Temptation: The Reboot – Part 1

So we rebooted the original Temptation story that was mildly popular on this blog some years ago. This reboot is set 5 years after – some X-men type thing. Just assume Jessica and Nneka are dead … well, because they are both dead to me, now.

It begins *drumroll please*

I hobbled to my seat and collapsed, sweating profusely yet sheepishly happy. I was relieved I did not fall, but I was excited too. I had begun to regain my ability to walk gradually, and even though I still could not move for more than five minutes without pausing to rest, I could move about a lot more freely than the week before when I just got my cast taken out.

Nonetheless, I was feeling giddy because of her. I did not know her name but I knew I had met true beauty as soon as I glanced her way. Her face shone the way I imagine Moses’s did when he came down from Sinai with the Ten Commandments. Her glow was beyond ‘on fleek’ and her eyes – hazel colored and inquisitive, darting around the room every five seconds – somehow also held a deep, soothing gaze that convinced me all was well with the world despite the near-excruciating pain in my right ankle.
Her complexion was what you imagine the person who first described a lady ‘ebony’ had in mind; it was brilliantly beautiful .. and black :). She was not particularly tall but she had one of those absurdly curvy shapes that you could see even if she was seated normally behind a makeshift attachment desk in a crowded classroom. She was not what I would typically classify as ‘my type’ but immediately I saw her, I knew I never really had a type. Yep, she immediately dispelled any myths I had been peddling to myself that I had a type and banished them to the same cerebral pit where the ‘memories’ of ‘Lady Koin Koin’ and the legendary India 100-1 Nigeria football match had been sent to immediately I had any real sense of how reality works.
I had to get to know her. I knew I had to . . . but ‘os courfe’, my rational brain kicked in.
‘Niccur, you’re a mess, half a leg, shabbily dressed, not particularly attractive and a tad geeky… Boy, there’s no way you’ll get beyond a half-arsed Hello in response’.
But like with all stupid decisions I have made in my admittedly short life – despite possessing what I believe to be a brain firmly lodged in the 95th percentile when measured for analytical prowess, I allowed my emotional, eternal optimist brain have its say.
The mad guy was all like;
‘Guy!!!, you’re over 6’5, your limp is clearly one of the best ice breakers in this place, you speak well most times, you are smart, you can act nonchalantly wealthy and you can always project your “effortless” depth if she’s not feeling you from the off … and yes, your looks are pretty limited but you tick two out of the three famous requirements that make up the popular TDH checklist – You can do this, mehn!’.
Of course, the rational brother had to warn me again;
‘Brother, don’t do this to us, eez not by force to talk to this fine girl today, you will just spoil your mind for no good reason when she rejects you’.
Guys, I weighed everything in my near perfect pro Vs con mental counter and decided to ignore the overwhelming victory that the cons fought so hard for. I made a beeline for her seat armed with minimal game, zero strategy, an average smile and a limp that would make even my most optimistic cheerleader predict that I was going to crash and burn. I got to her seat and before she could look up, from the edge of my eye, I saw my mouth begin to produce words I wasn’t thinking. It was almost as if there was some puppet master in my brain I had never met before now pulling my verbal strings. The words I heard were;
‘Hey Mamacita!, come let’s get ma familia (more familiar?)’. She smiled … I was relieved .. then I discovered she had been intently reading something on her phone … she looked up .. ‘Oh, were you talking to me?’ … panic set in .. from the corner of my eyes, I could see a couple of disbelieving stares from some of  the people I would be spending at least the next six months with . . . I could smell the judgement and could hear the inner voices in their heads saying ‘this guy must have a death wish’.
The seconds passed as she looked up at me expecting any answer, my crippling social anxiety was already in cruise mode. ‘Who send you?’ my rational brain asked mockingly.
It was too late to turn back now and I decided to forget all I knew and just talk . . . and talk I did. I honestly cannot remember much of what I said but I know I got many wry smiles, maybe like four full smiles and a couple of genuine big laughs. I know I felt like Picasso painting The Girl Before a Mirror as I spit lyrics I never knew I was capable of composing.
The most vivid memory from the encounter was the wide-eyed shock mixed with unabashed envy I saw resting on the face of the guy seated beside her when I successfully elicited my second big laugh from Uke … Yes, her name is Uke, and yes, I never hexperredit at the time.
It was not a one-sided conversation, though. She was way more intelligent than she was beautiful – and she was breathtakingly gorgeous. Our repartee left me wondering whether she had any blemishes. She had – a wild side – but more on that later. I hobbled back to my seat, refusing to make eye contact with her even though I could feel her eyes tracking my every move. My ‘blaad’ was already throway-ing hailings from his seat as I took mine and within seconds, I had received his ‘Baba!! (with the two raised hailing hands emoji)’ congratulatory Whatsapp message. I smiled and my eternal optimist brain was all like;
‘My niccur! I know say one day you go make us proud. No dey doubt yourself again, mehn! you be bad guy!!’.
Over the next couple of months, I and Uke got really close and exactly a year after I met her, we were engaged and for those of you who I forgot to invite, we walked(no limping anymore) down the aisle last week and I’m pretty certain we will live happily ever after . . .
Okay, so apology time. This whole story is littered with falsehoods. In fact, I think the closest thing to the absolute truth is my height.  I no get the kain sendlessness needed to pull this off yet. Nevertheless, the girl, Uke, is very real and I met her in a class similar to the one I described(or did not) in my tale above. I did not have the balls to even mumble words to her till a couple of weeks later and it was just greeting kind of talk. I still imagine we will eventually start something and end up together in marital bliss but I have been led to believe that I first have to take my conversations with her beyond ‘Hi’, ‘Hello’ level.
Unfortunately, I do not see that happening any time soon. Her beauty dey constantly tie my tongue. I think I will just write her a letter (and add my picture because I’m pretty certain she will not recognize my name) and slip it into her bag when she steps out of class.
Yep, I am as pathetic as that. So for those of you out there feeling bad at your lack of game, just remember that there’s a weird Gareth guy out there who drafted an imaginary story of how he met and got married to a girl that he actually hasn’t met and wrote this full imagination in over 1,000 words on his blog that the girl does not read(or know of its existence). . . Smh, such a loser
By Gareth Glover(… a pseudonym)

An Open Letter to Open Letter

Gistoscope Towers,

Somewhere in Nigeria.

December 27, 2013.

The Original Open Letter,

Open Letter Commission,

Wherever you are.

Dear Open Letter,

An Open Letter to Open Letter

I write to you today for a myriad of reasons, the highlight of which is – I don’t want you around anymore. As is apparently now customary, I will give a breakdown of the reasons why I had to write this as the letter progresses.

It seems you have become very popular in recent times especially in our political circles. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why. Your dad – the normal letter – was a staple, exasperating presence in my childhood forever haunting me as I struggled to understand whether it would rather end with ‘yours faithfully’ or ‘yours sincerely’ (Okay . .  I must admit . . this still haunts me). I was so happy when I discovered I didn’t need to write anymore of its kind after I had got into my second year at the university. You could not imagine the joy I felt when I discovered that the less uptight e-mail had replaced your irritating dad as the major and most common form of business correspondence. I got even happier as gradually, chat sites and applications became more ubiquitous as it meant your father was ever closer to his grave. The whole brouhaha about air pollution, deforestation, global warming bla bla bla killing our planet and causing everything from common cold to the bad-ass-ery (this should totally be a word) of Kim Jong-Un indicates that the end is nearer for your family and its unnecessary intricacies.

However, despite the dwindling influence and presence of your kin, you have made an impressive though puzzling come back. Fittingly enough, you made your confounding comeback among some of the most confused people in our society – our political office holders, past and present. In the space of weeks, you not only engulfed the attention of a whole nation but also adequately sowed (abi placed) seeds of discord (abi land mines) at strategic points – points where they are likely to germinate(abi explode) on or before 2015. It is particularly perplexing to me that you could be used for such insidious activities when all I’ve ever considered using you for was expressing my heartfelt desire to Tonto Dikeh to stop singing/saying ‘Hi’  and to Dame Patience to stick to Okrika or whatever language is her mother tongue – lightheartedly of course.

But my major beef today is not with the manner of your use and the political significance of your type to the Nigerian politic-o-sphere (yet another collection of alphabets which should totally be a word), that beef should be the subject of a far more serious article written by an actual political analyst. Noooo, my beef is with the people who use you and the exceptional way you make them appear. How do you work your mighty miracles with them? How do you make them sound smarter and much more articulate than their countless public speeches suggest they are? How do you make dreary, obtuse-sounding, soporific speakers sound like passionate, erudite, charismatic individuals? The Obasanjos and GEJ are, with all due respect,  not Soyinka and Achebe, so how do you get them sounding alike? And why do they have to outline countless reasons for writing you at the beginning often covering more space than your actual subject? Why do some like Iyabo use you for subjects that are of little concern to us – the general populace? Why is it often so difficult to ascertain why we are reading you? Why do your replies not answer the pertinent questions posed in their predicates?  And where on earth do they find the time to write you when our country is in such dire straits economically and otherwise? I would also use this opportunity to ask how and why they chose you. Why not some other more exciting, maybe less time consuming alternative like a debate/shouting match/cat fight atop Zuma/Olumo Rock involving rap interludes from Jim Iyke and commentary by Hon. Patrick Obahiagbon? Too many ‘whys’ and too few ‘becauses’ – please start answering asap or my beef could turn sour.

On a side note and though I’m sure it’s not completely your fault, I will also like to beg you to cease and desist from populating my twitter interface/list of tweets/TL (sorry o – does TL mean tweet list?). You can’t keep trending every time. It’s distracting, for one, and unfair to other attention seekers and possibly more exciting trends/tweets which I would have uncovered like the classic ‘Nigeria vs Kenya tweef’. If you insist on remaining relevant in the modern age despite my vehement protests, then please, stay in ink and paper form at the least. We don’t want e-open-letters, that’s why we have the e-mail. Discussions like the ones you incite are meant for the Vanguard News comment section not my TL. Consider yourself adequately warned – I hope not to see you in that world anymore.

In conclusion, I fear for the future if the current spate of spurting out your kind continues; I fear a day might come when a ten-page open letter is written for every tiff between political officers; I fear that one day you and your kind will eventually overrun my Twitter TL and leave me in a state of eternal boredom seated in a dark room, gently rocking from side to side, arms around knees listening to the epic soundtrack of The good, The Bad and The Ugly . . . BUT, What I fear the most and the predominant source of my conviction to write this urgent, ironically open letter is the apparently certifiable, high alert threat on twitter to ‘Watch out for Patience Jonathan’s Open Letter to Rotimi Amaechi’.

PLEEEAAAASSSSEEEEE!!!!! For the sake of my sanity, your self-respect and the goodwill of this great nation from fellow English speaking nations across the world, PLEEEAAAASSSSEEEEE!!!!! Don’t let her do it. Run away, disappear, exile yourself, take a long vacation on some beach in Micronesia, become a monk at some Shaolin temple or go to Mars, but PLEEEAAAASSSSEEEEE!!!!! don’t allow yourself to be used in this way.   I believe I need not write any further especially because I don’t want this one to become as mind-numbing as its predecessors. Thank you for understanding. I wish you and your kin well(I really do)

Yours faithf . . . sincer . . .

F*ck this

Yours in a begging way,

Izuchukwu Okata . . . I really love my country

Follow him on Twitter @IzutaDGaffer

DISCLAIMER , PS : or NB :

I forgot to sign this letter because my tongue was lodged firmly in my cheek – And if you’re Nigerian but can’t understand that expression, then OBJ and GEJ deserve more blame than they’d care to admit .