Shaving Cream

Bald Men Do Not Buy Combs

2011-02-08T23:33:00.000Z

Travelling through London Victoria station last night I couldn’t help but notice a poster advertisement for a company called Hiscox Insurance (never heard of them either!). It read, “There is a reason why bald men do not buy combs”. I thought it was quite funny but I didn't understand it at the time. I tucked it away in my mind and unpacked it slowly on the way home.

A little research revealed the concept behind the poster. Hiscox Insurance sells insurance products to small businesses. It is not uncommon for small businesses and individuals to purchase insurance products which include coverage for things that they may never use or need. For example, you wouldn't need insurance for earthquakes if you don’t live in a part of the world where such natural disasters happen.
However, many insurance products offered by the large corporates tend to wrap up more areas than may actually be needed by small businesses. Enter Hiscox Insurance!! Their niche in the market is to provide small businesses with cheaper and tailored insurance products. In simple terms, the insurance products sold to ‘MTN Nigeria Plc’ should be different from products sold to ‘Osareme Ugbodaga and Sons Limited’.

I find that in life, we often carry around baggage that we (knowingly and unknowingly) pick up from friends, family, work, play, relationships. With time, this could potentially become both emotionally (and financially) expensive and draining. In simple terms, pick up only what you need to carry and leave the rest. In the George Clooney movie ‘Up in the Air’ (2009), he uses a similar analogy when he gives the lecture titled "What's In Your Backpack?" where he extols the virtues of a life free of burdensome relationships with people as well as things.

As we progress in 2011, I think we could all do with less baggage in our lives. You don’t have to be going physically bald (like me unfortunately) before you realise that you don’t need to buy a comb.

Flying London to Lagos? 10 reasons why Arik Air isn't such a great customer experience

2010-11-27T02:38:00.001Z

I love Nigerian entrepreneurs and will proudly fly a Nigerian carrier to Lagos from anywhere in the world if the circumstances are justified. I would rather patronize ‘my own’ country’s fledgling services just to identify with the spirit of entrepreneurship. Arik Air describes themselves on their website as ‘a wholly-owned Nigerian airline with a commitment to the people of Nigeria to deliver new standards in aviation’. However, on a recent trip to Lagos by Arik Air, I had reasons to question the entire customer experience. Here are ten of them:

1. The Arik Air website does not provide a means for you to make on-line payments for flight reservations. You only find out after searching frantically for a 'Payment' button. There is no information on their website informing the customer that on-line payments are not possible. In this age of electronic payments being offered by almost EVERY world class air carrier, this is not only shocking but also NOT in their own best interests. I understand the worries about internet and credit card fraud; but surely there are proven ways to securely collect payments online.

2. Anyway, after you’ve decided your dates, you can make a reservation online. You are given a reference number for your reservation. With the reference number in hand, you have to call up a service centre (on a premium rate 0844 number may I add) to find out how to pay. This adds at least another £5 to your bill (when you factor in the time spent waiting in the call queues listening to elevator music).

3. When you finally get through to a service centre agent, you learn that the only form of payment accepted is cash. Also, payment MUST be made in person, in cash, at any branch of Barclays Bank. I don't expect that many potential travelers have £800 lying idly in their accounts. Imagine if a family of four were planning to travel. They would need at least £3, 200 CASH….CASH! Sadly with Arik, there is NO recourse to your credit cards. This must surely discourage patronage of Arik Air. The service centre agent reads out a bank account number into which you are expected to make your payment. She advises you that you have a limited time to do this otherwise you could lose your reservation.

4. You have to put your schedule on hold and make time to physically go to your bank (assuming you do not bank with Barclays) to withdraw the total cash value of your ticket. Again, this must surely discourage would be travelers who do not have the time to do this. In addition, withdrawing such large amounts of cash arouses and attracts suspicion in some climes. You need to appear composed and at ease or else the cashier may ask you some additional security questions just to be sure you’re not pulling a fast one. It doesn't matter that it is your money in your account. You see, cashiers are trained to make psychological evaluations of people withdrawing uncommonly large sums of cash. Lack of eye contact, sweat on your forehead, fidgeting from one leg to another and general impatience will not help your case.

5. If you're unlucky not to bank with Barclays, you have to travel from your bank branch to a Barclays bank branch carrying the huge sum of money, risking becoming bait for the nifty London pickpockets. The best advice is to find a branch of your bank where you do not have to travel too far to a Barclays branch.

6. If you go at peak times, you will most likely have to queue at the Barclays branch. As it is likely that you can only do this kind of transaction during your lunch break (if you are a 9 to 5 worker), you are likely to be caught in the middle of the rush hour.

7. On the bank pay-in slip, you will need to write your full name and the reference number you received when you made your reservation earlier on-line. This is a necessary step, the Arik agent tells you, to enable them trace your payment. At this point, you should rightfully begin to worry about your money getting lost in some manual and archaic tally number system.

8. While you ponder this, the Barclays cashier begins to eye you with suspicion. You see, he or she is trained to....you guessed right, 'to perform psychological checks on people paying in huge cash sums'. The fact that you're black and speak with a Nigerian accent only makes things worse. Remain calm and make eye contact as you watch the cashier use her magic highlighting pen to test each bank note to determine that you haven't presented counterfeit notes.

9. Cash validation and payment completed, you need to note the name and location of the Barclays branch you've just visited. You will have to call Arik Air again (on the same premium rate number...cue another £5) and tell the agent who you are, the bank branch where you made the payment, WHEN you paid it in and how much you paid in.

10. If you're expecting to receive immediate confirmation that your ticket has been issued, you're wrong! The agent tells you that they'll need to confirm receipt of your payment (likely to take between 24 and 48 hours) before your ticket can be issued. After a nail biting wait, you receive an email saying that your ticket has been issued. Congratulations…you can now fly Arik Air to Lagos!

In fairness to Arik Air, their aircraft is modern, spacious, and clean and appears to be well maintained. The cabin crew conduct themselves professionally and in a courteous manner (you somehow expect the worst with Nigerian air carriers). The best part is that they seem to ‘get’ Nigerian air travelers (unlike some other airlines I have travelled with) and our unique flying behaviors and seem to handle it quite well. Arik Air offers relatively affordable prices for flights to Lagos. It is a shame that the customer experience they offer is not much more of a bargain as well.

PS: I have one more poor customer experience to note. The flight to and from Lagos (six hours each way), for me, was rather forgettable as the in-flight entertainment system was broken and didn’t work both ways!

Part 2: The mystery of the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap''

2010-11-26T01:36:00.013Z

Continued from Part 1 below...

11:00am – The automated announcement system reads out #60. I begin to hope. Ten minutes later, ticket #61 is called up. My heart starts to beat faster. After what seems like an eternity, #62 is called. I mentally punch my fist in the air and suppress a shout of Hallelujah! I squeeze my way through the crowds to the counter where a bored looking official points my attention to a poster on the glass partition. He asks, “Do you have this paper”? The paper he asks for is my appointment letter and evidence of payment. I present the paper and he scans and signs it. Still wearing his bored expression, he nods his head in the direction of the next cubicle and barks, “Next window”! At the next window, there’s an argument in progress with the lady official there. The man ahead of me appears to have some type of problem with his application. The lady official screams at him to clear away from her desk so she can attend to other people. The man, half kneeling, half begging, asks for her to have mercy on him. I recognize him as one of the hapless people who came last week and only to be locked out of the embassy. The poor guy came with his wife and baby. God only knows where from and how much it cost them to come here twice. I decide to be patient and let him finish. Lady official eventually reaches me, collects my passport and postal order of £20. She gives me a receipt. Obviously on edge from having screamed so much, she gives me a curt, “Go and wait until your name is called”. I presume she is referring to the Northern Nigerian embassy official who was calling names earlier. I wade back into the sea of sweaty humans and await the ‘salvation call’ from my ‘Northern Nigerian rescuer’. This time, I have to stand as there is no longer a seat.

11:30am – I’m still waiting for my ‘Rescuer’. The environment is becoming stuffy and hot. Body odour and soiled baby nappy smells permeate the room. I spot an embassy official meandering his way across the room. As he reaches the middle of the room, a bald, thickly set Ibo guy (whom I shall call Mr Advocate) in my vicinity shouts at him, “Excuse me, is that television not working?” I didn’t even notice the television until our advocate asks the question. The room goes very quiet for a few seconds as all eyes turn to the embassy official who by now must be wishing he was a fly on the wall. He meekly replies, “I don’t know where the remote control is.” ‘Mr. Advocate’ shouts back at him, “Can you not operate it manually?” All eyes are still on the embassy official, who by now, realising that he has become the object of the collective frustrations in the basement and perhaps fearing for what is left of his pride, stammers something unintelligible to Mr. Advocate and slinks away in a hurry. The room erupts in incredulous laughter. The non-functioning television suddenly becomes a metaphor for spin off jokes about Nigeria and how the entire country is non-functioning with our leaders appearing to be clueless to the solutions. The non-functioning television has now been added to Nigeria’s multiple problems.

11:50am – The ‘Rescuer’ returns and reads out a few more names. Again my hopes are dashed as there is still no salvation. I grit my teeth and return to the waiting position; shifting uncomfortably from one leg to another.

12:30pm – It is one and a half hours since I submitted my documents. Two young kids are being unruly near me. They’ve been going at it for some time, putting more strain on their mother, who has become increasingly cranky. I’ve never seen this done before but this woman manages to pull it off. She does what I call the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap’. With one hand (this must take some skill), she slaps BOTH unruly kids at the same time! Imagine that! As my eyes widen with wonder at the prowess of this Nigerian mother, a loud round of wailing from the two kids begins. Some elderly women start to berate ‘Cranky Mother’ for slapping her kids so hard. They say she’s lucky that she’s in Nigeria High Commission as that is the only place in London where she can get away with such high handed discipline. Having seen the unruliness that Cranky Mother has had to put up with for the past half hour, I mentally disagree with the old women’s view, still wondering how the slap was perfectly executed!

12:35pm – I notice that there is a sudden buzz in the room. People start to talk in hushed tones as if heralding the arrival of some celestial being. There are no trumpets or clashing cymbals to announce him …but there he is, my ‘Rescuer’! He shuffles the passports and documents in his hand and soon shouts my name. From the back of the room, I raise both hands and shout, “I am here!” and make my way towards him. As I try to find a gap in the crowd, a woman makes a remark to her daughter in Yoruba about my surname. I laugh to myself at how she wrongly assumes that because of my surname (non Yoruba) that I do not understand what she said. To be honest, I am too ecstatic to care anyway. My name has been called, my time in this basement prison is over and I am cleared to make my way upstairs to the ‘Holy Grail’ of the Nigerian High Commission—the fingerprinting and photographing room.

12:35pm to 1:30pm – I spend some time waiting in the fingerprinting room which is pleasantly air-conditioned and not crowded. Things are much more organised up here with embassy officials walking with business-like urgency from one room to another. The fingerprinting and photographing process takes a few more minutes than I hoped but I don’t mind; my ordeal is nearly over. At 1:30pm, I walk towards the exit of the embassy proudly clutching a stamped piece of paper bearing my passport collection date (generally 10 days from when you submit your application). As I emerge into the sunlight, I am greeted by a crowd of angry Nigerians all shouting one thing or another. A group of mothers who have been told that they cannot take their prams and push chairs into the building (i.e. the basement) due to lack of space remonstrate very loudly with the poor embassy official who I fear might soon be the victim of a stampede as the women angrily insist that they must be allowed to take their baby transporters in. I squeeze my way through the crowd and as I walk up the street, I sight two officers of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch making their way on horseback towards the scene of the commotion. You can take the Nigerian out of Nigeria, but you cannot take Nigeria out of the Nigerian.

Note: It would be a great idea to gather a group of London Based change/transformation/process improvement consultants together with a view to offering pro-bono services to the Nigerian High Commission. If anyone knows the management at the High Commission and if they would be receptive to or interested in such an intervention, please contact the author of this blog.

Part 1: The mystery of the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap' and other observations from the Nigerian High Commission in London

2010-11-26T01:29:00.005Z

Prologue: This is a collection of random observations from my day at the Nigerian High Commission in London where I went to apply for a new passport. I must commend the officials at the High Commission for their mostly professional and approachable attitude in spite of the frustrating conditions they appear to work in. It was refreshing to observe the manner in which they dealt with simple enquiries and highly agitated applicants. Sadly, such praise cannot also be given to the appalling level of organisation at the High Commission. For those considering applying from the UK, the process takes about five hours in total. To start the process, please go to: https://portal.immigration.gov.ng

8:15am – I arrive at the Nigerian High Commission in time for my ‘appointment’ (please note that this word doesn’t really mean anything at the High Commission). I am mistaken into thinking that I am early enough until I sight the queue (over 500 meters long by then) that has already wrapped itself around the building on Northumberland Avenue. There must be at least 100 people ahead of me. I imagine that some people must have arrived here for 6am with hopes of getting in early. The chatty guy in front of me, with the South Eastern Nigerian accent, makes a joke to a Caucasian man ahead of him advising him to go round the corner to Selfridges and buy some patience. The Caucasian man chuckles in response. He’ll need patience. Little do I realise that we’ll all need lots of it before the day runs out.

9:00am – Friendly banter with other applicants on the queue keeps me occupied. It turns out that most of us on the queue had been given appointments on Thursday and Friday of the previous week; only for us to arrive and find the embassy locked up. What was the reason? The Federal Government declared those two days a public holiday and the embassy officials decided to shut down operations without and warnings or contingency plans being communicated to the hapless Nigerians who had come from all over the UK to honor their appointments. As we exchange stories in the queue, we jointly wag our collective finger at the poor organisation of our High Commission.

9:05am – About fifty minutes later, I finally arrive at the entrance. An official standing just inside the door is remonstrating in a loud voice with someone. I hear raised voices. Fortunately, no fists are involved. The official stretches out his hand and asks me for my current passport and payment/interview confirmation. He gives it a quick look over and lets me in. I’m directed to a basement room where I quickly scan the room (about 20ft by 40ft in size) and notice that it is nearly full already. Another official hands out ticket numbers depending on the purpose of your visit. I quickly find a place to sit. I’m lucky to find one.

9.30am – I slowly take in my surroundings and in the process, I notice that the air conditioning appears to be struggling to cope. The basement soon fills up. People are starting to stand in every available space. I wonder if there isn’t a health and safety law being brazenly flouted here by allowing this many people into such limited space. I quickly scan the room and make a mental note of the fire exits…just in case we need to evacuate! Surely they can’t possibly fit more people in here. I am wrong. More people continue to arrive. If we all have ‘appointments’, then why are we all here at the same time?

9:35am - The embassy has an automated announcement system which appears to be calling out the pre-assigned numbers every 10 to 12 minutes. They are at number #28 when I get in. Deep sigh. My number is #62. An embassy official appears and begins to call out names in a high pitched Northern Nigerian accent (Hausa). I smile to myself. It is always refreshing to hear a northern accent in London. I have a theory that Yoruba speakers (from South Western Nigeria) constitute the bulk of Nigerians living in the UK. As said official reads out the names of people who have obviously completed the first hurdle of the application process, I notice that one in every five names appears to be South Eastern, South-South or Northern Nigerian. The rest are Yoruba. In the microcosm of the Nigerian High Commission, my demographic theory is proven! Take that Lord Malthus!

9:45am – I am stirred from my musings when I hear a woman at the counter yelling at an embassy official. The embassy official appears unfazed and stands his/her ground. He or she is probably immune to this kind of attitude. It’s probably a routine job hazard I guess. The loud woman backs down. I guess she realises that she will get nowhere with ‘gra-gra’ (Yoruba slang for unruly behavior). She calms down and adopts a more conciliatory tone and interjects her sentences to the official with ‘please’. Nice. At least someone is finally crossing the social evolution barrier.

10:00am – “Oloyun O p’omo O!” This is a familiar shout in Lagos meaning that people should make way for a heavily pregnant woman trying to board some form of public transport whilst carrying another child on her back (truth be told, Lagos bus conductors also use this as a veiled insult to overweight women or those blessed with generous backsides). As some pregnant women squeeze their way around the embassy basement, I wish someone would shout this on their behalf. Everywhere I look, there are infants and toddlers screaming to the heavens and mothers losing the battle to calm and control them. For some kids, I imagine this might be their first ‘taste’ of Nigeria. One kid manages to sneak his way into the ticketing office unattended. An embassy official grabs the hyper active kid, raises him in the air by the arm and shouts, “Who get this pickin (child) oh?” I love my country!

10:30am – I slip back into my musing. There are a few Caucasians and mixed race people around. There are lots of reasons to travel to Nigeria. However, tourism isn’t usually one of them. I guess they’re mostly going to Nigeria for work. The Caucasians stand around the embassy basement in different states of despair. “Welcome to Nigeria”, I say to them in my mind. There are some who appear to be of mixed parentage/dual nationality who I assume may be planning to visit family. If there is one country that has contributed significantly to the propagation of mixed race peoples on this earth, it must be Nigeria. With our citizens living (legally or illegally) in almost every country on this planet, this should not be surprising. I go back to observing the Caucasians. Suddenly, an interesting distraction walks in. She is a stunningly beautiful woman who appears to be of Ethiopian/Sudanese extraction. I immediately sense a collective holding of breath by all the men folk in the room. She flashes a smile at the ticketing official who seems to be transfixed by her flawless looks. She picks up her ticket from his frozen hand and meanders to find standing space at the back of the room. I watch as the men folk innocuously follow her graceful movement with their eyes and then let out their collective breath when she reaches the back of the room and buries her head in a book. The interesting diversion is over. However, the rest of the day holds far more interesting diversions such as the 'One Handed-Double Impact slap'.

Concluded in Part 2

The American experiment

2009-10-25T23:23:00.000Z

These days all I seem to hear is the question, "So when are you getting married?" Well seeing as I am not a hermaphrodite and cannot marry myself, it is only necessary that I find someone to marry (who by the way also needs to agree to do this marriage business with me). This dating thing is actually more difficult than I thought. Having recently come out of a long term relationship, I feel like a footballer who hasn't kicked a ball all season and now finds that he must play a crucial Champions League game. I am bound to put a foot wrong somewhere.

Like many young unmarried people, there is no shortage of offers to 'help'. I suddenly feel like the object of a charity campaign on British television with slogans screaming 'Your donation can save these dying children'. Conversations with friends and family these days tend to end with questions such as: "Shall I give you my cousin/sister's/friend's number?" or "I know this girl; the two of you would be great together!" I genuinely appreciate the concern and while I do not doubt their sincerity, I doubt that the cacophony of voices is actually helping my case. "Listen to your heart", someone said. Well, the problem is that I cannot trust my heart to decide anything these days.

A few weeks ago, I received a phone call from an uncle. He had just returned from a trip to Atlanta where at a family function, he happened to catch up with his niece, Sade, and learned that she was single. “Bling!” went the light bulb in his head as it immediately occurred to him that Sade and I could be great for one another. In collaboration with Sade's mum, they hatched a plan to 'hook us up'. He explained this to me and my immediate reaction was to object to the whole idea. He insisted that I at least make her acquaintance. He went so far as to offer to set the scene (without the stereotypical Barry White music of course!). I would go over to his place at a prearranged time, he would make the call, introduce us then leave the room, allowing Sade and I to 'meet' each other.

On the appointed day, I arrived one hour late! This was not an attempt to make a grand entrance or appear to be fashionable. Uncle was not happy about it. Sade had waited for 30 minutes and had had to leave. I apologised and waited patiently for 2 hours for Sade to return. In that time, I actually considered calling the experiment off and bolting out the door. When Sade eventually answered the phone, Uncle did his bit, handed me the phone and left the room according to plan.

I had already been given the low down Sade. Two years younger than me and single, her family had relocated from Nigeria when she was 8 years old. She had never been back since (first red flag!). She had gone on to excel as a track and field athlete and many awards and medals later, she won a sports scholarship to study Pharmacy at the prestigious University of Maryland. She was currently in the middle of her internship year and was preparing to launch her career. Uncle had showed me pictures on his computer from his last visit. Sade is quite good looking! Armed with this knowledge, I picked up the conversation making sure to apologise for my lateness. The call was brief. I stammered, sputtered like a faulty engine and spoke incoherently and after 10 minutes, it was clear we had very little in common. We exchanged contact details and promised to keep in touch. I felt unprepared and clueless. I likened my situation to an army sergeant recently discharged from active duty who bewilderingly finds that military tactics employed on the battlefields of Afghanistan are unsuitable for the tranquility of civilian life and even less so in the never-ending 'battle of the sexes'.

Uncle came back into the room with a glint in his eyes and wanted a status update. I explained that I thought it didn't go too well. He encouraged me to overcome my nerves and stick with the process. "She's a very busy girl", he said. "She's used to working with test tubes rather than meeting guys". "Yeah right!" I thought to myself. "Now I'm also supposed to be a lab rat for this weird social experiment?" I respect and appreciate Uncle a lot and I know he only meant well. I therefore decided to follow up the initial contact with Sade with emails, texts and phone calls. Her responses, when she bothered at all, were crisp, unenthusiastic and detached. I didn't need a palm reader to tell me to swallow my pride and stop wasting my time. I silently closed the chapter in my head and mouthed to myself the words, "Never again". I am not angry with Sade. I understand that it must be uncomfortable for her to be the family ‘case’ that everyone wants to solve. Surely, being ‘guided’ to meet some bloke from God-knows-where must be an unnerving experience!

Haruki Murakami, the acclaimed Japanese author in his book ‘What I think about when I am running’ put it very aptly…’I never could stand being forced to do something I didn't want to do at a time I didn't want to do it. Whenever I was able to do something I liked to do, though, when I wanted to do it, and the way I wanted to do it, I'd give it everything I had’. For me, this obviously wasn't one of those times when I felt convinced about a course of action and I therefore was not surprised it ended in failure. I have no doubt that arranged introductions, relationships and marriages work in some cases. When I do decide to get back into dating and relationships, I must be surefooted. No more weird experiments for me!

Tick! Tock!

2009-10-25T03:17:00.000Z

I don't do mornings. I'm not one of those people who have the discipline to get up without prompt at 5:30am and start their day with lots of energy and enthusiasm. I need an alarm system to get me going. Even so, for maximum effectiveness, I have three different alarms set within 10 minutes of each other. Generally, after hitting the snooze button on the first two, by the time the third one kicks in, I have usually worked up enough guilt to get up, clear my head of cobwebs and stumble through my early morning routine. Most days, to my own surprise, I actually manage to get out in time.

Time, this intangible gift from God, is given to every living creature in different measure. Some, like the fabled tortoise, may live beyond 100 years. Others like the honeybee only live for a few weeks or months. With no sense of the brevity of its life, the latter (the worker bee variety) does its work diligently every day, cleaning the hive and collecting nectar for processing. Its tedious existence is further shortened once it releases its sting. Once the sting is discarded, the insect slows down and finds somewhere to die. Its life clock begins a downward spiral. Every day, we draw from our time account but lack the ability to put anything back in.

I've always wondered if life would be any different on earth if we all knew the day, month and year we would die. Would we live more fulfilling lives knowing our time here on earth is short? Would we be less selfish and more responsive of the needs around us? Or would we live life on the edge, sticking the middle finger at everyone, striving blindly, seeking only fame, fortune and glory?

These thoughts were recently heightened when news reached me of the death of the mother of a friend from cancer. My friend and her family had been battling this malaise for a number of years. They had received the sad diagnosis a few months ago that their mum only had a limited time to live. I had met this colleague of mine a few weeks earlier at her birthday party and though she put up a solid front, the fear, anxiety and sadness were just visible in her eyes. She is understandably still dealing with the pain.

Knowledge can sometimes be a burden. How does one live with the realisation that a ‘death sentence' has been passed on someone you love? How do you stand by and watch their life seep away slowly like the grains of sand in an hour glass; knowing that only a miracle could save them from the inevitable? How do you say goodbye? I've never faced this situation so I cannot pretend to know how it must feel. I however have met a few others who have had to fight this battle.

Rebecca (we called her Becky) was a tall, African beauty who was full of life. She lived with a boldness that was robbed from her when suddenly, she was diagnosed with cancer. I was friends with her family but didn't see too much of her in the months leading to her death. I heard that she was deteriorating fast. Her family was full of faith and never stopped praying for healing till she passed away in 1997 at the age of 33. I remember riding in the convoy of mourners to their village where she was laid to rest, my heart weeping for a life cut short in its prime. Buried in a desolate land but not forgotten.

Mrs. A was the wife of our Baptist pastor. I recall that despite her delicate features, she possessed strength of character and a zeal for God that was exemplary. She was a humble woman, serving diligently beside her husband in ministry and raising four lovely children who delighted everyone at church. When the news broke that she had cancer, the church with one voice petitioned heaven for healing. To the world outside, she remained stoic in the face of difficulty, showing no outward signs of illness. One day in 1996, she said goodbye to her family, closed her eyes and quietly passed to the world beyond. Gone too soon but always remembered.

Iwa was the sort of person who brightened your day just by saying hello. There was always a smile playing around her lips. She danced, she sang, she wrote poetry and she loved God. I wasn't that close to Iwa in her lifetime. Years after she died, I became good friends with Yolanda, her younger sister, and Cleo her widowed husband. Through Yolanda, I got to know more about Iwa, her passion for life and her testimony and how much her loss had left a vacum in the hearts of her family. Iwa died during childbirth on the 27th of November 2001 from complications caused by a previously undetected cancerous tumor. She was never to know or nurture her beautiful daughter, Isabella. Gone too soon but still celebrated in hearts and minds.

Globally, each year, *10.9 million people are diagnosed with cancer. Cancer Research UK further states that there are 6.7 million deaths from the disease. They also estimate that there are 24.6 million people alive who have received a diagnosis of cancer in the last five years. Statistics are even less accurate in Sub-Saharan Africa where the mortality rate is generally higher and where affordable healthcare less accessible. Cancer is like a suicide bomber. It quietly steals its way into a hitherto safe area and then pulls the trigger. Sometimes you hear the sound of the explosion and you can run, maybe even escape the tragedy. Many others never get a chance and can only stare death in the face, as powerless as a rabbit immobilized by the full glare of an oncoming train. I pause to remember others, like my dear friend Dede, who have very recently a lost loved one to this killer. My heart goes out to them and their families.

Today, I habitually snoozed my first two alarms again and rolled over to enjoy the stolen luxury of an extra half hour of sleep. As I prepared to turn my back on the third one, I was suddenly reminded of those to whom time gave no choice; and those who have to live with the knowledge that their time is limited and that each day is a gift, a blessing and an opportunity. I am humbled by the grace of God and the time I am blessed with. The Psalmist prays, "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalms 90:12).

This writer plans to run in a short distance marathon in 2010 in support of Cancer Research UK (http://www.cancerresearchuk.org).

*statistics are quoted from Cancer Research UK
* Some names and dates have been changed to protect confidentiality

The Third Room

2009-05-17T17:25:00.000+01:00

...continued from My Sixty-Twenty window

You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theatre whom no one notices until she slips out. Then only those near the door themselves...notice. To the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room.
- Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones (2002)

Clive's back ached as he bent over to sweep up more shards of books and old papers which had somehow found their way into the most obscure corners of the room. His lithe black skin glistened with sweat in the hot October weather. To him this was as much of a necessary domestic chore as it was a mission to exorcise the personal demons which had hovered over his family for the past sixteen years, casting long dark shadows over whatever secrets they guarded in the mysterious Third Room.

In a few weeks, the house would again be filled with the sounds of laughter. Sue, their father's first child, was getting married; bringing genuine cause for celebration. This was perhaps the most significant event since the man's death sixteen years ago. Preparations were in top gear to sort out the traditional asó ébí clothing, catering, drinks, hall decorations, music, chauffeurs and bridal train. Clive mentally ticked the ever growing to-do list off in his head. It was bound to get busy in the flat very soon. Guests were expected from far afield. "As if the place wasn't cramped enough", he thought. There was only one place to put them though...the Third Room! It was no 'room with a view' but it would have to do. The lot had fallen to him to clean it out.

No one remembers what it looked like before it became known as 'the Third Room'. In those days, the children were small and young enough to share bunk beds in one room and so the Third Room was regarded as additional storage space for broken toys, elementary school books, old clothes and an occasional play area for hide and seek games.

The games ceased the day a truck pulled up in front of the house laden with possessions no one needed let alone knew what to do with. These were their father's books, his work things, his clothes and furniture from the new flat in the shiny capital city where he had been setting up a new home for them. The planned relocation never happened because one day the man was and then suddenly the fates cruelly ruled, and he was no more.

As Clive reflected on the events which transpired the day the truck pulled up, he remembered the jaded look on their mother's face as she directed the movers to store father's things in the Third Room. He and his sisters looked on curiously as their mom shut the door to the room and forbade them in solemn tones never to disturb its peace. It was as if Death had come to make its dwelling among the living. Like the tomb of a pharaoh, no one ventured in for fear of unsettling the spirits which lived within. From time to time, mice would find their way into the flat. After furtive attempts to evade capture, they usually ended up sneaking into the Third Room through the little gap under the door. No one bothered to go in after them for it was almost certain that they would never be seen again. Death claimed the rodents just as it had claimed the man whose possessions they dared trespass against.

The years passed and life slowly assumed a semblance of normalcy. Whatever lay behind the door to the Third Room was lost in mystery. One hot sweaty afternoon, the air-conditioning broke and someone remembered that a whole unit lay idle in the Third Room. It prompted a long discussion between him and his sisters about why perfectly useful furniture was being allowed to waste when it could be put to good use. When their mom returned that night, the kids presented their argument to her and strangely enough, she agreed they could go and check out the available option in the room.

The door creaked on its hinges as they pushed through to reveal the memories that had been painfully shut up many years since. The light bulb was long dead so someone lit a candle. The low yellow flame cast long eerie shadows along the walls as one by one they silently filed in. The kids held their breath as they watched the expression on their mom's face. Expecting a flood of tears, they were taken aback when she cheerily set the pace and began to explore. The woman had finally found a way to deal with the painful memories of her late husband. Sometimes the best way to deal with fear or pain is to confront them. This may be as simple (or as difficult) as stepping through doors that have remained closed for one reason or another.

This first step was the beginning of many visits to the room. The Third Room became a museum-cum-library-cum-refuge. You went there to sit and think, to pick up and read a dusty and dated volume from the piles of books/papers or simply to hide from the world and cry. "It still remained a dump though", Clive thought as he began cleaning out the rubbish that everyone had somehow continued to throw in there.

As he picked his way through the rubble, deciding what to salvage and what to destroy, he tried to piece together the forgotten years and wondered how different life would have turned out had the man been alive. Pity he would never know. Sometimes there are things we don't need to know; impossible thoughts that were best left alone. The fates may have robbed them of potentially life changing experiences but one thing was certain, there were many better ones to come.

Death had come like an unexplained breeze and had trapped time and memory in the Third Room. As Clive’s muscular arms wrestled the last window open, to ventilate the room, he felt like he had finally set them free.

Mr. Jelly Face, pay me my money!

2009-04-03T00:05:00.000+01:00

What is it with people and money? The easiest way to test the sincerity of friendship (or relationships in general) is in the crucible of financial transactions. Once money exchanges hands and one party assumes the role of debtor, the dynamics change and the key ingredients (trust and integrity) of friendship suddenly begin to slide down a very slippery slope!

Money has tremendous power and influence. Evidence of this can easily be seen in the many conflicts dotting the face of our planet. Nations go to war over the ownership and control of resources. Husbands and wives fight and divorce because of irreconcilable differences over finances. The imbalance in the distribution of wealth is reflected in the ever widening gulf between the rich and the poor in our societies. Money doesn't solve all problems. In fact, it can potentially create more problems than it actually solves if not managed correctly.

Between the rich and the poor, there is this middle group I call the 'relatively comfortable'. Most average working class people (myself included) belong to this group. Characteristically, the relatively comfortable man has a regular means of income which is just sufficient to pay his rent/mortgage, settle sundry bills, fuel his car, and fund the upkeep of his family back home (and in African terms, this can range from aged parents to a small village community). By the grace of God, he can also afford to look half decent, eat out at nice restaurants infrequently, support charitable causes and put something towards savings and investments. He appreciates life’s simple pleasures and strives to provide the same for his family. He manages to just get by without too much pain. However, he must never forget that the potential for pain is never far off. One wrong investment, one unfortunate incident, one wrong play of cards and his relative financial security is seriously threatened. It is thus very hurtful then when some people decide to take advantage of this trusting 'middle group' man and make off with his hard earned money.

I am upset. I am fed up with people and their repeated insincerity when money is involved. You don't really know the character of a man till he owes you money. In the words of the notorious Family Guy, Peter Griffin, this lack of integrity 'really grinds my gears!’ The process usually begins with sympathy inducing stories of different variations: I need to pay my rent! I need to bail my car from the mechanic! I'm still job hunting and could do with a loan! I need to pay my fees! Of course the parties making the approach all promise to repay at some point. Sadly, I find that the majority do not. In fact, you never hear from them again until you chase. All of a sudden, the innocent creditor becomes the agressor.

I am none too worried about defaulting loans (even though I really need the money). It is people’s attitude which does my head in. Surely there is an honorable way to owe money? There is nothing wrong with constantly communicating with your creditor, explaining your circumstances and renegotiating the original agreement.

I share a very recent example. Mr. Jelly Face rings me up a few weeks before Christmas to tell me that his sick father has just died and he urgently needs a £1,000 loan to travel to his village to participate in the final rites. A thousand pounds!! Do I look like I'm Lakshmi Mittal the Indian billionaire? "Jelly Face must be joking", I chuckle to myself.

Jelly Face and I were classmates at University. He's an easy going chap like me who hasn't done too badly for himself since we graduated. He's just completed a Masters degree in an authentic British university and like many others in his situation, decided to stay back in the country to test the labor market rather than go back home to a very uncertain economy. He's single and has no obvious dependants (apart from probably his parents back home). He's managed to hold down an average job while scanning the horizon in search of something more professional. Jelly Face and I speak from time to time so he's not a complete stranger to me. The previous explanations are necessary because they form part of the necessary risk assessment I usually perform before deciding to lend anyone money.

I would like to describe myself as charitable. In my time I've supported several people outside of my immediate family who (I was convinced) had genuine needs without any visible means to pay back. I know what it is to be in need. I've seen lack in the face and have been too weak to even call its name. I worn the shoes of dependence on others for survival and God in his mercy has used people to help me through life. I am grateful to Him for where I am today and therefore I do not despise people in need.

On the basis of my risk assessment, I conclude that Jelly Face is credit worthy and proceed to lend him some money. From my experience, I have learned that when people ask to borrow money, it is wise to divide the requested sum in half. Then divide the result by half again. The final figure is generally much smaller than what they originally asked for. The rule of thumb is, if the loss of that sum will not cause you too much grief, then it is reasonable to part with it (in the hope that it will be returned).

Jelly Face promises to pay back when he returns in December. Mentally, I tell myself December is an expensive month for most people. Christmas and New Year expenses generally mean January is a month for recovery. He’ll pay back in February I conclude. I never hear from Jelly Face again. I give him the benefit of the doubt and decide to call him in February. His phone number is no longer in use. I ‘poke’ him on Facebook. No response. I am not even worried about my money; rather, I am concerned for his well being.

Not long afterwards, I decide to call another former classmate and mutual friend, Mr. Bean Pole, who also works in the UK. I am in shock when Bean Pole reveals that Jelly Face also approached him for money around the same time. He generously loaned Jelly Face a shocking £2,000! He says he too has not heard from Jelly Face. We trade stories about how unfair some people can be and part ways.

A few days later, Bean Pole calls me to tell me that he has learned that Jelly Face has relocated permanently to Nigeria…with our money! My last action was to send Jelly Face an email. No response either.

Again I ask, “What is it with people and money?”

Free Willy and other reflections

2009-03-22T01:47:00.000Z

This blog is a random set of thoughts about the potential relationships between the goings-on in men's toilets and human nature and the lessons we can draw from them. There is no relationship between this essay and the 1993 film about the whale, Willy, and a little boy’s quest to set it free from captivity. My use of the term 'willy' will become clearer as you read.

First, a disclaimer: I am not gay. I am also not some wierdo who takes sneak peeks at men while they do their business in male toilets. I am quite happy (thank you!) with my natural gift and whatever confidence boosts accrue from possessing such humble dimensions.

Our loo visits in the course of the day are biologically inevitable. I find that they are God given opportunities to take a break and reflect on life in general. It is a matter of personal opinion though, how long one decides to spend reflecting in the loo. A quick dash in and out is sufficient for some. For others, bowel movements take on therapeutic (nay almost spiritual) connotations. Since bodily exigencies are no respecter of sex, the following examples may apply to both male and female.

In my 30 odd years of loo experience, I've seen many individuals come and go. There are four characters in particular who have triggered this rather odd essay about loo attitudes, etiquette and human nature in general.

Firstly, there's 'Mr. Avoid Eye Contact At All Costs'. Mr. AEC for short. You know this bloke. You've 'hot desked' next to him in the past, bumped into each other a few times at the photocopy and coffee machines and even shared a lift to another floor on the odd occasion. On each of these chance meetings, you've exchanged the courtesy 'acknowledgement nod' or 'polite smile' or even said hello. Mr. AEC may even know your name. While this does not confer you with drinking rights to Mr. AEC, you wonder why, when he bumps into you in the men's, he all of a sudden feigns ignorance of you. As your eyes meet in the wash basin mirror, he quickly averts his. You continue to try to make eye contact but Mr. AEC refuses to do the same. By the way, the objective of your wanting to make eye contact is simply to acknowledge the other's presence with the aforementioned greeting options and not to issue a silent challenge to Mr. AEC for a 'My willy is bigger than yours' contest. You take a deep breath and let it slide. "Such is life", you tell yourself. Mr. AEC washes his hands and moves on; you do the same and move on.
Lesson one: a man who cannot look you in the eye after a satisfying poo may have some deep and unseen troubles lurking behind that impassive expression. Such a man is either ashamed of what he has just done, may be suffering from low self esteem or may be too proud to acknowledge fellow blokes with equally liberating loo experiences!

Secondly, there is 'Mr. Selfish Poo' aka Mr. SP. This bloke thinks it is his birthright to leave the toilet bowl dirtier than he met it. He strides majestically into the cubicle like he owns the place. As he shuts the door, his eye catches the sign which advocates that in the interest of decency and hygiene, he leaves the place in the same state as he would like to meet it. He proceeds to do his business. The size, texture or trajectory of his poo is of no importance to him. He operates by the principle, 'My mess is everybody's mess'. He does the obligatory flush and despite the fact that his pellets are splattered all over the bowl, he walks out without a second thought.
Lesson two: when a man cannot be bothered to clean up after himself, he is also likely to be uninterested in doing his little bit to make the world a more tolerable place for his neighbor. Bear in mind that what you poo this minute may affect others the next minute. If you happen to be the unfortunate bloke who has to use the cubicle Mr. SP just vacated, you might be in for a nasty shock.

The third character is a rather strange one. On two random loo excursions, I met this chap standing in front of the ceiling-to-floor mirror looking at himself. I watched him from the corner of my eye and noticed that every few seconds, he would run his hands through his spiky jet-black Asian hair and turn his face at an angle like a male model in a Gillette razor advert. Finished with my business, I washed my hands, dried them and yet this guy was still there; smug expression, spiky hair and all doing his 'I am too cool' pose. Now there is nothing wrong with taking a post-poo check in the mirror to confirm that the trouser flap, shirt and tie are all set to their default position. I think it rather weird though, that a guy would spend (in my humble opinion) an inordinate amount of time checking himself out in a public loo.
Lesson three: do not entrust your time, resources or emotions to a man who appears to worship his hair at the altar of the men's loo mirror.

Finally, there is Free Willy. This chap is a happy man. He laughs and whistles a tune as he bounces into the men's. He stands at the urinary (ladies, its the small bowl hanging on the wall) and proceeds to unzip his flap, free his willy and do his business. What is so special about this bloke you ask? Well, male tradition dictates that when you pee, you typically hold your willy and direct it at the receptacle in order to avoid unnecessary spillage and accidental misdirection. Free Willy decides to dispense with this cautionary measure. His preference is to stand legs apart, free his willy, place his hands on his hips and let gravity take over as he whistles his merry tune, oblivious of his surroundings. Free, unhindered and fearless is his willy. What courage!
Here is the final lesson: Though his actions appear foolhardy, be willing to listen to the advice of a man like Free Willy. Such a man is probably unafraid of risk taking. He does not have self shame. He is self confident and assured of his abilities. While navigating the difficult pot holes of life, he is positive and cheery. His willy is confident and free and so is he!

The lessons outlined in this blog are simply the random observations of the author. There is no empirical evidence to support these characterisations of human nature. Should you choose to make critical life decisions based on any of these assertions, the responsibility for their success or failure is yours.

The Pro-Unitate stars

2009-03-17T22:46:00.000Z

Hail the great men of ninety four
Though some indeed were quite a bore!
T'was in sunny June of that year
In Kwali, the village we used to share
We parted ways and scattered afar
To seek fortune, to fame and to star.

It's been a number of years since
Oh! That thought makes me wince
For it seems just like yesteday
We made haste night and day
Not knowing what the future held
Studying, while on dreams we dwelled.

Now some call foreign lands home
Others, our country they still roam
Familiar to a few, are the cries of babies
While many still check out the ladies
Childhood behind, we welcome our thirties
Hardworking still, we roll up our shirt sleeves!

We look to our future in hope
For our dreams shall not elope
Our future is bright; class of nintey four
Great things you shall attain and much more
Wherever you are, no matter how far
You shall be known as the Pro-Unitate stars!

My Sixty - Twenty window

2009-02-27T00:34:00.001Z

He was born on this day in 1949. Four years after Allied Forces liberated Hitler oppressed Europe and the atomic bomb devastated Nagasaki and Hiroshima; effectively ending World War II. He was born into a world recovering from the 'Great Depression' and into a nation-state feeling the birth pains of independence. Sixty years on and it would appear the world has not changed much; what with wars being raged in far flung lands, a nation yet to achieve real independence from self enslavement and a world economy on its knees.

I always wanted to ask him what it was like being born in those times. Was the world a kinder or harsher, more peaceful or war ravaged place? What impact did this have on him as an African teenager growing up on a continent disentangling itself from the shackles of colonialism and experimenting with the new found freedoms of democracy? Did life for him hold high hopes or was the feeling one of uncertainty and fear from the radical changes of those times?

The thing is, he never spoke much. When he did speak, it was in short bursts with direct emphasis on the subject and with little imagery. He had a serious disposition but he also knew how to laugh. His was a laughter that came from his belly. You could see him physically bob up and down like a cork bouncing on water as it emanated from somewhere deep within him. He liked his friends. He had quite a few. I suspect he warmed his way into their lives with his quiet and unassuming nature. They liked him too. You could tell they enjoyed being around him; even if all that meant was sitting silently watching Roger Moore in 'The Man With The Golden Gun' on Betamax while sipping a glass of chilled Star beer.

His values were felt rather than heard. He was not one to give long lectures on why children shouldn't tell lies or steal from others. As a child, you just instinctively knew that he would be really disappointed in you if you did those things and so, you just didn't do them. This was in stark contrast to his wife who cut a more radical and fiery character. I tell you, there was no table too low or cupboard too high where her cane or worse still her tongue could not reach that offending child. This African woman would not see her children get spoiled; not while the rod had something to say about it!

I recall an incident one sunny weekend. I must have been about six or seven years old. She had gone shopping and returned with a packet of my favorite sweets at the time (Cadbury Bon-Bons); the ones with the soft center which melted in your mouth as you chewed. They were to form part of me and my sister’s lunch boxes for the next few weeks. Well, the said packet of sweets was spirited away and almost totally consumed before my six year old conscience kicked in and I decided to leave a few for my sister. About three or four pieces to be exact! As things go, aspiring thieves aged six (who are not exactly skilled in the fine arts of subterfuge and deception) generally get caught. I suppose he knew that the after effects of consuming too many sweets would be punishment enough for me and so didn't raise too much dust at my 'trial'. Not so his wife, the judge, jury and executioner. I got a good hiding and then fell seriously ill afterwards. Enough said.

They seemed happy together, his wife and he. I always wanted to ask him why he married someone who was so different from him. Was he really in love with her or was he just doing the honorable thing? It most certainly was not family pressure. I shall never know what inspired him to march in defiance to the altar with a woman who did not receive his family’s 'seal' of approval? What I do know however, is that despite the obvious challenges, he stuck to the plot and lived for his family and for his three children.

Childhood rushed by in a blur and soon, I was the one growing to become the African teenage boy. On my first day at boarding school, cowering in fear at the prospect of being cut loose from the apron strings, he was there to open the gates to this new and strange world. "Admission number one three two zero", the registrar bellowed, his tribal marks stretched thin in a wide grin as he handed over my entry documents. I wonder what was going through dad’s mind as I was led to my hostel block, my tin box trailing behind me. I wonder what kind of future he envisaged for me. What did he expect of me besides getting good grades and being a ‘good son’? I never would know. As we parted company that day, little did I know that the hands of his clock were five to the hour with his life force ebbing away by the day. Soon, this man who was the pillar in my life would be no more.

And so, like the title of Professor Wole Soyinka’s, prison memoirs, “The man died”...Within months, time as we knew it stood still. Gone was the opportunity to learn life’s lessons first hand from the experiences of one who had lived them before me. Memories of him were buried and when they were shared, this was done in hushed tones almost as if one risked destroying them by speaking too loudly. The ‘Third Room’ was where most of his belongings were stored. We never opened the door to that room. Things that were meant to be forgotten were thrown into that room and the door hurriedly shut. Even the mice went there to die. I shall write about that ‘Third Room’ later.

Twenty years on, I can hardly recall what he looked like or what he sounded like. They say people you love are never forgotten because they are always in your heart. Does the fact that I hardly remember him mean I love him less? Did I love him at all? Did he know that I loved him at all? Twenty years on, many mistakes, successes and unanswered questions later, life has led me along paths I never believed were possible in the aftermath of his death. I am humbled by the might and benevolence of my creator, for helping my family to move on from that place. The sands of time have no record of this man. His is buried in an unmarked grave in a land no one remembers. For him, there are no memorial flowers. He wrote no books, composed no songs or had any visible wealth. I suppose we, his three children, are his wealth. We will do what we can to spend this wealth (his life and his values) wisely. God willing, we will tell our children about this quiet and simple man who spoke volumes with a nod of the head, his kind eyes and a warm heart.

Today, I pause to remember and honor this man who gave me birth. Twenty years on, I can reach into my heart and say, “Thank you for being the man you were, happy birthday dad.”

Moving Forward - originally written in 2007 but worth revisiting

2009-02-22T01:23:00.000Z

What a mess! I’m surrounded by utter chaos. It’s incredible that in just nine months, I have managed to amass what surely must be the equivalent of a small forest worth of paper and a truckload of goods. As I try to chart my way through this confusing maze of boxes and suitcases, I pause and linger a moment on the memories from old letters, analyse each of those endless marketing brochures and flip through dated magazines which I never found the time to read.

I can’t spare a moment to fantasize. I return to my clean out. You see, having come to the end of my lease agreement, I have less than twenty four hours to vacate this flat I’ve lived in for most of this year. This upheaval is underscored by the fact that tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. Two things have therefore come to an end for me at the same time. As I study each piece of clothing and every piece of furniture that has been a part of my life in recent months, I find myself seriously weighing the need to box it up and ship it to my new address. I’m relocating to a new city in the New Year, the tempo of which promises to be dramatically different from the blissful isolation and idyllic lifestyle in this West Yorkshire town. I truly have enjoyed living here. I’ve met some very nice people.

At the same time, I stand on the threshold of another year. As I move, in a sense, from the past into the future, I am compelled to review my life and weigh my actions and inactions, my decisions and indecisions and their consequences both good and bad. I conclude that I should definitely have gotten more out this year than I seem to have done. If I had the opportunity to live the past 12 months again, what would I do differently? I’m slightly annoyed that I do not have the luxury of quietly sitting down on New Year’s Eve and reflecting. I guess I’ll have to take whatever time I can get between worrying if my post will get missing following my relocation and whether or not I need a larger removal van!

I’ve got lots of cleaning to squeeze into my nail biting schedule. I look round in near despair at the piles of clothes which lie scattered around the room. I must give away some of them to charity. A redeeming thought it seems, but which ones? I delude myself into thinking that I’ve got sentimental reasons to hang onto everything. I find that like most people, any length of time spent in one place is an unconscious invitation to acquire all kinds of odds and ends. Human beings have a tendency to just keep grabbing and holding. Small wonder many of our lives are cluttered with relationships which lead no where, destructive habits which keep us in bondage and recurring patterns of broken promises and aborted dreams. I wish I could reach into my past and wipe away mistakes, heartaches and failures. Sadly, no mortal has been able to master time in such a manner.

When faced with the finality of a situation, such as when confronted with death, man is unconsciously forced to attach the highest priority to those things which matter most to him. Faced with having to leave my flat in a few hours, I am forced to decide what I am taking with me and what inevitably must be thrown away or sent for recycling. Faced with the finality of this year, I ask myself what things I want to leave behind and what I hope to take forward into the next. At the end of the day, the choice is mine. Should I choose to continue to live with the clutter in and around me, then I have no one else to blame but myself. I think that one of the keys to living a dynamic life is to be vigilant enough to know when a prized possession, a hard earned qualification or long relationship has become irrelevant in the current scheme of things. Upon this awareness, the idea should be to either replace completely or immediately take steps to recycle, reinvent, refresh, reengineer, revive, rebuild, redesign, realign and somehow add a new spark of life to the dying embers of that flame that once burned brightly. One can either accept the status quo or seek change both internally and externally.

In this new journey before me, I will cherish thoughts and memories of the past for only as long as I do not linger on them and thus become blind to the fact that tomorrow brings with it new opportunities. I will channel energy into forming and developing relationships only to the point that they do not become opportunities for mediocrity and short sightedness. I will love my job only to the point where I find that I can no longer add any value to the organisation or to myself. I will throw myself into learning and self development and attempt to stretch myself to new limits. I cannot afford to become stale. I realise that bodies of water which have no source of renewal quickly become smelly gutters festooned with filth. I will assert myself more, reach more, push my ideas more, dare more, be more vocal and learn to communicate effectively. I will not be defeated by whatever life throws at me. According to Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto, “No great civilization can be conquered from the outside unless it is first defeated within”. I will seek the One who speaks to the storm and commands it to be still and watch as the resulting inner peace will help me walk on the turbulent waters surrounding me.

I will knock my finances into shape, spurning the advances of bright neon lights proclaiming the latest gadgets, cheap holidays and fashion accessories. Money must work for me and I will not allow it to become my taskmaster. I will consult more with divinity and with humanity. I will listen more attentively. I will learn wisdom from the simple things and apply wisdom to the complex things. I will attempt to discover what love really means for I cannot claim to have understood its intricacies. I have hurt and been hurt too many times. In all the drama, as John C. Maxwell states, I will try to ‘fail forward’. I want to be happy. I choose to be happy.

In the mean time, I’ve got final bills to pay, accounts to close, post and deliveries to redirect and goodbyes to say. Time changes things. The old gives way to the new, the new runs its course, becomes old and the cycle begins again. I look out of the window and realise that the steel construction outside was not here earlier in the year when I moved in. Indeed, the old becomes the new. Very soon, it will dwarf my apartment block and its shiny new fittings will make my building look like something from a bygone era. Sadly, it will also block the warm sunshine which filtered through in the summer. Therein lies another lesson for me. Life is about competition. The challenge is to be the strongest, run the fastest, jump the highest, break old records and be recognised as the new kid on the block. I will trust in the Lord God My Strength.

The paradox of Beethoven in Brixton

2009-02-19T00:26:00.000Z

The absurdity of the whole situation hits you as you ascend the escalators from the London Underground to the street level at Brixton tube station in South London. Some days are different from others in terms of the loudness and ferocity of the music. On a few occasions, I suspect that the station attendants, frustrated by the unyielding character of the vibrant community outside their gates, deliberately blast high decibels of Chopin in a vain attempt to subdue the unflinching ‘spirit’ that pervades the area. I doubt it accomplishes the desired effect.

Brixton is an interesting town in South London at the end of the Victoria Line. I do not live there but my route home occasionally takes me through both its tube and rail stations. The energy outside the station is palpable. Incense sellers and religious zealots vie for your attention while pick pockets occasionally enjoy a quick dip or two into pockets of unsuspecting people. Brixton is famous for many things including clubs, restaurants, art and sadly crime. There is a well stocked food market in the area which reflects the rich ethnic diversity of the area. As an immigrant, I am pleased that I can buy African ingredients for 'soul food' cooking just around the corner. This post is not about food however. Instead its about the absurdity of the classical music playing at Brixton station.

The character of Brixton appears to be predominantly made up of ethnic minorities and a strong, well established black community (including Black British of Caribbean and African descent). As is expected, the impression one gets from simply standing at the grubby and crowded bus stop outside the station entrance is that this is a community that has since lost any relationship with its (possibly) Nordic origins but which is unashamedly proud of its reputation as being a nucleus of racial and cultural diversity. One some days, you will find a gap toothed, barefoot Rastafarian handing out flyers while miming and dancing to invisible songs playing in his head. Other days, you will find gum chewing teenagers in their ‘dutty wine’ jeans hanging around the entrance speaking at the top of their voices with the full compliment of ‘innits’ and ‘thoughs’. The whole atmosphere feels like one on the verge of breaking into a marijuana inspired hip-hop or reggae concert or more sinisterly, a full scale riot! Once, while waiting for a bus, out of the corner of my eye, I caught some guys dealing (drugs) a few meters from me. Cue posh Etonian accent and horrified expression, “One wonders what one must do in such awkward circumstances!”

This backdrop makes it all the more absurd to hear classical music blaring from the speakers at Brixton station. You get the impression of Beethoven in a DJ or beat-box contest with Dizzy Rascal. No debate on who wins that one! I asked a friend who used to live in the Brixton area to explain this odd situation. She is of the opinion that the classical music is being played to calm and soothe nerves and hopefully prevent local gangster members from killing each other. She says that classical music is played at most London stations where there is a high crime rate. Another guy is convinced that playing ‘Pachelbel Canon in D Major’ in a place like Brixton must be part of a secret MI5 conspiracy to slowly brainwash black people into becoming more ‘white’ Bri’ish.

After a bit of research, I found www.urban75.org which claims that in order to drive disorderly teenagers away from the station, London Underground started piping endless recitals of 'uncool' classical music in the ticket hall in 2005. Can someone please tell London Underground to think of something more interesting as this approach surely has only had the effect of making classical music a joke in these surroundings? Are the local pick pockets supposed to say to each other, “Oi! Geezer! Shall we sample a bit of Mozart before we commence nicking (stealing)?”

Next time you travel through Brixton station, spare a thought for the poor station attendants who can only stand by and watch as the beautiful strains of Tchaikovsky’s ‘The Nutcracker’ waft from the speakers, into the streets outside, above the sea of moving heads, its strains lost in the incense flavored night breeze. Also spare a thought for the Rasta man handing out flyers who, by the way, is most probably also confused by the music hence his dancing to invisible melodies. Ya man!

And it had to be a black dude…

2009-01-13T23:06:00.000Z

Speaking to a colleague the other day about the recent announcement by Barclays on proposed lay off of staff in its investment and wealth management arms, she replied rather dejectedly, “…I hope Obama’s inauguration will bring some joy’.

The daily headlines don’t exactly read like a sweet Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. Job cuts, high street names going under, recession announcements by the government and debatable interest rate cuts (not exactly good news if savings are a cornerstone of your investment strategy).

As if this wasn’t enough, there’s Israel and the Palestinians. Grim faces, bloodied children, dead mothers and lives destroyed on both sides of the divide. To be candid, I don’t think there’ll ever be a short term solution to the Mid East crisis. Not as long as the stated ambition of Hamas is the ‘annihilation of the Jews’!

There are the depressing world wide questions of what to do about terrorism, AIDS, Robert Mugabe, Iraq and Afghanistan, North Korea and Iran. If I were Barack Obama, I’d be trembling at the knees by now. This young ex-Senator from Illinois carries the hopes and fears of not only Americans but the rest of the world as well. Black people, white people, Muslims, Christians, Iraqis, Afghans, Guantanamo Bay detainees, impoverished Zimbabweans…the list is endless. Everyone hoping that the exit of George ‘Whatever’ Bush and the entry of the young radical will bring some glimmer of hope to the darkness that plagues our world.

There is no magic wand, no silver bullet. The root causes of these problems predate even the George Bush years. There is so much despair everywhere you look. If there was ever a time for a messiah, a savior, a deliverer, the time is now.

As Barack Obama gets sworn in on January 20th, he carries with him the hopes of a nation and an entire world. This is no small burden. He appears calm, confident and focused. He makes no jokes about the task ahead and has quickly set about building his core team (brilliant choice Hillary Clinton), setting realistic goals (not sure about shutting down Guantanamo Bay) and generally planning his first days in the Oval Office. It’s that quiet confidence that makes one think that maybe, just maybe this man may actually have a clue.

Jesus Christ he is not but there’s just something about Barack Obama which seems to instill optimism. The world is desperately in need of change…and it had to come in the form of a black man!

Not just a great speech...A defining moment in America's history

2008-03-22T02:26:00.000Z

Tis the season to be pick pocketed!

2008-01-01T20:59:00.000Z

Happy New Year! Welcome to a new year with new possibilities, new opportunities, new...you fill in the blanks with your own New Year aspirations and hopes.

While I ponder on the general thrust of this blog for 2008, I would like to put forward an assertion which I have struggled to validate up until now. I state rather painfully that Lagos is generally safer than London (this by implication means that I am a Nigerian living in the UK).

I spent the recent Christmas holidays visiting family in Lagos. To say that the bedlam and cacophony of Lagos had frayed my nerves is an understatement. Holiday and festivities over, I eventually arrived at Heathrow airport after flying through multiple time zones eagerly looking forward to a warm shower and some much needed sleep.

Alas, I discovered, at the end of my journey, that I had been separated from my personal effects by the members of the 'Light Fingered Brigade' (aka pick pockets)! This happened somewhere between Paddington and my house. I was too shocked to even feel sorry for myself. Being hit twice in one year is no joke. The first incident occurred while taking pictures at a friend's wedding in October. When I discovered that my pockets had been picked, I thought to myself, "How in the world could this happen to a street wise Lagos boy!" Anyhow, I went through the process of cancelling cards and so on. This second incident was even more painful...cash and cards were involved this time! It is ironic that when travelling to Lagos, I decided against carrying cash and instead used one of the money transfer services. I wonder why I didn't do the same while returning to London!

You see, my assertion is that in Lagos, one is generally on a permanent state of alert. Once you step out of your house, your brain automatically switches to defensive mode. You are sensitive to your personal effects; when boarding public transport, you look out for crazy 'danfo' and 'okada' drivers (both forms of transportation in Lagos); when driving or walking, you avoid area boys aka social miscreants (and hope they avoid you), lock doors and wind up windows and generally stay away from the usual trouble spots.

On the other hand, in London, one is lulled into a false sense of security by the alert security services, hundreds of CCTVs and other security gadgetry. Invariably, your mental defenses become relaxed. I have discovered (and painfully so) that this could be your undoing. You see, generally the 'brigade' boys are everywhere...on the tube, buses, trains. Their members don't look deprived or hungry. In fact, don't be so trusting of that nicely dressed gentleman reading a newspaper next to you or that middle aged lady with a shopping bag also waiting for the bus. A few days ago, a young foreign student withdrew her monthly rent from an ATM and by the time she reached her house, her purse had been stolen. My house mate, who was on his way to Belgium for his wedding, arrived Brussels to discover that his hard earned savings had vanished. The poor chap had to source for emergency funds to prosecute the ceremony. Thankfully his bride understood his financially diminished position. I could provide several more examples but I shall leave the reader to arrive at their own conclusion on this matter.

Cosmopolitan cities are generally not safe havens anywhere in the world so whether you are in Lagos, Kuala Lumpur or Washington, you are expected to maintain a personal sense of security. It is rather sad that I have been re-enlightened by my personal experiences with the wonderful 'brigade boys'!

The elders say that where there is life there is hope so while I reflect on the past year, I look forward to better and bigger things in 2008. Happy New Year!