THE WORLD WATCHED WHILE I DIE... (A TRIBUTE TO GEORGE FLOYD)

THE WORLD WAS WATCHING WHILE I DIE...




As he rose from his bed that day,

It was just another day for him

Another opportunity to stare at the blue sky,
Laugh at the sun and let his feet kiss the ground again
It was just another opportunity for him to smile at the world,
roll with his friends and embrace what the day brings.

What is life to him?
He'd heard it's like a diminishing shadow with waning lights that could fizzle out in seconds.

He loved his mama
And his papa knew he was his hero
And if there was a Mrs. Right, he is hers for life.

His life has been a whirlwind
In a part of the world where he believed he belonged
He's emptied his sweat here,
in dedicated service to his acclaimed motherland
If only he could earn his crumb
Shall he head home smiling to heaven.

Lying on his bed
He would stare out through the window
And watch a thousand stars dance round the moon.

He has seen beauty
Like those moonlit nights under a tree
Songs of the birds spicing the night
While the trees danced a romance.

He liked to watch the flower blossom
Watch the stream sail
Watch the cloud drop tears of raindrop
He liked the sound it made on the roof
And how it felt on his body
As he walked through the street by noon.

But that morning,
As he sat in his car
He felt a real pang of fright
He's always heard of a dead-end
Could this be it for him?

They called him a suspect
What does it mean in this part of the world?
He'd willingly hand himself over
if that means a chance to talk with mama again.

As they approached,
Four hefty man, armed to the teeth
Their face a mask of horror,
More fear crept into him
and left him whitewashed with hopelessness.

The sky turned black
And the singing of the birds evaded his eardrum
He's known pain but here's him pinned to the ground
Hands in locks,
Four foot on his back,
a foot on his neck sniffling dear life out of him.

'I can't breath'
But not even his cries is enough to arouse a tiny sympathy from these humans.

We are brothers aren't we?
He'd been told we all bleed red
Are of the same mother earth
Are one big family
But what brothers subject brothers to this kind of confusion, pain, tortour with an intention to send him to the great beyond?

His offense, what is it?
Even if there's one, is this how to pay for it?
Pinned to the ground by those who have sworn to protect you,
Humiliated before the glare of the world and your tears called a joke?

Tears you couldn't even shed anymore
Because your lungs has failed you and air has eluded you
You see your life leaving you-
dumping you to the brutal fate of painful death.

The sun that you loved so much,
Now a dark ball of gloom
Your eyes are gone
Like withered leaves of a tree
But before you die,
You want the world to know you can't breath
You want the world to know you're thirsty.

No! The world is not short of water,
but the humans he called brothers.
Have denied him this free gift of nature

Now you know why...
But you forgot that before you were born,
You were already guilty
Because you will come coloured BLACK!

And whatever happened,
The world watched till you died.

#JusticeforFloyd

THE PROMISE

I lit the cooker and sat the pot on the fire. I poured in the rice and set to do the dishes. I was battling with the dish and sink when my 7-year old niece rushed into the room.

“Your baby want to die!' She said breathlessly.

“What?” I asked.

“She want to die...” She threw in a cryptic reply and she was gone.

I darted out of the kitchen and went after her. We bustled out of the house with great alarm.

My name is Enwerem Chukwuka from Isuikwuato Abia State state. The place was Ikorodu Lagos and it was on February seventeenth, 2016. It was a day I still wish never came.

I’d just come to Lagos earlier the previous year. I met this baby whom belonged to one of our tenants. I nicknamed her ‘My Baby’ because I didn’t really know her name. Well, the name stuck.

She was two and as lively as a vegetable garden on a sunny March morning. A full fluffy cheek with two firm dimples graced her oval-shaped face. Her skin was as light complexioned as a well ripened paw paw while her hair cascaded down her shoulders like ripples. Her eyes were as dreamy as one of those Oresegun Olumide’s artworks. Her skin glowed with a touch of glass undertones- glassy not fragile and her laughter was like a string of romance heard under the udara tree on a moonlit night.

It was as if our meeting was written in the sky so clear that everything just balanced right between us with little or no effort. Within a short time, we were strolling hand in hand touring round the neighborhood under refreshing evenings, savouring the gently, caressing air of Ikorodu. Ikorodu smelled of nature, of freshness and life. A break fr the real madness Lagos represent.

She was like the beautiful rose that perfected my garden whose innocent smile sat engraved in my mind, helping me bear any misfortune. An angel among human whose mere thought of made my every night short.

She’d wake up every morning and race straight to our apartment. She’d bang on our door in greetings. She had nothing to say, but to let me know she’s up and running for the day. Once I was free for the day, we’d have all the time in the world to spend together.
She was a fun fellow whom you wake up every day hoping to hear her laugh, see her smiles and watch her grace the neighborhood with her lively charisma.

One of my favourite memory of her was watching her join everybody else and try to correctly pronounce ‘uncle Henry’ I waited patiently for the day she would be able to say it correctly.

I knew she had a lot to tell me. I knew she had a lot to ask me. I knew there was much more we had in stock for the future and I waited eagerly on that future with the minutest excitement. Until that fateful February 17th…

As I and my niece arrived at their apartment, I was greeted with one of the most overpowering sights ever; my baby lying helplessly in her grandmother’s arms. In those excruciating minutes, I knew pain. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life that I was ready to scale any mountain to make her survive. But it was hopeless. I prayed to God to restore her health and wondered where my prayers went.

I could see it in her eyes, the last-minute blinks that would close a gate to a once lively soul.
The last gaze she gave me, a weary tired look that carried so much promise and regret with it was a sight I could never forget. In her pain, she was still trying to pronounce ‘uncle Henry’ correctly. And I knew if she could, she’d have done anything to live. I refuse to watch her breath her last so l left. I Left with all the good memories of her. With the new pain swelling within me and raging with helpless abandon.

Sleeping became a big deal with her face rippling before me with each shut of an eye and blink of the eyelids. I saw her smile, the last pain she bored on her face and the melodious cracker of her tiny voice reverberating in my head. It was a mixture of torture and sweet sweet memories.

The regret of my inability to lift a finger of help to her while she was alive and the guilt of having to live through more phase of life without her was overpoweringly weighty.

“She died,” her mother told me later with her eyes soaked in hot tears, “your baby is dead."
I sought for the best words of consolation for this young mother who had lost more than me, but I found none. But even if I had found the right words, I couldn’t have trusted my ability to say them for my strength too had failed me.
All I remember telling her was, “let me know when she returns." She didn’t ask questions and shortly afterward they moved out.

February 2017 I was in the kitchen again when my niece now aged eight rushed in to announce that my baby’s mother was back. I stepped out to see her carrying a two-month-old baby. When the baby saw me, she opened her arms invitingly and gave me that peculiar look of trust. She was my baby’s carbon copy alright and the way she held to my finger came with the old touch.
I had no question, I had no doubt. All that mattered to me was that my baby is back. I could feel it and she was there staring right at me. I knew my baby’s promise has been kept and I knew she had returned. This time, healthier and more determined to live. Like a dream come true, a promise fulfilled.

RELIGION AND THE HEAVY LOAD ON THE NECK OF AFRICA

In China, ten-year-old are already talking technology.
In USA, they can already find their way through the internet with computers.
In UK, they're already potential intellectuals with great political knowledge.
They're already learning self defense in Isreal while in Canada, they already have a good academic root.
You'd be shocked to know fifteen-year old Germans have become well versed in automobiles meanwhile in Afrika as a whole, we wake up talking religion and go to bed hugging religion like some moronic homo sapiens.

Exactly as I am doing. Right, exactly as we are doing and this malady progress, well, to old ages. From generation to generation in an endless circle like a decay in a bone marrow, clutching us in our balls and dragging us down to the ground in a never ending battle.

The brazen devotion and idiocy with which we practice this imported malady called religion is nauseating to a fault and calls for general concern because it's really one if not Afrika's biggest undoing.

I am asked here and there what religion should be replaced with in its absence because Afrika and Afrikans are so used to it that its absence isn't pleasant to imagine. Then I am forced to ask why we are not keen on replacing cured deadly ailments with other ailments?

Why rejoice you're free of cancer when you should be debating what your now dead cancer should be replaced with? Who wants a replacement for deadly viruses like AIDS and Ebola? Doesn't it feel good having them disappear and disappear for good?

This ludicrously ridiculous concept of religion is dragging us on the floor while hindering the progress of Afrika. Just the other day, I was denied a job I merited simply because I lacked the balls to pretend or lay allegiance to a certain religion sect.
When appointments are based on belief and direct sentiments rather than merit, we can only have the Afrika we have.

I've an online USA family friend we'd known for five years and counting who to date, have never bothered to care what religion I am of. However, they rather find the idea of Afrika and original Afrikan culture fascinating.
On the flip side, what mattered to them is that I am humane.

Yet the neighbors I met yesterday are so keen on having me join their religion bandwagon. They're so eager to see me wear those spiritual chain again and see me in that highly despised mental prison. To what end? To satisfy an ideology which originality have no true bearing with us.

The amazing thing is that once an Afrikan changes abode, their thinking changes. Yet, a Nigerian friend I'd known for some years who lives and studies abroad- has never queried me with religion. In fact it has never been part of any of our discussion for about five years.

That's just the case with lot of Afrikans in diaspora and we're still looking for a chalk-coured eye dibia to tell us what our ill is.

The god (God) and religion concept should be a personal experience and nothing to throw into the fulcrum of a society. Especially a wonky one like Afrika looking to stand up.

We should really go back to being humans. Really try and bundle religion back to the owners who unfortunately need it no more because it's as cancerous as it is.

THE MAD MAN CALLED 'A WRITER'

If he is fortunate enough, he has a crappy room to himself.

The room is stashed with books and papers; from the floor to the bed, to the cardboard and down to the top of his glass of drinking water.

Most of the books are opened to page 20, 100-80 and so, placed face-down waiting to be picked again.

Sometimes, he'd sleep with a pen in hand. Other times, he'd sleep with a blank page beside him and wake up with a bomb five-line poetry on it. He'd watch paint dry and call it art, watch a woman walk barefooted at the beach and call it novel.

His computer and phone is full of what could be junks to the average human being. They're full of information and files that only him could read meanings into.

Within a short time, his phone and computer storage space is filled up with his large accumulated junks.

On average, he has very few friends. He Has a strange perception of people he call friends. It might be that bloke wondering what he's doing in his life.
And those people who call him friends, to him may not be seen so.

Thanks to the internet, he has his own audience and some serious online like minds whom when he isn't in his rooms overworking his brains, he chats away time with. Here, he fare better than his predecessors who spoke to the walls and listened to the trees.

He's a chronic thinker. He never stops because he can't. His brain is always busy. And for a fee of I million Dollar, he can't get his head to rest.

More often than not, He's filled a thousand books with writing. Most of which will never see the light of the day. Most of which he'd be too embarrassed to look at tomorrow. He sees everything as story and everyone as a character.

In his head, a thousand stories line up unfinished. he have a big black board in his head where he records everything intellectual to the detriment of little details that could no longer fit in.

His head is so messed up he'd probably forget his birthday. His father's birthday, his mother's maiden name and the name of the lady he's crushing on.

He's got hundreds of contacts on his phone and when he scrolls through it, he's asking himself 'who is this?' and 'who is that?'
He'd ask you your name today, tomorrow, the next and the next. You could have a lunch with him today and tomorrow he's forgotten your face but he has the content of the book he read five years ago imbibed in his mind, word for word. He's that strange.

He finds himself in a crowd and he'll always manage to be alone. He didn't even know how but he always manages to find himself alone. He could stay locked up in his room all day and think it some kind of fun. He'd stare at the flowers all day and prefer the chirp of the birds to any other music.

He's going to somewhere, he lost way, the average normal human being would be panicky but not this one.

He's smiling. He's looking around and he's reading signs. He's picking up details and storing it out in his head. Before he know it, he's in another street and already given up on his original destination.

If he could, he'd even book a room and lodge for the night. He'll visit the reception at night and watch people living the life. He's grinning and laughing out the moment then the next minute, he isn't there anymore; his head has wandered out again.

It could be to the past, it could be an impossible future but then that's it. He passes the night and sets off the next day.

There's an accident on the road, people are shuddering and waiting but he is watching- he's taking mental notes; how disfigured was the car? What colour?

He's hardly sane. A woman is crying but he saw 'A hopeless looking woman whose left cheek was plastered by blood that trimmed down the little cut on her forehead. She was seated on her bag dumped by the roadside, a little further away from the crashed car, clad in half thorn gown, ripped down from her waist revealing a red satin undies which she didn't mind. Clasped between her hands was a breathless 3-year old whose eyes were shut and limbs lifeless, jaw knocked open through where red mass of shattered gums stared at the world...'

He's an idiot you know? He isn't even cringing. He's thrown his gaze into the bus, there's a sticker pasted on the windshield. He's reading the inscription on it, he's looking at the ghostly driver and he's calculating how many more seconds before the police car blaring its siren will arrive.

He has a very odd schedule; you could see him sleeping by 10 Am and eating at 4 Am.

You wake up by 3 AM to use the bathroom and there he is either seated and staring at his computer or his phone screen smiling foolishly at a joke you don't get.

Basically he lives in his own world. And he's created a thousand other words in his head which he always put down in writing.

When he finally present his works to the world, if he was lucky, the world would accept the strange worlds he created, the story, everything- otherwise they'd brand him the mad man he always is.

The truth is, he's not normal. Never was and probably never will. He's hardly sane and in some extreme cases could pass on for a mentally deranged.

He's talking to himself; it's a meeting, a conference and what have you. He's being the characters he created- the sane and the insane, speaking for them and sounding as stupid as you can imagine.

But don't worry, he's probably not totally mad but he's mad anyway.

WHY TALK TO A GRAVE?

Last week, I posted a documentary on Nollywood ace, Nkiru sylvanus on Igboist (BY Maria Ude Nwachi). Of the about 2k comments, hundreds of people had something demeaning to say about the post and I the poster. A lot complained what use the article was and how jobless could I be to be parading another person's story on social media?


The Next day, I posted another documentary on the same platform but this time, it was of a late Nollywood Veteran, Sam Loco Efe. There were over 1k comments and replies under the post, all expressing sadness, admiration and love for the deceased actor. Not a single person attacked me or queried the essence of the post.


I don't know whether to call it hypocrisy on our part or what to make of it. I've read that the only blameless man is a dead one, still why do we prefer talking to the dead than the living? On a personally conviction, why do people get overly emotional when death is a topic?


I don't subscribe to that school of thought that is against speaking ill of the dead. If I don't find it hypocritical, I find it foolish, extremely stupid to demean the living at the expense of the dead.

Recently, a young lady reportedly committed suicide and for a while, my Whatsapp status and Facebook news feed were pregnant with eulogies of her. Hundreds of tribute with her pictures littered everywhere.


It was then that I got to see some of her works shared by her supposed friends. It turned out that some close people to me personally knew her yet, as a struggling poet looking for a ground to stand on, none of her works crossed my part while she was alive while I was harassed with a hundred of them after her death.


None of her friends found her works worthy enough of being showcased about while she was alive but suddenly they had heightened zeal to share her works and talk about her when she died. How good she was. How strong she was. How much of a fighter she was.


The same thing happened during the tragic end of one promising Akachi. Today, a lot of Facebook people still have Akachi sitting on their profile as their DP. To what end?


You are busy sharing works and photos of celebrities unsolicited while neglecting the people around you. You really don't owe anybody any care in the world, but people like me find it annoying and embarrassing when you start acting the caring entity towards them when they die.


When you'll suddenly start dusting your gallery in search of a photo where two of you might have mistakenly appeared together or a conversation that happened eons ago so you can come here and tell lies that will sooth your conscience.


Why do we have so much to say about the dead but the living? Why would we rather talk to a grave than to the next person standing before us? Is it ego...or is it our ego that's blocking the way?


I really don't know how to play this extreme game of pretext that will have me wailing at the death of someone I really didn't care about. I don't know how to do it. I'm either talking about you while you live or I'm not talking about you when you die.


If you're beautiful, I'll tell you.

If I admire you, I'll let it be known or it would end at that.

If your works are good to me, you deserve to know or I would never pretend they were good just because you've beat me to that journey of no return.


Over the years, I've learned to appreciate the people in my life. Learned to look them in the eyes and tell them stuff. Just like everybody, I've been hit by the death of loved ones and I've realized that talking to the grave does nobody any good.


If I haven't said something nice to you, or done something fine for you, may our parts cross.

I celebrate the living. Not just the dead.

ANGEL COULBY

The 48 kg, 5 foot, 3 inches actor with a body measurements of 36-26-34 has one of the most harmonious body earning her the unpopular title of 'the sexiest actor alive.'


Born: 30 August 1980 (age

Angel Coulby With Bradley James

 39 years) in London, United Kingdom.

Height: 1.62 m

Nationality: British.


Coulby obtained a degree in acting at Queen Margaret University, Edinburgh and achieved a first.


The Afro-Guyanese was first seen in an episode of Scariest Places on Earth as a student who had an encounter with a ghost. Her breakthrough came in 2001 with her role in the Johnny Vaughan BBC sitcom 'Orrible'. She was later chosen to play Gwen, a young maid also known as Guinevere who would later become Queen of Camelot, in the BBC One fantasy TV series Merlin.


Although the English actress is best known for her role as Gwen, she came into the spotlight in 2001 when she was portrayed as Shiv Clark in a British television sitcom – 'Orrible'– produced by the BBC.




Angel Coulby’s performance as Gwen was indeed her most famous role. …but she has also appeared in several other television series. You can find her as Katherine in Doctor Who. Recently she appeared as Jessie Taylor, Laura Roebuck, Julia Redhead, and Melina in “Dancing on the Edge” (where She took the star role of the jazz singer Jessie in the BBC Two Stephen Poliakoff five-part 2013)


She also stared in “The Tunnel”, “Undercover” and “Hooten & the Lady” respectively.


She was nominated for Monte Carlo TV Festival Award for her brilliant performance in Merlin, in the category of Golden Nymph Outstanding Actress for Drama Series.


Angel Coulby is a mother of one. She had her kid in 2019.


Though she's unmarried, little known fact is that she's been in a romantic relationship with fellow Merlin cast, Bradley James (Prince Arthur), since 2011.


Their real romance started following their act in the. BBC blockbuster fantasy, Merlin.


The actor is believed to be worth $5m with the majority of her earning coming from sponsorship.

VAPOUR (A short dirge)

TO A DEAR FRIEND, 

You smiled at the world
You got a scorn in return
You sang a song
Gloom danced for you
You spread your hand in an embrace
And death scooped you away...

WHY BEING THE BEST IN YOUR JOB IS NOT ENOUGH TO SAVE YOUR JOB

All employers want the best employees on their payroll.


Every Chairman want the best MD to head their businesses.


Every school thirst for the brightest students that would project a good image of their institution.


Every company want the best staffs they could assemble.


The original essence of interviews is to hunt for and acquire the best hands for a given job.


We are in a world where if you're not the best in your field, you may as well go hide in a cave. The world wants the best. The best or almost nothing.


Being the best at what you do would easily get you the dream job or catapult you to whatever height you dreamt, but is being the best enough to keep you at the job?


Between 2015/16, I worked for a big bakery. It's easily the biggest bakery I've ever came across in my lifetime.

This bakery produced enough to serve the whole of Ikorodu and the need to keep up with demand meant the management could only wish for whatever the best they could get in employees.


But the problem was that the job was tedious. And for the pay and the hours you've to work, it's one of those jobs you simply don't last beyond a few weeks.


I saw people come and go on daily basis. Some lasted a few days, others, weeks, and then they were those who gave up within hours of tasting what working there was like.


As a result, the few strong ones who have been toughened and seemed to have mastered the job to submission, were valued by the management. They were worth keeping for getting new recruits that could last months was a difficult task for them.


When I joined and in my characteristic way of always striving to do my best, I easily mastered the job to the surprise of everybody.


I won't say there's an exaggeration to how hard the job was, but to me, it wasn't as scary as everybody made it appear.


One of my biggest motivation then was that I was at a time, perhaps the only Igbo among the group of workers. The other Igbos were two girls that were working in another department. So I was determined to make a good representative beyond simply trying to keep my job.


The management was amazed. The owner would often come to admire me work. She liked the swiftness and precision with which I did my job.


But there was a big problem.


I had this terrible temper. It was disastrous. My attitude at work was very bad. Bad to a fault that not even doing excellently in the job was enough to keep me at the job.


Have you ever seen that look on a Boss' face when they have to say that regretful words of "I'm really sorry, I can't help it. I wish I can..."

I didn't get such touching words but I pretty much suffered that fate; the fate of being told to go by someone who really need you to stay.


I was a poison in the company. I was in everybody's good book and everybody's bad book at the same time.


I'm fighting you today. I'm fighting him tomorrow. I'm fighting everybody the next day. It was that bad.


Even the gate keeper became wary of me. He wouldn't conduct the customary search on me, carried out on all employees before they exited the company after each working day. The man simply dreaded me.


As smallish built as I was, I was dishing out headache to people who were thrice my size. I didn't really know what gave me the courage but I was a trouble to everybody there. From my department to the next department, it was a total fiasco.


A new recruit would come. He'd say 'look at the little guy'. Another boss would say, 'he won't try it with me' and tomorrow, I'm wagging a finger at his face to his total shock.


Several times, a group would be dissolved and merged with other groups and none of the leaders of these groups would want me in their group. No boss want a subordinate who have a reply to every of their words.


As a result, I was sacked three times from the same job. Sacked for having a terrible attitude and rehired for being too good. I got sacked and rehired and sacked and rehired. It was funny and tiresome. But I learned a lesson, a bitter lesson that no matter how good you are in a certain job, if you don't have the right attitude, you may not survive there.


I've seen people compromise for those who offer lesser value but but have the best attitude in their dealings. While it's great to be the best in what you do, if you don't have the best attitude to accompany it, that might stunt your growth or even throw you out in the cold. So while you're striving to perfect your skills, don't forget to work on yourself too.


There was once a player called Mario Balotelli who was going to do way better than he did in professional football, but...

YOU DON'T REBEL IN ROME

Between 2018 and 2019, I worked as a labourer shuffling across cities in Lagos.

In the course of my job, I found myself working with some group of people who have been in the jobs longer than I.

Unlike them, the job was just an improvised means of making ends meet for me. So I tackled the job with a different outlook.

I'm close to a perfectionist and I often have to try not to put my 100 in certain things.

I usually go to these jobs with my bag which to their humour, contained my cosmetics and no food. I rarely ate on the job. I'm psychologically wired to really want to relax after a meal.

My schedule was totally different from theirs. Once I finished work, I'd take my bath, and race home looking like a PA to the president.

Back home, it's usually past ten in the night already. I'll sit something on the stove for dinner and then go ahead to do some laundry before taking another bath.

As it is, I wash on average of six days per week. No matter how busy I am or what comes my way, I always find a way to wash and something to wash. I like washing.

So after taking my bath, I'll have late dinner. Late dinner is another habit I don't know what to do with.

I've had some concerned people in the health sector advise me against it but I guess, to me, it's one of those things a man can't just stop doing even if it kills.

Anyway, after my late dinner, I'll delve into Facebook and WhatsApp. Check my Mails and reply Sms I wasn't able to handle during the working hours.

Then, I still had to read. I still had to review stuffs I'd written. I'm always modifying my works and before I know it, I'm looking at 2:30 A.M.

I'll nap and wake up around 7 AM to repeat the circle. So when I look at this and compare it to my co workers' schedule which more often than not take the pattern of, they come to work, finish work, have dinner at the working site, reach home and hit the bed.

The result is that I always want to finish up with the job and get going.

I thought I was doing us a favour whenever I started doing the jobs of two men put together. At first, they hailed me, then as time progressed, I realized they didn't look too pleased with me again.

I didn't know why. They started telling my lies. They'd say there's no work tomorrow. When I report to work two days later, I'll hear they came to work the day before. I didn't know what I did to them.

Someday, they'd try to send me back home before the supervisor will report to work through several mischievous means.

One day, we were already working when they complained that there were too many labourers and that there's need for layoff.

Of course, all fingers pointed at me. Even the few of them I considered friendly were snickering and avoiding me.

Anyway I dressed to go. Outside, I met the supervisor and asked him in our customary way to give me #100 make I take jump bike.

He started fumbling with his pockets and then a thought came him. He asked me where I was going. I explained that we exceeded the number of needed workers so that counted me out.

'What?' He rushed into the site and started barking at everybody. He has great admiration for me and enjoyed how hardworking I was. How I don't spend hours eating lunch, hours eating breakfast and hours drinking water. 'So someone have to go and it's Henry?' He started laughing. 'You're all joking,' He told them and said if anybody had to go, that they should caste away one of them. I changed and resumed work.

He took my number. Without their knowledge. They'd lie that there's no job. And he'd text me at odd hours when works has already started and ask me why I didn't report to work. I'll tell him there's supposed to be no work today. That surprised him and severely, I saw myself hurriedly going to a job I didn't prepare for at very unusual hours.

So one day, I talked to a friend on WhatsApp about it. He said he knew why they were treating me like that.

He said it was because unlike me, that job to them, isn't something to finish. That if everybody there started working like me, they'd end up working four days rather than six days every week. That was why they were not in a hurry to finish the jobs.

 They weren't paid for their individual effort or hourly output, rather it was a fixed rate. That it's like a government job for them; just lazy around as much as you can, waste whatever time you can, take your payment and go home.

It's not their father or uncle that own the money. They don't care if it takes a hundred years to finish the work so far they get paid shifting a few bricks from here to there each day.

And that was why the Engineer, supervisor and management liked me and that was why my coworkers detested me.
 They saw me as a threat to the system that's the rules they operate under. Also my working extra hard, meant pressure on them to step up their efforts and that's an inconvenience to them. Shortly afterwards, I left their job for them.

So while I was expecting praises from my co workers, I didn't know that I was a problem to them.

And this is an answer to your question of why people change when they assume power.

We've all heard and read people ask how good people suddenly turn to what they don't know once they're in a position to affect any change in a system they've so much criticized.

That's why Nigeria isn't working. And that's why it will never work with the present foundation.

If you like, go and put Obama in Aso Rock. If he do more than they're willing to take, they'll cut him down to size.

That's why if you become Nigeria president today, you won't do better than Buhari. That's why GEJ couldn't win a second term running against a candidate like Buhari and that's the same reason the outspoken Osinbajo has turned to a rainbow, appearing once in a blue moon.

If you enter a city, you ask who owns the city first so you'll know where to direct your respect. If you enter Rome, you act like the Romans. You play to the rule or you pay for it.

Are you playing to the rules or you've broken the rules and now waiting for your praises? It'll come in form of a brick hitting you on the head.
Wait for it.

Enwerem Chukwuka

Nollywood actor, SAM LOCO EFE

SAM LOCO EFE

Born Sam Loco Efeeimwonkiyeke on 25th December 1945 in Enugu coal city of Enugu State in the south eastern part of Nigeria.

Sam Loco Efe is originally from Benin City, Edo State in the south southern part of Nigeria but was born and bred in Enugu and Abakaliki respectively both in the south eastern part of Nigeria. He lost his father at a very tender age and had to struggle to help his mother in her trade in order to earn income for the family. His mother was a petty trader who sold akara.

Sam Loco Efe completed both his primary and secondary school education in Abakaliki and Enugu respectively.

His first experience with acting was at his primary school when a theatre group came to stage a play called “The Doctor”. In elementary school, he played the role of Julius Caesar in a Shakespearean play which earned him a scholarship.

After the Nigerian civil war ended, in 1972, Sam Loco traveled to Lagos in search of greener pasture and to explore a possible career in football.

In Lagos, he worked with Michelin tyre for a while before joining Dunlop. While at Dunlop Tyre, Sam was casted in the popular NTA series, 'The Gods Are Not To Blame' an adaptation of the book of the same title by award winning play writer, Ola Rotimi.

He later left his sales job and ventured fully and professionally into acting, joining Nollywood in 1992. He auditioned and got the lead role in a movie titled “Langbodo”.

That seemed to have given him his desired break and Sam Loco would go on to feature in over 130 movies including:
 Tom and Jerry, Final World Cup, My Love, Ukwa, Osuofia in London, Atinga, Our Uncles, Drunken Master, Association Of Village Men, Evil Son, Second Tenure, Hypertension, Slow Motion, Things Fall Apart, Alice My First Lady, Daddy Must Obey, Old School, A Fool At Fourty.

And as a director, good Sam have Osuofia And The Wise Men both 1&2 to his credit.

The Nollywood comic actor, television personality and a comedian who always features in comedy movies is known for his use of heavy grammatical word.

He is unarguably reputed as one of the best comic actors in Nigeria and also one of the best performing actor of all time and was one of the most sought after in the profession till his sudden demise.

He has won several awards which include Best Comic Actor in Nigeria at the Africa Movie Academy Awards, Most Promising Actor in Nigeria at the Africa Magic Viewers Choice Awards and Best Actor in a Comedy at the City People Entertainment Awards.

As at the time of his death, in 2011, the legendary actor had an estimated net worth of over $400,000 which leaves him one of the richest and most influential comic actor in Nigeria.

To cap his effort more, he was in 2009, awarded a Member of the Order of the Federal Republic (MFR) which remains the highest honor and award given to a celebrity who has contributed immensely to the economy growth and development of the country through entertainment.

The comic actor was actually a strict person, so strict that not even his children dared talk about his heavy smoking habit.

He died on 7th August 2011 in his hotel room in Owerri while on a business trip.

He is survived by six kids, which comprise three daughters and three sons.

Enwerem Chukwuka

THE WORLD HATE THE WEAK

Have you ever heard the 'the world is a jungle' phrase?




As humans, we may pride ourselves with having laws that regulate our lives which may distinguish our environment from a jungle. But ours isn't really that much different from a real jungle in the sense that the biological survival of the strongest theory, still apply to us.




Don't you wonder why man haven't been able to solve the begging problem of inequity? Why the few strong still posses enough for a majority of 'the weak' to live on?


In our world, as much as we try to shy away from this simple fact, what we have for the weak is simply pity and no genuine sympathy. It is so because the strong must eat and if they need to crush the weak to do it,



they won't hesitate.




Nobody wants to starve in their course of being too sympathetic to his fellow man's plight. Those who tried to thread that part didn't live well enough to tell the tale.


It's a fiasco and scramble out there in the real world. Very different from what our classrooms sold to us and what they prepared us for.


We are in a world where one must strive to survive or be smothered in this scramble for survival. You can either keep going, stand beside, stay behind or get trampled on; you can't block the way.


In this mad dance for survival and supremacy, the weak are mercilessly crushed. The world hate the weak, that's the truth. The weak are liabilities. They're obstacles and they obstruct movement of those working towards a defined goal.






I remember those days in school, how the finest players were fought for during football hours. Everybody wanted them in their team. It wasn't a question of love or sympathy; it was a business of lose or win and everybody wanting to belong to the winning side, always vied for the best in the game.


The best sailors want the best captains on-board with them. The best pilots want the best copilots. The best Engineers want to partner with the best and the best are always courted for their service. As much as anybody might claim to love the weak, it's different in this practical world where there are losses and gains and everybody is looking to gain.


This is not about physical weakness, but about those who aren't willing to go the extra mile to being the best in their chosen field. Those who aren't willing to pay the price to win the race.






The world will simply leave them behind.




The world do not care about your tears. In fact, your complaints irritates the world. They don't care if you are blind, mute, from a poor home or from the gutter. They're not interested in that your pity-me story. If anything, they would do anything not to hear it.




The world is only interested in what you can do. What do you have in your hand? What are you doing with it? Nobody is interested in what you lack.


Even in your family, you see things like this where your own family would be the first to demean you. You might be an upcoming artiste who have to endure having your family listen to songs that may have nothing on your little effort in quality, while ignoring yours. So you want your family to read your books? When there's still some Achebe's classic on the shelf? You must be joking. Who are you yet?


Your tears won't move them. Your cry won't solve it. You'll have to accept the fact that these people may not really care. It is your job to prove strong and rear your head up as a winner and that would leave them no option than to celebrate you until then, you'll have to bear the loss because it's a jungle here and nobody care unless you're willing to win or unless you've won.


The world will loath you, disappoint you. Make you feel bad, terrible and worse. The world would betray you and do you all sort of discouraging things. You'll have lot of terrible experiences but the world really don't care. It's either an 'Did you overcome?' or 'Are you a loser?' question.






Nobody is interested in what you might have passed through as everybody have a pity tale to their names.




Unless you'll sit at a corner writing beautiful poetry about flowers and painting images with words. Even at that, other more stubborn poets and writers would crush you without mercy. If they were awards to be won, they'll beat you to it. If there were contracts to be won, you won't smell them. If there were audiences to be captured, you'll be left with little or no followers.




The bottom line is that you either stand up or nobody is ready to look at your direction. The world isn't interested in those lagging behind. They only care about the front-runners because it's all about winning. Sympathy does nobody no good when someone have to eat.


Try putting a cat and a rat in a cage. The next day, come there and you'll see the cat grinning from ear to ear and you won't see any rat anymore. Then put a lion and a beautiful lamb. the next day, the lion would be annoyed because it was by no means a satisfying dinner but, no he didn't spare the lamb because it had to eat regardless of what sympathy he had for it. Now, put two lions in a cage, and they might decided to be a team because the strong want the strong with them. They want them by their side. They know what a waste of energy it would be for them fighting against each other.


The world has really been unfair to you but nobody is interested in that your tears. You either become strong and rear up your head or remain fallen on the floor but be assured there won't be any genuine sympathy for you.


Stand up and grow, start running if you want the world to notice you. Taking pride in your weakness would only drive people away from you. Because they're not impressed by your complacency. It's bad energy.