I cry Africa

I watched Blood Diamonds earlier this week, then re-watched Hotel Rwanda just yesterday, then I recalled Sometimes in April and for the first time in my life, I feel African. I know it's absurd to say that and I guess I have always thought I felt African, perhaps because I am indeed African and I have never thought of claiming otherwise, I have simply found it more suitable to be Nigerian or a blue passporter when appropriate, but this feeling is different.
I have always had a problem with people summing me up to African. In the US, it appears to be a form of lazy assessment. Africa is vast! There's the West, East, North and South. There are over a thousand peoples, cultures and languages. In Nigeria alone, we have over 200 distinct languages. So yeah, I have never been pleased with being asked questions like "Do you speak African?". No I don't, seeing as there is no such language. (No the question was not refering to Afrikaans). Even other Africans who have been in the US long enough ask the same dumb questions. Pure ignorance. I am often critical of the big western news agencies, but no matter how biased their analysis, they still do a good job of identification.

In any case, what made me feel more African this time around was the fact that I imagined all the attrocities, the war and the hatred, the tears and sadness and death...on Nigerian streets. I often place myself in other people's shoes to curb myself from acting the judge or from simply lacking understanding, but for the first time, I imagined Rwanda, Sierra leone, Darfur and Somalia, Ethiopia to be Nigeria. I imagined the Hutus to be Yorubas, the Tutsis to be Hausa. I completely recreated it all in the Giant of Africa and it felt hopeless. Could it happen so? That is another discussion for another day. Nigeria has suffered from Biafra and it appears fresh in her mind; fresh and regrettable.

But, imagine yourself stuck in Lagos, no commercial flights, parents and other family members long gone. Younger teenage brother enrolled in the militia, killing innocents, watching people get hacked. Hundreds of people crumpled up in Ikoyi Hotel or run down Hotel Bobby. Militia cars decorated with leaves, kind of like the way it used to be in Lagos during riots. Scrambling for necessities and bribing gunmen for protection. Traveling out of the question, wondering how family afar fares. Trying to get through to Ghana, Togo or Cameroun, all borders and bridges barricaded and fortified. Driving on top of hundreds of dead bodies massacred when trying to escape through the back roads. Wearing the same rags for days, weeks, months, kneeling for brainwashed 11 year old boys drunk and high, weilding matchetes and guns. Girls raped.... Just imagine it in your home if you're African and not from one of these places already and then you will really feel African.

I remember a lady I worked with over Christmas when I was in college. She had escaped to the US from Sierra Leone with two of her children, but now remarried. She has no idea what happened to her husband and her oldest son and yet had somehow managed to live on.

Is Africa truly cursed? Or are we just the dull ones? They have just accelerated dooms day (end of the world as we know it) thanks to global warming and yet we're still poor, suffering and smiling in Africa. I mean, when the world started we were primitive, behold, will it now end with us still being primitive?

More current events:

Large condoms for S African men!

Ok, this is truly funny. perhaps this is a conspiracy disguised; a continuum of sorts. Would you believe that "condoms too big for Indian men" and "Large condoms for S African men" are vying for the top spot on the most emailed articles on the BBC website for today?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/4155390.stm

Hahaha.
You know it's funny, so laugh.
LMAO!

Ok, back to the books for me.

Current Events.

I have taken it upon myself to "fill us in" on the latest breaking news'.

The headlines read:

Flatulence leads US jet to divert!
Gosh! Where should one start? So this woman has a little gas problem while on an American Airline jet. She doesn't go to the bathroom, it is suggested that she might have a medical problem preventing her from quickly accessing the bathroom to do this, or perhaps a medical problem that makes her gases well, a little more offensive than usual. Anyways, to cover up the odor, she lights up a match!

Words elude me. Perhaps we should all just pray that we never have whatever she has that made her prefer lighting up a match in the air versus just letting her gas flow through. Perhaps the gas was more lethal? Hey, I don't know.


Indian men have puny penises!
No I'm not trying to be obscene. It is in fact a fact. There are numbers and all to support this conclusion. You just check out the article on the BBC website, if you haven't already. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/6161691.stm

Now that you are convinced I will commence.

So, I haven't heard about the exiling of the writer just yet. Perhaps they don't get BBC in India or something, but surely, the men don't know that the entire world is now aware that the average Indian has a smaller penis than his counterpart in well, say...Nigeria for instance :) (Nigerian men owe me for this).

If you ask me, it was not a necessary result to divulge to the rest of the world. As it is, Indian men are not comfortable asking for extra small when they go into cvs, so how the heck do you want to "encourage" them any further with this publication? I mean, if it is completely crucial to communicate this to Punjab (I use Punjab as I would Tom, Dick, Harry, Gbenga, Chucks or Ali), why don't you write him a personal letter or leaflet or something.
Of course the age old argument of "it's not size that matters" comes into play. Mehn please! But, I am willing to crank and crank and hypothesize as to how we can "elongate" our brothers' battered egos.

Ahhh! so here's what I came up with, how about resizing? I mean, in China, a "L" shirt is like an American "s", so why don't they just resize the things. For instance, an Indian "XL" will in actual fact be a Nigerian M. An Indian "s" will be a Nigerian.... Wait! No, we won't have that size. But that doesn't matter. Punjab will not know the difference.

But seriously, maybe this is all vanity anyway. I mean, doesn't it shrivel up when people die? So in the end, no matter how well endowed you were you will leave this world looking just like Punjab. Of course I hear for fifty dollars extra one could have the mortician play around with a paper, scissors and well, the..hmm...appendage before viewing.

Would you believe, as I was pondering on the dilemma facing our Indian sisters, yeah sisters was not a typo, S. Patel walked past my learning room. Honestly, my eyes where fixated on one "tiny" spot. Patel goes, "hey Z, what's up?" and I reply "obviously not much". brother hasn't read the article because he went "I understand". I laughed as I thought to myself, Nah! I bet you don't.

Stupidity Points

Ah, if you're wondering what stupidity points are, please, make sure to deduct five points from your balance at the end of my explanation.

So, we are all given stupidity points to carry us through life. Well, men are given a generous thousand points, which they often run out of by the age of thirty, while women are allocated a mere in comparison, three hundred points. You start to redeem your points from the age of eight. Prior to that you are allowed to be as stupid as you want without penalty.
Here's how it works. Every time you are stupid, whether by act, word or thought, you "redeem" your points. As a man, you are only allowed to be stupid as far as your allocated points will carry you, same for the woman. Points also vary by culture, race, nationality and background. (yeah yeah, call it prejudice, it's just the way it works. I didn't make the system).

When you run out of points, men take note, you are then downgraded from a regular human being to a moronic human. At that point, your choices are very limited. You can decide to remain a moron, or you can "buy" points from those who have it in excess (often females). People like moi have used a meager one and one quarter point (yes, I will deduct an extra five points from my balance for that statement), so I have enough to "sell" to the men around me. You know, kinda like the commodities market. The higher your points are though, the more you realize you need to reserve it for emergencies, at least till you clock forty, then you can start "helping" men become regular human beings as you clearly surmount others and take your place among the superior. Hence the common knowledge that men often become "mature" at forty while women become "wise" at forty.

If you need to check your point balance, go to a quiet place and reflect on your day. I think you will be able to gauge, if you're honest with yourself anyways, how many things you could have done better...multiply that by your age minus eight.... Yep! I thought so. You're already a moron. Damn!

Yes! It's male bashing, so what? It's my blog!

Palm wine sound...

Fela could not have said it better; JAZZ!
There's something about jazz that's intoxicating reeling you into an endless soothing Ecstasy.
I often use Jazz to detox after a tedious week.
I start off in my car before I get home. It's like a moment at the spa. You can feel the tightness melt away slowly as the tracks change. An hour later, I get home well rested and ready to take on the duties of super mom.

That reminds me, I visited the spa the other day for a full body massage and a mini facial. I thought the body massage was good till I experienced the most exhilarating facial ever. Ok, so it all started with the lady complimenting my skin (Yes, I have the most beautiful skin ever, all by the grace of Almighty God) and then it took off.
She rubbed my face with a whole bunch of lotions, ointments and scrubs all as expected and then she must have just rubbed stuff on my face like the tenth time massaging my face in such a caressing way that I started to fall asleep...right before I woke up with a jolt. Sister girl was massaging my chest. I mean, yeah, I'm here at a massage parlour (gosh! why does parlour suddenly sound like brothel) but I am in the mini facial section. Whada...?
In any case, she kept going and going and lower and lower as she kept complimenting my skin. I was thinking in my head "whoa! My full body massage wasn't this intense!" She lifted my neck and worked through my shoulders, neck, blades, back.... I mean, I couldn't help but wonder if she was a lesbian.

About forty minutes later she finished up with my face again, gave me my clothing and excused me. I dressed up with my mind completely blank and walked out. "Gosh, the outer room is so friggin bright, who turned up the sun". I found my other half waiting for me even though I had left for my facial before him. He went on to tell me he had finished his facial and had been waiting for me for a while. He then told me about his mini facial that appeared to have been truly "minimized" and how his masseur used a combination of three ointments and scrubs on him, left him in the room and came back ten minutes later to dislodge him from the table. "Damn! look at him looking even blacker, and isn't that some left over scrub by his ears?" I was thinking. I exhaled and couldn't help but relish what wonderful mini facial I had received as I walked out with Massy's card in my hand. "Let me see, am I free next Friday?"