Monday, April 15, 2024
Comments-[ comments.]Sunday, March 17, 2024
Sometimes I whine slow, sometimes I whine quick
Hola peeps.
Happy St Paddy’s Day. Trying my utmost to ensure I blog every
month. February’s already gone so I gotta make up with two blogs this month.
Wish me luck. Geddit? Luck? Luck of the Irish? St Paddy’s Day? Oh, I give
up.
Speaking of luck, I am definitely running in the Paris marathon
on April 7th and hoping to place better, rather, finish better, than
I did last year. Thus, since I returned to Juba three Fridays ago, I have run
3-4 times a week, ensuring to do a 21km run at least once a week. Last week, I
did my usual 21km run on Friday, then another half-marathon the next day, March
9th, to coincide with an International Women’s Day celebration. Been
soaking feet in Epsom Salt post runs and that stuff is magical, in terms of pain
relief. Saying that though, I went to Aminarrggggh after the run last Saturday.
The thang about her is never letting on to the part of anatomy that hurts because
she’ll focus on that part until you hear your ancestors calling you home. This
time, she worked on the arched part on soles so much that I felt poop was gonna
come out of an orifice, and there’s no guarantee it woulda been from butt.
Speaking of poop, I ain’t sure if I am inadvertently sealing my butthole
with scale from the bidet hose. You see, the water in my Juba apartment is so hard
it routinely blocks off holes in the showerhead. It was the same reason I was
forced to purchase a new steamer as previous one malfunctioned from the vents
being obstructed from scaling. The telltale signs of white dust were impossible
to miss.
Speaking of telltale signs, I invested in about ten pairs of
underwear recently after I noticed erstwhile ones kept slipping down waist.
Nope, I hadn’t lost weight in the decade or so since I first bought some of
them. An in-depth jejune investigation revealed this was caused from
having them around ankles while I pooped. Yup, it took slack drawers to prompt
a replacement, not the holes or discoloration in the crotch area.
Speaking of discoloration, my recent excrement has had a tinge
of purple in them because of beetroot I have been consuming. Weirdest thang
about it is purple patch only seems to appear on the tips of poop droppings,
kinda like dyeing the edges of hair. If I was more eccentric (read: so wealthy
peeps would nod approvingly to everything I say/do, a la money-miss-road
Elon Musk) I would exhibit various photos of my poop just to see how much
sycophants would pay for them.
Speaking of intimate details of one’s life, I fear my work
colleagues may have seen me in the nude. On Thursday February 29th,
I joined a company-wide Zoom presentation while I readied to jump in the shower
ahead of the arrival of a business guest. I am sure I ensured the video and
sound were off before the presentation commenced. I am at least 70% sure I
checked and checked again because I have had near misses in the past, like time
boss called my phone during a virtual meeting to inform me that video on iPad was
on while I was changing for the gym. Then, I was only topless, so it didn’t
bother me much.
In the recent case of Zoom discrepancy though, I mulled over it
for over a week. I am still embarrassed as I write this. I have purposely avoided
contacting colleague who alerted me to my indecent exposure. Don’t wanna know
if lower part of body was there for all 200+ of my colleagues to see. Ignorance
is bliss in this case.
Again, like my arrest in January, I tried to find the positives
from the incident. Well, at least I wasn’t pooping with the video on…..at
least it wasn’t like former supervisor in the UK who was heard having intercourse
by her brother when she didn’t hang up her landline properly….or comedian Greg Davies. It still wrangles though.
Now, when I am on a call I check and recheck that video is off and mute button
is on. Obtw, the presentation was recorded, so I am praying the administrator’s
deleted it and that it never comes back to haunt me when I run for political
office.
Speaking of offices, you won’t be surprised to hear partners
have done diddly to former colleague J.S. who got me arrested. Although I
received an apology from the company MD, he chose the easiest way out by
setting up a disciplinary committee to investigate the joker’s actions. Even at
that, J.S. kept threatening to re-arrest me if he wasn’t paid monies deducted
for non-performance, circa $19k. I conveyed this to the MD and the board of
directors, yet diddly was done. Eventually, the legal representative suggested
we pay him to enable me travel.
After being paid, the lawyer provided evidence to the public
prosecutor that J.S. had been paid and an order was issued – written in Arabic
- confirming this. Fast forward a week later to Friday February 2nd:
I arrived at the airport early enough for my flight to Nairobi, where I would
take a connecting flight to Lagos for a weeklong work event. I said the usual
hellos to airport staff, dropped off bags and headed to the immigration line.
It was de ja vu all over again when I was pulled aside after passport
was scanned. The same immigration police officer that J.S. got to arrest me in
January came over with a smug look on his face. I asked what the issue was, he
said the outstanding case against me hadn’t been resolved. I showed him the court
document, and he said he doesn’t trust anything emanating from South Sudanese
courts. U what? He insisted I would need to contact my former colleague
to come to the airport and assure him of the case’s resolution. What if the
dude refuses to come, or has travelled, or is dead, am I supposed to be prevented
from leaving the country as a result? “Yup”, he said.
I contacted the lawyer, who rushed to the airport. He and the
officer had a heated exchange in Arabic that went on for a while. During the
lull in the back-and-forth, the policeman said I’d need to give him some money.
I responded that he wouldn’t receive squat and loudly said if I missed my
flight any re-booking cost would come from him. At this point he stormed away
while the lawyer tried to placate him. I had had enough. I contacted the guys
at the Nigeria embassy who arrived at the airport in quick time. That’s the
advantage of Juba: one can pretty much get anywhere centrally within 15
minutes. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that all this while the lawyer had
contacted J.S. and pleaded with him to come to the airport. Dude replied that
he wasn’t mobile and requested that lawyer send the company car to pick him up.
I warned my colleagues against that. I was determined to see this to the end.
Long story short, the lawyer went to the head of police at the
airport, and I was handed my travel documents just as the Nairobi flight was
boarding. Meanwhile, the police officer kept mouthing at me, threatening to have
me deported for not according him due respect. Whatevs. The lawyer
assured me that all was now resolved. If only.
With the unfortunate wardrobe malfunction incident still occupying
prime real estate in my head, I got on a flight to Nairobi that evening and arrived
in Juba at 2pm on March 1st after a 6-hr layover in Nairobi. I was
first off the plane, but didn’t depart the airport until almost 5pm because
like a bad rash the police officer was back spouting fire and brimstone and
threatening to deport me after my passport was flagged. Again, he insisted the
case hadn’t been resolved, again I called my lawyer, again we went through the
song and dance of going to the head of airport police. This time, though, I was
made to fill a form (in English) with a portion left blank for my joker of a former
colleague to complete. I also received an apology from the head of police, who
assured me there would be no more harassment. The deporter-in-chief even managed
to smile.
On our way to the car, the lawyer explained to me that since I
departed Juba a month before, J.S. had not visited the airport because he didn’t
wanna pay the officers he had arrest me. He promised to ensure my name would be
removed from the no-fly list by forcing him to show up at the airport. That was
over 2 weeks ago. As I type the lawyer has tried everything and even went as
far as returning to the airport police to complain that J.S. has refused to
pick up his calls. Their response? File a case against J.S., serve him a
petition, and get him arrested. How is he to be served since he ain’t picking
up his calls? Amazing how anything gets done if bureaucracy is this staunch.
The lawyer spent 2hrs last Tuesday making the same arguments to
the airport police chief I made last month. What if the dude’s indisposed, does
that mean I cannot leave the country? They didn’t budge. Last thing I wanna do
is file a grievance against a South Sudanese because I know it would get misinterpreted.
On Thursday, the lawyer obtained a signed statement – in English - from the
investigating officer at the police station I was jailed at confirming the case
is resolved. Then, he approached the head of HR at the partner company
threatening to get J.S. arrested if he doesn’t convince him to get my name
cleared at the airport. Let’s see what this week holds. Interesting times, huh?
Hopefully, it’s resolved before my trip to the Paris marathon.
Speaking of the Paris marathon, my pal Tonny who ran the
marathon with me last year has backed out because of a persistent leg injury.
Poor dude. Meanwhile, it has been hard to run in Juba because of the intense
heat (41-45°C). I doubt it’s ever been this hot in my 9 years here. It’s so bad
the Ministry of Health released a circular yesterday for all schools to be shut
down from tomorrow. It’s so bad that pastors don’t bother preaching anymore;
their services now consist of singing songs outside for 10 mins, then advancing
a standard statement along the lines of, if you think it’s hot now….,
before shutting down the service.
Speaking of shutting down, I need to stop acquiescing to
requests for money. Man, every stop at the Murtala Mohammed International
Airport (MMIA) is like a toll. There’s the policewoman who kept calling me Osimhen
as I got outta the Uber because I had a Nigerian football jersey on; the NDLEA
and Customs folk who use the pretense of searching luggage – even though every
bag is scanned on entry - as a scheme to solicit funds; the guy who chooses to check boarding
passes, even though there’s an automatic gate that opens upon scanning one’s boarding
pass; the immigration folk; the airline folk who check one’s luggage just
before boarding; the cleaners moseying about; the lounge staff; etc. It’s just
as ridiculous coming in: the immigration folk, again; the otiose lady – it’s
always a lady - who receives cash before issuing luggage trolleys and always
tries to get one over passengers, well, me; again, the faux dance by NDLEA and
Customs folk on searching luggage.
I know what to expect by now, but I keep falling for it outta
sheer pity that their wages can’t go far with the state of the Nigerian
economy. Nah, that can’t be it, because I have been doing this forever. It’s
because I am a soft touch, that’s what. You know how I said I used to feel
obligated into purchasing stuff from shops anytime a sales assistant offered to
help? I thought I had overcome that until my recent trip to the UK proved me
wrong. While whiling away time at Doha airport until boarding the flight to London,
I ended up buying an expensive pair of brown loafers for that very reason. Maybe
I am improving because unlike during uni days, I was in the market for a pair
of brown loafers.
Speaking of loafers, I have surprised myself by refusing to send
money to a high school mate who constantly requests assistance. At the end of
last year, I decided to no longer budge, and I have kept to it. I think what has
helped is that at the beginning of the year I paid off usual monthly expenses a
year in advance. Yup, I saved up money and gave mom a lump sum to cover her
monthly upkeep for 2024, same for kickboxing class, calisthenics class, and charity
contributions. Now I know any incoming funds are strictly for necessities and investment.
Well, my daughter’s requests are the exception.
Speaking of the love of my life, this was the second visit in a
row I was able to take her out unsupervised. Yup. Whatever happened to the ex
to make her comfortable enough to finally realize having some one-on-one
daddy-daughter time wouldn’t presage the apocalypse, long may it continue. You
shoulda seen the look on my face last August when we met at the designated
venue and she said I’d call her to pick up my daughter when we were done, and
she drove away. After Google assured me that hidden camera shows had gone the
way of the Mexican wave and had long since been de rigueur, I settled
down to a game of mini golf with my daughter. Afterwards, we went for a pizza
and the poor girl kept glancing towards the exit expecting her mom to show up. To
be honest, so was I. It wasn’t until we were done with dessert she showed up. Taking
a cautious step forward, I suggested taking our daughter to see The Lion
King musical in the theatre and the ex acquiesced. U what? Man, I
shoulda played the lottery that week. She thoroughly enjoyed the musical and
made me buy her loadsa merch afterwards. Okay, I was the one who insisted. Arrest
me. Well, that’s already been done so…..
Anyhoo, during my UK trip last month my daughter and I spent our
first visit watching Migration, then hanging out at an arcade, where she
beat me at air hockey. The next weekend, I took her to see Wicked – it was
probably my 4th viewing – then, like after The Lion King, I treated her
to a steak dinner. Our conversations on FaceTime are still stilted, but I don’t
fret about it anymore. Obtw, she finally got to meet her godfather Miguel, who briefly
joined us for dinner as he was visiting his wife in the UK then. Yup, Miguel
finally found someone to take on his sorry self.
Speaking of sorry traits, I finally completed An Immense
World and am now finally reading a book I purchased in April 2009, Critical Mass. What greatly
helped was a discussion with a friend who gave me his hack of reading ten pages
of a book daily; five pages in the morning and five pages in the evening before
bed. Since most books he reads have an average length of 300 pages, he can
complete twelve books a year. That reminds me, I haven’t read my ten pages
today.
Tot ziens and God bless.
Monday, January 22, 2024
A short hop to freedom (aka Straight Outta Juba)
Hola peeps.
Welcome to 2024. I won’t make any promises about the frequency
of my blog entries this year, but I am confident it will be better than 2023’s.
You see, the problem with last year was not for a lack of stuff to write about,
it was plain otiosity. I have been working on myself to curb procrastination,
and though it’s early days the results have been good.
Now, I no longer bother myself at the end of the workday if
uncompleted tasks are greater than they were at the start of the day. Once I am
convinced I wasn’t whiling away for most of the day, I cut myself slack and
prepare for the next day. For example, it’s currently 1722hrs (Juba time) on
Sunday January 21st. By now I shoulda published this blog entry and
commenced my 10-page minimum read of An Immense World . I was done shaving, after calisthenics and kickboxing classes, by 11am, but
chose to swim and lie in the sun for a bit instead of immediately diving into
writing this blog. Why? ‘Ços. I enjoyed lounging by the pool so much I might
make it part of my Sunday morning regimen. Greatly helps that church in Juba
decided upon Saturday evening services this year, ‘cos I used to feel awful for
falling asleep during Sunday morning services. But seriously, what did I expect
after two consecutive sessions of calisthenics and kickboxing separated by an
hour of rest before church? Told y’all I have been working on myself.
How’s your 2024 been so far? Any goals set? Any goals already
accomplished? I reckon all signs are pointed towards my involvement in the
music industry in 2024. For the past 2 days I have been struggling through a
bad cough that’s made my voice sound like a cross between Darth Vader and
Optimus Prime. While searching YouTube for more fallouts from the Katt
Williiams’ interview with Shannon Sharpe, I happened upon a collection of Barry
White’s greatest hits and realized I’d make a passable impersonation of his
singing voice and release posthumous recordings that keep the conspiracy
theorists guessing about his death, a la Tupac shouting out present-day rappers
in songs released decades after his death.
Another sure sign that I am pursuing the music route was time I
spent in a Juba jail on Monday January 15th, 2024. If that ain’t
sufficient street cred in the 90s to oughts gangsta rap genre I don’t know what
is.
You know how as a kid you would marvel at how a movie’s
protagonist – picture Bruce Willis in Die Hard – would always keep his
sense of humour in the most dangerous of scenarios, and wonder if you’d do the
same in similar circumstances? Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to inform you
your childhood selves can now live vicariously through me.
Last Monday, I flew in on the morning flight from Nairobi and was
the first person in immigration line. Perks of business class travel, baby!!!
As I am desperately short on passport pages, I greeted the immigration officer
with the widest smile possible and pleaded with her to find a spot on a semi-filled
passport page for the entry stamp. She obliged. As I attempted to walk towards
luggage carousel after hand luggage was searched, she called me back and
requested for passport. Passport was handed to her supervisor, who directed me
to a waiting room.
My first thought was that she had noticed I had fewer than six empty
passport pages, so would be subject to a $50 fine, as I have heard being applied
to others in the past. While calculating how much I would have to fork over over
the coming months until I can get a new passport in Nigeria, I was summoned to
the back of the airport that housed the police station. Okay, what’s going
on? The officer in charge asked if I knew a J.S. (name withheld to
protect the very guilty), and that’s when I kinda, sorta figured what might
be up…..
Gotta call for an intermission here to go brush teeth. I just
realized I didn’t brush my teeth this morning as I hurried to calisthenics
class. I stayed up last night watching the NFL playoffs and snoozed 6am alarm
when it went off. Startled up when it dawned on me I had less than 10 minutes
to make a 12-minute drive. This is redolent of other time I was late for
kickboxing class and only figured I didn’t wear underwear under teeny weeny Muy Thai shorts when I got to class. My normally weak roundhouse kicks were even feebler to
avoid exposing my balls to all and sundry. Brb….
Sorry, I took longer than planned. Had to microwave peppered
guineafowl I brought along from Lagos. To be honest, one of my foremost
concerns after I was transported to the police station directly from the
airport was if the thawed peppered bird in luggage would still be edible.
Priorities, eh?
First, some background on J.S.: My South Sudanese partners have
certain management positions that are assigned to them based on the MOU. J.S.
was seconded to one of these roles back in 2022. Sadly, sometimes these roles
are not decided on merit and that appeared to be the case with J.S.
“Incompetent” would not quite describe how dire this dude was. He hardly showed
up for work and never did the barest minimum, even when we paid a consultant to
train him. Once I realized what I was up against, I made formal complaints to
the partners several times until he was finally replaced last month. Always
wondered why his fellow indigenous colleagues never cautioned him or spoke
about his shortcomings to his face. Now I know. Had heard something about his
in-laws being zol kebir, but that never bothered me. All I wanted from
the dude was to carry out the tasks he was paid to do. I never paid mind to his
direct and indirect threats over the years until I was shown an arrest warrant
at the airport. Charges? Unpaid wages amounting to $44,000. I wish I was
kidding.
After my passport was seized, I directed my deputy (also from
the South Sudan partners) to inform his CEO of my predicament. I was arrested
at the airport at 745am and released nearly 11 hours later without any
representative from the partners showing up. Towards the end of last year, for
the first time ever, I started mulling how much longer I could live in South
Sudan. With the protracted project delays and staff issues, I felt it was time
for a change. The lack of support shown by my partners last week has sealed my
decision. I was reminded that that though I have spent almost a decade in this
place, I would always be regarded as a foreigner and treated as such. No way a
South Sudanese would have been arrested and jailed under false pretenses
without evidence. Okay, enough of my Academy Award-nominated soliloquy. Here's
a play-by-play account of what is bound to be the most intriguing chapter in my
autobiography….
By the time I was informed of the arrest warrant issued against
me, my junior colleague had arrived at the airport to pick me up. I directed
him to the police station from the airport car park. Once he arrived, he, the
police officer in charge, and J.S. conversed in Arabic for circa 10 minutes. I
was told I had to go to the police station for my statement to be taken, and
then I would be released while J.S.’s claim is investigated. If only it was
that simple.
Informed my company’s
legal adviser to meet us at the station, but he didn’t show up until almost an
hour later. Not that it would have mattered though, ‘cos after he arrived he
had to let the police complete their “process”. The start of this process
involved my sitting on the floor, crouched in the middle of three lines with
other inmates. Yup, this is the tried and tested guilty-until-proven-innocent course
that one never sees on Law and Order. Wait, I skipped a step. As soon as
I got to the police station, my name was taken down, and I was told to hand my
belongings to my junior colleague before being ushered towards the cells. Huh?
What happened to being released after statement is taken?! By the way, you
haven’t lived until multiple persons attempt to write your full Yoruba name in
Arabic. It was hilarious.
Turns out I arrived at
the station in time for the roll call of prisoners, hence, the aforementioned
butt on floor experience. With all inmates crouched closely together, once
one’s name is called, one motions, gets up and heads towards the cells; while
others seated on the floor bunch up closer to occupy space left by the guy
called up. This lasted for about an hour, once you consider that female
prisoners were also part of the roll call. While on the floor I kept telling
God I didn’t wanna be sent to the cells. I thought my prayers were answered
once I sighted the lawyer. As if.
Once everyone else was
called, I was summoned, and my name taken down in two separate books. Again,
you had to be there.
Police offer 1: Isim munu?
Me: Babatunde
Police offer 2:
Ba-ba-tun-dwe?
Me: Babatunde.
B-a-b-a-t-u-n-d-e
I notice both officers spell
my name differently in Arabic. Gave up trying to correct them.
While on the floor a guy seated to my left asked me what I was
in for. Told him a disgruntled former employee made up a false charge against
me for unpaid wages. He wondered why I was arrested since this was not a
criminal matter but a civil one. Told me he was being held for something
similar, but the claimant wants $200,000. Yikes. As I was being directed behind
the counter and towards the cells, I spotted this dude and asked him to show me
the ropes. I observed him squeezing cash into the palm of a policeman and he
said I would need to hand over something to avoid getting put in the “bad
cell”, i.e., the cell on the left with violent criminals. Told him my wallet
was with my colleague and promised to reimburse him if he pays my way. Within a
minute of this conversation, they instruct us to move into the cells, and that’s
when I start hyperventilating. Probably caused by low blood sugar. I got
dizzy and nauseous, while sweat poured profusely from top of my head.
The last time this happened was last November, in Lagos, after completing
a 17km walk. I went to the barbers afterwards without hydrating or eating, and
less than 5 minutes in the chair the apron secured around neck started feeling
awfully tight and uncomfortable. Cue the sweats, nauseousness, and doodle
pangs. Weirdly, the time before that that I exhibited similar symptoms was in
January 2023, in the same barber’s chair. That was the start of a serious bout
of food poisoning that took me 3 days to recover from. The symptoms were so bad
I left without completing haircut. I dashed into the car, hurriedly drove
myself home and clenched butt real tight until I let loose in the bedroom
toilet. There was splatter on the floor, the doorknob, everywhere! That’ll
teach me to consume dates bought from a wooden wheelbarrow in Lagos without
washing them first.
My jail plug tried to alert the prison officers when he saw me
stagger. The officers offered me some water and fanned me until I
recovered….yeah right. I was forced into the “good cell”, where I tried to
avoid stepping on people lying on the floor. One prisoner instructed me to take
off shoes to avoid soiling the cardboard placed across the floor. I was
directed towards the rightmost corner at the back of the cell, and found myself
beside a guy with cuffed ankles, no shirt and loose-fitting brown shorts. Wasn’t
this supposed to be the cell with non-violent inmates? What is a guy with
shackled feet doing here?!
As I struggled to control my breathing in the hope of reducing
the sweats and not triggering a bout of poop, I recalled that during the
November 2023 incident I sprinted out the barber’s chair, sat on the steps and
calmed down by slowing my breathing as the barber doused water over my head.
Back then, I was able to return to the chair to complete the haircut, and
successfully made the 10-minute walk from the barbers to my apartment without
soiling my pants.
It took 15 to maybe 20 minutes until my breathing got back to
normal. I started taking in my new surroundings, a 8ft by 11ft cell with
fourteen other people. I hear someone being beaten in the “bad cell”. One guy
in my cell tries to observe the action by grabbing hold of the bars across the
2 sq ft window between the cells and lifting himself up. I ignore him, and
concentrate on praying to God to help me forgive J.S. When that didn’t work I
found things to thank God for: the fact that I got arrested on my way into the
country and not on way out, where entire travel plans woulda been scuttled;
that I got arrested on a Monday morning instead of a Friday evening, when I
might have had to spend a weekend in jail before being bailed; that I had
sufficient airtime on phone to contact colleagues; and mostly, that I didn’t
have any doodle pangs.
Speaking of the last part, I remember my last early morning trip
from Nairobi to Juba where I was seated beside a Naija acquaintance who works
for the World Health Organization (WHO). I dunno what I ate the night before ‘cos
my farts were so loose that I would let a silent one out then hope against hope
it didn’t stink. When that failed, I’d scrunch up nose and tilt head from side
to side pretending to be searching for the source of the stench. Ah, such good
times. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled blog topic.
The luckiest guys in my cell were those closest to the cell gate
as they had greater access to air. Some guys stood, while others like me
crouched on the floor so the guys across from them could stretch out their
legs. They would then take turns crouching and stretching. Only the guy with
the ankle cuffs was allowed to stretch unhindered. Pun not intended.
Someone with money would get food or cigarettes delivered and
freely share same with the others. Two guys in the cell paid to have their
phones smuggled in with them and readily allowed others to make calls. It was
all so utopian, if the surroundings weren’t so dire. Every now and then,
someone’s name would get called, the cell gate opened, and they would leave,
only to return later. When an Ethiopian guy returned to the cell he informed me
I’d be called next. The officer came to the cell gate and tried to pronounce my
name. Cue laughter. He ended up signaling for “Nigeria” to come forward. The
name stuck, so much so that after I returned to the cell after my statement was
taken everyone called me Nigeria.
Oh yes, the statement. The officer who pulled me from the cell
to the office where my statement was taken attempted in the little English he
understood to get money off me. By the way, everyone was on the take. The
investigating officer didn’t understand English so summoned an interpreter, who
asked to be compensated before he commenced his job. I assured him he would be
taken care of. I tried as best as possible to explain to the officers that J.S.
was not owed any money, and even if he was, it is the company that should be
held accountable, not me. After about 15 minutes of whatever I said being
hopefully recorded accurately in Arabic, I was asked to sign the statement and
the interpreter escorted me to my lawyer.
The lawyer suggests we pay J.S. the $44,000 he claimed he is
owed. I argue vehemently against that. After some back and forth he and my
deputy convince me that they have agreed with the public prosecutor to deposit
half of that amount with the police as bond to secure my release. Thereafter,
J.S. would meet with my deputy and the lawyer to review his claims. Sounded
good to me. Anything to avoid returning to the cell.
As I am a signatory to the company accounts, I was allowed to
proceed with deputy to the office to approve withdrawal of the funds from the
bank. The police officer that was assigned to accompany us ensured I sat in the
back seat of the car, between my deputy and the lawyer, to prevent my “easy
escape”. Unbelievable. During the short drive from the police station to the
office, I briefed the Nigerian embassy in Juba and my company in Nigeria on my
predicament.
Remember how I told you everyone was on the take? The dude who
escorted us to withdraw the $22,000 requested compensation from my deputy and
the lawyer once we returned to the station. After their appeals to wait until
the matter was resolved fell on deaf ears, they offered him something he
deigned as beneath him, so he stormed off in a huff. This was to come back to
bite us, well, me, ‘cos the police changed their mind on seeing the $22,000 and
requested that $44,450 – the amount J.S. claimed to be owed - be provided as
cash bond instead. Efforts to arrive at a compromise proved abortive, so guess
who shows up to march me to the cell? Mr High and Mighty escort himself. He is
in his element now, raising his voice while forcing me towards the “bad cell”.
I tell him I was previously locked up in the “good cell”, he does not care. He
relishes the opportunity to exact his revenge for my colleagues’ failure to
compensate him adequately for doing the job he is already paid to do.
As I am pushed into the “bad cell” I recall the scream from
earlier of someone being beaten. As I brace myself for this, I try to remember
any kickboxing defensive techniques. I quickly get rid of that thought as
there’s no way I am defending myself against a gazillion guys in a confined
space. This time, my shoes are off before I enter the cell. I can’t make out
any bodies for the first 10 seconds as the place is uber dark. Some guy walks
up to me and starts searching my pockets for money. I assure him I have none.
He then taps me on the head and takes my shoes. I don’t struggle. As he tries
to harass me again, some guy takes my shoes off him, hands them to me and
directs me to the darkest corner of the room. This cell is packed! I barely
have any room to squat. I notice no shackled prisoners, though. No one has a contraband phone, either. I keep
praying for God to help me forgive J.S. Some guy comes around sharing peanuts
with peeps. I tell him I am fine. He convinces me to take some, I politely
decline. He steps away.
Some 20-25 minutes later, Nigeria is summoned to the cell
gate. I struggle to get there. It’s my junior colleague who met me at the
airport. He asks if I need water or anything. I hand him my shoes and tell him
I am okay. As he walks away I realize I might be spending the night here and regret
not requesting for drinking water for the other inmates. While using the
opportunity to get as much air as possible before returning to the back of the
cell, the guy beside me directs his cigarette smoke away from me. He asks for
my name and why I was removed from the good cell. This guy’s probably 10 years
younger than me, but I call him sir. He wants to know more about J.S. Look, at
this point, if he had asked for my ATM PIN I woulda freely offered it.
As I am about to embark on the ballad of how I got put behind
bars, one of the police officers opens the gate, and asks me to sit behind the
counter. After 5 mins I get directed to his boss’s office where my colleagues
and the lawyer are seated. The boss tells us we need to raise the full bond
amount before he closes at 5pm, else he would have no choice but to confine me
until the morning. With an hour left to the deadline and banks closed for the
day, I reached out to everyone I know to help raise the funds. Once we
confirmed we had sufficient funds we asked for a 30-minute extension to have
the cash brought to the police station. He gracefully acquiesced to our
request.
After counting $44,500 in cash, the replacement officer on night
duty insisted on documenting the serial numbers to prevent any accusations of
theft or replacement of genuine notes with fakes. It took a further 10 minutes to
convince him of an alternative. The cash was placed in a sealed, embossed envelope
until the following day, when my deputy and the lawyer witnessed the documenting
of serial numbers of 445 $100 notes. The peak of excitement, surely.
After my deputy agreed to be a surety for me, the officers who
took down his details also requested for “facilitation”. I left the police
station at precisely 1817hrs. Got home, ensured the peppered guineafowl was
still good, and ate a piece without bothering to heat it. Unpacked, showered,
then wrote a long email to my partners detailing how I was falsely arrested by
their staff. I asked for several assurances going forward, but it don’t matter
if they agree to them or not. I am done here.
Tot ziens and God bless.
Tuesday, December 12, 2023
Articles of interest to moi (2023)
Life in the West Bank
Understanding long Covid
The world according to Kissinger
20-20 on Covid pandemic
Israel-Palestine VII
Israel-Palestine VI
Israel-Palestine V
Israel-Palestine IV
Israel-Palestine III
Israel-Palestine conflict II
Israel-Palestine conflict
The quest for superconductors at room temperature
More lessons to learn on inflation
The case for measured sanctions
50 years of HipHop
A different view on tackling inflation
Keys to a successful relationship.....as if I would know
The thankless task of running the Fed
RIP Pastor Timothy Keller
More on Sudan
The Sudan conflict in a nutshell
In praise of Jimmy Carter
1.5 degree to end it all?
Bing just went bonkers
Friday, April 21, 2023
TANYA GRIGGS
Hola peeps.
It’s been 3 weeks since my first ever marathon and the buzz is only
just dying down. I have already signed up for the 2024 Paris marathon and aim
to do same for the Lisbon marathon in October this year. Will def take along my
soigne goodluck outfit of a black sleeveless top and lime green shorts. The
latter of which I bought in the UK to use for kickboxing classes there.
I completed the 42.2km in 4hrs 17mins and 13 secs but I am sure it
coulda been done in 3hrs 30mins, if both hamstrings hadn’t broken down around
km 30. I walked from then to km 40, then ran, well, sorta ran, the last 2km. It
was hard but well rewarding. I chose to breathe through nose mostly when
running and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the cheering crowd, or the sight of
fellow runners, but my usual ailments (knees and index toes) didn’t manifest
themselves at all.
Typically, during long runs my knees start hurting after 15-20
kms, especially the left knee, which is weird as the ACL surgery I had in 2021
was on the right knee. Even worse, my index toes tend to blister and clot after
about 15kms. It’s so bad both index toes are now permanently darkened from the
blood clots. However, when I finished the marathon and took off socks my toes
were untouched. If it’s the crowds that made me push myself and not ail as I
normally would, perhaps I’d have a cheering section in everything I do so I
could excel at it. A cheering section when I blog, so I wouldn’t procrastinate?
One for when I poop, so….nah, I love peace and quiet when I do my business.
Speaking of poop – y’all knew this was coming, right? – I
got this idea to enroll celebrities to act as human civets.
If folk can sell different blends of coffee I don’t see why there cannot be a
human version of kopi luwak, where instant coffee can be coffee beans
excreted by someone with diarrhea and premium coffee could be from someone
a celebrity with serious case of constipation. Wanna tell me folk won’t buy
coffee made from coffee beans that’s fermented through Kim K’s intestines?
Already have a name for the brand…wait for it….Scatter Splatter. I am
freely sharing my ideas with y’all ‘cos I trust y’all and wanna be accountable this
year in getting long-gestating - geddit? - biz ideas off the table,
particularly my tee shirt ones and the rent-a-driver idea from 2005. I believe if
I had properly focused on the latter it coulda evolved into an Uber. Not
gonna let that happen to Scatter Splatter.
So back to the marathon. I was supposed to arrive in Paris the
morning of Friday March 31st, but flight from Nairobi to Paris was
delayed so didn’t get in until about 330pm. Had to spend the night before in
Nairobi so used the opportunity to catch Creed 3. I really wanted to dig the movie,
but apart from Jonathan Majors’s performance the entire movie was a tad…what am
I trying to say here? The script was naff. A paint-by-the-numbers type script
that woulda worked for a Lifetime Channel movie of the week, if the script
writer was dyslexic. Man, it coulda been so much more. Okay back to the
marathon experience….
So, from Charles De Gaule airport, I took a cab directly to the collection
center to pick up my bib and other accoutrements. Then, headed for a fancy
pansy dinner with some friends from the US at Le George at the Four Seasons
Hotel. It was almost midnight before I got back to my hotel.
A confrere I used to run with in Juba, but now based in Addis,
showed up with his wife for the marathon. It was dude’s first marathon as well,
and as he had arrived early on the morning of the 31st he had figured out the
transportation system around our hotel. At his suggestion we embarked on an
even-paced 7km run on Saturday morning, then went into Paris proper for a meal,
well, more like McD’s. When I began running long distances with this guy and
other mates in Juba my prevailing fear had always been having poop cravings without
any nearby loos. Once I overcame that fear the next one became what I would
think about for hours on end, since I don’t listen to music when I run. I
reckon that only stopped being an issue earlier this year. Anyway, I settled on
McD’s primarily ‘cos I didn’t wanna have doodle pangs during the marathon the
next day. Met up with American friends one last time and was back at hotel by
9pm.
Woke up at 140am on Sunday April 2nd, the day of the
marathon, to poop and it was one of those splattery poops I usually get from
consuming dairy or beans. Since all I had the day before was McD’s and some apples,
I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why poop was mostly liquid. Did my
business quickly and had 2 apples before going back to sleep at 2am. Woke up twice
before alarm went off at 630am. Nerves? Maybe. It’s either that or French
apples are laced with dairy, ‘cos I splatter-pooped again at 655am. Hurriedly
emptied my bowels and prayed I’d be good in time to set out from the hotel at
730am. Though my race wasn’t to commence at 950am – I registered with the
contingent intending on completing the race in 4hrs – we left early ‘cos my pal
and a Brazilian lady we met at the hotel registered to complete the race in
3hrs 45mins, so their start time was much earlier at 9am and we had to get
there early.
Arrived at Champs-Elysees about 830am and just about found the
spot for dropping off our bags before we rushed to the starting spot for mate’s
start time. Did I tell y’all it was bloody cold? Glad I chose to go on sh0rt
7km run with mate the day before to get a feel of the weather. If I hadn’t I’da
shown up for the race proper in just a sleeveless top and woulda frozen butt off
before the race kicked off. I ended up donning a short sleeve top underneath the
sleeveless jersey.
The 4-hr crew kicked off our race about 951am and I slowly navigated
my way through runners for the first km at a deliberate slow pace as I normally
do for the first km during runs in Juba. By the 2nd km I had outgunned
the pacesetters and was making good progress. Around km 7 or 8, some Asian guy
came up beside me and asked what my target was. Told him 4hrs, as it was my
first marathon. Dude asked if we could run together ‘cos my pace is good and
his target’s to finish in 3hrs 40mins. “Wow”, I thought to myself. “So, this
guy has noticed I am making good pace and I am not out of breath at all. Hmm,
might to able to complete my first marathon is less than 4 hours after all”. We
lost each other as we went on ‘cos he was a tad faster than me, but his words
cheered me on. I kept passing other runners and looking at their bibs to see
those with 3hr 45mins target times. “Ha. Look at these slow coaches.” Saw some
4-hr folk already walking by km 15. “Sad, sad folk”, I muttered. Even had
enough energy around km 3 to congratulate a runner on his costume. Dude was outfitted
like those creatures in the Avatar movies. I am talking full makeup, complete
with a tail.
About 2 weeks before the race while perusing YouTube for running
hints, I came across a guy that suggested breathing primarily through nose when
running; so I attempted doing that during two 10km runs and a 20km one the week
before the marathon. I did okay, so decided to try it during the marathon. I
was fine and performing well with it, and most importantly, I wasn’t in my
head. I prayed for family, prayed for work colleagues, prayed for African
rulers, hummed songs in my head, thought of jokes and laughed to myself. One
of the memorable signs held by the crowd that cracked me up read something
like, “This is a lot of work for a free banana”. Best of all, knees that
would start hurting right about 20km mark didn’t give any indications. I had
chewable Vitamin C tablets in my pocket in case I needed to suck on something
for energy, and I saved those until about km 25. Good thing I had used that
last 20km run as a marathon recital ‘cos I had nearly choked on a Bounty
mini chocolate bar during the run, so decided I would not eat at all during the
marathon proper.
I usually don’t glance at watch during runs so as not to get in
head, but felt I was making good time in the marathon as there were indicators
at every km. Right about km 30 both my hamstrings gave way. I tried to keep
running, but pain shot through my lower back as well. I stopped running and
started walking like the mere mortals I had scoffed at earlier. “Don’t worry
Tunde, walk for 1km then you can resume running again”. I tried to resume
running at km 31, but my feet wouldn’t move without pain. Right about km 32,
some guy from the crowd patted me on the back to encourage me. That kind
gesture gave me a second wind. At that point I could hear the theme song from the
Rocky movies flood my brain. Yeah, yeah, I could do this! I imagined the
training montage from Rocky IV, that I first saw at Feyi Fasan’s house in
Festac as a 9-year-old. I started running again. Face to face, Out in the
heat, Hanging tough, Staying hungry….It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill
of the fight….after 150m this tiger started getting cross-eyed. I just
couldn’t move my feet. Tried to convince myself to attempt speed-walking like
those guys at the Olympics I always made fun of. I couldn’t even do that.
Around km 35, I stopped walking and ate cakes on offer, drank bottles and
bottles of water, even ate a banana, even though I don’t like bananas. Anything
to take my mind off the pain, you know. Around km 37 the Avatar dude ran past
me. Oh no, not the Avatar dude. Then, one 4-hr pacesetter did, then another.
Damn it, I wasn’t gonna finish in 4 hrs after all. Kept walking, determined not
to quit. It wasn’t until I got to km 40 that I was able to start running again.
I cursed myself for not training properly for the marathon, then forgave myself
because I knew I wasn’t able to train due to insane travel schedule. Promised
myself I would sign up for the Paris marathon next year and complete it in 3hrs
30mins. Promised myself I would sign up for the Lisbon marathon in October and would
train properly for it. Kept pushing myself not to stop running and imagined myself
running down the easiest 2km downhill route in Juba. Pushed and pushed until I saw the “350m left to go” sign. Tried
to race faster, but that 350m was more like 3km. It just kept going and going.
Eventually, I crossed the finish line and discovered my Garmin watch that had
been playing up for past few months had run outta battery power, even though I
fully charged it before I left the hotel for the race. Weird thing is that when
I recharged it at the hotel after the race, it would last for days without requiring
a recharge. Could the jerky movements from running cause the battery to run
down easily? Why though, since it’s a watch meant for sporting activities? Anyhoo,
that was the last thing I needed to think about.
I limped towards the water stand and picked up 2 bottles of
water and 2 apples. Then the finisher’s tee shirt and the medal. The cold now hit
me. Man, I was shivering. I sat on the tarmac for a bit while I ate the apples
and didn’t care if they were laced with dairy. I saw some dude throwing up and
consoled myself that at least I wasn’t one of those. Limped towards area where
I stowed bag with lower back killing me big time. Found mate standing there and
we hugged and congratulated each other. His legs also gave way, but around the 35km
mark. Right there we both decided we would sign up for next year’s marathon and
complete it sans injury. Hey, did I mention it was cold?
We picked up my bag, took a few photos to mark the occasion, and
called his wife to meet us at a designated spot. We shuffled our way to the
spot and I bought us two hotdogs while we waited for his wife to show up with
our warm clothes. Found her, donned on joggers, a fleece, and my Naija baseball
hat. Then, we proceeded to walk along Champs-Elysees ‘cos she needed to shop,
you know, being in Paris and all. Didn’t get back to hotel until past 8pm, even
though my race was done by about 230pm. We stopped by a restaurant for her to
get a bite while mate and I tried our best to get warm. Of course, we showed
our medals everywhere we went and received loadsa congrats. Rewarded myself
with two Lacoste polo tops, one with a customized alligator crest and my name
stitched across the right sleeve. Called my daughter that night and told her
all about my marathon experience. She couldn’t be bothered, if I am being
honest. Ha.
Left Paris the next afternoon by train to Brussels, where I hung
out with a Spanish friend from uni and her cousin. Lucia was an exchange
student from Spain who came to Bradford for a year, but we stayed in touch. Last time I saw her was in 2000! She lives in
Valencia, but coincidentally chose to visit Belgium while I was there, so she,
her cousin and I did touristy stuff by visiting Brugges on the 4th
and Gent on the 5th. I left Brussels for Stuttgart on the 6th
to surprise an aunt I hadn’t seen in decades. Did 2 nights in Stuttgart and on
eve of departure my cousins took me to see the movie Air in an
English-language cinema. Man, I envy their ability to speak multiple languages.
April 13th made it 8 years in Juba, man. It’s high time I get
serious about speaking Juba Arabic.
Returned to Juba on Sunday April 9th and promised
myself I won’t be leaving these shores for a long while. Good thing too, as
Juba’s so small whenever I would bump into random peeps afterwards, they’d tell
me, “Welcome back”. First, it was some dude in the elevator at work. How did
this guy know I was away since I probably see him only once or twice a year?
Then, I went to one of the government offices and some dude asked how the
marathon went. What?! Best not attempt to commit a crime in Juba as a
foreigner ‘cos you’d get easily caught.
Forgot to mention Nike called me on the day I arrived in Paris and asked to put
Kemi on the line. I was in a taxi on way from the airport so had sufficient
time to talk. Nike started the call with a prayer, so I knew then this was not
just any other call. They decided to talk to me ‘cos mom had apparently noticed
I don’t reach out to her and had complained to them about us not being close
anymore. They wanted to find out what was wrong and appealed to me to forgive
her. They said she’s real upset and Nike confirmed she had cried the last time they
saw in Beachland. I was sad to hear she was hurting, that was not my intention.
Contrast that with the last dinner we had in 1996 before I departed for uni in
the UK. I could see her getting teary-eyed and boy, was I glad. So, this
woman who has caused me so much pain is gonna miss me after all? Good! Serves
her right.
I explained to my sisters that they both were aware of what issues I have
with our mother, and my decision in October last year to keep my distance is
non-negotiable. About us not being close? We never were, at least not since my
teenage years, so I don’t get what the big deal is. I further explained that
the Bible asks us to honour our parents and I have never flouted that. She
could never accuse me of being rude to her or ignoring her calls, could she? I
thanked them for calling and got off the phone. Nike raised a good point when
she asked how I would feel if my daughter adopted a similar stance towards me
when she’s older. Well, she hardly talks to me now, so I already have good
practice. I kid. In all seriousness, I mulled that question a tad while pooping
on the morning of the marathon. Guess I’ll have to do my utmost not to
aggravate her to the point where the risk of that happening is high.
Speaking of my relationship with her, I was in Uganda in March
and experiencing David engage with Madiba provided some sort of relief that I
wasn’t doing anything wrong with my daughter. It’s just what parents go through
with their 11-year-olds. Although they live in the same city, and he sees him
at least twice a week, David must still literally extract conversations from
his son.
David: You hungry?
Madiba: Nah.
David: What was the name of the restaurant we went to in South Africa, the one
with the tasty burgers?
Madiba: Can’t remember. Is it really important?
David: You prefer cheesy popcorn to sweet and salt ones, right?
Madiba: No.
David: But you used to like cheesy popcorn.
Madiba: That was when I was younger.
Over the Xmas holidays in Lagos, I finally got my daughter’s
denim jacket customized with the images she wanted. I wasn’t impressed with the
quality of handicraft but presented it to her all the same. Surprisingly, she
loved it and couldn’t stop taking pics wearing it. Her inability to take a
series of pics without making funny faces further confirms she’s my progeny. Of
course, I tell myself each time I won’t send her pics to all and sundry, but
then I start forwarding to family and then I can’t stop myself from sending to
acquaintances that I feel might be interested. I have turned into that parent I
never thought I would become.
During our hangout in January, I discovered my daughter cannot
dance. Obviously, she didn’t get that part from me. Some guy was playing song
in the mall we were at, and my daughter was jumping all over the place like a white
person without rhythm. I know that’s tautology, but that’s how bad her dancing
was. When I teased her for not being able to dance, she retorted that what she
was doing was an “expressive dance”. Sure, it was. During my next visit in the
fall, I need to find a way to teach her to dance. She can’t be letting the side
down, man.
While in the UK, I underwent my bi-annual dentist visit and I
musta been a pretty good boy ‘cos I got a clean bill of health. However, I was
informed I am wearing out my enamels as I tend to grind my teeth in my sleep.
The dentist recommended a mouth guard to curb this. Trying it out was weird at
first but getting used to it now, on the nights when I remember to put it on. I
dunno if it’s related but since I got comfortable sleeping with the guard on, I
no longer wake up in the middle of the night to pee. However, I find myself drooling
sometimes and having the strangest dreams. Weirdly, I have noticed I don’t
drool when I go to bed extra tired or fall asleep with the lights on. Hmmm. During
the first week of wearing the guard, I dreamt of swimming pools every night. In
one of the dreams, I walked out of the pool to discover my bald head now had baby
hair around the hairline. Another time, I woke up in Malaysia and my tour guide
was a 5-year-old boy with a fully formed green grass moustache. Last night, I
dreamt I was eating extra tough tripe, probably while chewing on the guard.
From the UK, I did my usual whirlwind tour of the US: 2 nights in Atlanta, 2
nights in Dallas, one night in Redding, CA, 2 nights in Santa Clarita, CA, 2
nights in Houston, then back to ATL for return flight to the UK. It was
supposed to mostly be a leisure trip, but I tried to squeeze in some work in
there. Because work stuff wasn’t primed, I spent about 10 days in the UK before
returning to the US for one night in Abilene, TX, one night in Dallas, a final
night in Houston, then return to the UK. Now y’all understand why I couldn’t
train properly for the marathon? I could only executed runs of 9.6km in
Redding, then 13k, 26k and 30k in the UK. The last one was on the day of my
departure from the UK to Kampala.
Yeah, after 2 nights in the UK I flew to Kampala, where I spent
about 5 days before returning to Juba. The stopover in Kampala was to pick up
Schengen visa required for my trip to Europe. Spent less than 2 weeks in Juba
before flying to Paris for the marathon. Now you can understand why I stated
earlier that I ain’t keen to travel anywhere for a while? Although, I learnt
yesterday I may be drafted as part of a South Sudan delegation to a conference
in Uganda next month. I find out for sure on Monday. Might be time to get my
own plane.
Speaking of, maybe I shoulda included that as part of RTT
declaration session. Y’all remember Rapid Transformation Therapy, that expensive
therapy I told y’all about last year, right? Weird to say this, but most of my
declarations have come true. I suppose there’s something for declaring plans out
loud and committing to them, ‘cos I projected I’d complete 2 marathons within a
year and I am half-way there; talked about long-term debtors repaying funds and
some have come outta the woodwork to pay back funds, both on a personal level
and for the business in Juba; the Human Flag is still a work in progress;
relationship with daughter is improving; I commit to a Bible study group
weekly, whenever I am in Juba; and convinced parent company to go into
renewables. The only major outstanding declaration is the plan to make $2m a
month. Perhaps, Scatter Splatter could be it. Ha
Tot ziens and God bless.
PS
Before I go – Arsenal is about to face Southampton in the EPL – I need to tell
y’all about a remarkable lady named Tanya Griggs. I met her in 2002 in Atlanta
when I went to a bar with a mate who was visiting from outta town. We never
dated or even tried to, and she always teased me about that, declaring I was
too young for her. At that time in Atlanta, a professional, single African
American man could openly date multiple African American women, with the women being
aware of each other, but still hanging on hoping to be the one he ends up marrying.
What was so sexy about Tanya was she was never willing to settle. Even though
she was in her 30s at the time, she was adamant that anyone she dated would be exclusively
hers.
Even after I left the US for the UK, then Nigeria, and now South
Sudan, Tanya and I never lost touch. I made a conscious effort to pass through
the US once or twice a year primarily ‘cos of Tanya. She was always the best
part of my visits. Unfortunately, Tanya recently passed away on the 9th
of April. Almost from the time I met her she had been undergoing dialysis, and a
few years ago was diagnosed with cancer. She was the bravest person I know and
never let her diagnosis stop her from putting others first. No matter what she
was going through she always made time whenever this bald Nigerian visited the
US. I love her and miss her so, so much. Who else is gonna tease me about my “pervy
massages”?