06 Jun 2008 |
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Yesterday, it was their chequered lives. Today, same bloody chequered shit . Tomrrow, still chequered to blistering shit. Hakuna matata. Waiting for God, shrivelled to near death waiting for God. Hakuna matata. Things will get better. Believe in One Nigeria, they say, hakuna mata. E go better. Na leadership be our problem. We need all hands on deck. Hakuna matata! How in God's name did we get here? Who got us here. We are made in England, stupid! Hakuna matata!!! As illegal immigrant workers been chased by the police in the dead of the night, we ran faster more than ever deeper inside London Hyde Park jungle, chugging up the Serpentine was the Lugard's double decker red boat- North & South, barely visible in the heart of darkness of the kinky Hyde Park night. Slowly the gurgles made bubbling rumbas and tint of sambas a mists the smooches and cavorting crocodiles doing the lingo with the float as bloated bleary eyed logs, jagged teeth and most annoyingly, been ambushed by cannibalistic hostile trees and impudent forests that aggressively barricaded the way. Native savages, the Kuku Kohl Klan, aligned out of their traditional Mayetta mud huts, bedecked with colourful beads, glittering glasses and slung of hardcore gold medallions round their shiny and sweaty fat pale necks in a rakish jaunt of traditional white cotton shuka-wraps and wore horrendous hooded masks, scampering around playing hide and coop along the Serpentine river bank displaying sharp fangs, elephant tusks poking through their lips and hanging on ear lobes, raffia wrapped around their stiff waists hoola-hooping the acid house rave and the then jungle jive, hoofing for the hoogies and the craggily aloof hincty big boss, Josef Korzeniowsky. Meanwhile, impressive skills were displayed, dexterity of the hands, pork-chop a la carte. They love it, the native Klan's, never seen anything like it- for the native Klan's yes, jumping and jubilations, roaring for the price. Their price! Their price of action. Their price of a slice of pork. Silly faces, innuendos, crescendos, let fly an arrow to break their camouflaged backs. We are still running, running closer to Lugard's double decker red boat. What gives? Lord Lugard grabbed us by the scruff of our necks like pounded criminal cats and without a damnable care to our delicate species welfare, dumped us on a doomed tempestuous sail on Lugard's North & South boat. We were grouped together with other jumble of rag-tag strange species on deck particularly the dingoes and hyenas who howled incessantly into the clammy night and who adopted and worshipped the furnace and the water gauge, kowtowing and salaaming to sah boss, Korzeniowsky, while babbling along a staccato of ingenious vibes, uncouth throaty stares of barbaric re-bop beat-box-rapping and rumbling jives with abrupt violent grunts, lewd saturnalias interlocking rebarbative chaos and mangled prurient raspy raps, saturated with total raspy brutishness, dissing and chilling, ranking on rank dank hincty Josef daa-de-dum-dum Korzseniowsky Conrad, bent on a buffalo stance of the ranking Niggaz With Attitude and Boys in the Hood, amassed from Compton jungle turf. You know what I'm saying, chuck? It were all swear words in the language. Nobody understood, least of all sah boss Josef Korzeniowsky. He was not moved at all nor impressed. It was no show simple and short. Sculls, skeletons, fresh limbs. torsos, heads, without the eye balls ofcourse, long gone, scary, oooh, and oooh-ghoulishly gory-ghosts chanting. The man is a rock. Unmovable by all standards. Yellow fever, malaria, sleeping sickness, snake bites, crocodiles, jungles, mysteries, arrow flints, poisoned darts, darknes of opposite eact, knuckle fights and spike clubs. No sah. No acknowledging savagery at it's best. Here we are still chugging up the Serpentine, hands clasped to our hearts, waiting, waiting, waiting for God, as the native Kuku Kohl Klan's lined up along the bank of the Serpentine body of water, crocodile logged, jaggard, mean, hungry and aggressive. They are hoofing and puffing, They silted along the marshy banks facing the boat, Lugard's dank boat, breakdancing the doo-wop and smooching the hoochie-choochie, chanting Itma! Itma!! Itma!!!. They chanted to the humpty-hump hard bop-funky of voilent throaty triptronic beat-box of the hommies, the homeboys reclining in the hood, bombarded to the jarring core by the blood-drenched primal bard of welcome to the mesmerising terror dome of Public Enemy, rasty rapping the blood cudlingly soaked Crow and truncated Moortown Lupercal. All jaded to the hardcore eye ball of Wu Tang Clan, rebopping with all the Hip-cats hipping the hippy-dippy, sometimes piddy, cry for your bottle when you want your titty, paramilitary shoot to kill outfits, doing the dissing motherfucker shit. Yeah, that's right. Index plus middle fingers upwards and backwards and in your face, from my humble self. Yo! Joe, get real,chuck. The initiated language of the street. The crew were clearly terrified, jittered and frieghtened but not Josef Korzeniowsky who stood podgy and foppishly aloof twisting his bow and flint moustache. Delinquent native skinheads, the Massai Moran consisting Combart 18 and coneheads stabbed the raucous air with several erections of studgy hands kitted out in combart suits, pageant brassards slung over encompassed shoulder and body, spotting red lipsticks, net stockings and tattoos, foreheads queerly emblazoned with the native insignia, the swastika, while hailing a rather mountain of a man, the Kadamu, the Hebby-H-Nic, citizen Okonkwo, the menace, the keeper and guardian of the land. The middle finger! Which he thrusted vertically like a lance towards Josef Korzeniowsky, howling thunderous roars and clever combart antics. The boat crew were terrified, scampering all over the deck, clutching their riffles and hoarding behind their canons placed strategically semi-circled round the boat led by the mother and father of all canons which headed the boat, Lugard's double decker red boat -North and South. For us, it was like taking a free ride, but we are paying enormously for it, stuck to it like glue, having to worship the furnace, huffing and puffing at all costs begging for a piece of the action, salaaming with smarmming patched hearts and roasted lungs. Riffles cracked and wounded branches fell on massacard hostile cannisbalistics trees as an example to discourage other proud hostile trees and bushes for standing in the way and barricading Sah boss Korseniowsky from his intrepid anthropological course. While this were happening, Korzeniowsky stood detached and rakishly aloof scribbling into his journal while least wondering what the hullaballoo were. The only palava about he could see were the damned aggressive tree branches slowing his pace into the unknown and we can't have that. No. It is not done even here in the repellent jungled intrigue of London Hyde Park, chugging up ripples along the Serpentine blazing a belated trail in the deepest heart of darknest. Damn it if it credits any suitable civilised name one can imagine, ever? On the way we rolled past a French frigate of the then state of the art, bombarding quite a large chunk of the damned kinky turfs of Bayswater and Park Lane, very seroiusly. Poor sods, wasting good bullets after bad. What? Mechanised armament, the real man's privilaged birthright were been popped flippantly into the damned jungle with reckless abandon by the civilised french, who should really know better than to engage in such silly wastes. Damn right unforgivable by all standards. Only God, if He is actually there, knows what the sluggish minds of the native savages thinks! Tomfoolery! Korzeniowsky fumed and raged, to be made to loose face in the lowest of audiences, makes it criminal. Whatever next! My God, oh dear, oh dear Korzeniowsky wailed. Then we saw Tweedsmir Buchan who is a scholar gipsy stood up and as a factotum of the hegemonic monahcical esterblishment cheered Korzeniowsky exitedly all the way through adding blunt assessment of the savage native Kuku Kohl Klan with a bit of arrogance as a hand-to-mouth food addicts who would eat their mothers for food and who did nothing else in their miserable lives but craves for incessant misely meal rations to placate their hugely demaning bellies. Sah boss Korzeniowski wet himself, swooned and almost fainted with admiration and gratitude. Buchan smartly kowtowed to Korzeniowsky and lifting his foot gingerly, impressed his foot with a downward thrust into Korzeniowsky's practiced deep print. He was elated and delightedly possessed. There and then it occured to him that him and his kinds are kings made by God to rule over the lesser savages. I hear you there, man, ride on brother ride on, aggreed Field Marshal Montgomery aka Enoch Powel. Korzeniowsky drooled and fainted, sprawled in rapt celestial aura illuminating his halo, warped in cloud nine in suspended animation in terrestial orbit. He was the Kirk of the children of the lesser gods. The shabbab Kuku Kohl Klans were masquerading gleefully and naked displaying uncircumcised cannonical pale phalluses on the verge of the Serpentine banks suddenly turned thier gleaming backs and with military precision grabbed their cheesy cheeks and spread their naked arses towards Sah boss Korzeniowsky's gaze deemed as a welcome gesture which went down well with Korzeniowsky in a way, because he made up his mind after that by concluding that not only they are savages who have no language and subhumans but the lowest of the ape category. The native Hoods straight out of Compton thought otherwise as they howled curses across the water to jam the ear wave of Josef Korzeniowsky, something about his mothers cunt, said in the native language ofcourse, which consisited of a jumble of the Hoods para-military bombastic triptroni-traction control techno beat-box, with masticated rapping, swallowed, belched regurgitated and vented into a deft web of digital sophisticate adrouitly contrived classical jives of uncle Ludwig Van Beathoven, ghettorised for urban jungle turf, outrageously counter pointed into a brilliantly hyperactive chaotic inventions stuffed with a brilliant extravaganza of continious firework display of cerebral insights, linguistics verve and radioactive verbal pyrotechnics of the Grandmaster Guru Anthony JW Burgess with ruthless lashings of Al Gansta Capone while incoporating hardcore serio-comic, ingenious deeply intimate probings of Dame Oprah Winfrey. ANU OFIA! ONYE EKPENTA!-A Leperous animal, roared the crowd on the river bank but Korzeniowski said it was only abrupt brutish babbles or there about or so he believed, and that it can never be repeated as a form of meaningful language and wondered how they manage to communicate among themselves. He however, stood on the deck and his ground distantly aloof from any accredited acknowledgement for his profound expartriate works regarding such low profile findings. But the verbal dexterity of a few individuals from the savages became apparent and contagious. ANU OFIA! BIA RACHA'M IKE!-You animal come and kiss my arse- Citizen Okonkwo yelled thunderously to Sah Boss Korzeniowsky. Yet again, something to do with constructive language which Korzeniosky roundly denied them. The crowd roared with morbid hillarity, falling and doubling over here and there with prurient conotations and overtones convulsively along the hard shoulders of the Serpentine. Meanwhile, on the far side of Kensington veld the French were still hell bent on their quest for victory with excessive military manouvers and bombardments. Behind the bushes slouch a larrinkin old man, who couldn't quite contend his pleasure on a perpetual phallus friction, peeping over a Play Boy magazine, watching the French excitedly tossing up blobs of molten larva splattering the surrounding dark and humid Shepherd Bush. Relieved! He finally exclaimed. "For a frustrated moment there he said, I was about to suggest bringing in a white South African Boer force to sort out these fucking niggers to my satisfaction for kicking up such a din with gleeful intent" Bent fatalists to be mourned by nigerish jollity is not done. Contentment with one's chronic unsalubrious egotism is all very well as long as a micky of any kind were taken within one's circle of class. However refined not to the classless nor by God to the Black, the Nigger aping intelligence, niether for the fucking cunt of it the liberal. Teodor Josef Korzeniowsky again fainted on the deck making incoherent babbles just like the natives. After it was over, he stood up and on noticing the French carring on, was horrifically ashamed by such foolishness and unnecessary bravado been displayed by the civilised French considering that all the odds were stacked high up in their favour and only the sky can be the limit. However, the French on their part knew different and were hardly complacent remembering Waterloo fully well and the consequences of their previous encounter with Citizen Diallobe Kane who fought suicidedly both militarilly and metaphysically applying sokugo and badudu. They continued with their bombardment of the surrounding jungle of the illusionative Lancaster Gate interior bent on total annihilation or submission until the job was done or be bombed out of existence. Slaone Square, Knightbridge rift valleys and Victoria Falls had already fallen. Oh dear, Oh dear. The folly of it all. Korzeniowsky standing five foot four, dark and secretive repeatedly moaned. To be caught in the middle of it, was demeaning, but the worst of it were the repercussive effect as a laughing stock in the eyes of the civilised world of Europe. And even here in the Hyde Park jungle one could not quite surpress this niggling outrageous doubts that it may have occured to the eyes of the Savages also, how stupid, if ever they knew such a word, the unnecessary force and jingoism employed by the French were. Anyway, it's all a feverish hallucinatory nightmare which the damned place does to you, ofcourse. One will as soon be back to top ship-shape self when one returns to civilisation. To be harragued by the salivating jolity of the hula hooping native Kuku Kohl Klan doing the lambada and lingo while jabbing scorn and poking fun and mockery at his intrepid European maleness to boldly go where no human has evergone before is an outrage. Oh dear, oh dear. The shame of it all. The shame. The shame. The shame of it all, moaned Korzeniowsky. He wailed feverishly into the night unable to hold back much longer, the bubbling emotions wich was ignorantly inflicted. On the other hand, it might have been a sub-conscious insecurity that might have been passed down in th family or other, having been dispossessed at an early age but survived by chameleonic metamophosis to supplement survival. Shouts, taunts, shrieks, wolf whistles, drums, erupted increasingly from the marshy banks and surrounding interior of Bayswater and the enclave of Nothing Hill, and from the darkest heart of the tangled intrigue of Hyde Park jungle emanated telegraphic hypnotic gongs reverbrating harrowingly across the receeding wavy circles into wide arcs on the Serpentine water to rattle the chuff chuff Lord Lugard's North and South boat into the arms of the offensive bushes kinkily knit on the threshold of the Serpentine galary. It was the curse. The boomarang. The lethal Native double barrel. The telescopic assault riffle. OBIARA IGBUM GBUKWA ONWE YA( You shall fall into the pit you dig for me). The curse without intent. The unpremeditated offence. The wish of the helpless. The straight and narrow. The defence of the innocent. Nightfall were strangulatingly stale and fitful all round in the boat, the Lugard boat, worst still in the belly of the boat where our species, others and another were all cooped up and shackled together, like it or not, all in Lugard's North & South double decker red boat. The mosquitoes and tse tse flies had their demanding excellent field runs, oozing hallucinatory drones pitched against pale wickets. They scrambled excitedly to stake their claim of slices of virgin beef. And if you are luck enough,you hoink out large potions which tasted unbelievably heavenly and interestingly and mysteriously different; lean, juicy and the exortic. A whole new brand of flavour and to cut long story short, an armed God sent. Auwch! Slap. Slap. Ouwch. Yaaiiee! Slap. Slap. Smother. smother. Yahoo! Srcatch. Sratch. Aaaahhh. Still tossing and turning, shivering feverishly uncontrollably in his bed, Sah Boss Korzeniowsky continiously and repeatedly wailed through the tepid night. Oh! The shame. The shame. The shame of it all. Oh, my dear heart! Oh. Oh. Just then an apparition of Thomas Decker appeared opposite the wooden wall of the cabin and immidiately went on to scribble quickly on the wall before fading away using a bleeding black rat from the Kings Death Chamber-the Black Death, that twitched and struggled in his strangle hold boldly read I WONDER WHY BUT I WILL LETYOU IN ON A LITTLE SECRET ABOUT THE ANTIDOTE THAT IN THIS CASE APPLY. HAVING SEEN HOW KEEN YOU ARE. A LITTLE DARK FORIEGNER YOU ARE. SIMPLE. CEASE VEXING HEAVEN AND CEASE TO DIE, ER, IN YOUR CASE CEASE TO HALLUCINATE. Ofcourse, it never occured to Korzeniowsky that he was doing likewise. He however, managed to keep it down after that and therefore barely scraped through the night satisfactorily. Dawn gardually broke and crept into the jungle, twinning into jumbled reflexes,identical nonscenic Hyde Park kinky chaparral, uninspiringly a bogus adventure. Clear visibility were fogged and minimal, heavy mists hung on the shoulders of the dense Cumberland highlands hotels and the mysterious Marble Arch shrine and all the rebarbative cave dwellings of the Dochester and Intercontinental haunted Mesa. On the rocky surface of Mount Hilton hotels gathered a community of Gorrilas-in-the-mists very much occupied with their chores in semi visivibilty busily preparing an incredible amount of vegetable sandwiches collectively preffered to an option of a full English breakfast of baked beans, suasages, bacon, srcambled or poached eggs, toasts and beaverages for their 1900hours Gorrila breakfasts. At a bend in the course of the escapist voyage along the banks of the Albert Memorial sat an old leathery native man. He could well be 200 years old as he sat on the bolder of Albert deeply weeping with his face hidden between his palms making minimal any excessive spectacle of himself. The cold silence of the morning were constantly interrupted by the nudging chug-chug puffing through the water guage. The furnace by now were a roaring inferno encouraged by the puffs and pants of our blistered lungs. There is no smoke without fire, you know. A wondering voice came distinctly from the interior of the jungle calling apologetically with authoritative demands towards no specific direction beating a meandering path in the resilient bushes. Boy! Boy! Come on out boy, show yourself. I say, boy, wher are you! Where are you my obedient chap. For Christ sake boy, I'm getting tired of this silly game now, come on show yourself, you hear boy. Boy? I am your master you know and I have been good to you more than I should haven't I, boy? There is no need for you to run off like that to suck and you know very well that I have forgiven you and I promised you can go and visit your family before tea and you heared me say it to you face to face like equals. You heared that,boy? Mon amie? As the voice appeared, the old man suddenly and youthfully srcambled down the boulder Of Albert with surprising agility the old man flew down the statue and hid behind it gritting his teeth as he reopened the wound that is his leperocy feet. So Mister Greene boarded the North & South Lugard's boat completely disoriented. On reaching the verge of the jungle at Hyde Park Corner we were thrown over board intentionally to bait the mean and jaggard fangs of the crocodiles and we barely made it as it were, all cuts and bruises and landed in the middle of two identical crossroads. The Aranar Sakah. The disguised road camouflaged in illusory niceties. The road, broad, spacious, Limo-chauffuered, champaigned, tangoed and dinned on a strick narrow rules and rocky trepidation. The road to heaven and hell. Now how shall I choose. Kpiribom kpiribom kpiri ogirishi, ogirishi udu mara mma n'udu. Udu nchaka n'eri okuko. Onye omara selie ukwu ya, selie aka ya, ugbo odudu ori nchaka ali ma kwa ya! Oral traditional pick and choose mind game. The mesmerising opportunity cost pendulums persuasively against the medula oblangata prompting dazedly the eventual hasty alternative. The economy of choice of options. The world of favouritsm. The brutal world of forgone alternatives. The Kings disease. The inevitable scythe robbed in black. The opportunity cost. The Duke of Wellington rode the arches on chariots of fire and the Caliphate consolidated their grip while the vanquished dodged the scythe of the reaper and rose rejuvenated in valliant guard. Tough decision that. Blundering hypnotically in the middle of nowhere between two crossroads made me laugh, thinking how silly the whole charade were. I pinched myself again to make sure and it horrifically dawned on me that I am wide awake.
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