The Ties That Unbind

To have and to hold from this day forward,
for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish,
until we are parted by death.

Famous last words, i say........ Famous last words.

A little over six years ago, a friend from my boarding school days got married to his sweetheart, they had known each other for years. As fate would have it they fell in love and decided to spend the rest of their lives together. I admit, i can be a little cynical on the odd occasion, but i truly was hopeful that i was observing the real thing. The wedding was for all intents and purposes a great spectacle. The flower arrangements were perfect, the catering was excellent and the overworked wedding planner truly earned her wages whilst attempting to cater to the whims and caprices of all the big men and women in attendance. They were a truly beautiful couple, he in a black suit, she in a white dress standing in a gazebo on the grounds of one of the nicest hotels i had ever seen. It truly was a sight to behold.

He gave a stirring speech about love, his hopes for the future and his gratitude to the fates for crossing his path with hers. He closed his speech with an emotional recitation of Juke Box Love Song by Langston Hughes, she appeared to wipe a tear from her left eye (considering the fact that she spent a great deal of time having her makeup done that morning, i feel that particular action was performed for dramatic effect. She smiled and hugged her husband deeply. She took the microphone, gave her speech, thanked her parents for raising her and sacrificing a great deal for her (families sure know how to put up a good act in such circumstances). She spoke of how herself and her new husband met at a dance in Sussex(in reality they knew one another in Nigeria prior to moving abroad, and were initially sworn enemies). She ended her work of fiction by reciting A Magic Moment I Remember by Alexander Pushkin.

Think about it, He recited Hughes she read Pushkin, Harlem Renaissance mixed with Romanticism, Moscow on The Hudson, like the cold war never existed. I should have read the omens and realised that their union was doomed, but i remained hopeful. Against this backdrop of hope, hope for a new beginning for them, hope for the future and hope that maybe one day we will all experience true love; we ushered them into matrimony.

The Seven Year Itch (or six in their case)

Fast forward six years, The phone rings. I pick it up.

“Boorish?” the voice says. “It's ......"

"Can we talk"?
"Definitely"
"Boorish, he cant measure up".
"How so?"
"I go out and i meet men that i have more in common with"
"You know i think you are a coquette"
"And?"
"Well maybe you should flirt less".
"Why wouldn't I"?
"He doesn't make an effort with his appearance?"
"I resent the fact that I have to support him financially".
"I was raised with money, and i am used to a certain standard of life".
"I think i am going to leave him".

Unfortunately, she made good her threat and moved on with her life, he is embittered by the whole experience and is quick to tell the world about this evil, materialistic bitch that left him high and dry, with out a pot to piss in. It is easy to vilify the woman in such circumstances, but the truth is that we all have a vision for ourselves and i am sure that if thinfgs were better for him financially and otherwise, she would have been a good wife to him. If his career has carried on its initial trajectory, chances are she would not have left him. If she didn't have to dig into her pockets to keep the home, she might not have been quite so frustrated, and if he hadn't resorted to comfort eating he would not look quite so bovine and maybe they would have some semblance of a sex life.

We all have standards, hopes and aspirations. Maybe we will achieve them and maybe we wont. The truth is that we all have one life to live, and i can see how if she didn't make the jump she would have ended up frustrated and resentful. i am not condoning her actions, i am simply experienced enough to understand where she is coming from. Love comes with conditions, they had a deal, he promised to take care of her, and unfortunately it did not work out that way. I do not see why any man should take a woman out of the relative comfort of her fathers home and make her suffer with you. She might enjoy the thought of struggling with her man, but the reality of it will most probably overwhelm her.

Her situation is a mixture of a number of factors, the seven year itch, her in inherrent narcissism, a downturn in his fortunes and her inability to compromise. As far as i am concerned, she does not deserve to be vilified, that is the person that she is, and he was well aware of it before he married her. He was on a strict time frame and unfortunately she chose to withdraw her favours.

She would have been a good wife in different circumstances, I guess she was not in an enabling environment......

What do you think?

Do What Thou Wilt.

On Self-Knowledge

Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.
But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart's knowledge.
You would know in words that which you have always known in thought.
You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.
Kahlil Gibran



I am a firm believer in leaving people to chose their path, would there have been a Michael Jackson if his folks had forced him to become a proctologist? How would Shakespere have fared tilling the fields of Stratford upon avon? Not very well I think, it is a waste of time attempting to turn Rudulf Nureyev into Ato Boldon, so hands off and let the youth be. For a long time I repeated this mantra, however; a recent experience made my belief somewhat shaky.


“Boorish please you have to counsel your young cousin, he has gone mad”
“What is the problem this time”
“He will not kill me o”
“Aunty I sincerely hope he doesn’t kill you” said Boorish trying hard to disguise his irritation”.
“Boorish, my son wants to become a drug addicted, womanizing singer”.
“Nothing wrong with that, in so far as it is his true calling”.
“But he cannot sing”.
“Ok aunty, I will speak to him”.

I initially thought nothing of the exchange between my aunt and myself, after all maybe she mistook his rapping for singing, or maybe he is an instrumentalist. I put a call through to him and made an appointment for us to meet for drinks at my local speakeasy. The day came, I arrived early, ordered myself a bit to eat a draught lager and a double calvados to chase it. No sooner had I settled down to eat did I hear a rather high pitched voice squeal “there you are uncle Boorish, as handsome as ever”. I do not relish being called uncle, sir, egbon, oga or any thing such thing. I turned around and much to my surprise, there stood my young cousin, looking somewhat different.

I remembered my cousin as your typical rough and tumble teen, with a whole load of mischief in him. It was rather disconcerting reconciling the creature before me. My cousin had morphed into a rather effete young man wearing skinny jeans, pointed boots, a cravat, braided hair, a Turkish chain and a pair of thumb rings. I am not one to judge; after all I was a dread at some point. I asked him to sit down and asked him what he wanted to drink.

“I’ll have a cosmo”
“A what?”
“A cosmopolitan uncle”
“Call me boorish”.
“Ok Boorish, a cosmo is a cool cocktail”.
“Look kid I was once heavy in the dating game, I know what the hell a cosmo is”.
“So there is no problem”.
“I hear you are into music now”
“Yes I am” He said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of More cigarettes.
“You smoke Mores”
“I love the way they are so slender and easy to smoke”.
“What do I care how you like your eggs fried”.
“Exactly”.
“What genre of music are you into?”
“I am into gospel music, have a listen."

He handed me his ear phones, I popped them into my ears as I noticed that his I-pod was pimped out with Swarovski crystals. I listened to three tracks and gave him my verdict.


“I am not convinced that you have a future in music”
“What do you mean”
“Gospel Makossa?”
“It is innovative”.
“I can see the innovation, but can you truly justify telling people to scatter nyansh for Jesus”?
“Do you think I should have told them to, galala instead”?

I looked at his face, and the poor boy was close to tears, I wondered if I would be right to crush his dream, and break his spirit. I was between a rock and a very hard place. I looked into his eyes and beyond the mascara and eye liner laid passion. Passion for life and for gospel makossa. The foolish passion that comes with youth, the foolish passion tells you that anything is possible. The passion that great men fight to keep all their lives. The passion that causes men to try and keep trying till they achieve their dreams. I looked into his eyes and I understood.


“Scatter nyansh for Jesus is just fine my friend”.


We drank, we ate, and I saw that the young chap was simply being himself, he has only one life to live and who am I to tell him who to be, how to think and how best to live his life. Maybe gospel makossa will one day compel young people around the world to drop down and get their eagle on. Maybe it will be the greatest flop in history. It is all in the hands of the Gods, but at least the young man gave it a shot.
Meeting him again brought it home that the future is ours to dare to invent.


If you have a dream, don’t let it die, if your heart tells you something, listen to it. Risk it all and be; be the person that you know know yourself to be and turn your back to those that say you can’t.


And to all the parents out there:

The poem below was written by Kahlil Gibran a man i consider one of Gods gifts to mankind. He was the artist that painted the work of art above.



On Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.


Kahlil Gibran