Another kind of idiot

I’ve never had dry eye before, so when I started having a stinging sensation under my eyelid, I turned to Google. Apparently, wearing contacts can dry out your eyes. WebMD recommended eyedrops for short-term relief so off I went to the little grocery store near my office.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who spent a while browsing before heading to the pay. I did pull out my phone to compare Clear Drops with Visine. Clear Drops won.

At the counter, after serving the person in front of me, the attendant asked, “Did you put anything in your pocket?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I was busy serving someone so I couldn’t tell if you did.”

I silently pulled out my phone, car keys and wallet from my pockets.

He looked down and nodded. He must have seen something in my eyes when his met mine because he took a step back.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“Here,” I handed him the eyedrops and my credit card. I was pretty sure any excuses he had would only make me angrier.

The eyedrops worked, thankfully, but I doubt I’ll be going in there in the future.

Rant of today: writing

I can forgive its/it’s.

You’re/your,  their/there/they’re are barely tolerable.

If I was/if I were or there’s/there’re could be considered nitpicking.


“She’s a beautiful women.”
“I’m a strong well adjusted women.”

Am I missing something? Is it now one women, two womens,  three womenz?

It’s your language for Pete’s sake! Amazingly, some of you have the gall to self-righteously tell others,  “You’re in America. Speak English!”

At the Bus Stop

I got out of my AI class tonight at 9pm then headed to Ralph’s to pick up some deodorant and mangoes.

Getting to the bus stop, I nodded to the guy waiting there then took my phone out to check the scheduled time for the next Metro bus. Slow app loading. I need to replace this phone, but only after I get a car, then replace my laptop.


I looked up to find him standing in front of me. At first glance, I took in the white hoodie, braided hair and sunken eyes, then I noticed he was swaying on his feet.

Great, a drunk. Just my luck.

He started saying something, but I had a hard time understanding what he said. It came out “blegh, blegh blegh, nigga, blegh.” Well, back to my phone. I don’t like the word, never use it myself, and if you’re panhandling, don’t call me “nigga” even if you happen to be black.

“Blegh, blegh, put the phone away.”

He seemed to be doing most of the talking with his tongue, and he had invaded my personal space. I could smell a mix of alcoholic fumes as well as a rancid odor that could only come from having an entirely white tongue.

“You know what I want.”

Ok, what’s this? A stickup? Would he be happy with just my phone? There’s nothing in my wallet, but it has all my cards and my driver’s license which took three months to get here. What does he have — a gun or a knife?

I could feel goosebumps rise on my neck as my fight or flight instincts kicked in while he kept rambling, then I heard the words “Crips” and “put away that damn phone.” I complied.

“I don’t have anything on me. I’m just a student,” I said as calmly as I could.

I got more babble. Luckily he wasn’t one of those vehement speakers who spit when they talk.

“I’m sorry I don’t understand what you want. I’m not from around here,” I tried to explain.

Now he got angry.

“I know where you from but you don’t know where I’m from. Imma fuck you up. You got pretty eyes and shit. I seen you when you crossed the road.”

Ok, what’s going on here?

I kept looking behind me to see if any cops were around or the bus was coming.

“You want something? I’ll give you anything you want but you gotta give me what I want,” he continued.

I had absolutely no idea what he wanted. Was he a psycho? Was he someone like Vincent Weiguang Li?

“I wanna fuck yo ass.”


Surprisingly, the first emotion I felt was relief. I wasn’t in any danger.

He reached behind me but I stepped sideways to avoid him. I’ve been pinched by girls, even recently (and yes, I reciprocated). I’ve also been hit on by guys and I politely turned them down, but this was just too bizarre.

“Don’t fuck with me man. I know you want it,” he staggered after me. I seriously contemplated hitting him. 50-something and wasted drunk, a good uppercut would knock him out, but then I could kill him, especially if I used a shoryuken.

Luckily, I heard the hiss of the bus arriving. He boarded with me, and I quickly headed for the rear of the bus.

I’d never been so glad to see my housemate K–.

When we got off and I recounted my encounter, she said, “There’s always some crazy-ass people on the bus.”

Now I know why a lot of my friends are afraid to take the bus.


Before I turned 20, all the heroes in my stories were between the ages 20 and 24. I don’t know about others, but when I hear an age, I get these bars in my head that looked like this when I was 17:

0 mths – 2 yrs | 3 yrs – 7 yrs | 8 – 13 | 14 – 19 | 20 – 27 | 28 – 35 | etc…

I loved the 20-27 group which to me was the prime time of life. Everyone else was either too young or too old. Sure, everyone too old was wiser, but definitely lacking in vitality. 40 was middle-age and that never had a positive connotation for me. Mid life crisis anyone?

Silly, I now think, although what I find silly isn’t the grouping idea.

I think my perceptions were based on the ages of the people I interacted with. At 23, in some ways I still saw myself as a kid, so I was understandably surprised when someone asked for ‘Azuka’ and a 10-year-old kid pointed at me. “It’s that man.”

At some point I had crossed over from boyhood to manhood, and along the line, the “old” guys don’t look so old right now. I have quite a few friends in their forties, and nothing hit home like having a table tennis training partner exclaim, “You’re 23? Why, my youngest one is three years older than you are!”

Ouch. I thought he was in his early thirties.

I don’t have a problem with older people. They’ve mostly figured out a lot of stuff, and can watch in amusement while you do something that reminds them of their own antics. One cliche I’ve never encountered is the offended prudish old lady. They’re fun to flirt with and if you do the math, there is probably very little you can genuinely shock them with because they’ve seen and heard it all.

I have to struggle not to talk down to people younger as well as the loss of interest when I find a girl is 20. Er, you’re my little brother’s age. No, no, no.

In many ways I have discovered age is just a number. 60 year olds acting like kids and throwing tantrums? Check. Ten year olds making acute observations and dispensing advice? Check.

So how do I end this? Remember I promised not to worry about getting it perfect before posting?


Do actresses get turned on?

Do actresses get turned on?

I suppose so. Everyone does at some point. Now why exactly is Azuka asking such a strange question at 12:24am on a Saturday morning?

I don’t believe I’ve ever watched a TV show or movie without stopping to Google some interesting fact that comes up. Usually, that leads to me following more links and getting sidetracked for hours.

Tonight while watching a show where the actress chews on three stacked hamburger patties, I found myself wondering how many takes it took to get it right, and if she spat the food out right after — she didn’t swallow. I know wine-tasters have to do that with drinks.

I typed “do actresses” with the intention of following it up with “spit out food when making a movie” and Google suggested “get turned on.”

Apparently, there are thousands of people out there looking for an answer to this question.

I am now one of them.


I haven’t had very good experiences with dogs. They terrified me as a kid and one of my earliest scary memories involved having a neighbor’s growl at me. I took off and of course it chased me, caught up and pulled my shorts down. Everyone thought it was funny but I vividly remember lying face down with my shorts tangled around my ankles screaming because I thought I’d been bitten.

Most of our neighbors who had dogs went for the scary hulking ones so running away from them was something I got very used to. “Beware of wild dog” is a gate sign you find very frequently in Nigeria.

Cats on the other hand I always thought were cute. I don’t really want to own one though. Not enough time.

When I initially started looking for a place to live, I wasn’t particularly keen on living with pets because I’ve never lived with any. My potential landlady kept putting off my move in date. Luckily, the place next door was renting, which brings me to these guys.

Meet Cookie, JP and Mochi.




Cookie is an interesting fellow. The moment he hears the door open he races down the stairs, then races back up to fetch a toy which I have absolutely no idea what to do with. I pet him a few times, but I’m still the wary dog-phobe. I don’t hate them, but I’m not exactly friendly either, especially when they try to lick me. Today he pushed Mochi down and furiously bumped him. I had no idea what to say.

JP seems to be warming up to me. He only likes the lady in the room opposite mine, so I frequently hear him scratching at her door adding to be let in. The minute I approach he takes off. I caught him barfing just outside my door once — urgghh. Recently he’ll come up to me but stay just out of reach.

Mochi follows me around and has done so right from when I was still looking the house over. His motto seems to be “if you can’t succeed, just keep trying” which can be annoying when I’m trying to cook and he wants to get at my ingredients. I’ve let him in my room a couple of times but he left hair all over my stuff, so for now it’s strictly petting anywhere outside my room.

Living with pets isn’t so bad if you’re not taking care of them, and that leaves me with not wanting to have any.