Scalpeldiary

I attended an all-boys Catholic School-College of Saint Joseph Vom. Part of the tradition in the school was to always look your best. Every new term was a mini Paris fashion week. Boys will resume school with the latest sneakers and Khaki pants they could lay their hands on. It didn’t stop at the Pants and crisp white shirts; you had to also get a complimentary skin belt to match your Sandals. The more exotic the animal your skin belt was gotten from, the more your street credibility . However, for most students, this fashion fever seem to happen only at the beginning of the term and at the end . A good number of the Fashion killers will go cold between resumption and end of term. Why? It is also rooted in another tradition of the school-the tradition of under Box or Under B in proper Old boy lingua.
The tradition of under B posits that you should keep you best clothes under your box for the most special of days. Resumption days, Last days and the any event where Saint Louis girls will come to compound ; for lead day or any event that will bring ‘em girls and ‘em boys within promiscuous distance of each other. Those New sneakers that were removed and kept in boxes will be brought out, never worn pair of trousers and shirts will be aired and re-ironed to make sure all the ‘ghetto lines ‘ where still in alignment. Is no surprise that a good number of boys will go through the term with less than decent outfits because they didn’t want to temper with their under B’s . The irony is that most boys end up not rocking their “Met gala “grade uniforms. The devil was always in the shadows lurking. A great number of under Bs are stolen, others are coveted by harsh seniors while others are found to be in less picturesque condition on the day of debut. Zippers fail , an accidental patch may be noticed, buttons maybe missing. In short, the under B’s often fall short of expectations.
And this tradition of my Alma Mater got me thinking about how a great number of us approach life. Like my old boys, we are always waiting for an occasion to debut the best version of ourselves. A special invitation to finally wear the Tom ford suit or adorn the bone straight wig. We are waiting for the red carpet to be rolled out, for the walk ways to be well lit and the crowd to cheer before we can call it a happy moment.
Likewise, our mothers are still keeping China that they received as wedding gifts from their mothers during their wedding in shiny cabinets. They will make their debut when some very important personality or occasion happens in the family. As the mothers are hoarding the kitchen wares, the fathers are playing hide and seek with the Wines.
But why do we save things for an idealized perfect day in the future? Is it delayed gratification or are we crippled by the fear that the perfect day cannot be today –that it has to somewhere down the road, somewhere after a finished line. But if care is not taken, what seems like special gifts may beginning to look a lot like clutter.
The danger often times with waiting for the special day to come, is that life can throw so many curve balls at you. The Suit you are saving may accompany you to your grave before it debuts at the special cocktail party. The expensive bottle of Wine that was returned to the cellar at the last Thanksgiving for the next thanksgiving may break just as you’re about to open it. And those Cuban Cigars hidden under B may grow mold and become food for the fire. The Bone straight wig and the Tom Ford loafers may go missing before you get to slay in them!
So, what next?
Life itself is a big occasion. Every day you wake up is special occasion. The sad days, the broke days, the happy days, the wtf days are still what makes it worthwhile.
So here goes my “hot take”. Wear the bone straight wig on the random Wednesday work meeting. Eat Amala in those Mama-reserved cabinet Chinas and toast that old bottle of wine. Don’t postpone your happiness.
Better days ahead no mean say today no fit make sense!

Parky

Roaming the world ..partly in search of gold ,but mostly in search of my lost self.

I am still asking myself same question.

I have veered from the path laid out for me.

I’ve gone where there are no foot paths.

By the light of the moon and the remaining glitter in my soul, I tread on.

I’ve drank in the oasis. I’ve drank from my misery -taste almost like martini.

I’ve been drenched by the rain,but it hasn’t soaked me more than my own tears.

I’ve been battered by strangers,but not more than life has beaten me.

On the long road to Nirvana, sometimes I feel my destination moves farther every mile l take.

How do I cross the finish line ,in a red queens race?

Even if I run around the earth, the earth turns on itself.

Should I find my way back or get lost on this journey?

I will take my chances. I will keep walking.

Maybe I’ll get to Nirvana,maybe I’ll find rest.

And If I don’t , l pray,I find me.

Parky

Loving you is like chasing after the wind.
Sometimes I feel it gently like the breeze
Sometimes you rage like the storm.
But you're always air.
Something I can't live without.

Loving you is like a bad habit.
It starts off small.
Little sips, few puffs.
It grows from a little glass to a giant bottle.
From an urge to a craving.
You've become an addiction I can never conquer.


Loving you is like composing music.
You sound like the perfect key on the piano.
The smooth riffs from the guitar.
You're the perfect song.
Sound a little different every time.
So you're always on repeat.

Loving you is like hunting for antiques.
Never in the obvious place.
Often covered in a layer of dust.
Almost lost and forgotten.
But once found, treasured and irreplaceable.

Loving you is like tasting wine.
You can never know the taste in one sip.
So I sip till I am drunk
Till I become a fool for you.

Loving you is like fighting temptations.
I am always tempted with my weakness.
If I attempt to flee,my legs turn to jelly.
If I stay I say, I bound to fall every time.

Loving you is like composing a poem.
I never truly finish.
So I read the same lines every time with different meanings.
Is not a hobby, it happens every time.
So in short,.....


Parky Walkyes.
8-1-23

A wise man once said; ‘the journey of a thousand miles begins with a step’. Mine didn’t. It actually began with pre-departure blues. Travelling in Nigeria, whether by air, land, sea or astral projection is extreme sport. The bandits can way lay you on the highway and take any valuables you have –you, been the most valuable of course. They can blow off the tracks of the train you’ve boarded. If you decide to evade land and travel by air, it is costly and you may want to get some anti-anxiety meds for the turbulence and countless ‘blood of Jesus’ that will follow. It is not easy for witches or wizards either. Sometimes things can go very south in the dark realm. A fault with the navigation system and you may find yourself flying over the roof of a prayer warrior culminating a 20-day dry fast with fervent prayers and you know that blood of Jesus conquers all.

The night of 7September in Jos was the same as others had been –cold and always drizzling. I was still up at 11 pm, clothes littered across the bed, Bazzi in the background and my eyes fixed on the ceiling. This was against popular advice by our conference facilitators who were already in Benue. Shak had sent out instructions to pack light and sleep early-for obvious reasons. 2 pm and I was keeping watch with the Bats and noisy crickets. My heart was heavy with contemplation. Should I embark on this journey? What if I got kidnapped? What if forget to pack my New balance, my toothbrush or deodorant. It was a marathon of what ifs till I felt asleep.

I hastily packed my bags after someone special called me at 5:15 am to prepare. In retrospect I am grateful, but that call –that early had me murmuring things am sure weren’t enriching. Thankfully, I packed my bags and had a light breakfast. The choice of light breakfast for a 6 hour journey wasn’t that of convenience but of necessity. As far back as my Hippocampus will allow me recall, I have always suffered from motion sickness. It was no fault of mine, but good luck trying to apologize to other passengers when you puke the contents of your gut on them. There was a lot of puking and a lot of sorry later.

At the park, I hurriedly paid my transport fare and waited for the 18 seater Bus to be loaded with our cargoes. As one of the few surviving normal Nigerians, I only carried my schoolbag and another office bag for my laptop, But as you are already aware a lot of Nigerian aren’t normal. There was a woman who was travelling with three of her kids, a Hen, an empty yellow 20-liter jerry can for who knows what, a bucket with some left over local salad dressing, a flask which I was forced to hold throughout the journey and two sacks of Irish potatoes. I couldn’t understand why she chose to move half of her household to Makurdi through an “18 seaters, but I am going to carry 21 passenger Bus’? Alas she was able to settle the loaders. They loaders act independently of the driver and may just be the difference between arriving your destination early or late. You just have to ‘sort’ them. Well, I didn’t cos I was travelling light as Shak had instructed. There was another passenger with a Puppy and she made more noise than her dog barked throughout the journey. She too had to ‘sort’ the loaders-thankfully Nigeria’s animal activists are not yet active. After all the human and material cargoes had been packed like Sardines, the journey to Makurdi was about to begin or was it?

As the driver turned the key and the engine revved, a middle aged man, whose name I couldn’t recall but who claimed to be a Pastor led a call to prayer. It was short and straight-that God should take us safely to our destination. I was grateful for the prayer, because I only said a short one before leaving my house. I am sure my Mum had invoked the heavens for enough hours on my behalf. After the prayer, he led a call for offering to help spread Evangelism-I didn’t give my adult mite, but others did and the journey to Makurdi officially began.

We had not gone past ‘Forest’ to those familiar with road, when an elderly woman who hitherto was praying the Rosary started beckoning on the highway vendors to buy corn. The other passengers went into full snack buying spree like a choir waiting for a cue from their choir master. Stale Suya, Cabbage, Carrots, fried Yam, Olives, unwashed Guavas that were to be eaten with ‘disease no dey kill African mentality’.  The consequence of all that road side buffet soon caught up with one of the passengers. The sound of the slap that landed across Aisha’s face made us realized she had emptied her guts on her little brother and two passengers in the seat in front of them. I secretly thanked my lucky stars for avoiding the eat all you can by the road side challenge

The stops continued, from pee to poo stops. The stops were getting too much that I was tempted to think I was the only one in the Bus without an overactive bladder. We made one last stop at Lafiya and the shopping spree continued. It was in Lafiya that I decided I wasn’t going to pass out. I couldn’t hold back the pangs of hunger like a child suffering from diarrhea. I quickly alighted the bus and made for a nearby restaurant. I sat and devoured pounded Yam with eguisi soup and a generous piece of Asun which I judged to be a male from the scent it gave. Unknown to me, as I was savoring my meal, everyone was already back in the Bus and I was apparently missing although none of them had gone in search of me. I left the restaurant and boarded the Bus with side murmurs and many causing me under their breath. I didn’t care. After all, they had all made their own stops.

From Lafia to Makurdi was a smooth ride except for the frequent road diversions due to ongoing construction work. Once in Benue, I could tell something was different. The green vegetation was very dense and the air was steamy. We drove for about 2 more hours and we made our final stop at the Benue links motor park. We all alighted the Bus and I returned the hot water flask Maman Aisha handed me to help her hold.

For the 6 hours I shared with those total strangers, I couldn’t help but notice that we are always on a journey-everyday of our lives. Whether in a vehicle, by foot or by a broom, we have different destinations and different missions, but as we travel, our lanes intersect with others till we get to a point where everybody departs. Whether a lake of fire is what awaits us on the other side or a city of Angels and streets of golds, how well you travelled this journey may well determine your destination. But for the next 72 hours I am here, I will just crack some jokes, eat some food and try not to marry a Benue woman!