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.

A Day At The Temple

A loud music blaring ‘Maharaj Ji gives you peace’ informs anyone in the neighbourhood that Olufemi Ashram, the worshipping centre for Sat Guru Maharaj Ji devotees in Festac Town, is a few metres away. And not just the lyrics from the song, the self acclaimed perfect master is actually there in flesh that sunny Saturday morning to confer peace to whoever is willing to seek him out.

And then there are a handful of devotees lurking around the centre ready to pounce on anyone who, intentionally or not, tried to flout any of their plethora of do’s and don’ts – remove your foot wears and caps (for the men), and women should cover their heads. Also, trouser-decking ladies are advised to stay away; and for the records, blue items and handsets are not allowed into Olufemi Ashram.

And so there I am, waiting for the press conference to begin. The ashram’s disc jockey has just inserted another record into the machine and another thunderous voice jumps out of his music machine – ‘Sat Guru Maharaj Ji, the camel of life is here on earth. Let the lesser gods shut up.’ The disc jockey proceeds to translate the music into dance steps, he is immediately joined by a plump woman and together they move in well choreographed modes.

I look at my watch and it says noon. The gold rimmed wall clock on the wall says 1 p.m. I motion to a young devotee nearby and ask what his time says and he replies 1 p.m. Then he explains that Maharaj Ji’s time is one hour ahead of Nigerian time. I ask why and before he explains, an older man appears from inside the building and motions for him to come.

The reporter beside me (from Radio Nigeria) asks if they (Maharaj Ji devotees) believe in God and I look at her with a blank expression. Then I observe the environment in search of a clue. The whole place seems to be wrapped in red – curtains, table cloths, balloons. Most of the devotees also seem to wear a tinge of red in their outfits. A large portrait of the heavily bearded Maharaj Ji sits on a table at an altar in front of us flanked by two flower vases; the vases also have red marks on them. Flowers of various colours – red also among – litters the table, the flowers looked like they were picked the day before.

At strategic locations within the small compound are wooden suggestion boxes with different wordings – ‘Direct Service Box’, Sat Guru Na Gode’, Sat Guru Modupe’, Take A Step Now’, among others. Two jeeps are parked outside the compound, a Nissan and an Infiniti, with plate numbers ‘Sat Guru 1’. Beside the Infiniti is a large banner of Maharaj Ji with the wordings ‘My Divine Knowledge is the Power to see God Alive…’

A young boy in a red cloth walks in through the red-yellow-green-white ribbon curtains at the gate. The bold inscriptions ‘Guru is my lover. Don’t be jealous’ at the front and back of his dirty polo are clearly visible. The music has just switched to ‘Happy Birthday Maharaj Ji. You are a wonderful lord’, and he nods his head to it. Close to his heels are two lizards, one through the gate and the other through a crack in the wall. They look left and right, nod their heads – apparently to the loud music – dash straight to the altar and disappear behind the red curtain.

I look at my watch again; I’d stayed three hours and still no sign of Guru. Virtually all the reporters invited have arrived. I beckon to another devotee and inquire if the conference is still slated for the day. He advises me to be patient.

One hour later, my fourth hour at the venue, a trumpet blows outside; inside the hall, all his devotees went down on their knees. I look up just in time to see Sat Guru Maharaj Ji in all his glory. His steps are dainty and measured as he emerges from a corner door at the end of the hall and walks towards his seat, a shiny yellow upholstery with red coloured love and star symbols. The media co-ordinator apologises for the delay, “I want to sincerely apologise for the delay, especially for the physical reasons. The spiritual ones are beyond us and there is nothing we can do about them,” says the middle-aged man.

Then we make our rounds of introductions. I keep an eye on Guru. He is listening to our introductions and at the same time casting a sweeping glance across his congregation. The wire from the black microphone pinned to his red garment snakes through the podium and ends up behind a large speaker box.
And then there is stone silence. The Guru clears his throat and lowers his head to read his press briefing.
Finally, the proceedings began...

...Outside, a loud trumpet sounded and inside, the devotees went down on their knees. Then entered Maharaj Ji. The devotees remained kneeling until he took his seat.

With a cordless microphone attached near the left breast of his all red attire, the Guru began to address the gentlemen of the press, and of course, his congregation.
“I will like to express my deepest gratitude to all present for being able to sail through all the tempestuous terrains of life to be alive to attend this press conference today…,” he read from a copy of his prepared speech, his low voice seeping into all the nook and crannies of the graveyard silent room.

For the umpteenth time, I cast a sweeping glance over the congregation. All their five senses were riveted towards the man at the altar; none paused to meet my glance.
The small room was already cramped with people. So those who could not get a seating space had to make do with the chairs outside and a loudspeaker, though they still strained their necks through the door to see whatever the Guru is doing.

In the middle of the altar hung a large framed photo of the Guru with a little fire burning before it.
To the left of Maharaj Ji were the gentlemen of the press, about ten of us and to his right were the devotees, seated in numbed silence and straining to catch everything the man at the podium was saying.
Maharaj Ji comes across like someone who, though regarded as a divine being by his devotees, prefers to relate to them in worldly manners. What with his frequent reverting to pidgin in the midst of his speech and the devotees vigorous nodding of their heads to whatever he says.

As he was reading and I was taking notes of the questions to ask, a million thoughts were flashing through my mind. What if I ask a question that irks him and he dispatches a tongue of flame to gobble me up. Although I had taken precautions before coming - I had given my neighbour a detailed description of where I was going and to call for reinforcement if I hadn’t returned by seven.

All those thoughts and precautions turned out, however, to be hollow imaginations. The Guru is as peaceful as a dove, as the devotees made me to understand and my questions - well he answered them. Though he has an ingenious way which, though the question may not be answered, but it does seem like it’s been answered.

The conference ended two hours after it began as we matched outside for a group photograph with the Guru, I took one last look around the room and the last thing I saw was a wall calendar.
“Go round the world and you will find there is no better lover than Sat Guru Maharaj Ji…. Because I am the gateway to heaven on earth. Use or call me every second and you will find Eternal Peace of Mind, Divine Protection, Infinite Strength and the Grace to overcome all challenges. Trust me, I am ordained by God Almighty.” - Maharaj Ji.