Memories on A Geek's Life

Arias, Young Love and Rediscovering the Delights of Walking

Sat, 13 Mar 2021 08:44:11 +0000

Memory is an interesting thing, not least for its triggers, the mechanisms behind what we remember and what we (choose to?) forget and also for how something can simmer beneath the surface in the subconscious layer of the mind, feeding a gnawing sense of restlessness but never being comprehended. The return of the Aria Code podcast for a third season this week was one of those jolts, the exploration of Puccini’s Nessun Dorma, the kick which opened up the door to a rabbit hole of memories. A few years ago now, in a season of young-ish love infatuation, HMT in the ‘Deen became the centre of many a late night taking in opera, walking along Union Street to cars parked in side streets (for the free parking) but not much else besides. In retrospect, it was very much a period of unrequited love that went no where in the end, although my memories of the time suggest otherwise. The things one chooses to remember or forget, I guess? The one upside to all that remembering was delving into the rabbit hole that is YouTube for performances of the Aria, one of the more fascinating ones for me being the soulful rendition by Aretha Franklin at the ‘98 Grammys (which she agreed to do at short notice as Pavarotti was ill). The aria’s closing sentiment (At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!) is apt given our time, as the Aria Code episode so aptly demonstrates.

Garden Spot

Thu, 16 May 2019 18:05:35 +0000

For The Sunday Wednesday Muse Prompt, Garden Spot. Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash. A nod to the still vivid memories I have of being dragged off to our family farm by my parents in those dire, dark SAP days.

** First comes the rain, and then the wakened worms which turn the hard, sun-baked soil into compliant mulch. Grain by grain, leaf by leaf the beauty of Symbiosis begins to rear its head, the cycle of death begetting life and sustenance for the things we must ingest, for which with backs bent beneath the blazing sun we labour; the reward of another day survived eked out from the hard, earth.

That NYSC Year...

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 13:00:52 +0000

My short Saturday morning sleep (I’d stayed awake till 4.30 am) was shattered by the insistent buzz of my cellphone at a little over 9.00am, and with it came summons to meet up with a bloke I met at NYSC camp and his wife. After braving howling winds and nearly passing out on my feet with the sheer amount of shops we went through, we got to share my peri-peri chicken addiction, and chat. True to form our conversation segued into the murky waters that are Nigeria and its various issues. Thankfully, reminiscing over the highlights of our service year provided a spot of cheer.

Memories of Christmas

Fri, 30 Dec 2011 16:05:24 +0000

My earliest memories of Christmas - and ultimately of growing up - are inextricably connected to the sounds of roosting chickens, the anticipation of a hearty Christmas afternoon meal and the Chapel’s annual Christmas carol night. We were by no means very well off. Those were the dark days bookended by SAP and its attendant devaluation of the Naira and the Abacha dictatorship in which people in the Academia essentially lived hand to mouth. What was an already thinly stretched wage was steadily eroded until my proud, well read father resorted to farming yams and cassava in the space behind his house to augment his wage. The main garnishing to the routine fare we got served as soups and stews was beef bought in abundance from the local butchery, and fish.

On shi**ing (Or, the criticality of the angle of perch)

Wed, 10 Aug 2011 08:28:42 +0000

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.

In which I perfect the non-trivial art of eating hot dodo

Tue, 31 May 2011 22:18:30 +0000

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.

In which I (vaguely) remember the Girls I Never Kissed

Sat, 14 May 2011 06:30:47 +0000

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.

It depends...

Wed, 02 Mar 2011 22:48:14 +0000

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.

On repeat: No weapon...

Thu, 20 Jan 2011 19:31:35 +0000

Another one of those songs that defined a season for me.. 1999, 300 level, juggling a ton of issues, looking for somewhere to read one of those Saturdays and I stumbled on the CFI choir practising for a music fiesta..It was my first Fred Hammond song. And I was hooked..

Christmas in the City..

Sat, 25 Dec 2010 10:23:07 +0000

Waking up to the strains of We Three Kings Of Orient Are on the BBC’s Radio 2 brings back memories of days long lost - of youth, of creativity and an unfettered enjoyment of life.

When I was much younger (close on twenty years ago now, cringe), I took part in the carolling, recitals of bible verses committed to memory, and nativity plays which were the highlight of the Christmas season in our small University town in Nigeria. This hymn though, is one especially important to me because it marked the first time I was selected to sing a lead vocal. Granted, I ran over the lines, forgot some, went ‘off key’, and probably knocked my knees so loudly a few well placed microphones might have picked up on them, but it was still a ‘solo’ performance.

For more than my belly...

Thu, 11 Nov 2010 23:52:48 +0000

Almost on a whim, I signed up to sponsor a child via World Vision. The decision was taken without much thought whilst passing through the Mall at Union Square. November 11th is a special day in the RustGeek household; its the day the patriarch and the matriarch completed their nuptials as well as the day the one we lost to the genes was born. In the part of the world where I am, it is also Remembrance day.

For Gracie...

Thu, 11 Nov 2010 11:11:52 +0000

For Gracie, who the genes took…

You never saw the thirteenth summer through- before the genes claimed you.

You always were - the sallow one, knuckle- kneed, paper thin, but - the lights in your jaundiced eyes shone: through pain and fear, and hope and tears.

The strength in your voice never dimmed, never waned, until the genes - like a belligerent marabout’s curse - turned you, to a mound of red- dead earth

Musings: Handwritten Notes.

Sat, 04 Sep 2010 22:00:04 +0000

It is the age of the internet - email, Facebook, Twitter, Hi5, MySpace, Instant Messaging and even SMS have contrived to depersonalize our communication. These days, my default mode of communication is electronic. I often reach first to my twitter account to send a direct message (DM) to my closest buddies, or then an email - and shock of all shocks - a phone call as a last resort. Growing up, hand written notes were the apogee of communication, especially between guys and girls. We went to great lengths to procure the right paper, practiced our cursive hand writing and parodied the writings of the likes of Shakespeare to present the right impression.

Nostalgia: The summer that almost was

Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:46:20 +0000

The Script’s Break Even just came on the radio, and as usual it brought back memories. In the main they are somewhat pleasant memories, even though the lyrics to the song are particularly sad.

Capital FM played the song ad nauseum last summer, and in a way it became the signature tune for that summer of my life - blighted by so many could haves and would have s. Summer started ok; my days being filled with the boringly mind numbing task of completing my dissertation. In between, I threw in attending a wedding across the Atlantic in Houston, planning my move back to my old Nigerian job and being very good friends with TheB. Capital FM was my constant companion at the time, as I stayed awake into the wee hours of the morning slogging things out. In an uncanny way, it seemed the song became a self fulfilling prophecy - Bisi and I never progressed beyond the friends zone, the Nigerian job fell through, and I missed a first on my degree….

Spare me some nostalgia...

Thu, 29 Apr 2010 03:26:55 +0000

I think things tend to look either worse off or better off in retrospect.. There must be a technical term for that - like nostalgia bias, or retrospection bias or warreva… (Help me out one of you psychologists)… Bottom line is i think when we look back at the past, we either think its much better than it actually was, or much worse…. I just had such a moment.. Thankfully, Me the pragmatist won - eventually….. Blame insomnia, the wacky DJ over at Capital FM, and nostalgia….

On Memories...

Tue, 23 Mar 2010 06:46:46 +0000

It is not what is lost that hurts the most, It is the thing that takes its place -

- Jerome Kugan (The Myth of Displacement)*

I say the things that try to take the place of what is lost - yet fail to do so, or even come close - are what hurt the most. They bring back memories…..which often are more legend than reality - the perfect bloke he never was, the doting girl she never would have been, the manipulating mofo everyone but you could see…..

What not to say to my Nigerian Father...

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 13:12:30 +0000

Growing up in my own neck of the woods was an experience. We nicknamed our Pops the Ogbodons - not sure where the term originated from any more but my back side was a living testimony to his varied abilities and multiplied skills in inflicting pain. Mum didn’t help matters as she was was as resolute in hammering our ’evil’ proclivities out of our systems. I got the opportunity to contrast that parenting style a few weekends back when I went visiting some distant family members in London. Clearly their less than 3 year old daughter has more leeway with him than I do with my own parents at my (huge) age.