Not all superheroes wear capes, some wear belts over their boxers
Hola peeps.
Another week passes and yet another country I cannot readily visit. Was supposed to travel to Malaysia from the UK to view some equipment the company was planning to acquire, and while weighing the options of securing a visa from either the Malaysian High Commission in Nairobi or London I was informed one (being Nigerian) requires clearance from the NDLEA first. Of course, such clearance needs to be done in person, and since I’d be arriving in Nigeria on Saturday and departing for the UK on Monday that put paid to any quick trip to Malaysia. Yup, definitely spending all of my 2-week break in the UK. And to think I’d already been dreaming of catching up with some Malaysian uni mates. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Haven’t paid much attention to work this week if I am being honest, as my mind’s already on the meal of beans and fried plantain I am gonna have as soon I touch down in Lagos this weekend. Gonna pace myself unlike last trip where I went to an eatery and ordered beans+fried plantain+catfish+gizzard+snail and lost my top when the attendant told me they didn’t sell malt drinks. “YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE MALT?! WHAT SORTA ESTABLISHMENT IS THIS?!” Poor dude musta been wondering why anyone would get so miffed about malt drinks that are superfluous in Nigeria. This dude, who’s been deprived of them for 6 months, that’s who. This dude.
In order not to also slack off on exercises this week I stuck to usual HIIT workout on Monday and yesterday and ran 23km on Saturday; knees were okay this time, but blistered toes hurt like crazy. That didn’t stop me from being more badass than ever at kickboxing class on Sunday. For the first time in the 2+ years I have been taking classes I am confident I can kick someone’s arse……if that someone weighs 10kg less…and is female…and has no fighting experience. Oh, she must also have loadsa piercings and be a stereotypical black woman, so I can get a few kicks in while she attempts to take off the nose ring, then the tongue piercing, then the belly button piercing, you catch my drift.
Downside of being so badass is my index right toe is now permanently black due to blood clots from the run+kickboxing combo. Since I’ll transiting through Nairobi on Friday, I am gonna see if I can get a mani+pedi at mate Kui’s spa, as they always make my fingers and toes so shiny they could light the way in a darkened room. I moved on from place in Juba I used to get mani+pedi done ‘cos one lady there used to rain on my metrosexual parade by insisting, “we just ran out of clear nail hardener”, every time I requested a touch up. Hater. I am glad to say since I have spent past few weekends training with folk prepping for the Berlin marathon next month, I am no longer scared of running marathons. When neighbor told me he completed the Two Oceans ultramarathon earlier this year in 6hrs 36mins, my first thoughts were not, “woah, what an incredible accomplishment”, but “man, what would I think about for that length of time? What if I had to poop?” I can safely report the latter is no longer an issue ‘cos I have trained myself to eat as little as possible on the eve of a race and wake up at least an hour before race to force out poop. Yup, I am finding out more and more about myself lately. Who knew I’d purposely force out poop? Forceful poop ain’t as enjoyable as that that results from natural stomach rumblings, but it stops me thinking of the worst, i.e. pooping pants in public, while running, and helps me focus on more important stuff like the arse whooping I could dish out to the unfortunate female with multiple piercings.
Speaking of, walked into the office bathroom on Friday and some guy I never interact with said hi to me 2ice. He said, “hello, hope you are having a good day”, as I walked to the urinal in front of the toilet stall he exited from, and “have a pleasant day”, after washing his hands and walked out. It was then I realized what had occurred. This dude was doing the poop walk of shame (PWoS). You know how I know? ‘Cos this week we met in front of the elevator and it was back to our normal head nod greetings. What I didn’t tell y’all was the smell that emanated from the stall behind me as I readied to pee was akin to a rotting cadaver that had had the runs before it died. This dude that perpetrated the stink was, by repeatedly being nice, trying to assure me, “Look, I am a nice guy. I don’t normally eject such atrocities from my intestines. Musta been the new restaurant I tried out last night. I am never going there again, mind you, you can trust me on that. Please don’t let this foul smell define me. I’d much rather you kept this incident between us. You see, I have a reputation to protect.”
I have done the PWoS myself numerous times, before I finally embraced the poop connoisseur side of me that was always striving to get out. I am not ashamed to say sometimes after a poop I stare at the wonder my bowels hath wrought and marvel at the shapes and colors, and I play this game where I try to remember what meals I had had and try to jigsaw puzzle what meal ingredient was responsible for the hue observed. Okay, TMI, right? But the most memorable experience of that was a girl, Victoria I think her name was, back in pre-uni lesson days in Festac who thought her s%$t didn’t stink, literally. She was one of those who dated older guys and didn’t deign to talk to the likes of moi, until she needed a ride after an unfortunate case of diarrhea and guess who just so happened to be driving by the bush as she snuck out? For the next few weeks Victoria, who had never said a word to me in the previous 6 months, was suddenly a chum, laughing loudly at my jokes, even when I wasn’t addressing her.
Man, Victoria was one of those girls that knew she was fine and yet her asperity made her fish for compliments so bad I once saw her log around a boat and paddle. Geddit? At that point in my life I was a weed-head and never gave her the time of day. Man, weed ain’t no joke, yo. I would routinely sit outside the crib in Beachland without a shirt on and think nada of it. Weird times. Looking forward to revisiting Beachland on Sunday to see the folks. Must remember not to stuff myself too much on Saturday ‘cos the moms are gonna try smother me with food as is their forte. Due to horrific traffic situation and decrepit roads I have requested Chief’s driver pick me up from my crib Sunday morning. Good thang too as not sure the guy that services my car before every visit has had time to look at it, as he’s recovering from throat surgery. As a result, I had someone else look at car when I was in Lagos in June for boss’s 70th birthday celebration. Discovered the horn wasn’t working and driving in Lagos without a functional horn is comparable to taking a knife to a gun fight. This dude, God bless him, admitted he wasn’t skilled at the task unlike typical, omniscient Nigerian artisans who create more havoc than they were hired to solve. In just the week I spent in Lagos I experienced the following: mate’s air conditioner “engineer” advised her to avoid using duvets as a solution after failing to fix the air conditioner in her bedroom; DJ at one of boss’s birthday events put on Shina Peters's Afro Juju and Shinamania, a 40-minute medley – R.Kelly’s Trapped In The Closet eat your heart out – so he could drink himself silly after losing a bet on Arsenal winning the Europa Cup; and finally, tailor who hasn’t delivered clothes after 2 months, yet pleaded with me at the time to pay him his full invoice, “Oga, paying full amount upfront go motivate me. I can’t mess up. You know say na your hand we dey take feed our family. I’ll have your clothes ready in a week.” I really wish I was making these up.
Honest artisan ended up doing a workaround by pulling out wires from the steering wheel so horn would activate by touching wires together. Yup, I became a danfo driver in Lagos. Wasn’t fronting though ‘cos his ingenuity came in useful for notifying security guard at crib to open gate – had previously resorted to putting gear in Park and revving car repeatedly by stepping on the accelerator; alerting cars without headlights driving towards me at night; and dispersing a crowd leaving the mosque off Awolowo Road in the pouring rain on a Wednesday morning at 4am, all the while searching for a spot that sold fried plantain at that impractical hour. Man, things I do for plantain. I blame Juba.
Looking forward to UK trip too ‘cos apart from quality time with daughter and seeing Hamilton again – decided to take Zane along but planning it as a surprise – I get to re-up on boxer shorts. I am no longer surprised mending shoes in Lagos due to heat and general lack of use, but what surprised me during last visit was half of my boxer shorts being no longer wearable due to expanded elastic waistbands. Does someone larger than me wear sneak into my room and rock my underwear when I am not around? How else do you explain not 1 or 2 or 3 boxer shorts slackening at the waist. Still, instead of getting rid of them I mooted the idea of fastening a belt over boxer shorts before putting on pants. I wish I was kidding. Then, I tried wearing them like Thai fisherman pants; that failed too. Someone should fund a research on why men find it difficult getting rid of boxer shorts. I can readily afford to change underwear, yet I keep them even when they have holes or permanent blotches/skidmarks. Case in point, the boxers I discovered with slackened elastic waistbands have been converted to rags and shoe cloth.
While regaling a female mate on men’s underwear fetish and the actions of Poop Guy, ‘cos that’s his nickname around the office now, over lunch at a new eatery on Monday, a friend called requesting a favour and I suggested a meet an hour later. She showed up promptly and as I leaned in for a hug she asked if I had just eaten. I assumed maybe I had something stuck in teeth, but as we spoke I noticed her twitching her nose a few times. After our conversation I rushed back to car and looked in the rearview mirror but observed no stray food item between teeth. It was then I realized my breath wastainted contaminated
from the garlic dip I had with the grilled chicken at lunch. I dunno what’s in
that garlic dip recipe but it took TWO WHOLE DAYS of constant Listerine chugs
for breath to return to normal. I had planned to work from home until breath
stabilized but there were important meetings I couldn’t get out of. Thus, I
took along a takeout bag from said restaurant and strategically placed a
toothpick in the lapel of my suit so anyone that sniffed breath would realize I
just had a meal and I am a nice guy….and I don’t normally eject such atrocities
from my intestines….and it musta been the new restaurant I tried out on Monday…and
I am never going there again…and not to let this foul breath define me….and
would appreciate if they kept this incident between us as I have a reputation
to protect. Not sure it worked.
Tot ziens and God bless.
Another week passes and yet another country I cannot readily visit. Was supposed to travel to Malaysia from the UK to view some equipment the company was planning to acquire, and while weighing the options of securing a visa from either the Malaysian High Commission in Nairobi or London I was informed one (being Nigerian) requires clearance from the NDLEA first. Of course, such clearance needs to be done in person, and since I’d be arriving in Nigeria on Saturday and departing for the UK on Monday that put paid to any quick trip to Malaysia. Yup, definitely spending all of my 2-week break in the UK. And to think I’d already been dreaming of catching up with some Malaysian uni mates. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Haven’t paid much attention to work this week if I am being honest, as my mind’s already on the meal of beans and fried plantain I am gonna have as soon I touch down in Lagos this weekend. Gonna pace myself unlike last trip where I went to an eatery and ordered beans+fried plantain+catfish+gizzard+snail and lost my top when the attendant told me they didn’t sell malt drinks. “YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE MALT?! WHAT SORTA ESTABLISHMENT IS THIS?!” Poor dude musta been wondering why anyone would get so miffed about malt drinks that are superfluous in Nigeria. This dude, who’s been deprived of them for 6 months, that’s who. This dude.
In order not to also slack off on exercises this week I stuck to usual HIIT workout on Monday and yesterday and ran 23km on Saturday; knees were okay this time, but blistered toes hurt like crazy. That didn’t stop me from being more badass than ever at kickboxing class on Sunday. For the first time in the 2+ years I have been taking classes I am confident I can kick someone’s arse……if that someone weighs 10kg less…and is female…and has no fighting experience. Oh, she must also have loadsa piercings and be a stereotypical black woman, so I can get a few kicks in while she attempts to take off the nose ring, then the tongue piercing, then the belly button piercing, you catch my drift.
Downside of being so badass is my index right toe is now permanently black due to blood clots from the run+kickboxing combo. Since I’ll transiting through Nairobi on Friday, I am gonna see if I can get a mani+pedi at mate Kui’s spa, as they always make my fingers and toes so shiny they could light the way in a darkened room. I moved on from place in Juba I used to get mani+pedi done ‘cos one lady there used to rain on my metrosexual parade by insisting, “we just ran out of clear nail hardener”, every time I requested a touch up. Hater. I am glad to say since I have spent past few weekends training with folk prepping for the Berlin marathon next month, I am no longer scared of running marathons. When neighbor told me he completed the Two Oceans ultramarathon earlier this year in 6hrs 36mins, my first thoughts were not, “woah, what an incredible accomplishment”, but “man, what would I think about for that length of time? What if I had to poop?” I can safely report the latter is no longer an issue ‘cos I have trained myself to eat as little as possible on the eve of a race and wake up at least an hour before race to force out poop. Yup, I am finding out more and more about myself lately. Who knew I’d purposely force out poop? Forceful poop ain’t as enjoyable as that that results from natural stomach rumblings, but it stops me thinking of the worst, i.e. pooping pants in public, while running, and helps me focus on more important stuff like the arse whooping I could dish out to the unfortunate female with multiple piercings.
Speaking of, walked into the office bathroom on Friday and some guy I never interact with said hi to me 2ice. He said, “hello, hope you are having a good day”, as I walked to the urinal in front of the toilet stall he exited from, and “have a pleasant day”, after washing his hands and walked out. It was then I realized what had occurred. This dude was doing the poop walk of shame (PWoS). You know how I know? ‘Cos this week we met in front of the elevator and it was back to our normal head nod greetings. What I didn’t tell y’all was the smell that emanated from the stall behind me as I readied to pee was akin to a rotting cadaver that had had the runs before it died. This dude that perpetrated the stink was, by repeatedly being nice, trying to assure me, “Look, I am a nice guy. I don’t normally eject such atrocities from my intestines. Musta been the new restaurant I tried out last night. I am never going there again, mind you, you can trust me on that. Please don’t let this foul smell define me. I’d much rather you kept this incident between us. You see, I have a reputation to protect.”
I have done the PWoS myself numerous times, before I finally embraced the poop connoisseur side of me that was always striving to get out. I am not ashamed to say sometimes after a poop I stare at the wonder my bowels hath wrought and marvel at the shapes and colors, and I play this game where I try to remember what meals I had had and try to jigsaw puzzle what meal ingredient was responsible for the hue observed. Okay, TMI, right? But the most memorable experience of that was a girl, Victoria I think her name was, back in pre-uni lesson days in Festac who thought her s%$t didn’t stink, literally. She was one of those who dated older guys and didn’t deign to talk to the likes of moi, until she needed a ride after an unfortunate case of diarrhea and guess who just so happened to be driving by the bush as she snuck out? For the next few weeks Victoria, who had never said a word to me in the previous 6 months, was suddenly a chum, laughing loudly at my jokes, even when I wasn’t addressing her.
Man, Victoria was one of those girls that knew she was fine and yet her asperity made her fish for compliments so bad I once saw her log around a boat and paddle. Geddit? At that point in my life I was a weed-head and never gave her the time of day. Man, weed ain’t no joke, yo. I would routinely sit outside the crib in Beachland without a shirt on and think nada of it. Weird times. Looking forward to revisiting Beachland on Sunday to see the folks. Must remember not to stuff myself too much on Saturday ‘cos the moms are gonna try smother me with food as is their forte. Due to horrific traffic situation and decrepit roads I have requested Chief’s driver pick me up from my crib Sunday morning. Good thang too as not sure the guy that services my car before every visit has had time to look at it, as he’s recovering from throat surgery. As a result, I had someone else look at car when I was in Lagos in June for boss’s 70th birthday celebration. Discovered the horn wasn’t working and driving in Lagos without a functional horn is comparable to taking a knife to a gun fight. This dude, God bless him, admitted he wasn’t skilled at the task unlike typical, omniscient Nigerian artisans who create more havoc than they were hired to solve. In just the week I spent in Lagos I experienced the following: mate’s air conditioner “engineer” advised her to avoid using duvets as a solution after failing to fix the air conditioner in her bedroom; DJ at one of boss’s birthday events put on Shina Peters's Afro Juju and Shinamania, a 40-minute medley – R.Kelly’s Trapped In The Closet eat your heart out – so he could drink himself silly after losing a bet on Arsenal winning the Europa Cup; and finally, tailor who hasn’t delivered clothes after 2 months, yet pleaded with me at the time to pay him his full invoice, “Oga, paying full amount upfront go motivate me. I can’t mess up. You know say na your hand we dey take feed our family. I’ll have your clothes ready in a week.” I really wish I was making these up.
Honest artisan ended up doing a workaround by pulling out wires from the steering wheel so horn would activate by touching wires together. Yup, I became a danfo driver in Lagos. Wasn’t fronting though ‘cos his ingenuity came in useful for notifying security guard at crib to open gate – had previously resorted to putting gear in Park and revving car repeatedly by stepping on the accelerator; alerting cars without headlights driving towards me at night; and dispersing a crowd leaving the mosque off Awolowo Road in the pouring rain on a Wednesday morning at 4am, all the while searching for a spot that sold fried plantain at that impractical hour. Man, things I do for plantain. I blame Juba.
Looking forward to UK trip too ‘cos apart from quality time with daughter and seeing Hamilton again – decided to take Zane along but planning it as a surprise – I get to re-up on boxer shorts. I am no longer surprised mending shoes in Lagos due to heat and general lack of use, but what surprised me during last visit was half of my boxer shorts being no longer wearable due to expanded elastic waistbands. Does someone larger than me wear sneak into my room and rock my underwear when I am not around? How else do you explain not 1 or 2 or 3 boxer shorts slackening at the waist. Still, instead of getting rid of them I mooted the idea of fastening a belt over boxer shorts before putting on pants. I wish I was kidding. Then, I tried wearing them like Thai fisherman pants; that failed too. Someone should fund a research on why men find it difficult getting rid of boxer shorts. I can readily afford to change underwear, yet I keep them even when they have holes or permanent blotches/skidmarks. Case in point, the boxers I discovered with slackened elastic waistbands have been converted to rags and shoe cloth.
While regaling a female mate on men’s underwear fetish and the actions of Poop Guy, ‘cos that’s his nickname around the office now, over lunch at a new eatery on Monday, a friend called requesting a favour and I suggested a meet an hour later. She showed up promptly and as I leaned in for a hug she asked if I had just eaten. I assumed maybe I had something stuck in teeth, but as we spoke I noticed her twitching her nose a few times. After our conversation I rushed back to car and looked in the rearview mirror but observed no stray food item between teeth. It was then I realized my breath was
Tot ziens and God bless.
