Nigerian Blogs Aggregator

Aloofaa

May 09, 2008
4:06
What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

I made this post last year. It has since been attracting some misgivings from some people, who, in their respected opinions, considered it “sensitive”. I have declined every urge to make a post on their rejoinders. I still wonder why they couldn’t drop their comments directly on my blog instead of emailing me.

One of them, a well-known blogger (No, I won’t link him ;)), stumbled at me on yahoo messenger. Before then we’ve been having some real nice chat on about anything. Little did I know I was about to abort our correspondence when I posted this poem. On that faithful day, I logged on to my messenger, only to be welcomed by a long and anxious queue of offline messages. Spam! I thought.

But to my surprise the messages, minus two, were a chain of biblical verses filled with curses, yes – CURSES! My blogger friend had leafed through his bible to fish out portions of that holy text that seem designed as suitable words of retaliation against a perceived sacrilege. What a joke! I thought.

By coincidence, he was online at that time. And then I asked him, “Mr, to what do I owe this prayers?” I guess he must have been pissed off by the cheeky modesty of my question. He replied with yet another stretch of biblical passages, the difference only being that, this time, they came so hurriedly that most of the words were misspelt. How else was I supposed to understand the depth of his anger? I didn’t even bother to reply. All the while the chat box was busy saying #### is typing a message …until he signed out.

Just few days ago, I got a text from a friend who, after visiting my blog, ordered me, I mean ORDERED me, to retract (his word) that part of the poem that reads, “What if seated in Heaven is the Devil?” because, his reason – it is blasphemous. At that point I went back thinking about how far I’ve come with this poem, and who knows – how far I’ll go.

I wrote this poem during my undergraduate years. I still remember the rabid feedback I got courtesy of that part of the poem. A classmate of mine will look at me then and say… You are the anti-christ! And then I would smile. One actually told me she has stopped reading the departmental press board because an “unholy poem” was once glued there. To quote a lecturer-friend, “Your case is a sorry case” I avoided arguing with him by replying with a smile too.

But of course, I got some interesting and encouraging comments too ;)

Let's see how many blogofriends I have (or will remain as friends). This is the poem, titled “What If…”

What if…

What if everything is but a dream
cast nude on this jagged plane, unreal?

What if the silhouette is but the real thing
and the substance is its shadow?

What if sight is but blindness
and voice is but dumbness?
What if that animal perceives you as "animal"
itself- human, created in His image?
What if the womb is our grave
and the grave is but the cocoon pregnant with life?
What if white is but a precious gloom
and rose is but the embleem of death?

What if it’s not sleep after all
but Death tickly calling?

What if it’s foolery finely cloaked
masking as Love?

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil
and fanning Hell’s furnace is The Lord?

What if righteousness is but a sin
and Sodomy, the Hallowed?

What if we are just characters
existing only in the dreams of some gods?

What if…? what if everything is but a dream?
April 18, 2008
3:07
Lessons from Rich-ard Brand-son
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

I haven’t been doing much book reading lately for reasons best known to me (in the name of career pursuit), and my boss ;). A colleague of mine whose taste in books is, in one word – first-class, lend me this book Screw it, Let’s do it, authored by Richard Branson, the man behind the Virgin brand. The book is a lovely read. I couldn’t believe I made a record of finishing a book in a few days (LoL), being aware of my incurable slow reading pace. I’ve been known to spend unnecessary long periods finishing a book, no matter the size. Sometimes I laugh at myself when I take a look at my books and see that a sizable number of them are half-read, some quarter-read, and for some reading beyond the Preface has been impossible. I’ll finish them someday. It isn’t my fault. Some people are just too restless in life. Reading the preface page of Richard’s book, I knew I was on a mission to winning a reading record. You don’t want to know the number of pages it is! Anyway, I leafed through its pages, learning some inspirational lessons in life and business from one of world’s most successful entrepreneurs. The lessons were clearly presented as a matter-of-fact but interesting approach, not like those palliatives that many motivational speakers and religious leaders alike bore me with, me alone. I just hate those nicely strewn words… Your attitude determines your altitude; If you don’t come to the sanctuary, you’ll end up in the mortuary; You either pray or you become a prey. Some of them are nuggets of wisdom. But Gush! they always bore me. Rich Richard says, Whatever your field, you must be passionate about it and create excitement in everything you do. Beat your drum and look beyond the obvious. Before I face copyright prosecution for writing an abridged version of the book, you’d better go get your own copy. Actually, I feel like giving out free copies to some people. The way the guy wrote so glowingly about his business empire – the ups and downs, I feel like resuming work almost immediately at Virgin Atlantic or Virgin Nigeria ;) I hear Richard telling me… Man! Screw it, Just do it.what if everything is but a dream?
April 15, 2008
0:07
Just Images
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

Creative Advertising. Beautiful Ads. We'll soon get there in Nigeria.

what if everything is but a dream?
April 05, 2008
0:05
Writer’s Block or Writer’s Cramp?
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

These words are just spilling out. I doubt if this will turn out to be a sensible piece, I mean, an unboring piece.

Most times I get nudged to write, either by some experience, or just by the common writer’s need to give a disturbing thought a lettered face. In some cases, it is the struggle to marry conflicting views together, and writing becomes the only leeway for a settlement.

This often comes with its misfortune. I realize that while employing writing as a means to resolving the conflict, I end up inviting some other voices, different shades of perspectives, of voices once muffled, or once inexistent. Of course this is good. But first, I’ll pause, aghast at my self-infliction. Should I continue to write? Should I just give up? Will it be okay if I just engage someone in a discourse instead of resorting to writing? Questions. Probings. Doubts. And then, I’ll continue writing. As the words continue to spill out from their enclave, I’ll negotiate my way through them, and then some kind of light, a strange glow of revelation, will be shown on my writing. Those thoughts will now start to interact with one another, agreeing, disagreeing. Before I knew it, I’ve written a piece. Before I knew it, I would have dotted the last sentence.

Now I have to digress. It’s often the lot of a writer, especially when what is to be written is yet unformed in ones mind, that funny situation where thoughts fly mischievously, playing hide and seek, resisting every attempt to strewn them into words; if not to make a sense out of them but at least to ease the writer’s unsettled mind. Even when the thoughts are well formed, ready to be typed out, they start another form of mischief, this time confronting the writer with where and how to start. This is a familiar terrain.

When nibbled to write, I do not wait for long, before I resign into calmness, into a state where I’m likely to be uninterrupted. And if that occurs in the morning, the better for me, since it appears I’m mostly alert during that part of the day. It’s usually a strange bonus if I get to write anything at all before night calls it a day.

Now, I’m supposed to write. The impulses are right. I just don’t know how to start. This is it! That dreaded state. Writer’s block. A distracting clog on the wheel of invention.

Maybe there is no such thing as a writer’s block, I ask myself sometimes. Maybe it’s just ones perfectionist tendency pressed beyond tolerable limits, and resulting into some kind of cooling down after a tenuous mental exhaustion.

All the same these are not the words I planned to put down, I think I’m blocked.

But at least I’ve blogged ;)
what if everything is but a dream?
March 27, 2008
21:14
The day Vaginas Vexed in Lagos
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

My preparation to visit the theatre to see The Vagina Monologues was nothing less than mad. I planned my schedules far ahead, did all I could to avoid a carryover. Luckily for me, the day I planned to watch the play was a public holiday, which means I won’t be at work, although lurking in my mind was the fear that my Oga might announce that I should be at work, “because it’s the nature of the job.”

Wednesday. Two hours before the commencement of the play, I hit the road. I spent two hours for a journey that should have lasted about 40 minutes! Thinking that I have enough time on my hands, I joined the short queue of expectant commuters waiting to board a BRT Bus. I did that out of curiosity, oblivious of how long I’ll wait before Christ will arrive. Few minutes after, the queue became so serpentinely stretched that I wondered what all the fuss was about bordering a BRT.

For all I care, I don’t think Governor Fashola had me in mind before he initiated the new transport system ;) It took more than 1hr 30 minutes altogether before the next available bus arrived and for it to reach the last bus. Me and my restless life, gush, I’m too impatient for such time wasting. (Oboye, Sunkilala, na when we go buy this car sef? I don tire O!) Anyway, I made it into the theatre, just about 20 minutes before the play started.

First, it was the quintessential demeanor of the lady who led us into the play that blew me away. She gave a little background about the play, its essence, the playwright, sponsors, and partners. Behind her enviable command of the English language is an incredible sense of humor.

Hummm, she says, we require that you switch off your phones, or any gadget whatsoever... babies included. And then the play started.

The actresses were all fantastic in their individual rights. Most telling was their deliberate alteration of the mood in that National monument. At one minute it is melancholic, at another it is cheerful, sometimes somber, or annoyingly staid...

Bimbo Akintola

Bimbo Akintola and Omonor Imobhio’s performances were, for me, masterful. Bimbo especially almost got me breathless when she shed those tears. That single act, art I call it, almost deflated my earlier astonishment when she clapped her hands on those well-cupped pairs of breast, her humongous endowments. Omonor, yes OMONOR… that babe is it. The energy of her performance was awesome, to say the least. After her first monologue I earnestly awaited her next. One thing though… Omonor did you acquire those biceps during rehearsals for the play? Omonor ImobhioTunde Aladese

Ashionye (All pictures courtesy FI)

Ashionye, keep it up. Tunde Aladese, what a sleeky act? Yinka Yinka Yinka Davies, indeed your name is “comfort”. Somebody ask Funmi Iyanda where she was. I had expected to see her swing her familiar willowy frame, to see the thespian side of that TV presenter-cum-blogger image of hers. Ms Iyanda, thanks for the disappointment. Three Gbosa to the director, Wole Oguntokun.

Now my take on the play. As much as I appreciate all what the play stands for, I think the whole Nigerian affair is a strangulated experiment of the essence of the play. I’m saying this in the light of the cultural context which the play addressed (or is supposed to address). Nigeria is a highly patriarchal society. Therefore, uprooting any male-ish stump must go the extra mile in terms of campaigning and strategy, not some travesty of this mode.

Maybe my cynicism is informed by the fact that I’ve read the book or that there wasn’t really a well spelt-out solution to the perceived chauvinistic oppression of the Nigerian woman. One suggested solution, offered by the Nigerian story, is the starvation, yes outright deprivation, of sexual satisfaction to any penile incursion (especially when a Vagina has earlier experienced some inhumanity from the intruding Penis). I don’t know how that solves the problem. I think that aggravates the problem the more, opening the Vagina to more oppressive affront from Lord Dick-son.

I also observed that the voice bellowing from the speakers, as the narrator, was a male’s voice. I found it impossible to fit that into the whole affair, since the play was made as an anti-male production (I stand to be corrected). If women were to make a case against their oppression by their eternal arch-enemy, of course Mr Penis, should that be done using the same voice of the oppressor? Well, that’s possible. I guess I’m missing the point that, their campaign notwithstanding, they agree that there should always be a masculine element in their affairs, chiefly in the mode of an authority.

On a lighter note. I had expected that part of the book that says “If your vagina could talk, what would it say?” “If your vagina got dressed, what would it wear?” and “what does a vagina smell like?” The Nigerian version skipped those parts.

One other interesting part of that evening was finally meeting a friend face to face beyond our facebook-ing sessions. Na wa O, this facebook thing! Lyd, you’re really a beautiful, cool lady.

Anyway, I joked with some friends on the possibility of having The Penis Diatribe (or Dialogue, Affront). Who knows? That may be the next BIG thing to hit the theatre.

Watch Out.
what if everything is but a dream?
March 16, 2008
22:58
Asa, Mama Waidi, reviewed
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

I love Asa. By the day way, who doesn’t? Here is a brilliant review of Asa, her eponymous album. I hope it will be a first-time consideration for any recognition the album might be up for.

Asa's voice. She works it delicately it threatens to break at every high pitch-- but it doesn't; and the listener's racing heart takes a reprieve. Until the next crescendo, that is. But the message she delivers is arresting hundreds across the world.

Of course, as some have agreed, Bob Marley will love her. Fela will see hope again. Wyclef Jean will be impressed. And she might make friends with such atypical performers as India Arie and Macy Gray. She performs moving poetry on love, human rights, the ordinary life. The manner in which she handles the songs, the reverence, suggests that she didn’t know what she was on to until it arrived fully formed, the mixture of reggae, soul, hip-hop, folk, and rock. And she is left with the enormous challenge to name it, although it appears she won't be able to.The music is bigger than the musician. Asa stands, maybe, 5ft. She doesn’t at once look like superstar material. Her voice, well, is unusual. Strange. Yet her virtuosity outpaces these distractions, even though she sings like an unpolished village girl, with heavy stress points on her consonants and an attraction to accented English. Her 11th-track, Beautiful, for instance, consumes a great number of songs-for-mother that came before it. Presenting from a refreshing perspective, her flow reflects a robust emotion deserving of a tribute to one who made the giving of life possible.
If the comments on her website and YouTube channel are to be believed, the 11-track CD, Asa, captivates audiences everywhere on earth. The appeal in Europe, America , and Africa is tremendously promising. At home, since the album arrived with the single, Fire on the Mountain, it might have achieved this huge popularity for its significant difference in tone and content, threatening to remove the ground from under what Nigeria was beginning to accept as its own voice: Afro-hip-hop, the standard.
Over the years, from her days as a university dropout who took to the guitar, a weird girl guitarist on the streets of Lagos, to the troubled days with former associates, Question Mark Entertainment, Asa's art has grown up. She is adding frills to her stage performances, too. She can now tour the world as her own woman, not an inconsequential opening act for other people.

Will she win a Grammy? Will she merely be nominated? It's a question that has been asked. If she does win a Grammy or something very prestigious, then it confirms the widespread belief that Asa is world class indeed. If she doesn't, it may not reduce from her magical attraction.
Her drawback, eventually, maybe in the showmanship she puts into her stage performances. That she can conveniently hold concerts for hours has not been convincingly projected either. And, most importantly, how long will this type of music enrapture the world? Some have said it will soon fade away, being a distraction from the dominance of hip-hop and rap. If it doesn't, it's on Asa's shoulder to prove that her first album didn’t happen by luck. She needs to show, in her future work, that she won't cut and paste the rhythm and melody from this one.
And the voice. God don't let it collapse. It's the witchcraft that holds all these in place.© S.AAnd I strongly think Amy Winehouse comes second after Asa ;)what if everything is but a dream?
March 14, 2008
7:15
March 14. Today. Today. Today.
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

Sometimes ago, I made a post about a certain experience. I wrote that “that experience will forever register as the most unfortunate and biting experience that befell me as an undergraduate”. It happened March 14, a year ago… I’m making this post in remembrance of that rainy, stupid, crazy, unbelievable, unforgettable,... and unforgivable day. Click here to read the poem I wrote afterwards. For me, hell has no fury than a man scorned.what if everything is but a dream?
March 10, 2008
1:03
The VAGINA Monologue
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

Ever since I got the book from a visiting German friend, my fascination about the subject of the book has gone to a whole new level. Call it an obsession. No probs.

I made the book my instant stroll mate, sometimes leafing through it along those lonely sidewalks of the Unibadan campus, then. And of course I had a treat of a celebrity, sort of, in class, when everyone stared at me as though I had been bedraggled with shit. I’ll deliberately place the book on my table and watch how everyone takes a pious look at the “impious” title. I’m sure the author and/or her publisher intended the cover page to SCREAM. I particularly like the dark ambience of the cover page. It wasn’t hard to decode what those wrinkled countenances meant.
Chris is at it again!
This guy sha;
Na Wa O!
Yepa!
Gush!
OMG!
Stupid boy!

And those familiar ones… Na U be the Anti-Christ, I said this guy is possessed!

And of course Amaka, a former classmate, will come to me in her charismatic stride to probe the fatherlity and motherlity of my beingness. Pardon my English. She quips, Na person born you?, sometimes accompanying it with a real good jab.

I remember offering the book to a lecturer, a supposed feminist. She declined, tagging the book as “demeaning,” even as I told her the recurring theme throughout the piece is the vagina as a tool of female empowerment, and the ultimate embodiment of individuality. She vexed me. I almost told her she is demeaning “down there”. Fate forbids I spend an extra semester.

That said, I love everything the book stands for.

The book is made up of a varying number of monologues read by a varying number of women who give individual account of experiences with their “cockpits”. It speaks about everything that relates to the vagina, be it through sex, love, rape, menstruation, mutilation, masturbation, birth, orgasm, the variety of names for the vagina, or simply as a physical aspect of the female body.

I found some parts humorous; especially the responses some ladies gave when asked… if your vagina could talk what would it say?

The book has enjoyed lots of criticisms. Some critics disclaim everything the book stands for.

It’s a good thing an NGO, KIND, is sponsoring a localised adaptation of the book. I’m not sure how they planned to do it. But I suspect the cast will give the audience a good treat of localised translation of the word VAGINA. Gush! I have no doubt that the Yoruba variant will arrest the day. Ob…!

Casts include:
Joke Silva
Rita Dominic
Kate Henshaw-Nutall
Funmi Iyanda and a special cameo appearance by Erelu Abiola Dosunmu.

Thanks to Lydia for helping with details of Venue, Time, Date and Gate Fee:
Wednesday 12th March and Thursday 13th MarchVenue: MUSON centre LagosTime: 6pmGateFee: N2,500 Wednesday 19th MarchVenue: National TheatreTime: 4pmGate Fee: N300
Thursday 20th MarchVenue: Terra Kulture VITime: 6pmGate Fee: N2,500what if everything is but a dream?
March 03, 2008
3:02
My Birthday
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

LHM, this is coming toooooo late. Make una forgive me o. I remain doubtful whether the choice of lover’s day as my birthday was intended by my parents. For all I know, those love birds whose collaboration (sometimes I think it’s a conspiracy) informed my birth must have considered the economic advantage of having their first child on that day. It does feel great that I don’t give out gifts. Did you just call me a miser? It’s my birthday after all.

11:55pm. My phone alarm, set five minutes before I clocked a new year, alerted me to get ready for the barrage of phone calls that will soon follow. I took a curious look at the battery levels of the two phones whose strength were going to be put to test. Their full battery bars were a promise of commitment to the night service. I don’t know how they escaped the ever restless, game-playing fingers of my kid brother. Just as I was trying to whisk off the last spell of sleep from my face, the first call came in. 11:59pm, according to my own time. It was from a former classmate. Unfortunately, my sleepish thumb denied her the privilege of being my first birthday-wishing caller by mistakenly pressing the cut button. I was still struggling with the sleep hangover. She didn’t call back though, but the text message she sent still ranked her as the first non-family member to wish me a happy birthday. Mumcy had exploited the opportunity. “Happy Birthday my son,” she said to the accompanying sound of the opening door. I may never know why she favored Yoruba as the medium to offer her wish… her wishes! It was touching.

For about 35 minutes, my Celtel line was leading the score line with the surge of calls and text messages it was receiving. Afterwards, my MTN line, angry with envy, made it first impression, courtesy of an old friend, courtesy of XtraCool ;).

And so the next four hours was spent between picking calls and reading text messages. In some cases the two phones rang at the same time that my preference to favor one caller over the other was based on the “eminence” of the favored party. (Tayo, I hope you’ll still believe me that I went to the loo when you called)

I got lovely text messages, although I wished one had MISSed its way. Worever!

Day break. I went for the NYSC thing. My eyes betray all effort to feign a peaceful night. They bore bags like they were being JackieChaned (©). The calls didn’t stop coming. Neither were the text messages.

So so so so so… I waited fruitlessly for Halle Berry. Eve Einsler didn’t show up. Efjay told me she is gay. No One could never make Alicia Keys to honour my invitation. She was still basking in the euphoria of her Grammy. And so no lady attempted to kill me on my birthday, as I’d expected. Too bad. Maybe if I had a party.

I got some gifts. Thanks to the givers. I appreciate your love. Someone accused me of not having a wish list, his smart way of excusing himself for not giving me any thing. Worever! Dami thanks for the credit (although I think you have used the money to buy me a new phone!)

Though intangible, I consider my chat with the Creative Director, SB, the next day in his office as the highest point of my celebration. In his Asylum (that’s the tag on his door), I think as a way of wishing me… we had a therapeutic chat on my voyage as a budding copywriter. I can only hope that the outing he promised will not coincide with those moments where his mood, which has a legendary status in-house, assumes that of a laughing hyena. Actually, they only remind me of those classical psychological theories of manic disorder and depression… and some Robert Greenish postulations on power relations. Fire me, I dare you… isn’t creativity about disruption again? “It’s not rocket science,” is it? That I came out of his asylum smiling remains a grand antithesis to the famous quote “there are no atheists in foxholes”.

Special thanks to everyone who showed love. And to my blogofriends… I appreciate you guys.
It was my first post-school birthday.what if everything is but a dream?
February 12, 2008
16:59
Valentine's Day, My Birthday
» ‎ Read entry @ Aloofaa

Hey! I hope you won’t pretend that you never read this post. I will surely catch you because I’ve just uploaded an invincible application that tracks everyone that visits this blog. If you want to know more, the application has been credited as having the most powerful precision quality. Its features include giving accurate names of visitors. Just bury the idea of running away from this post. Yes, don’t even think of it. I’ll catch you. YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY FROM SENDING ME A BIRTHDAY PRESENT or A HAPPY BIRTHDAY WISH.

This will be my first post-school birthday. Make an impression on me ‘cos when the sky start raining honey on my roof alone, I’ll only grant scooping rights to deserving friends only. Don’t mind me… it pays to be silly sometimes.
My last birthday was pretty interesting. I remember binging away with a friend who hosted me to TinTin, that cool spot somewhere around the University of Ibadan campus. Then in the evening, another friend decided on a reprisal. She ferried the boat to another joint.
Happy Birthday to me in advance.what if everything is but a dream?

← All notes AltNigeria Blog →

Nigerian Blogs Aggregator

Feeds

Aloofaa