Are you a Mr. K

Mr. K hates his job. I know, because he says it every other day. Yet, he wakes up  by 4:30am, Monday to Friday, to prepare and embark on a tortuous journey to work. That's how his life's cookie crumbles. 

"I've got a wife and a kid, you know," his laments usually go, "and I can't, I just can't leave this job." The other day, while at work, his boss calls him a "loser". He looks around, shakes his head and romances the framed picture of his wife and kid sitting on his table.

Every time Mr. K closes work, happiness visits. He'll begin to narrate his gargantuan plans: "one day, I will be the next Dangote. No, I will build the next app that will make me billions." After these beautiful pronouncements, exhaustion reminds Mr. K that there's another day, that reality and dreams don't match. 

Mr. K likes it when people say his shoe sounds rich, that he drives the best car and uses the most expensive of perfumes. He'd boast "do you like my Creed Aventus?"

Last week, his account read negative.   "The next salary after this," says Mr. K, "will go into my savings." 

On the day the salary came, Apple released her beautiful iPhone 6s and, Mr. K, being an Apple fan, must get one. He counts ₦ 178,000 to get it. When he gets home, Mrs. K says "how will you forget my own phone, eh? What will my friends say? How will I post the picture of our new car on Instagram?" Mr. K after listening, promises his wife

 a brand new phone.

Mr. K wakes up, the next day, gets to work, borrows money from the company's accountant then proceeds to buy his wife her own Apple. That's love--his and hers.

Again, he's back to work. He remembers how he hates the job and begins to dream of how would get out of it. He unlocks his phone, goes to Instagram and starts to tap into the riches of @iamdiddy. His boss cuts him:  "kaaaaay! Where's the report?"

Oh boy, the PhD is not easy!

Trust me when I say this, PhD is hard. When, in January 2012, I started the program, I didn't anticipate what was coming. In November of the same year, a shocker came: my first supervisor resigned without informing me, and a new one was assigned.

        
         The new supervisor read my work and responded, "No. This is not a PhD! I can't supervise this." I looked at her, zoned out for some seconds and watched as her mouth moved furiously until my ears caught this punch-line,  "you’ve got to change your topic, Michael, that is,” she continued, “if you want to remain in this program.”

I could not believe it. Ten months of research and writing and this is what I get. That's when Mary Mary's song, "Can't Give Up Now" crept into my head.

I started again. I submitted ten new topics and finally, we decided to go for the appropriate one.

Year two, everything was going on fine or, so I thought. New supervisor, after reading my first submission, was mad about the quality of the draft (A draft must be free from grammatical errors, she argued. Choi!) She sent an email to the Director of Research, in which I was copied, saying, "Michael’s writing is not of PhD standard. I think he needs to be advised to withdraw or settle for the MPhil." I read the email five times, I remember that day, and I recall the taste of salt water rolling into my mouth. What can I do? Who do I speak to? 

I called my brother in Naija and he says "Na jeje monkey sit down, wey you go climb him back. But, I know you. You go find way out.” I only thought about his monkey analogy. It is true, I was literally sitting on a monkey's back, and this PhD-monkey tossed me around recklessly, up, down and sideways. I wanted to quit at this point but I thought of where I was coming from:

I was coming from a house where my parents sold their Abuja home to send me here, I was coming from a past where some of my teachers during my undergraduate days doubted me and labelled me with negative adjectives, I was coming from a place where my family sacrificed so much for me. So, quitting was not an option.

         The Director of Research and my new supervisor invited me for a meeting, one cold evening. Mr. Director said,  “What have you decided to do?” I said, “Can you give me two months to re-write the draft?” The owners of that irresponsible monkey looked at each other for a moment and later agreed; “Last chance,” they said in unison, as if they’ve been rehearsing that line.

         Two months later, I re-submitted. New supervisor said, “This is it. This is the standard! Yes.” However, because of the complexity of my topic, two more doctors were added to my supervisory team. It went on well from there, maybe sha.

         As I prepared for my confirmation of candidature, my Mac was stolen. Is someone out there to stop me from getting this degree? Get thee behind me! I cabashed all of them. I went in, presented without stress and was confirmed.

         I completed the program. The journey was worth it. I learned that champions are relentless and if they persevere they can achieve anything.

         It is not my brilliance that brought me this PHD, two things did: God and one hundred hour workweeks of, researching, reading, writing and re-rewriting.

Written by Michael Irene 

This article was first published in Stylish Academic

How to Prepare Nigerian Stew

Things to buy:

Tinned tomatoes 
Tomatoes(4 pieces)
Pepper(3)--depends on how spicy you want it
Onion(2)
Maggi cube--3 cubes
Meat/Chicken/fish etc
Oil/Palm Oil

*******

How to prepare:

PDP style:

Put pan on fire for fifteen minutes. When you see real smoke emanating from the pan then pour a generous amount of oil in it. Allow the oil to fry for ten minutes.

Oh, don't forget to blend your pepper and tomatoes and onions together. Bring out the blender, no need to rinse it, just put the pepper, tomatoes and onions in and blend.

Reduce the fire by removing some firewood
.

Pour your blended tomatoes, onion and pepper in the oil. Leave that for another twenty minutes. While you're doing all these make sure your meat is boiling.

Now remove the meat from the international pot and place it in the local pot where the stew has been cooking. Allow to cook until the pieces of meat soak the stew.

Then, if you want it to kick, add some purée on top and allow to cook for another five minutes.

And. Your. Stew. Is. Ready.

You can eat it with white rice, cassava bread and yam.

*****

APC style:

Already you should buy the pepper and tomatoes and onion blended in the market. You should know you can do this in the market. You don't have to see the pepper, tomatoes and onions. All is well that is alubasa and tomatoes.

You just want to eat fresh stew.

I'm guessing that you have the oil frying already. Ok. Me, I like locust beans and that's the first thing that goes in. Fry it for a while.

Next, add your blended pepper in. It must bubble. Quality tomatoes and alabusa always display their age in the pot.

Allow that to boil for fifty minutes. Then put your raw meat inside, that is, raw meat. Then cover it, allow it to cook for another one hour.

There is no need to reduce the fire. As a matter of fact, when it burns, it is the sweetest.

Stew is ready.

You can eat with jellof rice, fried rice and uncle Ben's rice.

LONDON CLUB DSKRT RE-AWAKES #BLACKLIVES MATTER

When the hashtag ‪#‎blacklivesmatter was making rounds on social media, many analysts argued that a tiger doesn't need to announce its tigeritude. In other words, blacks don’t need to reiterate their colour. Critics like Piers Morgan argued that "All lives mattered" and "blacks” should desist from sounding repetitive.

Well, that hashtag like Jack in the box sprang open when some "black" ladies, Zalika Miller, Reisha, Tasha and Lin Mel were refused into London club, DSTRKT. They committed a crime of being "too dark" and "overweight" and DSTRKT was not having it! This brought that reminder that #blacklivesmatter.

The management of the club, however, argued that they have nothing against blacks and that some of the girls didn't meet their high dressing standards. We know the statement is hogwash because there is evidences that show that the manager blatantly said the “black” and “fat” lady can’t enter the club.

It is easy to cloak racism in fine defensive words. You can tell when a person doesn't like you, especially when they start making up excuses why they don’t want to see you or be with you.

Plus, two years ago, one of my friends was denied entry into DSKRT because, according to the manager, "there were too many black men in a club". That statement begs a lot of questions. For example, what happens when there are too many "blacks" in a club? Is it all right for too many "whites" to be in a club?

DSTRKT should simply put a post on their doors saying "not all blacks allowed here". Thereby letting us know where they stand.

Labelling divides races. It will be hard to do away with labels because these things keep springing up. Just the other day, I refused to fill a form that asked me to tick if I was a "black minority". The man says, "if you don't fill that part we can't give you the contract, sir." Unfortunately enough, I didn’t get that job because of my stance.

I hope DSKRT change their policies in the nearest future and help ensure that this reminder #blacklivematters becomes obsolete.

On Muhammed Sanusi II and his “Adult” Wife.

Yes, she’s eighteen! Yes, she’s an adult and yes, she’s entitled to make decisions. She can marry when she wants. But, let’s call a spade a spade: she still needs guidance about marital choices and decisions.

         Imagine a young girl, your cousin, your sister, or your child’s friend, comes to you on a sunny Sunday afternoon and tells you that she wants to marry a fifty-four year old man, what would you say? I would advice her to try to reconsider her decisions, I’d say focus on achieving a concrete goal before stepping into that colossal institution called marriage. Also, I’d advice her that, as a teenager, she may find it very difficult to cope with marital challenges and its strange responsibilities.

         However, if she decides to get married to the said man, what can one do? One must ask about the man who has the rakish qualities to charm this young rose.

 The man in question is one Emir of Kano, Mohammed Sanusi II, and the former governor of Nigeria’s Central bank. The same man who, in his 2013 TEDx Talk, spoke about harnessing “potentials” of the next generation. Ironically, this is the same man tying an eighteen-year old potential.

I’m guessing before their marriage, they courted, that is, a period when they went on dates in order to understand each other and maybe, taste each other. It must be the same in the case of our Emir, or did he wake up one morning and decided to marry his wife, Sadiya, without dates, smooches and kisses? If they went through the courting stage, when did it start?

Religious and cultural bigots would argue that it’s acceptable for Sanusi to add a teenage girl, if he wants, to his fleet of wives. However, in a country where, in the North particularly, the gender gap remains particularly wide and the proportion of girls to boys in school ranges from 1 girl to 2 boys to 1 to 3 in some States, one would expect the educated emir to chill, at least, till the girl graduates from university or from a post-graduate program. How are we to solve the dearth of female education if the leaders pluck young girls at their prime?

Sadiya, should be in school and, not gambolling in the hands of sugar daddy. Period!

 Let’s do an educational maths here: from age four to age ten, a Nigerian child should get primary education; from age ten to sixteen, that same child should have got her secondary school education and from sixteen to twenty, the same child should have got her university education (that is, without strikes).

I wish Sadiya’s parents stepped in and told her to focus on achieving a more worthy goal than throwing her life in the hands of an older man. Sadiya should start training to defeat jealousy, inequality and arguments in her marital home because it comes with the polygamous territory and she must be ready to play the game to win.

No, not all Nigerians are idiots.

Despite popular belief, not every Nigerian walking on planet earth is an idiot. There are a lot of smart, talented Nigerians left on earth. Problem is—there are a lot more idiotic Nigerians than smart ones. And these idiots do a lot of irreparable damage. They are the reckless modicum of shit that hangs onto your white underwear. That one, yeah, that leaves an embarrassing stain. Sorry, a quick wash of your white Ralph Lauren briefs or Victoria Secret thongs in the toilet basin can’t get rid of that excreta.

So, you walk to a train station in West London, and you meet a brother looking like your brother from back home and because you can be a talkative sometimes (especially when London underground trains aren’t working), you decide to engage him in a conversation. You say “brother, how’re you?” He throws a look at you like you just committed a Bruce Jenner crime and hisses like Caitlyn only to reply churlishly: “fine.”

You suspect he is Nigerian. You decide to probe further. You switch your Naija lingo game up “How far na?” Brotherman replies “Don’t understand you.” His fonned English reeks of Sapele water, you smell it. Before he walks off, “My mother”, he says,  “if you must know, is from Warri, but my dad is Dutch. Yes.”  By this time, you’re confused, asking yourself why brotherman gives such details but you didn't ask any question. In anger, he walks away.  It happens, you tell yourself. It happens.

It doesn’t stop there. Even the ones who seek education in foreign lands sip the Idiot Juice. The producers of that juice must be making a killing. I think Nigerian students drink it in excess too. “Why?” or “how”? you ask.

You’re a teacher in a university and you’re the only dudu (as they call you) in there English Dept.  You’re introduced to the class and you proceed to introduce yourself to the class with your Nigerian accent.  And now, drumroll please, wait for it—that’s where you’ve f&*ked up!  

A black hand owned by a student goes up and your oyibo line supervisor, excited, says “Ah, a question?” She gives the student permission to ask her question. The amala-faced, too-much-make-up student stands up and asks, “Is this the only class for this course.” Your oyibo line supervisor replies “no” and goes further, “why do you ask?”  Dear Nigerian sister (you can tell she’s Nigerian by her “h” factor; those who know, know) says “I didn’t pay £9,800 to be taught by a Nigerian.” Line supervisor replies “Of course.” Now, you don’t know who the idiot here is: the line supervisor or the Nigerian student whose English would confuse Apple’s Siri.

You leave it there. You say ok, ok, ok, got it. There are people like that. Class closes, you get your register and she is out of your class for the session. She’s relieved of your Naijaness.  You remain cool and you borrow Tuface’s phrase, “Nothing dey happen.” Your mind tells you to kill your anger by logging into Facebook.

Ha, you have four messages! First message from a Naija looking name with no profile picture reads, “Sir, I need a laptop. Thank you very much.” You delete the message immediately because you tell yourself that even Bill Gates doesn’t give out free laptops like that. 

Second message comes from a person with a beautiful profile picture: “She wants you to add her at just124q@hotmail.com. Pass. It’s a scam. The third follows the same route as the second. Only the fourth makes sense, it’s from a friend. You log out.

The day is about to end you go through Nigerian newspapers because you are interested in your country like that. You like to know what’s happening especially now that Baba is around. Then you realize that 91.7999%(this fluke statistics increases daily) of Nigerians don’t read news content, they read the headline and guess the remaining story. “How do I know?” you ask. I dare you to go and read the comments posted on most Nigerian online magazines and blogs, start with SaharaReporters and Linda Ikeji’s blog.

However, you still have hope. You know that idiots can get divine intervention. You just know some how that change is coming.  

Err, please don’t lift this article and publish it somewhere else without seeking my permission first. In other words, don’t be an idiot.

Written by: Michael Irene
Email: moshoke@yahoo.com 

Twitter: @moshoke