Mena no go baje

Damn it!

I'm trying to see how long I can go without having an impure thought and so far I’ve only lasted 12 seconds. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be pure and wholesome? I’m never going to marry my pastor at this rate. The “How to holify yourself for marriage” manual clearly states “A pastors wife needs to be able to maintain at least 120 mins of uninterrupted pure thought a day”.

 I’ve been practicing for 3 days and I’m averaging an additional 4 seconds per day before something p’s me off or I get my recurring man in a thong fantasy(I don’t even like thongs and yet I can’t stop thinking about them now). At this rate I won’t achieve pastor wife status for another 4 years or so.

 Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!  Boo Hoo

I could be dead from non-nuptials syndrome by then.

Maybe I’m thinking about it too much and I need to focus on other things. That’s it… I’m going to relax and do things to make my life better. Be more pro-active in creating a nicer environment for myself so I’m not constantly plagued by evil thoughts; and I know just where to start.

Brain take a memo.

Dear Uncle Fash,

You might think me calling you Uncle Fash is a bit forward seeing as we’ve never met but I waited 2 hours under the blistering sun to vote for you. Even the toning cream I’ve been using hasn’t restored my skin to its former glory after that experience   so I think I have earned the right to call you Uncle Fash.

Uncle Fash … What’s up with this bridge on Ozumba now? I used to enjoy cackling to myself as I zoomed past my colleagues attempting to make their way unto the Falomo Bridge…Oh happy days (You might think that’s mean Uncle Fash but truly they are not very nice people and deserve to be laughed at).  But I can’t laugh anymore Uncle Fash...No I cannot.  My laughter has shriveled up inside me because I now need every ounce of energy I can summon to maneuver my manual car home through the traffic on Adeyemo Alakija/Akin Adesola. The other day my usual 5 minute journey took me an hour and 20 minutes. Why now Uncle Fash?

I'm a fine girl with an ample frame but lovely sinewy limbs. My limbs are no longer sinewy Uncle Fash. My legs have now started to develop thick muscles fondly known as yams and I have acquired a nervous tic on the right side of my body from struggling with Danfo drivers trying to cut into my lane. Did I mention I was single Uncle Fash? Young, fine and single but now all people will see are the tuber sized muscles bulging out of my skinny jeans as I nervously tic away.

Not only am I being disfigured by your new bridge, I am also missing out on potential dating action. All attempts to get eligible young men to pick me up from home for our dates are now met with phrases like “Ah! Babe…that your street go hard on a Friday night o. You no fit hop okada and I go jam you at the venue?”  Now I don’t want you thinking I hang out with non-queens English speaking suitors. The date in question was a Harvard law graduate who was reduced to local vernacular at the thought of being stuck in bumper to bumper traffic for hours just take me out on a date; where he would be required to drop money for at least one bottle of pink champagne. You too pity him now.

As a regular tax payer and ardent supporter of your fine self I don’t think its too much to ask for you to buy a few more bags of cement and just kuku ma curve the bridge all the way down to Ikoyi. They are rich in ikoyi and can afford automatic cars or at least drivers to develop the yams on their behalf.  Some people might say I’m being selfish and that traffic is a necessary evil that affects us all. Don't mind them Uncle Fash. Those people are not God fearing. My God fearing brothers and sister would not want me to suffer like this. They would want me to able to wear short skirts in the summer and not have children chasing me down the road calling me "Aunty Warapa" because of my tic.

I know you are a good man who will not allow his governmental decisions to be dictated by heathens.  So come tomorrow morning I expect to see a bridge closed sign and nubile young men mixing concrete for my ingenious bridge extension idea. No fall my hand o.  Don’t worry me and my other single, manual car driving friends will support you come election time.  Not to mention the special invite to my wedding once the yams go down and I catch a man. 

Uncle Fash Fash!!!!! Eko no go baje.

Your ever loyal constituent

Mena

PS: Do you have any vacancies in that your office? 

Revelations in love

I'm in church.

Normally this really shouldn’t be too much of a surprise but it’s a Wednesday evening and we all know my commitment to my Christian life get the occasional “K” leg. But drastic times call for drastic measures. The re-emergence of Hmm Dude and other dodgy male acquaintances in my life leads me to believe I require spiritual intervention.

Anyway, seems I’m not the only one requiring intervention as church is pretty crowded. Naturally, old habits die hard and I can’t help but cast my “Single, fine boy” radar round the room.

ALERT! TARGET ACQUIRED!

I can spot a lonesome cutie towards the front of the hall. I adjust what my mama gave me and head towards the empty seat next to him.  Suddenly my sessy spider senses start tingling and from the corner of my eye I spot another desperate single lady heading towards him on the opposite aisle. She catches my eye and we both give each other the once over.

We Man Eaters…We know ourselves.

She’s slimmer than me, very few might say prettier and those might even be real LV alligator platforms she’s wearing but I’ve got something she hasn’t… flat shoes.

Take that sister!  I think as I start to power walk towards the prize.

Chia! This seat far o and Alligator Heels seems to be one of those annoying sisters who can run a marathon in heels. Damn my mother and her “No heels till you graduate rule”. I’m starting to lose my breath and beads of sweat are beginning to collect on my dainty nose. This is not good. Not the first impression I want to give the cutie but no time to stop and get a tissue out of my bag now; Alligator Heels is only 2 strides behind me. I know my mother and every self respecting lady would pass out in horror right now but I don’t care as I use my hands to wipe my sweaty face and rub them on the back of my dress.

Mennnnaaa!

Story. Na u go marry me?

Ah ha! Alligator girl just stumbled over a cable. Thank u Lord for signs and wonders. This bobo is mine.

Just as I come up to his row and make to sit down….the devil strikes

“Hello Madam can you sit on this row please?” says a stern looking usher blocking my path.

Damn it!

Ushers!!! Why are they always getting in my way?

I contemplate carrying out some evasive maneuvers and plunking myself down on my seat of choice. Its not like she can’t forcibly remove me from the seat or can she?

I give her the once over…She looks hard and I haven’t eaten today. So I decided not to try her and do the next best thing…Lie

“Sorry... That’s my brother. He’s holding the sit for me.” I say, giving her my best “God fearing sister” look

God forgive me. God forgive me. God forgive me. God forgive me. God forgive me.

Oh no! Alligator Heels has beaten me to it.

She gives me a smug look as she comes in under the usher radar on the opposite side; sidling past other people on the row to plunk herself next to him. The hussy has already even pretended to drop her bible and now she’s giggling as he hands it back to her.

The girl is not even smooth. That’s sooooo been done.

Bad bele!

Wo’eva

“Are you sure that’s your brother?” Asks the usher looking quizzically at me

Kilode?! Na you get monopoly on brothers or what?

“Seems to have let your seat go.  Boys will be boys huh?” she says laughing

Hissss….Komot for road my friend. Enemy of romantic progress.

I seat down on the row she indicted earlier and I’m already distressed as the guy seating next to me with the Kid and Play haircut circa 1980, feels the need to introduce himself. I immediately pretend to be deep in prayer to avoid further conversation.  To make matters worse; I’m going to be smack bang in the middle of the pastor’s line of sight. I hate being too close to the podium. I’m always scared pastors can read my thoughts and they can see the sin just radiating off my body. Now I’ll actually have to listen instead of fantasizing about what I would buy if God rewards me for paying my tithes by leaving money on the road for me to find.

The choir finally stops singing and I can hear the pastor saying “Hello” so I figure it’s safe to open my eyes. Highly unlikely the chap sitting next to me will engage in convo during the sermon. So I raise my head and look up into the most mesmerizing pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.

Haaaa!!! What have I been doing in church all these months? How come I never noticed how cute the pastor was? I really must stop sitting so far back.

He‘s preaching and staring straight at me like we’re the only 2 people in the room.

Errrr…I think you’ll find he’s staring into the camera right above your head and not you.

Shut it Brain.

Can’t you see?! This isn’t a coincidence. Everything that’s been happening has led us to this point in time when I would come face to face with my destiny.

OK you’re talking crazy now or should I say crazier than usual. Your blood sugar must be low…Eat some gum.

Sod the gum. I’m busy listening to the man who’s going make my mama’s dreams come true.

I can hardly contain my excitement. My sis Annoying Married Chick goes to the same church and she did say she would be here for evening service. I look around but I don’t see her, so I decide to send her a bb message.

MENA: Hey sis just had a revelation. I’ve been so blind. What I’ve been looking for has been right under my nose all this time. God was just waiting for me to make a stronger commitment to my spiritual side.

AMC: Stop bbing in church you sinner. What are you on about? What stronger commitment?

MENA: Coming to mid week service.

AMC: Hisss…You’ve come to one mid-week service. Big deal. Your mates are shaving their heads and sleeping in church.

MENA: Wo'eva.  God has revealed my man to me.

AMC: *Yawn* Who? The badly dressed man you and your over bleached sister in asewo behavior were running to go and sit next to? You think I didn’t see you? You’re just an embarrassment. Thank God I’ve changed my last name.

MENA: Pleeeeeeaassse *Eyes Rolling*. She can have him. The pastor is in a whole different league*Love Struck*

AMC: Sorry did you say the pastor? That’s your God sent man?

MENA: Yep *Big Smile*

AMC: *Surprise*

All of a sudden my bbing and the pastor’s sermon is cut short by the sound of hysterical laughter coming from the back of the church. I can see ushers rushing over but whoever it is can’t seem to stop laughing.  Next thing I know, I see my sister - Annoying Married Chick, practically being carried out of the church cause she’s laughing so hard she can hardly stand.

Philistine! Can you imagine being so frivolous in the house of God?  The girl obviously has brain touch. Thank God she does have a different last name. Not sure the church council would approve of such inappropriate family members when I'm presented as the soon to be Mrs.Pastor. 

What could have been so funny anyway?  

Hmmm...Not you again dude.

 After my recent case of mistaken identity I decided to change my look. You know...Make myself appear even more expensive than I usually do.  I know you’re all wondering how this is even possible considering the fact that I'm more or less perfect? Well, I decided to treat myself to a new head of hair.

28 inches of ass skimming, bouncy South American hair to be exact. Shaved from the heads pure virgin nuns from a convent in the middle of the Amazon. Believe me, the hair fine no be small. The fact that I bought it with the diesel money my mother left for the house, while she's off finding herself in Ibiza is irrelevant; and so is the fact that I am now living in perpetual darkness. Candle light was fine for my fore-fathers so it’s good enough for me.

However, before my re-invention I decided to send my new locks for a good ol’ wash. Pure virgin nuns or not, I ain't putting anyone else’s hair on my head till it’s been washed with a bottle of my mother’s industrial strength holy water. 

So here I am sitting at work, ignoring the mountain of files on my desk, as I eagerly await my drivers return with my satin bag full of hair...Hooray!!!

Boli Lover, who has  lost vast amounts of weight from a severe case of food poisoning, is trying to engage me in flirty banter.  He’s talking but I ain’t listening. I’m eyeing his now flat tummy with envy.  He’s managed to achieve in 2 weeks what months of dieting have failed to do for me. I consider snogging him in the hope of contracting some “Make you skinny but won’t kill you” virus but even the lure of a flat tummy isn’t enough to encourage physical contact with the man. 

Ijebu Chick claims to have read an article about how drinking your own pee makes you skinny.  We both laughed and said “God forbid” but I don’t trust her. We’re both rather competitive about  the whole diet thing and I just bet she’s bottling her own pee and making cocktails out of it as we speak. She’ll probably turn up in December looking sexily emaciated. The back stabbing cow.

I eye the empty mug from my morning coffee and glance casually towards the ladies.  Its practically water isn’t it? I mean how bad can it taste?

Only one way to find out blubber gut. Go on...Drink a lil’ peepee.

I’m gonna do it dammit! 

Attagirl!

I push back my chair, grab my mug and just as I’m about to head to the loo, I see Mr Fortune, my driver, heading towards me.

Phew! Saved from my own stupidity. 

Chicken!

Cluck off Brain!

In order to maintain the madam/driver relationship, I resist the urge to hug him as he strolls in. Instead I dig deep and give him some money for his trouble. He eyes my N100.00 tip and dumps the bag of precious hair on my desk in disgust.

Infidel! I miss the good old days when you could have people drawn and quartered for less.

I open up the bag to make sure my hair smelt salon fresh and my heart suddenly developed an irregular rhythm. 

Ahhhhh!!!! What is this?

I immediately pick up the phone and call my hairdresser.

No answer.

 So I fire off a text...

Floooooooooooooooooooooorencceee! You have started your madness again abi?

What is dis U have sent through Mr. Fortune?

I refuse to believe this limp, matted thing that looks like shaved hair from a gorilla’s armpit is d Brazilian weave I left for u 2 wash?

N’gba....it cannot be. For ur sake I hope u have given me d wrong bag by mistake. I’m sending my driver back 2 your salon now with MOPO. If I should receive a call from either of them that u have refused 2 handover 28 inches of soft, premium quality human hair, u will know today that it is possible to squeeze a human being of your hefty proportions into a “Ghana must go” bag and suspend them from a street light over third mainland bridge. With that your oversized ikebe it is unlikely that you will stay suspended for long; so after you come crashing down and ur run over by a BRT bus,  you will know that Fashola is truly working. Don’t try me o!

Send.

Delivered.

I immediately dispatch Mr. Fortune back to the hairdressers with instructions to stop by my place and pick up a MOPO. He is instructed not to return until my hair has been retrieved either through peaceful or truncheon bashing means. Nonsense girl. Trying to kill me for my mama. No one kidnaps my hair and gets away with it.

My phone beeps. 

I assume its Florence, who after receiving my text has seen the error of her ways and is responding to apologise for the mix up.

Hi, it’s been a while. Sure you’ve forgotten all about me. I ran into a mutual friend who gave me your number. I’m in town and would love to see you again.  We really need to talk. Give me a shout.  Hmmmm Dude.

“Blood of Jesus!” I scream as I chuck the phone across the room hitting Boli Lover square in the face.

“My face” he yells

“Oh God! My nose! This is blood abi? Look now its blood. You’ve broken my nose you crazy woman.”

I ignore his screaming. A small crowd is starting to gather round his desk as I make a break for the ladies.

Oh Lord! I can’t breathe. What the hells going on?

Ahhhh!!! My enemies.  First my temptress curls are  kidnapped by my shuku rocking hairdresser and now my jazz wielding friend with almost benefits turns up out of the blue...4 years later!  

Who have I offended o?!

How the hell did he find me?  Which evil so called mutual friend would do this to me?

And what the hell does he want now?

For those of you wondering who the hell Hmmm Dude is and why I’m so frazzled? He’s the pork dumpling seducer from my earlier post -"You did What?!" in 2007.  I can't think straight right now.  I need to go home and have a holy water bath with back to sender soap cause something sinister is afoot in Mena's tranquil world.

Just Cruising

You are all probably expecting an explanation for my long absence but we don't have time for all that. I've got stuff to get off my chest.

The other day I was cruising along…yes I drive now.

Would hardly call what you do driving. More like…

Shut it Brain! Was I talking to you?

Do I not know how to start the car?

Well yes…

Does it not move when I press the thingy-ma-jig  under my feet?

Yes but…

Do we not eventually reach our destination with minimal damage to both human life and private property?

You ran over an okada

Hisss… Must you always bring that up? He was in my way jo. The hairdressers were closing in 10 minutes and there was no way in hell I was going out without a quick touch up to my new Guatemalan weave (Like who knew Guatemalans had covetable hair?)

You ran him off the road and then reversed over his bike.

Look! I honked and he wouldn’t move, so I just nudged him a little so I could get past.

Your little nudge flung him off his bike and into a gutter.

Jeez… All this drama. Like gutter water ever killed anybody.

Did I not stop to see if he was alive and wanted to swap insurance details? And I might have rolled over his bike a few times but that was only because the ungrateful man called me a blind pot bellied monkey in Yoruba dammit!  No one gets away with calling Mena that. I probably did him a favor by rolling out some of the dents on that death trap he calls a motorbike.

I don’t know why you’re worried about him? What about poor Consuela? My darling lil’Kia baby.

Lord! It’s a piece of Japanese metal on wheels woman.

Hush your mouth you evil thing. How dare you say such things about Consuela?

My baby got her paintwork all scratched trying to get away from the okada guy and his tyre wielding lynch mob.  Honestly you have a slight traffic incident and suddenly everyone wants to do a “Joan of Arc” on you. 

Why are we even talking about this? You’re making me digress from the main point of this post. Zip it and let me get on with it. Always trying to make me look bad, when I’m just a decent human being who can’t afford therapy.

Anyhoo…I was driving the other day, doing a respectable 80 mph down Adeola Odeku when the annoying traffic lights decided to change. Naturally as a law abiding citizen it would have been improper to endanger other motorists by coming to a screeching halt; so I decided to be selfless and whizz straight through. After putting my life on the line for others you can imagine my surprise when I glanced into my rearview mirror to find myself being chased by a hungry looking LASTMA official on an okada.

My first thought was “What the f…”?! Do the world a favor and what do you get? The next was “Hooray!”… I’ve always wanted to be involved in a high speed car chase; like Thelma and Louise but without the suicidal tendencies. So I rev up my engine for effect and speed off leaving the okada in my dust. I take a few side streets for good measure and  zoom round the corner onto Ozumba Mbadiwe…

…Straight into the back of a Range Rover Sport in standstill traffic.

Jesu! Which kin country be this? Can a woman no longer  engage in dangerous stunts on a public freeway in order  to evade the law? Oh what to do? WHAT TO DOOOO??!!!!  Whoever owns this car is going to sue my Marks and Spencer heart print granny knickers right off me.

Judging by the personalized plates, the name stitched unto his polo shirt and the huge identity bracelet on his wrist;  the guy getting out of the Jeep with a face like thunder was Lami. Hmm…not bad.  Sessy and me no see no ring. Obviously a tad obsessed with personalizing everything he owns but hey! Who am I to begrudge another fellow human being some self love?

How can you think about men at a time like this?

What do you mean? Is there an inappropriate time to think about men? Especially buff ones that drive Jeeps?

Err…yeah! Right now! 

Just chillax and watch the master at work. We ain't paying a dime.

As Lami walks up to my window, I figure the best way to handle the situation is to disarm him with my awesome personality. So I lower my window, flutter my MAC augmented lashes and say

 “Lami right? I’m so sorry. I just don’t know what happened”

He backs away in shock, his eyes darting around in panic. I swear the guy broke out in a cold sweat.

"I don’t know you.  How do you know my name?"

Errrr…You're practically a working sign board for yourself mate.  Lami obviously ain’t too bright but jeep and good looks cross out stupidity in my book so we won’t judge him too harshly.

Before I could get out of the car and assure  Lami I wasn’t a modern day Kai driving witch, he rushes up to me and pushes my door closed.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" I yell

"You’re one of the girls from Fantasy Bar aren’t you? I recognize you…Booby Baby right?"

Ori re ko pe?  Ta ni Booby Baby?

"Look, my fiancé is in the car and naturally she can't know about our little get togethers. So lets  just keep it between us yeah? We can forget about the car and I’ll see you right later. You know what I’m saying?"

He then proceeds to chuck me on the shoulder and wink at me.

All through this I’m speechless. The only thing on my mind is I have a look like and she’s a garden tool called Booby Baby. So this is why strange men keep trying to stick things down my cleavage in supermarkets. I’m too weak to even defend myself,  I simply raise my automated windows, narrowly missing Lami the perv's fingers. 

I start my car and just as I’m about to inch my way forward and nudge Lami’s rear bumper to make myself feel better, I hear a knock on my passenger side window... It’s the LASTMA guy. 

How the hell did he find me?!

“Madam wine down. Wine down now, now!”

Can today get any worse? 

I don't have time for this now.

I must find this so called "Fantasy Bar" and confront this menace to my reputation at once. 

So fess up...Who knows where it is?

Teacher can I be your pet? 2

BB Convo Participants … Mena, Annoying  Married Chick and Iyawo Peanut Boy

Mena: Hi guys. Guess what?  I’m stuck in training all day.

AMC: We don’t care. Abi did we tell u we wanted to c u? Just had breakfast and still hungry. Think I’m going to make jollof rice so bugger off.

Mena: Charming as always sister dearest. I see pregnancy hasn’t improved your surly attitude.

AMC: *Raspberry*

Mena: Ireti.  Anyway u’ll never guess what just happened?

AMC: Don’t care. Need food. Need light. Need to live on the island *Crying*

IPB: I care. Tell me all. I am eager and ready to listen as I’m channeling tranquil vibes and I’m at peace with the universe *Big Smile*

My family members sure know how to pick em. Like we’re not crazy enough on our own; we have to marry and breed with other loopy people.

Mena: Hey IPB. Was just about to tell sis here that the trainer on my course is pretty darn cute. At least he was until I saw him picking his nose. Have totally lost interest now.

AMC: Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Where do you find all these dodgy blokes from?  You better run before you discover he eats his toe nail clippings too or even worse he likes to watch YOU eat them before he can play mummies and daddies…hahahahahahahahahaha

Mena: You have brain touch AMC. Please stop talking trash around my unborn niece/nephew

IPB: Am I missing something here? Unless he actually ate the bogey after picking his nose, then I don’t see the problem. Men are like puppies, they can be trained to behave appropriately in polite company.

AMC: Train wetin? I beg Mena don’t listen to her. Such men cannot be trained and even if you could make him to behave in public, you just know some perky breasted, twenty something year old will now see his potential and steal him off you.

IPB: AMMMMCCCCCCCCC! I’m really not impressed with the negative vibes you’re bringing into this chat. I think we should take a moment to cleanse the air by sending each other loving comments. I’ll start…I think I’m very lucky to be surrounded by women who are beautiful both outside and in *Hug*

AMC: Kiss my arse *Raspberry*

Mena: Ladies please! Now let’s all be civil. AMC you’re being a tad melodramatic. I think IPB is right. He’s too hot to let a lil’ thing like unsanitary habits get in the way of true love. I shall mould him into my dream man.

AMC: Afi mould. IPB my sister is no spring chicken and does not have the time to be doing an Eliza Doolittle on razz boys.  Mena you better close your eyes and marry him like that. At your advanced stage in life you don’t have time to be picky. The only deal breaker would be skid marks and if you’re a good Christian girl like  you claim, you will not discover those until after it’s too late…hahahahahahahaha

IPB: Mena ignore her. You might not be young and perky anymore but you don’t have to sell yourself short.

Mena: Wow IPB! Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear *Sarcy Face*

AMC: *ROTFL* I beg you people don’t kill me. All this laughing is making me want to pee.

Mena: I don’t know why I bother telling you lot anything. Go away jo. I’m going back to pretending to be interested in the training. I HATE U ALL!!!! *Raspberry*

IPB: You see what you’ve done AMC? You’ve upset her.

AMC: Me Ke? Miss Congeniality 2007 at NYSC camp. I don’t think so. I think it’s your reference to age and drooping body parts that has upset her.

IPB: Mena are you still there? Don’t be mad. I apologise for both AMC and myself.

AMC: Speak for yourself o. I haven’t done anything. Only telling the truth.  Tick, tock…

Mena: What’s your point exactly? That just because I’m somewhere in my early 30’s I need to marry whatever frog comes my way?

IPB: Early 30's???? Sister please!!!!!

AMC: Pretty much. Men are scarce. Get what you can…Bogey eater or not.

IPB: Well not any frog. We draw the line at potential wife beaters, okada drivers and people who already have wives. Everyone else is game *Big Smile*

Mena: I rebuke such. I have a list of wants and I intend to stick to them.

AMC: *Sigh* I’ve heard your wants and let me just tell you that you go wait tire.

Mena:  *Talk to the hand*

IPB: Look Mena, the sad reality is the guys your age want to marry twenty year olds and the ones older than you are all already married. So we need to put things into perspective. You were obviously initially attracted to him so forget his dodgy etiquette skills for a minute and get to know him better. You might find you can live with the annoying quirks.

AMC: She get choice? Look you’re starting to embarrass the family. Just lure one home already will ya?

IPB: Hey are you still there? 

PING!

No!  I’m not there actually because while all this frantic bbing has been going on, Tall Drink of Chocolate has moved from his perch at the back of the class and was now pulling up a chair to sit beside me.

“You’re not paying attention” he says looking at my bb and then back at me with a smile.

“I am. I’m multi-tasking” I say with a giggle, fluttering my eyelashes.

He’s gorge and he doesn’t have a local accent. So what if he likes to stick his finger up his hooter? No ones perfect.

Forget the local accent. He just touched our arm. HE’S FLIRTING WITH US MENA. PRAISE THE LORD! Our first flirt of 2011. If he’s remotely attracted to us without make up, I say he’s a keeper.

Calm down Brain lets not be too hasty.  But I do think you’re right.

For the next couple of hours Tall Drink of Chocolate kept going back and forth between me and the rest of the class. By the end of the course I’d discovered that he’d lived in the Middle East for a couple of years but was thinking of coming back to Las Gidi…Result.  

He hasn’t mentioned any wife, kids, serious relationships but I guess Strategic Training isn’t the place for that especially since all he’s done is flirt. A serious offer of intent is yet to be made.  

As I slowly walked towards him to say goodbye, I hoped and I prayed that he would give me some sort of sign that he was into me.

He did…A little white card with his number and the 4 little words every girl longs to hear “Make sure you call.”

Teacher can I be your pet?

Hey! Whys the alarm going off?

Its Saturday dammit!  

I’m going back to sleep jo. I was having a lovely dream about being president and my main edict was to have everyone become fatter than me. Yep! No one was allowed to be slimmer than Her Excellency, Presidentess Mena. Everyone must be at least a  size 16 and above. And also, no one could have longer hair, a bigger car or appear to be more intelligent than me in any way.

Yes! A nation of obese, thick, bald headed Picanto driving, hut dwellers is the future.  I must go back to sleep immediately and see if I can continue my fantasy reign.

No we can’t Mena. We having training remember?

Training ke?

Oh yeah. I remember now. Sodding HR with their various torture tactics. Who the hell arranges training for a Saturday? I’m sure they are infringing on my civil rights. I will complain to my local government councilor as soon as I figure out who it is.  Strategic Relationship Management indeed. I mean do I look like I need to be taught how to strategically manage a relationship?

Well …

Shut up

But…

I said shut up. I don’t want to hear any of your random thoughts Brain. I want to sleep, so I suggest you start making it happen. Now start humming my favorite lullaby.

Mo ri omoge to rewa to duro shepe shepe figure 8 shepe shepe figure 8
Orombo aya re o dun ji osan lo

Olomoge dance with your chest, 
Dig it right, dig it left o ya oya were were Ki a mosa 
Jowo dance with your chest

Ah! Yes. Nothing like some old school Shina P. Don't know what J.Holiday is on about but this is the only thing that puts me to bed.

Training ko, training ni.  I’m knackered. Had my first session with the Terminator yesterday and I swear even my teeth hurt. The man is brutal; my mother collapsed after the first 15 minutes and had to be dragged by her feet back into the house. Don’t know why the woman likes to deceive herself. She and her ample behind should just sit somewhere and accept their destiny. I on the other hand did not have the luxury of feigning unconsciousness. Every time I thought about quitting, the image of my 50K check going into Terminator's pocket would revive me. So excuse me if I don’t feel like jumping out of bed to hang out with my irritating ibi ise people on the weekend.

Brain!!! Why have you stopped singing and why are my eyes still open?

Mena, you know we’ll get into trouble if we don’t go?

So?

Well, we might hate them all but we still need to eat until one of your hare brained…I mean awesome schemes makes us rich.

OOOHHHHHHHH!!!!! I’m tired and I was planning to pamper myself today. Get my hair and my nails did. Pluck the caterpillars that were once my eyebrows. It was going to be a “ME” day Brain.

Boo Hooo!!!!

There, there. Don’t worry you just get through the training and then we can go to the Palms and laugh at all the girls who are inappropriately dressed for the cinema.

Sniff…Really? That would be fun. 

OK, I’ll go but the minute anyone mentions the word “Role play” we’re faking a seizure and getting outta there.

Deal.

Arrggghhh!!! Knew I shouldn’t have come. Ladies Man has already plonked himself next to me in the training room. He must think he looks very sexy in his t-shirt, medallion and ripped jeans combo. I beg move your Ricky Martin looking self away from my side jo.  Nonsense.

This people need to get a move on. The session was meant to start at 9.30am. It’s now 10am and I’m being forced to have conversation with my work colleagues; someone will pay dearly for this.

Finally Trainer Chappy walks in apologizing profusely for being late.

Yeah wo’eva mate. Just switch on the projector and do your traini…

Aye Caramba!!!!!

Brain I hear you o. Who be this?

Walking in right behind Trainer Chappy was a tall, dark, muscular drink of chocolate milk.  Dressed in a casual black shirt, jeans and the latest edition leather converse sneakers…I know I say this a lot but this time I mean it…I think I’m in love.

Trainer Chappy introduces him as a colleague from the Middle East who’s here to help with certain aspects of the day. I’m suddenly geared up and ready to learn. Why the hell am I not wearing make up???!!!!!

Tall Drink of Chocolate's gaze glides over the room as he says “Hello” and our eyes finally meet.  His gaze remains on me a second longer than expected and my heart skips a beat. He gives me a cheeky grin and heads to the back of the class to sit down.

It takes every ounce of will power I have not to chase after him, tackle him to the ground and demand that he makes me Mrs. Tall Drink of Chocolate immediately.

Mena, we shall remain calm and lady like.

 I tried. I didn't look back during the first 30 minutes of the class. I pretend to be listening to what Trainer Chappy is saying but in actual fact I’m trying to see if I can spot my new heart throb in the reflective surface of the projection screen. Nada!  I can’t take it any more! I'm going to have to turn round and sneak a peek.

Awww…Still as lovely as ever, gazing intently into his computer screen. He's got little flecks of grey in his hair…very sexy. His hand slowly goes up to his face, probably to stroke his nicely trimmed goatee and then  …Ewwww! 

The dirty beast just stuck his finger up his nose and is having a good ol’ dig around. THEN he proceeds to wipe afore mentioned finger on a hanky.

Olodo! If you had a hanky why didn’t you use it in the first place??? What do you think they are for?

I despair at the caliber of men that constantly cross my path.

I immediately bb Annoying Married Chick and my sis in-law Iyawo Peanut Boy to inform them of my latest romantic disappointment and you’ll never believe what the two wicked sisters said to me…

The Terminator comes to town

The Terminator is supposed to be some miracle working, personal trainer that everyone is raving about.  I got his number from Bunnylicious newly buff hubby, who warned me that the guy was brutal. He apparently costs 50K a month…There goes my monthly ice cream budget( It’s not my fault I have expensive tastes in dairy products).  Anyway I figure it would be worth giving up Hagen-Daz Tuesdays, Wednesday and Saturday’s  for a new slinky body. So all fired up, I call the Terminator to book my first appointment. 

Damn! It’s an answering machine.

“This is the  Terminator.  Having problems with your weight?  Constant battles with  food? Can’t motivate yourself to exercise?

Wow, this guy reading our mind Brain and he sounds sexy too. American drawl, not the razzo I was expecting.

Well calling me was the right thing to do because you’re obviously a LAZY, FAT BASTARD! …

Ah ah! Wetin happen? Na fight?

 GET UP SLACKER!  ITS TIME TO FEEL THE BURN!  YOU WILL NOT BE A ROLLING TUB OF LARD IN LAS GIDI ON MY WATCH…

Mena hang up.  I’m scared.

I’m scared too Brain. Why is he shouting at his potential customers?

 … FAT IS YOUR ENEAMY AND WE MUST ANNIHILATE THE ENEAMY. GIVE YOURSELF OVER TO THE TERMINATOR AND I WILL MOULD YOU INTO A LEAN, MEAN, FAT KILLING MACHINE. Now leave your name and number and I’ll call you back. Till then, say it with me …FAT IS THE ENEMY! WE MUST ANNIHILATE THE ENEMY!

Beep.

God forbid. I ain’t leaving my details with him.

That’s right Mena. Don’t do it. He sounds like Genghis Khan on skunk. We’ll go back on our groundnut diet and everything will be cool.

You’re right Brain.

Err.. sorry Terminator wrong number. 

Click

Phew that was a close one. Come on Brain lets go finish off the tub of ice-cream in the freezer to celebrate what could have been a disastrous venture.

5 minutes later I’m snuggled up in bed with my tub of milky love about to watch Top Chef and …

Rrrriiiiinnnnng

Darn it! Who’s calling me now?

“Hello”

“This the Terminator. You rang” says a deep, masculine voice

Darn caller id. Its OK. We can wiggle out of this.

“Really?! Sorry must have dialed the wrong number.” I say

“Don’t lie to me lady and put down the food.” he responds

Jesus! I said looking around to make sure he hadn’t magically appeared in bed with me.

“How did you know I was eating?”  I asked

“I’m the Terminator.  I know everything. Now give me your address and be ready and waiting for me at 6am tomorrow morning. Wear nothing but tight Lycra leggings, a sports bra and vest.”

Warrup joker? You put jazz for mouth?

“But I don’t want you to come to my house at 6am and more importantly, I don’t do Lycra.”

“You don’t know what you want Lady.”

“I don’t?” I ask puzzled.

“No you don’t. You want a strong man to mould you into the woman you were meant to be, don’t you.”

“Moulding? Hmmm…Would that involve the strong man touching the aforementioned woman?

Mena resist. He’s using some kind of mind mumbo jumbo on us.

Now, now Brain. Let’s not be hasty. Let’s hear what our friendly neighborhood personal trainer has to say first.

“Don’t worry its all one on one contact. This journey is going to be about developing a trusting and fulfilling relationship between me and you in order to reach our ultimate goal.” He says sexily down the phone.

Yepa! It’s kinda hot in here o; abi nah sessy American drawl dey do me?  I don’t know about you Brain but this is probably the only one on one relationship I’m having with a man anytime soon, so sign me up to be Terminated. And before you can say "Arnold Schwarzenegger"  I’m reeling off my address and agreeing to tight Lycra.

Now, where the hell am I supposed to find a tight Lycra gym bunny outfit at 10pm at night?

 I’ll have to see if my mother has something  lurking around in her winter holiday wardrobe.

“Muuuummmmmmy” I whine as I drag myself into her room and flop on the bed.

“What do you want?” she snaps.

Charming as ever.

“Do you have a pair of lycra leggings?”

“What colour?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes” she says getting off of the bed and throwing open one of her wardrobes to reveal a shelf of multicolored Lycra heaven.

“Mummy why do you have so many pairs of leggings?!” I exclaim

“Your father likes us to have Disco Fever Night every once in a while.”

Ask a stupid question… Of course that’s what they’re for.

Crazy woman. If she thinks I’m going to give her the opportunity to traumatize me by asking what Disco Fever Night is; she’s got another thing coming. Not interested.

“I just need a black pair mum.”

“What for? You do know it will be tight for you don’t you?” She says giving me a ‘Respect yourself’ look.

“Yeah I know but my trainer says he wants tight.”

“Trainer? Really? That’s interesting. Been thinking about getting myself one “she says proceeding to do some star jumps.

Agbaya. Showing off to her own daughter.

“Maybe we should share?”

Share wetin? Nooooo!  Everybody should go and look for their own trainer. Only agreeing to cough up 50K because of the ‘One on One’ moulding sessions. This woman now wants to come and spoil my show.

“I don’t think you could handle the pace mum. Its going to be pretty intense and no offence but you ain't no spring chicken.”

‘Owww!!! Mum you promised no violence in the New Year. You swore on the Bible now!”

“Me I can’t handle the pace en? You that you need oxygen every time you climb up the stairs are telling me; All star track champion 4 years in a row at Queen Amina of Zaria school for young ladies, Ilorin; that I cant handle the pace?”

Wo’eva. That was like 100 years ago woman. I beg lets hear word.

“We shall see!” she says dropping to the floor to do one arm push ups.

What the…! Darn this woman is freaky strong. No wonder her slaps hurt so much.

Definitely keeping her away from Terminator so she doesn’t upstage me.