Different Shades of Blur - Obirin Abiye

Old age does not save one from punches. That was something he could have thought of before he decided to go settling issues that was not any of his business. The fist tightened, fingers embracing themselves; bracing up for the wonderment that was about to happen. The man watched with fascination as the fist landed on his cheeks, he felt its tingling after-effects. His eyes bulged out involuntarily. Could it be that he was imagining things? His mind would not give way to thinking one thought. It raced in different directions. Another hit brought him back to life. He staggered backwards and he was able to understand that he had just been hit on the face. Not once but twice and that was that. Pathetic. He could do nothing as far as his body was concerned. It had lost all its youthfulness embedded with impatience. It was the young man's time now but he had disrespected him. "Ah! Agbalagba!" the young lady had said. "Baba!" She later remembered his face as the man who used to praise her. She did not understand a single word from his several chants which he titled "oriki". "This is how we praise you in your home" he would say. She did not understand the movements of his mouth quivering in strange tones embalmed in strange words. She just smiled and pretended to understand. He would tell her stories of the old. One story caught her attention. She never forgot the song he sang about oluronbi. She immediately learned it. "Olukaluku jeje ewure ewure ewure Olukaluku jeje aguntan aguntan aguntan Oluronbi jeje omo re omo re apon bi epo". His hands and body moving simultaneously to the song that came out of his mouth. She did not understand why Oluronbi would have to give back his daughter to the god Iroko. "Iroko join join!" It was later she realized that Oluronbi had made a foolish mistake by promising to sacrifice what was given to him rather than other things of which she assumed, he deeply regretted. When he made a not so funny face, she laughed as hard as possible. She was grateful to him, but she did not feel he needed to stress himself that much. And after sixteen years she did not like the way her eyes welcomed Baba; the man who came once in a while to their house. The bright-eyed peacemaker. She would have expected that her eyes smile along with her but her face decided to abandon her today; in fact all of her body. She ran towards Baba who had already lost his balance again. This was an urban setting where there was little or no regard for an elder. At least he should not have wanted to make peace with two "Agberos". They were as crazy as louts should be. His eyes stared intently at hers. He remembered her, quite alright. She was the little girl he once knew. He murmured his blessings to her and ordered that she left him alone. She moved a bit backwards and watched in horror as the man metamorphoses into a yeti; a thing alternating spirituality and the physical realm. His long fingers and long teeth shined in the sun. And all smoke bellowed from his head. He made a movement which she could not fathom. It was a walk or a run of some sort which he made towards the two louts. His body vibrated on the floor and people who were once spectators where seen running for dear life. The young lady stood amazed. He tore the two men apart, in peace and in pieces. Their body parts were seen sprawling in the air as Baba stared at the already petrified young lady, panting and staring. Baba was tired of the disrespect he had received in the world. He looked round to see people running to safety screaming "Iwin! Iwin! " . He drew near to her and said his last oriki to her and disappeared into thin air; nothingness. She never stopped staring.

Different Shades of Blur (The Dress Code)

I cannot recall the day, week, month or year I started to hate choir uniforms. Always ensuring that they wore a color on black; pink on black, yellow on black, blue on black, black on black, white on black, green on black, all shades of colors on black, black, Back!. I would in turn wonder what would happen if they perhaps wore dinner outfits and looked tidy. It would be an everyday sunday breakfast event with God( since church services are held in the mornings) The berets, the ties and the shoes. I wondered if they got bored with the traditional choir gown adorned with such beauty so that uniformity becomes beautiful. Yet another suit and an unequal distribution of ironed and un-ironed dresses. A mishmash of emotions I'd say. I wondered if wearing traditional wears almost every week would kill, or what do I know? Restrictions, Restrictions, rules? Or the intense eye service and unwillingness on the part of some choristers. Would I love to join the choir? Of course Yes! Would I want to wear the same cloth with every other choir member? Okay I change my mind NO. Restrictions, restrictions from expressing self. But we are all different. So why do we have to dress the same? I remember a band wouldn't wear the same colors, but then something beautiful. I don't want to get bored while staring at a chorister's dress, or give a disgusted look at the site of their wears. Then I ask myself this question. Does christianity have to be this way? Different shades of blue on faded black or bright black. It kills me! When I have to admire the dresses of the outside world and yet wonder why the family would wish to stick to antique thoughts. And skirts! oh skirts! Why cant we wear gowns to save our souls even if most churches believe in trousers not being biblical. Peace untold peace. It all balls down to this, I believe, God is happiest when you do things from the heart and dress in a way befitting to see and be in the presence of a king. And then I wonder whether this is how one would dress if one wants to see a king and especially when it has to do with celebrations. It cannot kill to be different. Perhaps experiences of untold heat emerging from over-sized choir shirts and long skirts have repelled me from embarking into such activities. Then I ask another question - is it scriptural to dress this way? And then it puts me off, dressing simultaneously like school children who wish to try something new and dress casually but responsibly with a sense of fashion to class. I never liked school uniforms. I doubt if my dislike for choir uniforms will toll down a bit it either. But then, does being a christian and a chorister in the vineyard of God makes us dress shabbily and forget that God himself is fashionable? Yet we would dress our best for outside events. Things dedicated for God are beautiful. There is perfection is simplicity.

Different Shades of Blur Open Up the Door (The Muse wants in)

She inspired me to begin a little story; that woman in her 80's singing beautifully and standing there youthfully. I watched her as she sang with all of what she had; calmly,steadily, beautifully. In her christian voice she looked pristine, without blemish. Without any care in the world. "Open up the door" she sang with her eyes bright beaming with happiness. I feared that she might fall, she looked so fragile, too fragile to be doing anything in particular. But there she was, the rarest of the rare Nigerian Woman. I imagined her being the Choir Mistress at a very young age. I imagined her being a newly recruited choir member who wanted to be away from loneliness. I imagined her experiences. I couldn't go too far for I could not picture totally her experiences. It was massive, like the world itself, like space. Vast in every way immeasurable Perhaps a lot of happiness in her life, maybe a lot more sadness. One thing was sure, she was not willing to let time tell on her. She inspired me as she sang "oh Happy Dayl" along with the choir. Only her was whom I could see and that was immortality to me. Such youthfulness in an old body. She clapped with grace, such poise in her walking I could not fathom; without a hand to help her, without walking sticks. She was almost perfect and that was beyond beautiful. She inspired me, she inspired my thinking. That was God manifesting his glory in her life. Death would by no means be her end. For she has cheated Death and life immeasurably. Oh Happy day! I found her. What could I tell. She was a one in forever. I hope not to forget her. She was one of the blessings I had received in church; I didn't leave empty handed after all. 29th of November 2014, 3:30am. The muse.

Different Shades of Blur - This is Me. (The Denial of The Obvious)

Emotion is human and it is a weakling. Tunde would never have thought he could cry when he was rejected from the employment office. People change, don't they? He was also able to maintain his stance as he walked rather absurdly, rather fast to the bus stop. "This is Tunde! This is Tunde... Comport yourself, you were not like this and you will never be like this". His voice told him silently, almost in a whisper, as if trying to sympathize with him. His voice was shaky too. It didn't blurt out the courage it was insinuating. Yes it was Tunde, the guy who had been the King of women in the University. Counting women like money, they flocked around him and he was, as they said, a "cheerful giver". By this time, his eyes were red, like a smoker who had just finished four wraps of Marijuana. His mouth quivering as if they were unhappy with the redness of his eyes. By the time he entered his room, they were tear-stained. Who told you a man doesn't cry? Tunde took his credentials and dropped it carefully on the bed like an egg. He sat on the bare floor and wept out all his unhappiness, hopes, disappointments. Several thoughts came into his mind, those thoughts had a way of entering into his head. Yes... This is Tunde, it could not have been anyone else.

Different Shades of Blur (The Fiery Tale).

Hi everyone, its a new month and a long time away from you... I must admit, I have missed everyone. October opens with bouts of sarcasm, love, happiness, sober reflections, and of course whatever feelings you would call it. And so I'd be writing with the Title " Different Shades of Blur" for this month and the remaining months. Happy October beginnings and endings.




    " And you my love have gone
      Into my deepest of moods alone
      And have taken me out
      of the deep abyss which i
      Gave a name - Depression."  


  My sleep was not distorted, in fact I did not sleep at all. I watched as it all happened, all I could do was watch. I did not know how to move, I did not know whether screaming could help with the thousands of waning echoes I heard. I watched as people ran in their hundreds and I stood there, only being pushed from time to time by girls afraid of death, afraid of being afraid, dying in fear. I stood watching, like in a trance, petrified, frozen deep within my spines. I watched as some flew from the third floor, I watched a stampede. I watched the girl screaming in the loudest of tones,loud as it were, her voice was drowned in the fearful ecstasy. She was trampled upon severally and she screamed helplessly, continuously. There was no camaraderie this time, everyman was for himself. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" became the anthem of the wee hours as people scurried like rats out of the hostel. And there I still was confused, my brains were not working fine this time. I could not tell why. I closed my eyes and my nose opened up to the smell of the smoke. The walls of the hostel as if afraid too, shuddered in heat and bruised my skin. "I dunno! I dunno" my silence spoke in my petrified state, tears welled up in my eyes. It could have been the fire. It could have been the emotions that I denied. The emotions that told the truth. I did not also want to die. Death could be painless, could be the end of a beginning or the beginning of an end. Perhaps the beginning of beginnings. But I was not up for such philosophies. I did not want to die. I could not move. Only my eyes moved, observing every bit of everything. I watched from the corridor gates Sodeinde boys running with all enthusiasm. It was a romantic site. They ran with all their heart, with all of their ego hidden. They ran to save them; the ones they will never get to date. They ran with the innocence of love; like a lover running to save his love from the cold grip of death. They ran in their hundreds into the hostel. They ran to save them; the ones who had a crush on them, the ones who broke their hearts, the ones whose heart they thought they had broken which turned out to be a lie, the ones who would insult them at their back. They ran to save the ones who would say "I can never date a Unilag boy". But there was nothing wrong with being a Unilag boy; there was everything wrong with being flawless in this part of the world. They ran into a law that had prohibited boys from entering girls hostels and broke into it. They broke the law and their lovers received them in a warm embrace, with full gratitude as the fire was gradually being quenched. I heard the wailing again, but with a tear stained smile. It sounded more like the cooing of doves. I closed my eyes and fell to the ground. I did not know why I had done that, I only woke up the next day on the sickly hospital bed. It was 3am.

Being a student of The English Language

Sometimes I would question myself about the course I chose. Could it be the baritone voice of Azumurana that did it? Or the ever confused teaching of Daramola?. Maybe it's the sincerity and craziness oozing out of Alimi's lips or the secret loudness in the voice of Aribisala. Maduabuchi in his silent almost whispering voice would say King Oedipus had to do what he did. Whereas the novel of ideas lecturer(wonder why his name never sticks to my head) aha! Patrick Oloko! would in a permanent smile wink sarcastically at students in class. Anyaokwu adjusting his glasses and his usual "that's just the wayridiz" would keep reminding us of China Achebe's beautiful book; Things Fall Apart. Maybe Afolayan and her jovial drama self or maybe the Adeoye, Anyagbua and Shodipe would have preferred teaching another course rather than Language, Phonetics or Drama. Is it the beautiful essay lecturer with a Ghananian intonation or Adedeji the ever confused lecturer? Could it be the cool character of Austin Nwagbara? Or the constant reminder we get to add a title to their names; Professor, Doctor, Chief... Is it the strange looking glasses of Pearce or the uncertain nature of Sir Kofoworola. Or maybe the beauty of the students in class. The inquisitive Tobi or the quiet Samuels. Maybe it is the little beautiful eyes of Rahman the class rep or the general mischief makers. Could it be my newly discovered male cliques?Patrick, Kunle, Taiwo, David, Joseph, Funbi?. Patrick's hustle-bad boy/ innocent beneath all that camouflage look? Funbi's big round poking eyeballs?, David's beautiful gap tooth?, Kunle's smile leaving one breathless? Joseph's dark beautiful skin? Or Taiwo's pink lips?. Could it be Ruth and Seun with their unending cravings for cake and music? Or Cynthia's oppressive boobs Frontal Protuberance I might add or Emmanuel's intimidating shortness. Maybe its Uzomma's "I'm not even here" look or Ifeoma's constant pulling of my hair. Perhaps its Kunbi and Deji, crazy in their strange ways. Could it be Giwa with her troublesome character or Ayobami's tightening hugs?. Oh maybe its laura's voice. Perhaps its Tosan's gesticulations and the "really" words. Innocent's ever present shades makes me wonder whether it has a life of its own. Could it be the silent ones in class or the two class representatives of English Education? I may not ever get to know, I'm pretty sure some people might get upset if their names are not here, let me assure you that I recognise you, I just have a problem with names. I guess that's what the department has turned me into. And for some reasons I may never know why I chose English Arts even though Adedun can decide to peep from his glasses, telling me how he can see me lying through my nose. Alright, Alright. In the end, (oh its ending now) I am a student of The English Language because of my personal interest and because you all have made it worthwhile. Big ups to God for being so nice. Muah!

Being a student of The English Language

Sometimes I would question myself about the course I chose. Could it be the baritone voice of Azumurana that did it? Or the ever confused teaching of Daramola?. Maybe it's the sincerity and craziness oozing out of Alimi's lips or the secret loudness in the voice of Aribisala. Maduabuchi in his silent almost whispering voice would say King Oedipus had to do what he did. Whereas the novel of ideas lecturer(wonder why his name never sticks to my head) aha! Patrick Oloko! would in a permanent smile wink sarcastically at students in class. Anyaokwu adjusting his glasses and his usual "that's just the wayridiz" would keep reminding us of China Achebe's beautiful book; Things Fall Apart. Maybe Afolayan and her jovial drama self or maybe the Adeoye, Anyagbua and Shodipe would have preferred teaching another course rather than Language, Phonetics or Drama. Is it the beautiful essay lecturer with a Ghananian intonation or Adeoye the ever confused lecturer? Could it be the cool character of Austin Nwagbara? Or the constant reminder we get to add a title to their names; Professor, Doctor, Chief... Is it the strange looking glasses of Pearce or the uncertain nature of Sir Kofoworola. Or maybe the beauty of the students in class. The inquisitive Tobi or the quiet Samuels. Maybe it is the little beautiful eyes of Rahman the class rep or the general mischief makers. Could it be my newly discovered male cliques?Patrick, Kunle, Taiwo, David, Joseph, Funbi?. Patrick's hustle-bad boy/ innocent beneath all that camouflage look? Funbi's big round poking eyeballs?, David's beautiful gap tooth?, Kunle's smile leaving one breathless? Joseph's dark beautiful skin? Or Taiwo's pink lips?. Could it be Ruth and Seun with their unending cravings for cake and music? Or Cynthia's oppressive boobs or Emmanuel's intimidating shortness. Maybe its Uzomma's "I'm not even here" look or Ifeoma's constant pulling of my hair. Perhaps its Kunbi and Deji, crazy in their strange ways. Could it be Giwa with her troublesome character or Ayobami's tightening hugs?. Oh maybe its laura's voice. Could it be the silent ones in class or the two class representatives of English Education. I may not ever get to know, I'm pretty sure some people might get upset if their names are not here, let me assure you that I recognise you, I just have a problem with names. I guess that's what the department has turned me into. And for some reasons I may never know why I chose English Arts even though Adedun can decide to peep from his glasses, telling me how he can see me lying through my nose. Alright, Alright. In the end, (oh its ending now) I am a student of The English Language because of my personal interest and because you all have made it worthwhile. Big ups to God for being so nice. Muah!