’m upstairs spending quality time with the PS3 that night and notice something dart behind the window blinds. Ricky pops out and I reflexively leap forward as we make eye contact and he scurries back behind the blinds.

Paranoia is still in the air and the wife is heavy with child, so I decide I have to tell her.

“Darling, I have to tell you something.”  

“Oh my God! What???” she quizzes frantically.

“There’s a rat in the house…”

Thursday

So, after spending the better part of the night before consoling the wife and reassuring her that her knight in shining armor would triumph over this fearless foe, the day starts on a good-ish note. I discover Senor Ricky’s entry point behind the washing machine, where there’s an opening above the control tap for water flow. All I can find to plug it with is thick nylon (used to wrapped canned soda) and hope the intruder is outside the house at this point.

The cleaning dude comes through with some poison in powder form and starts distributing it in specific corners. I’m like, I’m sure we need to put some food out in the powder or something but he’s like, neh, the rat just comes in contact with it and its body starts to dry up…

Yeah, I was baffled as well.

So I’m like, “Surely, that has to be deadly to human beings as well, then!” And he’s like, “No, it doesn’t kill human being!” Gee, thanks Doc but that doesn’t mean it can’t make my life a living hell! Anyway, I accept the amateur diagnosis and hope for the best.

An uncomfortable wife returns home, self-conscious of every action but I confirm there has been no Ricky sighting but she still isn’t comfortable in the kitchen and won’t go in there unless I’m there too and I gotta eat, so you know how that ends up. No Ricky still, no powder looks compromised, so I tell myself I plugged the hole while he was outside and he couldn’t get back in. Score for Cheech! Carlton Banks dance!

Friday

A whole day rolls by and me no see no Ricardo Rodento so me happy so. The wife comes home and I tell her the same thing, so it’s a more relaxed household and all is well with the world again 😀

Or so I thought!

The wife’s in the kitchen, I’m in the living room and she suddenly rushes out to say she heard some rustling in the store. I move in, try to cause some commotion but get nothing. However, there’s no way she’s staying in that kitchen by her lonesome because she knows what she heard and we’re both hungry as sin!

So I post up on the high chair while she’s doing her thing. She’s at the sink, washing something when good ole Ricky runs out the store (Uh oh) under the stove (don’t go that way, Ricky, pleeeeeeeeeeease), behind the washing machine (you are going that way, doh!) and next stop should be my wife’s rubber slipper clad feet.

Not good.

I refused to panic though because I didn’t want to freak her out but the alternative didn’t look too good neither. The only thing is, he didn’t appear under the sink cabinets by her feet.

Odd.

Where’s he disappeared to? And then, just like that, he showed me his Michael Scofield-like escape route:

Behind the washer, he gets onto the water pipe, does a high wire act up it to the tap and squeezes, (as in, total compression) himself out of the tiniest of spaces exposed next to my tough nylon stuffing.

A ha!

Once his tail disappears out the hole, I calmly explain to my wife what just happened and with eyes wider than Jim Iyke‘s (just had to, sorry :D), she thanks me for sparing her the horror. (lesson to the kiddos… know the one you’re with ;)) So, I proceed to block off the exposed area with more nylon and this time leave some meat and fish on the powdery stuff for Mr. Rodent. Go into the store with Indomie Noodles on the mind, only to find… he’s eaten through a bunch of packs!!!

We retire for the night.

sigh!

Saturday

The wife normally wakes up early to get the day going, particularly with a swell breakfast. I never notice her leave as I’m such a deep sleeper but noticed her come in this morning with a sunken look on her face. Apparently, as she opened the kitchen door and turned on the lights, she was greeted by the two scrunched up nylon balls, prostrate on the floor and absent pieces of food on the powder.

It was official… we were being terrorized in our own home by a filthy critter!

I put in another call to management (I had done so earlier in the week) about our predicament and I wasn’t finding it funny any longer. Later that day, the plumber came round to have a look, left, came back with some wet cement he got from the construction workers on site and sealed off the hole.

Well, that stopped it (hopefully still just an ‘it’ and not a ‘them’ by this point) from coming back in. However, it also stopped it from getting back out, if it, indeed, was still in.

Bummer!

So, it was more scraps of food on the powder; a lot of kitchen avoidance and careful traipsing about the house on this particular Saturday.

Sunday

Entered the kitchen and all seemed in order… food still on powder, no rustling, nothing and we could relax, thanking the LORD that the blasted rat was outside when his thoroughfare was plastered! It was a blessed Sunday indeed and life in our little apartment was back to normal.

Victory dance!

Monday morning

The wife barges into the room and announces, “There’s no food on the powder!!!”

NOOOOOOOOO!!!

 

I am not speaking on this anymore.

I Am Random!

RAT IN ME KITCHEN

The title should be self explanatory but assumption is the mother of all… Also, there is that Reggae tune of the same name which is very apt. Like the singer inquires, so do I… “What am I gonna do?” Well, I know what I did and I’m going to tell you but first, some background (READ: rambling off on a tangent instead of getting straight to it)

I live on an estate in Midtown Lagos (Yaba) and it’s a rather beautiful development, if I do say so myself (even if I had absolutely nothing to do with the development or its beauty but I digress), which I christened New Jersey before I even moved in but as Lynxxx would say, “Nigeria must happen!” meaning that everything but logic is applied in running these digs. So, after all the little Frank Spencer-esque scenarios (doors falling off the hinges; security doors keeping intruders out but also trapping you in; leaking ceilings; showers that produce only hot water etc), MJ’s pal, Ben, coming to pay a visit shouldn’t be much of a surprise, eh?

The theory is that fumigation of the common areas outside would drive critters inside. Fair enough but I want the spray to kill them dead outside, otherwise, what’s the point? Why should they come inside? However, before this ‘vermin spray-day,’ the wife had reported catching a glimpse of something darting in the dark as she entered the kitchen, while I was out of town. It was an isolated random occurrence so we let it slide.

There’s a dude that comes through to help with house cleaning every Tuesday, so our story starts (yeah, this is still the background [cough]) on one such Tuesday…

Tuesday

So, I’m chilling downstairs, right (Did you just respond, “Uh huh?”), watching bad TV I’m sure, while dude is upstairs doing his cleaning thang (yeah, I’m reporting like an African-American brother, probably because I finally watched Baby Boy this week) and out the corner of my eye, what do I see, skip-skipetting out of the kitchen into the dining area?

“Oh, hell naw!”

Oh, hell yes!

It’s a jet-black, fist sized, stinky, sneaky rodent! Not sure I was eating but I lost my appetite. (Okay, nothing can make me lose my appetite). So I hollered at dude like, “Come down yo!”

(before I continue, let’s get things straight… I’m not afraid of rats, okay? What I’m afraid of is getting my toes nibbled; being climbed up [or clambered, even] by Ricky Rodent; rat in my pants; rat on my face; rat in my food; rat in my shoe… all that type of stuff, got it? So I’m not afraid of no rat, I’ll fight a rat! Where he at?)

Anyway, I tell him Ricky ran back there by the curtains, he should search him out.

No Ricky in sight.

Great!

A loose rodent is all I need right now. Paranoia sets in… ‘even if I put my feet up on the table, what if he jumps in my jeans and wiggles up and nibbles away?’

OH HELL NAW!!!

Anyway, we find not Ricky and dude says he’ll get the sticky papers that trap rats and I’m cool with that. I just want to make this go away quietly with the wife never finding out.

Wednesday

Still no Ricky but no Ricky sighting neither and all seems good, although I have it at the back of my head that he’s still in here somewhere. Wife does her kitchen thang, no shrieks or squeals, so it really seems all good till I’m upstairs spending quality time with the PS3 that night and notice something dart behind the window blinds.

‘Please let it be a cockroach,’ I beg as I go into the bathroom to retrieve and position a mop. (It was the handiest weapon, what?) I poke at the blinds; hit them repeatedly but nothing, so I’m convinced it’s all paranoia. Back to PS3 for me.

A few minutes later, Ricky pops out and I reflexively leap forward as we make eye contact and he scurries back behind the blinds.

GREAT!!! This is all I need!

A few more prods but nothing, so, my grown ass self climbs unto the coffee table and pulls up the blinds (wonder if any neighbors saw me but I haven’t noticed any quizzical glares yet – I think) but Ricky Ro is nowhere to be found. This is doing my head in.

The wife comes up a few times and never shuts the door behind her. I always make a fuss, well, more like a comment, whenever this happens but tonight, I’m anal about it. She wonders what’s gotten into me but just dismisses me and I’m slightly panicked now. I have a decision to make. I retire to our bedroom and wait for her to come up. Paranoia is still in the air and the wife is heavy with child, so all that plays in my head is:

“she’s coming up the stairs, blank expression; not thinking about anything really, then all of a sudden, a stank rodent runs by her – possibly ON her – on the stairs and she freaks out, slips, hurts herself, the baby etc (told you I was paranoid) I would just die!”

So, I decide I have to tell her. She walks in and I turn into a soap opera star. “Darling, shut the door please and try to remain calm, I have to tell you something.” You know that thing about women’s intuition? Let’s say I’m a bit firmer in my belief because immediately my words are done, she looks behind herself at the floor as she simultaneously leaps into my arms (slight exaggeration alert), “Oh my God! What???” she quizzes frantically. “There’s a rat in the house…” (cue overly dramatic background music and fade to commercial)

In the immortal words of the Governator…

I Am Random!

(concluding part coming soonest)

THE WRITE STUFF…

Is it right to write just because I can or do I need to want to write to write? What gives me the right to write and expect you to read? Have I earned this rite of passage? Is it alright for me to power up the netbook, create typewritten words about whatever I feel is right and then click on ‘publish’? What is rightfully mine? While we’re on the subject, what are your rights? Most importantly though, do they matter? Do you matter? Do I? What’s the matter? What is matter? I am matter. She’s my Aunty and I do matter. You? Well, that’s a whole different matter, am I right?

Writing is easier said than done. RIP Eric Wright. Ice Cube used to write what he would recite. Jay-Z doesn’t write. At least, that’s the story. Naeto C doesn’t either… is that right? Three-in-one form from that singular inquisition but I won’t expatiate my meaning, if that’s alright with you? Stick to the script! I wonder, when Jigga ghostwrites, does he record vocals or bash the keyboard since his pen is for signing his John Hancock on the bottom right corner of checks? Or should that be left? Who declared the left wrong and right, right? Is this discrimination right? Do you care more about how I write or what I write? Be precise. It could be neither and that’s perfectly alright. It is highhanded to look down disdainfully upon the left handed and raise the right in victory. That’s plane not right, in fact, that’s not playing right. William Shakespeare, renowned playwright, you wouldn’t shake his hand if it didn’t come from the right? You admired his work, am I right? Would it be any less profound if his pen-holding hand was not the right? To you, that is. Are you the righteous or just a poor teacher who the preacher can’t reach, sir?

What shall I write? Why shall I write? Where shall I alight off this right wing? It’s frightening, writing, more so than even lightning. In the Night Inn, there is one for the day, so I’m right in writing… the right thing? I sure hope so. It Was Written, when Nas was spittin’ before Treach was smitten by Pepa’s kitten. The page glistens as the lines listen, intently, as the pace quickens – broader strokes evoke a sense of urgency as he tries to re-quote what his brother wrote. How do you emote in ink? Think! Blink, take time out to find out what it’s all about then write it all out. Utilize your arsenal like Ian Wright and attack the page; soar over Mars as you terrorize right backs who mark down that left hand side of the margin. Imagine. I beg your pardon! Don’t be startin’ what you can’t finish, a’ight? Like this here feature… poem… blog… whatever, this creature, that I do write… who will recite? Will it ignite a passion in your soul, unleashing an inner light? Like the police who don’t write you a ticket but just harass your life, read you your rights when it’s not right for depriving you of said rights in the first place. May they not trace your outline in chalk by the sidewalk because reporters will hawk over you and find something to write. And it shall be published, Pulitzer or gibberish, as long as they have a deadline, they will describe you in headline, aligned from left to right; like the photo captions that capture images worth a thousand words. But I’d rather write a thousand words, it brings me freedom like the birds… these words… in written form, that’s the norm for me to calm a storm.

Nobody writes love letters anymore. Just concerned with if the dress is too tight or it fits just right. Watch those dangerous curves before you crash and burn with bystanders wondering if you’re alright. For our very senses sense us swaying toward the sensuous which sends us sniffing after scents of attraction; reaction: sensory overload. That’s why we send off the sensors of Senators who aim to censure us with censors sent to us, salivating off the scent of us; who knows what their true incentive was? Now written writs are the gift we’re cursed with, even though we’ve done nothing wrong but express ourselves. We can sit quietly all day long and accept these wrongs or arise and fight till we set things aright. The writing’s on the wall. The timing is right.

Oh Blogger where art thou? I am here now. Right here where I belong; writing again, for you my friend and for myself. Who’s right and who’s wrong? Some write, some sing songs. White man, black man. White paper, black ink. What do you think? Irrelevant, irreverent? Incoherent deterrent washed clean like detergent. Writer’s block, these, right here, are your last rites. I’m here now…

Write where I belong!

 

 

Why do soldiers have to turn their eyes right?

I Am Random!