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GLOBAL HOLE (OBED’S QUANDARY)

Equality irrespective of colour; a nokia connecting handshake between a black palm and its contrast. He had his neatly pressed agbada escorted by royal beads — he was clearly African. His scary claw-like tribal marks affixed to his left cheek identified him with Nigerians. A not so concerned black man who, like many of his kind, had the American dream. It was another evening without electricity but with his dim rechargeable, he was staking some football games on his ticket — it was a life of staking, beer parlour, and swapping of endowed curvy Nigerian belles. Knocks came, enough to put cracks on his termite-romanced dead hatch. It was his congenial and palm wine friendly companion. Chris was with the entire gist, he came with something remote from lottery, a bit of fluff, and the usual – it was surely going to be a strange meeting as Chris developed cold feet towards Obed’s freshly tapped emu (palm wine). Chris seemed disinterested in Obed’s titillation over a successful lottery draw; he had his face cut a deal with blue devils and melancholy. Obed had swiftly slipped out of his robe to lessen the smite it brought on him, he noticed the unusual countenance of Chris but had to duly gulp a few more cups of emu before showing puppy love. Chris, kini nkan naa? (What is the matter?).

Chris was with an evidence of stammer, talking about the rail words he received from a white girl he had tried to dupe via the internet. Obed was quick to stress Chris messed up – Obed believed ladies should have not a single edge or opportunity to pierce slurs into the soul of a man. Both of them started talking about the topical issue and were firing the white man’s land all because she called Chris a black monkey. Obed just did not stop his empty threats, it was his awful habit of naming things he would do to the white men for calling Blacks discriminatory names – all hat and no cattle, one thing he did not out grow. Chris was giving Obed historical progeny of slavery; Obed was loosely holding his rubber cup with his mouth zeroed – evidence of rapt attention presumably. Chris was the one with the ideas and wits; Obed was his tool for lamenting, voicing, and pouring of undiluted palm wine hence his friend with benefit. It was now 8pm but the thick darkness made it seem as midnight, the dim rechargeable had escaped existence now but element of life was the conversation between the men. Ejo fun mi palm wine (please give me palm wine).

Obed was no activist or a disciple of anti-America, in fact he dreamt of his trip to The States with hopes of getting married to a white damsel. It was only a pointer to his wishy-washy state whenever he cursed the white ladies. Today was not a day to appreciate the curvy nature of Latinos, Obed just enjoyed Chris talking – Obed could pass for the gullible and easily brain washed wine tapper, call him that and he would appreciate you with tears of joy for such juicy remarks. Chris started with football games, he addressed the boos from white folks on black footballers. Obed never fully grasped a point without a naked example so Chris aided his fish brain mentioning Mario Balotelli, Jay Jay Okocha, and other names he could remember. Chris meteorically emptied his cup four times and went into laments after a scary brash burp. He started spoon feeding Obed with his ideologies. For him the white cannot be better than the Black man; for him, it was an assault to commonsense to say Blacks were created to worship the White man; for him, there was no need for the American dream. 

Face in close ties with red spot, head swollen with confusion, too many hate talks beclouding his minute reasoning beret, he had had enough of it. Chris was about dwelling on the extremism in America – he was about adding it to his already featured point on lack of morality and appalling cultural heritage – when Obed cut short the evening episodes. He clearly did not understand why Chris would say such hurtful things about the White race. Chris used to be of the opinion that the Blacks were hypocrites who could not escape the lake of fire they preached against. Chris always saw the white man as one who had tapped wisdom from God and had grown into one big industry. He used to argue vehemently that the Black men only wanted sex, and nothing more. Obed respected his every stand as everything he thought he knew were derived from his friend – the lottery was a sure way the Blacks could survive and Chris was a father of the game. Obed was lost as he was made to see the white as the only sane people; Chris had indeed knocked reasonability off the scalp of Obed, he nonetheless managed to ask a question.

Are you trying to say that Blacks are suddenly superior? You have been talking about the hole in the White man’s land. Did you not mention earlier that Blacks only care about irrelevancies and extreme religious doctrines? … Chris was looking at his friend with so much attention as though there was a rabbit to pull out. Obed was still throwing questions, he had never been in that position to throw questions – looks like someone was working on his fish brain. Chris fumbled in his speech now, he never expected that Obed be quick to spot the patent contradiction — he was doubting the usual folly of his friend instantly. Obed kept the stage void of a third party drunk or encumberancer. Obed was stressing that the Whites may have attained wisdom from God and that they may have taken a dive in a Sodomic pool; but the Blacks will not stop seeing a White man and have a low self esteem. All points seemed to be flowery as Chris was forced to tap small sense from his once foolish friend. Obed started talking about equal rights, he knew nothing detailed but seemed to be seeing Blacks as equal to the Whites.
 
Egbon grow out of it ò jare, we cannot be equals. The White man is disrespectful. Do you think you can be given jobs other than mowing grass? Do you think you can stay in a community in America and not have your every neighbour to be Blacks? Obed, they would always call us Monkeys not because they were taught that in school, but because it sprints in the arteries. With a bit of struggling, they both empty their cups. Obed was asking if he would still have his Latino signora or his blonde relieving his cockles from stress and boredom. He started with his swear words, he appreciated Chris for his wisdom, he had tears hovering aggressively in his eyes just because he may never get a Latino. There was a quick flash of light on the bulb and it was no more. Obed dropped all his memorised slurs on the Nigerian government; “I knew it, I said it, the White man is better, only foolish people blindly argue we are or can equal them”, Obed stressed. Chris laughed so loud. When he regained himself, he called his friend a regular Scaramouch and merry-Andrew. All Obed did was smile vacantly and thank his friend for ever calling him good names. They embraced, Obed surely had a good time.

                               OKOCHA OBED             

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Author:

My name is Okocha Obed, you can call me Obeezy. I love to display aesthetics through my ink—I must say writing is my small world. I consider myself a deep writer; I say I am deep because I have discovered that part about myself, even, my fabulous audience share same view. I believe in connecting to all kind of persons as there is always something to learn from everyone. I see myself as an actor; to stay on the stage, I need to think ink. The voice is a reflection of myself and my conscience. I always felt I could be like superman while growing up. It was pretty ridiculous so all I did was dream of being a soldier. It was abortive. So I created a world where I could keep talking about the ills in my community but with other flavours to show I am growing into completeness. keep reading.

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