THE JOURNEY TO GRADUATION

THE JOURNEY TO GRADUATION

One day it shall be a blissful remembrance of how we passed through that beautiful entrance, into this excellence, discipline, and self reliance globe, with our dreams in a big brown envelope; the administrative staffs that embraced us with radiant beaming, the non- academic staffs that took us as pleasant darlings, the banks that saluted us as buoyant mayors, and our lecturers that became our constant mentors. 

The journey of our dreams had just began; our quest to be genuine giants in this citadel of excellence.

          A lot of people think they stayed in this school long enough to be called elders, they would walk up to us to say a lot of boring shit in the name of advice. Somehow we know nothing, so we just sit and listen.

          By now you must have received a dozen fliers containing some kind of irritating information on different aspects ranging from Campus Fellowship, Politics, Job Opportunities and many more. Don’t worry, we are bound to receive more, but in case you want to discard any of them, like I know we might naturally want to, please don’t litter the campus, you can learn some basketball skills by throwing them inside the nearest waste bin. It is called free-throw, and no one will harass you.

          They must have told you that you can’t cross the Campus gate, if you are indecently dressed. They might be right, but the girl sitting next to me at the moment is flaunting the cleavage of her round orange breasts, and I bet her lingerie must show if she bends to pick a pen. Oh! She didn’t use the gate, she probably used the fence or maybe she is decently dressed, after all, indecent dressing is just a dress code you morally perceive to be bad. Meanwhile another man’s meat is another man’s poison.

          We shall hear a lot of advices, even from psychopaths that need rehab; they shall all advice us, because we are fresher’s. But only the fools amongst us shall heed to all the advices, the wise shall scan and sieve the best.

          Just like #OneNigerianGirl said, never fall prey to the whims of the stereotype bullies, who will want you to use mascara and brown powder because they think it will make you more beautiful, or wear bum shorts, because they think you have the kind of sexy legs the guys want.

          Nobody has the right to set the moral path for you. You are the one to decide the path you wish to follow in this journey to Graduation.

          Be careful with the number of courses you may wish to carryover, so as to avoid staying behind after your mates leave for Chibok to serve our fatherland.

          Today, we feel happy embarking on this journey to graduation; we hope to leave wonderful legacies that will blow our trumpets after we graduate from this campus of Excellence, Discipline, and Self Reliance.

Until then...

I recognize the intellectual creativity of  OGBONNAYA CHINEDU a graduate of UNIZIK. Your poem, inspired my write up. thanks

Augustus Bill

©2014

www.tunnelz.blogspot.com                                               

                                                                                                                                  TUN/0023//31/10/14

#GOOD DIE YOUNG

#GOOD DIE YOUNG

You already know that song by Phyno. It has been on repeat ever since I got the sad news. Even as I write this article or whatever you may decide to call it, my I-pad keeps blaring those sounds of agony from the lyrics and instrumental of that song.

          The good really die young. I received the news last night; I was not just shocked, I was still for at least two minutes. Why do we lose the good in their youth? I recalled all the heroes I have lost. I called them heroes because they all lived heroic lives, and somehow they were part of some heroic moments in my life. 

          It had become a long list, and somehow it keeps getting longer …Jacob, Obinna and now Emeka, maybe many more that I can’t remember or probably didn’t even know they were gone.

          I remember those green moments at Umuahia; like slaves bound to die, we struggled to survive. We took in every bit of pain that came our way; each pin of suffering pierced our strength and urged us to move on.

          We drank from the streams of Umuohu, fought at ABSU spring, and donated our drops of water to the waiting buckets of our dear lazy seniors who could not go to the stream and battle for water. We fought the wolves with mere field cutlasses; waking to the alarm bell at the dead of the night to pursue thieves we never caught. We queued up at the old brick refectory to eat the tasteless meals they served us. For those of us in Nile House, we, individually, fetched over 30 buckets of water a day as punishment.

          Early in the morning after the Morning house prayers that seemed like warfare, with SS 2 guys baking our backs with their iron fists, just to keep us awake for the thirty minutes charade we called prayer; we dressed up and headed to the refectory for the watery JINGO they served. We never ate beans at Umuahia, we drank it. After the tasteless meal, we headed to the Ancient Assembly hall for another boring session, then to class. SAPPING, a systematic act of begging, was allowed for those of us who had none, although we had HARDOS, who never cared if you died of thirst when they have a drum of water.

          The story of Umuahia is such that would only need the pages of an encyclopedia for a comprehensive coverage. Is it the Manual Labour or School Work? Who didn’t know Ojila, Sir Fly, and Chief Agho? There are many of them Mr Udeala (the kind hearted) we had all the breeds, both wicked and kind.

          We went all through these with faith, most times we came under the intense spanking of our seniors, and anything served as cane, from Cherry Branches, Palm Branches to Chains and machetes. Whatever was available at the time could be used.

          We passed through these valleys of bitter love and we made it; we graduated. Today, most of us are studying in the best Universities across Nigeria and beyond, while some are still in the hustle of getting in (Good luck). All these things we passed through made us the men we are today, Mgbaratu, Social Night, School Work, Manual Labour, Water Fetching, Inspection and many more.

          It is a pity that some of us left so early; JACOB left after battling anemia from birth. He couldn’t even make it to graduation, he was young and vibrant. The first junior speaker of SRC, always quiet, yet death spotted him.

          OBINNA followed from food poison, his demise was so shocking, I found it hard to believe that X-BIT 501 was gone. Who didn’t know him? Holy Rosary, Fede, Master Vessel, UDS etc can testify that he was handsome and he fought hard for DDLS.

          This morning I learnt that ADUANYA EMEKA had joined the list, a very quiet lad, very intelligent and a very good Christian; the first junior Library Prefect, who smiled and respected both mates and seniors.

          My ducts were too dry to cry, my tongue too dry to speak, and my brains too dry to think, am just walking in a lonely dry wilderness. Yes! We shall all join the list one day, but I pray that we shall be of ripe age and must have seen our great grand children before we die.

          Oh! God, please no more deaths till we see our great grand children. For those who are gone already, may their souls rest in the bosom of the lord.

          #ONWUBIKO

          #AdieuAduanyaEmeka

 

                

Augustus Bill

©2014

www.tunnelz.blogspot.com                                               

                                                                                                                                  TUN/0022//22/10/14

ANGELS & DEMONS

ANGELS & DEMONS

 

I saw her walking down the street and I almost said Hi, but her dressing was so neat and sweet that I felt so shy. Dressed in my rags, I was looking so poor to approach such a beauty. I could only watch from a distance, wishing to have her. She watched her steps, walking gorgeously without stress.

            Her pink gown was gracefully tailored to fit her figure 8 body. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, when they saw her cleavage which she flaunted. Her hot legs which were revealed by her short gown, got me transfixed, and I gazed with mouth wide open at this amazing beauty.

            She was not from this street, but what could she be doing here of all places, we had no brothels around, so she couldn’t be visiting one. As she walked pass me, I perceived the scent of her costly perfume, it can wake the dead with a sneeze.

            I was already growing feelings for her, but those feelings weren’t love anyway, they were lust. I could almost see her naked. What a corrupt imagination.

            Four months ago, she had led the church choir to win the zonal competition, she had taught me about indecent dressing in the bible class. How did she change?

            According to her, she didn’t actually change, she had gotten admission into the university a month ago, and she had an upgrade; her hair which was usually covered with a scarf now has a souvenir from Brazil, though she never traveled, her legs that were usually hidden, were now revealed up to her thighs. Six months ago, she would have dressed and behaved like the first Nigerian saint, but today, she was dressed like an Italian prostitute.

            Change is constant, but sometimes most people change to what they can’t even explain. Sometimes change can be a process, other times it might come like an evolution. Our environment plays a big role in the changes we encounter in life. As we adjust environment, we should try to influence our environment, rather than the environment influencing us.

Augustus Bill

©2014

www.tunnelz.blogspot.com                                               

                                                                                                                                  TUN/0021//13/10/14

           

ONE NIGERIAN GIRL

ONE NIGERIAN GIRL

 

This is not an essay, it is not a story, neither is it a Biography. It is just a write-up about One Nigerian Girl that I am yet to meet.

          I have never seen nor met a Nigerian girl that captures my heart; a girl who prefers the stress of sitting on a wooden bench, under the dim light of an old lantern, to write captivating stories that can salvage a nation. Most of the Nigerian girls I have met will rather prefer the luxury of sitting before expensive mirrors, to get the best touch of make-up. What a wonderful paradox, sometimes, what we look for are not what we get. 

          Chimamanda Adichie, inspired me with her stories, each time I read them, I hoped that one day a Nigerian girl will pick up the courage to write such amazing stories. For many years I waited, and never met one, until few days ago.

          One Nigerian girl had just released a prologue to a story. The prologue was so amazing, that I was clouded in the suspense she kept me, as I read with anxiety. Two days later, she released the first episode of her mind gripping story. A story that opened my tear ducts, fastened me heartbeat and got my adrenaline going.

          So thought provoking is this story of one Nigerian girl who grew up with her parents in a ghetto, somewhere in northern Nigeria. She witnessed the murder of her parents in cold bold, watching from under the bed where she hid in fear as the terrorists shot her dad on the head, splattering its contents to the ground, then her mother, opening a hole on the left side of her chest… this is a story of her past, her present, and her survival in a terror zone without parents nor relatives.

          This is a story that every Nigerian should follow as it unfolds. A story that might change your conceptions, a story that will make you understand why we all must join hands together to build a better nation, regardless of our ethnic or religious backgrounds. 

         This is a story for the young and old, the shy and the bold, the weak and the strong. It is a story for all.

          You can access this story by clicking on the link below

http://w.tt/1oHxvBi

Share the story to as many people as possible. Together we can build a better nation.

          This story is not recommended for hypertensive patients.

READERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED

Augustus Bill

©2014

www.tunnelz.blogspot.com                                               

                                                                                                                                  TUN/0020//06/10/14

MISS UGLY

MISS UGLY

 Every Nigerian girl wants to be Miss this or Miss that, Face of this or Face of that. She wants to wear the crown of a pageantry competition. She doesn’t mind opening her legs from the gateman to the CEO of the organizers, as long as she gets the crown.

          The guys have cued into this desperate want of the ladies. Today, many modeling agencies are springing up just to satisfy the desperate ladies. All you have to do is pick a form and register with the agency, whether you get a modeling contract or not is not in any way part of their business. Once in a while they pack the girls to a photo studio to take photos in hyper-sexualized positions.

          Girls who have no wherewithal for modeling are trooping into agencies. They always have a consolation in the notion that “if you are slim and beautiful, go for pageantry, if you are slim but ugly, go for pageantry, and if you are beautiful but fat, go for billboards. What a funny world. 

It is quite funny, what has a 4ft girl got to do with Miss Nigeria. If she contests and loses, she blames her failure on the judges for not being fair. Why won’t the judges be fair with your size? Girls forget that heels and wedges don’t make them tall; it only increases their height temporarily. Take the heels off, and you will be marveled as to how short she is.

Today, winners of pageantry competitions have no pet projects, their interest lies on the car and cash price they will receive and the ego and fame of being a winner. The essence of pageantry is lost.

A lot of names have sprung up for these pageantries “Face of Democracy, Miss Model Nigeria, Miss Independence, and Miss Dazzle Nigeria. Tomorrow I can organize pageantry and tag it Miss Ugly or Miss Fat, girls will still contest as long as my price is enticing nobody cares about the name.

It is high time pageantry organizers are sensitized and the industry sanitized. Everybody should realize that getting to the top by all means, implies falling off by all means.

Augustus Bill

©2014

www.tunnelz.blogspot.com                                               

                                                                                                                                  TUN/0019//06/10/14