Comedy at a polling booth

A solitary figure seated on a long wooden bench, humming a strange tune, and leaves rustling from a nearby tree, were the only signs of life as I got to the polling unit a few minutes after 8am on Saturday. I greeted the middle aged man, he wore a faded blue shirt with a bold inscription ‘Vote Wisely’, and he told me he had arrived 15 minutes earlier. I sat down and we began to chat. Minutes later, more signs of life were apparent. An elderly man, clutching a walking stick on his left arm, stopped by and inquired if the voting had begun; two youth arrived on their bicycles, parked them under the tree and on second thoughts, retrieved them and rode away; two police officers walked past, retraced their steps, and asked after an address. “You are in the right place,” said the middle aged man, and shifted on the bench to give more room to the female officers. Two immigration officers drove into the street, parked, and waited in their car. It was 9 a.m now and there was no sign of the Independent National Electoral Commsiion officers. A fair skinned man, who arrived before the police officers, glanced at his watch, muttered something under his breath, and continued his gaze into nothingness. One hour later, the electoral commission staff had not arrived. One of the police officers had dozed off while her partner was battling to stay awake. The handful of people at the polling unit were discussing every topic that caught their fancy, from politics to sports to environmental sanitation. A mobile phone rang. It was one of the officers, the one who was struggling to conquer sleep. Her partner stirred from her sleep. “Where una dey,” she spoke into the phone and waited. “They said they are enjoying there, I am going there to take one bottle,” she announced to her colleague who, by now, was fully awake. “Abeg, bring one can for me,” the colleague replied. Her colleague stood up, adjusted her uniform, and stepped into the hot, morning sun. Out of curiosity, and for want of something to do, I decided to tail her and, if possible, partake in the ‘enjoyment.’ Five minutes later, the officer stopped in front of a locked shop, knocked, and waited. Immediately, a man’s face parted the curtains from the inside, nodded at the officer, and unlocked the door. The officer disappeared inside and the dark skinned fellow briskly locked the door again. I approached the door and listened, loud cheers and laughs were coming from inside, but the curtains draped across the doorway ensured no one on the outside catches a glimpse of the activities inside. I tucked my accreditation card out of sight, walked to the door and knocked. The dark face appeared again. “Yes?” He looked disinterested. “I wan drink beer,” I told him. He parted the curtains further, looked me up and down. “You no know say election dey.” “But someone just entered now. Besides, INEC people never come,” I retorted. The dark man looked me up and down again, seemed unsure about his next line of action. Finally, he said, “Oga, come back after election. I no want wahala,” his tone was final. He disappeared behind the curtains again. By now, it was almost noon, and still no sign of the officials at the polling unit. I decided to stroll to other polling units within the neighbourhood. At the nearby Idowu Street, a familiar voice called out. He was squeezing out the last drop of liquid from a sachet water into his mouth. “Ah! Bros, you come late o. We just finish eating rice wey dem share for us now.” It turned out that a local party chieftain in the area had declared a free lunch for all the voters at the polling unit, and the security officials. He had also paid for canopies to be erected to shield them from the sun. At around 12.30 noon, the electoral commission staff began arriving at some of the polling units along the street. I decided to return to my unit. The officials assigned to my unit had already arrived and had begun accreditation. People had queued, under the scorching noon sun, patiently waiting for the election officer to mark the base of their thumb’s nail with ink, the sign of accreditation. A gentleman at the front of the line insisted that the election officer put more ink on his nail. “See, I wan go take my bath now. If water erase the ink now you no go gree do am again.” About one hour later, news of the postponement filtered in.

25 Things That Killed Hip Hop

In the midst of everyone's declarations that "Hip Hop is Dead" we somehow forgot the slow death that is spreading across all aspects of "urban" music, as the legacy of Soul and its close cousins has devolved into a writhing mass of commercialism, homogenization, thuggification and overall laziness. Now, in no particular order, we present to you the "25 Things That Killed (and are Still Killing) Urban Music" because you love lists and SoulBounce isn't afraid to say what you're thinking. Keep in mind that there will be some overlap, as certain items gave way to others that deserve their own spanking.

1. The End of the "Event" Album: There was a time when albums encompassed an era that included a look, a feel, and a style that informed an artist's videos and live performances for as long as they (or the label) could squeeze revenue from a project by releasing singles. The "event" album can chiefly be credited to Jacksons Michael and Janet, who have entire timelines built around the idea of a "Thriller Era" or a "Rhythm Nation Era". Nowadays, instead of treating albums as what they are (a collection of songs with one unifying theme) artists are more likely to seek out the most ubiquitous Hip Hop beatmakers of the moment and record over a hundred songs from which to "pick" singles. Also, when you have artists that are too scared to release music with a healthy 3-5 year gap in between, the lines to between albums begin to blur, and the eras become indistinguishable, rendering them null.


2. Big Name Hip Hop Producers: With respect due to the beatmakers that introduce a track with the name of their production imprint, ad-lib all over it, and insert themselves as guest rappers 50% of the time, they overshadow the actual vocalist of a song. We certainly don't begrudge any of them the right to employment, but when an artist has to do an inventory of who produced her project to qualifiy it instead of telling us what the album is about, we have to take exception. Reality check: If you're trying to goad me into a purchasing your album because you have a Pharrell beat on it and I'm a Pharrell fan, then that's the only song I'm buying. Your album has to have legs of its own.

3. Deaths of The Notorious B.I.G. & 2Pac: You can probably draw a direct line from the deaths of Biggie and 'Pac to the current state of Hip Hop. The two of them cultivated a style that even a decade later is re- and misappropriated to the nth. Perhaps if they were still alive, they'd have pushed the genre forward. Or maybe they'd be wack and irrelevant. Hey, at least they died while they were still good.


4. "Neo-Soul": We understand the emergence of the "neo-soul" genre as a response to the growing commercialization of modern R&B. But even the artists lumped into this category began to the see that the term was as much a marketing ploy as the very things they eschewed. The language used to describe these artists ranged from "organic" to "avant garde" and any press materials would claim that he/she looks up to Stevie, Marvin and Donnie. And don't stand too close to the stage lest you get burned by the candles and frankencense! Before long, the audience would be fooled and we would either grow to love or loathe this music, defending the art of its purveyors and loudly wondering why they couldn't move as many units as their mainstream counterparts. Simply put, "neo-soul" has become a term used by people to describe music they respect but would never buy.

5. Reality TV: Aside from the manufactured Pop idols that are struggling to stay signed within their prize contracts, we have to question the motives of Sean Combs, Robin Antin and Missy Elliott, who have all aped the reality television format to generate acts for their own stable of artists. To be sure, reality TV has replaced proper Artist Development as a means for these entrepreneurs to cash in, stroke their egos and embarrass people who, 9 times out of 10, deserve it. Speaking of which, what's O'so Krispie doing?


6. Lazy A&R Departments: Did you know that A&R people are also responsible for Artist Development? Probably not, since these days a newly-signed artist is more likely to be stripped of their identity and given one that falls in step with what's popular or, even worse, none at all. Take Cheri Dennis for example. While her album has a respectable amount of solid R&B tracks, we still don't know who Cheri Dennis is, what sets her apart from everyone else or even what she sounds like. But, she has earned the distinction of being signed to her label for nearly a decade with no album to speak of. Did the A&R department utilize that time by playing Spades? Probably.

7. Scarface and The Untouchables: Okay, rapper, we get it, Scarface and The Untouchables are the greatest movies ever made; your life in celluloid, even. But, if you look close enough, you'll come to learn that you are neither Pacino or De Niro and should stop emulating them by using audio clips from the films in your interludes and the script in your lyrics. Too many of you are still doing this after all these years. Also, tell members of your crew to stop calling themselves "Ness" and "Nitti". Just, please, cut it out. Thank you.


8. Thugs: Not only do we have "Studio Thugs" that use de Palma films to inform their image (see above) but there's the "Corporate Thug" (robs an artist of his publishing and signs him to a hellified contract he could never fulfill) and the questionable "R&B Thug", which happened somewhere between R. Kelly and Jodeci and continues to this day. Along the way, labels got the bright idea that the way to a woman's heart was by selling drugs and beating up people. Sexy! This trend has also given rise to something else we'll never understand: "R&B Beef", in which two singers talk trash about each other to the media. Unfortunately, this doesn't result in a "sing-off" but pretty much makes everyone involved look kind of retarded.


9. Crime: Between violating probation, not paying child support, being pulled over and caught with an ounce of weed or cocaine, assaulting nail technicians, shooting people, tossing concertgoers off the stage, committing perjury, tax evasion, and urinating on minors, we have to wonder if being a good artist means being a bad citizen.


10. Ringtones: "Real Music Ringtones" were created as a way to distinguish your ringing cellular from someone else's while also bringing you closer to your favorite artist. Unfortunately, the labels realized this was the only way to generate revenue and started making music for the sole purpose of selling ringtones. Now, we have stripped-down keyboard beats and grunts and "yaahhs" instead of lyrics. Is that my cellphone ringing or yours? We'll never know, because we both downloaded Soulja Boy.


11. Lack of Music Programs in Schools: Programs like Garage Band have not only made producers lazy, but undercut the importance of immersing young would-be musicians in music history as well as basic composition. Unless a popular musician was trained in the church, they probably lucked into a contract without knowing how to write, play an instrument, or worse, sing a note.

12. BET (and by extension its corporate owner) is on a mission to not only destroy urban music, but poison the perception of Black people in the process. If we were to use this network as a guide (and people unfortunately do), we would believe that "drug dealer > rapper > pimp" is a logical career path, alcoholic beverages can be used as bodysplash, women of exotic or indeterminate race are the standard of beauty, darker-skinned women are only valuable if they have a big ass and a tiny waist, a person's worth can only be determined by what they drive and what they wear, you ain't sh*t if you're over 30, and a week's worth of debauchery and decadence can be undone with a Sunday marathon of religious programming. It's funny because it's true.


13. The Radio: Used to be, you would turn on the radio and hear a variety of artists with a variety of sounds. But due to the "Clear Channeling" of Urban Radio, you'll hear a T-Pain song followed by 15 minutes of commercials, followed by a song featuring T-Pain, some shucking and jiving by unbearable radio personalities for five minutes, then something that resembles a T-Pain song, but isn't because just about everyone sounds like T-Pain now. And it's probably a commercial.

14. Spineless Club DJs: If you're going out to a club, you might as well sit in the house and blast the radio instead of paying the inflated cover charge. Once upon a time, DJs were tastemakers, but now so many of them are afraid they'll clear the floor by spinning something new that they just play album versions of songs people are tired of but are too drunk to notice. Then, they add insult to injury by showing off their "skills" with poorly-timed scratches, blends that don't line up and screaming over the music. And consider yourself lucky if you happen upon a DJ with ACTUAL! VINYL! RECORDS!

15. Mainstream Hip Hop Publications: Back in the 90's, holding one of these rags in your hands was like holding a monthly Bible to all things Hip Hop and R&B. Now, they've all been relegated to chasing blogs and reiterating things we already knew weeks ahead instead of properly utilizing the print medium to do something unique. Changes in personnel and ownership aside, they were already marching towards irrelevance. Even the covers suck now, but you probably won't get the damn thing delivered on time in order to find out.


16. Bloggers: Guilty as charged! Trifle few of us are qualified to be writing about music with any authority, especially since most of the people behind blogs haven't been alive long enough to have a healthy perspective on the subject. Although it can be argued that record companies rely on blogs for buzz, most of the music championed by popular websites is the same music that would've gotten attention anyway. Also, we have to point out that the commenting system has turned discussions about music into an unholy war of "haters" versus "stans", where everyone is an expert on what they hate or love, but have no concept of anything else including real life. Oh, and providing your readers with the URL to full album leaks doesn't "help" the artist.


17. Youtube & Myspace: On the Internet, everyone is a star (thank you, thank you). But while sites like Myspace and Youtube can provide mainstream and indie musicians with a means of cultivating and connecting with an audience, it becomes a chore to sort through the muck of people with a webcam and a login classifying themselves as "artists". And damn you all to Hell for having the crap you made in Grandma's basement on auto-play.


18. Singing Rappers, Acting Rappers & Rapping Athletes: We'll keep this short. Every now and then you'll happen upon someone that has been able to organically transition from one career to another. Will and Latifah come to mind. To everyone else (coughCurtiscough), stay in your lane. Again, we don't begrudge anyone the chance to make some extra ends; it just shouldn't be at the expense of the audience.


19. The End of Real Singing Groups: Once upon a time, you not only had singing groups that weren't put together by a reality show, but wherein each member contributed a distinct voice or purpose to the group. Sometimes they had members that barely sang a note, but who actually produced or wrote the song. Point is, throwing a bunch of strangers in a house with one phone and giving them makeovers doesn't create synergy. Also, name a recent singing group that wasn't created for a television show or for the purpose of launching someone's solo career. Exactly.


20. "Kanyitis" is a temporary, yet frequent, illness that afflicts singers and rappers alike, wherein an artist waits until the precise moment they are in front of a camera, microphone or reporter to say something shocking and stupid, which will then be quoted by bloggers and searched on Youtube ad nauseum. Then the artist has to explain what they "really" meant, but by that time everyone already thinks they're nuts and doesn't care about a retraction.


21. Death of Aaliyah: Not that Aaliyah took an entire genre of music with her to the grave, but it can be argued that her passing made way for a wave of young, pretty dancers with okay voices and no personality. Only difference between them and Aaliyah is, Aaliyah had personality along with talent, ideas and a willingness to experiment. Also, she wasn't so full of herself.


22. Money: Even worse than artists releasing garbage because they know it sells is the audience's obsession with how much an artist makes. Unfortunately, we've given lack of artistry a pass because someone's "making that paper", which totally undermines the hard work of true creative talents that are constantly writing, recording, and performing. When I buy an album I don't want to hear an entrepreneur, which brings us to--


23. Products & Brands: Whether rappers and singers are inserting the names of designer alcoholic beverages into their lyrics or cable companies are inserting rappers and singers in their ad campaigns, things come to a point where we need to start realizing how owned these artists are. There's a thin line between businessperson and corporate slave. We'd also like to reiterate a fact that has been pointed out time and time again over the past 10 years: If you can't pronounce it, why should we care that you're wearing it, driving it, or drinking it?


24. People That Aren't in Any Way Associated with Music: Opportunities in the industry are built on connections and there's almost never been a time when someone didn't rise to stardom on someone else's coattails. But now, things have gotten way out of hand. Why be an actual artist when you can be someone that danced in videos, screwed a bunch of rappers and got a book deal? Or, you can be a butler or Executive In Charge of Umbrella-Carrying? Or, worse, be the "Fifth Mic" guy on stage and reliable instigator? Who needs a recording studio?



25. Teenagers: Young people have always had the power to determine trends in all genres of music, which is why corporations defer to them. However, today's teenagers seem to be slightly more insipid than they were in previous generations and definitely have a shorter attention span. Whether it's the teens themselves driving the garbage labels are releasing, or the labels that are leading teens down a path of ignorance, is totally up for debate. It's the chicken/egg question in its purest form.


http://www.soulbounce.com/soul/2008/...d_urban_mu.php

IT GETS DANGEROUSLY CLOSER (PT 2)

...I want to believe that the marriage institution is undergoing a generational evolution. You want to know why? Ok. As a child, I remember that the IVs to the weddings we used to attend simply bore '...cordially invites the family of XYZ to the Marriage of their children...' Gradually, it shifted to inviting us to the Wedding Ceremony of their children. Then again, it changed to inviting us to the Wedding Solemnization. It didn't stop there. They began to invite us to the Exchange of Marital Vows, then Marital Bliss, and now Conjugal Bliss. Conjugal Bliss? Wow! I think I already know what to invite people to whenever I'm ready. The idea of a marriage full of blissful conjugation sounds very very exciting.



Recently, when I welcomed a good friend of mine, a visiting Professor (he is a Prof, and he visited me), in my crib, I enquired about this generational evolution. Initially, he told me he doesn't want to be bothered over such 'mundane' issues; he had this research that was uppermost in his brain. But I've known Prof for 10 good years; and I know he cannot fool me. So I sent for the key that unlocks him, a frozen bottle of big stout. Expectedly, it worked. One remarkable thing about Prof is that the mere sight of a sweating bottle of big stout gets him delirious with excitement.



''You know I've been thinking about this generational evolution theory of yours,'' he started as the bearer of the 'dead' bottle of big stout came within sight. ''It is simply a palpable manifestation of the inherent transitional character of humans.'' I relaxed and braced myself for the impending lecture.



Each of the IV statements, he began, summarises the couple's relationship in a nutshell. So you can be sure that in conjugal bliss, there would be tons of lovemaking (not sex?) in the marriage. Nothing matters as much as sex, and variety is its most important ingredient. ''Darling I'm ready to leave.'' And the man will reply, ''Ok dear, but could we hit one quick round for the road?''



Marital Bliss is about the best any couple can hope for. There is a well balanced and robust relationship between all facets of the couple's lives - physical, social, sexual, emotional, etc.



If the would-be couple are Exchanging Marital Vows in their IV, then it's going to be a chatter box marriage, full of talking, argument, and counter argument.



But that's child's play compared to Wedding Solemnization, also known as Holy Matrimony. Here, the couple's 1+1=2. Period. They are two separate entities joined only by their consignment into the marriage asylum. There is hardly any emotional connection between the two, except, of course, during sex (not lovemaking?). It is usually every forth night, or if the man is lucky, once a week. And it MUST be the missionary style!



''My dear friend,'' said Prof, releasing three long belches in quick succession.



''Do you ever wonder why children of the same parent do not have the same character?''



''Well,'' I replied, ''It depends of the genetic make-up...''



''No no no,'' Prof interjected, 'There is no need to impress me with your knowledge of science. It has nothing to do with heredity and transmission of genes.''



And he continued.



For every normal couple, there are hundreds of rounds of sex that precedes the birthing of every child, but it is only one round, one critical round, that produces the foetus. And what you do during this one critical round pretty much determines the future of your baby. In our days and the days of our fathers, there is a huge population of missionaries, people who GENUINELY dedicate their lives to spreading the gospel. Then, being a missionary brings a lot of honour and respect to you and your family.



You know why there were a lot of missionaries then? Our fathers respected the missionary style of lovemaking (not sex?). It was so sacrosanct that the mere dreaming of any other sexual position could invite the wrath of the gods onto the unfortunate dreamer. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of this present generation. They have invented such horrible positions that the mere thought of it is capable of causing one heart problem. They even went as far as laterally inverting our dear old missionary style and handing the woman the baton. And then they would turn around and wonder why women nowadays are becoming more domineering; most of them have been conceived via this ungodly position. Even the gods have become too numbed with shock to react.



But some men who are wise have exploited this one critical round to their immense benefit. You would discuss with your wife and then fix a mutually agreed date for this one critical round, preferably when the woman would be ovulating. And you would begin planning ahead. You and your wife. Two heads better than one. What do we want our first child to be when s/he grows up? A footballer? You start looking for video tapes of great footballers. A lawyer? You start shopping for legal movies that are bestsellers. If you want a journalist, then you would wait till the evening news begins before you start. And the list goes on. On the day and hour of this one critical round, when you must have decided on the future of your about-to-be-conceived baby, the chosen tape is slotted into the video machine just before the commencement of lovemaking (not sex?).



And, oh, there must be no interruption whatsoever. It could be disastrous to the about-to-be-conceived baby. So lock your door from the outside and pull the window drapes to make sure no jobless visitor comes calling. And all mobile phones must be switched off. When eventually the lovemaking (not sex?) begins, make sure you keep your eye on the TV screen as you conduct the business. Imagine your about-to-be-conceived child is the star on display on your screen. Your eye must NEVER be taken away from the screen until orgasm and, AARGHH!!! you have just conceived the next world player of the year.



''What if there is power outage,'' I asked.



''That is your business,'' Prof snapped. ''If you don't want to bring a ne'er do well vagabond into the world, then you better make sure nothing interrupts the baby-manufacturing process.''



''But Prof,'' I chipped in, ''You keep emphasizing the difference between lovemaking and sex. Why?''



Prof stared hard at his bottle; the drink has almost run out.



''That's a story for another day,'' he replied, and quickly drained the bottle.



Of course, sending for another 'dead' big stout could bring that 'another day' to this moment, but it was a risk I was not prepared to take.



So we left the 'another day' for what it was - another day.

IT GETS DANGEROUSLY CLOSER

I'm frowning into a wedding photograph I attended in 1994 (I think?) that features my humble self, neatly tucked into an oversized yellow tuxedo with designer shoes to match; my mum, and the just wedded couple. A pool of sweat had gathered in the middle of my clean shaven skull and I could almost visualize myself move in the photograph, every now and then, raising my left palm to swipe off the puddle that gather periodically at the centre of my head. Oh! And those shoes! How could I ever forget them? I never referred to those shoes as one pair because, in all honesty, they were not.

Ah! Those brown shoes. With a silver shiny Luigi Pastore, which I guessed was the name of the designer, glued on the floor of each of them. It had to be a designer product; after all, the name was Italian. Only problem was the left one seemed bigger than the right. So while my right foot fitted effortlessly into its right counterpart, my left leg had problem filling the spaces around it. To cross that hurdle, pieces of paper, cloth, and plywood found their way into the left shoe.

But I'm still looking at this 16 year old photograph and wondering if that was me in my former life. I can't even understand it. One moment it seems like I never posed for that photo shot, the next it looks like it was just yesterday. Let's see if I can recall some milestones over the past 16 years – Ok, I lost my old man and grandma… wrote WAEC and JAMB… university… NYSC… and now this. Did I leave out sex? No! But I would have loved to leave out that unpleasant incident in my last year in sec school. Chikere Amadi. Oh Chikere Amadi. One name I'd definitely carry into my grave. My face. Oh my face. How you suffered under the impact of Chikere Amadi's blows. I can't actually remember what led to the fight but I remember, vividly, that by the time he was done with me, I was barely recognizable for the next one week. My face was so swollen up my glasses could no longer fit. I couldn't even inspect the extent of the damage in a mirror. The horror I saw in people's eyes whenever I appear told me it was quite bad. As if that was not enough, the wicked fellow also appeared in my dreams to continue from where he stopped. Nightfall became a nightmare. And I stopped watching Boxing on TV. It brings back the bad memories.

Back to this photograph I've been staring at. I remember how I'd always feel that weddings were for grownups and as a child; it'd never get to my turn. Well how wrong I was. If only time had stood still. First, it was the very elderly ones. My reason? I'm too young. Then the elder ones, and I still reasoned I was still young. And then the bug crept to my immediate seniors and I'm like, 'Hey, am I getting old or are people getting young?' Now it is my peers and colleagues and cousins. An unseen umpire seemed to have blown the whistle and everybody seems to be scrambling to get married. Hmmmm.

I thought I had my life and future all planned out - graduate, get a very good paying job, buy a house, and at least, two cars. And then go hunt for a lady I can shovel off her feet. Now I realize the effect of those things I was smoking back then. If I still have to stick to that plan, then I could (not even would) wait till I'm 60 or 70. When my contemporaries would be retiring to their children and grandchildren, I would be hunting for a lady to shovel off her feet. Who knows if I would even be strong enough to do the shovelling? Kai!.........
(P.S This piece has been suspended till further notice. I became traumatized at this point and could no longer continue).

In Times like these...

''We must pay for the water we drink; we must buy the wood we need for fuel. Driven hard like donkeys or camels, we are tired, but we are allowed no rest. To get food enough to stay alive, we went begging to Egypt and Assyria...''

This morning, I read from the book of Lamentations. Yes. I'm tired of lamenting and so I've chosen to read another person's lamentation. Not that it helps the situation anyway. But I'm laughing as I'm reading this. I'm laughing as I'm reading the bible. That's the kind of behaviour that hunger elicits. You laugh without provocation. Imagine King Solomon in dirty, tattered robes going to Egypt to do 'Baa bi ya Allah'. Hahahahahaha!!! Or probably he'd hide in a cave somewhere in the wilderness and wait for his 300 wives (forget about the concubines) and his outbreak of children to comb Egypt, Assyria, and other neighbouring states begging for alms. And they will troop back at sunset to deliver their returns to the king of the cave. Of course, away from the prying eyes of security agencies. Hahahahahahahaha!!!!

Very soon I'll stop laughter and all other facial expressions that require energy. I have to start energy conservation since no one knows when the next rain will fall. A friend told me on facebook that people that say that hunger brings out the talent in a man are liars. I beg to disagree with him. They are not liars. They are hungry. Yes, because it is only a hungry man that can even conceive such a ridiculous statement. Do they even know the meaning of hungry? Yesterday, while watching a Champions League game, I overheard a lady telling her friend how hungry she was.

''I'm so hungry. Do you know I've not had a decent meal since yesterday?''

You see, those are the kind of people that make IBB want to come back. So he can give them a 'decent meal' since their problem is how 'decent' the meal is.

As far as I am concerned, there is no decency in hunger. Hunger for food, hunger for money, hunger for sex, hunger for anything that needs to be 'hungered' after.

The kind of hunger that emasculates your spirit and dismembers your soul. You lie down on your mat and, suddenly, you realize, ''Oh my room is 10 by 12.'' You've been staring at the ceiling and just arrived at that discovery even though you've been living in the same house for two years.

The kind of hunger that makes you delirious - you are walking down the street and you are having a chat with yourself. ''If I can just stumble upon a Ghana must go bag now and I open it to see bundles of money...'' And your eyes would start shining like a security lamp as you are walking, searching for that bag of money.

The kind of hunger that makes you wish you have the power to rewind time so you can quickly rewind to when you were suckling your mother's breast. And then freeze it forever.

The kind of hunger that teleports you to the streets of Chicago. You see yourself cruising down 185th Street, with a cute damsel by your side, looking for a MacDonalds where you can have lunch.

The kind of hunger that makes you hallucinate. Mohammed Babangida kneels down to beg you to support his father's presidential ambition. You frown at him and say, ''Look my friend, your father is not a good man. We hate him to infinity.''

Mohammed puts his head on your left foot.

''That's why he wants you to give him a second chance. So he can show you his good side.''

And he pleads and pleads and pleads.

And you tell him.

''Look here Mr. Man. I did not come to this world to be looking at the bad and good side of people. The only side I want to see right now is cash. Smelling cash.''

Mohammeds quickly glances up at you.

''How much? Any amount of money just mention it.''

And you'd quickly do an on-the-spot mental mathematics.

Ok, I'm 40 now. That means I can still live for, at least, another 40 years. If I have, say, 4 children, plus my wife. That will be 6 of us. Then my 4 children have, say 4 children each - 16 grandchildren. Then those ones have 4 children - 16 great grandchildren. Then those ones have their own 4 children.... Plus my brothers and sisters and their unborn generation, and my good friends and colleagues and their brothers and sisters and children and their unborn generation...

''100 Quintillion Dollars!''

The kind of hunger that make Nicholas Ibekwe and Simon Ejembi spend hour after hour arguing whether Nas is a musician or a master of ceremony (mc). I'm not kidding. They argued that yesterday.

The kind of hunger that makes you have an erection every 45 minutes.

The kind of erection, sorry, hunger, that makes you...

Let me just go back to my bible.

''Murderers roam the countryside; we risk our lives when we look for food. Hunger has made us burn with fever, until our skin is as hot as an oven...

Tales by the Fireside

I add salt to my taste and sit back to await the reward of my labour - beans and ripe plantain with a sprinkle of vegetable. My favourite. The delicious aroma has already begun to assault my olfactory lobes. As the smoke from the pot dances gently as it makes its way to the ceiling where it disappears; my thoughts drift back into time.

Father never failed to remind us, his sons, that we come from a long line of great cooks.

''My father was such a great cook that the white man, John Holt, employed him speacially to be preparing his meals,'' he would say.

''And he learnt from his father, your great grandfather, the art of cooking. He had no rival in the whole village.''

Those were the sermon he regaled us with whenever we gather to wait for mother to serve dinner.

''All of us (him and my uncles) are so good that our wives cannot do shakara for us when it comes to food. We'd just enter the kitchen and prepare something that would make them die of shame,'' he would declare.

We always listened with as much relief as pride. Relief that we would not undergo the arduous task of learning how to cook, and proud that we belonged to that exclusive class of a dying breed; our culinary skill was forged right from the womb.

Mother always smiled in whispered amusement whenever she encountered him delivering those lines to us. She never uttered a word.

Then mother lost her mother and had to travel to the village.

On Sunday morning, I was ill and could not attend Mass with my siblings.

Father decided to fry akara before the others return from church.

I was so excited about the idea I had to leave my sick mat to run the little errands - bring oil, wash the spoon, look for the match stick.

Everything was moving smoothly. The beans had been ground into a paste, the frying pan and oil were ready, the heat from the stove was already burning my skin. I did not mind. The joy of crisp akara and hot pap for breakfast enveloped me like darkness on a moonless night.

Finally, it was time for father to scoop spoonfuls of the beans paste into the frying pan. That was when it began.

Every paste that hits the oil travels smoothly through the oil, like a stone cast into the sea, and settles at the bottom.

I have watched mother perform this same chore on more than a hundred occasions. This was different.

''Papa, why is the akara not standing on the oil?'' I asked.

He looked at me, returned his stare to the frying pan and frowned his brows as if he was pondering my question.

I waited for his reply. He continued to gaze at the fire.

I repeated my question.

''Go and get me more oil,'' he snapped.

I sauntered off to fetch the gallon from which he poured more oil into the frying pan.

An hour later, we were eating breakfast in silence. Father was munching at the oil-soaked akara furiously; my elder sister was unusually quiet; my euphoria had turned to agony.

A cousin told me how they passed through a similar ordeal when they were kids. No sooner had their mum gone on a trip than their dad served them a hint of what to expect for the next three days their mum would be gone. He prepared Jollof rice with the pepper almost outnumbering the rice seeds. And then he added the obnoxious smelling Ogiri to spice up the dish. The entire family developed a hole in the anus.

The bobbing sound of the lid against the pot jolts me back to the present. The aroma of my handiwork has already drifted into every nook and cranny of the entire house and has spilled into the compound. I could hear the barking of the dogs.

I lift the lid, stir the contents for the last time, and using my hand towel, I bring the pot down. Lunch is served.

Then it hit me.

I had forgotten to add onions.

The Loss

I looked up from my squatting position at our verandah and saw Nnachi, our machine operator coming – alone. I had a feeling something was amiss; dad was not with him and it is almost dark. As a kid, I had come to know Nnachi, our machine operator as someone who never takes the initiative; he always takes it from dad. But then, I had felt he was doing it either out of respect, or because dad was his boss.

Dad ran a concrete block business. On that fateful day, they had gone to make a delivery to a customer. Because neither dad nor Nnachi could drive, Oga Dave, dad’s friend, volunteered to help; the company’s driver, Theo, as usual had failed to come to work. And dad, who has always been compassionate even at the detriment of us, his children, never thought of firing him. Curiously, hours after they had gone, they were yet to return.

So when Nnachi was approaching alone, I felt a need to know why dad was not with him. And typical of him, he just sauntered right into our parlour, drew mum to a corner, and told her everything. He did not even bother to leave out the gory details

Their vehicle had lost control on their way and dad, seated at the outermost at the passenger’s side, jumped out. Oga Dave eventually gained control of the vehicle and by the time they rushed back to where dad had jumped, he had already bled a lot and could barely walk. Because they were on a highway and it was almost nightfall, they had difficulty convincing an oncoming vehicle to stop. After about an hour, they succeeded. And all the while dad’s cry of anguish could be heard calling out to them to help him. At the hospital, they had to face another round of delay at the casualty ward and before anything could be done, dad had lost a lot of blood. He finally gave up the ghost.

“So madam, that’s what I’ve come to tell you. Oga don die,” I’d overheard Nnachi telling mum, tears streaming down his cheek. For an instant I saw, or I thought I saw, mum not certain whether to raise her two hands and scream or lower them to console our operator. But I saw her perform just one act – untie one end of her wrapper and wipe off the tears that had gradually converged around her eyes. She then left our whimpering operator and walked into her room.

I do not need a wrapper or any piece of clothing to wipe my own tears – there were no tears. I just sat there stunned and numbed by the piece of news I’d just overheard. I took another look at Nnachi’s tearful face, where he was leaning against a wall, his body just rubbing his shadow, to make sure everything was real. Dad, dead? Incredible. He just left some hours ago. How could it be he would never come back? I tried to persuade myself everything was alright. And as if to assure me everything was alright, the tears still did not flow.

Exactly one month later, the red, soft, muddy soil of my village hit dad’s coffin with a thud. “From earth we came, thence we shall return,” echoed the priest, clutching a wooden-handle shovel in his left hand and a bible in the other. To the right of the priest were my siblings, the eldest standing closest to him.

I scanned the crowd gathered at the graveside for mum. I saw her. A flowing, black gown, swaying gently under the hot noon breeze, barely covering her feet. Perched on her head was a black head tie cut from the same material as the black gown. Flanked on either side of her were her sisters and other female relatives. I looked at her face and tried to follow her gaze, which was riveted inside the dug grave. I tried to guess what could be going on in her mind. Then suddenly, she looked up and our eyes locked. Her eyes looked bloodshot, tears were continually streaming down her cheeks, snaking through her upper lips and falling, like a gentle rain, onto the upper portion of her gown. For the second time in less than a month I was stunned. I had never seen mum like this. At that split moment, I realized what dad actually meant to her and it dawned on me she’d never see him again. Then my tears came, at first in drops, and then in torrents. The sudden realization that the entire episode of the past one month had been real tore my heart into shreds. Like mum, I would never see dad again. Ever.

I let out a yell.