LOVE AND OTHER PSYCHOACTIVE SUBSTANCES: SERIES TWO

How's the laundry coming?

In this latest installment, we delve even deeper... If you missed the first installment, find them here

5. YOU’RE PLAYING A DANGEROUS GAME…

… by overly “chuking” mouth in that other person’s relationship. There’s an extent to which it is allowed that you get involved in someone else’s relationship. There’s a line you shouldn’t cross. Every, I repeat, every single important decision to be made in a relationship must be made by the individuals involved. Do not suggest for them, except if for instance, there’s proof of physical violence/abuse. Even at that, I’d tell you once or twice, and if you don’t listen, you’re totally OYO afterwards.

We’re humans and where we can get away it, we love to practice that blame culture. It wasn’t me that did it. It was already cracked. Blah. Trust me, if you help (or feel that you’re helping) someone by suggesting to that person that they leave a relationship because he/she (I’d prefer “they”, but not many people get English these days, just ask Freeze and Kaylah on CoolFm) has given you reasons why they should, well, take care that it doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass. That blame culture will ensure that

LOL AT VALENTINE

At about midnight, the owl shrieked and the crow swept by, settling for the middle spot on the roof of his house. The witching hours had been  ushered in. Yesterday’s blues had gone, to be replaced with today’s reds…

                                         -        Sir M^cKay Fanny (Shot in the Head and Dead)

It’s amazing when it’s on only certain designated days you notice what probably has always been there, like my red ribbon, which I use to signify that I have a part in fighting the AIDS scourge. I had been wearing it for a while but only this morning did a young lassie notice it, predictably because today is Valentine’s Day. 

She’s not the only one and I do not really wear red ribbons around, AIDS or no AIDS, -_-.

That said, I didn’t wake up today trying to notice what nuances red would assume. It just so happened that as I was about to board my bus today, a young lass (they are always lasses) I saw yesterday in my bus had dressed up in a contraption of red, white, and some other colours my brain fails to recall now. No time. She wasn’t in my bus today, only the next one.

GRANDPA JOBS

My father told me a story. In fact, I should say he tells me a story, because, I’m still going to hear it maybe 20 times more before I’m off his grip. Perhaps he doesn’t remember he has told me before, but I’m going to tell you now, condensed, and hope that I do not forget I have told you before, like my father.

He told of me of his father, my grandfather. He told me my granddad was a man very much blessed with foresight. My granddad (of blessed memory or however Moslems revere their dead) was a Moslem. We hail from Ikere-Ekiti, but his ancestors were the Oyos, famed Ajala travelers, especially because of the rampant internecine wars of old, which was why they were in Ikere in the first place. Because of the Oyo nature to scatter all over, they devised some sort of recognition technique – famed, spectacularly ugly and disfiguring tribal marks called the “Abaja” – not very

FINDING GRAFFENBERG

You know I internet-trawl a lot? Yes, you know. Inevitably, one is bound to make discoveries one wouldn’t normally make sitting on his arse and staring into space, or lying on his tummy/back and still staring into space. On this day, I found Graffenberg, or let me say he found me.

Ernst Graffenberg is one of those many unlucky German Jews who got rounded up in a bid to create the “blue-eyed blond-haired” super race – the Aryan race (wasn’t Hitler dark-haired and unattractive when he wasn’t raving?). Herr Graffenberg was also among the many stupid ones who thought their high placing in the German society would exempt them from the Nazi purge and didn’t bother taking to their heels when

presented the chance. Fortunately, he was one of the lucky few who were allowed to be ransomed from the nasty Nazi prisons and ended up in the US, New York City to be precise. Ernst Graffenberg was also a medical doctor – a gynaecologist.

You’ve heard of that thing called a G-spot? Yes, it was named after Herr Doktor for his role in pointing out the role of the urethra in female organism. I believe his name is unrelated to the now mostly extinct G-string. Back on topic, the G-spot is an erogenous zone, a part of the body that, if the right amount of pressure is applied, all sorts of wonderful sensations can be felt. Apparently, the G-spot is the most profoundly powerful of all these zones because it can result in the “Big O” in no time.

The question now is; how did Mr Graffenberg come about his findings? I recently thought about the fact that my wife (in the future of course) would get pregnant and might have some male, who because he has a fancy two-letter title called Dr, would be doing all sorts of nasty stuff to my wife’s genitals and beyond – peeking, stroking, touching, feeling. Damn! Herr Graffenberg must have used his position of “power” to know that there lies a certain spot, two inches into the vagina (on the frontal wall), that can cause explosions worse than Saddam’s Scud missiles and more pleasurable than a tank of warm chocolate. I read all that, just in case you think I’ve been studying the female anatomy physically, although you can’t be quite sure. I shudder to think of many a wife that would have come back to Herr Graffenberg’s office for a quick fix, the concept of orgasms being quite alien to men of those days. I still understand if it is the clitoris because that isn’t exactly out of sight, but something as well-hidden as the so-called G-spot; how does a man know about it when not many females know where it is themselves? You would see that I use certain terms freely. Yes, I use them because, believe it or not, they are part of the body. If I can say you have a head, or a stomach, or an anus (yuck), you must as well have a vagina or a penis, I lie?

It is still somewhat disputed if such a spot as the G-spot exists, principally because it is so hard to find, but I can’t but help  to think that Herr Graffenberg may have set me a new challenge. But how won’t it be hard to find for the male folk who are still coming to grasps with unclasping the exotically named brassiere? Adventurous men and women, over to you.

P.S: Being a sexologist must be the most exciting and “rewarding” job in the entire world.

WESTERN ILL, MY IRREVERENT BLACK ASS

I'm amazed that some people still blame the West whenever issues of morality are raised. Matter of fact, I'm not amazed. I'm merely find it muy amusing.

Of the many stories my father tells me - many of them so repeatedly I can almost recite them verbatim - one fits this occasion.

My father told me of his father, my grandfather. My father told me that once before, his already married father chanced upon a girl, and like David with Bathsheba, he became seized with the urge to possess her. Nowadays, that possession may mean merely to engage in flagrante delicto with and dump, whilst compensating for the act materially. Then, it meant forceful marriage. This girl had a man nearer her age she was in love with, and looked to marry. Wait for the catch

My father told me it was the practice then, to collude with such a girl's father, to commit what I can only term as a dastardly act of utmost selfishness. My father told me that his father colluded with the girl's father, and it was decided that my father's father hire strappling men, who would be today's equivalent of bouncers, bodyguards, or your random street touts. My father's father had the girl waylaid, abducted and brought to his abode. This girl in question would never step out the out until her belly was protruding enough to deter the most "in-love" of young men. Even without the deterrence, the protruding belly meant certain marriage to the old fart, no apologies to my father's father or the numerous fathers of fathers who partook in this practice.

The West did not bring moral perversion on us, we were creative enough for that by ourselves! After all, we slaughtered twins, cannibalized, offered human sacrifices long before the first pointy-nosed European thought we may have been fertile ground. Our women dressed in leaves that left so much to the imagination, were raped on their ways to the stream or the farm. Hell, we even sold ourselves into slavery for a mirror, a fucking mirror! Did we complain? Hell no!

Truth is, humans everywhere have perversions in them, no matter the spatial location, no matter the colour. Stop this nonsense of blaming the West for your morals. You can blame them for a lot of things, like starting world wars for instance (I didn't hear of any fighting in the Antarctica, mind), or finding more creative ways to be morally bankrupt. But remember this, it's in you.

Idi-Amin could have started a world war, if he had been born in the right place.

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FUNNY PEOPLE

I don’t know what you’d call this, maybe a movie pun or something. But Funny People goes The Whole Nine Yards. Adam Sandler was in them both, aint it “maite”? So, I’m sure I need someone to figure out what figure of speech to call that sentence, but not until you hear what I have to say.

I was a bit late on the Funny People train. I did my private screening in July 2010. The movie came out I think sometimes in 2009, and I remember doing a ‘review’ on it. Now, doing a review in Nigeria most times (and a little bit for me) means that I glean information from the www and try to mold it to my taste. Your summary and imagination skills have to be up Everest to embark on that, or you’d just foul up the whole thing. I will try

GOD BLESS AFRICA

Now, I’m not one easily given to emotion. I have sat down at times, and upon deep reflection, I have come to a conclusion that I merely hide it better than most, which is a good thing because I’m all for mastering our situations and circumstances.

Be that as it may, the South African story, or more on-point, the Nelson Mandela-South Africa story has never ceased to inspire me, or move me to tears as the occasion may warrant. Granted, 27 years is a long time to be put out of circulation, but the way in which the man went about rebuilding his country’s confidence in

BABY'S DAY OUT

The soon-to-be father's hysteria,
The mother's mind-boggling pain,
Closely pushed by joy near enough,
Doctors and nurses,
Calm and serene,

DEAR KID IN THE WOMB

Dear Kid in the womb,

I have one first order for you,

You must look like me!

The one who carries you – your mother, my woman

Yes, she’s fairer than Xerxes’ best maidens

But I don’t look too bad myself

Dear Kid in the womb,

Male, female or otherwise,

LIKE STARS ON EARTH

I did not watch “My Name is Khan”. I just didn’t. I’m not sure I had a rational excuse. If I used the typical “hype” excuse, I wouldn’t have been deceiving anyone but myself. I wish I had watched. I can now see what people must have seen in the movie. I can now picture clearly in my mind, why dozens  of students were moved – deeply so – by watching Aamir Khan depict an autistic man and his struggles with the world. There’s only so much I can say about My Name Is Khan without sounding like a fraud,  because, as I stated above, I did not watch it.

SWINGS AND ROUNDABOUTS: ONE GIRL'S TALE

Kayode's Opening: This fantastic piece about a girl and the uncertainties of life was written by Kikelomo Adebiyi, a friend from the Twitterati. She's @kikee03 on Twitter and blogs on Kikelomoadebiyi's Blog, in case you wanna miss my "middlemanship" completely. You can go find her, or you could simply use those links I provided. You are of course welcome. Oh, and enjoy what she has to offer.

Whither?

I’ll be turning 23 in the next few days and I have no idea as to where my life is headed. I’ve always prided myself in being able to make the right decisions in whatever I do, maybe because I’m too proud to ask for advice or I’m just trying to prove to myself that I’m strong and mature enough to take bold steps, but at the end of the day, those so called ‘right decisions’ usually turn awry and I end up having to seek for assistance. I’ve