E don happen o!

In fact, e don really happen! Now I know exactly why dancing as a pastime has never really appealed to me. I also now know why my choice of music revolves predominantly around songs and singers (whose songs) you needn’t necessarily dance to – songs which at their most demanding, only require a shake of the head, some clapping, whistling and sing-along. I have just discovered that my largely stonecold general lack of jig in response to any piece of music that involves a shake of the backside is tied to something else other than the fact that the music may not be appealing enough for me to respond to. My utter lack of partying or clubbing spirit has often baffled even me, and now I realise that my near-complete aversion to owambe has a more genetic origin than me being a plain social misfit (for want of a better phrase).

Truth is that somehow I was never designed by nature to dance, but just to shake my head, hum a few lyrics, clap and …well, that is it where music is concerned. What I am saying is that perhaps nature never designed me in the mould of the Nigerian brand of the Peugeot, to weather the mountain-high road bumps and valley deep potholes and so on that adapting to different beats and rhythm of music is. I was fitted out more like a Bentley or any other make of such cars not suitable for driving on Nigerian roads, just for roads in a place like London where it can zap around – no potholes, no bumps.

What am I harping on about? For a while now, I have been feeling like an alien wherever songs by today’s music acts, particularly my Naija brethren, are being played (my opinion about music being fairly well documented in this other piece). Perhaps for the purpose of proving my street credibility or just plain being led by a lonely impulse of delight, I decided, in spite of my heavy feet and reluctant waist, to weigh how much behind the times I have grown musically. So I went to a CD stand where I got a couple of CD compilations of some of today’s rave-of-the-moment songs by Nigerian musical acts.

The result of that purchase is that I have been up since 3am today and I have been unable to go back to sleep, not because I don’t want to but because I can’t. After the three hours of manic, adrenaline-inspired, unabashed act of self-deception and indulgence I got involved in last night, all in the name of dancing, I have been reduced to a creaky-boned shadow of my usually sprightly early morning self. Through several hours last night I jigged, swaggered-and-gingered, danced the sangolo, did the galala, did the alanta, twisted, swirled, twirled, swerved, bounced, swung, clapped, jumped, bumped-and-grinded, all to sounds which before last night I had only ever whistled or nodded to. My energetic display and the deftness of some of the moves I managed to put together wowed even me, and an onlooker would have been tempted to believe that I was either drug-fueled, Holy Spirit-controlled or even both. Such was the high energy and abandon of my solo show as I locked myself away in a room (pretending to be) dancing to the likes of P-square, Wande Coal, Timaya, Terry G, Nico Gravity, Bracket, J Martins and so on.

At the end of it all, sweat-drenched-and-sweat-scented, I felt like a bird – fit and strong, ready to fly. I took a cool bath and then hit the sack about 30 minutes later and slept until about 3am when I got up to use the bathroom. But I only got up with a heavy head, creaking joints and searing pains all over the body. And now I have moved from a sweat-scented solo performer to a sorry owner of a Robb-scented rickety body. Even my cousin cannot show enough sympathy for my self-induced plight as I have reduced the poor boy to my masseur-cum-therapist-cum-personal minder with a bottle of Robb by the side.

Make no mistake though, my current raggedy physical state has nothing to do with me being too lazy. Hey, we are talking here about the same Jibril who can play volleyball for hours on end, kick a soccer ball around all day long, trek longer distances than the Biblical Israelites or historical Boers of South Africa, and for those who know me more, the Jibril who can also … ok that’s enough now. Simply put, as I sit (more like lay) here barely able to punch the keys on my laptop and wondering which one out of a physiotherapist, homeopath, orthopedic surgeon I should invite first, I have definitely learnt one life-changing lesson: There is a limit to adventure, and some experiments are simply not to be attempted if you are not genetically wired to conduct them.

Just how do they do it?

I was not invited, and as I sat there, I certainly felt distinctly out-of-scene. A deputy editor of my paper had ‘arm-twisted’ me into going. They tell you this all the time as a journalist in this country: “This profession is like the military. Once you are told ‘go’ you just go. Nobody cares how you do it. All that matters is that you bring the story.” I have heard such small-minded and outrightly anal lines severally.

The invitation my ‘oga’ (how they love that tag) forwarded to me via a text message merely read: “… birthday ceremony organised by our friends in our honour…” But wow, what a birthday! What friends and what occasion!! Now, parties are not part of my strong points but I have attended my fair share of them – birthdays, dinners, get-togethers, wedding ceremonies, etc. But this one seems to top my list of all, maybe because I was seething with irritation to be there at all and as a result, I sat there with an extremely critical eye.

In what was a shindig, I was desperately out-of-zone amidst the sea of bottles with different contortion; the geles; the kaleidoscope of colours; the loud indiscreet music; and dare I say, the share adrenaline. But I still was duty-bound to make a story out of it all. So, I managed to note down a few things – some for my own personal cut-away. I noted down the unabashed display of excitement from millionaires, the majority of them grandmother and grandfather millionaires, mind you.

There was so much to eat and drink but I was too busy getting irritated to bring myself to eat. Worse, I inadvertently chose a seat directly in front of one of the air conditioner vents in the vast hall to sit on, and so, all through my stay there, I kept shivering with cold like someone from the Sahara Desert on a first visit to Siberia. The hall was one vast space but it was so full that there was barely enough space to stand much less sit. But even as I struggled to find space for my feet, one appallingly bloated (not fat, mind you) woman still found enough room in front of me, to jig around with her uniquely fallen features – a pair of sorely sagged breasts held mercifully together by a helpless bra; a pathetically protruding tummy; and shapeless backside. Her wizened face - complete with its athletics track lines - was so heavy with brown powder that you would think she had just robbed an Estee Lauder shop and decided to use all the loot at one go.

Two hours later, as I left the venue, still filled with irritation, something soured my mood further; at the gate two men were punching, slapping and kicking at one helpless man. Soon, he was asked to kneel down, as he frantically begged another man who must have been his age, if not even younger. The man’s sin I got to know, was that he had accidentally stamped on the other man’s foot in an attempt to gatecrash an occasion to which he wasn’t invited. Eventually, he was ‘pardoned’ after another man pleaded on his behalf. I was galled. And that is saying the least.

Outside the gate, I was still shaking my head in silent disapproval of such brazen aggression when I saw him once again. Not Mr. Stamp. This other man had been there earlier as I hurried into that extravagance. He had beckoned on me (or so I thought) as I hurried past him. He had said, in a clearly beaten voice, ‘bros, abeg find me something now, I dey hungry.’ Honestly, I didn’t take in the full import of his words until I was halfway through the entrance. You know one of those instances when you hear a word but it then takes that extra second to hit home. Seeing the man again was, therefore, Providence’s second chance to me. But this time he didn’t say anything, perhaps he didn’t see me, although he seemed to be looking in my general direction.

Walking towards him, I pretended I was seeing him for the first time, and with a cosmetic smile - of guilt - etched on my face, I stretched a polythene bag containing a loaf of bread at him. The bread was the only thing I managed to take away from the gig (and why I even bothered, I don’t know). Pronto, with the alacrity of a drowning man, he grabbed the bag like a drowning man would do any lifeline thrown at him. He added a brisk ‘thank you’ as he walked towards the nearby Tafawa Balewa Square while I hailed down a motorcycle.

Of course the irony of it all wasn’t lost on me: That man only wanted, in fact, needed to have a bite but could not get one. Meanwhile, few yards from him some people could not just have enough bites. His was for survival while for that motley crew in there every succeeding bite was an indulgence. They could not waste food enough but he could not, it seemed, attract enough compassion to get a few survival crumbs. Talk about the contrasts of life. And just how do people find the will to sit back and encourage or even breed such contrasts?

My judgmental self could not help believing that somehow, that man’s fortunes and those of others like him could be better, with a little less avarice and a little more let-others-survive disposition from characters like members of the motley gang at that shindig, who are scattered across the Nigerian landscape. It could be argued that none of those party animals had anything to do with the desperation of the man. But as was evident in the case of Mr. Stamp who was ‘disciplined’ for trespassing, this other man is directly or indirectly a victim of the indiscretion, gluttonous, utterly selfish and oppressive life some of us lead in this part of the universe.

Mind you, the gathering in question had some of the people who individually or together with their agents and accomplices in the corridors of power, have ensured a clear absence of the middle class in Nigeria, a place where you are either rich or poor. And there in lies the connection, or so I think. You may not see it. Or do you?