My memories of previous encounters with Indian cuisine are not exactly fond. The last time - an impromptu appearance at a leaving do for an Indian expat from work - I ended up tossing and turning through the night, tormented both bodily and mentally by masala dosa. Thanks to that, and my well documented lack of adventure when it comes to food, it was my last attempt at eating anything Indian- a full five years ago. ...
Stumbled on this song whilst clearing out music on my old computer, and I fell in love with it all over again. 60 plays and counting in just over a day.
Lists appear to have suddenly become the leitmotif of the few blogs I read. From Don Miller sharing his fiancee’s list to Esco imagining the All Nigerian Girl, to AnyaPosh, Miss Enigma, Sting and all the lasses doing that 30 day blogging thing, everyone appears to be sharing bits and pieces of lists. When I was much younger I was a big fan of lists - on everything from five year goals and plans, gadgets to buy to what I wanted in a spouse - complete with excel spreadsheets which calculated weighted averages across the various categories. The one thing I didn’t bargain for was that it would become a mechanistic check-the-box-or-check-out exercise - that happened - nor did I question the basis on which the items were identified, or if indeed I was at a time and place where I could expect those qualities from others. ...
This morning on my commute into work - whilst plugged into my iPod staring out of the window as the city stirs to life - a little boy and a man I assume is his father catch my attention. They are seated two rows in front of me. The boy cannot be more than five by my reckoning, especially because he is dressed in the navy blue jumper that the school down the road from my stop uses for a uniform. The man has his arm around the boy who rests his head on his side. From where I am sat, I can hear them conversing in low tones. I am not close enough to make out what they are saying but in that moment I allow my mind roam. ...
… when after finally finding a seat on the packed bus, some odd smell hits your nostrils like a Mike Tyson left hook. It is an odd mix of stale sweat, putrid urine and beer. You look around, wondering what the source might be. When the portly gentleman seated right next to you moves, a fresh salvo assaults your nostrils identifying him as the culprit. Unfortunately, the next stop is a full fifteen minutes away, so you are stuck with ‘savouring’ the smells. ...
It is the end of May, and spring is finally seguing into summer. You wouldn’t know this if the last few days are all you had to go by. We have been besieged by a procession of colder weather, rains and strong winds - winds which have caused no small measure of chaos in the highlands so far. Thankfully today the sun is out - almost Lagos-esque in its warmth - and the dull grey granite walls which define this city by their ubiquity already look better thanks to the dash of colour the sun adds. ...
One of my lesser known ’life skills’ is eating piping hot dodo - and that fresh from the frying pan. Looking back, this non-trivial skill was honed in the kitchen of #19 Aiguobasinmwin Crescent. It must have been sometime in 1986 - those were the heady days in which Lawrence Anini our very own Robin Hood-lite and his side kick Monday Osunbor reigned supreme in Benin City. Sane, un-jazzed-up people stayed indoors, the not so sane limited their night-time frolicking nonetheless. ...
Given my decidedly abysmal attendance at church this year, it is somewhat out of character that I arrive early enough to catch the beginning of the opening hymn, the incredibly mellifluous All Things Bright and Beautiful. It is one hymn, in all its variants of tune and stanza, which I have come to associate with growing up all those many years ago on a University campus in Nigeria. For all of ten years, it was a perennial favourite amongst the teachers and prefects who led morning assemblies, and along with my well worn copy of Songs of Praise remains stuck in my head as markers from that phase of life. ...
Based on data extracted from this Nairaland thread. I was bored at work so I took the liberty of trying to create an infographic from the pros and cons (for women) on the list. I shrunk the pros and cons into twenty one categories and gave each ethnicity a ‘+1’ where it was a pro, a ‘0’ where they were not assessed and a ‘-1’ where that category was marked as a con. The ‘pros’ have been condensed into a fraction measuring the potential returns on investing in a Nigerian woman, whilst the ‘cons’ have similarly been aggregated to give a measure of how ‘high maintenance’ a Nigerian woman can be. The size of the bubble is a measure of the chikability (how likely it is that a bloke’s toastings will gell). ...
I owe my Saturday afternoon out to the persistence of my friend O. It is 3.30pm when his call comes in. Having taken the luxury of a long weekend off, I have rocked my couch well nigh to extinction, subsisting on NCIS and CSI and re-runs of The District on the television. The bright and sunny day out there has not been enough to lure me out of my comfort zone. He has been holed up for a different reason. Finals on his PhD are coming up thick and fast, and he is grateful for the chance to take a breather. ...