Blog Archives

IDLEMINDSET | HERE’S YOUR BUSINESS: FACE IT!

Gbeborun. Busybody. Pokenose. Abusive words, but we know there’s a certain delight in yarning stuff that’s not your concern. And on an international level, this delight is just awesome. You feel larger than Jonathan’s pension, discussing issues on a global scale. Left to us, we’ll celebrate your expert participation in international social trends—AKA, joblessness. We’ll gladly declare a public holiday for this social education aimed at further glorifying your banal self-aggrandizement. But good thing it’s not left to us, because really, this trait is just as effed up as the lawmaking in Rivers State.

"And here's for daring to raise a counter-motion!"

“And here’s for daring to raise a counter-motion!”

Now, it may seem odd that we’re going to take a piss on idle talk, seeing as that’s our manifesto in these parts. Fact: its written all above the page and everywhere else. But there’s a sort of idle talk that’s good for the community, the kind that keeps the conversation going. And there’s the other type of idle talk that only keeps your mouth and other people’s time going. And there’s a simple test to decide which is which. We’ll give you this well-tested system at the end of the page.

It won't make you rich. Don't bother rushing to check.

It won’t make you rich. Don’t bother rushing to check.

It’s not a new idea, it’s been present in Europe and America, but now has its current head office in Nigeria, Africa. This idea that you can determine a person’s level of sophistication by their ability to correctly name car hire services in London and restaurants in Dubai. Especially with a—usually bullshit—accent picked from these travels and which has somehow, suddenly dislodged the local one that has been in place for over twenty years. This fraudulent social psychology is a fallout from the days when the most knowledgeable person in the colonial African community was the one who had shipped out of Africa—for education or otherwise—and had come back with marvelous stories of life beyond the black continent. Naturally, these “been-tos” attained oracular status and thus began the craziness of mistaking overseas travel for metaphysical knowledge or another country’s visa as a statement of intelligence.

Or the status of first lady as a constitutional office.

Or the status of first lady as a constitutional office.

Today, of course, travel is virtually commonplace and it’s easier for your local errand boy to become a Member of Parliament in the UK than for him to get a National ID card. But still, that misguided assumption that the ability to comment on foreign affairs equals social sophistication and international sagacity is still very alive—in the current form of the national pastime of vigorously agitating on socio-political matters in other parts of the world, while much more important issues are burning in the backyard.

Finding Yvonne Nelson's medicine, for one thing.

Yvonne Nelson’s lost medicine, for one thing.

And that’s why we can expend much time and energy on the random shooting of one black American and blank our minds to the gruesome systematic killing of schoolchildren right up our asses. We have our dead, but we are more concerned about America’s dead. Let the dead bury their dead, Jesus said, and he would have added: “and to each his own fucking business” except that he thought you would figure that out.

"And speaking of figures, how hard is to count among 36 governors, people!"

“And speaking of figures, how hard is to count 36 governors, folks!”

And you know what, the Nigerian intelligentsia have discussed every issue that plagues America and Europe. We’ve even dissected North Africa and the Middle East. An now, maybe its time to get back home and treat our own fuck-ups with similar attention: the issues are there, refusing to leave by themselves. Of course, you ought to be charitable, but there’s a reason some folks say it has to begin at home. And here’s today’s free gift: the next time some  intellectual indignantly tries to rouse you about some injustice in another country, ask the person: how the fuck does this guarantee electricity in Nigeria? If you get some bullshit answer about pan-Africanism or world peace then just dial 199—it’s Nigerian for Get-Me-The-Hell-Out-Of-Here!

IDLEMINDSET | BIG ENDERS, SMALL ENDERS

We apologise to our long-suffering readers. We’ve been away for too long that we have no idea how to craft an appropriate apologies without sounding like clingy, readership needing, page-view counting blog. Which we totally are. But you see, the Nigeria’s madhouse effect is gradually beginning to reflect on our carefully maintained schedules and we’re also going topsy-turvy. Really, there’s been lots of fun activities going around in the past few weeks. It’s a combination of : million dollar rewards, romance in the banks, wars and rumours of wars, killing of the gays, and the most important of all—Big Brother Africa.

"Yeees! Shower Hour!"

“Yeees! Shower Hour!”

But of course, it’s no real concern to you what assholes are waging wars, and which farmer’s ox is gored as long as you continue to have your three square meals and DSTV subscriptions. After all, life is short and fleeting, and the essence of getting up at unholy hours and going to bed at unholier hours, commuting to work with the suffering of a martyr, is to be able to be as happy as as practicable in this up and down world.  that agreed, why then do folks get all riled up over issues that, when all the cards are down, neither takes a morsel of food nor cancels their right to watch that sweet African Magic?

Your inalienable right to---WTF?

Your inalienable right to that sweet—WTF?

And this brings us to the story of Lilliput (and Blefuscu–which is unimportant) and the issue of the Lilliputian Big-Enders and Small-Enders. These names would sound familiar to those of you who actually sat up to listen to the boring drone of that damned literature teacher (we will pray for your wasted childhood) instead of  fantasizing over the potential response to the love letter hastily scrawled on a sheet of  2A Onward Big Exercise Book.

Still better than text messages.

Still better than text messages.

But back to literature class, the aforesaid Lilliput and Blefuscu were two neighboring island “kingdoms” in Jonathan Swifts book, Gulliver’s Travels. (Insert appropriate expression of recognition here.) Now, Lilliput had been at war with Blefuscu for a while, principally because the trouble seeking Blefuscu encouraged and supported some errant Lilliputians who had refused to toe the generally accepted beliefs of Lilliput. You see, it is a religious belief of Lilliput that a boiled egg (yep, religion does talk about food) should be broken “at the convenient end” before it is eaten, so the scripture said. Traditionally, “convenient end”  had been interpreted as the “big” end of the egg—until some folks decided it actually meant the “small” end of the egg.  The Small-Enders eventually converted most people to this religious thinking and gained the rulership of the kingdom.  But some die-hard Big-Enders, now the minority, would have none of that shit. They got reinforcement from Blefuscu and a series of religious civil war began in which “…one Emperor lost his life, and another his crown.” Yeah, it was that bloody, they took that egg-breaking business very seriously.

"Just crack the damn egg against the wall, mister!"

“Just crack the damn egg against the wall, mister!”

But you see, it’s easy to make light of this story when you are unable to apply it to current realities. There are lots of Big-End and Small-End issues that cause unnecessary friction in real, everyday life. Of course, it is proper to hold a belief and stick to it, but it is improper to force that belief on others.  Even more improper: taking violence or the threat of violence in order to force that belief on others. Because, as someone said, beliefs are like big swinging dicks—it’s good to have one, but bad to wave it in someone’s face. Only a club, tribe, cult and other exclusive societies requires that everybody must maintain the same beliefs. But in a complicated, admittedly fucked-up world, such as we have today, beliefs have gotten to complicated and numerous that everyone had better share the damned space together or simply blow up the world in the process of determining which belief will survive and which one must die.

Trust us on this: you won't be missed.

Trust us on this: you won’t be missed.

And that’s the lesson for today, folks: the world doesn’t belong to anybody. You meet stuff here, you’ll leave stuff here. And all the stuff you think you’ve built up forever can be blown off in the puff of a madman’s nuclear bomb in a part of the world you didn’t even know exists. But as long as you’ve got to share this tiny portion of Space with other people,  history has proven that any attempt by any majority to dominate a minority for the purpose of forcing everyone to behave in a particular direction always results in disastrous consequences. So you see, it boils down to everyone having a peace out or everyone having a piss out.

Please follow our brilliant handle @idlemindset on Twitter so we can keep Boko Haram away from Nigeria! 🙂

IDLEMINDSET | THE SONS OF COWARDS AND OTHER SCOUNDRELS

Today’s lesson begins with a flashback to pre-colonial Africa.  For those of you who skipped secondary school history classes for bathroom sex, what is called Africa today was once a continent of several civilizations and empires. These empires and civilizations had fine standing armies, highly developed cultures, hypocritical religious creeds and even functional and corrupt bureaucracies–all without European intervention.

Africa. A continent of coloured people.

Well, those sneaky Europeans, having squandered their natural resources on inter-tribal warfare, decided to come and help themselves to some of the takeaway from the free-for-all party jam going on in Africa. First, they set up shop and started by trading for gold and other rich resources–when the profit and loss account didn’t satisfy them, they then moved to purchasing the people themselves. The Africans, nice folks that they were, obliged the Europeans. After a few centuries of, mostly, conflict free trade, it hit the Europeans that they were wasting valuable pounds and dollars buying human and natural resources when they could simply exchange their tenant status for that of a landlord and own everything: land, humans, and resources.

“Gentlemen, its a deal. We’ll fuck these Africans so hard they’ll shit crude oil, diamonds and gold bricks.”

The Berlin Conference of 1884 gave birth to Europe’s follow-my-customs-or-eat-shit programme referred to in polite circles as “colonization”. But Africans weren’t taking any of that nonsense. It was one thing to trade, it was another to be governed. Across Africa, from Egypt to the Cape, the rallying cry was “Occupy!”. Well, not exactly. In fact, it was much more worse than any Occupy Protest.

Throat-slitting, rib-stabbing, gut-ripping kind of worse.

As nice and commercially inclined as these pre-colonial Africans were, they were also fierce warriors and soldiers, defending their wives and property with the fury of a castrated celebrity porn-star. They honoured and even encouraged death on the battlefield (modern terrorists are mere copycats), and a woman who had lost sons or a husband to war was a proud one. Cowards were ostracized and anyone who was not prepared to die for his land was a bastard. But despite this solid patriotism, the Africans lost the wars for their land principally because of lesser firepower and the activity of the cowards and scoundrels among them.

“Master, we will gladly follow your customs and lick the shit of your shoes as well”

While some Africans were busy physically fighting off and terrorizing the Europeans, others were preaching peace and acceptance of European customs and religions. These cowardly peacemakers were educated in European ways and history and given authority to govern their fellow Africans under the shadow of the established colonial government.  Africans who kept fighting against the government  and who tried to reclaim their land were killed off, exiled or locked up in jail.

They were also forced to shout seven “Halleluyahs” while squatting before European dickheads.

In obedience to the laws of natural selection, the brave and stubborn ones died off with their brave and stubborn genes, while those who accepted European authority went on to become educated Christians or tolerated Muslims. And because whether cowardly or brave, people will always have sex, these cowards went on to reproduce their genes and today their descendants are spread across the country. Essentially, every post-colonial African today is a descendant of one of those cowards or scoundrels that refused to die rather than give up their authority. We are the sons (and daughters!) of cowards and scoundrels. Once in a while, though, remnant genes from the brave Africans show up.

Even in the most delightfully unexpected places.

Unfortunately, the now pervasive cowards-in-authority are always quick to wipe out such resurrections.

“Don’t let him escape. His protest spirit is capable of dismantling the entire structure of the police force!”

%d bloggers like this: