MERCY JOHNSON-SHORT DRESSES DONT MAKE TEMPTRESSES PT.1

It’s hard to tell a story when you’re the villain, the malevolent antagonist that is hewn like a fruitless branch and cast into the fire whilst the hero prances off to a happily ever after. What’s even worse is that I have to sit here and tell you I didn’t see the end coming, when it was by all standards of the cliche, predictable.

 It all started on a dull Sunday afternoon, my school was convinced we needed extra lessons in preparation for JAMB, so hell bent that we passed, they were willing to break the second commandment to ensure it.

 I wasn’t all that thrilled though, I mean who would be? You remember Secondary school don’t you? That cool colored building that connotes the passing of the vibrant colors of Primary school, with its lethargic shepherds leading us little lambs around the thicket of youthful exuberance and into the slaughterhouse of blue collar drudgery, the first real taste of real life.

 Of course it wasn’t that bad, but nostalgia underwhelms me. So anyway I was returning from school and you must understand I was birthed of middle class parents, so every walk home was like a fashion parade.

 The tight streets were the runway, and every Crayfish seller, Shoemaker and Aboki was a fashion enthusiast, with eyes flashing like cameras and mouths asking about Uncle This and Aunt That and so on and so forth, These were people that had seen you on your mothers back as a baby and though they never lent a hand in raising you, assumed the roles of proxy parents, as though ‘How are yous” and  ‘How is school?” was all it took to earn parent of the year.

If I’m starting to sound like I was very irritable, it’s because I was, hormones and all, you understand.

 So I walked down my road, passing houses that bore the paint of over a decade and gutters decorated with moss and stagnant water. The road itself was a pimply surface that made model level grade walking next to impossible. But I strutted nevertheless till there he was, leaning against a Nepa pole talking on the phone. I didn’t recognize him so I walked right past.

“Sade.’’ He called, and the ring of my name as it bounced off his lips and tunneled down my ear drums made me turn instantly around.

‘Yes.’ I answered, and the face from which the voice had emanated didn’t look any better the second time.

“It’s me, Yemi Jalade.”

It took a second to remember, but that’s mostly because I was still savoring his voice with my ear buds. “Right, Yemi, how are you, when did you get back?’ I finally said.

‘’Monday, I knew you had school so I didn’t bother to come by.’’

‘’Yeah, you look…good.’’ I remarked

He chuckled unaffectedly and it warmed my heart. What I’d actually meant to say was he sounded good but at that point, the two were fungible.

Now before you rag on me for having an edgy introduction and then spiraling into the trite nuances of chick flicks. Let me just say that this is not a Romeo meets Juliet. This is a stupid young girl meets old friend with new accent who has a temporary lapse of common sense.

He walked me to my gate and stopped, hands in his pocket and gleam in his eyes.

‘So I’ll see you next year?’’ He said, and I whispered a yes. Maybe if I’d walked away then I wouldn’t have a story to tell, but if maybes were horses, we would ride.

“Would you like to come inside?” I asked, and he shrugged. “Come on my parents aren’t home and I won’t bite.” I persisted, and honestly, I didn’t mean it that way, and for what it’s worth, I don’t think he took it that way either. It just seemed that I was inadvertently flirting and my brain had switched to a default setting that did not have the customization of almost 4 years of having ‘’the talk.’’

He seemed to contemplate the invite for a while, then get derailed by another thought. “My parents aren’t home either. I think the church is having some sorta event. Why don’t we go to my place?” He saw the hesitation in my eyes, and then added. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite either.”

It was then for the first time that day, that I heard a little alarm ring, but it was short, and jarring compared to Yemis playful, innocuous voice.

“Okay.’’ I said, and okay was the voiceless answer to all his voiceless advances that evening. It was nothing special, not like in the movies at least. It seemed like we were both caught in the dance of someone else's song, his every move was tentative, I could tell the slightest resistance on my side would shut him down entirely, but I was lost in the groove too, not wanting it, but not wanting to stop either, so he gave in to the flesh, and I let him, figuratively and literally.

That night was empty and dull. He was on an evening flight back to the UK and I was the same pouting teenager my parents saw leaving for school that morning. But beyond the superficial, something was broken in me, and now it was bent and twisted.

       ‘…it was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they’d have no heart to start at all.’’-Cormac MCCarthy 

OLAMIDE-THE LOST TAPES

Not much separates the Yoruba rap scene from guerrilla warfare. It transcends dialectical renderings of social commentary. It is a body of art, a body of personality, or personalities as the case may be. Olamide Sneh sat down on a swivel chair watching the city from a skyline. The city ebbed like an overactive nerve, setting off sparks and streaks of red, left and right.

Olamide Sneh sneered at the city. Theirs was a love hate relationship. The city had courted him like a hopeless romantic only to dash his dreams over and over again. The city was like a Sumo wrestler, it did not subdue with an elevated skill set, it subdued with sheer weight, with brute force, it attacked you and didn't let up.

 Olamide Sneh sneered again. He sneered because he had learned to fight back.

 It all began when he was 17.

He was done with the studio session. He gave the producers hand one last grateful squeeze and set upon the skeletal streets of Surulere. There was a spring to his step. A spring he didn't have when he left his house that morning. It was the spring of destiny fulfilled, or destiny begun. It was all he could do to keep a smile from his face. He was elated. But unfortunately he would soon come to find, that the law of gravity applies to emotions as well. If you're feeling high, you would very soon, come crashing down again.

It was a masquerade, a ghostly giant of a man garbed in native apparel from head to feet. On his head was a hat. To the painter he would've been a work of art, but to the rapper, he might as well have been a monster with whip in hand.

 Olamide paused, the pause of deliberation.

 The masquerade paused as well; he seemed to be sizing up Olamide’s personality, deciding if he was pedestrian or prey. The white hands reached up-but it wasn't Casper trying to execute a high five-the masquerade was positioning his whip for a beating. Olamide recognized the movement.  He shifted his weight to his left feet and dashed off in the opposite direction.

The masquerade followed, his costume shimmied and if you had an aerial view of the scene it would’ve appeared that a great white speck motioned to consume a small black dot.

 It was epic.

 People watched from the safety of their verandas and the other side of the street as the Tom and Jerry spectacle unfolded before them. Olamide was running like a well trained sprinter-putting one leg in front of the other rapidly. His pursuer did not seem to be slowing down or giving up. If anything he appeared to be gaining on him.

Olamide was frantic now, for a brief moment he recalled his favorite childhood pastime of climbing trees. But now he was in Surulere, there were mostly Mango trees, tall and looming Mango trees that would take too long to mount. He opted for a more sophisticated move.

 Deftly, like a tennis ball, he pushed his weight against the tar road and sprang into the air. It was like a scene from the Matrix. Olamide practically walked vertically up a fence and flipped over its barbwire.

This made no difference to the masquerade. He walked in through the gate.

 Olamide darted through the large compound, knocking things down as he went, trying to obstruct his pursuer.

 The masquerade didn't mind, he walked calmly over or around the clutter.

Finally, in one great feat of athleticism, Olamide jumped on the bonnet of a car, used it as a springboard to launch into the air, grabbed hold of a lamp-hold, swung upright onto a window pane, then leaped majestically onto the veranda. Looking down on the masquerade Olamide Sneh sneered.

His victory lasted for about three seconds.

Olamide watched to his horror as the masquerade lifted off the ground, slowly like a feather being carried by a soft wind. The masquerade elevated till it stood (on thin air) face to face-or more accurately-face to mask with Olamide.

Olamide would never forget the beating he received that day, a beating of epic proportions, the sort that drove demons out. The masquerade threatened him and warned him to never again tread the tar roads of Surulere, or else.

 However, years later, it was not the scars that remained, nor the threat. It was the conviction. The conviction the ordeal spurred in him, a conviction not unlike stubbornness that is found in all Lagosians. It is the unfaltering, unrestrained will to succeed. Olamide continued to chase his dreams, despite the dread of whatever masquerades may have chased him in return.

These are the thoughts that never make it to paper, the occupants of the hinder parts of his mind that are never vocalized at the studio. These are the lost tapes.

"Remember, no matter what happens, you are made for good." -Dev Patel Chappie.

THE WEEKNDS DARK WATERS

TAYLOR SWIFT, THE NEW YEAR KISS

VAN VICKER in THE WINTER THAT NEVER ENDS

THE WEEKNDS DARK WATERS

There were no stars in the sky, just a dull grey that meant more to me than anything anyone could say.

She dressed up, slowly, reluctantly and left.

She had a name, but as nights gave way to day, they all started to become the same, to me.

And who am I?

On paper I’m a rock star, no guitar, no leather tights, but a rock star all the same.

In reality they call me Abel, no relation in blood, or in kind with the fabled junior brother that got himself killed over sacrifice.

Sacrifice. There’s something I relate to. It’s funny that even when you have nothing there’s always something to sacrifice. You can pull out a knife and slit your own throat at the very least.

Sacrifice less to have more. That’s what I did wasn’t it? Threw myself to the winds and sacrificed being grounded for a flight of fancy.

Do you fancy how an Antelope looks before it gets killed? Yeah, everyone does. Nothing, not the venison or the smell of roast beef can compare to that moment where life is translated into blood.

But we were talking about sacrifice weren’t we? It’s shocking that you haven’t figured it out yet. I’m going to call it quits at the label tomorrow.

Remember that girl from “Belong to the World”? She OD’d the other day. Yeah I saw it on the news; it didn’t really resonate with me till I was smoking a pack with the boys and felt some religion sneak up on me.

“Yo, guys. What if there’s more to life than all this?

It sounded stupid the moment it left my lips like, what could be better than all this right? So I called the girl over, let’s just call her “she” for the sake of conversation.

She came over and between the third and the fourth round I’d already gotten half a verse and a hook.  Then there was a blunder, I looked.

I looked into her eyes man, these wide white eyes with a little black spot in the middle. I looked into them and saw that she was searching for something.

I saw and knew that she would certainly not find it with me. Whatever it is she’s looking for.

But it got me thinking all the same. What if she looked in my eyes and saw the exact same thing? What if I too was searching for something I didn’t know I was looking for and she knew I couldn’t find it? You know, pointless like tears in the rain.

So I quit the label. But it’s usually about the time you start quitting things you realise there’s no quitting yourself.

The hiatus was good for me though. If all I do is write myself away then I got more of me to write. And I did, the truth, which more than anyone could ask of me, more than most can do.

It’s always easy to paint a picture of a person that isn’t standing too close to you. You can capture an emotion for a duration, you can capture an action but how do you capture being? What I think, who I am, I actually have to know to put it all down, and that’s to that, but there was just one catch though.

She came back. Well not literally. I stumbled upon her picture in a column in the newspaper. She was married. There was a nice big grin on the lucky man’s face, and her eyes.

Her eyes man, even in black and white our souls lay bare. I could see in the back of her eyes was disquiet.  A certain disquiet I knew all too well. It was the same one I got when I momentarily quit the label. It’s a fear.

Not really a fear of inactivity, more like the fear of what comes after inebriation, a fear of the crash after the high, but…

That’s a word isn’t it, “but”? It’s that slight distinction between Pepsi and Coke, the flaw in the diamond.

But there was something else, something more prominent, in the foreground of her eyes. Those eyes that were wide and white, with a little black spot in the middle.

They had found it, whatever it is.

She found it.

                                                                          “Be the flame, not the moth.”-Giacomo Casanova

“How long will you be heavy of heart, why love what is vain and chase after illusions?”-King David

Taylor Swift, THE NEW YEAR KISS

Van Vicker in THE WINTER THAT NEVER ENDS

Akin, Paw Paw and THE XMAS GOAT