Much Ado About Little Blue Thumbs

                

April 4, 2011

Technically, I am very apolitical, unfortunately, the recent happenings that Jegarized our existence as people living in the Zanga in the last seven or so days have created sufficient cause for me to voice my opinions and concerns. Where or what is the Zanga? It is a nation state located in the heart of Africa, sometimes regarded as the most populous nation in Africa. Zanga is located 20 nautical miles off the coast of Zamunda (of the Hollywood flick Coming to America fame).

I should start by commending Prof. on his forthrightness and ability to say it as it is! It takes balls of steel to stand before a nation and confidently reel out what at best could be described as woeful project planning and even more worrisome excuses, as the basis for the delayed elections which were initially scheduled for April 2, 2011, across our beloved motherland.

It is not news that in some polling stations, better described as centres under the green petesse (canopy or umbrella, pronounced kpetesse), voting had already reached near completion, hence the potential issue of the validity of our blue thumbs; as I am guessing that it is quite easy to get your thumbs blued without being accredited, then again, we are all honourable people in the Zanga and would do no such thing.

In terms of process, you get to the polling station, present your voters' registration slip, and you are accredited – simply put, you show your slip, it is matched against a counter copy on the eligible voters' list; if the information tallies, you are asked to present your thumb to be marked with ink. All accredited voters, thus, have at least one little blue thumb.

My frustration however does not lie in the potential blueness of my thumb or the fact that movement is restricted from the night before, (so much for freedoms as enshrined in the constitution), or even the fact that potential voters have no choice but to wait under the scorching sun to cast their vote or be disenfranchised…

My grouse is with the seeming comfort with which we seem to regress while the rest of the world make giant leaps with their employ of technology in the context of voting.

Let us compare notes:

In the sane world, there is no restriction of movement, there are no curfews, there are no grim-faced AK-47-wielding mobile policemen, voting is conducted in well constructed fully air-conditioned buildings or polling centers, you have the flexibility to vote wherever you choose to vote, you even get the option to vote through your embassy representative if you are living outside the country of your birth, there is minimal human interference which reduces the risk of errors, people vote with a sense of pride and with no fear of intimidation, while the political class is mature and more often than not, driven by a genuine desire to make a difference and serve the people.

In the Zanga and most of Africa, it is a slightly different situation; nine out of ten times, the political process itself is flawed and marred with allegations of fraud, incompetence and a forecast of wrong doing, only matched by the incompetence and immaturity of the political class. In the Zanga, the people are the servants who exist to satisfy every whim of the political class or as they have now come to be known the ruling class (so I reckon the rest of us are just lowly serfs or plebs). We have polling stations that are a little more than ramshackle dumps, or at best, an umbrella erected smack in the middle of an intersection for emphasis.

We have grim-faced gun-wielding drunk and near-illiterate mobile policemen whose only joy is to cause you pain or discomfort, or both, we have the political thugs and area boys who are of the same intellectual stock as most of the wolves clamoring for political office. Worse still, we are treated like sheep to be controlled and used as the ruling political class deems fit, or how else does one explain a 5.00pm curfew order issued to the unsuspecting populace at 5.30pm?

Where else, in the twenty-first century can you be told that you can only vote at the centre you registered? What then is the purpose of a voter registration exercise to populate a central database that cannot be accessed from across the country, considering the fact that all our data and biometrics were captured, short of capturing data on our sexual preferences and the list of meals that give us gas.

As we take bold steps towards taking control of our political destiny, we can only but be reminded of the tsunami of change that is sweeping across the Arabian peninsular into Northern Africa with the growing list of political casualties from Egypt, Syria, Libya, Yemen to Saudi Arabia; where the voice of the people was heard louder than the sound of gunfire, the oppression of soldiers’ whips and the threats and ultimatums of dictators.

As we all proceed to cast our votes over the next few weeks, to select the cabal that would rule the Zanga for the next few years, we can only hope and pray that someday, somehow, somewhere in the Zanga, someone or a group of people would step forward to speak the mind of the people and fight their battle for political and intellectual freedom and dignity.

So, until that day comes, all we can do for now is suck it in, go down to the polling shacks and present our thumbs, so that we all may proudly display our little blue thumbs in hope of a better brighter tomorrow.

-end-

image culled from google images.

Please Don’t Call Me, Send a Text *angry smiley*!

Anyone who is anyone in my life must have heard these words spoken to them before, or had cause to read the words in a short and sharp text message I sent to them instead of picking up my phone to answer a call. Here is why you really cannot blame me for my actions.

For me, this is a very simple and straightforward statement that communicates how I feel about the seemingly acceptable foolish behaviour of most people who have access to mobile phones or who have had mobile phones thrust upon them.

With the advent of the mobile phone, we seem to have simply adapted our bad phone manners to align with the new culture and trend of mobile telephony which allows us all to roam the streets with our bad manners and unleash the same on unsuspecting/helpless sane folk. Believe it or not, there are commonsense-dictated rules on how to and not to use mobile phones…

Here are a few:

• The fact that you pick up your phone to call me does not make it mandatory for me to pick that call
•  Send Texts, as it helps you to articulate your thoughts rather than call to have a 5-minute directionless and valueless conversation with me
• Mobile phones have silent or quiet-mode options, use them
• When you call people, be guided by basic intelligence and be sure it is a good time for a conversation before you launch into a tirade that is important to you but is of absolutely no value to me.
•  Do not ask me why I did not return your call, except you are my significant other, or you pay my bills directly, or are family (hmm)… if not, you have a right to expect a callback, while I certainly reserve the right to not pick calls from you, or to not call you back.
• Your mobile phone is not deaf, stupid, or hard of hearing, chances are you are deaf, stupid or hard of hearing, so STOP shouting at your phone
• Mobile phones have spirits too (that’s why they get hot when you talk endlessly to/at them), take them out of your pant pockets before you fart… really!
• Always try to read peoples' moods or how busy or idle they are from their tone of voice when you call them and start a conversation; chances are that if they sound distracted and officious or busy, they are probably busy and your call is distracting them
• Since you took it upon yourself to call me, for heaven’s sake, have the common sense to speak and don’t leave me shouting hello! Hello! Hello!
•  Don’t call my line and then ask me if this is me, or if you are speaking with me... are you expecting to be speaking to your dead great-grandmother’s gay rabbit when you call my line?!
• When you call me, start the conversation by saying your name and where you are calling from. The conversation is more effective as it gives me enough information to terminate the call at that point; it also lets me know I am speaking with an informed, considerate person.
• In your smart opinion, do you think it is okay to type and drive or chat and drive when you cannot cook and drive or knit and drive?
• Mobile phones were not invented for you to have long-drawn meetings over them. They are an enabler to help you get people into the meeting for a sit-chat! So, don’t call me and on the drop of a hat expect me to leave all I have to do (which includes faffing-around and forming busy, believe it or not, that requires great skill and concentration) and expect me to just get into mobile-meeting-mode simply because you called to interrupt me?
• When you are done talking and want to end a phone conversation, how about you say goodbye or something that suggests that you are through talking?! It is quite annoying when you just terminate the call and I am left guessing as to whether or not you are still talking to me or if you have stepped out for a pee.
• If you call me, seriously, I am not saying you cannot quickly talk to someone else, but please, inform me before you suddenly start a parallel conversation with someone else (that I can clearly hear). If you really must do that, suggest a call-back or with my permission, put me on hold until you can give me the required attention, after all, no be you call me?!

So, simple rule, simple policy.. if you cannot conform, please don’t call me, send a text!

-end-

Ever wondered....?

1. How do destitute women always seem to be able to reproduce and care for their children but claim not to have money for food and upkeep?

2. Who makes destitute women pregnant in the first place?

3. How they never seem to present any forms or symptoms of illness?

4. How they always seem to have twins.... some with as many as three sets of twins training behind them while many a well-off woman is looking desperately for children of her own?

5. How mentally ill (aka Mad) men and women rarely ever have Mad offspring?

6. How do the mentally ill communicate love and affection enough to result in offspring?

7. How hung all madmen seem to be (we have all had to shrink at the sight of them trotting happily in their birthday suits?

8. What the world would smell like if we embraced our farts as an expression of our healthy metabolism and let them rip care-freely?

9. What it would be like to have Chris Rock as the president of the United States of America?

10. Why do the most annoying people secretly think everyone else is the most annoying person in the world?


#AmJustSaying

-end -

Love, Through Baba Ijebu's Eyes

True Expressions of Love…

It had been a stressful week with projects coming to an end and a lot of work deliverables, yet not much time to achieve them; all made worse by a frustrating three hours spent in Lagos rush hour traffic on my way home yesterday... at the end of which I became a near-maniac.

Such was the stress level that I decided to leave my car at home and take a taxi to and from work for a week, to enable me to get my energy levels back up and regain my umph.

Let me introduce him to you. Baba Ijebu is the happy-go-lucky taxi driver that became an integral part of my daily rat race for my taxi-hopping week. Relaxed, unassuming, and full of tales and surprising wisdom, Baba Ijebu brings to bear his life experiences and at every point in time, relates them to what is happening, and his projections of what is to come.

Wednesday: As I sit and try to relax my charged nerves and process today's edition of Sharing Life Issues with Chaz B,  I notice that Baba Ijebu seemed to be talking back to the radio... I should have left it at that, but my curiosity got the better of me and I engaged him in a conversation about love and life; he soon went into a long-drawn discourse to make his point. (Background) the topic of discussion on the radio program was Monster In-laws and we had just listened to the story of a woman who claimed that she lost her elder sister to the antics of an evil mother-in-law…

Suddenly he turns to me as we make our way down Western Avenue, Listen, he says. Some mothers in Law are wicked, but there are also a lot of wicked wives out there o! hmm, I am still with my wife of 39 years o, he says, even after all that she did to my mother, and her obvious meanness. He tells me of how after his wife delivered their first child, his wife’s mother (as tradition dictates) quasi-moved into his matrimonial house to nurse her. He noticed how in her tired state, she woke every morning to make breakfast for her own mother and ensure that breakfast was served at 7.30am daily. 

A month later, his mother came over to spend time with the new mother (his wife), at this time, his work schedule had changed so he left for work, daily, at 6.30am; assuming all was well, coupled with the fact that in his words, he had a good woman in his mother, he never heard any complaints. On this fateful day, he rushed home at noon to pick up a parcel he had forgotten as he hurried off to work earlier that morning, and lo and behold, he sees his mother in the kitchen cooking. After exchanging pleasantries with his mum, he inquires as to when lunch would be served, to which she replies that she was making breakfast....(pause)

A few uncomfortable glances and some not-so-pleasant exchanges later, he leans that every day after he leaves for work, his wife goes to sleep and does nothing until 30 minutes before he returns home from work in the evening, as such she (his mother) had since learned to endure hunger until noon, daily so that she only gets to cook and eat one meal a day while his wife sorts herself out by sending for food for herself only. His point, not all mothers are evil, and some evil mothers are made evil by the actions and or inaction of their daughters-in-law (when no one else is watching).

He continues the story by going back a few more years (rewinding to the early years of his marriage)  and tells me how his family had insisted he marries more than one wife, but it was his mother (who was now being maltreated by his wife), who made him promise that he would not under any circumstance take a second wife. It was also his mother who stood by him when all hope seemed lost during his courtship (his wife’s mother was against the union on the basis of him not coming from a wealthy background), and when he all but gave up his quest to marry his present wife.

I am silent as the weight of his statement begins to settle upon my heart… eventually, I ask how he has coped to this point. With a crooked smile on his face, he tells me how until a few years ago, his wife beat and slapped him every time they had an argument, and how his wife always boasted to her friends that she clipped her mother-in-law's wings, as well as his wings in the house (not knowing that his mother had decided to stay away from his home so as not to be the cause of any friction within their marriage). As we approach my drop-off point, he leaves me with these parting words.

‘When people talk about marriage and bliss, they do not necessarily go hand in hand. For him, marriage was a decision he took as the next phase of his life and he entered into it with no expectations or without any hope of finding paradise in it” 

for him, the key to keeping his home intact is knowing when to shut up and take the beating like a man, knowing when to be assertive and when to be timid. Most of all he tells me, success in marriage is dependent on Love. Not the Mills and Boons love oh!... the type that endures all things.

My week spent in the company of Baba Ijebu has gotten me to a point where I have had to rethink my position on a couple of issues, including the meaning and expressions of love.

As he drives off after dropping me at my destination, I am fixated on an image in my head of him kneeling and begging for mercy as his wife whom he loves unquestionably, beats him to within an inch of his life, as his grown kids and the neighbours watch in amazement.

Indeed, love makes people do stupid things.

-end-

Mami-Eko unmasked..

If you live, work or commute in/to Lagos, you must have encountered her in one form or another, yes, the invincible Mami Eko, causer of inexplicable traffic jams.

Recently, I embarked on a spiritual journey; that is what I do when I seek answers to questions that seem to tug at my heart and for which there is no clear or logical explanation or answer within reach. As I began to chant softly get into the zone and a higher level of consciousness, I meditated upon the magical words ijebu garri and iced water,  this magic combination handed down to us by our ancestors, and which has proven time and again to possess the power to transport mere mortals to a higher spiritual plane on a hot, humid day.

As a softly chant and meditate, I am propelled into a trance and removed from myself. I begin to see the world around me, differently,  to see beyond clothes and mere flesh into the souls and inner consciousness of the people around me.

As I levitate through time and space, I find myself looking at Lagos from near-space, a bird’s eye view, or more like an alien’s eye view of Lagos, congestion, rats racing and all.

Before me I see spread out across the landscape, an endless row of cars, from Iyana Ipaja to Ikorodu road, from Third Mainland bridge to Okota Isolo, the reality was the same, traffic, bumper to bumper traffic!

As i steer through my spiritual eyes, I see her.. yes o, I see her, jumping from one congested mass of cars to the other, I see her…  with her crooked teeth, earthen-ware pot on her head and her torn wrapper draped over her mid section. I see her, no teeth in her mouth, a crooked smile on her face, and her wrinkled skin like the bark of a 100 year old iroko tree. I see her, she whom I have named Mami Eko.

As she jumps and prances, she does a magical dance which inexplicably drives and commuters alike to slow things down and gradually grind to a halt. I am amazed, they cannot see her, I say to myself, so how do they know to slow down and just for no apparent reason, drive as slow as their means of transportation can take them?

Really, you should have been there… that old woman can dance sha o, I am almost certain I saw her do the moon walk, then a back flip, then the slide, before she went into a bout of running-man still dressed in her wrapper and grinning from ear to ear like he who shall use good-luck and not common sense to solve all our problems.

I summon the courage to speak to her. In my best Fela imitation, I say to her. Behold, why do you do what you do the way you do it to affect our lives in traffic so? She stops abruptly, and for an instant, traffic seems to ease up as the cars begin to move slowly… in a very calm voice, she tells me that she just loves to dance and does not know why I am making such a fuss.

I ask her, why then do you have a pot on your head and what is in it..? To that, she looks at me like a mother looks at a child who knows not the difference between a medicinal herb and a patch of grass and says matter-of-factly “it is patience in the pot o!” I have put all your patience in this pot, and as long as I dance (which I love to do) the patience would be disturbed and you shall all become restless and impatient for no reason. It is so much fun watching all of you attempt to create 20 lanes on a road that is built for 5 lanes…

*scratching my chin* as I slowly withdraw from her as she slowly and gradually begins to dance herself into a frenzy as the congestion becomes tighter and tighter on the road. She dances on and on, as I hover forward I get to the ‘head’ of the traffic line, and not surprisingly, there is absolutely nothing in the middle ahead, in fact from that point on, traffic is amazingly free flowing.

Spent from my spiritual travel, I return to my human form and realize that I am sweating… slowly; I become conscious of where I am and what I am doing. The car-horns are blaring/ hooting as other motorists are shouting unprintable obscenities at me..

Ah, now I know where I am, in traffic on third mainland bridge where I had remained on the same spot for 45 minutes, without even the slightest movement. For some reason, there are no longer any cars in front of me, although the cars backed up behind me are now about 100 deep…

I put the car in drive and I accelerate. Ever conscious of Mami Eko and her antics, I wonder if she has made a quick dash to Ikorodu Road to do some dancing. Or perhaps, she has decided to go and pee in the spirit world. Whatever it is, I am glad to be able to continue on my journey home…

Ever wondered why you sit in traffic for endless hours and you get to the head and there is absolutely no cause for the hold up? Now you know…

End.

Why I stopped drinking STOUT

I recall the words of my mother as she hammered certain values into my young mind as I took my baby steps and gradually leaped into manhood. Such buzz words like hard work, loyalty, commitment, respect, integrity, and firing squads (or the fear of it), served as a solid platform in my youth.

As I grew into a rebellious adolescent, and subsequently adult, I was driven by a desire to experiment and do “different stuff” within limit! This naturally led me to the other side of the fence every now and then, and oh how I remember those days when I was young and foolish, where mama’s words always guided me home and the thought of a good lashing seemed to make me a better person... still, I climbed the fence..

(faint echo as the breeze blows softly, sending my hair flying around my face in slow motion (like a L’Oreal commercial) I hear the words, whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well.

And so I did it well. I became a good bad guy and started experimenting with controlled substances, in this case, alcohol, and cigarettes. No one ever tells you how bitter those things are when you first taste them; rather, you are encouraged to believe that it is an acquired taste you will acquire as you indulge.

I started with larger… for my fellow almost-drunks out there, you would know that back then, beer was either presented in a big green bottle or a brown big bottle. There were no mini or minor beers in Lagos, just good ‘ol biggies (sometimes with the oddest names)…  

So, larger became my friend after school and we had such a fun relationship, though not exclusive, as my pals, Tonye, Emeka and co. were always on hand to make the circle complete. I however soon learned that beer was more about quantity than quality; so I made the transition to drinking stout.
 
I was a Stout man from my second year in school all through to my national service days in Abuja. It was while I was an Abuja resident that I discovered the true meaning of alcohol-induced stupidity. Friday night with the boys, Kubwa estate, phase 4. As a young Youth Corper in Abuja, we had nothing else to do than drink, shoot pool, and ogle at young girls as they crossed the threshold from girlhood to womanhood, sometimes with our kind assistance

On this fateful day, the chap who managed the pool (snooker) table was unavailable, and the fish were not biting either, so we did the next best thing. We drank, and drank! From 8.00pm to midnight, we drank and sang merrily.

At midnight or thereabout, we began the process of bill reconciliation (aka gbese) to enable us to pay for the alcohol we had consumed. 35 minutes, a signed I.O.U, and some hard punching on a calculator, we were on our way to our respective lodgings.

I arrive in front of the semi-detached duplex I share with my uncle (I was squatting with him) and I ring the bell and wait for my uncle to open the door and let me in. I wait, but he does not come. So I sit on the bench outside the house while I wait for him…in vain.

I awake on the bench at 7.00am the next morning and everything seems unusually bright and fast-paced, for a moment, I wonder where the ceiling went. Even the floor seemed to be moving under my feet (this has absolutely nothing to do with the nine bottles of small stout I consumed the night before, diligently)! I say to myself… a lot must have changed while I slept.

Anyways, I try the door handle and to my surprise, the door wasn’t even locked in the first place. I dash upstairs, fumble through taking a bath and getting dressed for work, and then I dash out hoping to catch the staff bus heading to my office in Maitama.

Not surprisingly, I missed the bus! Then a bright idea hit me! I could take an okada (or achaba as it is called in the Northern part of Nigeria) and meet up with the bus, somewhere (#light-bulb-moment!).

Somehow, I, on the bike, chase the bus all the way from Kubwa to Maitama, going past 4 robots (traffic lights) and 3 major intersections, where I was parked side by side with the bus, but it didn’t occur to me to board it… (I knew there was something I should have done each time the bus came to a stop at an intersection… (I just couldn’t figure out what exactly that was)…

I endure the risky okada driving and the sand in my eyes, but for the oddest reason I cannot fathom, it all felt good. Surprisingly, I get to the office a few seconds before the staff bus, at which time my brilliance kicks into overdrive...

(in fast forward) I pay the bike man for the ride and struggle to force my way into the bus as everyone else tried to alight from it. I elbow and kick my way through to the back of the bus, and sit, I make myself comfortable as a strong sense of achievement and accomplishment gradually envelopes me. I made it, I finally made it (I say to myself)!

Then the alcohol wears off an hour later as I am roused from sleep by an irate bus driver who threatens to beat a sense of responsibility into me…

…I realized what it was…I should have gotten off the bike and boarded the bus!.. I blush as I  realize I had just achieved a new personal best in stupidity.

An hour later, I stopped drinking STOUT!
 
End.

Today I Killed an Okada Man

Dressed to the hilt and looking as good as I could, considering my rotund limitations, I stepped out of my apartment, acknowledged the greetings from my security guard and hopped into my manage-manage car. I was poised for a happy day at work and a chance to have fun at what I enjoy doing.

I get into the car and I set off on my way. As I turn the corner, I suddenly slam on the brakes as a light flashes in the corner of my eyes. An Okada man, these useless Okada guys, I think to myself; although they supposedly fill the gap left wide open by successive government who failed to realize the need for good quality urban transportation within the metropolis….

Ah, yes the Okada man, did I just hear you ask what or who an okada man is? Okada (sp) refers to commercial motorcycles used as a means of transportation and provide a ready alternative to what should have been our transport system. They are generally annoying, scruffy, unruly, and without a doubt very close to the bottom of the evolutionary chain.

The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that the average Okada man exists in a parallel world, or at least exists (mentally) somewhere between the real world and super Mario bros, or the game version of F1 motor racing. Unfortunately, in the game world, when you die, you are given extra lives to embark on another show of stupidity till you die again!

Okada men do this every day, that is, they show their well-honed idiocy every day as they get on those bikes and weave through traffic without care or any concern in the world. I slammed on my breaks and cringed at the thought of what or who I may have just run over. People began to gather. And like a swarm of bees, okada after okada after okada began to stop and park and join in what was steadily becoming a circus act, no one even bothered to pay any attention to the lifeless body wedged somewhere between my rear and front tyres!

In true Lagos fashion, I stay put in my car, AC chilling and gbedu blasting while I contemplate what to do next and rummage through the contacts on my phone trying to locate anyone with whatever influence I can bring to bear to avoid being lynched. As I listen to the soothing voice of Asa, I am suddenly lost in thought, and I recall that I had seen the okada man-victim before… at some point in the course o my journey, earlier on, I had seen him perform death-defying stunts like squeezing his bike in between two trucks and even attempting to fly through the window of a mass-transit bus, each time, he made it just by a hairs breath. Perhaps the reason why he is now lying motionless beneath my car.. (why didn’t the damn bus hit him and decommission him earlier?!) I think aloud.

Well, I am now where I am and as I think of the fate that has befallen the poor fellow, I am suddenly attacked by a rush of mixed feelings: I feel sadness at taking a life, then again, I feel the joy of accomplishment and fulfillment, I have done Lagos and the larger society a favour ensuring one-less maniac on our roads. I think of the gladness in the hearts of other normal rational people, the peace of mind that I have created since they know there is one less-speed monkey on a motorbike, and smile as a sense of accomplishment envelopes me.

Bang! Suddenly and swiftly, I am rudely awakened and instantly realize where I am and what I must do. My windshield has been shattered; the mob of senseless Okada men is attempting to drag me out of the car to bring me face to face with the unsightly sight that is beneath my car. I am helpless; a teardrop arrogantly and defiantly crawls down my cheek as the gravity of the situation downs on me. Today I am a martyr… (I repeat these words as I console myself) what I have done I , I have done for the greater good. Something in me is suddenly at peace as I take my place beside Joan of Arc, Mary Queen of Scots, Thomas Sankara, and other greats who were cut down in the pursuit of greater things for their people.

I am beaten to a pulp as I am dragged out of my car and the car is set ablaze, with one loud salute, my car explodes and in my near-death state, I nod to acknowledge my car's salute as it put up its final fight. Everything suddenly slows to a crawl.

Even I am amazed at how much detail I can take in of what is happening to me.. Every kick, blow, cut and scrape, I feel. I can see the faces of the angry mob, the brotherhood of insane okada riders, who like moths drawn to a flame, have now drowned me in a sea of heads, sticks cudgels, and petrol.

From the corner of my left eye, I see an odd-looking fellow running towards me wielding a car tyre. I laugh silently. Doesn’t this fool know my car is there on fire? What is he bringing a spare tyre for? Then reality dawn, the tyre is for lynching, lynching is the response of okada men when they lose a comrade. I just killed an okada man, so, I shall be lynched.

I wear the tyre proudly as I am doused in gasoline. I am afraid, but I shall not show fear. Instead, I try to focus on fond memories and happy times to help me cope with what is about to happen and where I am about to be dispatched to. I say a prayer… flick! A match is struck and flung in my direction… (damn) this bloody slow-motion, it seems like forever before the lit match stick lands on me and I erupt in a ball of flames and smoke.

The pain, the anguish, then it happens, a drop, then two, then buckets, and finally, torrents of rain. I am in shock.. before the fire does irreparable damage, I am saved by the tears of all the little angels in heaven who in response to my pleas, have sent the rain to take my pain away… the rain continues, and now I am soaked…

I am soaked, drenched, and restless, I toss and turn… I hear the thunderclap loudly and feel the sparkle of lightning on my eyelids… then suddenly, and without warning.

I awake, and realize it has all been a dream, well all except for the rain which turns out to be sweat/perspiration from the NEPA (lack of electricity) -induced heat.

I wake up and wonder… must I go to work today?!

End.