Oshodiiiiiii!

Gunpowder?


I bumped into this scene on Friday evening and decided to get a few shots. It was of course at perennially chaotic Oshodi in Lagos, around 5pm and I'm sure the situation steadily worsened until God knows when. I just hope they complete the new pedestrian bridge soon, otherwise, at this rate, this may be a keg of gunpowder waiting to go off.

Wow!

Two weeks of breath-stopping action wound up this morning and whooooa, what a two-week! America sure knows how to take the lead in a lot of things, and even though this two-week-long extravaganza wasn’t solely an American affair or did not become the thrill it turned out to be because of any peculiar American flavor only, this was nevertheless, another American Wonder as we are wont to say in these shores.

The 2009 edition of the US Open tennis tournament will live very long in the memory of many fans of the sport. And there are reasons aplenty for this. First, there was the Cinderella story of Melanie Oudin, the previously unknown 17 year old Atlanta, Georgia-born American girl who took our collective breath away with her fiery brand of tennis. In her run-up to the quarter finals of the tournament – the first time she had ventured past the second round of a grand slam in her career – pichichi (tiny) or El-Nino (the little one) as I privately Christened her because of her suit case-size 5 foot frame, left four Russian players in her wake. These included three seeded players, Elena Dementieva (2nd round), Maria Sharapova (3rd round) and Nadia Petrova (4th round). Although she eventually met her waterloo in another teenager, 19-year-old Caroline Worziniacki of Denmark in the quarter finals, Oudin got many tennis fans to believe in dreams, fantasies and fairytales not just by having “Believe” inscribed on her tennis shoes, but by the way she consistently fought back from seemingly overwhelming positions for a player of her physical size, amount of experience and age. In each of her matches against the afore-mentioned, Miss Oudin had to do the Houdini by coming back from one set deficit to win the matches. If she keeps it up, we could well have an improved female version of Leyton Hewitt, the Australian tennis player who has carved a niche for himself as the most feisty and toughest character to beat on the men tennis circuit.

Then, of course, there was the fairytale comeback of 26-year-old mother of one, Kim Clijsters whose only career grand slam title was the 2005 US Open crown before she took two-and-a-half years off the game to start a family, during which time she gave birth to her 18-month-old daughter, Jada. The Belgian came back into the circuit only five weeks ago and entered the tournament as a wildcard. In doing so, she was attempting to do what only one other woman had ever done in the history of the women’s game – win a grand slam title after becoming a mother. The first and only time this had happened previously was back in 1980 when Evonne Goolagong Cawley beat Chris Evert to win Wimbledon in 1980. But Mummy Clijsters has ensured a second 29 years later. More impressive was the manner she did it – knocking out both William sisters, Venus in the fourth round, then Serena in the semi finals and becoming only the second woman ever (after fellow Belgian Justin Henin) to beat both sisters in a single tournament.

Added to the spectacle was the sight of John “Superman” McCenroe climbing down the stands for that mock game with Djokovic, and oh, who can forget Rafael Nadal being mauled in the semi finals by Del Potro like no other player had ever done before. and of course there was also the fact that lanky Croat Marin Cilic so comfortably defeated men’s second seed and one of the pre-tournament favourites, British world number two, Andy Murray. In dusting Murray in such convincing manner, Cilic also reinforced the belief of Doubting Thomases like me that though a good player Murray may be, he is obviously way better in the eyes of the media, as a tennis player simply because he is British and media opinion and reportage in world sports is right now firmly choreographed by the sensationalism of the British media. My meaning? Andy Murray is highly overrated.

One player who is certainly not overrated, however, is the amazing Roger Federer. If anything, I have for several years, personally underrated the Federer Express, but not because I have not been aware of what he can do with a tennis racket and a ball, but simply because I am a die-hard Pete Sampras fan. So, all these years, I have been directly backing any other player other than Federer. Even after he won the French Open earlier this year, equaling Sampras’ record of 14 grand slams, I still told myself and even said it openly that he only won because an injury-ravaged Rafael Nadal had been beaten in the semi finals by Robin Soderling. Federer also sauntered to the Wimbledon Open title a month later and my excuse was the same – Nadal’s absence. But I guess now, even though I was happy, just like some of the fans at the Arthur Ashe Stadium this morning, to see someone else apart from the Swiss master win the US Open for first time since 2004, I have to give it to the Roger. Hate him or like him, he is arguably (and there is scientific evidence to support this) the best male tennis player to ever step on a tennis court.

I have always attributed his dominance of the male game to the stark lack of strong tennis characters in the mould of John McCenroe, Bjorn Borg, Boris Becker, Andre Agassi, Sampras, etc, in the modern game, but what I have consistently ignored is that Federer is the most complete racket swinger of his generation, and perhaps even backwards into some of the earlier generations. The man can serve-and-volley; his shot-making is second to none; he has the most solid backhand and a beautiful footwork to go with it ala Muhammed Ali; he has an amazing forehand and a strong serve – stronger than Sampras’ I must say; he is about the fittest player on the circuit – hardly gets injury lay-offs; his defensive game is as strong as his offensive game; and to crown it all, Federer has the killer instinct, the ruthless streak that the other players don't quite have – on court he seems so calm, irrespective of the situation, but look in his eyes and you see pure ice as he goes for each ball.

On top of all this, he reads the game better than anybody I have seen in the game. To illustrate some of this, in the semi final match against Novac Djokovic, Djokovic was serving at 6-5 down in the third and final set. At 30-0 up, Djokovic hit a ball over the head of Federer who had rushed to the net. Ninety-nine-and-a-half times out of 100, Djokovic would win that point with the shot, but Federer scampered back to the baseline and with his back to court, hit a winner between his legs that flew over the net and past Djokovic into the corner for match point (40-0). Another example of his inventiveness came earlier. He had played a bad ball presenting Djokovic the opportunity at the net, to smash the ball into any part of the court he wished. Somehow Djokovic did not hit the ball as everyone had expected,hitting it almost into the path of the wrong-footed Federer who was going right as the ball sailed through the middle towards the baseline. But even in that motion, and with so little time to maneuvre his body, Federer still somehow flicked his racket across from his back, hitting the ball back, although off the mark to Djokovic’s left side line. In the final match, Federer also pointed out to us why he is so successful – his perception and awareness are second to none. In the middle of the third set, he was serving and a couple of balls had sailed into the stands and were not returned, leaving him to serve with only four balls instead of six. But whereas most other players would never remain calm or focused enough to keep tabs on the number of balls they are serving with or the condition of the balls, Federer rightly pointed out to the umpire that the balls were in fact, short by two. Now, why won’t I give up trying to prove that such a man is not the best ever?

...And of course, the thrilling story of US Open 2009 had to fittingly cap off with the triumph of 20-year-old 6 feet, 6 inches tall Argentine, Juan Martin Del Potro, comfortable conqueror of Rafeal Nadal, in a spectacular tennis showpiece which ended 3-6, 7-6, 4-6, 7-6, 6-2 after more than four hours on court. Both men fought into the ground for every point, displayed an enthralling range of shot-making abilities, stayed steady, defended well and generally covered the court admirably. In the end though, the rangy Argentine surprisingly outlasted, outsmarted, out-broke and out-served the master himself, earning himself a maiden career grand slam in the process. And so US Open 09 ran all the way to the end with drama, intrigue, surprise and delight for all watching, especially the crowd at the Arthur Ashe Stadium in New York, who got more involved in the final match than you could have ever before seen.

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.