Soundcity red carpet.

My good friend Denrel invited me to attend the recent Soundcity bash held in the Oceanview compound in VI. On the red carpet I was greeted by his Royal Highness himself dressed as fab as always in a plethora of clothes that made him look like Andre 2007 of Outcast( the picture does it no justice but keep an eye out for the programme to get the full effect). I have never seen so many stylish well dressed beautiful young people in one place. It has never been more official. Nigerians have serious style going on. And as we discussed the merits of my dress done by kfa fashions (me thinking I could have done with something a tad more trendy and young lol) Ruggedman drove up the red carpet in his new 4x4 and screeched to a halt in front of us. You see here in Nigeria we dont just walk onto the red carpet we drive onto it.

I have never been more proud of how far we have come in the entertainment business. I almost passed out with joy as I watched the MTV awards and saw Dbanj receive his award. Nigerian musicians are really beginning to be recognised not just here (I have observed our music is being brought to the forefront at the clubs with the likes of beyonce and co rarely getting played) but as stars with International merit. I almost wished I was ten years younger and could unearth my black spandex mini(as you know eighties clothes are back in fashion!) and bust some dance moves(do these young people still say that?) but I didn't want to break anything. I will save my move busting for me and my age mates at La Casa.

Crosstown Traffic

I look forward with some trepidation to XMAS in Lagos. My first xmas in 20yrs. It actually doesn't feel very Xmassy at all. The few decorations scattered round town by the various banks look hot, dusty and tired and the faces of the masses look all of the above plus vaguely desperate. I am also getting stopped at every check point and being asked "madam how far for xmas now?". Some of them I am just driving past when they flag me down cos I just cant be bothered to stop. I dare them to chase me down in my 4x4 for me then to utter that famous old sentence "do you know who I am?" and for them to look disconcerted, confused and a little apprehensive then just wave me off in case I am somebody or know somebody anyway. Try it, it works.

I'm off looking for turkeys and xmas puddings and I am determined to put on a good lunch for family and friends (at last count 30+ people oh) no matter what it takes. This means sitting in hours and hours of traffic along with my fellow country men and women looking for many different items in many different shops. Gosh how I wish for my local one stop shop - Sainsburys. Aisle after aisle after aisle. Sorry where was I?

By the way, when is everybody leaving town anyway? I thought Lagos was supposed to empty out over xmas with people returning back to the village to their second homes,and their second set of cars and househelp. I wish they would hurry up and leave already. I beg this town is over subscribed. At least let us that stay behind exhale during this holiday period, as we drive around Lagos with the wind in our hair,(erm down the lekki express way we would probably need face masks).When are they going to finish that road anyway? I'm not sure how much more road expansion we can take oh.

Maybe small bad belle dey do me. I wish I could retire to my second house in the village, except I don't have one (small technicality!!) unless you count my father's house. Ohh to wake up in Asaba early in the morning and take a walk round the compound inhaling the cool harmattan air whilst picking fresh hibiscus for my mother's vases and watching the river Niger flow languorously by. These were my xmases as a child and I miss them so. I thought about bringing up the topic of spending some of the holiday period in Asaba to oga, but my parents are not going until after xmas and they have already asked me to try to get them a police escort so they can go and come back in peace!. Needless to say sadly I don't think Toks will feel confident letting us go.

Tis the season to be giving and remembering who was born. My kids have been reminding me on a daily basis, which is nice, by singing xmas carols everywhere albeit not very correctly "While shepards wash their sheep by nite all seated on the ground an angel of the lord came down and heaven all fell round". We plan on visiting the local motherless babies home to give gifts to the orphans. We are trying to have a one present xmas this year and stay focused on what xmas means as opposed to getting tons of stuff that is mostly meaningless junk. Besides,in my experience, after opening the third present my younger ones just switch off and start playing with the wrapping paper.I know its going to be a beautiful day thank you Jesus.

Land of The Free? Or at least less expensive?

I am seriously considering going to America in January to do a big shop,things are so expensive out here especially kids stuff.My daughter was one of the dancers in her xmas school play and the dance teacher at the last minute decided that she wants everyone in black shorts and tights,I mean tights!! In this heat? Where are you supposed to get those from? Anyway I did a brief search and then gave up and focused on getting the black shorts which I thought would cost me at the top end N2,000 (yes I am still a JJC).

On reaching the only shop I could find on such short notice in Lekki the lady promptly told me they were available and as she began to rummage through her Aladdin's cave of spandex tops and trousers I perused around the shoe section stocked with frightfully colored shoes imported from China (you know the type you would only wear once before the heels fell off) and had a bit of a laugh trying them on. I eventually spotted a pair of slippers that were ok to do the school run in only to be told they were the equivalent of £60.00! I them mumbled that they were way past my pocket and handed them back fast thinking, I could get two pairs of leather shoes for that price in England or America.

As the sales lady called me back to the front of the shop to look at the shorts I knew I was going to be in for a rude shock, I gulped as she told me the sorry pair of cheap looking shorts were N4,800. "I mean come on" I said "these are not worth that!" She replied, "ahh madam the thing wey we dey go through to get these things". I suppose she had a good excuse and I wish they would lift the ban on importation as things are still coming in, but most of the stuff is a load of expensive rubbish. And oh whats up with the copious amounts of spandex materials in all the boutiques? Isn't it too hot to wear? Or is it just me?

So America here I come. I hear there are direct flights to Atlanta via Delta airlines which I am about to explore. I can't wait to get my trainers on and walk round the super-sized malls, inhaling the smells of freshly cooked pretzels and grabbing designer bargains off the TJ Maxx rails before sliding into Macy's department store to be enveloped in wafts of perfume,fabrics delicious to the touch and shoes! shoes! shoes!I have never done Atlanta though and not sure whether to rent a car or use their transport system any advice would be appreciated.

One day I hope we will get to a stage where this trip will be more local? With all the money in this country how come we still only have two (ok maybe three) half decent malls in the whole of Lagos. I am sure the people of Lekki Phase 1 alone could make a mall financially viable and profitable?

The Experience

What an experience it was ,I was privileged to get front row seats to one of the most inspiring shows I have seen in a while The Experience was held last week at Tafawa Balewa square.
The gospel event featured heavy weights like Tye Tribbet,Don Moen and CeCe winans leading us into the presence of God through praise and worship,followed by powerful prayer sessions focusing on lifting up Nigeria to the next level it was truly amazing,to be in the company of thousands of people with the same focus saying the same prayers,and when TD Jakes himself came out it was the icing on the cake for me as I deeply respect his ministry and all he stands for,and the thing I love best about TD Jakes is that when he preaches you dont see him, you see the power of God manifest,my brother had the privilege of meeting him a few times and has said he has never met someone so humble.All this has served to remind me how lucky I am to be part of such a great nation,a nation of proud prayerful people a people with a hope for the future.


Pastor Wayne Malcom from London England commented on the thousands of people waiting outside the square from 1..pm for a show that was starting at 8.00pm he he had never seen anything like it,people prepared to stand in the hot sun for 8 hrs to get in, to receive a touch from God, he put it so well by saying that we have no poverty here compared to the spiritual poverty in the western world were hardly anyone acknowledges the presence of God in there lives. The experience had an overall record attendance of 250,000 people coming to seek God I have no doubt that eventually Nigeria will pull herself out of physical poverty and corruption that has been a stain for so long.
My praise goes out to pastor paul Adefarasin and his staff at the Rock Foundation for putting on a show of this magnitude that went without hitch, and not even charging a gate fee.May we have many more events like this one.

New Dawn with Funmi - PT 2

You can see the video here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lNBRlNyYdc. Happy viewing.

Sunday Sunday

I wonder why I still haven't settled on a church I want to fellowship at permanently yet, as I am spoilt for choice as indeed most of us are in the Lagos metropolis.There are services to suite all, at all times of the day,and yet still I will not commit. I remember on one of my trips to NYC I was looking for some new shoes and headed for Macy's department store shoe floor, the sheer size of the place was completely overwhelming there were high heels and low heels thick heels and spiky heels, wedgies platforms and pumps with there various colours leaving my head in a spin as I had forgotten what I had come in for,and then came the prices, and did you go designer or high street and what did you want to pay?and with the sales people trying to persuade me to purchase there wares It took me 20minutes to gather myself and leave with nothing.

I realise now that im not sure which church I want to wear ,who's mantle I want to wrap round me what size heels would fit,and who's visionary colours I would want to buy into. I don't know what price I'm ready to pay.
I was all ready to go back to my old church which has many many branches over here untill it was announced that ladies had to start coming in long skirts and dresses. I own but one skirt in my wardrobe and it is black and was bought for a funeral,and even with its long length left me feeling more exposed than my usual pair of trousers.

With so many good churches out there and the rest of them just pimping Jesus the streets are bare on Sunday mornings, everyone with there special pair of shoes on off to praise our God,but as the day dawns on Monday morning nothing changes, the shoes come off as we shout abuse to our fellow drivers off on the school,job,bank and maybe booty call run trying to block as many cars as we can so we can get where were going faster as you know we have more important stuff to do. I think I'll just stick to me and Jesus for now till I can find the right fit and hopefully God in his amazing grace will forgive me.

New dawn with funmi

I had a wonderful experience meeting Funmi,last week on her show I am quite an admirer of hers she has such a lot of spunk and charisma and also being a fellow blogger I felt like I knew her... well some of her. she is a powerful advocate for the underprivileged and the forgotten and had me on to talk about my future plans for my entry into the world of media as I am planning to set up a production company in the new year by the grace of God.speaking of the grace of God, this is sad but true of me ,I am always second guessing myself and wondering if the things I plan to do are going to be sanctioned by him because deep down I know that I know that I know I should be working on the songs he gave me to release an album with,could I have my cake and eat it. I spoke to my brother the other day and he said to let God do it what does that mean I said, and he implied that Iwas always making too many plans and should allow God to take control. so do I stop and wait ? as I said I feel I am still on the outer circle. How do you know when you are walking into your destiny?

unfaithfull writer

somewhere in the midst of running a house and children I loose my self for weeks at a time I forget who I am, the person I was before I became who I am now a relocated mum of four with a relocated life, a life I am also on the fringes of ,never quite in the circle realise I am a serial adulteress, constantly unfaithful to myself needs my wants and my yearnings and God given talent I do what needs to be done to reasonably satisfy my self and then press the off key and disappear back into the mundane leaving my inner self screaming for attention,stimulation and fulfillment feel guilty about it but still fall into the same pattern of self neglect because others wants and needs are more important than mine? I ask my self once a week why?and there are many answers but should any of them be an excuse to not being faithful to Mandy,she the writer,singer,tv presenter all of which she excels at and more... Is she not good enough for me, the wife and mother in her comfortable routine and safe existence am I scared of her overwhelming me completely absorbing me and leaving me with no room to focus on anyone but her?what is the truth, what is my truth I still haven't found it perhaps its because I've pushed the off key again

Live on air!!

The deed is done. The rushes are in the can. Elvis has left the building etc etc. Basically the Star Hosts show for Soundcity was edited and completed yesterday and will be broadcast today at 1pm on MITV. It will be repeated Saturday and Sunday late night on AIT (I think 10pm). It was a real buzz doing the show as it was put me in front of the camera under extreme stress from Denrele( where does he find the energy?)but it was such good fun. Hope you all enjoy the show and please let me have your comments, feedback suggestions etc.

Back in the groove...

My people I apologise for keeping quiet over the last few weeks. Things have been very hectic with settling the kids into schools, settling into the house, settling into the country and settling into the traffic. All of this settling has left me little time for me to settle but finally things are starting to happen.

After a lot of feet dragging and pure stubbornness (Oprah was on at the time) Toks finally managed to drag me to a photogragher's studio for a photoshoot and that was where things started to snowball. Sitting in the waiting room was a rather exotic creature who seemed to have been transported straight from Camden town.

The introductions were made and this is how I came to know the one and only Denrele of Soundcity - a yoof outfit that supplies a lot of the local channels with music and lifestyle content.

One thing led to another and he asked me to appear on one of their shows called SoundCity Star Hosts where a star, (moi??) picks their top 10 current videos and then does an hour show around this and answers questions. The programme was recorded today, will be edited tomorrow and will be broadcast starting on Thursday and over the weekend so watch out for it on AIT and other stations.

And then to top it off I was then interviewed by City People magazine for their upcoming issue. Wow what a day.

I am also in the process of setting up my own production company to focus on creating content for all these channels that are springing up in Nigeria. I have identified a couple of key areas and will be bringing you up to speed when things are more sorted. And to top it all off I have to get my finger out and continue work on the book idea that kick started this whole blog thing.

In the meantime enjoy these photos of the "crazy" Denrele and the crew during today's shoot.

It's my house and I live there.

I dont know where the time has gone and it's a bit scary cos although I have been busy its seems like I have been doing nothing. It must be down to the two extra househelp:->. Lagos has embraced us into its hot chaotic belly with gentleness and grace,although the traffic remains the same. The average trip down the road (or Shoprite) being 45 minutes whilst a trip to somewhere unreasonalbe like VI could be anywere from an hour to four hours depending on road works, car crashes and the various meltdowns between cars, okadas, danfo and molue buses plying the roads.

My hubby, during his own melt down yesterday, sent an okada and passenger flying over our door as we were on route to VI. The reason for his melt down ? We were stuck in traffic and patiently waiting while the other drivers who had more important places to go were driving on the wrong side of the road. Fidgeting and fuming he finally lost all his patience and proceeded to get out to fight with the next driver who was going the wrong way. Unfrotunatley he forgot to look to his right and with a resounding crack the okada and his passenger fell onto thankfully soft sand and as my husband comforted and cajoled the okada driver and his passenger, people still continued to zxoom past the wrong way - stopping briefly to admire the carnage we had created. What is the moral of this story? Next time get out through the sun roof. Or stay home.

It's been a long time.

I am sorry it has been so long, I have been internally screaming stop the merry go round I want to get off!! I have been on the mother of all shopping sprees. My long suffering father trailing around with me as we find the cheapest, (or most cost effective according to Toks) deals to be had in the whole of England. As we are taking a container his mantra is buy it, throw it in and you cant go wrong. I have amassed an amazing amount of information on where you can get the cheapest quality buys in the last few weeks. Maybe I should get into the personal shopper buisness directing all Nigerians away from Selfridges and Harvey Nicks to good old Wilkinson and TK Maxx where they stock exactly the same stuff but with a diffrent name on. Believe me I have seen exactly the same tea pot in the high end shops as in the not so high end. All this accumulated stuff is being carted away from under me by the movers as I type and any minute now they'll be taking this desk and the computer (weep, sob. How will we cope for 4 weeks without blogging?).

I think i will be off line for a while though I'm not sure yet but will keep you all posted. I have to say this blooging thing has been incredibly cathartic and I will miss transporting my thoughts off into the world wide web. But who knows what is next for me in the big wide world of Mother Africa?

Rescue me

Exactly how much is one supposed to pack to take home to Lagos? I understand you can get great furniture there but am being encouraged to go down to John Lewis and purchase everything I feel like I'm getting married and am writing a wedding and gift list.Was also told to buy three spare of everythinhg as NEPA was likely to blow stuff up.why the preference to buy from abroad? would it be price or quality issues or do we just purchase from abroad by habit.I am also told to pack as much washing powder cereal tea coffee and as much dry food products as I can fit in to my container.Erm what about rats and other vermin do they travel on the high seas?

So do I pack everything including the kitchen sink, how about a spare husband !I was also told to keep a close eye on him as he is prime chowder for the Lagos girls.
As they can spot that he has just "arrived" Pray how can they tell? Can they see it written on his forehead has someone stuck a post it note on his butt?Heeelp.

Part 7-The Journey in

On seeing me enter she lifted him out saying "see e be like fish" and before I could fully process what I was witnessing she dunked him again. I pushed her aside and grabbed the baby. I saw a glazed look in her eyes. She had finally broken down under the immense pressure of caring for this child all day and when he woke at night.I forgot my direct relationship with Christ and as I pounded his back I recited my hail Marys over and over again praying that she, The holy mother, would revive this child.He came to spluttering and gasping for air and then I remembered to thank Jesus. I wrapped his shaking form in a towel and dried him off as she brought out fresh clothing nonchalantly as if what I'd seen had been a figment of my imagination. Putting on his clothes he seemed to be fully recovered and was giggling and gurgling as usual on my knee as I rubbed Vaseline into his soft hair. Oh how I wished it had been a figment of my imagination as i did not know how to deal with what i had seen.

I should have never been up there ,my father had warned me not to go visiting peoples houses when they were not in. My mother, hard at work, expected me to be downstairs doing my homework and helping with the care of my own two brothers who were coincidentally in the care of our own house help. It also dawned on me now why my mother never let the house help, or anyone in that fact, put her children in the bath when she was not present. Had she imagined such a scenario herself? Our househelp drowning my brothers in the bath? I sat with my maniacal friend quietly observing her behaviour and wondering what to do next.I knew what time her madam came home so I decided to wait till her car pulled into the drive then hand over the baby I was protecting and run down the stairs to the safety of my home were I could pretend to be a child again. Surely nothing could happen in the five minutes it would take the madam to walk up the stairs?. As the baby fell asleep on my lap exhausted by his unknown fight for life I wrapped him in his blanket and put him in his cot in the living room where we were sitting. As I called out to my friend she reached over and changed the channel on the TV that she was watching except it wasn't on. Oh dear. I got on my knees next to her and holding her hands said God would forgive her her sins today if she prayed with me and asked forgiveness but if she killed the baby she would never see heaven or her mother again. She just smiled blankly it seemed she had disappeared into herself and could not hear me. As she continued to stare at the blank screen I watched with her and saw her swimming in a dark green river,her long braided hair glistening in the dappled sunlight coming off the lush vegetation around her I prayed she would return, the water bringing a renewal of her soul.

I left out of the back entrance as madam's car pulled up and ran down the stairs to check my brothers scared that the madness that was upstairs had seeped through the floor like the excrement had previously done. As I watched my youngest brother asleep in his crib I wished for the little one upstairs to be as safe as my brother was.I asked God to reveal my friends madness so her madam could return her to where she belonged in her village of rivers.

With the household packed we headed for a leafy suburb in Ikeja. As we parked outside I noticed my mother's face light up.She had wanted so badly to move from Surulere for a while,she was fed up with living in what she called a concrete jungle. The house was in a secluded spot in a cul-de sac with a beautiful front garden with mature palms and shrubbery with fragrant hibiscus framing the front door. I could see her out there everyday pottering around planting new flowers. It had been awhile since we had all seen so much greenery. There were lots of empty plots of land which made the whole estate look quite park like, my brothers and I looked forward to exploring all this unknown territory. A few weeks later my father presented my brother and my self with brand new Chopper bikes. We spent the summer combing the streets on them, stealing fruit from our next door neighbours dwarf tree and making camp fires on empty plots of land to roast the cocoyams we had dug up. On one of our many trips out my brother and I ran out of water. The heat was quite intense that day and we were too far to return home so we stopped off at a ramshackle house next to a mechanic's workshop to ask some children for water. Our thirst quenched we pulled out into the dusty street. A young girl dressed in stripey trousers and a brown top, with surprisingly messy hair for a black girl said in the most prim and proper English accent "Do you often make a habit of stopping off at stranger's houses to ask for water?" "Yes", Said, "and what of it?". "They are my neighbours" she replied and their house and water supply are filthy". "My stomach is as strong as cement and my little brothers even stronger" I retorted. As we biked back home I found myself intrigued by the girl with the oh so English accent I had cast mine off years back with lots of practice as I wanted to fit in, I only spoke that way to my mother who would have it no other way. This girl however had held on to hers and I wanted to know how long she had been in Nigeria and what her transition from England had been like for her . I wanted to perhaps touch some of her Englishness that used to be my own.

The following morning I sought her out. I could smell burning beans as i knocked on the door of their small duplex house. She didn't look surprised to see me so I suppose she knew we be drawn back into each others company as we had so much, yet nothing, in common. We began to feel each other out. She trying hard to maintain her Englishness, me trying so hard to be Nigerian. She had arrived the same year as me with her three brothers two of which were older and one the same age as my own brother, Tim, and hated most things Nigerian. Her life spent at public school in the genteel green belts of the English countryside totally unprepared for the roughness of life she was experiencing. She chose not to associate herself with what she called "bush people", i.e. the ones who had never been to England. I sensed I might be an even bigger disappointment to her as I had been to England but was fast becoming as bush as you could make them. She was black. She didn't have to work so hard at defining herself to people they knew what she was as soon as they saw her unlike myself who had to work harder by way of vocality before I got my respect in the neighbourhood or indeed anywhere I went. My colour then to me was a constant barrier to immediate integration with my people.

She hated the food and would eat nothing but plantain. On one of my many visits to her little oasis of Englishness I found her listening to the Archers a programme on the BBC World service as I tried to pry her out of the house to go biking she asked me to stay and listen. As I listened to the quintessentially English accents on the radio I remembered the things i had left behind, biking through the countryside, strawberry picking in the summer, travelling round churches in the south east of England making brass rubbings with my parents which today still hang on our living room wall and I realised that as much as I was trying to win her into the Nigerian way of life she did not want me to forget where I came from and take pride in it.Whilst these things were wonderful I could not live in past glory and was much more interested in the here and the now .

I quickly discovered she had a brand new bike parked in the boys quarters in her compound. She said she did not bike out much as she was afraid of getting knocked into one of the huge gutters which lined all of our streets. I told her it would be half the risk if I rode behind her. So began our sometimes uneasy alliance over my new summer in Ikeja.I was more used to the company of boys. They were what I was used to as I did not have any sisters. I also found the girls in the neighbourhood too sedate and ladylike to want to get into the scrapes I involved myself in with their more interesting brothers who I picked up daily to add to my bicycle train.I would feel their eyes on me, cool and disdainful, as we all pedaled off on our adventures. I didn't care. I had it good. Boys rarely had tantrums, they didn,t cry when they fell off their bikes or out of the trees we were pilfering from. Communication was mostly without any language rather with gestures and grunts which were handy during raids on various neighbours gardens disarming them of ripe paw paws,mangoes and bananas. This suited my temperament at the time but Temi seemed different. There was a depth within her and I knew she had stories to tell so I decided to overlook her less boyish tendencies and took time to tone down some of my more colourful verbal and non-verbal language when we were together as I didn't want to frighten off a potential interesting female friend, and determined to show her how I lived my summers.

The sun shone hazily as we rode with our two brothers towards Airport hotel. It was a particularly warm day and the lure of their huge swimming pool with various diving boards we could throw our self off made us pedal even faster. Our walkmans, hung round our necks for convenience, banged against the handle bars as we skidded to a halt at the entrance. We paid the gate man and hastily parked our bikes on the green metal fence, stripped down to our costumes and jumped in to the cool blue waters and swam lazily back and forth. The hotel pool was almost always empty and with the sounds of birds singing in the trees that surrounded the pool I would always pretend I was swimming in a tropical paradise though my imaginings would be frequently ruined by my brother attempting to dunk me as I floated on my back.

Dea reader, that is it for now. I will continue this later in a book. In the meantime I will focus on other topics (like the small matter of packing up the family and moving back to Nigeria. Again)

Part 6- The Journey In

The box set was called "Finding A Friend In Jesus."My Catholic roots begin to disintegrate as I read through the books. I did away with my hail Mary's and weekly confessions, as I realised that everything came directly from the father and to get to him was through Jesus Christ. I believed and it worked as I realised that Jesus was not just housed among the cold statues and incense in the musty church where I prayed,he was alive and at home with me. Giving my life to Christ at the age of ten fundamentally changed my thought patterns and my way of thinking,I was no longer bound by religiosity,rules and various regulations. I could pray and express myself however I liked,there were no more boundaries in my communication with Christ.He answered every prayer I ever uttered and where I was burdened he would carry my load.



The rest of the Christmas was spent visiting relatives,my favourite being my uncle Ibe,who always had time for us.Taking us on drives into parts of the city we had never seen and who always had a couple of Naira in his pocket for "Coke money."His wife with her face always painted to perfection was a popular caterer to the "Lagos big boys." Her food always tasted so good it was almost as if it were charmed. She would always cook up a storm of various dishes for our arrival,there would be pots of ofensala, jollof rice,chicken ogbono soup and pounded yam;She always cooked like she was expecting an army.Christmas was also the opportunity to eat as much chicken as we could get,as on regular weeks we could only get chicken on Sundays as a special treat.



With the roads getting busier and busier and our neighbourhood changing from a quiet suburb into a thriving mini metropolis my mother raising her beloved Alsatian dogs,and three of us wanted to live somewhere quieter.My father was also fed up with having to wake up three neighbours in the morning so they could move their cars out of the very narrow compound were the all the vehicles were stacked up one after the other.I looked forward to the move but would miss the hustle and bustle of Surulere which I had begun to know like the back of my hand.I would also miss the bright and shiny supermarket at the top of the road called UTC,going in there always reminded me of England,they had all the imported toys and books and a well stocked magazine and paper rack outside which I would browse until I was asked to pay for something by the shop assistant.On a good day I would time it to about forty five minutes in which i could read five comics,read two chapters of a book I could not afford but was almost half way through, and when her slippers would start to shuffle under the counter I knew it was time to make my purchase which was usually two comics usually of the supernatural variety.I Had also struck up an unlikely relationship with a mischievous and slightly psychotic house-girl about the same age as me who lived upstairs with the toilet flushing lady and her husband,she looked after their twelve month old baby called Junior.On arriving back from school I would tear up the stairs to find out what she was doing.Although she was supposedly eleven years old she appeared and acted slightly younger than me she could not read and did not attend school which I thought was strange at the time.what I found even more baffling was that she was left at home all day with a little baby.Her treatment of him was at best rudimentary,she would whip up all manner of foods to feed him with which in my eyes did not look to appetising ,his cerelac always looked to lumpy and she forced it down him adding intermittent spoons of water into his mouth for his digestion saying "na so madam show me" as he choked and cried trying to spit up the revolting mess being shoved down his throat.On finishing she would change his cloth nappy,I stood back with bated breath praying she would not stab him once again as I had seen her do many times with the large safety pin for his nappy.With the weight of the unmentionable amount of cerelac she had stuffed down him he would immediately fall asleep,we would then proceed to the kitchen were she would throw random things in the pot to cook so she could eat before madam came home, she often complained she never got meat to eat only bones ,I quietly mused that God must be taking away her meat in punishment for the way she treated that really beautiful baby surely she must know better.She wasn't a very good cook and nothing ever came out of that pot that tasted good.I felt sorry for her as she missed her mother who had sold her when she was eight to a calabar lady who had then passed her on to her madam.She often wept as she tidied up the remains of her unsuccessful meal and began to chop efo and grind crayfish for her madam to prepare when she returned from work late in the evening.I would also worry about the baby,as she would take out her sorrows on him with kicks and slaps,just as her madam had taken out her sorrows on her.I think this was the reason that drove me up there again and again,the baby was so small and vulnerable he would cry in pain as he was hit but when the pain subsided he would coo and smile at her not fully registering what she was doing to him but I was sure it was leaving an imprint.When I was there she was happier less likely to hit out at him,I was her break from the monotony as she was never let out except on short runs to the local shop for basic provisions.She would tell me stories about her life before she came to Lagos,spent swimming in the waters of Rivers State were she was from being told stories by her grandparents and having her long hair braided by her mother,hair which had now been shaved off by her new owner.I would bring her sweets and read to her my comic books and wonder why even if she was a slave she had to be mistreated,but there were always yells and screams from the children being beaten in the compound there heads being conked and their ears being twisted it seemed that this was the way my people parented their children.
I was late for my regular afternoon visit as we had extra lessons at school that day ,as I ran upstairs to the flat I had a dry metallic taste in my mouth,the front door was open and I heard her laughter and splashes,coming out of the bathroom I walked in on her drowning him under ice cold water she had filled the bath with......

Part 5 - The Journey in

The journey home was slow that day as I pulled my brother along. I couldn't wait to peel off my school uniform as it was sticking to my back. The mixture of sweat and blood was itching like mad but too painful to scratch. My brother commiserated with me and showed me his "war wounds" from the day before. I was not the only one fighting a battle it would seem. On reaching home I rushed to my room to remove the offending dress, quickly showered myself and applied ointment to the wounds I could reach and wanted no one to see. I slept fitfully that night. The pain was intense, a physical and mental reminder of my unfortunate circumstances where school was concerned.

I so badly wanted to be back in England where things were cool, safe, orderly and predictable. I planned how I would run away to the airport, smuggle myself through the baggage carousel and onto the plane when no one was looking and on arrival put myself up for adoption. Surely there were lots of childless couples out there looking for a well behaved little mixed race girl who could help around the house in exchange for a quiet place to just be?. I awoke to the delicious smell of fried eggs and plantain and wondered if I could smuggle onto the plane various Nigerian food items as I could not go back to eating baked beans and sausages. At the least I would need to carry a big bag of dried pepper.

My mother (pictured above) had breakfast waiting downstairs. This was an occasional treat when she had the day off from her work as a secretary . My brother blurted out are you better now? as I sat gingerly on my chair. Whats the matter? my mother asked. My brother, between swallowing bits of egg said, they beat her black and blue. My mother eyes filled with tears as she removed my uniform and saw the wounds I had been given. She had a tendency to get very emotional and would now link my unfortunate episode with a lot of other injustices in the past and would go off on a diatribe that would inevitably affect the whole household. This was something I always wanted to avoid as it drove my father first to distraction and then drove him our way as inevitably it would become our fault.

My father was from the tribe called suck it in and take it like a man (just on the outskirts of Asaba), and we, my brothers and I, never wanted him to see us weak. After a lengthy discussion my mother decided no one was going to school that day. She professionally bathed, disinfected and bandaged my wounds bringing all her qualified nursing skills into play, sent my brothers off to play and put me to bed. I awoke to shouts a few hours later. Not surprisingly an argument had ensued over my treatment. My father had popped back for lunch and as my mother unleashed the full weight of her unhappiness at my treatment it was doubtful my father would be going back to work. I eased myself out of bed with a mixture of fear and unhappiness as I did not want to be the topic of this argument and did not want my father looking at me with disappointment in his eyes as I was not living up to his Nigerian dream. Obviously I must have done something wrong to have gotten myself flogged. As far as he was concerned that was the only reason children got flogged in school. He insisted I went back to school, that this was how thing were done over here and I would be toughened up. "Over my dead body" my mother screamed. She had sent me to school for an education not physical and psychological damage. As they took the argument into the bedroom I dressed and made a dash for the back door determining to spend the rest of the day outside keeping watch and hoping my father would return to work. His car pulled out a couple of hours later and i headed back to the safety of my room. On hearing my return my mother informed me my Catholic schooling was over. Amen. Hallelujah.

The Christmas season came and with it drier air and expectations. Lagos felt lighter, with less traffic as many of its populace would travel out to their various states to spend Christmas with their extended family. We woke up on Xmas day to our presents ,two huge boxes of books to be shared amongst us. I was beside myself with joy as I could never have, or get enough books to read. I was constantly saving my coke and gala money to buy them and then berating myself for reading them too fast. There wasn't that much on TV to interest me except the Village Headmaster with Amebo being my favorite character as she was forever meddling in other peoples business. This pile of books in front of me seemed to be unending.

As I emptied the box onto the floor a box set caught my eye. It had a picture of an eagle soaring into a big cloudless sky and two pages into the book I was sold out I had found the holy grail.........

Part 4 The Journey in

The rainy season routinely caused chaos in Lagos,and there was never a definite guarantee of getting to school on time through the waterlogged roads. We would leave earlier and earlier with me rushing my brother out of the house in the pouring rain. We would wade to the bus-stop barefoot weaving in and out and out of the go-slow traffic. We took our leather Bata shoes off to protect them from the murky waters. The fear of the cane was always at the forefront of my mind during our morning journeys. I would remember the feel of it on my hands, the big red welts would throb for most of the day and would disable me from writing thus incurring more wrath from my teacher. It was a vicious circle. She routinely flogged me on my left hand - the one she knew I used to write with. She thought the use of the left hand was inappropriate for writing and was probably hoping the routine caning might change me around Needless to say it didn't work.

I tried my hardest to fit in but was still, after a couple of years, like a fish out of water unused to the roughness of the school education I was receiving.I was confronted by prejudices based on my racial identity on a daily basis by my teacher in the classroom who would routinely laugh and make fun of my accent, telling me and everyone else I looked like a witch or a mammy water if my hair was slightly out of place.This not only had an effect on me but the children around me who for fear of the teachers wrath would not associate with me. As I began to disappear into myself my grades slipped and she sometimes failed me for the hell of it, which I only discovered when my mother appalled at a D I got for history (one of my favorite subjects) read the paper then made an appointment with the head of the school who marked it to a B and could offer no explanation for the failing mark.

Inevitably, I began to truant off school now and again dropping my brother off and wandering around Tejuosho Market merging myself into the vibrant chaos and wandering in and out of a myriad of colourful shops selling fabric, shoes, bags, imported clothes and jewellery enjoying my own safe company till the school day ended. Nevertheless I managed to pass my common entrance exams and moved into the secondary school which was housed in the same compound.

It was a Monday morning school assembly and inspection day. I came looking forward to my literature first period lesson. I adored literature as it was a slice of heaven reading and discussing books by authors such as Chinua Achebe who brought West Africa alive to me with his book Things Fall Apart. My former class teacher who by some bad hand of fate happened to be on inspection duty that day ordered me to stop, looked me up and down, head to toe and proceeded to tell me I was wearing false eyelashes and should report to the teacher's staff room where she would trim them for me, and oh yes my hair was a mess. Being a tomboy, only out of trousers when I'm in my school uniform I hadn't a clue what false eyelashes were.The morning was spent kneeling on the floor in front of the staff room my face red with embarrassment, pain from the concrete floor and the shame of watching my classmates walking past whispering words I could not hear but could well imagine. At midday my former class teacher showed up with a pair of scissors and attempted to hold me down so she could trim my eyelashes. I could not be still as I thought she would take my eye out .

After we danced outside the staff room to the amusement of students and staff she decided to cane me instead. Relief flooded through me briefly as the welts would heal but one could not buy another eye. As I stood with my face against the wall she chose to flog me on my back and shoulders. It seemed like an eternity, the pain was intense not just physically but mentally as through my tears of pain I wondered why this woman wanted to break me. She seemed appeased after the flogging and had a strangely relaxed look on her face. My eyelashes were forgotten. I vowed that day she would never lay hands on me again.

How do they do that?

Crossing the road this morning I was surprised by the lack of interest shown on people’s faces as a half naked man, totally out of his head, struggled up the hill of our somewhat genteel neighbourhood. There was half a loo roll hanging out the back of his dirty blue jeans and trailing along the pavement behind him. He spat out obscenities with every step to the people who passed by pretending not to see him, or perhaps just oblivious to him, as if he did not exist in their world. For all intents and purposes he was invisible.

What is it that does not make the English stop and stare like Africans do when presented with these sorts of scenarios? I mean all you have to do is drop a coin in Lagos and a crowd gathers to watch you pick it up!!

Are they too comfortable in the security of their own routine? Have they seen it all before? Are they just blotting it out? I am puzzled. Me, I stopped to watch. As the police drove up a few minutes later to wisk him away I wonderd who phoned them, must be one of the twitching curtains.

Part 3 TheJourney in

I awoke one rainy day to the screams of my mother,there was excrement flowing out of the toilet through the hall and into the living room of her "English Cottage".It was now completely apparent after living there a few weeks that the landlord had contravened every building regulation there was,and the flat was a nicely painted shack.Every time the neighbours flushed their toilet above us,our toilet downstairs overflowed,the smell seeped into the house and buried itself into the walls.This happened on a twice daily basis,my mother begged and pleaded even sending up copious amounts of" waterboy"this was a product used during times of water shortage to hide and deodorise the mess for want of a better word in the toilet,to stop the neighbour flushing her loo until it was fixed .To no avail she continued to flush.My mother was semi-broken at the end of the week, insane amounts of mopping with Izal and bleach had taken its toll on her and she took to her bed with a fever.My dad finally went to see the lady upstairs I snuck up behind him intent on hearing what was said,I heard a few indiscernible words and as I remember she never flushed her toilet again till the piping was fixed.I always wondered what my father had said to her in a few seconds that was so different to what my mother had said to her over the past week.

I was placed in a school called St Saviours but early on found it hard to fit in ,being light skinned made me stand out,I had to work harder, listen harder and was expected to be better in some way,by virtue of skin colour and accent.I had become the latest English mascot for the school and was routinely pointed out when prospective parents came looking for a place for their kids,"Look that's Mandy,our latest child from London."I got a bit fed up with minding my "P's and Q's" and persuaded my mum into transferring me into a more "Nigerian" school.This backfired with my father transferring me into a catholic girls school in Yaba,back to my catholic roots.I had always gone to catholic schools in England and the horrors of my knuckles being rapped on by a ruler came back to me,although this enabled me to read at the age of four which bought me immense pleasure.I prayed these particular nuns were not the violent type,how wrong was I. If you were late for school you were caned.If your uniform was dishevelled,you were caned.If your plaits were not three days fresh,you were caned.My hair had a life of its own so i was routinely caned on that point.

One morning after many screams of "Daddy!Hurry up, if we are late they will beat us oh!"He decided to introduce us to public transport,thus my adventures dragging my five year old brother on to Danfo's and Molues began,and i loved every minute of it.I couldn't quite comprehend how the twelve people waiting at the make-shift bus stop were going to fit into the little yellow Danfo that pulled up,the conductor calling "Yaba!Yaba!" as they screeched to a halt, almost running over the local vulcaniser,always on the prowl for any punctured vehicles.As my father waved us off,my travel route and N3.00 in hand we squeezed into the ramshackle bus,I noticed how intimate the seating was and made myself as small as possible putting my brother on my lap,with the conductor hanging on the outside for dear life,all twelve of us began our journey.Whatever fearful insecurities inside of me faded as I became part of the fabric of humanity on that ride.All of us as one,focused on getting where we needed to go. As the weeks went by I became adept at running after moving buses clambering on at times with my brother on my back,his legs much smaller than mine,sometimes could not meet up to my Olympic runner standards.Before and after school these buses became our second form of education,we were ministered to by various preachers who hopped on and off the buses with mixed messages salvation and freedom in Christ,to eternal damnation for sin.In tandem we observed the principles of pick-pocketing,begging,haggling and the mechanics of fixing a broken fan belt with cheap black electrical tape,majority of the buses we rode in were routinely just patched together,we endured many a ride,observing the road beneath us through a gaping hole. We learned how to be totally independent and street wise,my brother picking up pidgin English and Yoruba well before me and using it to his advantage when haggling over roasted corn,boli or fried akara at our midway palmgrove bus stop.The women so impressed by his skills routinely dashed him extra snacks,whilst pinching his cheeks calling him "fine boy."

Part 2.The Journey in.

Life was great at the hotel. We were waited on hand and foot. I suppose we were sheltered away from the realities of Nigerian life. We had the run of the hotel and got up to total mischief, knocking on people's doors and running away to hide, ordering room service to empty rooms having swiped the keys when the cleaners were not looking. We quickly got into the weekly routine of a bountiful breakfast, followed by school and an afternoon swim in the pool, followed by plans to raid the local paper and sweet shop. I always used my younger brother as a decoy as I swiped all the Bazookas and Tom Toms I could get a hold of.

Saturdays became the least favourite day as they were invariably spent at my Aunty's house on Glover road in Ikoyi between the local hairdresser's sweaty thighs for hours as she plaited different concoctions and designs into my hair. This was naturally followed by a huge headache. I also had to continue to evade my aunt who was always threatening to pierce my ears when I was not looking. And as usual my light fingered cousins would have swiped my ill gotten gains of Bazookas and Tom Toms out of my canvass bag before my hair was completed whilst the neighbour's kids chorused - Oyinbo pepper, if eeate pepper, you go yellow mo mo every time I stepped out on to the porch.

My Sundays however were much more peaceful. The day was spent at Bar Beach, the waves lapping round my legs, eating hot oranges peeled into beautiful patterns.I was mesmerised by the way the orange sellers would literally skin the orange in a lovely motion with a sharp knife whilst simultaneously holding a conversation. My mother, meanwhile would be roasting herself into pink perfection whilst constantly being pestered by the passing bead and art sellers and every once in a while being chatted up by the local lotharios thinking they were in with a good chance with the lovely oyinbo lady. My father, needless to say, did not do beaches. His Sundays were spent visiting family as he had been away for so long and needed to catch up. He never did stop catching up though!

The rainy season came and we finally moved to a three bed flat in Suru-Lere. I finally had my own room, well not quite, as I had to share it with my brother. My mother quickly turned the flat into her "English cottage" but even she could not keep away some of the harsh realities of living in Lagos. She was not prepared for the onslaught of extended family and friends who never call or write but just show up and take up permanent residence. Our home heaved under the weight of bodies that passed through, coming to gawk at the onyochas (white people) that my father had brought home. Constant demands for food and drink were met and things were never quiet. How I longed for the soft, cool, peaceful room at Ikoyi Hotel.

It was not too long after moving in that we had our first experience of "NEPA taking light". My mother, unprepared for this anomaly, opened up unmeshed windows, bereft of netting which the landlord had knowingly failed to provide. In came the mosquitoes. She was totally unprepared having come out to Nigeria, a naive 26 year old girl, on a wing and a prayer and with love in her heart for my father. Needless to say we were bitten senseless in the hour she left them open. My father returning home soon after saved us from permanent damage bringing Shelltox, candles and mosquito nets for the beds. I always felt like a Princess crawling under them at night. They hung all beautiful and white around me casting the room in a soft misty light and with the sounds of crickets in my ears I would fall into a deep seamless sleep.

I woke one rainy day to the screams of my mother. There was excrement flowing out of the toilet through the hall and into the living room of her Suru- Lere English cottage.......

Going Home first time round. The Journey in.

We moved to Nigeria when I was 9 years old but even before then I was sold on all things Nigerian . From a very young age in England my father was forever whipping up these amazing stews and soups which brought my taste buds alive. I remember my first taste of egusi soup. It was like eating heaven. There is no other way to describe it after the English fare I had grown up on until then. Taste buds that I did not know came alive. I also remember being dressed as an African princess to go to my school's fancy dress compeition. I did not win but that did not matter as I loved the feel and vibrant colours of the ankara that was wrapped around my head and body. I somehow felt that I belonged to that fabric.

I always looked forward to my father's college friends dropping in, they did not display english politness and tact as they scooped me up their arms giving kisses , hugs and pinches and then bestowing me with little gifts of plantain chips , chin chin and "money for coke". These were my surrogate aunties and uncles until I was to reach "home " . Their loud discussions about Nigerian politics and even louder laughter had warmed up the whole house as did the sound of high life, reggea and a myriad of motown classics playing in the background.

A powerful wall of heat hit my body as we stepped off the plane at Murtala Mohamed airport in Lagos. I immediately had a nose bleed and was fussed over by my mother who herself had gone completely red. Having been brought up in the north of England where it gets extremely cold my body went into spasms.

Our first stop was to the Ikoyi Hotel to drop off our things. We lived there for a few months before my father's company found us housing. The second stop was to Glover Road in Ikoyi, my auntie Caro's house, where my real Nigerian experience began. My aunty could not understand why my ears were not yet pierced, and queried my mother strenously then proceeded to chase me around the house with a heated needle. needless to say she never caught me, while my cousins were making themselves very much at home rifling through my mother's bag taking whatever took their fancy. My mother was caught between a rock and a hard place. As this was her first time in Nigeria she did not want to appear rude to her new relatives, and not being sure of the protocol, left them to it her face getting redder by the minute.

My father had always spoken English at home and now all of a sudden there were conversations going on around me that I could not begin to understand. Their guttural sounds ringing in my ears I left to sit under the coconut tree wondering what language my teacher would speak to me when I started school in this strange unfamiliar place.

Answers on a postcard please.

My friend phoned yesterday and I made the grave mistake of asking her how her love life was (silly of me really). She then answered with a diatribe of reasons why she could not find a man. Apparently in London all the good men in the 30-40 year range are all taken (that would be the black men) the rest are all in her words "lying, cheating, pompous arses who were so overrun by women that they did not have to commit and as far as she was concerned anyone over 40 who was not yet married must have issues, were possibly not coming out of the closet or as Oprah put it "on the down low".

I then in my innocence questioned why all her choices had to be black...... a dead silence over the phone ensued for ooh maybe a minute (as if we were on gsm in Nigeria). She then proceeded to ask me what my father would say if I brought a white man home (eerr my mother is slightly pale)? but truth be told my father would actually not accept it as he is very insistent on all his children marrying Naijas. Not that it stopped my brother who is married to a Turkish lady (who is incidentally as Nigerian as they come and gets offended if I don;'t raid her fridge and eat her out of house and home) or my other brother who has been dating a Geordie lass for some years. All is not lost however as one of them is actually marrying a West African soon. Ohh the celebrations we are going to have.

Anyway back to my friend. She wanted to know why she should settle? How could she hold her head up high in Lagos riding around with a white man with everyone looking at her like handbag (ashewo).

I thought the stigma of marrying a different race had long since died for Nigerians. Am I wrong? Answers on a postcard please.

Why Virgin?

Is it my imagination or are Virgin Airways staff getting ruder? I am not privy to flying in first Class (you know who no go gree) and it is always overbooked anyway however I get away with flying Premium as the two smaller kids need their running, kicking and jumping space. The other two invariably end up in Economy (oh the books they will write when they grow up! Mum flew Premium but we flew Cargo and this is why we are now working at McDonalds.). Anyways I am always prepared to do a deal with them that they can have my seat as long as they are prepared to look after the two smaller ones ( I do not personally care where I sit as long as it is child free. Now that is First class).

So there I was squeezed into my Economy seat (too much pounded yam and efo) on our recent trip to Naija (note to self diet begins on return.) next to a very lovely Niaja lady. She rings the bell for the flight attendant and waited for about 45 minutes before anyone responded. She asked the lady for a glass of water and the woman proceeded to inform her that if she was thirsty she should get up and walk to the water fountain.

Apart from the fact that woman had been waiting for 45 minutes, extraction from those chairs was no joke and we were both very comfortably wedged in. I proceeded to ask that if she was not too busy could she possibly get it? She then muttered something about staff shortage and wandered off. This is funny considering how earlier on when I was sitting "up front" the veeeery nice flight attendant said the Naija flights were always fully booked in every class. If this was the case why the staff shortage? Why not treat us all like the good paying customers that we are.

I suggest a boycott let us take our ghana must go bags and fly cargo you all know we can sort out our own lunch not to talk of our own excuseee me!! pure water ok,ok, lets just make it eva water ey better safe than sorry.

Oh why? The hum.

I was lying in bed tonite thinking about what exactly is the attraction of moving back to Nigeria apart from the obvious - family life, great friends, even better gist, the best food in the world (as per the restaurants Mr Chelsea has spoiled me with) and the old school niteclubs.

I finally came to the conclusion that for me it is the hum. The high pitched sound of positive energy, hustle, vibrancy. But where is it coming from in a country with so much negative PR? I'll tell you. I feel that Nigerians are the most cheerful, happy, positive people I have ever known forever spitting out amazing vibes and energy.

There's a school of thought that says that like attracts like. The more positive energy out there the more it creates. Nigerians dare to dream big, damn the circumstances, lack of infrastructure etc etc. No light? No problem. No road? No wahala. No water? E go better. And it seems to be working and I can feel myself getting sucked right in.

I'm coming home.

Iyawo is on the scene.

Welcome to my blog. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy gisting you about what is going on around me. I will also be throwing in some history about my experiences back in the day. As you know Mr Chelsea Rules himself has been wafting on for some time now about his views on things. So it is my turn to say my own piece. Or pieces.

After being out of Naija for some time I am returning after taking care of some stuff, you know family, business etc. As we are now planning to head back to Naija I thought it would be a good time to share my views of this transition from calm to chaos.I knew I was ready to return when as I looked at the piles of rubbish on Isolo express way on our way out from the airport last month I got that warm fuzzy feeling in my heart. There's no place like home ay?

Although I was tested on this feeling later on in the evening when nepa took light and my parents gen packed up. She couldn't understand what the problem was. Wasn't I feeling the breeze thru the mosquito mesh? she asked, as I took off to have my fifth shower before I internally combusted

Anyway, welcome to the blog. Look forward to sharing lots with you (Oko mi why the sweating now? Mr Halle Berry this, Pamela Anderson that. Be afraid. Be very afraid :->)