OF ROGUE INTERNET SERVICE PROVIDERS

Is anybody else using MTN? I am just about to dump their ass. I have not had a appreciable connection for the past 12 hours. And this has been going on everyday for a ughhhh time now. Take 12 hours out of man’s day, 7 days a week, what’s left of his life?

With MTN, life these days have become nasty, brutish and short. I am just about done with their fuck ups. They can’t keep stealing my time, my money and my life.

How much bullshit can you take from your preferred mobile network ISP? I can take a lot, and have taken more than I really can now. This is the time a man must speak up or roast in hell, in the face ICT injustice. While Uncle (Peeping) Tom will not let us be, ISPs won’t let go of their hold on our balls. It’s killing. Or is it just me?

They are fucking leeches. These so-called service providers. You can’t even rouse their lying customer service these days. All you get is computerised voice response on the repeat, and a playlist designed to put you off their ass. They’re fucked up. They could as well pack up and leave. Life was much better in the days when a man can put his money where his mouth is, and can be sure of where it’s gone.

Besides making my life nasty, brutish and shortening, these people have made it a daily gamble. This is not fair. I like to get good value for my hard-earned money. What gun they put to my head, I don’t know, but I always come back to empty my wallet into the leacky pockets of these thieving rogues. Shame on me: I never wise up to the tricks of the scammers.

And I was blaming my mother the other day, for folding her SIM card in two and chucking them at the bottom of the trash bin with the rotten vegetables. I thought it was a silly thing to do. It may not look wise, but it is a brave thing to do. I am just being cowardly, sucked in by their frivolous promises of win this, win that by using their network. Now I am just about to lose my cool as well as my time and money.

If you’re still using MTN for BIS, then your either a throwback or your plain dumb. They’re the worst providers in mobile internet. They seem to have no apology for this short coming, is why nothing is being done to redress the plight of their Nigerian subscribers whom they’ve been ripping off.

You spend hours on end accessing a webpage when you could have done so in matter of seconds with Airtel, Etisalat, even Globacom. MTN is still deluding itself thinking it is the best thing to have happened to Nigeria in terms of mobile telecommunication that they have us all eating out of their dirty dealing hands. If you’re still using MTN, then I sorry sorry for you. I am opting out, so should you. Thank goodness for alternatives. We can do without MTN.

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PUNCTUALITY AND LIFE’S LESSONS

I am always late for appointments, and I never learnt to change this trend. It is not normal, despite this is Lagos. My case is so bad that I won’t be surprised if I arrive late for my own funeral. But I got to our rendezvous 5 minutes and a few seconds past the time. This is the earliest I have ever arrived for an appointment. I was surprised Fisayo was not there waiting. I expected her to be there already running out of patience and beginning to throw tantrums like media people are won’t to do. She lives closer to the meeting point at Debonair Pizza Hut, since she lives few plots away on the same Adeola Odeku street, VI, and I was coming in from Okokomaiko near Badagry.

I called to see how far she was from the rendezvous; and after the 5th ring of my 10th dial, she picked my call and her voice came shrilly over the phone “stop calling me, I am driving… more on”. Whatever “more on” means, I don’t know. It must have been French for “Darling” although. It wasn’t too clear, I’m sure she’d covered the mouthpiece when she said the last two word. I was going to ask her to repeat her words more slowly, but the network had become garbled. She dropped the call, cutting me off in mid-sentence. Then I remembered that it was a Traffic Law offence in Lagos to make or receive calls while driving. I forego (foregone, fore went, whatever) re-dialling her number to spare her being arrested by LASTMA officials. I wanted nothing in the world to inter with my date with the delectable Fisayo, the Sweetest Voice on Radio.

After about 40 minutes, my chewing Gum had lost every trace of it’s initial sweet taste and my jaws were aching; and I have finished two large bottles of Eva water, and my ass almost freezed out by the Air Conditioner, and my phone battery down to one bar, I called Fisayo again. She picked on the first ring and her voice came blasting at my tired ear drums in barrages of imprecations. The garbled network didn’t help my comprehension of why the sweetest voice on radio sounded loud and harsh. I pulled the phone away from my ears for a while, I put the phone back to my ear and the voice had become clearer. What I heard before the phone went dead was “…I told you to… stop calling… I… on my way… Idio…”

I hate being punctual at that moment. And after many frozen moments, she arrived and I got rewarded for my fortitude and long suffering: Fisayo hugged me so tight that her airbag-like breasts were pressed flat against my chest. Although, the kiss I expect to get on my pouted and ready lips landed on my cheek as a peck. As a christian, and a conservative one, I turned the other cheek and another peck landed on it. I wasn’t expecting too much, so I was content with what I got.

Most significantly, I learnt some very crucial life lessons that can save me time, money and my life in future. I learn’t both the art and science of Sign Language. Now Sign Language is not all about those moronic hand gestures one makes to communicate to deaf people (my apologies to People Living With Hearing Disabilities) not like making a cutting motion across your throat to signal a lady that you love her, or pointing your middle finger to heaven to mean “Fuck, Eww!”. There is a way the Spanish and Latinos do it when they mean “Puta” which rendered in English would mean “pussy cunt” or “ass whole”.

Now the Secret of the sign Language which I discovered today is this. You can know if your date is feeling you from how firm her handshake is, or how tight she hugs you. That’s one

Two: you can decipher from the way she cocks her head if she’s still listening to your “cock&bull, or bored to death already;

Three: you can tell if she’s married-and-searching or single-and-searching from the redness of her Lipstick and how she wears her ring and how much she flashes it in your face.

Fourth and finally, from the manner, and how often she cross and uncrosses her legs, you can tell if she is going to fuck you on the first date or not. No academy or Lifes Coach can ever teach you these useful life’s lesson. You learn on the date. If you are punctual to class.

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OF WHAT’S HOT AND WHAT’S NUT

Those criticising Charles Darwin unfairly are misguided and uninformed. We are descendants of monkeys. Pardon me, we are not monkeys, we are Apes. Man is Ape, Naked Ape. Why else, do you think, we go aping after trends and fads? I wonder if our cousins in the wild didn’t get ascribed the status of ape for imitating us higher animals. Those guys compete at “Shit On Your Hand” too. It is a game men play well.

Before you get put off, consider this:

Lady Gaga is hot, and every Grandmother wants to dress like her. I will dress like Lady Gaga too if and only if I was a female gorilla. Then I would have been comfy to go everywhere in my birthday suit, then I wouldn’t stop decency from climbing up a tree and taking the plunge.

Justin Bieber is much a star as every other would-be artiste. Even that Baba had to adopt the name Whiz Kid to measure up. Now Wande Coal has taken to dressing up the Bieber part, and croacking like a Whiz Kid. I am so inspired I want to be a Whiz Kid when I get to the age of 40 if I don’t die of hard drugs like my role models- Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston.

I will not kill you with a boring story of how I and Joe kept changing hairstyles, beardstyles, dressstyles and sunshades like R. Kelly when I was younger and as childish. Neither will I drive you crazy with the gory tale of how my girlfriend’s crib hardly have a free space to get laid in, for the litter of wigs, weave-ons and human hair everywhere. Another day, I will regal you with an epic poem of my sister who is as gaunt as Genevieve Nnaji and wears more colours than Nicki Minaj, and chain-smoke like Rita Dominic.

Couples, both late and ancient, are also cashing in on the apeshit trends of celebrity marriage. Everyone wants to live and part ways like Chris Brown and Rihana. My Landlord of 73 has recently been giving his wife of 45 years in Marriage the Brown treatment. And the Desperate Housewife has taken to desperate measures to live out her numbered days as Whitney Houston lived. But instead of singing the blues what we hear everyday and night is wailing and gnashing. I don’t think she’s very up to date. Whitney sings not whine.

Well, lest I should carry last, I joined the trend of evolution, doing what others do, aping after the trends and fashion. Though failing and falling behind, I have found my niche. Do you know what my niche is? My niche is far from the cliche thingy mingy everyone is going gaga about. I have found the narrow path of Blogging. I am blogging like Linda Ikeji Blogs. I want to make fast and easy money from gossip blogging, before I get to Bill Gate’s age; then evolve to trying my Goodluck for Presidency, before I am Barack Obama’s age. God help me, if I don’t blow like Timaya I will go take a dive in the lagoon, or simply put by head through a noose made from my Mummy’s G-String, and swing it like Tiger Woods, who is born to do it, or get burnt again and open a Church like Chris Okotie, and start a airline like Oyedipo.

If all that don’t convince you that I am no higher animal than you, then you are a little higher than the angels.

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A GAME OF DARE- BEST LAID PLANS

“Have you got balls?” She asked: the sweetie pie partner I took out on business dinner date at the ritzy mama put. “Yeah, I got some here” indicating my crotch. “I never go anywhere without them.” I was not so on high paraga, or too ghetto to not comprehend the purport of her question- we were supposed to be discussing a dicey deal that requires nerves of steel to pull off. But I couldn’t pass the chance at flippancy.

I moved to prove to her that I had two nice balls tucked away inside my pants: I pushed my chair back stood up (while thinking “WTF” am I doing? I unbuckled my belt, and I had started to unzip my fly, watching and listening for her shocked response, but that response never came. She got a smirk on her face as if she was daring me to show what balls I got. I expected her eyes to have, instead open wide like Betty Boops, and her mouth to make a big round “O” as expression of shock as expected of decent ladies to masculine crassness, but she never did. I stopped in mid action, staring forlornly at her awaiting a reprimand to my dare. But she said, with a twinkle of interest in her eyes “go on. Go right on, show me what you got”.

Game on! I thought to myself, I will have my chance too. For now, I just got to roll with the punch. I am thinking, devising a game and strategizing on how to get her to eat out of my hand the next round. This is definitely not a game of solitaire, this is a game of dare, and two can play this game. I just hope she don’t quit while got one on me. Hey, am being macho or stupid? I am going to lose this deal and the game if she playing me for a fool. But I think she’s not. She likely wanna get laid too.

Dating is much a game as ping-pong, or basketball, or volleyball or softball are body contact ballgames. Only players win in this game.

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OF MEN: THEIR ENDOWMENTS AND THEIR EGOS

I said “don’t look! please don’t look!” But he did. I knew he was going to look. My affected high pitch female voice did the trick. This was in the men’s room at the Genesis Cinema. The 122 minutes Movie THINK LIKE A MAN had just ended and I was relieving myself in the men’s urinal. A 30ish looking well-built, brotha got beside me to use the next available urinal. And he fell into my game trap.

Men don’t really care about the size of other men’s dick unless they are sure the other man is lesser endowed. Or they were something else- like gay. I got a dick most men will kill to have, and I like to flaunt and show it off. But getting brothas to gawk at, and feel envious of my natural endowment is so hard. So I devised the private game to get attention.

I had dumped the rest of my popcorn in the trash bin. To pull off this punk. Believe you me, that was a waste of good stuff, but it was well worth it. I have been chomping on them popcorn all through and after the movie. It was the most excellent popcorn you can find in any cinema around Lagos, and it was so much for so little. But it had to go so to free my hands to pull that stunt.

I got the brotha to see what I got. By merely affecting a female voice while standing to take a leak (someone told me that all sistas squat to pee) I really don’t know the psychology of why my game worked with that brotha, I just know the feminine voice I affected got the his attention. Maybe he didn’t wonder what a female might have been doing standing up to take a leak, in a men’s room; perhaps it was the impetus to see what the “female” has got in her pants to be peeing into a men’s urinal standing up. Again, I guess he only looked to confirmed to himself that I wasn’t jacking off if he knew right away I was male.

I am going to get that dude, Steve Harvey for laying it on like that, and blowing our cover. You should see how he done turn them ladies against us with that, so called romantic comedy of a movie. Now we got little to hide. Women now think they got balls, having been embolden by THINK LIKE A MAN. I recommend this movie for brothas, but for Sistas? no-no! Na see finish.

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The GCLF Writers’ Workshop – Port Harcourt 2012 calling

Call for Entries: The GCLF Writers’ Workshop – Port Harcourt 2012

Entries for the 5th edition of the annual Garden City Literary Festival (GCLF) Writers’ Workshop are now being accepted. The Writers’ Workshop is a creative platform where aspiring writers sit under the tutelage of their established counterparts. It is recommended for anyone who wants to improve their writing skills.

Each applicant must indicate their preferred choice of workshop. Application to more than one class will not be considered. Participants are required to submit samples of their writing (in line with requirement for the different genres) before Friday 31st August 2012 to secure a place.

All applicants must submit the following:

FOR SHORT STORIES

1.    Sample short story of between 1000 & 1500 words (please highlight how many words your story contains for our records)* You should submit only your best story.

FOR POEMS

1.    Sample poem (no longer than 1000 words). Please note- synopsis or abstracts will not be accepted.

FOR DRAMA

1.    A ‘one act’ play script on any subject.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THE FOLLOWING MUST BE ADHERED TO:

1.    A one page personal CV must be submitted along with each entry

2.    A brief paragraph about what you intend to learn from your chosen workshop must be included

3.    All manuscripts must be double spaced with a header showing:- ‘author’ to the left, ‘title’ in the middle and ‘page number’ to the right.

4.    Handwritten entries or entries that do not adhere to No. 3 will not be accepted.

All sample materials must be submitted to   info@gardencityfestival.com not later than 12:00 noon on Friday 31st August 2012. Materials submitted after this date and time will not be accepted.

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A CATCHER IN THE EYE- OF WOMAN

About Women: The Pope lied. For the thing I saw in her eyes, every Chauvinist pig should be drowned. Napoleon Bonaparte was wrong to say that the woman’s intelligence is only fit for needle work. The sublime look in her wise eyes was far too valuable for needle work, or any such domestic roles as tending cinders, or playing the Man’s sex object, or punching bag. I have seen Sophia on more than one occasion- mostly nights, when Charley- my roomy- had to smuggle her in through the back door of Bethel- our hostel. What I made of her was no more than the husky voice, and remarkable diction. I had seen her heart-shaped face too, but not beyond that beak nose and the sensuous mouth that promised great passion. I had not had the chance to make out the shape of things swimming in the depth of those dreamy eyes, with the fluttering eyelashes that always send my purse racing to the high heavens. I have seen her in the nude – Charley had shown me nude pictures of her (in those cavalier days as students at Ambrose Alli University, we boys kept very few secrets among us) and I know what I’m talking about when I say “she’s is Venus in flesh”. Believe me I would’ve gladly given my balls to have a suckle at those voluptuous boobs of Sophia.

Seeing Sophia that day in the full glare of God’s own day light, as I ran into her at Shiloh 2011, she appeared something more than the whore I had taken her for all those years. I really don’t subscribe to the term “whore” to describe any woman, but for want of a globally accepted nomenclature, whore was befitting. The point I am driving at here is that it is an aberration to measure any woman by any standard or measure that is less than perfect. Every Woman wonderfully and perfectly made. Sophia is a perfect woman: no less perfect a woman than Mary Magdalene, The Lord’s Beloved, or the Woman at the well. It is Man, who has made himself the measure of all things, who rate the woman lower than the angels. Peter (the first pope) and Judas were envious of that Sweet Woman Mary Magdalene whom Jesus fell in love with, and they tagged her “whore” to discredit her for their own ego schemes. She may have been a whore, but it was her testimony that established the Christian faith. In fact the whole of Christianity owe a lot to whores. If you remember you Sunday School Lessons: the great Grand Mothers of Our Lord were whores: Ruth, Bathsheba all the way back to Eve.

I hate that Word Whore. No woman should be called a Whore, because I Love Women, and Jesus Love them too. There is this aura of divinity that surrounds every Woman, or is it just me and Jesus? I can never regard a Woman- I mean, a Woman- without this great sense of awesome wonder enveloping me. This enraptured feeling, I cannot seem to be able to find pure language to describe it. It is hard to communicate it in mundane language. Perhaps, poetry will suffice:

“WOMAN, THOU ART GOD

Okay, I know the brothas will crucify me for this, but I’ll rather not deny the way, the truth and the life I feel about the Woman. Yes, even my Mother who conceived me in sin is Gold. You can take that away with you. Mother is Gold, and Every Woman is Mother, from Eve to Bathsheba and Mary the whore and The Lord’s girlfriend.

“That which is born of water is water, and that which is born of spirit is spirit” one look in the woman’s eye is all a man needs to be born again. Except a man be thus born again, he may never see or enter the kingdom of God. One look into the eyes of Sophia was all it took to strip away my garment of ignorance. Do you still wonder why the sage say “the eye don’t lie”? If you will know the woman’s worth; if you will know her essence; if you will acquaint yourself with wisdom look deep in the eyes of the Sophia Woman. It is a wise thing to do, I tell you.

The essence I saw in Sophia eyes that made me exalt her, was the same power that caught Suleyman’s fancy and made him spare The Hagia Sophia as his rampaging conquering Ottoman army raped and sacked the city of Istanbul in 1453. Only few men are blessed with this wisdom. Thank God, I Am.

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OF FACEBOOK AND DIGITAL SLAVES

I just discovered I’m not a slave to facebook. Do you know how? I will tell you, if you promise to not tell my fast-talking friend, Mark Z. I was his slave, like great many of you, gullible fish. But now I am liberated, yes I am.

I was hooked, so hook I was literally hanging by my nose from the end of the puppeteer’s strings. I could never do without the facebook. I was practically living there as a galley slave, or a cotton-picking “N”. On that social media, I had unlearned how to face my book, and becoming a couch potato. In Those days I would be in front of the TV and the brain-sucker would have gone dead for hours and I won’t notice, because I will have my nose stuck to the screen of my blackberry (no illuminati iphone, or capitalist HTC or worm-infested Apple for me- not yet). I have been facebooking away precious man-hour- not good for the economy. The thing has taken over my life from television-. It was not a good thing at all. But now, I am liberated, am I not?

Great many friends of mine: the dumber ones have left facebook for twitter, and a few smart ones, for instagram, and the confused ones, Cyber Loco. but I’m still here on facebook, virtually talking the walk and walking the talk. Getting out was hard, it is very hard now, and will get harder yet. But I make the choice now. Yes, I do make the choice to hang loose and swing free.

My BIS expired 12 solid hours ago, so very unexpectedly. MTN, that’s my service provider, only notified me of the expiration of my subscription after a whole long frustrating hour of inability to update my facebook status. I was consumed, that time, by a very powerful impulse to throw the darn Blackberry against a wall, but I was in the over-crowded MMA2 airport then, seeing my younger brother off, and there were people- women and children- and there was glass everywhere I turned, so I simmered down. Besides, there might be someone from the social media who may recognise me as that Facebook Cool Guy, now losing his cool and going apeshit in public domain. My folks too may think I was on some other psychedelic shit than Facebook- Mark Zuckerberg’s facebook.

I was muttering “F@ck it! F@ck! F@ck! F@ck it!” “F@ck” is a decent way of saying “WTF?” as we normally do on facebook to let off some bottled-up steam. I kept chanting the words like some therapeutic mantra all noon till this moment- 2400hrs. I have been off facebook for that long and nothing no great evil befell me. The sky didn’t fall afteral, and I didn’t fizzle out nor had my golden bowl cracked.

This experience is a watershed for me. I have come to the realisation that one can live outside of one’s locality, be it facebook or twitter or instagram. Even if you were a Digital Native, you can live outside the boundary of the Social Media; or if you were a slave on the cyber plantation, you can go on a strike in protest for whatever reason. But I tell you what, it is a cold ass world out there. The thrill of crossing the territorial borders of the Social Media is nasty, brutish and short-lived. The better and surer thrill is here on facebook. We can’t afford to stray too far, no matter the lure or pull to get out. There is nothing alluring outside of here in truth. It is my candid opinion, therefore, that we redefine the terms of our new social contract. We must create a clear distinction between us- The Digital Natives- and them- the Cyber Alliens, and defend our territory against the forces of anarchy being the service providers.

ACCESS TO THE INTERNET MUST BE FREE

THERE MUST BE THE MOST MINIMAL INTERFERENCE

WE DEMAND ZILCH CAPITALIST CONTROL.

I have a dream, that someday soon, we will take over the wired world, Pro Bono.

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BROTHERLY LOVE AND WHAT WOMEN DO

“Brother is this the first time you are fellowshiping with us?” A redlipsticked bright eyed, and nicely smelling sister who appeared by my side, asked, disrupting my peace as I pinged away on my bb, I was having a hard time shutting out the sermon being screamed at the congregation from the pulpit.

The question threw me off balance. I’m sure I have blinked at that angelic face several times, with my jaw hanging slack and mouth open, eyes wide, gawking at the cleavage just above my head. I answered by nodding. “You are welcome; This is World Wide Web Church of Christ our Good Shepherd and Saviour Son Of God Ministries International Incorporated…” . my jaw dropped to the marble-tiled floor as the cleavage came lower and closer to by face.

It wasn’t my first time in the church, but I never knew the name of the church run into a whole sentence, albeit disjointed. That wasn’t about the name of the church really. She asked further: “are you married?” I shook my head vigorously, and she continued: smiling a Mona Lisa smile, “then you should join us on the 24th of this month for our annual Singles Retreat. The theme of the program is You Are The Bone Of My Bone. It is going to be wow!”

“Wow” I echoed letting go a few drools. You wouldn’t blame me for slobbering, I was seeing an angel in flesh. Besides a Brotha could lost his head in that cleavage. This young lady was drop-dead gorgeous. She could have been taken for an apparition of Aaliyah. Maybe she wasn’t an apparition, maybe she was Beyonce’s twin sister. I was trying to sort that out mentally when something clicked in my head “How about you? Married or single?” I heard myself ask. “I am single of course (moron)” she said. She could have verbalized the word in brackets and it would have come out right as a compliment. She had that grace and aura about her that made every of her word and gesture scripturally correct and hallowed.

“My name is Chris, Chris as in pastor Chris but you may call me Brother Chris”. I was just blabbing, opening my arms wide for a hug, but she took my right hand and shook it gently, and firmly. I was just going to add: “I love beautiful women. I want to live in a world full of them. This is why I don’t want to go to heaven when I die, I want to go Venus…” When the church suddenly went quiet; the Pastor had announced over the loud speakers “brethren, it is offering time” it was so quiet I could hear the fluttering sound of my batting eyelids. A still small voice had said “stop talking shit, jackass!”. So I thought the better of telling her about my one life’s goal that time.

She said her name was Sister Mercy, and I said my name again, and reeled out my bb pin, and Twitter handle, and facebook name. She stood erect walked away but reminded me about the retreat date. My eyes had followed her all through the rest of the service. At the close of church I had sought her out and I lost all interest in her. I lost my Christian Brotherly Love for Sister Mercy because she broke my heart by what she did. I had tracked her down to the rest rooms, and I saw her…with a brotha (What the fuck was she really doing to him that time? Blowing out the speck in the brotha’s eye? It looked to me like she was breathing the breathe of life into his lungs, and the brotha’s arms were wrapped around her midriff, for support I guess. What the hell? I got a log in my own eyes and I could use a breathe of life in my lungs. I called to her, but she seem to not hear me, or was she ignoring me?

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WHILE STILL WE LIVE ON THIS SIDE OF PATADISE

The fruits of paradise will no more be forbidden: The nicest thing about going to paradise is not just reclining on the beach with a cool glass of Vodka-laced pineapple juice, with a little umbrella at the edge of the ice-filled glass, ogling and fondling virgins; we have all that within reach while still we live. The nicest thing about paradise is the fruits of Paradise will no longer be forbidden nor jealously guarded by scowling Bouncer-Angels. Isn’t that good to know? A brotha will no more need to be tempted to take a bite of the apple, and he’s going to be popping all that cherry for free. I like temptations the temptation part of the process has it’s appeal, but all the apples, all the cherries, and whatnots for free, 100% discount, and no God looking over my shoulders is irresistible.

Now who wouldn’t like that? I like it? I want to go to paradise and I will do anything to pass that judgement day selection process. Now, I am made to understand that the stress-free way to get through the gate of paradise is to smuggle some explosive devices into some plane and detonating them, Blowing up your own ass alongside a lot of people’s into minced meat. Scary uh?, well it is scary. That is why I am not so keen on going down like that very soon. I am putting that off until I am as old as Methuselah, when I will be (perhaps) too old and too senile to get it up. I have always fancied going out blazing, but not while I got sap in me.

I tell you, the best of life and death is getting the best of both worlds. Too few people are aware of the possibility of having the best of two worlds. They go about life in perpetual abstinence and self-denial, leaving their wild oats unsowed, and saps untapped, hoping to be rewarded for their ignorance on a “last day”. Pooh. That’s not the way I do. I’m no righteous brotha, but I am no bigot neither: I love God, I love my neighbours, and I am sowing my wild oats- doing my very best to be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth- while yet I live.

Life is all about balance. Creating balance can be a daunting feat, but Balance is not exactly rocket science. I have been able to achieve that feat like an expert tight rope walker. Having the best of two worlds is all about creating balance, and balance is achieved when the loads on both sides of the scale are equalised. Not, not mathematics, not exactly chemistry, but objectivity. Objectivity- objectivity in all things, especially religiousity means recognising the measure of your karmic load and equalising it with a counter weight of the same measure. Balancing Between the holy and the profane, the good and the bad, the bane and the wise, the dos and the don’ts.

Now back to paradise and the fruits of paradise. Know this, therefore, brethren, that you sow nothing, you reap nothing. If you haven’t sowed your wild oats while still you live, you reap no fruit in paradise when you’re gone. Blowing up your ass isn’t going to help. No jihad, no crusade, and no polgrom is going to get you anywhere near that tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. While still you live is the best of time to sow your oats and lay up for yourself treasures in heaven, or paradise, or Nirvana or Elyseum or the underworld, wherever you aim on going to after life. He that has an ear let him hear.

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