My short story ‘Pure Water’ is out today in Eclectica Magazine.
Read it here.
I’d been going to say more but I have the weight of today’s word count hanging around my neck.
(Please do NOT read it if your name is Obiageli and you are my mother. I will not be available for comment. Ever.) 🙂
Hello everyone,
We were in Nigeria for three weeks and two days and boy do I have a lot to tell you. It was Tot’s first time and my first time in six years, so it was really special. I enjoyed seeing the world through Tot’s eyes, his delight and lizards and geckos the dusty, dusty roads in Awka (Willie was working!). The rest of Anambra’s roads were like glass so I am inclined to believe the slogan.
Here are some highlights from our trip. Will update the blog with more stories and photos soon. As soon as I get my speech for SOAS’ Igbo Conference out of the way. (Oy. I am trembling. I have 40 minutes to speak. FORTY MINUTES!! Why me, lord?)
My sister just sent me this photo of something she found in Oja market in Lagos. I think it’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac but every other thing is delightfully vague. Does it work on women too? Is it a liquid or powder? You you drink it straight or mix it with other stuff? (Sister Hashtag says mix it with their drinks in beer parlours. Update, she’s just told me it’s a liquid, duh, it says 200ml)
Why is there a volume for alcohol by the side? Does alcohol not inhibit i.e. kill libido aka manpower? And for my final question, why on earth does it say ‘Hundred watts’? That seems like such a faff to take a little ‘helper’ only to light up like a Christmas tree so the whole world knows you’ve taken it.
Also…where do you light up? (Do women like that sort of thing now? Damn I’m old.)
‘Fire baby oku’. Chai. Lagos life is not easy at all. First you have your wife. Then you probably have your mistress (who’s had children for another man/may be divorced etc) then you have your girlfriend (who is a small university girl like this). No wonder men need all the help they can get. E no easy.
If you’ve taken this, send me an email. I won’t tell anyone. It’s strictly for journalistic purposes, you understand.
I heard my phone buzz on the desk as I squatted, riffling through some papers. There were papers all over the floor and even though I was away from my window, I could see someone walk up to it and wait, checking their watch.
“Stupid, asshole,” I muttered. Why were they standing there? They were trying to get me fired. I hadn’t called anyone to my window yet. The floor manager would see and report me and I would get in trouble for slow service. My phone stopped buzzing for a second and started up again. I gave up on looking for the document I needed, shoving papers back into the bottom drawer carelessly. I grabbed the phone and still squatting by the desk, I answered it.
“Hello?”
A pause.
“Chielozona?”
“Oh, hi, Cali.”
“Is evlyting okay? I have not heard from you since.”
“I’m fine. It’s just work is hectic right now. I’m even hiding to answer this call right now and if they catch me…” I peeped out again. The shadow of the asshole stood resolutely by my window. As if they saw me, the person by my window seemed to crane their neck. I ducked again.
Cali seemed to be waiting for me to say something. “Sorry,” I said.
“About what?” he asked. “If ya busy, ya busy. No ploblem. But…”
“But what?” I asked feeling the irritation rise and tamping it down.
“You don’t reply my texts or text me either. I can always see that one and I will know you are okay.”
“I’m sorry, Cali. I’ll try harder. It’s just been busy.” Someone was calling my name. The floor manager! “Cali, I’m so sorry. I have to go.”
“Okay, mu-”
Feet came towards the office. I disconnected the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of my trousers. I opened the drawer again.
“Chielozona, so this is where you are? There are customers waiting.”
I looked up, from the pair of black, block-heeled courts to the midi maroon skirt and matching jacket. A scowl topped the ensemble.
“I was just looking for an account document,” I said, making a show of slamming the drawer and getting up. “Nice shoes,” I said.
The floor manager allowed her glance to linger on my own stilettos. I hated block heels and never wore them.
“Maybe you can look for it later. There is someone by your window,” she said. She looked at me, wrinkling her nose as if she could smell my bullshit and walked out.
I huffed when I got to my stool. I didn’t mean to. It just came out. Or maybe I meant to. I mean, who just stood there by an empty spot instead of moving to another window?
“Next please,” I said pointedly, avoiding the person in front of me. A low chuckle. I looked up. My breath caught in my throat.
“Just what I like with my transactions,” said the man in front of me. “A touch of bitch.”
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!
And finally…(Thank you Waffarian for this!)
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.
How to love Igbo things (or what you will). 