A Christmas Tale: On courtship and Karma

Back when the Hubster and I were courting…

Wait, before I start, let me just say that if you have just laughed at that you have betrayed your origins to be from species other than Homo Igboticus. It doesn’t matter if your name is Aloycius Nnemurumkuja, I put it to you right now that your mother needs to tell you some truths; you are not Igbo. For every Igbo child knows that Igbo people do not ‘Date’ or ‘Hang out’ or any other term that implies the time-wasting in couples so prevalent in this age.

We court. Everything has its purpose.

If you are coming to my house, it is not merely for the pleasure of my company but to taste my food. If your hands linger around my hips, it is to measure that they can bear more sons than you care to count. After all, those millions of seeds you carry about in your sack must be cultivated so that your ancestors will not visit you in your dreams.

Courtship is a dance that goes way beyond what you see in Nollywood films. If proverbs are the palm oil with which words are eaten, the language of  courtship is the ukpaka’s rich, meaty texture in said oil. It is an acquired taste, not for children. If music be the food of love, then courtship is the rhythmic jingle from the waist beads of an obu uzo egwu dancing to the beat. If all this I am saying is not making your blood hot just reading them then obviously courtship is not for you. Go and let the man take you to get  Mr Biggs ice cream or chop kanda  from Mama Cass. Go on. See if I care.

As I was saying, back when the Hubster and I were courting, I played my part to perfection by sending him on Herculean tasks. Tasks at which the mighty Anukili na Ugama might have baulked.  It was not wickedness. It was part of courtship. You tell me how you like the gap in my teeth, I send you to find a pair of shoes made from the foreskin of a castrated gorilla. It is just how it works. To do him credit, the man always returned with the things I askedfor which is one of the disadvantages of marrying a fellow journalist. We have people. I thought knowing a thief in Kibera was something but nothing tops having a gorilla-foreskin guy in the middle of London.

So, I’d set tasks and he would knock them down, and I’ll set bigger ones and he’d do those, and then I got on the WWF ‘Enemy of the Planet’ list and stopped sending him to procure parts of animals. And one day, as I was racking my brain to come up with a straw to break the camel’s back, and failing that, the actual hump of the camel, he said to me: “All these things you’re doing to me, I am going to marry you and my child will do them to you.”

I shouldn’t have laughed.

This morning, my son (whom we shall from henceforth refer to as ‘This Boy’ ) woke me up by hooking an index finger inside my mouth, pulling me upright and making me go out in the pouring acid-rain of London, in 6 degrees Celsius weather to buy him some milk. He also insisted on coming so I had to dress him in the dark knowing that to put on any lights so soon after reluctantly waking would render me blind for the rest of the day. I forgot my phone so I didn’t get a photograph, but this is my illustration of how I looked:

1) Bear trapper hat. Because I am not nearly ugly enough in the morning.

2) Scowl. Maybe some drool.

3) White turtle neck. It was like a beacon in the dark. And I’m arty dah-ling.

4) Pompoms: This Boy is like a cat with string.

5) Skirt. I don’t know why as the coat was long enough and the skirt was barely a there. The waistband was on my bum to attain this length.

6) Leggings.

7) Boots. Actually, now that I think of it, I was wearing blue wellies with multi-coloured dots. This Boy is like a cat with dots.

8) Milk.

And This Boy skipping happily in his padded rain suit.

I have never seen the shopkeeper serve me so fast.

The moral of the story? Courtship is good, but Igbo women please be lenient this Christmas so that you will not reap what you sow. And if you do prefer to do the time-wasting dating thing, then for the love of God, don’t order a whole chicken when he takes you out. You don’t want to know how that will turn out ‘karmically’.

In defence of Tonto Dike as a creative being.

Eh-hen. They have come to see what I am talking about.

I didn’t want to put a post up when the whole hullabaloo was going on over Tonto’s two singles ‘Get High’ and ‘Itz Ova‘ released about six to eight weeks ago – I didn’t want it to get lost jokes about how she was responsible for earthquakes and such, seeing as I have no proof of those.

But in the light of her latest offering, I thought it was topical again so here goes.

I’ll start by saying that I’m neither a fan nor a ‘hater’ of Tonto. This is important because it means I am probably the only unbiased person in Nigeria on the topic of Ms Dike. I don’t care one way or another about her tattoos, or the fact that she seems to have gone several shades lighter since the start of her film career; I am not one of those people who cares about the ‘message’ she is sending to young people by either, since I assume young people are not stupid and her brand is pretty clear. Her accent makes me frown a little but that’s purely from a broadcaster’s standpoint. I am aware that she would sound more intelligent if she was not concentrating so much on sounding American (?), that it’s difficult  to understand what she is saying.

Now that’s done, my point is simple; Creative people gotta create.

Tonto for whatever real or imagined flaws she has, is a creative person – an actress. Her job is to keep us entertained on film. She’s simply chosen to take her talents elsewhere. Did she sleep with President Goodluck? No. Has she declared herself the risen Christ? No. Did she steal from public coffers or stick a smouldering cigar up her fanny on live television? I don’t think so. (Am I giving her ideas? Maybe.) All she did was choose another medium of self-expression. And Nigerians HATE her for it. Dare to dream? Please. Stand still, Tonto! We’re trying to laugh at you.

While I understand and respect the rights of anyone to critique material in the public domain, I think the critique should be about the material presented. The level of vitriol or praise should also be proportionate and separate from perceived personal – as opposed to professional - failings . It is hard, I know.

The defence might be that a lot of people fail to see the difference in the two parts when it comes to someone in the public eye and thus, might consider their reaction to be honest, when to the rest of the world, it is obvious that we – Nigerians- revel in hyperbole. Observe:

Ridiculous. Funny (and sometimes insensitive in the wake of tragedy, but I guess people had to find a way to do the flooding and Aluu4 jokes seeing as nobody in their own families were affected).

Reading comments for her videos on YouTube, people implore her to ‘Stick to what you know’ but how else are you supposed to know what you’re good at if you don’t try? And how else are you supposed to grow as an artiste if you are not allowed to experiment?  We complain about the quality of our artistes and their portfolio and yet we hate them when they try to diversify or better themselves. Ah-ahn! Which way Nigeria?

Yes, she doesn’t have the best voice and her tracks are rather auto-tune heavy, but it’s not any more than most Nigerian ‘musicians’ use in their songs – which we see it fit to bump and grind to on weekends. This isn’t even her first rodeo, she has had more natural-sounding songs, like this one with fellow actress, Patience Ozokwor.

She isn’t the first creative to try two or more media in the world; James Franco has his hands n so many pies, it’s like he’s the oven, Jada Pinkett-Smith and Juliette Lewis are both rockstars on the side, Dawn French is a writer and Onyeka Owenu and RMD went into politics – yes, I said it. Politics is ‘creative’ industry. Before you film purists attack me for comparing Tonto to people with ‘actual talent’, may I please remind you that society  - and possibly you, purist person – did not always look kindly on the aforementioned people trying other things as well. They had to prove themselves first, hence the comparison.

Moving on. We should give the woman an award. Heck, she’s succeeded where even people like Zik and his fellows failed. No food? Nepa messing you about? No money to treat your malaria? No problem! Tonto’s tracks are available for you to bond over with your sick child. Why pay tithes when you can indirectly pay Tonto for downloads? Nigeria was united in her singular hatred of all things Tonto; all the hackers, fraudsters, robbers, serial porn-viewers and any bored youth with access to  the internet put their talents towards one purpose in the days that followed the release of her singles. President Goodluck is still struggling to create jobs but this woman did it in one day!

Let’s make 17th of October our Unification Day, to hell with Independence.

And for an artiste whose currency is controversy, she’s laughing all the way to the bank. In the words of the woman herself:

Poko poko baby!

Now who wants to get high?

The Hero Series: ‘What makes you know you’re Igbo’ and other matters.

Number of times searched – 1

Listen my dear, I do not understand this question.

When you’re Igbo you just know. In fact the first rule of knowing that you’re Igbo is to wonder if you are. Our culture does not favour everyone and if you’re feeling the pinch of it in a particular area of your life, the fact that you cannot escape is probably causing you to fantasise that maybe…just maybe…you might not be Igbo? Ha! Tough luck! You are.

If I am not an eight-year-old lying asleep on my mother’s couch, waiting for my Uncle Israel to pick me up for a two-week holiday at his house (Long story. More on this later) then you don’t get to have an alternate reality either. This is your life. Suck it up.

If you are adopted or something and are simply wondering if you could be Igbo, I think I can help. And don’t worry, if the majority of these symptoms have not manifested, they will. In time. As with all medical advice, having one or more means you are definitely Igbotically inclined.

FEMALES

• You have to resist the urge to blind, maim or even eviscerate your suitors: This means you like them. In fact, the more you like them, the more likely they are to end up dead. It will be sad if they die, yes, but your honour and Maidenhead will be intact.

****Of course we cannot disregard cases of rape and ‘forceful loving’ from centuries of cultural ‘Stop-it-I-like-its’. In those days however, there was a code of which both males and females, young and old were aware. There were signs that women gave if they were genuinely interested and merely testing your mettle to see if you would be a strong husband –  if you genuinely wanted her  as opposed to just anyone in her peer group. I would like to say there was no rape but it is likely that the consequences were more severe. Unlike today, rape could be punishable by death. But – and I say this as someone who has been on the receiving end of many a persistent bugger convinced he is being tested – there is a need for the language of courtship to change. If women are still reading from the scroll of courtship and men aren’t, there is a problem. 

• You are relentless in your pursuit of degrees/independence: You mustn’t blame yourself if you are still stuck on your 10th postgraduate programme long after your mates have finished theirs. It’s a genetic condition. Do you know the science of evolution? Well, you are programmed to behave like that because in the not-too-distant past, your ancestresses married one man and had to look after themselves and their children with whatever they sold, sowed or bartered. The only thing they got from the men apart from social standing  (and if your man was an akologheli like my Awka brethren would say, not even that) were yams and seed yams. You get where I’m going with this. Still…
• Marriage matters to you. Deeply. And so…
• In spite of your independence, you don’t want to appear too independent/smart. I know, I know. It’s annoying isn’t it? You have all the answers and you’re forced to hold your tongue while the men lumber around making all the mistakes and generally wrecking everything. You know how to hold a car distributor together with the under-wire of your bra and you have to watch your man fiddling with stuff under the bonnet and muttering “I think it’s the manifold.” And this, after refusing to call the mechanic twiddling his thumbs across the road. Stuff like that.
• You find yourself: Sitting down to cook (who was the imbecile that came up with standing up to cook anyway?), saving the best pieces of meat/fish for whatever man is closest during meal times, even if they are strangers. And if no man is available? Well, no wonder your freezer is full. Get  a man ASAP. In fact, even a male dog has a penis and is more deserving than you are. Get one.
• You may have an innate hierarchical system: Men first, then male children, women and girls. The Marrieds over singles. This will determine how you treat them all the time. Contrary to the UN’s idiotic beliefs, all fingers are not created equal. You may also hate yourself for this, seeing as you’re educated and all. Don’t be silly. The minute you surrender to your Igboness, this internal conflict will be resolved. You’ll accept your place. Which is…
• A little above a child’s: Your man, whether temporary or permanent, has the right to discipline you as he sees fit. 50 Shades of Grey is your template. You can’t understand these people who hate it so much.

It might sound like your existence is dire; you have all of the responsibilities but none of the benefits but that isn’t always true. I’d say it’s split 80/20 but that is true in the rest of the world. The difference is that we’re Igbo. We are more honest about things than everyone else is.  Keep your head down and do your duty. That is your reward for living.

But if you feel a bit blue, consider this: Amadioha is so merciful that he has given us a silver lining. Most of the men your age will probably be dead twice over before you even dream about popping your clogs.

May be the odds be ever in your favour!

Love,

Hx

P-square news-es

UPDATE: HUH. Ifite Dunu, not Ifite Awka. I must read properly (but in my defence I’ve been having a fever for three days now.)

Flavour gini? Biko he’s too far away!

I must be SERIOUSLY slacking in my life because I did not know that P-Square are from Awka. My very doormout. How could I not know? I need to hand my National Union of Journalists badge back because I am a disgrace to the profession.

Anyway, if you’re done drooling, the boys whose mother died on the 11th of July five hours after heart surgery in India will be in Ifite-Dunu to bury her on the 2nd of August.

May God be with them at this time. And I mean that in every way. Some people are just coming to ‘chop their money‘.  They need to go to the Imo-Owka oracle and  kee nkwucha (also known as a spiritual ‘Tuck n’ Tape) otherwise plenti plenti girls will have their bread buttered for life via child support payments.

(Not quite) weekend ramblings: Summer is finally here!

•  I really shouldn’t neglect my blog so much. I mean, I do think up quite a lot of new stuff to put it in while I am in the shower – why do all good things happen in there anyway? Seriously, I need to invent some kind of pad that attaches to my shower stall in which I can jot down all my ideas as they come – but life gets in the way as soon as I step out and I get sucked into the vortex.

•  I am doing quite well with edits for my book, but sadly I am not going as fast as I would like. I pore over every minute detail – which I suppose is as should be – that I think the book might be done much later now. Besides, I have been advised to delay the launch till after the Olympics. Apparently people will not buy/read it. Who knew?

• Olololo, see the number of umu akpu obi going shirtless all over the street. Do they not know that I am a married woman, eh? One who is a serious writer for that matter and must not be distracted by…by..ahem! See these smalling boys o! Chukwu nalu ekwensu ike.
• What are small-small children doing fornicating on the street? This photo was taken from two weeks ago. I still cannot get my head around it:

What are these smalling children doing eh? See them, still in their school uniforms, just messing around. And for what?

*** In case you cannot see, there are three (black) girls to three (white) boys. The couple by the tables lay down, the girl between the boy’s legs at some point. The girl had the chest of a thirty-year-old and the braces of a twelve-year-old. The hidden set is of a boy sitting on a bench, trying to convince the another girl to ‘have a go’ because their friends – the obvious couple – were snogging. (Granted, I imagined this bit.)

The girl in green arrived last with another boy. She kept her distance,preferring to swing by herself. The girl in white you can see, is the snogger. ***

And while my liberal self rejoices at such uniformed interracial-ism, I cannot help but wonder, in such an unequal world (males above females, white ‘above’ black), if there was to be a scandal who would find themselves the losers? Please if you have daughters, pick their ears very well. A young, black girl is already twice ‘disadvantaged’ in society.

• In fact, I am vexed now. In the playground? Where did they expect me to look? I mean, even I, who knows exactly what to do with a man in my lair (and have biblical right to do so, oh yes!) was forced to avert my gaze. Issorai.

• I am not bikini ready. In fact, I have never worn a bikini in my life. To me, it’s false advertising. What of I’m prancing about in my bikini and someone decides to give me a shove into the pool? I can’t swim.

• I defy anyone to eye my unshaven legs on the bus this summer. In my country, my hairy legs are very hot among men of my tribe. All boys avert your gaze! These are for men only…well, now one man. Anyway, avert!

• I wish I could swim. I guess I am going to have to settle for a shower. Man it’s hot.