tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38835315037642003332024-03-13T14:54:07.342+00:00Memoirs of a Nigerian Living AbroadNizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-76010138167911405742010-04-15T09:00:00.002+01:002010-04-15T09:23:33.819+01:00Tips On How To Spend Less When Returning to Nigeria From Abroad<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</b>I have been looking for excuses to justify why I have not been able to write another episode of Memoirs for the past two weeks and I decided to use this: Nepa took light! Nepa/PHCN officials travelled all the way from Nigeria to Bournemouth to disconnect my wire and they also took it away. Well, if you believed that then you can believe anything. The honest truth is that my brain took a break and it took great effort to write this episode.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Honestly I don’t know where to start from unless to say my trip back to Nigeria was more than I bargained for. As the time ticked towards my trip, I had to indulge in some over-eating techniques so that Ma Nizzle would at least see some flesh on my cheeks and also had to hit the gym so that Miss Nizzle can see a sexy body, rub a well developed chest and proudly show me off to her friends.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGH8Vh_ADtPX4vtS16Ca_LPfA7UKU4ZqhV7dyeSHVXeaqN97iuiCJKU84dMkoO1p1Wtag0ZMP44E7gR0SJ-HwmWUgK-mhRAIke8aBhPvhQq-B7Kx28aYpiQoYsG4qV6DsMNGKNPDcXFVAJ/s1600/johnnybravo3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGH8Vh_ADtPX4vtS16Ca_LPfA7UKU4ZqhV7dyeSHVXeaqN97iuiCJKU84dMkoO1p1Wtag0ZMP44E7gR0SJ-HwmWUgK-mhRAIke8aBhPvhQq-B7Kx28aYpiQoYsG4qV6DsMNGKNPDcXFVAJ/s200/johnnybravo3.gif" width="181" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After using most of my money to buy ‘Primarks’, I also had to have cash to throw around for the boys for Faji. Even though I had only gone for three months, people back home would expect one thing or the other and wouldn’t understand that I was just a Masters student with no job but only swagger. I could imagine a long queue with people and their requests...I shuddered. My financial situation was even worse since I had already purchased birthday gifts for Ma & Miss Nizzle’s who were billed to celebrate their birthdays during my visit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OcWOtLyUJ6oKcW3G96rB9P3sQUe69mN_JB6vaHOhMadmO6Hy6H-93nDDkmN-ru6HepIWOCq7Odk28iBXzFQUBV_dp2ad4r7RqQ1_DxejTH3uRolrxKeYXgrbaw6wWrR2g1BceEHn8M31/s1600/Zebra+Buker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OcWOtLyUJ6oKcW3G96rB9P3sQUe69mN_JB6vaHOhMadmO6Hy6H-93nDDkmN-ru6HepIWOCq7Odk28iBXzFQUBV_dp2ad4r7RqQ1_DxejTH3uRolrxKeYXgrbaw6wWrR2g1BceEHn8M31/s200/Zebra+Buker.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">To salvage my situation, I had arranged with my trusted confidantes back home on escape methods. Because I knew I was not going to have enough money, I had an ironclad blueprint of hide and seek methods that would perplex even the United States government and make Osama Bin Laden present me with an honorary award. It was so detailed that even if Britney Spears or any celebrity uses it, no paparazzi would be able to get a sniff of them or even get a picture of them. <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</style>You would be as elusive as a Zebra on a speed bike eluding a Lion. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Recalling when I was in Nigeria, I knew I was not going to get any mercy, since I always did the same to my friends who just came back from abroad. My cult-hero status would also ensure that those that knew me would also expect quite a lot from me especially since ‘I too dey form’ when I was in Nigeria. My Facebook pictures also gave the impression that I was living an affluent lifestyle. What people didn’t know is that one of my major reasons for coming home was to come and pack enough garri,groundnut and Indomie to weather the storm here. I want to use this opportunity to thank the makers of Indomie for saving Nigerian bachelors the world over and giving us a reason to enter the kitchen. God bless you.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sharing some techniques out of my escape routine was the ‘Over Luggage Palaver’. When people are coming over to Nigeria and are not well prepared financially as I was, one of the ‘get-out-of-jail’ excuses was that of over-luggage. When the lynch mob arrives to get a piece of the goodies you bought for them from yonder, what people say is that they bought a lot of stuffs but there were problems at the airport because of the weight of the bags. As such, they couldn’t come with everything they planned on bringing especially the stuffs that they bought you. They then usually follow it up with a promise that their bag was en-route to Nigeria in a couple of days, if you had the patience. After saying all these, they would probably console you by giving you a Primark shirt or chocolates instead of the SONY PSP you requested for.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Talking about chocolates, what is it about expecting someone coming from abroad to always buy? It is not like you can’t get in the supermarket down your street or something. Alternatively, you could go to ShopRite and buy your fill. Well, it was in a page in my escape routine to buy the chocolates in Nigeria with Naira instead of the money-sapping Pounds. Had to save money, you know?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally the best part of the escape routine is to leave them guessing. Never let them know the actual date you would be leaving. The first thing you do when you enter the country is to promise people that you would be around for a while so that they get relaxed having you around. If they know or sense you might not be around for long, they would so clinch you and sap everything they can while they can. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Earlier, I mentioned the over-baggage scenario, by lying about over-extending your stay; it would give your story more credence. The only downside about all these lies is that your confession to a Reverend father would take longer than usual when you return. It was worth it though, I had a friend who went home for the December break, he lamented that everything was taken from him, even his belt!!! His trousers sagged and fell all the way back to the United States.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Comforting myself with the knowledge of my escape routine, I entered Heathrow airport. It is worth noting here, that it took me less than 15 minutes to clear myself, all with minimal fuss. The trolley used to wheel my baggage was free and I boarded my flight without breaking sweat.</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the plane, I noticed people were still suffering from the post ‘Muttalab’ blues. Due to the fact that I took a lot of red wine, I always had to pee in the toilet and anytime I did so, I noticed people’s eyes following me to and fro the toilet. Did I look like the bloody bugger for crissakes!!!??? Ignoring them and with my earphone tucked in my ears, I imagined the reunion back home especially with Miss Nizzle. I smiled. I listened to all the love songs from Michael Buble-Home to Phil Collins and Bone Thugs- Take me Home and Sound Sultan’s-King of my Country. To pass away time because I was shivering with excitement, I practiced my phonetics. Since I was from Jand and going home, I had to show that my accent had changed a bit even though it was only three months I had left. Since there was lack of anything to do, it looked like a good idea back then.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQF61guBzOEUO88ZRxF6BtxE6_2tlyLdfCCGH1AJx2-NMxFuE0fDB6gRWsvEKRLCJbaFgeIHrjNjlxDpSVs_BDpdUUKirE2hxBJIN2h3Li_DsS4iVTZmxS3hXHe1q62ZXnyeFvdGD1HIku/s1600/20+Naira+Michael+Jackson+note.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQF61guBzOEUO88ZRxF6BtxE6_2tlyLdfCCGH1AJx2-NMxFuE0fDB6gRWsvEKRLCJbaFgeIHrjNjlxDpSVs_BDpdUUKirE2hxBJIN2h3Li_DsS4iVTZmxS3hXHe1q62ZXnyeFvdGD1HIku/s200/20+Naira+Michael+Jackson+note.bmp" width="200" /></a>After like seven hours, the wait was finally over. From my vantage view from the plane, I saw Gidi, Lagos, Home in all its glory, in all its darkness since there was no light. Getting down from the plane and walking into the airport, I was blasted with a wave of hot air that I nearly fainted. It took me less than five minutes to start sweating, a feat I couldn’t manage in like three months abroad. The air-conditioners were supposed to be working, maybe they were but it had no effect at all. At the Muritala airport, unlike Heathrow, I had to pay N100 for a trolley just to wheel my baggage. From the point of the plane up to the moment I saw Pa Nizzle, I was asked for tips from immigration officers, airport-workers on no less than 10 times. It was pathetic. Did I look like Santa Claus with naira Bills? Or Michel Jackson on a twenty-naira note?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shaking my head by it all, I spotted Pa Nizzle and Demola (one of my escape-route plotters); I strode towards them filled with happiness. Nizzle was back in Gidi...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-74091883076447201252010-03-29T09:00:00.001+01:002010-03-29T09:00:07.234+01:00EPISODE 5: How Primark Saved Me + News Roundup<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WXw3gQULQQZHlanadAOqaoUMWZjV5LjAlUv0D9Reww8Ja0f0IvUd0e-z5qWLf9fU0peKP2CTYXTybV_FSkWio1-Bo0g3qB7b73sCiAvgBb6lRWwMvBHB_uBtYhRZWtXTp7SrHbe-QgbV/s1600/exam_cheating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WXw3gQULQQZHlanadAOqaoUMWZjV5LjAlUv0D9Reww8Ja0f0IvUd0e-z5qWLf9fU0peKP2CTYXTybV_FSkWio1-Bo0g3qB7b73sCiAvgBb6lRWwMvBHB_uBtYhRZWtXTp7SrHbe-QgbV/s200/exam_cheating.jpg" width="140" /></a>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFD2rUYDdhlAmS5KKl05MwduABLTdNhXWI_VLX6WzHzrcCeFmA-rimMP14KjjlJrRb6VCXqRPZkxMOsA5btRTbUMU1JcQo7UkONc7r7UjtKPpDnyeJq9k3NiTRQyLl8THsDUZuOZmVm2-/s1600/High+Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFD2rUYDdhlAmS5KKl05MwduABLTdNhXWI_VLX6WzHzrcCeFmA-rimMP14KjjlJrRb6VCXqRPZkxMOsA5btRTbUMU1JcQo7UkONc7r7UjtKPpDnyeJq9k3NiTRQyLl8THsDUZuOZmVm2-/s200/High+Baby.jpg" width="200" /></a>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> 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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> MEMOIRS NEWS ROUNDUP</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJrPa54zshMbbmXVFh3QEVyePePIoPzNqT4xTJG3b2WKb8tDdyfKxhNj3E6oTJ4jmVUk_EZxlKp-18-Tgdcw-r3u1R5UXHnFSSFivv84tuxtX172BqehZC_1zFTQ8cfPrI71hzedUIbHL/s1600/OBJ-cuts-out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJrPa54zshMbbmXVFh3QEVyePePIoPzNqT4xTJG3b2WKb8tDdyfKxhNj3E6oTJ4jmVUk_EZxlKp-18-Tgdcw-r3u1R5UXHnFSSFivv84tuxtX172BqehZC_1zFTQ8cfPrI71hzedUIbHL/s320/OBJ-cuts-out.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyj83W6iva4_Es7qi2wUuddmUg6AvoHSFn19WviGsD1IJho_X_Mzwik_RSMjTY-kuwHgkVc4c01eUrTtYHLD-F6a3VolxODuVGIT_qOMfGRiLShCxplKdCI9Smw_-IZ7QTcgaTjfdLBmUA/s1600/The-Thieves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyj83W6iva4_Es7qi2wUuddmUg6AvoHSFn19WviGsD1IJho_X_Mzwik_RSMjTY-kuwHgkVc4c01eUrTtYHLD-F6a3VolxODuVGIT_qOMfGRiLShCxplKdCI9Smw_-IZ7QTcgaTjfdLBmUA/s320/The-Thieves.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <a href="http://beta.jangola.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=482:nigerian-dies-in-swiss-airport-before-expulsion&catid=71:law-a-crime&Itemid=125">Read more here on Jangola</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/crime/article7064335.ece">Times Online here</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s a wrap for this week. Thanks for reading. As Jenifa used to say, ‘Catch ya later, bye’</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-43539393764463600702010-03-17T08:03:00.000+00:002010-03-17T08:03:35.844+00:00EPISODE 4: Reasons why Naija Rocks + News Roundup<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">“Guy, it’s a mail sorting job. All you have to do is turn up for some hours; sort the mail in the right post codes and collect your 7 pounds per hour dough.” That was what my friend told me. It was just supposed to be a job where I was supposed to make a quick buck. It was supposed to be easy. </div><div class="MsoNormal">My friend continued: “One snag though is that, it is in the early hours of the morning, from 1am to 9am.” I told him not to worry with my mind already multiplying the quick buck I would make. Although I was a big failure at mathematics at school, I hurriedly calculated the sum in my head. I multiplied: 7 Pounds X 8 hours=56 pounds. I went on further to multiply 56 pounds X 250(Nigerian equivalent in naira) = N14, 000. Sweet! That was enough to at least buy cat-fish pepper soup and beer for my guys and I wanted to do like five days work of ‘easy mail sorting’. You can do the maths from there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5SMvX9mxSWeuP2fcrC1I2nitL-nkqvfJJ4KPaBLayzaoyICCVOIxp2EuKhRuQMu2tNQwST8pwUs-iLfGnY5PZyTEWCYN6GkOUgUuOMWIpn3PijZ2U5mhy5QAar9D4YYLCrgjupQVMDeSV/s1600-h/Israelites+working+in+Egypt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5SMvX9mxSWeuP2fcrC1I2nitL-nkqvfJJ4KPaBLayzaoyICCVOIxp2EuKhRuQMu2tNQwST8pwUs-iLfGnY5PZyTEWCYN6GkOUgUuOMWIpn3PijZ2U5mhy5QAar9D4YYLCrgjupQVMDeSV/s320/Israelites+working+in+Egypt.jpg" width="320" /></a>However my big money dreams all vanished when the work started. First, it was a factory and it wasn’t letters we were sorting, it was big, massive boxes of goods. Secondly, it was in the open and the temperature was in freezing conditions. I instinctively knew I was in for it. Till date, the experience is one that is intensely traumatic for me. That night alone, I think I worked more than the Israelites when they were captives in Egypt. The only thing missing was the whip and Pharaoh grinning from his royal seat above.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Just two hours into the work, I lost all my orientation and began to sleep-walk and work. I began to curse in languages from Arabic to Hindu and was extremely bitter at the fate that had befallen me. The look I gave my friend who recommended the job to me was so withering one that could make the Amazon jungle a desert. It was like the scales finally fell from my eyes, it was as if I had eaten ‘The Apple’ only this time it wasn’t a sexy naked Eve that made me but suffering.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everything came into perspective and I realized that everything here in the UK is a LOAN. You watch them in movies and see the lives they lead and you are awed but know what? The house they are living is a mortgage. The car they drive was gotten through a loan. The fancy phone they use is a contract (which they pay for in instalments). Even in the house you live in, you have to pay for your heater and Television License (which is about 120 pounds!) Can you just imagine paying £120 to watch NTA? I shudder at the very thought. Even marriages now are a contract, I have had people approach me to forget Miss Nizzle, get hitched and pay a white gal! It is now a cartel, a business, an industry. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueo9jZUzVWQQglFZ7J9uHbVEXFIeUhREPQlx6QF0KTVTrDYGt9pJ6qdqIKQ4pYQL1fbDOCMzsRL8Ic8DzRj-wg7klnlhXHB47yqXUpIzYmXx_wL1taLbYQo7XygN8tkyqwZSqNdks1vRL/s1600-h/On+the+pole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueo9jZUzVWQQglFZ7J9uHbVEXFIeUhREPQlx6QF0KTVTrDYGt9pJ6qdqIKQ4pYQL1fbDOCMzsRL8Ic8DzRj-wg7klnlhXHB47yqXUpIzYmXx_wL1taLbYQo7XygN8tkyqwZSqNdks1vRL/s320/On+the+pole.jpg" /></a>Here, you are a slave to the system.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fine. Accepted. Nigeria is perceived as bad over here, nobody wants to go back. We see the killings at Jos, we see on TV as our leaders make a mockery of themselves. There is no constant electricity but it is HOME.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is where you could avoid paying NEPA/PHCN Bill and just bribe the official when he comes. Besides don’t you get the tingle in your spine when you hear the rapturous cry of ‘UP NEPA’!!! It is where you might have water coming out of your tap (if you are lucky) and not know who is paying for it.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is where you can drive as you wish, beating traffic rules if they were any, without having thousands of pounds fined out of anal cavity.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was where your family knew it had hit pay dirt once a member got elected into government, even if it was just a Local Government Councillor appointment</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was where you could park your fleet of cars and put plate numbers for every day of the week, or the name of your girlfriends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW52KJyQqknwKvOunoeNI4KBk6h9tkVk8zVkslHMJjn8-Yberq1M_Ygxvn-tmSBUDWoiHwy2KzrASgD5lJsNTXAtQtNsdfmzU2ZIfg9A_ggAFajQOXRR18Uhna1OmRfKnnCjZNKwrRHxPc/s1600-h/Cock+Chase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW52KJyQqknwKvOunoeNI4KBk6h9tkVk8zVkslHMJjn8-Yberq1M_Ygxvn-tmSBUDWoiHwy2KzrASgD5lJsNTXAtQtNsdfmzU2ZIfg9A_ggAFajQOXRR18Uhna1OmRfKnnCjZNKwrRHxPc/s200/Cock+Chase.jpg" width="200" /></a>It is where you could celebrate with the flimsiest of reasons. A lot of livestock like cows, goats and fowls would be regretting ever being born in Nigeria because of the frequency in which we put them to the sword. Nigeria is the only country I know that even if the family is so poor as to not be able to pay their kid’s school fees could throw a burial ceremony costing about half a million naira.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is where you could make untaxed dough and become a billionaire with ideas borne out of your head or stolen from others.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was where you could open a bar by the side of the road or a canteen; make a ton of money that’s before Fashola comes to shut you down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjog5HWjuzZ4zfuoUQRKkGe_dK_j4mFIU6b2xmNDokS0O67g721ovxPT3HUnz4CJ2TDhmTPWse8eK45ttj0wKeVkHQpC8BLffV0FmpNtKXM1ztHJHuNX0zRDoP3sAgy9fbq6ul2vP7L3JLJ/s1600-h/Nkwobi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjog5HWjuzZ4zfuoUQRKkGe_dK_j4mFIU6b2xmNDokS0O67g721ovxPT3HUnz4CJ2TDhmTPWse8eK45ttj0wKeVkHQpC8BLffV0FmpNtKXM1ztHJHuNX0zRDoP3sAgy9fbq6ul2vP7L3JLJ/s200/Nkwobi.jpg" width="200" /></a>It was where you could eat cat-fish pepper soup, Nkwobi and drink Guinness (the real bitter one). We are not the second highest Guinness drinking nation in the world for nothing!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is where your loved ones are at. It was where mine was. It was HOME and I was going.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: red;">MEMOIR NEWS ROUND UP</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I came across a cartoon that epitomises the situation of things in Nigeria. It’s really nice; it was done by a dude called Asukwo. I couldn’t resist using it in what I have fondly called, the Chronicles of Yaradua.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9nrRIQAeXOSHtIGdQZrp5tlR5avz0dMYjcrig0uq9zlbbvyUusbMgzkUimY9vEXG4iTSQJbiEmthISPOn2YOTcmDvwEZ7fJgtFE63KriObZIL69LL9camWc1dzyPpHtdptZpACOjaofQ/s1600-h/Yaradua-Chronicles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9nrRIQAeXOSHtIGdQZrp5tlR5avz0dMYjcrig0uq9zlbbvyUusbMgzkUimY9vEXG4iTSQJbiEmthISPOn2YOTcmDvwEZ7fJgtFE63KriObZIL69LL9camWc1dzyPpHtdptZpACOjaofQ/s400/Yaradua-Chronicles.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03UP1YucPK5XG8IUh12NBtoQS1-0RovSH9J2hGOnb4jDtvL0V6gUPwNiHlvZm-PMHfXq_SWkhv8OFMLntSj1FuXfOluk6jpgXr0kvCmRUmBjFmgxcX2tCGv1r8q1-BKzGH_WoLyiqsIXz/s1600-h/Yaradua-Chronicles-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03UP1YucPK5XG8IUh12NBtoQS1-0RovSH9J2hGOnb4jDtvL0V6gUPwNiHlvZm-PMHfXq_SWkhv8OFMLntSj1FuXfOluk6jpgXr0kvCmRUmBjFmgxcX2tCGv1r8q1-BKzGH_WoLyiqsIXz/s400/Yaradua-Chronicles-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Some episodes ago, I wrote about the joys of Facebook <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1252165/Facebook-lovers-married-27-years-rekindling-romance.html">where two folks got united and married after several years apart</a>. Here’s an ugly side of the social network and how a dude killed his ex-girlfriend in a murderous rage all because he saw her in a picture with another man. He flew all the way from Trinidad & Tobago to London to commit this act. Read more about it <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8557402.stm">here.</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>While Facebook has been a place for old friends/classmates to reunite, a place where business transactions have been struck. It is also a place where a lot of individuals find preys to satisfy their lust. A site that has potentially caused a lot of breakups. Well, different strokes for different folks.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMvlgVxP0P-zAqoXHm_gwucrbE_PO3WjA0tBu5u2mtwUYjXFeHCTOyfqsiqLvZuFcYzZVnVHF1YfUDaKlNWjxsxQbiVDwCB1cViJ1-2FmPNK0tkRmlgFUwnhcASNbhM5woJgkeNJBEhyphenhyphenb/s1600-h/True+meaning+of+Facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMvlgVxP0P-zAqoXHm_gwucrbE_PO3WjA0tBu5u2mtwUYjXFeHCTOyfqsiqLvZuFcYzZVnVHF1YfUDaKlNWjxsxQbiVDwCB1cViJ1-2FmPNK0tkRmlgFUwnhcASNbhM5woJgkeNJBEhyphenhyphenb/s200/True+meaning+of+Facebook.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>This sort of made me remember when Miss Nizzle gained access into my Facebook inbox. Oooohhh! I shudder whenever I remember her murderous gaze.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This ends this week’s edition of Memoirs. I am sorry for been late this time, school stress and a mild bout of depression are the reasons why. I promise to be good henceforth. Enjoy the rest of the week.</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-75412025384272732872010-03-08T09:00:00.001+00:002010-03-08T09:00:05.060+00:00EPISODE 3: The Quest for Money + News Roundup<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">One of the first tips I picked up when I got to the UK is that your pocket is your very best friend. Firstly, to combat and beat nature, you need to always put your hands in your pocket. Even if you are wearing gloves, it gets so cold that hell fire actually begins to look like a good holiday resort. You actually start to fantasize about using a long fork to eat noodles with Satan and his minions if you are trapped out on a cold night. Simple things you take for granted suddenly become extremely difficult. For example, you can’t pick up a call, you can’t tie your shoe laces, write, type, button your shirt, remove money from your wallet and I actually dare you to send a text message! I have a lot of missed calls on my phone primarily because my hands were just too frozen stiff to press the green call button. Very frustrating I must confess.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another reason why your pocket is your best friend is simply because your wallet resides in it. Over here in the UK, you have the most polite group of individuals ever, who would hold the door open for you, family who would stuff you with food, you have friends who are willing to help out but one thing I must point out is that it all ends when it is time to pay the bills, when it is time to show the money. When it comes to this, you are on your own!</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was when I got here that the cliché ‘It’s not easy’ or in Yoruba dialect ‘Ko easy’ started to make a whole lot of sense. It is easy for you to imagine when you are in Nigeria and hear that someone earns 10 pounds per hour. Dreamily, you convert it into naira and you suddenly start to dream that all you have to do is get to Britain and before long you would be building a house in Nigeria that could feature in an episode of Cribs. However, the harsh reality is that for every pound you make, the more bills you pay and less I forget, the Queen a.k.a Iya Charlie would also demand her ‘royal share’ to buy Prince Harry another Rolls Royce(Oops! Did I just speak against the crown? Strike that out, I don’t want to be deported). Even the air you breathe here feels taxed!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8v75H_beba7dvVdyg2XDBbcA2k3EitKwfM8vX6bxMT0LK4JlLtjT1x7jDM-5HJos6YpSoqxnW5pWWyLQA9k3B3K3YVr9DTdtMCTktCDSNF6urz-deUoUwgQPeBoatkBGF2FsJ30CpXmG/s1600-h/What+9jerians+wanna+do.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8v75H_beba7dvVdyg2XDBbcA2k3EitKwfM8vX6bxMT0LK4JlLtjT1x7jDM-5HJos6YpSoqxnW5pWWyLQA9k3B3K3YVr9DTdtMCTktCDSNF6urz-deUoUwgQPeBoatkBGF2FsJ30CpXmG/s320/What+9jerians+wanna+do.jpg" width="320" /></a>With this in mind, it beats me why folks back home could sell their right testicle; go through all means, steal, and cheat to come over here thinking all they have to do is turn up here and pick pound sterling on the streets or pluck it on trees. Think again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Well, putting my sermon aside and back to my sojourns, I managed to twist some arms and made false promises to get my plane ticket to Nigeria but then I faced another dilemma, a huge one. I felt very cornered. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbfbyDs7VzPLUxni2rHbAZn47jmz6QhA_5oKT2vCTJfoDCY5A-0aEndxD7Gi6qKxa2w-FSt6Hphkb5OboEG2feRyre-LJzLZ_rUq8J6qRdMucN0RmzFqLUFQxHfwVPMDikYrIZWbK1uYS/s1600-h/Cornered+mouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbfbyDs7VzPLUxni2rHbAZn47jmz6QhA_5oKT2vCTJfoDCY5A-0aEndxD7Gi6qKxa2w-FSt6Hphkb5OboEG2feRyre-LJzLZ_rUq8J6qRdMucN0RmzFqLUFQxHfwVPMDikYrIZWbK1uYS/s320/Cornered+mouse.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t go home empty-handed; I had to show that I have been blessed by Iya Charlie. Even though it showed physically as I was looking tremendously hot and handsome with pink lips and all, I had to back it up with gifts, spray some cash around and pretend like I was P.Diddy. I envisaged a tough task convincing folks back home that I wasn’t picking pound notes on the streets. In fact I could already hear them saying miser and sniggering behind my back. With few weeks left before my trip, a friend alerted me about a job opportunity in London where I could make some few bucks. With pound notes obstructing my psyche, I boarded Britain’s version of Ekene Dilichukwu bus called National Express and made my three hour trip to London.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Remember in previous episodes when I felt like Rosa Park in the bus because I was almost the only black in Bournemouth? Well, the reverse is the case in London. London especially the eastern part is more like a Nigerian island in Europe. I think a white guy would feel odd being amongst so many blacks, so many Nigerians. In buses here, I basically feel like Kunta Kite in the slave ship. All around me, I would hear Yoruba, Ibo, and Pidgin English all spoken. It was a bitter-sweet feeling though. Anytime any phone rings, the ringtone would be a D’Banj, Terry G or P-Square song and to tell you the truth, most Nigerians are lousy when speaking on the phone. All their life details would be in your palm within minutes and the noise they make is worse than Answani Market on a busy Tuesday.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Walking down East London were Nigerian barbing saloons, shops, I actually saw a woman wheeling down semo and pounded yam in a cart down the road albeit in a classy manner. Anyways, I got to my friend’s house and prepared to work, to earn a quick buck or so I thought...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: red;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> MEMOIRS NEWS ROUNDUP</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">With news that has been filtering since the arrival of our president from Saudi-Arabia, one begins to wonder what condition he is actually in. Since nobody has actually been able to see him to ascertain his health, it is not too hard to imagine that even the late Michael Jackson was in far better health than our president before his death. Compare this to this story in <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1254684/Barack-Obama-try-harder-kick-smoking-habit-doctors-say.html">Daily Mail</a> that thoroughly analysed the health of President Obama.</div><div class="MsoNormal">If Obama’s health is a cause for concern, then that of our president is a disaster. The fallout continues. The video below by a Nigerian senator(after the very lenghty presenter's cue) fully epitomises the confusion the country is in. His vocabulary is unrivalled and words that have not been invented and never will were freely used. Get your dictionaries out people to search for words that never were<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Beats me how the guy got elected. Nonetheless i admire his cojones to make a mockery of himself on national television.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Moving on, the story I am going to talk about could possibly tempt you to out of school and become a cleaner or start gambling big-time. It is about a British couple who incidentally are Britain’s highest lottery winners after winning £56 million and gave their cleaner a £400,000 house. Read more on the story <a href="http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/UK-News/Lottery-Winners-Cleaner-Nigel-Page-And-Justine-Laycock-Give-Denise-Kelso-400K-House/Article/201003115563065?lid=ARTICLE_15563065_LotteryWinners,Cleaner:NigelPageAndJustineLaycockGiveDeniseKelso%C2%A3400KHouse&lpos=searchresults">here</a>. It just makes you want to drop your pen, ignore your assignments and go to a casino to either gamble or post your CV for a cleaning job for the rich and famous.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, this concludes this week’s edition. Many thanks to you all for reading about my not- so -glamorous life and experiences even though I wonder why you all do.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Till next week...Cheers.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-7791915966627958342010-03-01T10:00:00.000+00:002010-03-01T09:58:14.894+00:00EPISODE 2: Kings of the Loo+News RoundupTo kill the boredom and loneliness, my snow-infested brain formulated 3 fail safe plans. First was to get a six pack of my favourite drink in the UK called Stella Artois. Stella is quite a notorious drink over here and is fondly called the ‘Wife beater’ because when the Euro Nationals drink it, it intoxicates them so much that in most cases, their wives bear the brunt. I tried that and it didn’t work, in fact it made it worse, I proceeded to Plan 2 which was to go on a night out and party.<br />
Dressed like an Eskimo in the wintry conditions, I manoeuvred myself into a bus going towards the club. In the bus, I reflected on my life so far. Back in Nigeria, going to the club with my ‘hooliganic friends’ was like a ceremony in itself. From bar to bar we prowled, making Arthur Guinness smile in his grave as his earthly pockets swelled with our Naira. With our brain molecules mixed with the barleys of Guinness we would enter our cars and form the most joyful procession ever, a convoy of promise, a night train. On the way there, we would break speed limits, punish our tires, bribe the police with money and booze...Back to the present, I winced, looked at myself through the glass and couldn’t discern the difference between myself and Santa Claus with the amount of clothing I had on. Only the beard remained, it seemed.<br />
If you are a regular club-goer or alcohol sympathiser then you know that the toilet is one of the most frequented arenas to get rid of the life-saving poisonous liquid inside you. On my numerous trips to this hallowed place did I come to this scientific observation. I observed that from empirical studies, Nigerians are undisputedly the Managing Directors of toilets in the United Kingdom. Truth be said, I have not gone to any club in the UK from Bournemouth to London without seeing a Nigerian overseeing the night-to-night activities of the lavatory. My research led me to the fact that most of these ‘Toilet Research Administrators’ are from either Edo State or Port-Harcourt.<br />
I have talked to a couple of these distinguished ‘Managers’ but the love of the pound sterling to them far outweighs the respectability of their jobs. If these same dudes go back home to Nigeria, it is this same you and I that would descend on them as fast as a LASTMA official on an offending driver passing one-way. When these dudes come home, we see them as established, millionaires, successful but from my vantage point here, I call them Kings of the Loo. <br />
A sobering thought indeed so much that after most of these discussions, my inebriate mind clears making me waste the precious pound notes I used to buy the beer that was supposed to keep me tipsy and ‘loneliness proof’. Damn! Worse still, at 4am when most leave the club, there are no buses at that time, only cabs.<br />
Due to my rare illness called ‘Cabophobia’, a strange illness caused by watching a cab money-meter increase by the pound thereby making me all sweaty, nervous and broke. I elected to keep fit by pulling my hoodie on my head and walk the 40 minutes back to my room in minus 3 degree conditions. How thought and mind sobering could that be? As if the Man Upstairs wanted to take a piss out of me, the clouds opened up and it started raining. Terrific. Just my luck.<br />
Arriving my room and shivering like Jack in Titanic and cursing in languages in which I understood and didn’t, I switched to Plan 3. It was the last card I had to play; it was all I had left lest I lose my mind. I decided a fortnight in Motherland, Nigeria would cure my craze. The thought in itself warmed me up...<br />
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<div style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> MEMOIRS NEWS ROUND UP</b></span></div>Last week, after months of debate, expectation, controversy, our president finally came back home after months of being incommunicado in a Saudi Arabian hospital. Just as acting president, Goodluck Jonathan was just coming to grips with Aso Rock and probably thinking about redesigning his ‘new home’ shows our president.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6XKMyxyoF-usUBEpeWg5oNyZLJeYd5aj15OFnslhs2SkZhGEG2mCyO58oJhFXRus54k0Sh5FD0iEcm99ZUXx1OqEvs62cX5bp4c4vN-oWGkS8Q9Nd1EKAuoEF0uahzvCT0DbEFlnXwXZ/s1600-h/Yaradua+returns.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6XKMyxyoF-usUBEpeWg5oNyZLJeYd5aj15OFnslhs2SkZhGEG2mCyO58oJhFXRus54k0Sh5FD0iEcm99ZUXx1OqEvs62cX5bp4c4vN-oWGkS8Q9Nd1EKAuoEF0uahzvCT0DbEFlnXwXZ/s320/Yaradua+returns.bmp" width="226" /></a></div><br />
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Don’t let that picture deceive you, according to reports, especially those of <a href="http://234next.com/csp/cms/sites/Next/Home/5531732-146/turai_takes_charge___.csp">234NEXT</a>, our president is not as fit as a hip-hop star but still in a hospitalized condition. In fact if conspiracy theories are your thing, you should read <a href="http://234next.com/csp/cms/sites/Next/Home/5531732-146/turai_takes_charge___.csp">234NEXT’s version</a> that might lead to suggestions that our president is no longer a he but a SHE-his wife Turai Yaradua.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7M62fgvDcFuEObuMI0tLEBJ8ONegugHnZxBtxH__ooKZmHdiQjgEo3_DQ2i10Abe_j5Z1i4HIvZd04VCVX6dSKn4qzlC52gfHaLwfeOMtqQA1VMzEhqtVLh24BSusi9twXOc85Lbem5r/s1600-h/President+Turai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7M62fgvDcFuEObuMI0tLEBJ8ONegugHnZxBtxH__ooKZmHdiQjgEo3_DQ2i10Abe_j5Z1i4HIvZd04VCVX6dSKn4qzlC52gfHaLwfeOMtqQA1VMzEhqtVLh24BSusi9twXOc85Lbem5r/s320/President+Turai.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The Nigerian political tussle gets more interesting,more interesting than a chilled bottle of small stout and Nkwobi. More here to come as it unfolds.<br />
Talking about tussles, last weekend in the world of soccer saw another between former team-mates John Terry and Wayne Bridge come head-to-head for the first time after the truth about an affair between the former and Bridge’s partner. After the disclosure, Bridge sensationally quit playing for England and the eyes of the world focused on the pair to see if they would shake hands. Bridge snubbed Terry big time and ignored shaking him in one of the most anticipated handshakes of all time. <br />
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Wouldn’t blame him though, if I was Bridge, I would be sorely tempted to take it a notch further and kick him in the nuts till I hear it crunch and see him writhe in agony.Well, that is my own opinion anyway but i still feel boys need to arrange Terry even though justice seemed to have been done with Bridge's Man City beating Chelsea 4-2. You just don't shag your pal's gal and expect three points after.<br />
Hope you enjoyed this week's edition? For comments and suggestions, you could drop it in the comment box below or alternatively on my Facebook wall(Akin 'Nizzle' Solanke). You can also follow me on twitter by searching for me typing akinizzle.<br />
CheersNizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-48021954338384969142010-02-25T17:07:00.003+00:002010-02-25T17:31:09.518+00:00Memoirs unveils logo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZneUUYwYRoIvVjd2DmFP1CH63RH-T-EYLk-Aa2devNCFIIE5JMc2uv0B7Ay9KDfj2LpK0V2A9PwvLC1mFSzHfB4ymT8FHEY87B67dE5-pDxxh_blgPBwbAdLyRpFOotQG8YvUIAFZAZZJ/s1600/Memoirs+of+a+Nigerian+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZneUUYwYRoIvVjd2DmFP1CH63RH-T-EYLk-Aa2devNCFIIE5JMc2uv0B7Ay9KDfj2LpK0V2A9PwvLC1mFSzHfB4ymT8FHEY87B67dE5-pDxxh_blgPBwbAdLyRpFOotQG8YvUIAFZAZZJ/s400/Memoirs+of+a+Nigerian+logo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZneUUYwYRoIvVjd2DmFP1CH63RH-T-EYLk-Aa2devNCFIIE5JMc2uv0B7Ay9KDfj2LpK0V2A9PwvLC1mFSzHfB4ymT8FHEY87B67dE5-pDxxh_blgPBwbAdLyRpFOotQG8YvUIAFZAZZJ/s1600-h/Memoirs+of+a+Nigerian+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</style></a>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-47735967851874576062010-02-22T09:21:00.001+00:002010-02-22T18:07:08.848+00:00Memoirs Season 2 Premiere+News Round-up<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Welcome to season 2. Good to be back after been out for a while. I kinda feel like an injured player returning to the pitch. A lot of things have happened since we last related, a whole lot; I finally got over my white powder cravings and when I say white powder, I don’t mean cocaine but the white flourish powder that metamorphoses into the black Amala. After consuming a whole lot that was good for me, my toilet suffered the backlash which wasn’t pretty I must say. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Also on December 25<sup>th</sup>, while most of us had that murderous gleam in our eyes to slaughter our unfortunate poultry birds to consume, one of our compatriots wasn’t satisfied with just killing chickens but humans. The stupid Abdulmuttalab (incidentally his name now means stupid, so does that mean I am saying stupid twice?) tried to blow up a plane and scorched his testicles in the process. He wanted to be a hero, a martyr when he got to paradise so that he could bed seven virgins. With all the money this guy’s family had, he could order seven Venezuelan virgins if he so wanted on earth! It beats me why some people could be so ‘Abdulmuttalabish’. Well, even if he goes now to his ‘paradise’, his testicles are all burnt up anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal">During this period, I was so happy we weren’t in session when this happened. I could imagine walking into class and all my classmates running for the nearest exit as fast as their legs could carry them. Come to think about it, I fit the bill; I am young, I school abroad and I am Nigerian. However, the only thing that disqualifies me is that I am much better looking, I love life too much and I don’t need seven virgins-I have Miss Nizzle. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The boy has now made it harder for all his compatriots too travel and one of the best jobs now is to work at the airport where you can frisk all the beautiful ladies you ever wanted. As far as you have your uniform on, you can cup feels as much as your depraved mind needs. The picture below shows the 'Abdulmuttalabness' of situations in airports all over the world.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOpP4TwUibQXsqvpMEKtKgMe1vPKfyWQCdG0eW0imtXBvLr-itOK9odHqhDfNgdl1YJjGmLDTo5I7LTXNBn8LMU8LUaZGvyI_Me6uxtdT3gsT86INxwbiepCr7kHn6e9ChSBvAtj7Eugw/s1600-h/funny-frisk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOpP4TwUibQXsqvpMEKtKgMe1vPKfyWQCdG0eW0imtXBvLr-itOK9odHqhDfNgdl1YJjGmLDTo5I7LTXNBn8LMU8LUaZGvyI_Me6uxtdT3gsT86INxwbiepCr7kHn6e9ChSBvAtj7Eugw/s200/funny-frisk.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, while Muttalab was scorching his privates, I was with my family at London eating chicken like they were going to get extinct on Boxing Day. I personally consumed more than an entire Nigerian family would in just an evening. It was nice finally being with family and friends, sharing their warmth because just outside, it was the worst winter Britain had ever faced in like 35 years. I wondered why it was when I decided to travel down that all these were happening. Anyway I saw the funny side of things; seeing people fall over on the slippery roads and sliding even better than the late Michael Jackson could.</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the whole festive period, loneliness hit me big-time. It was then I knew the true feeling of homesickness. Worse, the snow was so bad that I was cooped inside for like a week without stepping outside. I felt so helpless; it was like how you feel when you know you can’t rub cream in certain spots at your back. I yearned to go home so badly. It was a very ironic situation though, I was in a position where boys would sell their father’s property, steal their mother’s jewellery and sell the most expensive lacy underwear of their sister to be where I was. But still, I wanted to go back home, to Nigeria, to my mum, my family, to Miss Nizzle.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was then I started hatching my plans...</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> <b> </b><span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: red;">Memoirs News Roundup</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">A close friend of mine appealed for more romance in the Memoir episodes and none came more in the form of this story on <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1252165/Facebook-lovers-married-27-years-rekindling-romance.html">Daily Mail</a> about two lovers reuniting and marrying because of Facebook. The couple enjoyed an 18-month relationship 27 years earlier and had to break up because the lady thought she was too young to settle down. When I read these, I marvelled. Just as, Facebook has managed to reunite people, it has destroyed million more relationships because of infidelity issues. <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1252165/Facebook-lovers-married-27-years-rekindling-romance.html">You can read more on this story on the Daily Mail</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Talking about infidelity, the Chief Infidelity Officer, Tiger Woods finally showed up to the world last Friday in a 13 minute press conference apologising for his serial cheating offences. I must confess that I hold his wife in awe for standing by her animal-named husband despite his dalliances. Below is apolegetic Woods and his hot, hot mistresses. Doesn't he look pitiful? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vQSvbWBt9zCAc078ZwzU09AtlZF5dUDuJqclZQ1FLV3yX0s2ZvY53S3vOkNHwQrxTzqljXOYknLNjprtEzG_n0dNse913Vj_EDXoig5HIFymnHMNDiS4mP4XMJGlYKhvIyrwP6xQN1ho/s1600-h/Tiger+Wood%27s+mistresses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vQSvbWBt9zCAc078ZwzU09AtlZF5dUDuJqclZQ1FLV3yX0s2ZvY53S3vOkNHwQrxTzqljXOYknLNjprtEzG_n0dNse913Vj_EDXoig5HIFymnHMNDiS4mP4XMJGlYKhvIyrwP6xQN1ho/s200/Tiger+Wood%27s+mistresses.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ouwvgc4F5AR2hxH9xW8fxsv4hILglPNTqz3XMVHPkVihTnbdH1RCAP_4i13sl7hF6Ew4r9RolVGUcraFvTOYTD3_06aN7FVObdEWKTt5XoTxqs1Q91FF4eoh3wnDsw-XT6QAVL4B59__/s1600-h/Tiger+Woods+apologises.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ouwvgc4F5AR2hxH9xW8fxsv4hILglPNTqz3XMVHPkVihTnbdH1RCAP_4i13sl7hF6Ew4r9RolVGUcraFvTOYTD3_06aN7FVObdEWKTt5XoTxqs1Q91FF4eoh3wnDsw-XT6QAVL4B59__/s200/Tiger+Woods+apologises.jpg" width="115" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another sportsman, Chelsea football star John Terry has also been in the news for sleeping with his team-mates girlfriend. Makes me wonder if all sportsmen are all adulterous? Maybe Taiye Taiwo is next...but then who would care anyway. In observation, i really think there is a Tiger Woods in us men ready to pounce out if not properly reined but then it is just an observation.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Rounding off the news is yet another infidelity story. <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1252166/We-deserved-punishment-What-Muslim-Malaysian-women-said-caned-having-sex-outside-marriage.html">Three Malaysian women were caned last week</a> for infidelity issued by a Sharia Court. The three women aged between 17-25 years turned themselves in for punishment after feeling guilty for sleeping with their boyfriends before marriage and getting pregnant.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Imagine this scenario in Lagos! I am sure whoever is caning would be so exhausted because there is per second of pregnancies amongst unmarried couples far outweighs the caners and even the canes available.</div><div class="MsoNormal">On this ‘infiditeletic’ note, I sign out. Till next week.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-34239415662227249252009-12-07T12:30:00.002+00:002009-12-12T12:53:29.364+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 7)<div style="text-align: justify;">Before I delve into this episode, I would love to delve Pa and Ma Nizzle for sending me to the best schools in Nigeria. Why? Because if I had not achieved the level of literacy I now possess, I would be mired in the technological jargons here in the UK. Even with my supposed level of literacy, you have no idea how many buses and trains I have missed because of the level of information you have to absorb. Information such as arrival times, departure, maps would keep your brain running at a million miles per second. If you want to come to the UK and your literacy level looks as bad Ronaldinho’s face, I suggest you brush up.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back to my sojourn, I got to the Bournemouth station and after struggling with the ticket machine and enduring the impatient stares of the polite citizens who if they were Nigerians would have wonderfully blessed me with curses and insults, I finally found out that my fare would cost me £46.50. My legs started shaking and the syndrome I affectionately call the ‘Calculator Syndrome’ took over. The Calculator syndrome is that in which you unconsciously and subconsciously convert pounds into naira either with your head if you are at maths and if you are bad at it as I am, with you calculator. The syndrome has affected me so much and still does. Any price of any good or service quoted to me and immediately I am multiplying by N250. Major symptoms of this syndrome is increased heart beat, frequency of breaking into a cold sweat, leg shaking and twitchy movements, stammering and a severe bout of depression after paying. In short, my brain is a foreign currency exchange industry.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After paying at last, I walked dejectedly into the train hoping the Amala promised me would be worth the ticket fare. Because the train was so comfortable, it wasn’t long before I drifted into a nap and then I started dreaming weird things ranging from the absolutely ridiculous to the sublime. First, I dreamt I was on an okada heading towards Oshodi, after I alighted, I started chasing mosquitoes telling them I love them and they duly reciprocated singing hymns in my ears. I dreamt I was at an Ibadan Amala joint watching a obese woman prepare it with her sweat dripping into the Amala (we all know sweat actually makes the Amala sweeter), I saw the unlucky but sumptuous goats to be slaughtered into Egufe and licked my lips in anticipation.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My dream suddenly turned for the better with Miss Nizzle beside me, cuddling me, whispering love nonentities into my ears ...My dream was suddenly halted by sudden movement by my side. I woke up to see a heavily bearded Arab man with a turban by my side, he was reading something in Arabic and seemed to be chanting, beside him was a bag. I have never sweated since I arrived Uk before because of the weather but with this instance the sweat started to drip profusely. I started regretting and lamenting what the promise of Amala had gotten me into. To be blown to bits! To make things worse, the guy smiled at me and I started wondering what I would tell God at the pearly gates. Imagine telling him my time was cut short because of the black flour called Amala. For the duration of the trip, I prayed in languages from English, Yoruba and even French I couldn’t speak. When the train stopped at London Waterloo, I ran faster than Usain Bolt towards the exit.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">London posed another challenge. First I would love to thank the Murray Bruce’s before I reveal the challenge. The challenge was that of escalators. There are too many escalators in London. If not because I had done Industrial Training in boarding escalators at the Silverbird Galleria and Ozone Cinemas, I would have been found severely wanting. Even with all my ‘training’, maximum concentration is required else I embarrass myself and the entire Nizzle household. This made me remember when I saved a girl from escalator death at Silverbird Galleria. The poor girl had never boarded one in her life but was still trying to feel sophisticated. Midway, she tumbled backwards and it took quick thinking on my part to drag her back save her from death or from the embarrassment that could equally lead to death. Please if you can’t board escalators, don’t try to be sophisticated, the best policy is to confess or take the stairs.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the streets of London, the ladies especially the black ones were ogling me with their eyes like eye candy. Later on, I learnt the girls here have radar detectors to sense new fish in the pond which was supposed to be in this context. I could see them sharpening their knives, preparing to cast their nets. Pity! I was already taken. Not that I blame them though, a fine young man like me would always cause that reaction. If I was them, I might have done the same to me too.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMnvzD6iz0bqXHoqH-izQ-sl7JlkhK7gkox70qMajLTg9uAVJZlmmBkaHZnJYgmDwn7L8FjIDd1xDDlN4UMsd1aeBYCeL9iLQ-Z_E-Iz4d5RosDfo-SfOgXPNCBtvmQdopmoQctV_9uF_C/s1600-h/Girls+scoping+boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMnvzD6iz0bqXHoqH-izQ-sl7JlkhK7gkox70qMajLTg9uAVJZlmmBkaHZnJYgmDwn7L8FjIDd1xDDlN4UMsd1aeBYCeL9iLQ-Z_E-Iz4d5RosDfo-SfOgXPNCBtvmQdopmoQctV_9uF_C/s200/Girls+scoping+boy.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still on ladies, I have noticed that the backsides of white girls have grown considerably bigger. Previously, from what I used to see in movies, I thought it was a lot flatter but in actual view, from what I have seen, they are catching up seriously with the girls I used to eye through subterranean means via my rear view and side mirrors. I don’t know the cause but I would safely attribute it to climate change or depletion of the ozone layer. Or is it that Dr 90210 is working overtime? Beats me. Miss Nizzle, please disregard the above paragraph, let’s imagine I didn’t write that.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around 4pm, it was already dark as is the case over here during winter. It is a very disconcerting feeling especially since that it not the case in Nigeria till 7:30pm. Imagine your whole environment dark around 4pm! It makes me lazy quickly because once I look outside and see that it is dark, I instantly assume the day is over and close my brain up for the day. Furthermore, I don’t understand the fact that Nigerian is an hour ahead. Does it mean I live in the past here? Does it mean Nigerians are one hour in the future? If so, it would be nice receiving information about what would happen in the next hour. Please if you’ve got exclusives, you could help me live a better life.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally after getting lost as I always seem to do over here, I got to my destination. My dreams had finally come true. I was at last going to reunite with Amala and before I forget, long lost relatives. My stomach did a joyful somersault and started singing songs of Solomon. This was going to be a fun-filled time and I intended to enjoy every morsel, the image of the Arab man on the train made me more determined...<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-33087679466139895552009-11-24T10:00:00.008+00:002009-12-12T12:29:40.700+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 6)<div style="text-align: justify;"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In the beginning, the world was divided into the freezer and the oven. Countries in the freezer were mostly developed ones like the United States, the United Kingdom and other European countries while the oven comprised mainly of African countries and of course our beloved country Nigeria. In the freezer, most of the people are mostly passive, easy going almost to the point of being labelled ‘Mumu’ while in the oven, the inhabitants are overly aggressive, confrontational and the colour of their eyeballs are always red. In short, citizens of the oven are as paranoid as a Nigerian radio soccer commentator during a match. In the freezer, there is a culture of repairing and rehabilitation while the hobbies of the ‘ovenians’ are to destroy and lack maintenance culture. In the freezer, there is a high sense of transparency but in the oven, we have all been baked in corruption and the fine art of deception. In the UK, a minister can be held to just stealing a pound but in Nigeria, it would be a sin that could lead to being ostracized by your family members if you are in a position of authority and don’t embezzle. An attestation is the fact of how internet fraud a.k.a Yahoo-Yahoo is now our major export after petroleum and the major victims all come from the freezer hemisphere<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pB5J8CwBcOsyFutAhj-2McIANY62rrVYpi3md46OkEoKioCLj8eV7LkPe6MHVq2OBAORl2tRGrB7dkGAoQ9LhlMRXYytlXVNJPBVaKy4V21Q5zc66fhQ_tbHljpYbkSzKV6FSGQSQg26/s1600-h/house+of+assembly.jpg+play+play.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pB5J8CwBcOsyFutAhj-2McIANY62rrVYpi3md46OkEoKioCLj8eV7LkPe6MHVq2OBAORl2tRGrB7dkGAoQ9LhlMRXYytlXVNJPBVaKy4V21Q5zc66fhQ_tbHljpYbkSzKV6FSGQSQg26/s200/house+of+assembly.jpg+play+play.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I labelled the UK as part of the freezer because of the cold environment. It is so cold here that if you hold a hot bottle of Guinness and walk down the street, it would be cold before you get to the end of the road. I now understand the reason why Arsenal manager, Arsene Wenger shivers during matches. At first I thought it was as a result of the match tension but now I know better.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtkngsVD1mEKq9HJJGkAFH5Z-uFe7ja4_zWERu1Dsshb5dxU1x99QZDEBaQZ60KyEQiGl3R19JeYgcmdvkARlGCuOfgo6wJdLYEfP4Yc7UiX1_98FdsEfBCphVmJmpcYWVogMSLS3U1OUQ/s1600-h/shivering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtkngsVD1mEKq9HJJGkAFH5Z-uFe7ja4_zWERu1Dsshb5dxU1x99QZDEBaQZ60KyEQiGl3R19JeYgcmdvkARlGCuOfgo6wJdLYEfP4Yc7UiX1_98FdsEfBCphVmJmpcYWVogMSLS3U1OUQ/s200/shivering.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The weather here is also conditioned in such as way that even the most facially offensive person would actually start looking good after some months, to the extent that he would start comparing himself to a Denzel Washington. Well, with someone like me who was already pleasing to the eye before leaving Nigeria, the weather here has only reinforced my aesthetic value. Needless to say, I am a head-turner; Miss Nizzle is one lucky gal. I labelled the inhabitants of the UK as passive because everyone waits their turn over here. Everyone is a perfect gentleman. In Nigeria, if you decide to be a gentleman, you would be labelled as slow and what I popularly call a ‘John’. <br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The aggressive and greedy nature of humans even seems to have transcended into the behavioural structure of our animals and insects. You cannot afford to leave your food on the table without the mischievous rodent a.k.a rats coming to feast on your delicacy. I remember an epic battle I had in Nigeria; it was a titanic struggle between man, insect and rodent. On this particular day, I had been famished, as in I had not eaten all day. I finally managed to score myself some rice and chicken and settled down to do it justice. Before I knew it, a battalion of ravenous ants and a gang of cockroaches marched with vengeance towards my meal with determination in their eyes. I was still swiping at them when some adolescent rats joined in the fray, aiming for my chicken. To tell you the truth I was scared and confused that day. I was very confused as to what to battle first as they all attacked my meal simultaneously; the situation was as confusing as someone telling to make a decision about which one you want between <b><a href="http://blog.singersroom.com/celebs/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/jay-z_beyonce.jpg">Jay-Z’s wealth and wife</a></b>. The scary part was because of the new-found courage of the animals, the depth of desperation. That incident made up my mind to leave Nigeria before these animals plotted against my life.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Due to the fact that I was born and raised in the oven hemisphere, a lot of ‘ovenian’ deceptive characteristics have followed me here to the UK. Prominent among that characteristic is that of flashing. Flashing, a notorious phone habit (one used in cutting call tariffs) in Nigeria is now even a form of communication. You could use flashing to tell someone you are waiting outside, I have used it often to tell Miss Nizzle I love her, you could use it to find your misplaced phone, say good night e.t.c but over here it is non-existent. However, it has served me and still serving me well in the UK to cost enormous calling costs. Anytime I want to talk to my European classmates, I rarely use my credit. Once I flash, they would call back within seconds and I would give them the excuse of trying to call them...blah...blah...blah. Till date I have not been found out. Trying to push my luck, I put the same practice into use by flashing a Nigerian based over here. As I write this piece, he is yet to call back.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The freezer and oven have other differences. In the freezer we have butterflies while in the oven we are blessed with beautiful, sexy mosquitoes. In the freezer, romance rules eternal. All you have to do here is gaze into a girl’s eyes, hold her hands and tell her you love her. It doesn’t matter how much you have, your social class, all that matters is your declaration of love which you obviously uttered to fast track your green card application. Unfortunately, in the oven, if you tell a girl you love her, you had better be prepared to show her your account balance, the keys to your car and flat at Ajah to stand a good chance with her. Ah! Before I forget, load her phone with credit regularly too.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As I entered the train heading to London Waterloo, the freezer and oven theory played in my mind. I was past worrying though, all I had on my mind was the Amala that had been promised me in the English capital...<br />
</div><br />
Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-88284081732501622342009-11-23T09:39:00.001+00:002009-12-12T09:59:39.696+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 5)<div style="text-align: justify;"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">While I was in Nigeria, I felt I was precocious, that is being a young genius. Back home, I was like one of the youngest in class and of course one of the ‘smartest’. Nothing seemed beyond my reach and in fact it was sometimes embarrassing revealing my age in order not to be labelled ‘too young’. On getting to the UK, I expected this to be the case, I expected to be a young prodigy, expected to be hailed as a genius at the very least- I was wrong, very wrong. <br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Over here, I am what we Nigerians would term ‘Agbaya’. In class, I am surrounded with very intelligent 20 or so year olds who know more than what some lecturers back in Nigeria can only dream about. I seriously began to reduce the numbers of my Intelligence Quotient when I saw what I was faced with. All at once, I came to the sad realization that schooling in Nigeria was a play-ground and a skirt-chasing arena. Imagine using words like post-modernism, existentialism, solipsism, cultural relativism, hegemony regularly and then you start to get an idea of what I am talking about. Imagine arguing with and reading works of people like Roland Barthes, Fredrick Nietzsche, Baudrillard, Lichtenberg and then you would begin to understand why my hair is growing faster and my brain expanding like an inflated balloon. This seriously was a rude shock from using words like <i>shebi, oya, abi</i> and arguing about Guinness, Arsenal and Man-U in class to suddenly delving into an intellectual world like this made me have a rethink. I immediately made plans of knocking some years off my age so that they wouldn’t start looking at me like <i>Olodo Agabaya.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">However, one thing that I was a trendsetter in was in the social scene. I remember when we were going for a class outing one Thursday night. While we were going, one of my classmates driving was bitterly complaining of what he termed as traffic which in this case was less than five minutes. I gave him an unbelieving look, laughing in my mind on how lucky they were over here. I swear, if I put this fella on 3<sup>rd</sup> mainland bridge traffic on a Friday Night, he would contemplate suicide by jumping into the ocean. I kind of felt nostalgic, missing the Lagos traffic. Most of my creative thinking was done inside Lagos traffic. I used to plan like a year advance of my life in traffic! I could watch half a season of Prison Break inside traffic!<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAhoNpPpOcgRoLqR4ML6D_eJ1pCCDUlzhsVkeZOIg8KfVvLpAKhFQYpAVROcvrcnsuU0sMJLbzcdpNdZhjc3iC_rjL7TRLT79dMjftpmnCypBPMVxdc9fZyrXqjZEWJWgVbcwhRxFO9aq/s1600-h/Traffic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAhoNpPpOcgRoLqR4ML6D_eJ1pCCDUlzhsVkeZOIg8KfVvLpAKhFQYpAVROcvrcnsuU0sMJLbzcdpNdZhjc3iC_rjL7TRLT79dMjftpmnCypBPMVxdc9fZyrXqjZEWJWgVbcwhRxFO9aq/s200/Traffic.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As we continued, this same guy started complaining that the road around where we were going was bad. I braced myself hoping to see bad roads but to my surprise, the road he called bad, was smoother than a bald billionaire’s head. Imagine, if I dropped this guy on an average road in Lagos? Imagine if he had to drive without street-lights? During my stay here, I am yet to see a pot-hole. In Nigeria, the pot-holes were so much that I had an inbuilt GPDD (General Pothole Detecting Device) programmed in my brain. Needless to say, I pride myself on the fact on knowing where all the potholes in Lagos are located. Infact, the way the guy was driving was annoying and he claimed to have been driving for 4 years! Worse part was that all of them were driving like zombies. I missed my Lagos drivers; the dare-devil stunts we pull that would make Michael Schumacher blush in appreciation. I longed for the curses thrown on the roads, the tooting of horns and the million-per-second calculation our brain does in avoiding pot-holes, other drivers, pedestrians and of course the bloody and often lawless Okada riders.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Finally we arrived at the club and I had to use my passport to get in. They didn’t want under-age people to get in but when they saw my face, saw my agbaya face, they let me in without objection. Once I got in, I noticed differences between clubbing in Nigeria and the UK. The first glaring one was the percentage of females that were drinking. In Nigeria, we guys for whatever reasons practically beg girls to take some alcohol which in most cases for whatever reason, they refuse citing that the only alcoholic drink they would contemplate drinking was the wallet sapping, milky, Baileys. Here, girls drink everything from beer to vodka and they do it until they literally drop. I noticed also the level of promiscuity here in clubs can be compared to that of Sodom & Gomorrah. It takes less than five minutes between a guy meeting a girl and getting accustomed to the machinations of her lips and tongue. I shuddered. I also noticed the music was not what I was accustomed to, they played a lot of garage music and techno and they all danced and bobbed their heads like wall geckos drunk on Shepe. I have never been a fan of Terry G but right then, I would have traded my Arsenal jersey to hear his music. After watching them a bit and after some pints descended into my nervous system, I decided to take law into my hands, by showing them how to rock the dance floor. Those who knew me in Nigeria heavily used to criticise my dancing style which bordered on the erotic but when I started moving those hips ‘African style’, giving them the Alanta and Yahoozee, all eyes fixed on me. I was like Michael Jackson when he was black without his gloves. <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgWZQ9XgiPFbYJ9BgLpuHN0fkPA0yHedy6mntOF-rU0gNuO2clt8lIPUgVFmAZqcHmFQVDYamNdeYbruBWhDaQwwKcKvqZyg4aKxN6XzgTHABplQq1DE0GLURWyIcSo0YyKHyDB_M61yK/s1600-h/powell+dancing+yahoozee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgWZQ9XgiPFbYJ9BgLpuHN0fkPA0yHedy6mntOF-rU0gNuO2clt8lIPUgVFmAZqcHmFQVDYamNdeYbruBWhDaQwwKcKvqZyg4aKxN6XzgTHABplQq1DE0GLURWyIcSo0YyKHyDB_M61yK/s200/powell+dancing+yahoozee.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Like a magnet, they all started gathering around me and some even started emulating me. With my success on the dance floor, I silently imagined opening a dancing school based on my dance moves and making thousands of pounds off it. Imagine a school named- NIZZLE HOUSE OF DANCING. Ah! That would be nice. However, nothing beats clubbing in Lagos. I noticed that the guy who drove me didn’t drink much and he told me because he didn’t want to lose his license for drinking under the influence (DUI) because of the cops. I laughed. Laughed because, mid-night on Awolowo road on a Friday night was where you could see the highest congregation of drunk drivers in the world! Laughed because even in your intoxicated state, the Nigerian police wouldn’t penalize you, rather there are situations when we even give them alcohol too. Laughed because Nigeria is the only place I see hawkers selling can- beer in traffic to people that drive.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Laughing and bemused with my experiences that night, I left the club. It was odd because I was in a sea of white instead of usually being in the midst of my black brothers. All around me, I saw a lot of teenage drunks puking all around the corners; I saw some entering cabs ready for late morning trysts. I was alone (obviously, Miss Nizzle wouldn’t have it otherwise) and longed for more black, I decided to go to London not to see the Queen but long-seen relatives...<br />
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Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-72259338007525042822009-11-15T23:00:00.003+00:002009-12-12T09:13:50.992+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 4)<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Firstly, I want to congratulate the ‘Super Chickens’ on their unlikely and undeserved qualification to the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/africa/8360476.stm">2010 World Cup in South-Africa.</a> After the match, they really made me jump around my room like an adolescent monkey on steroids. For like five minutes, my monkey business continued and you should have seen the ugly hollering noises I was making. After I calmed down, I began to miss not being on the streets of Lagos celebrating instead I was stuck in a cold, rainy England celebrating alone.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNHctfdC9SwokT2NhpnButURwp152NYtdWxKpCMHlvEGAOjU4lPiiLeSGgNCdqNUr8ijS2LMAIJyI6ucQVBNGyUrwNlB3nrUJUHnHXwJO12xfferGofi8f2wMCFFj1N4r7Hq1I7b1Ng1E/s1600-h/super+eagles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNHctfdC9SwokT2NhpnButURwp152NYtdWxKpCMHlvEGAOjU4lPiiLeSGgNCdqNUr8ijS2LMAIJyI6ucQVBNGyUrwNlB3nrUJUHnHXwJO12xfferGofi8f2wMCFFj1N4r7Hq1I7b1Ng1E/s320/super+eagles.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Now, back to my story but still on the theme of missing. After spending a couple of days and the euphoria of being in a new environment had subsided, I began to miss Motherland with an intensity I never imagined possible. Little things I used to take for granted came to the forefront and homesickness became the order of the day. It started when I was sleeping on my third night here; I realized that a certain winged creature a.k.a mosquito was missing in the scheme of things. I miss the wonderful buzzing noises the mosquito used to make in my ears, the wonderful lullabies it used to sing to me and of course I miss the erotic bites and caresses I received from it daily. <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I miss being an irritant and pest to my friends who I used to daily disturb with my dry wit and humour; something I am sure they are sure missing right now too. I miss seeing household livestock like fowls and goats walk the roads, miss having to step on my brakes anytime they majestically cross the road, miss watching a horny cockerel chase a hen for copulation. Over here, it’s just the finished products you see and it could be quite depressing. I hate the psychological impact which sitting on the passenger side of the car here makes me feel, I can’t always help but press an imaginary brake or clutch since I always think I was sitting in the driver’s side of the vehicle. I miss the verbal gymnastics and insults thrown on the roads of Nigeria like Were, Oloshi, Ko ni da fun e, O ni fe te or if you are lucky actually experience a fist-fight. Over here, politeness is the order of the day and it is extremely boring. Worse still, I miss the tension inside the commercial buses in Lagos, the insults traded with conductors, the shouting of O wa o! when you get to your preferred destination. Over here, it’s so damn civil and you have to press a bell thingy when you get to your stop although I would very much prefer to bellow O wa o from the depth of my soul but then I would be arrested and charged for being a public nuisance.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I miss seeing ladies who are enormously endowed with booties and bosoms walking the streets or on okadas. Back then, my side and rear-view mirrors were my greatest assets especially if Miss Nizzle was sitting in the car beside me and didn’t want her to know I was scoping the lady. Well, Pa Nizzle was instrumental in teaching me that particular skill, learnt it from him since I was little. I miss not being able to lie on network failure if I forgot or didn’t call someone which I used to frequently do when I was in Lagos. Also, I miss not being able to use traffic as an alibi anytime I failed to turn up for an appointment on time. I miss the cacophony of blaring vehicle horns when I am stuck in traffic; over here it is so silent you could almost hear a pin drop. I miss hearing sounds from Dee Jays who have illegal stalls by the road play extremely loud music, over here; my ear-phones are my only salvation. <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I miss the mental tasks my brain is forced to do like remembering to charge my phone, laptop, rechargeable lamp, iron my clothes because of NEPA/PHCN. I miss pouring fuel into the generator and pulling it, lighting up a stove, pumping water. I miss the dirty black uniform of the Nigerian Police, the dexterity they exhibit when palming those N20 notes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgthh6utqlLRx1CdTP6p4cDBvfc57ZMrOp653MXOz-q8ZRmApTgxpN2sMKV-m0nxiX7eu8Fkjiw7L5BbrmRuX4ZgQ3g0wK2rHLNxKjjpu6T006LwFlaOaBLPrmAj_kcm0JD9fEtLjLEWj1y/s1600-h/naija+police.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgthh6utqlLRx1CdTP6p4cDBvfc57ZMrOp653MXOz-q8ZRmApTgxpN2sMKV-m0nxiX7eu8Fkjiw7L5BbrmRuX4ZgQ3g0wK2rHLNxKjjpu6T006LwFlaOaBLPrmAj_kcm0JD9fEtLjLEWj1y/s320/naija+police.jpg" /></a><br />
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Here, the police are so neat you actually wonder if they can catch a criminal with their fancy uniform. I miss being a ‘thousandnaire’ that is having thousands of bills in my wallet just for the fun of it. Here, if you can afford to have thousands in your wallet everyday then please give me your number and let’s be friends. <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I hate listening to lonely love songs and automatically assume they are assuming to Miss Nizzle and I. ‘Long Distance’ by Brandy tops my list. I miss having to eat like a pre-historic man that is eating with my fingers and cracking bones. I miss Iya Basira, Iya Tunde, Iya Bola, in fact all the ‘Iyas’ that used to provide me sumptuous meals. I miss using my student ID card to watch movies at Galleria even though I have ceased being a student for almost 2 years. I used to do it so that I would pay N500 instead of N1, 500. <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I miss sweating. Here, I am yet to see a droplet of sweat on my body. Anywhere I go, I have to have nothing less than 3 to 4 layers of clothing and shoes of course. Whatever happened to me going barefoot and wearing boxers to buy pure water? With all these ‘missing’ thoughts in my head, I bolted away from my room before loneliness overtook me. I ran away from the room faster than the day Miss Nizzle’s dad came home unannounced and unexpectedly from an outing. Before I could be sighted, I took the kitchen exit almost forgetting my shoes. Ah! Those were the days.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I headed out towards school, hugging my jacket tighter prepared for another intellectual adventure in class...<br />
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</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-2477068414613980712009-11-11T22:53:00.002+00:002009-12-11T22:58:59.583+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 3)<div style="text-align: justify;"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I used to constantly laugh at Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic while he was freezing to death, now, not anymore now empathize with him despite feeling less than one-tenth of what he was feeling. Back home in Nigeria, I intentionally started an Industrial Training in 'Airconditionology' which means an act of being in the air-conditioner for a number of hours. All my preparations were in vain, as the chill hit me from different sides. This wasn't fair, for over twenty-something years of my life, I have been in perpetual heat and all of a sudden, I was thrust into this giant freezer of a country. At that moment, I longed for humid, sweaty Nigeria. Having my bath proved to be harder than the Gulf War, it took me ages getting the right combination between hot and cold and when I finished I had to rush to seek solace in front of the heater (my new best friend).<br />
My first days here also proved to be filled with unnecessary paranoia. My mentality was still in Nigerian mode and i always had this feeling at the back of my head that NEPA a.k.a PHCN were going to strike. It was at this moment I realized how much my psyche has been affected by that 'terrorist organisation' known as PHCN. God, these dudes are worse than Al-Qaeda. I always rush to iron my clothes, charge my phone (which at the moment is complaining of overcharging) and my Laptop. The feeling still lingers and in a funny way I kinda miss the blackout and the way NEPA plays with our emotions when they toggle with electricity like kids in a candy store. After dressing, I set out for my first day at school. As I was walking out of my room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was impressed by what I saw: A confident, good-looking man. I silently thanked Pa and Ma Nizzle for their gene pool and I began to understand what Miss Nizzle saw and admired everyday.<br />
Back to the story before self-conceit takes over, I started to walk to school, YES, Walk. I was not going to waste my money on cabs that the fare metres were faster than a male cheetah chasing a female one to mate. The bus too always took time to come, there were time-tables they adhere to and lazy me always missed the early one besides I always feel like Rosa Park in the bus anytime I enter. Imagine being the only dark-skinned guy in a whole bus, pretty spooky! I began to reflect on the irony of life: Back in Lagos, i used to drive everywhere, I loathed walking, entering bus and used to mock those who did and all of a sudden, I am now a 'walkaholic', sometimes, now, I think I can rival the Israelites of old in the walking game. Infact, I think I should be the next Johnnie Walker model. During my mandatory 15mins walk to school, I periodically cast envious glances at those who had cars and even more at those who had bicycles. Bicycles are the coolest, most efficient way of going to class here. They actually look like Range Sports to me here and I am looking forward to saving and buying my own shining bicycle.<br />
Finally, I got into school. The environment was what I expected and so much more. Everything was neat, tidy, and picturesque. As I sauntered in, a girl smiled at me, I smiled back but alarm bells rang silently at the back of my head. I remembered Miss Nizzle's lovely face, her silent warning and I immediately sped away. The Devil is a liar. One thing I noticed was the multitude of smokers at the school. I instantly labelled school 'Smokeville; As in, they were so many and you would actually think nicotine was the new oxygen, not that I blame them, it was so freaking cold and smoking was an outlet. For a second, it looked tempting but once again Miss Nizzle's disapproving face flashed by joined this time by Ma and Pa Nizzle. Quickly I erased the thought and settled for a milder form of nicotine a.k.a Coffee. Walking into my faculty, I was amazed by the decor, the setting. It didn't look like school; it looked like President Yaradua's living room. I mentally compared it to Mass Communication, Unilag; it was like telling a tortoise to race with a Lamborghini. From flat screen TVs in every direction to elevators, to using special codes to enter your classes. In class, everyone had a computer and you could choose to facebook even during classes. The internet was faster than Superman; I could go on and on. One particular episode made me flustered. It was during Radio presentation class and we all had to come in front of the class to present. To complicate matters, I was the only African in class and always have to be on my toes to represent and defend everything African. My classmates did their thing with their fancy accents and then it was my turn. When I got to the front of the class and heard my voice presenting, I almost broke down. I sounded like Olusegun Obasanjo at a press conference. I was surprised while they didn’t laugh because if it was me, I would have laughed so hard. My God, I was pathetic. My classmates are cool though and my name has never been pronounced better. The way they pronounce Akin is so sing-song, better than the guttural way you folks back home use to roughly call my name.<br />
Getting directions to places is one thing that takes some getting used to over here. They believe too much in using maps. Ask for anywhere and they instantly log on to Google to get the map and directions. The sad truth is that I don't know how to use the freaking maps. Back at Nigeria, my map was the nearest okada man who could direct me anywhere. Well, if you can't beat them, join them but i still prefer okada men any day, anytime though. Another thing here is the food. I miss hot Amala. My dreams nowadays are laced with 'Amala and pounded yam intentions'. Over here, I eat trash, food that I can't even pronounce the name. The diet has so changed that my stomach rumbles in protest, I can hear it screaming ‘Amala,Amala,Amala’. My diet has so changed that even my fart smells different. Smells like jand, you could use it as fresheners.<br />
After classes, I headed back to my room. Crossing the road tentatively like a northerner hooked on anti-depressants. To prepare for another day, to adjust to another culture...<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-10631536978080227992009-10-25T22:44:00.000+00:002009-12-11T22:53:40.525+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 2)<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">After getting the necessary directions from the stewards at London Waterloo, I trudged into the train not unlike Noah’s animals entering the ark. I settled into a seat beside another black, another Nigerian coincidentally and it was then I noticed that Britain is an ‘earphone’ nation. Almost everyone had ear-phones plugged in, they wear it everywhere probably during copulation too. Oh I digress! The innards of the train was super! It looked just like a plane and it was very comfortable. The inside of the train looked far better than anything Nigerian Airways had in her heyday. After almost 3 hours on the train I sought refuge at as friend’s mum’s place at Dorset. You wouldn’t believe this; I actually ate hot Amala and watched AIT while I was there before retiring for the night.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The next morning, my friend’s mum advised me, prayed for me and urged me not to become irresponsible by getting tattoos and stuffs. Finally, she blessed me with the greatest gift ever, she gave me GARRI. In hindsight I regret not packing a lot when I was coming over from Nigeria, bringing then looked superfluous to me. That aside, I ventured out and the cold hit me smack from my face down to my genitals. My breath started to cloud, I felt like a character in those movies and I was like yeah! I have arrived. I hereby made a mental note to use Aboniki as my body cream every morning (I bought a dozen while I was coming). The train station proved another challenge, apart from the heavy baggage, paying was kind of hard too, the British currency has so many goddamn coins that it took me an eternity sorting out how much I was actually supposed to pay. This wasn’t helped by my poor mathematical skill which is appalling to say the least. Within an hour-and a half, I got to Bournemouth Train station where I hailed a cab. Even though the weather was freezing cold, I almost broke out in a sweat when I saw the way the cab meter was running, it was faster than Usain Bolt on steroids and I was flustered to say the least. I noticed how neat the roads were, there was a litter bin every few metres. I longed for Nigerian dirty roads where I could go to a corner and pee like a stray dog. Not in a chance in hell could I try it here. Their whole society is like Big Brother, there is always a camera watching you, so very creepy but it is still better than those nefarious brown-wearing LASTMA officials. I noticed that the driving was sane, in Nigeria we drive like raving lunatics; here civil driving is an understatement. In Nigeria, when the traffic light turns yellow, you rush to beat it but over here, they just chill and remain relaxed. Here, there are lights for pedestrians and there is a button you press when you are waiting. I compared this to Nigerians who run like rabid fowls on Ikorodu road despite pedestrian bridges. The buses here are driven by neat, responsible men who could pass for school principals. In Nigeria, the drivers are either half-stoned on marijuana or imbibed so much shepe that everything is a purple haze. As I alighted, crossing the road was hard, I kept looking at the wrong side (In Britain it is right hand drive so the roads are constructed as such). While trying to cross a car sped towards me, instead of shouting invectives at me like Were, Oloshi, the man actually smiled and let me pass. At first, I thought it was a peculiar case but I later found out everyone is like that over here. They are so patient that when I cross the road now, I swagger; at least they can’t hit me now? As I walked down to my hostel I noticed that the houses all looked neat with low fences and not the high ones we’ve got in Nigeria. With the fortresses we build back home, you would think there was an Ark of Covenant in each house. God, we even put barb-wires and bottles. How very barbaric!<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">After my road battles, I got to my room and believe me, I got ecstatic when I saw it. First, an elevator took me to my room and I actually use a card to open my freakin door! My room looked like a 5-star hotel and I was like ‘This is the Life’. An image of my Abule-Oja place of abode crossed my mind and I shuddered. My roommates were from different parts of the world-Turkey, Thailand, United States, Greece and they all welcomed me. It felt like the United Nations in here, so many nationalities. I had my wireless internet connection and believe me when I say browsing here is the ‘ish, so fast that it goes before you even click. Browsers in Nigeria, I hail thee. <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Getting to school was another experience; I had to hurry because I had missed 2 weeks of lectures. I hurried through registration, snapped a horrid picture for my ID card which looks like a mug shot and bounded over to class. As I walked into class, a lecture was already 30mins in progress. Everyone looked back and I was like ‘WTF’. Expecting far worse, I was heartily greeted. Apparently they had all been expecting me and believe me they have been helpful in helping me settle. The class was a thoroughly intellectual one, so very much that I started developing a migraine. What the hell did I learn in Africa? I put the thought out of my head and vowed to catch up...<br />
</div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3883531503764200333.post-11591103670121543252009-10-18T21:37:00.001+01:002010-02-25T16:55:54.296+00:00MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 1)<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmevIp1EPqyQHlyJ0rU0iQujHoUMZjfM_AHqL5IE-iHyoO5uGK02TLteWfVY0MWqjhFnPqLmJUkMTUDEDmrPiLV4Gbzs5VAamK66OrDUAPIJj-dUPhFD8P1G0JyizI_kon1HZpp41U5NY8/s1600-h/Memoirs+of+a+Nigerian+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmevIp1EPqyQHlyJ0rU0iQujHoUMZjfM_AHqL5IE-iHyoO5uGK02TLteWfVY0MWqjhFnPqLmJUkMTUDEDmrPiLV4Gbzs5VAamK66OrDUAPIJj-dUPhFD8P1G0JyizI_kon1HZpp41U5NY8/s320/Memoirs+of+a+Nigerian+logo.jpg" /></a></div><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List" style="font-family: verdana;"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData" style="font-family: verdana;"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNizzle%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping" style="font-family: verdana;"></link><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">While I was schooling in Nigeria, there was this rogue publication called The Watchdog, an evil write-up that seemed to get into every one’s business and mock them like hell. I was the first victim of this insidious publication but despite all these, I was continuously linked as being the man behind it all by friends like Demola, Osho, Ayomide Tayo and other classmates</span>.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 85%;">Less I digress; this is about me, about my new life experiences in the Land of the Queen (a damn expensive place where everything is taxed). Leaving Naija was kinda hurried, got my visa on a Friday and travelled on Sunday, so everything at that point was like I was on a fast-forward button. Leaving my friends was very hard, harder than I imagined, a whole me actually shed tears, as in REAL TEARS! The worst was at the airport when I was saying goodbye to Ma Nizzle, it started with a whimper and almost turned into a wail. Also had to say goodbye to my friends, my dad and last of all Miss Nizzle. At that point, I thought I would break down and had to hurriedly walk away before security guards at MM Airport arrest me for bring a crying nuisance.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">The flight with Arik (a very cool airline) lasted like 7 hours, in-flight I kept eating like a rabid monkey and touching the on flight entertainment system. Damn! I was like a kid in a candy store. I had to stop though when I noticed some stares plus the fact that i didn’t want to press that button that would/might crash the plane. On the plane, i reminisced about everything I was leaving behind; from my job, St Bottles Celebrations every Friday, my family, Miss Nizzle, Gidi... For the first time in my life, I was going to be alone, truly alone...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">After landing and waiting for a while for my two heavy luggages (loaded with stock fish, garri and other African paraphernalia) which took some time to come, I confidently swaggered to the front of Heathrow. The first blast of cold weather almost had me running to Nigeria. As in, it was freaking cold! I had heard that it was cold and actually bought jackets but ii wasn’t prepared for that kind of cold. Worse still, I was told that it was still warm, that the actual cold had not even started s till dreading when that time comes. At the terminal, I saw a lot of black dudes, hustlers, all speaking Yoruba who were cab drivers. I looked around and picked the oldest and seemingly responsible one who agreed to take me to Waterloo station for 20 pounds. I walked towards his cab and wanted to get into the passenger side only to find out that was the driver side, Silly me! The driver sensing this smiled and after seeing me shivering with teeth clattering like a drenched puppy, he switched his heater on. He was a Nigerian who had resided in England for around 6 years. Looking at him and with no disrespect, he was at the bottom of the British class system but with the tale he told me, he was a big boy in Ibadan, Nigeria with a lot of houses. We stopped at a fuel station which had no fuel attendants. He paid and sold fuel himself. I asked if he could just sell without paying and he said yes but that CCTV was monitoring and he would be apprehended. In my mind, I was like ‘Yeah Right’ Imagine that system in Naija? He was friendly right until the point when he wanted his money; his parting shot was that ‘In London, we don’t play with money’</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">With my heavy bags, I trudged along to the station. Citizens of London all looked at me and pitied me, really I was a pathetic sight, carrying such load and shivering + looking extremely lost. I stood straight, I was here for a purpose and i was going to achieve it, BELIEVE THAT! I bought my train ticket and headed towards Bournemouth...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>Nizzlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07444359863375175355noreply@blogger.com0