Video - De WITNESS - JOURNEY OF ATHOUSAND MILES COMPETITION-BLAQ(WITNESS) | Truspot!

Video - De WITNESS - JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND MILES COMPETITION-BLAQ(WITNESS) | Truspot!


Don jazzy's recent giveaway has gotten hundreds of young artistes scrambling for a try at fame and fortune.This is one of such entries.view and enjoy!

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THE OLYMPIC ROLL CALL

Truth be told, I actually did not start this article because I wanted to write an article.

I was just curious.

You know how it is when you stumble upon a thing; maybe it’s an event, a word, a place that you know absolutely nothing about. You get that itch to investigate the said thing and before you know it, you are busy leafing through books and dictionaries trying to conquer the dilemma. In this case it was the Olympics.
As I watched Mr. Bean astound us with his hilarious construction of music and comedy, it suddenly dawned on me that I was a complete novice as regards the Olympics.

I suddenly realized that I knew next to nothing about it. Wait! I know now that I mentioned it, a few of you will want to regale us with all the history of the games (most probably inaccurate) that you have acquired in recent times but that’s not where I am headed.

My interest is simply in the names. By names, I mean the unique factor that gives every geographical enclave its identity. What the particular country is called. I really didn’t know that the Olympics encouraged a vast display of countries with names that would otherwise never have seen the light of day.
Ok, some of you are already grinning because you now know where I am headed abi? Cool.
I saw and heard many strange names in this year’s Olympics march-past at the prestigious stadium in London that my brain was threatening to overheat.
See me, see country name sha!

In my unscientific analysis, a few countries were named using a cooking theme, for example Cook islands, Turkmenistan, Malta while others sounded like they had run out of vowels; Leichtenstein, Krygastan, Kiribati and Uzbekistan

Some countries however, sounded like they were named by a complete idiot- Palau, Oman, Suriname, Seychelles and my personal favorites were the ones that were structured like goofy sentences e.g. Federated state of Micronesia, Saint Vincent and Grenadines, Saotome and principe and Lao’s people democratic republic.

My question is simple. Who gets the contract to name a country? And do the citizens get to vote on the name chosen or are they just forced to accept it regardless of how it sounds? (In some cases, how it looks).

Because I profoundly sympathize with the poor citizens who are forced to accept weird and wacky country names like Timor leste, Tuvalu and Tonga!

Up Nigeria!

www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com, @witness¬_MV, deblaqsheep@gmail.com

TARGET PRACTICE

TARGET PRACTICE

Jos town, Plateau State.

The white Jetta car parked a few meters from the Islamic school, the engine left idling. It was still early morning with the sun barely caressing the horizon in a subtle wakeup call to the inhabitants around.

Haram reached to the back seat from the passenger side where he was seated and picked up the RPG rifle. He carefully lifted it above his friend, Sura’s head who was furtively scanning the surroundings, a gun clutched in his sweaty hand in a lame attempt to provide security.

Haram giggled at his friend Sura who tried not to appear nervous. Who were they kidding? They were as nervous as a teenager in love and as high as a well-flown kite. The latter was as a result of their stopover at a local bar to drown a few shots of the local brew that burned the throat and stung the eyes.
They needed steady nerves for this assignment.

It was easy tossing a dynamite or two into a few churches and making a quick getaway or even the greatest sacrifice for the Jihad was admissible as long as the project involved infidels and unbelievers who hated Allah and his servants. However, taking a shot at the intellectual sanctum of a Muslim school was taking it a bit too far. Even if the said Muslim was a sympathizer of the infidels.

There were no virgin rewards for this one. Haram mused as he got out of the car the RPG rifle hidden by his side as he quickly scanned the area.

Clear.

He had received a short training on the RPG rifle just days ago. The rocket-propelled grenade was a shoulder anti aircraft rifle that released a hell of a shell that disintegrated at approximately 10 meters. At this distance the Islamic school had no chance, Haram reasoned.

He steadied the rifle on his shoulder with the butt balancing lightly on the top of the car and the open passenger side door and aimed. Haram squinted into the telescopic sight, breathed out softly and slowly squeezed the trigger.

A sudden scream rent the quiet morning air and startled both men.

They reacted differently. Sura still on the driver’s seat with the car engine still running stepped on the accelerator out of reflex. The car lurched forward dragging Haram forward with it as he pulled the trigger.

The 7 kg rifle jerked sideways and discharged its deadly content into the air. The rifle recoil hit the passenger door like a hammer and the windscreen shattered. Haram panicked, dropped the smoking rifle, ducked into the car and shouted for Sura to drive off.
The grenade shell sailed through the air, missing the Islamic school completely and disappearing beneath the town roofline.

The car sped away as the village came alive with noise. Women began to scream as the grenade exploded somewhere. Some young men gave chase to the car but got nowhere near it before it disappeared into the distance.

A mother wailed carrying the gory remains of a half burned child. Blood and flesh hung loosely from the bleeding child as he hung lifeless.

He was only 10 years old.

www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com, @witness¬_MV, deblaqsheep@gmail.com

THE BOMB PHILOSOPHY

THE BOMB PHILOSOPHY

Okene, Kogi state.


The well-used SUV jeep turned from the dusty street into the main road leading to Okene town and slowed a bit. No point drawing unwanted attention to the car by driving above the speed limit. Haram bit his lips the hundredth time and scanned the cars around them for any sign of the police or the newly dispersed joint task force.
Nothing suspicious.

He stroked his nonexistent beard and discovered yet again that he had removed the 6-month growth of beard just yesterday as a result of this assignment. He felt odd not wearing a beard, which he had worn for much of his adult life. His partner, driving and focusing intently on the traffic like his life depended on it, was unusually quiet. Who wouldn’t be when your assignment was to drive a jeep loaded with enough C4 to blow up two city blocks into a local church.

Haram and Sura his friend and partner had complained for weeks about getting a chance to be involved in the fight for Allah against the infidels but had not expected the chance to come this soon. Sura took a deep breathe and looked at his watch and frowned. They were running late.

He stepped on the gas lightly and the car picked up speed. Timing was important in this business. The point was to get as much infidels as possible killed in the explosion. No point going up in a blaze of glory without anyone accompanying you. He frowned at the thought and picked up more speed.
Haram stared at him and the speedometer.

“You are going too fast Sura. Slow down or the security forces will suspect us.” Haram spat bitterly.

Sura ignored him completely and floored the accelerator. The car sped past other vehicles, the horn blaring to warn them to get out of the way.

Haram’s eyes widened and he stared at Sura. “Are you out of your mind Sura? Slow down or I will call Mallam Shehu this instant and tell him everything.”

Haram waited a few more seconds and reached into his pocket, brought out his phone and began to dial. Sura glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, spotted an intersection ahead and drove the car to the side lane and hit the brakes. Haram almost went through the windscreen and the phone he was holding hit the dashboard and clattered to the floor of the passenger seat.

Haram lost his temper and punched his long time friend in the face. Sura returned the favour with a well-placed kick to Haram’s midsection. They clawed at each other inside the confined space of the car as each man tried to subdue the other. In the bid to gain the upper hand they completely forgot the bomb in the booth of the car and their target, The Lord Chosen church which was just a few meters from where they were parked.

The bomb eventually went off in an earth-shattering explosion far away from the target church, raining debris and charred human flesh for yards.
The only victims, Sura and Haram.

www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com, @witness_MV, deblaqsheep@gmail.com

FIGHT OR FLIGHT?

FIGHT OR FLIGHT

So it has come to this, abi?

You do all that is in your power to avert disaster from all sides and it still finds a crafty way to overwhelm you from above. Literarily speaking o!

To those who have no idea to whom my rantings are directed, I beg to clearly spell my object of grievance in neon-crusted shining letters so no person of mature age will miss my meaning; DANA. Yes DANA. The 5000-pound steel coffin that left its rightful abode in the sky and chose to forcefully dwell amongst mortals uninvited causing death and debris in startling proportion.

As shocking as it may seem, we have attempted to move on. Note that I said ‘attempted’ because as far as we know compensation promises are yet to be fulfilled. Yes, I know they were promised a 100,000 dollars each (dead men have hammered sha!) by a soft-spoken rep of the company immediately drying up the tears of many a grieving relative. Still, I harbor a beef.

My beef has been crafted into a relatively simple question so permit me to ask. * clears throat loudly*

Why would the compensation given to those who boarded the ill-fated plane be well over 15 million naira but that given to victims who were assailed from above and crushed beneath steel and concrete be a meager 200,000 naira?

For God’s sake, who was the senseless genius that did the analysis of the payment format?

Was he high on cheap drugs when he made the aforementioned projections or was it just a heartless oversight engineered by ignorance?

So if you are sitting comfortably in your sitting room watching a Yoruba movie of some sort and doing justice to a bowl of Ogi or some other variety of local dish and a huge steel-encased aluminum-clad king-sized plane comes crashing into the sanctity of your living space unannounced, what you deserve as compensation for the property-crushing and life-taking inconvenience is a meager 200,000 naira?

Haba! So to get the better part of the compensation deal you needed to have been on the flight regardless of whether you died when it landed on you or not.
Confusing isn’t it?

It’s not really any of my business I know, but the rationale behind the compensation sounds warped to me so I just thought I should do small aproko.
Abi na me no understand?


www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com, @witness_MV, deblaqsheep@gmail.com

THE APPOINTMENT

THE APPOINTMENT

When I first heard the announcement, I threw all decorum away and laughed loud and long.

A political appointment for her? Who dreamt up this crazy scheme?

I have a nagging feeling that it wasn’t Goodluck’s idea at all but a direct request from his beloved and dearest herself.

Many people have tried to relay their disapproval as regards the appointment, some even going as far as suggesting that a more obscure role would have been more suitable for her but no one has summoned enough guts to say in detail why they felt that way. So in the spirit of freedom of speech, I guess it is up to me to say it as I see it. * clears throat*

Taking the bull by the horn isn’t a favorite hobby of mine or something I am inclined to do regularly, (don’t get me wrong o! I come from a family of brave men!) so I will say my mind in well-concealed coded sentences that will be clear yet vague, understandable yet inferred.

So here goes.

Ok. It is no trade secret that mama isn’t the most avid speaker nor the most eloquent for that matter and as you may well know, charisma void of relevant content has never really taken any person that far.

If you like, you can ask Sonekan.

So branding her with the content-seeking and word-rich post of a Permanent secretary is tantamount to sharing loaded pistols to members of the house of assembly during a crucial meeting.

Is she even qualified for such a vocabulary-demanding role such as this or was it just handed to her? In addition, who would monitor her to ascertain her effectiveness in the said role?

The person want make dem sack am?

As Nigerians show their shock at this distasteful development born of nepotism, we ask ourselves the pertinent question to ascertain our readiness by borrowing a phrase from mama.

My fellow widows, are we safe?

www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com, @witness_MV, deblaqsheep@gmail.com

RALLY OR ROWDY

RALLY OR ROWDY?

Almost everybody watched the Edo state pre-election rally with its colossal turnout and all the festivity that trailed it. Except for a slowly dying minority of us that have no interest whatsoever in watching TV (blame it on the internet revolution that is stripping us of our TV-watching heritage *winking*).If you didn’t see it live on TV though, panic not cause I will fill you in on all the nitty- gritty details that even the pressmen that were in attendance probably missed. The major reason for all the festivity and broom brandishing was really simple. A renowned orator and Governor extra-ordinaire was seeking a re-election mandate to serve a second term as the distinguished Governor of Edo state.

Am sure you are getting the picture now. Everybody who was anybody with an ACN affiliation was in attendance. My interest as you probably know is not on the political ambience and personalities that graced the almost 6-foot stage (I am and have always been anti-political) nor the synchronized waving of brooms by the thousands of supporters (I hate any form of sweeping) but I was held spell bound when three greatmen stepped on the podium. Don’t get me wrong people because there were already renowned politicians and statesmen of repute on stage already with the likes of Governor Ngige, Governor Fashola, Bisi Akande, Tinubu plus the man of the moment, the 5-foot veteran and khaki-clad comrade, Adams Oshomole. However, these particular men where different, sending the crowd into a frenzied applause like no other politician had done up until then.

Joining Oshomole on stage was the rhythm maestro Tuface, Idris Abdulkareem and music legend Victor Uwaifo. Tuface was clad in an ACN jacket while Idris wore a brown shirt much like Oshomole’s but Victor Uwaifo took the day in a blood red shirt and silver ash suit that shone intermittently. What dampened the whole scenario for me was when Idris standing behind Adams Oshomole as he gave his address began an animated conversation with Tuface. After a while, the no nonsense Governor stopped in mid-sentence and told them to keep their voices down. They did at first then Idris started another ill-fated conversation with Tu baba gesticulating all the while. Oshomole lost it eventually; pulling the microphone from his mouth, he turned to the erring musicians and scolded them publicly like kids all captured on national TV! Can you imagine?

Tuface a little embarrassed, quickly blended into the body of politicians on stage and found his way to the back. Idris quickly followed, tail between legs. The exchange was swift but nevertheless thoroughly embarrassing. I crave your views on this one please; do we need to school our music superstars on decorum and public behavior again? I certainly hope not.

www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com @witness_MV deblaqsheep@gmail.com

THE MUMU THEORY

THE MUMU THEORY

It is not really the fact that he almost rearranged a young boy’s facial features or the fact that he kept quiet about his side of the story for a while that irks me. It is the simple fact that after the silence he comes up with a cock and bull story that will make Pinocchio sound like an angel.
Does he think we are daft? I know a few of us are, but there are some of us that still have our reasoning cap firmly seated on our slowly balding head. So how do you expect us to believe that crap? You really need to employ a full time spin-doctor!
Ok, I think I need to slow down and get the facts organized abi? Y’all heard about the renowned (I use the word loosely) cinematographer that stabbed a young man in the face a few inches to the poor soul’s eyes? You did shebi? So no need to try to explain again how it all transpired. Ok, that kinda makes my job easier. Amidst the hush-hush tone from the stabber’s camp, we all waited with bathed breathe for his side of the story howbeit horrifying but lo and behold when it came it sounded like a tale from the stables of a James Hardly Chase wannabe.
Highly disappointing jor! Please help me do the analysis o!

THE STABBEE’S VERSION- The boy’s chic came back to tell her boyfriend she was going offset as instructed by the video producer and was met with a series of verbal harassment laced with some choice vocabulary least of which was the B-word (female dog description).

THE STABBER’S VERSION-The chic came back after being told to vacate the shot area and when accosted in a ‘civil’ fashion, flared up and went ahead to rain abuses on the cinematographer for ‘asking’ her ‘peacefully’ to vacate the area.(note-the words in parenthesis are vital).

THE STABEE’S VERSION-Her boyfriend who she came to tell she was going offset heard the exchange and tried to tell the cinematographer that he need not be rude to make a point.

THE STABBER’S VERSION-After raining abuses on him (the peaceful cinematographer) for asking her quietly, the chic in question went a step further to incite her boyfriend into harassing the cinematographer.

Hmmm. Are you following all this? Isn’t the contradiction confusing you yet?
Finally…

THE STABEE’S VERSION-States that when pandemonium broke loose and the cinematographer’s boys were having a field day punching and kicking the otherwise helpless (butter children I assume) victims, that the renowned cinematographer found a stray bottle and smashing it, he lunged at the nearest face and ended up drawing blood and a blood curdling scream from the victim.

THE STABBER’S VERSION

-States that (please listen to this carefully) the boy that was stabbed and bleeding profusely was from another fight unrelated to theirs.
Excuse me? And he allowed himself to be photographed and used as a model for this particular fight? bleeding all the while as he posed for the cameras?
Dear Cinematographer, please do we really look that stupid?


cin•e•ma•tog•ra•phy [sìnnəmə tóggrəfee]
noun
photographing of motion pictures: the art or technique of photographing and lighting motion pictures

-cin•e•ma•tog•ra•pher, noun .for example DJ TEE etc.

www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com @witness_MV deblaqsheep@gmail.com
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eyewitness: …AND YOU CALL ME WACK?So 70% of the upcoming acts...

eyewitness: …AND YOU CALL ME WACK? So 70% of the upcoming acts...: …AND YOU CALL ME WACK? So 70% of the upcoming acts that ever get a chance to air their ‘stuff’ on radio are undeniably wack. Big deal! Whic...

eyewitness: …AND YOU CALL ME WACK?So 70% of the upcoming acts...

eyewitness: …AND YOU CALL ME WACK? So 70% of the upcoming acts...: …AND YOU CALL ME WACK? So 70% of the upcoming acts that ever get a chance to air their ‘stuff’ on radio are undeniably wack. Big deal! Whic...

…AND YOU CALL ME WACK?
So 70% of the upcoming acts that ever get a chance to air their ‘stuff’ on radio are undeniably wack. Big deal! Which superstar artiste do you know today that hasn’t gone through the ‘wack phase’? The way I see it, it’s easier to comment on the ‘untastiness’ (forgive my home-made grammar) of a noodle brand when all you have to do is to eat it. Who really cares about the work put into making it, eh?
Ok, let me clarify the equation for you guys. The average budding artiste in Nigeria is basically a genius. The poor lonesome fellow (chicks usually get it easier) doubles as a promoter, publicist, record label executive, a manager, a songwriter, producer and then an artiste. He is saddled with the herculean task of making hits and then making them hit! In a civilized, sanitized music industry this would have been branded as slave labour and a death wish but here in our anything-goes music industry, anything goes.
Are you beginning to see with me the origin of their wackiness? I mean, who in their right senses could do all these and do them well? Even Batman in all his smartness wouldn’t stand a chance! And don’t start me on the role they have to play as local marketers of their ‘products’. There’s this artiste I know who has a fully packaged album all crammed into a rusted wheelbarrow that he wheels round the neighborhood miming the songs on his album at the top of his voice through a crude smelly microphone attached to a battery operated locally assembled sound system. He then brings it all home by doing a randy dance routine in the middle of the road with kids gathered around him all in a bid to sell a few album copies. Are you still here with me?
Imagine this other scenario where an artiste gets ‘hit’ with a wonderful new inspiration for a song. He yelps the song day after day so as not to forget the darned thing and also because he doesn’t have a proper recorder while making strategic plans on which uncle to torment for the cash to record this ‘hit song’. Weeks turn into months and the strategy doesn’t any produce return on investment.
He waits.
Suddenly a stray uncle finally gives in and hands over a skeletal portion of the required amount. A decision needs to be made. He consults a manager (himself; who else where you expecting?) and decides to ‘manage’ the said resources on a quack producer. D-Day comes and he delivers a rough rendition of the song to the producer who shakes his head sadly and announces gravely, “the song’s aiight, but it lacks that naija flavor.” Said producer grabs his mouse and starts playing an already assembled highlife imitation of a beat and smiles, showing tobacco stained teeth. “You know naw. The song suppose get swagga like terry G or Timaya jam.”
One week later the hit song is done. Voiced, mixed and mastered. All done in that space of time and you dare ask for something phenomenal? How dare you Andre? How dare u?
HENRI YIRE for WITNESS www.witnesslounge.blogspot.com, @witness_MV

WITNESS ON SOUNDCITY

On the 6th of June Soundcity one of Nigeria's major media mogul granted an exclusive 30 minute interview expose on the group called WITNESS. Their challenges,experiences and the future of their music which is a unique blend of RnB and Hip hop laced with an African edge.A detailed transcript of the interview will be released on t

his space.

facebook-Witness fanpage, twitter-@witness_MV

“MY SCHOOL, MY ANTHEM!”

“MY SCHOOL, MY ANTHEM!” ****************************************************************** PROJECT DESCRIPTION Every city has a school and every school has an anthem. It is a form of identity, a verbal declaration of allegiance to the system, an expression of loyalty, an inspired credence. The city of Lagos is no exception. It plays host to over ten thousand schools in a geographic region that is learner friendly and secure and Amuwo Odofin Local Government is a major flag flyer in this academic bandwagon. Consistent studies have shown a devastating anomaly in the average student in the aforementioned region and it is simply encompassed in the following statement- STUDENTS DO NOT KNOW THE WORDS OF THEIR NATIONAL AND SCHOOL ANTHEM. The ‘My school; my anthem’ series is a regional community initiative aimed at correcting this unpatriotic anomaly aptly suggested by the program theme, ‘giving voice to the words; giving spirit to the voice.’

SPIRITS short story series

SPIRITS [psalm 104.4]...A legacy of light Third mainland bridge. 7.10 a.m. The driver saw the trailer at the last moment. It was on its side with its crane-like neck twisted at an angle across the path of oncoming traffic. Its contents were disgorged haphazardly all over the road. Kemi Briggs hit the brakes and screamed at the same time as the car went airborne. It sailed in a neat arc over the heads of a handful of people around the broken down trailer and hit the road with a deafening crash. Splinters of metal and plastic filled the air as the 800-pound projectile finally screeched to a halt and landed upright a few meters away from the trailer. SURULERE. A few hours earlier… Kemi Briggs was running late again. She applied a generous portion of makeup on her face and mumbled a prayer at the same time. No time for any kind of grand prayer today. She dashed for the car door balancing her handbag and car keys in one hand and her laptop in the other. She switched on the car radio as she swerved out of the garage narrowly missing a man standing by the road. “She’s on her way boss.” GRAVITY FM radio station Above the roof of the radio station building, atop its metal communication mast a slimy figure climbed quickly, making for the top. Its scale-like hands were riddled with claws and its skin oozed a slimy substance. The figure was invisible to the human eyes and so no one noticed as it slowly severed the network cables on the mast. The radio station was suddenly plunged into darkness. **************************************************************** Kemi adjusted the radio dial and frowned. No sound. Just static. She hissed. This crazy radio stations were always dyeing on you when you needed them the most. She tried other radio station frequencies. No traffic report. She decided to take the third mainland bridge route. It is usually free this time of the morning. **************************************************************** THIRD MAINLAND BRIDGE Two figures landed silently on the third mainland bridge. Their bodies fizzled with light as the six foot wings attached to their backs retracted and disappeared. They stepped into the incoming traffic as cars sped thru and around them. They were finely structured; ageless sentinels clad in ancient battle armor with sword holsters attached o their sides. They reached a spot on the bridge and stopped. “We will have to start from here.” They quickly looked up as a 20-foot trailer carrying a metal container sped past them with two bat-like creatures on top of the driver’s cabin. The creatures, invisible to the human eyes were hacking away furiously at the trailer engine. Suddenly the trailer swerved crazily and the tyres screeched in protest. The driver tried to regain control of the vehicle but the 20-foot behemoth groaned and toppled over with a deafening crash. The contents of the container spilled all over the road. The angels stared at the fallen trailer thoughtfully. “It’s starting.” ***************************************************************** Kemi Briggs frowned. There was a strange noise coming from her car engine. It rattled fiercely as she drove towards third mainland bridge. Not again. The mechanic just gave me this car yesterday. What is wrong with it now. She picked up her phone and dialed the mechanic’s number. ***************************************************************** ALABA MARKET Mechanic section “How much for your brake pad?” “Original or tokunbo?” The mechanic smiled wickedly as he studied the rusty brake pad in his hand. “Why I go buy original brake pad? i dey mad?” Both the mechanic and the seller broke out in laughter. ****************************************************************** “Hello? Mechanic! Mechanic! Wetin you do my car? e dey make noise o!” “Madam, I no do anything to your car o! Na original parts I use for am! I swear!” “Kasim are you sure? Kasim I don’t believe you o! See as the…” She looked up at the last moment, saw the trailer, hit the brakes and screamed. **************************************************************** The angels moved swiftly. Abanon crouched and ran into Kemi Briggs advancing car. With a nudge of his massive shoulders, he heaved the car into the air and hurled it forward. The car spun over the trailer in a slow somersault. The demons saw what was happening and advanced drawing their swords. The other angel launched himself into the air, drew his own sword and engaged them. With lightening speed, he ducked the first demon’s sword attack, grabbed its wings and hurled it into the other one. Then in a swift movement launched his sword like a spear into both demons. They exploded into tiny bits of spiritual dust as they screamed in protest. Abanon followed the airborne car, caught it in mid air, and slowly put it on the other side of the road with a soft thud. Kemi Briggs finally opened her eyes and slowly looked around. Her car was upright and stationary. The broken down trailer was behind her and she was unhurt. CULLED FROM THE BOOK ‘SPIRITS’ BY HENRI YIRE-A CHROMA360 PUBLICATION 2012. [HENRI YIRE IS A WRITER, MUSIC ARTISTE AND AN ENTREPRENEUR] www.chroma360.com.ng, chroma360@gmail.com

WARRI WANDERER 3

Part 3 The wedding proper was a kaleidoscope of colors and ancient fashion sense. My uncle practically bullied us into getting ready early so as not to miss any aspect of the festivities. When we were well washed and oiled, we gathered around the sitting room for the ancient ritual to begin. This precise practice dated back to when my ancestors used to acquire antelopes and other bush livestock using the expertise of their hands and a few well landed cudgels. It was as old as the ancient Indian practice of body painting and pipe smoking and was just as essential. Ladies and gentle girls, allow me to introduce you to ‘wrapper tying’. (Smiling sheepishly.) Hey! Before you go all out commonizing (oyinbo!) this unpublicized ancient ritual, I would have you know that my ancestors (bless their alcohol consuming souls.) were die hard wrapper tiers who fought neighboring villages and unruly clans just to keep this ancient practice intact. Anyway sha, we all gathered in the sitting room and stared at my uncle as he stared at the six yards of patterned material he was about to give life to. He bit his lips thoughtfully as he contemplated the best way to utilize the prints to give it maximum exposure. Each wrapper receiver was given a string of commands, not unlike any army general would give. A series of body turns and twists, belly tuck- ins and waist adjustments and finally it was done! My eyes watered as i became excessively emotional at my very first wrapper experience. I studied myself in the mirror and came face to face with my lost ancestry. Here I was all these years thinking I was hip and modern and just by trying out one attire, all that urban hippy swagger went down the drain. I agree, I am a villager at heart.