I SWIM GOOD

“I'm about to drive in the ocean

I’ma try to swim for somethin’ bigger than me

Kick off my shoes

And swim good and swim good

Take off my shoes

And swim good and swim good’’

That’s the new Frank Ocean’s melancholically infectious single, Swim Good and I love that shit. I love Frank Ocean, as in, the man’s music (jus so you and dirty minds don’t get it twisted. Lol) I love everythin’ that nigga’s put out so far but the funny thing is, I’ve not been able to put a face to the voice; I’ve not seen any of his videos…yet.

Anyways, Swim Good’s been stuck in my head since I got up thismorning and it’s all thanks to the radio stations I listen to.

I love sleepin’ wit the radio on and I love station-surfin’ and so it was this mornin’, I was flippin’ through the channels (after listenin’ to the news on BBC, that is), Swim Good came on on one of my favorite local stations, when it got done, I changed the station and was delighted to catch Rihanna’s new joint with Calvin Harris, We Found Love. That shit always gets my foot tappin’, my head bobbing and my body movin’, I was fuckin’ whistlin’ to the song.

Can y’all guess what song came on next after We Found Love got done? Yep, you guess it, Frank Ocean’s Swim Good! There was no escapin’ that song, I was stuck wit it but, I was lovin’ it. As the day wore on, I kept singin’ it without meanin’ to, and the the more I sang it, the more it reminded me of somethin’ that went down way before Kevin Kristo, Wayne Nugent, Christopher Francis Breaux (Frank Ocean), Charlie and ‘em got together, talkless of even writin’ this gem!

July 2007

Lagos

Gulder Ultimate Search, a spin-off of the famous reality show, Survival. The GUS is the Nigerian version of that world famous show and it’s quite popular, been runnin’ on national TV stations for slightly over a decade now. By the way, the show got its name from a popular beer brand in Nigeria; they’ve been sponsorin’ that shit since day one.

Me and my boys (jus like countless other armchair supermen) used to sit and brag about how we gon’ murder all competition if we ever decide to jump on the show but we never got around to enterin’ for it, well at least, not until that fateful 2007 edition.

Me, Voke (also known as FMG, only insiders know what the acronym stands for) and Emmanuel a.k.a Black Salvador (another inside joke) decided we gon give it a shot for real that time and we did.

Did I say some’ about the huge prize money attached to making it to the finals on television? Well, there is but more than the prize money at stake, the joy of one’s ass being on TV every day and the doors that’ll be opened by the exposure one gon get up in there is always a natural aphrodisiac for getting a hard on for shows like that!

I knew qualifyin’ for the TV stage of the contest would be a piece of cake for me if, and only if, they don’t throw in one particular task I knew I suck at. Did somebody ask what task that would be? Hold on, I’ma tell you.

Day One

Hundreds of folks, mostly young and middle age (both sexes) came through. We were so fuckin’ surprised by the kinda folks that turned up. If y’all were there, your jaws woulda been on the floor too, I mean, there were so many well chiseled mutherfuckers up in there, walkin up and down with tank tops on, showing off and shit. Some of them niggas would make Arnold Swarzenegger look like he was suffering from anorexia, that was how buffed they were. Heck, mutherfuckers looked like they were born and raised in the gym.

Girls were not left out, different shapes and sizes, flauntin what their mamas gave ‘em all over the place. It was a fuckin’ carnival of sports/TV stars wanna-be’s!

After three grueling stages, it turned out that 98% of those muscular punk asses showing off in the morning were jus’ sacks wit nothin’ in ‘em, most of ‘em fuckin fell after stage two of day one! Of course, yours truly made it true but unfortunately, my mens fell off. Day one was a piece of cake for me like I’d predicted; I qualified like a seasoned vet.

Day Two

Before day two, I went to the pool to polish up my swimming skills and speed and my crew was there to give me moral support. Voke was a born fish, nigga could swim for days, he put through and showed me some things til he was satisfied that I was ready for day two.

Day two was mainly a pool thing and I was ready to swim for something bigger than me like Frank Ocean. We all watched and waited for our turn as contestants got called into the pool eight in a set.

It was fuckin’ hilarious watchin people act the fool in the pool, I mean why even bother, so many folks couldn’t swim even if their lives depended on it but thank God for the lifeguards, cause if it weren’t for them…ummm, let’s jus say alotta folks, includin’ a certain someone might have been dead by now or some’.

Anyways, my name got called; I confidently stepped to the plate like I was Ian Thorpe in his prime, jumped in the pool with the other seven in my set and prrrrr, the whistle got blown, an epic battle was on. I started swimming as fast as I could…em,

Before I continue, one thing i’ve left out of this narrative up until now was the fact that I couldn’t swim, I didnt know how (still don’t) and that right there, was the task I was referring to earlier, the one i told y’all I sucked at. But Instead of givin’ up, I deluded myself into thinkin’ I could do one better than Jesus who walked on walk water. I fuckin’ believe I could walk in water and men, was i wrong? I was so fuckin’ wrong, that stupidity coulda cost a nigga his life.

There I was, simulatin’ swimming wit my arms while my legs were walkin in the water instead of floatin. I did that up to a stage and the next thing I knew, I felt strong arms pullin’ me out of the water…I was fuckin’ drownin!

My boys still make fun of me til today…talkin’ me tryna walk in water in a swimmin’ competition.

Sorry Frank Ocean, I couldn’t swim for somethin’ bigger than me on that occasion!

I SWIM GOOD

“I'm about to drive in the ocean

I’ma try to swim for somethin’ bigger than me

Kick off my shoes

And swim good and swim good

Take off my shoes

And swim good and swim good’’

That’s the new Frank Ocean’s melancholically infectious single, Swim Good and I love that shit. I love Frank Ocean, as in, the man’s music (jus so you and dirty minds don’t get it twisted. Lol) I love everythin’ that nigga’s put out so far but the funny thing is, I’ve not been able to put a face to the voice; I’ve not seen any of his videos…yet.

Anyways, Swim Good’s been stuck in my head since I got up thismorning and it’s all thanks to the radio stations I listen to.

I love sleepin’ wit the radio on and I love station-surfin’ and so it was this mornin’, I was flippin’ through the channels (after listenin’ to the news on BBC, that is), Swim Good came on on one of my favorite local stations, when it got done, I changed the station and was delighted to catch Rihanna’s new joint with Calvin Harris, We Found Love. That shit always gets my foot tappin’, my head bobbing and my body movin’, I was fuckin’ whistlin’ to the song.

Can y’all guess what song came on next after We Found Love got done? Yep, you guess it, Frank Ocean’s Swim Good! There was no escapin’ that song, I was stuck wit it but, I was lovin’ it. As the day wore on, I kept singin’ it without meanin’ to, and the the more I sang it, the more it reminded me of somethin’ that went down way before Kevin Kristo, Wayne Nugent, Christopher Francis Breaux (Frank Ocean), Charlie and ‘em got together, talkless of even writin’ this gem!

July 2007

Lagos

Gulder Ultimate Search, a spin-off of the famous reality show, Survival. The GUS is the Nigerian version of that world famous show and it’s quite popular, been runnin’ on national TV stations for slightly over a decade now. By the way, the show got its name from a popular beer brand in Nigeria; they’ve been sponsorin’ that shit since day one.

Me and my boys (jus like countless other armchair supermen) used to sit and brag about how we gon’ murder all competition if we ever decide to jump on the show but we never got around to enterin’ for it, well at least, not until that fateful 2007 edition.

Me, Voke (also known as FMG, only insiders know what the acronym stands for) and Emmanuel a.k.a Black Salvador (another inside joke) decided we gon give it a shot for real that time and we did.

Did I say some’ about the huge prize money attached to making it to the finals on television? Well, there is but more than the prize money at stake, the joy of one’s ass being on TV every day and the doors that’ll be opened by the exposure one gon get up in there is always a natural aphrodisiac for getting a hard on for shows like that!

I knew qualifyin’ for the TV stage of the contest would be a piece of cake for me if, and only if, they don’t throw in one particular task I knew I suck at. Did somebody ask what task that would be? Hold on, I’ma tell you.

Day One

Hundreds of folks, mostly young and middle age (both sexes) came through. We were so fuckin’ surprised by the kinda folks that turned up. If y’all were there, your jaws woulda been on the floor too, I mean, there were so many well chiseled mutherfuckers up in there, walkin up and down with tank tops on, showing off and shit. Some of them niggas would make Arnold Swarzenegger look like he was suffering from anorexia, that was how buffed they were. Heck, mutherfuckers looked like they were born and raised in the gym.

Girls were not left out, different shapes and sizes, flauntin what their mamas gave ‘em all over the place. It was a fuckin’ carnival of sports/TV stars wanna-be’s!

After three grueling stages, it turned out that 98% of those muscular punk asses showing off in the morning were jus’ sacks wit nothin’ in ‘em, most of ‘em fuckin fell after stage two of day one! Of course, yours truly made it true but unfortunately, my mens fell off. Day one was a piece of cake for me like I’d predicted; I qualified like a seasoned vet.

Day Two

Before day two, I went to the pool to polish up my swimming skills and speed and my crew was there to give me moral support. Voke was a born fish, nigga could swim for days, he put through and showed me some things til he was satisfied that I was ready for day two.

Day two was mainly a pool thing and I was ready to swim for something bigger than me like Frank Ocean. We all watched and waited for our turn as contestants got called into the pool eight in a set.

It was fuckin’ hilarious watchin people act the fool in the pool, I mean why even bother, so many folks couldn’t swim even if their lives depended on it but thank God for the lifeguards, cause if it weren’t for them…ummm, let’s jus say alotta folks, includin’ a certain someone might have been dead by now or some’.

Anyways, my name got called; I confidently stepped to the plate like I was Ian Thorpe in his prime, jumped in the pool with the other seven in my set and prrrrr, the whistle got blown, an epic battle was on. I started swimming as fast as I could…em,

Before I continue, one thing i’ve left out of this narrative up until now was the fact that I couldn’t swim, I didnt know how (still don’t) and that right there, was the task I was referring to earlier, the one i told y’all I sucked at. But Instead of givin’ up, I deluded myself into thinkin’ I could do one better than Jesus who walked on walk water. I fuckin’ believe I could walk in water and men, was i wrong? I was so fuckin’ wrong, that stupidity coulda cost a nigga his life.

There I was, simulatin’ swimming wit my arms while my legs were walkin in the water instead of floatin. I did that up to a stage and the next thing I knew, I felt strong arms pullin’ me out of the water…I was fuckin’ drownin!

My boys still make fun of me til today…talkin’ me tryna walk in water in a swimmin’ competition.

Sorry Frank Ocean, I couldn’t swim for somethin’ bigger than me on that occasion!

LIL' CHUCKY

Sunday, 23 October

11:56

Knowing how late my ass was, I was determined to make every minute I spent in there count. And yup, I know I always go late but if y’all must know, there’s a method to my lateness.

Early This Year

The first time I stepped in the place, I went early thinkin’ we gon be out by twelve, boy was I wrong? At fourteen thirty, it seemed the man holdin court was jus’ getting’ warmed up. Like an electric train between stations, the man can’t be stopped! After waitin’ another thirty minutes, I decided to jet. On my way out; I asked one of the guys at the door, an extremely black, bald headed middle aged man wit a well-groomed goatee

“Is there something special goin’ on today?”

Smiling like all well trained ushers do, he said, “No, this is how we do it every Sunday”

“Hmmm, ok”, I mumbled and quickly reached for my phone, “hey, hi”, hollering unnecessarily into the phone as i walked away.

Did my phone ring? Nah, that was jus’ my emergency exit strategy, somethin’ I’ve used time and time again whenever am caught up a in sticky situation like that one! Ever since that first encounter, I began to time my goin to this church.

12:05

For five minute I stood in the back of the church trying to see if I could spot an empty seat in the back somewhere but no cigar, matter of fact, all the seats in the church were occupied or so it seemed. The MOG (Man Of God) was already doin’ his thing, whippin’ up the church into a spiritual frenzy. I didn’t know that some usher had noticed that my late-coming ass was stranded; he came and offered to help me get a seat. I told him I’d rather he brought me a seat, if he could, so I could sit my ass down under one of the big trees (with them lil kids, all girls except for one boy) by the church and he delivered in less than a minute! Wow, how did you an empty chair, huh? I thought to myself.

Round 12:45

Around twelve forty-five or somethin, the pastor said somethin’ about wrappin his sermon up. In my head I was thinkin’, knock it off MOG, you and I know you ain’t finishin anytime soon.

See, so many times before he’d said that some like and still went on forever, so I didn’t really take that to heart.

I kicked my focus up a notch, tyrin to make up for lost time (or lost sermon) but my Zen-like concentration was broken by that three old boy coolin wit them lil girls when he started wailin’ like an old hag at a funeral parlor. The mother tried in vain to calm the lil menace down but no dice.

I love kids but lil Dennis the menace rode my nerve. With every passin second, lil chucky raised his cryin’ to a higher decibel; it seemed some kinda evil spirit had gotten into him. I was so pissed; I wanted so much to test that lil nigga’s behind wit a couple of strokes of the cane and chase the devil out of him.

The kid ain’t mine and I couldn’t jus go around whooping people’s kids, so I improvised…I gave the boy my evilest eye, I fuckin’ stared the lil punk ass to silence. The kid quickly ran and hid his tear stained face in his mama’s lap! Yeah, call me a villain, call me what you but the end justified the means.

12:58

With lil chucky stared into silence, I returned my attention to the pulpit to enjoy the rest of the sermon and boom, the pastor told us to stand up for the grace! What? How could the service jus end like that? I mean, I’ve come to expect a “sermonthon” from the pastor. It was a pleasant surprise, I must say. And for the first time since I started goin to that church, I stayed till the end…hallelujah, somebody!

On my way out, out of curiosity I asked the lil Chucky’s mum why the lil guy cried so hard. She told me it was because he didn’t want to share his food wit his sister. Unknown to the mum, I gave the boy one last evil eye and watched him shrank further into his mama’s back!

LIL' CHUCKY

Sunday, 23 October

11:56

Knowing how late my ass was, I was determined to make every minute I spent in there count. And yup, I know I always go late but if y’all must know, there’s a method to my lateness.

Early This Year

The first time I stepped in the place, I went early thinkin’ we gon be out by twelve, boy was I wrong? At fourteen thirty, it seemed the man holdin court was jus’ getting’ warmed up. Like an electric train between stations, the man can’t be stopped! After waitin’ another thirty minutes, I decided to jet. On my way out; I asked one of the guys at the door, an extremely black, bald headed middle aged man wit a well-groomed goatee

“Is there something special goin’ on today?”

Smiling like all well trained ushers do, he said, “No, this is how we do it every Sunday”

“Hmmm, ok”, I mumbled and quickly reached for my phone, “hey, hi”, hollering unnecessarily into the phone as i walked away.

Did my phone ring? Nah, that was jus’ my emergency exit strategy, somethin’ I’ve used time and time again whenever am caught up a in sticky situation like that one! Ever since that first encounter, I began to time my goin to this church.

12:05

For five minute I stood in the back of the church trying to see if I could spot an empty seat in the back somewhere but no cigar, matter of fact, all the seats in the church were occupied or so it seemed. The MOG (Man Of God) was already doin’ his thing, whippin’ up the church into a spiritual frenzy. I didn’t know that some usher had noticed that my late-coming ass was stranded; he came and offered to help me get a seat. I told him I’d rather he brought me a seat, if he could, so I could sit my ass down under one of the big trees (with them lil kids, all girls except for one boy) by the church and he delivered in less than a minute! Wow, how did you an empty chair, huh? I thought to myself.

Round 12:45

Around twelve forty-five or somethin, the pastor said somethin’ about wrappin his sermon up. In my head I was thinkin’, knock it off MOG, you and I know you ain’t finishin anytime soon.

See, so many times before he’d said that some like and still went on forever, so I didn’t really take that to heart.

I kicked my focus up a notch, tyrin to make up for lost time (or lost sermon) but my Zen-like concentration was broken by that three old boy coolin wit them lil girls when he started wailin’ like an old hag at a funeral parlor. The mother tried in vain to calm the lil menace down but no dice.

I love kids but lil Dennis the menace rode my nerve. With every passin second, lil chucky raised his cryin’ to a higher decibel; it seemed some kinda evil spirit had gotten into him. I was so pissed; I wanted so much to test that lil nigga’s behind wit a couple of strokes of the cane and chase the devil out of him.

The kid ain’t mine and I couldn’t jus go around whooping people’s kids, so I improvised…I gave the boy my evilest eye, I fuckin’ stared the lil punk ass to silence. The kid quickly ran and hid his tear stained face in his mama’s lap! Yeah, call me a villain, call me what you but the end justified the means.

12:58

With lil chucky stared into silence, I returned my attention to the pulpit to enjoy the rest of the sermon and boom, the pastor told us to stand up for the grace! What? How could the service jus end like that? I mean, I’ve come to expect a “sermonthon” from the pastor. It was a pleasant surprise, I must say. And for the first time since I started goin to that church, I stayed till the end…hallelujah, somebody!

On my way out, out of curiosity I asked the lil Chucky’s mum why the lil guy cried so hard. She told me it was because he didn’t want to share his food wit his sister. Unknown to the mum, I gave the boy one last evil eye and watched him shrank further into his mama’s back!

MY MEMORY OF BELINDA

“I grew up with the wrong belief that Grady Harrell ain’t alive. That, out of envy Michael Jackson killed him when the hit Belinda was released. Man, childhood”

That was how Gimba, a friend reminisced on his facebook status update yester night and his reminiscence kinda sent me tumbling down memory lane too.

I surfed around my brain, rummaged through memories, flipped through mental files and all I could pull out was the chorus

“Belinda ay ay ayyyy Belinda

Oh oh belinda”

Jus’ like the dude who put up that update, me and my friends held similar belief at the time. We thought Grady stole from Michael, so Michael did him in, mafia style and that was why we didn’t hear any songs from him again. Of course, MJ didn’t do nada to him, Grady was jus’ a one hit wonder (though, sticks and stones, the first single off his ’89 album, Come Play With Me, did relatively ok)

Back then, I would silently mumbled my way through the verses but my young voice would grow strong and loud when it came to this hook

“Belinda ay ay ayyyy Belinda

Oh oh belinda”

I can still remember the video, Grady had his hair all slicked out, permed hair was the rage, and everybody who was somebody, from MJ to Lionel Richie, Shalamar, Kool and the Gang, Prince…they all had their dome shiny and greasy. Grady busted a couple of moves in the video, almost but not quite like MJ but then, who could do it like MJ? Nobody!

If you grew up in the eighties then you’d most definitely know the jam, it was a monster hit, a guaranteed party starter. What? Y’all thinkin’ I wasn’t old enough to party? Of course, I was…old enough to children’s’ party down in the village. Lol

One thing I’ve noticed about hit songs whose titles are peoples’ name, they tend to influence parents choice of name for their kids. I’ll bet one of my balls that a lot of the girls born in eighty four and eighty five were named Belinda cause of that record!

I challenge you guys to do your own little research and you’d see that many of the kids given birth to in the eighties were given names like Belinda, Susan, Billy jean, Diana, Nikita and so on because of the hits by Whitney Houston, MJ, Mrs. Elton John Or is it, Mr? Go ahead and ask your pops why they gave you the name you bear today, you’d be shocked how they got your names; they pro’ly got it from their favorite songs from back in the day!

By the way, Belinda was released in 1984; it was contained in Grady’s first solo album, MWANA on MCA records in 1985. I have no idea what Mwana mean but it sure sounds like a Nigerian name!

Grady listed one of his childhood idols as Michael Jackson...Aha! Our little minds weren’t too far from the truth, right? Maybe, jus’ maybe MJ did do Somethin’ to him!

Ummm, can I tell y’all one little truth before I wrap this shit up?

I still don’t know the verses! Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I promise I’ll get the lyrics off the internet so that next time I get my ears on the record, I would sing loud and clear, from start to finish!

MY MEMORY OF BELINDA

“I grew up with the wrong belief that Grady Harrell ain’t alive. That, out of envy Michael Jackson killed him when the hit Belinda was released. Man, childhood”

That was how Gimba, a friend reminisced on his facebook status update yester night and his reminiscence kinda sent me tumbling down memory lane too.

I surfed around my brain, rummaged through memories, flipped through mental files and all I could pull out was the chorus

“Belinda ay ay ayyyy Belinda

Oh oh belinda”

Jus’ like the dude who put up that update, me and my friends held similar belief at the time. We thought Grady stole from Michael, so Michael did him in, mafia style and that was why we didn’t hear any songs from him again. Of course, MJ didn’t do nada to him, Grady was jus’ a one hit wonder (though, sticks and stones, the first single off his ’89 album, Come Play With Me, did relatively ok)

Back then, I would silently mumbled my way through the verses but my young voice would grow strong and loud when it came to this hook

“Belinda ay ay ayyyy Belinda

Oh oh belinda”

I can still remember the video, Grady had his hair all slicked out, permed hair was the rage, and everybody who was somebody, from MJ to Lionel Richie, Shalamar, Kool and the Gang, Prince…they all had their dome shiny and greasy. Grady busted a couple of moves in the video, almost but not quite like MJ but then, who could do it like MJ? Nobody!

If you grew up in the eighties then you’d most definitely know the jam, it was a monster hit, a guaranteed party starter. What? Y’all thinkin’ I wasn’t old enough to party? Of course, I was…old enough to children’s’ party down in the village. Lol

One thing I’ve noticed about hit songs whose titles are peoples’ name, they tend to influence parents choice of name for their kids. I’ll bet one of my balls that a lot of the girls born in eighty four and eighty five were named Belinda cause of that record!

I challenge you guys to do your own little research and you’d see that many of the kids given birth to in the eighties were given names like Belinda, Susan, Billy jean, Diana, Nikita and so on because of the hits by Whitney Houston, MJ, Mrs. Elton John Or is it, Mr? Go ahead and ask your pops why they gave you the name you bear today, you’d be shocked how they got your names; they pro’ly got it from their favorite songs from back in the day!

By the way, Belinda was released in 1984; it was contained in Grady’s first solo album, MWANA on MCA records in 1985. I have no idea what Mwana mean but it sure sounds like a Nigerian name!

Grady listed one of his childhood idols as Michael Jackson...Aha! Our little minds weren’t too far from the truth, right? Maybe, jus’ maybe MJ did do Somethin’ to him!

Ummm, can I tell y’all one little truth before I wrap this shit up?

I still don’t know the verses! Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I promise I’ll get the lyrics off the internet so that next time I get my ears on the record, I would sing loud and clear, from start to finish!

MY FIRST MAKOUSSA CONCERT

Monday, 17:30

Public Holiday

What the fuck was a nigga doin’ at a concert all decked up in a suit? When I say a suit, I meant the whole works…the long sleeves, the waist coat, the suspender and a bow fuckin’ tie, everything was up in the mix. Not only did he dress his ass in a suit, he was a walkin rainbow! Red suit, yellow shirt, navy blue waist coat and a blue tie to capped the ensemble up.

I took a sip of my spirit cooler and looked at that nigga again; dude was sweatin’ profusely like he stole some. I felt so uncomfortable, it was like I was the one sweating and y’all know what? Rainbow man was oblivious to the fact that huge lakes of sweat had pooled up on his back and armpits and I wouldn’t be surprised if tributaries of sweat had made their way down his pant from his balls!

Rainbow man couldn’t be bothered by such trivial issue as sweat, nigga was ballin’ and singin’ along to every word Fally Ipupa (the Congolese superstar) was singin’ out there on the stage. I must admit, the atmosphere was electric, I couldn’t believe I actually there to watch Fally perform.

I looked around and guess what? Rainbow man wasn’t the only one in suit, from my position in front of the stage; I counted six guys who were suited up! Somethin told me if I had had the opportunity of getting up on that stage, there would be more suit men in the crowd.

As far as I know, there are only two set of folks in the world who would unashamedly walk around in outfit teeming with colors (color riot) and those two would an Igbo man and a Congolese! Am I stereotyping? Maybe, but then again, maybe not.

45 Minutes earlier

Forty five minutes earlier, we (me, Barry and Kaysman) were coolin’ at some sports bar after me and Barry got done wit a lil somethin’ we were doin’ but then two other friends came through and plans changed and we had to leave for another place where shit was goin’ down. We arrived at the new venue in a convoy of three. I rode short-gun with Barry while the three other guys rode in the two whips behind us.

The place was already alive with loud music, the boozin’ crowd was buzzin’ and the smell of goat barbeque held the air hostage and that right there (goat barbeque) was why we came; the concert was jus the cherry on top.

18:10

On our second serving of that well peppered goat meat, conversation was goin great, beer was flowin’ for the other guys and me? I was doin’ The Spirit Cooler A.K.A Smirnoff spin (my mens always make fun of me for drinkin’ that stuff, they say it’s a lady’s drink…I don’t care. Normally I don’t drink but if I have to, then it’s gotta be Smirnoff spin).

I left the guys huddled up over a BlackBerry phone; somethin about the bootylicious pictures in somebody’s facebook album that one of guys wanted us to see *winks*.

I headed to the source of the booze to ask the bar tender what the name of the guy performin’ was (cause I wasn’t really sure if it was Fally Ipupa), in response to my question, she pointed to the big ass banner hangin on the wall and added wit a wink, “he’s good, ay?”

I nodded and said, ‘huh uh’’’. It wasn’t like I really gave a fuck who the Congolese superstar was, I jus wanted to get the name right for my blog!

So as it turned out, I was right about the artiste not being Fally Ipupa, it was some singer named Ferre Gola. Ferre Gola, hmmm, I’ve never heard of this guy before, not that I know many makossa artistes but from the number of people there, I could tell the guy was a big deal (gotta be on the same level as Fally).

Ladies of different shapes and sizes were screamin’ and moanin’ for Ferre and his dancers (four cats and two girls)…yep, they were moanin! Though, the music very loud, I could tell jus’ by reading them ladies’ lips, am good like that. Lol!

With the sixth spirit cooler in hand and hunger gnawing away at my stomach (nothin’ in there but goat meat, that doesn’t count as food or does it?), I turned my attention away from the television! I had become light headed and I could tell from my reflection at the mirrors at the bar, my eyes had no expression in ‘em despite the fact that I had a huge Smirnoff-induced smile of my face, they were expressionless like MJ’s when he was alive!

19:05

A few minutes past seven, we got in the cars and drove off to another spot where our convo was first about Manchester United’s scandalous loss to the noisy neighbor, Man. City then we talked that punk ass Gadhafi…then the convo shifted the Chinese and how exploitative they are; those niggas can’t be trusted, we agreed. Surprisingly, booty talk never crept into the convo! It was a good Monday but I woke up on Tuesday with a king-size headache.

MY FIRST MAKOUSSA CONCERT

Monday, 17:30

Public Holiday

What the fuck was a nigga doin’ at a concert all decked up in a suit? When I say a suit, I meant the whole works…the long sleeves, the waist coat, the suspender and a bow fuckin’ tie, everything was up in the mix. Not only did he dress his ass in a suit, he was a walkin rainbow! Red suit, yellow shirt, navy blue waist coat and a blue tie to capped the ensemble up.

I took a sip of my spirit cooler and looked at that nigga again; dude was sweatin’ profusely like he stole some. I felt so uncomfortable, it was like I was the one sweating and y’all know what? Rainbow man was oblivious to the fact that huge lakes of sweat had pooled up on his back and armpits and I wouldn’t be surprised if tributaries of sweat had made their way down his pant from his balls!

Rainbow man couldn’t be bothered by such trivial issue as sweat, nigga was ballin’ and singin’ along to every word Fally Ipupa (the Congolese superstar) was singin’ out there on the stage. I must admit, the atmosphere was electric, I couldn’t believe I actually there to watch Fally perform.

I looked around and guess what? Rainbow man wasn’t the only one in suit, from my position in front of the stage; I counted six guys who were suited up! Somethin told me if I had had the opportunity of getting up on that stage, there would be more suit men in the crowd.

As far as I know, there are only two set of folks in the world who would unashamedly walk around in outfit teeming with colors (color riot) and those two would an Igbo man and a Congolese! Am I stereotyping? Maybe, but then again, maybe not.

45 Minutes earlier

Forty five minutes earlier, we (me, Barry and Kaysman) were coolin’ at some sports bar after me and Barry got done wit a lil somethin’ we were doin’ but then two other friends came through and plans changed and we had to leave for another place where shit was goin’ down. We arrived at the new venue in a convoy of three. I rode short-gun with Barry while the three other guys rode in the two whips behind us.

The place was already alive with loud music, the boozin’ crowd was buzzin’ and the smell of goat barbeque held the air hostage and that right there (goat barbeque) was why we came; the concert was jus the cherry on top.

18:10

On our second serving of that well peppered goat meat, conversation was goin great, beer was flowin’ for the other guys and me? I was doin’ The Spirit Cooler A.K.A Smirnoff spin (my mens always make fun of me for drinkin’ that stuff, they say it’s a lady’s drink…I don’t care. Normally I don’t drink but if I have to, then it’s gotta be Smirnoff spin).

I left the guys huddled up over a BlackBerry phone; somethin about the bootylicious pictures in somebody’s facebook album that one of guys wanted us to see *winks*.

I headed to the source of the booze to ask the bar tender what the name of the guy performin’ was (cause I wasn’t really sure if it was Fally Ipupa), in response to my question, she pointed to the big ass banner hangin on the wall and added wit a wink, “he’s good, ay?”

I nodded and said, ‘huh uh’’’. It wasn’t like I really gave a fuck who the Congolese superstar was, I jus wanted to get the name right for my blog!

So as it turned out, I was right about the artiste not being Fally Ipupa, it was some singer named Ferre Gola. Ferre Gola, hmmm, I’ve never heard of this guy before, not that I know many makossa artistes but from the number of people there, I could tell the guy was a big deal (gotta be on the same level as Fally).

Ladies of different shapes and sizes were screamin’ and moanin’ for Ferre and his dancers (four cats and two girls)…yep, they were moanin! Though, the music very loud, I could tell jus’ by reading them ladies’ lips, am good like that. Lol!

With the sixth spirit cooler in hand and hunger gnawing away at my stomach (nothin’ in there but goat meat, that doesn’t count as food or does it?), I turned my attention away from the television! I had become light headed and I could tell from my reflection at the mirrors at the bar, my eyes had no expression in ‘em despite the fact that I had a huge Smirnoff-induced smile of my face, they were expressionless like MJ’s when he was alive!

19:05

A few minutes past seven, we got in the cars and drove off to another spot where our convo was first about Manchester United’s scandalous loss to the noisy neighbor, Man. City then we talked that punk ass Gadhafi…then the convo shifted the Chinese and how exploitative they are; those niggas can’t be trusted, we agreed. Surprisingly, booty talk never crept into the convo! It was a good Monday but I woke up on Tuesday with a king-size headache.

DEATH BY ASPHYXIATION

Wednesday, 19 October

About 22:05

The air around me was becomin’ too fuckin’ heavy and asphyxiating, so i kept goin’ back and forth to get some air from the central coolin’ system (the industrial type they put in big malls and ‘em), I needed to fuckin ’breathe. As unorthodox as that might sound (getting’ air from the coolin’ system) it helped. See, my breathin’ dilemma has got nothin’ to do with the hot and windless night and nope, am not asthmatic either.

The heaviness of the air around the table felt like a thousand invisible hands were right there on my neck tryna squeeze the life out of me. As much as I’d like to bitch and moan about how hard life is, am wise enough to know that life is still in some ways, beautiful and I don’t wanna die. So, I would casually stand, stretch, adjust my balls then crane my neck to let the cool air comin’ out the air con hit my face without alertin’ the folks I was coolin’ wit to what I was doin’.

20:50

Return of the Mack, that classic Mack Morrison’s joint from back in the day, filled my eardrum as soon as I walked in the door and before I knew it, my head was bobbin’ to that shit like an agama lizard; that’s what good music will do to you, makes you even when you don’t wanna!

I went straight to the bar, bought a coke, grabbed and sat myself down in front of one the televisions hangin’ from the walls…the reason why I came was already on; UEFA Champions League, baby!

The place was buzzin’ despite the fact that it wasn’t a club night. I saw alotta skins and boobs hangin’ out and shit but then again, what do you expect wit these ladies clad in clothes that looked like they were originally made for five year olds. They kept shakin' their sacks from left to right, sashaying up and down like they lost something and nah, there’s no price for guessin’ that nine outta ten of them girls were pussy-for-cash chicks, if y’all know what I mean?

Funny thing was, if you took a quick look at these ladies they kinda look fine but wait, if you took a closer look, you’d see that the lightings in the club have got some’ to do wit your judgement. Those fancy lights and spinning globes have got a way of makin’ ugly look pretty and wit enough alcohol in the system, ugly is nothin’! Am I right or am I right? Of course, am right.

21:50

Just before the second half kicked off, a couple of Asian guys came through. Most of ‘em headed straight to the pool table, some went to the bar, one came through and asked, in what sounded like English language, if he could share the table wit me (music was very loud and I couldn’t care less what he was sayin’ anyways), I nodded and immediately went back to watchin’ the game (Chelsea was givin’ Genk a serious ass whoopin’). About ten minutes later, I realised there were two new companions at the table with me and my new oriental friend and that, was when my breathin’ ordeal started.

22:05

I had no history of breathin’ problem before the comin’ of those two female companions of the Chinaman, one of those shawties certainly kick-started my breathin’ ordeal. She fuckin’ changed the air around the table and I was suffocatin’ from holdin’ my breath.

Oh, y’all think somebody say farted?

Nah, it wasn’t a fart and nah, they weren’t smokin’ neither (at least not inside the joint)…the problem was the fuckin’ perfume one of ‘em got on!

I mean, why do people do that? Some folk jus’ messes up a perfectly sweet smellin’ perfume by over sprayin’ that shit. it’s fuckin’ nauseatin’…the girl next me fuckin’ smell like she took a luxurious dip in a bath filled Eau De Cologne!

Thank God I survived to tell the tale, imagine what would have happened if my ass was asthmatic.

DEATH BY ASPHYXIATION

Wednesday, 19 October

About 22:05

The air around me was becomin’ too fuckin’ heavy and asphyxiating, so i kept goin’ back and forth to get some air from the central coolin’ system (the industrial type they put in big malls and ‘em), I needed to fuckin ’breathe. As unorthodox as that might sound (getting’ air from the coolin’ system) it helped. See, my breathin’ dilemma has got nothin’ to do with the hot and windless night and nope, am not asthmatic either.

The heaviness of the air around the table felt like a thousand invisible hands were right there on my neck tryna squeeze the life out of me. As much as I’d like to bitch and moan about how hard life is, am wise enough to know that life is still in some ways, beautiful and I don’t wanna die. So, I would casually stand, stretch, adjust my balls then crane my neck to let the cool air comin’ out the air con hit my face without alertin’ the folks I was coolin’ wit to what I was doin’.

20:50

Return of the Mack, that classic Mack Morrison’s joint from back in the day, filled my eardrum as soon as I walked in the door and before I knew it, my head was bobbin’ to that shit like an agama lizard; that’s what good music will do to you, makes you even when you don’t wanna!

I went straight to the bar, bought a coke, grabbed and sat myself down in front of one the televisions hangin’ from the walls…the reason why I came was already on; UEFA Champions League, baby!

The place was buzzin’ despite the fact that it wasn’t a club night. I saw alotta skins and boobs hangin’ out and shit but then again, what do you expect wit these ladies clad in clothes that looked like they were originally made for five year olds. They kept shakin' their sacks from left to right, sashaying up and down like they lost something and nah, there’s no price for guessin’ that nine outta ten of them girls were pussy-for-cash chicks, if y’all know what I mean?

Funny thing was, if you took a quick look at these ladies they kinda look fine but wait, if you took a closer look, you’d see that the lightings in the club have got some’ to do wit your judgement. Those fancy lights and spinning globes have got a way of makin’ ugly look pretty and wit enough alcohol in the system, ugly is nothin’! Am I right or am I right? Of course, am right.

21:50

Just before the second half kicked off, a couple of Asian guys came through. Most of ‘em headed straight to the pool table, some went to the bar, one came through and asked, in what sounded like English language, if he could share the table wit me (music was very loud and I couldn’t care less what he was sayin’ anyways), I nodded and immediately went back to watchin’ the game (Chelsea was givin’ Genk a serious ass whoopin’). About ten minutes later, I realised there were two new companions at the table with me and my new oriental friend and that, was when my breathin’ ordeal started.

22:05

I had no history of breathin’ problem before the comin’ of those two female companions of the Chinaman, one of those shawties certainly kick-started my breathin’ ordeal. She fuckin’ changed the air around the table and I was suffocatin’ from holdin’ my breath.

Oh, y’all think somebody say farted?

Nah, it wasn’t a fart and nah, they weren’t smokin’ neither (at least not inside the joint)…the problem was the fuckin’ perfume one of ‘em got on!

I mean, why do people do that? Some folk jus’ messes up a perfectly sweet smellin’ perfume by over sprayin’ that shit. it’s fuckin’ nauseatin’…the girl next me fuckin’ smell like she took a luxurious dip in a bath filled Eau De Cologne!

Thank God I survived to tell the tale, imagine what would have happened if my ass was asthmatic.

SWEET LOU

I’ve been thinkin’ about the Harlem Globetrotters a lot lately and that’s even more so in the past three days. And nah, my renewed interest in the Globetrotters didn’t jus’ come out of the blue, a common phenomenon around inspired it.

Before I let y’all in on the reason why I’ve had the Harlem Globetrotters kickin’ it in my mind, let me first ask, do you guys know who the Harlem Globetrotters are? Yes - No?

(Aight, let me school some of y’all who doesn’t know, is that ok? Good!)

The Harlem Globetrotters are an exhibition basket ball team that hooked their game on athleticism, theater and comedy. It was founded in Chicago back in the twenties (1926) by my great great great grandfather Abe Saperstein (jus’ messin’ wit y’all, we ain’t related).

(Are guys following me? Good, cause am takin’ y’all somewhere wit this!)

I remember goin’ to the Globetrotters games as a kid; I loved sittin’ courtside, I loved the atmosphere, the excitement and the whole nine yard but guess what the best part of the whole gig was? I didn’t have to leave my neighborhood! How, you say? Well, all I had to do was wait for the National Television authority to open for transmission at 1600 hour (there was no twenty hours television back then) and bam, my lil ass would be at the games via the Hanna-Barbera animated Harlem Globetrotters series! Ah ha, I got ya, didn’t I? Lol

(Are you guys still wit me? Please, be patient, soon you’ll understand why am borin’ your asses spinnin’ all these globetrotters’ yarn, ok?)

If your ass was old enough to watch the Hannah Barbera series of the Globetrotters back in the eighties, you’d know that it featured the animated version of the players from the basket ball team. The show had guys like George “meadow lark” Lemar, Freddie “curly” Neal, Hubert “Geese” Ausby, JC “Gips” Gipson, Bobby Joe Mason and Pablo Robertson alongside their fictional bus driver and manager Granny and Dribble, their Dog mascot.

(Are you guys bored yet? Yes - No? Let’s keep it goin’, we almost hittin’ home run…)

If you remember the series very well, you’ll certainly remember Louis “Sweet Lou” Dunbar. The first thing that stood him out was his funky sky high afro, the second was in skill but what made him unforgettable were the things he could pull up out of that afro

Sweet Lou’s Afro is why I took y’all through this Israelites’ type of journey. Sweet Lou’s fro is a “magic portable lockers carried in his afro or in a basket ball shaped medallion”. That nigga could pull a anythin’ out of the afro, all it’d take is a moment of rummaging through and whatever he wanted would be found, that fro is like a magic hat and he ain’t even gotta say hocus pocus or abracadabra, how sweet is that, huh?

*clears throat*

Now picture Sweet Lou’s afro, done that? Ok, now picture Ladies’ hang bag…bull’s eye! Remember the common phenomenon I was talkin’ about in the openin’ paragragh? Ladies’ hand bag it is!

From this day forward, I propose that lady’s hand bag should be called SWEET LOU because whatever you want could be found in those bags. Those fuckin’ handbag are like tortoise, it’s a dressing table, wardrobe and toilet in there!

SWEET LOU

I’ve been thinkin’ about the Harlem Globetrotters a lot lately and that’s even more so in the past three days. And nah, my renewed interest in the Globetrotters didn’t jus’ come out of the blue, a common phenomenon around inspired it.

Before I let y’all in on the reason why I’ve had the Harlem Globetrotters kickin’ it in my mind, let me first ask, do you guys know who the Harlem Globetrotters are? Yes - No?

(Aight, let me school some of y’all who doesn’t know, is that ok? Good!)

The Harlem Globetrotters are an exhibition basket ball team that hooked their game on athleticism, theater and comedy. It was founded in Chicago back in the twenties (1926) by my great great great grandfather Abe Saperstein (jus’ messin’ wit y’all, we ain’t related).

(Are guys following me? Good, cause am takin’ y’all somewhere wit this!)

I remember goin’ to the Globetrotters games as a kid; I loved sittin’ courtside, I loved the atmosphere, the excitement and the whole nine yard but guess what the best part of the whole gig was? I didn’t have to leave my neighborhood! How, you say? Well, all I had to do was wait for the National Television authority to open for transmission at 1600 hour (there was no twenty hours television back then) and bam, my lil ass would be at the games via the Hanna-Barbera animated Harlem Globetrotters series! Ah ha, I got ya, didn’t I? Lol

(Are you guys still wit me? Please, be patient, soon you’ll understand why am borin’ your asses spinnin’ all these globetrotters’ yarn, ok?)

If your ass was old enough to watch the Hannah Barbera series of the Globetrotters back in the eighties, you’d know that it featured the animated version of the players from the basket ball team. The show had guys like George “meadow lark” Lemar, Freddie “curly” Neal, Hubert “Geese” Ausby, JC “Gips” Gipson, Bobby Joe Mason and Pablo Robertson alongside their fictional bus driver and manager Granny and Dribble, their Dog mascot.

(Are you guys bored yet? Yes - No? Let’s keep it goin’, we almost hittin’ home run…)

If you remember the series very well, you’ll certainly remember Louis “Sweet Lou” Dunbar. The first thing that stood him out was his funky sky high afro, the second was in skill but what made him unforgettable were the things he could pull up out of that afro

Sweet Lou’s Afro is why I took y’all through this Israelites’ type of journey. Sweet Lou’s fro is a “magic portable lockers carried in his afro or in a basket ball shaped medallion”. That nigga could pull a anythin’ out of the afro, all it’d take is a moment of rummaging through and whatever he wanted would be found, that fro is like a magic hat and he ain’t even gotta say hocus pocus or abracadabra, how sweet is that, huh?

*clears throat*

Now picture Sweet Lou’s afro, done that? Ok, now picture Ladies’ hang bag…bull’s eye! Remember the common phenomenon I was talkin’ about in the openin’ paragragh? Ladies’ hand bag it is!

From this day forward, I propose that lady’s hand bag should be called SWEET LOU because whatever you want could be found in those bags. Those fuckin’ handbag are like tortoise, it’s a dressing table, wardrobe and toilet in there!

AYLMER MAY: The Finest Estate

Friday, Oct 15
About 18:00hrs
I took a stroll cause my freakin’ head was getting’ cobwebbed with a whole lotta shit and for some reasons, an old school Boyz II Men’s joint kept playin’ in my head. It was like the song was stuck replay and it wouldn’t stop, in no time I was singin’ it too. Loved it back in the day, still love it. R&B cats these days jus’ don’t make shit like that no more.

And if you could see inside my heart
You would be depressed
And if you should know what am feelin’
You would be…blah blah (couldn’t remember that part so I jus’ hummed the shit out of it)

And the chorus goes,

So I stay away lonely
And only get away in my mind

I had nowhere particular in mind, I jus’ wanted to walk wit’ myself and talk to wind or somethin. Did you jus’ ask what that somethin is? Well, am not tellin’ *sticks tongue out*.

18:10
I was so lost in thought; I didn't realize I was standin’ in front of the gate of one of the most beautiful estates around. It wasn't like I’ve never passed by it before but I’ve never really took the time to check it out properly.

The big sign board by the gate says the joint is called Aylmer May somethin’ (yep, that word “somethin’’ again but calm down and I’ll re-read the signpost again and let y’all know the complete name, ok?). Jus below the name of the estate, a line proclaimed that visitors to the estate will only be permitted from certain time to certain time. Ooh wee, these niggas are very security conscious, or aren’t they? But then again, I expect nothin’ less from such a lovely and deeply quiet place.

I heard the estate has got alotta rich and well-learned folks kickin’ it in there wit’ some of their fams. No doubt, this place is not for Joe Blows…you can’t find no average Joe here. Estates like these have got that exclusiveness about them.

You’d already know without being told that only heavy-hitters call place this home. The old moneys; pot-bellied, bald headed and shit, the nouveau riche and of course, the young and the beautiful are in there.

Though, I don’t personally know anybody in this gated community but hell, I ain’t gotta personally know anybody there to know that only rich folks lives it up in there. The wealth in this neighborhood is so freakin’ obvious in the tree-lined “streets” and the well-tended lawns. One strange thing though, I noticed that there were no cars…strange, right?

18:13
So there I was in front of this extravagantly rich estate and am thinkin’ about a friend of mine from a few years back, his name was NASIR. And yep, I used WAS cause that nigga been DEAD for a minute now. Isn’t it strange for me to be thinkin’ about a dead friend in front of such opulence?

I think not and I’ma tell you why…

My nigga NASIR was a Muslim and am standin’ in front of the Aylmer May Cemetery! Do you know that when Muslims die, they don’t waste time or money tryna pretty-up a dead people? They jus’ wash the body and wrapped up nicely in white sheet before sendin’ them on their way to the hereafter.

Now that’s how I wanna go, quietly floatin’ across River Stix wit my ass strapped in white cloth while coolin’ in a home-made coffin (would prefer no coffin if it would not mess wit the health of the people livin’ around where am gon’ be buried).

Bottom line, I still don’t understand why people waste a whole lotta resources on the dead. I just can’t wrap my big head around that concept. These niggas are dead for God’s sake; they don’t freakin’ care if their asses are buried in caskets draped with the purest of gold. As I walked away from the restin’ of the dead, I only had one thought in my mind, when I die, jus’ fuckin’ toss my ass in a grave the same fuckin’ day, no pomp no pageantry!

AYLMER MAY: The Finest Estate

Friday, Oct 15
About 18:00hrs
I took a stroll cause my freakin’ head was getting’ cobwebbed with a whole lotta shit and for some reasons, an old school Boyz II Men’s joint kept playin’ in my head. It was like the song was stuck replay and it wouldn’t stop, in no time I was singin’ it too. Loved it back in the day, still love it. R&B cats these days jus’ don’t make shit like that no more.

And if you could see inside my heart
You would be depressed
And if you should know what am feelin’
You would be…blah blah (couldn’t remember that part so I jus’ hummed the shit out of it)

And the chorus goes,

So I stay away lonely
And only get away in my mind

I had nowhere particular in mind, I jus’ wanted to walk wit’ myself and talk to wind or somethin. Did you jus’ ask what that somethin is? Well, am not tellin’ *sticks tongue out*.

18:10
I was so lost in thought; I didn't realize I was standin’ in front of the gate of one of the most beautiful estates around. It wasn't like I’ve never passed by it before but I’ve never really took the time to check it out properly.

The big sign board by the gate says the joint is called Aylmer May somethin’ (yep, that word “somethin’’ again but calm down and I’ll re-read the signpost again and let y’all know the complete name, ok?). Jus below the name of the estate, a line proclaimed that visitors to the estate will only be permitted from certain time to certain time. Ooh wee, these niggas are very security conscious, or aren’t they? But then again, I expect nothin’ less from such a lovely and deeply quiet place.

I heard the estate has got alotta rich and well-learned folks kickin’ it in there wit’ some of their fams. No doubt, this place is not for Joe Blows…you can’t find no average Joe here. Estates like these have got that exclusiveness about them.

You’d already know without being told that only heavy-hitters call place this home. The old moneys; pot-bellied, bald headed and shit, the nouveau riche and of course, the young and the beautiful are in there.

Though, I don’t personally know anybody in this gated community but hell, I ain’t gotta personally know anybody there to know that only rich folks lives it up in there. The wealth in this neighborhood is so freakin’ obvious in the tree-lined “streets” and the well-tended lawns. One strange thing though, I noticed that there were no cars…strange, right?

18:13
So there I was in front of this extravagantly rich estate and am thinkin’ about a friend of mine from a few years back, his name was NASIR. And yep, I used WAS cause that nigga been DEAD for a minute now. Isn’t it strange for me to be thinkin’ about a dead friend in front of such opulence?

I think not and I’ma tell you why…

My nigga NASIR was a Muslim and am standin’ in front of the Aylmer May Cemetery! Do you know that when Muslims die, they don’t waste time or money tryna pretty-up a dead people? They jus’ wash the body and wrapped up nicely in white sheet before sendin’ them on their way to the hereafter.

Now that’s how I wanna go, quietly floatin’ across River Stix wit my ass strapped in white cloth while coolin’ in a home-made coffin (would prefer no coffin if it would not mess wit the health of the people livin’ around where am gon’ be buried).

Bottom line, I still don’t understand why people waste a whole lotta resources on the dead. I just can’t wrap my big head around that concept. These niggas are dead for God’s sake; they don’t freakin’ care if their asses are buried in caskets draped with the purest of gold. As I walked away from the restin’ of the dead, I only had one thought in my mind, when I die, jus’ fuckin’ toss my ass in a grave the same fuckin’ day, no pomp no pageantry!

PASSENGER 57

Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, do you know who this guy is?
Huh?
You don’t?
Oh, you wanna Google the name?
Nah, don’t go worryin’ yourself about nuthin’. I got a lil yarn I wanna spin to y’all, when am done, you might not need to Google shit again.

December 25, 2009
You got on some international flight from somewhere in Europe, you’re headed to the other side of the Atlantic tryna get your ass home in time to celebrate Christmas wit your peeps. You’ve hustled so hard all year long in Europe and you were really lookin’ forward to seein’ your fam again. Your spirit was high as the jet you were flyin’ in. You tried to get some shut-eye but your excitement wouldn’t let you sleep a wink. You turned to the fine young man guy sitting next to you tryna spark some kinda of convo but no cigar.

Few minutes later, you tried again and this time, the young man opened up a bit…jus a bit. You thought you heard a trace of West African accent in there somewhere when he spoke but you weren’t too sure, so you asked if he was West African. You couldn’t make anything out of his mumbled response so let his punk ass be.

It was obvious, the young man was preoccupied, and he had that spaced-out look of a man lost in deep thought. Somewhere in your mind you sensed there was somethin’ odd about this guy. Something was off but you couldn’t place your finger on it. He was too fuckin’ quiet and the look on his face wasn’t that of a first time flier (he doesn’t look like somebody who’s afraid of flying). The look was like that of a man who had jus made a life altering decision. You thought about it for a second or two jus to keep your mind occupied but soon enough, your mind drifted off to more important things like your kids, your mother, your friends or some sweet ass you wanna have a piece of…even at 30,000 feet, you could smell Christmas!

BACK TO NOW
If you were on board that Northwest airline Flight 253, en route Amsterdam to Detroit, Michigan on December 25, 2009, chances are that you could’ve been coolin’ next to or not far from that fine young man, an engineering MBA holder and a student of Arabic language who celebrated his birthday jus three days before. At 23, shit was lookin’ hella good for this dude until got radicalized and he fucked it all up!
If you were on that Christmas day flight back in 2009, possibly you could have been sittin next to a certain Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a would-be terrorist wit plastic explosive stashed away in his underwear. He was trained in Yemen by the infamous al-Qaeda

I hate terrorists (not that I know one personally) and I hate the mutherfuckers behind them even more, you know, the ones who radicalize these ignorant young men. The ones who hide away somewhere safe wit their fams and push out inflammatory tapes like underground rappers. If suicide bombing is so rewardin’, then why aren’t these mullahs sendin’ their own children for those kamikaze missions? Mutherfuckers hide their asses away somewhere, pro’ly eatin’ on some virgin’s pussy wit pussy juice all over their beards and they got the gut to do a Manchurian candidate-type thing on these otherwise innocent young minds

Last week, Thursday
13 October
The screamin’ headlines everywhere was “The Underwear Bomber Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab Pleads guilty” A Nigerian man accused of trying to blow up a U.S. airliner with a bomb in his pant blah blah…good I said to myself, the punkass nigga will now get to pay for his stupidity. If he’s lucky up in the joint, someone might “wife” him and protect his ass from being the go-to “girl” for them inmates.

Today
The part that riles me in this whole shebang is the fact that this little fuck almost ruined our image as Nigerians. Yeah, I know we got quite a reputation but terrorist ain’t one of ‘em…we are hustlers. We’re all about that paper but we ain’t terrorists.

Am pissed, so I’ma shut this thing down with what a devout Muslim friend wrote on his FB status about mutallab… “This boy is a liar. Islam did not teach him to avenge with the blood of the innocent. In fact, vengeance belong to Allah, hence if you take laws to your hands, be ready to face the consequence. How can the Al-Quaran an attempt to murder 289 innocent souls? The boy is a spoilt brat who has always enjoy the best of life”.

PASSENGER 57

Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, do you know who this guy is?
Huh?
You don’t?
Oh, you wanna Google the name?
Nah, don’t go worryin’ yourself about nuthin’. I got a lil yarn I wanna spin to y’all, when am done, you might not need to Google shit again.

December 25, 2009
You got on some international flight from somewhere in Europe, you’re headed to the other side of the Atlantic tryna get your ass home in time to celebrate Christmas wit your peeps. You’ve hustled so hard all year long in Europe and you were really lookin’ forward to seein’ your fam again. Your spirit was high as the jet you were flyin’ in. You tried to get some shut-eye but your excitement wouldn’t let you sleep a wink. You turned to the fine young man guy sitting next to you tryna spark some kinda of convo but no cigar.

Few minutes later, you tried again and this time, the young man opened up a bit…jus a bit. You thought you heard a trace of West African accent in there somewhere when he spoke but you weren’t too sure, so you asked if he was West African. You couldn’t make anything out of his mumbled response so let his punk ass be.

It was obvious, the young man was preoccupied, and he had that spaced-out look of a man lost in deep thought. Somewhere in your mind you sensed there was somethin’ odd about this guy. Something was off but you couldn’t place your finger on it. He was too fuckin’ quiet and the look on his face wasn’t that of a first time flier (he doesn’t look like somebody who’s afraid of flying). The look was like that of a man who had jus made a life altering decision. You thought about it for a second or two jus to keep your mind occupied but soon enough, your mind drifted off to more important things like your kids, your mother, your friends or some sweet ass you wanna have a piece of…even at 30,000 feet, you could smell Christmas!

BACK TO NOW
If you were on board that Northwest airline Flight 253, en route Amsterdam to Detroit, Michigan on December 25, 2009, chances are that you could’ve been coolin’ next to or not far from that fine young man, an engineering MBA holder and a student of Arabic language who celebrated his birthday jus three days before. At 23, shit was lookin’ hella good for this dude until got radicalized and he fucked it all up!
If you were on that Christmas day flight back in 2009, possibly you could have been sittin next to a certain Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a would-be terrorist wit plastic explosive stashed away in his underwear. He was trained in Yemen by the infamous al-Qaeda

I hate terrorists (not that I know one personally) and I hate the mutherfuckers behind them even more, you know, the ones who radicalize these ignorant young men. The ones who hide away somewhere safe wit their fams and push out inflammatory tapes like underground rappers. If suicide bombing is so rewardin’, then why aren’t these mullahs sendin’ their own children for those kamikaze missions? Mutherfuckers hide their asses away somewhere, pro’ly eatin’ on some virgin’s pussy wit pussy juice all over their beards and they got the gut to do a Manchurian candidate-type thing on these otherwise innocent young minds

Last week, Thursday
13 October
The screamin’ headlines everywhere was “The Underwear Bomber Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab Pleads guilty” A Nigerian man accused of trying to blow up a U.S. airliner with a bomb in his pant blah blah…good I said to myself, the punkass nigga will now get to pay for his stupidity. If he’s lucky up in the joint, someone might “wife” him and protect his ass from being the go-to “girl” for them inmates.

Today
The part that riles me in this whole shebang is the fact that this little fuck almost ruined our image as Nigerians. Yeah, I know we got quite a reputation but terrorist ain’t one of ‘em…we are hustlers. We’re all about that paper but we ain’t terrorists.

Am pissed, so I’ma shut this thing down with what a devout Muslim friend wrote on his FB status about mutallab… “This boy is a liar. Islam did not teach him to avenge with the blood of the innocent. In fact, vengeance belong to Allah, hence if you take laws to your hands, be ready to face the consequence. How can the Al-Quaran an attempt to murder 289 innocent souls? The boy is a spoilt brat who has always enjoy the best of life”.