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.

Comments-[ comments.]

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.

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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

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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”?

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