Author: Nedoux

In love with puns and all things punny. Avid DIY sewer.

On Guard

Lagosians wear the agbádá of suspicion rather elegantly.

If there was such a thing as a scale that measured a person’s suspicion level and if the average human being’s suspicion level ranked 7, a Lagosian’s would rank an off-the-scale 12.

Yes, distrust is imprinted onto our subconscious, we go to bed with it and wake up with it. The typical Lagosian prides himself on being streetwise and thus blessed with an AntiMumu™ that repels the slightest sign of foul play.

Just like the iron gates that barricade our homes, with tiny slide windows to peek through, our hearts are guarded by our suspicion, our eyes are the simply the minuscule window, they play no role when it comes to discernment.

We are adamant that nothing is what it seems even when it can obviously be no more than what it appears to be. Our flair for the dramatic concocts a delicious conspiracy theory.

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It died.

My neighbour’s dog is dead. Yes, It died today.

It of the wild 5:00 am barking sprees, as though it were auditioning for Canine Idol and needed to practise its tuneless staccato song. For some reason, the left side of my head ached more than the right side as each verse of gbof-gbof-gbof marched through my ears waking me up. An unsolicited alarm clock.

It of the stinky poo dropped generously like presents for whoever cared for gifts of the intestinal variety. Watching a dog strain to release poo reminds me of labouring during childbirth.

There is a careless abandon in that grip of contractions, a primal need to expel what must be expelled from its body. No graces or airs whatsoever, Nature’s call must be heeded regardless of who sees, hears or even smells.

I once heard its carer speaking Yoruba to it “ò kí n gbórò?” (can’t you hear), like one would scold a naughty child, as she shooed it into its kernel but it refused to cooperate immediately. I mused, did It understand her? I’d assumed the dog “spoke” English only.

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Traditionally woven

Unwrinkle your nose, shit is perfectly edible and might be eaten at some point.

The choice of how to eat it is what’s more important you see, for though it is well known that shit can simply be eaten with one’s bare unwashed hands, shit can also be eaten properly with a fork and knife. Even with chopsticks, for the more adventurous.

Yes, some sit down to devour the pungent faecal mass with such polished table manners, one would imagine it were a three course meal at a cordon bleu restaurant, with the stinky shit artfully plated on fine china, silverware laid atop folded napkins, steamed hand towels and fine linen tablecloth.

The housemaid is pregnant. ‘But that’s how men are, they are all like that’. Resigned acceptance or perhaps aloof indifference.

So, with a knife she cuts into the sizzling shit and guides the fork into her mouth, then washes it down with diarrhoeic champagne bubbling with a most peculiar breed of shame; the sort that another’s embarrassment imposes on one.

‘What would people say?’ To the casual observer, she’s relishing her feast. To herself, with no small measure of compromise, she says Hmm this isn’t half as bad as it appears, in fact it leaves a sweet tangy after-taste if I push it to the back of my throat then swallow quickly without chewing. An acquired taste of sorts.

In defining shit, need anyone be reminded of the fact that it decomposes? When exposed in the open, it breaks down till all that remains is grains of dirt that eventually blend with the earth.

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I’m not giving up on you

At first glance, certain events seem irredeemable, absolutely down the drains of annihilation and beyond the grasp of salvation. One might wish and wish with all their might, but once past that finish line of destruction some things remain irreversible you see.

One example that comes to mind is preparing ògì corn pap in a pot that is atop a stove, and stirring absentmindedly until alas the pudding thickens, inadvertently setting into wobbly èko. Rapidly stirring in a futile attempt to salvage the situation only condemns it further, deeper into its solid state, because èko will never revert to flowy pap. Q.E.D.

Still on the topic of cooking, as I find that quite a number of culinary mistakes have a way of being stubbornly unresponsive even after being gently cajoled back to the path of purposefulness, overly-salty rice is another example. How does one un-salt rice that’s bordering on becoming quite like Lot’s disobedient wife? A lost cause, really.

Likewise, tears that have begun to run down one’s face. One can’t un-cry those, so might as well have a good cry, ruined mascara or not, puzzled/alarmed spectators be damned.

In staying the course of bodily emissions, one cannot not add farts to this list, for a fart that’s been let out cannot be tidily tucked back in. So, one might as well allow the offended others marinate in one’s own offensive essence.

And whilst magnanimously permitting them to do so, one must have the requisite self-righteous facial expression in place, arranging one’s mug into an almost bored look as though one is oh so above the mortal act of emitting gases from the putrefied remains of digested food within their own bowels.

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Hoping for Hope

I was seventeen when I wrote my first poem “A Suicide Note”. In that sad way that one leaves behind bits of themselves in the whirlwind of moving houses or cities, it got forgotten, not unfastened from my wardrobe door. Like memories, possessions too get caught in the haze of transitions.

Still, I remember most of it exactly as it was first written-

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Valid

To the woman who crashed into my car with the force of a wrecking ball a week ago,

My car was stationary as it was impossible to inch forward. We were both stuck in unyielding peak hour traffic, yet your excuse was that you thought I was moving. In plain speak, you took your eyes off the immobile car in front of you and accelerated as if you were cruising along the highway on a Sunday.

My smouldering anger at you was valid, not because of what it would cost me at the auto body shop but because what you did was entirely avoidable. Mindlessly, you told me “This is Nigeria” when I crossly advised you to be more careful in the future. I hope you find yourself in many Nigerias and as you drive daily, may your path be richly coloured with the green-white-greens.

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Profile me Pretty

I was highly amused to discover that there’s all sorts of profiling. Within five minutes of chatting me up, my red pout probably dazzled this bobo and he proceeded to interview me for a role that I wasn’t even aware I’d applied for.

“Are you catholic?” he enquired, amongst other things, I chuckled gently at his forwardness. He wondered why, and I cheekily commended him for having his checklist ready and within reach. He laughed a caught-in-the-act sort of laugh.

While Religious denomination profiling is one bowl of soaked Ijebu garri with idly floating ground nuts, Silver spoon profiling is another bowl altogether with milk added. That sly “What does your father do for a living?”

Let’s not forget the more subtle yet so powerful, it really packs a punch, I bet you’ve missed it several times because it seemed so innocent, like nothing more than a polite request. “What is your name?” Yes, this, sometimes, is the grandmother of Tribal profiling.

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Wrapped around your little finger

The Urban Dictionary definition of the above expression made me chuckle; A term used when a girl has a guy under her command, means the guy will pretty much follow his girl’s every wish and do whatever she wants.

Sprinkle some Andrews Liver Salt over this expression and voila! it bubbles into the plot of a Nollywood movie.

Scheming Lady puts a love potion in Mr. Man’s food. He becomes pretty much wrapped around her little finger. His Loving Mother becomes suspicious and accuses Scheming Lady, who weepingly confesses. The antidote is found and Mr. Man becomes free (“Remote Control” Parts 1, 2 and 3. Grab your copy now!).

I quite like the world of Nollywood, where evil is punished and good is rewarded. Where it is either black or white with no middle ground whatsoever, so save your political correctness for the movie about your own life. Don’t forget to tie your sanctimonious gèlè as movie plots are usually pregnant with moral undertones.

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