They tried to mess up my hair, but I won’t stay throwed. Y’all better listen to me, I won’t stay throwed!

Hola peeps.

So back in Juba for a week now and all is tamam. On day of arrival from Uganda I stopped by a pal’s office and folk made cracks at my presence. They all thought I’d be back in Nigeria due to recent fighting, but told them I am fully junubi now, thus I have no other place to call home. Was glad to see folk were okay, and I could tell they were glad to have my solidarity in these trying times. What’s sad to see is the needless loss of life and property damage from 4 days of fighting. Folk that were also here when fighting broke out in 2013 all insist the recent unrest was worse. Oh my.

On Friday, went back to my previous hotel to use the gym - best spot for leg workout – and did not find any Caucasians, apart from those working at the hotel. That’s major. On another note, can you believe I was asked not to pay when I enquired about the gym rate? Yup, they sure love me. Again, was ace to see everyone unhurt, especially the girls at the front desk I usually flirt with – trust me I ain’t no roue, the girls are my soi-disant Moneypenny(s). Hee hee.

Stepped inside the gym and the instructor immediately asked for my digits. Said he had asked around for my contact details when the fighting broke out as he wanted to make sure I was okay. “You are my brother”, he said. Awww. Now y’all get why I was angling to return? This is now my home. Further proved it by doubling down and extending rent for 6 months, even though landlord advised to only pay for 3 months “as one can never tell what will happen again”. I have no choice really, I gotta make company projects in South Sudan a success; there is no Plan B. #LikeArseneWenger

David still doesn’t get it though. Before I left Kampala he tried to convince me to prolong stay “until things calm down”. I know he cares, though I secretly think he would miss my company, especially after I threatened to give his “camp” a crap rating on TripAdvisor. Don’t get me wrong my stay was okay, but after dinner with one of David’s friends who made me a better offer I had to reconsider my options. Nuba, for that is her name, offered me her spare room with Egyptian cotton bedsheets. Could Dave’s hard bed with a mosquito trap – yes, the mosquito net had so many holes I might as well have had FREE BLOOD tattooed on my body for the mosquitoes – compete with that?
I usually get my best ideas while on the bog, but one of those nights when the mosquitoes were having a buffet on my flesh I got the idea for a Mosquito Exorcist. He/she would be like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, but for mosquitoes. I am sensing a (Nollywood) movie ideaaaaa…..When something strange’s in your neighbourhood, who you gonna call? Ghostbusters Mosquito Exorcist!

Plus, Nuba is uber pretty, and with her name rhyming with Juba, surely this was destiny (or at least one of the ever evolving lineups of Destiny’s Child) suggesting I move camps. Was so excited at thumbing Dave’s nose in it I forgot to take her number after dinner. Efforts to convince/cajole/bribe/blackmail/subliminal-message Dave into handing over her details proved abortive. And that was one of my reasons for not waiting until Dave (and the internet) had determined things had “calmed down” before returning to Juba.

Another reason for leaving Kampala is I’d missed mint chocolates, and knew I had some left in the fridge at my Juba apartment. And no, I could not find any in all of Kampala. It appears there are no more Cadbury’s chocs in Uganda supermarkets. I kid you not, someone needs to investigate this. One of the nights when I was having mint-choc withdrawal symptoms, I took a break off developing the story for Mosquito Exorcist: The Movie and mind wandered back to where this love for mint chocolate actually began.

I was on a British Caledonian flight – yes, I am that old – to or from the UK and reckon I was about 8 years old. I remember a black air stewardess, no, they were called air waitresses back then, well, this lady gave me some chocolates and said if I wanted more I should remember to ask for “mint chocolates”. I recall the chocs came in green wrappers like those ones on Viscount biscuits. Man, those were the days…oh to be young and not have a care in the world, but accumulating mint chocs and Captain McCall bric-a-brac.

Last time (before Kampala) I had similar mint choc cravings was during trip to Diani, Kenya 2 months ago. I stayed at the scenic Baobab Beach Resort for the weekend, and wish I coulda stayed longer…well, except for incident with a monkey, let’s call it Chim-Chim, and my mint chocs.

I arrived at the hotel on a Friday and had to attend a wedding that evening, so was crazy tired by the time I returned to the hotel. Opened pack of mint chocs and fell asleep with half-open pack in hand. Early the next morning my pal in the adjoining room kept insisting I go take in the view from the verandah. So I go, close the sliding doors behind me, and lie down on the lounge chair. As was still tired I fell asleep and woke up 2 hours later to discover clothes thrown outta duffel bag and my pack of mint choc that I left beside bed in room was gone – actually the choc was taken, but the empty pack was left as a taunt. It was not until I investigated further I saw

monkey poop around the room. Didn't notice it the night before, but there were signs in the room warning residents to always close doors to prevent apes from sneaking in. So either I didn't shut sliding doors fully when I napped on verandah or I was stumped by one of those monkeys from The Hangover movies that are incredibly adroit at nicking people's stuff. I was glad the culprit monkey had not completed his "freedom" from nicking school as passport, wallet and non-Hublot watch were intact.

Instead of enjoying rest of stay at the resort I kept thinking of ways to trap a troop of monkeys and torture them until they either pointed out the guilty party or I got a whiff of mint off the guilty ape’s breath. I only calmed down after I saw another sign requesting guests not feed the animals as human food may kill them.

Yup, being the corpse with the freshest breath in the animal kingdom would be condign reward for Chim-Chim.

Returned to Juba and thot I had gotten over Chim-Chim’s antics until I saw a roach as I was about to shower. Boy, did I take out my frustrations on it. I held a can of insecticide in each hand and went all gangsta on that poor roach. My inner Tupac came out and didn’t know I was also spouting the lyrics from Hit ‘em Up - ALL OF Y'ALL MOTHERROACHERS, F%$K YOU; DIE SLOW, MOTHERROACH.
MY .44 MAKE SURE ALL Y'ALL KIDS DON'T GROW! – whilst terminating the roach. As I coughed and ran outta the room to escape the insecticide fog that had saturated it I laughed out loud and couldn’t help but shake head at the effect candy had on me. No wonder (as detailed in last blog entry) God instructed mate to calm me down with chocs when I was upset. Man, Chim-Chim sure got one over me. So much so that when I saw The Legend Of Tarzan back in Kampala I could not help but wonder if I hated the movie ‘cos it was meh, ‘cos Jane left all the black male friends she grew up and ended up with a jungle boy just ‘cos he’s white as she was, or ‘cos all the apes reminded me of Chim-Chim. Crap monkey.

While I still choose to remain on the subject, I now understand why we have Spiderman, Batman, and even Antman, but no serious monkey superhero. One, what would his superpower be, slowing down bad guys with banana-tinged urine? Gimme a break. Two, most folk might not even recognize their rescuer as a superhero. They will look at Chimpman and probably think, “Hmm, this guy in a cape is so hairy he must be Greek/Middle Eastern (delete as appropriate). Am I sure he can really save me from this burning building without singeing all his body hair?” Crap monkey.

If I ran on a political platform it would be to be tough on (ape) crime and the (ape) causes of crime. One day is mint chocolate, the next could be a nation’s economy. Okay, enough monkey business, back to humans….

Although things are now calm in Juba, one can tell a sizable part of the population has departed the city. Several businesses remain closed. Local barbing salon is shut as most staff – Ugandans and Kenyans – skipped town. My fave sandwich spot no longer opens on Sundays and shuts at 8pm on weekdays. Drats. Was so pissed I could not get sandwiches after gym workout on Friday I stomped home and wanted to take out frustrations…..on insects. Luckily for them I had run out of insecticide. The next morning I soberly searched for insecticides in neighbourhood stores, but could not find any. It wasn’t ‘til I went to a large supermarket I saw some. Yup, that search brought a few things home. Most stuff is imported into the country from Uganda and with the traders gone stores now lack certain goods one used to take for granted.

Almost forgot to mention when I couldn’t get sandwich on way from gym I stopped by some roadside vendor to buy what I assumed was beef. Hey, who knows if it was dog meat I ate, but I was hungry so…..

Feels good to be back in apartment though. Feels like I have been here for longer, though it’s only been two months. Loving it. Have sufficient space unlike cramped hotel room, though at hotel it’s easy getting food from room service. Not sure how much longer I can survive on cereal. Good thing about this move is for the first time since I moved to Juba I got to experience the local market when I went to get stuff for the crib. I told you new crib has a gym and jacuzzi, right? I keep stressing the jacuzzi part, only I don’t know why. I spent a total of 13 months in hotels and only used the pool once…during a pool party. Chances are I won’t have the time to use jacuzzi.

As I was in a “new” place I decided to try something “new” and went for a body scrub after some lady commented on dead skin on face. Never done it before and it was not a particularly enjoyable experience, though had to make sure I took a dump and showered before I went there to avoid tales being told about streaks in underwear, etc. long after I have left Juba.

Reminds me of time when we used to have a cleaner come by in Atlanta. Miguel and I would pre-clean crib to ensure it’s in a reasonable condition before the cleaning lady came around. Come to think of it, the reverse occurs in Nigeria where folk purposely don’t clean dirty dishes days ahead of a cleaner coming in so “the cleaner can work for her money.” Similarly, I have had educated folk defend the practice of tossing trash outta their cars, “after all the street cleaners get paid and if I don’t do this how will they keep their jobs?” Pitiful.

Anyway, so while lying down on bed scrubber lady remarked on how the bed suited my size as most of her clients “have their legs dangling over the edge”. One, I get what she was trying to say as most South Sudanese are really tall. Two, “the bed suits your size” is probably at par with “you don’t sweat so bad for a fat person” in list of worst backhanded compliments ever.

I walked out of scrubbing session and was shocked at the number of men getting mani+pedis. The shock was due to my undeveloped mind assuming the last thing middle-aged South Sudanese men would think of is getting pampered with body scrubs and manicures. I hardly encounter such in Nigeria. After some further investigations I discovered men here prove their machismo in other ways. For instance, my driver who just turned 40 proudly told me he has eight (8) kids. E-I-G-H-T!!!!!

I, on the other hand, have continued kickboxing lessons as a show of my manliness. I am getting better at it, but stamina and sideways stretches need more work. While swimming in Diani I realized why old folk are encouraged to exercise in pools: with resistance caused by water one can execute stretches that’d be otherwise excruciating sans water. While walking on beach I immersed self in water and did some kickboxing stretches that made me wish I had some music playing in the background and a montage of stretches could be recorded to make me look badass like in Rocky IV.

In reality, I would hate to see a recording of myself attempting kicks with left leg. Almost like when you see kids at that awkward 4-5 year old stage where they really think they can dance, but all they are doing is a weird uncoordinated combination that’s indicative of what Sia would act like on cheap drugs? That is me! Coordinated with right leg, but left leg makes me kick like an obese girl who has been home-schooled all her life.

Kickboxing and movies are a bad combo as I now try to impress chicks at hotel reception by kicking down a bamboo tree – yes, I log a retractable bamboo tree around in back of car - like my kickboxing hero Van Damme in Kickboxer. So far, in between multiple visits to the clinic, I only have managed to chop a piece of wood…well, it was a toothpick, but still, can you imagine the difficulty in chopping a tiny toothpick with shin? Exactly!!!

Oh, while feeling adventurous I switched abs workout last week from mat on floor to a reclined bench. Dunno if it was the bench, the shorts I wore or even the underwear but felt a burn on butt after third set. Shoulda stopped, but powered through it so much so that after 2 hours I discovered I had a blister on right arse cheek. It hurts so much I now sit on left side of arse and have skipped abs workout until it heals. Guess I should not be surprised it occurred on right cheek as that’s same arse cheek I got what I now affectionately refer to as my stupid stamp. I am sure I have regaled you in tales (in earlier blog entries) of how I got it, but here’s the Cliff Notes version: you know that adage about boiling a frog in an open pan by turning temperature up slowly so frog doesn’t notice, well same principle works with this here genius sleeping fully-clothed with his bum rested on a house heater on a cold winter night in London. Not my brightest moment.

Counting days until next London visit. Mom’s currently there and I arrive on her birthday. Now I didn’t plan trip to coincide with her special day, but mom’s gonna be glad to see me and probably gonna think my arrival date is no coincidence. Am I gonna tell her? Nah, gonna milk it like crazy as I am already the world’s greatest son ever since I contributed towards the plane tix for her recent US visit. Man, never seen mom so grateful. She told everyone to thank me. I am thinking if I knew she’d act this way I’da bought her plane tix decades ago.

You know the lyrics from You’re So Vain by Carly Simon? Well, my mom was partly the inspiration for that song. Growing up, everything just had to be about her. When I started going bald years ago she blamed it on the fact that I wouldn’t listen to her and chose to start shaving off hair as a 17 year old, as no other male in family suffers from ‘premature’ baldness. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It had to be about her, huh? Being her only son, you would think we would be close, right? We hardly have anything in common, well, there’s the complexion…and the eyes…and I have noticed lately I am getting a modicum of her vanity. Sadly, it has to do with hirsuteness, rather lack thereof.

I recall when I was younger I used to proudly pronounce that I purposely chose to shave head for the look, and not ‘cos I was balding. Then when I start losing hair on middle spot on head, it was, well, it’s just the middle spot, right? Lately, I’m losing hair at the front of head…what’s my vain excuse now, Chim-Chim? That reminds me, it’s time for my daily dosage of mint chocolates.

Tot ziens and God bless.

This is not a test

Hola peeps.

It is 936pm on Thursday, July 14^th and I am typing this from the comforts of David’s couch in Kampala. You finding it difficult to keep track of my movements, huh? Yup, that’s ‘cos after landing in Kigali last Thursday with grand plans to do touristy stuff from the next day until my return to Juba on Sunday, fighting kicked off in my new nation’s capital. No need to provide links to news reports as I am sure you’ve already heard of the loss of lives and displacement of thousands.

Woke up Friday morning to news of skirmishes the night before, and mind went back to incident described in last blog entry, and also last week Wednesday night when I was stopped by “security” on way from buying pizza. Though I took the ‘normal’ route this time, I was not surprised to be stopped, as things get a little heavy towards Independence Day (July 9^th). First, dude accused me of speeding, and only backed off after I gave him my patented Come on, I’m Nigerian. You really think that lame excuse to extort money is gonna work on me look that worked so well in Monrovia back in the day, and recently at the Nairobi airport. Then, after glancing at driver’s license, the car’s log-book, aka “particulars” to you Nigerians, was requested. Dunno why it is referred to as “book” seeing as it’s just a tiny, single-leafed laminated document with the car details. I recall having a copy made and kept in the glove compartment, so I confidently flipped open the compartment hoping to be home with loadsa time to have pizza, pack for Kigali trip, then watch Wales take on Portugal in the Euros.

Did not quite happen to plan as could not locate log-book. Efforts to reach my driver proved abortive as both his phones were off; guess he was enjoying his public holiday a tad much. Further efforts to explain this to the security personnel fell on deaf ears. Dude seized car keys and I had to call a South Sudanese colleague to rescue the situation. While thinking, I really need to learn Juba Arabic so these incidents stop recurring, colleague informed me he parted with $100 in order to get the car released. U what?! One hundred US dollars?! I was miffed, and told him I would have left the car in their custody and asked the driver to return the next day with the document requested. Dude laughed and said if we had let them hold on to car for the night, chances are one might not see car again. Or if our luck was in, only certain parts of would be taken out. Turns out dude was not exaggerating. Just like traffic control officers who unscrew car license plates, say if one parks incorrectly, to compel driver to seek them out and  discover what one’s crime (and “fine”) is, not guaranteeing security of car, even though it is in the custody of the “authorities”, is one of those uniquely Juba-esque phenomena.  “What are you gonna do”, mate asked when I appeared shocked at this news. “Did you see any name tags on any of them? If they choose to take your car to their base, best go with them and sleep in car if necessary, else that is last time you gonna see car”.

Woah, I have been in Juba for 15 months and still get surprised by stuff. I recall first time I heard about girls fighting in clubs over mundane stuff, now it’s normal to see the girl that previously looked like a saint threatening to stab her ex-boyfriend for hanging with her friend. I no longer flinch at tales like guy causally discussing shooting his girlfriend’s cuz whose only crime was not allowing girlfriend go off with him ‘cos said girlfriend had told her parents she was spending night at cuz’s crib, and cuz didn’t wanna be held accountable should stuff go awry. Yup, Juba still seems to hold a lot of surprises in store for moi (and that’s not even accounting for recent discovery that the Tinder app in Juba only has seven (7) people signed up). Case in point is the recent outbreak of violence between rival factions of what should be a unity government.

Last week, when I told my female colleague I was off to Kigali, she jokingly asked if I would return to Juba “cos Rwanda women are uber hot”. Well, didn’t get to really see anyone ‘cos as intimated earlier I was distraught at news of the clashes. Good thing on the day of arrival I made appointment for a 90 minute sports massage for the next day. After spending most of Friday following up on events in Juba I chose to decompress with said massage, and, ahem, a mani+pedi. On Saturday, went with mates to the Kigali Genocide Museum which was beyond sobering. Was on verge of tears a number of times, and the events in Juba further added a sense of poignancy to the day. The next day, as flights to Juba were cancelled, I had to re-route return ticket to Entebbe. Hence, why I am currently camped out on David’s couch.

A ceasefire was announced the evening of on Monday July 11^th, and one sincerely hopes this is for real, and not just a simulacrum of peace before another recrudescence in fighting. Even though the ceasefire has been pretty much adhered to, a number of nations have continued evacuating their citizens as precaution. My colleague was flown out of Juba yesterday on a charter flight that cost $1,200 for a one-way ticket to Entebbe. Yup, that crazy. Poor lady was indoors throughout 4 days of fighting and, as expected, remains traumatized by any sudden outburst of noise. Although bosses in Nigeria insisted I return to Lagos until events in Juba assume normalcy, I fought against it and assured them I would rather be here, nearby, monitoring events, and shall only return to Juba when I get reassurance from peeps at the coalface.

On second thought, maybe I should have taken their advice as it feels weird to wear the same clothes twice in a week. Plus, I can’t work out ‘cos don’t have any gym clothes, rechargeable electric toothbrush is running outta juice, and most dire of all, I am running outta jokes. Usually my trips to Kampala last for a max of 3 days, where I regale Dave with funny anecdotes about Juba. Now, before I say stuff, Dave politely blurts out, “oh, you’ve told me that already.” Darn! Contents of my usual travel toilet bag are also running low: miniature cologne, miniature deodorant, and miniature lip balm. Now here’s where you are probably thinking, how much lip balm does a brother need? Hey, it ain’t like I have huge ass Mick Jagger lips where a large tub of Vaseline is a monthly requirement for keeping lips moist; it’s just that, you know what, who cares what you think?

David’s been having a ball having me around as he now has an excuse to throw out every non-PC joke he’s ever thought of. When a mutual friend called his phone to commiserate with me on situation in Juba, he goes, “Welcome to Dave’s substitute UN camp. For refugees from Syria, press 1. To speak to refugees from Nigeria, press 2…” And there I was thinking his take on Prince’s cremated body filling only a shot glass was a nadir.

Yup, I remain the world’s only refugee offered a choice of fresh meals, cable TV, a standby help to carry out laundry and make bed, and access to 3G Wi-Fi access. Let it be on record that I put in a complaint to my local UNHCR (aka David) about his camp not having 4G Wi-Fi connectivity. I am not comfortable reprinting the words he used as this is a family website.

Not all bad though, as Wi-Fi access has enabled me keep up with work and arrange a few meetings for Kampala. I met some dude who told me Kampala’s now the fastest growing market for Uber. Man, I hate those guys for stealing my Rent-A-Driver idea from a decade ago. Sure, I didn’t pursue my idea further, but it’s never too late to piggyback on their concept. With the spate of extramarital affairs in Kampala Dave keeps telling me about it might be time to found an Uber for monitoring one’s spouse’s movements. A mix of Uber and the Cheaters TV show if you wish. Need your suggestions for a snazzy brand name as so far all I have come up with are Uber Xxx and Voyeur.

Everyone that meets me here keeps asking for reasons for the recent clashes like I am supposed to know intricate details ‘cos I live in Juba. However, while explaining depth of what I knew to David and his pals, I started to make sense even to myself, and realized this is how one gets designated an “expert” on certain issues. All that is left for me to appear on a few global news networks, and before you know it, I’ll become a sought after talking head. Yup, it’s that simple.

A few others still don’t get why I moved to South Sudan in the first place, and are even more incredulous when I tell them I intend to return as soon as regular commercial flights resume. They mean well though, and keep offering unsolicited advice. Some lady told me to always have a month’s supply of food at home and an emergency pack that has essential items such as “strong deodorant that is guaranteed to prevent sweat for at least a week”. A week?! That reminded me of a comedy show at GeorgiaTech when a lady said she bought a drug that was guaranteed to prevent pregnancies for life. “I took those two tablets and within 24 hours all hair on right side of body fell off. I am talking on head, armpit, eyebrows, eyelashes, everywhere! Plus my breath stunk like a skunk. Then I realized the manufacturers were right: looking and smelling like this, ain’t no way I was gonna get pregnant ’cos ain’t nobody gonna wanna touch me! ”

On a serious tip, my host has been a good sport, and did his best to cheer me up when I arrived on Sunday dejected. After a meal with ice-cream, we went to catch the Euro 2016 finals, and he suggested we drop by a club. I was about to complain about it being a Sunday night and how club would probably be empty as most folk would be prepping for work the next day….then I remembered I was in Kampala, the nightlife capital of East Africa, and kept mouth shut. Sure enough, we got into the club at 1am, and there was a sizeable number in there. Mind was still on happenings in Juba, so sat at same spot and hardly moved until we left after 2 hours.

Funniest event of the night was when Sinach’s gospel hit I Know Who I Am came on. A number of couples who had hitherto been grinding against each other slowly created some space between them. Then, after the song ended they went back to the way they were. Yup, that song has become this generation’s Stomp and Shackles(Praise You) all rolled into one. That sight took me back to uni days when you having dirty thoughts in head with chick you dancing with and then Shackles comes on. All of a sudden the message of your last Bible study pops in your head, and you start confessing sins you have committed and ones you are about to commit. Come to think of it, my guiltiest feeling was probably dancing to Stomp in a Leeds club called Heaven & Hell. I am sure I musta told you this before, the club had separate rooms, Heaven, with paintings of angels on the wall, and Hell with you know what. I ended up not asking for any girl’s number at end of the night due to immense guilt. Ha. Man, did I think I was fooling God?

The minor inconvenience (of being away from station) obviously has nada on what others went through in South Sudan, and I apologize for joking about it earlier. You musta noticed by now it’s my way of dealing with stuff. Immediately I heard news of the fighting my mind went to the verse in 1 Timothy 2 about praying for those in authority so that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. We take a lot of things for granted when things are hunky-dory, but this episode has taught me to watch what I say, and even though I may not fancy a leader’s policies or the cut of their jib, I am bound to pray for them. Now, this doesn’t mean they get a free pass, but in my criticisms I must also remember they are human and God ultimately has control of their lives (Proverbs 21 v 1).

Speaking of prayer, since I am not alone at David’s I tend to pray sotto voce so I do not disturb anyone. Come to think of it, even when I was alone for almost a month in 5-bedroom crib in Lagos – and chose to use a different toilet a day just so I could “fully utilize” rent – I still never prayed aloud. I have always prayed quietly and tend to do other stuff, like shining shoes, while praying so mind does not wander off. A friend once told me of a neighbor who prayed so loud it bugged him so. Once while studying, all was tranquil until a paroxysmal “OH, SO SATAN, YOU ARE STILL HERE? GET OUT!” was heard from his neighbor’s apartment. Instinctively, he ran out of the room and it was only when he got to the door leading out of his apartment he came to and cracked up upon realizing what had just occurred.

Another close friend’s currently on a 21-day fast to help her “pray better and connect to God”. Now, that is commitment! Prayer should be a two-way conversation where one talks to God, and God talks back to one. I can never truly say I have heard God talk, you know, like talk, TALK. My friend insists she has. Said God once told her to get me chocolate and she didn’t know why until I showed up miffed about stuff and only calmed down after she provided the candy. Oh by the way, she now tells me she had a dream about me lying on the ground and being flogged way before incident of weeks back occurred, but she did not know what it meant at the time. Woah. Lately, I have attempted planting subliminal messages in her head about the $40,000 Hublot watch I wanna get as a 40^th birthday present. Wish me luck.

Tot ziens and God bless.

King Kunta

Hola peeps.

It’s 2:52am on 6^th July and cannot sleep. Tomorrow, well, today really, is a public holiday to celebrate Eid al-Fitr. Yesterday (Wednesday) was initially set to be a holiday, got a news circular and everything, only for moi to get up and find it had been rescinded overnight. Juba of things?

Just occurred to me today’s also Feyi Fasan’s birthday. She was my first ever crush in Primary 5 and recall visiting her crib in Festac for a birthday party, and catching Rocky IV and The Karate Kid while waiting on driver to pick my bro Ayo and I up. Fast forward a few years, I cannot remember how we re-connected, but met up for drinks in London and ‘Feyi’ was now ‘Faye’. Didn’t matter as it was just great to see her. Weirdest of weirdest thangs, some months afterwards I step up to some Asian girl at a club in Leeds who I later found out was Faye’s closest pal in uni. We ended up dating for a while and she was very sweet. Now why am I telling you all this? Haven’t the foggiest idea. Woke up three days ago with a sore neck and the pain’s been affecting my thought process ever since.

Don’t matter if today’s a public holiday though, as I am still gonna be busy working. Had heard whispers last week about public holidays being held on Thursday and Friday, and, as such, booked a ticket to Kigali as some mates were going. Since it’s too late to cancel plane tix, I gotta take that time off vacation allotment. Well, never been to Kigali so it should be an experience.

Speaking of experiences, Black Damme realized last week Tuesday that everything in one’s head, every preconceived idea of what one would do in a situation, disappears at the sight of a gun. No roundhouse kick, no saving the damsel in distress, no smart-alecky one-liners, no……wait, there could be cheeky one-liners, but those would only be played in one’s head, no way one would think to blurt that out.

Recall that Arrested Development song, Everyday People? There is a line there, my day was going great and my soul was at ease…..well, that’s what I felt like on Tuesday. I had returned from work, where everyone commented on my snazzy new blazer, and tried to take a dump. Since I moved to apartment, I hadn’t spent much time in it, before travelling to Nigeria for work, thus didn’t realize issues I had raised a fortnight before were not fixed. One of them was the bog. Since return, I insisted they resolve the fault, and while about to take a dump, the plumber walked in – I coulda sworn I locked the door – so had to halt business for him to do the needful. Decided then to go say hi to folks I hadn’t seen in a while ghost plumber – he musta walked through walls ‘cos I am sure I locked door – did his thing.

First stop was kickboxing coach, where I told him I’d be primed to resume classes over the weekend. Next trip was to former abode where I spent almost 12 months of my life in Juba. Man, I felt like a celebrity. All that was left to do was sign autographs ‘cos of all the love that was in the air. Ladies at reception were all smiles, waiters and waitresses in the restaurant gave me hugs, guys working out in the gym talked about how they had missed me, in short, my day was going great and my soul was at ease.

After hotel I stopped by to see another mate and caught up on goings on in Juba since I left. Leaving mate’s I decided to try out a new route home. Why? Well, it was 830pm, so wasn’t so late as to be dangerous, and I was still buzzing from all the love I had received earlier…plus, I was bedizened in my GQ blazer. Hate to admit it also, but I tend to get an adrenaline rush from seeing how long I can hold poop for. Was hoping by taking a new, hopefully circuitous route, by the time I returned home there would just be enough time left for a mad dash up to apartment to test the skills of (Casper the Friendly Ghost) plumber.

A minute into new route I noticed a soldier pointing a gun at me so I slow down and dim the headlights. Another walks from back of car to passenger side and I wind down. Dude asks why I didn’t stop when he beckoned – he didn’t use the word ‘beckon’ – at me. Told him I didn’t see him, and during the back and forth, I was asked to alight – he didn’t use the word ‘alight’ – from the vehicle.

Recall last blog where I told of peeps getting robbed by security personnel, well, I thought this was what was happening to me, and like a true Nigerian the following thoughts quickly went through my head: Tunde, think back. Did you sin a few minutes earlier? No. THINK BACK! Why did you take this route? Was it so you could go do something seedy? No. So it’s just a mistake, right? And if you get killed you feel you would be in right standing with God? Yup. Okay then, I am satisfied. Let the robbery commence…

I get out of the car and the following conversation ensues with dude I shall call Captain Phillips just ‘cos like in the Tom Hanks-starrer of the same name, he was the only pirate that spoke English.

CP: UNINTELLIGIBLE WORDS IN ARABIC.

Tunde: Sorry, I don’t understand you.

CP: HOW COME I STOP YOU AND YOU NO STOP?

Tunde: I apologize, I didn’t see you. I don’t know this route. I usually take the route back there.

CP: SO YOU SPEEDING ON A ROAD YOU DO NOT KNOW. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

Tunde (*wishing he had a recording device so he could capture discourse accurately for blog, then later, wondering why he isn’t scared, if it’s normal to think of blogging when soldiers have weapons pointed at one*): Going home. Just off that major road.

CP: DRIVING AROUND THIS LATE? DON’T YOU REALIZE THERE IS CURFEW? WHO SENT YOU? BETTER TELL ME WHAT YOU HAVE ON YOU NOW BEFORE I FIND ANYTHING.

Tunde: Sir, I just took wrong route. I apologize. You can search my car, you will see I have nothing on me.

Captain Phillips and his crew insist I sit on the ground, even with my dapper blazer, and start searching car for “guns”. All the while my heart’s beating like crazy, yet, strangely, I am not freaking out. What is wrong with you, Tunde? Normal people panic at times like these. You do know abs don’t stop bullets, right?

Oh yes, apart from feeling bulletproof, another thing I have noticed since I started kickboxing classes is I randomly hit hard surfaces with clenched right fist just ‘cos…just ‘cos. Maybe I am testing my pain threshold, maybe I am too wussy to engage in a kickboxing sparring session so this is a way of enacting my will against the big, bad, immovable wall that won’t hit back, or maybe it’s a cri de coeur against the spate of oil on head. More on that later…

Nah, let’s just get it over with: For the past few months I have noticed increased oil on scalp, so much so I can start a business from oil generated on head if I chose to! No one believes I don’t intentionally oil scalp. Even Googled oily scalp and only info I got was directed at women!

I have always had an oily scalp, but this is ridiculous. ‘Cos of oily scalp, I get oily face, and with Juba heat I am getting noticeably darker. Is oily scalp a way of fat leaving body ‘cos of all the cardio I am doing? Or could it be nature’s way of ‘evolution’ so darker-hued skin allows me blend in more easily in Juba? Who knows, okay back to our regularly scheduled blog story….

Captain Phillips returns to me.

CP: WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

Tunde: Nigeria.

CP: WHERE IS YOUR PASSPORT?

Tunde: At home, I don’t move around with it.

CP: WHERE IS YOUR IDENTITY?! MY SKIN IS BLACK SO ANYONE SEE ME WILL SAY I AM SUDANESE, BUT HOW CAN BE SURE I AM SUDANESE?

Tunde (*erm, shouldn’t this dude say South Sudanese? I best not correct him. Maybe it’s like one of those instances where black folk can use the N-word freely, but get upset when a white person says it*): Let me take out my work permit, you can see my name and nationality there.

CP:  RUBBISH! WHERE IS YOUR IDENTITY?!

Tunde: I don’t know what else to tell you. Here is my business card too. I work for Maersk Shipping.

Talk about a 4^th wall, hey? Wink, wink.

CP: SO YOU ARE THE PEOPLE THAT COME HERE AND TAKE OUR JOBS? HOW MANY SUDANESE DO YOU KNOW WORK IN NIGERIA?

Tunde (*wondering if Capt Phillips followed the Brexit debate*): Erm, sir, we are a pretty large country and there is a good chance there are some SOUTH Sudanese working there.

Nice one, dude, for not falling into the S-word trap….come to think of it, if South Sudan ever decided to leave the East Africa Community, would there be a snazzy rubric like B-R-E-X-I-T? How about S-S-E-X-I-T? Hmm, would the first ‘s’ be silent, or maybe the second one? What if the chief proponent of the movement is dyslexic and ends up placing one of the ‘s’s between the ‘i’ and the ‘t’?

CP: YOU THINK BECAUSE YOU ARE NIGERIAN YOU CAN WALK AROUND HERE WITH SHOULDERS HELD HIGH? LET ME TELL YOU, WE SUDANESE DO NOT FEAR ANYONE. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY RESOURCES WE HAVE?

Tunde (*can we just get this over with the robbery please?*): No.

CP: My job is to search car for guns and I have done it. Now what do you have for these people?

Tunde (*here we go….*): Sir, you have seen my wallet, this pittance is all I have on me.

CP: YOU LIE! YOU HAVE MONEY!

Tunde: No sir, I don’t. You have searched my car and my person. Truly, this is all I have on me.

One of the other soldiers shouts something in Arabic that I don’t understand.

CP: YOU LIE DOWN.

Tunde: Pardon?

CP: LIE DOWN NOW!

This 40 year old executive of a company in a foreign country proceeds to lie down on the floor, yup, even with blazer, and gets hit circa 10x on his bum and back of thighs with a long whip, causing welts that hurt to some degree over a week later.

Woah, I am getting whipped for doing nothing wrong. Hey, this doesn’t hurt as much as I expected, maybe my kickboxing training is yielding dividends after all….wait, nope, it’s starting to hurt now. Darn it. This dude had better stop soon else I will be forced to get up. Father Lord, please help me forgive them for these acts. Wait, am I turning into Stephen the martyr now? Speaking of which, if this dude keeps this up I might be forced to change name from Tunde to Toby or Kunta Kinte or any Dinka name he prefers. Man, this hurts….

CP: GET UP! NOW LET ME SEE WALLET AGAIN. I KNOW YOU HAVE MONEY.

Tunde (*in full Kunta Kinte mode now*): No, massa, I is only got money I showed you earlier.

CP: GIVE THEM THE MONEY. NOW WHAT ELSE CAN YOU GIVE THEM? SHOULD I GIVE THEM YOUR PHONE?

Tunde (*oh, I am supposed to believe it’s only them that want the phone, huh?*): Sure. Can I take out my SIM cards first?

Captain Phillips and the crew converse in Arabic and surprisingly, he hands phone back to me.

CP: LISTEN HERE, I CAN SHOOT YOU HERE AND NOTHING WILL HAPPEN. I AM ONLY LETTING YOU GO BECAUSE YOU WORK FOR MARSK SHIPPING. NEXT TIME I SEE YOU AROUND HERE YOU WILL LOSE YOUR LIFE.

Tunde: Sure. I apologize again.

I get in my car and take the original route I was meant to take home. All the while I have a smirk on my face, wondering how to succinctly relay this adventure to folks on my phone messaging services. Got home, went to the loo, sent out message to peeps, realized toilet was now working, and smiled to myself. Good ol’ Casper….

Based on similar incidents that have happened to other mates in Juba I had it pretty easy. Sorta helps being the shortest man in Juba as my fancy jacket was not “obtained” off me, since it would not fit anyone. Yeah, the welts hurt, but I found the funny side of things, and actually prayed for God to help me forgive them.

The next morning, I inform the only other non-South Sudanese at the office what happened, and she proceeds to shed tears. I couldn’t understand why she’s being so emotional, and it was not until sometime past noon the extent of what occurred actually hit me. Folk in my shoes have been killed for less in Juba! If I relayed what happened to my company HQ in Nigeria, I would be mandated to get on the next flight out. Before I moved to Juba, we weren’t sure of the security situation so plan was for me to work outta Entebbe and fly to Juba for meetings; I am sure they’d insist on implementing that if they got wind of what happened.

Two days later, in the wee hours of the morning, I was woken up by an exchange of gun fire that lasted about 30 mins. Yup, it was definitely time to effect that Uganda relocation plan going. Also didn’t help that mate’s favorite cousin, who was in the security services, was gunned down around the same time I heard the gun shots. No one is quite sure what occurred to him, but heard he lived close to my new crib so maybe gunfire I heard was related to his death.

I walked out of apartment when sun came out, and security guard acted normal. The gun shot? “Yeah, happened down the road. Heard it could be some guy whose car was being jacked.” Could not believe how casual he was being. Almost considered moving back to hotel (where I am loved) until Caucasian neighbours walked outta their apartments and went on about their business as if nada happened. That’s when I decided to stay put. Yes, they have early curfews, but if these kawajas can cope in Juba, then Jeanclaudevandamnit, so can I. Ain’t no ass whupping gonna drive me away. I moved all the way from Lagos to make a success of this startup. I ain’t going diddly.

Forgot to mention that one of the reasons I stopped at the hotel before the Captain Phillips incident was to hand out flyers for a kickboxing tourney. The winner would be flown to Nigeria to compete against the Nigerian kickboxing champion. In all honesty, I was ambivalent about which country I would support in such a tourney, but after the, ahem, encounter, last Tuesday, all I can say is Go Nigeria, Go!

Tot ziens and God bless.