Okay, I took a break last week. I’ll just go ahead to confess that nothing happened to me and no, it was not Ebola-phobia. I was just errrm busy. I have been doing some things and I want to get them right. However, I could have posted something. I was lazy. No vex abeg. *prostrates*


There is no other way to start this week's post than by saying that there are blogs I love reading. When I say that, here is what I mean: not reading any of their posts is like asking me to strip before five year olds which should make any teen uneasy. There are many of them. I can’t list them all but I think a post on my top *** (no number yet) blogs and websites should come soon. Atilola’s World is one of them. So, two weeks ago, Atilola wrote a post, Cascaded Little Things, where she examined why the Nigerian situation is such a bad one. She attributed this to our resolve not to do some supposed little things right. Things like jumping the queue at ATM outlets, running red lights, littering public spaces and so on seem our true nature. See, you should read the post yourself; it’s something little too. 

See this person o. Yes, you! You want to say you didn’t read the last sentence abi? Oya go back and click the link. Haha.

This post is not in any way different from Atilola’s; just a shikini addition. Do you know the supposed small people in the teeny-weeny imagination of some Nigerians are the ones who run this country? I wonder what this nation would look like without all those ‘small’ people whose contributions to life and living we don’t value. I’ve got nothing much to write, but take this from me: it is when we begin to value the gatemen, the cleaners (yes, the OYES people), housekeepers (like me), all them Mallams and Yellow Fever people, the ‘risky’ sellers around and their substantial contributions to our lives that we’ll learn to do things right. Think of the doro-mega-superlative mess the poo you just emitted would have become before the cleaner arrives and you’ll learn to flush public toilets after use. Was your mother or grandmother the one assigned to cleaning your street, you’ll not finish doing it with your one-night stand babe by some street corner while you leave your used condom on the same spot for your servant(s) to pick the next day. True? Say false make I...

A couple of Nigerians have it wired into their genes that doing these little things are not for them. I loathe how the supposed big people do theirs more. Here is an example: some son of a big man is willing to coerce a bank’s doorman into granting him access into the banking hall, the long queue on ground notwithstanding. So he walks up to the latter and expects him to begin to cower before him because of the son of who he is. He threatens to put mechanisms in place and make sure the doorman is sacked. So, the supposed ‘small’ man, torn between doing his bidding and facing the wrath of the people on the queue, begins to beg. Oga Rich Man’s Son on most occasions joins the queue, but he basks in the euphoria of having been able to assert his authority on someone.

Someone once told me that the first set of people he sends new month messages are the supposed ‘small’ people in his life: his messenger, mechanic and his wife’s baby-sitter. We may not be doing that, but we ought to at least do things - the little ones especially - right. We know them. The supposed ‘small’ people should earn our compassion and appreciation too. They are not shit. Don't treat them like such. 

And I said there was nothing much to write o. Kai! See what Naija matter can cause. Ayam sorry.

***

 You love what you read here? Kindly share. 

Those times come when you find yourself helpless in the fangs of boredom. At those times, you discover that your desire to get out of it is not quelled by any of the things you love: books, music, movies, not even the chit chats you get into every now and then on your chat apps. For me, such times birth reminiscences. Yesternight was one of such. So, I decided to lie on the bed, flipping through my phone’s gallery, something I do when I need to update my profile pictures on WhatsApp and BBM. Then, I found this image. Irrelevant image, one will say, but it evoked a memory, a not-so-important yet very important one.  

Agege Bread
The image reminded me of hunger. Yes, that Agege bread reminded me of nothing but hunger. Hunger, after a day, a whole day of scanning through PDFs, feeling relieved when the relevant ones appeared and hitting the delete button as I discovered some weren’t just going to do the work. It was one hell of a day, of copying and pasting, and drawing conclusions (and previewing movies too). It was my long essay; it was worth it. But hunger visited when I least expected, late in the night. I had not thought about it until it struck. So, I shut down Tobby and headed for my room. I hadn’t walked too far before I remembered that there was nothing to eat in the room. Being the person I am (I rarely eat out), and in that condition, I would have gladly eaten anything, and from anywhere. But there was none. It was past twelve, there was no eatery. I accepted my fate and continued trekking.

You know me? I am 'risky'!
Minutes from getting to my hall, there was this flicker. It was not far. Something to eat, I hoped. I trekked in the direction with the mind of trying my luck. It was food.  ‘Risky’ (not sure this is the correct spelling but it sha sounds like that), that’s the name. ‘Risky’? Oh yeah, R.I.S.K.Y. I don’t know why it is called that. Moreover, I cannot deny that the name chased me away from the delicacy until that night. I had no choice; I needed to feed the worms threatening to rip my tummy into shreds. I placed my order: seventy naira bread and one egg. I paid and the seller went to work. He cut the bread into two and fried the egg, which he did kind of hastily. He performed some other culinary juju and whisked the whole thing into the middle of the bread’s mouth. He put the bread back into the frying pan and pressed it down with his knife. Seconds after, I was on the way to my room with ‘risky’.

Getting to my room, I splayed ‘risky’. I was not moved by its good smell; I took shots of it. I did that with the mind that in case I died before daybreak, someone looking for pictures to be used for obituary posters would find them.

My ghost didn’t write this post. I did. I didn’t die. And I regret my years of dodging ‘risky’. Here’s what I typed on my phone’s note after eating ‘risky’:

 Four years, I considered it what it was really called. ‘Risky’ is its name. It’s one egg or more fucking bread, seventy naira bread... It’s a union of some sort; pleasurable to the eater who orgasms in belches. It’s actually not risky eating ‘risky’. (7/6/2014)

The ‘risky’ experience happened some two months ago and while typing this post, it dawned that there is something to pick from it. Life could be like ‘risky’, the strange, un-tasted and un-tested. Trying out new things could come with fear and risk. I agree, but with it also comes new, worthwhile experiences. You agree?



This morning, you remembered how you felt some years ago when you were told that your cousins, Josh and Wale, would be spending their three months long break at our place. You considered the little space J and W would have to share with you and your brother. The room was too small and you two always blamed your parents for lack of foresight while putting up the structure. ‘The rooms could have been bigger or we could have more rooms for visitors,’ your brother said every time someone visited. There was a visitor’s room, but grandma was its permanent resident. *Caseclosed!* So, you started cleaning up for J and W’s arrival. You would pair for each bed and the only two sockets the room had. The one table you and your brother fought for would be shared too. You remembered that while you thought about these, all these, an idea seeped into your head. It made sense. What you remembered were the chores you and your brother have had to contend with since you returned from boarding school. The two cars to wash every morning. The dog – Peggy – to feed and clean up. Laundry… You smiled, thinking J and P would ease the burden…

You are now grown, and the only thing you remember about J and P’s visit, aside the fun you all had, was that rather than ease your burden, they swelled it. Guy/babe, that is how life happens. Most people, like you did and still do, believe that two heads, or more are always better than one. In fact, they reference it more when an assignment is about to be taken up, and they feel such assignment would fare better with more hands. I think so too but it is not always true; there are times when two heads could just be worse than one. I have proof.

Some days ago, my brother and fellow housekeeper, Bobo B, had to travel.  I returned home some weeks before this and I am sure the boy must have been thinking the arrival of the Housekeeper in Chief, which I have always been, would open more space for him to savour his sessional break. However, it happened that the reverse was the case. Mum, a teacher, leaves home early every morning hanging some left-over chores on our necks like medals. I don’t blame her really; it’s her turn to get back at us. Me, I mean. I did same to her sometime last year. So, she leaves home and unfortunately comes back to meet most of the chores, left-over chores o, undone. What do we do when she’s gone? We act like this chore and that chore should be for one person and so we pass the buck until we end up doing nothing. Was either of us the only one at home, that wouldn’t have been the case, I am sure. Hence, whenever she returns, we point accusing fingers at each other. But, you know what? I am the bad boy, most times. Bobo B could be sooooo enduring.

As I write this, Bobo B hasn’t returned, but I have been pretty effective without him. Mum, since schools are on break, has been very helpful too. There are times I wish that boy would just stay wherever he is; my days have been without any plate of buck or query being handed to me.  And that is where the moral of this post is. There are times when we should count ourselves lucky to have a partner or more in discharging a responsibility. It shouldn’t be an excuse to be lazy. If the partner happens to be diligent, we would escape being smeared with shit at the end of the work. But when the reverse is the case, we can only land our bad heads and butts, all of us, in a whirlpool of shit. So, when next you are commissioned for an assignment, have it at the back of your mind that the result may not get better with more people. What it takes to have a good result may be for you to be a good head. 

PS:
1. This post was meant to be published last week but my housekeeping thingy stood in the way. Bobo B is now back and I have been really nice to him.

2. Happy new month friends.

About this blog

Of literature 'n' living. Me too. *winks*

Popular Posts

Follow me on Twitter

See What I'm Reading

See What I'm Reading

Featured Post

Between Death and 'I'

For Mummy EOO I His grandfather. It dawned on him that he wouldn’t want to be like the old man, as rich as he was. The name ...

Oyebanji Ayodele. Powered by Blogger.