Dear readers, I apologise for the unannounced one week break, it was as a result of a small matter called Media Law examinations and assignment deadlines I had to meet. Much as I tried to pen something down, it just didn’t happen. Instead, pieces of Law terminologies I have crammed in my head kept interfering.
Anyways, during the exams, while my brain was hoping for a miracle to remember things, I looked around the hall and noticed the stark differences between the exam atmosphere here and in Nigeria. If you had the time to look around during exams, you would most definitely see all methods and types of examination crimes ranging from neck extensions (giraffing) to sign and coded messages sent over long distances without the aid of Bluetooth. Look on the desks and you would see that mini-textbooks have been jotted on them and if you looked close you would see that some people had the nerve to bring in textbooks as big as Oxford dictionaries inside the exam hall.
Bodily writing is another matter as students could write a semester worth of answers on parts of their body in manners and designs even a tattooist would blush at. I had a female friend that was rusticated for writing on her laps, and I must confess those laps were ‘yellow’ and fresh. After the incident, we nicknamed people that wrote on their laps as people carrying lap-tops. In the hall here, it was dead quiet, so quiet you could hear biros scribbling, clocks ticking and I think I heard my brain crying in dismay for the stress I was putting it through. I am pretty sure a camera must have been spying on us but I wasn’t about to put that fact to test and get rusticated wasting the Village Trust Fund that paid for my Masters program.
Well, back to my story from the last time. As the time ticked to when I was going back to Nigeria, my excitement knew no bounds. I felt like Nicholas Cage in Con-Air, like Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I felt like a virgin on her wedding night, who just wanted the pastor to get it over with and the guests to go home. I remembered when I was in Nigeria, I used to crave privacy. Now I got my wish but it was a tad too much, I wanted the company of my friends. I lusted for Lagos, had mental-wet dreams about it. Lagos was like a cross between Beyonce, Angelina Jolie, Eva Mendez, Jessica Alba and Ini-Edo and I wanted to be wrapped in her embrace. The mere thoughts of the Iya Basiras canteens, riding down Ikorodu road on an Okada and even imagining being extorted by the police and LASTMA made me shudder in excitement. The thought of my one-way exploits made me more excited than Tom Cruise on the Oprah show. Thinking about Abe-Igi cat-fish pepper soup made me higher than One-Thousand and Four Buildings (1004) or a child on alcohol. I had left Nigeria for like Seven million, seven hundred and seventy-six seconds (7,776,000) and every second away hurt. Sleeping at night became a challenge because of the excitement and of the worry about what I was going to buy, the gifts I would take back home. After all. I couldn’t just go home empty-handed!!! I walked down the High Street walking by to check shops like Marks and Spencer, Timbaland out but the prices always increased my blood pressure a few notches and this wasn’t good for a young man like me. Worse still, the fastest way to get depressed was to always check my bank balance which looked as low as an Aboki hooked on anti-depressants.
One call saved my pockets though. A dear friend showed me the truth, the way, the light. She recounted how this particular establishment was well known ad had saved the blushes of many Nigerians who were in the same predicament as I was. This particular ‘saviour’ was called a shopping outlet called PRIMARK. In Primark, you can get semi-quality, extra-cheap clothing for next to nothing. If you are a frequenter of bend down select at Yaba, Oshodi, Mile 12, then you know what I am talking about in terms of prices.
Well I won’t say how cheap the clothes I bought were because if those I bought them for are reading, they might start tearing them to use it for washing car or use to clean their kitchen stoves. I ask for your forgiveness because I actually wanted to buy Armanis. I am sorry. In the same vein, if you are surprised as to how that wicked, stingy relative of yours actually got you something from the UK, check the label. If it is Primark then your misery and wonderment ends right at this moment. But on the other hand, what if all the clothes your loved one bought for you are all from Primark...? Well, maybe it is just the recession. Let’s blame it on that.
With the Primark goodies safely secured in my bag with the better gits reserves for Ma and Miss Nizzle, I swaggered into Heathrow airport to board my Arik flight to Nigeria...
MEMOIRS NEWS ROUNDUP
A lot of people loved the Yara’dua chronicles I posted the last time. Here’s more from Asukwo, who I think is a good cartoonist.
In other news is a tragic fascinating story of a Nigerian that died at Zurich airport last week while he was been deported. A very strange story that highlights the desperation of Nigerians who are all too eager to leave her shores and never return. Apparently this guy preferred dying rather than come back home.Pity. Read more here on Jangola.
Rounding the news up for this week is an interesting story about a 12 year old boy who I really feel needs to be entered into the Guinness Books of Records because of his criminal activities. His criminal record is described as appalling due to the fact that he has committed more than 30 crimes in the short space he has spent on earth. If you are into crime and curious enough, you can get the full gist on Times Online here.
That’s a wrap for this week. Thanks for reading. As Jenifa used to say, ‘Catch ya later, bye’
No comments:
Post a Comment