My life is extraordinary. Not because I think so. What reminds me of that every time is my glossy glass uniform. My initials ‘X.O’ are in gold inscription. My makers say I’m ‘Extra Old’ but I know I’m also ‘Xtra-Ordinary’. Others associate me with the hug and kiss reserved for the elites who appreciate my uniqueness. The mere middleclass cannot comprehend my worth. You dare not spill me. I can pay the salaries of peasants a hundred fold. You may call it arrogance but Continue reading
When I was learning to drive in my late teens, the ‘qualified’ driving instructor advised that while driving I must assume that everyone else is drunk. Why? The logic was that if they were actually drunk then they wouldn’t drive properly. This would mean that they could run into me so I would have to be extra alert and preempt unforeseen accidents or close shaves. Unfortunately these words of wisdom didn’t pay off when I (allegedly) beat a non-existent traffic light and got stopped by a
drunk traffic warden.
The uniformed clown had actually beckoned the vehicle right in front of me to drive forward so I tailed it closely. Obviously I wasn’t close enough else I would have smashed the warden’s legs. I said to him, ‘But you told me to come’. However he denied it and said he told me to stop. He looked at me in shock when I started raising my voice and so he directed me to ‘park well’ (away from oncoming traffic). He came to the front passenger window and started to engage me in shit-chat (no typo) which I’ve heard all before. It started with, ‘Let me see your driver’s licence!’ Then after I handed it over and he pretended to understand what he was examining, the next thing he said was, ‘Open your door.’
‘What the hell for?’ I retorted.
‘Look here, if you don’t want me to take your car to the station then open your door now’
I turned away from him and stared intently at my two hands firmly placed on the steering wheel, like a racer waiting for the starting pistol to be fired. I weighed my options: He gets in. We drive to the station. My car gets clamped. I pay a heavy fine and bank account bleeds. Total time wasted = 45mins to 1 hour.
I decided to go for my next option – I sped off and let the traffic warden choke on my dust! No money lost. Car is safe. Total time wasted = 3 mins. But as I let the adrenaline wear off it suddenly dawned on me that my driver’s licence was still in that traffic warden’s hand! not a photocopy…MY ORIGINAL DRIVER’S LICENCE – DAMN IT!!! (To be continued)
It feels like just yesterday when I was told by my guardian in Lagos that I was being shipped off yet again but this time to my new owner. I was excited. I was finally going to be out of my carton box and into the hands of the next doctor, lawyer, architect, or Nobel Prize winner. I expected so much but I equally had so much to offer. You see, my parents (Hewlett and Packard) sent me out to make a difference in someone’s life. Among my friends, SONY, Dell, Asus, Samsung and LG I was the ENVY of the pack: with my soft touch backlit keyboard, chrome finish, Beats Audio, fingerprint scan, 12GB RAM and 1 Terabyte of storage.
The hot climate of Nigeria has been nothing like the cool US climate I’ve been accustomed to from birth. I’ve even heard rumours before my arrival in that the Internet connectivity in Nigeria was slow and that data bundles usually got depleted quickly. I even heard that WiFi wasn’t common in a lot of urban areas – that’s unthinkable. I wondered what my new owner would be like. After I arrived at a high-rise building on the Marina skyline I wondered if I was on my way to the CEO!
My first impression when my carton box opened and I saw this bald guy with glasses beaming down at me I thought, ‘Who the heck is this bald guy with glasses beaming down at me?’ ‘Does this guy have big teeth or is he just really happy to see me?’ ‘Is he handling me with extreme care or is he touching me inappropriately?’ ‘Look at his desk?’ ‘I hope this guy is the one who’s only going to charge me up and hand me over to my true owner’. Alas, after the whole ceremony of his colleagues coming to pet me (and congratulate him), I realized that wherever this guy was taking me after work would be my new home, whether I liked it or not. But I had a backup plan.
There was this thing one of the other laptops in my former warehouse told me – If you didn’t like a particular owner fight the power button. Basically if someone tried to press the power button after a full charge I would simply resist and keep my monitor screen off. After several failed attempts what usually happened was that the irate owner would call the local supplier and ask for either a replacement or a refund. I had never subjected any potential owner to this ordeal before but I was bracing myself just in case.
We got to his apartment late in the evening (not that I had a curfew in the first place) and he unwrapped and mounted me on his dining table. His place looked quite neat and decent but I didn’t want to get sentimental or weak right before possibly having to ‘fight the power’. As he went into his bedroom perhaps to get out of his work clothes, I scanned the dining table and noticed a few business cards, a note pad, tissue box, cuff links and this colourful little book lying on its front cover. I noticed the name on the book binder and I recall it was an unusual name I heard earlier in his office when his colleagues asked who owned the laptop. This was beginning to seem a lot better than I had hoped. I read the synopsis on the back and confirmed that he was indeed a writer. For me, that meant I wouldn’t be neglected. I would get more attention than his TV, social media or his girlfriend(s). I would be his first thought in the morning and his last thought at night. Life was going to be bliss.
Fast forward 3 months later and this facade couldn’t be any further from the truth. He hasn’t touched me or so much as even looked at me since he started his new job role. It seems to be taking so much of his time. He comes back later than usually and goes straight to bed. Even with the WiFi on prefers to browse on his smartphone and not on me like he used to. I’m suspecting that desktop I saw when I first arrived at my owner’s office. I think he’s cheating on me. And if he doesn’t typing something on his so-called crazy blog I WILL fight the power for real this time.
My debut book, The Crazy Nigerian is now available! (Look ma! I did it!) In order to get your copy of this gut-busting, action-packed memoir of my memorable mishaps and misadventures, then just keep reading. Soft paperback and E-book version available on Authorhouse, Amazon and Barnes & Noble. You can enjoy The Crazy Nigerian on your Nooks, iPads and Kindles if paper isn’t your thing. In Lagos, my book is currently available at Terra Kulture bookshop, The Hub Media Store (Palms, Lekki), Silverbird lifestyle Victoria Island and soon to hit other local bookstores so watch this space.Be sure to leave your comments here or alternatively you can send them to email@example.com. Alternatively you can call +2347032024019 or send a BB message to 284D7BB7 to speak to the Crazy Nigerian in person. You can show your support by going to ‘Like‘ my Facebook fan page ‘Tonwa Anthony’. Crazy videos coming soon! Comments & criticisms also welcome…(yikes!) Follow @dcrazynigerian for crazy updates and crazy articles.
**EXCLUSIVE: ENJOY MY CRAZY NIGERIAN VIDEO! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ugqU9hbpfo 😀
To read my latest blog post just look below this one. Thank you.
I had over 5 hours of sleep last night. I woke up early, I had a warm bath and sat down to a delicious egg sandwich whilst watching the highlights on Sky News. I put on my shirt and tie, packed some lunch and an apple, before grabbing my jacket and car keys. It didn’t occur to me up until I was halfway to my office (which is on the other side of the f***ing southern hemisphere) that I realized that I had forgotten my work shoes.
In case you’re wondering if I was barefoot then the answer is ‘No’. I was wearing bathroom slippers (and now you must be really confused). There are two reasons why I choose to wear bathroom slippers to drive: 1) They’re way more comfortable than work shoes 2) Refer to reason 1. I know it’s all my fault but I have a perfectly good explanation for this debacle. *Puts on his silly Sherlock Holmes hat and shoves a pipe in his mouth, trying to look suave* It all started last Friday night…
I was rather famished after closing from work so I decided to nip down to the local supermarket for some grub. Normally I would take off my shoes and wear my trusty ‘ol slippers for the long voyage home but it slipped my mind after trotting in and out of the supermarket. I arrived at my apartment absolutely knackered and walked indoors with my work shoes still on. On Saturday I went to my automobile to pick out my slippers and by Monday I wore them to drive – thinking that my work shoes were already in the car. Elementary my dear reader, elementary!
Well, my colleague made my Plan B come to life as he was able to salvage a decent pair of size 11’s to wear after calling him before resumption time (what are the odds of him sharing such a rare shoe size?). I had to wear my slippers at the office for the first 2 hours because my colleague came late (because he had to mend an open sole and have the shoes polished). ‘Awkward’ does not even begin to describe how I felt in my suit and slippers. I was glued to my seat for obvious reasons. Glad that’s over though. Now where are my slippers…? Oh for f*** sake!!!!
He’s coming to talk to you. You’ve already made eye contact so you can’t avoid him. He stands very close and you simultaneously attempt to break your own record for holding your breath (which was a pitiful 17 seconds on your last count). As he emits his toxic breath he is using all the dreaded syllables in the English vocabulary: ‘Hey!…How are you! What of the family? …fantastic!” You’re almost beginning to lose consciousness and you’re desperately looking around the office to see if there is any colleague who can bail you out – but to no avail. You make up some excuse in order to be…excused – you just told a lie…but it was worth it. You breathe a sigh of relief and paranoia kicks in as you start checking if your own breath stinks.
We’ve all been there. The problem is that some culprits don’t even know they have bad breath (Where’s a pack of Altoids when THEY need one???). Would you blame their family? friends? colleagues? I wouldn’t. It’s your personal responsibility to be hygienic. Sadly, hygiene is also a choice. I’m not aware of any law imposed in any country that says you must brush and floss your teeth at least twice a day or face the
Electric Dentist’s chair. Babies are not born with bad breath nor is it inherited in the genes. Bad breath (or Halitosis) however is a serious condition which if left untreated can have the following consequences:
- A (drastic) drop in ‘face-to-face’ friends (Figures in social sites in Facebook and Twitter can be misleading)
- Remaining a singleton (and narrowing your choice of partners to only those with a bad sense of smell)
- Unwanted accolades that you may never hear about (because they’re said behind your back e.g. Dragon Breath)
Sometimes it may not necessarily be a medical condition. It might just be that the sufferer doesn’t clean or brush his tongue properly (and it has to be all the way to the back!), he/she may just have a stubborn piece of food e.g. meat stuck in their teeth for over a day, and even bleeding gums (symptom of Gingivitis) could cause a real stinker. Interestingly, Healthjockey.com claims that bad breath is caused by stomach ulcer bacteria. Never fear! Help is at hand…
Mouthwash should never be underestimated, though natural remedies (like consuming lime squeezed in water or eating fresh yoghurt regularly) are recommended by some medical experts. Sweets, chewing gum and strong mints are temporary solutions which may mask bad breath for a while but risk morphing it into a potential nuclear weapon of mass destruction. But the best personal advise I can give is to get a medium/hard toothbrush and brush your tongue and teeth properly twice a day. By all means seek medical advice from your dentist.
Finally, how would you tell someone he or she has bad breath? This is one of many questions that has baffled experts and philosophers for decades (nah, I’m just kidding…for centuries). Well, there has not been any conclusive answers so far but may I suggest subtle hints like:
- Offering chewing gum, sweets or mints (and tactfully insisting on them accepting the offer even when they refuse)
- Asking them what they just ate (and hoping that their answer would prompt you to say that you can still smell it)
- Chipping in your conversation that you are seeing the dentist soon (then asking them when their next visit will be)
Do let me know your experiences with bad breath mongers. Let’s join hands in making this world a safer place to breathe in. In the words of Bugs Bunny, ‘That’s all folks’ 😀
Ok, for today’s post I’ve decided to put up an algebraic equation or a conundrum of a crazy sort. What is ‘x’? E.g. 4 – 3 = x, therefore x = 1 (Get my drift?). There’s a prize for the winner with the correct answer so think carefully before you attempt this. I wonder if you need any clues…hmmm.
Being the gentleman that I am I’ll offer you just three:
- The answer is not a number
- It has 9 letters
- You are only part of the answer
N.B – The correct answer will be posted before midnight.
New post at The Other Side
It was a turbulent flight into Libya – hovering at thousands of feet for hours as UN fighter jets argued over my complete disregard for the no-fly zone imposed on the war-stricken country. Unfortunately I didn’t get the memo. Alas I seized a rare opportunity to land when the fighter jets had to return to base for refuelling. I passed the desert where Gaddafi was believed to have been born. The air was filled with dust and smoke. Pro and Anti-Gaddafi protesters were in various streets giving bloody exchanges in broad daylight while police officials looked on. Army tankers were operated by civilians and teenagers were wielding sophisticated assault rifles. I caught a glimpse of vandalized barricades and then I saw the abandoned corpses…I suddenly wanted to turn back and go home but my mission had to be completed. As the only person crazy enough to accept this mission, I needed to find out if there was anyway to convince Gaddafi to stop the killings and reach an agreement that would please the Libyan people – their lives depended on it.
I made my way to Gaddafi’s palace and I was escorted by armed bodyguards – not your everyday hefty Club-bouncer types but beautiful women whom I pray you would never have the misfortune of underestimating. They were rumoured to be deadly and quick to take care of any dirty business for their beloved dictator (So I did a good job of keeping my eyes off their assets). To my surprise we didn’t sit in the grandeur of hs lavish living rooms or terraces but in a large tent covered in lace pillows and mats made from raffia palms. There he was – Gaddafi in his elegant attire and that dazed look he wears so well like he was trying to recover from a never-ending hangover. We exchanged our Salaam Walekum-Walekum Salaams with a millisecond embrace. He motioned for me to sit and the bodyguards forced me down by my shoulders. It was going to be an interview like no other.
As I was trying to figure out the most comfortable way to fold my legs on the mat Gaddafi was brandishing a torch (don’t panic)…a Blackberry Torch. When I asked if we could start the interview he asked me to give him a few minutes while he finished chatting with al-Megrahi, also known to the world as The Lockerbie bomber (and there I was thinking he was chatting with his son). I sipped on the aromatic tea that was laid on a tray in front of me and almost felt right at home. Once he was through I told him what the media was saying about him – he didn’t care. I told him that the Libyan people were not happy that he usurped power for over 40 years – he didn’t see the big deal. I asked him if he ever thought of handing over to anyone, even his son – he looked confused. He didn’t say much and when he did I barely understood him (I can’t think why he didn’t allow me to come with someone who could translate gibberish).
One thing that he made clear was that it would be a cold day in hell before he would be overthrown in his own country, and that if the people could not show their gratitude towards him then he would have to show them discipline. He then asked me, out of his curiosity, whether I was Pro-Gaddafi or Anti-Gaddafi. I looked around at the hostile faces of the bodyguards. I remembered that I was on unfamiliar terrain with no guarantee of a safe return home. I knew what I wanted to say but I also knew what I had to say if I wanted to make it out of his tent alive… 🙁
How would YOU respond in that situation?
*New post on The Other Side: The Tourist – A true story*
I am a law-abiding citizen. I pay my rent on time and I also pay my taxes. I love my mum and dad just as much as I love OREO cookies and I’ve won The Best Brother Ever Award 3 years in a row, courtesy of my two lovely younger sisters. I don’t expect much from people…even when it’s my birthday. What I do expect from my neighbors, however, is some peace and quiet when I return from a hard day at the office!
I live in a very big compound with 11 other tenants in their respective apartments. Unfortunately 3 of them drive me up the wall (some more frequently than others). Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to present to you the 3 neighbors whom I have tried my best to love with all my heart (honest!).
The Prayer Warrior:
Gender ~ Female
Age ~ 20-something
Marital Status ~ Single (and I think I know why)
Number of kids ~ None
Noise-ometer ~ 7/10 (Very Loud)
Offence(s) ~ On random mornings and nights I would hear this woman chanting prayers and speaking in tongues. It’s quite scary to say the least. It sounds so violent that you actually first think about calling the police to report a case of domestic abuse. The shouting can last for up to 30 minutes and sometimes even longer. I wonder if she has any friends…hmm…maybe just on Facebook.
Gender ~ Male
Age ~ 30-something
Marital Status ~ Single
Number of kids ~ None
Noise-ometer ~ 8/10 (Very Loud and Constant)
Offence(s) ~ Whilst every other sane neighbor usually puts off their generators before going to bed, this guy runs his generator till the fuel runs out. Perhaps if the Nigerian government got their act together and provided uninterrupted power supply then we wouldn’t need generators in the first place. But in the meantime I expect this neighbor to show a little consideration for others by switching his generator off at 12am max. He goes to work the following day so how the hell does he sleep through that constant drone? Maybe I’ll just go ahead and buy those Pioneer headphones I’ve been Googling and see if they’re really sound-proof…
The Human Megaphone:
Gender ~ Female
Age ~ 30 something
Marital Status ~ Widowed
Number of kids ~ 3
Noise-ometer ~ 9.9/10 (Extremely Loud, Constant and Annoying)
Offence(s) ~ Where do I begin? She screams all day. She is obviously lazy because she reduced her teenage niece to a maid. She comes out of her apartment and just when she realizes she’s forgotten something she starts screaming her niece’s name at the top of her lungs…right beneath my bedroom window whilst I’m still sleeping! At first I felt sorry for her because she is a widow but that changed after one late night at about 1am when her sisters-in-law paid her a surprise visit. They banged on her door for an hour and outrightly accused her of driving their brother to an early grave. It was like trying to sleep while The Jerry Springer Show was on. I also have doubts as to the rightful owner of her car because she sure doesn’t know how to unlock it without triggering the car alarm…every single time. I swear she’ll give me a heart attack one day. And don’t get me started on her three screaming kids!
Well I hope there really is a Santa because this Christmas I’m wishing for peace and sanity in my neighborhood. Do you think you could live with my neighbors? 🙁
…is another man’s treasure? Well I’ve got a Nokia 7900 Prism that says ‘NO!’ – thats if you want to keep beating the life out of it everytime it freezes when a message comes through it. I can vaguely remember how I strolled into the Nokia shop barely a year ago, coughed out N70,000 (which is over £200 or over $300) and was one of the ‘privileged’ few to be pouncing around town with a phone which got quite a lot of ‘Ooh! Nice phone!’, ‘It’s unique!’, ‘I haven’t seen this before!’, (Hindsight – thanks to you gawkers I didnt return the phone sooner to get a refund).
It was as slim as kate moss, black as Whoopi’s lips, had more colour theme choices than Amy Winehouse’s make-up artist (oops, I forgot she does it herself), and boasted more tricks than Harry Potter’s wand. Well I was tricked alright. I was tricked into thinking an engraved Aluminium casing was mega cool. For N70,000 I should be getting at least Titanium, shouldn’t I? For N70,000 I should be getting not just 1GB of built-in memory but 3GB! For 70,000 bleeping Naira I should be getting more than a 2 mega-pixel camera, FM radio and bluetooth – bluetooth! What genius came up with THAT term? The next pushy salesperson that offers me a ‘BLUETOOTH’ will get a ‘BLACKEYE’.
I will not be ripped off again (Aaaaargh!!!) I shall not succumb to the…oh my…could it be? Could Nokia be entrancing me yet again with a nonsenical technological blunder utterly unworthy to be categorized as a cutting-edge mobile phone? Its so slick…stylish…kinky…qwerty…look at it slide…the screen is huge…how much is it? How much? I think I’m falling for the E75…shh, I just can’t help it. I hate you Nokia…making me spend my money…and in 8months I know this’ll be trash too…but for 11years now when has that ever stopped me 🙂