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There Be Dragons

Published by Osemhen

Even saints have a past. And in Roland Joffe’s new movie, There Be Dragons, he attempts to outline the past of one of the most controversial saints of the twentieth century, Josemaria Escriva, founder of Opus Dei. Yes, the one parodied in The Da-Vinci Code.

It’s an epic film, set in Spain and revolving around the Spanish Civil War (time to get our history groove on!). A modern-day journalist, Robert, is trying to make up with his dying father, Manolo who fought in the war. Then he discovers that his father was a childhood friend of Josemaria who is, at the time, being considered for sainthood. Drum roll, please!

I’ve only seen previews and heard about the movie on the grapevine. It hasn’t begun showing in the cinemas here yet (I hear they’ve begun previewing though) even though it was released May 6th. But I can gather from the trailer that

  • There is a beautiful girl involved (as always).
  • Manolo did something quite evil.
  • Josemaria was quite brave, reaffirming his identity as a priest in times when it was dangerous to even be Catholic.

Most interesting of all is that the director and producer, Roland Joffe, is agnostic. On recent questioning though, he admits to being more open to the “God question”. Brave of him to say so at a time when it seems fashionable to be atheist or agnostic.

On whether Opus Dei influenced the movie, or (as was rumoured) funded it, he replied in the negative. Joffé initially turned down the offer to work as the film’s director. “But he said he reconsidered after he saw a video of Escrivá answering a question from a Jewish girl who wanted to convert to Catholicism. Escrivá told her that she should not convert, because it would be disrespectful to her parents; she was a minor and her parents did not approve of the idea . ‘I thought this was so open-minded,’ Mr. Joffé said.”At that point, Joffé signed on to direct, with the condition of writing a new screenplay from scratch and becoming a producer.

He emphasized that Christianity is about love and that the teaching of St. Josemaria “encourages a spiritual relationship with God in ‘very simple things,’ in cooking a meal, being with one’s family, or even having a fight.” There should be complete unity in life; one’s Christianity should not end as we leave church on Sunday.

This movie appeals to me on a number of levels. First, hopefully a deeper understanding of the Fascist movement and the Spanish Civil War. The only work of fiction on that war that I know of is Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls. And that one left me so very unhappy.

Secondly, even though he insists that it’s not “a reply to the Da-Vinci Code”, I’m really keen to see how ‘an agnostic’ interprets the Opus Dei Organization and its founder.

Three, this seems to be the year of sequels to sequels (Pirates of the Caribbean 4? I love Johnny Depp, but really). A fresh, brand-new story would be nice.

Four, I’m Christian. Anything that attempts to turn the eyes of humanity back to their Creator and the values He has instilled in us, of love, sacrifice and hope, is always a good thing.

You’ll be wondering about the title. I heard that in times past, map-makers would mark danger or uncharted territory with the words, ’Hic sunt dracones’ translated, Here There Be Dragons, to warn travelers. And this movie aims to explores new themes: hatred, guilt and forgiveness. Hollywood’s finally getting its act together. Always a cause for celebration.

Cast:

Charlie Cox as Josemaria Escriva
Wes Bentley as Manolo
Dougray Scott as Robert
Olga Kurylenko as Ildiko

Do me a favour, okay? When next you go to the cinemas, please ask them when they’ll start showing this movie and then give me a heads up. Thanks!

I Was Going To Write A Story (Really!)

Published by Osemhen

So I plugged in  my trusty Azure (she’s a solid black HP, not blue like her name says), booted her up and opened a new page in MS Word.

My story was quite a simple one. A love story. A heroine. A hero. Boy meets girl. Crisis. Attraction. Love. Marriage. The End. Your typical M&B. Only Nigerian.

My heroine was called Edel. Short for Edelokun. Edelokun means The river can’t ever be greater than the sea. A typical Ishan name. Wantonly boastful. I liked the name Edel, still do. It sounds exotic, doesn’t it? I mean, a girl called Edel, what would she look like? You see?

Edel, however, did not like her name.

“It sounds French, Osemhen. I prefer Elokun. It’s a more appropriate name for a proud, black, African woman.”

And just like that she went from being a slightly light-skinned, tall, slim, size 6 chick with a fantastic Brazilian weave to being the colour of burnt sugar, with a size 14 figure and a full head of beaded dreadlocks tied up in a yellow turban. Her clothes changed from jeans and a deep green satin blouse to an adire jumpsuit.  She looked herself in the mirror and cussed.

“I’m pretty!”

“Yes?” I replied. I might’ve been irritated. “Is there a problem?”

“No man will take me seriously with a pretty face! I’ll be Hey, Pretty! Everyone will assume I slept my way to success and that I’m a brainless bimbo!”

“Okay…so you’d like…”

“To be not so pretty.”

So I flattened her nose, and thickened her lips and broadened her forehead. I left her dimples though. Couldn’t find it in me to let those go. She was happy enough with the result.

“Now, I’d like an aura of mystery.”

So I wrote, Elokun had an aura of mystery.

“NOOO!”

“What, Elokun?”

“You can’t write it like that now. What sort of writer are you? You’re telling too much! You should SHOW. Show not tell, remember?”

I was losing my patience. “Hey! I’m the creator here…Your god….”

“Goddess.”

“Whatever! The point is I make the rules. I’m the writer here…”

“Well then, what am I?”

“The character!”

“No, I mean, what do I do for a living?”

“Well..before, when you were Edel, you were a kindergarten teacher who modeled on the side. Now…” I glanced pointedly at her hairy legs and unpainted toenails.

“I’d like to be a painter. Of pictures. Not houses.”

“Okay.” That was the excuse for the crazy hair and clothes then. She was “bohemian.”

“And I still want my aura of mystery.”

“A haunted house? A cat? A pet boa constrictor?”

“A dark light in my eyes that winks in and out, hiding the many secrets of my unhappy childhood…”

“There is nothing like a dark light, Edel and you had a happy, suburban childhood, singularly characterized by boredom.”

“Tragic childhood,” she continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’d also like an enigmatic smile to play on my lips from time to time. And my name is Elokun.”

She looked over my shoulder as I typed, Elokun’s dark  eyes had a mysterious light, as mysterious as the half smile that curled her lips from time to time. This was Timi’s first impression of her.

“Who’s Timi?”

“Your love interest.”

“Why is his name Timi?”

To Be Continued.

To My Network Provider

Published by Osemhen

Dear Network Provider,

Hi.

Odd, isn’t it, how my text messages bounce back but the ones that political parties send me, the ones that you send me, manage to find their way to my inbox. Odd that.

Odd, isn’t it, that you advertise a certain “bundle” for a certain amount and then when I register for it, I find out that the associated data allowance has been conveniently discontinued. Odd that.

Odd, isn’t it, that data-sapping Snaptu opens Facebook and Twitter effortlessly but my phone’s browser will not open Gmail or Yahoomail on pain of death. Really odd that.

It’s odd that you persist in inundating me with ads that advertise all sorts of call rates to all sorts of people. And yet, I cannot find out how to set up my voicemail without navigating, in endless circles, syrupy voice prompts. Odd that.

It’s odd that I spend the entire morning trying to download a 125kB document and then you have the effrontery to send me a text message that my time limit of 100 hours/month will soon be up. You think?

Much as I derive a certain pleasure from seeing really cool ads, I do not want to call anyone in the UK or US or China for peanuts. We have Skype. I do not want to talk to “That Special Someone” for free. All the special people in my life love me enough to burn their airtime. I do not want 10% of my airtime back, I do not want free SMSs, I do not want a chance to win a car, fridge or a ticket to see Wayne Rooney in person.

I want my phone to work. I want to make and receive calls easily. I want to open my Gmail on my phone on the FIRST try. I want your yes to be your yes and your no to be no. If there is a problem with your network, I do not want apologies. I want you to fix them. Immediately.

I will only say this once. The next time I try to book a flight and the network suddenly drops, causing me to refresh the page and  discover (to my horror) that the prices have crept up 10K…the next time that happens, I am mobilizing boys and blowing up the next base station. You have been warned.

Signed,

Disgruntled Customer.

On Fela! and The Book Thief.

Published by Osemhen

First, FELA!

courtesy Victor Ehikhamenor

Amazing. The dancing, the music, the sheer energy! Out of this world! The storyline itself, meh. But then again, I didn’t go to see Fela’s biography enacted. I went to see a Broadway production. And it was spectacular.

The turn-out was lower than expected; I heard the play was shunned because peeps were miffed at the thought of a wholly American cast and (horror of horrors! *said in his pseudo-Nigerian accent*) an American/Haitian Fela. Haha! Please! Stop with the beef already. Why didn’t a Nigerian Director hit upon the idea? What stops a Nigerian from still producing a Fela play? Let’s face it: we let Fela die in our hearts, in our minds. He’s an international icon! They celebrate him, his music is taught in schools! And we, we rejected our prophet, reduced him to much less than a symbol. We forgot him and put him on the shelves, the back burner, the archives or wherever the hell it is we relegate our “heroes past”. It really is shameful that it took foreigners to remind us about the value of what we have and we should be applauding them, not hating.

In other news, I read a book called, “The Book Thief.” Apart from the fact that I learnt some pretty interesting German swear-words, lol! This book is easily the best book I’ve read in a long, long time. It made me cry. And I was calling myself silly, and trying to remind myself that it was only a book. Only a book, Osemhen. But … exquisite. You can imagine my relief on finding out that the writer, Markus Zusak, too, cried as he wrote the book. 🙂

It tells the story of the 2nd World War from the other side, from the non-Nazi German side. You know how you always hear of the millions of Jews who died and Dachau, and Sobibor and Auschwitz and you hate the Germans? Well, then you read this book, about Germans, old and young, who were flogged for giving bread to starving Jews as they marched on their way to the concentration camps, Germans who hid Jews in their basements, Germans who were discriminated against because they said NO! to a tyrant’s demands, Germans who suffered, suffered because of Hitler’s hatred, Germans that just gave WWII-Germany a human face…and you read about an illiterate child who stole books even though she couldn’t read…I just broke down.

It wasn’t all tragic. The narrator of the book is (wait for it!) … Death! Extremely funny. “Rudy Steiner was one of those audacious little bastards who actually fancied himself with the ladies. Every childhood seems to have such a juvenile in its midst and mists”. The boy in question, is less than ten. Death also keeps on and on about the stereotypes we attach to him. (“I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe – it amuses me…I should have a broom in those illustrations…I only wear a hooded cloak in the winter”). Crazy stuff!

It’s a beautiful book and hopefully, I will be doing a longer review of it in the next issue of Klorofyl. I’m grateful to Isimeme for lending it to me. Now I know why you said I had to read it!

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To Keep One’s Head While Everyone Loses Theirs a.k.a. The Absurdity of Political Correctness.

Published by Osemhen

I think the Westerners may just have lost the plot.

About a month ago, a Christian couple in the UK lost an adoption bid in court. The judges ruled that precisely because they were Christian (read fundamental, traditional, politically incorrect bigots), they would no longer be allowed to adopt children in the UK. They feared that the couple would discourage homosexuality in their children, and might stifle any budding homosexuality tendencies children in their charge might develop.

*Shrug* Not my business. Note to self: don’t try adopting children in the UK.

Then about two weeks ago, the Australian Human Rights Commission, front runner for everything ‘politically-correct’ decided that gender could no longer be restricted to male or female. Check it, they now have twenty-three (23!) different genders. That’s right. In Australia, you can be transgender, trans, transsexual, intersex, androgynous, agender, cross dresser, drag king, drag queen, genderfluid, genderqueer, intergender, neutrois, pansexual, pan-gendered, third gender, third sex, sistergirl and brotherboy. (I just googled ‘neutrois’). Or you could be boring male/female. 😛 I’m not even going to attempt suggestions at what could replace the pronouns “he” and “she”.

Mommy, is Jordan a boy or a girl?

Um, he’s/she’s/it’s… genderfluid?

This time, I couldn’t just shrug. I’m thinking, “Are these people mad? Or am I the one going insane?”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but biology texts still define gender as a function of physiology. First, gender is not a function of emotion, feelings, thoughts or sexual inclination.  I’m a girl. Seyi is a boy. How hard is that?  Male/Female. It’s about the way you are. Deal with it!

Let me use this analogy. When countries like Australia start outlining multiple genders based on what people feel like being, it’s tantamount to Albinos deciding to have their own race. Imagine if Nigerian albinos said they didn’t want to be identified as Africans because they weren’t black. ???!!!!

Let’s not get overly politically correct here. Right now, I hear some animal rights group has petitioned Bible translators to put out a version that is more animal-friendly. You know, refer to animals as “he/she” instead of “it”. *raised eyebrow*.

The thing is, all these stories make for great anecdotes at parties and gatherings where we can shake our heads at ‘crazy oyinbo’. But we should also keep an eye on the documents/charters/agreements/protocols that our leaders in Abuja are signing and agreeing to. I’m all for rights of association and rights to pursue happiness. And even though it’s none of my business, I think people who “want” to be gay should be allowed to. Their cup of tea. But I also believe in people’s rights to hold opinions that differ. Couples like the British one above should not have to suffer the indignity of being refused children for adoption because of their beliefs.

Once upon a time, I would’ve have sworn that such could never, ever happen in Africa. But as we become more and more reliant on the West for military and financial aid, our leaders may end up signing some charter with fine print they won’t bother to read. And then we too (because we try so hard not to carry last), will outline another twenty genders.  I’m counting though, on a good dose of African commonsense. I daresay Africa may end up the last frontier in this battle against absurdity.

For Tobi Ogunniyi. RIP

Published by Osemhen

It was a random tweet. My eyes skipped over it the first time. Returned to it a second time. Then it sunk. I made one phone call. It was true. It is true. And even though my eyes blur with furious tears, even though everything in me screams one big NO! It doesn’t change it. Tobi Ogunniyi is dead. And this doesn’t make any difference, but it is my tribute to a boy who was many things to many people.

We went to the same primary school but I didn’t recognize him when we met in university. He was cool, boy he was cool. He could arch an eyebrow like a rock star and he had the sort of looks you’d associate with one too. Light skin, sculpted features.

Tobi, teach me to arch my eyebrow, now.

You either have it or you don’t, sweetheart.

Tobi, with ready accomplices in Tarela and Kenzo, introduced me to the beauty of contemporary rock. He would play me song after song on his Discman for hours, right there in the lecture room. He introduced me to System of a Down. The first time, he put the earphones over my head and started playing their CD. When he saw I was properly entranced, he raised the volume to the max. I trembled suddenly from the impact and when I glared at him, he laughed riotously.

That’s the only way to listen to rock. Really loud.

He was that sort. There are many who thought him snobbish and stuck-up but Tobi was who he was, perfectly insouciant when it came to gossip or what people thought of him. After our first year, we separated and went to our different departments so I saw less and less of him. We would pass each other on the corridors of the Faculty of Engineering, and he would tease me, “Oyinbo! Chinko!” and even, “Jennifer!” He was probably the only one in Engineering who used my Christian name.

I’m smiling at the memories now.

We both got older, wiser, I stopped listening to System of a Down. Tobi remained Tobi. Popular, friendly, loud, fun.

My last memory of him is in the dark hallway beside the Engineering Library and beneath Surveying & Geoinformatics. He’s walking past, with large earphones over his head, chewing gum. He sees me, smiles, and for the last time (even though I didn’t know it) archs an eyebrow at me. We hug.

What are you doing here, Jennifer?

Came to see my supervisor.

“Aight.” We touch knuckles. He walks out into the sunshine…walks out into the sunshine. Goodbye, Tobi.

Ugliest Girl In The World – Elaine Irabor

Published by Osemhen

On a lighter note, please welcome guest writer, the incorrigible Elaine! All opinions expressed herein are solely hers, and I”m hereby indemnified against any liabilities 🙂

For as long as I can remember, since I was old enough to be compared, (the instant I left that embarrassing A-cup stage), it’s been, ”Your Mommy is finer (sic) than you”. I smile and say thank you, at least it’s nice that one’s Mom isn’t an embarrassment.

courtesy proudofmymum.org

I try my hardest to ignore the second meaning, which is that a woman who has birthed four children, and is more than twice my age, still looks better than me, who’s supposedly in her prime.  I got used to that though, and saying my thank yous  that is until my little sister started growing breasts.

I’d always known she was going to turn out better than me: It’s the curse of the first child to sit back and watch younger siblings get the best gene combinations. All the ”errors” in me are corrected in my little sister:

My crowded teeth give way to her even smile… Her lithe figure in marked contrast to mine, which a tactless (and obviously ex-) boyfriend described as ”sturdy”….Her hair; thick, long and straight, oh so polished in comparison to my wild shock, which has defied generations of relaxer-making  scientists…

.

“Elaine, your sister is finer than you…”

*sigh*

I can deal with that though by

  1. moving out of the country,
  2. burning all the photos I have of her, and
  3. unfriending  (defriending?) her on Facebook.

Yes! Freedom!  No more comparisons! New life, new neighbours, new friends, who think I’m pretty enough…. In fact, I’m having them over today, for a little ‘house warming’ get-together.

”Elaine…”, I turn, smiling graciously, and see one of my new friends holding up a picture frame, ”…your boyfriend is finer than you…”

Nooooooo!

In Defence of the President

Published by Osemhen

I have been accused of being unnecessarily anti-establishment. I suppose I am, it’s the circles I run in these days; it’s fashionable to be contrary and leftist enough to alarm your parents. At home,  I pontificate on why I’m not voting for X, Y and Z and why I’m voting A, B, or C. And my family watches me in a mixture of admiration and pity. Admiration from the ones who are ineligible to vote and who can’t wait to hold such ‘eloquent opinions’ on nation-building. And pity from the older ones. Pity.

On Saturday, I proudly took my place at the polling booth to get accredited before the elections started. And behind me, a conversation started between two men, roughly my father’s age. The first announced that this was the first time he was voting since he arrived Lagos and that he’d registered to vote only because Dr. Goodluck Jonathan was running for President. If it had been yet another northerner running on the PDP platform, he’d not have bothered registering. He mentioned that he liked the president for his humility, his apparent sincerity and his down-to-earthiness. The second replied that he was Yoruba, and he was voting a South-South President because he thought the Niger Deltans had endured enough ‘sufferment’ at the hands of our leaders. He understood that Lagos, Abuja and some parts of the North had been developed with oil money and he considered it only fair that the South South get a shot at the Presidency.

I confess these are opinions that would never have occurred to me. And hearing them voiced out made me consider just what Dr. Goodluck Jonathan means to ‘regular Nigerians’, the everyday, hustling masses who make up a majority of this country. Many people identify with him and consider him their Obama (disadvantaged guy pulls himself up by his boot-strings). He is an inspiration. Fine, he may not have campaigns I consider “intelligent”. True, he hasn’t outlined his policies or displayed the sort of backbone I’d expect from a President (and Ijaw to boot! Why, oh why, did he evade that debate?). But he represents an ideal for the Nigerian people, and that at least is more than I can say for the other candidates. Besides, I (and people who think like me and are won over by passionate, intellectual, quite moving oratory) are a minority in this country. Why would he want to appeal to us when he has a bigger, less quarrelsome, not so finicky majority to win over?

On a parallel note, most of my older friends and cousins(about ten years older) are voting Jonathan for other reasons. Ironically, they like that he doesn’t seem to getting on fabulously with the Niger Delta militants. It shows that he’s not about pleasing the Niger Delta people, they say. He’s more oriented towards the nation as a whole, they think.  Some of my friends, are just virulently anti-northerner. We’ll vote anyone, even a foreigner before we vote another northerner into power. Some people just want to ‘tap into his anointing’. Lol! And some of them like the cabinet reshuffle he’s done, that he’s made a genuine campaign effort and that he ‘seems’ to be pro-democracy and anti-rigging.

And a weird thought occurred. If Jonathan loses this election, it would mean that he did not put his political will and presidential might behind somehow manipulating the results to favour himself. In that case, it would make him a good person and just the right sort of leader we need. Catch-22, anyone? Of course, if he wins it doesn’t automatically follow that he must have rigged. But if he loses…hmmm.

Let there be no mistake. I’m still not voting Dr. Jonathan. This is a democracy and I’m allowed to support opposition parties. But this is me withdrawing every uncharitable thing I ever said about him/his campaign. For all his flaws, he’s given people a reason to vote. And cliché as it might sound, he’s given people hope. One man at the polling booth said, with something akin to wonder in his voice, “He went to school without shoes and now he’s President. I’ve named my son Goodluck…”

I wish the President all the luck his name implies, in the coming election.

The Heroes of Lagos

Published by Osemhen

In a sense, it was my fault. I must have hit the snooze button on my alarm like ten times before I finally convinced myself that I did not have malaria and so did not have a valid excuse not to get the hell up and go to work.

Enter Power Ranger mode. Showered, dressed in less than ten minutes. Decided to switch hand-bags. Dumped the contents of the black one into the brown one. Snatched my laptop, pocketed my phone and then out the door. Luckily, I got a bus almost as soon as I got to the bus-stop. Sigh. Seemed like I would be on time after all.

Five minutes into the journey, the conductor asks for the customary 100 naira fare. I open my bag and without looking in, begin feeling around for my wallet. No show. Irritated, I look in. Sunglasses, check. Make-up, check. Notebook, check. Earphones, check. Pen, check. Handkerchief, check. WHERE THE HELL IS MY WALLET?

My heart had started a weird rhythm in my chest by now. Thud. Thud. It was my worst nightmare come true. Images of conductors tearing people’s clothes and beating them for not paying the correct fare flashed before me. I opened my laptop bag, rummaged in it, just in case. Nope! No money.  OMG! I was at least a fifteen minute drive away from home by now. Checked my watch, 7:05. I figured if I took a bike back home to get my wallet, I could still make it to work before 9 am. GULP!

“Please, I’d like to stop here.” I said in my smallest, most proper, please-don’t-beat-me voice.

“Why?” The conductor asked grumpy-like. “Where your money?”

via Lagos City Photo Blog www.lagoscityphotos.blogspot.com

“Sorry, I forgot my wallet at home. I need to come down.”

The conductor shakes his head impatiently. “When next you see me, pay me.”

Uh?

“But I no go remember you.” I switch to pidgin at his smile.

“Me, I remember you.”

“But I still no get money reach work from Marina.”

“Where you dey go?”

“Bar Beach-Eko Hotel.”

He hands me two fifty-naira notes. I’m stupefied. As I alight, I thank him. He waves me off gruffly. I don’t think he expects to see me ever again. I doubt if I will. He just, in local parlance, dashed me, a complete stranger, 200 naira. I don’t know how much conductors make but I know that this is a sacrifice on his part. For a stranger?

And then, my incredulity haunts me. It’s easy for me to think uncharitably about conductors and all the other people I automatically consider inferior because I have an education and go to work in an air-conditioned office. Hawkers, okada riders, bus drivers. It’s easy to think of them as robbers, ingrates, insane etc. Why am I so shocked by a conductor doing something nice? Why?! Isn’t he human? Isn’t he capable of kindness? He’s someone’s husband, father, son, brother, isn’t he?

I’m ashamed of myself and the stereotypes I’ve consciously/unconsciously allowed to inhabit my mind.

I’ve learnt something today though. First, to double-check that I have my wallet before I leave home next time. 🙂 Second, that there are good people (strangers) out there. The world isn’t out to “get me”. Lol! Third, I’ve learnt, most importantly, to take each person on his/her own terms and ignore the stereotypes. It’s hard, right, but it’s the way it should be.

And finally, to all the people out there like this conductor, unsung heroes who unwittingly shatter stereotypes, God Bless You.

p.s. This happened in Lagos, Nigeria. I know, right?

p.p.s. if you have or have heard of, a similar story, do share.

Open Letter To The First Lady

Published by Osemhen

Auntie Patience,

Good mornin’, ma. I know say you no sabi me. My name na Osemhen, and I get one business wey I wan make we discuss. D tin consan the campaign wey you dey helep our Presido, Uncle Jo and all im ‘umblerra’ friends do.

Auntie, you try. Even though you no too sabi English, you dey make effort. You dey try relate wit your pipul, try console dem. But dem be ingrate! You know say for dis we kontri, pipul plenty wey get bad mouth. Na so dem go sidon, dey laff wetin you talk wen you give speech. Instead make dem understand the message wey you get for mind, dem go dey find mistake for the English. Dem laff wen you talk say Uncle Jo and Bros. Namadi “is good people.” Even say the English no beta, shey dem no sabi say you been wan say Uncle Jo and Bros. Namadi na beta person? Which one come hard for dere? Abi, na the one wen you talk say “the people sitting before you here were once a children” ? Shey dat one no mean say everybodi, one time or another, be pikin? Why dem come dey laff you?

Auntie, no mind dem. Na bad bele dey worry dem. Dem say you no sabi spik English. Na English be your papa language? Queen of England sabi spik Ijaw? Michelle Obama sabi Ijaw? Abegi! No answer dem! Me, I be correct person. I sabi say you dey try. You wan helep Uncle Jo win presido. I wan helep you helep am. I get three options for you so.

courtesy nigeriaplus.com

One, I go helep you write your speech in perfect English. Dat’s right. Me, I go school so I sabi this English well well. I go write the speech give you. You go read am, practice am for mirror, carry am for head.

Two, If the English pass your power, I go write am for pidgin. Everybodi for dis we kontri, sabi pidgin. Dem go understand wetin you talk. In fact, d tin be say, if you spik English too much, all dose market women dem and workman no go sabi. So, pidgin all the way. Wen Uncle Jo enter power, we go make Pidgin (South-South style) official language for dis kontri.

Three, If that one pass your power too, I go carry my friend wey be Ijaw. We go sidon translate am from English reach Ijaw. Then when you dey give speech, the English one go dey scroll for big screen wey go dey your back. Or you fit do like dose Pastors dem, you talk one for Ijaw, person go stand with you talk am for English. The tin no make sense?

Make I know whether you like this idea. My money no go too cost. We go discuss dat one wen we see. Thank you, Auntie. Greet Uncle Jo.

Your Pikin, Osemhen

p.s. Please share this with as many people, you never know who might have a direct link to her 😉 I just might get the job! I promise I’ll share the salary! 🙂