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)

REMEMBERING DAGRIN…

If the clutches of death had not snatched him in April of 2010, talented rapper Dagrin would be celebrating his 24^th birthday today. After a ghastly car crash on April 14, 2010, he sadly passed away eight days later after leaving a huge impact on his peers and fans alike, in his short time as an MC.

I was a huge fan and having met him only once, I was still really stung by his death. I still feel sad whenever I think of him because the sky was his limit but Lord knows best. I can’t help but wonder how things would be if he were still alive today. Would the life – fast cars, loose women etc – have gotten the better of him? Would he have gotten too comfortable to spit his gritty street ditties? Would he have cracked Africa, or even the world at large? All these questions will remain unanswered, at least in this lifetime, but his immense potential cannot be denied.

I remember in 2009 after he had wowed Storm 360 CEO Obi Asika on General PYPE’s “Champion (Remix)”, Mr. Asika spoke about plans to get the Chief Executive Omoita on the BET Hip-Hop Awards Cypher. At the 2011 edition of the Award Show, male and female rappers from Nigeria had Cyphers included in the event. Unfortunately, Dagrin wasn’t one of them. As they say in Hip-Hop, he would have totally killed it! Instead, it was complications from a car crash that killed him.

I remember being stuck in New Jersey while volcanic ash from Iceland destabilized air travel when I got the sad news. I instinctively pulled out my laptop and eulogized him. That article expresses what I felt and what I still feel. May his soul continue to rest in peace.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOSS!

BONUS MATERIAL:

Dagrin Album Review

Dagrin Interview

“If I Die”

 

 

Why do the good die young?

I Am Random!

 

 

 

 

 

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!

LET THE RANDOMNESS BEGIN!

Following a hiatus of about three years from the blogosphere, I have decided it’s time to jump back in like double dutch. I thought hard about what would be my ‘comeback’ post and figured that’s where I was having problems – thinking!

Going over my old blogs, it was the total randomness of them that created my following (as far as there are two or more, it’s a following, I don’t care what you think! [I do care to be honest, otherwise, I’d just have these as word documents on the laptop]) in the first place; not too much thought put into it, just pure, honest, random musings. This is why this fresh blog is titled I Am Random.

Basically, a topic – or thought even – pops into my head and I get to writing, then posting. It could be as random as laundry, police, babies, music, sports, whatever! Just that these thoughts are delivered from the twisted POV of me with an imagination so Vivid, Jenna thought we worked together (if only). Yes, randomness like that. It usually consists of real life experiences, so ‘Reality Chichi’ if you will 😀 (Yes, a lot of ‘corn’ is served up in these here parts).

Writing gives me a release. Takes me away from everything and I am king, painting pictures with words. The liberty provided by the written word is awesome refreshment.

So, for the return post (technically, this is the return post but is more like an intro/background), I just powered up the netbook and started writing about writing. That is, what is writing? why am I writing? That sort of a thing (I typed that just to  irk someone. smile). I had no structure, no plan, no ending in sight; just the urge to write… so I did! So after you”re done with this intro, go read the post, “The Write Stuff…” and share your thoughts and/or share with a friend!

Actually, depending on when you visit the blog, you’ll probably see “The Write Stuff…” before you see this post and all the above would just be English… Bah humbug!

 

 

Why does it have to be apples or oranges?

I Am Random!