Working with wife: Madness or miracle?

By Femi Akintunde-Johnson
FROM The first day I noticed that my first serious male friend in the profession was going out with one of his female colleagues, I had harboured disdain for office romance that goes beyond the usual flings and tumbles now and again.
It didn’t make sense to me that one could sign off to share the rest of his life with a partner who not only does your type of job, but works in the same establishment.
I was certain, and few instances had since confirmed my stance, that such a union can only last as long as the woman waters the marriage with a huge dose of African evostic (voodoo or more precisely, juju).
I couldn’t fathom how anyone would be expected to be normal if you share your bed, home, leisure, and then your office with your wife…I was certain, one of us would be found dead…of accidental strangulation (most likely orchestrated from the dream world).
I know, because of the sedentary nature of some professions; especially if success is measured by the investment of personal passion and commitment to quality service, people in such “enclosure” usually marry each other.
Loved ones outside of a particular profession may find the demand and sacrifice of such a profession strange and unacceptable; thereby breeding resentment and disaffection.
So, often, it naturally follows that doctors, journalists, lecturers/teachers, missionaries, entertainers, and similar vocations with such creative or illustrative intensity, have a high incidence of intra-disciplinary wedlocks.
Even when this is so, a lot of people will agree that such marriages would likely survive if couples work in different locations, and meet up at the end of the day to cross notes and responses on happenstances of the hectic day.
But, to work on the same set, same project, same journal, clinic or parish is stretching it too far the dictum: ‘What God has joined together, let no man (aka work) put asunder’.
The modern man will likely be suffocated by such relentless proximity that he is wont to snap, now and again; and it will be difficult to blame either of the parties for the predictable tension, and possible collapse such a marriage would go through.

APART from sundry items of admonitions necessary for would-be couples, and even unlearned veterans to update and imbibe (an excellent list was published in this paper last month); there are very sensitive issues that are best glossed over at the onset of the relationship.
As the union undergoes stress-tests and other inevitable ‘disclosure-shocks’, it is vital that the husband and wife have brief ‘absences’ from each other (going to work in different cars; romantic salutations on arrivals from work; phone-checks couched as ‘just to say to I love you’ sweet-nothings, etc).
What man is there who has the opportunity and the good fortune of being young, upwardly mobile, ambitious…and the graces granted only a few, and would refuse to stray far from wide-eyed co-combatants whose circle of influence shares borders with him?
That was why when I got married more than 18 years ago, I followed scrupulously my long-held persuasion: Don’t marry your colleague, and work on the same spot!
Don’t get me wrong; I was not a party to the idea that because you have your life stretched well ahead of you, what you then need is a woman who will fill certain spaces in your house: the kitchen (to cook meals which may not rival the club’s bukateria); the bedroom (to produce your children); lounge area (to welcome unwanted guests). Such a woman will crash your dreams and suffocate your ambition. You’ll probably end up in each other’s throat. That was 18 – 20 years ago.
Today, I have since changed my position, without any shame. This is the thirteenth year of working together with my wife, and loving every part of it. Next week, we will discuss the twists and turns; it will be crass tomfoolery to insinuate that it has always been heavenly. No, it hasn’t; but now, I won’t want it another way. We’ll share why men miss it when they want space between them and their women. And others!

fajswhatnots@yahoo.com or faj-alive@blogspot.com

With a wife like Turai…! (2)

By Femi Akintunde-Johns
IT was a lovely garden we entered; white lovely Brazilian lounge chairs and assorted outdoor furnishings here and there. Few praying mats dotted the left section of the garden designed like an alcove.
We were forced to sit on the ground. No one else was in the garden, as far as I could see. Then, a little child walked over, tentatively… with more courage, he cantered over to where my son was sitting glumly wondering what was next.
The little child was pulling at my son’s hands; obviously perking for tumbling game around the garden. It was all so quiet for a toddler in that huge glorious mansion.
Turai came out, resplendent in while flowing gown-dress favoured by Asian aristocrats…she was taken aback at the tug-of-war prattle between the little child and my son.
Her frown dissolved…she smiled, revealing a pleasant set of teeth on a well proportioned face, if a little chubby. She actually looked beautiful, I thought to myself, as I morosely glanced at my wife whose beauty had been severely diminished by the horrors we had gone through in the last 15 minutes.
“Mr. Man,” Turai broke my thought.
“Stand up, tell your people to sit down properly… “
She turned to my son, “Please, feel free, play with my grandson, don’t be afraid…just stay within garden.”
In sweeping musical movement, the little woman changed the course of the drama, sending us into different state of action and inaction.
And in a string of high-pitched and recriminating Hausa, she spoke long and harshly to the soldiers, and then the men in suits… all scampered around and about apologetically, and a little incredulously.
“Don’t mind these security people, sometimes they do what you do not send them,” she switched to us in English, with hardly a pause.
“I have gone through the security tapes of the past one hour, they should have noticed that you people were genuine strangers looking for fun.
Of course, it is strange, about the tape, but then if you are after information, you would have noticed as soon as it fell from you. Me, a simple woman, I saw all that.
So, it means they don’t do their work well. You should not have been allowed to pass their Point 2. So, very sorry, ko?.”
“Thank you, madam for your kind words. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention. So, you are a press man?”
“Well, I’m planning to retire, the wahala is too much.”
“Ah, it’s everywhere kuma! If I tell you all the wahala your people give us in this place you will be sorry for us.”

REALISING she was in a mood for bantering, I decided to ride my luck. With long practice snooping for news, I’ve sharpened my memory as a backup for the tape-recorder. I plodded on.
“But madam, how can anybody want to give you wahala, when you have the power of life and death.”
“Ah, no, no. No one but Allah has that kind of power. And then the military. You see, if it was the military that has this kind of problem, all your colleagues would just be looking. No one would dare write all this rubbish they have been writing.”
“But then,” I got carried away, “on the other hand, if it were during military period, the over 80 days you stayed abroad would have led the boys to Gowoned you.”
“Te he he… what is that?” By now, bottles of non-alcoholic wines had emerged with glasses and assorted kebabs…my tongue had totally lost its bridles, to the consternation of my still bewildered wife.
“Have you forgotten that Gen. Yakubu Gowon was in Kampala for OAU summit in 1975, when he was over-thrown? So democracy has its good points too.”
“I know, I know, but your people are too annoying. Ok is it a curse to be sick? Why don’t they want to wait for him to get well? Is it not his own tenure?”
“People are saying any government official who falls sick usually hands over to his assistant, and goes to his hometown to get his strength back. Some people say he can no longer recognize you…”
A moan and firm nudge stopped my flow; it was my wife waking me to get my pillow off her head!

fajswhatnots@yahoo.com or faj-alive.blogspot.com

With a wife like Turai…! (1)

By Femi Akintunde-Johnson
THE weekend sun was reluctant to come out, so we ventured out. I was determined to give my family a great weekend of fun and relaxation, on the second leg of my overly delayed vacation.
You see, I have not gone on vacation in the past 15 years, so I was desperate to share this free period with my children and wife.
An old friend invited us to Abuja for an entire week: free lodging, free food, free car and chauffeur, and several other freebies. The awuf was too good to pass over. We landed in Abuja the same night the President was smuggled in.
So there I was few days after, strolling around Asokoro with my people, admiring the splendour of Abuja’s highbrow areas — the scenery was more beautiful, more un-Nigerian than I had ever imagined.
After about three hours meandering through different neighbourhoods, soaking in the sights and smells of this architectural pot-pourri, four soldiers literally sprung out of a shady undergrowth. “Stop there, bagger!!”
We were all petrified at the sight. The soldiers were well-dressed, with an unusual shade of green I had never seen with our Army. “Who goes there? Where are you going? Who gave you permit? Who sent you?” It was as if the barrage of questions was meant for the four of us. Their angry faces commanded us to answer, or be silenced forever.
“Sorry, sir,” I mumbled despairingly, “we were just sight-seeing? We mean no harm ooh! We are on holiday…”
“Which kain holiday say make you come inside danger zone? You no see perimeter?” A burly giant with a single star on his shoulder bellowed, pointing at a small notice 50 metres away to our left. We had not noticed it. The inscription, through my trembling eyes read: “Danger Villa: Trespass At Own Risk”. Suddenly, the severity of the mess we had landed in dawned on all of us. I couldn’t explain how we got anywhere near the Presidential Villa!
“Sit down there!” “Shut up and hands up!” “Face down and hands up!” More orders that I could not decode were backed at us at such rapid pace that I thought we were already being shot. The fracas was too much for my children and they started crying. I was helpless, trembling on my knees. On seeing two polished men in suits sauntering towards our party, my spirit lifted: “Please, help us gentlemen, as I told these officers, we were visitors to this city…only strolling and looking at the fine-fine places around…we did not know…”
“Are you a journalist?” I almost vomited at the direct question from one of the new comers. Obviously, the answer was all over my face and open mouth. If I said I was a journalist, considering the situation of things in the country; and if by a stroke of serious bad luck, we had stumbled on the section where the ill President was stationed, we were done for. But if I denied, in the presence of my children that I had spent years teaching how to remain steadfastly honest under any circumstances, I would have lost the high ground to inspire them – ever!
“Look, we know you are a journalist,” the silent one answered for me. He brought out a tiny recorder similar to the one I usually tuck into my inner jacket (just in case).
“Your thing fell down around Point 2, so we know your game.” I was too stunned to think of a sensible response. I touched my body instinctively, my ‘midget’ was missing.
“See, I’m not attached to any media now… these are my family, ask them, we are on holidays. I swear, we have no other reason being here.”
Suddenly, I heard a distinctly feminine voice behind the leafy façade. “Bring them here!”
Though I have never met her nor heard her speak anywhere, I knew that was Turai’s voice. Considering, all I’ve been reading in the past one year, I made the sign of the cross, as I herded my people towards the voice. At gun point, looking back at the fast disappearing rocky landscape of Abuja, I mumbled my last prayer.
fajswhatnots@yahoo.com or faj-alive@blogspot.com

Our music is dying slowly, and still smiling (4)

By Femi Akintunde-Johnson
THOUGH, the process I described last week may not hold true for all of today’s young stars; a large chunk of them follow scripts similar to that foolishness. So, you can easily assume that the so-called stars of today are on their way to the dustbin of history. Can they do something about it? The real question is: Will they do something about it? The answer is probably no! When you make the kind of money they have access to; or live in the esoteric falsehood of charmed stardom spawned by a consuming society, it is very difficult for such people to grapple with.
In any case, only those who have original talent can survive any reorientation. And then they must possess the common sense and willingness to reinvent themselves; wisely investing whatever they have amassed from the aberration; and studying diligently the course taken by their more illustrious forebears. Not depending on recorded CD’s to perform live music!
The other day, Wande Coal, a young artiste, revealed in an interview how Don Jazzy (a notable new culture producer and entrepreneur) discovered him. The producer realized he could sing, and went on to lay tracks for him. All Wande needed to do was to put his voice to the ‘sound’ created by Don Jazzy. He had no idea how the music was stringed, synthesized and laid. He just threaded the beats through his own natural muse, and lyrics long suppressed simply gushed out. How can such an artiste last long? How will he ever be able to sustain a band; remix and restructure his beats, and remain relevant, long after his name is no longer able to stick on D’Banj and Don Jazzy?
Let me give some examples to illustrate my point. During the course of reporting music, I would visit Femi Kuti while practicing on his sax. All by himself. He’d spend hours puffing at his instrument; nodding quietly as some compositions coursed through his brain…you need not be told that the genii of music were releasing creative toxins that needed to be charted, sifted and stored. It was such a beautiful thing just watching him evolve and create. I have also witnessed Lagbaja in his quiet, contemplative, compositional elements…I am always awed at their incredible devotion and concentration. There are few others too.
So, when such musicians refuse to “die”, it is simply because they can reposition, reinvent and revitalize their craft and style on a platform that is alive, evolutionary and controllable by them: the band. Talent and band management can go a long way to make you live long beyond the immediacy of your music.
Look at Pa Fatai Rolling Dollars. What will make an 83-year old musician come back strong, after a 30-year hiatus? Beyond packaging and timely intervention: his old band created the music a new band is now regurgitating in ‘hip’ baggage. Suddenly, we realize that “Won Kere Si Number” of the 60’s can find some level of acceptance in 21st century. If Dollars can be stabilized by more focused and energetic management team, his wintering days will be far greater that his youth.
Another is Commander Ebenezer Obey, who along with Sunny Ade, clutched the Nigerian musical world by the jugular for two decades. Though some critics lampooned him for returning to secular music long after he abandoned it for the Lord’s vineyard, I think they are myopic. His musical antecedents had illustrated that the best of his music were embellished in biblical imagery. He sang God before he ‘met’ God. Even Paul, the greatest of the Apostles, recognized that a minister of God must not be a burden to his church. Paul returned to his tent-making job even after planting several parishes. His credo: He who does not work should not eat. Running a music band is his work. He can return to it, not only to consolidate his position as a composer of extraordinary talent, but as a successful manager of men and music. Except it’s proven that he exalts men over God, the ex-Miliki man is justified to return to music, albeit with distinct modifications, to reflect his new pristine status.
So also can Onyeka (after politics), Igbokwe (after business), etc…because they have undeniable capacity to manage the sustenance of timeless music: the band. I end my case, for now.
fajswhatnots@yahoo.com or faj-alive@blogspot.com

Our music is dying slowly, and still smiling (3)

By Femi Akintunde-Johnson
WHEN you look at the staying power of redoubtable musicians such as King Sunny Ade, Admiral Dele Abiodun, Sir Shina Peters, Femi Anikulapo Kuti, Majek Fashek, Ras Kimono; and performers/singers like Alhaji Agba Sikiru Ayinde Barrister, Kollington Ayinla, Wasiu Ayinde (K1), Onyeka Onwenu, Christy Essien Igbokwe, Orlando Julius, Salawa Abeni, and a number of others; the most significant common ground is the fact that they have sustained and solidified their relative musical reputation, legacy and relevance in the past 20 years, at least.
After those mentioned, the second generation of artistes digging hard and deep into our consciousness include Lagbaja, Adewale Ayuba, Pasuma, Sunny Neji, and few others.
Most of these artistes, with few exceptions, were trained professionals, instrumentalists and long-standing bandleaders. You see, music business is first a business, then an art form.
These unfading and constant-as-a-northern-star musicians and singers built their bands painstakingly, to run smoothly and professionally, such that even if they are not there as headliners, the band will sail without losing steam.
That was the reason Egypt 80, Fela’s band, rallied and sallied from when Fela died (and Femi, with his own band, could not possibly sustain his father’s), until Seun, the last of the Anikulapos, was old enough to ascend his father’s ‘throne’.
Now, Egypt Band is contesting the grounds, and reclaiming the glory, “gradually, gradually”.
My point is this: any music form (it doesn’t matter by what tag it’s called) which joints and sinews are not firmly rooted in a solid band management infrastructure, its end has begun even at the first album.
The hottest music of today are recorded on CDs and DVD compilations; sold on the streets and corners; played endlessly on radio and (if they cobble up a video production) on television… and pronto a star is born. But the cornflakes can only taste sweet for a moment.
The poor artiste does not bother that he has begun the burial ceremony of his musical talents and relevance with his excitement to “get out there and be appreciated”.
He cares only that he can enter the studio without any inkling of how to play any instruments; beg or bribe a studio rat to pretend as his producer; lay his voice to beats he has never heard before, or lifted from pirated beat-making software. Yeah! He’s got a great feeling “this thing” will blast. He runs to the profiteer marketer otherwise known as pirate; begging him to slot his “single” (if not all the entire tracks) into one of the pirate’s numerous ‘Hottest Hits In Da House!’ If the pirate is reluctant, unsure if the untested “hit” being canvassed by the aspiring star would catch the unquenchable thirst of the Hit-loving music freaks, the young man flings himself up, amusing the pirate with his readiness to pay so as to get just a song on the ‘compilations’.
And yes, he pays the pirate to help him ‘pirate’ his own work (no contracts; no indemnity; complete ‘dash’). Frankly, he doesn’t catch the macabre irony. He just wants his chance to be a star.
Shocked? He has just begun. If he’s “lucky”, you begin to hear the song on radio… he makes the rounds, getting in the faces of notable DJs. If need be, running errand for them. He joins a posse (a group of creative malcontents), showing up at shows on the apron strings of more accomplished, more pirated “superstars”… he gets photographed… interviewed, and ghost-written… and viola… a new star is born. He starts getting shows, concerts and “mouth-watering” deals. He goes ballistic! Mission accomplished.
His sense of importance is exploded by unquestioned and pedestrian media adulation; uncritical fawning of fans and admirers. And the singer/pretender-musician loses the plot. He forgets the reason he was blessed with the raw talents: to make the world more tolerable, and sustain a profitable and pleasure-giving posterity for himself, his family and community. He does ask about Pa Fatai Rolling Dollars, Commander Ebenezer Obey… how they came back after long hiatus. What makes them still tick…?

fajswhatnots@yahoo.com or faj-alive@blogspot.com