Most people spend the first day of the new year suffering a hangover, catching up with their sleep after spending all night in church or hosting / attending a new year’s day party.
I spent mine defrosting the freezer.
Before the image of a domestic goddess springs to mind, I have to confess that it was the search for The Last Sausage that led me in there.
It was 10 am, I was famished (sending ‘Happy New Year!’ text messages around the world is hungry work) and decided to rustle up some breakfast…‘rustle up’ being defined as chucking stuff into the microwave and sending text messages while waiting for breakfast to be served.
The fastest thing to cook (translation: microwave) would be sausages. I remembered seeing a lone sausage in the freezer and headed in that direction.
When I opened the freezer I was confronted by the sight of several UFOs i.e. unidentified frozen objects i.e. bags of this and more bags of that.
I tried to rummage around. No luck, the UFOs were so embedded in ice and in the way of things that I couldn’t see anything. I had a mental image of the poor sausage trapped at the back, crushed against the side of the freezer by a monstrous frozen UFO and resolved to rescue it.
I switched the freezer off and sent more text messages while waiting for it to defrost, then hacked away at the ice with a plastic spatula. At one point during my frenzied rescue mission I thought I heard a faint cry for help from the back of the freezer – could that be the sausage?
Nah twas probably my sanity crying out for help; I was so consumed with finding The Last Sausage that I was starting to act a bit, well, maniacal.
You know how it is when you really really want to eat something, and that something is buried in your freezer behind tonnes of God knows what - you know how that feels, right?
No?
Alright, how about when that ‘something’ that’s trapped in your freezer is the only option to cooking? If like me you’d rather not slice, dice or stir, you’d be as eager to get The Last Sausage out as I was.
Contrary to popular belief, I *can* cook; it’s just not an activity I like to indulge in.
I coped quite well when I found myself home alone a couple of months ago; after I got home from work it was straight to the shower then on to bed. I only ever went into the kitchen to get water to drink and to me it seemed cold and bare without my mum’s cheerful presence and pots bubbling on the cooker.
By the third day I didn’t have lunch at work and - since I hadn’t had breakfast that morning either - was starving by the time I got home.
I opened the fridge and looked around. Six eggs, mayonnaise, three bottles of Benylin (with codeine), water, fresh vegetables and lots and lots of plastic bowls with orange covers.
Peeped in the freezer - more plastic bowls but this time with blue covers.
Inside the plastic bowls were various soups and stews which required a boiled or fried accompaniment…and I was in no mood to boil or fry anything.
I phoned my mum. “There’s no food in this house!” I complained.
“Of course there is” she said, and listed the contents of the various bowls.
“Yes I know, I saw them.” I replied “What I meant is, there’s nothing that’s ready to eat.”
“You mean there’s nothing that someone else has prepared for you.”
“Exactly.”
The next day I came home fully prepared, with a beef sharwarma to fling in the microwave. I even put it on a plate and on a tray, in order to upgrade it from a heavy snack (eaten while still in its paper wrapping) to ‘a light meal’.
And so it was until my mum - who loves to cook and says so everyday - came home.
Back to how I spent January 1st 2008; after I got the UFOs out of the way and found what I was looking for, I cleaned the freezer, re-packaged, re-labelled and re-arranged the stuff in the bags, only to find that it was nearly 1 o’clock in the afternoon.
My search for breakfast had ended as a find for lunch and I was too tired to even enjoy the damn sausage.
I may not cook but hey, at least I clean.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Important Facts Toe Know
Did you know that our big toes carry about half of our body weight when we walk and run? Did you know that standing is difficult with an injured big toe?
I didn’t know either. In fact I never gave big toes any thought; barely noticed them in fact, until The Night of the Toe two weeks ago.
It was at the office Christmas party; I was walking away from the bar with a drink in my hand when I bumped into someone who was on his way there. By the way, that ‘someone’ plays rugby i.e. is built like an ox and is trained to tackle similarly built men to the ground.
“Oops” he said, when his large booted foot made contact with my exposed right foot in its red high-heeled slipper. “Sorry”
“No probs” I smiled and continued on my way, realizing a few seconds later that my right slipper felt a bit wet - did I spill a bit of my drink on my foot? - I wondered.….then my right foot felt warm. I suddenly found I couldn’t stand on it so I limped over to a seat in the corner with this awful pain shooting up my leg, wondering what the hell was going on.
When I checked in the dim light I found out that the guy in boots had accidentally ripped my toenail off. The toenail was clean off the nail bed and hung to one side like it was undecided (should I stay or should I go?) It was bright red with blood and nail polish and hurt like hell. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh. Has that happened to you before, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time?? Weird.
I asked for a brandy which I drained. It numbed the pain but I ended up plastered and had a couple of ‘unrestrained’ conversations with some higher ups including the guy who’d shattered my poor toe nail and just happened to be my boss’s boss’s boss (i.e. my great-grand boss)
I hunted him down on the dance floor and slurred “you fucking stepped on my fucking toe you fucking kiwi” but he was a good sport, probably because he was in a party mood and had had a couple of drinks himself. He apologized again. I smiled and we posed for photos.
I danced a bit (the DJ was fantastic!) then found another big cahuna to insult.
“I think people who read Kafka are fucking pretentious” I yelled above the loud music to someone I really shouldn’t have been talking to in that state, “who the hell is Kafka anyways? Big deal”
This person is my great-great-grand boss and apparently likes to read Kafka. Ooh boy.
Did you know that when you’re drunk at the office party you’re more likely to insult a superior than a subordinate? I didn’t know either until The Night of the Toe.
The night went by quickly; I danced til 3am after a colleague dressed my toe with stuff from the first aid box in his car. I was deliciously drunk, felt no pain and like I said the music was great.
At about 5am the pain returned. *aargh!*
I called my doctor, grunted out my story then counted the minutes until the 10 am appointment he gave me.
The toenail was hanging by a string of skin and I wanted it taken out completely but the doctor said no, let it fall off itself.
I disagreed because I felt that with the nail off I could enjoy a fresh start, a new nail and a new life, a clean slate, a shot at a new beginning…none of this poetic justification worked with the doctor and all I got were tetanus shots, a new dressing and a pile of antibiotics.
That weekend I slept with my right foot hanging over the side of the bed.
The following week I limped and shuffled around home and work in flat slippers - no heels! I went from being 5ft 7 to 5ft 4.5 overnight.
My ever helpful sis even offered me coloured plasters to match my outfits, but I turned them down in favour of the traditional neutral colour. I may have been injured but there was no need to be garish about it.
After seven days my toe was healing nicely, after an initial stage that was extremely disgusting and required frequent bandage changes. The nail reunited with the nail bed (they worked things out in private) it looked like all was well and I started walking around at home without a dressing on the toe.
Then I stubbed my toe against my bedroom door *aargh!*
And twice on the UPS under my desk at work *aargh!* who put that effing thing under my desk?
Then against the kitchen cabinet *aargh!* and in the car *oh my God!*
Did you know that when you have an injured toe, hard objects will deliberately place themselves in your way? Did you know that if that doesn’t work these hard objects (e.g. doors) will go as far as to ‘bump’ into your poor bandaged toe then sit there looking innocent? I didn’t know either, until…
All these minor accidents happened so many times that they interrupted the healing process and my toe looked damaged. I sighed and went back to bandaging it up.
Then…unbelievably, at another party three nights ago I stubbed my toe AGAIN, this time against a slab of concrete and almost passed out from shock:
'zahrahowcarelesscanyoubeyouaresoclumsyyou’regoingtoendupwithoutafootatthisrate'I thought in a rush.
Now two weeks later the poor toe looks mangled and far worse than on the night of the accident. I give up and now realise that as I am no longer perfect (heh heh) I cannot in all fairness demand perfection from a potential partner, therefore I am revising my personal ad to read:
Single young female, fun, flirty, playful, seeks man with similar qualities, big toes optional…
PS: I am not placing a personal ad, so any interested nine-toed men out there please note that it was a joke!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The Resistance
Yesterday I fought a good fight.
I was outnumbered, overpowered and underdressed but still I fought determinedly.
It was 10am on Saturday, at a clinic where I was booked for a gastroscopy a.k.a endoscopy a.k.a examination of the stomach via a tube with a camera at the end.
The procedure seemed like a good idea at the time my doctor proposed it; I’d been having tummy trouble for a while and - worried that everyone at home and work was beginning to think I was a hypochondriac - felt it was important to investigate the matter once and for all. Plus I’ve become seriously paranoid about my health after the Pancreas Episode.
However, when it was time for the doctor to stick the tube down my throat I found myself wrestling with him and the nurse. I twisted the nurse’s hand away with one hand, shoved the tube away with the other and struggled into an upright position, gasping, coughing, choking, crying, angry.
I hopped off the operating table and tried to escape in my green backless surgical gown but they grabbed me before I could make it out of the room and down the street (with the green gown flapping in the harmattan wind.)
I didn’t like the way I was so aware of what was going on and asked for more sedative.
“I want you to be conscious enough to see the inside of your stomach on the screen” the doctor said excitedly. “The colours are so vivid; the yellows and reds and…”
Er, that’s enough doc, I really don’t want to see or feel anything.
I refused to lie down until they gave me more sedative. They refused to give me more sedative until I lay down. Negotiations were deadlocked and no one wanted to back down.
“What is all this?” the doctor asked in exasperation, “You’ve done this procedure several times before”
“Yes, but back then I was seriously ill and desperate for a solution. Now I’m relatively healthy and I object to having tubes down my throat”
“But you have to do it. We’re all here now, we can’t go home”
I offered to pay for the procedure and the inconvenience if we could agree not to go ahead with it but the doc refused. “We need to know what’s wrong.”
“Fine, but I don’t want to be aware of what you’re doing while you’re finding out what’s wrong.”
“But I’m not going to put you under general anaesthesia for a minor procedure like this.”
“Fine, then give me more sedative.”
“Fine, then lie down.”
I lay down cautiously but refused to put the plastic mouth guard back in until they injected more sedative.
“Don’t you trust me?” my doctor asked. I raised an eyebrow, or at least tried to. It was difficult to project witty cynicism in a half-drugged, half-naked state.
“Why don’t you trust me?” he persisted. I couldn’t believe we were having an Oprah-like conversation at a time like that and tried to roll my eyes but for some reason my eyeballs weren’t fully functional.
The doctor eventually kept his word, increased the dose of sedative and my last thought before I drifted into a floaty, dreamy state was:
“Aahh, this is far better than Benylin (with Codeine) ha ha zzzz”
I was outnumbered, overpowered and underdressed but still I fought determinedly.
It was 10am on Saturday, at a clinic where I was booked for a gastroscopy a.k.a endoscopy a.k.a examination of the stomach via a tube with a camera at the end.
The procedure seemed like a good idea at the time my doctor proposed it; I’d been having tummy trouble for a while and - worried that everyone at home and work was beginning to think I was a hypochondriac - felt it was important to investigate the matter once and for all. Plus I’ve become seriously paranoid about my health after the Pancreas Episode.
However, when it was time for the doctor to stick the tube down my throat I found myself wrestling with him and the nurse. I twisted the nurse’s hand away with one hand, shoved the tube away with the other and struggled into an upright position, gasping, coughing, choking, crying, angry.
I hopped off the operating table and tried to escape in my green backless surgical gown but they grabbed me before I could make it out of the room and down the street (with the green gown flapping in the harmattan wind.)
I didn’t like the way I was so aware of what was going on and asked for more sedative.
“I want you to be conscious enough to see the inside of your stomach on the screen” the doctor said excitedly. “The colours are so vivid; the yellows and reds and…”
Er, that’s enough doc, I really don’t want to see or feel anything.
I refused to lie down until they gave me more sedative. They refused to give me more sedative until I lay down. Negotiations were deadlocked and no one wanted to back down.
“What is all this?” the doctor asked in exasperation, “You’ve done this procedure several times before”
“Yes, but back then I was seriously ill and desperate for a solution. Now I’m relatively healthy and I object to having tubes down my throat”
“But you have to do it. We’re all here now, we can’t go home”
I offered to pay for the procedure and the inconvenience if we could agree not to go ahead with it but the doc refused. “We need to know what’s wrong.”
“Fine, but I don’t want to be aware of what you’re doing while you’re finding out what’s wrong.”
“But I’m not going to put you under general anaesthesia for a minor procedure like this.”
“Fine, then give me more sedative.”
“Fine, then lie down.”
I lay down cautiously but refused to put the plastic mouth guard back in until they injected more sedative.
“Don’t you trust me?” my doctor asked. I raised an eyebrow, or at least tried to. It was difficult to project witty cynicism in a half-drugged, half-naked state.
“Why don’t you trust me?” he persisted. I couldn’t believe we were having an Oprah-like conversation at a time like that and tried to roll my eyes but for some reason my eyeballs weren’t fully functional.
The doctor eventually kept his word, increased the dose of sedative and my last thought before I drifted into a floaty, dreamy state was:
“Aahh, this is far better than Benylin (with Codeine) ha ha zzzz”
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Friendly Friday Flops….
Exactly a week ago we test ran our ‘Friendly Friday.’
‘We’ refers to a group of colleagues/friends who sit around me at work - E, D, Big E and Y (of chicken wings fame, June 18th & 19th posts)
We’re all quite close and yet - despite our bond - recently noticed that over the past few months we’ve become increasingly rude, sarcastic and antagonistic towards each other.
Not in a malicious way, just in playful Naija fashion. For instance:
“Come and look at this report”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important”
“So?”
“Come on come here”
“Gerrout”
The person would eventually wander over to look at the report, but not before being impossibly impolite.
Or:
“Pass me that folder”
“Do I look like your houseboy?”
“Gimme the folder my friend.”
“You’re mad”
“You dey craze”
The guys were more badly behaved than us chicks. D and I weren’t as rude but we realised that we had become more aggressive and insensitive just from hanging around them.
“Where’s my Maroon 5 CD?”
“You mean your pirated Maroon 5 CD? Please be specific.”
It was getting too much so E & Y decided that last week Friday (November 2nd) would be Friendly Friday, and announced to the rest of us that insults and rude behaviour were banned for the day.
This wasn’t the first time we’d tried this sort of thing; we’d tried Pidgin English Friday a month before but by noon those of us who aren’t fluent in it were forced to sit mutely at our desks.
After further discussion of the Rules and Regulations of Friendly Friday we agreed to include sarcasm, rude facial expressions and negative remarks to the list of unacceptable behaviour. Whoever ended the day with the highest number of transgressions was to pay for breakfast for everyone on Monday.
“No sarcasm?” I asked “Then I have nothing to say.”
I decided I would spend the rest of the day with my earphones plugged into my ears; better to spend the afternoon with Kanye West and Junior Gong than risk being booked and forced to feed some hungry buggers on Monday.
Later that morning I went upstairs briefly and by the time I returned to my desk, the rest of the team had ordered sandwiches for themselves, and none for me.
“Hey! Hey! What’s the meaning of this?” I barked.
They all looked up at me with raised eyebrows.
“I mean, guys, I’m hurt and offended that you left me out”
“That wasn’t hard, was it? Don’t you feel better?” E asked
“That’s sarcastic” I said. “Book him.”
Y eagerly wrote E’s name down - “You’re the first person on the list!” - while E protested vigorously.
About an hour later, at some point in conversation Big E made a comment that cast some doubt on his sexual orientation and we all laughed as he tried to wriggle his way out of it.
“Well that explains the shirt” I joked about his baby pink T shirt.
“That’s a negative statement” Big E said, “She’s implying that I’m something I’m not. It’s slanderous. Book her.”
“It’s a statement of fact my friend. Aren’t you wearing a pink shirt?”
“And what’s wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”
“Did I say there was anything wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”
“It’s not what you said; it’s how you said it”
“You’ve twisted this whole thing, gerrout”
“I’ve booked you twice!” Y cheerfully informed me.
I didn’t go up to the cafeteria for lunch with the others but later heard that E had gone ballistic, complaining about some presentation he had to prepare - a complaint that was heavily sprinkled with swear words. When he was reminded that he would end up having to pay for our breakfast he spat “I’ll buy the f*cking breakfast” and continued swearing. Everyone was aghast.
By late afternoon E was clearly in the lead. Big E had been booked for making rude faces, something he is very skilled at doing. I was booked for several sarcastic remarks and even Y who was busy booking everyone was forced to book himself when he said something about lawyers being useless. (Negative comment, book him)
D did not appear on the list at all - she was quietly doing her thang, laughing at the rest of us.
Around 4 o’clock I got an email from a colleague that really ticked me off. The Excel sheet wasn’t properly formatted and it meant a lot of extra work for me.
“This is bullshit” I said to myself
“Book her!” Y yelled from his corner of the room.
I turned to face him. “What’s wrong with you, I was talking to myself, and I was talking about the template.”
“Book her again; did you see the expression on her face?”
“Ah ah!” I protested
“You said bullshit. That’s a swear word, it’s rude, so book her” Big E handed Y a pen in case he couldn’t find one to write my name with.
“It’s a bullshitemplate, that’s what it’s called; a Business Utility Long Life Sales Hourly Input Template…” We all laughed as I struggled to come up with an excuse.
“You’ve been booked the highest number of times” Y informed me as he scribbled away. “So you’re buying breakfast for everyone next week.”
I had no idea that Y was lying - E was actually the greatest offender.
At that point I thought what the heck…
“In that case, since it’s decided that I’m buying breakfast I can tell all of you what I think of you” I pointed at them one by one. “Big E you’re stupid, E you’re an idiot, you over there, booking everybody, you’re mad.”
They decided to book me for aggression, rudeness, insulting behaviour, negative remarks and a hostile tone. (One point each.) Y eventually ran out of space to write my name.
Big E suggested I attend counselling for my anger issues, which raised some more bookable offences; anger management issues, one point. Lack of self restraint, another point. It was hilarious!
At the end of the day, E’s lunchtime outburst was judged to be worse than mine so on Monday he paid for sandwiches for everyone.
On Wednesday we decided to give it another try. This time Y was power drunk; booking everything that breathed, yet his own name did not appear on the list at all even when he clearly offended.
Big E complained about the unfairness of it all and asked Y to step down as scribe, but Y held on to the list and announced that he would have to be impeached to be removed. When we moved for impeachment he declared that, like Etteh, he could not be removed. The guys argued and argued and eventually E grabbed the list and tore it to shreds.
And that, I think, is the end of Friendly Friday.
‘We’ refers to a group of colleagues/friends who sit around me at work - E, D, Big E and Y (of chicken wings fame, June 18th & 19th posts)
We’re all quite close and yet - despite our bond - recently noticed that over the past few months we’ve become increasingly rude, sarcastic and antagonistic towards each other.
Not in a malicious way, just in playful Naija fashion. For instance:
“Come and look at this report”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important”
“So?”
“Come on come here”
“Gerrout”
The person would eventually wander over to look at the report, but not before being impossibly impolite.
Or:
“Pass me that folder”
“Do I look like your houseboy?”
“Gimme the folder my friend.”
“You’re mad”
“You dey craze”
The guys were more badly behaved than us chicks. D and I weren’t as rude but we realised that we had become more aggressive and insensitive just from hanging around them.
“Where’s my Maroon 5 CD?”
“You mean your pirated Maroon 5 CD? Please be specific.”
It was getting too much so E & Y decided that last week Friday (November 2nd) would be Friendly Friday, and announced to the rest of us that insults and rude behaviour were banned for the day.
This wasn’t the first time we’d tried this sort of thing; we’d tried Pidgin English Friday a month before but by noon those of us who aren’t fluent in it were forced to sit mutely at our desks.
After further discussion of the Rules and Regulations of Friendly Friday we agreed to include sarcasm, rude facial expressions and negative remarks to the list of unacceptable behaviour. Whoever ended the day with the highest number of transgressions was to pay for breakfast for everyone on Monday.
“No sarcasm?” I asked “Then I have nothing to say.”
I decided I would spend the rest of the day with my earphones plugged into my ears; better to spend the afternoon with Kanye West and Junior Gong than risk being booked and forced to feed some hungry buggers on Monday.
Later that morning I went upstairs briefly and by the time I returned to my desk, the rest of the team had ordered sandwiches for themselves, and none for me.
“Hey! Hey! What’s the meaning of this?” I barked.
They all looked up at me with raised eyebrows.
“I mean, guys, I’m hurt and offended that you left me out”
“That wasn’t hard, was it? Don’t you feel better?” E asked
“That’s sarcastic” I said. “Book him.”
Y eagerly wrote E’s name down - “You’re the first person on the list!” - while E protested vigorously.
About an hour later, at some point in conversation Big E made a comment that cast some doubt on his sexual orientation and we all laughed as he tried to wriggle his way out of it.
“Well that explains the shirt” I joked about his baby pink T shirt.
“That’s a negative statement” Big E said, “She’s implying that I’m something I’m not. It’s slanderous. Book her.”
“It’s a statement of fact my friend. Aren’t you wearing a pink shirt?”
“And what’s wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”
“Did I say there was anything wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”
“It’s not what you said; it’s how you said it”
“You’ve twisted this whole thing, gerrout”
“I’ve booked you twice!” Y cheerfully informed me.
I didn’t go up to the cafeteria for lunch with the others but later heard that E had gone ballistic, complaining about some presentation he had to prepare - a complaint that was heavily sprinkled with swear words. When he was reminded that he would end up having to pay for our breakfast he spat “I’ll buy the f*cking breakfast” and continued swearing. Everyone was aghast.
By late afternoon E was clearly in the lead. Big E had been booked for making rude faces, something he is very skilled at doing. I was booked for several sarcastic remarks and even Y who was busy booking everyone was forced to book himself when he said something about lawyers being useless. (Negative comment, book him)
D did not appear on the list at all - she was quietly doing her thang, laughing at the rest of us.
Around 4 o’clock I got an email from a colleague that really ticked me off. The Excel sheet wasn’t properly formatted and it meant a lot of extra work for me.
“This is bullshit” I said to myself
“Book her!” Y yelled from his corner of the room.
I turned to face him. “What’s wrong with you, I was talking to myself, and I was talking about the template.”
“Book her again; did you see the expression on her face?”
“Ah ah!” I protested
“You said bullshit. That’s a swear word, it’s rude, so book her” Big E handed Y a pen in case he couldn’t find one to write my name with.
“It’s a bullshitemplate, that’s what it’s called; a Business Utility Long Life Sales Hourly Input Template…” We all laughed as I struggled to come up with an excuse.
“You’ve been booked the highest number of times” Y informed me as he scribbled away. “So you’re buying breakfast for everyone next week.”
I had no idea that Y was lying - E was actually the greatest offender.
At that point I thought what the heck…
“In that case, since it’s decided that I’m buying breakfast I can tell all of you what I think of you” I pointed at them one by one. “Big E you’re stupid, E you’re an idiot, you over there, booking everybody, you’re mad.”
They decided to book me for aggression, rudeness, insulting behaviour, negative remarks and a hostile tone. (One point each.) Y eventually ran out of space to write my name.
Big E suggested I attend counselling for my anger issues, which raised some more bookable offences; anger management issues, one point. Lack of self restraint, another point. It was hilarious!
At the end of the day, E’s lunchtime outburst was judged to be worse than mine so on Monday he paid for sandwiches for everyone.
On Wednesday we decided to give it another try. This time Y was power drunk; booking everything that breathed, yet his own name did not appear on the list at all even when he clearly offended.
Big E complained about the unfairness of it all and asked Y to step down as scribe, but Y held on to the list and announced that he would have to be impeached to be removed. When we moved for impeachment he declared that, like Etteh, he could not be removed. The guys argued and argued and eventually E grabbed the list and tore it to shreds.
And that, I think, is the end of Friendly Friday.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Congratulations! You Made It Through The Day
I find Mandatory Events really stressful. Or maybe I’m just lazy. A Mandatory Event is – as the name implies - an event you *have* to attend; one that comes with an attached threat - ‘or else’. Or else what?
Or else:
a) You will be fired from your job
b) You will lose the love of the person who invited you
c) You won’t get that contract/promotion/business deal you want
d) No one will attend any of *your* events
e) You will never hear the end of it
I believe I can afford to pull a no-show at Category E Mandatory Events, and I often do. A lifetime of apologies and repentant text messages is a small price to pay for a relaxing weekend at home. But Categories A to D are the ones I dare not miss though to be honest I am usually very reluctant to go anywhere beyond the kitchen. Why can’t I just stay in my traffic-free home and read??
I always leave the planning til the very last minute and end up harassed and frustrated after the rush to find and wrap a present, assemble the right outfit and show up on time.
I have no idea why I do this; maybe on a subconscious level I’m hoping for a last minute miracle that will save me from attending the Mandatory Event.
***
When a friend’s child turned one, we (her group of girlfriends) agreed to meet up at her place. This was a Category B/D/E Mega Mandatory Event.
In typical Naija style the adults' party would take place in the house while outside, under canopies and balloons the kids would be fed, (jollof rice) frightened (by unfriendly clowns) and forced to play musical chairs.
On the day of ‘the event’ I lazed about in bed until it became apparent that no miracle was forthcoming. My friends kept calling, asking “what’s up?” “what time will you be there?” “you’re still in BED?” so I reluctantly put down my weekend treat - a mindless magazine and ferrero rocher chocolates - dragged myself out of bed and complained my way to GRA to find a mandatory gift.
After wandering around Mothercare for a while I realised that I was wasting my time in the socks and bib section. The child was a year old, not a month old.
I tried to think back thirty-odd years; could I remember what I wanted when I turned one? Of course not, this was just another delay tactic.
What to buy? What to buy? I need a personal shopper. I need a personal assistant. I need to make pots of money so I can afford a personal assistant to do my shopping.
I concentrated on the task at hand and came up with - clothes! You can never go wrong with clothes. Pink for a girl, blue for a boy, abi? It doesn’t really matter what type of clothes, just buy something with buttons or zips, armholes, leg holes (extra points if it has a collar) and you’re done.
I left Mothercare with some pretty pink clothes and the realisation that it’s just not the right place to meet single men.
Popped into another shop to check if they had wrapping paper and, just by the way, (only because they were so prominently displayed) picked up some more ferrero rocher.
They had a card section and a very limited selection of wrapping paper on display. One had ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ printed boldly on it, with ‘on your wedding’ in small print under it, like an after thought.
Another had ‘Happy Anniversary!’ and a third had “Congratulations on your Silver Jubilee.’ As far as I knew, my friend’s one year old wasn’t married so I moved on.
The only other options were a hideous silver sheet that looked like foil and purple recycled paper with ‘Congratulations!’ slices of cake and dancing elephants on it.
Were the elephants being congratulated? Or were we, the buyers, being congratulated for buying wrapping paper with elephants on it? Who was congratulating who, and why?
And why was there all this congratulatory wrapping paper in one shop anyways? I thought as Nigerians we had agreed (at the National Conference) to reserve our extreme love of congratulatory messages for the pages of newspapers. Now someone had decided to extend it to wrapping paper. It was irritating.
“Don’t you have birthday wrapping paper?” I asked.
“Eh?” the sales girl replied.
“Don’t you have wrapping paper with ‘Happy Birthday’ on it?”
“Is finish”
I looked at the rubbish paper on display and muttered “Where did they get this stuff from?” to which she replied “Is from overs. Is the one my madam bought las’ time she travel. But we’re especting new stock next week.”
Ah, perhaps I could persuade my friend to reschedule her child’s birthday til the following week, while I waited for the new stock of wrapping paper?
I had an hour to go til the party started and I still had to get home, shower, choose an outfit, get dressed, change my mind about the outfit, throw a fit….I bought the damn paper; elephants, slices of cake and all, and left.
At home my mum asked why I bought congratulatory wrapping paper.
“You noticed?” I asked.
“Of course I noticed - it says ‘Congratulations!’ all over it”
“I’m congratulating her on turning one. It’s not easy now, abi?”
“You’re late for the party.”
“I’m late for the party.’ My mum knows me too well.
I felt twas necessary to point out something very important “The good thing is, the paper has cake on it. That ties in to the birthday theme.”
My mum agreed then pointed out the elephants. “Do they tie in to the theme?”
There are disadvantages to being born into a family that over-analyses things; you develop slightly neurotic tendencies.
I left my mum to wrap the present and rushed to get ready, thinking about the inappropriate wrapping paper as I showered.
* * *
Surprise, surprise, I was actually the first in our group of friends to arrive at the Mega Mandatory Event.
I sat in the living room, holding tightly onto my present - after all I’d been through to get it, the celebrant’s mum had to see it first and acknowledge that it was from me. God forbid she should think I was the one who gave her child the set of plastic spoons.
Another friend arrived with a huge box wrapped in colourful paper.
“Lemme see your wrapping paper” I said, and compared hers to mine. It had “Happy Birthday!” on it. I told her about my experience at the shop and we laughed about all the horrible wrapping paper available in Lagos and how I was stuck with the one I bought.
“At least it has cake on it” I pointed out “And I’m sort of congratulating her for turning one.”
I had no explanation for the dancing elephants.
It was ridiculous; I had developed a complex over wrapping paper.
Everytime someone walked past with a present, I stretched my neck to check if it had ‘Happy Birthday’ on it.
“No one’s going to notice.” My friend reassured me.
The celebrant toddled over, smiled and tried to grab her present from me. I smiled back and resisted. After all I’d been through to get it, her mum…etc
Our other friends arrived, we hugged each other tightly, greeted each other loudly, complimented each other on our outfits; “nice top!” “lovely shoes!” “I want your jeans!” and all the while I paid as much attention to the clowns, balloons and ‘Happy Birthday!’ inscriptions on their wrapping paper as I did to what we were saying.
I noticed that a couple of other friends also held on to their gifts; one even leaned over and, smiling at the celebrant who was trying to snatch the present out of her hand, said “no honey, not until your mummy sees it.”
Finally the celebrant’s mum emerged and we handed our presents over one by one, saying:
“I hope she likes it” (translation: I hope *you* like it)
“I hope it’s her size” (translation: Look, you know I don’t have kids yet, I did my best to figure out her size)
And when it was my turn, “Turning one is a milestone, I just had to congratulate her on it.”
Or else:
a) You will be fired from your job
b) You will lose the love of the person who invited you
c) You won’t get that contract/promotion/business deal you want
d) No one will attend any of *your* events
e) You will never hear the end of it
I believe I can afford to pull a no-show at Category E Mandatory Events, and I often do. A lifetime of apologies and repentant text messages is a small price to pay for a relaxing weekend at home. But Categories A to D are the ones I dare not miss though to be honest I am usually very reluctant to go anywhere beyond the kitchen. Why can’t I just stay in my traffic-free home and read??
I always leave the planning til the very last minute and end up harassed and frustrated after the rush to find and wrap a present, assemble the right outfit and show up on time.
I have no idea why I do this; maybe on a subconscious level I’m hoping for a last minute miracle that will save me from attending the Mandatory Event.
***
When a friend’s child turned one, we (her group of girlfriends) agreed to meet up at her place. This was a Category B/D/E Mega Mandatory Event.
In typical Naija style the adults' party would take place in the house while outside, under canopies and balloons the kids would be fed, (jollof rice) frightened (by unfriendly clowns) and forced to play musical chairs.
On the day of ‘the event’ I lazed about in bed until it became apparent that no miracle was forthcoming. My friends kept calling, asking “what’s up?” “what time will you be there?” “you’re still in BED?” so I reluctantly put down my weekend treat - a mindless magazine and ferrero rocher chocolates - dragged myself out of bed and complained my way to GRA to find a mandatory gift.
After wandering around Mothercare for a while I realised that I was wasting my time in the socks and bib section. The child was a year old, not a month old.
I tried to think back thirty-odd years; could I remember what I wanted when I turned one? Of course not, this was just another delay tactic.
What to buy? What to buy? I need a personal shopper. I need a personal assistant. I need to make pots of money so I can afford a personal assistant to do my shopping.
I concentrated on the task at hand and came up with - clothes! You can never go wrong with clothes. Pink for a girl, blue for a boy, abi? It doesn’t really matter what type of clothes, just buy something with buttons or zips, armholes, leg holes (extra points if it has a collar) and you’re done.
I left Mothercare with some pretty pink clothes and the realisation that it’s just not the right place to meet single men.
Popped into another shop to check if they had wrapping paper and, just by the way, (only because they were so prominently displayed) picked up some more ferrero rocher.
They had a card section and a very limited selection of wrapping paper on display. One had ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ printed boldly on it, with ‘on your wedding’ in small print under it, like an after thought.
Another had ‘Happy Anniversary!’ and a third had “Congratulations on your Silver Jubilee.’ As far as I knew, my friend’s one year old wasn’t married so I moved on.
The only other options were a hideous silver sheet that looked like foil and purple recycled paper with ‘Congratulations!’ slices of cake and dancing elephants on it.
Were the elephants being congratulated? Or were we, the buyers, being congratulated for buying wrapping paper with elephants on it? Who was congratulating who, and why?
And why was there all this congratulatory wrapping paper in one shop anyways? I thought as Nigerians we had agreed (at the National Conference) to reserve our extreme love of congratulatory messages for the pages of newspapers. Now someone had decided to extend it to wrapping paper. It was irritating.
“Don’t you have birthday wrapping paper?” I asked.
“Eh?” the sales girl replied.
“Don’t you have wrapping paper with ‘Happy Birthday’ on it?”
“Is finish”
I looked at the rubbish paper on display and muttered “Where did they get this stuff from?” to which she replied “Is from overs. Is the one my madam bought las’ time she travel. But we’re especting new stock next week.”
Ah, perhaps I could persuade my friend to reschedule her child’s birthday til the following week, while I waited for the new stock of wrapping paper?
I had an hour to go til the party started and I still had to get home, shower, choose an outfit, get dressed, change my mind about the outfit, throw a fit….I bought the damn paper; elephants, slices of cake and all, and left.
At home my mum asked why I bought congratulatory wrapping paper.
“You noticed?” I asked.
“Of course I noticed - it says ‘Congratulations!’ all over it”
“I’m congratulating her on turning one. It’s not easy now, abi?”
“You’re late for the party.”
“I’m late for the party.’ My mum knows me too well.
I felt twas necessary to point out something very important “The good thing is, the paper has cake on it. That ties in to the birthday theme.”
My mum agreed then pointed out the elephants. “Do they tie in to the theme?”
There are disadvantages to being born into a family that over-analyses things; you develop slightly neurotic tendencies.
I left my mum to wrap the present and rushed to get ready, thinking about the inappropriate wrapping paper as I showered.
* * *
Surprise, surprise, I was actually the first in our group of friends to arrive at the Mega Mandatory Event.
I sat in the living room, holding tightly onto my present - after all I’d been through to get it, the celebrant’s mum had to see it first and acknowledge that it was from me. God forbid she should think I was the one who gave her child the set of plastic spoons.
Another friend arrived with a huge box wrapped in colourful paper.
“Lemme see your wrapping paper” I said, and compared hers to mine. It had “Happy Birthday!” on it. I told her about my experience at the shop and we laughed about all the horrible wrapping paper available in Lagos and how I was stuck with the one I bought.
“At least it has cake on it” I pointed out “And I’m sort of congratulating her for turning one.”
I had no explanation for the dancing elephants.
It was ridiculous; I had developed a complex over wrapping paper.
Everytime someone walked past with a present, I stretched my neck to check if it had ‘Happy Birthday’ on it.
“No one’s going to notice.” My friend reassured me.
The celebrant toddled over, smiled and tried to grab her present from me. I smiled back and resisted. After all I’d been through to get it, her mum…etc
Our other friends arrived, we hugged each other tightly, greeted each other loudly, complimented each other on our outfits; “nice top!” “lovely shoes!” “I want your jeans!” and all the while I paid as much attention to the clowns, balloons and ‘Happy Birthday!’ inscriptions on their wrapping paper as I did to what we were saying.
I noticed that a couple of other friends also held on to their gifts; one even leaned over and, smiling at the celebrant who was trying to snatch the present out of her hand, said “no honey, not until your mummy sees it.”
Finally the celebrant’s mum emerged and we handed our presents over one by one, saying:
“I hope she likes it” (translation: I hope *you* like it)
“I hope it’s her size” (translation: Look, you know I don’t have kids yet, I did my best to figure out her size)
And when it was my turn, “Turning one is a milestone, I just had to congratulate her on it.”
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Car Crash and Whiplash
*Warning! Long post!*
Last week a big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us. By ‘us’ I mean me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
It was 8.30 pm and there we were, the three of us, minding our business, tired and hungry after a long drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We had successfully crossed The Bridge and were meandering through Maryland; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I was reclining in the front seat, phone in hand, drafting a text message to a friend - nothing serious or particularly important; just a chatty message about my day at work. I was about to press ‘send’ when the white Camry in front of us stopped suddenly, without warning.
Benjamin is small and quick, just like my car. They both reacted quickly and avoided hitting the Camry.
“Who is this idiot?” Benjamin asked angrily. I sat up to see who the idiot was.
At that moment the big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I’d never been in a car accident. The amazing thing about it was the suddenness of it all. One moment I was about to send a silly text message, the very next was five seconds of synchronised chaos – the unexpected shock on impact, the sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the screams of bystanders, a spinning sensation, the jolt to my neck and a rush of thoughts in my head – “Are we wearing seat belts? Yes we are. Oh my God is this an accident? It can’t be! I want to sell this car! Where’s my phone? Shit I’m going to miss Dr. 90210.”
But the most vivid impression I had was of the disrespectful way my car was shoved out of the way, rammed off the road and into the Camry like the victim of a vicious bully.
Ten seconds after impact Benjamin and I got out of the car, right in the middle of a crowd of hysterical bystanders and a glare of headlights. It was like being an A-list star stepping out of a limo into a crowd of fans and the bright lights of camera flashes. Except that my limo was a limo no more and the ‘fans’ were students from a nearby college, a couple of eyewitnesses and a handful of area boys.
Attached to the crumpled back of my car was a black jeep. The driver reversed, disengaging his monster from my poor defenceless ride. Bits of twisted metal and shattered glass rained on the road.
The driver of the jeep jumped out and came over to inspect the damage. At one point he looked so nauseous, I was worried he was going to throw up all over what was left of my car.
“You’re a grown man” one guy in the crowd said to him “Why are you behaving like this? Abi you wan cry?”
I took a closer look at the guy and understood why he looked sick to the stomach - he was just another poorly paid driver in Lagos, probably with a boss who had warned him that he would pay for repairs the next time he rammed into someone’s car.
“This car is finished! Just park it! There’s no point, nothing remain!” the crowd of students yelled “Tell him to buy you a new car!”
I looked at the car closely and realised that the accident felt a lot worse than it actually was and ignored the crowd that was trying to work us up. But apparently they had succeeded with Benjamin, who was yelling at the jeep driver and looked like he was about to punch the guy.
Just then the owner of the Camry began to complain about the damage to his car but before he could complain too loudly some witnesses pointed out that he was the cause of the accident so he quickly drove off before the crowd got violent.
There was a lot of noise and confusion and I realised I needed to resolve the situation quickly and get out of there.
“Give me your oga’s phone number” I said to the jeep driver.
To my surprise he replied “He’s in the car”. I couldn’t believe it. The owner of the jeep was sitting there watching all the drama after what he’d done to my car.
“What?!?” the crowd screamed. “Why can’t he come out?” “Who does he think he is?” “Is he God?” “Drag him out!”
I don’t know much about the psychology of crowds but one thing’s for sure – a crowd quickly assumes a life and voice of its own. If there are any voices of dissent within it they are drowned out or forced to form another crowd. And that’s what happened. Crowd 1 was of the “Let’s beat somebody up now” point of view and Crowd 2 (blessed are the peacemakers) were the pacifists who kept things in order while I figured out what to do.
I walked over to the jeep and a group of people followed. I turned to them, said “Let me talk to the owner alone” and right away some of the guys in the group who were right behind me turned to the others and said “Let us talk to the owner alone.” This crowd was beginning to get on my nerves.
I tapped on the tinted window in the ‘owner’s corner.’
The guy inside sized me up before the window slid slowly down. He was middle aged and dressed in a suit and tie. I introduced myself as the owner of the crumpled heap in front of his car and asked him what the next step was towards getting my car fixed. “Sir” I concluded, “I can’t believe you didn’t even come out to see the damage you caused.”
Before the guy-in-the-tie could reply, some guys in my ‘entourage’ yelled “Come down from there! Are you God?”
The guy ignored them and said to me “Calm down, I don’t want to talk about it here, let’s get off the road first then we can discuss things.”
“He wants to run away!” For once I agreed with the crowd.
“Why can’t we discuss it here?” I asked the guy-in-the-tie.
He explained that he didn’t think we could talk properly with all the people around so we agreed to move the cars down the road to the nearest bus-stop. But the crowd wouldn’t let his jeep go.
“He wants to run away!”
So the guy-in-the-tie was forced to get out of his big black jeep and walk a few yards with me to the bus stop.
Benjamin reluctantly drove my rattling car off the middle of the road (where we’d caused about a half-mile of traffic) and parked it at the bus stop, with bits of metal and part of the bumper trailing behind like a bridal train. Benjamin was certain that the driver of the jeep and his oga had hatched a diabolical plan to escape but I was certain that that wasn’t going to happen.
We gathered at the bus stop, me, Benjamin, my little Japanese car, the guy-in-the-tie his big black jeep, trembling driver and Crowd 2. Crowd 1, a much larger group, was annoyed at the civilised turn of events. I hadn’t raised my voice or allowed Benjamin to punch the other driver so it was quite obvious that there was no action to be expected. They melted away, leaving a small group of decent individuals who had witnessed the accident and were eager to help.
We had finalised arrangements for the drivers to meet at the mechanic’s workshop, exchanged business cards and the guy-in-the-tie was about to scribble an undertaking on the back of his card that he was responsible for repairs to my car, when an elderly couple stepped forward.
“Er, what about my car?” the woman asked the guy-in-the-tie. I had noticed them earlier and thought that they were part of Crowd 2. Apparently not.
We were all confused. “My car” she repeated. “My car was affected, what are you going to do about it?”
Car? What car?
She pointed at a battered beat up Volvo parked behind the jeep and led us over to show us the damage. Crowd 2 joined in the inspection. We looked and looked but couldn’t figure out what dent was new and which one was pre-existing. Even she wasn’t sure and had to ask the elderly man (who turned out to be her driver) to point it out.
Apparently after the jeep hit us and we hit the Camry we spun a bit then hit the Volvo which was driving towards us. But come on! It was such minor damage compared to mine. It was ridiculous.
The guy-in-the-tie tried to reason with the elderly woman and Crowd 2 chipped in, telling her to go home and be thankful that she didn’t suffer the damage that I had. But she got hysterical and insisted that no one was going anywhere until her car was discussed.
At that point the guy-in-the-tie lost his temper, raised his voice and spoke a lot of Yoruba. The elderly lady replied with an equally loud voice, a lot more Yoruba and arms waving all about the place.
I tried to interrupt “Excuse me, could you just write the undertaking so I can go?” but the guy-in-the-tie said I should wait and continued arguing with the woman.
I was tired of all the crap but was too polite to loudly insist on being attended to – these people were twice my age and I was a victim of my upbringing.
I waited impatiently, making phone calls while Benjamin eyed the jeep driver and Crowd 2 supported the guy-in-the-tie as he battled the woman’s unreasonable request.
In the middle of the madness, a man in rags walked right through the crowd straight up to the guy-in-the-tie, held out his grimy hand and said loudly “gimme money, I never chop since morning”
We all paused for a moment – who the hell was this? – until the poor harassed guy-in-the-tie screamed “my friend get out of here, what’s my business whether you have eaten or not?” His driver grabbed the beggar, removed him from the scene and the lady in the Volvo resumed her complaining.
I just shook my head and thought “Loony Lagos. What the hell am I dong here??”
When they finally reached an agreement (I don’t understand Yoruba and so have no idea what the final outcome was) to my surprise the woman turned to me and asked for my phone number. Whatever for??
“Because you’re the one who hit me.”
Oh please. “Excuse me ma, I did not go out of my way to hit you. I wouldn’t have hit you if he didn’t hit me so don’t blame me” at which point she gave me the standard Naija speech about how she was old enough to be my mother blah blah blah and I should trust her blah blah and she only needed a witness blah….
I rolled my eyes as she talked. It was dark so it was safe to do so, (one of the advantages of not having functional street lights on Lagos roads) otherwise I would’ve had to stand through a long lecture about my rudeness, how disrespectful the youth of today are, and the general state of the nation.
I gave up, gave her my number, the guy-in-the-tie wrote an undertaking to fix my car, we shook hands with the members of Crowd 2 and everyone said goodnight.
Then Benjamin and I got into our little Japanese accordion and rattled our way home.
Last week a big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us. By ‘us’ I mean me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
It was 8.30 pm and there we were, the three of us, minding our business, tired and hungry after a long drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We had successfully crossed The Bridge and were meandering through Maryland; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I was reclining in the front seat, phone in hand, drafting a text message to a friend - nothing serious or particularly important; just a chatty message about my day at work. I was about to press ‘send’ when the white Camry in front of us stopped suddenly, without warning.
Benjamin is small and quick, just like my car. They both reacted quickly and avoided hitting the Camry.
“Who is this idiot?” Benjamin asked angrily. I sat up to see who the idiot was.
At that moment the big black jeep with a monster grille ploughed into us; me, Benjamin and my little Japanese car.
I’d never been in a car accident. The amazing thing about it was the suddenness of it all. One moment I was about to send a silly text message, the very next was five seconds of synchronised chaos – the unexpected shock on impact, the sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the screams of bystanders, a spinning sensation, the jolt to my neck and a rush of thoughts in my head – “Are we wearing seat belts? Yes we are. Oh my God is this an accident? It can’t be! I want to sell this car! Where’s my phone? Shit I’m going to miss Dr. 90210.”
But the most vivid impression I had was of the disrespectful way my car was shoved out of the way, rammed off the road and into the Camry like the victim of a vicious bully.
Ten seconds after impact Benjamin and I got out of the car, right in the middle of a crowd of hysterical bystanders and a glare of headlights. It was like being an A-list star stepping out of a limo into a crowd of fans and the bright lights of camera flashes. Except that my limo was a limo no more and the ‘fans’ were students from a nearby college, a couple of eyewitnesses and a handful of area boys.
Attached to the crumpled back of my car was a black jeep. The driver reversed, disengaging his monster from my poor defenceless ride. Bits of twisted metal and shattered glass rained on the road.
The driver of the jeep jumped out and came over to inspect the damage. At one point he looked so nauseous, I was worried he was going to throw up all over what was left of my car.
“You’re a grown man” one guy in the crowd said to him “Why are you behaving like this? Abi you wan cry?”
I took a closer look at the guy and understood why he looked sick to the stomach - he was just another poorly paid driver in Lagos, probably with a boss who had warned him that he would pay for repairs the next time he rammed into someone’s car.
“This car is finished! Just park it! There’s no point, nothing remain!” the crowd of students yelled “Tell him to buy you a new car!”
I looked at the car closely and realised that the accident felt a lot worse than it actually was and ignored the crowd that was trying to work us up. But apparently they had succeeded with Benjamin, who was yelling at the jeep driver and looked like he was about to punch the guy.
Just then the owner of the Camry began to complain about the damage to his car but before he could complain too loudly some witnesses pointed out that he was the cause of the accident so he quickly drove off before the crowd got violent.
There was a lot of noise and confusion and I realised I needed to resolve the situation quickly and get out of there.
“Give me your oga’s phone number” I said to the jeep driver.
To my surprise he replied “He’s in the car”. I couldn’t believe it. The owner of the jeep was sitting there watching all the drama after what he’d done to my car.
“What?!?” the crowd screamed. “Why can’t he come out?” “Who does he think he is?” “Is he God?” “Drag him out!”
I don’t know much about the psychology of crowds but one thing’s for sure – a crowd quickly assumes a life and voice of its own. If there are any voices of dissent within it they are drowned out or forced to form another crowd. And that’s what happened. Crowd 1 was of the “Let’s beat somebody up now” point of view and Crowd 2 (blessed are the peacemakers) were the pacifists who kept things in order while I figured out what to do.
I walked over to the jeep and a group of people followed. I turned to them, said “Let me talk to the owner alone” and right away some of the guys in the group who were right behind me turned to the others and said “Let us talk to the owner alone.” This crowd was beginning to get on my nerves.
I tapped on the tinted window in the ‘owner’s corner.’
The guy inside sized me up before the window slid slowly down. He was middle aged and dressed in a suit and tie. I introduced myself as the owner of the crumpled heap in front of his car and asked him what the next step was towards getting my car fixed. “Sir” I concluded, “I can’t believe you didn’t even come out to see the damage you caused.”
Before the guy-in-the-tie could reply, some guys in my ‘entourage’ yelled “Come down from there! Are you God?”
The guy ignored them and said to me “Calm down, I don’t want to talk about it here, let’s get off the road first then we can discuss things.”
“He wants to run away!” For once I agreed with the crowd.
“Why can’t we discuss it here?” I asked the guy-in-the-tie.
He explained that he didn’t think we could talk properly with all the people around so we agreed to move the cars down the road to the nearest bus-stop. But the crowd wouldn’t let his jeep go.
“He wants to run away!”
So the guy-in-the-tie was forced to get out of his big black jeep and walk a few yards with me to the bus stop.
Benjamin reluctantly drove my rattling car off the middle of the road (where we’d caused about a half-mile of traffic) and parked it at the bus stop, with bits of metal and part of the bumper trailing behind like a bridal train. Benjamin was certain that the driver of the jeep and his oga had hatched a diabolical plan to escape but I was certain that that wasn’t going to happen.
We gathered at the bus stop, me, Benjamin, my little Japanese car, the guy-in-the-tie his big black jeep, trembling driver and Crowd 2. Crowd 1, a much larger group, was annoyed at the civilised turn of events. I hadn’t raised my voice or allowed Benjamin to punch the other driver so it was quite obvious that there was no action to be expected. They melted away, leaving a small group of decent individuals who had witnessed the accident and were eager to help.
We had finalised arrangements for the drivers to meet at the mechanic’s workshop, exchanged business cards and the guy-in-the-tie was about to scribble an undertaking on the back of his card that he was responsible for repairs to my car, when an elderly couple stepped forward.
“Er, what about my car?” the woman asked the guy-in-the-tie. I had noticed them earlier and thought that they were part of Crowd 2. Apparently not.
We were all confused. “My car” she repeated. “My car was affected, what are you going to do about it?”
Car? What car?
She pointed at a battered beat up Volvo parked behind the jeep and led us over to show us the damage. Crowd 2 joined in the inspection. We looked and looked but couldn’t figure out what dent was new and which one was pre-existing. Even she wasn’t sure and had to ask the elderly man (who turned out to be her driver) to point it out.
Apparently after the jeep hit us and we hit the Camry we spun a bit then hit the Volvo which was driving towards us. But come on! It was such minor damage compared to mine. It was ridiculous.
The guy-in-the-tie tried to reason with the elderly woman and Crowd 2 chipped in, telling her to go home and be thankful that she didn’t suffer the damage that I had. But she got hysterical and insisted that no one was going anywhere until her car was discussed.
At that point the guy-in-the-tie lost his temper, raised his voice and spoke a lot of Yoruba. The elderly lady replied with an equally loud voice, a lot more Yoruba and arms waving all about the place.
I tried to interrupt “Excuse me, could you just write the undertaking so I can go?” but the guy-in-the-tie said I should wait and continued arguing with the woman.
I was tired of all the crap but was too polite to loudly insist on being attended to – these people were twice my age and I was a victim of my upbringing.
I waited impatiently, making phone calls while Benjamin eyed the jeep driver and Crowd 2 supported the guy-in-the-tie as he battled the woman’s unreasonable request.
In the middle of the madness, a man in rags walked right through the crowd straight up to the guy-in-the-tie, held out his grimy hand and said loudly “gimme money, I never chop since morning”
We all paused for a moment – who the hell was this? – until the poor harassed guy-in-the-tie screamed “my friend get out of here, what’s my business whether you have eaten or not?” His driver grabbed the beggar, removed him from the scene and the lady in the Volvo resumed her complaining.
I just shook my head and thought “Loony Lagos. What the hell am I dong here??”
When they finally reached an agreement (I don’t understand Yoruba and so have no idea what the final outcome was) to my surprise the woman turned to me and asked for my phone number. Whatever for??
“Because you’re the one who hit me.”
Oh please. “Excuse me ma, I did not go out of my way to hit you. I wouldn’t have hit you if he didn’t hit me so don’t blame me” at which point she gave me the standard Naija speech about how she was old enough to be my mother blah blah blah and I should trust her blah blah and she only needed a witness blah….
I rolled my eyes as she talked. It was dark so it was safe to do so, (one of the advantages of not having functional street lights on Lagos roads) otherwise I would’ve had to stand through a long lecture about my rudeness, how disrespectful the youth of today are, and the general state of the nation.
I gave up, gave her my number, the guy-in-the-tie wrote an undertaking to fix my car, we shook hands with the members of Crowd 2 and everyone said goodnight.
Then Benjamin and I got into our little Japanese accordion and rattled our way home.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Proudly Pedantic
No one has mastered the fine art of being pedantic quite like me.
I remember a conversation I had with an old friend, D, when I was seventeen. (D ‘Past’, not D ‘Present’) We were lazing about at her house talking about (what else?) guys - who was fine, who was funky, who liked who first and all those very important things.
Then she mentioned that a guy who lived down the road had confided in her that he was helplessly in love with me and that he had never felt that way about any girl before; I was interesting and fun and he was hopelessly in love.
“He’s what?” I asked.
“He’s in love with you!”
“Yes I heard that part” I said, “What I’m asking is – is he helplessly in love, or hopelessly in love?”
“What?” D looked blank.
“First you said he’s helplessly in love, then at the end you said hopelessly. So which one is it? Helpless or hopeless? Be specific.”
First she laughed and said I was crazy or something like that, then when she realised I was serious she looked very irritated. “Does it matter? Whatever it is, he’s in love.”
“It matters…” I explained carefully “…because I’m going to record it in my diary and I need to be accurate. I need to capture his feelings as he declared them.”
She looked at me like I was mad.
The thing is I didn’t believe her to start with. Not the bit about the guy being in love - that might have been true. But D was such a huge fan of frothy romantic novels that she probably made up the bit about helplessness and hopelessness.
So I’m the family pedant who likes to be very clear in conversation. “Say what you mean and mean what you say” and all that.
Anyways, the year I was seventeen was a glorious year. We were young, we had fun, we had crushes on each other and we played loud music. ‘We’ being a group of guys and girls who hung out at my friend D’s place nearly everyday.
(I must digress at this point - what happened to all the guys from my teenage years?? Where the heck did they all go?)
One day one of the guys in the group noticed that my voice sounded a little hoarse.
“You’ve caught a cold?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I have.” I replied.
“But you have a sore throat?”
“Yes I do.”
“Then you’ve caught a cold” he pronounced.
“It’s not a cold yet so I can’t agree.”
“So…the answer is no, you haven’t caught a cold then.”
“Well I don’t know, I may have, it could be that it just hasn’t manifested yet. Can I answer this question tomorrow? Because by then I’ll know whether or not I’ve caught a cold.”
Looking back, I’m really surprised that he stuck around that long to have that sort of silly conversation with me.
Or maybe... he was the guy who was hopelessly, helplessly in love.
I remember a conversation I had with an old friend, D, when I was seventeen. (D ‘Past’, not D ‘Present’) We were lazing about at her house talking about (what else?) guys - who was fine, who was funky, who liked who first and all those very important things.
Then she mentioned that a guy who lived down the road had confided in her that he was helplessly in love with me and that he had never felt that way about any girl before; I was interesting and fun and he was hopelessly in love.
“He’s what?” I asked.
“He’s in love with you!”
“Yes I heard that part” I said, “What I’m asking is – is he helplessly in love, or hopelessly in love?”
“What?” D looked blank.
“First you said he’s helplessly in love, then at the end you said hopelessly. So which one is it? Helpless or hopeless? Be specific.”
First she laughed and said I was crazy or something like that, then when she realised I was serious she looked very irritated. “Does it matter? Whatever it is, he’s in love.”
“It matters…” I explained carefully “…because I’m going to record it in my diary and I need to be accurate. I need to capture his feelings as he declared them.”
She looked at me like I was mad.
The thing is I didn’t believe her to start with. Not the bit about the guy being in love - that might have been true. But D was such a huge fan of frothy romantic novels that she probably made up the bit about helplessness and hopelessness.
So I’m the family pedant who likes to be very clear in conversation. “Say what you mean and mean what you say” and all that.
Anyways, the year I was seventeen was a glorious year. We were young, we had fun, we had crushes on each other and we played loud music. ‘We’ being a group of guys and girls who hung out at my friend D’s place nearly everyday.
(I must digress at this point - what happened to all the guys from my teenage years?? Where the heck did they all go?)
One day one of the guys in the group noticed that my voice sounded a little hoarse.
“You’ve caught a cold?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I have.” I replied.
“But you have a sore throat?”
“Yes I do.”
“Then you’ve caught a cold” he pronounced.
“It’s not a cold yet so I can’t agree.”
“So…the answer is no, you haven’t caught a cold then.”
“Well I don’t know, I may have, it could be that it just hasn’t manifested yet. Can I answer this question tomorrow? Because by then I’ll know whether or not I’ve caught a cold.”
Looking back, I’m really surprised that he stuck around that long to have that sort of silly conversation with me.
Or maybe... he was the guy who was hopelessly, helplessly in love.
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