Wedding Ops (Fiction) : Entry 1

Wedding Guest

“Falilat!”Mayokun snapped above the rumble of a near-by generator into her cell phone,“Where are you?” She wiped the sweat trickling down the side of her face with the back of her hand. It was mid-February and she could feel herself drowning in the aso-ebi-gele-unfriendly-humid Lagos heat. More guests were arriving in the navy blue fabric colors of the day and from the tent venue, she could hear the band playing rambunctiously after a brief pause during which they announced the arrival of a surprise performer. Time was running out. Mayokun peeped through the tent flap as a hostess held it up for an elderly guest. Neck stretched, eyes strained, she glimpsed chandeliers speckled with gold lights, and in the distance a rush of white stood in front of the famous nine-tier cake made by Modesta cakes—the whole of Lagos hadn’t stopped talking about it for the past hour on social media.“Fali? The bride and groom are already cutting the cake. Where are you, jo?” She took a decisive step towards the tent, but a large body dressed in black filled the space between her and the tent. Her scowl eased into a charming smile as the security man blocked her view.

Fali muttered that she was on her way. She had just found a parking spot somewhere up the road. It after all was Otunba Kujore’s fifth daughter’s wedding and Lagos rippled with unrestrained excitement. The onilus gathered in droves, the beggars lined the street, the police trucks dotted the area. The security men stood at all entrances to the event—all of them decked in bulky strap-on bullet-proof vests, a radio piece hung from their ears to their cheeks, the butts of their huge guns tucked in the crook of their arms.

“Just hurry”, She hung up and slipped her phone into her oversized purse. Mayokun eyed the security man, he was tall with bulky muscles taut against the sleeve of his short sleeve shirt. She eyed the gun on his side and stared past him into the tent auditorium. The gust of conditioned air leaked through the tent flaps on occasion, licking the sweat from her skin. From the entrance, she could see chandeliers hanging, all glittering in gold against the white canopy walls. She spied a few waiters dressed in crisp white shirts, black slacks and wine waist coats balancing sparkling glasses of champagne on silver trays. Her tongue tingled from imaginary bubbles from a sip of the sparkling gold liquid.

Mayokun turned to the security man again, her eyes narrowed and a coy smile on her face.

“Oga boss.”

His full lips remained unsmiling.

“Do you have your invitation now?” He raised a brow over the edge of his spider sunglasses.

“No. But I promise you I am on that list. Bimmy just forgot to scribble me in. I swear.” Her laugh rung hollow. A few women glided by them waving their invitations in the man’s face.

He stepped aside and let them by, then stepped back into position.

Her reflection in his sunglasses was flattering—her bosom looked triple their size in her glimmery navy blue off-shoulder dress which she had worn a few times to different weddings. It bore a striking resemblance to the aso ebi of the wedding and only if you owned the original would you know hers wasn’t. A large costume necklace sat precariously where her breasts met, an oversized purse under her arm and her lipstick-puckered lips pouted.

She turned her head to the side using the glasses as a mirror.

Now all she had to do was make it past this wall of muscle.

“Oga, please just this one time. We came all the way from Ikorodu for this. Please.”

“That’s a long way to travel without your I.V.”He said drily.

She ignored his condescension.

“Yes, well, an oversight. Please now. Think about your own wife, now, Oga,” She whined,“if she had to travel all the way for a wedding only to be turned away at the gate. Oga, please now.” She smiled.

“I don’t have a wife.” He shrugged.

“It’s no wonder,”She mumbled as she turned her face to the side and coughed.

“There you are, darling.”

Just then, she felt a hand rub the small of her back.

She smelt him first, it was an intense fragrance that made her think of a heavily aromaticized chewing stick—a woody, spicy scent. Affluence. It made her giddy. The fragrance filled the back of her throat and she swallowed.

“Let’s go in. I found the IV.” The man handed the invitation to the guard. He looked at it. She looked up at the stranger.

He was about a foot taller than she was. He had a short beard cut close to his chin which rose to his sideburns and faded into his hairline. He was dressed in the navy colored buba and sokoto of the day. A silver necklace glimmered and peeked from beneath the neckline of the buba.

“So you are Mr and Mrs. Flavian Obade?” The security man’s brows lifted above his glasses.

“Since 2013.” The man rubbed Mayokun’s arm, looking into her bewildered face momentarily and back at the guard.

The security guy stepped aside. Her knight held the tent flap as Mayokun wobbled in—her feet coming alive after standing in heels for almost half an hour.

“Na wa”,She hissed at the security man when she was well out of earshot. More people came in after her. The knight was still stuck holding the flap for more guests. A waiter came her way, “Some canapés, Ma?”

“What’s this?” She poked the heart shaped pastry.

“Fried sugared dough.”

“Puff puff?”

“Yes.”

“These rich people sha. Next time, leave the puff puff round biko.” She complained as she picked four picks of puffpuff and waved him away. She caught her breath as she looked around, everything glittered in hues of gold and navy, the guests sat in rows of brilliant, navy blue fabric. The men wore mustard caps with a strip of grey and the women wore mustard geles in the new mushroom wrap-around style.

The decor was a combination of blush pink flower center pieces, some hung from the ceiling, some sprouted from the floor, some crawled along the walls. Waiters fleeted around, trays with velveteen navy napkin and curvy goblets sparkling with gold liquid floated by. Mayokun grabbed one and headed off into the reception area.

“Um…you’re welcome.” The voice said.

She turned around at the sound of his voice. She had completely forgotten about him. Her knight.

Her married knight.

“Oh thank you, Mr…Ohb..” She held out her hand, which he took.

“Call me Flavian.”

She felt uneasy under his gaze, and the full intensity of it. His eyes were large, the darkness in them left her feeling bare— like he knew.

“Your wife must be seated already. Thank you again.”

She turned to go but he held on to her hand.

“Is that all?”He asked.

“Yes, it is. I’m not sure what you were expecting.” She chuckled uneasily. His eyes tapered slightly at the ends and they seemed hooded under his lashes and brows.

“At the very least your name?”

“Why?” Somehow her hand was still in his, and it seemed relaxed and willing to be there.

She looked around, and removed it quickly like his hands held coals. Any moment now, some woman would shove her head at an angle and call her husband-snatcher and ruin everything she and Fali has planned.

“Don’t you have a Mrs. Fabian to get to?”

“No, I don’t. And it’s Flavian.”

The nerve! His wife was at the party and he was here, trying to be cute. Insane, these Lagos men.

She pressed irritably, “The invitation card was addressed to you and a spouse.”

“Your name?”He asked her again.

“Mayokun.”

“What do your friends call you?”

“Mayokun”, She tapped her foot impatiently, threw back her drink and looked around for Fali. Just then her phone began to vibrate. It was Fali. “It’s my cousin,” She excused herself.

Flavian. He sounded like a bottled water brand. She threw a glance at him. Tall drink of water. Married tall drink of Flavian water more like.

“Where are you?”Falilat asked.

“I’m inside.”

“How did you get in?!”

“My E cup”, Mayokun chuckled.

Fali hissed.

“Better get that push-up I recommended. Walking around like TD board. This Lagos, shine your eye and buy a push-up.” She muttered into her phone.

“Shut up and get started. I parked near the primary school. Some guys are watching the car for me.”

“Thought you said if you turned off the engine it wouldn’t start again?”

“Yup. Paid one of them to keep it running. So let’s make it a quick one. I’ll work outside.”

“Make enough to buy us a new car.”

“Amen. Later.” She slipped her phone into her oversized purse.

Flavian was momentarily occupied with a chat with an elderly couple.

Mayokun turned to the reception swarming with old dignitaries and their trophy wives. The younger crowd were distracted by their screens looking for the right pose, the right pout for a selfie and refreshed their pages for more like updates. Mayokun slid into the crowd, holding her empty glass in one hand, her oversized purse under her arm, she squeezed by two older gentlemen, who made all the space they could for her while momentarily confused and enthralled by her bosom. Her fingers slid effortlessly into the pocket of the taller man, as he had a better view of her neckline. In a moment, she was gone. The tall man whispered something to his shorter friend, a smirk on his lips as they watched her walk away. He wouldn’t realize his wallet was missing until later when he ordered his driver to stop and buy him some garden eggs and groundnut on their way home, by then Mayokun and Fali had discarded the seasoned leather wallet on some bush path in Ikorodu, along with numerous others.

“How much from today?” Fali asked, as she turned off the road into their neighborhood.

“Seventy thousand naira. Five hundred dollars.”

“Kai! This cashless Lagos nonsense. Remember when we could rake like 250 grand from one party.”

“I know”, Mayokun hissed.

But neither girl was aware of the lone car that followed them back to their home.

The driver watched as they sang along with their radio. Mayokun threw her hands up in a celebratory dance to Olamide’s textured voice oozing from the speakers.

The tailing car eased in behind them with little sound once they were parked. The driver leaned over the passenger’s seat, drew a pistol from the glove compartment and opened the door.

to be continued…

30: In the thick of it

This is an ambitious post to write in less than 5,000,000 words, and limited to one volume. But you and I know that “Ambitiouspost” is my middle name. Let’s talk about the glory of our thirties. 

In our thirties, life begins. Forget the first three decades of your life. If you haven’t established a certain moral code of conduct, sense of style and chosen your favorite wine yet, I guess your thirties will indeed be wrought with unprecedented, unplanned, badly managed surprises.

That’s all there is to it—suprises— thirty is full of surprises. Spoiler alert. 

But first, the good stuff.  

Surprise #1 Freedom

In your thirties you suddenly see no sense in trying to impress anyone. The new slangs weigh heavy on your tongue because you are one second away from being the weird old has-been-wannabe saying “okurrr” and overdoing the“r”. Guess what? You say it anyway, what do these youngin’s know? Spell cassette. Rewind it with a pen. Floss? “Do I know how to do the Floss?” Of course I do, with a string or the stick. Oh, it’s a dance. This Floss you are talking about is nothing. Try the flex or the butterfly or the running man while wearing hammer pants. Okrrrrr!

Surprise #2 Prudence

It’s the age when you decide whether you are going to be an old, beady-eyed corrupt perv or not. In your 20s you’re an idealist, busy saving the world. You’re still saving the world in your thirties but what else are you doing? Still sticking to idealism? Life isn’t so black and white anymore. Is it? Now there are shades of grey—more than 50. Now there are multiple choice answers. It’s now or never ever. The defining moment, and every little action you do paves the way to your forties which, is a tiptoe away from your sixties which is when successful people get smacked with corruption charges, and get tagged as #MeToo predators. Side-eye.

Surprise #3 Wisdom

In your thirties you become very wise, Sensei (which is how you avoid the charges and stay corruption-free. Wee!) The wisdom probably comes from an increased awareness of life and our role in it, and also from being burned several times and learning from horrific mistakes made in our twenties. On the night before thirty, you feel it seeping into your veins, and the room emanates that gentle glow of discernment and  insight with all the application steps to all the problems you tried to solve in your twenties. Yes! Suddenly you’ve attained all the wisdom you’ll ever get, and believe you have the answer to everyone’s problem and will attempt to make world peace. Get ready, World! Then you discover the world is crazy and smoking on a giant bong and doesn’t want peace. Because think about it, if there’s peace, then earth becomes attractive, aliens will finally stop their surveillance, land their UFOs, move in next door and start using our WiFi.

I hear you, World leaders, WiFi and sharing will always be the most contentious topics on the forefront of politics. 

But WiFi-theft crisis aside, the world needs us thirty year olds and our half-full optimism (or whatever is left of it) and our new burning, incomplete wisdom (it gets complete when you hit 150 years). The world needs us and she can not tolerate forty year old fools, it hurts her back. 

Surprise #4 Everything is on purpose

This is the season we find purpose, and to all the overachievers who discovered purpose as toddlers: What. Ever. We finally made it. Tongue out. 

If you haven’t found purpose, I’ll give you an underlying, common clue. It involves people. It involves you and people. You helping out people or just one person. The thirties is the season when you realize your life really isn’t about you at all. Now you got the memo. I got it late too, it was probably intercepted by the toddler overachievers. We love you guys. Fake smile.

Surprise #5 Trials and Temptations

In your thirties, you will get hit by great challenges which will attempt to scramble your moral code and question a substantial portion of your values. Even Jesus got tested in his thirties: bread, stones, and stuff.  If you have no values and principles, pour yourself a beverage because life is about to stuff its own values down your throat and they taste funky. 

Surprise #6 Mom, is that you?

Your thirties is when you become your parents; when those traits you swore you’d never adopt start to show. It’s when you take on mother’s hysterics or father’s hairline. It’s the time you press down on the imaginary pedal when your friend is taking sharp bends, because you do have some money in the bank now and will like to spend it. It’s wild, the similitude. And you’re ok with it. Shrug. 

Surprise #7 Under Pressure

In your thirties, believe it or not, there’s peer pressure and self pressure, societal pressure, marital pressure, political pressure, financial pressure, social media pressure. It’s Pressurtopia. A new life management tool known as“saying No” is to be employed. Say “No!” to pressures. I say No to all pressures now and also to random strangers, just to scare them before they project any pressure. 

Surprise #8 Money, Journaling and Strength

It’s also the season when opportunities come your way and you must do your best. If you havent’t achieved much, you still have at least 70 years to change that. 

Guess what you don’t have 70 years for though? Strength training! You need to start that like yesterday, because your basal metabolism is lower, your body is choosing to store more fat, if muscle isn’t built. Your body produces less growth hormone, which means the mid-rid of mid-life is here, and if for any reason you shave your hair, you will look like the Michelin man. So, yesterday, strength training. Pronto.

Yes, you finally have more cash and can buy seven Ferragamos while sitting in the frequent flyer lounge. If you are an aggressive shopper, be an aggressive investor too. Invest here, there, and way over there. And if you are not in the lounge but sitting home with nothing to invest, invest in yourself. Do something. Anything. Wait, don’t do anything. Do only legal stuff. Lol. And hold tight. It really gets better. It’s the greatest time to be alive (I will also say this about 40, 50 and so on).

At this age you must keep a diary, with sincere, explicit details which is not left in plain sight, not with everyone being a blogger and all. You’d be surprised how many diaries you’ll go through in a year. Keep a journal, tell us yourself the details. I repeat, keep records my friend, so no one can press charges. This worked recently for an official and all charges were dropped. 

Surprise #9 Parallel Parking

Finally, it’s that decade when you can learn to parallel park like a pro. A guy just parallel-parked a Tundra next to me in one try. His forties are set, and in his fifties, he will be king. If I don’t learn this now, I guess I’ll have to get a Mini Cooper…which…I think I may have trouble parallel parking too. 

Wisdom, minis, aliens, parallel-parking, Ferragamos, okrrr; I told you it was ambitious to get this done in less than twelve volumes. It’s the great 30s. There’s nothing dirty about it. It’s the greatest time. Before we go I’ll let you in on a crazy secret about your thirties (and forties and fifties): If you choose to be happy regardless of its surprises you are going to have a ball. 

Describe your thirties in one word! What would it be?

For me, it would be Surprise!

Orange is the New Knack

Have you ever heard about prison literature? It is a literary genre characterized by literary work written while the author is confined in a location against his will, such as a prison, jail or house arrest.

I didn’t know it was a thing! I guess if you’re locked up somewhere for a while, you’d maybe be forced to pen down your thoughts.

Counting and crossing out tally does get old. You’d probably write a book too or a song, like Tupac did!

Check out a list of books written in prison at the end of this article. I was surprised by the first one.

Anyway, the only Prison Lit I’ve ever read would be the books of Paul of Tarsus. He was in prison when he wrote a good bit of the New Testament. The best thing about those books was the state of his spirit. He seemed content, hopeful and joyful, probably more so than the people he was writing to. He focused on teaching them about God, with the hopefulness of his imprisoned life.

Imagine if he had chosen to focus on his problems and magnify them. We’d have something like this:

“Well guys, hey, I’m still in these chains. I keep telling these guards that I’m a citizen of Rome. I’m a real Jew. A Jew of Jews! What else do they want from me? From the tribe of Benjamin. Did I mention I was circumcised on the eighth day?

He-llo!

The press is outside, I’d like my voice to be heard about this injustice. The food is terrible and I can’t wait to be home again eating Sister Phoebe’s lamb stew.

The prison cell has mold clusters the size of Corinth.

I don’t mind being interrogated but the breath on these guards. Help!

So I mentioned the other day that Diotrephes has been acting up. What’s his deal? I don’t have time for his pettiness.

Anyway, I’m still here.

Sigh.

It’s ok that you haven’t come to see me at all. Just continue living your best life while your friend is here rotting in prison. Please tell Carpus I need my coat, the one with the invincible stitches which I left in Troas. I hope Atrius hasn’t borrowed it and gone on his fishing expedition. That’ll be gross. It’s tailored.

There’s this particular guard who seems to be going through a lot and seems interested in Jesus, but I told him, “Hey, at least you are free and you don’t have these miserable chains around your ankles.”

Am I right?

He’s here again mumbling about believing in Jesus. I should share the gospel but I’m just not in the mood, guys.

Did I tell you about the watery soup of minestrone they serve on Mondays? Not my favorite.

Guys, I can’t even in this place. Lord, help.

Stay woke. Stay ready.

The soldiers can arrest you at any time. I can testify. ”

Well, thank God he didn’t write any of that nonsense!

I say this from experience, seeing past your chains and limitations can be hard. I caught myself complaining a few weeks ago, I probably sounded like this rant above. Till date Paul is my favorite Prison Lit author.

Instead of ranting like me, he wrote these amazing verses:

“Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel. As a result, it has become clear throughout the whole palace guard and to everyone else that I am in chains for Christ. And because of my chains, most of the brothers and sisters have become confident in the Lord and dare all the more to proclaim the gospel without fear.” Php 1:12-14

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice.”

Php 4:4

Perspective. Chains. Optimism. And some more perspective.

Other works written in prison:

Orange is the new black

Piper Kerman

A Prison diary
Jeffery Archer

Conversations with myself
Nelson Mandela

Pilgrim’s progress
John Bonyan

The Travels of Marco Polo
Rustichello da Pisa

More…

Do you have a favorite Prison Lit? Which is it?

Ìyágànkú : Fiction By Ike Adegboye

Ìyágànkú

Historical Fiction

Ibadan, 1823

Ishola Omonilu Arimajeshu is dead. Everyone mourns and as dew settles, wails pierce the peace of dawn. The town crier is silent. I see him from where I dig, he walks through the square like a cat with a sprained paw, his head hangs low between his hunched shoulders. Even the sun considers us undeserving, the birds refrain from song. The cock crows in the darkness. The sound is harsh—forced from its throat.

Ishola can not be dead, they all whisper. I whisper it too. It can not be. I dig. I retie my wrapper across my breasts. My palms are damp. My strength wanes. I dig. It can not be. No one but a god could kill him. Ishola can not be dead, but I know he is, because I killed him. 

Everyone knows I did it. I killed the great warrior. Some doubt. I doubt. But I remember the knife, the metal in his throat. I watched his eyes bulge and his mouth fill with blood. His fingers twitched and then stilled. His eyes stared surprised out of his head, unblinking. 

Once the hide on which we conceived our children stained red, I dragged it out of the hut with him on it.

I would bury his body to cover this wretched deed of mine, before I was found out. I dragged him out to the forest, under the watchful eye of the trees, their roots getting in my way, like the careless legs of sleeping children. At the nearest clearing, I stopped and began to dig. Blood pounded in my ears and my skin dampened with sweat in the cool night air.  

But the earth would not receive him. She spat him out. For every time I dug up the earth, she filled his grave with water.

He should sink, surely, but instead, his body floated, the water bubbling eerily under his weight, earth and stones collected beneath him and pushed his lifeless body out of the grave. 

Even now in the dark dawn, I dig. The hoe against the moist earth—thuph—I drag, I scrape, with my fingers, with my elbows, the earth replenishes. 

I dig.

I dig.

I dig.

His body lays on the side, frigid. Decaying. His lips are white. Even in death he strikes his terror. My palms are damp. I dig. My head is heavy. But my will compels me. I must bury this dead. Only a patient person can milk the lioness. Is that not what the elders say? 

This man who could not be killed by a mortal but by a god. I have killed him, now I must bury him. Only then will I triumph.

By the second day, the people of the city came to see me—the god-woman who killed Ishola. 

Even the Alaafin sent his men. The children threw stones, their mothers approving but terrified. Who is this woman, who could kill a man unborn? Old women have come and spit on me—their stale saliva streaks my skin. The old men are full of curses, no space for blessings in their weathered, withered minds. 

On the third day, the spirit man came to the forest. Tall. Thin. Grim. Out of his sunken sockets stared out watery, yellowed eyes. 

You are trapped. Your will has received its bondage. 

It was what the spirit man said.

Endlessly, you will dig. For this is the curse on anyone who kills Ishola Omonilu Arimajeshu the son of Amore, the hope of ilu Kujore, the one who slits throats with the stick of the broom. 

He is a son of the soil who can not return. You, yourself know the price he paid.

The medicine man smiles. A little smile. He is pleased. He was there that night at the fire. He was there.

You will dig until you are old and grey, until the flesh falls off your back. Even then, you will dig.  

I wept as I heard this. My arms willed of their own. Raised high and brought low.

He can only be buried in a place with no soil. No earth.

The waters. My thoughts raced with hope.

No, the medicine man responds to my thought without speaking. His voice echoes in my mind. The floods sit on a bed of soil.

My arms are weak but they keep digging. My skin is shiny with sweat.

I am tired. No one touches the body. They stare. No one offers to help, lest they be trapped in enchantment.

The only place to bury him, is in the clouds. 

So I receive this judgement. My heart is open. A light floods my being and I smile. The medicine man stops and stares. His smile is gone. I must bury this dead. With joy, I receive my verdict, yes. 

Songs will be written about me. They must. Lest, I will write my own song. About the woman who stooped and was conquered. Ìyágànkú.

A woman. No. A god. No. A mother who digs the grave of a man who sacrificed her children in a fire to the gods, for his strength. For his power. For his fame. 

The End 

Copyright ©2019 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Proverb Ref: Twitter @yoruba_proverbs

Inside the story of Iyaganku, a short story set in Colonial Nigeria. I explore themes, characters and the thought process behind this thriller. Link to blog: www.pagesbyike.com Link to story: http://www.pagesbyike.com/blog/2019/1/17/iyaganku-fiction-short-story

Slim Shade Thrown

Conversation with ~60 year old lady at a bar before going to see the Celtics play last week.

Ed and I enter a bar, say hi and sit on the stools next to this nice lady. We talked about everything; from children to skype to day jobs to accents to designer purses. She had me at purses, we would be life-time friends, or so I thought…

Ed and I order fish and chips.

Lady:(she’s tickled) Fish and chips here in Boston. Did either of you live in Britain?

Me: I did. For school

Lady: They serve them in newspapers there

Me:(now looking down at the plated meal in front of me as inauthentic and too hygienic) Yes! You’re right.

Lady: I remember when I was in my 20’s, in London. We would go dancing and drinking and by 3am, we would be so hungry! We would stop over for some fried chicken or fish and chips on the way home. I was still so thin! Like a broom.

Me: smiling ruefully Bodies stop being predictable after your 20’s

Lady: pensive You’re right. Right you are.

We both get lost in reverie.

Lady :(recovers first)Don’t worry. Your time will come (sips drink)

Whao, lady! What did I ever do to her? Lol. I wasn’t ready for that one. We were speaking generally and then homegirl hones in on me. She said it with a straight face too. She wasn’t playing. 

I didn’t even have a wittily crafted comeback! Knock out. No recovery. Carried out on a stretcher. 

Still, I think she was an angel. An angel who enjoys its glass of pinot but nonetheless an angel. Since I started the new year, I’ve been having weight threats, like my new love for caramel lattes, and smoothies made with half full cream yoghurt and milk, and Asher’s yoghurt and snacks(o yes!), not to mention Ed’s signature apple crisp, slightly warm and served with Edy’s slow churned vanilla ice cream.

I also saw this meme last week. Lol!

Read caption! Photo @kikifoodies Instagram

The universe is warning me. 

I must heed the voices that speak truth and continue my workout religiously, and also work on my witty comebacks and invent fat-free caramel. Fat-free caramel exists, I just checked. Why would anyone invent that? Cringe.

I couldn’t find a quick comeback for her. What should I have said???

Has anyone thrown some fine shade your way this new year? 

Blogged while drinking a spinach-strawberry-banana  smoothie

 P.s Remember when this man and I had a wager about snapping back after pregnancy!

The Sex Recession

Millennials are having less sex than previous generations. I never would have guessed. Apparently, it appears the sexagenarians and septuagenarians are steaming things up more than we are! Now seeing that generation in a new light.  That’s way too much light. I officially can’t look at them the same again. Nope. Our parents, aunties, uncles. Presidents. Blindfold me, please! *Insert bird box reference* 

From observation though (not research), I’m sure generation X isn’t doing too badly either.

Generation X had Keith Sweat and Jodeci crooning into their ears in their teenage and young adult years. They are bound to still be reeling from all that—Usher taking it nice and slow; Another level trying to lick something*stare*; Ginuwine’s pony. Enough said. It was Steamatopia with those guys.

So what’s going on with millennials?

Many things.

Apart from our lack of songs laden with sexual innuendos and contrasting verbal cues, the truth is, millennials are busy. We may be the most achievement-oriented, self-actualizing generation that ever lived under the sun. There’s too much to be done. Goals. Checklists. Agendas. Breakfasts on the move. Presentations. Walking lunches. Meetings. Networking drinks. More checklists, ticking goals off, having apps that tick them off. It’s the life. There are targets to be hit, creative juices to be channeled, entrepreneurial heights to be surpassed, a whole continent of terra nillus in innovation and business to be claimed. Millennials are busy building empires(for other people and themselves), meeting deadlines and turning in deliverables. They are not interested in riding ponies or licking anything. Well, they are happy to fight along with animal protection for injustice against ponies or any other animal in the equine family and beyond by clicking to sign a petition. But that’s as ‘pony’ as they plan to get.

Millennials are at work, trying to get ahead, reinventing the rat race, roller-blading down those green tracks.

Small wins and big wins are the new O.

There’s also social media. But I choose not to dwell. All I can say is turn off to turn on. Shrug. Also you should read this article about the benefits of sex.

There is some good in all of this though. Reported sexual abuse is at an all time low! How wonderful is this? I guess pervs are elsewhere doing other things—maybe laughing hysterically to memes on Instagram or learning to knit on Youtube or to cook on Yummly.

I wonder what other effects this recession may have:

Will the prices of condoms and contraception plummet? Will there be a reduction in contracted STDs? Will the porn industry see a boost in demand? Will the sale of sex toys reach an all time high? I hope human trafficking nose-dives and crashes. Traffickers will have to find a day job or diversify into selling caffeinated confectionaries and energy bars. Shrug. Business idea, trafficker. Thank me later. Let your victims go and put together a business plan!

I guess in all of this, I am proud that the sexagenarians and septuagenarians are getting it on at least. Those guys, even though they are still trying to figure out Skyping within the frame, they really are troopers where it counts.

What are your thoughts? Any other reasons you think millennials are choosing to skip sex?

Glad For Some

It has been such a magnificent year. I turned 30, and I matured like a fine bottle of insert your favorite wine.

I met the most charming little boy who lived inside me for months, came out and now laughs and eats and poops. Babies are a mystery to me. I can explain it physiologically of course—the sequence of the birds and the bees. There’s embedding in the uterine wall, the development of the umbilical cord, the legal siphoning of my food without permission, the kicks, the getting on and leaning on my nerves(literally)in vivo. It still is a mystery. Did you know you can feel your baby hiccup inside you? 

Fascinating.

One day, I’ll share my pregnancy journal on the blog. It’s hilarious.  It has titles like “The war against umami”, “I can smell the toilet down the street” and “Chin hair—Becoming Gandalf.”

2018 was a fantastic year of self-reflection, discovery and love.  

I made some new friends. I learned. I grew up! I relearned to love. I relearned to write.

And I have some people to thank.

Have you ever met people who you are just glad their parents made them? That daddy bought flowers(or suya) that night, that mummy flirted and pulled his mustache (or however mothers flirted in the 70’s and 80’s) and things happened and this awesome person was born?

I’m grateful to have you in my life. I’d say you know who you are and I know you do, but I’ll just call you out anyway:

Ed (I thank you in every language on earth and in heaven)

Itunu

Abidemi

Akofa

Damilola

Djeneba

Ehi

Thank you for being in my life and for a wonderful 2018. Have the best new year.

xx

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Drafts

I have been working on a short story series which has somewhat grown into this colossal giant on me. It was supposed to be published weeks ago, but now I’m at this place where the protagonist is standing on quick sand in a river, shin-deep, with arrows pointed at her from the shore and crocodiles napping at her ankles and head! Whatever is going to happen?! Gasp!

Only my fingers know. 

My brain doesn’t know. My fingers know everything.

Well, my fingers and the protagonist. 

I’d love to be a published author and sell many, many books. I’d like to share my world with many strangers, family and friends. I hear most times your friends/family actually don’t read or buy your book. That’s the worst. It used to bother me in the past that some of my friends wouldn’t read my blog, but not so much anymore. Those who do already mean a lot to me and my parents read it and ask after it, so... 

Recent inquires from my mom:

Mom: Pages by Ike, why can’t I open your email on my phone? (She calls me Pages by Ike) Lol.

Mom: In “Lafia”, what happened? What did the dog see?

Side eye. Describing a sex scene to your mom is not what every writer has ever dreamt about.  

It’s like George R.R Martin’s mom asking, “What did the little Stark boy see before he fell off the tower?!”

“Err…you see mom, Cersi and Jamie are twins but…”

I don’t remember how I cringed my way out of that one, but I am grateful she reads it, and my dad reads it too! 

I am grateful for all you who read my blog. You must either really like me, really like literary work, or really dislike me. I hope it’s the second. Seriously, your readership has developed my writing extensively, and for that I am grateful.

Have the best week! 

“The dustbin is your friend. It was invented for you... by God!”

Margaret Atwood, On writing

Photo by Ed Adegboye (Taken 2016)