Musings-&-Memoir

Gross post alert The one thing being suddenly pushed out of my sheltered teenage years into shared hostel accommodation (in a very rugged Nigerian University) taught me, was that squeaky clean loos were a luxury. Growing up, we didn’t live a posh life, but thanks to theOOhj Snr’s day job in the academia, we had decent living quarters - complete with a loo I shared with the kid brother. On pain of a severe caning, Mrs RustGeek (Snr), ensured we kept our little loo clean. Unbeknownst to me, that luxury would be rudely snatched away from me in short order. ...

Big, potentially career defining, decisions to make.. The safer option - stick with my current job for the next three years and decide what the next steps after that will be: The pros - stay in a truly professional work place where my skills are appreciated, working for a boss whose ar*se I don’t have to kiss, remain in an environment that allows me complete my progression to Chartered Engineer status. The cons - sky high taxes, an increasingly hostile host population, remaining in a section of my field I’ve spent the last six years - and some - working in and a government that seems intent on playing to the gallery on the immigration debate. ...

Any pretensions to still being young I might have had are slowly evaporating. It does look like all around me, there is a slew of people having to face age related health problems. Over the weekend, I learned that someone close had a biopsy and was facing possible surgery over an enlarged prostrate. Someone else had somehow copped an ankle strain in April which hadn’t eased up since then and another one had significantly elevated blood pressures. ...

Each day - for the past two months and some - when I get off my bus and walk the couple hundred metres to the hole office I work at, I take a left turn off Union, down the dingy stairs via the back roads on to Guild street and then into work. Most days I am plugged into my iPod, listening to whatever catches my fancy on that day, hands in my pocket deep in thought. Nine days out of ten, just before I take the turn I see her - a lone black face bobbing in a sea of browns and whites, wrapped up to the nines waiting for her bus. She can’t be more than 5’-2", usually rocks a ‘fro and dangles her little bag in the tell-tale Nigerian chic ninety-degree arm pose. At first all there was were a couple of furtive glances, followed by the straight face pretending-I-never-took-a-peek look. And then with time, and the familiarity of a shared routine, there was the almost imperceptible nod and the odd mouthed greeting. ...

Memory is a strange thing. Even the most tenuous of links can breach the walls of enforced forgetfulness, triggering the release of a barrage of memories once thought to have been successfully sequestered deep beyond the reach of even the most pernicious of random triggers. There are the shared banalities, the simple everyday things which in themselves hold no sentimental value but which in the context of a shared life paradoxically serve to bridge the miles. She, bored in a work meeting, emailing you a doodle of the big fat goat head that is her boss, you roasting rice to dryness, setting off the fire alarms and eliciting mock sympathy from her, all in good faith. ...

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. ...

My earliest memories of growing up are inextricably bound up with the dirty brown house on 4th street, brick red sand and Di, or MG as we would grow to know her in our adult years. It was the summer rainy season of 1988 and the sun in all its gory beastliness was baking us all, turning our days into long drawn out battles with boredom, exacerbated by excruciatingly boring teachers. Us boys lived for the bell, the harbinger of our short and long breaks, an all too brief salvation from studying. I was barely eight years old, but I was fast making a name for myself as a nerd; complete with very thick lenses, a voracious appetite for non-academic reading and an extreme love for solitude. The only physical activity I engaged in was the odd football kick abut where I was about as useful as a goal post. I often got sentenced to playing the goal keeper, where I was as much likely to play a wanton pass as concede a daft goal. It was an age where competition hadn’t become second nature to us though, so it wasn’t often that a gaffe was punished beyond the pitch. ...

There is no better incentive to reassess the landscape of one’s failed loves than watching re-runs of NCIS on TV on a Friday night. Something about being slouched in a lazy boy chair, empty bottles of beer to one side and the TV remote on the other, stands in marked contrast to what typical Friday nights are meant to be - maelstroms of revelry, getting hammered and possibly getting laid. ...

Huddled around broken tables in the decrepit drawing office that served as a lecture theatre back in the day, a lesson in thinking on one’s feet was forced into our heads. At that time it was impossible to know the importance of that moment, or even remotely suspect that it could be a lifesaver in the distant future. There were no flashing light bulbs, no pressmen, no stenographers capturing the moment, no markers denoting the time and space where a life altering truth was uttered. ...

In perhaps one of those quirks of timing - which make me wonder if indeed the world is ‘run’ by someone with an almost Machiavellian sense of mirth - Malcolm Gladwell’s New Yorker piece on social media hit the blogosphere a few days after twitter was leading the way in breaking news of bomb blasts during Nigeria’s 50th year anniversary celebrations. True to type, the response to his article has been immediate and extensive, but largely critical. I suspect that this is to be expected - most people who would write a blog, or tweet, or use foursquare would feel personally chastised by the words that Gladwell offered. ...