₦airaland Forum

Sunday was Father's Day. I attended The Redeemed church. My wife's church. I am not a member, I attend another.

It was a special Sunday for the fathers; my wife wanted me to come along. It was a big church of about 700 worshippers.

Well, that's not the reason why I'm sharing this...the reason is, immediately after the sermon. There was a special program organized for the Men.

Willing fathers who could do something extra ordinary presentation were told to come out to the podium.. Like a talent showcase.

Few men came out while they get cheered up, my wife urged me to join too. I did.

I was about to climb the stairs then get in the podium when I fell like a baby.
Oh! It was a bad fall. I don't understand why I fell in such manner.

I had once faced almost 3000 seated congregation, I have anchored a program of over 1000 graduates too in YDi

I'm not new to it; so there wasn't a way I would have entertain fear or fright.

I had bruises on my knees and members seated in front ran to pick me up as my wife came looking at me almost with a teary face.

She decided to lead me out of the Auditorium but I refused to go away.
Few gentle men told me to go, treat myself and be okay.
I said "No" my wife said "seriously?"

I went up with the aid of the moderator As I waited for my turn.

Some Fathers are wonderful. They all gave a beautiful presentation and at a point I was wondering if there is a need to give my presentation.

Finally it got to me, I was the last to present.

I took the mic: I said, "I will be reciting the memory verse..."

Some went gurgling and purling..

Then I started. I started from the book of Luke chapter 14: 1-34;
They thought that was all as they applaud.
I started 15: 1-32 finished it. I started 16:1- 31 at a point my eyes were closed.

I haven't finished yet when every single member in that Auditorium stood on their feet.

It was overwhelming..
My wife was just there standing and in Awe.

I learnt to recite that far back from my secondary school El crystal star college.
I was surprised those chapters never went away.

I felt proud.

I'm sharing this story because I've come to realized that in life, there are huddles during our struggles to being a better man/woman.
But no matter how many times we fall, all we have to do is.. Pick ourselves up and do even much more than we are capable of.

The scripture says, " for a man will fall 7 (seven) times; he will rise up again"
Proverb 24: 16

Have you fallen during your struggles?
Are you been mocked because you have once failed?
Are you now discouraged? And have given up and not rising again?

Please, your time is now. Pick yourself up as the only one who is capable of being you is 'You'. No one else will!

I got thrice of the reward and there were worshippers who singlehandedly presented me lovelies...

Arise and shine


Culled from Mr. Akeju's collections

The World Cup starts in a few hours.
Some men will watch it in bars with side chicks, and yet scream the referee is cheating!

We sat down to dinner.

Nine of us.

Two couples.

Five singles.

Two of us who were there as singles are actually married.

One of the married singles is a demure looking female with her heart of gold.

Her husband works in Nigeria.

In a multinational oil company.

A well paid engineer.

Supporting his wife and three kids in Canada, while also visiting every other month.

She is a homemaker who spends some of her time taking online courses to obtain a masters degree.

It was a quasi intervention.

To save her from him.

For he had just returned back to Nigeria after his two weeks stay.

A time at which he relaxed with the kids and her.

Made consensual and non-consensual love to her.

And beat her thrice.

One of those times was mercilessly.

She was wearing sunglasses and had a scarf wrapped around her head to hide the bruises.

Two of the singles and myself listened in horror as she recounted her tales of woe.

It was the first time she was opening to her friends concerning the hell hole that was her marriage.

And when she was done there was a deep silence as we tried to reconcile the gentleman we knew with the monster that had been described.

One couple began prescribing prayers.

Another one wanted to physically speak to the husband.

The last single one who was also married but was there without her husband spoke angrily.

"Are you staying there because of money? This is Canada, there is money and housing for abused women. Patapata you will go and work in McDonalds. The kids are in Catholic school and that one is free. My sister, leave him this very minute. In fact go to the cops and show them your injuries. They will seize his PR card and when he comes back to Canada they will arrest him and throw him in jail. If you stay back in that marriage and take being treated as a dog then you deserve it. Over my dead body that any man will raise his hand and hit me. I will destroy that man's life. He is lucky he is not married to me."

She continued ranting.

We continued listening.

Everyone amused at the irony.

For she who was advising so angrily is married to a notorious philanderer, who had actually slept with her own cousin, her nanny and her best friend, in addition to using her as a regular punching bag, yet she is a most dutiful wife with an iron clad marriage.

A situation she pretends is secret and yet is on every lip.

The married single who was being advised looked up at her.

Her aura was a mix of weary irritation and feigned excitement.

Hands clasped together on the table.

"Let's do it together."

"You and who?"

"You and me."

"Me and you?"

She repeated it more to herself.

And when the married single who was being advised nodded.

She exclaimed.

Theatrics.

" Ah! Koseegbe. You want to scatter my marriage? Is it because I am advising you, you want to now be comparing your useless marriage with my own?"

Silence.

She continued.

"Please dress and stay on your lane. Did I complain that my marriage is bad? See me see trouble o. Lackayana with myself. If you do not want advice, why did you call us?"

Toronto.

Culled from Mr. Jude's collections

She, met him while she was in school. Things were tough at home. He, was a business man. They met at a party. He took an interest in her. He started supporting her.

He was married. She had a boyfriend. It was just a friendship. He paid for her project. Assisted with her Youth Service. Was there for her financially and otherwise.

Then one day he made a romantic play for her. She told him gently that she saw him as a father not a lover. That she wanted it to stay platonic.

He agreed. She introduced him to her current boyfriend. And the next.

She complained about her job. She needed him to assist with another. He set up an interview for her. She came to see him for financial help. He obliged and then he told her.

“Friendships are about mutual benefits. I, support you and attend to your needs. I, have needs too. Once in a while, you must attend to such as well, for us to both benefit from this friendship. I ask for “comfort” you say no. Yet, I have been introduced to three boys, by you. Did they not seek “comfort” with you, under the guise of proposed marriage? Did they assist you with a job, rent money, operation fees for your mom and all that? If, this relationship must continue, I must have something to benefit. Otherwise, when next you have a challenge, call the Red Cross!”

She told me he was not a kind man. I told her, I heard!
What can I say?


Culled from Mr. Akeju's collections

She sat right by me.

In the darkness I could feel her height and her girth.

Vertically challenged and expansive.

She smelt unshowered.

But lightly perfumed.

All through the movie, she snivelled two times, never adjusted her sitting position and asked one question.

"The man with the deep voice, is he black?"

I whispered back.

"Yes."

Wondering why she would ask so obvious a question, but then quickly reasoned that the man's fair skin could confuse people.

We continued watching.

It was a rollercoaster ride of powerful emotions, thrilling action sequences and spell binding acting.

Finally the movie ended and the lights came on.

As I made to stand up.

She announced.

"That was a beautiful movie. The score was haunting. Very emotional too. I heard it is a true life story. Right?"

"Yes. It is. They wrote that at the beginning."

"And what did they write at the end?"

Once again I was taken aback, asking myself why she asked questions she could easily have the answers to.

Then I caught myself in time, lest irritation sets in.

Maybe she wore glasses and forgot them, so couldn't make out the words.

I looked down at her.

She had her head cocked at an untoward angle.

Facing me, but not actually facing me.

And her eyes were hidden behind jet black sunglasses, while her hands held steadfastly to a cane that was standing between her legs.

My heart broke.

And I sat back down.

Sharing with her, what she did not see, while she shared with me, what I did not hear.

When I helped her into the taxi, an hour and some later.

There were tears in my eyes and a new kind of appreciation in my heart.

Life is unconditionally beautiful only to those who are forever thankful.

Toronto.

From Mr. Jude's collections

He was austere.

Kept to himself.

Eyes that never roamed.

We were proud to say that unlike our uncles and our neighbours.

Who were always embroiled in one scandal of infidelity.

Ours bestrode life like a saint.

And my uncles and aunt's would say.

"Don't boast yet, wait till his funeral. Men like this always have women pop up during their funeral with children claiming paternity."

He died.

We buried him.

No one popped up.

I want to be like him.

But it is hard.

From whom did I inherit these eyes that rove.

And this loins.

This goddamn fiery loins!

Not from my mother.

She is even more saint like.

One who would always say.

As I sowed wild oats in my youth.

"Jude, you will get tired of all this sex. And when that time comes what will you have to keep you engaged if you don't focus on your books and make something out of your life?"

It could have been my great, grandfather.

On the maternal side.

The father of the father of my father's mother.

I heard he was tall.

Statuesque.

Rippled with muscles.

Fine like a human god.

Measured in speech.

Dreadlocked.

With a perfect set of white teeth.

His body count was unquantifiable.

A tree logger.

Mostly bare chested, with tight khaki pants and boots.

Who fell gigantic trees in the forests around Udo.

As easily and swiftly as he fell the women who caught his eyes.

He married late.

And even then.

When women walked by him, they always sighed.

and whispered.

"Hmmmmmm."

Cos no one could pretend not to see the bulge that was housed between his lower limbs.

That bulge that made him walk with the confident sway of a predator.

And a smile that was hypnotic even as it was promising.

And gave him that nickname.

Which when loosely translated from Edo to English.

Reads.

"The Charming Soul snatcher."

For it was the lore that anyone who slept with him could never be satisfied by any other man.

Interestingly he had no children out of wedlock.

Because as the lore went, no one could bring him to climax and thus his stamina was legendary.

And many a woman, from as far as Opobo and Ijebu Ode, Nupe land and the Cameroon Mountains fell for the challenge and lost.

Hence he married the only lady who finally achieved the feat and remained devoted to her for the rest of his life, mind, body and soul.

A slim, fair skinned, nubile woman from Owo.

Who lore spoke of being mute.

Whose first words were uttered in an intelligible scream when she achieved her first orgasm on him.

Twelve children blessed their blissful union.

And even then.

The lore continued to speak of the moans and screams that would rent the silent nights even into their late eighties.

What ancestry!

I wish I had the skills he had.

But alas.

Here I am.

With eyes that rove.

Loins on fire.

Bereft of the skills I desire.

Yet, striving to emulate saintly parents.

And failing.

Repeatedly.

One day soon.

We will be able to pick the genes we choose to give to our offsprings.

And they would be able to tweak, swap, discard or enhance their genes as they grow into maturity.

Until then.

Life remains hard.

Toronto.

From Mr. Jude's collections

My friend had his first meal yesterday at around 1.34 a.m. today.

He is fasting.

Ramadan.

I had the meal with him upstairs in a quaint restaurant in Toronto.

7 West.

3 of us.

He had a tiny plain goat cheese and olives pizza and light lentil soup.

I had Moroccan chili and pita bread.

My other friend had poutine and pulled pork.

We all had water.

We talked.

He told us about the meaning of his fasting.

"... fasting for me above the dictates of Islam, is an opportunity to feed the poor and feel the poor. I feed the poor in whichever way I can, and I experience the feeling of what it means not to have the ability to feed. What it means to not know when or how your next meal is coming. To live life constantly hungry. It is a humbling experience."

His eyes misted over as though the mere thought of poor hungry people was itself a physical pain he could feel.

Then he continued.

" It is also a period for me to re-energise my body. When you fast you detox and you force your body to tap into the recess of stored energy it keeps unused. That energy if not used, becomes poison in the body. We give the body too much energy through the constant excess food we eat and we do not give it enough time or outlets to burn the energy. We do not walk but ride cars, buses, trains. I walk alot and ride by bicyle everywhere. All that unspent energy forms a barrier between the spirit and the flesh. It dulls the spirit but strenghtens the flesh, so much strength that after a while the flesh turns against itself and diseases begin, while the spirit goes dull and duller until it simply goes into a coma."

He leaned forward for emphasis.

"Jude, in fact during Ramadan is when I have my most energy. My body literally comes alive. I know other muslims have huge feasts for Iftar. I am not saying it is bad, but not me. It is not a period to reward my body for having not eaten in 12 to 15 hours, instead it is a period of giving it just enough to carry on. Just enough protein and oils. A simple avocado and warm water is enough for that. The oil it has is good for your joint and your system. But now I have to eat this because I am outside at this time and not at home. But I will walk home to burn this off. It is like that for me. All that waking up in the morning to eat and then sleep is just not good for my body. I wake up, I pray and I get on with my day. No food to help me with hunger during the day. I encourage my body to be like a fountain of energy that cannot be quenched. When I break fast, I do it simple. Olives or an orange and warm water. I do not reward it for bearing the hunger, I just give it enough source of energy to carry on. It is a mind thing. You connect your mind to your stomach in a positive way. You don't think food, you instead thing life, love, sacrifice, charity and tolerance and you will be amazed at how your mind will not get any messages of hunger from your stomach."

Then he leaned back.

"I am fifty years old."

We both gasped in shock.

He looked at us with a thirty something year old smile that oozed out of his youthful body.

"People are always surprised when I tell them my age. They ask me, how do you look so young? You gym? You eat healthy foods? You do this, you do that. I tell them. I live right. My spirit is activated. I am connected to my God. Every single time. Every single moment is spent living according to what I believe he wants from me. Action. Love. Give. Show. Share. Care. Help. Contribute. Tolerate. Educate. Enlighten. Empower. Inspire. Be an example. Focus on the good in every situation. That is my food. That is my gym. That is the supplements I take."

You could feel the power of his energy embrace you.

He continued as he pointed to the poutine and pulled pork my other friend was eating.

"You see, your eating your meal which has pork on the same table I am having my iftar would be haram to some muslims. They will feel insulted. But for me. No. Your being here to share Iftar with me is about love and tolerance. You are acknowledging me for being me. You are celebrating me and my beliefs. You are not trying to change me to be you by stopping me from being me, why then should I be upset that you are being you? You are the one having the pork not me. It is not sacrilegious to you. You have a right to be you as long as you are not telling me to eat the pork with you. So I take that love you have offered me and I give you love back and in doing that we activate the positive energy that God has put in every one of us. That activation is what creates a greater bonding and human hood. You and I different in the way we see and worship God, but the same in how He sees us and loves us, since He sees the love that is in us for one another and because He does so, He makes us one. Just as He created us. One. This is part of why I fast. For opportunities like this, to share not the rites and rituals, the rules and the laws, condemnation and judgement, exclusivity and privilege but instead the reason for it all, love. To say, brother and sister, I deprive the flesh so that I can hear the spirit. And what I hear my spirit says to me is that it is better to love than to judge, to give than to take, to share than to keep, to welcome than to turn away, to respect than to condemn, to be together than to stand apart, to be many in one than to be one in many."

There was silence.

For a while.

As his words massaged us.

Then he whispered.

His eyes alive.

"Allah loves you as you are, nothwithstanding your failings and so do I, nothwithstanding my failings."

Toronto.

From Mr. Jude's collections