Needed urgently: 140 million mathematicians; prayer gurus…, please

We have been down this road before. In fact, just about three years ago we were singing similar tunes. That time the blame game was centered squarely on whether the weather had been conducive or not. This time around one wonders where exactly the blame will mostly go.

Three years ago, after the Super Eagles of Nigeria failed to get the better of their Angolan counterparts in a Germany 2006 FIFA world cup qualification match most people blamed the Nigerian football authorities for allowing the match to be played in the northern Nigerian city of Kano. The argument then was that the weather in Kano was too hot and therefore favoured the Angolan national team more than it did the Nigerian team which comprised almost entirely Europe-based players.

Another debacle is here again so soon. This time around, the same Super(?) Eagles have failed to beat Tunisia in another world cup qualifier, this time in Abuja. We may harp on about poor technical input by the coaching staff and we would all be right. We could also point out that the weather this time was this or that and again, we may not be too far from the mark. We may also accuse God of siding with the Tunisians because the players and coaching staff were observing the Ramadan fast and therefore, were spiritually closer to God. Hence, His propensity to want to side with them given the prevailing spiritual gulf between the two teams at the time of play. This, too, may not be too anal a claim for us to throw around given the circumstances.

So, long after the Tunisians land in Tunis and between now and November this year when those who will fly to SA next year start to book their plane tickets for the Mundial, let our usual 140 million mathematicians, statisticians, stargazers, Shamans, coaches, analysts and what have you get down to doing what they do best. Let’s all start all the permutation about how a blade of grass on the turf in the Mozambican national stadium in Maputo will lead to a miss-kick by a Tunisian defender and how an onrushing Mozambican attacker will gleefully plant the ball in the Tunisian net for the winning goal. Let us calculate how many points Tunisia could secure and how many they would not secure in the next two matches. Let us declare a national praying and fasting day and special vigil in aid of our Dodos’ quest to get to SA 2010. Let the delirium set in about the ‘ifs,’ the ‘it could have beens,’ the ‘this was good and that was bad’ and the ‘we can still make it because…’ And to it all I say a fervent a-m-e-n as a patriotic Nigerian.

But this much was evident this evening:

• The FIFA ranking is a terrible lie especially where Nigeria is concerned.

• For the past 13 years and even more, there has not been anything super about the Nigerian Super Eagles.

• Football teams are built, not just picked. To build one you need football players, not tourists or vacationers. And in football, as in pretty much everything else, you either have the quality or you don’t. In that case,if you haven’t bought the ticket, you quite simply shouldn’t expect to win the lottery

• On the evidence, we shall tread this road all over again soon, for the calendar may not be that easily cheated, after all.

My five fabulous Nigerians

We all have people who simply delight or inspire us, don’t we? These are usually people who give you some ‘x’ feeling, whether that means you want to be with them, be like them or just hear, smell, touch and watch them as they live out their lives. I’ve my own such Nigerians, five of whom I glorify here today. These are the five Nigerians by whose spirit (in the past few years at least) I feel constantly enchanted and challenged on account of their individual gutsiness, energy, unbridled passion, sincerity and tenacious dedication to how they do their ‘thing’.

Kaffy (Kafayat Shafau)

Four words - passionate, creative, talented and energetic – perhaps describe this young woman. A few years ago you were considered wayward and, for a female, an ‘ashewo’ to be a dancer in musical videos in Nigeria. Enter the likes of Kafayat Shafau, and parents themselves are today queuing up to enroll their children for dance lessons across the country.

With a dance/mentoring academy – Imagneto Dance Academy –, A-list appearances in musical videos and a Guinness World Records entry (in 2006, she danced for 55 hours and 40 minutes non-stop) to her name, Kaffy has helped elevate the art of dance in the country. Not only that, she has also undisputedly helped to build the foundation for what is becoming a professional dance industry in Nigeria, and in the process, becoming arguably the foremost dancer/music video choreographer in the country. The most admirable part of it is that Kaffy never attended a formal dance school. Rather, through an unquenchable desire to be better always, sheer ‘opportunism,’ passion and energy, she has revolutionalised dance in Nigeria. She is certainly a pointer for many young people in our society.

Pee Jay

PJ is my eight-year-old cousin, Alexander. PJ is the name that has stuck with him ever since when, as a toddler he would insist on picking his clothes to wear by himself only to end up combining attires in which he looked so funny that we would jokingly liken him to Pa James of the Papa Ajasco comedy drama series. The name stuck on further on account of his unpardonable and almost incurable spoonerism and malapropism, a la Papa Ajasco’s Pa James.

This little terror is loudmouthed, stubborn as a he-goat, inquisitive as a philosopher and daring as Don Quixote. PJ may not be top of the class in school, but a constant B and B+ student is not a bad one either. And with his keen interest in and fair share of knowledge of subjects like current affairs, sports, (especially football), books and entertainment, he gives me more reason to always strive to expand my base of knowledge, for you never know in which subject you may have to explain an issue to him next. Ultimately, it is his intuition, self-confidence and remarkable tenacity, as well as his don’t-you-just-try-to-mess-with-my-sanity attitude that endears him to and ennobles many of us who know him.

Funmi Iyanda

Broadcaster/talk show host, media producer, MC, writer/columnist/blogger, all of award winning proportion - that is Olufunmilola Aduke Iyanda. She is also a philanthropist and an advocate for women/children, although FI, as we her fans love to call her, would tell you that she is no philanthropist but just a woman living her life the way she knows how to. The female broadcaster/writer axis of Ruth Benemesia Opia, Bimbo Oloyede, Chris Anyanwu and Bunmi Sofola is some company to belong in. But even in such exalted company FI still stands out for her versatility in being able to handle issues in sports, arts/entertainment, politics, economy, name it, with almost equal ease. That fashion as a field is not included in the above list is in itself testament to her wacky and radical ‘my own style’ attitude to fashion. And guess what – so far, we are still only dealing with an extremely abridged version of FI.

I first caught the FI flu after a young FI left UI as a geography graduate, traveling Nigeria and the world and regaling us with interesting tales on a range of issues, both on TV and in the defunct Tempo newspaper. By the time she started serenading 30 million Nigerians with New Dawn - a show that became a movement while FI grew into a brand, teetering towards a religion of sort, for many adoring fans - I was already a bonafide Funmi Iyanda groupie. From opinionated loudmouth, bra-burning feminist, unconventional TV anchor, mentor, free-spirited reckless dresser, to philanthropist – Brand FI is today, different things to different people. And that very fact speaks for her multi-faceted personality - a veritable amoeba that defies specific definition and description.

Babatunde Fashola

By all accounts, Lagos is still a dirty city, but someone is clearly making an effort to make it cleaner. Fewer road users are cursing as they drive along Lagos roads today not because the roads are necessarily smoother to drive on. If anything, many of them are now more hellish to navigate. But because Lagosians acknowledge that someone somewhere is genuinely making an effort to improve the roads, many seem ready to show a little more patience and understanding. In recent times, I have come across many Lagosians who, after years of tax evasion, are now enthusiastic about paying taxes because they are convinced that someone is sincerely putting their money into good public use. And one man - Babatunde Raji Fashola - is arguably responsible for the fresh air sweeping across the state.

Pre-2007 elections in Lagos, there were whispers of how Fashola was not going to make a good governor because he was “an administrator and a bureaucrat.” Back then, I wondered what all that meant. And although a lot of that cynicism still prevails (and with good reason, some might say), but if his antecedents in office so far are what those comments meant by “administrator,” then I think I love bureaucracy. With Fashola’s antecedents so far, one could boldly say that for once in this generation (at least) in this country, a state government is working for its people and you needn’t read newspaper and magazine supplements or watch television documentaries to know of it or the extent. More heartening for me is the all-action almost single-minded manner he goes about his business of bettering the lot of Lagosians. And that is a template for governors and governance in Nigeria to follow.

Xee

Xee (just Xee because she would eat me if I let out her real name here) is a friend of mine whom I first met over two years ago. She had requested to take a look at a novel I was holding, and the sheer energy and wisdom that sipped through from her every word and gesture during our brief conversation thereafter, got me riveted. Quickly and steadily, the acquaintance we built from then became friendship.

Xee is gutsy, feisty and uninhibited, all with the energy of a teenager. But beyond that teenage energy is a smart woman who is untainted by the vacuity, vanity and sense of frippery associated with many a teenage girl. She is one of the most driven and focused teenagers you would ever come across, for this is one young woman who knows what she wants and does what she must to get it. Cold Cow, as I jokingly call her (apparently many other people also call her ‘cold’) because of her penchant for and ability to shut out all things she considers unimportant towards achieving any goal she sets out to achieve, Xee is this strong-willed package of only about 5ft. And in that package is a woman of ‘ancient’ wisdom, one who is very much at home with herself.

Isn't this why he's the Prof?

Hate him or like him, he is one of the most respected men in his trade. His views about the profession hold a lot of weight with practitioners and outsiders alike.

Just read this or this one, paying attention to the words instead of the background of the speaker, and you may begin to see why that is so. People in his kind of job aren’t supposed to be that universally insightful, cerebral and philosophical, are they? But he is.

That true confession

At what point do we truly confess our iniquities to God? In other words, when can one sincerely come out and say ‘I have confessed my sins, big or small, to my maker?’ Some people are of the opinion that one is in true confession more during the Friday Muslim worship or on Sundays during church service, or even during similar religious festivals like the vigil worship, Sallah, Chrismas and Easter. But what obtains in those or similar occasions or other religious festivals could be automated prayers compared to what you are squeezed into doing when you are in immediate distress like being ill and suffering relentless pain or when nature calls.

Yes, when nature calls, categorically put, when you must sh*t. That is the time you may be in what I accept as true confession to whoever you believe in and supplicate to. Unrepentant sinner me was in such a situation yesterday. But yesterday’s was nothing compared to what I once experienced on a journey from Lagos to Ebonyi during my time in Ebonyi as a youth corps member. My journey to the confessional on that occasion a year ago started like play like play o; I had spent Easter with my family and was scheduled to return to Ebonyi a day after Easter. As I did not eat the Easter pepper soup with the rest of the family on Easter Sunday, I decided to eat my share on Easter Monday night, the eve of my departure. Toyin, the house help sensed what I was about to get myself into and cautioned me, but like the proverbial fly destined to end up in the grave with the corpse, I refused to listen. “No be today I don dey eat pepper soup and im never do me anything before” I told her. So, I proceeded to devour a bowl+ of hotly spiced hot water and goat meat, topping it with a bottle of chilled malt drink before retiring to bed.

We were barely out of Lagos the next morning when my ordeal began, starting with a rumble down there. At first, I just thought, ‘C'mon, this is nothing Good Ole Fart can’t take care of.’ So, I went f-a-r-t. But it didn’t solve anything. Very quickly, it started fizzing, sizzling, churning, burping and sputtering Downtown, all in one seemingly choreographed movement. Next, all the sweat pores and glands in my system went into hyperactive mode as sweat broke out and dried up on my skin with equal rapidity. I kept shuffling my feet, adjusting to different sitting positions just to keep the blowhole from popping open. As I struggled with the enemy within, the woman sitting across the aisle from me asked me what time of day it was, and after a long look at my wristwatch I told her it was just 15 minutes before 9am. I didn’t need more than the look of incredulity on her face to confirm that I was now officially in a time warp, for time was actually 15 minutes past 10 am.

I decided to deflate the wanton energy coming from under to some other things, so, I tried reading from the book I was holding, - Vijaya Kumar’s World’s Greatest Speeches. But words from Gandhi, Mandela, Mother Theresa, Lincoln, Hitler, Clinton, and several others offered no sucour. As for Martin Luther King and his I have a dream, the only dream I could dare have at that time was one in which one day soon, a Nigerian man would enter the Guinness Book of World Records as the first recorded person to have died of inability to sh*t.

Long stories short, after a period in which I kept saying ‘bros’, ‘my guy’, ‘chairman’, and the like, to one of the bus stewards (molue conductor more like it), the driver reluctantly stopped somewhere along the road in Edo State. Pronto, I got off the bus, skidding down a slope by the side of the road to do the thing. Funnily, two or three other people who had obviously been going through similar predicament also shamelessly joined in the act, after which we got going again. Alas, my reprieve was only temporary, for the front wheels of the bus had barely crossed from Awka in Anambra State into Enugu when that now familiar sound came calling once again. This time I could even swear I heard Luciano Pavarotti leading the orchestra that was playing down there. And that was when the true confession really started all the way from Enugu to Abakaliki, Ebonyi.

First, I thanked God for His mercies for seeing me through the earlier episode and expressed confidence in His ability to do it for me again. Next, I thought of how, years ago, while being in charge of my uncle’s provisions store, a tin of garri, beans or rice, or their cash equivalent would fly into the blue, so I prayed to God to please forgive me for my part in it, for I knew not what I was doing back then. I equally remembered how, while standing in a queue at a corn mill years back, I kept tapping current from the bom-bom of the girl in front of me. I fervently prayed God to forgive me for that little period of misguided judgment. As that blasted potential entry in the Guinness Book of World Records flashed through my eyes once more, I confessed to God about being guilty of picking that piece of meat from the pot so many years ago, an offence for which one poor boy had been kept on his knees with a bucket of water on his head for about an hour. As the sound effect from under became more furious, I generalised all my sins, asking God to please forgive me for all of them, whether known to me or not. Then the urgency went up another wrench, and I employed all the languages I know and started a mantra of, ‘abeg o, abeg o’. Thankfully, the road was very coarse and the bus from Enugu to Abakaliki was a locomotive, with thundering noise levels and I was sitting close to the window, so even though I muttered my mantra fairly audibly, none of the other passengers seemed to hear me do it.

He must have accepted the confessions of my poor soul, for miraculously, we made the journey from Enugu to Abakaliki about 15 minutes faster. Once in Abakaliki, I frantically begged the first okada man I met to lead me to where I could do my thing. Luckily, it was about 9.35 pm and the man happened to know of the site of a freshly demolished building-cum-temporary-dump-site. He took me there and with a, ‘thank you sir’ I paid him the bike fare, plus a pretty hefty tip before hurrying, with two travelling bags in tow, to discharge that pesky waste. Once I was sufficiently relieved, I looked up into the starry sky and something told me that someone somewhere up there was laughing their heart out at the sight of sinner like me scrambling for cover from mere sh*t.

So, when yesterday it started churning and rumbling Down under again, you can imagine how relieved I must have felt to be able to release after only about 30 minutes in the traffic. And when one of my cousins sped into the house this morning and ignored my calls as he dashed through the passage, I felt slighted. But after I traced him 10 minutes later only to see him emerge from the toilet area, I instantly recognised the demons he had been running from or trying to appease, and as they say in Yoruba, oro just pesin je.

I’d rather be naked than...

If you live in cyberspace you probably have seen some pictures currently making the round on the internet, especially in Nigeria. The first time I saw the photographs I almost puked. I was repulsed so much that I wanted to let out a big ‘damn you all, you idiots.’

The pictures in question are those of a man and a woman, both members of staff of Zain Telecommunication in Uganda. The man’s name I learnt is Basillo Sadindi and the woman simply identified as Rossette. In the said pictures they are both seen naked inside what is said to be a hotel apartment. In some of the images the couple is actually seen making it out. Hell no, I can’t post any of the pictures here for you to see.

The pictures were reportedly taken while the couple was on vacation in Dubai. Somehow they misplaced the memory card containing the images and someone got hold of the card and leaked the nude photographs of the couple to the press and unto the internet. A slightly different version of the story says the pictures were discovered by an IT guy who unearthed them in one of the couple’s computers and demanded a ransom to cover it up. Instead, he was reportedly given a written warning after the owner reported him to the human resources department of the company. To get back at the couple, the IT guy exposed the pictures on the Internet.

Trust us Nigerians, the sanctimony and moralisation I have seen and heard thrown at the issue is what repeatedly makes me want to puke. When I saw the pictures for the first time, my reaction was, ‘how the hell does it concern anybody what someone else, especially two consenting adults get up to in the privacy of a room?’ That reaction has not changed one bit. Many of us get up to nastier things in the private comfort of wherever we find enough privacy. And I am not talking about sex and related matters alone here. For me, it’s an invasion of privacy for anyone to leak such obviously very private part of another man to the public.

The couple are said to be married, but to different people. And it was highly indiscreet and negligent of them to let such a private affair slip out to a third party. Besides, they both sure as the current global credit crunch have questions to answer before their respective spouses, but it still doesn’t change the other mechanics of the issue.

1. They didn’t do it in public

2. If, as I heard, it’s true that their employers forced both of them to resign, it is highly unprofessional of the employer. Why? They didn’t do it in the office or even while on official engagement. Hence, it is first and in all, a private thing for them. Moreover, whatever they did out there has not affected their productivity at work, has it?

3. That IT guy deserves to be sued.

4. Show me a virgin saint amongst us and I will eat my head.

Let’s all get a life, please.

Blessed people, low will, little direction

Nigeria is indeed an interesting place to live in and to observe. The expression “never a dull moment,” is hardly more aptly descriptive of the antecedents of any other country. Even amidst the current global economic meltdown and a concomitant urgency by governments and other corporate institutions to keep their countries or institutions going in the right direction, all we seem to, in our characteristic comical manner, demonstrate is that we cannot be bothered to change the status quo, however unbeneficial it may be to us. What with the likes of grand old Rilwanu Lukman back in power as petroleum minister more than 20 years after he first held the same position while Minister of Information, Dora Akunyili positions the horse right behind the cart as we run into a blind alley chanting “Nigeria: Good People, Great Nation.” I have picked bellow, three current/recent issues, to encapsulate my meaning.

Iwu, INEC and the rest of us

Thirty-six state election results, 12 nullifications on first instance or appellate proceedings, five partial or full re-run; and so far, two unseating without re-run. By all accounts this represents the outcome of a shambolic process. And these are figures from the election conducted by the Maurice Iwu-led Independent(?) National Electoral Commission, INEC, in 2007.

Statistically put; 12 out of 36 is exactly 33.3% of the total number of governorship elections that took place in 2007; five re-run means that approximately 40% of the 12 nullification so far has led to the preventable sacrificing of voters’ precious time and scarce government resources. In saner climes whoever oversees such a shoddy process would throw in the towel or be shown the exit as soon as tongues start wagging about inconsistencies in the process. But Nigeria is an appalling exception on such issues - here, such people are even canonized. Any wonder then that rather than throw in the towel, the man who oversaw the elections has remained as steadfast in his resolve to remain in office as he and his cohorts had been about holding those mock elections? Little wonder also that those who should show him the way out have decided that, as tainted and culpable as Iwu’s INEC is in the mortgaging of our political soul, the man is still morally and intellectually fit to continue in office as Nigeria’s principal electoral umpire.

Tragically, we have reduced a serious social, moral and economic subject matter to a mere legal issue in which few seem to be interested in the fact that precious resources of the masses are being wasted in the electoral trials and re-runs that have been and will be the game until 2011. No one is paying attention to what should happen to the likes of Olusegun Agagu and Osarheimen Osunbor or those who put them in office wrongfully for two years. As we are all engrossed with legalese, few are saying anything about what this mess could do to the attitude of the electorate during futures elections in this country.

Once again, therefore, we are inexorably setting the stage for another round of political simulation come 2011. And from there, of course, another manic rush to election petition tribunals across the land until 2015 and then we start again. What a circus!

Siasia, the Messiah of Nigerian football

Talking about circuses, that the powers that be in Nigerian football, in their wretched wisdom, have decided that Samson Siaisia is the solution to our acute lack of knowledge of modern football business surely qualifies as one.

Since the last FIFA U-17 World Championship in 2007, youngsters like Bojan Krkij (Barcelona and Spain); Dan Gosling (Everton) and Danny Welbeck (Manchester United), both of England; and Toni Kroos (Bayern Munich and Germany), to name a few, have continued to rise to football prominence. Our supposed equivalents to these players from the same tournament - the likes of Ganiyu Oseni, Chrisantus Macaulay, Rabiu Ibrahim and Lukman Haruna – have continued to move in exactly the opposite direction, football career-wise. And there are no prizes for guessing the reason this is so.

However, if you argue that the problem does not begin with our players’ ‘certificated’ age and you try to tell me that others cheat also, I will feign agreeing with you and tell you in plain George Orwell Napoleonese that: ‘all national cadet football teams have over-age players, but some teams are more over-age than others,’ fin.

Given his coaching antecedents, Siasia could go on to win the U-20 Championship for Nigeria in Egypt in September. After that we may also require him to handle the Super Falcons or any of the female national teams. In the same breath, we shall await the fortuitous discovery of the hidden talent of the next footballer anywhere in the world, with the minutest amount of Nigerian blood in his veins, to try to convince into wearing the Nigerian colours in international football.

After all, because Siasia is that good, because we have perpetually failed to plan, because we must win at all costs, because we lose our moral footing once a few wads of whatever currency are involved and because we cannot separate priorities from everything else, we may well never have any discernible sports policy. We may as well also never have proper football academies or train our coaches and respect those of them who have what it takes to do a decent job of coaching any of our national teams in any sports whatsoever. Let serendipity continue to rule in our sports.

Painting warped pictures and begging topical questions

As for priorities, where exactly do you start relating to a man who does not know but does not know that he does not know and does not even have enough independent judgment or inclination to wanting to know?

I sit here typing away furiously because I fear that the electricity that miraculously beamed into my house this morning will go off soon. The Niger Delta is still simmering, amnesty or not. There are even more graduates without jobs to hold on to today. ASUU is still on strike while the blokes in Abuja want us to believe that education cannot exhaust its budget for the year. Children and mothers are dying every second in hospitals across the country, and those who can afford the fee daily fly out to China, India, Malaysia, South Africa, Israel, and even Ghana, for ailments as common as dental surgery.

But in spite of and despite all of this, the only issue that seems to be of life-and-death value to our president and his cabinet is the existence of some so-called illegal Local Council Development Areas in Lagos State. And to tell you not to ever get your hopes up on him, the northern part of the country are up in conflagration but dear Mr. President has quietly and comfortably slipped out to Brazil to do some Salsa and Samba, I suppose.

But then this is all in keeping with the programme, isn’t it? It fits perfectly with the lack of direction and sense of priority in our economic, sports, political life, etc, that has made us buffoons before the outside world. And for these and similar shortfalls, Dora Akunyili, like others before her, is now in Sokoto in search of that which is right inside our sokoto.

I first posted part of this article to www.nigeriansinamerica.com two months ago.

Happy birthday to moi

Hurraaay! It’s my birthday today as I’m a year older today, and of course, another year closer to my grave, isn’t it? I don’t personally count birthdays or any other anniversaries as overtly special, as I believe every single day calls for celebration for the most wonderful gift of all: waking up to the knowledge that you are still breathing and alive, although whether you or someone else believe you are more useful alive or dead is another topic altogether.

This particular birthday is kind of special in that it was the same date, the same day, the same month, those many years ago that one morning, in some far-flung place amongst the innings of a certain woman, I, after adjusting my initial posture, jumped down into this world, feet first (yes I’m sure I came feet first) through a tiny hole between the woman’s legs. Some nine months or so prior to that, two young people both of Edo extraction, one estrogen-filled, the other testosterone-pumped and both certainly adrenaline-charged, had one hot afternoon (it has to have happened not on a morning or evening), cuddled into each other’s arms and proceeded into a little room where they locked the world out in the heat of canal passion. they had been that determined to display their erotic prowess to each other. A little boy had emerged from that tiny hole about nine months after, as a product of that brazen exercise of biological liberty and conjugal right.

Sometime afterward, someone somewhere had, after what I suspect must have been painstaking consideration, pronounced the new child Jibril. Later on, someone also added another name, calling the boy Oyake, meaning ‘it is a human being we desire’. The little boy later decided that Oyake was somewhat outlandish, even inane, in meaning. Bless you, what else should we expect to result from a pregnancy by a human being, a piece of rock or bamboo? Suffice to say that the boy changed that mundane name, first to Amhanoghena = ‘you can’t decide for God,’ through many others, before finally settling for the potentially tongue-wrenching Atsaguoghena (God’s ways are beyond prediction), a name he has only once ever used in writing and rarely even been called by. However, he pays pecuniary attention to the usage of his other name as he has spent the last one score-plus years protecting it from being bastardised with variants like Zibri, Jubril, Jubrila, Jibrin, Jubrin, Jibiri, etc. It is that boy - Jibril’s -birthday today.

Now, I know that since I am not blowing out any candles on a birthday cake today, then I should at least, make a birthday wish. So, I will make three. And dear God, I know that when earlier this morning I sat down praying to you for what I am about to ask of you again now, I, for whatever reason, shut only one eye while pretending to shut both (as if I even needed to close the eyes), I hope you can all the same overlook that tiny winy indiscretion and consider this particular request as I make it again.

You see, I have been under intense scrutiny lately from friends and relations who feel that I should have some company of the opposite sex each time they see me. They fear that I might not be doing something right, hence the fact that, as they accuse me of, they don’t know my girlfriend and I don’t seem to have any immediate plans to marry. If I must convince them of my desire to marry, they say it must be noticed in my ability to punctuate every of my contribution to a conversation with “my girlfriend,” “my fiancée,” and so on. Even the ones, both male and female, who are geriatrics compared to me and who are as unattached as a baby separated from its umbilical cord, also subject me to this verbal volley. And I am only just one score and some years old o.

Dear giver of wife (girlfriend and fiancée first), please let this be the day you start to direct my girlfriend-cum-fiancee-cum-wife my way. Actually my specifications are not that stringent. Please let her be in the mould of an Agbani Darego, but hey, not quite an Agbani. I mean lips like Angelina Jolie’s should be part of her bucal package, and they should not be quite as large as Jolie’s. Of course, you know Rita Dominic, ehen, just some hybrid of hers and Jolie’s, or preferably Salma Hayek’s. The eyes should be set like Bimbo Akintola’s, half asleep, half awake, but they should also carry as much fire as Regina Askia’s. That is not to say I want her to have exactly Askia’s eyes o, just telling you that they should inculcate an element from hers. In case that is confusing you, how about Ayo Adesanya’s eyes, I’d like those too, OK, maybe not entirely, at least not in exactly the same size, perhaps in the size and with the colour of that Indian woman, what's her name now? Yes, Aishwarya Rai’s own.

As for her legs, dear giver of woman, I’d prefer one with Tina Turner’s legs - strong, straight and without blemish, but they should not be quite as big either. Let them come in a similar package to the ones a sixteen-year-old Whitney Elizabeth Houston had, but maybe not as skinny, close to Beyonce’s, but not really in that size. Mmmmh... ok just let them be somewhere in between Halle Berry’s and Anna Kournikova’s legs (hope you still remember Anna?).

I have told you before that she should be like an Agbani, and I hope you realise that means she should not be an orobo? And you also realize that that does not mean I want a stick figure, abi? Let me summarise that thus: bust: check; hips: double check; breast: check, check, check. Let me remind you that this does not mean I want a Cossy Ojiakor or a Ronke Oshodi Oke, just something between Salma Hayek, JLo, with a tincture of Omowunmi Akinifesi, with the dimples, although in Jenifer Garner’s dimple size and with the wacky appeal of Funmi Iyanda’s own.

Then, giver of wife, let me not bother you too much with details of her intellectual composition, but just know that I would prefer anything in that respect to include the spontaneity of Funmi Iyanda. She must also be able to speak the English language with a hybrid accent from Queen Elizabeth II, Omotayo Omotosho, Bimbo Oloyede and Joke Silva, to start with. It doesn’t matter how she achieves it, she should just manage to do it. Lest I forget, as my standard test, she must also be one who can pronounce water as water instead of worer, wotaah or any such ridiculous modes. This is in addition to pronouncing chair as chair, instead of share, sheer, chei, chear, cheer, etc. And also … ok even I am exhausted now, so I’ll save the rest for now.

Over to request number two, dear mighty One. Please, biko, jowo, dan Allah, abeg, tse, s'il vous plait, when I go to sleep later tonight, I want to wake up tomorrow morning to the knowledge that Chief Dr. Lecturer Mr. Alhaji Mallam Go-slow Umaru, son of Musa Yar’adua, GCON, GCFR, President and Commander-in-Chief of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, has finally woken up from what right now, still seems to me like a two-and-half-years-long slumber on duty. Either this, dear God or that he has decided to take a break and has handed in a resignation letter. If you saw the front page of the Guardian newspaper on Thursday, you may be able to understand how urgently he needs to heed to my alternative solution.

Finally, just like Robert Frost, I’d like to take a little holiday, not to Hawaii, not to decadent Las Vegas, not to Obudu Cattle Ranch, not to divine Bahamas, not to sexy Las Palmas and not to Dubai, but to somewhere out of this world, somewhere beyond the clouds above, although not in an aeroplane or space machine. But may no fate willfully misunderstand me and snatch me away forever.

Second finally, God bless Nigeria, starting with me, of course!

Hip! Hip!! Hip!!!