Forgive me for I have erred. I have gone AWOL for another forever and that feels bad. Believe me, it does; but man has gotta do what he gotta do.
Even though it will be rushed and haphazard, I have to do this. I’ve got fun on hold to get back to.
Do you really know what it feels like to have over 40 million followers on a social media account? (Relax! I don’t even have 400!) I mean, that’s like saying that the total population of a country (no offence Charle) likes/digs/trails/monitors/spies one person. All I did was a gentle wait for the clock to countdown to this day―with the help of the Most High, and I had a faint idea of the feeling.
Today, I woke up to texts, pings, display pictures, profile messages and the shebang all having a thing in common: me. October 3rd brought all my friends―the good, the bald and the hug-ly―to a common ground, and for real it felt special. I felt like the nimble-toed Messi, only without the millions and a golf ball in the stead of the Ballon d’Or.
Many thanks to the Gracious God for everything: His escorts without sirens with me through the valleys of the shadow of death; the rejuvenating push when I’m low and running on fumes; the little-big miracles and serendipity sent my way… many other good things in the background that I just can’t fathom.
A lot happened between this time last year and now. Trust me, it’s not a cliché. I lived―had fun in little packages; loved―and still loving; learned―spanning the mundane and the germane; strengthened relationships and made new bonds in addition to the list I managed to make in My Candid Vote of Thanks, when I was still quite dramatic. I’ve taken starch and its signature soup (I’m not so glad I did), left work on a Friday and got home on a Saturday, ordered for black and got pink… and the list goes on. I’ve had varying measures of disappointments and surprises, agitations and chills, ups and downs, rice and beans… and I’m glad and I’m still standing tall, sane and sound.
I can categorically say that today ranks high in the list of the cool October 3rds I’ve ever had. My day was made with the loads of fun, the calls, happy birthday songs―the “tush” Harvard/Corona school version, Mwopopopo Community Grammar school version and various remixes of the real mix; and the funny chats I had with some friends I’m more than willing to lease to charity.
Permit me to digress a tad and share two chats below. Words in brackets are my thoughts.
Charity Gift 1: Happy birthday dear. Wishing you all the very best in all your endeavors.
Me: (Me? Dear? What happened to a sweeter name?) Thanks dear.
Charity Gift 2: Wishing you plenty wives and plenty children too.
Me: (Really? Not even the popular “long life and prosperity”?) Hol’it! Just hol’up!!!
Charity Gift 1: No way!
Me: Plenty wives and children for what? (the economy is sad yet she wrote this!)
Charity Gift 1: I have said it already; if you like toss them away.
Me: *mutes* (Mba! I won’t take this from you fam)
Charity Gift 1: 12 children and 3 wives.
Me: *unmutes* Ma ba mi sh’ere k’ere o… (don’t even joke with me)
I will try and dash her to an orphanage. You’ll help me decide where the second should be thrown to.
Charity Gift 2: Bajinatu plenty for the birthday boy!!!
Me: (Emi? Who is this one calling boy?)
Charity Gift 2: May you prosper and increase speedily.
Me: *inserts MFM-style Amen*
Charity Gift 2: May your kids never give you problems like you gave your parents.
Me: *raised brows* (y’say whaaatt?!)
Charity Gift 2: May your wife never quickly discover that you’re bald.
Me: *furious… checks pictures* But I’m not! I’ve not even discovered it myself!
Charity Gift 2: …and if she discovers, let “bald” be the new cool then
Me: LOL! (this is the part where I couldn’t hold the laugh anymore)
I have decided to lease and not sell them because they’re really special I can’t afford to let them go. If you’re reading this, Charity gifts 1 & 2, do not let your heads swell; I could as well be planning to put you on OLX at a very discounted price.
It’s the beginning of another journey for me: the start button to more objectives to be achieved, grounds to break and fishes to fry. If I could only ask or wish for just one thing, it would be God’s grace to excel in everything I do (sorry to disappoint you if you thought Camry would rank first). With that I know every other thing will turnout good. If I could ask for two things, they will be the one above and more opportunity/ability to affect lives for good. If I could ask for more I’ll go for all it takes to be a better son to my parents, brother to my siblings, reliable pal to my friends and a responsible boo to future bae.
In other news, I wish the banks won’t charge me for all the multiple birthday messages they sent to me today. If MTN will kindly stop sending me the “SMS MUMU to 55501 to receive very Comic free for 7 days” text and its kind too, I will so much appreciate it.
To everyone who made my day with great wishes, prayers and several other gestures, thank you! Your days will be long and filled with the wonderful things you so much desire. Customised thanks to “Margaret Thatcher”, for the gift that broke the jinx of no-gifts and the customised pepper soup that reminded me I’ve not enjoyed life at all.
Thanks a lot fellas!
I’m jossef69 on twitter
Would you like to share this?
It’s just a click away ↓
I found myself in a serious imbroglio recently. I’ve heard of the danger in lines and messages with multiple meanings to different people, but it never blew at my face this way before.
We all have our share of friends met during dire circumstances, who later turned out to be great pals akin to a brother―or sister―and family. In my case, John ranked high on the list of such friends, and many times I wondered how it happened.
John, like his friend, is a young man who never feels comfortable with tons of praises and felicitations. Place three beautiful seguing adjectives behind his name and you will have him tweet and retweet like a mockingbird, persuading you to stop the hype like he has a chronic allergy for it (that is still under investigation though).
You can imagine having to bench the idea of putting a well-deserved post for him on Facebook on his birthday (because it would be lots of sweet words); sticking to the limited number of characters the profile message space of a blackberry messenger has to offer. I remember typing a few words about how we got this far, bla bla bla… and a final full stop.
But the stop was far from full.
Have you ever been at that point where a person is the trigger needed to start a chain reaction? The full stop was the beginning of hours of reminiscence. He reminded me of how I almost didn’t get into the university when I did, with a heavy heart and disappointed face so wrinkled you would think I served a long sentence atop a compost pit. By the way, John was the first person to see the face.
He reminded me of my deployment to a state that seemed like a nightmare during my service year, and the dream job I didn’t get even when it was just about a meeting away.
What I later found out was that most times, disappointments and let-downs are blessings, which in retrospect would make one shine one’s not-so-white-teeth or otherwise in acknowledgement.
The fact that I almost didn’t get into the university when I did―that anyone can fail if careless―is one of the reasons I got serious and graduated when and how I did. The nightmarish location NYSC deployed me to, turned out better for me before the end of the service year―being the highest-ranked (and maybe highest-paid) corps member of one’s local government comes with respect, challenges and responsibilities that will mold rough clay to smooth vase. Erstwhile dream job would’ve been good; it just wouldn’t have aligned and added value to me quickly like what I have. I found out after failing to get the former.
Now, imagine retiring to bed later that night, and then summing up all the memories into something about “heartbreaks that were in the real sense, blessings in cloak.” I put this up as my PM after a final chat with John. This would’ve been a normal thing; just another update you put up every once in forever. Right?
The timing was wrong! In fact, it was way so uncanny.
I had a relationship some years back, and the lady with whom I had it got introduced (a pre-wedding event) that same day! A disgruntled ex-boyfriend could have written what I wrote as my profile message, and she pretty much came for my hides with smiles and knives. The update seemed like a fitting shoe size, but I never did the shopping for her. I tried to see the situation from her perspective (perhaps ‘heartbreak’ wasn’t the best word choice), but then Thesaurus even disagreed. Heartbreak relates to despair, grief, pain et al; and not matters of the heart alone.
She never believed me; I didn’t flog myself trying to explain either. There is no value-add clarifying issues to someone who has chosen not to be objective about it, or even believed I could go to the extent of sticking it to her in the first place.
I would’ve kept this to myself but I couldn’t suppress the yearn to let it out and move on. I owe it to myself to come clear. I owe my friends (including those that never voiced their doubts) the facts, so they can be reassured I’m not that guy!
On the bright side though, I won’t be surprised if this fiasco turns out to be another good thing; an unfortunate event that is really a blessing in disguise. 🙂
Only time will tell.
It’s been three months since the last post! *I cringe* If I had cultivated maize then, I should be chilling on the sofa now with my legs crossed, devouring a well roasted corn with my eyes set on the dough cribs full of harvest would rake in.
Apologies for the long period of inactivity. The past three months were about lots of travelling and engagements that required serious attention. A lot was at stake so I had to give the needed devotion (multi-tasking isn’t always the best, believe me).
Now that things are calm, I’ll make-up for the gap.
I am @jossef69 on twitter.
Foreword: I find a disclaimer distinguishing the writer and the character in this piece unnecessary, but really (as an advice now), it will make more sense reading this with absolute neutrality. In other news, happy independence-plus-two-days… and happy birthday to me. I’m excited! Please waka come and share in the excitement. Bring a gift or two along. 🙂
Dear Future Bae,
I wish I know an appropriate quote by a great philosopher—or someone of immense reputation, living, in comma, or dead—right now to express how I feel in the shortest possible way. Unfortunately, I don’t. Fortunately though, I have something almost nice and equally brief:
Brevity be damned!
I will try to be coherent, but I can’t even assure myself that. So I’ll rant, ramble, rumble, and tumble if necessary till I let it all out— white, black and the shebang. I hope this gets to you somehow (probably in your dream) before future competing lady, if any, intercepts it.
Scattered all over the internet and every other places information can lodge in or perch on, even if it’s for a moment barely long enough for me to ask “what exactly is it sef?”, are statistics and supposed facts about humans of my kind (I hope): the XY species with healthy body system. I mean the reproductive system and its major organ, to be near specific.
Some random websites or publications tell me with authority the ridiculously unbelievable number of times I put sex in the front page of my mind; as though they are privy to my thoughts and always alerted on every bulge against my trouser fly. I have no problems with the figures. They’re absolutely free to adjust the rate to as high 30 times per hour, or something close to the safe speed limit of an empty fuel tanker on the expressway. The one thing that I sure won’t be quite comfortable with, however, is a (judgemental) speech on why I shouldn’t think about women, especially now that it’s not one woman but many.
Isn’t it strange that I’m writing this to you without trying to hide the fact that I think about lots of women in a similar way? Please try not to hurl a stiletto or break something for my annoying audacity. Don’t be quick to call me unserious, strongly possessed, flirty… or a to-be polygamist. I’ll tell you why I do the things I do.
There is this young lady I see every night on my way home. It has almost become a duty to always look in her direction, and she never disappoints. She’s always there; eyes well located on a welcoming countenance, wide open to stare right back at me. She’s of average build, slightly fair, well-carved face beautiful enough for me to see in the dark… and a structure that tends towards the eight. She’s blessed, but not so blessed. She’s about two inches from the category “short”. I’m not very tall myself, and I won’t like to be blamed by my offsprings for their inherited “brevity” (“short” is derogatory!). We kept staring, but I’m never going to make the move.
I made a new friend not so long ago. The way she talks is like music to my ears. Momma would always lecture me (as though I’m so dumb not to know these things already) that choosing a bae isn’t totally about beauty, but also about other qualities like intelligence, good nature, and all other things eyes even behind Harry Porter glasses won’t see. She’s got all that too. Irrespective of how you view her—with a magnifying spectacles or discerning church mind plus a touch of wizardry—she screams “hawtt” through and through. You probably know already, but I’d like to explain “hawtt” according to a trusted dictionary. A hawtt lady is one who makes men whistle unconsciously, twist their necks at odd angles, and fall into gutter like dominoes when she passes by. The ma’am, however, is 2.688years (yes, I like figures) older than me. Age is just a number right? Hian! Puhleease! In this circumstance, age is also a bucket of cold water that dilutes all “hawttness”. Yes you guessed right, another no-no.
The stranger-turned-friend from the bus the other night is another great handwork of God. You know what they say about the Creator moulding some creatures with so much attention to detail, interest, and patience on a day likely to be a weekend in heaven? I kid you not. From the way she picks her words, to the disarming smile that reveals her well-spaced gap teeth (this is the part where I’ll hold my head and scream “ojigbi-jigbi!”), down to the other “God-given features” that adorned her here and there (the little the description the better, don’t you think?)… she’s the full package! Nay, I mean she’s almost the full package. I found out about some little things later and ratings took a sharp and disappointing dive into nothingness.
In case you’ve got your analytical game on, trying to establish a trend to arrive at my type of girl, please bae, do not filter by colour. Yellow bus or red BRT, they both transport. Dora is many nautical miles away from fair. She’s a quintessential pretty dark lady Sir Don Jazzy himself would gladly dub the Doro title. But then, Doro is a useless title—and I repeat, a VERY useless title—if the ma’am is so impressive only to the eyes, but with a not-so-desirable attitude (I can almost hear momma’s advice ringing in my ears, again). A crush could be in existence, but it would remain a crush and nothing more. Hopefully, it won’t crush this son of man.
There is also the mulatto on my device’s messenger, and the very responsive cute belle I met on the Badoo I never use. What of the radiating Clara that sparkles all the time from the choir stand? I dare not forget the beautiful almost albino chic beside the confectionery, and the unbelievably “tush” walnut babe (*shudders* What was I thinking? Bae, scratch out the last part, that was a joke). The more I add entries to the list, cutting across boundaries, tribes, colours, heights, ages and temperaments, the more I nail myself to the cross of likely infidelity. I don’t want to make the wrong impression.
So here goes the right impression.
Right now right here, I don’t know who you are bae. In fact, you could be anywhere on the surface of the planet. You could be in Czechoslovakia or France right now (Syria is not your portion IJN); or doing some stuff only you understand in an Indian village somewhere (no offence); or even close to home hanging out with a boyfriend (a boyfriend you’ll have to break up with soon by the way) some few miles away from here. What I know and sure of is that I want the best; an outstanding woman I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life with. I picture you at every attempt I get, bringing up images of the lot of things that thrill me in a woman.
Is it now a crime to think of you? Will it be so difficult to understand how all these ladies get into my head any time I try to think of the perfect you? Is it an offence to picture you with the eyes of Kemi, amazing “wicked” structure of Tola (jcheesox!), the radiance of Clara, disarming gap-toothed smile of Lara, the pretty cool finesse of Sandra… bla, bla and more bla? Believe me, I’ve considered this a problem and tried so much to find a remedy, but I’m not doing so well at achieving the desired result.
A friend once told me I shouldn’t bother looking for the perfect one—since I won’t even find her—but rather, find one I’ll be perfect with. Besides, I’m also not even close to perfect. She implied that I shouldn’t center my idea of perfection on the stuffs I read in books or see on the big screens (you know the sharp bright eyes, firm jaw, curvy this, supple that thinggies), but rather face the plain reality. She said a lot of sensible things, but it didn’t change much. Not yet. Perhaps I’ve got a very weird and rare strain of perfectionism affecting me. Perhaps I need the service of very good and experienced shrinks (I fear one would turn out to be inadequate).
Getting to you eventually depends on this; I’m sure you have your own flaws too. Perhaps I’ve found you already, but putting you in a no-no zone because of a little “but”; flaw(s) I have as well.
I’ll try harder to get better and come for you (definitely not on a horse nor in a shiny armour; preferably in an S-Class Benz), but while I do that, try not to listen to that guy sending you messages, calling you angel as though you’ve got the halo and wings, and bombarding you with pseudo-affection. We know what he wants, and NO, we… no, I mean you, are not giving it to him. He won’t like that, yes, but friend zone doesn’t kill… it makes one stronger. (Unknown author)
I know I’ve got no right or say now, just try and consider the advice.
I’ll anticipate a reply, if by any weird but fortunate means you get this.
Imperfect Future Hubby
I am @jossef69 on twitter
Would you like to share this?
Let your friends read too.
It’s just a click away↓
Many times we grumble and trail the path of depondency when it’s time to show our gratitudes to the most gracious One.
“Why should I?”, we silently ask from within.
“He claims to love me as my creator and father, yet He neglects me in almost everything that matters. I am still jobless and broke; I am not as smart as my peers despite my efforts; I am still a failure in all my endeavours; I am still without child despite my prayers and faithfulness; I am still this-, He has failed me in that. . .”
And while we complain, we wield our devices even though they’re not as smart as we wanted; scroll endlessly amidst our wandering thoughts, and then stumble upon words. Deep words that say it all.
“RIP dear brother. You gave no clue you’re leaving soon.”
“I can’t believe you’re gone pal. You have the best heart. This isn’t fair! Rest in peace.”
“We lost a gem. A rare gem! Sleep on Sister.”
Touching grieve laden words upon the passing of dear friends, employed and rich individuals, smart minds, epitomes of success, quintessences of fruitfulness, wonderful people who were this- and had not been failed in that. . .
And right at that moment, we understand the deep meaning of every happy birthday; the value of every breath; the significance of every heart beat. The greatest thing of all that ranks highest perpetually.
Life. Being alive.
Yes we may not have all we desire and deserve (yet), what about the ones we have but do not deserve?
What about life?
The one thing that holds us in place, ministering hope and whispering songs of a better tomorrow.
He who starves today but alive may feast on games greater than elephants tomorrow.
A crash piece inspired by a random facebook post of a grieving heart.
Commiseration to all who lost a gem.
Happy Birthday To Celebrants
May Your Days Be Long;
In Good Health And Prosperity
Señor Joe Loves You TamTam
I rarely believe in myths, but it could be fun often times; especially when it doesn’t hurt to try. It was the eve of my birthday and for some reasons unknown I looked up to the sky just when a meteor was having its free fall. It was indeed a cool sight!
As if on auto, I made a wish while the sight lasted (it is said that a wish made at that moment will come true), though I also made fun of myself thereafter for being superstitious. The rest came out while I was alone in my bed and it was a briefly long one.
Here it goes:
I wanna be a billionaire
Buy all the things I never had
Tons beyond McCoy and Bruno’s
They left out a vac’ in Mars
Many times I’ve said things;
“I don’t cherish fame as such”
“I hate attention and gaze upon me”
As cynosure of all eyes
Am I kidding?
No, those were just lies
Yes I want to fly and do it high
To soar and glide past the horizon
Desire burning with passion
Fiercer than the red hot coal I know
The penchant to be celebrated
Much crave to make exploits
Greater than Balboa’s
The longing to be the bright beam
Illuminating the gloomy paths
A panacea to the confused
Philanthropist to the needy
Inspiration to the discouraged
With integrity held up high
All these I desire
Call me a dreamer I least care
I aspire to shine beyond mere glimmer
Doing my best to get to the crest
Ora et laboura etched on chest
My direction to greatness obscure
I’m sure the Greatest sees all
On Him I put the rest
Today is a bright day
Tomorrow will be brighter
Brighter and better than a shooting star
Theatre blasting “Jaiye Jaiye” at 85decibels….
Don’t mind the rants.
Just a bit of my randomness.
It’s my birthday.
Wish me well.
God bless Nigeria @ 53.