tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8408782826552176892023-11-16T12:23:32.520+01:00Life storiesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16559159558170039151noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-840878282655217689.post-19897640712873399422016-12-21T19:11:00.001+01:002016-12-22T09:32:25.300+01:00Letter to God<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dear God,</div>
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1. Writing to You is not what I do often. I usually speak to You in prayer even though I know I should be speaking with You a lot more ("blushing", have mercy on me!). Guess what, Lord? Today is my birthday! Yeeeeeeeeeeees! I am feeling special. Laughing Out Loud! I know You did not forget, Lord! <span class="_47e3 _5mfr" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;" title="smile emoticon"><img alt="" aria-hidden="1" class="img" height="16" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v6/fa5/1.5/16/1f642.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span aria-hidden="1" class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">:-)</span></span> You don't ever.</div>
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2. Usually on a day like this the spotlight is on the celebrant but I have been thinking Lord it really should be about You and deservedly so. Reason - You are why I exist. First, I had no say, input or contribution whatsoever to make when You were at work forming me. Secondly, you "tailor-chose" my parents, physical attributes, natural endowments and core giftings. Those decisions were too complex even for my parents to have made any meaningful input. They were simply God decisions. So what started out as an intimate private moment between tall, fair-skinned and handsome Matthew (my Dad) and his curly haired nubian beauty Jummai (my Mom) on that cold Yola night was actually Your top secret project codenamed Richard.</div>
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3. I have no recollections of my own of my birth in Yola and those babyhood days (babies are not supposed to I guess. Laughing). I am sure my parents did a good job and You were there Lord to help and guide them. My earliest childhood recollections go back to when I was 3 or 4 years old and we were then living in Ilorin Kwara state in a 3-story apartment building, infront of which was the road to Jebba and behind, the railway track. Yes I recall these vividly. I recall, with glee, my Dad buying me a musical toy machine gun that sprays water during one of his foreign trips. I also recall, with remorse though, hitting Charles, my elder brother on his arching arm when we had a quarrel. That left him weeping sorely. I felt good but I also felt bad. I am sorry Lord please forgive me! Charles forgive me too! <span class="_47e3 _5mfr" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;" title="smile emoticon"><img alt="" aria-hidden="1" class="img" height="16" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v6/fa5/1.5/16/1f642.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span aria-hidden="1" class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">:-)</span></span>. You know my childhood and teens were itinerant in nature in how I lived them as Dad relocated from town to town on duty tour. So we moved from Ilorin to Jos, Jos to Akwanga, Akwanga to Langtang, Langtang to Nassarawa Keffi, Nassarawa Keffi to Bassa, Bassa to Barkin Ladi and Barkin Ladi back to Jos. During this period, I attended 6 different primary schools, a new one every year, before finally completing and without repeating a class! God, I know you must have been there behind the scenes helping me out or else......</div>
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4. Now concerning my childhood pranks and mischiefs, two stand out that make me still wonder. You remember that evening in Jos when we went to pump up our rubber ball so we could play a game of soccer. That elderly man whose house was on the hill obliged us with his bicycle pump. While the ball was being inflated with air, my eyes had zeroed in on his watch lying on the ground a short distance away. By the time we left him the watch was already in my pocket. I severed the metallic straps off the watch head which I kept with me! Of course, the "koboko" lashing I got, first from Mom and later Dad, to say the least taught me lifelong lessons! The second mischief happened while we were living in Langtang. My brothers and I were returning from an errand and sighted a mango tree with big but unripe mangoes staring at us. We decided to climb up the tree in disregard of the "no treepass sign". Unknown to me the owner had sneaked around and as I was climbing down fell straight into his hands! My brothers had noticed his presence and had quietly withdrawn. So there was I arrested and detained for plucking unripe mangoes! (LOL) and the condition for my release was my Dad showing up. That was unthinkable! I felt I had let him down and that was not an option. So this brilliant idea came up and I pleaded with the owner to allow me pass a message to my brothers as they were leaving and "vroom" like lightening bolt I took off and did not look back till I was sure I was safe and no more in danger of being caught by my initial pursuers. I spent that whole day feeling miserable because I became the laughing stock of my brothers. I decided never again to trespass anyone's property from that experience (Hahaha )</div>
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5. Dear God, with the benefit of hindsight, I want to say thank You for my Dad and Mom for inculcating godly moral values in us. My first impressions about walking with You were formed as Dad would have us attend Sunday Mass at St Theresa's in Jos. I must confess though that that mix of roasted groundnut and popcorn in cone-shaped paper bags sold at the church gate seemed a more convincing and irresistible exchange for my offering than putting it in the offering box with nothing to take back in return. My secondary school days at St Joseph's College Vom served to further build in me a healthy concept about You. However, it was my stay in Sofia Bulgaria that truly brought to bear the need to have a relationship with You that goes beyond You being only God but also Father-God. For this I remain eternally grateful to You for opening my eyes to the reality of Jesus Christ, Your gift of love to mankind. Receiving Jesus has made a world of a difference in my life. So as I step into my new year help me to know You better and deeper.</div>
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6. I thank You for my parents, biological and spiritual, for my siblings and circle of friends. I thank You for my enemies and frenemies (same people who would be friends or enemies depending on the situation). I pray that You have mercy on them and bless them. Life can be confusing without insight from You.</div>
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Thank You for making me me. Thank You for making my life meaningful. Thank You for the blessings you pour over me. Thank You for healing and health. Thank You Father God for Your protection from evil, harm and danger. I celebrate You today as I celebrate me!</div>
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Yours truly,<br />
Richard</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16559159558170039151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-840878282655217689.post-84108586174187905412016-12-21T18:53:00.004+01:002016-12-21T18:59:57.157+01:00Growing Pains: Pleasures and Pressures of Living in a Developing City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong>"Piim! Piim piim!"</strong><br />
<strong>A few seconds pass and "Pim! Piim!! Piiim!" again.</strong></div>
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<strong>I turned around to see an approaching taxi cab, the driver making gestures at me with his hand to find out if I needed a ride. Uncommitted, I continued on the sidewalk only for the cab to slow down beside me and the driver probing a little further: "Drop?" (Local slang for "do you want to charter a ride?").</strong></div>
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I shook my head and he sped off towards the traffic light some distance away. Almost immediately, my ears were again inundated with the growing sound of "Piim piim, piim piim! Piim piim, piim piim!" as a second taxi cab drew closer, the driver dancing on his seat to the loud beat of Fuji music (a popular drums-rich Yoruba music genre) and looking in my direction for the signal to stop but receiving none.</div>
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I laughed and muttered to myself, mentally shaking my head, "What do we do with these aggressive and unrelenting Abuja taxi drivers who never give up and never keep quiet until you are seated in their car as a passenger!”<br />
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At the traffic light ahead, I could see that some traffic had built up. A handful of street hawkers could now be seen meandering fluidly through the waiting cars, parading their wares, knowing that this window of opportunity was open, only a few more seconds:<br />
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"Gala! Gala! Gala!" (a popular brand of beef sausages), rapped a young lad.</div>
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"Pure water!!", another echoed behind him.</div>
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"Punch? Guardian? This Day?" (Popular Nigerian national dailies), an elderly man enquired from motorist to motorist.</div>
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I watched, amused by the activities of these motorway trading opportunists. </div>
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The traffic light timer was already counting down to green and the cars, revving up to go. And suddenly, it hit the airwaves!</div>
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"Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim", "Paaaaaaaaam", "Poooooooom" a loud disharmony of blaring horns, as the cars behind seemed to scream at the lead cars to move on.</div>
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<em>"Comot for road now!?!"</em> ("Get out of the way!" In pidgin English), the taxi driver in one of the cars behind could be seen, head, left shoulder and arm, poking out of his window, flailing as he shouted at the car in front. And then, in a moment, the cars all roared past the traffic light, almost as one mighty chain of cars, closely paced behind and beside one another. To the casual on-looker you would think a crash was inevitable in the ensuing rush. Gradually, however, the frenzy faded as the traffic gridlock untangled.</div>
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Scenarios like these describe the road craze that often occur at very busy Abuja crossroads and intermittent traffic stops. The unending dramas that play out on these ‘road theatres’ are often packed with: suspense (a lead car breaks down just as those tailing it are all revved up to go); pure molten lava of rage (screams, curses and loud blaring of horns); comedy and entertainment (a break-dancing traffic warden, enjoying himself, and almost inadvertently easing off tension as he marshals motorists in an artistic fashion through a colourful maze of automobiles headed everywhere.)</div>
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Furnished with good roads, driving in Abuja could be notoriously bullish! And so, to curb speed and irresponsible driving (a lot of which both of-age and underage children of wealthy individuals and their fun-seeking tag-alongs, account for) at intersections – a major cause of accidents here - two rows of speed breakers have been laid just before traffic lights at major junctions! This intervention, however, seems to create problems of its own. Often drivers just roll over the bumps at high speeds to avoid being caught by the red light!</div>
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My evening stroll today is on a 2-lane dual carriage way, which feeds into a 10-lane boulevard at its far end. It got me thinking about how rapidly Abuja had changed from an almost sleepy city 16 years ago when I first became a resident to today's bubbling mega city with its associated challenges. New structures and buildings keep coming up (sometimes, right where ‘new’ ones came up just a few years ago).</div>
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Expanses that were, once, virgin land have all but vanished. Standing here, looking from the bus stop known as ‘Finance Junction’, a few metres away from the Federal Road Safety Corps (FRSC) office in Wuse District Zone 7 (the National Agency for ensuring safety on Nigerian roads), the figure of a crisscrossing ‘fly-over’ blocking the full view of the Abuja velodrome and the saucer-shaped National Stadium paints the horizon at the left end of this boulevard. The rotating Wonderland Ferris wheel also stands embedded in the foreground of a big semi-oval rock mass.</div>
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A road diversion could be observed in the distance due to ongoing construction work on the new Abuja railway. A little closer, a pedestrian bridge runs across the 10-lane carriageway while farther down to the right end of this expressway another ‘fly-over’ bridge rises over the popular Berger roundabout. At the ascent of this ‘fly-over’, a secondary road branches out, leading directly to the Berger roundabout. A steady stream of speeding vehicular traffic both ways, hypnotizes the eyes as every now and then the escort siren of some VIP or the other, breaks the monotony of sound from passing cars.</div>
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Apart from vehicular traffic, there is the notable stream of pedestrians, particularly, the young men, lined up at the shoulder of the road, holding cream-coloured plastic containers filled with petrol and waving at motorists to stop by and buy. Business is definitely brisk for them at this time, as the city groans in the pains of acute fuel shortage. While petrol stations are overwhelmed by long queues of waiting cars, You can get as much as you want to buy from these roadside vendors provided you call the right price.</div>
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The rhythmic flow of traffic is also interrupted from time to time as daredevil pedestrians dash across the speedway to the hooting disapproval of on-coming traffic, even though a pedestrian bridge stands just about 50 meters away, few, if any use it at all. Many prefer instead to not only take the dangerous route of crossing the highway, but also trespass the mesh-wire fence raised to discourage pedestrian crossing.</div>
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Berger Roundabout is perhaps Abuja's <em>numero uno</em> intersection. Whatever part of the city you are in and need to take a bus ride someplace you’re not sure how to get to, if you can only find a bus conductor shouting 'Berger, Berger, Berger!' you just might be in luck, as Berger roundabout is a 'confluence' of 4 major roads that connect the main districts of the City:</div>
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To the north is the commercially-minded and trading hub, Jabi District;</div>
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To the South, the mix business and residential Wuse;</div>
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To the West, the predominantly banking, trading and residential Garki and:</div>
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To the East, the highbrow corporate and reserved residential, Maitama.</div>
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The transformation of Berger roundabout is simply amazing. This was once, a free-for-all, rowdy and crowded open-market and bus terminal. The makeshift market has since been closed and a green park now stands in its place. However, elements of past rowdiness come to play from time to time as traffic authorities and city officials continue to play 'cat and mouse' with street hawkers selling on the converging roads and commercial bus drivers indiscriminately lifting or discharging passengers on the roads.<br />
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The irony is that a beautiful bus stop decorated in the logos of Glo (a mobile phone network operator and national carrier) stands mostly unused along the Maitama leading east end. At rush hours in the morning or close of work in the evening: motorists form illegal lanes on the road shoulders to beat traffic hold up, taxis and bus drivers lift and discharge passengers on the flyover ascent and descent, VIP convoys and bank bullion vans blare their sirens all adding up to the production of a panoramic eyesore! But this is not exclusive to Berger, as similar chaotic scenes like these are replicated around the city at rush hours. This disorderliness and seeming disregard for traffic regulations is really a source of concern and must be addressed more decisively by city officials.</div>
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Abuja roads cannot be said to have exceeded their carrying capacity by any means, it is rather an impression of traffic indiscipline created by stakeholders. As the city with the largest Federal Government presence, siren-blaring VIP entourage movement is also a growing cause for alarm. Quite often, VIP movement displays the highest and most blatant disregard for traffic lights, highway rules and other road users. They often harass other motorists out of the way creating chaos in traffic flow.</div>
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At any given time, conservatively there could be potentially about 200 siren-led VIP convoys on Abuja roads drawn from the Federal Executive Council, Body of Principal Officers of the National Assembly, National Judicial Council, visiting State Governors, top Echelons of the Military, Police, Customs, Immigration, Prison Service, Federal Road Service Corps, Civil Defense and Fire Service, and sometimes members and visitors of the Diplomatic Corps.</div>
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It is often a daunting task for emergency services like Police patrol cars, Ambulances, Fire fighters to easily navigate their way to areas of need, not to mention the bank bullion vans’ police escorts who intimidate motorists on the road with their 'stunt' driving. There is therefore the need to limit siren-led VIP escort movement to the President, Vice President, Presiding Officers of the National Assembly, Chief Judge of the Federation and President of the Court of Appeal, serving Service Chiefs and sparsely selected and authorized Diplomatic VIPs on occasion. Abuja is a city with world class infrastructure, its residents, visitors and tourists must endeavour to exhibit commensurate world class manners.</div>
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Cities can be said to be characterized by the attitudes they portray and the feelings they evoke in the visitor. They can be welcoming and accommodating or cold and unfriendly, clean and beautiful or dirty and irritating, exciting and fun, or dry and boring, modern and forward looking or conservative and historical.</div>
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Most cities are an evolving mix of both the new and old and are often a reflection of the people who live in them - their vision, their love, their styles, their passion, their pastime, their oddities and craziness, their bonding or lack of it with the city and also ownership or otherwise of it.</div>
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This holds true also for Abuja, the beautiful Nigerian valley land city surrounded by eye catching rock formations and ranges, notable among which are the giant torso-like Aso rock and equally imposing Zuma rock. Unlike the news-drawing Nigerian National Assembly building mimicking it from the front as you look from the popular Eagle Square or the Aso Villa hidden in front of, but overshadowing it in popularity as the seat of government.</div>
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The Aso Rock is unarguably one of Abuja's unsung treasures. This 40-year old city is indeed in a hurry to grow but also still trying to discover its niche besides being the capital city of Nigeria. As one from which so much is expected, it is a city under pressure to deliver and perform. It is therefore necessary that the little things that make big statements and advertorials regarding city-appeal and beauty are not overlooked by city administrators.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16559159558170039151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-840878282655217689.post-81488571744083066792016-12-21T17:52:00.001+01:002016-12-21T19:01:46.563+01:00Morning delight!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love mornings. I mean I love the morning experience. Mornings are usually my most productive and inspiring moments. They are sometimes my struggling periods too, trying to work out my bearing for the day. Very often as the "anesthesia" of sleep wears off and loses its effect on me and I lazily jostle into wakefulness, nature's jazz band is beginning to play softly in the background, serenading, reassuring and entertaining. The rooster, king of the morning, like a brass master, opens the musical score skillfully blowing his trumpet in the still-dark, insect-sound-laden, early morning silence: "cock-a-doodle-doo!" Or better still, in Nigerian pidgin: "kukurukuuuuu!" (laughing). And almost immediately, another member of this cock-ensemble positioned somewhere some distance in the neighbourhood joins in, echoing back this rooster-trumpet sound. This seemingly two-piece rendition goes on and on. And in no time, the twittering of sparrows, the whistling of swallows, the singing of wood thrushes and the cooing of doves and pigeons harmonise into this amazing birdsong and dawn chorus in the unfolding musical interlude.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zNf-qIA2IiUVGbPleSYayuDGREkVCrJVcxoGFRGLOZVYYKrau3rrdz5SSn4ZVOKnIOH3t1rqX2xsa9pP5BAc7R5bGLdSswzpFykMibsfHq7zOukce7xLXig4IbwuCV9V7S_xJndP8Dg/s1600/IMG_20161221_172711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zNf-qIA2IiUVGbPleSYayuDGREkVCrJVcxoGFRGLOZVYYKrau3rrdz5SSn4ZVOKnIOH3t1rqX2xsa9pP5BAc7R5bGLdSswzpFykMibsfHq7zOukce7xLXig4IbwuCV9V7S_xJndP8Dg/s320/IMG_20161221_172711.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The out-of-place sound of a lone car passing by intrudes on this bird-rendition as the driver blares his horn apparently to announce his presence in the neighbourhood. A bat screeches in response as if to express its disapproval of the unwelcome vehicular noise.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lying on my bed, I can now see the faint glow of morning light piercing through the window curtains. Unable to hold back any longer from the pull of this irresistible bird-gang musical display, I am moved to jump out of my bed and walk out to the backyard of our three-storey apartment building. The sweet smell of budding trees pervades the air as a gush of cool breeze hits my face massaging it and then ricocheting down my arms. I quickly find a makeshift bench of wood and concrete support and sit down expectantly on it. My eyes scan through the yard inspecting the trees: a mango, a paw-paw, a moringa and two other tall trees whose names I do not quite know. Ember glow lights up the horizon as the golden red, circular figure of the rising sun fascinates in the distance. A group of swallows fly about in formation above. They break rank and playfully glide about. It looks like they are having much fun. My attention quickly switches to a male dove cooing to his female partner on the branch of the mango tree, nodding his head and apparently dancing 'shoki' (a popular Nigerian dance style) to impress her! In a moment, they both fly off, I guess, for a more secluded place for their breakfast date.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The rustling of the leaves of the unknown tree close by causes me to witness a pigeon fight as two pigeons flap their wings pushing against each other on the branch. While enjoying this scene, I almost scream as I look down to see a caterpillar with needle-like protrusions all over its body crawling on my pyjama pants. Instinctively, I shove it off into the grass below watching as several ants and termites move aimlessly on the ground. As a mosquito whines by, a fly perches on my left arm. I gently move my head forward looking closely, amazed at its bulging eyes and greyish dark kite-like wings. As I gazed, a self-conversation erupts within: "They come in all sizes: micro, mini, normal, super, mega, giga! All of God's wonderful creations! And the wonderful abilities they possess leave one speechless!" This self-talk suddenly changes into a song:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Oh Lord, how many are Thy works!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In wisdom Thou hast made them all;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The earth is full of Thy possessions.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is the sea great and broad;</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In which are swarms without number.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Animals both great and small</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh Lord, Thou hast made them all!"</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I internally recite this song by Amy Grant inspired by Psalm 104:24-25. Just as I finish singing, I see a black coloured mother-hen leading her brood of ten chicks, intermittently clucking in front of them. They respond, chirping as they rush to catch up with her pace. She stops and shuffles through the grass and they run in picking up the exposed ants for their morning meal.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My thoughts drift back to the awesomeness of God! I ponder about the past, the present and the future. I sleep, I wake up, I go to work, I travel, I grow but He, God, somehow, remains just there, the same, never changing. He is so ageless and timeless that He is called the Ancient of days! He is so futuristic and outlasts all living that He is called the Everlasting One! He is ever present that His nickname is 'I AM'. And as if that is a small thing to be, His agelessness, futurism and presence transcend time and space to the degree that He is all of these and much more at the same time! Wow, what an incomparable God He is!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An hour passes by with me sitting there on the makeshift bench savoring and basking in this state of worshipful reverence. I watch as a big neighborhood rat cautiously creeps through the grass and dashes off in an instance at my 'shhhhh' command directed at it. The sound of more and more cars passing by deafens my bird musical treat. A young lad carrying a shoebox size wooden container walks down the neighbourhood, rhythmically beating the metallic handles against each other and producing a drum-like sound - his own way of announcing that the itinerant cobbler is around. Closely behind him another lad follows, a portable sewing machine resting on his right shoulder as he snaps the surfaces of his big scissor against each other creating a tingling sound. This again is his own way of making his presence known in the neighbourhood. The third of this trio, a young man, trails behind holding a whetstone in his hand and repeatedly beckoning loudly with a Hausa English accent: "Sharp knife!"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At this point, it suddenly dawns on me it is time for me to go and take a shower. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16559159558170039151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-840878282655217689.post-5796063082327589062016-12-21T16:30:00.001+01:002016-12-29T16:49:42.274+01:00What's A Year Got To Do With It?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have a small <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/samsung?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Samsung</span></span></a> smartphone. I don't particularly like big phones partly because they are clumsy to carry about but also because it appears I am some kind of phone <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/monster?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">monster</span></span></a> who makes them to run for cover! Sadly, I have lost quite a number of them. Hahaha! Nevertheless, it's amazing what you can do with your <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/phone?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">phone</span></span></a>. Outside making and receiving calls and engaging in <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/social?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">social</span></span></a> networking, my Samsung <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/galaxy?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">galaxy</span></span></a> has become my trusted journaling companion. Often, lying on my bed, I just start journaling. Of the several note-taking apps out there, <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/evernote?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Evernote</span></span></a> is my favorite. So a couple of days ago while <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/journaling?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">journaling</span></span></a> and thinking about how fast my year seemed to have unfolded and also wrapped up, I got to wondering about what's really in a year? I mean like what's a <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/year?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">year</span></span></a> really worth? What's the value of a year?</div>
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<a name='more'></a>Hmmm, that's a tough one, and maybe somewhat philosophical too if not hypothetical to answer! Obviously a year is such an important unit of time so much so that around it, we reference history, schedule events, plan activities, measure performances and attain milestones and pursuits. It goes without saying that there are 12 months, 52 weeks, and 365 days, or 366 days in the case of a leap year, in a year. This breaks down even further to 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes or 31,536,000 seconds in a year for those given to details. Okay, is that all there is to the time-year, the passage of 31,536,000 seconds?</div>
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No doubt there are several perspectives to a year to look at. For example in <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/family?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">family</span></span></a> terms, all things being equal, a year is how long it takes for a <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/woman?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">woman</span></span></a> to conceive, gestate, deliver a baby and nurse it till it's 3 months old! Likewise give a year to a good <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/teacher?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">teacher</span></span></a> in a setting of formal education and you have a well-taught <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/student?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">student</span></span></a> eligible for promotion to the next class, subject, of course, to them passing their examinations. For those engaged in competitive league <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/sports?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">sports</span></span></a>, it takes a season, the sporting year, to determine the overall champion or number one athlete who has amassed the most score of points by recording the highest run of victories in a given sports event.</div>
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Similarly, for a <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/farmer?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">farmer</span></span></a> dependent on the weather, the traditional farming year would describe the timespan covering the cropping season - period of planting, cultivating and tending, harvesting and resting the land till the next cropping cycle. In the <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/business?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">business</span></span></a> world where time is often monetized in relation to productivity, goods and services, your balance sheet gives an indication of how well your financial year has been.</div>
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The point really is that the value of one's year cannot be isolated from their <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/pursuits?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">pursuits</span></span></a>, <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/possibilities?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">possibilities</span></span></a>, <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/potentials?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">potentials</span></span></a> and even their <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/worldview?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">worldview</span></span></a>. The year just like other units of time is equally available to everyone. It’s how it is managed that makes the difference between having a mediocre year or having a remarkable year. Some push their year to the maximum in the process exploring and harnessing the possibilities and potential it offers. Others do nothing much but to just drift along with the year’s unstoppable wheels of motion. It seems like if opportunities were different sizes of pictures, then the year would be a canvass, a platform, to paint our desired pictures. If time is money, the year is a type of blank cheque to cash in on. And even more, if time is life, the year is a privilege to live, explore and harness it.</div>
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Imagine for a moment we try to look at a year from the standpoint of the ultimate time giver, <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/god?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">God</span></span></a>, who is also <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/creator?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Creator</span></span></a> of both space and time as well as their regulator by doing some mathematical reasoning. It is on record that God created the universe, the visible and invisible world of the <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/sun?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Sun</span></span></a>, the <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/moon?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Moon</span></span></a>, the <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/stars?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">stars</span></span></a> and the <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/earth?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Earth</span></span></a> and all the living things, complex systems and laws operating in them in 6 days. It follows that He can do so over and over again at least 52 times in a year, if not an incredible number of times more, assuming God chooses not to go into <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/universe?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">universe</span></span></a> manufacturing since He already has a prototype universe and doesn't have to create the next universes from scratch. God, by the way, has shown that He is the Ultimate Manufacturer and a Master at mass production by configuring almost everything living to naturally produce after their kind on Earth. So supposing 10,000 years have passed since the first universe was created and God, since then, has been producing universes at the rate of 52 per year, He would have rolled out 520,000 universes to date.<br />
I believe He could have done so but there appears to be no reason to do so since our universe has not yet outlived its lease and usefulness.</div>
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Can you imagine for a moment the space needed to warehouse 520,000 universes! Pheeew, mind-blowing right! With God all things are possible!</div>
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I am blessed by how the Scriptures helps us to appreciate time through God’s eyes. To respond to those who questioned God's time consciousness and capacity to fulfill His promise of creating a new universe that is sin-proof, righteousness-friendly and perpetuating, <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://web.facebook.com/hashtag/apostle?source=feed_text&story_id=10209819024526104" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">Apostle</span></span></a> Peter writes "With the Lord one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day." (2 Peter 3:8-10). While not an attempt to measure God's abilities, I am thinking it’s not out of place to deduce from Paul’s statement that what would take a united workforce of the whole of mankind that has ever existed 365,000 days (1000 years) to do, God would do the same in one day! Wow such omnipotence! Talk about a specialist in time optimization and maximization! Definitely not only is our perspective of time different from His, God's ability is also not defined by nor constrained by time.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px;">For this and many more reasons, I celebrate God, my Year and Life Giver. I am grateful to God for the outgone 8760 hours. I am thankful for the opportunity to have lived the last 525,600 minutes and the prospects and privilege to look forward to another 31,536,000 seconds. </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">I am grateful for family and friends that add colour, sometimes not the bright ones, to life. Hahaha.</span></div>
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It's my birthday. Thank you, Lord Jesus!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16559159558170039151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-840878282655217689.post-50471753005336730552016-12-21T16:19:00.001+01:002016-12-21T19:03:46.831+01:00Masquerade Songs!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I stretched out my right hand, rather hesitantly, to turn the cold water tap but then let it freeze midway. The picture in my mind of shivers rocking through my body at contact with the shower water left me undecided to take the plunge into this miniature waterfall. The option of turning the hot water tap was none the better as an electricity outage earlier meant that the heater was of no use to me when I needed it the most. Mustering all the courage in me, I jumped into this controlled downpour, skipping as I did, to shake off the cold water induced shivering. A familiar yet unexpected hum suddenly seemed to well up inside of me. I ignored it at first but it grew in audibility, striking a chord in me. It resonated of an experience from my past. It aroused a sense of nostalgia. In that bathroom moment, I was literally transported back in time to Luukwo village.</span></div>
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The sound of pigeons cooing outside, cocks crowing in turns, a mother hen clucking, subdued by the chirping of her chicks, and the distant squealing of a pig fight indicated that it was daybreak already and everyone was up and about their business. It must be a beautiful day, I concluded. Well maybe for them but surely not for me. I tried to justify my condition as I laid there in bed, my body sore and my hands achy. The blisters on my hands had made me to detest the hard and physical aspects of the life of a village farmer. And don't even mention the early wake-ups and long bicycle rides to the farm! "Is this what they do daily?”, I questioned.<br />
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It was the summer holidays, the 3-months long vacation for schoolers of all categories. And I was holidaying at my uncle's, Kunguni. My parents had sent us there to brush up our Goemai language and also pick up some farming skills. I don't get to visit the village quite often. So although it was a welcome holiday stay for me, I was becoming uncomfortable with some realities of life there.</div>
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"Homsuk, goe yo tai ba? Mu shin leti." ("Homsuk, are you still sleeping? We are running late"), Kunguni inquired as he gently pushed open the door to my room.</div>
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I was surprised. Could he read people's mind? Did he know what I was grumbling about?</div>
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My auntie joined him, "Homsuk, ta gi puet a? Goe yo goe shin kalashi dai gu yok ki." ("Good morning Homsuk! Get up and have some breakfast before you set out.").</div>
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Even that, the bait of breakfast, didn’t seem so enticing to me. I pretended to be deep asleep and oblivious of their voices as Uncle Kunguni called out a second time.</div>
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I could hear the husky laughter of his voice, resigned to their inability to persuade me out of bed.</div>
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"Lami, nyet ni. Ni nee purr" ("Lami, leave him! He must be very tired")</div>
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Uncle Kunguni, a tall, slender, kind-hearted gentleman, is a likable person who made us feel at home. His wife Lami, my paternal aunt, is my Dad's younger sister. Their house had become for us our place of residence whenever we visited. And so they left my room and not long after, I heard the squeaky, rusty sound of Kunguni's bicycle moving, suggesting he was on his way to the farm alone this time without my company. I breathed a sigh of relief.</div>
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How did my eagerness to go to the farm so suddenly changed to unwillingness, and even cover up, not to do so? Surprisingly, the previous day I had gotten up early, dressed up in my farm gear - a boy's shorts and a wrapper tied diagonally across my shoulder, providing an airy cover for my torso - and had sat down with my new hoe in hand waiting for breakfast to be served. I had watched as Aunt Lami prepared breakfast of madidi (a type of millet mash wrapped in banana leaves) served with whole-cooked okra soup garnished with freshly smoked fish. I remembered that as we left for the farmland, two corked calabash gourds filled with mu-es and kuna (local alcoholic and non-alcoholic brew respectively) were tied in place on the luggage carrier on Kunguni's bicycle. Also suspended on the carrier were our two hoes, one for him and the other for me.</div>
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I had sat on a cushion on the bicycle's crossbar, my legs hanging sideways in the air and my hands holding onto the inner handlebar for support and balance. As we navigated our way through the narrow pathway, we met several other farmers walking and chatting animatedly en route to their farmlands, their farming implements resting on their shoulders. Kunguni would slow down and exchange pleasantries with them and we would continue our ride.</div>
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Lush greenery of trees, shrubs and herbs adorned the landscape as far as the eye could see. Inter-spaced between maize, millet and guinea corn fields, were locust bean (dorowa), mango and palm trees, distributed around.The seeming silence on the pathway amplified the bicycle's pedaling sound. Once in a while, the alarm call of birds on surrounding trees broke the monotony of our bicycle rhythm.</div>
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I was not only amazed but also amused to see several palm wine tappers perched on the upper trunk of the palm trees, their backs resting against twines tied round the trees as they replaced filled gourds of wine with empty ones. My amusement was rewarded by Kunguni asking one of the palm wine tappers to take one of the gourds to his house, offering to pay him later. I looked forward to having a sip of that sweet palm wine.</div>
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Sandwiched by green land as we pedaled on, we finally arrived at my uncle’s farm after what seemed like an unending ride. I couldn't wait to get off the crossbar. The jumpy ride had stiffened my behind and made it feel sore. A long stretch of rows of stalks of maize, followed by those of millet and then guinea corn (sorghum) greeted us as Uncle manoeuvred to a halt under a mango tree. Massaging my buttocks, I had a ‘wow’ moment trying to process the cereal splendour standing before us in their majesty.</div>
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Supposing there was a beauty contest of some sorts among these cereals who would the winner be? I imagined. Would it be the long flappy leafy maize stalk or the tall and moderately flappy leafy millet or the short flappy leafy sorghum plant? What about if their stalks represented houses to live in, which house would I choose to live in? I took another quick view of the farmland and seemed to like the maize plant as my preferred house. If the tassel was the roof, the stalk the storeyed floors, and the leaves the balconies, then the ears of corn would be the different rooms to live in I reasoned. The corn plant had several rooms to accommodate more people unlike the millet and sorghum stalks which were like single-room apartments with many people living in them, I pictured in my mind.</div>
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As I wondered about these, I helped place our beverage calabashes on the ground. Kunguni rested the bicycle against the mango tree.</div>
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"Mu swa la ham!" ("Let's have a drink!"), he said and grabbed his gourd of mu-es, shook it a bit and poured a generous amount into his cone-shaped calabash cup. He gulped the content at a go and almost immediately he cleared his throat, exclaiming a "haaa" satisfaction in acknowledgement of the quench of his thirst and his readiness to attend to the business ahead.</div>
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I didn't feel like drinking my kuna yet.<br />
Kunguni picked the bigger of the two hoes and handed me the smaller one.</div>
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"Naa hen de la fer pei dei gu shin yi zak" ("Watch me root out the weeds and do the same"), he instructed.</div>
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I watched as the hoe-head hit the surface of the ridge, clearing the grass and weeds around the bottom of the corn stalk and avoiding the prop roots. He then gathered the grass and weeds, shook off the dirt-earth and released them into the furrow.</div>
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"Oh I can do that!", I thought aloud and applied my hoe-head to the surface of the neighbouring ridge, in the process snapping off two of the corn's prop roots.</div>
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"Aah, aah, aah! Gi shin ka hankali" ("Go gently!"), Kunguni cautioned me laughing huskily.</div>
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He took the hoe and showed me how to hold it and move it across the surface of the ridge. After a couple of misses, I got the technique. I was keen to put to practice my newly acquired skills, so I took off my covering wrapper, laid it under the mango tree and started weeding out the grasses in the neighbouring ridge, repeatedly looking up to assess how much progress I was making.</div>
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Kunguni was already five ridges away from me, singing and whistling as the distance between us widened even more.</div>
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"Ho Homsuk" ("Well done, Homsuk!"), he called out to encourage me.</div>
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Moving my index finger, laid against one corner of my forehead and releasing it into the air at the other corner, I cleared the sweat that was running down my face. I was beginning to enjoy this farm tending and observed that I had now covered five ridges myself while Kunguni was almost at the end of the corn field.</div>
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A loud scream broke our routine. I took off instinctively meandering through the stalks of corn, falling down and hurriedly getting up.</div>
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"Anmo, anmo? Anmo Homsuk?" (What's it? What's it, Homsuk?), Kunguni inquired running towards me as I, gripped by fear, did towards him, anxiety and concern written all over his face.</div>
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Gasping for breath, I pointed in the direction of the mango tree revealing a snake in hot pursuit of a bush rat.</div>
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"Uhhhhh!", Kunguni exclaimed in the typical Goemai way and busted into laughter remarking, "I was worried you had injured your foot with the hoe."</div>
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It was as if, to him, seeing a snake was not a big deal.</div>
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He held my hand and we walked towards the mango tree. The snake had disappeared into the grass around. There we stood disorganized, for different reasons, by hysteria: I so driven by the approach of the snake, Kunguni by the suddenness of my screaming and ensuing confusion surrounding my running through the stalks of maize, falling down and getting up. United by the solidarity of our situation and shared emotions, we sat down under the mango tree to rest.</div>
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"Do you know that snakes are a rare sighting here! Our pigs have eaten most of them.", Kunguni reassured me.</div>
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I listened as he explained that pigs were immune to snake poison unlike to scorpion's.</div>
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We took our gourds and drank to cool off our excited adrenaline.</div>
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Although I felt safe with Kunguni, I was still restless and unsettled. The picture of the snake chasing the rat towards my direction kept flashing in my mind. My kuna tasted differently. After listening to more stories about Kunguni's encounters with snakes, I was pleased when he asked us to leave for home instead sensing my lingering restlessness.</div>
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"Homsuk, baka tashi har yanzu ba? Lafiyan ka kuwa?" ("Homsuk, are you still not awake? Are you alright?").</div>
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The sound of Auntie Lami's voice pieced through my thoughts and reminded me I still had not got out of bed since their unsuccessful attempt earlier to persuade me to go to the farm.</div>
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With no other excuse to use as a cover-up and hunger pangs biting at me, I got out of bed and stepped out of the room.</div>
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To be continued!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16559159558170039151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-840878282655217689.post-56473890176683993312016-02-12T13:59:00.005+01:002016-12-21T19:09:34.690+01:00Christmas in Bakin Ciyawa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am a village boy! Okay before I became a city boy, I was basically a village boy at heart (Laughing). I find village life very intriguing! The raw beauty of nature is so alluring and I marvel at the sense of community and solidarity that exudes around so effortlessly. There appears to be an unwritten law that everyone is their brother's keeper if not watcher. "Nobody should mind their own business" it seems to declare. And so as day breaks, as if to put this code of conduct to practice, the ritual of neighbourly salutations can be observed as people move from house to house exchanging pleasantries and getting updated on happenings. Native intelligence and practical wisdom are in no small supply as you listen to the threads of discussions among villagers.<br />
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Bakin Ciyawa is a vibrant village of the Goemai (Ankwai) speaking people of Qua'anpan local government area of Plateau State situated in the lowlands of southern Plateau. Oral tradition has it that the first settlers there came from Shendam and were mesmerised by the fertility of this land whose name translates to "Gateway to Grassland". Bakin Ciyawans are a farming community. Yam growing is a major preoccupation among them. Naturally, eating pounded yam or "sakwora" is a much enjoyed pastime. The soup accompaniment can go from "miyan kubewa" (dry okra soup) to "kai da kado" (fresh okra soup) to "miyan kuka" (moringa soup) to "miyan karkashi" (slimy soup) with garden eggs to "miyan yakuwa" (zoboroto soup)! The goemai people are tuwo (grain flour mash) or "shat" (in local parlance) lovers. A variety of cereal and legume grains such as maize, guinea corn, millet, rice, beans, groundnuts and the synonymous to goemailand 'Amora' plant thrive there. Mango and palm trees can also be seen around. Piggery, goat rearing, and chicken, duck and pigeon poultry are some of the livestock production activities almost every household is engaged in.<br />
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Growing up, we had a family tradition of going "home" for the Christmas and New Year holidays. Usually our "homecoming" is timed to happen a week or a couple of days to Christmas. Depending on where we are coming from, the journey is mostly uneventful until we get to Kwande town (No relation to Benue state). Kwande is the northern neighbour of Bakin Ciyawa and serves as the only access to the Lafiya-Shendam road. The bumpy ride from Kwande tells us our journey is almost drawing to an end. What now takes fifteen minutes used to be a journey of about an hour. Seated in the Police LandRover van my Dad usually assigns to us for the journey, our eyes are on the look out for the first glimpses of the Catholic Church and the giant mango tree infront of it to confirm our arrival at Bakin Ciyawa. English Catholic missionaries were the first to bring the message of Jesus Christ to the Goemai people. They built churches, schools and hospitals across goemailand. This explains why most goemai people are staunch Catholics. As we drive past the Catholic Church, we head towards the village mini market located under a tree shade, continue past the Chief's palace, then turn left and there we are at the Kwalmi's family compound! At the sight of our LandRover van, choruses of "Hongwen, hongwen o" ("you are welcome, welcome o") fill the air. And almost immediately an elderly woman appears on the scene in a "musicless", joyful dance, her hands raised to the sky and in a celebratory chant goes "Aiyiriririiiiiiiiii! Ngode Na'an, Ngode Na'an" ( "I thank You God, I thank You God") upon seeing her grandchildren. She takes turns welcoming us individually as she calls us by our native names.... "Ho Homsuk" (welcome Homsuk....referring to me), "Ho Dongnoe", "Ho Naanshep", "Ho Longshal", "Ho Yenvel", "Ho Naanpoe".... That's my Granny, Ladi, for you! Ever jovial, graceful and accommodating and one to make you feel you are the only person that matters in the whole wide world! As we get seated on the wooden stools and mats provided us, refreshments are hurriedly served to us. Once rested from the journey and refreshed, the boys proceed to my Auntie's house where we will be staying until we depart.<br />
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I used to be amazed at the planning put in by my Auntie's husband, Kunguni, in building his "mansion". The entrance to his house consists of an entry chamber adjacent to which is a room with two doors, front and back. As you walk past the chamber, a walled wide passageway leads you into another entrance ahead. An interesting scenery of zinc and thatched roofs adorning the skyline catches your attention. This turns out to be a circular formation of five buildings. The first of these to the left of this second entrance is a big thatch-roofed rectangular shaped hall that serves as a storeroom of some sorts. Bundles of millet and guinea corn stalks can be seen piled up. Also stacked up are tubers of yams. Directly facing this second entrance, the whole length of this storeroom away, is the thatched hut that is used as the kitchen. This connects by the side to a front facing two room zinc-roofed building. One of these rooms will serve as room for the boys. A doorway separates the zinc-roofed building from another thatched roof hut which also connects to another one by the side to complete the circular formation of the five buildings as you go clockwise from the second entrance. My Auntie Lami is a bundle of energy. Besides being the Zumuntan Mata (Women fellowship) leader, she runs a successful burkutu local brew business. Her husband Kunguni is not only a farmer but a highly sought after native doctor who specialises in treatment of bone fractures. It is common to see patients come from places as far as Benue State for treatment of fracture cases. The patient and his care providers are usually accommodated in one of the thatched huts. Kunguni seems to know what to do for every case. Often a patient is brought in in agony. After running his hands over the area of fracture, he would use a brand new razor blade to make several cuts over the swollen area. I learned this is to get rid of the bad blood accumulated there. He then pounds some ginger and garlic and applies the paste over the cuts. Kidney fat from a chicken is then smeared over the area. The fractured area is then set in a pad of equal length sticks interwoven across by threads of rope which is only taken off during the morning and evening hot water massages. After every massage session, the ginger garlic paste is applied and chicken kidney fat smeared again before the pad of sticks is tied back. I have observed the patients begin to have walk exercises after three to four weeks and not long after that they are discharged and depart.<br />
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The Kunguni's compound is usually a beehive of activities. While uncle Kunguni is attending to bone fracture patients, my aunt is seeing to her local brew production. Goemai people enjoy drinking burkutu or "mu-es" as they call it. Millet or guinea corn burkutu are the two popular brew types. My aunt seems to prefer the millet mu-es. It usually takes her a week to prepare it. She starts by soaking the millet in three large water basins and leaving it to soften for three days. The water is then poured away and the soft millet rinsed and taken to the grain milling machine. At the same time, rice grain is socked in water and spread on a surface inside the kitchen to germinate before being taken for milling. This is used as a sweetener and fermenting agent. After milling, the millet paste is generously diluted with water and sifted. The same is done with the rice paste. At the centre of the buildings are set two or three giant spherical stainless steel pots each with three protruding legs over burning fireword. The liquid millet paste is poured into the giant pots and mixed with the rice sweetening and fermenting agent and left to boil through the night, Aunt Lami stirring periodically. The boiled millet beverage is transferred into big clay pots set in the kitchen hut and left for about three days to brew and is ready for dispensing.<br />
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Christmas this particular homecoming happens to fall on a Wednesday, the village market day. My Auntie had been up awake for a while preparing the traditional Christmas rice and stew. The aroma of fried chicken can be perceived from our rooms as we struggle into full wakefulness. We could hear a conversation unfolding outside between my aunt and one of the early greeters: "Ta gi puet a?", (Did you fall and get up?) she asked. "Nta puet"(I fell and got up), he responded. "Kiop kut a?" (Are you fine?), she continued. "Kiop kut" (I am fine), was his response. This is the Goemai way of exchanging morning greetings. A period of silence ensued and our room was beginning to brighten up as dawn breaks into full glow. The sound of the voice of the village Catechist was the boost we needed to get us out of our room. On his way to Church to prepare for Christmas Mass, he had stopped by to say "Hapi Krismus" to my Aunt. He is a likable Ngas (a friendly tribal group) gentleman with a catchy afro hairstyle slanted to one side.<br />
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We quickly take our bath and are served some rice and stew for breakfast, get dressed up in our new Christmas clothes and head out for Mass. As we draw near the church building several trucks loaded with various commodities pass us by as they head towards the main market to set up shop. The warehouse shaped church building can sit about 200 worshipers. As you approach the main entrance a large cross can be seen standing on the rooftop welcoming you. We arrived church as a drama sketch depicting the virgin birth of Jesus was rounding up. It was now time for a special rendition by the Zumuntan Mata (Women fellowship). I just love watching them minister. Dressed in their uniform, I can pick out Aunt Lami in the group. Their ministration usually begins with them humming and at the issuance of a hand signal by the conductress, they all rise up. Seated in the front are row the various percussionists. Their range of instruments include a metal gong, a calabash covered in a mesh of beads, water pots sitted on ring support, a hollow log of wood with smoothened surface. As I watched and listened, I was blown away at the beautiful harmony their voices and the rhythm from these instruments produced. I guess because everyone was in a joyous and celebratory mood, time seemed to fly hearing the priest giving the closing Mass benediction "the Lord be with you" and the congregation chorused "And also with your spirit". "May the Lord keep and bless you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Go in peace". And the congregation responds "Thanks be to God." Mass ended we head to my Grandma's to spend the afternoon with her.<br />
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The constant stream of greeters and well wishers at my Grandma's speaks of the goodwill she enjoys. Sharing the joy of Christmas were those who brought food to her. Some brought live chicken. Others brought kegs of the local brew "mu-es". We get to taste freshly tapped palm wine as we are told it is not intoxicating.<br />
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Wanting to see more of the village, we set out on a late afternoon stroll. As we move around, one's attention can't but be drawn to the various fashion styles and statements. Often it's a statement of underdressing, overdressing, color riot or absence of dress sense but who cares. It's Christmas! As we strolled, we head to what unofficially is the village square. It is an open area with a cluster of giant mango trees. The shade under them are a popular relaxation point. You can see mats spread out and groups of people chatting or just lying down with their keg of mu-es and saucer-shaped calabash cups beside them. Not far away a meat seller is adding spicies and overturning his pork barbecue. <br />
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Our attention was drawn to where a game of snail shell spinning was taking place. Snail season is usually during the rainy season. However, this game is played all season. When the snail is removed from its shell, the shell is trimmed into a cone and its tip firmly coated with hardened chewing gum. It is then held as in a finger snapping position. As you snap to spin it, you release it into a bowl shaped hole dug out of the ground. As It spins round the hole like cyclist in a velodrome, you are expected to maneuver it to overturn and rest on it base directing a bust of air towards it by a quick jerk of your hand as you do when about to slap someone. Several players as can be accommodated can play the game at a time. Each one spins and releases their shell into the bowl. Any shell that falls to its side on its own or after being hit by another is out. It's a survival of the strongest, skillful and smartest kind of game. Often participation in the game is by monetary deposit. The last shell to overturn on its base is the winner.<br />
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The kalangu (talking drum) dance is the highlight of the Christmas celebration. This usually takes place infront of the Chief's palace. As evening sets in all roads lead there. The kalangu is a two-piece, one-above-the-other and armpit-held type of drums. The lower one is usually smaller than the one above it. The drummer usually places them across his left armpit and by squeezing in and out with his arm as he beats the drum heads with the curved drumstick, he produces the desired sound and rhythm. His left fingers tapping over the drum heads also add to his rich repertoire of sounds. There is a third drum accompaniment that goes with the talking drum. This short bongo-like drum is suspended at the waist of the second drummer and produces a consistent sound as he beats them with leather-covered drumsticks from both hands.<br />
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The kalangu dance is a circle dance. The dancers go round the drummers in middle of the dance circle. As the beat goes into a crescendo, the male dancers bend down, slide their left foot forward and double tap the ground with the foot as both hands are slightly stretched in that direction then they slide their right foot forward, double tap as their hands now point in the direction of their right foot and so and so it goes. As the crescendo dies down, the male dancers rise and continue with the foot sliding and double tapping. For the female dancers, a crescendo gets them into wave like body movement as they bend downwards, their heads leading the wave like movement. This sweet dance goes on and on into the night.<br />
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We get back home tired but satisfied about witnessing an eventful Bakin Ciyawa Christmas celebration. Lying there on my bed, scenes from the drama sketch depicting the birth of Jesus Christ lull me to sleep.<br />
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