Pick Up the Phone, Girl

My friend T lives in Minneapolis and so I was really worried when I heard about the bridge that collapsed there on Wednesday. We’ve been friends since we were six and she’s one of the ‘experts’ I called during my contacts crisis (July 12 post.) Her mum was our music teacher in Primary school and we sat next to each other all through Secondary school.

We’ve been the same height for years. She constantly disputes that fact, imagining herself to be the taller one (ha!) but the truth is we’ve been the same height for years, experiencing vertical growth at pretty much the same rate.

Together we suffered the torture of wearing thick glasses while growing up, consoling ourselves with the ‘fact’ that ‘short-sighted people have been found to possess above-average intelligence.’ I don’t know how true that is, nor can I remember where we read that research finding, but consoled we were.

She got contacts first and I envied her liberation from glasses. Then she got LASIK surgery to correct her sight but I will stick to my contacts thank you very much. (It appears my contacts are also determined to stick to me, as evidenced by their clingy behaviour on July 12.)

Back to the main gist, these past couple of days I’ve called T’s cellphone nearly thirty times but it kept going straight to voicemail and her phone at home rang endlessly.

I left her a message, no response. Sent her an email, no reply. I became frantic and tried calling her parents here to find out how she was. Couldn’t get through.

So I decided to go to her parents’ house during my lunch break on Friday, since they live near my office. But I couldn’t: it rained on the island and traffic is bad when it rains and all that. Actually that’s not why. It did rain but I think I was sort of afraid of what I would hear and preferred to hear it over the phone than face to face.

So this morning I tried calling her parents again. No show so I tried T. Cellphone went to voicemail and her landline at home rang and rang - until her father picked up. I was a bit confused because I wasn’t expecting anyone to answer, least of all her father who, as far as I knew, was right here in Lagos with me.

Anyways, to cut a long story short, turns out T and her hubby are chillin’ in Cancun Mexico, celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary while I’m here developing an ulcer over her whereabouts.

hat Happens hen Your ‘ ’ Doesn’t ork?

Yesterday the ‘w’ key on my keyboard started acting up. I have to press it really really hard for it to work. I didn’t notice the problem at first, until I read what I’d typed and realised it looked eird. I mean weird.

hat the hell is this? I can’t ork ithout a ‘’ I thought.

This is the second keyboard to have a problem; the spacebar on the original keyboard that came with my PC stopped working a few months after I got the system.
When it first happened I carefully cleaned the keyboard. Then cleaned it again. Then gave up and hit it against the desk. Harder. Stillthespacebarwouldn’twork. It was very frustrating and I resorted to using fullstops.between.words.to.make.it.easier.to.read.what.I'd.written.

Then I got a new keyboard and here I am with a hole ne problem. A malfunctioning ‘w.’

Yesterday a friend suggested I get a new keyboard but to me that’s like buying a new pair of shoes just because you’ve lost a shoelace. I’d rather replace only the malfunctioning key. Is there a shop where I can get just a ‘w’? Where individual letters are sold in a pouch like scrabble tiles? Because my ‘f’ is misbehaving as well and if I don’t do something now, I can see that at some point in the uture, my blog entries are going to be totally ucked up!!

(Imagine life without ‘w’. It’s not regarded as an important letter until you start to imagine life without it. You can’t express amazement: “wow!” becomes “o!” I would be described as a oman. Or an oman. omen around the orld ould be ithout a proper name to call themselves. e ould be nameless.)

Speaking of typing, a friend of mine (S, you know yourself) used to use exclamation marks a lot. I would get emails and text messages saying “Hey! Whats up! Been trying to call you! Network is down! Will pick you up at 4!” or “Have you finished editing the copy yet?!”

It used to amuse me on most days but really irritate me on other days like when I was stuck in long meetings at work. (The thought that I was in a small room looking at presentations while someone outside my office was chirpy, happy and free got on my nerves.)

“Why d’you use so many exclamation marks?” I texted back once.

“I don’t know!” he replied “It’s just a habit! Call you later!”

Then one day I emailed him. “Hi! What’s! Up! Almost! Finished! The! Edit! Will! Mail! It! To! You! Soon! Going! Into! A! Meeting! Call! You! Later!!!

It didn’t make any difference; his next text came in peppered with exclamation marks.

But…slowly slowly the exclamation marks disappeared from his messages. Now I get curt messages: “Photo shoot at 4pm. Done with article? Talk later”

What have I done?? Have I stifled his chirpiness? Suffocated his personality? Come back, exclamation marks! I sent him a text saying “want 2 knw wot made u stop usng exclamation marks like b4” No reply yet.

The interesting thing is, now *I've* started using exclamation marks a lot. I can't help it! They just spill out!!

In case you haven’t noticed, this story about exclamation marks has absolutely nothing to do with the problem with my keyboard. It’s just one of those stories you feel you must tell. The moral of the story is: love your friends as they come (exclamation marks and all) and don’t orry hen your ‘w’ doesn’t ork. Life goes on.

Hola!!

I’m now officially in my Spanish phase. For the past five years I’ve been in my French phase, broken only by a brief interest in Portuguese in 2004.

I’m talking about the *languages* not the men, please note.

In 2002 I registered for French classes at Alliance Francais to (a) meet new people (b) get out of the house on Saturday mornings (c) get into the arty scene at Maison de France and….there was a fourth reason, can I remember it…oh yeah: (d) learn French.

After taking French classes on and off for forever, I can still only say “je voudrais une omelette avec champignons.” …the important thing is that if stranded in France, I won’t starve.

So did I (a) meet new people? Definitely. Did I make friends? Er, no.
Why not? Because that wasn’t on the list. The list said ‘meet new people’. There was nothing there about making friends. Stick to the list…focus, FOCUS!

A lot of the people I met at Alliance were very nice people. (A lot of the people I met there might read this blog.) I repeat, very nice people. Did I mention they were nice? Actually I don’t know if they are very nice people because I didn’t talk to them much, I usually sat at the back of the class drawing little Eiffel towers and giant croissants in my notebook.

I got as far as A4, dropped out for a while then started over. Got as far as A3 and dropped out again. Went back and continued from A4, dropped out. When I returned yet again my favourite teacher said to me “You are not serious. Why?” I blamed it on work, the universal reason why people the world over can’t be serious about weekend language classes.

“You’re just so *tired* after a week spent in Lagos traffic and at meetings that dragging yourself out of a comfy bed and into the harsh hostile world of an unknown language on a SATURDAY morning is sometimes impossible.”

The *real* reason was simple. When I joined a class and got bored with the people in it, I would drop out so that when I returned I’d be in a new class with new people. It was like watching a reality TV series, not liking the line-up of housemates and skipping it til the new season – and hopefully more interesting characters.

Going for the classes meant I definitely got to (b) get out of the house on Saturday mornings instead of lazing about doing nothing in particular. The (c) arty scene? Hmm I didn’t get ‘into it’ as much as peep in from the doorway. Why? Er…because of work. Yeah that’s it, because of work, traffic, meetings, comfy bed etc see detailed reason in paragraph eight.

There were great dance recitals and exhibitions and readings and screenings, with all sorts of people from all sorts of places…I went to a few and they were fantastic but before I knew it I was back to drawing in my notebook at the back of the room.

Slowly, slowly my interest in French waned. Now Espanol is all the rage. Since my interest in Spanish began it’s been nothing but hola! que pasa? and gracias! all over the place. Now I’m looking for where to take classes…if anyone knows any Spanish class with interesting people, please let me know and let’s see how long this phase lasts… adios amigos.

I'd Rather Walk...

I hate flying. No I detest it. Which is stronger - hate or detest? I’ll use both for emphasis – I hatefully detest flying.

It’s so bad that I’ve subscribed to Virgin Atlantic’s Fear of Flying programme whereby I get periodic newsletters which address the top ten reasons why people like me would rather walk than fly.

On a flight back home from Johannesburg a couple of years ago the turbulence was so bad that for the first time in my life I got sweaty palms. I’d always heard about that happening to people but never ever thought I could get that anxious.

To top it off, the runway at MMIA was being repaired which meant that international flights were diverted to a shorter runway and for some technical reason, it was best to land with a lighter load. That meant we had to go to Abidjan to drop off passengers and their shopping-filled luggage before landing in Lagos. Which meant my sis and I had to endure three take-offs and landings in one day; from Cape Town to Jo’burg to Abidjan to Lagos. Our nerves were fraught.

As the passengers disembarked in Abidjan my sister looked longingly out of the window and said “they’re so lucky…can’t we get off here?” I reminded her that she’d still have to fly home at some point.

As we waited for the Abidjan passengers’ luggage to be hauled out of the plane we talked about cabin crew and how we could *never* do that job. I said “not for any amount of money.” My sis said “how about for a million dollars a month?” I said I wouldn’t do it because it meant a whole month of flying. She thought about it and said she would. I said “then you don’t really hate flying.”

I felt she should be stripped of her membership of the Rather Walk Club for making that statement. Fly three or four times a week for a whole month for a million dollars? What a sell-out.

Then it was time to take off again. I don’t know which I hate most - taking off, landing or the food.

The turbulence was terrible. I was so afraid.

But not too afraid to notice a very good looking ‘older gentleman’ in the opposite aisle. I pointed him out to my sister. He was definitely my type - tall, slim, mature and there was no ring in sight! He’d spent most of the flight from Jo'burg reading and I thought he was very attractive.

My sis and I tried to figure him out. She said he looked American. And well to do. I pointed out that if he was, at that age he wouldn’t be flying Economy. She pointed out his expensive clothes and watch and said maybe he’s frugal. I pointed out his long legs and said if he could afford it I was sure he’d rather stretch out in Business Class. I said he looked like an intellectual. She said “just because he’s reading?” I said he’s not exactly reading a comic. Then we spent nearly thirty minutes trying to see what he was reading - the Financial Times and a hardback by a Spanish author.

I joked about writing him a note asking him to come over and talk to me, and next thing I knew my sis held a gun to my head and forced me to.
So I scribbled a note on the back of my boarding pass saying “You look like someone who knows a lot about turbulence…could you come over and explain it to me?”

My sister handed him the note and pointed at me. I smiled and tried to look like I really needed someone to explain why the plane was jiggling about.

Mr Mature read my note, smiled and came over. He was American, on his way to Lagos for a conference, and it turned out he was more than just ‘mature’ - he was closer to my mum’s age than I expected. That was very disappointing.

My friend in Glasgow never forgave me for not swapping numbers with him, even when I told her that he was very fatherly about the whole thing. I mean he actually explained what turbulence was all about.

It’s all my sisters fault. If she had gotten off at Abidjan and not stuck around like a sixth toe I might have had better luck.

Re: Contacts Crisis

Quick update on the contact lens crisis of last week Thursday: at 11.30 pm that night I tried to get my contacts out again and - finally - the right lens slid out.

However, the left one stubbornly refused to come out. I was stuck in such an uncomfortable position; I could see out of only one eye so I squinted around the house for nearly thirty minutes, trying to cry it out.

At precisely eight minutes to midnight, the left lens surrendered.

Meeting Someone New

This is the last point on the list of things that happen to ‘A Woman of A Certain Age’ (definition: a single woman who has turned 30.)

This last point was the most important part of the whole experience; it was the part when I met ‘someone new’.

No, not Mr Right (if at all he exists)…the ‘someone new’ was…ME!

Yep, moi. I’d changed in so many ways since my last significant birthday (25) that it was like meeting a stranger.

I had slowly become less and less concerned about what others thought of me. I accepted it was OK to be who I am because I realized I’m not good at being anybody else.
I had every right to be as silly, playful, introverted or moody as I pleased and it took turning thirty to believe that. Wow. It was a significant discovery after a significant birthday.

There are several significant birthdays in one’s life. Your first birthday is naturally the most important, though if you’re Nigerian it’s actually not your Big Day. It’s your parents’, and there’s nothing you can do about it cos you’re only three hundred and sixty five days old, remember?

Nigerian parents hijack your first birthday party by: (1) inviting all their friends (2) including their friends’ children that are much older than you on the guest list (3) hiring ugly clowns to entertain the abovementioned friends’ children; clowns who end up frightening the piss out of you, the birthday kid (4) ordering spicy food you can’t eat because you’re still being weaned and (5) changing your clothes every thirty minutes so you can pose for pictures.

Aunts and uncles also ruin the day for you by passing you from hand to hand while referring to you as ‘the celebrant’ when in fact you’re in no mood to celebrate anything. “It’s my turn to carry the celebrant!” “Where’s the celebrant?” “Bring the celebrant!”
Naturally, you spend the whole day weeping and wailing because you’re hungry (your mum is busy running around so she doesn’t remember to feed you) scared (those clowns! aargh!) and confused (the noisy music & bright lights from the cameras.)

If you’re Nigerian, photo after photo from your first birthday will show you beautifully dressed, carried by your beaming mother with your mouth wide open (mid-wail) your eyes tightly shut (the bright lights) and a concave stomach (hungry in the midst of so much food.)

The next significant birthday is your fifth. By this time you are old enough to eat all the spicy food available, refuse to change your clothes for photos and throw cake at those ugly clowns.

At ten your birthday photos show you with long spindly legs, glasses and braces. At thirteen you’re finally a teenager! And still your birthday photos show you with long spindly legs, glasses and braces. At fifteen no one remembered to have a party for you but if they had, your photos would’ve shown you with yep, the same legs and glasses though the braces were finally gone.

At eighteen…still no party, probably because your parents are in denial about your obvious maturity. So your friends throw a party for you and your photos show all the girls with too much make up and all the guys staring at the swelling bosoms of the girls with too much make up. Twenty one flies by, you’re lucky if, as a Nigerian, you get more than a “happy birthday” and a card. (Parents seem to lose the zeal to throw parties after you turn thirteen)

When twenty five rolls around you’re old enough and solvent enough to throw yourself a party just the way you want it – no family members, just friends, drinks, cake and slow dancing. Then. You. Hit. Thirty.

If you’re married, hubby throws a party and invites all his friends.

If you’re not, you meet ‘someone new’...

A Spectacle in Spectacles

I’m writing this in a state of panic.

My contacts are stuck! I’ve been trying to get them out for ages but the @#!!$^^ things just won’t come out of my eyes!

I’ve called my contact lens experts for advice, the experts being my friends in Glasgow and Minnesota, because when I called my optician he did nothing to make me feel better about the situation; he always acts like it’s no big deal and its very annoying. He doesn’t wear contacts so what does he know about the panic of having foreign objects glued to your pupils?

It’s ridiculous that I have to call halfway around the world for reassurance.

This contacts-stuck-in-my-eye incident has only happened once before and when it did I went from being irritated that the lenses wouldn’t slide out, to being anxious that they clung to my eyes like leeches to finally ending up very afraid. I remembered all the small print about ‘infections’ and ‘eye ulcers’ and really worked myself up.
I called my optician and yelled down the phone about the strange lens solution he had recommended to me in lieu of my regular brand. “It’s that funny Russian lens solution!” I screamed. “I want my money back!” He assured me they would come out “at some point” and calmly hung up.

I swore NEVER to wear contacts again when they finally slid out after several gallons of tears. I wore glasses to work the next day and several colleagues stopped and stared in surprise because I’d never worn them to the office in my five years there.
Predictably, some crowded around me and I got all the ‘spectacle in spectacles’ comments: “You look like a secretary/librarian/teacher” “You look so serious” and “You look more intelligent.”
In other words, without my glasses I look less intelligent? More or less intelligent than what, anyway? What is the benchmark for measuring bespectacled intelligence? Why am I asking all these questions??

Then there was the very rude debate about whether I looked better with or without my glasses. It was rude not only because it was being discussed in my presence, but because a couple of times I was asked to “turn this way” and “let’s see the other side” so they could see my profile and reach a decision.

The very next day I went back to wearing my contacts because I didn’t want to look like a secretary/librarian/teacher, didn’t want to look so serious and wanted to hide my intelligence. Actually that’s not it, I’m just vain.

When my friend T got LASIK surgery done a few years ago, I remember thinking she was brave. And crazy. Now with my contacts rebelling I just searched online for details; maybe LASIK isn’t such a bad idea afterall. My friend in Glasgow told me that her contacts got stuck in her eyes just last night, told me what to do and generally calmed me down. So I’m here counting the minutes til I try to pluck them out again.

So it’s glasses tomorrow then.

PS: there's a saying that 'guys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses'. Let's see how true that is, tomorrow

Shoes, Bags & Headties (aka A Woman of a Certain Age - 3)

Back to my list of things that supposedly happen when a woman hits 30 - the fourth thing is: family members stop hinting about marriage and ask outright.

I’m lucky that no one in my family has asked me about the big M (yet) probably because I look young and they think I’m still 25!

Some (concerned/nosy,pick one) aunts ask when they should buy matching shoes and bags for your wedding. Or ask if you’ve picked a date. Or say (very loudly, at a family gathering) “Let me know on time so I’m in town for your wedding.”

All of which is meant to remind you that (a) you're no longer a spring chicken (b) her daughter got married before you (like it's a competition)and (c) the whole tribe is waiting on you to add your leaves to the family tree.

Why Did the Chicken Wings Cross the Road?

Ok its not about chicken wings, we all know the classic 'why did the chicken cross the road' question. I have a question of my own: has anyone thought to ask the damn chicken? It just might tell us and put this riddle to rest forever!

I don't know where this list originated, it was forwarded to me a while ago and I saved it because...well, its funny

KINDERGARTEN TEACHER: To get to the other side.

PLATO: For the greater good of man.

ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross
roads.

KARL MARX: It was a historical inevitability.

TIMOTHY LEARY: Because that's the only trip the
establishment would let it take.


SADDAM HUSSEIN: This was an unprovoked act of

rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50

tons of nerve gas on it.


RONALD REAGAN: I forget.


CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK: To boldly go where no chicken

has gone before.


HIPPOCRATES: Because of an excess of phlegm in its
pancreas.


ACCENTURE: Deregulation of the chicken's

side of the road was threatening its dominant market

position. The chicken was faced with significant

challenges to create and develop the competencies

required for the newly competitive market. Andersen

Consulting, in a partnering relationship with the

client, helped the chicken by rethinking its physical

distribution strategy and implementation processes.

Using the Poultry Integration Model (PIM), Andersen

helped the chicken use its skills, methodologies,

knowledge, capital and experiences to align the

chicken's people, processes and technology in support

of its overall strategy within a Program Management

framework. Accenture convened a diverse

cross-spectrum of road analysts and best chickens

along with Anderson consultants with deep skills in

the transportation industry to engage in a two-day

itinerary of meetings in order to leverage their

personal knowledge capital, both tacit and explicit,

and to enable them to synergize with each other in

order to achieve the implicit goals of delivering and

uccessfully architecting and implementing an

enterprise-wide value framework across the continuum

of poultry cross-median processes.The meeting was held

in park-like setting, enabling and creating an

impactful environment which was strategically based,

industry focused, and built upon a consistent, clear,

and unified market message and aligned with the

chicken's mission, vision, and core values. This was

conducive towards the creation of a total business.


LOUIS FARRAKHAN: The road, you see, represents the

black man. The chicken 'crossed' the black man in

order to trample him and keep him down.


MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.: I envision a world where all

chickens will be free to cross roads without having

their motives called into question.



MOSES: And God came down from the Heavens, and He said

unto the chicken, "Thou shalt cross the road." And the

chicken crossed the road, and there was much

rejoicing.


FOX MULDER: You saw it cross the road with your own

eyes. How many more chickens have to cross the road

before you believe it?


RICHARD M. NIXON: The chicken did not cross the road.

I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.


MACHIAVELLI: The point is that the chicken crossed the

road. Who cares why? The end of crossing the road

justifies whatever motive there was.


JERRY SEINFELD: Why does anyone cross a road? I mean,

why doesn't anyone ever think to ask, What the heck

was this chicken doing walking around all over the

place, anyway?"


FREUD: The fact that you are at all concerned that the

chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying

sexual insecurity.


BILL GATES: I have just released the new Chicken

Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will

lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance

your checkbook.


OLIVER STONE: The question is not, "Why did the

chicken cross the road?" Rather, it is, "Who was

crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked

in our haste to observe the chicken crossing?"


CHARLES DARWIN: Chickens, over great periods of time,

have been naturally selected in such a way that they

are now genetically disposed to cross roads.


ALBERT EINSTEIN: Whether the chicken crossed the road

or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon

your frame of reference.


BUDDHA: Asking this question denies your own chicken

nature.


RALPH WALDO EMERSON: The chicken did not cross the

road .. it transcended it.


ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die. In the rain.


COLONEL SANDERS: I missed one?


BILL CLINTON : I did not, and I repeat, did not have

sexual relations with that chicken.


PAT BUCHANAN: To steal a job from a decent, hard

working American.


L.A. POLICE DEPARTMENT: Give us five minutes with the

chicken and we'll find out.


DR. SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he

cross it with a toad? Yes! The chicken crossed the

road, but why it crossed, I've not been told!


GRANDPA: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken

crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken

crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.


BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT

chicken. However, I did ask Vernon Jordan to find the

chicken a job in New York

Oh, the Torment of Traffic

I haven’t posted anything new in the past few days because I’m so worn out when I get home - the 'go slow' these days is unimaginable. Got home at 11pm on Tuesday and it's been that bad for the past couple of months.

Those of us with good memories will remember the Mother-of-all-Traffic a couple of years ago when 3rd Mainland Bridge was being repaired. A well-known construction company hauled their bright blue machinery onto the bridge, taking over an entire lane and causing horrendous traffic at night, over a two-week period. Back then I sometimes got home at midnight, but at least there was an apparent reason for it. Now? You just keep inching along until you find yourself at your front door.

A few years ago a friend of mine told me how her family hosted a guest from New York. “I wanna see the Lagos traffic” the lady announced as soon as she arrived, “I’ve heard so much about it”. So my friend’s family drove the lady around town, looking for traffic during rush hour, but for some really strange reason there was no real traffic to be found. Unfortunately for the lady, it showed up the one time she definitely did not want to see it - as they sped towards the airport on the night of her departure what did they see inching its way ahead, but our infamous Lagos traffic.

For all of my fellow commuters stuck in the recurring nightmare of the Lagos commute, here are three more ways to keep busy during the bumper to bumper crawl:

1. Spice up your social life
If you’re one of those single people who moan about not meeting anyone new, take a good look around you next time you’re in standstill traffic and you’ll see that you are surrounded by hundreds of potential dates. How do you communicate your interest and availability? Slap on a bumper sticker that says something witty about you (Single, Slim, Sexy, Solvent and Searching) or be direct (Here’s My Number - 080…) But beware, people who smile at you in traffic aren’t necessarily interested, they might just want to cut into your lane.

2. Bond with your beloved
If you’re stuck on 3rd Mainland at night with your Significant Other, enjoy the romantic setting. Take a look around you - you’ll see the lagoon shimmering in the moonlight and stars twinkling overhead. (Assuming PHCN hasn’t disconnected the stars and moonlight) With street traders who sell just about everything, you have a chance to spontaneously buy a romantic gift. (Just ignore the screams from the car being robbed in front of you and no, a toilet seat does not count as a romantic gift)

3. Check out the goods
Speaking of toilet seats, if you’re really bored, check out all the shopping you can do from the (dis)comfort of your car. The last time I counted all the items I saw on sale in Lagos traffic in one day, I listed over seventy different things, including: irons, phones, meat, pots & pans, toilet seats, knives, garden shears, mags & newspapers, carrots, peas & potatoes, fruit, sausage rolls, (Gala Gala Gala) cold drinks, masks, flashlights, toys, crockery, slippers, kaftans, boxer shorts, radios, watches, jewellery, sunglasses and of course recharge cards. Oh yeah also: tissue, books, lightbulbs and towels. Not forgetting the aloe vera plants.

Is anyone from the Lagos State Government reading this?? (Probably not. They’re probably all busy mapping out new BRT routes. Which I suspect is the cause of all this madness.)
Help us! Come to our aid! As Nigerians on national TV like to say in polls about the State of the Nation - “We are suffering; the Government should please come to our aid.”

A Woman Of A Certain Age (2)

Considering Cradle Snatching
Ok so we’ve talked Biological Clocks and flab around the mid-section. Now it’s on to point 3 on the list of Things That Happen To A Woman Of A Certain Age: appreciating the younger men who find one attractive.

First let me define ‘younger men’: ‘younger’ means anyone up to an hour younger than you. (Yes, the rules are stringent but one needs order in this chaotic world.) ‘Men’ means anyone who’s not a woman. Put that together and ‘younger men’ means someone you never took seriously because you assumed they would be juvenile.

So, you’re thirty. And single. And searching, though you act like you’re not. And after attending the wedding of the last guy you know who is older than you, you realize that what was a shallow pool of eligible men slowly dried up into a puddle and then – right before your eyes – into a mud hole.

You’re just leaving the abovementioned wedding reception when your phone rings. *Aargh!* It’s him again. ‘Him’ being the persistent, much-younger suitor who refuses to accept that you’re Just Not Interested. Oh what the heck, I’ll take his call one last time. You answer. And talk. And laugh. And laugh again. (Hmm he’s funny) And smile at something he says (Aww, he’s sweet.)

You hang up and realize - in absolute horror - that you forgot to take some wedding cake home! Ok that’s not what you realize. Just kidding. What you really realize is that the only reason you blew your baby suitor off all this time was that you were being narrow minded; assuming that a younger man could not be your match mentally, emotionally or intellectually. You locked out a whole ocean of potential partners and allowed your ageist mentality to keep you splashing lamely in the shallow pool of older men; a pool that’s now dried up.

It’s definitely a *Eureka!* moment and you go home in high spirits, grateful that your eyes were opened to possibilities, before it was too late.

You get home in a state of excitement and tell your twenty-something year old sister everything you’ve realized.

“Hmm” she says, looking unconvinced. “Younger men. So you’re now officially a spinster?”

A Woman of a Certain Age

Several things supposedly happen when a single woman hits 30:

1. Her biological clock starts ticking (very loudly)
2. She develops the beginning of middle-age spread
3. She begins to appreciate the younger men who find her attractive
4. Family members stop hinting about marriage and ask outright
5. She discovers herself
6. She gets a significant pay raise at work

Okay the last point isn’t necessarily true, but apparently the first five are to be expected. So did any of those things happen to me??...

Tick Tock
Ah, the Biological Clock, that imaginary device whose constant ticking serves as a reminder to women to “Have A Baby Soon, Have A Baby Soon.”

At some point I thought I might have to take my Clock in for repairs – most times it didn’t tick at all, though I did notice a very faint ‘tick tock’ when I saw a bathed, powdered, well-behaved baby. At one point I got worried – shouldn’t I be desperate to have a child? Shouldn’t I be staring wistfully at other people’s children? Maybe my Biological Clock needed new batteries?

Then I met J, then a two and a half month old and suddenly my phone is full of his photos. I clapped enthusiastically when he tried his first mouthful of solid food and celebrated when he tried to crawl. My Clock is working perfectly!

Looking Flabulous
*sigh* A few years ago I remember staring at my cousin's belly with disdain. If it was possible to have a conceited tummy, mine was it. It was flat and firm and looked down on any that was less than perfect.
As far as I was concerned a sagging belly on a woman without kids was the result of indiscipline! lack of self control! gluttony! I was the disciplined one. I was controlled, strong willed and yet, before I knew it I was on the way to displaying the genes I shared with my cousin.

I tried sit ups. I'd wake up half an hour earlier, stuff my feet under the couch in the living room and huff & puff my way through them. I'd read that Destiny's Child did about 300 sit ups a day and used that to motivate myself but I'd usually only manage five and a half before I gave up, telling myself "they do that because they earn their living from looking great. I don't have to"

As my suddenly-snug shirts confirm, I can no longer carelessly reach for one more doughnut and have taken to occasionally choosing tops which allow me the luxury of breathing. No more tight fitting tops if it means I have to walk around Lagos with my tummy sucked in.

Here's a great tip for anyone who wants to hang loose at work, especially after lunch: (assuming you have an adjustable swivel chair)
1. jack your seat down really low
2. pull yourself in towards your desk and...
3. voila! your tummy is neatly tucked away under your desk. Try it, it works. :-)

Witty Words of Wisdom

Still on the stuff I dug out of my old bag of books; I also found an old email I'd printed out, which had some really funny one-liners.

The email had been forwarded to me and though I usually delete forwarded mails on the spot, (especially those annoying, threatening ones that instruct you to forward to several other people or risk developing boils in your armpit) this one was quite funny.

I don’t know where the quotes originally came from but here they are:

Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you’re a mile away and you’ve got their shoes.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a flat tyre and a broken fan belt

Always remember you’re unique. Just like everyone else.

The quickest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your pocket

If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

Don’t be irreplaceable. If you can’t be replaced, you can’t be promoted.

And my absolute favourite:
Don’t walk behind me, for I may not lead. Don’t walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Don’t walk beside me for the path is narrow. In fact, just f*ck off and leave me alone.

So What Do We Have in Common with South Africa?

Industrial actions, for one.
Apparently South African workers have been striking for three weeks to demand higher pay.

Hopefully ours won’t last that long as dialogue is ongoing between the Federal Government and the Unions. I’m hopeful of a positive outcome; a strike becomes very uncomfortable if it lasts longer than 3 days, particularly if electricity and water gets shut off…and there was talk of that happening.

I don’t have a lot of info on the South African strike; apparently it has affected schools, hospitals and transportation, with negotiations between the SA Government and the Congress of South African Trade Unions currently deadlocked. (For more info, check out the Reuters and BBC sites.)

It’s just past 11 pm now. A few hours ago a tired looking Baba Gana Kingibe, Secretary to the FG, emerged after a six hour stakeholder meeting held to resolve the issues surrounding the strike. No agreements yet so they went on break and will meet again at midnight.

Barney Goes to the Farm (And So Does Obasanjo)

Day 2 (Strike 1)

The strike is still on. The roads are deserted, most people are home and the Government and Trade Unions are meeting today.

PHCN has been quite kind these past couple of days; we’ve had power most of the time. When the power does goes off the whole place goes deathly quiet, which is normal. What’s strange is how long the quiet lasts. I’ve noticed that the neighbours aren’t in any hurry to put their gens on - with the fuel situation its best to conserve diesel, eh?

It's now I realize that there’s a lot of background noise we take for granted - the hum of the fridge, the maiguard’s radio blaring by the gate, your neighbour’s kids watching the same episode of Barney - at full volume - for the 1,000th time…speaking of which, the other day I bought some new Barney DVDs for the kids in my mum’s daycare. “Thank God” said Georgina when I showed her the new collection. She’s the lady who looks after the children and she’s understandably sick and tired of the “Barney Goes to the Farm” episode that’s been in the player since February. She even knows all the songs & most of the dialogue…

Civil Rights activist Femi Falana was on TV earlier today, talking about the fact that VAT was increased without the National Assembly’s involvement, and about the 14 day ultimatum the Unions gave the Government before the strike commenced. And in the other corner we have the Government saying (repeatedly) that the Unions have a political agenda.
There’s a lot of back & forth and I’m starting to feel cooped up at home, waiting around to hear the latest on the strike - is it still on, has it been called off, will it still be on tomorrow…its like being in a bad relationship and not being sure whether you’re still together!

Heard something funny on TV this morning during all the coverage on the situation: the presenter said that Obasanjo caused problems for Yar'Adua and then retired to his farm, instead of allowing Yar'Adua to cause his own palaver. It’s interesting to note that we believe our leaders are there to cause problems. But it does make sense to ensure that any trouble you cause is solely your own.

The Empress Decrees: Benjamin Can Stay

On TV they showed clips of how deserted the roads are because of the strike.

It wasn’t that much different this past week, during the petrol scarcity. A couple of days ago when I gave someone a ride home from work, we were amazed that the journey home which normally takes at least 2 hours lasted only 35 minutes. We talked about what Lagos was like in the ‘good old days’: no traffic, getting around was no issue etc. I was talkin’ way back in the 80’s but it turned out not everyone in the car was on the same page.

I said “Wouldn’t it be great if everyone who’s lived here for less than 15 years would move out so we could have the roads free again?” I got no response to this from my colleague and noticed Benjamin squirming a bit. He probably thinks I have the power to make that happen!
So I asked my colleague in the back seat how long she’d lived in Lagos, turns out she’s only been here about 4 years. Hmm, no wonder she didn’t think much of my idea.
“Benjamin, how long have you been here?” He said twelve years, so in my little role play as Empress of Lagos I altered the law to read ‘anyone who’s been here less than 12 years…’ so that Benjamin can stay because I need him to get to work. He looked pleased that I allowed him to stay in Lagos.

Lagos in the 80’s was paradise compared to now. I wrote an article in Island News a couple of years ago about what Falomo Bridge was like back then; you could zip across in a matter of minutes, visit a friend, zip back home, remember you forgot something at your friend’s place and even consider going back to get it. Now it’s a long slow crawl spent maneuvering around beggars and hawkers.

But it’s not all pleasant memories - the part I hated was the descent from the bridge to the roundabout, where if your windows weren’t up you risked getting blinded by a bunch of plantains. There used to be some women and their kids stationed at the roundabout, armed with huge loaves of bread and massive plantains, waiting for motorists to slow down so they could fling their wares in through the open windows. The thinking probably was that whoever got their plantains in first, clinched the sale.
It really didn’t matter whether or not the people in the car wanted to buy anything.

They would run alongside the car yelling Bread! Plantain! Bread! I guess to help you identify the objects they were stuffing in through your window. But they only did it for a couple of minutes, and only at the roundabout. They’re nothing like the new breed of hawkers who are prepared to dog you down the length of Kingsway Road.

Day 1 (Strike 1)

It’s just past 10 am on the first day of the strike. The NLC strike, that is. The petrol workers’ strike has been called off, remember? (Try to keep up, guys)

I got calls from a couple of colleagues earlier this morning asking if I was at work? “No.” If I’m going to go to work? “No.”

Turns out that some people who were attempting to go to the Island today got turned back, probably by representatives of the Labour Congress. They had to go back home and here we all sit, watching the news to keep up.

The President of the Trade Union Congress was on Sunrise Daily this morning, to explain the Union’s position.
It’s a great show on Channels TV for getting topical issues clarified and I’m glad I watched it because after what the TUC Prez explained, I now understand that the Labour Congress isn’t being pedantic: yesterday the FG reduced the pump price from the N75/litre the Obasanjo administration announced before leaving, to N70/litre. However the Congress insisted on full reversion to the previous price of N65 and went on with the strike because of that.

While it may appear that the strike is on over N5/litre, the guy explained that the manner in which VAT and petrol prices were raised is also being protested. It is statutory for a stakeholder’s meeting to be held before such price increases are made and he alleged that no such meeting held. Stakeholders include the various Unions: NLC, TUC, PENGASSAN etc

I agree wholeheartedly that if this is allowed to slide by, precedence would’ve been set and we will wake up one day to the announcement that petrol is N150/litre, too bad if we don’t like it.
The question came up: “why didn’t the Unions react earlier?” afterall it was the previous administration that implemented these price increases. From what the TUC guy said, they chose to be silent to allow for a peaceful handover process.

Perhaps it’s a good thing they were quiet about it…who knows, perhaps if there were strikes and all sorts of crises at the point of Obasanjo’s departure he might have declared a state of emergency and presented that as a reason to prolong his stay in the leadership?

Now, being a crusty old cynic, I don’t know how much of what I heard this morning is really the true picture of things. As the saying goes, there is no one truth, only different versions of it and so far I’ve only heard the Union’s side.

3rd Mainland in 8

It took us 8 minutes to cross 3rd Mainland Bridge this morning.

It usually takes an hour.

I guess everyone else was queuing at a petrol station or was at home conserving what little they had, so there was just a handful of cars on the bridge at the time Benjamin and I zipped across on our last few drops of precious petrol.

At the traffic lights I saw a newspaper headline: “Federal Government reduces fuel price, reduces VAT”
Sh*t that meant the strike wouldn’t start tomorrow as planned. So much for my wish for a couple of days off work and escape from the manic Lagos traffic. I called a friend and told her the news.

“Sh*t” she said. (We think alike, that’s why we’re friends.)

The guys in my team were subdued when I got in. “Hi guys looks like there won’t be a strike!” I greeted. They grunted and barely looked up. I guess they were looking forward to a strike-induced holiday as well.

E refused to order chicken wings today because he’s waiting for the price to come down. He even harassed the chick who works at the joint across the street when she delivered someone else’s order, telling her “go back and tell your Manager that the Government has brought VAT back to 5% so chicken wings can’t remain at N630”

Everyone geared up to report to work tomorrow (Wednesday.) We weren’t looking forward to it because we were sure that by Thursday the traffic would be back - *groan* - since the petrol workers had called off their strike. (Note to confused readers: 2 strikes were in the pipeline: one called by the Labour Congress and the other by the petrol workers.)

I was worried about not having any petrol; all I’d have left after we got home would be about a teaspoon if any. Got home in a record 30 minutes or so, resigned to paying three times more for 'black market' from the guys who line up jerry cans of the stuff along the road.

I was really concerned about paying so much and ending up with petrol that had been mixed with kerosene or something but Benjamin claims he has a foolproof method of testing before buying. Something about a skin test. (Hey, as long as it’s not my skin being tested.)
He’s worked as a mechanic so I tend to go with what he says unless it sounds really silly. You could say I got two for the price of one - a driver and mechanic of some sort.

Showed me the certificate he got when he graduated from the mechanic workshop he trained at. According to the certificate, he is (and I quote) “a trained engineer” and “his absence from the workshop has left a vacuum no man can fill”. Whoever filled in the details of Benjamin’s certificate obviously lifted that line from somewhere, and I believe the ‘somewhere’ is an obituary.

On the way home we found some ‘black market’ to buy but it turned out I had left my wallet at home so the plan was for Benjamin to buy about 15 litres tomorrow.

Then on the 9 o’clock news it was announced that the Labour Congress decided the strike would go on. On, off, on off...the strike business is just like the power supply.

Apparently, the Government reverted to the old VAT of 5% in response to all the pressure but only went as far as reducing the pump price to N70/litre instead of the previous price of N65/litre.

The strike is going to cause even more hardship for the millions of people who live on daily earnings so on that note I really cannot support a strike that lasts longer than a couple of days.

However, truth is the selfish insensitive side of me cannot help but be pleased to have a day or two away from a crazy commute, demanding deadlines and overpriced chicken wings.

Petrol & Gold Plated Chicken Wings

On strikes
Since last week there’s been talk that there will be a strike this week; something to do with protesting the 100% increase in VAT that was implemented without warning, and the sale of refineries, and the hike in petrol prices and who knows what else is being protested.

My friends at work welcome the thought of a few days off work that’s not taken out of our annual leave (ha ha.) A strike would also mean escape from the punishing traffic. So you could say the strikers have our full support, whoever they are.

I didn’t have a clear picture of what was going on because keeping up with current affairs in this country could be a full time job. I’d have to resign from my current job and stay glued to the TV and papers so I could draw up an accurate schedule of who’s striking where/when/why; who’s disgruntled or being ‘marginalized’ etc etc. All that and my job?? No way. I’ve dumbed down. No more Miss Intelligent-Conversation-About-The-State-of-The-Nation. Its far too tiring. Plus there’s too much going on here. As Mike Chinoi used to say on CNN: “there’s a Chinese curse…(I hope I’m getting my facts right here)…may you live in interesting times”. These are interesting times…just in an alarmingly negative way.

Like I said, last week I didn’t have a clue what the issues were - I was too busy trying to meet my various deadlines - all I knew was that the chicken wings & pepper sauce my team orders nearly every day from the joint across the street went up from N500 to N630! Overnight. There was commotion. Everyone made a lot of noise and demanded to know why. Y said he didn’t even think they were *real* chicken wings; they’re so tiny that they look more like pigeon wings. I couldn’t debate that with him because I have no idea what fried pigeon wings & pepper sauce looks like, and Y probably has more experience with that sort of thing.

“ N630 for chicken wings?? Are they gold plated?” I needed to know, so I asked the lady at the other end when I called to place our order but she didn’t get it. She actually said no, they weren’t gold plated.

I’m always the one calling to place the orders so they know my name at the joint across the street. I do the calling because I’m in possession of the only copy of the menu & pricelist in the office, which I keep locked up in my drawer because you really cant trust anyone these days. People always ask “Where’s the menu?” Give it to them, they run off with it, (never to be seen again) and what’s a girl to do without her daily dose of chicken wings??

Its not like we can no longer afford the wings, it just didn’t seem like we were getting any value from the deal at the new price. “It’s because of VAT” the lady said.

I’m ashamed to say that that’s how I found out there was an increase in VAT, even though my mum had mentioned it at home a couple of times… I’M STRESSED! I CANT RETAIN ALL THIS INFORMATION!

Then on Saturday morning when Benjamin came to work he said he saw long queues at the petrol station, so I asked him to go and join the closest one and fill up the tank. He came back 3 hours later and said that he didn't buy any petrol because just as he got to the front of the line “those people come close de station”.

“What people?” I asked.

“The people wey dey strike because dey wan sell de refinery.” (You see how many issues I have to keep up with? You see?)

That’s when I found out that there are two groups planning strikes this week. The first is the Labour Congress, over the increase in VAT and the prices of petroleum products. The second group is…er…the group that “close de station”.

Friendly Neighbourhood Neighbours

On the neighbourhood
I’ve lived here for… (Pause while I count) eight long years. Or ‘eight rains’ as my ancestors would’ve put it. Hardly know any of the neighbours, probably because I hardly *speak* to any of the neighbours.
As a matter of fact, in my book only the people who live in the same building or on either side are considered neighbours. The rest just ‘live around’.

So, who are my neighbours? Let’s start with the people I actually recognize:
Mr. Singh
Mr. Singh’s house help
Mr. Singh’s house help’s sister
Mrs. Singh
Mr. Singh’s brother
Mr Singh’s niece
Mr. Singh’s other relation
My neighbour who’s also my landlord, and his family. (actually they’re categorized as family friends, not mere neighbours so I’ll leave them off this list)
My other neighbour
My other neighbour’s wife
My other neighbour’s house help with the bad temper (always yelling at the kids)
My other neighbour’s brother (1)
My other neighbour’s brother (2)
My other neighbour’s brother (3 – moved out)
My other neighbour’s female-relation-who-parks-her-car-next-door-cos-there-isn’t-enough-parking-space-here. (MONFReWhoParks for short)

On friends
I lost all my friends from school, except for my friend T who lives in the States. That is a friendship extraordinaire. Been running for twenty five years! Sometimes I wonder why my friend is still my friend. We live miles & miles apart and aren’t in touch every week or even every month, yet with every phone call we just pick up from where we left off the last time. She’s married with 2 kids, I’m single with 3 kids…(okay they aren’t my kids but they are at my mum’s daycare Monday to Friday so technically I could lay claim to them too)

Now all my friendships are new, developed within the last five or six years, and all from work. At one point I was determined to develop new friends outside work and enrolled in a French class. That didn’t work. And I still don’t parle Francais at all.