Blackberry Blues

Silky black hair bouncing, her slim figure hurried in the direction of the buzzing Blackberry Bold on the cold leather sofa with heightened expectancy. With each step she took, she sunk into years of exquisite Turkish craftsmanship that massaged the soles of her feet with a delicate softness. "Hello," she whispered into the mouthpiece in breathless motion while her feet continued to be caressed by the expensive comfort of the rug. "Ah, Madam. It's me Yakubu." The driver had a penchant for calling at the most inopportune moments. Her furrowed eye brows and pursed lips indicated her unhappiness with the identity of the caller. "Yes? What is the problem?" The fidgeting driver began to regret making the call; maybe he should have stuck to his usual routine and sent the houseboy, Edet, to ask Madam the questions. He would text or 'ping' the stupid boy to find out his whereabouts as soon as this call was over. "Er, nothing Ma. Nothing. But...Er, I was just calling to check that we are still going to the market today." After four years with the family, Yakubu surprisingly still erred occasionally in his limited understanding of master-servant etiquette. "I will call you when I need you." Click. She was hardly ever rude to Yakubu, but her nerves had been severely jangled by the maid almost burning the house down while preparing breakfast. The blackened walls, burnt countertops, and scalded pots in the kitchen a remainder of what could have almost been. Shamed by her carelessness, Charity the maid, had tendered her "resignation" amidst tears, and had insisted on leaving for her village right away. Her secret lover, Edet, had escorted her to the crowded motor-way junction to catch a bus headed for the south.

As Madam's thoughts centered on the morning's events, the silence was again pierced by the buzzing phone. Probably the tailor confirming her afternoon appointment, she thought as she glanced at the 'Unavailable' across the telephone's screen. The furrowed look automatically returned to her face. "Hello?" Silence. Beep. Beep. Her heart skipped a beat. "Hey beautiful." It was him. The man she had met in her dreams the night before.

Once I Was Young...

I miss sitting on a weather-beaten rock and watching my mid-sized pet tortoises lazily make their way through the grass in my backyard. The early morning dew. I miss Billy the goat bleating in agreement to my every sentence and following my every footstep around the yard and sometimes even the house!! I miss sitting with the Fulani mai guards (security men) late into the starry night crouched around a burning fire and learning to speak Hausa and stringing bows and arrows. I miss reading the morning newspapers and cartoon strips with my Uncle Chimela. I miss the massive rush of excitement I felt every time I discovered eggs underneath the hens in the coop. I miss using chalk to draw an "S" on a red cape or bed sheet, putting it on and pretending to be invincible. I miss playing "catcher" or "it." I miss playing police and thieves aka cops and robbers. I miss waking up early on saturday mornings just to watch cartoons. My Enid Blyton books. I miss sitting at my grandfather's feet and listening to tales of survival, comedy, and perseverance. I miss the trips to my village at christmas.

I miss having a crush on the rosy-cheeked girl with the pigtails who went to my school and church. I miss getting lost. I miss watching the grass turn from green to brown and back to green every year. I miss plucking mangoes. I miss my slingshot. The BMX. I miss playing soccer barefoot on all surfaces and at all hours: From the high-combed cocks crowing at dawn to the gleaming crickets chirping at night. I miss sneaking out of the house to feed the neighbors' horses. I miss my nicknames. I miss my dogs, especially Lily and Wolf. I miss climbing up to the roof to watch the orange sunset. I miss my multi-colored hand-knit sweaters and hot cocoa on frigid Harmattan mornings. The crisp air. The blue skies. My double-decker bed. I miss the beautiful singing of my Aunt Gladys ringing through the halls. I miss learning to swim with floaters. I miss doing homework with my mother. My teacher's golden star stickers next to my scrawly handwriting in my workbooks. I miss making everyone laugh uncontrollably with my portrayals in school plays. I miss being the only boy in my after-school knitting class. I miss my innocence. I wish I was six again. I wish my memories wouldn't confuse themselves with dreams.  I miss simpler times.

After Tonight....

The following draws inspiration from a recent conversation with a good friend of mine, so the incidents described herein are to say the least semi-fictitious. A mesh of several stories if you will.

I couldn't sleep. My insomnia wore on as I tossed and turned while replaying the weekend's events over and over in my head. Charles Trenet crooned some French Jazz on my Ipod dock; his words conveniently reflecting on the interactions between Venus and Mars. I smiled to myself when I remembered the semi-drunken limbo stick game at her house, the random runs to the liquor store on the corner as the moon steadily spread its luminous shadow across the concrete streets, and of course the neighbor's marijuana-inspired party that had left several people on the block muttering in complaint. All had been well at her abode, until a misplaced spatula triggered a row that severely watered down our merry revelry. In hindsight, it's hard to believe that in that minute instant, a cooking instrument laid waste to our blossoming friendship.

Women are a funny lot. One minute they are the most docile creatures in the world, accepting attention and flattery from all corners. The next minute they rage on about being with you or being involved with you, and this is usually affirmed by the age-old statement: "No woman would put up with this but me...blah, blah, blah..." There's always something new. Some men put up and shut up. But for others, the typical response is: "Fine then. Go ahead and look for that all so perfect specimen of a man that exhibits all the physical and emotional traits you desire." The underlying message is that Mars and Venus will always collide and give off sparks. It's only a question of 'When' not 'If.'

It's amazing what being in love can do to someone, especially when the relationship ends. In your heart of hearts, you know you should forge ahead for pastures anew instead of being stuck in reverse. However, most of us dither wondering if this is who we need/want to be with. As Coldplay said: "(When) you are too in love to let it go, but if you never try you'll never know just what you're worth." But some people take forever to find the needed courage to sever ties and discover a new joie de vivre for themselves sans their partner. Maybe that premise had played a gradual, but unconscious part in her thought process in the last week. Or maybe the alarming similarities we shared had something to do with it (music, travel, food, films, wine, even birthday month). Maybe she was scared and didn't trust herself falling for me. I was overanalyzing the situation again. I looked at my watch as the first rays of sunlight penetrated mercilessly through my window blinds. 5 AM. Insanity. I had work in less than four hours, and thoughts about 'love' and 'her' could wait 'til my next bout of sleeplessness.

The Girl at St. Mark's

She looked like she had always contemplated love and marriage. But somehow, she had ended up viewing both as a tacit compliance with societal expectations of the modern female. I continued to cast furtive glances in her direction. At present her sword was sheathed; she was through with collecting battle scars and more focused on realigning her stars. That was the only explanation I could come up with as she ignored each gentleman who ventured to her table to test her resolve. Seated two tables across from me, watching her was the highlight so far of my Sunday brunch. But something else was on my mind: The weather.

Since it was the middle of summer, we were seated outside on the sidewalk. The heat was unbearable, and yellow taxis constantly whistled by with their windows wound up to keep their inhabitants from sharing my present misery of pressurized humidity.  As I felt my armpits for the umpteenth time, I silently thanked God for the creation of antiperspirants. Until someone chose that very moment to defy all heat-related logic. "Excuse me, can I get two cups of coffee?" The gentleman next to me had to be suffering from some kind of heat-stricken sickness. Coffee in this blistering heat? Madness. I turned my much-needed voyeuristic abilities back to where they were warranted.

Her lips glistened. Tussles of hair danced with the gentle but scarce breeze. Her black dress caressed every curve on her elegant figure. The sun kissed her svelte ebony skin, and beneath the wraparound sunglasses on her face, her mysterious eyes twinkled. Her flawless legs and full lips were begging to be touched. "Sir are you ready to order?" The waiter came across to my table for a second time. "Arroz con pollo and a bottle of Moscato '01," I replied curtly. He scribbled quickly on his notepad and scurried off in the direction of the kitchen. 

She had to be in her mid-twenties...at least I hoped she was. My food surprisingly arrived under fifteen minutes, and as I worked my way through the chicken and rice dish, the girl started to observe me. "Hey baby." Can't a man flirt in peace anymore? I froze with a piece of chicken dangling awkwardly from my mouth. "Hey you, you're early." I stood up to acknowledge Marie, my fiancee. "I know, but I got tired of shopping," she replied. The girl across the two tables was smiling from ear-to-ear now; her dazzling, pearly white teeth a reflection of her amusement. Then she stood up and walked directly towards my table. "Thank you for the magazine again, especially the article on intimacy," she said. Magazine?? Article??  "You, you, you're very welcome," I stuttered. 

As the girl walked away to hail a cab, I turned the pages to the intimacy article. "Since when did you start reading Vanity Fair?" Marie's inquisitive mind would have to wait a few seconds as I quickly memorized the name and phone number on the corner of pg. 54. Nai Wilson, 1-718-783.... I blotted out the information with my thumb, while I pretended I was turning pages. "Sorry honey, I needed to mark that page again, because I need it for the new KY account I'm working on." I swallowed deeply as I told my first post-engagement lie. "OK, cool. Well I'm famished, where's the waiter?" Marie beckoned vigorously in the waiter's direction, while I gulped down a glass of wine. Phew, close call. Yet I could feel the sweat forming in my armpits.

NB: St. Mark's is a popular strip of restaurants and everything else in Manhattan's lower East side.

My First Sale

She twiddled her tanned thumbs slowly before reaching across to grab the item from my hands. Underneath her thick layered makeup and gold-rimmed Rayban sunglasses, I could sense the insecurities belied by her desire to be associated with the "in" crowd. She had to be the sixteenth or seventeenth person who had stopped since I had spread out my wares at midday. Two children holding ice-cream cones ran past in pursuit of their wind-swept balloons, which were headed for the street corner dominated by Ali and his kebab stand. 

Forever chatting incessantly, he was dressed in a now familiar garb of a white "I Love NY" T-shirt, a pair of stained Levi's jeans feeling the strain of an oversized gut, and a pair of slippers curved at the toes like those worn by merchants at the Persian bazaars. Ali's outfit always had one common denominator. Perched atop his head in its usual awkward angle was a well-worn dark blue Yankees hat. You could almost forgive Ali for thinking he was in the comfort of his living room or his office: His amiable countenance reminded me of the griots I had admired from afar as a child in my village, and like a true ringmaster, he seemed to know all the acts who walked by. 

I quickly reverted my attention back to Potential Customer No. 16 or 17. She was murmuring to herself, almost gauging if her friends would heartedly approve of her purchase - if she ever made one. "How much?" I hadn't heard wrong. "$100." My response was swift, like a starved hawk who had suddenly noticed a fat juicy worm half buried in the earth. "I'll give you $80." The worm edged deeper into the soil. Ali's cacophonous laughter pierced through the smoke rising from his grill.

My stomach growled loudly in anticipation as the smell of the kebabs wafted through my nose, until I remembered my empty-laden pockets. I put out an open palm, and a few moments later Benjamin Franklin stared at my ebony, weather-beaten face. "One minute please." I rushed over to Ali to ask for change. "Ah, Habibi you are losing too much weight already, and you have only been in this country for two weeks. Here take this." He chuckled as he handed over some fresh bread and beef doused in a spicy homemade sauce, along with five $20 bills. I returned to my stand and handed over the merchandise and change to the waiting lady. "See you very soon," she chirped as she strutted away. My very first sale in America, right on a 5th Avenue corner. I picked up one of my many handbags laid out on the table, and wiped the shiny buckle fervently with a cloth I had brought with me from my uncle's house in the Bronx. "PRADO." The embossed name glistened in the June sunshine as my enormous kebab sandwich gradually encircled my mouth and two NYPD patrolmen steadily approached from behind.

American Dreaming

Welcome to Sunday's American journey. It all began early one morning at the notorious American embassy in Lagos, Nigeria. Armed to the teeth with supporting documents and in tandem with his best friend Cletus, they joined the already long queue at about 3 am. "Ol' boy na wa o. Na everybody and their mama come apply for visa? Meanwhile, this marina water just dey smell anyhow." Sunday ignored Cletus and stared at the teeming mass gathered at the massive black gate. Didn't people sleep anymore? After assuming their positions at the back of the line, Sunday turned to his best friend. "Omo mek you no sleep too much o. Na every man for himsef for here, and 9 o'clock go soon reach when we go enter." Cletus grunted sleepily in response as he attempted to find a comfortable position without budging the large Oshodi market woman in front of him. He had engaged in fisticuffs with one too many of them for him to remember, and could sniff out an Oshodi dweller a mile away. Besides, sporting another black eye at his interview would lead to yet another visa denial.

A few hours later Cletus was snoring soundly and the line had extended to the Finnish embassy round the bend about a mile away. Sunday had drifted in and out of sleep, his mind imagining all the things he could do for his family if he finally got his golden ticket. He would buy his civil service father a motorcycle, and his stay-at-home mother would get the washer and dryer set she had always wanted to start her own salon in the living room of their tiny room and parlor abode. His four younger siblings could get all the comics, books, and toys they had only dreamed about or seen on their archaic black and white television. Maybe he would even talk Papa into transferring them from the Federal Government College to Madam Eniola's cheap private secondary school. And for himself: he would finally be able to afford the dowry for the mechanic's daughter down the road. No more Nigerian nightmares, only American dreams.

"Buy groundnut!! 40 Naira!! "Vroom!!! Vroom!!" He was quickly jolted back to reality by a speeding Okada man knocking over a young groundnut seller, her wares spilling across the roadside. Unsurprisingly, the bike man kept his foot on the accelerator, because stopping would surely result in an angry mob ending his day prematurely. "Olosi!!! Abi, you no see am?? E no go better for you!!! You this yeye man!! Your papa!!!" The insults rained from passers-by as the swerving Okada man sped on. Sunday chuckled knowingly. Sights and sounds of Lagos. Maybe he would hold off on buying his father a motorcycle after all.

To be continued....

Casual is Sexy...Caring is Creepy

Joel Walkowski's "Let’s Not Get to Know Each Other Better," --which appeared in the New York Times has to be the best article I have read this year--bar none. Succinct. Truthful. Clairvoyant to a fault. And most importantly: a well-written story of what growing up in our wonder years is presently like. Though lengthy, it's a great read. Trust me. Enjoy Joel's story, and thanks to the friend who sent it my way.

A few months ago I liked a girl — a fairly common occurrence. But being slightly ambitious and drunk, I decided to ask her out on a date. This was a weird choice, as I’m not sure I know anyone who has ever had a real date. Most elect to hang out, hook up, or Skype long-distance relations. The idea of a date (asking in advance, spending rent money on dinner and dealing with the initial awkwardness) is far too concrete and unnecessary. As the adage goes: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Why pay for dinner if you can sit around watching TV? If you stay at home, you hardly even need to stand up, let alone put on a nice shirt. Despite misgivings, this particular foray felt legitimate, a coming-of-age moment straight out of a John Hughes movie. I had always wanted to go on a real date: flowers, dinner and all that. I thought that maybe in doing so I would feel more like an adult and less like a dumb little boy. So I called this girl, feeling a little sleazy as I searched for the right words: “Hey, um, this is Joel. Do you want to, like, go out? On a date?” “O.K.,” she said uncertainly, no doubt suspicious the whole thing was a joke. 

Her positive response did nothing to calm my jitters. Give me a party, a front porch gathering, or a random encounter, and I’m comfortable talking to anyone. But this kind of formal planning unnerved me. Riding my bike home, I realized I didn’t even know what a real date was, beyond some vague Hollywood notion. In my 21 years, I have had my share of trysts and one-night stands. I’ve been in love. I know it was love because I shamelessly clung to her. I have had my share of ups and downs but have no idea if I’m doing the whole love thing right or wrong. We don’t tend to define it that way. In this age of cyberselves, with hookups just a Craigslist ad away, the game has evolved to the point of no rules. It’s not the ’50s where I can ask some lucky girl to wear my pin and take a ride in daddy’s car. This change probably benefits me in the end, as I’m sure an offer of a ride in my dad’s Sable would be swiftly rejected. 

For my generation, friendship often morphs into a sexual encounter and then reverts to friendship the next day. And it’s easy as long as you don’t put yourself on the line or try too hard. Don’t have a prospect? Check Facebook. Afraid to call? Text. With so many avenues for communication, one might expect an onslaught of romantic soliloquies, but that isn’t the case. Casual is sexy. Caring is creepy. You don’t want to show your hand, and you certainly don’t want to fall in love. At least until you do, and by then it’s too late. Planned romance is viewed as nothing more than ambition, so it’s important that things be allowed to happen naturally. Sex is great, and so are some relationships, but not to the point that they should be actively pursued. It’s hard to even flirt with a girl without feeling obvious and embarrassed, since the greatest displays of cheesiness come from the pursuit, making it disgusting: “Oh, you drive a Volvo? What’s that like?” Realizing I’m flirting, I cringe and do my best to restrain myself. An encounter is best when unsullied by intentions, leaving lust or boredom to take over. The typical sequence goes like this: Friends meet up at some sort of bonfire or impromptu game of night volleyball. Maybe that girl from your history class is there, and you start to talk. Neither of you has expectations. But just hanging out and swapping stories, laughing a little, creates a spark and the attraction builds, eventually leading to the big wet kiss that changes everything and nothing.

This is the perfect hookup, a pressure-free surprise. With a stranger, everything is new and acceptable. Her quirks are automatically endearing. This first encounter is the perfect place, but where does it lead? In the best case, nowhere at all. The next time you see her in class, you act the same as you did before, and so does she, except for the knowledge you share that what happened last week might happen again. If it continues, you have an understanding, physical chemistry and great conversations. You meet two or three times a week for no-strings sex and long-winded philosophical talks. Most importantly, you aren’t lonely. Maybe deep in the recesses of your mind you think about possibly loving this person. What’s the standard response? Nothing. If she asks, “How do you feel about me?” you answer from the heart: “I see you as an unexpected treat from the heavens. I don’t know how I deserve this.”

Your relationship is good. Your relationship is strong. But it isn’t a relationship, and that’s the key. You aren’t hoping she will become your girlfriend, and ideally she is not looking for anything more, either. A friend of mine, a normal girl who is neither especially social nor aloof, engages in hookups unabashedly — she’s just doing what she wants and doesn’t regret or overthink it. Except for one time when she woke up in some guy’s embrace, got out of bed and noticed his bookshelf. I’m not sure what it was about the contents that impressed or moved her; maybe the books suggested a gentle soul. All I know is what she told me: “I only felt bad after seeing his books.” The books had made him a real person, I guess, one she liked. Or pitied. Because then it was on to the next. 

I might not be a typical youth, and maybe my friends aren’t typical, either, but hardly anyone I know aspires to be “that guy” or “that girl,” those once-dynamic individuals who “found someone” and suddenly weren’t so cool. On some level, we envy the scope of their feelings, but we certainly don’t want to become them. But staying out of relationships can be just as much work as maintaining one. After hooking up with the same person several times I’m sometimes haunted by the “Relationship Status” question on Facebook, and I’ll linger over the button, wondering whether to make the leap from fun to obligation. I envision holding hands, meeting her parents and getting matching ankle tattoos. Then I come to my senses and close the window. Sometimes, though, it’s not up to me. I work at one of the campus libraries, and for some obscure reason my bosses, who are mostly middle-aged and female, decided to hold a Library Prom. I had to take someone, so I asked a girl, one of the truly rare fish worth catching (or being caught by).

That didn’t stop me from introducing her as “my friend.” Which didn’t stop one of my bosses from asking, “Are you two dating?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Um, we are?”

“Well, this is a date, isn’t it?” She had me trapped. I nodded blankly. With one word, she had changed everything. Now I’m asked about her at work, even though she is currently hooking up with a friend of mine. I wish I could explain this to the librarians. They’re sympathetic to my other complaints: about studying, about having my license suspended, about taking care of my pet chicken, and so on. “I was there once,” they tell me. “You’ll be fine.” But when it comes to love, all they can say is, “How’s that girlfriend of yours?" Maybe this disconnect has always existed. As one of my classmates, a genteel 60-year-old, said to me, “Every generation thinks they discovered sex.” Which might be true, but I’m not sure any previous generation has our plethora of options and utter lack of protocol. This may reflect how our media obsession has desensitized and hypersexualized us.

But I think it goes beyond that. Our short attention spans tend to be measured in nanoseconds. We float from room to room watching TV, surfing the Internet, playing Frisbee, and finding satisfaction around every corner, if only for a moment. Out of fear, we shrink ourselves. There have been many times I should have cried but stifled the tears. Instances where I should have said, “I love you” but made a joke instead. Once, a girl dumped me and it nearly ruined me. How bad was it? I ate nothing but Wendy’s for an entire week. I’m fairly certain I could have saved the entire endeavor with a soul-baring soliloquy of what was true and what mattered to me, but I couldn’t muster the courage. I don’t know many who can.

We’ve grown up in an age of rampant divorce and the accompanying tumult. The idea that two people can be happy together, maturing alongside each other, seems as false as a fairy tale. So when a relationship ends, it isn’t seen as bad. It’s held as evidence that the relationship was never any good to begin with. MAYBE it’s just that we have learned nothing can compare to the perfect moment of the unexpected hookup — wet lips on the beach, lying in the sand — and so we aim to accumulate as many as possible. Or maybe we’re simply too immature to commit. That has been the rap against guys forever, but now women think the same way. With the world (and the world of sex) at our fingertips, it’s difficult to choose, to settle, to compromise.

But I do occasionally wonder: If we can’t get past ourselves and learn to sacrifice to be with another, then what is in store? A generation of selfish go-getters fueled by nothing more than our own egos, forever seeking that rare dose of self-esteem? An era of loneliness filled with commercial wants and mate selection based on the shallowest of criteria? As a staunch proponent of my generation, I believe that, despite what it may seem, we appreciate the ways of love and affection but are simply waiting for them to take over. We might dally in the land of easy sex and stilted text-message flirtation, but deep down we crave the warm embrace of all-consuming love.

I do, anyway. What else could have been behind my crazy idea to ask a girl out on a date? Alas, she and I ended up going to Chili’s and never went out again. Welcome to adulthood.

H2O's Charity

I've never "blogged" three days in a row, but since this insomnia isn't getting any better or going anywhere soon I decided to type a few lines. I was in Saks 5th Ave. a couple days ago and had this overzealous gentleman try to sell me a facial product for $175. I laughed and said to him,"Does it make me young forever?" Walking away, I noticed a stack of water bottles arranged in a tower and priced at $20 each. Impossible. Water for $20?? Then it all came flooding back to me: The guy with the annoying, high-pitched voice in the interviews, the bands akin to Lance Armstrong's 'Livestrong,' the news reels etc. The Charity: Water campaign. Then and there, I made a mental note to (1.) start drinking as much water as possible --4 bottles a day isn't enough I suppose-- and (2.) to purchase a ton of jerry cans on my next trip to Nigeria. If you aren't African, don't even ask. Google. Only thing is in Africa they are used to transport water as opposed to gasoline.

Back to the $20 bottles. I do realize I was at the ever-exorbitant Saks; New York's equivalent to Harrods and Selfridges in London, but has the price of charity/non-profit really become so expensive; and why is it always the white man giving Africans or the developing world a hand out? It would be nice to have it vice-versa for a change. Okay, Jay-Z did his little ten minutes in the sun piece with his water project, bagged a few chieftaincy titles, and hasn't retreated from Beyonce's bosom ever since. The annoying thing about this Charity: Water campaign, regardless of how much money it has garnered, is the "hipness" surrounding it and the people it's directed at: So-called celebrities, rich people. Imagine this conversation between two 'celebs' at the recently concluded Lakers vs. Celtics NBA Finals. Cameron Diaz: "Oh My God!!! I so love your Charity: Water bracelet." Drew Barrymore: "I know isn't it cute? Those poor, starving, thirsty people." Diaz: "Damn. And I wanted to get a bracelet, but you already have one. I think I'll go adopt a baby like Angelina." Forget water, cue paparazzi and non-stop reports on Diaz for the next three months.

I want to contribute to 'development' in Africa, but there's no way in hell I'm paying so much money for water. Especially not after this one occasion: Late one night during my junior year in university THAT ad (You know the ad I'm talking about!!) with the imporverished kids surrounding a white guy with silver hair and beard, dressed in a safari khaki suit came on. "They need you help," he kept saying. "Call us now, Sarah and her friends need your help." I was moved. I called, pledged $50, and was about to hang up when I heard, "Sir, this will be billed to you monthly." Hold on....On whose college stipend?? "Huh, I'm sorry what was that?" She repeated herself. "Well you can go ahead and cancel that subscription then. So sorry...Thanks. Cheers." That was the last time I ever tried to "help" in the conventional sense.

I'm worried for my generation; African that is. Most of us are more interested in instant gratification/gain. Everyone is either a fashion designer, musician, investment banker, or something else that is attached to money or popularity. The public sector will undoubtedly suffer in the long run, then again we'll probably do what our vagabond leaders always do: Patch up our mistakes with band aids. To learn more about Charity:Water click here, and I admit they are doing a heck of a job even if their methods and storyline differ greatly. My two hour nap beckons.

By the River Ganges

So after my last posting, I received a couple of comments, texts, and thankfully phone calls. Actually, I succeeded in triggering several responses--positive, negative, controversial, critical, erudite etc. I guess being bohemian or to be more politically correct, seeking solitude, is only for a select few, but I digress. I am not agnostic, neither am I an atheist. When asked about my religion, I have always replied "Christian." To which the retort is, "That's it?" And I reply, "Yeah, what more do you want?" Then comes the usual "Denomination?" I'm most probably exasperated by then, but I indulge whoever is asking the questions and often times end up in an hour long debate on religion. Ok, lest I forget this post stems from the weekly Saturday night conversation with my mother about church the next day that I was subjected to this past weekend. "So are you going to church tomorrow?" "Nope, and you know why mom." "Haven't you found a small church yet?" "No mother, I am still searching."

I have this theory, allow me to share it with you for a minute. Many years ago, my ancestors lived in a land without borders, restrictions, and uninhibited by laws of dominance. First the Arabs and Islam came, then the white man and Christianity; with both loudly proclaiming superiority over the other. Meanwhile, we the Igbos along with numerous other ethnic groups across Africa, had lived for years believing in deities as well as the existence of a supreme being who governed all the other smaller gods. But when the missionaries and traders came, everything was done away with, and you were automatically a devil worshipper if you acknowledged Amadioha, Sango, or any other traditional god. During the independence era in the 50s and 60s, everyone was either a muslim or christian, and since then a plethora of religious violence has reared its ugly head one too many times. Reason?? Simple. Most people of color (Africans and African African American alike) tend to take western behaviors or habits to a whole new level because of our passionate nature. Hence the overzealous nature with which christians in Nigeria for one (this is what I was raised as, so I've seen and heard enough absurdity) practice their religion. It's never uncommon to hear messages of hate towards other religions, in spite of the Bible preaching otherwise.

In Africa there is a saying that if you want to get rich, all you have to do is open a church. Such mockery is effected by the enormous amounts of money the heads of these churches make, and their designer-toting congregations even go as far as to make bold proclamations: "My church and pastor are better than yours!!" I'm sorry but I definitely remember my passages well enough to know that prophets like Elisha and Elijah in the Old Testament continually sacrificed for the well-being of their people. Instead churches have turned into franchises, where pastors place huge murals and pictures of themselves in the entrance ways, own private planes, and vast property on almost every continent on earth. Think T.D. Jakes, Benny Hinn, and those title-giving, self-proclaimed saviors of men in Africa who constantly dine with political leaders. Meanwhile, a devout follower who believes so much in tithes has just given up his last $10 for that purpose with nothing forthcoming for months and his rent overdue. Shuffering and shmiling as Fela Anikulapo Kuti points out. Click here.

I've tried to look for a small non-denominational church to little avail, because for me religion is a relationship between God, myself, and nature. No four walls, no pastor, just me sitting by the River Ganges throwing pebbles. Ok the last line is a bit far-fetched, but you get my drift. I will admit that I am jaded by what the advent of religion has done in African and American circles, meanwhile my search for true, inexpensive salvation devoid of a mega-super church continues.

Catch Me If You Can....In My Place

I'm suffering from a serious case of insomnia....As in I go to bed at 7 A.M. every day and wake up at noon or thereabouts. Nigeria's drop to second on the list of highest oil producers in Africa behind Angola, is certainly not the cause of my lack of shut eye. Let's lay blame on the ton of writing and reading I've been doing lately; and I finally laid my hands on Anneli Rufus's "Party of One: A Loner's Manifesto." Ah, my dream book indeed. A literal embodiment of being a complex/misunderstood being, somewhat like my 'humble' self. But, if you ever dreamed of escaping to a scarcely populated island with just your laptop, and to write and drink wine all day in somber solitude then this is a must read for you.

What did Isaac Newton, Michelangelo, Barry Bonds, Kurt Cobain, Albert Einstein, Georgia O'Keeffe, Anne Rice, Franz Kafka, Stanley Kubrick, Janet Reno, John Lennon, James Michener, Emily Dickinson, Alexander Pope, Hermann Hesse, Paul Westerberg, Haruki Murakami, Gustav Klimt, Charles Schulz, Dan Clowes, Piet Mondrian, St. Anthony, H.P. Lovecraft, Beatrix Potter, and Joe DiMaggio all have in common? You guessed it: they were all loners. Not to mention Superman, Batman, and Shiva. Famous loners span every realm.

In Rufus's words, "No two loners are alike, but all of us have one thing in common: we like to be alone. We like it. Everyone else - nonloners, that is - can't stand to be alone. They squirm. They feel ashamed. They yearn for company when they're alone. They're bored and don't know what to do. they're lonely. We're not. Maybe we're not holed up in caves all day, or in submarines like Captain Nemo in his Nautilus. But alone we feel most normal. Most ourselves. Most alive. Nonloners call loners crazy. Cold. Stuck-up. Standoffish. Selfish. Sad. Bad. Secretive. But we know being a loner isn't about hating people. It's about essence, about necessity. We need what others dread. We dread what others need."

Humans crave self/individual over community; everyone does, but few actually say it. They would rather conform to society's expectations of today's hyper techno-savvy, on-the-go, facebook-loving individual. Instead, I say in the words of Emerson, "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Drugs? Alcohol? College? Material trip? Coffers of money?...Time for something else...Take a bike ride to Eureka, California. Be a one-man army once in a while, do the unexpected: Leave all your adrenaline-inducing online social networks and actually work to create meaningful personal relationships using a telephone or face-to-face contact. It's disgusting to note how abrasive and distant our generation is, where we prefer to text or instant message than place a simple call. So much for for the shrinking of time and space due to technology. Maybe you need to curb the instantaneous high you get from looking at other people's pictures or uploading yours on Facebook and/or MySpace, because everyone's fifteen minutes of fame must surely come to an end. Remember Andy Warhol said fifteen minutes, not twenty or more.

Death Speaks

By picking up Jeffery Archer’s “To Cut a Long Story Short”—a collection of short stories—I was once again reminded of a fascinating tale I had read years ago. Originally translated from Arabic and despite extensive research by others and a bit on my part, the author remains anonymous. Storytelling should be all about simplicity and below “Death Speaks” serves as a true embodiment of a centuries-old art which sometimes helps explain the thinking behind fate, destiny, and life. Do we exert total control or is everything in the hands of a far supreme and omniscient being? Who knows....To each his belief.

There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to the market to get provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, “Master, just now when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there death will not find me.” The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?” “That was not a threatening gesture,” I said, “it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”

Telephone Conversation

I am yet to cross Ali Mazrui's path. Of the "Afro Trio"-Wole Soyinka (pictured above), Cornell West, and Mazrui - he remains the one long-haired legend I am yet to meet. At this juncture in my life, two out of three supposed radicals isn't bad. Nonetheless, I was rummaging through my books and came across a mandatory text from my high school days: "A Selection of African Poetry." Flipping through the pages I stumbled upon one of Soyinka's best works, 'Telephone Conversation,' and chuckled as I recounted in my head several stories -mine included- of African immigrants, especially students, who undergo harrowing experiences to secure accommodation. Consciously derived from his early days as a student in Leeds, England, Soyinka portrays a story of an African man in a street corner phone booth pleading his case to a white landlady. Read, enjoy, appreciate.

The price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived

Off premises. Nothing remained

But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,

"I hate a wasted journey - I am African."

Silence. Silenced transmission of

Pressurized good-breeding. Voice when it came,

Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled

Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.

"HOW DARK?"... I had not misheard.... "ARE YOU LIGHT

OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench

Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered

Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed

By ill-mannered silence, surrender

Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.

Considerate she was, varying the emphasis -

"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" revelation came.

"You mean - like plain or milk chocolate?"

Her accent was clinical, crushing in its light impersonality.

Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,

I chose. "West African sepia" - and as afterthought,

"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic

Flight of fancy, till truthfulness changed her accent

Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding

"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."

"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.

Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see

The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet

Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused -

Foolishly madam - by sitting down, has turned

My bottom raven black - One moment madam!" - sensing

Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap

"About my ears - Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather

See for yourself?"

The Zahir

I vividly remember the first time I laid hands on a book by Paulo Coelho. It was a cold, wet autumn night littered with leaves and I had stopped by my mentor's house to watch a boxing match and swig some bottles of beer. Amid our "manish" chatter and hollering at the dueling pugilists on TV, conversation switched to how one punch could change or even end a life. Subdued grunts acknowledged this fact, and my mentor, an accountant by profession and a fellow weekend league soccer player, seized the opportunity to hand me a book from his shelves entitled "The Alchemist." The rest, as the cliche goes, is history.

I devoured the book within a few hours the next day, and from then on proceeded to grab every single work by Coelho I could find. The Devil and Miss Prym, By The River Peidra..., Eleven Minutes, The Warrior of Light, The Witch of Portobello etc. But not until I read The Zahir, did it all make sense: did I truly understand myself and my sense of pursuit. Many, if not all, are mesmerized by Coelho's simplistic, resonating method of writing. Though with spiritual undertones, his uncanny ability to clearly show us what has been in front of us all along--our everyday happenings gracing the pages of book in an autobiographical nature--is quite astounding.

Though The Zahir has been in print since 2005, I never picked it up until a wandering stroll of solitude led me into a Barnes & Noble to see which Fela Kuti records had been re-released (they always have different compilations). My two day reading sessions exposed me to a story unfolding in my own life at the time and coincidence is not a term I easily relate to. The Zahir presents a tale of love, pilgrimage, and obsession: a concise summary of life even, and a definite must read for bohemians and conservatives alike.

After My Forefathers...

A close friend who bears the same Igbo name as my beloved mother, recently asked me for a quote and I laughed. She became the inspiration for this particular rambling post and the following is what I said to her: "Many have spoken to me of humility...Unfortunately, I have been blinded by a constructive pragmatism in my quest to enlighten my person, and as a result I have been referred to as an avant garde."

As Chiamanda Adichie's character, Odenigbo, states in "Half of a Yellow Sun" (You need to read this book if you haven't): I am Nigerian because a white man created Nigeria and gave me that identity. I am black because the white man constructed black to be as different as possible from his white. But I was Igbo before the white man came." Like I said before, I am who I am: A proud Igbo man. I am who I am and that will never change. I am who I am because of the eloquent words, writings, and pictures of Achebe, Soyinka, Saro-Wiwa, Wa Thiongo, Laye, Sembene, and even Adichie. I am who I am due to the decisive actions and articulate speeches of Nyerere, Azikiwe, Nkrumah, Lumumba, Kenyatta, and Mandela. All in all, I am a being who strives to be the voice of his generation, as I hasten my steps to create a legacy worthy of adulation just like my forefathers.

We all love rebels, people who defy the existing norm and serve as catalysts for change. Well most of them at least...From Kurt Cobain to Che Guevara. I am no different in this line of thought, because I have constantly found myself on the other side of the fence rooting for the underdog as opposed to the crowd-pleaser, the incumbent, and the dominant. Take the great Fela Anikulapo Kuti for example. He was regarded in wealthy and political circles as a pariah, yet he was deitified by the masses across continents for openly and repeatedly questioning the practices and policies implemented by Africa's leaders at a time when restrictions on freedom of speech ruled the day.

I urge you to look past Fela's so-called vices (the many women and marijuana), and actually listen to the man's music if you haven't; for his words have undoubtedly proved prophetic for our continent remains one entrenched in chaos, hunger, war, and death. The media and ministries harp on about an economic boom that is supposedly widespread due to the Internet and cell phones, but in truth the gap between rich and poor only expands further with no true middle class really established.

Why all this probing you ask? Because I am currently caught between two worlds, a crossroads so to speak--one that guarantees success while chasing the American dream, or one that involves jumping on the bandwagon of African Renaissance in my homeland. Suddenly I am faced with a question of self vs. community. Do I go back after all my foreign education--like my forefathers before me--and help develop a land that exterminated millions of my people in a genocidal "civil war" or do I look to first fatten my pockets? Choices.....

I made one the moment I was born: Being Igbo is my raison d'etre.

The Eastward March of Starbucks...Coffee Anyone??

While attending primary school in Nigeria during my formative years, I never left home without downing a mug of hot chocolate in the mornings. Now, the weather there can range from extreme heat to sheer humidity depending on what part of the country you find yourself in. However, ask anyone presently and they'll be sure to remind you of Nigerians' penchant for anything western irrespective of weather or environment, then and now: the high shoulder pads, the Afros and jerry curls, the safari and four button suits have given way to the fake (human/horse) hair craze, skinny jeans, and huge Windsor tie knots.

I grew up in the northern part of the country--Kaduna and Abuja--which witnesses gusty winds and a severe drop in temperature during a three to five month span popularly referred to as the Harmattan period. This explained my need for Milo or Bournvita--no Swiss Miss in my day--along with a brightly colored, heavy knit sweater my mother or some aunt had procured for me while on their travels abroad.

On the other hand, I began to notice the very "western" mannerism of my mother and a large number of her professional counterparts and friends: Simply put, they drank tea and coffee in all seasons. Bleargh!!! I'm all grown up now, and I still can't stand both aforementioned beverages...It's strictly water and orange juice for me.

So considering the above from my childhood ramblings, a very reliable source tells me that Starbucks in a bid to continue its round the world tour from Seattle and back, will open a location in the industrial hub of Nigeria: Lagos. As I type away at my desk at work, I'm trying to imagine the average Nigerian order a "Grande Mocha Strawberries and Cream Frappacino," and I'm guffawing away with stitches in my sides. It'll be akin to novices placing requests at fancy French restaurants the first few times. Exactly. No idea and wrong pronunciation.

Not that any of that really matters, because Starbucks will definitely make an impact amongst the expatriate (diplomats, oil workers etc), young professionals, and well-to-do citizenry. But while Schultz's enterprise has thrived on the literary, technological, and occupational patterns of the electronic working herd in the West and the Far East (esp. Japan), the African, rather Nigerian populace, will be easy to entice, but harder to predict and sustain. WIth the average Nigerian more concerned with loading credit on his numerous phones, paying his rent, and buying bottles of liquor and beer at the weekend, Starbucks will have to "re-invent" itself within the Nigerian way of life to become more than a fad.

Funny thing is who said globalization was dead??? Next thing you know, we might actually see an Apple store erected on Lagos's Victoria Island.

Ode to an Immigrant

As I make my daily commute through the labyrinth that is New York City, I thank God. For I am in the promised land, the West, where streets are paved with gold and everyone drives enormous vehicles. Ah, this thing they call capitalism: Someday I will fully understand it. I have left behind my country and family to pursue a dream of success and grasp a tongue whose words and sounds come out through one’s nose. In spite of my guttural yet passable English, my regular customers have come to adore my ever-smiling disposition, and their welcoming nature helps quell my nostalgic feelings for home.

But I can never forget my homeland. Indeed I am the hope of my village, my ethnic group, my country, my race: Who am I you ask? I am the Bengali man who sells fruit all year round on the corner of 2nd & 45th; I am the Kurdish girl whose hand woven rugs are admired many, but whose Hijab draws glares of suspicion; I am the Mexican woman who awakens before the sun to catch three buses and two trains from the Bronx to Long Island to baby sit three children until nightfall; and I am Amadou Diallo, the African man who fell under the hail of 41 NYPD bullets as I reached for my bustling wallet outside my home.

My sufferings and experiences tell a story; yet, I inexplicably wait for the day I will be called an American.