KIDS LOVE WE CENSUS PEOPLE

The one benefit of this census gig for me as an enumerator (a programmed people counting drone motivated by petty monetary gain and, in extremely rare cases, boredom) in Dodan barracks is the children. Even though they call us names like “sex-spawn”, “sense-sucks” and “cent-whores” (unintentionally I must add-I don’t think they’re that witty), follow us around making fun of our government issue orange and neon green reflector vests (I’m still trying to figure out why cause I think they’re rather fly), occasionally stain our computer sheets making the count of their family void, they absolutely love us. In the middle of writing some of the weirdest names on earth (e.g. “Eretinghen Perekeme Godist”- for real) and helping people figure out their own ages, occupations and in one rare case their sex (it turned out to be a 70 yr old androgynous being with a moustache) I found myself overwhelmed by these kids that swarmed out of every corner, staring in awe amazed at…I’m not exactly sure what. These kids have done so much for my ego today that I’ve decided that “when I grow up” I want to be a Hausa military dad with 8 rugrats running around my 12 by 12 ft. apartment/room!

I was planning to go on and on about these kids (believe me I can) but I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to once again answer Brodá Bode’s call.

Other Realizations from doing this census thing:

-A whole lot of people don’t have middle names

-A lot of women feel comfortable breastfeeding in front of census officials (I was almost counting…almost)

-Col. M.G Mustapha commander 81^st division garrison (the big boss in those parts) acts like he’s on T.V all the time. He had me looking over my shoulders, searching for the camera crew half the time we were in his office. He’s cool tho.

-There are definitely more women than men in this world (trust me on this one. I’m talking 5:1 or something. Hopefully I can get this to influence my whole attitude when approaching women. From now on I’ll be like: “Baby! There like five of you out there but there’s only one of me! Come get some!” maybe not in those exact words and I’ll also try to lose the indelible smirk thats on my face as I type this.

-The Adisa’s of flat 18 block 6 are the nicest people on earth. They we’re the only people who offered us drinks. I’m thinking of counting them twice to repay their gratitude (I dunno why I want to but I can).

-Some people (a sizable portion of our nations army) still think Bobby Brown is cool!?!

-Secret service agents actually tell people that they work for the secret service. So what the fizzyuck is so secret about their asses? (Why they questioned me about whether I’d been paid or not? I dunno).

-Some people don’t need subtitles to understand Indian flicks. Which by the way are very popular in the barracks. :)

-The Nigerian government wants to know whether you have cable television???

-In my past life I worked for the NPC. I’m a natural at this ish. In fact I should get a medal for my work.

-Federal officials have been instructed to count homeless and mad people (don’t ask me how i'm with the state)

-This is one situation where the phrase “girls dig the uniform” doesn’t hold its weight.

Aight I’m off to bed but first please remember if you see a census person 2mrw/today remember they’re people like you and they need the occasional FREE drink.

R.I.P

Its funny how you could go weeks or even months without thinking of the people who are special to you. Like the woman who baked all your birthday cakes until you got too old or was it too cool for parties. The woman whose home was never a house to you. Always smiling, always thoughtful, she made the world revolve around you. Someone whose image would forever be entangled in all of your childhood memories. A few bad times but it was mostly the good times with her. My mother’s best friend. My almost godmother. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here but its strange how people need to go before you realize what they really were to you. You?

Death is a strange thing. The moment you hear about someone you care for or maybe just even know pass away there’s this selfish mental rush for memories. And that’s what’s happening to me now. Like “when was the last time I saw her?” “Wow I’m never going to see her again?” “How come no one told me she was sick?” “How come I never asked Ayobami about her?” There are too many I’s here. This isn’t about me. Some phone calls need to be made here.

Dear Santa

dear santa,
i know its a bit early but i know how busy things can get up there. Enclosed in this email is an image of what i really want for christmas. please ignore my previous four page letters begging for sex, love and money. sex is just something my generation likes to talk about and i'm sure you're already tired of us always asking. Love was what killed Romeo and juliet. i know they're fictional characters so Gen. Sanni Abacha might be a better example...or was that sex... i never seem to be able to seperate the two. neither can anyone in my generation and i suspect neither can you. if i'm wrong about you then i'll advise that you quit bragging about how many ho, ho, hoes you've bagged, it isn't helping your PR (neither is the whole kids on ur lap thing, even though MJ won the trial don't put urself in his shoes- He's white) .plus to be politically correct they're called women-eager-to-throw-caution-to-the wind (WETT-C-2tee-W) , a bit of a tongue twister if you try to say it 3 times, hence the acronym. on the topic of money i'ld still like some but that (whatever it is) comes first. my regards to misses we loved her on Oprah.

your friend at christmas,
Rae

P.S
on second thoughts a little sex on the side wouldn't hurt.

Serving Self, Country and other short stories

I got a job! Well to be honest its not a real job the pay won’t keep me in shell-toes and ACGs for another decade, its not going to last for long, I suspect I would be standing for most of the time and there would be no fine women to gawk at. At least I would be serving my country and I would have enough doe at the end of it to fix my P.C (long story short- hard disk crashed followed stupid internet advice froze it and dropped it onto a “not so hard surface”- hard disk cracked). What hath this job I speaketh of? Well I’m going to be an enumerator (or a something else-erator) during the upcoming census. I just couldn’t resist the call of Brodà Bode (or who’s the naija equivalent of uncle Sam?) to stand up and be counted or in my case to stand up and count. So if you see me in your neck of the woods be nice and remember census people are people like you, just a bit broker.

With that out of the way I’ll just have to figure out ways to keep myself occupied before and after that event. I am getting tired of being my mums voice activated robot/remote control/how do I look in this-erator.

I caught myself playing that what do I want to be when I grow up game again. This certainly wouldn’t have been cool 5 years ago and it most definitely isn’t now. I mean it’s a little too late to enroll in superhero school. While we’re on the subject 2 days ago while running some errands I bought a comic (www.pandoracomics.com - support naija). So? If I had given myself the usual its for “the artistic value, look at the detail, check out the foreshortening on that panel…blah, blah” yarns I wouldn’t feel this *&%$d but the truth is my mind just went “Oooh! Comics. Half-naked supermodels! Flying people in spandex! Buy it!” At my age I should be able to realistically justify all my inner childs needs. As if the guilt wasn’t enough the attendants face kept going from the comic book to my 3-week-old beard in an aren’t-you-too-old-for-this manner. So right now I’m convinced that I’m going through a quarter life crisis. Which doesn’t explain my new Indian film fetish.

Bollywood is the ish! There’s just something so inspiring about a girl going into a sing and dance routine after just being raped 2 scenes ago, it just makes you wonder what you’re so down about when she’s battling aginst the pressures of their caste system, poverty, evil bearded uncles and still has time for synchronized dancing. And it’s rather interesting to watch backup dancers materialize out of nowhere. Lets not forget the whole Pakistani nuclear weapon propaganda that’s so beautifully woven into the plot of EVERY movie. Its escapist cinema at it’s finest and if you haven’t seen an Indian film since Burning train (I get misty-eyed just saying the name…sniff) you’re missing out on something beautiful. I’ve actually started to show withdrawal symptoms now since I haven’t been able to lay my hands on any since I moved back home. Although I talked to my local bootlegger and he told me he’ll keep an eye out. Expect a review soon.

In the mean time I’m keeping myself entertained with real life drama (not big brother Nigeria). Keep this to yourself right! THE (already married) DRIVER IS KPANSHING THE HOUSE GIRL! I know, I know. My life really is that boring. Its just the only thing I’ve found out recently just thought I’d share plus it I think it explains why she’s doesn’t cook for me. I’ve had microwaved noodles for lunch these past 2 weeks and I’m talking indomie (plus the occasional sardine) not some fancy stuff that was made to be microwaved. I know I should get all lord and master on her ass but there’s this unspoken rule of my kind that’s says the easiest way to get poisoned is to get someone that doesn’t want to cook for you to do it. It shouldn’t have been that shocking walking in on them considering that Muri (the driver) has the largest GIF phone porn collection this side of the equator (I kid you not) but judging by the pictures I would have guessed that his taste tended more towards silicon-enhanced blondes and Alsatians than bald prepubescent looking Calabar girls.

Yesterday was my man Momz’s birthday and in typical me style I forgot. We’re (heterosexual) guys here its not like he was expecting a gift, card or anything (a couple beers wouldn’t have hurt). All he wanted was just a lousy phone call, which I accidentally made last year guided by the stars, which seem to have deserted me of recent. Being that he isn’t a woman (or a man with sensitive skin) he calls me:

Toometoblog- hey momz wetin dey?

Momz-you just dey wake up

Toometoblog- at all. I just tire small.

Momz- (getting to the point) you know say today na my birthday?

Toometoblog- for real (at this point I’m like “why did you admit to not remembering?”. so I spend the next twenty seconds counting from the 7^th which was the last real date I thought I remembered so I can at least sound as if I knew the date).

Momz- yep

Toometoblog- for real (I say for real a lot, for real) today is the 14^th!

Momz- no today is the 13^th?

Toometoblog- For real the 13^th (from this point on I’m screwed and all my lame jokes about how I think he should spend the day don’t connect)

I have a serious problem with birthdays and phone numbers. I don’t even know my old man’s birthday (although that isn’t my fault cause he doesn’t know it either or maybe it just changes from year to year).

Was watching the news when I discovered that my dream job has been taken “Virgin (the old man calls it Faa-jin) Nigeria trains 58 crew staff and attendants etc.” wouldn’t that be the ish flying around the world, dressed in the dodgiest green since dog vomit, scrapping human vomit off seats, looking out for taliban brethren disguised as Santa while increasing your own probability of kpefing in a plane crash. I think I’ll pass on that. Oh but the free food! Why do people complain about airplane food in movies and sitcoms? Personally I think it’s the ish! (this coming from someone who thinks ostrich meatballs are the ish).

I am currently listening to Lupe Fiasco- kick push (for the 62^nd time-WMP can tell) and getting high off whatever the neighbors are smoking. Goodnight!

ORIGIN

An album cover i did for promo copies of Deck's single (which features yours trully). we just shot a video for it lastweek and were sending copies out to stations so call and beg them to play it,abeg.

Currently Unemployed

its funny how you can go from being a graduate (all ecstatic, optimistic, ready to grab the world by the balls etc) to being unemployed (broke, broke and broke) in the blink an eye. with the novelty of having nothing to do on a monday morning (except walking around the house half naked, occassionally stopping to flex underdeveloped muscles in the mirror) finally wearing out and the lack of daddy-i-swear-its-for-textbooks doe to spend on beer, life makes so little sense.

Question: Why do naija women think having "sensitive skin" is something to be proud of? if you heard the way this girl said it you'd think she was talking about having royal blood or something. Please sensitive skin! pscheeew!

i'll be back!

This is not the news! (ITS BETTER! ITS ME!!!)

My new months resolution (I’m not patient enough to wait another nine months!):

My new months resolution is to write. Just write. Anything… Rhymes, poetry, book/movie/album reviews, screenplays, extraterrestrial restaurant menus, love letters (for money)…ANYTHING. The reason behind this my dear reader is that I want to write for a living. Why :

-It sounds so cool to say stuff in interviews like “the first five chapters were written in the south of France while I stayed in, (hypothetical future famous painter, architect, actor, art critic, photographer etc.), Fabian Leland’s Summerhouse. That would probably explain why you notice a looser, more carefree poetic candence in the ramblings of Edwardo, the story’s reluctant protagonist’s inner child, compared to the other chapters which I wrote in my upstate New York penthouse...yadah, yadah, yadah! ”

-I owe a few people book dedications and appreciations.

-I want to be financially independent by 30 (approximately 2500 days left! Work!)

-I want to work from home, be around my wife and kids everyday (unless I’m on a world wide book signing tour thing or on Oprah).

-I will never win the Nobel price for anything I don’t have a passion for (inner Chemist be warned). Its not that I want to be famous its just that I want people to appreciate me for my mind rather than my exotic good looks, firm abs and the sexual tension which naturally oozes out of me.

-I don’t want to work for your father or for mine

So I’ll be blogging as much as I can, without distracting for my presently more important project (a collection of short stories), Work on developing enough skills to write that Pulitzer or maybe just Booker price winning novel…okay I’ll settle for first place on some dubious internet writing contest where the 1^st to 2500^th prize is to get your poem published, but then you have to “send $35 for your own copy of this concise anthology of modern writing” in which your, rather dubious poem will be published, with those of a million other suckers!!!…What am I saying, been there, done that. “Rae, stick with the program, proceed!”

New stuff I discovered about myself (I’m not talking about hair in strange places)

-I can’t listen to music and write at the same time

-Strangely I can watch T.V and write at the same time (MTV is confusing and I’m yet to try writing with porn)

-Contrary to the above I write faster and more effectively while listening to instrumentals (most preferably the ones I made myself, www.soundclick.com/bohemianbboyproduction , must be some Pavlovian conditioning thing with the gazillion raps I’ve written to beats)

-I’ld be a much better writer if MSword didn’t come with word count (just 462 in like 20 minutes! I need to take a typing course).

-“Once efo has been in the freezer you can’t use it anymore?” says wise Old-earth to her culinary skill-deficient seed. I didn’t know that. I don’t see how this applies to me or affects my existence in anyway (oh…or could it be the same for marijuana! It’s for my glaucoma).

-72 hours is the maximum amount of time I can go without taking a bath (former record of 1 ½ weeks is now untouchable *sob*) or I’ll just die of mysterious causes in my sleep.

-My dream of achieving 5 hours of tantric sex, like my life-mentor Sting once did, is no longer attainable. With the discovery and acceptance of the fact that I can’t do anything for more than 3hrs unless we’re talking sleep (an area in which I excel). Yawn.

-I like reading blogs. Yawn.

-I’m better than my mum at minesweeper (either with a touch pad or mouse). I’m probably better than your mum too! Bring it on!

Women send the darndest (not a real word) SMSes #1:

Inspiration for a short story in research phase-

-GV TAO NO ITCHIG T SPK T HM PLS THANK

Sent by Mama (My Grandma)-

This sms took a molue full of family, friends, drinking associates and random strangers to decode. After being passed through an alien language translator, it reads as: “give Taofiq (my “lonely-Londoner” lifestyle living brothers name- he hasn’t tried to catch any Trafalgar pigeons for dinner…yet) my number itching to speak to him please thanks”. Now before anybody is stupid enough to think that this reflects anything, apart from my granny’s extraordinary abbreviation skills, can I ask how many of your Mamas can send text? If I had her number or even knew she had gotten a cell phone before I got this text I would have probably figured this out with the help of just a danfo load of peeps.

-was up,hp ur jacking well.jus found out I gv u wrong info.Women dnbleed 4 up 2 a week after givin birth.The max dey bleed 4 is 3days.Hp u feel relieved now.

Sent by PXQCC3 (Psychotic ex-QC chic she’s no. 3, in order of decreasing insanity, cause I know like 6 of them)-

This was a weird one because I don’t remember us ever having that conversation…well actually thinking about it now, I do. But I don’t remember being that concerned about that particular detail. It started with the pills for menstrual cramps I found in her bag and just…

Hhuuuunn! (Sound of throat clearing), To those ladies who are interested in sharing an eternity (or at least a meaningful overnight relationship) with me, it would be good news to you to know that I’m now well educated on such feminine subjects as PMSing, Menstrual cramps, mood swings, menopause and the effect of abortion on the baby-machine. Marry me!

See you next blog from more interesting SMSes (plus in-depth analysis) from PXQCC2, PXQCC4, PXQCC5 and other women in my life…including some saved msn convos with PXQCC1 would probably lead to a QC psycho overdose, so I won’t…WTF was in the water in that school? DDT? Ecstasy? essence of M&B? NAFDAC be informed.

GOD BLESS THE EGYPTIANS!!!

The ones next door that is, I don’t think the old man in the sky was that proud of their ancestors believe in dual divinity (He’s a bachelor! Duh!) And their insulting attempts at sneaking slaves and pets into heaven…probably why he put an end to the progress of their civilization, Apparently heaven has very strict immigration laws.

Ancient Egypt aside I speak of our neighbor/tenants, employees of ARAB contractors/construction (if you live on or around the island you may have run into a couple of them- strange pale men, with the eternal essence of garlic on their breathes, who drive around in beat-up yellow pickups terrorizing unsuspecting folk with cold foreign ice-grills).

What have they done to deserve Allah’s benevolence and mercy, you ask? They’ve suggested hooking us up to their generator, which is always on stand-by round the clock (or as I suspect their house boy, A rather funky chap by the name of Samuel, may just be a retired Olympic sprinter). Now this is rather good news considering the fact that our gen has an attitude problem and the last time I checked on it, it said some really crude stuff to me, which I have too much dignity to reprint here. I have therefore decided to change my attitude towards them and will be nice whenever I can. Unless they try to talk me into purchasing prostitutes on their behalf, which is something they would eventually do if you get too close to them. Samuel has learnt this lesson a few years too late. (Coincidentally, as I reread this paragraph NEPA, NEP plc., NPHC, DICKS, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days, strike. I’m dying for that hookup).

GUESS WHO’S ON 3^rd, 2^nd AND 1^st ?

(Note: I didn’t c & p this off www.ohhla.com or www.rapreviews.com I typed it all my widdle self. Employ me!)

(SORRY THE LUPE FIASCO ARTICLE HAS BEEN STOLEN FOR KONCIOUS MAGAZINE... there wasnt much to it just a lot of ranting about how he is god etc)

Be on the look out for Lupe Fiasco’s debut album “Food and Liquor” executive produced by Mr. S Dot himself droping soon. Do a search on www.webjay.org to get 9 free Lupe tracks!!!

THE END

Oh before I get sued the whole MS Word thing was just my overactive imagination. Although, we the members of the organization of visitors to earth from non-hostile galaxies (abbreviate yourself!) are EXTREMELY PISSED that the word ALIEN doesn’t auto-capitalize (and so are our Mexican, Nigerian, Jamaican and Ghenien friends in Diaspora)!!! 1.

p.s
Check www.soundclick.com/illalliance for my new joint champagne supanova soon to feature DECK THE NEXUS.

LOST HOPE or was it hope lost (same difference)?

A movie review of sorts:

This cinematographic masterpiece opens with a series of short scenes, intentionally blurred to soften our hearts Walt Disney-style, showing a love-struck couple horse riding, holding hands, rolling in the grass, visiting the zoo and doing stuff that love-struck people normally do (on what planet…please). Zack Orji stars as Mark…wait a minute did I just say Zack Orji…Oh yes I deed, I deed…Now don’t get it twisted I’m not one to go crazy over Nigerian home videos in fact my track record, for never having completed watching any Nigerian movie after starting, was intact until this very morning (no thanks or is it thanks to STV), but this is a classic film for all its worth.

With the unavailability of carbon dating evidence I’ll just estimate and say it was produced in nineteen ninety-what ever year such home video classics as living in bondage, living in bondage and living in bondage were released (ok. I don’t know any other good Naija films from that era, do you?). Now what really makes this movie standout from all the garbage that was produced in that period (and has been eternally churned out in monstrous proportions ever since) is the acting, its brilliant and I’m not being sarcastic. Marks love interest; played by Ghanaian actress Kalson Bofei (I’m sure its not spelt that way) is the stunningly gap-toothed Matilda. “Ghanaian?” you ask. Well the plot thickens cause a lot of Ghanaian actors appear in this movie and a few Kwames into the film it becomes obvious that this is a collaborative effort, filmed in Ghana (so that wasn’t Ibadan zoo!), between the naija movie industry (I’ll rather die than acknowledge the corny-ass term “Nollywood”) and Ghollywood! So as expected from the most eloquent of Africans “Cherch” replaces “Church”, “I-yen” replaces “Iron”, Feck replaces… yes, you guessed it. To this reviewer though, that was a minor distraction considering the quality of their acting.

This film also features Liz Benson (as Nina) who I have had the privileged of being neighbors with. Yes, she did live about fifty houses away from us for like four years, and I never got to lay eyes on her once in all that time…but we had an unspoken connection. If she still looks the way she does in this film then she’s definitely top5 on my list of potential M.I.L.Fs (see American pie for dumb pop culture references). I spoke.

Skipping all the corny black and white flashbacks; some of the most realistic vomit and blood ever on Nigerian television, EVER; the 3 trench coat wearing, Talab Abbass looking dudes that were Nina’s fathers bone crushing bodyguards. They were more reminiscent of Mirinda’s 3 orange men (cheap early 90s marketing ploy) with their synchronized movements, baldheads and stiff necks……I miss my childhood (in an un-Michael Jackson way).

I’m back. And this is the roller coaster of a plot. Hold on to your tampons ladies:

Mark loves Matilda, he’s rich, she’s broke (somebody say cliché!) plus her mums a tomato seller. Tomatoes in this movie seem to be employed in an extended metaphor, which I was either too dimwitted to grasp, or maybe, just maybe it was a product of my overactive imagination (At age 5 I found the answer to all of life’s questions in a box of Yum-Yum: A possible future blog). Now Nina (Liz Benson) loves mark and she is the spoilt, doe-eyed, tantrum throwing, scorned-lover equipped with a super-rich father with the power to get her anything she wants (I need one of those) and this sadly includes marks skinny ass.

By means of some of the most impressive photo editing since the “George Bush shags Tony Blair” sex pictures, Mark’s mother helps break-up her sons relationship with, in her own words, “the tometo sellers deghter”. All this conniving is done while mark recovers from a car accident that occurs 2 scenes after walking out on his mother with one of the films most quotable lines:

“Mother I’m not scared of losing your wealth. I’m more scared of you losing my love.”

Cute.

As the story goes Mark dumps Matilda, marries Nina. A few months later Nina’s rich and powerful parents die in a plane crash (announced rather cunningly between adverts for upcoming Nollywood-Ghollywood collaborations- cheers to the screenwriting, marketing strategist Kofi something). So after 2 memorable scenes the 3 bald men sadly disappear. But the plot thickens; as Matilda finds out she’s pregnant with marks son… ehen! (Introduced by a horridly graphic morning sickness scene…ewww! that would have made a good ‘use a condom’ ad). Then she sadly (not as sad as the departure of the Talab Abasses) dies during childbirth…awww!

So 7 years later, I’m sure you guessed it, mark and Nina are yet to consummate their marriage…ooooh! (I’ll stop that now). This leads to another quotable exchange between mark and his mum.

Scene- mark in the middle of a flight of stairs, mum at the foot, feet…whatever (subtle gen-gen soundtrack music in the background):

Mum- I was just about to come upstairs to talk to you! (Was sounds like wez, mark like mek etc.)

Mark-Is there a problem mother? (In a loving, caring, might-still-be-a-virgin tone)

Mum-Of course there is a problem!

Mark-What is the matter mother? Have I offended you? (Still playing the wuss)

Mum- (emotional outbursted-not a real word) ITS BEEN SEVEN YEARS NOW! HOW LONG MUST I WAIT? DO YOU WANT TO SEND ME TO MY GRAVE WITHOUT LETTING ME SEE MY GRANDCHILD? YOU MUST DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT NOW!!! (Yes, she said it all bold and with CAPS LOCK on)

Mark-I…(speechless but his face says what the “feck”!)

So to please mother Mark starts kpanshing (new word courtesy of Toritseju click click!- I would have normally used the less offensive phrase “****ing **** ******s!”) outside his marital home and he gets conned into believing his new kpansh is pregnant with his child. On discovering his mistress’s deceit he is struck with even more kpanshingly bad news, in the words of his creative arts degree holding “decter”: “your spine was damaged during the accident, and this affected your reproductive system!” this got me thinking about the connection between spinal fluid and sperm?!

To put the icing on this set of unfortunate events, Nina in a bid to get the mother-in-law-from-hell off her case, kpanshes one of marks friends and successfully get pregnant. Her philandering ways are obviously discovered (spinal fluid can’t do that type of magic) and she’s unceremoniously kicked out of the house and the movie (while I try hard not to picture her in a foursome with the Abbases…is that a stirring in my loins. NOOOooo!!!)

The next dramatic scene which opens with some extremely horrific close ups has Mark threatening (unconvincingly) to commit suicide, this causes his mother to confess to her evil Photoshop ways, with the aid of those corny black and white flashbacks I mentioned earlier. Now with a much-needed change in pace, Marks sole purpose becomes his attempts to reclaim his tomato-selling son…Kwame! Flying tomatoes from Matilda’s mother puts a temporary halt to things. But that is nothing a mediating catholic priest (strange thing with his neon green shirt though…is that orthodox?) cant put an end to. With the two mothers confrontational scene out of the way and just when you start to imagine everybody lives happily ever after. Kwame is knocked down by a car, while trying to cross the road to join this scenic scene, and is killed (more cinematically correct blood on display here). Father holds dead son in arms. Freeze frame. And in the fashion of most Nigerian home videos: TO GOD BE THE GLORY . Credits roll by pretty fast, but not too fast for me to spot 4 Kofis, 3 Kwames and one Kwame Kofi. And the director Ifeanyi Oyeabor just won over a new fan.

VERDICT: A Classic. Besides a plot, judging by two hit and runs, that relies on the believability of Ghanaians being more reckless drivers than we Nigerians are (an impossibility) this is a must see flick that shows, if nothing else at all, that Nigeria needs Ghana for things other than qualitative primary education (shout-outs to Mr. Antwi, Mr. Azari, Mr. Maxwell and the headmaster whose name I don’t remember but I’ll put my money on kofi…kwame…May-Day kiddy land for life y’all!!!)

OTHER NOTABLES:

1. The unlucky in love mechanic who is totally ignored and insulted by Matilda during the course of the film was always available for those genius moments of comic relief. He gets additional credit for cracking one joke too many to have saved Matilda’s life.

2. Hair dos reminiscent of your mum in the 90’s (personal flashback: watching that famous episode of The Rich Also Cry where everyone cried, at the hair-dressers with mummy).

3. A soundtrack (obviously provided by Ghanaian artists) that doesn’t oversell the story like most naija home video soundtracks do. A sound bite from a typical naija soundtrack artist would play like this:

“Marks wicked mother (la, la, la, la)

Why did you doctor those pictures

Of the mechanic and the tomato sellers daughter…”

Lol…I’ve heard worse, seriously. With that said don’t change the channel if this movie ever comes on again. And if you ever see it on VHS or VCD cop that shit. SUPPORT YOUR OWN and your neighbors. Peace. And if you do see and don’t think it’s as good as I say then write your own review!!! Goodnight.

Oooh...What does this button do?

It finally happened. i've finally been convinced to join this nation of mouse-people, seemingly cursed to spend an eternity writing about a life they don't live (forums, IM convos, even emails don't count as part of a real life), holding their breathes everytime they have to check whos left a comment, making note-to-selfs to "blog" about every mundane event in their non existent lifes, scavenging the internet for every trivial piece of garbage that might appear news worthy to the fellow mouse-people who read their blogs, living out their malcolm in the middle and Ally Mcbeal fantasies AND heres the saddest part of it all: I'm thinking "this just might be fun!".