Films That Don't Allow You Eat

Written by: Syreeta E. Akinyede

Smeagol (image: http://stephengallagher.co.nz)

There I was eating a wonderful plate of rice, and then scenes with Smeagol from the film The Hobbit: An unexpected journey surfaced in my head, and all of a sudden, I just couldn't get another spoonful past my lips. I tried and tried, but it was as if I had bile in my mouth - not that I could taste bile, but I just didn't want to taste anything.

I can't remember any other film that has made me feel this way.

So please share, which films have you found not good for mealtimes? :)

From Whence My Ogi Cometh

Written by: Syreeta E. Akinyede

In the midst of the quiet early morning buzz as Surulere comes to life, I hear her voice, loud - but not annoyingly loud - and distinct. It is a voice you cannot ignore. The first few mornings when I hear it, I can't make out what she was saying, but after a few days, I notice that she has a pattern and she rarely deviates from it. 

Soon enough, her arrival becomes a means for me to tell the time, and much later, hearing her voice would mean I have less than 20 minutes to trade in my nightwear for some decent clothes and dash out to purchase my weekly ration of Ogi. Yes, Ogi, or what some of us would call pap, or to be scientifically specific, the result of fermented corn, which has been ground and sieved.

After a few years of waking up to her calls, hurriedly putting on some clothes and dashing down the stairs, I decide to learn more about her MO (Mode of Operation); so one morning, we (my talented photographer sister and I) arrange to do a little written/photo documentary on her as she goes through her routine.

Alhaja Fausat or Iya Ologi as she is generally called, is a native of Oyo state. She came to Lagos after she got married, and started her business of producing and selling Ogi to support her family. With no sophisticated technology but pure old traditional techniques that she learnt from her mother, she single handedly carries out the production process. She has two surviving children who are grown now and have their own families. The others she says, died in infancy and miscarriages.

From her home in a lower class neighbourhood in Aiyetoro, Aguda, she makes an almost one-hour trek to a middle class residential area. Rising at five in the morning, she prepares for the day and sets out at 6.30 a.m. with her silver tray on her head, laden with three different varieties of Ogi - yellow, white and brown, all wrapped neatly in pieces of transparent nylon. At this point, allow me to say that Alhaja Fausat’s Ogi is like getting fresh milk straight from the cow.

                                                                                                                                 

Today, it’s a cold harmattan morning and all she has on are her Iro and Buba, which are made of a thin material, along with a pair of flat slippers on her feet -nothing to protect her against the chilly weather. This is her usual attire, whether it is during the cold wet mornings of the rainy season where she wades in flooded streets, determined to reach her customers; or the chilly foggy mornings of the harmattan. I have bought Ogi on one of those rainy days; you know the types that discourage you from getting out of bed, even if your life depends on it.
 

She moves with such precision for a woman her age it is almost as if she is on autopilot, but given that she has been walking the same route for 32 years selling Ogi, I guess it is more or less second nature to her. 

 

At frequent intervals she raises the tray above her head, both her arms stretched upwards. She explains that she does this to provide some temporary relief from the strain of the weight of the Ogi. Sometimes, she has pains in her legs, and has to take some medicine – part of the ageing process.

 






















She is no stranger to the streets of this middle-class area as both young and old alike, new residents and old residents - families, who were the first settlers, greet her. Some of the young were still in diapers when she started her business, and now they too have families. For the elderly, sometimes a bit of friendly banter is exchanged while she makes her sale.

As we walk on, she meets another woman who has a tray of Agege bread on her head. She introduces us to the woman and tells us that she has also been selling bread for a long time – 23 years. The two women place their wares on a low wall by the side of the road and have a little tête-à-tête. After a few minutes, they continue walking together, calling out as they go along. After walking through a couple of streets, they part ways.

 

The two women have been meeting along their trade routes for over 20 years

After a two-hour walk, Alhaja Fausat begins the trek back home. Just before we leave her, we ask her to pose for a portrait. She thanks us and prays for us. 

It is clear that this is not just a means for survival for her, but a service that she is proud and happy to render.

Photography by Sybil

THE LEFTOVER COUNT

I watched them enter the compound where I live - a slim man with two little girls walking in after him. They didn't shut the gate after them, and that got me pissed, after all they met it shut didn't they?

I wasn't going to challenge them,  I just continued to watch. Looking through the glass doors of my house, I could see them , but they couldn't see me, yet, it surprised me when I realised that they were actually headed for my house.

As they stood in front of my door and knocked, I thought that perhaps they had the wrong house. I politely asked who they wanted to see.

"Please we want food," said the man. It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.

"What did you say?" I asked. OK, so I figured he had asked for food, but a part of me just didn't believe that it was what I had heard. While he repeated his request, I had a look at the little girls with him. They couldn't have been more than 4 and 7, and they really did look like him - the younger one especially.

I promptly directed him to the second house in the compound. As he left, my heart knew that I ought to give them something, and I did have something to give them. My husband asked if there was anything I wanted to give them. I had made a big pot of moin-moin the night before, and I had just warmed it. I quickly put some wraps together in a plastic bag, and just after their father had locked the gate (oh yes, he shut it and even slid the bolt in), I opened it and called out to them.

The elder daughter collected it, whilst their father thanked me. It was just the simple phrase "thank you", no extras, no flurry of prayers, or gestures of undying thanks, just a simple thank you...and it was enough for me. Though I knew what I gave wasn't enough.

I wanted to ask about his wife, his living conditions, why he was out on the streets on a Saturday morning going from door to door asking for food, what did he do for a living?...but I couldn't. I knew I wouldn't be able to follow through, or provide a solution to his predicament...it was sort of a case of starting what I won't be able to finish, so I had to let it be.

I continued to peep at them for a while, as he continued his door-to-door hunt for food. Less than 15 minutes after they left, a rainstorm started - heavy winds, and then the downpour. I said a silent prayer for them, hoping they were sheltered from the storm.

I am very guilty of wasting food, (tossing my leftovers with ease into the garbage) serving up more than I should for myself and sometimes my children. Though recently, I have been trying to cut down on wastage of food, and after seeing that man and his children today, I have this terrible pang of guilt and their hungry faces still haunt me, and would probably continue to haunt me every time I decide to throw away "those few last spoons of rice", or "that part of chicken I don't like to eat".

My resolve not to waste food just reached it's climax. I consider it a crime and a sin, but hey, that's just me. If you decide to make the same resolve, there are lots of lovely recipes that are created from leftovers, when in doubt, just Google them out:)

Levels: "Do You Know Who I am?"

"Do you know who I am?" After this question, I literally tune off, "here we go again," I think to myself. Then I start to assess the whole situation.

The person who just asked that question is driving a new car - probably one of the newest models of whatever brand (I'm not too keen on brands if it's not Mercedes, BMW, or Range Rover), and there's 'poor' me - at least the person thinks that, otherwise he/she wouldn't be so arrogantly asking me that question. I'm driving my classic Mercedes 230, that has never let me down- sure we have a couple of dents here and there, but still in very good shape if I do say so myself.

I'm wearing a pair of faded jeans and a shirt with no label (or maybe the label got torn off, or something- who cares!), not sure if I ran a comb through my hair this morning- ok I probably did, but knowing the nature of my hair, it has probably coiled itself back into knots.

Yea and lest I forget, on the car is a sticker that identifies the owner as being a graduate of one of those overseas universities - so yes, maybe we are not educationally equal? Yea right, bite my head off. I mean I graduated from the Lagos State University, (I'm very proud of my alma mater) and from where I am standing, if you were to judge by listening to us talk, I should be the one with the University of ...(any fine university you know overseas would do). 

I spent my secondary education at Queens College Yaba, Lagos, and boy didn't I meet a mixture of human beings (from the daughters of governors, magnates, judges etc to the daughters of janitors) and well, quite naturally the segregation was clear in some quarters; yet there were some very humble 'rich' girls, daughters of some powerful men. I will not particularly forget this certain lady (whose name I won't mention for obvious reasons). She is the daughter of one of Nigeria's past presidents, but her humility was so divine, it was almost unbelievable.

Oh well, that's life. Quite a number of us have experienced such outbursts, where people go ahead and start asking us if they know who they are, like it matters.

Even if there are no outbursts, there is a certain aura about them that says "I'm better than you because I've got this and this and that". You know them when you see them. They walk only with their own kind, sharing jokes and making fun of the 'lesser beings'. They live by a set of criteria, sizing up anyone who wants to be in their circle, and if you don't match up, well...

I mean so what if you've got a fleet of cars at your disposal, a huge satellite on your lawn, a string of degrees (1st, Masters, Doctorate) that were not obtained on Nigerian soil, and you're related to one someone in the presidency, or one of those oil and gas moguls and yada yada yada.

Last I heard, we poop the same poop, yours isn't gold, or can be recycled to something of value, otherwise we probably wouldn't have heard the last of how much worth your s^*%t is. Truth is, you and I are going to end up the same way- as a pile of dust; and I haven't heard of it yet, but it's going to be the same dust - brown. Yours isn't going to be gold, or silver or platinum; all your wealth and assets won't follow you after you lose your physical form, so what's all the fuss about, like why do I really have to know you? So I can tremble at your feet and lick your boots?

You've got it all wrong, and the earlier you start to get it right, the more life will make much sense to you.

Sadly though, these people also pass on these false values to their kids and it just goes on and on.

I thank my parents for teaching me the value of living an honest, humble life and learning not to worry about where and how one was educated. I thank my husband for also being a constant example of those values, and for continuing to teach me.

We waste too much time on inanities and material gain. We are constantly trying to outweigh each other, indulging a race that isn't even worth running. 
Now I am not saying that wealth acquisition is bad, No! Just don't make it your priority in life and a yardstick for your interactions with others.

In the end, the preacher has said it all: "All is vanity."

For Granted

Have you thought deeply about the process of waking up? Before you go to bed, dwell on it. You're going to close your eyes, your heart rate is going to slow down, all metabolic processes will slow down too...but why won't they stop? What's keeping that heart of yours pumping? What's the guarantee that it's going to go on pumping the next couple of seconds?
Sure you've got the body of an athlete, or your work-out routine is just off the charts and, your diet is the best thing that could have happened to you and yada yada yada.
If you're reading this, then you have breath, you have life and you have hope. It means that you got back home safely, or you arrived at your destination safely. It means you have eyes to read and maybe ears to hear too.
It means you have another chance to make things right, another day to savor, to play away, to laugh, to cry, to help someone, to love someone, to make a difference.
But on the other side of the coin...someone isn't going to wake up to read this. Their eyes will be shut forever, no breath, no life. Maybe they didn't make it back home, maybe they did but never woke up. Maybe they had woken up but had their life taken away...maybe they died giving life to someone else...who knows.
Some people didn't have to dig the earth to be buried, it just opened up and swallowed them up. Some of them may have wished for a lavish funeral; golden casket, tuxedo, and blaa blaa blaa...but guess all that is gone underground now.
For some it was a sudden watery grave, swift, and overwhelming. The options are endless.
My point really is...if you're alive today(well or unwell),promise to always give God the thanks. the moment you open your eyes, just say it. Thank you God for the gift of another day.

A FRIEND

I have had quite a number of friends in my life so far- at least that's what I called them then. Often times than not, they were friends to me- they were willing to go the extra mile for me, they would always be there for me whenever I needed them. I was a top priority to them. But I wasn't a friend to them. I took them for granted. When it came to them, there was always something better to do. Perhaps the most amazing thing in all this, is the fact that I paid more attention to people who did not give me the time of day. Those were the ones I tried to please, those were the ones I went out my way to seek.

We really do some bizarre things as human beings. Today, I stand ashamed and full of remorse, and ask forgiveness from those whose friendships I'd abused in the past. Though for some its already too late, and the guilt lingers.

She was the girl next door. We had just moved to a new neighborhood. She was kind, took me around, introduced me to her friends and made me feel very welcome and comfortable. Within days of our meeting, she'd told me almost everything about herself. Her openness was amazing and warming. Soon enough, she got admitted to a university and had to travel out of state. We exchanged e-mail addresses (I never mailed her), and we exchanged phone numbers. Though she called from time to time, I never bothered calling back. I would flash once in a while- but c'mon, that's still cold.


Eventually, her family moved out of the neighborhood, but she still kept in touch. She even came to visit with her fiance whom she had met at the university. She also advised me to get serious and stop flirting around.

One evening, months after I'd seen her, she called me. After accusing me of not calling her at all- to which I laughingly apologized- she told me her wedding was in a few weeks and if I didn't call her she wasn't going to call me again- yea right! she'd said that so many times before. She was just bluffing, then why did I feel that she meant it, why did I have the constant nagging feeling to call her? I couldn't understand it.

Six weeks later, I understood. She died in a plane crash on her way back from her honeymoon. Her last words to me "I'm not going to call you again o." My reply, "I've heard." How cold, how cruel, how selfish.

She's not the first friend I've lost, but the first I've lost to death. I can never try to make it up to her, I can never apologize to her, but I can make amends to those alive.

Lets look in our hearts and assess ourselves. Are we really being true as friends? It is better to lay a friendship to rest than to leave the other person hanging. Be honest with your friend even though it may hurt, be there for your friend, be supportive. Always look out for your friend and never let communication die, even if you hear nothing from your friend in a while, it won't hurt to call just to be sure that everything is okay.

Never part with anyone on a bad note. It might just be the last word said between you two.

MAYBE IT'S ME

It seems to be a human thing to do-to blame everyone but ourselves for our failures, shortcomings, misfortunes, and even our outlook on life.

In our sight we are always right; but the funny thing is that we can never stand before ourselves-unless of course we look in the mirror. But even at that, how many of us really have the guts to look at our true reflections and say " that's a really ugly character flaw I have there, and it's causing some real damage, not only to me, but to people around me, I've got to fix it!"

It's amazing how quick we are to play the victim, to be the accuser,to shift the blame, to run away- but it's wrong, unfair and wicked.

It takes a humbling of the spirit, a selflessness that surpasses all human understanding, and a genuine fear of the Creator to turn the fingers on oneself, to be the accused, and to try to find a possibility that maybe and just maybe, the problem is you.

This is an attitude that I'm finding very hard to adopt. It's a level of selflessness that makes you a better person, and less and less of a hyprocrite.
During an arguement, I'm always to quick to run to my defence and point at the other party. All I see is what they did, I blind myself to what I did. I look at my mistakes, and reason with myself that something or someone else was responsible for them. By so doing, I'm storing up a rather large dose of bitter pills to swallow in the end.

Kind words from a kind heart. Humility and selflessness, are sure ingredients for a soup of eternal happiness, peace, and a better world!