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Memoirs Season 2 Premiere+News Round-up

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.

Also on December 25^th, 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.

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

It was then I started hatching my plans...

                     Memoirs News Roundup

A close friend of mine appealed for more romance in the Memoir episodes and none came more in the form of this story on Daily Mail 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. You can read more on this story on the Daily Mail.

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?

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.

Rounding off the news is yet another infidelity story. Three Malaysian women were caned last week 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.

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.

On this ‘infiditeletic’ note, I sign out. Till next week.

MEMOIRS OF A NIGERIAN LIVING ABROAD (EPISODE 7)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...