Daily Independent Online.
*
Wednesday, July 14, 2004.
Looking delectable at 60 (2)
By Sam Kargbo
Although the first twenty minutes were problematic
for the station, I ended up listening to most of the commentaries on the match
on the station. When it was 30
minutes into the second half and there was no goal, I was somehow relieved that
I did not have the misfortune of watching the match on television. At some
point I switched off and slotted in the CD of my kids, X-Project, and enjoyed their Tumba Dance. But
for the fact that as a married man I am compelled to avoid temptation, I almost
regretted that I did not give a lift to one of the many beautiful girls that
were looking for a ride towards the direction I was going. A friend of mine had made me to be
doubly cautious when he said that most of them were not students. They used the
road to trap unsuspecting and sympathetic men. A good company would have certainly been a relief to me as
Chukwu’s boys were aggravating my infernal torment in the traffic. While
dancing my Tumba Dance, I heard screams of triumph, I quickly returned to
Brilla FM and confirmed that the Eagles had scored through the most unlikely
sources, Joseph Yobo, who was primarily billed to stop the Foxes from scoring.
I thanked God and prayed that those concerned would do what is right and save
us before Chukwu kills us with hypertension.
Watching the just concluded European Cup confirms the
important position of the coach in the fortunes of a team. It was no fluke that
the Greeks and the Portuguese reached the final. Their coaches were tested men
with sound pedigrees. They can
read matches and effect tactical changes. Chukwu is of the old school. He has a
world cup winning squad but he is bereft of any tactic. Can you imagine what a good coach can
do with the present crop of players? I was beginning to feel good that the good
old reliable can even decide to rest and enjoy their spouses as there are
competent replacements for them.
But alas! Chukwu is squandering these fortunes and nobody is saying
anything.
I returned home literally effete but had another
engagement to attend with my wife. We were to attend the birthday party of one
Jeanne (pronounced as Jan) Marie Lucas at the Muson Centre. Meanwhile hunger
had devastated my guts. Against the advice of my wife I rushed some beans for
stabilization and drove to the venue.
The bad thing with the aristos is that they keep to time religiously.
The invitation had said 6:0 clock p.m. and we got to the venue at about 6:30.
Just thirty minutes late and most people were already seated when we arrived at
the posh restaurant. Looking round the tables I suspected that we had even
missed some rounds of small chops. I wasn’t too particular because the beans was
already making efforts to betray me.
As a person, too, I do not fancy the ways of the Oyinbos regarding eating. As an African I
am used to having all that I want to eat in one plate and at a go. Also I trust
very much our communal sense of letting everyone eat what everybody else is
eating. But the Oyinbo’s individuality is even demonstrated
in the way they prepare their meals. Most things are half done. The individual
will have to add the salt or pepper to his or her taste and sitting on the same
table does not necessarily mean eating the same food. They encourage variety to
a fault.
In any case, it was chop time and I was ready to relieve the
stress of the day. I was happy
with the servers. My wine glass
was never empty. The moment I gulp
and drop the glass an elegantly dressed man would with white gloves in hand
fill my glass. In my heart of hearts I was wondering how much a glass costs
knowing that the servers would not be that efficient and sweet if they are not
sure that their Christmas was in session.
The red wine was soon to have the desired effect. I became relaxed and all the frowns and
pressures were banished. I became my charming self. Smiling at everyone that caught my eyes.
It was then I took a look at the celebrant. She was supposed to be 60 but she
looked every bit 40 - an ajebor 40 for that matter. Beautiful and delectable Jeanne must
have had more than a fair share of God’s attention in her life. Indeed in her, you see and experience
how nature plays favourites.
Besides her elegance and grace, Jeanne is a personification of serenity.
Added to her good educational background, Jeanne embodies the beautiful
handiwork of God. I felt very had
when she told us that her Grenadian (I hope that is the name for someone from
Grenada) husband died just after five years of their marriage in London.
Because of her radiance and age defiance most us began
to declare our ages to tell how well we have fared as well. I remember that when I told the lady
with golden voice, Daphene Atere-Roberts that we were all in the 40s group, she
rebuked me and quickly informed me that she would soon cross over the camp of
the fifties. I did not contest
that. I only hoped that when that time comes he would call us to another chop
and quench session. There was also a lady who confessed that though in her
official records she is just fifty she was in actual fact 57. I wished I had a
hidden tape recorder; I would have scooped materials for blackmail. But the
good Lord knew why I left my midget at home. Looking youngish at old age in
Lagos in a particular feat worth celebrating. Not with all the hassle and
bustles of such an over burdened and vexed city.
The birthday was organized by her son-in-law who is
married to her equally beautiful twin daughter. The gentleman, who had the
liver to marry an acada woman with a Grenadian and Sierra Leonean blood, did
all that would make a Nigerian proud.
With a courteous tone and a kind of
I-am-just-a-simple-grateful-son-in-law-trying-to-let-my-mother-in-law-know-that-I-appreciate-her-assistance-with-the-kids,
he warmed himself to all of us and encouraged us to eat and justify the
enormous expenses he must have spend to make his mother-in-law happy. I was happy and all of us left happier
and wishing for more of such Saturdays.
A younger friend of mine had once asked whether meals prepared in exotic
restaurants cure malaria because of their expensiveness. I told him that the do and am sure they
also relieve stress. For those who
cannot afford them, I prescribe the regular mama put who is in reality an envy to the aristos.
On behalf of my wife and my humble self I wish Jeanne
happier days and wish that she would be there when I celebrate my 60th
birthday.
