WARRI WANDERER 2...

Part 2 Men! In all the madness of Warri, I learnt a new vocabulary courtesy of my uncle’s wife (smiling proudly!) It is a symbolic statement that highlights the primitive attempt of my dear Warri conversationists to get a grasp on modernized coinage. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you the word…Guzzle. Hold up! Do not applaud just yet until you are acquainted with the genius of the word. Ok, lemme first warn you that the word isn’t exactly pronounced as it is spelt. That said, I had better give you the pronunciation version and indigenous Warri interpretation. Guzzle-pronounced roughly as ‘Gorzo’ is a coinage meaning ‘to consume alcohol indiscriminately.’e.g “That boy dey gorzo die!” (Thinking of writing a hit song off it sef.) Amongst the many visually stimulating stuff I came across at my motherland, a few stood out as weird while others were outrightly cuckoo! Take for instance a well-used barbers shop called ‘Hair must grow, people must barb!’, Abi na the church wey dem call ‘christ militant church’? Men! Laugh wan break my bb pin sha! I came across a landmark school that stood out in a place called Ekpan and it was a sight to behold. As my uncle pointed out the crumbling apparition with a note of pride in his voice, I wondered at its significance. “This is Ekpan primary school”, he rattled on as he narrowly missed an oncoming okada rider by inches. “It is the oldest school in Warri.” He paused dramatically and it suddenly dawned on me that he was waiting for me to enquire the obvious. “eh..Uncle, how old is it?”, I asked dutifully. He grinned gamely, cleared his throat and announced. “It was established in 1939.” Jesus and his bb messages! I know you are itching to know how the wedding went abi? Patience my dear, patience.

WARRI WANDERER...

Warri 10th November 2011 Part 1 No one told me that the renowned Warri kingdom wasn’t a village. I had conjured up all kinds of detailed imaginations of street urchins littering the well grown bush paths and half naked village beauties adding color to the thatch- roofed landscape. It was not to be. It was every inch like Gidi. The same hurriedly assembled street arrangements, the same screaming street hawkers and unruly motorists and most shocking, the same ‘wazo’ collecting ‘boys in black’ holding up traffic. There was not one traditionally attired person in sight. It was a spectrum of modernized costumery (hope that oyinbo exists o!). I, being a Gidi soldier quickly surveyed the scenery and blended in with the locals. The traditional wedding which was the reason I left the familiar sanctity of my beloved Las Gidi was a blitz of faces and attires. I was introduced to about twenty relatives that I had never seen before and the exercise made my head ache as I tried unsuccessfully to remember their names and family hierarchy designation. It was a daunting task. Luku was the son of a third cousin who was the sister of my daddy’s second brother from another mother while Yerure was the last daughter of uncle Sunday’s elder brother’s second wife. I quickly zoned out after about the seventh introduction and put my mind on neutral for the rest of the introduction ritual. Who wouldn’t?

"SPIRITS"...A legacy of light!

"SPIRITS" A chroma360 publication 2011 Author- Henri Yire EPILOGUE Twelve legions of Angels landed silently around the village and stood still. The atmosphere was laden with a putrid odor of sulfur and burning flesh. Abas scanned the whole village in seconds and accessed the damage. The place was littered with half burned bodies and gargling half dead people. The screams for help rent the air but it was too late. They could not be helped. At least not by the Angels. In the midst of the anarchy and confusion, one thing was certain... The demons had been here. More at www.chroma360.com.ng

THE SAINTS...

THE SAINTS.
..when men play God.

It was supposed to be a simple case.

That was why the school had handed it down to the student judiciary council to handle.
The judiciary council when fully represented consisted of five students in all. First class materials in the field of law with little or no social life. They were no-nonsense individuals who even lecturers stayed away from. It was common knowledge that a certain vocal lecturer had once challenged openly one of the rulings of the council. Soon afterwards, the lecturer was implicated in an ingenious plot that suspiciously included a well-known campus flirt claiming sexual harassment. In a few weeks, he was without a job; unemployed and unemployable. The council had seen to that. They had proven that they had influence that went well beyond the boundaries of the school.
The University of Benin simply revered them.

The case had dragged on for weeks, the facts being distorted at each sitting. When in everyone’s opinion it was supposed to be an open and shut case. Toro Badejo, the student prosecutor was amazed and frustrated in equal proportion. How much more simple can a case possibly be?

Five students, three girls and two guys were returning from a late night fellowship meeting at the chapel and they had to pass through a bush path to get to the hostel. It was a few minutes past ten at night. Suddenly some people brandishing choice weapons surrounded them. One of the boys displaying a modicum of courage offered some resistance and was mercilessly hacked for his troubles leaving him half-dead. The other boy was told to make a run for it and relay the message to God peradventure he wouldn’t be too busy to come around and save the girls from their imminent fate. The boy responded gamely and was gone through the bushes in a flash. The attackers converged on the girls. One of the girls dutifully fainted but the other two were too scared to follow her example. The nocturnal assailants took turns on them and the rape began. The machetes were used at intervals to encourage cooperation from the girls whose cries were expertly muffled.

When they were done, they disappeared into the night leaving the girls half-conscious. The boy who had gone seeking God returned without him but brought along a few half terrified security personnel along with the school’s chief security officer.

A half hour later, the chief security officer had gotten a fairly accurate description of the assailants from the victims who were promptly rushed to a nearby hospital.
Ebuwa Daniels, the security officer had a fair idea who the miscreants were and a few minutes before midnight they stormed their hideout and half carried, half dragged the offenders away. They were stone drunk and had in the spirit of the moment shared the gist of their recent escapades with their cronies.

A few unwilling witnesses were threatened and enlisted.

On the day of the proceedings the defendant had hammered at the girls, making them look like prostitutes and went further to challenge their visual ability saying they couldn’t have gotten that clear a description of the alleged assailants in their shocked state and low visibility.
Toro Badejo, the prosecuting counsel could have sworn the judiciary council, all seated regally had nodded in agreement.

MIXED BLESSINGS!

BRT BUS TERMINAL
512 road junction, Festac town, Lagos.
9.11 a.m.
There is this die hard disposition that the average Nigerian possesses and in extension my fellow Festac citizens. The logic of the thing is admirable but in my opinion, it has been over flogged and stretched senseless. Haba! How can you reconcile the suffering and smiling injunction in today’s 21st century setting? Ok, lemme slow down and cease rambling so you guys can properly understand my grievance. You know that the fashola administration has blessed Festac residents with the addition of the BRT bus to our lives and although we have to pay much more than we would if we opt for the regular ‘danfo’, we appreciate the comfort it affords us. That stated and noted let me continue. Notice the recent trend in the BRT experience and tell me if I am hyperventilating irrationally or not. Anytime you get to the bus terminal in Festac, (it is not exactly anything fancy; just thought that I should apply word play) you find a crowd gathered but no bus. If it was an isolated issue, then I can understand and let it slide but fellow citizens (legal and otherwise) it has become a daily occurrence and I make no exaggeration when I use the word daily.
Can you imagine that we have to wait for over 30 minutes before we can as much as get a glimpse of a bus? You can’t, can you? Proper, regular upstanding citizens of our renowned Festac town subjected to such a mean structured approach to modern transportation. Y’all know me now? After being subjected to two days of this shabby treatment, I revoked my vow of comfort and started trading yarns with my former danfo bus conductor buddies.
Hmmmm. I no fit take nonsense from anybody o!
Whom exactly do you report to about stuff like these, eh?
What I have resorted to do is to put together a strongly worded letter to Gov. Fash and convey my heartfelt vex at the ineptitude of the BRT Festac employees, abi? Maybe, just maybe he’ll reply me back and give me an opportunity to tell my children (clears throat and deepens voice) that the Governor of Lagos state was a close friend of mine. (Winks.)
Opportunity comes but once.

LOCATION-JAY SLEEK’S STUDIO.
DATE-JULY 2011
ARTISTE-WITNESS.

It started with an undecided frown.
He stared into space as he repeatedly altered the metronome timing to ascertain the tempo of the song.
We had a predetermined format in our heads that in our opinion would give the track a kind of upbeat pace but Jay sleek wouldn’t budge.
“Guys be patient, lemme give the song an abstract rhythm to capture an international feel. Don’t worry you will like it.”
He began in earnest, a series of electronic and rhythmic ritual that was both scary and mesmerizing at the same time. He put in one, discarded the other. Tried a second one and altered another.
It was an earnest search for perfection that belonged to a slowly dying breed of producers. It was magical to behold!
The monster slowly took shape growing with every rhythmic addition and taking form with every tonal adjustment. After hours of gruesome musicality the musical maestro and hit maker (jay sleek), finally wheeled around and pronounced with finality.
“I am done.”
Many have wondered at the art of creation and its intrinsic articulation borne of skilled hands but only very few have been privileged to behold genius at work.
It was the beginning of a hit song.

...strange sensations.

LOCATION-GRASSHOPPERS NIGHT CLUB, Festac Town, Lagos.
DATE-14th March 2011, 11:35 p.m.

It was a night made for clubbing. There was a kind of spark in the atmosphere. I swear It wasn’t the booze (I hadn’t had any) and was very clear eyed but…you know that feeling you get when you‘re doing 180kmph on third mainland by 2 a.m. on the Friday preceding your birthday? You do? Ok, then, that was exactly how I felt as we glided into the club (The entourage included Lolo-WAZOBIA fm, Biodun-no particular affiliation and gbenga-my colleague in the musical trade).
My people, I beg to make a very important scientific observation at this junction.
Clubbing is a very very strange sport and is definitely not for the uninitiated or the faint hearted you see. It requires guts and a modicum of hardness that can only be achieved with constant practice or better still in an alcohol filled state (the latter comes faster).
I feigned indifference at the staring faces (we were not regulars you see and must have looked the way don jazzy would look strolling into Sunday school) as we advanced into the maze of twisting sweaty bodies and cigarette fumes with an alcohol combo to complete the vile assembly.
I know what you’re thinking people, trust me I do (am not a mind reader but sometimes I try) and I daresay that you are probably right in your unsubstantiated assumptions (oyinbo). I have never really understood how or why the adult specie (gender unimportant) would drive for miles just to congregate unsolicited in a dark space (referred to hereafter as a club) for what particular purpose? To social-infiltrate or stupor-indoctrinate?
So if I have such strong views on clubbing, what the hell was I doing at grasshoppers that night, you are asking, abi?
Let me explain….
OJ (the genius behind the Yoruba dressing in Tuface’s hit single-‘only me’) had informed Lolo that he was celebrating his birthday at grasshoppers and as a result we had gathered to pay our respects to the rising star.
The night proceeded nicely with a few drinks (the expensive variety), a rubbing of shoulders with celebs like YQ, chuddy K, W4, Ray J and a few others. In totality, it turned out to be an agreeable night afterall because amidst the smoke haze and drunken- influenced attempt at conviviality, everyone had a modicum of fun (even the ones curled up outside in a drunken daze) and as they say (can’t exactly place a finger on who the ‘sayer’ is) , it is not the mistakes that matter but the memories.

"CREATIVE CLUBBING."

LOCATION-GRASSHOPPERS NIGHT CLUB, Festac Town, Lagos.

DATE-14^th March 2011, 11:35 p.m.

It was a night made for clubbing. There was a kind of spark in the atmosphere. I swear It wasn’t the booze (I hadn’t had any) and was very clear eyed but…you know that feeling you get when you‘re doing 180kmph on third mainland by 2 a.m. on the Friday preceding your birthday? You do? Ok, then, that was exactly how I felt as we glided into the club (The entourage included Lolo-WAZOBIA fm, Biodun-no particular affiliation and gbenga-my colleague in the musical trade).

My people, I beg to make a very important scientific observation at this junction.

Clubbing is a very very strange sport and is definitely not for the uninitiated or the faint hearted you see. It requires guts and a modicum of hardness that can only be achieved with constant practice or better still in an alcohol filled state (the latter comes faster).

I feigned indifference at the staring faces (we were not regulars you see and must have looked the way don jazzy would look strolling into Sunday school) as we advanced into the maze of twisting sweaty bodies and cigarette fumes with an alcohol combo to complete the vile assembly.

I know what you’re thinking people, trust me I do (am not a mind reader but sometimes I try) and I daresay that you are probably right in your unsubstantiated assumptions (oyinbo). I have never really understood how or why the adult specie (gender unimportant) would drive for miles just to congregate unsolicited in a dark space (referred to hereafter as a club) for what particular purpose? To social-infiltrate or stupor-indoctrinate?

So if I have such strong views on clubbing, what the hell was I doing at grasshoppers that night, you are asking, abi?

Let me explain….

OJ (the genius behind the Yoruba dressing in Tuface’s hit single-‘only me’) had informed Lolo that he was celebrating his birthday at grasshoppers and as a result we had gathered to pay our respects to the rising star.

The night proceeded nicely with a few drinks (the expensive variety), a rubbing of shoulders with celebs like YQ, chuddy K, W4, Ray J and a few others. In totality, it turned out to be an agreeable night afterall because amidst the smoke haze and drunken- influenced attempt at conviviality, everyone had a modicum of fun (even the ones curled up outside in a drunken daze) and as they say (can’t exactly place a finger on who the ‘sayer’ is) , it is not the mistakes that matter but the memories.

"promotion palava."

LOCATION- WAZOBIA FM, Victoria Island, Lagos.

DATE- 10^th March 2011, 2.15 P.M.

We were a few minutes late so we hurriedly exited the car and walked briskly into the renowned Chocolate Royal. She was already waiting and beckoned us over to where she was sitting. It was a great privilege to finally meet the sensational voice on the radio. A presenter extraordinaire. She didn’t look much like her voice but that was to be expected. We warmed up to her immediately as she drew us in with light jokes and friendly ‘yabs’. We finally came round to the matter at hand and the atmosphere took a solemn turn.

“See, I will not lie to you guys because you are like brothers to me. Radio promotion of your song cannot be bought with money.” She paused dramatically for effect. “Your song has to have that certain appeal.” she finished gesticulating with her hands to properly convey her meaning.

“Eh...How then do we introduce the song to your other radio colleagues?” I asked. “What can we give them that will make sense at least to start up something?”

Just then, her blackberry beeped and she glanced down at it and quickly typed something on it. Without looking up, she queried. “How much do you guys have to start promotion in our station here?”

We glanced at ourselves and tried to deliberate visually.

“How much do you guys have?” she insisted impatiently.

“N50,000.”

“OK, I will help you guys get it to Matse, OBJ and eh..Dwana. That’s the people I can assess. At least I can give them the song and say, ah, this one na my broad O!abeg help me play am.”

“what about Yaw?”someone asked.

“ahh!” She burst out quickly. “Yaw is not among O! Na no fit pay Yaw money O!”

We all smiled and released some tension. Minute’s later money exchanged hands in a brown envelope that also contained the promo copies. We parted smiling, us dreaming about being great stars with the promotion we were about to get. Little did we know that, a week later we would be quarreling over not hearing the song at all on radio and the presenters she promised to give the promo copy to, denying having ever received anything from her.

Little did we know.

"CAN I GET A WITNESS?"

LOCATION-JAY SLEEK’S STUDIO.

 DATE-JULY 2011

ARTISTE-WITNESS.

It started with an undecided frown.

He stared into space as he repeatedly altered the metronome timing to ascertain the tempo of the song.

We had a predetermined format in our heads that in our opinion would give the track a kind of upbeat pace but Jay sleek wouldn’t budge.

“Guys be patient, lemme give the song an abstract rhythm to capture an international feel. Don’t worry you will like it.”

He began in earnest, a series of electronic and rhythmic ritual that was both scary and mesmerizing at the same time. He put in one, discarded the other. Tried a second one and altered another.

It was an earnest search for perfection that belonged to a slowly dying breed of producers. It was magical to behold!

The monster slowly took shape growing with every rhythmic addition and taking form with every tonal adjustment. After hours of gruesome musicality the musical maestro and hit maker (jay sleek), finally wheeled around and pronounced with finality.

“I am done.”

Many have wondered at the art of creation and its intrinsic articulation borne of skilled hands but only very few have been privileged to behold genius at work.

It was the beginning of a hit song.