My laptop is really nice.
I mean really, REALLY nice.
I’v always thought so, although I try most of the time to discourage my own vanity.
It’s sleek. Really sleek, chrome, with dark keys that illuminate with pleasure at a moments contact. The power cord, (or power pack) is magnetic and the screen…
Oh-Lordy! The screen…
15 inches of high-definition mega pixels that seem to draw one closer at a single glance.
Its mine, finally mine…
I glance at the computer village trader, who probably didn’t hav a clue what on earth was going thru my head at that very moment.
I was still. Not wanting to spoil the moment. The NEW MACBOOK PRO!
My blue ink pen seemed to glide over my fresh cheque, that had somehow got to the counter in front of me. I’m not so sure how it got there. Did I get my cheque-book out earlier? I must have right?
For some reason, an excruciatingly painful amount of money was being scrawled on the cheque. Crap!
Am I really paying out this much? I glance back at the hardware to outlive all hardware.
It was worth it!
The excitement is gripping me so tight that my chest is swelling and contracting at the same time. My eyes are not blinking. They are probably not comprehending what they see.
Its mine at last!
So what next? Have been saving my cash for over three months for this. And now im not sure what next I really want to do with it. Well of course it will come in handy at work, but I want it to be worth something more. What next?
Oh well. I guess I will think of something, right?
My first attempt at a novel
This is my first attempt at a novel. I’m usually too lazy to put my thoughts down. So why write? Or indeed why write it now? Maybe just to put some of my intellect to good use. Self-gratification perhaps? Well, what I can honestly say is that the urge is just suddenly there.
Ok, well that isn’t really the honest truth, since my first urge came just this evening, when a lecturer in school asked me to not become one of those Lagosians who always say that they will use their intellect and experience, and never get to do anything they planned because of the never-ending race to make more money.
Money, Money, Money. The want and need of which is almost always present no matter how much one tries to ignore it. What is that line in the ABBA hit single…”must be funny/in a rich mans world.” What on earth were they talking about? Maybe in the seventies when the track was a hit it sounded funny to rich people, but in this day and age, the rich are a lot more serious with their money. Seriously stingy with it.
This is not to say that I have anything against having cash. In fact im all for making quite a bit of it . but ill talk about that a bit later.
What am I writing about?
How do I create a masterpiece?
In fact, what do I consider a good read?
Now that is a lot more interesting to talk about.
All I can do is sit back and click my pen countless times as if the sound of the poor springs in the plastic will somehow answer my bugging mind, that is, when thinking about anything else BUT those crazy books that lined my bedroom shelf most of my childhood.
Looking back now all I can see is a thin nine-year old curled up in a one seater sofa in a simple council flat living room in North London, with a novel that I had read maybe 3 or 4 times already. Matilda, by Roahl Dahl, or maybe if I was in a great mood earlier on id pick up my copy of Charlie and the chocolate factory by the same author. Enid Blyton proving often a bit too intellectual, yet intriguing to me.
“Tee”, mum yelled from the next room as if I was in the next universe. I slowly hooked the edge of my current book page; something I later found out was not a good idea if one wants to really own a book for a while.
“Tee Tee!” she continued to yell not more than 3 seconds later. By then, I’m most likely already making my way towards my demanding mothers current location as the next call comes. “Titilayomi”
“Coming mum”. Is the quick response I must deliver to ensure my name isn’t eventually worn out in the next few minutes, syllable by syllable.
The odd thing is, by the sound of each call I understood the urgency of the duty I was most likely called to do. Maybe its just an internal detective link or system, that just links a child to its mother. It’s very possible that I knew exactly what my mother was calling for but had probably just got so lost in a book that it seemed unimportant to blend the tomatoes and peppers until later on. It was never considered more important to my nine-year old mind to vacuum the living room carpet unless I had dusted biscuit crumbs on it earlier before.
I would have most likely popped my little head into the kitchen (if indeed mum was there) and survey the room for fling-able items (E.g. bathroom slippers, a wooden spoon or plastic bottle, etc.) so that if they were close to my mum’s hands, I would be able to quickly duck away from her aim.
“Yes mum”, my clipped cockney accent would chirp. My most innocent look in the world covering my disobedient little face.
“ What were you up to, Tee?”. Mum snaps at me.
“Reading a book”, as nonchalantly as possible. Confidence always earned me marks with my mum.
Now the next series of events could have gone one of two ways. I could have actually done my chores and would be asked if I wanted an extra fish finger for dinner. And I could get back to my dog-eared book.
I love my mum, but she was often so predictable that I always felt I had figured her out. Id have no such luck if I hadn’t done my chores.
To put it in brief, if there was something I was supposed to have done and hadn’t done, as long as she had found out I hadn’t obeyed her, I was the worst child in the world for the next 10 minutes. What happened in the next 10 seconds was crucial. Being a confident child also meant I knew how to not out rightly lie, but disguise the truth a little.
“Where is the vacuum cleaner?” she asks.
“Behind the store-room door, mum”. It’s actually in the living room under the dining table-cloth where I had pushed it earlier just incase I decided to clean up the living room after all.
“So how cum the Hoover bag is still in this drawer?” she glowers at me, opening the drawer with a long screech, probably daring my confidence to crack, just that little millimeter, for her to penetrate and break me entirely, so the truth would pour out like a burst pipe.
Little did I know that she had discovered the vacuum cleaner bag in the vacuum earlier on, and had taken the bag out to check if it was full.
I had been caught. Crap!
Did I check the bag earlier to see if it was empty before forgetting my chores?
No. But I wasn’t gonna let her know that was I?
Naah! I was far too smart for that. Right?
“Oh it that all? I emptied it before mum. Gosh! Come on mum!”, I would chirp on and on, “that’s what you always tell me to do, isn’t it? And u called me all the way over FOR THAT? Gosh mum. It’s just a Hoover bag mum. Can I go now? “
Maybe she would be too busy for my chattering and send me away in annoyance and I cud get back to my book.
No such luck!
“WHAT NONSENSE ARE YOU TALKING?” She says in a deeper, more menacing voice. Slowly loosening her slipper off her foot, but not bending to pick it up yet. “Are u telling me that u cleaned up this place?” Gesturing around the kitchen and passage to the living room. She drops the metal stewing spoon she has been using to stir dinner, with a dramatic clank., and stands akimbo.
I step back an inch or two, ready to bolt from the room at a seconds notice of a boomerang slipper or just a simple glance from my mother towards the wooden spoon, which she often kept handy to give me a good and most likely well deserved spanking.
I try to keep my game up. Trying the innocent card again, put my hands behind my back inching a little closer to the door.
I was still maintaining eye contact. Ever so skillfully. Don’t break the stare. With my mum, it’s all about the stare.
“I don’t understand you mum!”, still showing my innocent, yet confident, smart, obedient child, look. “You told me to clean the sitting room, not here.” Gesturing at the kitchen like I had no idea what she was talking about.
Suddenly with not more than one millisecond’s warning “the slipper “was off.
Time to bolt. Crap!
My ear was burning!
Double crap. Mum had pinched my right ear, twisting it swiftly so that any move I made would only cause more pain.
“What did u say” she said, almost whispering in my now red-hot ear-lobe.
“Nothing mum! I was just about to do it when u called me. I promise. I swear mum. It’s as good as finished mum.” I chant in a desperate tiny voice.
“BETTER BE!” She gives my ear one last unforgettable tug. And shoves me in the direction of the cleaning materials.
“And don’t forget to dust all the furniture afterwards. I don’t want to see any grubby fingerprints on the telly either! Go on! What are u still doing here?”
At this point, still a bit miffed about being caught, I’m probably mumbling something and sluggishly walking towards the doorway, until I remember the boomerang slipper!
Time to speed up when I hear the breeze of a slipper flying past my other ear. Whoosh!
She missed me!
On turning the corner to the living room the second slipper hits! KPAOW!
I still don’t know how, but those slippers used to turn corners to hit its mark.
Incredible. She never misses.