L.A.M.P. (Nose Noise)

LAUGH AT MY PAIN (Nose Noise)

There’s something magical and enchanting about waking up to a brand new and colorful day. Nature is just a grand universal orchestra – trees in their evergreen state dancing to the cool beats of the luscious breeze, pleasantly sonorous birds decorating the skies and the warm caress of the golden rays of the sun. This would describe a perfect fairytale morning, right? Here’s how it goes for me.

I wake up by 5am, say my prayers, then run into the bathroom. After trolling people on all the social networks and watching a few funny videos, I finally get to bathe. As for what happens outside, it’s still too dark and the birds may have been having their morning devotion. They don’t even sing anymore; the situation of the economy doesn’t favor singing with reckless abandon. Flying is also a big deal now to them – there’s probably no fuel for that luxury. Everyone is just angry. Considering the fact that by now I’ve spent almost an hour in the bathroom, the adrenaline kicks. I throw on my clothes, forget breakfast (every single time), pack my bag and join the rat race. This is where I’m going to dwell on today.

Going to work takes me about 30 minutes on a good day. I have to walk out to my junction with my earpiece making me squinch and nod in approval to every note I hear, then I’ll have to hop onto an auto rickshaw (keke) because of the terrible road and because I’m a good citizen who wouldn’t drive with an expired driver’s license. After that short journey, I still have to go on a bus or a taxi to work. Evidently, I am exposed to a lot of people and their dangers on a daily basis. Yes, dangers… it gets so bad that sometimes, I have to leave the public vehicle.

Just last week, I got on this keke that was occupied by just one woman and the driver. I sat down and was just about to type something very wise and reasonable on my phone when I decided to greet her – very wrong decision. The flavor that accompanied her reply, “Good morning my child” hit me so hard that my eyes kept twitching and I was so sure I wasn’t her child. I’m not sure she was in a good relationship with a toothbrush and toothpaste. I held my breath and almost coughed, I forgot every word I was going to type, my eyes were bloodshot. We were seated alone behind the keke until one busy-body man sat by her, pushing her to middle – closer to me. My deep and solemn prayer was that she doesn’t speak till I’m off because I was sure I just survived a coma. She didn’t wait for me to end the prayer, she just had to ask me what time it was, where I was headed and if I could help split her money into smaller denominations. I felt my intestines curl up in rot, my lungs were collapsing, my bloodshot eyes couldn’t stay open, my nose was rusting. I suddenly remembered that I probably had to buy emm…something…tin tomato… so I jumped off the keke after begging him to stop, saying I forgot something. Standing by the road, I felt like I had an oxygen mask on. The smoke from the rickety trailer that staggered by me smelled so pleasant at that moment.

I work in an organization where my colleagues can tell if you wear a cheap and stifling cologne or an expensive and warm, yet cool one. Knowing this, I have to either do a concoction of colognes or I just wear one of high quality. The struggle is that these good ones are not so easy to come by so laying a hand on them activates a predator instinct. With my backstory established, let me take you to some weeks ago.

I got into a taxi on my way to work and I sat alone behind. Knowing that the normal capacity of passengers in a taxi in this part of the world is 5 – three behind and two in front (this does not include the driver), I was prepared to sit by the window. I hate the middle position so much. I avoid sitting in front alone because the driver may just pick up that one last passenger that will give me that awkward position between him and the driver. As a sharp guy, I hurriedly sat by the door closer to the road knowing full well that passengers are meant to come in through the other door. I saw two men who acted like they were about getting on but they both withdrew and I heaved a sigh of relief because one looked like he just had a swim in sweat. He was deeply marinated in it. He obviously pulled off his baptism look. Next thing I knew, the men changed their minds and hopped in but one through each back door because the driver had wheeled forward a bit. That morning, I had worn my father’s cologne which I had struggled over the past weeks to lay my hands on and I was just about experiencing a very regretful incident. Now, I was seated between two middle-aged men – one breathing loud and hard and the other, soaked in sweat and adorned with a very thick layer of body odor. Obviously, he forgot, as I presume he always has throughout his 30s, his daily dosage of what my friend calls “Armpit-cillin”. Look up the word “unfortunate” and see that it doesn’t even begin to define this experience. Like sitting close to me wasn’t enough, he placed his left arm on the headrests of the back seat. Turning to the right would place me in a state of utter disorientation and mystification because then, my face would be buried in his armpit. I was choking, my eyes got teary, I developed a sudden sharp headache, I could hear my lungs grumbling in torture. I got to work that day smelling like a decayed skunk abandoned in the care of maltreated morgue attendants. I didn't bother explaining anything, I just focused on my work while "forming vex" so that no one would ask me anything.

Yesterday, I had to talk to one of our big business clients. It was a semi-formal meeting that I prayed, halfway through the meeting, would be brief. Yes, he looked presentable, well packaged and polished. Sadly, the polish did not reach his mouth. I think one of his organs had gone bad because the smell seemed like it was cooked from the stomach. Thanks to Tony Woods for helping me out with this line to express the intensity of this aerial uproar. I just stood there and nodded and so he would wrap it up. My attention was completely gone because I didn’t want to breathe in when he exhaled – this became my primary focus. I could hear the Mission Impossible theme song in the background as I was slowly achieving that feat, and then he talked for so long that I couldn’t hold my breath any longer and I dragged in every wayward smell that oozed out of its residence. I couldn’t stand straight; I had to bend down and rest on my knees.

Have you ever inhaled an odor so bad that it gave you diarrhea?

Life is beautiful, life is enjoyable up until those moments that this great pollution embraces us in a tight hug. If I was an interrogator, I wouldn’t brush or have a bath for 2 weeks before interrogating the suspect. I would also jog to the office that morning just to unleash all the sweat and trigger every smell. World people, please have mercy on some of us. I’m just glad I’ve not developed asthma or lung cancer all these years.

Ladies, please, your hygiene is more important than your high jeans. Cool and hip guys, please, your hygiene is more important than your fly genes. Do the world a favor by letting us stick to one struggle per day. We don’t need the smell because we’re never ready for it.

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L.A.M.P (Barber Blues)

LAUGH AT MY PAIN (Barber Blues)

Traveling has become one of my many hobbies - new views, new people, new thrills, new air. There’s just this enthralling aroma that oozes out of Mother Nature’s kitchen whenever I travel. As much as I love it, moving to new places always poses new challenges like getting a favorite tailor, a preferred draper, locating a shop that has every basic thing you need, an ice cream, pizza and shawarma joint that’s close, a house you’d use in knowing if there’s light before you get home, and most importantly, a very good barber.

Yes, barbers are very important people in my life. There was a time in my life when the only haircut I knew was what we called Go to school and this was generally considered as a ‘smart’ look according to my dear mother. Back then, I had no problems getting a barber, I didn’t even care what he did up there. All I knew was that I’d see a sparse field of hair and a side walkthrough when he was done.

There was a riddle that was popular back then, “Who’s the only person that commands the king and knocks the king’s head?”. His barber. After all these years, I now understand that the knock on the head can be psychological, emotional and very heartbreaking. As much I’ve met good barbers, I’ve met more of the ones that can make you cry, literally. I think girls have it easier – bad hair, make another. For boys, bad haircut, skodo. It’s like a hard reset, the final fix to all trial and errors. At this point in my life, I’ve gotten very meticulous about what sorcery goes on while I’m seated at the barber’s mercy especially since I sport a serious beard, not like my younger brother who’s part, probably a pioneer, of a grass beard gang. Based on this, I take my haircut sessions very seriously.

But I’ve had bad days…

So, I obviously wasn’t born with beards, I groomed them when I started noticing sprouts. I believe every teenage boy can relate to the fact that, those three strands of hair on the chin are more precious than the herd on the head. I remember when I had successfully bred about seventeen strands of hair on my chin and I went to the salon to get a haircut. One thing I failed to notice all those years was that the barber was completely smooth, up and down. No hair on the head, no hair on the chin. Guys take note of what your barbers look like before embracing their seats. You can tell the wonders they will do to you just from their looks. Now, as a young fine boy, I also wanted my eyebrows carved, so I sat down, excited at my seventeen…no, eighteen strands - I think I saw one pop out. I left that salon looking like a new born rat. No hair anywhere at all. I looked like a tennis ball soaked in vegetable oil. One hot tear rolled down my cheek as I took a walk of shame home.

Okay, let’s fast forward to about four years ago when I moved to Lagos and had successfully secured a good barber in the area based on recommendation. I had given him just two tries but Ayo was quite good at this skill. One warm evening, I strolled into the salon only to find Ayo about leaving.

“Ah, customer, you don come?”

“Ah ah, AY, where you dey go na?”

“I wan travel oh but no worry, my boy dey.” He turned to the back, “Tunde, Tunde oh, omo jati jati, come here”

“Oga no dey call me my first name na, I be Freshest Swaggs Prince, FSP”

“My friend shut up. Foolish Stupid Person. Give baba here one sweet haircut the way I teach you, make I rush go Ota”

“See, Ayo, you know say I no dey like change people wey dey cut my hair. This your boy good?”

“Ah baba, no worry. My boy hand thick for the business, no be today”

“Yes oh, bros see ehn, I dey cut Baba Ijebu hair, all the senators for FCT sef dey find me, even Oga Sunday wey just nak two new tear rubber jeep, na me do am. I dey sure say na as I cut him hair, e give am confidence. I be musician too, I dey sing, I dey produce. Baba, I no be FSP for nothing oh.”

“Ayo, you sure? This boy dey talk plenty oh” I was really skeptical.

“You no get wahala. The boy mouth na tap wey don spoil but him good die”

That was it… Just like that, like a bird walking to the snare of the fowler, I handed over the life of my reputation to FSP the music producer. In the next twenty minutes, I realized how great a fool I had been. My hairline looked like it could be used as a see-saw, he carved my mustache so thin that it could pass through the eye of a needle. I wasn’t even angry, I just stood there laughing at my gross obliviousness and witlessness. Olofofo like me. And the chinch kept convincing that he just gave me the latest cut in town. That was the last day Ayo and his squid saw me. And that was also the day I became the proud owner of a brand-new face cap.

I saw my friend some time ago with a haircut that suggested the barber was either insecure or plain daft. He was so angry while he narrated his experience. He walked into the salon and was happy to be the only person there (note that, sometimes, this is a bad sign). The boy was a new face so he hesitated. Since he couldn’t wait for his barber, he opted to go ahead with the strange one. A strange one indeed, judging from the after effect. My friend was uneasy during the cut session but the barber kept assuring him that he knew what he was doing. Why do they always do that? He had finished but my friend didn’t know as he was still waiting for a haircut. He got so angry when the barber said he was done and charged him more for it. He looked like Samurai Jack gave him a haircut. And that was when he found out from his barber who showed up during the heat of the argument, that the Samurai had never given a haircut. Matter of fact, he was the cleaner. I felt my intestines rip apart in laughter. I was sorry for him but I didn’t have the capacity to express it.

Two months ago, one of my friends was about getting married and he asked me, among thirty-seven others, to be one of his groomsmen. As a single guy who wasn’t shy of the market, I was happy to oblige. On the eve of the Traditional Marriage, the best man, who was my celebrity friend, and I thought to look like marriage super subs, you know, just in case. Yes, I have celebrity friends. It was almost midnight when we waltzed into a salon of a young barber who obviously couldn’t tell the time because his sound system was acting as a Public-Address system for the world. I could barely hear my thoughts. I didn’t know him, I didn’t like him, I didn’t trust him, but for fine-boy sake… I didn’t want a cut, I asked for just a shave. He did a good job; my friend also looked ready to snatch someone’s fiancée. Little did we know that this guy had sown seeds beneath our skins. We spent the next two weeks treating the bumps under our chins.

All a proud man needs is a terrible barber to teach him humility.

The stories from barbers are endless. I met a barber who shaved off my beards because he didn’t like it. I met the one who refused to cut my hair because of the style I asked for. He said I was asking for too much. But then again, I’ve also had very awesome barbers too all around the country, Wale, Emma, Prince, Black, Musa, etc. Above all, barbers are unique people with a special art

Ps: Ladies, don’t trust any man who isn’t faithful to his barber. He can come home one day looking like a monkey that ate bitter leaf.

Pss: Guys, don’t trust any barber who has visible veins on a head shaped like a pentagon. Stick to one barber.

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L.A.M.P. (Tailor Tales)

LAUGH AT MY PAIN (Tailor Tales)

As a guy, the ship has long sailed when I used to imagine and expect the cold and shriveled hands of heartbreak and betrayal to surge from girls alone. In this lackluster part of the world, one welder or bricklayer can actually make a grown man cry and roll on the floor. I think the practice of the art of heartlessness has become a hobby in this receding economy. Trust is even more expensive than bitcoin.

Some of you, if not all, have actually seen the lake of Burning Sulphur in the hands of some of these people. I want to specifically take this time to give a grand shoutout to tailors. All the tailors around the country, una wehdone sirs. Whoever said “lawyers are the best liars” hasn’t met my tailors.

I was driving down my street when I spotted this tall guy, about as tall as I am. His dark blue native wear had a unique design, so beautiful that I stopped to look at it. The linings on the shoulders gave his shoulders a broad structure; the yoke, hang loop, side and box pleats made him look exquisitely elegant. It had perfect shirt darts too. Yes, there’s a little dose of fashion spirit in everyone. I parked the car and trotted up to him while fondling loosely with the camera app on my phone.

“Bros, how far, abeg no vex”, the guy’s puzzled look made me chuckle.

“Yes, any problem?”, hmm… this one na english uncle oh.

“Abeg, who be your tailor? This your cloth mark you wella. I for like get something like this”

“Oh, thank you. My tailor is in Lagos but he bought the material from Ghana. He’s actually a professional”

See bobo juice. Material that Aba people can use to make curtains. Rubbish. Cloth sef that bros Johnny from my street can sew in 2 hours. But make e no be like say I wicked sha…

“Oh okay, that’s nice oh. Abeg I fit just snap am? Make I no forget the style”

“Sure” and that’s how uncle Ghana started posing on the road like he was a model.

Now that I think of it, I’m even doubting the guy’s choice of gender attraction because he wanted me to send the pictures through whatsapp. Thank God for Bluetooth.

With a new-found joy, I met my dear Johnny the next morning. I whipped out my phone and showed him the picture.

“Johnny Johnny, this one na small tin na. Abeg I need am next month”

“Na small tin before na. Come in two weeks, by den e go don set”

Oh…had I known.

I paid him half of what we agreed on then we laughed and talked about football (he’s an annoying Chelsea fan) and one small girl on our street that he has been deceiving.

He introduced me to his mature friend, a suit tailor. I had been persistently bugging him to find me a suit tailor to fix my suit craze. I had nagged him about it so much that it graduated to bedeviling and this riled him up. After exchanging contacts, giving him my measurement and getting loads of endorsements and assurances from Johnny, I became rest assured that those fashion demons eating Hausa groundnut and roasted pear in my head will rest for a while. It was agreed that the suit will be spick-and-span in two months.

Two weeks came and I went to meet Johnny. He said he had really been tied down with other work so he begged me to come the next week. I didn’t have a problem with that so, why not? I also thought it wise to put a call through to the other tailor to know how he was faring. The response was positive and this threw me sloppily into a pool of warm hope. I had it all going well for me.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not to your own understanding

Two months later, my suit was ready. My excitement knew no bounds as I sped to pick it up. I was rushing to the suit jacket even before I noticed that the tailor was standing by the exit door at the back his shop.

“Oga you do well oh. So finally the suit don ready” I could feel the corners of my lips touching both ears.

“Hahaha, I tell you na. Nothing to fear. No kind suit wey I no dey sew. Versanshi abi na gunshi. Na here we dey make am. Hahaha”

And then I opened the jacket…

My heart started stammering and staggering, my temperature dropped so low that I could pass for Ice Prince. I almost had a stroke that evening. Or was it high blood pressure or maybe, heart attack. I think it was a coma.

Men and brethren, the hem of the suit kissed my knee. The sleeve looked like it needed cuff-links. The lapel on each side was as wide as Lekki-expressway. He put four buttons, four buttons. Kill me!!! I almost turned into the hulk when he said that he used my measurement, claiming that I had lost weight in two months. He went on to advise me on which healthy foods to stick to. I couldn’t say a word, I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t breathe well, I just sat there and cried blood. I looked at his face again to be sure he was the one I paid the money for a suit, not agbada. He was even smiling. There’s no greater heartbreak than this.

But I should have known. Heck, he even went by Oga Longus. How could I have trusted someone called Oga Longus? I’ve since then, taken solace in the fact that, this man who is in his mid-forties, will sew clothes for his children too. Or that someone worse will. Oh, I really hope someone worse does.

Last night, Johnny called me saying that he’s almost done with my cloth. He said that what’s left is just the two buttons. Do you all remember Johnny and the beautiful native wear that I took a picture of? Good. That was one year ago.

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L.A.M.P. (Girl Version)

LAUGH AT MY PAIN (Girl Version)

Brace yourself, for this is not just any regular story…

Actually, it is. I just discovered I suck at opening my stories and I thought to spice it up but yep, I still suck. Anyway, here goes…

Like I keep saying, roughly about a decade ago, when the word ‘shy’ was looked up in the dictionary, any one at all, you would see a picture of me looking at the ground, sweating profusely. Luckily, if at all, what you wouldn’t see would have been the constant battle between the Titans and Hitler on both cheeks whenever I was exposed to any form of the public (two people and above, or any girl at all). And then one day, Mr. Webster and my very good friend, Macmillian, thought to surprise me by removing my passport from their books of life and I woke up that morning feeling more mature and more confident. Took quite some time but puberty finally held me by the throat and forced our eyes to meet.

Yes, I had to explain all that so you would understand my pain. This story is about why I don’t randomly approach girls. As a young man just stepping into a colorful world, I was bound to explore and expand what I thought was my horizon.

I remember my University days (this makes me feel old) when I was in my second year. I went to see my neighbor-turned-friend because of Play Station 2. He lived in a big for nothing two-story lodge that warmed the heart of us wanna-be students. But all na packaging because they had no light connection. On each floor, the rooms which were arranged equally on both sides allowing a very wide and beautiful walkway to swim through. Just by the doors of some of the rooms, there were sockets which were powered by the room. Now, just opposite my friend’s room, there was this rich girl who probably drilled, produced and refined crude oil in her room. Either that or she’s a ritualist. Her generator never knew silence. This my guy did one bad-ass generator connection with his extension and… let me save you the details of our engineering ingenuity and also to hide our broke and dirty linens. Because our osho-free knew no bounds, we powered the home theater, the television and charged all our phones and laptops to the maximum so much that we probably charged the extension too. We were extremely nice to this our Queen of Sheba. We helped her carry her heavy loads, brought in her clothes when it rained, chattered about everything she likes – makeups, school stuff, etc. I can’t remember them all because the fake laughter on our faces made our consciences stare at us in amazement and in utter shock.

One cool evening, we were basking in the rays of our borrow-pose life when one beautiful chick walked up to the door and asked if she could charge her phone. Why not? We had a lot of electricity to go around. I even offered my precious phone charger to her since she somehow expected to use Bluetooth to charge her phone. After about an hour, we were about leaving the house but she hadn’t come for her phone. But under the the sound of my grumbles, I heard her voice downstairs so I hurriedly picked up her phone, wore my shoes and yelled at my friend to meet me downstairs. I capered downstairs but found my composure when I saw her close to the gate. 

“Hello…” the way she snubbed me was just enough to make me chase her, catch her, tie her up and beat her, then sell her to the Pharisees. I walked faster till we were both outside the compound.

“Emm, hello, please excuse me” Does this girl think I’m shooting a music video? I finally caught up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned with a look of disgust oozing from each pore of her face. She looked at her shoulder, at my hand, and at my face. Obviously, she didn’t recognize me.

“Are you mad? Is that how you approach all the girls in your village? If you know what’s good for you, stop following me and go look for girls of your class. Rubbish!”

Chineke!!! All because I want to return phone!!! I opened my palm so she could see her phone, then held it tight, nodded and walked away. She followed me begging and almost crying when I said she should forget about the phone. I had a lot of things to say to her but because of home training…

In December, I attended a wedding of a family friend. I was there just for the rice and salad because it was prepared in my house but I didn’t taste any of it. I couldn’t let strangers alone harvest the fruit and reality of my fantasy. The wedding had come and gone, reception time, food time. The reception bubbled with life from every angle, young people looking for the people they saw in their dreams…nightmares included. What’s my own? I grabbed a plate and cutlery and stood in line because there was no time for shakara on top fantasy. While making sure the salad would get to me, I turned to see who touched the hem of my garment. A tall beautiful and dark skinned girl stood behind me looking so elegant in a black dress and a red rose in her hair. Her red six-inches heel shoes caught my attention the most, so beautiful that I had to comment.

“Wow, I love your shoes”, I was still staring down at them.

Maybe she didn’t hear me so I looked up at her, “Your shoes are beautiful”.

She had the “I-think-he-knows-that-they-are-fake” look so I asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Thank you but please, I have a boyfriend”

“Toh! Aunty, it’s your shoe I like, not you”

Breathe in, out. I totally blame myself for that one. I should have focused on my first love, the reason I stood on the line. I went to start admiring things of the world that will pass away. Or maybe Uncle boyfriend has the same type of shoes…

I have experienced quite a lot more than these but for now, this is why I can’t randomly walk up to a girl. If my missing rib is out there roaming and waiting for me to meet her, she will probably turn into an artifact waiting to be discovered by archeologists.

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