Thought Flake

I like knowing things I never knew. I like seeing things I'v never seen before.
I love to go to places I'd never gone to before. I love thinking of things I've never thought about.
I'd enjoy peering into the future, but I sit back every now and then to steer at my past.
I would like to pass through some moments that I have passed through before.
I love moments that comes once and never again.
I like to meet people I thought never again to meet, it makes the moment a glorious one to savour.


I would like to step back into time, even the hour just past.
I hope to see the future if only a second of it, to change a phrase or a word in a sentence; it's good enough for a life time.
I wish to go back in time to revisit errors of the past; one has made enough.
Life isn't a choice, living is.
Life is subtle, we know not what it purports.
Though we live hoping someday to understand life, we can never be old enough to know enough or understand it well enough.
If life is a book, every hour would be a page, a fresh start, a new chance to turn things around for good or scribble in our doom.

Alas! A new hour and I flip a new page to put down another ink-less memory.
Will it fade away like smoke, just like the page before?
I hope it's good enough to last a few more days, so that people watching can breath these into their lungs and live.
I have something to dream about, Something to live for. It is My Dreams.
I dream because I live, and I live because I dream.
When i stay under the covers dreaming, my pages don't stay blank; other people will write on it. -The same goes to you

#Dream #life #Poetry #StrayingThoughts #AfricanPoetry

How your Ancestors programmed your DNA

Your geographical roots affect your thought pattern

After my post on Japan’s ‘Too many Virgins’ problem, a few friends contacted me via phone calls and other social media, expressing displeasure at my being critical of the “blackman” in my introductory paragraph of the article [http://blackboythinking.blogspot.com/2015/07/japans-too-many-virgins-problem.html]. They frowned about what they perceive as my constant deprave of Africa. I think everyone expresses his/or her freedom in thoughts, and a writer who is one who puts thoughts down in ink would be robbed of freedom if restriction and boundaries are placed. The earlier we as African in Africa comes to terms with the realities surrounding us, the quicker we can evolve from what we are and who we are, to what and who we want to be. If we hide our problems, we will be hidden by them. These are sad realities.

I want to take advantage of this opportunity to push out a series of thoughts on my Philosophy on how our ‘geographical roots affect our thought pattern’.  

I will like to state clearly, I’m neither a certified Philosopher, nor a sociologist, historian nor anything psycho-special. I'm just a #blackboythinking

Necessity is the mother of all inventions. 

If you need timber, you must invent something to fell the tree. if you need to join two planks, you need to invent a nail and then the hammer. We agree. Let me take you on a shallow tour of man’s journey through history, with respect to his geographical location and environment.

Let us look at some hypothetical scenarios that comprise my series. 

                                                                 Series One(Africa)

I will start with my roots, Igbo Land.

Scenario 1 (Africa-Nigeria-Southeast-Ndi Igbo):

Let us assume Mazi Obi fell from the skies and landed on Igbo soils. He studies the vegetation, the land scape, the weather and the seasons and tries to adapt himself to his new home. His major challenges are; cloths to cover his body, food to eat, and medical supplies, a roof to shield him from the elements, and tools.

Clothing: The weather isn’t too bad to a decent cover from animal hides, and simple weaves from special fiber and cotton will do. Clothed.

Next stop, where to live.

Housing: The soil is rich and bathed in greens, the sun shines daily and the rains are frequent but not too heavy. From mud and raffia from the palm rich vegetation he casts his cylindrical huts, and from straws he roofs his house.  When the storms come the tress are there to break the wind, and the circular hut streamlines the wind, so he has nothing more to worry about.

Tools: To complete his hut, hunt, defend himself, and to cultivate the lands, he needs tools, good tools. From wood to bones he started Iron fabrication (Iron was not brought to Africa by anyone Western or Asian it was discovered by Africans in Africa, ask UNESCO [http://portal.unesco.org/en/ev.php-URL_ID=3432&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION=201.html]. From iron he fashioned the suitable tools for his activities. Tools like blades to sharpen and cut through things, Machete, Cutlass, Hoes, Spears and other specialized tools to work the lands and defend his territory.

Yes fire wasn’t handed down to him by “GOD” but let’s skip that particular detail.

Food: The land is big and only he can’t work the earth. He marries many wives (birth of polygamy) who would bear him many sons. Now he has a troop to work the vast farm lands.

He builds barns for his tubers, and silos for his grains, and hanging gills for smoking his seafood and meat. A trial and error and his medical needs are all sorted out.

Unchallenged by nature, Mazi Obi and his household for would indulge, feast and take chieftaincy titles, practice religion and set up traditional ways of doing things, haven conquered all the major challenges fate threw at him. Living the trouble free life, he measures success by farm yield and family size. This lifestyle over the centuries embedded into the DNA of the Igbo man, thus the his/her affinity for growing affluence. He can travel the ends of the earth to afford himself the luxury he craves. An Ijebu man is in some way of the same mould.

Senerio 2 will cover the Middle-belt and Northern Nigeria, and gradually we drift into Europe and Asia in further series. Hang on…

#Iron #TheRoot #Origin #BlackAndProud #Acestory  #Invention #UbahIkechukwuAnthony #Necessity #MotherOfInvetions  

CNN said, I say(Buhari meets with Obama )

With respect to my previous post about the Nigerian president’s visit to the United States and his meeting with Barack Obama, an article on CNN Politics last night caught my attention and I am going to share some of the twists with you here on my blog. 

The article Titled ‘Obama looks to new Nigerian partner in Boko Haram fight’, starts thus;

“Washington (CNN) President Barack Obama will welcome Nigeria's new president to the White House Monday in an effort to bolster the fight against Boko Haram and begin a new chapter with Africa's most populous country.The United States is eager to boost its ties with Nigeria now that the former president, Goodluck Jonathan, who was often a source of frustration for Washington, has left office….”

I’ll pause here to review some details;

"…in an effort to bolster the fight against Boko Haram and begin a new chapter with Africa's most populous country."

It doesn’t come as a surprise to me, the new “chapter” which will involve a direct involvement  in Nigeria’s military and security affairs..."Do I smell the military base i talked about?" If so, could it benefit us and guarantee Nigerian citizens safety? Maybe I’ll ask Iraq, Afghanistan and other's in the list.

“…Goodluck Jonathan, who was often a source of frustration for Washington…”

Of cause this line was also tweeted by @APCNigeria in their official handle, "as expected". I ask, What are the oyibo insinuating? I was not a big fan of the GEJ led administration which is infamous for his characteristic indolence, but if there is anything I cannot forget about the former president, it is this, he refused to bow down to America, thus America denied him support. 
First and evidently, in Obama’s two visits to Africa, ‘Africa’s Most Populous country’ and no.1 economy was omitted. 
Secondly when Goodluck Ebele Jonathan approached the United States for Arms trade, he was turned down by not only the US, but also it's allies. This prompted Goodluck and his administration to secretly opt for illegal arms deals abroad. A move which the western allies tried to sabotage. This deals yielded an early and significant success in pushing the insurgents back and halting their attacks, prior to the ploy by western allies that intercepted further deals. 
The third reason why America considered GEJ’s administration frustrating is simple. He fraternized with one of America's political opponents Russia. GEJ signed a multi billion dollar Nuclear power plant deal with Rosatom Corporation, a Russian government run company nuclear company, in his bid to conquer electricity challenges in the country.

continuing;

"Buhari, a devout Muslim in a country where a majority of residents are Muslim, said during his election that he'd fight aggressively against radical Islam and promised to ramp up the fight against Boko Haram…”

The reporter isn’t Mr Obama, but if he was, I’ll say he is trying to paint Nigeria as an Islamic nation, so he can easily convince the Americans that he is only trying to save a group of Muslims from themselves if he eventually invades Nigeria; typical American technique in her Global Policing ideology. Since the writer isn’t Obama I can’t blame him for this blunder. What I can blame him for however is, not categorizing Nigeria as a country with predominantly Muslim North and Christian south as is generally referred to world through.

"President Obama looks forward to discussing with President Buhari our many ‘shared priorities’ including US.-Nigeria cooperation to advance a holistic, regional approach to combating Boko Haram," the White House said in a statement.

‘Shared Priority’, office romance? ok o. the lines above simply brings back my thoughts that US might want to employ the 'divide and rule' strategy to control Nigeria, to control the ‘Region’. No? Now check out the statement below;

Activists are hoping that the United States can assist Nigeria in halting Boko Haram's growth, especially by focusing on strengthening the country's military.

hmmm....

According to Omolola Adele-Oso, executive director and co-founder of Act For Accountability, a D.C.-based African government watchdog organization,

"The largest help the U.S. could give comes with intelligence -- helping Nigeria develop and monitor and track our security issues, and develop a better understanding of what it means to control our border,"

America understands propaganda more than anyone, so I need-not say more. All I see is help, help, help, help the Nigerian military.

One lovely part that appeals to my little brain in this article is this next one:

"While Nigeria would be wise to strengthen its relationship with the United States, ultimately the solutions to the country's problems -- including divisions -- will have to be solved internally, said Tukufu Zuberi, a professor at the Center for Africana Studies at the University of Pennsylvania."The solution to that can't come from Obama. It has to be a Nigerian solution," he said. "There's not much France can do or the U.S. can do in order to provide a national consciousness and unity in Nigeria." 

I wouldn’t agree more. Why does the US need to nose into affairs we can tackle within ourselves? Poor Africans. Do they think we can’t solve our own problems? Well we can’t blame them for thinking so, can I? Although organization and coordination are not a black man’s thing, i'm sorry. I still believe the best way to solve family problems is, taking them back home.

Having recently won Nigeria's first credible elections, Buhari enjoys the most respected status internationally of any of his predecessors.

An election conducted by an administration perceived to be a source of frustrations to the man at the Whitehouse. Ironic

The United States, for now, has praised the democratic moment in Nigeria and both Jonathan and Buhari for a peaceful transition of power.The United States Itself helped to some extent in this process. The U.S., the United Kingdom and others in the international community warned those considering disrupting the elections that there would be serious consequences.

This is clearly laughable. I don’t think the United State's input would have stopped GEJ from playing 'Laurent Gbagbo'. This is Africa.

         That is the much I will like to take from this article. Today is Monday, lets watch the news unfold, and hope our honorable President keeps our best interests as a Nation at heart always.

Read the original article on: http://edition.cnn.com/2015/07/20/politics/nigerian-president-buhari-obama-visit/index.html?iid=ob_homepage_NewsAndBuzz_pool&iref=obnetwork

THE LEAP2

PART 2

(Short story)

The morning was cold and even the sun was still in bed. Akubuike sat on the old scruffy back seat of an old Peugeot 504 saloon car which served him as his bed. He is dirt poor. He is motionless and lost in thought. The only sign of life in the room are the sound of mice nibbling on something in the corner of the small room, and the cold breeze which played with his slacked shabby white singlet with a dusty brown map of his chest from the fall. A Gale of thought hovers through his mind.

Body aching, stomach rumbling and head pounded like a talking drum- he knows this is a hangover. His father is an alcoholic and sometimes his mum had to send either him or ije to bring him home from the bar down the street. Ndulue was popular for his big grammar. He became jobless after the Enugu state government shed off non-indigenes from their pay roll. He moved with his family, away from the staff quarters 12years ago to the slum in ugboye, and after so many years gave up hope on employment. He manages to make enough money to pay for half of his daily booze from his vulcanizing spot at the junction and apparently enjoyed a credit facility with no limit at Mama Adaugo’s beer parlour, from where he accumulates debts. All his evenings were spent at mama Adaugo’s bar discussing and dissecting the government of the day and its selfish corrupt policies, stories of the first and second Republic, or the myth of the failed ideal Biafran State; whose course he fought for alongside his comrades, and some other equally passionate topics like is football. He apparently memorizes every moment of every game, and to the delight of both young and old he demonstrates certain movements in his analyses. Akubuike hardly had enough change to spare for watching any game. He is a bus conductor. Despite his good grades in SSCE, he spends his day clinging dangerously to the door of different commercial danfo buses shouting his voice out to the near and far to attract passenger plying through his popular old-park route.  All his earnings he contributes to his family's support and to offset some of he’s father's bills whenever Mama Adaugo comes storming-in in her usual hurricane manner with her sons to collect her money.

Aku loves football, so he make up for the games he’d missed it by listening to his father while he entertained, narrating events and argued statistics about the games played and yet to be played at the bar. Aku has become so attached to Chelsea FC in the English premiere league, irrespective of the fact he know next to nothing about them. Most of his friends claimed to be fans too. Once he was laughed to scorn when he wore a shirt with the name Robben crested on it. He never saw him play before or how he looked, but to belong, he bragged about his awesome performance in their last game, ignorant of the fact that the player left the club a few years ago. He was never really forgiven for that mistake, the name Robben stuck to him as a nickname among his peers.

The day before was one of those days when Ndulue talked soccer. It was 9:30 pm and the moon had assumed its post when Akubike set out to bring his father home. While waiting for the father to summarize, he was offered a beer by a man in the audience who wanted the entertainment to go on a little longer. He pulled out a seat and sat to it. From one bottle to a few more he went, soon he became stone drunk. It took Ije and her drunken father about half an hour to carry him home at a few minutes after midnight. A journey a strolling young couple would have completed in 10 minuets on a flower field. They both had their bowels and intestines emptied all over her. A flush with a full bucket of water welcomed them before they stepped inside, courtesy of Mama Aku, his mother. 

They all live in one of the streets by the edge of the notorious slum neighborhood in Abakpa overrun by zinc shacks and hovels. In the infamous ‘face me-I-Face you’ setup that the area is known for, they occupy two rooms. Half of one Akubuike’s mother used as her food mart, the other half as kitchen. The second serves as the living area containing the seat where Aku slept, a rolled up blue nylon mat leaning on the corner for ije surrounded by a cluster of battered plastic buckets and jerry cans, and the old foam which used by their parents is folded to a corner to provide room for the day. They are first in the row of rooms whose rusty roofs inclined towards the opposite door, both donating to the narrow drainage with no definite boundary in the middle. The entire rooms in the building all shared the same bathroom and toilet.

The only neat and painted building in the scruffy brown neighborhood is the bungalow occupied by Mma and her family. Her parents both work for the community bank at the bus stop. Being the richest in the poor slump, Akubuike thought her father rode a very high horse and had plagued his entire family with his hubris syndrome with his irrational intention of wiping the poverty mentality off his children’s eyes. Poor Mma being the only daughter and the last in the stack of five ‘well behaved’ children isn’t spared in her father’s iron hands of discipline. Akubuike feels Mma also has a soft spot for him but wouldn’t dare to show it for the sake of peace at home.

Religion is a pinnacle of Akubuike’s household, as Roman Catholics, his mother made morning mass attendance a routine that must be strictly adhered to. Despite Ndulue’s heavy drinking, he never woke up late for it, and would never condone absence from any one either. Akubuike doesn’t enjoy this and would always comply grudgingly as it wasn’t in his attitude to disobey his folks.

************************************************************

It is 7:23 a.m. and Akubuike steps out through of the St. Theresa’s main exit leading the slow moving crowd dragging their feet, and jabbering as they disintegrated into smaller groups to their various destinations. He was late to church, and had spent the last 15 minutes watching his mum and ije dance, gleefully swing their hips uniformly to the music played by the choir. Thoughts hovered waved through his head like a swarm of bees around sweet nectar, but he thought about nothing in particular. He didn’t hear the music play, the bees must have knocked off every note played and every word sang. The dream is still fresh in his memory, and the clarity isn’t helping him get a glimpse of the beautiful morning. He strolled aimlessly, adrift in thoughts.

His hangover has eased off and he breaths better, the pains from the fall still lingering. The time is 8:35 a.m., he has spent has wondered off physically and in though. Returning to the park, he has missed his bus to the hands of a fortunate early-bird conductor. He waits for another bus to hop on and fetch money for the day. Fruitless. This is his first time miss a bus for the day’s work, and a bad time too. Ije is the family’s hope for a ray of sunlight. His mum nurses the idea that when Ije finishes school and get a good job, she will attract worthy suitors, rich suitors who will elevate the family from the sludge. Aku believes that too and works tirelessly to achieve this dream for Ije and his beloved mother. Ije is pretty, smart, and still very young. Everyone looks forward to her being a lawyer or something great. The fantasy began to fade when Ije spent two years at home after her SSCE due to lack of funds to pay for her JAMB exams to gain admission into the university. This is the fourth year now, and she had turned 22 and had successfully passed her JAMB and was shortlisted for admission to study for a degree in law Ibadan. At last, something to cheer up for. Their joy was only short-lived when she came back from Ibadan with her school requirements. She was asked to pay fifty thousand naira (N50, 000) to secure her admission and a host of other payments amounting to  a hundred and twenty thousand naira (N120,000.00), putting aside personal funds for accommodation and feeding since her school is hundreds of kilometers away in the western part of Nigeria. The only have until the end of October to pay the fees, leaving them only six weeks complete all the necessary payments. The family has exhausted all their borrowing options to pay the rent which had been pending for two years, and they still had a year’s payment to complete or risk eviction. 

His father cares little or nothing about the situation, he simply wanted her to get married off and ‘get the hell out of the house’. Haven taken it upon himself to raise the funds for Ije, Aku has built up a personal saving of almost forty-five thousand naira N45, 000 from the seven hundred and fifty Naira N750 daily contributions which he banks with the Akawo daily, and the Four thousand five hundred naira (N4, 500) hidden in the broken ceiling at home, and cannot afford to take his foot off the pedals now. His mother little effort sums up to feeding the family and nothing more.

************************************************************

It is 10o’clock and thoughts have brought the headache, and his legs hurt from standing. He walks out from the busy liberty park and into the less hovered Iseke Street. There in front of a little construction site, he sat on a bench under the shed of a young pear tree, the only tree in a few blocks, hauling his aching right elbow with the other hand. He lying on his back, he covered his face with his handkerchief and shots his eyes, hoping to gallop off to Shangri-La. 

************************************************************

Noon, and it’s a beautiful cloudy day, Iseke street is calm and Akubuike has had no troubles finding sleep, he of dozed peacefully. Tiny sounds of conversation filter in and out from the distance, footsteps after footsteps crushing and pulverizing pieces of earth as people and hawkers up and down the streets. Opposite where he lay stood the bank’s entrance which enjoyed a scanty traffic of human and vehicular traffic through the gate. 

His body jerks to the jamming sound of a car’s door slamming shot.

“Thank you very much, Bye! I love you!” the lady screams excitedly as she waved to the man driving away on a black sport car who also has his hand waving at the sky through the window. She looks cheek, dressed in skinny blue jeans pants shy above her ankle, under a loose-fitting black blouse that look like it was made from a square folded diagonally with the neck hole in the middle, with an eye-catching brown embroidery round its neck and down its pointing front, on her armpit a big brown leather bag that complements her 5 inch stiletto.  Akubuike studied every detail as she elegantly crossed the road and gaits into the bank.

“Some people have everything going for them," he mutters, taking off his washed up blue jersey and slapped over his shoulder. Looking at himself, he heaves a muffled sarcastic laughter and continues in his soliloquy. “I’ve never even seen the inside of a banking hall before, big dreaming Akudike!” Pounding his chest and laughing hysterically like a man deviating to lunacy as he spoke, a drop of tear escapes his flooded eye. 

The lady reappears at the bank’s exit looking somewhat paranoid as she hurries off down the street. Akubuike watches her curiously for a while as her image shrunk into the distance. He jumps to his feet and stalks after her, trailing her as she took the turn into the lonely street Ibe Street. She stops suddenly and hurriedly pulls out her cell phone and starts dialing. The muscles on the back of Akubuike’s neck start contracting; a sudden urge and anxiety creeps in. He wants to do something but has no idea what it is. He increases his strides forward shortening the tail and revealing himself. His body trembled, and his heart pounded hard, and he feared she could hear the pounding from 10 meters away. His accelerates continuously as he approaches her. He is afraid of what he is about to do; reluctant, but his body drags him forward. He finds himself jugging. From 2 meters he can perceive the fragrance of her perfume. 

He can hear his heart say “It was time”. A dose of breath and he make a dash at the handbag in what looked a sprint across the unsuspecting victim, he grabs the hand bad and make a run for it.

The terrified lady starts screaming in such high pitch that Akubuike can hear it rip his heart apart. 

THE LEAP

PART 1

(Short story)

By Ubah Ikechukwu Anthony

Looking through the windshields,  the windshields at the two black SUVs that sandwiched his, with a glimmer of joy on his face, Akubuike nodded his head in satisfaction. He leans back, resting his slender body against the backrest of the pure white upholstery that looks well pampered by generous pieces of top-grade leather hides. His feet resting on a genuine lamb wool mats that will have you taking your shoes off, and his right arm gently placed on the white large fold-down armrest of the right backdoor. His lips frozen in smile, he looks down, staring at his left hand, slowly caressing the soft leather seat which carried him.

For a few seconds, he finds himself lost in the euphoria of the dizzying array of luxurious attributes that surrounded him.  He gave his eye an exclusive tour of the graceful interior of the artifact that conveyed him. Perfect finishing, with veneered teak wood and wonderful hand sewn leather dominated the interior. The metallic details feel cold and glitter with silvery sheen that seem to blind him every second he looked at them. Even with the weight of the thick clothing he is wearing, it feel like he is inside an ice box in the Mercedes Benz sedan that chauffeured him. 

“I love this! I love this!! I love….this!!!” he muttered reflexively in what sounds like a mousy squeak, jolting and clenching his fists simultaneously. He startles in embarrassment when he observes the peering eyes from the rear mirror, aligned under the Visor of the Navy-blue peaked cap of his light skinned, middle-aged chauffeur. From the white shirt with navy blue trouser he wore, the man looks everything like the Captain of an aircraft.  

Akubuike had been leaning forward with his lower arms hanging halfway between his thighs, a position he found himself in after the shock. He sinks back into his previous position, almost sitting on his back. 

                 ************************************************

“Aku! Aku! Nodu ka mmadu! Do you want to be crooked like your grandpa?” His mother had always resounded in her usually manner by bending forward, and pulling one of her small round ears with one hand while the other resting on her enormous well rounded hips while she cautions Akubuike about his bad sitting posture. Her shoulders are barely two inches above the door knob but grandpa was a total contrast. He apparently towered well over 7 feet from the ground and stands like a sickle with his 4 feet walking-stick which Akubuike had known him with before he died of typhoid fever last August.

“Grandpa what is the temperature up there?” Ije would jokingly asked the old man, pointing at his shiny bald head.

Akubuike’s Grandpa was 87 before he died, but his scalp remained smooth and glowed as though hair never grew there before. Aku never wanted to look anything like his Grandfather, but at 26 he was already noticing the signs of his inevitable baldness. The thought of this disgusts him. However, he simply can’t help sitting in that awkward posture. He is nearly 7 feet, and every tall person he knew sat like that.

“Someone should go out there and talk to chair makers,” he will say, “they should consider us and make better chairs with higher backrests to accommodate our long trunk."

                                ***********************************************

Body shivering and jaws rattling, he made a puff into his open palms and gently wrapped his hands round his rib cage in a cage. He was beginning to freeze but didn’t want to complain. He takes his eyes off the driver and to the window. His eyes widen, at the well tamed arrogant beauty of the green world of tropical trees which they behold, spanning from the skylines down to the healthy green lawns that terminated on the smooth shoulders of the road side. For the next few minutes, he admires the neighborhood along which they drove. An array of eye catching mansions buried in the greens of the surrounding trees and shrubs appeared and vanished in the sight.

Another thing that suddenly starts to appear and disappear is his vision; he struggles repeatedly to clean the fog on the glass with his lower arm, formed by the vapour coming off his nostrils and wide open mouth.

Opposite a small crystal lake, the mini convoy came to a stop. He smirked at the grace of the dancing lights at the edge of the stream. A sudden gloom appears over him, he quickly tilted his head backwards, spreading his shoulder, and hanging his two arms midway in an attempt to prevent his entire body from falling off the vehicle as a stern looking man in a black suite opened the door on which he rested on.

 “We are home sir," the man grumbles holding the door wide open for him. 

“Home?” he says, rather soft and timidly, jerking his head with small ridges on his forehead.

“Yes, home sir.” The man reply, calmly gesturing him out of the car

The golden sun stood by the edge of the sky like a blushing maiden hiding behind small pieces of cloud. The air was mild and smelled of natural greens. It was mid-morning and the tweeting of birds chirping in rhythm with the swaying trees and dropping leaves as they sang and played an orchestra to glory of a new day.

Akubuike gracefully alights like royalty. Noise filtered into the breeze like a quarry from under the hard sole of his derby shoe, altering the melody of the silence as his weight crushed the pebbles underneath. The temperature was not different outside either. It felt very cold but the sun was out and shone brightly. The harmattan wind was trading down; Akubuike had thought it was just the air-conditioning.

                          

                           ************************************************

His outfit reflected his youthfulness. A heavy looking silver necklace towed a circular gold pendant hanging off his slender neck, radiating from his chest through the open velvet jacket he wore. This like his shoes and trouser are cream and seemed to hug his chocolaty body, revealing the masculine mold under the taut white shirt that also married his body. The high shoulder pads complement his wide shoulder, making him look like the plastic models you see in boutiques. His trousers isn’t cheated either, lapping thigh and letting-go at the ankle. His tall figure can pass for an ‘I’.

Holding onto the two flaps of his jacket with both hands, he shots his eyes, and slowly fed his lungs with the cold air, choking slightly. His air-ways felt like desiccated leather. The cold was beginning to get to him, but only he appeared discomforted by it.

For a while, he stood stiff with eyes glued to the car he just alighted from. Something felt odd about it. A thud sound sips into the silence as the man shots the door behind him. Slightly bending forward, the stern dark man he ushers him towards the carved stone pathway.

Suddenly he stops. Lost. He fells adrift. Series of queries running through his mind, He could not figure out anything about himself, or events before the moment. His mind mooched in the mental lacuna he finds himself in, nothing looked familiar.

“I can’t remember anything," he flushes out faintly like a puff of air. His jaw starts feeling too heavy for him to shut completely. His eyes gazing like a blind man, every facial nerve slept and robbed his face off all expressions, frozen and void of emotions. A slight thump to his shoulder by the man guiding him oozed the smell of alcohol from his bowel, which filtered into his stuffed nose from his snapped him out of it.

“I must have had too much to drink." He voiced in a whisper.

With steady eyeballs and frozen face, he starts taking steps forward like a sick old man guided by the slight pressure of the hands placed against his shoulders.

His vision starts getting blurred, and his sight is gradually lost and he rapidly grows weaker. Faithfully relying on the guild of the gentle palm placed on his shoulder as he cautiously places his legs down on the hazed floor. His entire body aches, head weighing extra pounding. He fells too exhausted to voice the question his heart and lips repeated over and over again, ‘what is happening to me?’

“Aku! Aku!!” a faint female voice sounding strangely familiar called form up ahead. He lifted the one ton boulder over his shoulder to look forward. The image of his Mma cleared his vision and soothed him. She stood by the pathway leading to the entrance of a classic Georgian mansion sunk on an acre of even green lawn, and adorned with a thatched sit-out area by the left.

Mma is the love of his life. Though she is pocket sized, it takes nothing away from her pretty face, beautiful glowing brown skin and well curved body. On a three-inch heel, she might only be able to measure up to his shoulder. Before now she had been a part of his day-dreams and fantasies. They never got to talk except for the regular Nigerian pleasantries; ‘hello’, ‘how you de’, ‘what’s up’, ‘how things’, ‘how far’ which he tossed like hibiscus petals at her feet any time they crossed paths. Often she barely seemed to notice them, When she does, it’s simply a ‘hi’, ‘fine’ or ‘good’, with her trademark smile, but ever more than a word, but that was always enough to make his day. Although when she doesn’t reply, he felt robbed and hollow inside; sadly this was the greater ration. There is a worm hole in his heart, and she had a room there.

                                  **************************************************

His face reignites in like activated charcoal. He spread his heavy hands wide open like a man nailed to the cross and make some gently strides at towards her, felling heavier with every step. It feels like a bag of garri has been placed on his back. He wrestles to muscle up and walk erect. A feeling that God must have place a finger on his head, his body guards offered him no help, Mma made no effort to come closer, his own body was falling him.

As he loosened his muscle strings and let his nerves relax, his jaw crashes onto the concrete as he fall effortlessly like a felled mighty three trunk. Fighting hard to get to his feet, he right arm buried under his mass. It hurt like it had been crushed by an elephant. Growling in excruciating pain, he clamps his jaws and pushed himself to his back, facing the sky.

Mma stood over him looking down with a smile. Nothing felt better. Her head cast a shadow on his face as the sun rapidly moves behind her head, as darkness crept in. She gently placed her right palm to his chest and with a big grin started tapping his chest in threes calling his name.

Tap Tap Tap, ‘Aku’, tap tap tap, ‘Aku’ she called

“Hummm what!, ogini ogini!” He slowly replied, puzzled. His vision was blurry again so he couldn’t see her face. Darkness shaded in and Mma’s figure slowly and continually gets swallowed and vomited by the light behind her. Her voice went from faint to a loud overly more familiar voice which was escorted by the noisy scuffle of hurrying feet, water splashes and moving objects. His head pounding painfully and his lungs ached.  He closes his eyes tightly and reopens it, hoping to get rid of the illusion.

A harsh light beam to his face harassed his eyes as he reopened it. The tapping on his chest had seized, his body felt like it was it had been dragged out from under a car’s wreckage.

 A splash of water to his face trickled down his nostrils and caused a sneeze. He springs to his buttocks and crawls backwards on it with his hand and heels until his back hit an object behind it. His eye lids slid wide open, fear, confusion and terror eclipsing him mind. Everything was in gray scale. Two human silhouettes swung from left to right periodically cutting through each other in the middle. He shot his eye and pressured his thumb and index finger across both eyes before reopening as if to drive the nightmare away. The blur starts to fade and his vision starts to focus in. The twin shadows merge in the middle forming a ladylike figure walking towards him. He curls into himself terrified.

“You fell off the bed," Ije said as she helps her frail looking and terrified brother up to his feet. He shoves her off with his elbow. His eyes remains still, steered at nothing in particular. “We have been trying to wake you up for a while now.” She continued.  He turned his unfocused gaze to her.

“Ije?” he said softly, “is that you?” he said sounding like his grandpa on his sickbed.

“Lazy boy it is time for church, mum and dad are on their way their already”, she said, turning around and walking out through the dangling zinc door of the main entrance.

He has been dreaming.

The Black boy (INTRODUCTION)

Let me introduce this black boy and at the same time my blog. My name is Tony, Ubah Ikechukwu Anthony, and yes I'm Black and I’m African. All my life I've tried to figure out what informed the black man's pride in himself and what was special about my roots. Well the third decade of my existence rounding up and I’m still trying to figure that out. Every black man or woman I admired growing up have at one instance either said I’m black and I'm proud, or have meant to say it. Most, i never got the chance to meet and to ask the question why they said, and/or felt so. For the few whom I had the chance to meet and have a chat with, they all had less than half a reason to cement their vague claims. They all appeared to be in the bandwagon of the sudden realization which the white colonialists had embedded within the walls of our cranium. for these black men i well-regarded, in a bid to defend their claims sang the vane glorious songs of the sung and unsung champions with black skins, who's feat have either been matched or outclassed by the less coloured people or the “colourless” men who refer to themselves as whites. I'm thinking it is because the blackmen have stood like rocks, who can not move, but can be moved. Until I figure that out, I’ll keep playing to the gallery and lift my shoulders high. We are who we say we are. 

I am the Blackboy thinking loud.

 I was born the third of 4 siblings, and anyone who knew me growing up will know me as the different one. I was neither the Okpala(first son), the Ada(First Daughter), nor the Odu(Last child), I managed one of many the many less celebrated titles like; the second son, the last boy, the fat kid, the antisocial, the stubborn one, the weirdo, the nerd, the one who cared least about school, and also careless about Aunty *** or Uncle ****’s promise to take us abroad. Well all these thoughts were all in my head no one else seemed to notice all my differences at home, but me. Jezzzz! everyone at home went by their Local names but me, I was called the Oyibo name, yet no one at home could feel it. Great consolations though, my Local name happens to be my father’s, and that put a smile on my face. These early feeling thus, could be the porter's tool that molded me into the thinker that I think I am, or the nagging Blackboy I might actually be. You find out.

I have very strong personal opinions about sooooo many issues; society, religious, politics, education, sports, emotions, food(yummy) and everything, I mean everything. These thoughts I’ve kept to my self, and the few times I got to spill out a bit of my mind, it drives me into awkward moments, teacher’s wrath, aggressive feedbacks, insults, or an avalanche of debate and controversies. On this platform I hope to collect the dewdrops from my straying thoughts, and I'm going to share this wine with you. Please come into my head and live my thought with me. I hope to get your kickbacks.

Thanks

Ubah Ikechukwu Anthony