Games People Play

RELATIONSHIP CHESS

    

 I USED to sympathize with the sob stories and tales of woe of brokenhearted ladies;
I USED to scowl at playboys and then wonder how, they always managed to attract all the 'female' traffic;
I USED to get on the offensive if I perceived a whiff of a fraudulent relationship into which a dear female was being enticed;
I USED to breathe blue murder and envisage all the creative things I'd do if a bloke 'fooled' with my daughter's heart....

Not until I tried the shoe out on the other foot.

Here are excerpts from a very enlightening conversation I had with a friend, an older and wiser lady as opposed to the young, inexperienced and more gullible ones of my generation:

(Excerpts are quoted exactly as typed. It was a IM chat, by the way)

  

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Her: U are just a sweet guy
Me: I should blush if my skin tone would bear it. Sadly I dont think it would
Her: Funny
Me: Really ...
Me: Let me share something you might find a little controversial..
Her: Ok
Me: Fact: you'd probably recognize but not appreciate my 'sweetness' if you'd been twenty years younger! (My friend's about that much older).
Her (without any hesitation): Lol. Maybe. I have always loved nice guys though. Did not always date them though.
Me (feeling I was on to something): Ah ha! So why does that happen????
Her: Because girls like a project. If u are a sweet guy u are not a challenge. Lol. My dad used to say 'girls find the perfect man and then spend the rest of their lives trying to change them.'
Me (a little depressed now): Sad!....and painful!!!!
Her: Girls think they can change a jerk
Me: Very painful
Her: Yeah, but true. (After a brief pause) I'm sorry, but u are right. Girls your age may not realize what they are missing with u. They often look for excitement and not stability
Me: I once had a 'hopeful' whose favourite expression for me was 'good man'. I thought that should be an advantage, seeing as lotta dem go through some bad sh** (excuse me) at the hands of guys. She very quietly walked away after barely six months. Till date, i'm not sure what I did or didnt do. Its frustrating!!!!! Maddening!!! Infuriating!!!!
Her:  But then as u said, I have lived long enough to appreciate a REAL man. Sorry babe. If I had the opportunity to talk to her I would tell her what a wonderful guy she gave up. She doesnt know what she passed up. Big mistake, Big.

(I's pretty much too depressed at this point to appreciate the compliments though)

...............

Me: Guys like me invest ourselves a lot into every relationship, and are usually reluctant it wld seem, to make oft seeming 'long term' commitments since we take each one so seriously. so its often a bit hard to learn its a failed investment.
Her: Don't give up. She is out there. I hope this has not made u bitter... Or made you want to give up
Me: Bitter no. Angry, a little bit. Disenchanted, mostly

...............

Her: ...Sigh... :-/  She is a fool.
Me: Remember the irony? You'd probably do the same thing. But add the wisdom of your years to that equation and you'd probably stand a chance
Her: Yeah well....Lol

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This discourse reinforced my conviction that the Perfect Woman (or Man) is a myth and the Ideal relationship doesn't exist, except in the imaginations of people. Each relationship then is what the consenting partners make of it.

It taught me that every bride requires grooming. The Groom has to know what kind of material he can work with and select a 'suitable' one. No one will ever be getting a readymade product. And that's why every relationship requires work, and why marriage is not for boys, but for men, who had over time, painstakingly honed their grooming skills.
 

Heck, it even showed me the inspiration behind the cliché 'wife material'...
 

And why good relationships mature like fine wine with time...
 

And why the marriage contract contains the clause '...till DEATH do us part...' Obviously 50 years isn't enough to discover all you can create from so complex an entity as a human being. Besides, the fact that the material is subject to many constantly varying factors, the sculptor is subject to fluctuating levels of inspiration!

I realize that this issue isn't one to be comprehended in any space of time but to be grown into. Now, I am more eager to revaluate myself and discover what or rather who I've been groomed to groom.

I STILL sympathize with the sob stories and tales of woe of brokenhearted ladies,
I STILL scowl at play boys and then wonder how, they always manage to attract all the 'female' traffic;
I STILL get on the offensive if I perceive a whiff of a fraudulent relationship into which a dear female was being enticed;
I STILL breathe blue murder and envisage all the creative things I'd do if a bloke 'fooled' with my daughter's heart....

 
Don't be my scapegoat. Haha!

Nostalgia! Gone too soon

For someone who claims not to be easily excited, I think I might be discovering a side of myself that I didn't know was equally potent, if only temporarily repressed.

Now, I have caught myself and been caught by several close associates behaving or responding to situations in. the most unfamiliar ways.

From excitement-induced stutter speech to sudden, intense,  thankfully-brief but enduring, subliminal feelings of sadness, my emotional spectrum is indeed colourful.

My latest outburst resulted from a recent recollection of the life and times of a late friend of mine.

He was an aspiring pastor in the mould of one very popular Nigerian and Internationally-acclaimed preacher. He was assisted by a mutual friend of ours - a lady in the course of his evangelical pursuits. They were very close, infact too close it would seem because sometime later, she was pregnant for him.

Now these were very young people at the time - both barely twenty years of age. The scandal that blossomed from the incident was amplified by the fact that so many of our 'friends' had always viewed their association with suspicion and in their haughty omniscience, had seen it coming. To my mind, they were also eager to exploit the moment to make their point (whatever that was) clear. Perhaps my judgement was clouded but that's how I regarded their 'innocent' efforts to be involved in managing the 'resulting crisis'.

Well to compound matters, my friend died mysteriously in a freak accident at a construction firm where he was working, some months after this incident. All this happened in the space of two years!

Yesterday I passed by a giant billboard that prominently featured the image of his very popular role model and a wave of nostalgia overwhelmed me. My friend died in the prime of his youth. I was convinced that he must have had a great destiny against which some strong principalities had conspired and apparently succeeded in terminating. I am still so disposed to date. The ministry he had begun died with him although the initial scandal had probably already smothered it long before its eventual demise. His only legacy it would seem, was the fruit of his liaison with our lady friend.

Now let's speak of the lady. She trudged on despite odds - first keeping and nuturing the child while continuing her schooling. Yes, we were all in the same university at the time. She was and still is a brave and strong woman. I know that my friend had always had intentions to yet make a honest woman of her eventually. One error may have truncated or probably interrupted his ministerial assignment but I knew he still had integrity and in due time, would have risen again. But death put paid to all those hopes. Once again, I say adieu my friend. We will meet again in due time.

Well, I guess my response was justified, wouldn't you agree?

Extract from PurposeManDiaries

N.B: Speaking of nostalgia, it's been quite a while I was here. How time flies!

Cry, The Beloved Police!

As I neared home on my way home yesterday, traffic slowed as a result of some obstructing danfos and a policeman crossed the road not far from the vehicle I was in. Somehow my eyes were riveted to this individual and I tracked his progress across the dividing lawn and across the other side of the dual-carriageway and on into a bank building where he seemed to have some business. A huge wave of sympathy overwhelmed me indescribably. It was a feeling so unexpected that I had to consciously stop and evaluate it.

I simply felt sorry for the policeman!

He wasn’t the most disheveled one I had ever seen, far from it. Except for a cap that sat a bit askew on his head and the slightly ill–fitting trousers, he looked averagely smart in his uniform. So there was more to this. Realization dawned slowly.

Last week, the news broke all over the news about the yet-unresolved number of policemen that were literally slaughtered in an ambush, during an attempted anti-insurgency operation in some obscure part of Nasarawa state. Exaggerated or not, the casualty figure was catastrophic. The lives of scores of husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, nephews, cousins (I would not like to imagine there were mothers, sisters or aunties in that lot) – breadwinners all, were obliterated in an instant. Like animals! Yesterday, during a report on the incident, some pictures of the gory remains were telecast and in a newspaper publication, the number of slain men stood at 103!

Trapped in a BRT. Help! 2

STUCK IN TIME

The time was 6.15 on that cool Monday morning. I was standing on a long queue at the BRT terminal eagerly awaiting the bus. I had been there for at least twenty minutes. Someone behind me but within hearing distance, muttered aloud, 'Abi dis people don go strike?' I replied with the airs of superior knowledge, 'Don't worry. They will come, even though they might be late.' As the words left my mouth, a corner of my mind snorted in derision. 'Dey dere dey hope. You  go old for here.'
I scowled back at the voice and glanced back down the road, hoping to catch a glimpse in the dim light, of the neon LAMATA lights that would be the first announcement of the bus's approach. There was nothing. I sighed and leaned my back against the guard rail and adjusted my feet to bear my weight in that position.

6.25am
I glanced at the illuminated face of my wristwatch for the umpteenth time wondering what I had gotten myself into. I knew that if I didn't leave that spot soon, I would most definitely be  late to work. What with the special Monday morning traffic on my route! I had to make a decision soon. Just across the road at that moment, a vehicle slowed down and stopped. The driver stuck his head out his window and called 'Ikeja! Ikeja!!'. The words actually had not left his mouth when several 'smart' individuals male and female alike, leaped the guard rails and sprinted heedlessly, across the road in the direction of the vehicle. Gratefully, traffic was light at that time or perhaps there might have been several casualties.
I was stuck at a point in the queue where I couldn't so nimbly exit and join the race. I was certain that I was much physically fitter than most of the other people making their way to the vehicle. But I assumed the calm demeanour of 'the one who knows' and waited. Besides, I encouraged myself, the bus will soon arrive. The vehicle across the road quickly filled up and left. As as I tracked its progress into the gloom of the predawn, I also hoped that the LAMATA neon would appear on the horizon at that moment.

6.36am
I was getting jittery now. My legs didn't feel so sure of themselves anymore and I was certain that barring a miracle, I was going to be late. I glanced finally down the road and decided. 'I can't wait here anymore. I'm leaving!'

This scenario is only a shade of the daily experience of patrons of the BRT service at least in my environment. Some waiting times are in hours. I've waited that long myself on several occasions. The queues stretch for miles. The commuters get disgruntled and agitated that they are running late for appointments or work resumption times. Tempers flare.
When If the buses do arrive, the staff are unapologetic and often openly discourteous when challenged about their inefficiency. I mean, it might not be much, but a good textbook apology would usually serve to soothe frayed nerves.
The BRT system was probably implemented without a time schedule, to make their movements flexible and adapt it to the vagaries of our society. However, would it be too much to ask that the buses are available in places and at times, when there is an observably regular, high volume of traffic to be moved?
I wonder how many times passengers have been disappointed or frustrated by the bus service. Still the indomitable Nigerian optimism continues to populate the long queues day after day. How much abuse can one take?

Like I said in  Trapped in a BRT. Help! it baffles me how the government would allow such a worthy enterprise to be mismanaged and this, not for want of evidence of these lapses requiring attention or a dearth of ideas of courses of action to take. What do the supervisors oversee? Are they concerned about preserving the integrity of their organization and making recommendations for the improvement of their service efficiency? 

Questions, questions, questions? No one's answering.

Midtown Madness 2

Some passengers alighted at Orheptal and some more boarded. However that was not before Baba Sixty-something had very nimbly switched seats to the row I was seated. So nimbly that I didn't notice until he turned towards my seatmate in the black suit (remember the guy who had still had his elbow in my thigh?), leaned over conspiratorially and whispered what I deduced to be, comments about the outlandish behavior of the gentleman who had just dismounted alighted from the bus. I would have thought they were acquainted the way the man was carrying on because he repeated this same action several times more until Mr. Black Suit alighted a few stops later (to my obvious relief). The latter however, studiously ignored him, except the first time when he seemed to have given the older man the benefit of doubt that he (Baba Sixty) was trying to communicate something tangible.

I shook my head again. The old man appeared to be agitated about something and seemed to be trying to get an audience for his grievances. Na by force. There's such a thing as soliloquy, I thought. You need to try it, Sir

Meanwhile, the bus approached Idowuegba bus stop and the sixty plus woman announced her intention to alight.

The conductor approached her for the fare again.

Just For Laughs

MTN's Number Portabilty TV Commercial and its subtly embedded messages

Hey folks,
I saw the new MTN television commercial for the recently activated number portability scheme, for the first time, yesterday and I couldn't suppress a smile at some of the 'interesting' messages in it.

Here's a brief of my observations:

• Hafiz Oyetoro aka Saka, appears to be the ambassador for this campaign. He was popular with the Etisalat brand and it seemed his loyalty to that brand was unquestionable. In this commercial, he is systematically unveiled as he sings the theme song, with emphasis (to my mind) on 'I don port o... to MTN.' That definitely cracked me up. I'm certain his Etisalat days are over. I doubt we'll be seeing 'Saka' in any other adverts for Etisalat except to demonstrate how number portability enables him to 'dump' MTN 90 days later, due to unsatisfactory services (or contract terms). (hahaha)
•  Next, judging by the speed with which advert was released,  MTN takes the bull by the horns, confident that this scheme is more favourable to them than their competitors. I can't imagine how long they took to woo Mr. Saka for this one.

All in all, the TVC is hilarious.

Check out the video here.

Like someone commented, 'Saka sef don port. Wetin you dey wait for?' lol

Did you observe any other or similar nuances? Share.

Who invented the Molue? A Satire

I guess the joke's on me now. A few weeks back, I came to the awe-inspiring realization that the big, Mercedes Benz 911-powered commuter buses a.k.a Molue, that were once (and on some routes still are) the 'rave' of the moment on Lagos roads are actually...

…*drum roll*    * fanfare*...

...'Made in Nigeria!'

‘What an astonishing discovery!’ Yeah, I can almost hear you say 'duh' or 'eh hen, wetin come happen?' Its okay. I also sneered at myself too.

I had always been convinced (I don't know by what, in retrospect) that they were decommissioned German military personnel carriers imported into Nigeria to aid public transportation! Can you beat that? Making a mountain out of a mole hill abi na Molue out of an Okada? Such an assumption must be the consequence of matching an often overactive imagination with more than a passing interest in warfare history, spiced up with a few well-meaning but misconstrued world war movie storylines. That was a mouthful, I'm sure. Anyway, I had even gone online at google.com to certify my suspicions. Of course, the effort was fruitless but not so uneventful. At least, I got offers for some 911 truckheads that looked to be in good condition. (*Rolls eyes*)

Well, I was still a tiny bit sceptical when my fruitless search made me contemplate the possibility of what eventually became my 'Revelation of The Truth'. Belated Eureka!

I asked (no, more like mentioned my suspicions to) a Senior Citizen who gleefully confirmed SOME of the following facts:

Conscience Speaks!

KINDNESS...
Does Kindness need to be merited by those to whom we express it?

Must there always be a 'logical' justification for being pleasant to someone, putting an unexpected smile on another's face, rendering unsolicited but clearly needed help to a stranger, favouring someone without expecting any form of gratification, making a random person's day every other day and in essence, looking odd so that Jesus looks good?

Conscience has spoken. Let him who has an ear, hear.