Why Do Men Cheat?

Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start… when you read you begin with A, B, C, when you sing, you begin with doh, reh, mii… when you cheat, it all begins with desire, the desire for adventure, to be better than you are, to achieve more, to have an advantage, to explore...

How did we discover cheating in the first instance? (and please y’all should admit it, we have all cheated at one thing or the other, at one time or the other, or to one end or another. We have all had our moments. It all started from way back in our formative years, you were always told by your raving and ranting dad or mum, of how the other kid down the road was better than you, neater, more respectful, had better grades, had a cuter smile etc.. You then moved on to learning how to mind your own business by playing with your toy car, your ears, peepee, your doll, and or whatever else you had to play with as a kid.

Even then, you were faced with having to always compare notes and strive to have your own things better than the other kids’. Fortunately or unfortunately, I grew up with girls, so I never got drawn into the size competition that always was a topic of conversation in the little boy’s room! Or, I would have, from an early age, gotten drawn into the argument on the variation in finger sizes by age, race, and weight.

The need to always have it better or be the better one as a means of achieving self fulfillment or the feeling of perhaps being fulfilled, to a large extent is responsible for why we all cheat in the first place.

All descriptors need to be used in context and have a central rallying point that can be given credit or blamed. In the military, you rally to the commander, in school, you rally to the principal, in a restaurant, you rally to the chef, in romance, we naturally rally to the female gender. Unfortunately, although everyone cheats, when it comes to cheating, we naturally rally to the MEN. 

How many of you have unconsciously thought of men each time you heard the word cheat? Even in conversation, if you are told that a woman cheated on her man, a good number of you would seek clarification - are you sure she cheated on him? And when that position is confirmed, a good number of you would still blame him for making her cheat on him. So, unfortunately, it all always has to be blamed on the men.

That said, research has shown that men are more prone to cheating in relationships than our saintly women folk. They cheat because they are happy, they cheat because they are sad they cheat to have more adventure, or even to have less. They cheat for bragging rights or to become the topic of the brag. They cheat because their women are too good, too bad, too thin, too fat, or just right. They cheat because of a need to always walk across the lawn and find out if the grass is truly greener on the other side, or if perhaps it is purple.

Men also cheat when they feel insecure, unloved, or unwanted (yes! Believe it or not, under all the six-pack or in my case, rounded one-pack, we still like attention and loads of it. We also want to feel like your world revolves around us, same as you), also, when they feel like they are not getting enough of a good thing or that they are not even getting the good thing as good as it ought to be. One little-known secret is that men cheat, sometimes out of low self-esteem. While your woman sees you as her friend, guy, and sometimes support mechanism (emotional and financial), the daughters of Eve see you as The Man... (and make you feel like your words alone -lies - can melt butter)

Then again, is it cheating if he just drifts emotionally and begins to spend more time with another woman (albeit a friend, colleague, helper, smallie, flow, prazz, fastfood, fish-steaks, or whatever name we choose to call it these days)? or is it when he gets physically involved and starts to explore other nether regions of her wiles? Really and truly, all cheating na cheating! It only takes a moment to really cross that line from friendship to affair, from peace to drama, from knowing to doing. 

All cheating na cheating o jere, irrespective of the nice and funky words we use to cloud the obvious truth.    

All Men Cheat! Either by looking, thinking, touching, hoping, comparing, prying, wishing, doing, and salivating (mentally) yes ke! Since you ladies bitch-slap us for salivating when we see" tins", we have learned how to do so mentally, and savor the experience while maintaining a completely blank expression on our faces. 

Like all organisms, men are an evolving species or more like a sub-set of our specie and a product of the society in which we live. if the society was made up of all upright girls who would insist on not being with men who are engaged or married, then men would naturally evolve to a point where drinking garri with water (and perhaps no sugar) every day of their lives, would not only give them satisfaction, they would actually look forward to drinking it daily.. besides, there wouldn’t be alternatives anyway! 


Can we then safely assume that if there were no evil-causing women/girls/females, there probably wouldn’t be cheating men…? 

At the dawn of time, as the good book tells us, that was the case, and oh yes, there was peace and harmony, and Adam chopped his garri happily and did not complain; until a new horrible menace threatened the existing balance in the universe… SIN.

Thousands and thousands of years ago, Adam and Eve lived in harmony and all was good and right. There was no evil and Eve, who by the way was forged out of one of Adam’s ribs, was the only woman on earth, which automatically made her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen (I wonder where the cute/fluffy rabbits were, or even pandas or kualas).  Suddenly the bad guy snake came into the picture and by the end of the day, an apple had been eaten, Adam and Eve suddenly noticed each other’s hairy and wobbly bits and ran for cover, and as we are made to believe, they both emerged from the experience with a new outlook to life and living. In offering him the apple to chop, Eve inadvertently paved the way for Adam (and indeed all men) to open-eye and seek a better alternative to the bone of our bones that brought us to sin, anger, and disrepute in the eyes of the Big Man. Man has been a wandering adventurer ever since. 

Now that we have dispensed with the history and have traced the roots of male cheating to its earliest origins (the origin of sin itself) and have come to agree that cheating is not the exclusive preserve of men, but as gullible apple-eaters, we are sentenced to carry the guilt and shame of the act, whether-or-not we are guilty, the soul searching should start.

At this point we may want to do some self-assessment… what cheating tendencies are unique to you?, or better yet, how many of your men have actively cheated on you and why? (did they cheat out of a mere longing to cheat, or was it due to your actions or inactions, activity or inactivity perhaps?). If you asked nicely, and not with a pot of boiling oil, a knife, a machete, or a gun in your hands, he probably will tell you why he did it, and you can both move on or learn from it.


I cannot help but think that we have so romanticized cheating itself, and how it should be dealt with and dismissed as a random act of stupidity and greed (thanks to Hollywood, Mills and Boons etc..), and have been led into believing that once you are cheated on, the next course of action is to throw a tantrum and walk away from the relationship because of bruised egos and a sense of being betrayed... (and this goes for men and women alike)


Guess what? believe it or not, generations before us cheated, hell! even our parents may have cheated on their spouses, but they were more tactful and discreet about it than we are now, so, we never knew... I am not advocating that it is okay to cheat, but if and when it happens, do you look at the bigger picture? do you identify the root cause and address it? or do you play the discarded apple and just roll on by?

As I drop my pen (er, or more like my keypad) to go and eat my colleague’s birthday cake and prepare to put on my dancing shoes to celebrate a great man and icon today, Don Yinxie, I cannot but wonder if trying to find an answer to why men cheat isn’t as elusive as finding an appropriate/universally accepted answer to the question “what do women want”?

Most men cheat because they CAN… women cheat because they WANT to, politicians cheat because they MUST, kids cheat because they SHOULDN’T.

So, my friend, why do YOU cheat?

what Women and Society choose not to consider...

Today I awoke to an interesting chat discussion about two separate ladies; the first got jilted after an 8-year-long relationship and was left penniless and alone - after clinging on for 8 years (she is obviously bitter and has been unable to pick up the pieces and move on). 

The other is in a 5-year-long relationship; for 4 out of those 5 years, they were in a long-distance relationship and very involved. However a year ago, the man marries another girl but still professes love to her, so they continue dating and she is now his mistress, happy and still very much in love (most people advised that she leave the chap and move on!). The question is, how right or wrong are her actions in the context of who she is?

Ever wondered how many women get their hearts broken daily, or get jilted, or thrown back in the dating game sadder and with no actual learning from their previous experience? Well, I would save you the mental anguish of trying to come up with a figure… they are just too many to count. An anonymous survey suggests that a fresh heart is broken (globally) every 45 minutes; I reckon that should give you a good idea of the numbers.

Today I shall either make friends or enemies as I touch on a very sensitive issue, like they say, the truth is bitter and it hurts, but somebody has to speak up and say it (I only wish we had such noble speak-up-ers in our national assembly, maybe then they would finally get to doing the jobs that they schemed their way there to do…(oops, sorry, they were supposed to have been elected *rolling eyes*).

Today I choose to demystify relationship types for women and share my thoughts on women in relationships; types and forms of relationships and the potential misconceptions and pitfalls.

It is said that a problem known is a problem almost solved.., and a problem shared is a problem solved, so I have chosen to solve the problem that is a burden to many…, what is the problem? Simply put, Women want to marry, and marry at all costs, why?!

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against women getting married, or in fact, against the institution of marriage (an institution which like any other, requires the right mindset, positioning, strategy, vision, mission, values, and even stakeholders to succeed). My issue is with the assumption or notion that everyone is destined to be married.

Where do women get the notion that they need to be married to be happy or accepted? Well, I shall take this out on African culture first and foremost. Women are brought up to feel that once you have reached a certain age (or have reached a certain educational level), to earn respect and acceptance, a young girl/lady must be married and proudly wear her husband’s name on her shoulders (like a general wears his ranks and insignia). This is drummed into all our heads from a tender age, so we feel the NEED to marry. (I am focusing on the women-folk today, but guys would have their day in the sun too, men, una too dey show una selves!).

The discerning man and the informed woman would tell you that while men get into relationships at the onset, to discover new things and then, day by day, put up the building blocks of what could become a wonderful relationship, Women, tow the path of Habit 2 – Begin with the end in mind, Marriage! (Steven Covey, Seven Habits of Highly Effective People). So, with their eyes firmly fixed on the goalpost, they make mistakes.

I am not a footballer/soccer fan, nor do I claim to know anything about football besides the fact that it is a game involving 22 males (or females, or mice) chasing around a round leather object, against all logic or reason. However, the game of soccer affords me a clear analogy here. Any footballer worth his boots would tell you that while playing, you should keep your eyes on the ball and not the goal. 

Keeping your eyes on the ball helps you to track, trap it, and even anticipate the moves of attackers, in essence playing football with your eyes on the ball, protects the ball, while playing with your eyes fixed squarely on the goal post alone, leaves you open to challenges and flank attacks, and wait for it… No goals were scored in the end.

How do you know what kind of woman you are? whether you are destined for matrimonial bliss, or you are destined to be happy and raise a family without being married? Well, here are a few points to consider:

For starters, in the context of marriage, love, and relationships, there are different types of females, each with their long and short-term potentials and or limits. You have those ladies who function wonderfully as girlfriends but based on other factors like their relationship with your family and their ability to cope under pressure and other unprintable things (etc.), would be woeful as wives and mothers.

Then you have those that although you cannot keep in your home as wives, or you really do not even think as far as considering them for that role or function. However, these ladies are wonderful in every other respect and provide the best of emotional, physical, and sometimes intellectual satisfaction and fulfillment (these are the girls who are responsible for your broken home, if your man suddenly upped and stopped sleeping at home, they are open-minded and skilled in the way of the world and do not want to be ‘tamed’, locked down, or caged). It is not in your best interest, or their best interest to build a home with them.

Then of course you have the true-to-template boring or quiet girlfriend that has the potential for fun and excitement with the right inducement and encouragement – for this lot, the moment they are ring-cuffed (sorry, engaged), they suddenly unleash their hidden potential and pull out all the stops (now this could go either way: either they become the best thing that ever happened to you, or they could potentially become husband beaters – depending on how you treat them). Those in this group are marry-able.

Then of course, you have the girls who fuel your passion and set you alight for as long as they are involved in a discreet coded relationship with you, with no emotional drama or commitments, no unnecessary policing. They thrive as coded lovers and make the best mistresses. The moment you in a moment of weakness or at the point of happy release suggest that you want to take the relationship to the next level, the relationship and all the passion suddenly goes downhill. (The other extreme of this group would if they choose to accept the offer for MORE, suddenly adopt a ‘wife approach to being a mistress, the fun and passion is gone, thereby defeating the purpose of wanting MORE). These are the group that effectively service the adventure needs of the MFT (men from town or upwardly mobile young men - or young aristos) 

We all know of the wife-material group: those ladies that have positioned themselves or have nurtured themselves into what Mr. Right considers his ideal woman. They are not perfect but they seem to complete their men, they do not hold any fairytale notions of what love and life should be, they are not driven by money or greed, but by the potential they see in their man… they constantly have their eyes on the ball and know to protect and nurture it. If you find them, love them, keep them, marry them!.

Then of course you have the goody-two-shoes, (case in point, Bree from Desperate Housewives), these girls can kill! They have so much pent-up anger and resentment in them that although they appear very controlled and chilled, they are a time bomb waiting to explode. People like Bree seek the comfort of being cared for and loved, not necessarily the presence of a husband. In an ideal world, they shouldn't even be dated exclusively. (except you have a shrink on retainer)

Of course, there is the violently single girl who derives joy in serial dating and has no long or short-term plans of being married, so much so that a good number of them will tell you that having babies is nowhere in their plan. This is a unique group, Do you think men like ‘toys’? You should meet these ladies and spend time with them, they play the men's game, and play it well and even a lot better. 

Lastly, you have the group of informed intelligent independent women who because of societal pressure want to marry or even get married and are miserable at it. They become depressed and resentful. Not because they are mean or they are evil, but because they simply are not cut out to be happy in the institution of marriage. This group produces the best mums, albeit single mums and they have all the love and passion to give to that significant man (men) in their lives as long as there are no fake or unnecessary promises of a blissful marriage somewhere along the line.

Have you sat down to dig deep and search within your heart mind and soul to know the type and kind of woman you are? What your relationship trajectory is and how best to achieve that trajectory realistically and without compromising on who your heart and mind tell you that you are?

Although this may be a bitter pill to swallow, I guess it should get us all thinking. The key phrase here is a paradigm shift. Just as we cannot expect everyone who goes to school to end up as a lawyer or engineer or neurosurgeon, in the same thought process, we cannot expect every young girl to become a wife, talk-less of being a happily married wife.

I have said my two cents worth and I hope someone out there connects with this and begins her journey along the right trajectory.

What say you?


End.

Love hurts, take it or leave it!

So, it is like this; I woke up thinking through a couple of my experiences along my life's journey, mostly at those moments i took, or rather, attempted to take a detour through the dark alleyways of love. There seemed to be a recurrent theme - love, like dark chocolate, felt good, but more often than not, leaves a bitter, if not a sour taste in your mouth.

How did it all begin? Those who know me well, and I doubt anyone can lay claim to that, will tell you that I started out very early on the adventure quest for love. During my nursery school days, I had already figured out that - Lesson 1: boys and girls were fundamentally different, and that there was something that girls had to give boys - and that boys wanted, and I wanted that thing (even though I didn't know exactly what it was), and I sure as hell was gonna get it!

My first (documented) love in Nursery Two, was Jessy, she was my classmate in school, and oh boy was she gorgeous! a mulatto (or half-caste like we called them back then). she had long legs, dark hair, and rosy cheeks. All I thought of as I skipped to school daily with glee (imagine a chubby male version of little red riding hood but without the red cape) was staring into Jessy's eyes where the sun seemed to rise and the moon... well, I had no idea what the moon did at night because I was not allowed to stay up that late at 5 or 6 years old!

As a toddler, I had already fine-tuned the art of fantasizing... in my fantasies, I was Mickey and she was Minnie mouse and we always played and sailed away together in the cartoon world, on a tugboat. Lesson 2: (if you can dream it, you can achieve it)  I don't recall the exact words I used in spinning her, all I know is that my lunch box, my 'Mothercare' (R) pant (fondly called pata back then - those two-color striped pants... I loved the red ones and blue ones the most), and of course, my mickey-mouse watch which had Mickey skating through the watch to tell the time. Then it happened, Susan transferred to my class from some other school and it hit me... two mulattoes are better than one! - Mistake 1

Thus came my first official experience with cheating, which ultimately led to my first panic attack as a result of not knowing how to calm an irate, crying little girl. my little-boy mind didn't understand why she seemed to be so concerned that I was spending more time with Susan, sharing part of my lunch with her, and even kissing her every now and then at the back of the class during recess.

Lesson 3: if you treasure your sanity, do not make her mad and jealous! I knew she was hurting, but I liked the attention I was getting from Susan (and didn't notice how much she was hurting); she showed me in good time.

During the lunch break on some fateful day, my class teacher singled me out in class (it was a moral instruction class) and asked me if I had done anything wrong at home of late. With all the little boy swagger I could muster, I said no. Then she did the unthinkable. (She held in her hand a ring and a bracelet).

Weeks earlier, I had accidentally picked up one of my mum's rings and another of her bracelets (gold) and had as a true reflection of love given them to Jessy and Susan at different times, and had foolishly told Susan never to mention it to Jessy. Lesson 4: Code it, and code it well!  That was my undoing, and another lesson in love and relationships, Lesson 5: Women Talk to each other (they leave all their differences behind and gang up to attack a perceived common enemy). Somehow, both girls talked and not only exchanged items but felt that they should proudly inform the class teacher that they were 'getting married to Femi'. Somehow, I had convinced them both of the value of them marrying me and having little cuddly, baby Femi (er, now that I think about it, how would that have happened exactly?)

While I stood in front of the class fidgeting nervously as my sins were read out to me, my Mum walks into the class (she had been called in by my class teacher).  A sore bum, a spinning headache, and three buckets of tears later, I finally figured out what had happened; my mother went Jackie-Chan on me and afterward, threatened my very existence with the words "wa dele wa bami" (I'll be waiting for you at home).

Surprisingly, both girls felt obliged to pet me and reassure me - Lesson 6: If you know how to cry, it just may wash your love-sins away. I would rather not go into the details of how I got home and was pampered into having a black eye, and how I was suddenly being stared at by a bunch of irate women (code-named aunties) who felt honour-bound to each offer a knock or a slap as led by the spirit.

The implications of my innocent attempt at sharing my heart and attempting to love so early in life included being suspended for two weeks (I think the school was more concerned with my promise to make them have baby-Femi's than the fact that I had given out my mother's jewelry as a mark of undying love).

Lessons learned, I moved on through the rest of primary school without incident - more out of fear of my mum and the 'aunties', and the fact that my mother constantly reminded me of my acts of foolishness in the quest for love.... she reminds me to this day.

Love in secondary school was a different experience. To sum it up, I learned that if done wrong, the wages of love is failure. In form 3, I fell in love again, she was, true to form, yallow, gorgeous, and had the loveliest eyes I had ever seen, at the time. (I shall call her SA). Everything about her made my heart beat faster, I even descended to a perpetual state of denial, and it took the wise counsel of older males in my life at that time, to convince me that she, like everyone else, farted (but that could not deter me....I was sure her fart smelled like the essence of strawberry). I may have genuinely loved SA and always found a way to be around her, and she knew it: I even applied to join the Girl's Guide (she was a member); of course, I was firmly rejected by the club.

Then came the next Lesson, 7: peer pressure is cool, but is just wrong in the context of love and loving. The more she opened up to me, the more I had to (pose) that was the trend then, you had to feel like you were doing her a favour by being with her. Foolishly, I succumbed to peer pressure, hurt her feelings, and she left me.

I stopped eating, I stopped reading (not like I did much reading in the first place, anyway), and for the first time in my life, I lost so much weight that I could see my feet without my tummy being in the way). I lost the second (documented) love of my life *insert huge sad smiley here*
 
Long story short, since I did not read, I did not pass my exams! and if you fail, you must repeat (borrowing the words of a public figure to justify why his son, a then governor was qualified to run for a second term in office – if you fail, you must repeat your class, He has failed, let him repeat his term as governor).
 
So, for a brief moment, I became a state governor, I was an emotional wreck, and I vowed not to love again, but I soon got over it, swiftly. My experience (in my formative years) at storybook, fairy-tale, Mills and Boons, Silhouette, Pacesetters, and Temptations-love has been a mix of pleasure and pain...starts with pleasure, ends with pain. But the brief moments of passion, pleasure, and bonding make the underlying pain worth bearing.

The butterfly-in-tummy, spinning head, and the feeling of floating in the clouds is a truly wonderful feeling, but is that love?

Love is a decision and not a feeling o jere. It is a decision to open up to joy and happiness and occasional pain, to cry when you are happy, and cry when you are sad; it is a decision to make yourself vulnerable on purpose.

Love hurts.


'Back in the days when I was young, I'm not a kid anymore, but some days I sit and wish I was a kid again' (anonymous)


end

Biography of Humpy The He-Goat

Born some odd twenty-something years ago to proud parents, Billy and Brenda Humpy, little Humpy started out like every other kid. He loved to laugh, cry, poop, sing, and most importantly, grab things and stick his finger into things; those were the early days, the formative years that molded Humpy into the proud billy-goat he is today.

 As I set about writing this biography, I promised myself that in the pursuit of truth and good writesmanship only I shall pay attention to only the important details of his life to date, shed light on his great moments, and give generations to come someone, or better yet, something to learn from.

Very early in life, little Humpy had already decided on where he was headed and what he wanted to be. the year was 1986, the Moral Instruction class when Mrs. Fletcher, the form instructor, asked the question (containing these ten words) that changed little Humpy's life forever - What Would You Like To Be When You Grow Up? 

Bursting with energy and literally glowing from the 'invincible' 200-watt bulb hovering above his head/struggling for space with the ever-present halo (the sign of innocence that all babies have and which they lose after they have their first sustained naughty thought), Humpy raised his hand to signal to his teacher his intention to speak.


Yes, Humpy, she said calmly and encouragingly, He shot up like the Apollo space probe destined for greatness in outer space... I want to be a He-Goat, not the animal though, but a He-goat like my uncle Willie, ma! (silence, then more silence). Everything froze in time, the drops of water seeping from the tap in the corner of the room, the wind, the hearts of the little kids, their eyes (blink-less) even Charlie, the foulest kid in the class froze in mid-fart! 

As if unaware of the effect of his proclamation on everyone/thing around him, he continued...

I want to be a he-goat, they have all the fun and no one ever gives them much of a hassle, SIT DOWN, Mrs. Fletcher said (finally able to speak after the initial shock and after wrestling with her inner demons who somehow held her accountable for Humpy's utterances). little Humpy sat, not understanding her sudden aggression towards him, he turned to Little Johnny his best mate for advice... None came.

Uncle Willie was a man around town, many a time, little Humpy had seen Mrs. Fletcher steal knowing looks at him, and then mutter some unprintable words under her breath which always ended with a curse and the words 'foolish He-goat'. Uncle Willie was a local legend and the source of pride for the Humpy Clan.

At age 3, he had his first kiss, at Age 12, he had become the local heart-breaker, and at age 18, he had become listed on the local stock exchange as an export-grade service/service provider, what was his trade? well, how about you ask Mrs. Fletcher and get yourself a talking-to that would end in a lot of unprintable words... (rumour even has it that Williamina, the good looking village-bicycle, and daughter of Mrs. Fletcher, was fathered by him) well, the apple truly doesn't fall far from the tree... I am guessing that partly explains the nature of Uncle Willie and Mrs. Fletcher's unspoken feud.

In his teens, Humpy did live up to the reputation of his favourite Uncle Willie; having spent one too many a night running down the streets being chased by fathers and brothers of innocent little girls and devilish little girls alike; from all of this, he learned one key lesson:  irrespective of what the girls' fathers said or did, Okafor's Law reigned supreme.

Now in his 20s, a vibrant fellow, a regular chip off the old block, Humpy has been severally described, by several, as mean, a heart-breaker, cheat, a deceiver, an unrepentant flirt, a user, and more. Most importantly, he, just last week, finally achieved his lifelong aim, the coveted title (worn proudly by one person per generation of Humpy's), He-Goat!

Humpy, in the middle of a well-laid-out candle-lit dinner for two, finally got the title bestowed upon him in grand fashion, he was knighted Humpy the He-Goat by Sheila, his latest lover and victim!, How was he knighted you dare ask?

A slap, no, make that two, a glass of Merlot poured in his face and trickling down to his snow white shirt (well starched and well creased on all edges), as she uttered the words, I hate you, and I hope you get hit by an airplane, you rabid He-Goat!  ...in utter bewilderment, he got down on one knee and wiped the sting of the matured vino from his eyes...

When he arose, he arose a changed man, the feeling of accomplishment, overwhelming.. he had a teardrop in his eye as he arose, overcome with emotion...

He was finally there and had earned the title reserved for a chosen few...He had become one with the force, he had become Humpy, the He-Goat!

- end -

credits: Image culled from Google Images

Fabulicious Calabar

From Abuja, plans changed. The initial plan was to proceed to Lagos for some R&R (for you non-military folk, that’s rest and relaxation) with family friends and loved ones, but that was not to be as I had to wait back and sit in for another activity.

By the way, the Abuja auditions went well, it was an interesting mix of musical passion, pleasure and pain...some folk were so funny they got us in stitches, others just caused you pain...

The kind of pain every little kid dreads.. remember that time you thought to yourself, mummy isn’t here, I can have one juicy piece of dodo (fried plantains), you relish the taste even before it hits your tongue; then you pick up that piping hot piece of dodo seasoned to taste and fried to perfection, then the devil strikes!

Mum walks in and you do the smartest thing your lilliputian mind can conceive (in order to conceal the hot piece of dodo) you shove it into your mouth (then the anguish hits...it is a mixture of pleasure and pain as the burning sensation totally scalds your tongue)! That is the kind of tears-inducing pain that shot through your being, hearing some of these hopefuls, attempt to sing.

The brief stop-over in Lagos was not to be. We proceeded to Calabar, the city where dreams are made, waits are broken and wonderful sights pop out literarily from every corner.

Lovely weather I say to myself as I step off the plane at the Margaret Ekpo airport, it is drizzling, I can already feel the warm embrace of Calabar's bosom, I feel at home as I begin to see visions of giant pots of soup calling my name and singing the happy Femi anthem.. (which ends with the words, my tummy full, my passions alight as in your warm embrace I lie).

I am apprehensive still, although this isn’t my first visit to the land of pleasure and honey, it shall be my longest stretch in the city.. I wonder...would my waist survive the trip? I ponder as I go in search of Monty the whale, my gorgeous abode for the next 5 days.

Planning for the auditions in Calabar was a breeze, having run the sequence successfully in two other locations before now. Day one: meetings, radio interviews, more meetings and then setup begins.

Day two is without incident, save for my being bamboozled into another station for an on the spot interview... (from my experience with Matilda in Abuja, I have totally fallen in love with that bold protruding microphone, and I am actually considering being a radio personality during my fly-by-night-moments), radio presenters are from a totally different planet, but I think I can trace some a micro fragment in my DNA to that planet, else I wouldn’t be loving it all so much! Big-ups to you Matilda-D!

Day 3: Auditions hold at the cultural centre, hundreds show up to sing their hearts out. You can feel the buzz everywhere you turn... I close my eyes and I am transfigured into philosopher mode, where I can see invincible neon signs on the head of each person at the venue, each person has a sign with a single word that read either (YES, NO or MAYBE), how can there be so many YES Signs?! I ask myself... well, 80% of the crowd were female, and like the beer-parlour stories suggest, Calabar indeed has talent, is their talent music-related?, I wonder.

I get back to my room and then I get the BBM that changed the course of my stay in Calabar, it was from my number one hoodie Dora.. (you know it is you girl!), my pips were having ice-cream and chocolate chip cookies (even though I know it is FAN ice cream – as that is the best you can get in this neck of the woods), I rush over to the room I knock on the door..

I step in, say my pleasantries to all who I meet...then it happens, I look upon those eyes. (flash-back) ever found yourself in a situation where everyone is in real time but your mind for whatever reason just chooses to record at 10,000 frames per minute (in production terms, that means in super slow motion!), it took a few minutes for me to realise that my mumu switch had just (almost) been flicked to ON. The last time something similar happened to me.. (er, moving on swiftly...lol)

Yup, there she sat, looking all fine and chiseled like something out of a fairytale, long jet-black hair, eyes that saw into the future and beamed positive thoughts of hope into my mind, lips that could stop a charging bull in its tracks. She had a smile, oh did she have the most honest smile ever, and a charm that would turn any white-coat-British adventurer/soldier into a self-confessed Indian (Ask Captain John Smith of the Pocahontas fame, and he would tell you of what I speak), I introduced myself and so did she, her name was Daeze (I hear wind chimes) chei, Omalicha nwa!

Well, to my frustration, the last bit of ice cream was gulped down by someone (can’t remember who right now, don’t forget I am still shooting in slow motion here). I sit and after a while, I am back to the normal me. Anyways, Ice cream gone, I tuck in and have a drink. We all talk about life in general and our expectations of Calabar, and somewhere in all of this, the word Jasper comes up.

Jasper is to Calabar as cheese is to mice, it is the epitome of fun, friendship and excitement in Calabar, good music, great people, and after the alcohol sets in, great dancers too.

Well, you figured that out already, we headed to Jaspers and took our place in the flames of Calabar night life, as we leaned back to be consumed by it. Myself, MF, Cheech, Dp, Dora, Yinx and Daeze, and our new best friends Jack Daniel, John Hennessy, and the Mayor of Long Island (all correct and accounted for (well, KAT couldn’t make it out that night), the night begins to take shape).

We started out shy and held back our dance moves... Cheech burst the first move with her Igbo version of the American street-dance fad called krunk (sp.), from then on, the more we drank, the dimmer the lights got, the more relaxed we got, the slimmer and taller I felt and the more dancing made sense.

Anyone who knows me knows I cannot dance to save my life; that said, I am not as bad as F-Jay, my adopted brother who is completely tone deaf and dances worse that the average white man and Chinese dude put together. Anyways, the more we drank the more I was convinced that if I didn’t dance, I would be doing humanity a disservice, so, in good faith and to ensure the continuity of the human race, in peace, I danced, and boy did I dance, surprisingly, it felt good. Thanks to the skills of Daeze, Dora and Cheech, ah yes, and Misi!, Ununa gba nkwa ofuma (you ladies can dance o!)

Bonds were forged that night and which I shall carry with me for the rest of my life, bonds born of a mix of good music (after the DJ finally figured out that we were there to dance), great company, good conversations and no forming

The next morning, it was back to work as usual and we had production deadlines to meet. Somewhere between breakfast and dinner, I was asked to sum up my experience in Calabar so far... well, I took a rain check as I still couldn’t get the words to describe the forming impression still swimming around in my alcohol sprinkled brain cells.

On day 4, Daeze was back, tall, gorgeous, clear skin and those eyes.. those eyes, those eyes...(I say that in my best Nollywood home video advert) it must be a sin to look that good and yet be a complete lady and inspire great men to think and do great things, effortlessly. Well, as we did the day previous, great minds once again came together and it was team bonding all the way, I swear, I so much fun that I began to see space-ninja monkeys and kittens dancing alanta!

Then it struck me, the answer to the question I had so skillfully evades earlier in the day, when I was asked to sum up my Calabar experience in a few words. The words came to me slowly.. I felt like the great men of old who had at one point or the other had life uttering messages revealed to them...

In the midst of the chats, giggles and all the fun and excitement, and watching KAT be Kat, Cheech do her thing, Yinx let go and let be, Dora spinning on the turn-mac (well, she D-Jayed from her MAC), and Daeze just being all fabulicious and graceful, the words came to me.

To me, Calabar showed me the true value of safe fun, friendship and bonding, it showed me that I was capable of having fun and having a blast, without the typical feeling of guilt. Calabar gave me Daeze, my new friend...

Calabar was fabulicious!

NB. To my girls Dora, Cheech, Daeze, KAT, I love you guys to bits, just the way you are..!

...of simple average men

There are certain things, people and events from my chequered secondary school days in Warri that I will never forget. This was the age of puberty and juvenile renaissance; the time we first discovered the joy of sex and the concomitant pleasures that could be derived from kissing the lips of the same classmate you insulted in the dining hall two days ago, the thrilling episodes of breaking bounds from school without a proper exit pass and going to eat eba and egusi from the forbidden 'food na ready' buka across the single lane that linked ajaminogha and ogunu. 

But apart from the great sex you could get from the virgins that littered the school and the evergreen palm wine that was smuggled into junior staff quarters, what amazed me about the school was the odd assortment of individuals that one met in boarding school; ruffians, effikos (bookworms), gays, talented geeks, born-agains, and genuine flirts. But all through my stay in college no-one amazed me more than Folajimi - or Jimi as he was called. 

Jimi was the original average person. There was nothing in the world that Jimi could do brilliantly. He was actually not all together useless, which wouldn't have been uncommon as I had the hard luck of staying in the same room with a gang of the most useless boys I have ever known - Jimi was unique in that he was neither useless nor brilliant - he was mostly just a shade below average in EVERYTHING. 

He scored average in class, was average when we played football and was usually in the third or fourth set when we played 'choosing', was average in his knowledge of movies and music, dated an averagely pretty girl, had an average voice and uncannily couldn't raise it beyond a particular decibel even if mobbed at the rec centre where we used to go buy snacks, he had two class shirts, two pairs of house wear, two pairs of shoes and I don't know a more average number than two. 

Jimi was queer but was always available. If you needed anything to be done averagely, he'll be around to help you. Don't expect anything spectacular - it can never be. But he was handy and a pretty nice person to banter with (if you didn't mind an average banter - and I was usually amenable to such average banter after my 16 year old liver had just been drenched with a half bottle of Red Label whiskey nicked from the house of a room-mate's guardian at Shell Estate, Edjebba). 

Almost twenty years have gone by now since I left college and it has finally dawned on me that Jimi was not alone in this world. Manchester United Football Club has in their ranks the most average footballer in the world - John O'shea - and their challenge for the title will be a hard road if and only if O'shea continues to command a first team shirt in a team that lauds itself as amongst the elites in world football. The only talent he has is his height - beyond that he just makes up the numbers. It would be no different if we put a red shirt on Klint the Drunk and ask him to parade the old Trafford turf and kick any ball that comes close to him (and kick any other thing that comes close to the ball). 

Watch O'shea on any match day; he has no ball skills, no intelligence, no innovative thinking. If a ball is passed to him, he passes it right back at you (even if you have two markers on you) eclipsing any opportunity for the team to maintain ball possession. I know much has been said about his versatility, his ability to play in every known position ( I am talking football positions here) having even kept goal for United in a crunch league match against Spurs in the 2007/2008 season and accolades in this regard have been quietly showered on him. 

He has also scored some miracle goals - 4th goal against Arsenal, chipping Almunia in the 2004/2005 season and the injury time winner against Liverpool at Anfield in the 2006/2007 season after coming on for Rooney. 

But let's be honest, John, like Jimi my friend before him, was average in all of these positions; a jack of all positions and unfortunately a master of none. The miracle goals were not Messi-like miracles but more like the miracle that can be conjured by Perpetual Nkwocha if mistakenly included in the all conquering USA female soccer teams of the nineties. 

What baffles me is the inexplicable inability of O'shea to raise his game, to improve his play, despite having played in the highest level of club football and having played for over ten years with scores of gifted and talented players like Giggs, Ronaldo, Rooney, Beckham just to mention a few. Unlike Carrick, he hasn't played sublime football before and then declined, nor is he like Fletcher who has raised his game enough to create a niche for himself as United's hatchet man; John O'shea has just been consistently a plateau of average football display.

As Man United continue their quest for another Barclays championship and glory in Europe, the question I think Sir Alex should genuinely ask himself from time to time is if John O'shea could possibly be the first or second choice right back in Chelsea, Barcelona, Real Madrid or Bayern.

The above article was submitted by Charles Omere, a poet and social commentator.

The unveil TVC - 'Abasinmi Aiyayah' - Equal Transformation

Those were the days..

Working with a team of seasoned chaps in what was then called the re-branding project team, we defined the look and feel, the language and speak and the personality of the emerging, refreshed brand FCMB.

The year was 2006, I then worked in service quality and quality control, but had the unforgettable honour of being nominated to be part of the project team;  sub-team, a two-member team, T-Sho!, I hail o,... lol.

Together, we were the sub-team on Advertising and External Communications. Our deliverables were:

- Create a go-to-market campaign that would position the brand as emotive, within reach, professional, confident, and high on rational benefits, a proudly African, proudly Nigerian brand.

- Create brand re-launch communications that would immediately show the freshness and futuristic outlook of the new FCMB

- Create a baseline CSR strategy for the new brand

- Articulate a Strategy for the new brand and implement the same.

Those were fun days... well, like they say, we came, we saw we conquered.

In all, my most memorable moments happened while putting together this TVC and the communications campaign as a whole. The sleepless nights, the project meetings, and having to work with a CEO who knew where the brand was coming from, where it was going, and how to guide us there...

And so was born the FCMB SUCCEED  campaign, the coming together of the two gold bars (my first crack at planning and executing adverts for FCMB)

Here is the multi-award-winning EQUAL TRANSFORMATION TV Commercial (click to view)

And there it is, the award-winning Succeed TVC, fondly called Abasi Aiyaiyah due to the music score (It won 2 creative awards for advertising) one while it was still being flighted, and the second award, 5 months after the campaign had been rested.

Some of you may recall the teaser press adverts...

Teaser 2

 Remember this?

I shall not go into creative and messaging strategy here, nor would I get carried away and attempt to compartmentalize the creative rationale.


P.S: Henry B, T-Sho, Tai Solo, it was mad fun working with you guys on this.

Like my goon Whitney, 'Minnie' Mezue would say, Peace (peace sign with two fingers) in the Middle East!

I'm out!

Vicky's African Dream...

Here is the story of my all time favourite TV advert developed in my FCMB days.

"I remember our first meeting, from the airport to my hotel room for a quick change, then off to her suite for a chat about the task at hand. I had heard so much about her, Vicky Sampson. I was nervous and apprehensive; I wondered if I would be uncomfortable standing in the presence of such an accomplished singer and song-writer.. she turned out to be charming, graceful, humble, and accommodating, she was a delight to behold, and to work with"

Culled from memoirs of creative mind by Olufemi Ashipa

Working with the renowned Vicky Sampson (who composed and performed 'My African Dream') was a dream come true. The South African Songstress and Diva was a delight to work with.

And how can I forget the composer/arranger, Mr. Cedric Samson is known for his compositions for greats such as Hugh Masakela... and who composed the soundtrack to the biography of Dr. Nelson Mandela, the song Öh Mandela, Son of Africa, and which he arranged and performed at Madiba's 80th birthday celebrations (I hope I got that right), You should see Cedric on the drums as well... awesome!

We went ahead to shoot the TVC, here are some stills (still photos)  from the set:

  More...

More still...

More, more still:

We had over 40 hours of awesome footage in all, shooting a safari scene, a graduation scene, a family dinner scene, a sailing scene, (we had to shoot from two yachts and a helicopter simultaneously), lions, etc., all inspired by your voice, Vicky.

The rationale for the TVC was simple, what is the African Dream and how does it relate to you at work, at play, and those milestones and achievements that make us who we are...what we are. It is a journey of success achieved through a committed partnership, a partnership between you and your bank... built on trust, commitment, and ownership. It ends with a promise of commitment; the essence of true consumer banking.

In case you never saw it, here is the link to the Our African Dream TVC (part of the "totally committed to you" campaign), this advert received wide acclaim including an independent critic's rating as the Number 1 Advert at the time RATING

OUR AFRICAN DREAM TVC (click on the link)

My African Dream - Vicky Sampson (Click to watch/listen)

Working with you guys in the studios in cape town, i shall never forget, better yet, i would always remember the first day we spent composing the music score, You, Vicky Sampson, Me, a piano, and a notebook! oops, Sorry Cedric, you got cut off this photo... i see you in your black t-shirt, lol!

Remember the lyrics to our composition? Well, here it is: Our African Dream Written by Cedric Samson, Vicky Sampson and Olufemi Ashipa, and performed by the gorgeous Vicky Sampson.

Credits: Doyin Adewumi, Sola Adegborioye, Steve Mc Dermott (Fatai), Femi J and Austin Ufomba, Durand Le Sueur, Debbie Terry, Michelle, Shawn, and Mayor Esiaba, this was fun.

Our African Dream - Stanza one:

Can you hear the drums beating

My heart beats to her call...

The sound of a new day dawning

Success in life is calling me...

Our African dream, my heart wants to follow..

Our African Dream, our hearts beat as one..

Cos we have the power to dream

and the passion to work in harmony

So lets keep this dream alive

and together we can fly..

Working together as one...

(refrain)

Holla if you want the tracks...

- end -

THE FART POEM

Farts are part of our everyday existence, whether they are considered to be pleasant or not, I say, always look for the laughter hidden within and suddenly they would have a new, personal meaning to you.

Here is a remarkable poem by Anthony Omere called "The Fart Poem'

A fart can be quiet,

A fart can be loud,

Some leave a powerful,

poisonous cloud.

A fart can be short, or a fart can be long, 

some farts have been known to sound like a song

A fart can create A most curious medley, 

A fart can be harmless, Or silent, and deadly.

A fart might not smell, while others are vile, 

a fart may pass quickly, or linger a while

A fart can occur in a number of places, 

and leave everyone there, with strange looks on their faces.

From wide-open prairies to small elevators, 

or crowded buses, a fart will find all of us sooner or later. 

But that farts are all bad, is simply not true

after all, we must not forget......sweet farts like you!

(c) Anthony Omere, 2010

FCMB TV Commercial 2007 - My Bank and i - 1

Well,

What can I say...

My passions include cooking, advertising development, and brand management. Here is a link to a TV commercial I worked on for a commercial bank in Nigeria. From communication strategy to advertising development and production. It was shot on location in Johannesburg -  South Africa.

This TVC was developed to cede the emotive attributes of the brand. It was the first TV advert in the My Bank and I series.

If you couldn't view that, CLICK HERE to watch it off youtube.

Enjoy!!!!