tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677385197824676642024-03-21T09:51:47.504+01:00The Kolo Kenneth Kadiri BlogPoetry, Short-stories and Essays of Kolo Kenneth Kadiri...Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-78756699809657368632020-06-01T13:19:00.000+01:002020-06-02T13:19:54.365+01:00June Bugs - The Sequel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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June came with a blanket of clouds and an outpouring that reminds me that, as troubles never singly come; blessings follow each other in tow, as a gush from a broken cistern. The rendition from a million droplets hitting roofs, windows, the ground, and everything between, creates an atmosphere so early in the morning for metareflection. </div>
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June often come, bearing gifts and bugs. Gifts that waters the ground for amazing growth. A lot of times, as people s<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">cream and shout, "It's already the halfway point of the year, what have you achieved"; June is telling us subtly, now is when the fruit of your toil begins to take shape ahead of the harvest. Maybe, now is the time to also fall in love? It also comes bearing bugs that reminds us that life's in phases, and all things come good for those who allow nature take its fill course. June lets us look at it as a glass deemed half full, or half empty.</span></div>
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The last time I took proper note of June; bugs fertilised early and the troubles they hatched, left parts of me in bits and pieces many months later. Quite interesting that I have taken noted of yet another June nearly a decade later, with nostalgia and a few skip of the beat off my chest where it matters. Little wonder it rains so frequently in June, as a man suffering diuresis and refusing to slow down on his bottles.</div>
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June comes with thanks on my lips, for family that surrounds with warmth always, friends who cheer my heart with lively banter, work that keeps the mind oiled, and the enigma that sets me off in a maze. In truth, I am happy to be lost in this maze, as I find myself yielding at last, and wanting to be vulnerable.</div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-35039267428611225622019-06-27T13:39:00.000+01:002020-06-02T13:52:48.493+01:00A Beard, An Army Green Jacket and Getting Detained at Busia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I don't know what could ever make me turn down an opportunity to travel. You see, my knack for travel means that I get the sickness bug, if I haven't traveled in 90 days. The thrills help my mind breathe and turn up the embers of that burning desire for life!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Passport is ever ready for that travel</td></tr>
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Two years ago, while returning to Rwanda a second time within four months, I missed my connecting flight because my flight to Nairobi was late. I smiled to myself inside Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, knowing that I could get the chance to explore Nairobi. Sadly, no thanks to terrible customer service by Kenyan Airways and her partner hotel, I lost time between waiting to get to the hotel and even checking in to my room. Well, when I finally got the chance to enter Nairobi with friends, we were only able to get as far as the parliament building, and left in good time, before Nairobi's traffic would swallow us.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugali and Chicken is one of my East African immersions. But I traveled with my pepper</td></tr>
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I knew then, that I had unfinished business in Kenya - I always knew that I owed life a good chunk of merriment and the creation of memories in East Africa, and nothing will happen in Kenya to even douse it. So, when I returned to Nairobi in late July for a strategy meeting, I knew there was no way it would be all work and no play for Kolo. The winter was receding, but the cold was still there to make me needy. Thankfully, the army green jacket I bought in Copenhagen which has famously joined my travel starter pack was there to shield me from Nairobi chills. The nights were amazing. Eish, Westlands at night is something akin to Rue Princess in Abidjan. What I learned from those Nairobi nights is that Kenyans are way ahead of Nigerians when it comes to craft beer. Well, we have the age long burukutu and ogogoro, goskolo and what have you, but to know that most of the clubs and lounges sold their own craft beer got my jaws dropping like...<br />
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There is also the matter of maximum land use management with most malls and plazas having underground parking, unlike in Nigeria where half the size of your plot is earmarked for parking.I enjoyed my first silent disco experience in Nairobi too. The team after working our socks off, decided to celebrate our success, and silent disco was the perfect answer for me. I've always been a lover of mighty headphones, and it felt awesome around my ears.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My silent disco experience was lovely</td></tr>
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A day before my flight, I received an notification. I was summoned to represent a superior, at the Commonwealth Youth Ministers' Meeting holding in Kampala, Uganda. The ajala/sojourner in me was as usual, prepared and ready to go. Apart from a few delays to confirm immigration requirements and my supporting documents, I managed to beat the Nairobi traffic to catch my bus, even though my luggage had to meet me up in Kampala on another bus. The commute helped me to see the geographical beauty of Kenya and mostly, the great rift valley which I had read so much about in school.</div>
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So, I packed my bag, and headed to town to meet a team I will soon be working with in Calabar, and to taste my first masala chai. Before I was done, it was time to beat Nairobi's evening rush hour and catch up with my bus to Busia. But, my luggage was still atleast 15 kilometres away. So, I agreed with my host, to just meet me up at the park. On getting to the park, my bus had already left the park, but thankfully was caught in traffic. Issue was, my luggage had not arrived the park, so I left a message with the Station Manager, who agreed to put my luggage on the next bus. Goodnews was, I had gone out with my travel passport in the morning.<br />
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I caught up with the bus, and was promptly ushered to my "VIP" seat, while I kept conversing with my host, to reconcile details regards my luggage, as well as snapshots of my Yellow Fever card that was in my bag. However, it was the events at the border post at Busia, that caused a few shivers down my spine, and causing me to play scenes in my head, while sat in an office, left alone for a while before officers came in to interrogate me.<br />
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You know how Nigerians are often stereotyped in the West? Well, same thing happened to me at the airport in Dubai and Nairobi; and it was what was playing out at Busia. Typically, the question in their heads, is in this line... "what is a bearded Nigerian donning an army green raincoat doing, crossing Kenya in to Uganda by road?" I was asked this kind of question by Ouatarra's rebels at Gbeunta in 2010, detained for hours and missing my truck ride to Danane. This time though, the bus driver was generous enough to wait for me. The interrogators were a man and a woman. The woman tried to look terse and tough, and all I continually kept telling myself, was to tay relaxed, smile and be as soft spoken as possible.<br />
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The lady asked, "where is the gun you are carrying?"<br />
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I looked at her playing surprised, and replied, "what gun?"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Army green jacket in use in Poland this time</td></tr>
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The man banged the table, "young man, are we here to play? Where is the gun in your possession? The scanner detected a gun on you"<br />
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I sat up, moving my hands from the folded position on my chest, to placing them on the table, akin to surrendering myself to a body search. Then I looked at the man, and responded, "Sir, I have never owned a gun in my life. I am on a trip to Rwanda to attend the Commonwealth Youth Ministers' Meeting. My letter of invitation and reservations are on my phone in my pocket, and your colleague can get it out of my pocket if she wants."<br />
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He looked me straight in the eyes, and replied, "you can bring it out yourself."<br />
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So, I slowly put one hand in, and brought out my phone. Unlocked it, scrolled to the downloaded letters, and showed him.<br />
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"These signatures can easily be photoshopped, young man, I can't believe you", he said.<br />
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I quickly went back to my email, and showed him correspondence with the rep from the commonwealth office, who had sent my invitation letter. Only at that point, did he ease up.<br />
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Then, he went on to ask how I was going back to Nigeria. He wasn't concerned if I was going elsewhere from Kampala. For him, it was about returning to Nigeria for me. So, I listed out my itinerary, including the fact that I would be returning to Busia to exit his country before heading back to Nigeria.<br />
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All these happened so quickly, that within half an hour, it was all done, and I was allowed to go get my passport stamped. It was at that point that I realised their possible reason for detaining me. My passports (I always travel with my active and expired passports in one bind) were plastered with stamps from my many travels. Was that what triggered them? I know Uganda has had its fair share of conflict, and the proliferation of small arms, thanks to its foreign policy and proximity to volatile States.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kenyan highlands where sugar cane thrives so much on</td></tr>
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As I sat through the remaining half of my ride to Jinja and then Kampala, my mind stayed fixated on the agricultural potential of Uganda, and the banana plantations brought back scenes from "The Gods Must Be Crazy", as I smiled sheepishly to myself, entering Kampala.<br />
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-88280528249891348042018-06-28T22:22:00.000+01:002018-06-28T22:22:25.210+01:00GODS OF LAGOS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(20, 23, 26); color: #14171a; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 27px; letter-spacing: 0.27000001072883606px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The gods of Lagos have met</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(20, 23, 26); color: #14171a; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 27px; letter-spacing: 0.27000001072883606px; white-space: pre-wrap;">To each, their share of minced meat and crimson
Roast, with a bit of char was preferred
Otedola's god; the burgus
A few, dipped in herb marinade
More sacrifice awaits
Those still counted, rejoice
For they and their shackles are spared, yet</span></div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-48771423374129828212018-06-20T08:08:00.000+01:002018-06-28T21:28:38.698+01:00OJUELEGBA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The gods of Ojuelegba shall<div>
Be appeased yearly</div>
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Mangled meat and crimson</div>
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Left at crossroads will do</div>
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Woe betides you, there, under</div>
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Where gatekeeper squeeze nostrils</div>
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Till the stench leaves at sunset</div>
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Make peace always</div>
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For picks are random</div>
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You may be next!</div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-39989351339503274492017-12-24T17:55:00.004+01:002017-12-24T17:55:56.134+01:00MY PASSIONS ARE A MARKETPLACE BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Yuletide calls for stocktaking, as much as the air is filled with laughter, delicious aroma, buntings and fanfare. So, in-between catching your breathe from a long exhausting year by spending time with family and friends, you can also be caught up with the rigors of re-evaluating life, and charting a course for the new year. Or, </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">not.<br /><br />It is not unusual to be caught clueless in a new year with a fresh tabula rasa, without a plan of how to create your own stories thereof. I have that experience, and it can leave you running around like a headless chicken, only trying to bide fates to shine good fortune your way. Many course through life with such mantras, seeking serendipity, while some are deliberate about what time and chance they are eager to jump at.<br /><br />Three years ago, I told myself "I need to travel more in the new year." I said this with so much conviction, that I attracted a lot of travel opportunities to my life, the year after. I am grateful that I can share this experience of being able to be deliberate about a thing or a plan. But you see, I believe we are a sum total of our life's experiences - that makes us whom we are, with a blend of our temperaments, passions and the goodwill of Father Sky, fates or God.<br /><br />Yet, in the throes of soul-searching and being deliberate for the new year, I am easily left confused because my passions become a rowdy marketplace. My thoughts are amazing. As soon as I began to give second ear to the phrase "Kolo, you're so difficult to understand", the easier it was for me to realize how true this was, for me.<br /><br />You see, I used to be really intelligent - up until the time I began playing catch up with all the play I thought I didn't have enough of as a child, and the laziness that rules when I am caught at crossroads with so many passions yanking at me for first place. For much of that time, I am left being so critically scared of myself. Of the things I could have done, become or achieved; of the weaknesses and the little failures I let become a better of me; and the shenanigans of life that I have made strange bed fellows with.<br /><br />In the pursuit of 'happyness', I've come to the realization that tears and fears are hard currencies. But, so are clarity of thought, persistence and aptitude. And as much as I can be my own weatherman, my frailties hold me back still.<br /><br />I want to pursue happiness, and do this with freedom and all the pleasure that tails along, but not before this cup passes over me - this place where the light doesn't find me, where I'm married to my many passions, and lost on which to pursue headlong as my first love.<br /><br />Everybody wants to rule the world!</span></div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-88812309729541333272017-10-21T08:41:00.001+01:002017-10-21T08:41:08.049+01:00LONESOME DREAMS - BELINDA<p dir="ltr">You see, the heart works in mysterious ways. It can be a hard nut to crack, then suddenly it is such a sponge cake, that anything can slice through. When hard, everyone wonders why. And when it goes soft, everyone makes you regret why. It sure gets lonesome this matter of the heart, yeah?</p>
<p dir="ltr">I love how the heart inks memories into time. The waft of laughter filling the air, the soft caress of the hands down the body in the heat of passion, or the time stamp that is good music. Good, in the sense that, the lyrics might not be so cool, but the tone is befitting of the moment which is being inked in to memory. Thus, you might be in a cab or bus, relaxing at home or simply bumping away to it in your car or your stereo, and its memories come flooding over you.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It can be exciting and nostalgic when the memories bring that feel good drag, especially if you're in love, worst off, were in love. Oh, time and time again, I find a crop of people who use music as time stamps to a place, an event, an anniversary, a date, an occurence... something which must bring goosebumps over them. Good for them. But, it's not the same for those who once were in love, and are now heartbroken.</p>
<p dir="ltr">For, the nostalgia that comes with the waft of the same music, sweeps hate, anger and rage. You still love the song, but hate the memories that tail along. You're caught between the song you love so much, and memory you wished was binned already.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It can't get worse than that, as I've come to learn. You hate the memory with the song, then listen to it more, and begin to banish the memories away from the song, until your love for the song is rekindled. But, would you ever see the song in the same light?</p>
<p dir="ltr">Today bumped into Ojhey's "Belinda", and it brought nostalgia even though I was a first time listener. From the off, I knew I would be making memories with the music. No wonder, while I lay in wait for strength to go bathe, my right eye kept tearing, because deep down, I knew "Belinda" was time stamp worthy, but would it be for good?</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-76289850680054921162017-09-06T23:14:00.000+01:002017-09-28T23:17:16.652+01:00A PATH THAT WINDS IN TO THE CLOUDS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Oko, labe igi oronbo</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">A path that winds into the clouds</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">In loving memory of broken cisterns that squirt.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The very moan of trees</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Rises to ninth heaven in praise,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Of the cat that died</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Dousing the rampaging fire running in your tap</span></div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-55504697355665341842017-08-10T21:25:00.001+01:002017-08-10T21:25:53.555+01:00SUNSHINE<p dir="ltr">My dreams are pregnant<br>
Weighed upon frail shoulders<br>
Thick as the gathering of storm<br>
Behind which you're the <span style="background-color:#B4B4B4;"><span style="color:#000000;">sunshine</span></span></p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-8224331632486545792017-05-31T11:56:00.001+01:002017-05-31T11:56:33.608+01:00LONESOME DREAMS - I'LL FIX YOU<p dir="ltr">It is not uncommon to meet amazing women for whom your admiration and flirtations ache to run to, for a tango. You know.., those dashing damsels you keep wondering where they've been all that while, you were busy being encumbered with a lady, heavily yoked with emotional baggage. The one you're happy to have left, but have left you hurting so bad because you suddenly woke up to happiness deferred.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So, these damsels... you pick out similarities, and find places where they compliment you, but that's where it stops. Mentally, you are not seeing anything beyond there, so when the damsel begins to poke demands for commitment, you stutter, not because your life doesn't say "I'm ready", but because your emotional resource is spent, you are even guilty of not loving yourself enough.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Sadly, it is you who has lost something you can not replace. A word, a smirk, a smell, an action, a reaction or lack of it, brings you back to a time when you overlooked something because...you were already on overdrive. Like being overdosed on drugs till you run into coma and give up. Then every now and then, you meet people who bring their bitter luggage with them to the table — a flashback, and you flee.</p>
<p dir="ltr">You begin to ask yourself hard questions, like whether you are ever capable of love again, if you are ever going to trust someone else again, even though in truth, it is whether you can trust yourself to be vulnerable with another person again. Often times, it is very complicated for these hearts. As complicated as the governance architecture of Bosnia & Herzegovina.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm here, unbundling my favorite Coldplay songs which are seemingly still laced with demons from times past, timestamps to an event, a quote, a happy or sad moment, the beginning or end of something, or the truth, that i really need fixing!</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-21531777902049664622017-05-30T10:56:00.001+01:002017-05-30T11:05:35.344+01:00SABOTEURS WHO CROSSED<p dir="ltr">Come, let's take a solemn walk<br>
Down the boulevards of purgatory<br>
Men linger, half a century of pain<br>
Those who crossed at no will of theirs</p>
<p dir="ltr">Enemy of the state, saboteur of the rebel<br>
Straffed by dawn, pillaged at dusk<br>
Wells that shone amongst stars<br>
Lost, even in purgatory</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-67119644010189169302017-03-31T11:49:00.000+01:002017-03-31T17:35:17.722+01:00Lonesome Dreams - Let Her Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You know how it's a freaking sunny day in March and you miss the rainy season; or on a wet day in September, you wished the dry season was upon you? Passenger's "Let Her Go" hits me with that feeling all the time. And the flashbacks are nostalgic enough to leave me in tears, barring whether they are for joy or sadness.</div>
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I remember them days when my only companions were my laptop and my phone. The laptop which saved me from insanity. She which filled my every moment with work, letting me caress her with ten all the time. She was petite and light, that she could pass for a damsel with a lithe frame. Easy to carry, with a lasting battery. And then the phone which connected me with the all-time love of my life, my momma. There were days when waking up in Monrovia amounted to self-hate. Like, why couldn't I just wake up to the aroma of mummy's akara or puff puff? And indeed like Passenger said, I hated the roads -- whenever I had to up and travel to work through the crevices and arteries of some of West Africa's pristine and uncharted forests, because I missed home.</div>
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There were days also, when the rains would not stop falling and I would first bask in the warmth of my bed, sneak out to the varenda with the lads to crack old wily jokes, listen to BBC works service, talk about Liberia and our various futures which were punctuated here and there with near misses and triumphs. Days of orange sunsets by the sea, brought caresses from the sands that washed up recaptives who came to colonize a people, termed barbarians by distant cousins who had tasted the bile and guile of America.</div>
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And so, when Passenger says "...know you love her when you let her go", I giggle at the prospects of returning to Monrovia soon, to bask in the beauty that are her beaches and the shenanigans that glorify her slums, business districts and her living quarters of Congotown, Old Road and the Red Lights of Paynesville. Oh, and of the times when I planned and thought I would fall in love with you all over again on the beach. Because, yeah, I admit it that now and then, I think of when we were together. When for reasons I can't explain now, we had undiluted banter, chatter and laughter. You weren't all bad afterall. And I wasn't a saint either. But to treat me like a stranger surely feels so rough. No?</div>
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I thought I loved you so much, because what I thought you were, would not let me breathe. And I was cool with intoxicating me with you.</div>
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Ah, I told myself you were right for me, but you screwed me over and I can't even count how many times you did that with whomever you chose for the ritual. But being in love with my idea of you, was such an ache, and I still remember. Now, I am addicted to a certain kind of sadness, one which reeks of how I let myself down, how I could have stopped us both from hurting as much as we did, and how I have built a high hedge.</div>
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Like I have always done when love gets sour, I build friendships or acquaintances. But, you cut me off. I really wanted us to make out like it never happened and that we were nothing; because we got to that point where we didn't need each others' love no more. Alas, you were eager to move on and heal that pain, by running to the same things which had brought hurt in the first place. Now, you're just somebody that I used to know.</div>
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But, I know that in letting you go, I love you enough. Enough to let you find what brings you happyness. Sail on, I've gotta catch up with Monrovia now!</div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-42257351097211773562017-03-15T13:53:00.000+01:002017-03-15T13:53:14.808+01:00Lonesome Dreams - June Bugs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Port Blue's "June Bugs" makes for a great flashback trigger. The music itself, and the name are unkind reminders to a sorry past, seemingly waning from a love-lost story, though etched in memory. June was the beginning of the end. But it came lazily with a dummy.</div>
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It was the seventh month of my countdowns. And I was ecstatic at how good a boy, I have been in the last six months. No guilt of scandals from my end, except the worries of intermittent bouts of quarrels and fights over what I could never fathom were even the problem.</div>
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So, during those calculated fights, I saved money. I wasn't losing outrageous airtime and sms charges because of international call rates. And I wasn't reporting every locational shift like a company leader, who must recco with base, for orders on every tactical maneuver.</div>
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Then, I met Ene. She was beautiful. Light skinned, lithe in gait. She had this carriage of a newly wed, who was still basking in the glory her tiara bestowed. But Ene was a troubled young wife, who was already love-lost, broken and neck deep in depression. And her makeup, was a succinct decoy.</div>
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The flirt innate in me -- now world famously "irredeemable", jumped and took control from there. In minutes, we were warmly introduced and sharing a table at the reception. My friend Efe kept pinging on whatsapp, how fast I was going, and to slow down. Even though I told him to calm down, "I was in charge", I knew that my demons were in charge as usual.</div>
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We talked about everything but our love lives; as it seemed like the dead rat in the room, which no one was eager to touch with a pole. Something was common between Ene and I though. We were both starved of healthy conversations. Our eyes radiated it. And that word "chemistry" which my mother warned about as truly existent, was indeed in the air.</div>
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She wasn't spotting a ring on any of the fingers that mattered, so I knew I had all green to be free and open with her, before some brute would slap my ears from nowhere. This was how June begun, and it seemed like it would be an easy month of counting down.</div>
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But, isn't it so funny how life sets you up as grass in a fight of two elephants, and leaves you in the end with no one to nurse your sufferings because the egos of those elephants are larger than life? Especially, when you're just the grass, meant not to give undue advantage to either of them elephants which are bent on winning the turf war?</div>
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A stupid turf war, where it is apparent that both elephants could just agree on boundaries, and share grazing reserves?</div>
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The bugs came in June, and left me toxic until I was clinically diagnosed. Until sunset caused a bleak, cold air to blanket my heart. In June, she had decided on a final solution to the problem that was me. I remember those bugs clearly as ever, and I curse every time, why I didn't harken to the bouts of pain that ruled intermittently in the midst of forced laughter.</div>
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Eventually, I lost on both sides - a lover who was bent on eating her cake and having it, and a friend who would not accept that there was something I held more dearly than a platonic friendship. For, they both thought I had a thin line between, which allowed me roam freely. Alas!</div>
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Maybe it is totally my fault, and I totally deserve the illness June Bugs brought with them.</div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-26693236799795958492017-03-14T18:27:00.000+01:002017-04-04T23:17:46.779+01:00Lonesome Dreams - Rules<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Drew knew her love language was "gifts", so he gifted her with the things she needed. Topmost, was quality time. She loved her man to give her unrivaled attention. No matter where he was, she loved that he was glued to her. His time was valuable to him, and he risked a lot to share it with her.</div>
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She talked with a flint in her eyes which conveyed deeper thoughts than her lips could say. Often he would be glued, fascinated by the glow in her eyes when she talked. He loved to l<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">isten to her. She would talk about everything and any thing. Sometimes, he felt she was wasting his time, but he'd give it up still, to lend a listening ear.</span></div>
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He shared his library with her. Helping another grow mentally was something he was gifted at. He never was the one who would walk in to anyone's life and not make an impact. He was a potter, who liked to smoothen curves and chisel the malleable.</div>
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But, she primed herself with the vanity of life. She'd curse under her breath, why he chose to get her Rich Templar's "Rules" series, instead of that Jimmy Choo pair of wedges she had subtly suggested to him in that magazine at the airport.</div>
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He loved to travel, and he liked to bring her along. Not because he liked to be escorted, but because every time he traveled, he learnt something new - cultures, cities, economics, politics, beliefs, etc. And, he thought he needed to share this with her. She liked to hear him call her up to pack for the trips.</div>
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She was never the one for packing, so he memorized her wardrobe. He would call her and pick her colors, from her gowns to her shoes, to her cosette. Every time she met up with him, he would take his time to pack her bag properly.</div>
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Soon, he learned that it gave him quality time to spend with her. She would talk and tease him, while he folded and packed. Then he would share a few things he had learnt from the minutes he'd spent packing her bag. She liked that he invested time in knowing what she liked to wear, and the colors that tickled her eyes.</div>
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But, she loved vanity. And, Peter made her vain. He wasn't one for the long run. He was the perfect profile of the "misfit your girl would cheat with". He spoke with an unclear accent which epitomized his "bad boy" profile. Unruly, brutish with a knack for the booze and his smoke, his nonchalance attracted her to him.</div>
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She loved this, everything about him; except Drew was the one who seemed like he wanted a family, to get married, build something for the future. So, she was caught between her needs and her wants.</div>
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And, she flung caution to the winds, and plunged headlong for her wants...</div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-16346259602069826652017-03-11T16:28:00.000+01:002017-03-15T13:49:04.484+01:00Lonesome Dreams - Night We Met<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We had quarreled weeks preceding this eventful one. It had bothered on jealousy, flirtations, cheating, trust, lies, and all what not. In truth, I was already getting tired of the whole pettiness, and just kept mute most of the time, and let you do as you pleased. You were already at least ten months in to your blind relationship, which was meant to mirror ours, in the event that you returned and found out that I had someone else; as you had assumed; perhaps fueled by whomever it was that advised you.</div>
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You had screamed down my throat, calling me names including "man-whore", for traveling to get some from a cougar, even though it was an official trip for me, and the person you were suspecting, was at least four hours away by speed train. Gosh, I remember me trying to tell the truth, walking through airport hallways, drifting from one internet network to another.</div>
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Not even a frequent reporting of my location was enough. Only if I knew early enough that you suffered an esteem disorder, and an insecurity, I would have walked early on. But I was too blind to see. I was too stupid to read the handwriting on the wall. And this hurts so badly, to know that I didn't walk early enough, to save us both from what we live with today. At least, what I live with still.</div>
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We quarreled, when I settled in to my hotel room. We were miles away, but your bile was all over the place. I ignored you through out the trip from then, to be able to focus on my assignment, and grasp the best out of it. I made awesome friends, and networked for the good of what took me there. And on my way back, Air France played "Night We Met" by Lord Huron, and I fell in love with the song, and with the night we met, although there was a sour taste in my mouth. I itched to know the singer, and managed to scribble lines on my boarding pass.</div>
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A few days later, I found out it was Lord Huron, and I had occupied myself with "Lonesome Dreams". I should have known, but I was too foolish. Too foolish to realize that I was subconsciously preparing myself for the most hurtful of heartbreaks I would ever go through. At the time, it was love and nostalgia of times I thought we had spent in sheer, undiluted love. But the events that unfolded a few weeks later, would go on to prove that they were but a mere act, a front of the real you.</div>
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And so, after I forgave you the very night I found out there was more than meets the eye, I plunged deep in to a pit, clasping Lord Huron and Coldplay with me as the towels which managed the flood that ravaged. I was in love with my idea of you. My idea of a broken girl, who wanted to love again, and needed someone to let them love, and love freely. So, I stayed within arm's length, and let you blossom freely. And it hurt, to know that you wanted bad. You wanted to love a bad boy. And I was never a fit for that profile.</div>
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In return, you broke me, and asked to be forgiven in the cruelest form I have ever encountered. But, I already forgave, so you didn't need to push. Though, I lived with the hurt for weeks. And weeks turned in to months. Years have passed, and to say there are no residue of hurt, would be to lie. I would never forget the entire experience. Especially the fool's joyride you took me on.</div>
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You made it seem like my crime was to be honest in communication with you. You made it seem like being faithful and truthful was a crime that good boys commit. You were already drunk on bad boys. You badly wanted an abuser. For, you were already used to being abused, it seemed odd that you had no constraints, so you abused me. I found an aquifer of good in you, but there was already too much of bad around, that my efforts were not enough. Ofcourse, you were not all bad. And yeah, your focus on the petty things of life, were the thin lines which eventually did everything in.</div>
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If only there was a point where you ever trusted me...</div>
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Not when I came confessing my wrongs, for sure. Not when I told you them truths, for you wouldn't have called me "irredeemable". And when you pushed me from pillar to post, and helped me bottle the grief I yearned to let out. Not when I dashed out to eke a living, while you stayed hung on your lover, under my roof.</div>
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Sometimes, I doubt if my bouts of mood swings are not really depression. Once, I had this feeling throbbing in my head, to just walk on the expressway during rush hour, with my eyes closed. I arranged to meet a physician, and I backed out for fear. Maybe I really should go look me up. And, here I am; leashed to songs. Songs which are now place markers to a memory, to a place, to an event, to an argument, to a time we shared a smile, to a time when I thought of leaving or staying, to a time when all was lost, and I was hopeless on how to gather my shattered pieces. And even though it was said that men don't cry, boy, I knew how to cry myself sore, and cry myself empty. Maybe I really did empty everything that remained a fibre in that ailing heart of mine. Maybe I cried out every capacity to love, and love freely.</div>
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Today, I don't listen to those songs freely. For, I remain yoked to the burden they carry with my memory. But maybe one day, I'll be back again. Back to that place where I can love again freely. That place where I can give myself up and not be wary of falling.</div>
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My demons are here again, and maybe it's time I face them boldly. So, I am learning to walk again. To go past the fear, and walk the beaches of Mombasa again. Just like I have cooked your favorite meal over and over, it no longer have any undertone to it.</div>
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You know, we all heal differently. And I yearn, to be friends with you again. Friends, not because I want to get back with you again, but because I want the forgiveness to be complete. It wasn't enough that we met at the cinema, and said "hi" in a tensed manner. It's not enough that you liked my instagram pictures, and told your friend to "say me hi to him".</div>
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I also yearn, to move on completely!</div>
</div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-25225961665296511162017-03-06T00:09:00.001+01:002017-03-06T00:09:57.995+01:00HARK NOT, LARK<p dir="ltr">Hark not unto sorry tales, Lark<br>
Amidst ashes, Spring yields tulips<br>
If life doles goodwill in equal measures<br>
Seize thy bidding while you can</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-46338650713956560032016-08-04T21:48:00.001+01:002016-08-04T22:03:48.155+01:00ONYEDIKA OZOEMENA<p dir="ltr">Goodnight Onyedika Ozoemena<br>
Candle, flickered off by the howl of evil<br>
Just before you lit a wildfire at harvest<br>
Journey home lad, find rest</p>
<p dir="ltr">Tickle the sides of heaven on your way<br>
Be sure to laugh, in scorn of devils<br>
For, you now rub shoulders with angels<br>
Journey home lad, find rest</p>
<p dir="ltr">Cause the realms to fart in angst<br>
Harbinger sent on an errand<br>
Finger them from your vantage point<br>
Then journey home lad, to find <font color="#000000">rest</font><br>
</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-48354331567980068802016-07-31T07:44:00.001+01:002016-07-31T07:44:48.473+01:00LOVE LIKE THE MORNING DEW<p dir="ltr">Ífè bì èjí òwúrò<br>
Love like the morning dew<br>
Purred from the sides of ur lips<br>
Pursed as the curves of thine frame<br>
Stashed in my bosom at dawn</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-11677536685113275682016-04-08T17:21:00.000+01:002016-04-08T17:32:53.798+01:00SEXISM, MASCULINITY AND THE COMMODIFICATION OF WOMEN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“By marriage, the husband and wife are one person”<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>,
can be termed as the first legal statement that abolished the existence of
status for women in any society, as it suspended the legal existence of women
in marriage. Until the 20<sup>th</sup> century, many sovereignties including
the United States and Britain, observed this system of coverture. This, in a
form commodified the existence of women, as they eventually gave up their
identity to husbands, legally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Sojourner Truth’s “Ain’t I a Woman”<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> speech
in 1851 is perhaps the earliest, viral, vocal challenge at sexism. At the Ohio
Women’s Right Convention in Akron, the weather beaten Isabella Baumfree (christened
name of Sojourner) captivated the audience with oratory that reflected her New
Yorker upbringing; speaking for the abolition of slavery (countrywide), but
especially against, the prejudice of women in the larger American society. This
was on a backdrop of women not being legally defined as “persons” until 1875.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Sexism, prejudice, discrimination or stereotype can be
used to promote exclusion and hate; affecting any gender but mostly reported to
affect women and girls. These prejudices are often rooted in financial payments
such as dowry, bride price and dower; which often serve as legitimizing
coercive control of the wife by her husband and in giving him authority over
her. For example, Yemeni marriage regulations state that a wife must obey her
husband and must not leave the home without his permission. Until 1983,
Australian women required the consent of their husbands before acquiring a
passport<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>. In
developing countries across the world (and in some developed societies still),
the prejudice of women against the milieu of lavish patriarchy continue to
limit the advancement of women’s rights, and access to equitable opportunities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In today’s age of digital media explosion, the crossroad
where media – social, and sexism meet is but a thin line, which contextually
can be confusing. While advancement in internet technology has influenced
evolutions in healthcare delivery, commerce and governance; it has also
promoted the distribution of, and demand for the commodification of women and
their sexuality for the gratification of a larger, global patriarchal society. Pornography
and advertising have combined well in an unbecoming manner, to objectify women
only as tools doe sexual gratification, domestic providers who cannot make
significant decisions and are dependent on men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">When Jill Abramson, the first woman executive editor of
the New York Times was unceremoniously fired, reasons given from some quarters suggested
that the publisher was unhappy with the way she was performing her job. Other
said it was because she had discovered that not only was she being paid less
than her predecessor, she was also making less money than some of her male
subordinates at the time. Some attributed it to her “pushy”, brusque and
demanding ethic – qualities that are usually admired, or at least tolerated in
men. Abramson later opined that indeed, women are often ‘autopsied’ in ways
that men never are<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Occupational sexism – discriminatory practices, statements
or actions based on a person’s sex, occurring in the workplace is rife today,
more than ever. Wage discrimination tops all forms of occupational sexism, with
tokenism<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> following
behind, especially in an era of increasing sexuality complexities. While gender
might no longer refer to just male and female, the commodification of women
whether conscious or unconscious (as is debatable in advertising), continues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Masculinity continues to drive sexism, and as tweep – YeoshinLourdes<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> – opines,
“When a man kills a woman, it’s usually because he won’t leave her alone. When a
woman kills a man, it is usually because he won’t leave her alone.” So, it is
common place for men to share and distribute text, pictures and videos of women
in a commodifying way, while society frowns at women for being slutty and
immoral for doing the same to men. The issues surrounding sexism and
commodification of women transverse conservatism, liberalism and the wont for
gender equality in an ever increasing “man’s world”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ain%27t_I_a_Woman%3F<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/Kenneth.Kolo/Documents/SEXISM%20MASCULINITY%20AND%20THE%20COMMODIFICATION%20OF%20WOMEN.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sexism<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-10201678017920873172016-04-01T14:13:00.001+01:002016-04-01T14:13:40.023+01:00CROSSROADS – AGENDA 2063, SDGs 2030 AND THE PLACE OF A NEW TAX SYSTEM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PD5d1YfUJd_mTWQi-i3iCMcyJev_mcDcZvvuiE6ArzNznMK3hC0nIeEoF7t7qiKO2tPzGnhs4tGxJZhikQmJ27LtY3hFE-AyHhK-yA1QBY-bWhlsqiO2EQtdRD7zI4kLdnZHgC4dKUs/s1600/ECA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PD5d1YfUJd_mTWQi-i3iCMcyJev_mcDcZvvuiE6ArzNznMK3hC0nIeEoF7t7qiKO2tPzGnhs4tGxJZhikQmJ27LtY3hFE-AyHhK-yA1QBY-bWhlsqiO2EQtdRD7zI4kLdnZHgC4dKUs/s320/ECA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The African Development Week 2016 as celebrated by the African Development Bank is being highlighted this week, with the start of the 9th Joint Annual Meetings of the African Union Specialized Technical Committee on Finance, Monetary Affairs, Economic Planning and Integration and the ECA Conference of African Ministers of Finance, Planning and Economic Development; best captioned as the “Conference of Ministers”.</h3>
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This year, the theme is “<em>Towards an Integrated and Coherent Approach to Implementation, Monitoring and Evaluation of Agenda 2063 and the 2030 SDGs.” The event will entertain a pose of thirty side meetings and fora. At the heart of the meetings and discussions, will be the topics of infrastructural development, aid funding, conflict, agriculture, climate change, customs and excise, trade and commerce, health and education as well as migration, unemployment, youth bulge, tax, gender and inequality, mining, security and terrorism, etc.</em></h3>
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While it is common to have a large delegation of development sector organizations at this now, annual event – cajoling, lobbying and convincing Ministers of Finance & Budget as well as other high level members of governments to commit more to development – last year’s edition was characterized with the inability of governments to reach a consensus on increased funding both internally and externally for aid work and development programmes across the continent amidst a global recession mode triggered by falling oil prices. While Civil Society Organizations and International Aid Organizations look forward to a more positive outcome this year, perhaps there is a need for a collective call for governments to do even better with what is currently obtainable.</h3>
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Countries in the global North which might have made spending cuts in their budgets for development aid, do so in light of concerns to cater more for the welfare of their citizenry. But for too long, aid money have lined the pockets of public office holders, and even key staff of development organizations working with the poor, marginalized and disadvantaged, with less than 20% of total aid money eventually reaching those who need it – whether through the betterment of livelihoods, or for the provision of relevant amenities and infrastructures which better their quality of life – as a bulk of the funds go in to stupendous travels, lavish meetings, office furniture, etc.</h3>
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For developing countries – most of which surprisingly have rich deposits of natural resources – alternative sources for funding development projects are hard to come by in the face of development aid cuts, and recession is making it harder to attract investors with foreign direct investment. However, for an entire continent with lax taxation systems across borders, now seem the right time to look at those archaic tax policies and laws, which have for centuries allowed big corporations and multinationals to avoid, evade and dodge their fair share of taxes. Transfer pricing, trade misinvoicing, Double Irish, Dutch Sandwich syndrome and the repatriation of profits before tax and holidays are a few of many means in a highly secretive sector, where the gulf of inequality is influenced.</h3>
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For example, Nigeria loses $2.9bn annually through tax holidays and waivers granted to these multinationals and big corporations doing business in Nigeria, a country where it is estimated that 6,000MW of power is self-generated via diesel and petrol powered generators, as a decrepit national grid produces a fluctuating 3,200 – 4,500 MW but can only transmit about 4,000MW at a time. And in its true sense, $2.9bn or N585bn (approx.. N201 ~ $1) can build 3,000km of new roads and rehabilitate them at least once. For the giant African crude oil exporter, N175bn (just 30% of $2.9bn or N585bn) will repair all existing refineries to bring them to a maximum capacity of 28m litres of petrol per day, barring other petro-chemical products and the teeming jobs which could kick-start the economy upwards and lift many households above the poverty line.</h3>
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We live in a food and water insecure world, and while 63.2 million people are said to be without access to safe water options and millions more defecating in the open, N585bn can build 207,000 water pumps that can provide portable water to 60+ million people and improve the national index of people with access to water, sanitation and hygiene options.</h3>
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Unfortunately, corruption amongst government officials especially agencies which should enforce stringent taxation policies on multinationals and companies, continue to allow for illicit financial flows of funds out of Africa, robbing the continent’s teeming poor and unemployed of state welfare and the provision of human security. This price which corporate entities profiteering in Africa must pay, is now transferred as a burden on citizens through increased tax rates.</h3>
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Already, the commercial state of Lagos in Nigeria, is considering legislation to begin to tax artisans, domestic staff and street hawkers – a large informal sector, characterized by stigma from lack of opportunities in the formal sector – about 1% of their income. While this strategy is viewed as an innovative idea to increased internally generated revenue, the question remains “what justification there is, for the government to tax the informal sector”. Most domestic staff already pay taxes at toll gates, while commuting to work for the elite and rich living in plush districts of the city of Lagos. Artisans continue to spend at least 33% of operational cost on power (a vital need for production) as erratic and non-existent supply means that they have to settle for alternatives. Street hawkers pay daily rates which allows them to hawk wares, products and services as they can’t afford to pay for stalls at the various markets, and in some instances, there are no provisions.</h3>
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Across the country, the informal sector doesn’t enjoy health insurance, there is no welfare in place, and there is no retirement provision as well. These injustices coupled with the existing burden of multiple taxation across the three tiers of government continue to exacerbate the inequality gap between the rich and poor. Duty bearers need to do much more for right holders, and the civil society coalition is saddled with this task of bridging the communication divide. As much as citizen-journalism and factivism are encouraged, there is that need to hold governments at all tiers accountable for the taxes that help run government; and for them to make it count for development. Gender responsive public services must begin to cater for the needs of women, as well as other people with special needs.</h3>
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Above all, governments must do more to ensure that in the global South and global North, concerted efforts are put in to reviewing the global tax system. The opacity of deals and operations must be replaced by a reporting system which is open and transparent; and deals or treaties which continue to encourage the flight of profits to havens at the detriment of citizenry which need it for development must be discouraged. Multinationals and big corporations must pay their fair tax price and not transfer the burden to citizens. We must ensure tax justice for everyone, anywhere. The need for a fairer negotiating table had never been more urgent.</h3>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-46133203258021703882016-02-26T17:05:00.001+01:002016-02-26T17:05:31.526+01:00NECTAR<p dir="ltr">Nectar, I'll be your bee.<br>
Humming all over you on a knee<br>
Let the flower open up, deep<br>
Till you let me suckle with glee</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-57049934708687209822016-01-30T13:26:00.001+01:002016-01-30T13:26:01.915+01:00I'M HOLDING UP FOR LOVE <p dir="ltr">Love, where's your fire?<br>
I've been sat here smoking away<br>
With thorns, fronds and tulips<br>
Making signals, for my need is dire<br>
Still, there's no sign of a flame</p>
<p dir="ltr">Imposters have walked this way<br>
Dripping with offerings, irresistible<br>
Should I hold out for you?<br>
That inferno you talked about,<br>
When does the panorama light up?</p>
<p dir="ltr">That inferno that burns to the bones,<br>
Come wrought me thorough<br>
Rough edges to gloss, mend my tears<br>
Throw me a lifeline, breathe in me<br>
I'll hold my heart up to you</p>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-955558870627528302015-12-08T13:27:00.000+01:002015-12-08T13:27:40.333+01:00CHIBUZOR<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Chibuzor,<br />
gold dust of teary eyes<br />
wrought from an iroko -<br />
'oku - masquerade of<br />
the shimmering night;<br />
that swallowed an alligator.<br />
'uzor, the flamboyance of youth;<br />
where my eggs were cast,<br />
and I told myself a lie.</div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-50283823798990156652015-11-28T22:19:00.000+01:002016-05-02T06:13:07.906+01:00GOODBYE TO WHOM I WAS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">I can see what the darkness does</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">Say goodbye to who I was</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">For now, a heartless being roams</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">His heart eaten by a beast</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">A beast without a soul or girth</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br>That one which went to and fro<br>With a broad smile in deceit<br>And said "he's a fool for love".</span></div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-75895731180624589592015-11-25T22:03:00.000+01:002015-11-25T22:03:44.421+01:00I'M NOT CHEATING ON YOU<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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She told me about Chimamanda's book, Americanah that she was reading. The part where the lad traveled to school and left his girl in the care of his friend. We both laughed over skype, knowing fully well what transpired next, even though I had not read the book. In truth, she was talking to me, but I was too dumb to realize the logic. For she was already long gone in to the arms of another man. It was in March. It still froze. My judgment was beclouded with love - that ghost - to realize that the cold would send her into the bed of another. Lucky chap. Maybe a lonely Briton. Perhaps a lout.</div>
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Things were still rosy, even though I had raised eyebrows at the Facebook chat she had screengrabed and shared with me. The 'unknown' admirer. And then there was the birthday gift. Little did I know that the gifts were given in December, barely a few months after she had left for Wales. These two were tell-tale signs that Deola had left me. But I was still being stupid. We talked alot about the thickness of her winter jacket, the shop where she could get groceries from Nigeria, her coursework and the laptop I was saving up to get her. I hated for her to go to her friend's place first before we could skype. The privacy was non-existent.</div>
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I, Dimka Bernard was still love struck, and tied to the 'faithfulness' stake while she rode day and night by his side to school, then to the opera, the beach and even his bed. We argued over the email I had received from an anonymous person about spotting her and the Briton kissing on Bangor's streets. She chided me that it was a moment for my trust for her to be tested, "I am not cheating on you. People who know you online, see me interact with friends and course mates, and they freak out". I agreed. Though I was going through a rough patch, I was focused on her. She had just one year to spend in Wales and hopefully I will grow up to be that man who was right for her. I had swore, she'll be my last bus stop, so I invested every emotional resource I could muster. I was such a fool for love. A big one indeed.</div>
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I have now ended up in a pool of my own tears, with rage, anger, regrets, hate and grief as mates. For Deola riled me up to quarrel with her over my<a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/womancrushwednesday?source=feed_text&story_id=10153152674946976" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl" style="color: #627aad;">#</span><span class="_58cm">WomanCrushWednesday</span></a> post on instagram of Bolanle Olukanni. Though Bolanle and I were good friends on snapchat, it was only on twitter that we grew our friendship. She was engaged to the father of her two year old son. I was secretly - which Deola hated with everything - in a relationship. And while in angst, she said she was walking away from what we shared.</div>
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Such silly jokes I thought. "How can you even break up with me on whatsapp? So I set about lending a car to drive to MMIA2 to pick her up in August when she was returning with her Masters. But she walked out of the "Arrivals" door, arm locked with a lad who had a moustache and an air about him that reeked of moral decline. She saw me and paused in shock. I gathered my now wobbly legs and dashed out into the milling crowd, half lost, half in rage as my chest to the left began to ache</div>
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Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667738519782467664.post-4832426098173566032015-11-24T14:34:00.000+01:002015-12-26T07:29:13.822+01:00A BROAD SMILE IN DECEIT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">I can see what the darkness does</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">Say goodbye to who I was</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">For now, a heartless being roams</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">His heart eaten by a beast</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">A beast without a soul or girth</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br>That one which went to and fro<br>With a broad smile in deceit<br>And said "he's a fool for love".</span></div>
Kolo Kenneth Kadirihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182052609730614656noreply@blogger.com0