Taking some time out of my day to make Tot an Igbo educational book.
He already has Mbido Igbo 1 but it’s such a shambolic book; cheap paper, pictures not clear, just terrible. I can’t believe it’s the same book we used in Primary 1. The quality nowadays is just plain awful.
Surprisingly it photographs clearer than it actually is. But can you see the drawings on the next page bleeding through? AND CAN YOU SEE ‘O, OMO’? Are these people for real?!
Anyway, I can’t do much worse. At least mine is already on coloured paper. Much more interesting for a toddler.
And I intend to include MODERN contraptions which this book still lacks (no mobile phones for instance). I mean for chrissakes, this is the fourth edition made in 2008 and they’re still counting in kobo. Where will any Nigerian child find kobo these days? Just make them count stones or udara fruits or mangoes or something.
Maybe I’ll put it up when it’s done. I’m giving myself 30 minutes a day till it’s finished. My time’s expired now since I blogged instead. Back to writing for me.
Now what kind of Nigerian would I be if I did not introduce my son to the only version of ‘Happy Birthday’ he should ever sing? Or these other fantastic songs that coloured every birthday party in the eighties/early nineties?
What birthday party songs do you remember from your childhood? Let me know your birthday party playlist in the comment box!
Anyone that tells me that Chris Mba is not a sex god is a liar and God is watching that person. Look at the manly forearm vein. Those superhero shoulder pads, sleeves well rolled. See that Soul Glo’, sef. Thank you Kessing Sheen! Whatever, man. Chris Mba is a legend.
My lower back aches from all the running around and the standing and the baking I’ve had to do today. It feels a lot being in labour which is fitting because on this day, three years ago, I was.
I was reading my latest rejection email for a short story (I should really have worked on it some more) when these came so I’ve had a bit of a mixed morning.
I customised them on Converse UK’s site and sort of forgot all about them in the previous weeks. Now they are here. I am glad I chose to have the villains on. The Joker and The Riddler I have always related to. I like their recklessness, non-conformism, creativity and smarts. The late Heath Ledger has trumped Jack Nicholson as my favourite Joker – the scene where he burns all that money makes something inside me scream hysterically. In pleasure. Let’s not analyse it.
Green is my favourite colour too so the Riddler is right at home.
Anyway they came today and I don’t know if it’s all the up-and-down of emotions from my aforementioned mixed morning, but I am beginning to think my blog name tagged to the heel strip might be ever so slightly naff. No? Oh well. I have to wear them so serves me right. I did earn the cash for them but in my poor-man state they were not cheap so I’m afraid they will be glued to my soles till they fall apart. But hey, at least you’ll know me now. Come say hello if you see me limping along, dragging my broken sneakers behind me.
I should probably donate the equivalent amount to charity just to offset this bout of ‘creativity’.
One of the many benefits to being self-employed – and some months, not even that – is the freedom to do as you please. It’s harder with a toddler but basically you work in short bursts or long stretches, depending on the time you have. You might watch a bit of TV in between or work out, or have cereal for lunch. Or blog. Or even go all day without a shower because you’re waiting for a parcel. Like I am right now.
You have to watch your behaviour a lot though. You don’t want to be that person that conducts Skype meetings in your pyjamas or does radio interviews over the phone while still in bed because pretty soon, you are that guy. You know, that guy; the one that you see on your way to work, going to the corner shop in a slanket .
That being said, it really is freeing. But it has got me thinking about how much of what we do is for other people, be they of the same sex or otherwise. I always used to say I dressed and groomed for myself and I believed it too. But how true could it possibly be when I am sitting here in a pair of joggers a size too small, an oversized cardie, no underwear to speak of and the most extraordinary amount of underarm hair I have ever grown in my life?
Yes, you heard me. I am free to grow disproportionate amounts of body hair. Call me Cousin It. Not for me the folly of depilatory creams, waxing, buffing and whatever the newest hair removal torture is. Pah! Why should my body be under the control of society and accepted norms? Take that, society! In your face, literally and figuratively. I am saving money! Think of the bungalow I could be building in my village while you’re getting your eyebrows threaded, you pleb.
Back when I used to work outside the house, I would leave my very unshaven legs out in the summer and get pitying looks on the bus or tube. White people looking at me, shaking their heads like “Whoever doth inflict madness upon this poor child, may good fortune forever elude thee.” The black grannies cursing my ‘rass’ for showing them up in front of white people, wishing this godforsaken country had access to koboko and no police. I’d sit there pretending not to notice, singing ‘God is good, he has done me well’ and hoping that no one would jump me before my stop. (You know, to drag me off to the nearest salon, get the mess on my legs fixed. Black grannies do not play.)
It was such a faff. And that was when I my features were aesthetically pleasing. Now that I am grossly overweight I am sure they’d put aside their differences, light some torches and chase me with off like Frankenstein’s monster. So I just sit at home, writing and growing my hair in silent rebellion.
Whatever, man. I am standing up for feminism. Or motherhood, whichever. Because God knows this whole mess started because I couldn’t find my razor one very busy morning. And now I am just too lazy.
How to love Igbo things (or what you will). 