Random Thoughts 4: Abusgar’s

Good morning and compliments of the season. Today, we delve into @Abusgar mind.

I wish to die before my wife. What’s with the frown? Shouldn’t it logically be so considering my pre-existence of her? I’m talking about having her enjoy the fruit of her – even though ours – labour with twenty years added to the about sixty years I pray we spend together as man and wife. Add that to our ages at marriage and you’ll agree with iyawo Jay-Z about who runs the world. The available statistics of landladies is enough an evidence to show who lives longer. But I’m not about to discuss who gets what. I’m more particular about raising my family.

There’s a man living my dream of a father. He’s a friend, a brother, an uncle, a friend’s father, and indeed my father. I forgot to add he’s my counsellor and mentor. Have you read “Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus” by John Gray? I got it first from him. He’s a chartered accountant and author of “Marriage Preparation: Key Issues To Consider. In a time when child-rearing is considered by many to be the sole responsibility of the mother, this man has taught me how a man can easily compete with his wife to parent their children.

Parenting, I believe, isn’t a favour done to our spouse nor our kids, it is an obligation that must be fulfilled. A brother puts it succinctly here “We did not inherit the world from our parents; we borrowed it from our children. We should live in readiness to return the world in good condition, at least”. It is in the spirit of this readiness that I read books on relationship as though I’m preparing for ICAN and ACCA. Women don’t know what they want. They want everything. No apologies. I once attended a seminar where relationship was heavily discussed. The speaker recommended “The Muslim Marriage Guide” by Ruqaiyya Waris Maqsood. Of course I got and read the book. Smh for myself. I have suffered. From my readings, the best way to handle a woman is to be a mumu! That is my judgement from my engagement in some pre-marital preliminary relationships.

The mumu I plan to be is that father who’d be so responsible as to be described as obsessed with the success of his family. Kitchen work won’t be for my wife alone.(*you just yimu-ed,didn’t you?) I already know how to change diaper for our kids. There shall be time to assist with assignments. I shall nag when I have to.(yeske,I said nag.Atleast what sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander) Truth is, no matter what one reads from relationship books, no single solution is all encompassing of women’s peculiarities. Even with reading the same things and sharing same values, we have our individual differences. To each its own. And this is why she would also have to be patient with me. The realisation of our children’s full potential is our paramount objective.

So, no forming of yeye boss to my wife and kids. It’s one family; one nation. Charity begins at home. Those good things I’ve read are not beyond the wit of man; we’re going to live them. For the love of humanity, it is my reckoning that I must pay my dues without necessarily anticipating what I get in return from my people. It is in the light of this, that I’d like to, after living a fulfilled life, die before my wife. *cycles away slowly*

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Letters

One: Love.

Love is pain.

First time I read that was on the back of a Ja Rule CD. Yes, Ja Rule used to be a thing – beef music was beef music. I liked how it sounded even though at the time, I had no understanding of it.

It sounded poetic. And that was all the reason I needed.

A decade and more since reading that and it is a belief.

Love is pain.

Our paths crossed

I laid eyes on her by a combination of accidents and relationships

Slim, beautiful, non-conforming

She made the afro look good

I could think these things

But I could say none

Not to her.

It was not the time nor the place.

Fate.

Dark humorist that she is, brought her back into my life.

And now, she is everywhere

She is everywhere I turn

I have been handed a front row sit to watch this flower unfurl; watch this woman grow

See her strong

See her weak

See her.

It is pain and it is love.

I didn’t ask for this view

Drake can come and have it

But now that I have it, I want it

Though it may hurt, I want it

Because now it is the place but the time isn’t right.

Then the place and the time left

She stopped seeing me

We talk

We meet

But she has stopped seeing me

She looks but doesn’t see

She hears but isn’t listening

What am I to do with all these feelings?

All these thoughts running around in my head?

I don’t know how

I don’t know when

But somehow, her pains are my pains

Her fears, mine

Pathetic.

This must sound pathetic.

I am afraid of losing that which is not even mine

Never was,

Maybe, never will be.

We love who we love.

Their loving us back is as iffy as iffy.

Love is pain.

Hey, if you’re reading this, I am tired of being without you. I love everything about you. MI’s words, my truth.

Slainte.

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How To: Reading the Entire Bible

All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness.

Source: How To: Reading the Entire Bible

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This Dark Place

I don’t condemn people who take the suicide option. We each have our demons. We don’t all beat them.  I don’t begrudge them their decision though I never really could understand. I think I do now. Atleast, an inkling of what it is that pushed these people.

I am in a dark place now. Really dark and “opting out”  really is not looking like that much of a bad thing. You see, suicide looks more like exchanging a dark place for another dark place. It makes no difference when the tunnel is looking interminable and there is no assurance of there being light at the end of it.

I am fighting still. My friends are helping but they don’t see that I’m dying inside. I won’t be obtuse or condescending and say it is because they don’t understand. But, they aren’t looking into my eyes. Probably for fear of what they might see there. Maybe they’re looking when I’m not aware. Maybe they’re busy with their demons too. Whatever it is, I am feeling quite disconnected.

I’m fighting still. I’m fighting but not for me. For those who will be left behind and wonder what they might have done different to keep me alive. My loved ones don’t deserve that pain. They don’t deserve to smell a perfume and cry because it reminds them of me. It is why I’m winning, because, in truth, I stopped fighting for my sake a long while back.

This is not a cry for help. It is just an unburdening. Nothing more.

This place is dark.

Slainte.

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To bE a sHaiD.

Nigerian children are superheroes. We are. The things we go through, the pain. Don’t you wonder why yoruba mothers say “ti n ba wa igbaju kan fun e” which, transliterated, means “if I should look for AN igbaju for you”. Yes, I wrote “igbaju”, scientists and linguists, after seeing the act and after-effect of an igbaju, haven’t come up with an English substitute yet. The closest they have is bomb. I digress.

Now, I asked a question. You see the article “an” is a signifier of singularity. Meaning, that item being qualified by “an” has plural forms. As regards “igbaju”, this plurality is related to quantity and type.

Based on quantity, could be one but never more than two (one for each cheek; or when you get the forehand and backhand consecutively…*sigh*). Based on style:
1. Igbaju: this is the generic one. The most used type.
2. Igbaju oloyi: pronounced e-gba-ju oh-lo-yi. Only brought out on special occassions like when you break that chinaware plate that was passed down from your mom’s great-grandmother to her, or you wear your christmas clorth to goan play ball in the rain.

Then the koboko, or if you have kind parents like mine, the pankere(cane). Those tools of great manual reset capabilities. You know, it gets to a point, you see a koboko and you self-reset. Even when you are doing the right thing. Thinking back, when you were a secondary school student and you get caned, six lashes, you do the “dusting” and go all “ohrbii, it dinor pain me.” (That just triggered a memory. Had a classmate, nicca hated being beaten but was a talkative so was a regular on the “noisemakers” list. Now when the beating starts, nicca would take the first lash and run outta the class, come back, take another lash and run. So funny, those crying earlier forget their pain.) However, when you get home, you’re shivering before the first stroke lands.

Only a Nigerian child understands the result of “spare the rod and spoil the child”.

Let’s leave the beatings.

Bullies. Those shidren that are not happy so think you should be unhappy too. The ones that sing Ebenezer Obey for you when you don’t share your bicycle: “ma gbe keke e lo, a o ba e sere mo”. One set of young niccas tried that song on me, a very lol-ious moment. I didn’t plan sharing the bicycle before na. Mofos oshi. *mschew*.

Or when you are watching Power Rangers (watched that thing again and was wondering what I saw in it) and you are called to run an errand and you make the mistake of looking like you don’t want to go and then your mother gives you the side-eye.

*sigh* *insert your pains here*

We are superheroes.

Slainte.

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crossroad

Is there anything new anymore? No. There is nothing new. A loop continuous. Variations of the old made to seem new. That girl crying after the break-up; that dude who feels incomplete because he lost his love; death of loved ones; the joy of making your first monies; might being right; similarity in the rise of the Mamuleke and the Ibadan.

This is known.

Why then does each repetition feel new? Some would say the personal touch of it is what makes it new. Really? That personal touch is a function of who you are; who you are is a product of your worldview and this worldview is a by-product of all the aforementioned events. What I’m saying is, you already are conditioned to react so to these occurences. Only to the first beings were these things novel.

Much as I believe all these, still doesn’t provide an answer to the ache I feel. This feeling of loss; this desire to go back in time; the feeling that I’m on a long travelled road, one I have journeyed before but I have missed a turn I should have taken. Things strange look familiar and in people’s faces I see those long gone. The road isn’t famished. It isn’t the road not taken. It is a boulevard of broken dreams.

There is a junction ahead. I would wait there for my companions. They have gone to search for meaning. Maybe they will have answers for me.

Slainte.

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sex

Sex.

Yes, sex.

sex (s ks)
n.
1.
a. The property or quality by which organisms are classified as female or male on the basis of their reproductive organs and functions.
b. Either of the two divisions, designated female and male, of this classification.

2. Females or males considered as a group.

3. The condition or character of being female or male; the physiological, functional, and psychological differences that distinguish the female and the male.

4. The sexual urge or instinct as it manifests itself in behavior.

5. Sexual intercourse.

The above are definitions of sex, only definitions “4” and “5” are germane to this article. Sex and its importance to our survival.

There is an ambivalence as to the issue of sex. Its rightness as regards when to do it -pre-marital or not-, with some going as far as questioning HOW it should be done (like seriously? What happened to variety being the spice of life? Where is the place for inventiveness?*mischievious smile**wink*).

“…shall cleave unto his wife and both shall become one flesh…” That cleaving is in body and mind. The body part is sex. Sex is important. Now, don’t go thinking I am on #TeamNoSexBeforeMarriage. I am not. At least, I think I am not. To each his/her own. I don’t subscribe to the guilt-ladden sex is wrong pre-marriage that is the position of organised religion especially the mono-theistic ones.(Those who know me know I abhor organised religion). If it is wrong, why was the clitoris created as it has no other function apart from sexual gratification.

The argument that it is solely for reproduction is just crayy. A spoon was made to be used for eating, does that mean you are wrong for using it to open all those ovaltine and milo tins?

Sex is so germane, everything is sexual. At least, almost everything. Slotting keys in keyholes, making a “O” with our hands to open doorknobs, etc. Even Freud, that cigar-loving oedipal nicca totally agrees.

Don’t be ashamed of it. When you are told in places of worship not to sleep around, nod and agree. However, when you process it, think of it thus: Religion is based on morality and common sense; the warning is based on a doctrine of moderation, as nothing, not even sex should be abused. Added to this, when/if you contract an STD, you bear the pain alone. And that teeny-weeny guilt you feel after orgasm, it is a natural response. A biochemical thing. Not psychological at all (except of course when you sleep with your helpless housegirl, or your friend’s girlfriend/boyfriend, in which case, just die).

As to the how, be inventive abeg. If your body can’t contort, it won’t. If it can, there is definitely no reason wasting the opportunity.

Now, now, a caveat. This is a point of view. I, myself, might not totally agree with it (my mind and its workings sometimes are beyond me).

Slainte.

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Dream

I just came back from, well, can’t tell you. I would have to kill you if I do. Went to this place-that-must-not-be-named for a conference of The Association of the Awesome and Superheroes. I am the current president. Met Supes (superman to you), Wonder Woman (still going around in her underwear), you know,everyone of them. Batty didn’t come though, something assassins or so, y’all know how paranoid he is.

So, we discussed the state of things in our countries of residence. Things got heated at a point when Supes went all black housewife on me, nagging about how I have being derelict in my duties. I had to bitchslap the nicca. Hit him so hard, he picked up a new language, yoruba. Kept repeating “e ma binu”.*straight face*. Things cooled down and we decided to wipe out Nigeria. We were discussing the how when history was made. A mortal made an appearance in the meeting. We all turned and of course, Batty was culpable. Now we know why he really didn’t arrive early. So this mortal made a case for Nigeria which is why you are still alive reading this piece. This is what he said:

Beautiful. Ugly. Painful. Pleasurable. Orgasmic. Draining. Adjectives all and all describe just one thing. Life (that’s not what you were thinking,yeah?your mind needs bleaching). Like the story of the blind men who went on a trip, met an elephant and described it. Though they were all right, they were also all wrong. Life, whatever way it is described, is a function of perspective and experience. Therefore, it can not, by the above definition, be described or seen in just one way.

Vox populi, vox dei. The voice of the people is the voice of God. I’m not about to go religious on you, you have your churches, mosques and *insert OAU uber-christian folks here;awon ero “sport”* for that. My using that quote is to buttress a point. The point is that the mob, the majority, the people are the ones who really know as it is. When the generality of these people agree, see things the same way, we can safely believe that thing to be true. Forgive the fallacy, but sometimes the bandwagon effect isn’t wrong.

Lagos. It is October 1, 1960. The D-day. The day Nigeria becomes a sovereign state, at least in name. Like all socieities, there were the rich and the poor. One thing there wasn’t was the wretched. A country blessed, more agrarian than most, Nigeria was called the Giant of Africa and touted to be a superpower in no time. It had potential. There was balance. If these people were asked what they thought of the world, the questioner would have got a multiplicity and diverse answers.

Two coups after, a bloody civil war, Oloibiri. Black gold is discovered in commercial quantity. Blessed curse? Cursed blessing? Anyways, the GDP skyrocketed. Money everywhere. The people still had different views of the world. There was the rich, the educated middle class and then the poor. Still, the wretched were so infinitesssimal as to be non-existent.

However, creepingly, slowly, the middle class was phased out. The rich got richer and the poor, poorer. And then, the poor became the majority. The vox populi effect: the world lost all beauty. The world is seen in just one way: pain-filled with little doses of pleasure.

That is where we are now. Revolution!! Viva Nigeria!! Aluta Continua!! I disagree. We can’t revolt. Not anymore. Not at this stage. We are a potpourri of at least 250 tribes with about 410 languages; centuries old grudges between the so-termed minor tribes and the major tribes and even with other minor tribes. Biafra won’t mind a second try at secession, in my opinion. Don’t point to the American Revolution because they fought a common enemy. Not themselves.

Reformation, maybe. Do the little things. Ask your councillor/local government chairman where the allocated money went. If your local govt councillor can’t be made to be accountable by you, then what’s the noise about the presidency’s profligacy. The Arab Spring was a product of the butterfly effect. The little things added up to become a big thing.

Life and being alive is painful in this part of the world. We can try make it beautiful again.

Slainte.

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