LONESOME DREAMS - BELINDA

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

I'M NOT CHEATING ON YOU

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.

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.

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.

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#‎WomanCrushWednesday‬ 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.

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

SULE (2)

You see, I have the most amazing gateman, Sule. He's quite good at what he says. He sweeps the compound and leaves the gathered rubbish for the wind to scatter, so he can sweep them again the next morning. He leaves the water pump on, so that when the tanks are filled, the interlocked tiles of a garden we have gets watered. Oh, and he doesn't open the gate simply because you honk your horn or tap at the gigantic gate, no. You've got to call him up or even ping him as I recently discovered.

So, recently, I was frying tomato for sauce. I was having some hallowed guest over. Everything else was set except the sauce, and this guest will be arriving in 30 minutes. In fact, I'd been told they were on their way. While stir-frying the tomato paste and adding condiments and extra spices, I noticed I had ran out of seasoning. The Royco and Maggi combination was finished. So, I pinged Sule.

Me: Ping! Ping!!
Sule: Oga, yaya dai? Inzo ne? (Oga, I should come?)
Me: E, ka zo ka taya ni da wani abu (yeah, come and help me with something)

Sule struts at will, and knocks on my door. I quickly open up, and beg him to help me get a pack of Royco from the container shop down hill. I lay emphasis on 'quick please', handing him N500 note.

That was when my woes began. A supposed 5 minutes walk down and back up the small hill, became a 45 minutes wait for Sule. I'd gone ahead to fry and even simmer the sauce without seasoning. Then a knock on my door.

Sule: Oga, gashi an samo da kyar. Shago uku na zagaya kafin aka samu (Oga, finally. I had to check at three shops)

Then he hands me a big sized bottle of Hypo and N250 change...

Sule (1)

I uncharacteristically woke late today. This means I missed church. So, I set about cleaning the house, doing the dishes, preparing lunch and if there's extra strength, do some laundry. It was while I was doing the dishes that I heard it. Loud sobs. Really serious crying. It was my delectable neighbor. I don't even know her name (that is reserved for some evening of better acquaintance).but she was sobbing loudly. I paused and worry ran through my spine.

I dropped the plate I was washing, cleansed my hands and (like all nice neighbors will) dashed for her door. I tapped gently a couple of times, and the sob stopped.

"Who's there? Sule (thinking it was the gateman)"

"It's m...me...e. It's Ken" I managed to say, in a troubled (had to make her realise her crying bothered me) way.

After a run of tap and a couple of steps, she turned the keys and flushed the porch with her resplendence (with red eyes).

"Madam (until I get her name), I heard you sob and I REALLY want to know why you're crying" I said.

"Nothing, I'm fine" she replied.

"I'm not sure, because your sobs were loud enough for anyone to know you're not fine", I interjected.

Then she opened up... "Can you imagine? I'm watching the third of Cinderella trilogy, but it's not Cinderella, it's a boy named Quagliarella. It's not the glass stiletto as we've known it, but a pair of Levi jeans. The banquet with the prince is about to start, but Quagliarella can't find that magical pair of Levi jeans."

I sighed!

She said she had earlier watched the latest in the Shrek series, and Fiona was gone. Instead, there was a beardy dude of lithe frame called Frodo. She couldn't understand what was going on with movies anymore, and let out a shriek of a sob.

That was when I woke up, and heard the wail. Checked the time... 11:23am. I got off my bed, and dashed for the door. I have to find out why my neighbor is crying this morning.

Aboki And The Rest Of Them All

As usual, I woke up one other morning, and picked up my career defining noise-making habit on twitter from where it left me off, when I sprawled on my bed and dozed off the night before. Not that I have a set schedule or agenda, but noise naturally comes to me, so I'm able to easily make them. And today, it was about derogatory words used on each other by Nigerians. Of course, the #Haiku, #OOMF and #Soliloquy hashtags will come along, sprinkled on the timeline before the end of the day, usually away from dedicated time for #EventWorthAttending, and other business-based tweets. It happened that I stumbled the ability to educate, entice, stimulate, inform and sensitize those who have given me the honor of a follow, of diverse issues, brands, products and what-have-you.

This country ehn? It is big. We are so big that my native Niger has 300 documented tribes, yet even most Nigerlites can only identify as few as can be counted on one finger. And so, when I hear that Nigeria comprises 350 tribes, I give off a sarcastic chuckle, as I known that the oyibo who did the counting, must have evaded 'mosquito-infested areas, and promptly rounded up the numbers.

Well, #ThatsNoneOfMyBusiness. The idea today, was to make noise to a level that I could start engaging people in long exciting conversations, and it wasn't long until my timeline went burst in flames. An added humor of threatening to block everyone who used the words on me, promptly brought succor to the recalcitrant whom every now and then, seek satisfaction in seeing me hurt like some 'overlords' whom rather than drinking ice-cold water, will rather block or engage in twitfights. That was how one handle died a natural death. Well, I mean, after dissing Yoruba boys (and most of what the handle said, were usually true). Anyways, RIP @Songhainese. Not the 'Kendra' behind the handle oh, but the handle.

So, the aftermath of it all was that I learned -- yet again, of more derogatory words used on Nigerians by Nigerians, and the apparent disunity, reference to Nigeria's 'major' tribe brings. I blame whoever categorized Nigeria across tribal lines, with Yoruba, Hausa and Igbo as major. Anyways, by the time it was 11am, aguru/ebi/yunwa dawned, and I trudged off my bed in search of breakfast. Thank God I found bananas in my neighbor's fridge, for the rest now, is history.

HABIBI AND A DOZEN SMILES

He peeps from the hole between his seat and the window, smiles at me, and then automatically expects a response. I touch the cape of my hat, smile back and ask his name.

“Habibi.”

Habibi, four (as he said he were), is probably not flying for the first time (if you also factor in the number of times, he’s ran around the neighborhood, mimicking a bird in flight). I rambled around at him about what I was doing when I was four – playing ball, flying kites, 'riding tyres', learning Hausa, counting planes and swans that fly past above. “Your generation is quite blessed”, I murmured to Habibi; and he replies in Hausa.

“inna jin tsoro.”

He’s scared. The plane begins lift off. That's the part you feel your eye rolling, and pressure building in your ears. My friend, who’s buckled besides me, knows that feeling so much. She complains of not bringing her pair of earpiece along.

Habibi closes his eyes and smiles.

As the plane has stabilizes in flight, he opens his eyes and looks out the window. 1, 2, 3…10, 12; Habibi is counting the cars he can see down below. He smiles, and tells me in Hausa; “ga motochi.”  He points at cars he can see from nigh. When asked how many he could count, he smiles and replies:

“one hund-i-red.”

Habibi’s family is headed to Owerri. From appearance, you know they are of North-Eastern descent. I didn’t find time to count how many they were, as my attention was divided between my friend and the book I was attempting to read. I bumped into her, a little before I boarded the plane. She just won’t stop asking what I was going to Owerri to do, and my response of “I’m going to tweet” was not satisfactory.

I kept comparing a four year old me, and Habibi. His meekness spread a smile across my face, and told myself, my generation is blessed too.

Habibi keeps peering through the window, and each time he did, I followed suite, not out of curiosity, but for the fact that each time I have the luxury of flying, I learn again, the concepts of Geography.

An ardent student from primary school, it wasn’t any mistake when my Geography teacher in secondary school said in class, that I was going to study Geography at the university. What transpired between him and I in my fist of anger, is a story for another day.

Today, I’m a trained geographer, no professional certifications, no work experience in the field, but every time, I’m amazed by the depth of learning I get when I go high up in the skies –flying or mountaineering . Today, I was opportuned to peek out just when we were flying above Lokoja. I could see in the background, the slow winding River Niger, it’s ox-bow lakes and the small islands formed here and there within it.

I’m always left amazed by the power of nature every time, whether it’s the desert formations in Niger, Mali, Libya or Tunisia; the River Sasandra or San Pedro in Cote d'Ivoire, the River Niger or the thick forests of central West Africa; I’m more than amazed by the power of nature, the creation of God, and by the level of learning I get when I behold.

Flashes of classroom instruction overcome me, and then I see myself going through my Gho, Cho &; Leong textbook, which formed the foundation upon which all of my understanding of geography is built.

As the cumulus clouds thicken and our view is obstructed, Habibi shuts his window, and returns to life in the plane. My ears are giving way to the pressure in the cabin, and I quickly dive in to my pocket for my earpiece, archiving that experience for another day in a bid to try and enjoy the flight to Owerri.

We got to Owerri in time, and Habibi remained my companion as we approached the arrival lobby. Habibi was dragging his luggage on wheels, and offered to carry my strap-on bag, which weighed almost double his weight. He said it in a way that humored me, and I erupted in laughter. His guardian looked our way, and smiled. Habibi must be the Sanguine of the lot, and his guardian must have thought, “Habibi has met his type.”

Fates had to separate us as he had to wait for the rest of the family to get their luggage, and I had to catch my taxi taking me to Owerri.

I murmured to him a prayer, “God bless thee child”, and he just characteristically smiled on!