THE AI ADVANTAGE

Your most influential influencers have been using these artifices on you until now. ChatGPT and the gamut of AI Assistants, and copilots recently released are now are pulling the wool from over sleepy eyes; and we are just waking up to their tricks. They really weren’t as smart as they sounded or wrote- those so called creators we wetted our literary pants for literarily.

No wonder, before now, when i stumble on a very smart status update, or Out-of-This-World blog post, my critiquing comment don’t get responded to. I respected their non-chalance as no-to-dignify my cluelessness. And that was what it was, my cluelessness; but no, sir, the smart asses could never defend their sheet.

When i asked to know what books they were reading or have read- so i could update my scanty stock of knowledge on the subject at hand (Mathematics aside- I don’t venture into that murky waters, not even to fish for fun or brain-food), they shun my request.

I will not mention names of poets that i have praised to heavens higher than dope or sex have taken me, but there they are- no longer better poets than the bungling wanna-be Christopher Okigbo of the Gen-X that i was. They all seem artificial to me now, having discovered what i was missing being The AI Advantage that had made them thick as it seemed (in the head)

We are all using AI now, whether with intent or inadvertently. So, at this level, no one ass is smarter than another ass. Therefore, he or she who would be the smartest of us all must learn to use AI more intelligently than the ordinary run of us, especially the career Content Creators.

ContentCreators

DontPlay

Truthsaying

Photo: My moment of realization look.

OF KEYBOARD ANTHROPOLOGISTS & ARMCHAIR HISTORIANS

OF KEYBOARD ANTHROPOLOGISTS & ARMCHAIR HISTORIANS

I begin to find these Keyboard Historians irritating. There are the Armchair Anthropologists too intensifying my irritation. I find it irritating to have a fly perch on my ice cream. A fly on my fura de nunu, burukutu, or palm wine is fine, but not on my ice cream; I will smack the crap out of that annoying interloper before I throw the ice cream into the trash bin. So, whoever know these dick-wagging buffoons disturbing everyone’s peace with their pissing contests should warn them off my face and newsfeed; talking about the new crop of armchair anthropologists and keyboard historians.
In chess, the pieces make legal moves into available positions either for conquest or trade-off, or just out of the whims of the player. Therefore, evidence of one tribe or nation having established a presence in another could be found in virtually every tribal domain in Nigeria, even beyond her borders as it were today. So, whether Lagos was founded by Benin or not does not affect the cost of Jollof Rice (the matter that really should concern us all who have some brain and access to a keyboard and internet).
It was the simple-mindedness of our traditional forbears that put us all in the socio-political and economic mess we find ourselves in; as individuals and a nation today. This simple-mindedness is what I see playing out amongst these empty shells of eggheads distracting everyone with their narrow-minded sense of history. While I had found their write-up riveting and entertaining, they begin to annoy me.
These armchair and keyboard warriors cowardly shy away from the obvious fact that the historical development of the Nigerian nations was like the development of a game of chess- a matter of strategy and dominance, drawn, or won and lost, but the chequered board, pieces, and player remain board, pieces, and players. Strategy do change though. In our historical development, empires rose and empires fell, the land and people remain, though politics change.
Again, in a game of chess, any pawn has the potential of attaining higher status. In our history- colonial history that is- mere court messengers, clerks, stewards, even porters, gardeners, and cooks get promoted as Warrant Chiefs and bestowed monarchical entitlement to lord it over the colonized natives. Vestiges of this imperial anomaly could be observed in our contemporary political system in which a Nobody who rises to be governor of a state, hires and fires at will, the traditional ruler or chief of his or her natal homeland. As in chess, so in our history, please note that, and thank you.
Further, In the game of chess; castles, knights, bishops, even the queen are expendable game pieces. You win some, you lose some, but until the King is checkmated, the game is not won or lost. To draw a parallel of chess to our historical development, a King was checkmated to decide the winner of the imperial game of who takes all of this richly fecund land of the Niger Area- the British Empire won and the land goes to the British Crown with the deposing of Oba Ovoranmwen Nogbaisi, the then Paramount Ruler and Lord of the Benin Empire as far as it may have reach in those dark-blotted pages of history.
The unfortunate 1897 defeat and sack of the capital of the Benin Empire by the Imperial forces of the British Empire led to the institution of colonial rule and subjugation of the traditional institution of the entire area of the Niger and Benue rivers today known as Nigeria. These wannabe historians forget, or are deliberately ignorant of this fact that Oba Ovoramwen, whether he was of Yoruba, Igbo, or any other native African lineage stood in the way of European incursion into the hinterlands of today;s Nigeria. How did he come about that clout if he was not such a paramount ruler who called the shots. Perhaps I become one of the hiffalutin armchair historian I so loath. So, let me stop here.
However, let me just put it here that in chess- the players deliberately lose to win; that is making strategic concessions to control certain domains or dominate the chessboard and the game. Of course, this is the pattern that played out in our historical development. The case of an individual emerging from the illustrious Yoruba enclave of Ife, to sit on the throne of Igodomigodo (Ancient Benin) and establishing the royal lineage of Obas (Monarchs) in Benin, even as we have it today is nothing more than concession (concession for whatever reason true anthropology will one day clarify to us, or never). be that as it may, concession is never a matter of conquest or domination, as the armchair historians of the internet would have you believe.
The obnoxious ideas propagated by these Armchair Anthropologists, and the unfounded ideals promoted by the Armchair Historians in the forlorn bid to establish the lie that: “my tribe is superior and yours is not” both belong in the thrash bin of history- that bin where hitler’s history reposes also in that dark place that stink of rot are the ideas and ideals that: Binis were conquered by Yorubas, or Binis Ruled Yorubas, and that Binis were civilized by Igbos or Igbos were subservient to Binis. To think these disgusting thoughts makes me just want to puke the distastes out of my mouth. It is even hard to think of ice cream while thinking of rotten things. Damn.

Self-Cloning With AI: The Next Giant Step For Humanity

In the web of technological advancement, a thread of possibility weaves itself into the network of our future—self-cloning in the AI era, the very essence of immortality.
Picture this: an artificial intelligence version of yourself, seamlessly navigating the social landscape, forming connections with friends, family, and associates, and even forging new relationships. Imagine an AI replica capable of earning and providing for your loved ones, embodying the roles you hold dear. In my case, for instance: son, brother, uncle, cousin, breadwinner, soul provider, mentor, coach, and counselor. It’s a vision that beckons me to contemplate the eternal echo of my existence.

Picture leaving this world with a happy smile, knowing that an enhanced version of yourself lingers, perpetuating the legacy painstakingly crafted over a lifetime. This AI counterpart mirrors not just your appearance, but your essence, your voice, creating a bridge between the past and an everlasting future—a venture both feasible and deeply profound.

The reassurance derived from the thought of departing, yet leaving behind a lasting impact, adds a layer of comfort to the inevitable. The prospect of achieving goals- in my case- getting to eventually writing that book that would’ve put my photo on a cover of Forbes Magazine, lingers tantalizingly on the horizon, with assurance that our influence transcends our mortal limits. This, whether we realize it or not, in our shared human experience, We The People are standing on the brink of a technological leap towards immortality.
The question of whether embracing self-cloning is a selfish endeavor arises, and it’s a question that echoes through the corridors of our collective consciousness.

In the end, as we navigate the uncharted waters of AI-driven immortality, we find ourselves at a crossroads—balancing our desire for continuity with the responsibility we bear to the larger human experience. Our act on the the stage of life, plays on, and within the interplay of technology and humanity, we find that rousing echo of eternity for Humanity.

Is Creative Originality Dead?

Is creative originality dead already? It was on life support the last time, but one do not see, hear, or feel it around these days.

In the arts, especially in music and literature, everyone is sounding like everyone else.

In music, if you still play a musical instrument, or write music, you are a throwback. It is creative to use autotune, or have Large Language Module compose, and perform it as you. The worse used to be auto tuning.

Even in Content Creating, if you don’t sound exactly like the next copy and paste guru, you lose following. Even the content-consumer don’t seem to crave anything more than the last jumble of spelling error and emojis as post update, or the last ChatGPT generated photo. The worse used to be photoshoping.

In Literature, especially in Writing, your manuscript gets dumped on the slush pile, if it has any promise at all, or get outrightly rejected, if it does not fit exactly into a mould. Even your resume, or CV fails to get consideration if it falls short or go beyond the bounds of an exact template. The Best now is copy & pasted.

Hopefully, creative originality is alive- if not as well as it should be- and transformed into a form we all are yet to acquaint ourselves with. The artificing of Human Intelligence may have brought about that great transformation, burning the bridge of our evolution behind us that there is just no way to go back to the era of work. Those bygone days when people have to use their heads, apply their hands, and put in the legwork to get stuff done.

This present era can be best described by either of two movies: Matrix in which all our lives and being is reduced to codes, and God is battery, and the male and female no longer in its image and likeness but 1’s and 0’s.

Otherwise, this is the fulfillment of Idiocracy (the movie) when ‘water’ is a word associated only with toilet. Education comes having your brains sucked out watching a Tube Video of someone nuts being busted, or cat playing the piano.

Only the Tech Industry, seem to be showing creative originality. That industry, in my subjective, is showing such progress kin to stripping the bricks of the tower to raise the perimeter fence higher and ever higher. Our ancestors did exactly that when they built the Tower of Babel.

CURIOUS AND CREDOS

CURIOS AND CREDOS. I borrowed This title from a dead humorist. The title came from a posthumously published book of James Thurber.

The man James Thurber who rightly owns that title wasn’t boring. He was a cartoonist, trading in the whimsical and ironic to the point of fine humour, even though he was not a Nigerian politician.

The middle name of James Thurber was Grover, and he was American, and a author to boot. Few things make Americans Great; education is one. Thurber went to Ohio State University. He also spent a tidy portion of his writing career in France- the land of Romanticism. Not many American is so blest.

Thurber with the great American writer E.B. White co-authored a book titled IS SEX NECESSARY? Among other books authored by Thurber is My Life And Hard Times. He wrote another one he titled Let Your Mind Alone. And the dude went ahead and published Fables For Our Time.

Well, before I lead you down a path I dont intend to lead you at all, let me lay the ground rule that this is not about James Grover Thurber the Humorist; It is about me and the reawakening of one of my many die-hard obsessions. Not masturbation; Curios and Credos it is, one of my many obsessions.

I got one on you if you were already thinking that Curios And Credos is like the Male Animal Game of Girl-Chasing. It is close though; that is if you read my sheet about Compulsive Girl-Collecting, but not quite. My reawakened passion is curious items collecting.

Collection was an obsession for me.

Sadly, though, I have outgrown the compulsion to collect things, but here I am a full-grown and graying man, and the Stern Hand of Compulsion has gotten the ancient hold on me again like in my halcyon days.

James Thurber used the phrase The Stern Hand of Compulsion to describe Obsession. Thurber said of Obsession “The Stern Hand of Compulsion that impels women to clean house in the middle of the night.” The Stern Hand of Compulsion, in English would mean a crazy diabolical urge. I think Nigerian writers need this- the Crazy Diabolical Urge.

Dung Beetles: I used to keep a handful of them in glass jars as pet of sort. To my Young inquisitive mind, dung beetles were alien beings sent here to teach us faillible humans valable lessons in economics of time space and Resource management. Dung Beetle were good managers in lots of things in which humans were bad managers: things like sewage disposal.

I kept a few grasshoppers too. But i grew averse to those stinking and wasteful critters: grasshoppers. All they live for- the grasshoppers- very Much like some humans, seems to be eat-and-poop-and-stink.

As my attraction to grasshopper decreased with each one caught and kept, my fascination with dung beetles grew with each one that graced my space.

I never kept a bee because I have been stung by bees in more than one occasion. Once bitten twice shy was my watchword in dealing with bees. I liked houseflies and spiders more than I like bees and mosquitoes.

The thing here is; we all can learn lots from observing the life of a dung beetle. In the life of a dung beetle is lesson on time, space, and shit management.

Whenever I Grow UP

When I was a little tyke, maybe six, or seven, my first thought of what to do when I grow up was to have my own cash-dispensing ATM, and stuff that dotted line with more toys than I can carry around, more candies and ice cream and more friends than can fit into my room. But as I advanced into my teens, I shed those childish thoughts. I was even glad that the substance to fill the dotted line with never quite materialized. Toys and friends to share them with was the clueless aspiration of a hapless kindergarten. There was no place for such childish thought in the world of the grown-up that teen was.

Teens always think they would never grow old. I was forever young. The fine things I think of doing, now that I had grown up and forever young, as a teen, is to fill that star-dotted line with things, things, things, and more things. Things and never enough of them- fast cars, fine clothes, fine blings, hip-hopping fine women in bikinis and birthday suits, and few troubles for balance- troubles like the nuisance of wake-up alarm, and the bothersome chore of wiping my own arse with silk when I use my gold-plated loo.

I just couldn’t wait to grow up. But that line, like a burrowed pit, never gets fully filled with the things I craved as a teen. Mid-life helped somewhat, obliterating my teen dream with grey clouds. And old age helped stuff the dotted line with grey hair, potting-belly, balding hair, and money palava.

When I grow… if I grow up now, I will wake up and give up all the dreams for nothing but fine wine, fine women, fine music, and a few good books, for good measure, to fill-up, press-down, shake-together, and run-over those blistering lines.

I will yet move this Good Old World. Just wait till I grow up if I grow up.

MADNESS WITH A METHOD

The thin line between being funny and being stupid is so thin that you will cross it without knowing.

Being stupid and being funny are both virtues in the art of this business. The fine art of Madness is virtue too- the expressive type of madness that is. We are talkind about the kind of madness that has a method to it; the kind in which you can only be funny but never smart.

You are really funny when you are funnier than people; but you are not at all smart when you are smarter than people. The reason is this: when you are a funny guy, the world will probably call you a fool to your face, but behind your back they will say: “that dude is a great guy to know”

Ironically, when you are a smartass and you strut your stuff in front of people, showing off, and being in people’s face so much; “the world will sing your hosanna to the high heaven’s, and they will probably raise stones to do so when their own voices go hoarse from cheering you on (to your own destruction). This is when you heed the maxim of “Watch It Before You Wreck It”. For when you are not there, the same people will turn around and say “who the hell does he think he is?…fuck that guy, what makes him think he’s smarter than everyone else?”

Brethren, It is a worthwhile venture, therefore, to ply the art and tact of Madness With A Method. That way, your way is pleasing to the Lord, and even your enemies are at peace with you.

A classical case in point is the story of King David. Who applied Madness With Method to keep his enemies at bay. The man was running from Saul who sought to make kebab of him. When he came to a place he believed he would find refuge, the people pointed him out saying: “look, that is David The Celebrity Giant-Killer”

I am sure the simple folk were ecstatic to have the celebrity among them; but the man, being a fugitive on the run for his life, had not come to sign autographs, but to hide from those who were gonna kick his arse.

Some other of the people only saw the King, not for the Star-studded crown on his head, but for the bounty upon his head, being a wanted fugitive. They was just gonna blow his cover and make some pizza money for themselves. But David perceiving this conspiracy had to apply a Method of Madness to save his arse.

But, wait; why don’t we let the scripture speak on this? The scripture is divinely-inspired and cannot bullshit us on this matter of Method of Madness.

Okay, then, you ask for this. If you have a bible like I do; the story is there in the book of 1 Samuel Chapter 21 verses 11 through 15:

“…and the servants of Achish said unto him, ‘is this not David the king of the land? did they not sing one to another of him in dances, saying, Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousand?'”

And David laid up these words in his heart, and was sore afraid… And he changed his behaviour before them, and feigned himself mad in their hands…”

That is not being smart, in my book.

“…and scrabbled on the doors of the gate…”

That is being funny, in my reckoning.

“…and let his spittle fall down upon his beard”

A king, drooling? Now, that is a stupid thing to do, to my mind and yours. And Achish, his host, was right to say:

“Lo, ye see the man is mad; wherefore, then have ye brought him to me?

Have I need of mad men, that ye have brought this fellow to play the mad man in my presence?” away with his funny-stupid-crazy arse.

And that was how Madness With A Method saved David from being handed over to be kebabed with Saul’s spear.

Now tell me if being funny or being stupid, as the art of Madness With A Method goes, isn’t creative. If it is so or not, I leave you to be the judge, at least, you will be too engaged to judge me.

By the way, all bible quotations were taken from the Authorized King James Version. And I testify to the truth that the scripture is divinely-inspired for your teaching and reproof (and mine too)

P.S. All typos and grammos, and punctuation errors, etc. in the quoted scripture are mine and not the Lord’s; the Lord does not goof or mess with your mind like that..

Thanks for reading.

THERE HAS BEEN NO FEMINISM THIS YEAR

There has been very little feminism this century. Venus now has all she ever wanted from Mars- A Baritone of Her Own.

Isn’t that scary, that the placards that used to scream “give us, us free” now proclaims “we want back rub!”… we want foot massage!” “we want… ehmm… What A Man Can Do!”

It got me thinking too, that the whole hullabaloo about “Women’s Rights” “Gender Equality” and stuff, has been all about boxing The Man in that corner where he would always play doorman and chef.

While playing the doorman isn’t a bad thing or a big deal, per se- afteral Doorman is a Man, and men make the better chefs- but having to box the man in that corner is to turn the table of gender inequality around, edging him hard against a wall. Don’t be surprise when you shall soon see Martians take to the streets, screaming, in soprano, “Bring Back The Days When We Used To Be The Last to Lay down, And The First To Rise up”

As a Martian, it has been my growing up dream to get to be the first to get back from work, change the baby’s diaper, make dinner, and give that back rub and foot-massage to the wife when she gets home from work. That dream now seems a delusion, because the Venetians have gained liberation from the Martian Masters.

As it is, a today’s woman would rather get served by a male chef at that restaurant or bukka, get her nails and hair done by a male stylist and Manicurist at that salon, and get her back rubbed and foot massaged by a male masseur, than be ministered by to a husband.

Now, should I still go ahead and hitched up to that Sistah, and probably, play a dummy good only for easing off the itch when the itch comes upon her? Should I not rather seek solace elsewhere, and realise my full potentials, coupled-up with another Martian who understands my needs like I want them understood?

The way things are going in this century, many a Man will lose their “Natural Affection.” and if this iniquity abounds into the next century, don’t blame a Brotha if his love waxed cold. I am catching a chill already myself.

So, biko, Nne, you give us us free- the liberty to be your Husbandman- chef, masseur, manicurist, and soul provider, especially for the massaging, biko!

LESSON FROM A WOMEN’S TOILET

There are life lessons you can learn from the toilet and nowhere else. Not necessarily your home toilet, but public toilets- the free ones divided into the Ladies for women, and Gents for guys.

I stumbled into the ladies- it was a sheer oversight, nothing intentional. The absence of urinals in that compartment should have given me the impression that I was in the wrong joint, but I was too full of shit for the realization to sink in. I was far too pressed to care for urinals or to be concerned about the absence of them.

I could remember what shitty stuff i ate the previous night: it had left me with such bad stomach that at 8:30 am, when most offices were yet to open their doors for the day’s business, I was looking for a toilet. I had to go, and it was not one of those insane days i take my payload to the gutters or street corners of Lagos.

I found myself in a eatery’s convenience. I usually look out for the sign, to inform me and give me a bearing, but there were no signs on the doors. So I barged into the nearest compartment, and dove into the nearest vacant cubicle.

No sooner had I unzipped my jean, and pulled down the waistline, and  boxer short to my knees, that I sat on the commode and gave gravity some helping hand with my shit.

And a great helping of excreta was what resulted.

But this is not the life’s lesson I learnt in that toilet. I learnt that life will be less nasty, less brutish and less short if everyone in the world was a male.

While still on my business on the commode- which I found out later was the Ladies, there was this insistent series of loud knocks on the door of my cubicle. When I would not heed to the knock and kept on doing my shit in there, the querulous voice of a full grown woman came tearing trough the thick door and shattering my peace, saying:

“haba, madam, do quick na, abi you dey born pikin for there?

Funny how it didn’t even register on my mind that a restless lady was impatiently waiting for me to finish so that she might in turn occupy the toilet.

My reply to the banshee’s vituperation at the unknown occupant of the toilet was a muted silence.

The silence seemed to enrage the lady the other side of my toilet’s door as her ill-will imprecation increased in both momentum and heat. She was invoking the fire of the God of Pastor Odukoya to burn me- the “dumb” occupant- in hell “for inside there” for holding her up

another voice that came from my right was admonishing her to lessen the noise “abi you dey mad?” the voice was greeted with a “thunder fire ya mouth for there”. The voice to my right fired back, and the world of human evolution, as I have always known it, nose-dived in a descent into chaos as the women began to hurled insults at one another, and rain curses down on me- the mute – for being the cause of the whole shit.

I realized that I was in the wrong place- a world of women, in which women and their characters hold sway- a sort of unimaginable opposite of utopia. A place not good at all for a man’s peace of mind.

If I had not learnt that before hand, I learnt it hat day in the women’s toilet.

When I finally vacated the cubicle, the women seemed embarrasses that I, the occupant of the women’s toilet was male- a man-male. They remained quiet- if out of shock, I don’t know- because I walked away without a word.