SOUTHPAWS- Battle of The Left-Handed

**
The odd RareBreeds!
You've met them. In cars, at bars, at work and in art museums. But what stands them out as odd?

Allow me tell you a story embedded in another story that will make up the story of their oddites.

**
My cousin had a chance at making a choice after his B. Sc., when he got double positive responses from two Universities he applied for scholarship abroad. The first was an American campus in South Carolina while the second consent came from a UK- based Canadian University situated in Oxbridge, Glasgow.

Like most Nigerian families, we hype the American dream; so, one could imagine the shock we all had when the said cousin decided to go to 'conservative' England instead of 'free' America. I had made a case to him the weekend prior to his departure from Nigeria:
"the hustle is tough in the UK- what with the heavy taxation- while America is the land of vast opportunities".

He had looked at me, a naughty smile creasing his dimpled cheeks and said:
"You know I love manual cars"?
"But that is totally off the point", I had answered.
"Nope, it's not. London drives on the right and America on the left. In London, I'll have the gear lever in the right-hand and that means a lot to me".
"It makes no sense, you are left- handed remember", I pursued. I knew he was a freak for manual cars and gear shifts. But this just couldn't be the reason for such a decision.

"Semantics", he sighed. What you call the left is the right hand for me", he concluded walking away.

**
His message was instantly passed, which reminds me of a more elementary scenario- at St. Mary's when I was still in Secondary. Continental etiquette demanded that we eat with our forks in our lefts and the knife in our rights. We were never born with these things and most of us had never heard of them till we found ourselves in the school refectories. It was an herculean task we undertook to fork- up tiny beads of rice into our miniature mouths. We almost usually ended up spilling a good deal of grains on the long dining tables and going to bed half-hungry afterwards.
Yet, there was a few that this new method of eating gelled naturally. Those were the ones whose left hands were their right. They would have rushed their food with fork-fulls and waste nothing at the end.
For us right-handeds, the frustration was unbearable.
Oneday,I decided to eat with the fork in my right. Our refectory prefect had known the few left- handed ones by names and faces. Nobody was ambidextrous, but I had learned the word from the dictionary.
So, one can imagine his confusion when he accosted me and I lied that I was ambidextrous. He didn't even know what that meant; a disease or a defect.
It took God's grace for me not to bear 'ambidextrous' as a nickname through my stay in that school.

**
But what does it even mean to be handed? Who defines handedness? Which of our hands is right and which is left? How does one become right-handed, left-handed or ambidextrous?
These are the very questions I will not be able to answer.
Since a huge population of the world are right-handed (because it is the 'normal' and we've been taught from childhood to give and receive things with our rights), the left handed people of the world are rare-breeds.

They fascinate us when they do things with their left hands, which we normally do with our rights. And there is more to it. They are more brusque and elaborate in their handedness. By being brusque, I infer lively, tart, sharp and fierce. This is why they excel more in the arts and crafts.
This ability comes from the unusual organization of the brains of left-handeds and particularly the role of the right hemisphere of the brain in creating a person’s visual perceptions. Thus since the visually perceptive right-hemisphere controls the left hand, artistic people viz: artists, architects, musicians and mathematicians are more likely to be left-handed than the population average.
Lists of famous left-handed Artists usually include Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Albrecht Dürer, Rembrandt van Rijn, Peter Paul Rubens, Paul Klee, Pablo Picasso; writers including Lewis Carroll, Bill Bryson, Berthold Schwartz and Janet Street Porter; animationists Matt Groening and Bart Simpson; directors like James Cameron and Spike Lee; musicians like David Bowie, Celine Dion, Eminem, Noel Gallagher, Ricky Martin and Sting$
Others great left-handed people in history include Alexander The Great, Albert Einstein, Jack The Ripper, Napoleon Bonaparte, Julius Caesar, Aristotle, Neil Armstrong, Henry Ford, Marie Curie, Joan of Arc, Helen Keller, Elizabeth the Queen Mother, Prince William and Winston Churchill.
In recent times, great guitarists like Paul McCartney, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Corbain, Tim Armstrong and Albert King are all left-handed. So too are great actors like Drew Barrymore, Kim Basinger, Pierce Brosnan, Charlie Chaplin, Tom Cruise, Robert De Niro, Matt Dillon, Morgan Freeman, Whoopi Goldberg, Angelina Jolie, Nicole Kidman, Val Kilmer, Marilyn Monroe, Sarah Jessica Parker, Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves, Julia Roberts, Sylvester Stallone, Scarlett Johansson and Chewbacca the Wookie.
But did you also know that Wasim Akram, Sir Bobby Charlton, Diego Armando Maradona, Pele, Lionel Messi, Manny Pacqiuao, Paula Radcliffe, Barrack Obama, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniack are left-handed?
I bet you didn't.
Did you know that the famous 'South-Paw', a boxing punch that delivers full and apt is naturally left-handed? Have you thought why in most cases it becomes the K.O package? That is because our brains have been conditioned from childhood to believe in a right-handed world. We are taught not to take the left-hand seriously. Thus, even a boxer who had been severely trained to be dogged on both hands fails to believe- at most times- that when the right hand delivers a mere jab, the left could come with a dose of shock that could knock him out flat. Thus, the brain becomes dull- in milliseconds- and fails to send a command to his arms to protect himself from the almighty Left Hook. In more than one occasion, this becomes the drive-home tactic for right-handed boxers like Robert Guererro Johnston and Marvin Hagler. Converted south-paw fighters like Mike Tyson used it frequently. Manny Pacqiuao is still using it.

Thus,  though the world demonstrates that left- handedness is rarely patronized- even the scissors, chain-saw, camera knob and American car gear-levers are right-handed. Though a lot of left-handed people die from using right handed tools daily; we should always remember that the most alluring scientists, thinkers, conquerors, Sportsmen and artists are left handed.

So let's join the world to celebrate the South-Paw as the defense of the left-handed against a right- handed world.

Happy Left-Handed Day.

N/B: if I tagged you to this post, it's either you are left-handed, ambidextrous or I just like  you.

©Anny J. u'Dorphia,
Aug, 2017

NNAMDI KANU, GEJ, RENO OMOKIRI AND THE ONES CAUGHT IN BETWEEN

NNAMDI KANU, GEJ, RENO OMOKIRI AND THE ONES CAUGHT IN BETWEEN
By Anny J. u'Dorphia

The issues that degenerated to the present trends in social media and which informs writing this piece border on the mistakes of people whom we have indirectly handed the mantle of leadership to and who do not curt good manners in their utterances.
Nnamdi Kanu insulted GEJ; Reno Omokiri responded with equal measures. And to spice it up a bit, he brought in Nnamdi Azikiwe. Many argue that the import of his involvement of Azikiwe was misunderstood. Many say it was intentional foul. So, some Igbo sympathizers who worship the Azikiwe as a god-head rain thunder and brimstone. Others call for boycotting of his book- an assault on intellectual property which we own very little of as Nigerians. The verdict remains same in all: call for the heads of those that believe in something different from what you believe in.
This is a wrong verdict.

"When you decide to urinate on the head of some other people's idol; expect to come back and see your own shrine razed and your gods lying decapitated in the mud."

Nnamdi Kanu should learn this lesson. The few Igbos that are ranting over Nnamdi Azikiwe's demystification by Reno Omokiri should know this. Reno- as well as many others- is as loyal to his own mentor like any other person. Reno too must also learn to refrain from thinking himself to be the spokesperson for every GEJ bad-mouthing.
There's no need to throw tantrums, or we would have been reduced to mere market women.

Recall, that when the Niger Delta Avengers- a strong militant group operating out of the creeks of the Niger Delta- came out with a list of its yearnings and demands from the Nigerian state; demanding Nnamdi Kanu should be fred and the IPOB group be apologized to for their persecutions by the merciless arms of the Nigerian military, it didn't do that because it was an Igbo group. Rather it did, because it had identified that the marginalization and oppression of the people of the lower Niger is universally shared and borne by the whole of Southern Nigeria. This is the state of mind we must all adopt. If we must survive in our struggles, we must put an end to sibling-like hand wrenching and tongue wagging and face the common enemy (that is if we agree that we have identified any). The Nigerian state has failed us all. We need to agree to restructure or we move away. I wish beyond all things, that the former happens. It is less tasking and simpler cheaper- in terms of technological and economic cost. It's even conservative- in terms of human blood that could be saved from waste.
It will always be easier to think of ourselves as one Nigeria nomatter how much of the connotation of the concept of oneness has been corrupted.

Thus, I implore all to let go of these inconsequential ethnic bickerings and face the real issues. At this point, we need either a referendum or a decentralized Nigeria. If none is attainable, we should ask out.

But if it comes to the later, what do we ask out for? Or who do we ask out as? BIAFRA or RONDEL.
Biafra appeals to me more- for its sheer geographical size, long suffering, international cognizance and fame.
But, the ideals that defines a true federal constituent of the various ethnic constituents are reflected more in the terms of a RONDEL State.
So, if it must be Biafra, it must be one that takes cognizance of its potential constituents and harmonizes a true federal character with each of the other ethnic nationalities that occupy diverse regions in the Biafran Confabulation. The Igbos particularly must understand this. The doubts that were raised during the war must be cleared. Other tribes and sub-units must be consulted. There must be a round-table talk. We need our own confab. It is the only methodology that will ensure a consolidation.

Very few people know that 'Biafra' is not an Igbo term.
The term was coined from the Bight of Biafra which is nearer to the ethnic minorities that it will ever be to the Igbo-land. This makes other minorities as Biafran as the Igbos. Ibibios/ Efiks are Biafrans but not Igbos; same with the Urhobos and Ijaws.

Therefore, let's start now to structure a polity that reflects total inclusiveness or we will be left staring at the same wound that festered into a gangrene in the Nigeria state, even if we were granted a republic at the end.
Then the end to our collective struggles would have been nought.

The time is now.

Topical: A Night Of Special Duties in Uyo Metropolis

A NIGHT OF SPECIAL DUTIES
By Anny J. u'Dophia

In every situation, the decision is ours; to poll- in our efforts towards making our society better; or to 'stand and stare'.
Yet, if we would contribute our quotas- no matter how meagre- then a well lubricated and functional system which births a model society would have been molded out of our own hands.

Accidents happen. The most heartbreaking ones occur to our children on their way to and from school.
In a bid to stall this (more especially as schools resume this season) and ensure the safety of our 'leaders of tomorrow, the Director for Special Duties in the recently constituted Youth Caucus of Akwa Ibom State, Akparawa Lawrence Udoh deemed it fit to engage his efforts in painting Zebra Crossings on tarmacs that run opposite major nursery and secondary schools across the state capital.
This well thought out project which was executed in two whole nights, was so planned, to avoid unnecessary traffic obstructions and give the road markings ample time to dry out.

Out of the eight locations where this traffic control mechanism were being painted, the outstanding ones include the Oron Road- Uyo High School crossing, Abak Road- Comprehensive Secondary School, Four Towns crossing and the Aka Road- Qua Iboe Nursery School crossings.
These ones stand out because of their locations on major Trunk B dual-carriage ways with heavy traffic and high and repetitive casualty rates.

While few required new strokes to re-match and brighten old faded lines, a huge majority of the crossings were created on virgin tarmac across school entrances that never had such safety modules before now. These, though not limited to, include two locations along Abak road and one along Nsikak Eduok Avenue.
When the working team was approached, the organizer and financier, Akparawa Lawrence Udoh had this to say:

"I've always thought about the safety of our students on their way to and from school. These young ones are the sole legacy-carriers of our future and heritage as a people. So, this effort is not a waste. We will keep using our little capacities to enhance and ameliorate the lives of our people. We must aid the Udom Emmanuel led government in any way we can. We must make Akwa Ibom great again."

These are the crops of youth leaders we need. These kinds, that adjourn their night rest and indulge in voluntary community service are the types we should pray more benevolence and capacity on; for these ones think of our collective development. These ones think greatness.
These ones think 'Akwa Ibom State'.

We say Bravo!
Let the pictures speak.

Long Live Akwa Ibom State Youth Caucus!
Long Live Gov' Udom Emmanuel!!
Long Live Akwa Ibom State!!!

#AKSG #AKYC #YouthCaucus #Dakkada #RazonWrites #topicalCompendium #UdomEmmanuel2019 #laudoh #SpecialDuties

Read more @ southernibid.blogspot.com

©Anny J. u'Dophia,
May, 2017.

Love In Parts (Part One)

LOVE IN PARTS


It was a sultre afternoon. The noise of the hawkers rent the already hot air into bits. They cooed and hissed and whistled; attracting passengers and passersby to their wares.
The bus was uncomfortably hot too. It would've been better if she was not sandwiched between two men- a greasy one to her left- by the window and a sweating one to her right. Both-Mr. Grease and Mr. Sweats, were as fat as Elephants. But her uncomfortability did not totally come from the bulkiness around her. It was an emotional thing- a deep seated depression.
The bus had gently eased out of Itam Metropolitan Park. She was leaving Uyo. The town lay there in all its serenade- with cross-mats of neat tarmacs criss-crossing each other at different angles as they snaked into the suburbs. The greenery of lush tropical vegetation in the backdrop and cured roadside lawns made the city a paradise for the eye-tour, but its lull failed to woo her. Omenna was leaving Uyo. Maybe she will come back someday; but now, she was leaving all of it. Leaving her newfound Lover behind too- the reason she commuted to Uyo from Lagos five days ago.
She thought hard; tears formed a mist below her eyelids; her vision was dimmed by it. The screams of the bus- preacher could not distract her. Neither could his prayers comfort her too. There was no succour to be found in Words. She intermittently mopped the gathering tears from the corner of her eyes with a pink hand-crafted handkerchief (another gift of his) she clutched in her right hand, putting efforts to make it look as ordinary as possible. Nobody must know the emotions in her. Nobody had the right to know that the turmoil inside was whelling up fountains of warm tears from her lacrimea. Nobody. Not even the Pachyderm-like men besides her.
She reminisced more. His face beemed in the remote shadows of her befogged mind. She pictured it- as he hugged her the last time, looked away, strolled back on wobbly legs, returning to the Toyota Corolla sedan car he had driven her to the park few minutes before; and zoomed off.
Maybe he was feeling the same way she was feeling now. It might explain why he looked away. Maybe he had tears tucked at the corners of his eyes too.
The other passengers echoed the last amen and the preacher settled down. The bus was calm once more.

Then came the chill. Omenna felt it once and felt it again and again. It was a feeling of uncertainty. She felt it again- same feeling she felt five days ago while coming to Uyo. Now she was feeling it on her way back.
Five days ago, it was an uncertainty of going to a place you haven't gone before; to meet a person you barely know.
She went, she met him.
Now it's an uncertainty of knowing what the future held for her.
"What happens after now", she queried her heart.
Will he be able to stand the distance?
Will I see him again?
Will I be able to stay without him- now that I've consummated the love I felt for him?
Will he find out elsewhere about the secret?
How will he react if he does? Will he ever consider her?
She sobbed as guilt swept through her.
"Omenna! You should have told him", her conscience exhorted.
But how could she? It's unbelievable that it worked in the first place. More intriguing that she commuted this far South for someone she barely knew. Someone she met on an online social platform. A facebook crush.
How could she tell him? She had been love starved for so long. It would've been folly to tell him the truth at this stage of it. Not only would it have murked-up things, he would've been freaked out.
At Ikot Ekpene, the bus pulled into a petrol station for a refill. The murmuring passengers tongue-lashed the driver for not filling gas before the commencement of the long trip to Onitsha. Their time was on the tracks and racing away. Omenna didn't partake in bad-mouthing the driver- her mind was far away. She fed her eyes on the environmental scenery. Ikot Ekpene, though a smaller satellite town was beautifully landscaped and developing. Like Uyo, it had a plaza- a recreational park that stood at its heart. Akwa Ibom state was really a beautiful place. Its people were equally fine, and the cuisines superb. She would've loved to stay here. He had pleaded with her to stay a bit more. "Few more days, Mon Cherie", he had said.
But she couldn't. The more time she spent, the bigger the temptations to tell him of her issues; and the longer she stayed, the more broken he will be if he gets to know. He genuinely loved her, and his love was deepening by the day.
She remembered the last session of their love-making. He was so caught up, he didn't want to use protection.
She shook her head in silence as if it would clear the dark clouds gathering in her mind.
"Men always make these mistakes", she thought.
They'd meet a woman for the first time, insist on using protection during sex; and subsequently, in no time, feeling they'd known her so well and in their bit to affirm trust, throw caution to the wind.
If she had not insisted on him using it, he would have made that fatal mistake.
But he truly loved her and meant good.
She couldn't hold it back this time- the tears flowed like hot larva that had escaped a volcano down her cold cheeks. It soiled her make-up; creating two rivulets across her face.

She had longed to make love to him with no protection. To feel his skin as he plunged deep into her. She had wanted to scream "fuck Gold Circle". But she couldn't. She had to save him from herself.
She could not bear to be the one that infected such a pure loving Soul with HIV.
The bus pulled out from the petrol station en route Onitsha. In Onitsha, she will board a Lagos Marcopolo.
She mopped the tears and her spoilt mascara.
"How am I going to tell him of my status", she suddenly asked the Greasy man by the window. Mr. Grease stared, confused by her questions. Omenna, smiled at him exposing a set of china-white teeth.
"O! Never mind that was not for you", she offered in a manner of apology.
The bus speed away.

©Razon-Anny Justin; April, 2014.

Night Buses, Vibrators and a Name

NIGHT BUS, VIBRATORS AND A NAME

As the Marcapolo pumped swiftly across the Niger bridge heading towards Asaba, it's sound re-echoed against the metal struts and pylons like peeling plaster off a wall. Except for Lily- the lady by my side and myself, most of the other commuters were already asleep.
Lily was chic, her phone illuminated face shone with artistic strokes of mascara, painted fingernails clawed out like talon as she kept skimming through her large mobile device- a five-and-a-half inches Samsung tablet. I couldn't help but peep with dismay at the explicit web contents she was browsing over in her posh Tablet.
Shocked and confused, I decided to engage her in a conversation.
"Phones have really revolutionized the world", I quipped. She instantly turned to me, nodded and sank back into the phone.

"You need one of those?" I asked pointing to the various phalluses displayed across her screen. They were diverse colours and assorted shapes of Rabbits, Butterflies, Pocket rockets and Magic wands.
"Kinda, Yea!", she answered flashing her 'Nigerian-made American ascent', the type that turns all vowels into nasals and creates a lisp with the consonants.

"I'm tryna get maself a newer one", she'd continued, her pallid eyes jammed unto the screen.

"You had an old one before now?", I demanded more. The luminescence from the mobile device genuflected a naughty smile that flew across her painted face momentarily, and disappeared. She adjusted, half-turning towards my direction, then she started to explain in low tones.
"You see, I'd an older toy. Buhari- dah waz de name I gave it. A very good piece-of-shit, it could 'fuck-dah-livin-day- lights-outta-yur". It's broken now, I guess over-use and old age did it in, if-yur-get-wah-am-sayin", she finished with her Oyibo ascent.
"Owkay, So you'll be needing a replacement for, what did you call it... Buhari, right? You ordering it online?", I followed her drift.
"Nope! Was juz runnin catalogues, so I can shoot for a better vib. Somethin' modern and smarter- if-yur-get-wah-am-sayin. Buh, I'll buy from a sextoy shop when I geh tuh Lagos", she pipped.

O! I see. But what do you need a vibrator for? Don't you have a man? I quizzed in a final attempt to engage her.
"Me? She asked back.
"Oh no! U don't gerrit. I don't do men, I'm a lesbian, she answered winking coquettishly.
The bus swerved momentarily, swaying me towards her and then away to the window frames. I turned, slide the glass open and felt the night breeze waft strongly across my face.
By morning, we will be in Lagos and maybe Lily will be able to get herself another Buhari- some vibrator that 'fucks-tha-livin-day-light-out'o her'.

©Poet Razon-Anny Justin

BETWEEN EARNING SHEKELS AND BEING WEDDED

Their words: I can't marry a man who earns 200,00 or less.
This is the topic trending hot on social networks all over the web. It has caused a mayhem, which rocks Facebook, Twitter and elsewhere.
I met this one girl and after few flings we settled into the same argument.
**********

"Hey Bae!", I spoke up.
"See, I do not earn 200K a month, though some months I do earn a whole lot more. I do not own that job security that is pension- able".
She ignored me and paced the room 'upandan'.
I ignored her fore-closure stance and proceeded.
"I am a hustler, miss. A damn straight- headed, hopeful hustler".
"You should've told me", she jumped.
I stood up from the creaking wooden- bed and advanced towards her with a plea shading my eyes.

But you didn't ask, sweetheart.
My arms were stretched as if to fondle, even as I spoke in a deeper baritone- my idea of 'romantic'.
"Now that we've spoken about, am I still marry-able? Can I still touch your face as I did; I mean, kiss your lips and hold on for an unblinking moment as we did before we had this stupid conversation?"
I was sounding sarcastic but she didn't look like she noticed it.
"I can't marry a man that earns 200K or less", Maria snapped and shrugged her shoulders as if to avoid my outstretched arm.
"Why? How do you mean, you can't marry anyone below the 200K-a- month earning margin?", I asked keeping up with my front.
Her tone was lined with stiff. A seriousness that made it feel like the 200K was a gaiter fastened atop her belly.

You cannot raise a family on just a hundred K?
"I do not even earn up to that. I earn like 40 or 50K. Do you still mind?". I waited for her to explode.
She slapped my arm away as she angrily spoke. "What don't you understand about what I said? I can't marry you.

Her composure was non- flinching.
I understood her message: that though she might not mind loosening her belt for a quick penetration, she is thorough when it comes to marriage. Marriage is the problem. The idea of permanence is what scares her. A permanence with little beginnings. She hated that idea of starting little or knowing she'll start little
"Then we shouldn't have had this conversation, cos you went to bed with me without even asking", I spoke hurriedly, feigning anger.
She was furious.
"A fling is a fling and marriage is different from that. Don't you know one has to be objective about these things?" she pursued.

"You are approaching this as if it's a business", I intoned hoping to bait her.
"Yea! It is a business," she answered, falling for it.
"I swept my cell-phones off the lamp-stand and walked back to the bed.
"So, it's a business now", I cajoled.
"A lady has to be sure where she is going and what is in it for her", she answered trying to fine tune the conversation.

What is in it for you!
"What of me? What's in it for me, Maria?", I questioned back.

My mind raved. What is in it for both parties? How sure could one be that it's a good venture to marry someone else?. What is the value of a marriage? Is it in marrying someone who does not see the other apart from his/ her wallet?
I drove the sarcasms home.
While I bring 200K back monthly, how much will you be contributing to the table?"
Her gaze shifted to avoid mine.
What if I loose my job in future? What are the sureties that you'll stay, being you married me above the 200K mark?"

Her fierce looks were softening out. The frown on her brows, the twitched lips, they were all loosening out.
She shook her head and I strummed her pains more.
"Yes! Business is business, and since marriage is a business now, let's discuss it", I said as I dragged her towards me
"Did Bill Gates and Melinda discuss this?" I queried.
She shook her head.
"Did they sit across the table from each other and sign an MoU on these terms of family financing before their marriage? Was Unoma assured by Godswill Akpabio that 'I-am-above-the-200K-mark' before she submitted to him in matrimony? Is that why they are successful?

"Maybe. Dunno", she mumbled and sighed defeatedly.

Hey! Maria, Calm it down", I said, still holding her wrist. She struggled a bit more but eventually sat by the foot of the bed.
"Your dad is still married to your mum now; and they both earn less than 200K in pension-able moneys. There's an only reason why the older generation earned less, trained us all and still stay married while our own generation earns so much, yet fill the court rooms with numerous divorce suits. Have you thought about that?" I questioned proudly seeing that she was catching on my logic.
My arms were stretched over her shoulder and she didn't shove it down this time. I continued.
"Have you thought of love? What of providence?"
I saw her composure melt and I fired even more.
"Yea! We've replaced love with affluence and fads. Money is a criteria for family now. We have so much money- enough to pay the alimony our father's couldn't pay".

She saw it
I could see that the emotional factors caught on her she momentarily shuffled about on the mattress.
She was subdued and I felt the triumph pumping down my veins as I cuddled her sideways and drove my win home.
"Yet, since you say you can't marry me, I won't force it on you. I only wish you were able to see that money cannot buy happiness and that creating that 200K benchmark is a restriction on family resourcefulness", I said with a mark of finality, stood from the bed and straightened the rumples on my shirts.

It's a penny- wise, pound- foolish sentiment, and I'm happy it came out this early. Have a good time", I said as I strode towards the door, opened and fled the room before she could say her apologies.
***

©Poet Anny-Razon Justin,
September, 2016

A Country of Cannibals

Just last week; I saw some very mouth- watering UNESCO Food Intervention jobs in Maiduguri,
Yobe, Kano and other core Northern locations. Needless remind you that I’m a Food Technologist. An “Oliver Twist” type- food technologist who is always roaming the veld seeking for greener foliage to forage.

Yet, I let this one pass me by.
Let it pass- for I understand what religious localization and religion- incited genocides and pogroms mean.

It means that if I venture to Kano or Maiduguri for bread, I’m indirectly signing off my life- to be spared or wasted on the sacrificial altars of Northern Religious fanaticism. But if I stay here, in Uyo, I will have given myself some right to freedom of worship and expression.

It simply means that here in the South, though I might be arrested and arraigned for some inciteful speech or royal “pet-naming”, I still have a chance to appear in court and beg “not guilty” for my preposterous crimes; than I would’ve found myself beaten into pulp and burnt beyond recognition for either eating “my own Ewa” on a fast-day or reading my Bible along the streets or “blaspheming a holy name” in Northern Nigeria. In those parts there are no mercies for US infidels and no voice from the government against THEM. It then becomes them against us.

So, wisdom spells- for a common- Southern- Christian- Ibibio- man like me to stay confined to this liberal and highly oppressed Southern parts of our vast “one Nigeria”.

This preposition of mine cannot stay alight- as a flailing flame ignited under the winds of the social media philosophers and “obomo-nkukus” that abound here. My shadowy ramblings cannot stand under the shades of their strong reason and logic.
It truly does not make sense; but whatever other thing does makes sense, especially in Our Nigeria of today?
Nothing!

So my fools wisdom remains the only wisdom I would prescribe for any Southerner who is still out there.

“Come home, to where you are safe, before this bloodied contraption of a country finally implodes.

Amen