Of wit and the people who don't get it

It gets a little unnerving when even someone you have slept with for over a year does not get your witty remarks. Ordinary mortals would begin to question the very genesis of their sense of humour. It is one thing to have your wit bounce over those you work with - they usually have the IQ of a Microsoft Windows computer and it is quite acceptable to look down upon them. Quite another, however, when that happens with someone who is aware of how many moles you have in those regions of your body that you never saw yourself.

Thank the devil for life's small favours then that I am neither ordinary nor a mortal. So what if I choose to work the numbers on my laptop in a Salsa club teeming with hot women tapping their feet to some lovely music? Could any ordinary mortal resist the lure of giving in to the temptation? That I don't know Salsa from Dirty Dancing (not much difference, or is there?) notwithstanding.

I have made it abundantly clear that I don't discriminate on the basis of race, colour or marital status. Up until yesterday I did not know if I actually believed in it or if it was an illusion I had built up around me. Anyway. The woman in reference called me at what can be described as the best time of the day - the 15 minutes before wake up time. We are still on good terms though now there is nothing between us. Not even a sheet! He he he. Could not pass up making an innuendo. My bad.

So we get talking about this woman I meet at the club. Not like I want to grow old with her or something. I have an eye that tends to appreciate the finer aspects of life, and let us leave it at that. She is married. In fact, that was the first thing that I noticed about her. Did not make an iota of a difference. But that is all supporting information. Here is the part about the wit.

I tell the woman who called that the woman who does the Salsa is exactly my type. She knows what my type is - any woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to get it. She asked nonetheless. That was all the invitation I needed. The conversation went something like this:

Woman on phone: "So what is your type? Tall, beautiful, demure?"
Me: "Married."

C'mon. That was a good one. But it sailed right over her head. Or may be that is what happens to women post me. Withdrawal symptoms perhaps? Whatever it is, let me not try to analyse it lest I should get a thump on my skull.

Since I have never bothered with order on my blogs, let me continue with the tradition and digress. I think I am falling in love all over again. With my feet. I was giving myself a foot massage, and the skin was oh so soft! Like I was touching a baby. If there is ever such a thing as masturbating your vanity, then feeling your smooth feet would be it.

Leaving on a jet plane

It is no secret that I was meant for a different era. I have learnt to accept it with time. It is not easy to come to terms with it. Not effortless at all to finally make peace with the fact that you skipped a generation or two. In fact, quite demanding. Only more painful than writing a whole paragraph saying the same thing over and over again.

I love the old world, the world of the 60s and the 70s, the world of free sex, rock and roll, Ursula Andress and Sophia Loren, and no airport security. Anyone who has spent more time getting through baggage screening, metal detectors, and frisk searches than in flight would have the good sense to concur. Whether it is all for "our security" is questioning, especially since I did manage to 'sneak in' a can of deo in my cabin baggage just for the thrill of it. This woman I know has been carrying a cigarette lighter in her hand bag with elan.

Anyway. This is not about airport security. It is about the absence of it. For a good part of last week I have been travelling. Nigeria has no baggage screening in any of its airports. No aero-bridges, either. You just walk on the tarmac! Fantastic, isn't it? To still find the old world. I especially loved the Owerri airport. Well, it is a cargo airport doubling up as a passenger one since the Port Harcourt airport has been closed for what seems like forever. It is green all around. Lovely.

Abuja is the perfect example for lopsided development. In a country where three-fourths of the population lives below the poverty line, is a capital city of broad expressways, glittering hotels, and magnificent landscaping. It is the bride of Nigeria - all decked up as if she walked straight out of the bandbox.

We went to Dome, the only bowling alley in Nigeria. I don't know if bowling is a silly game or if it was the five double shots of vodka but I managed to score three strikes without ever having played the game before. Nah, it must be a silly game. I have consciously kept off bowling. I believe it is a game for the superficial snobs.

Flew down to Owerri the next day. The drive from Owerri to Port Harcourt is beautiful. Green everywhere, and a smooth stretch of the road too. Just try not to get involved with the booming business of the region - kidnapping for ransom - since you would mostly be on the wrong side of it. When you are not unnerved by the sight of burnt vehicles dotting the road, the sight of highway police greets you - they stop you virtually every two kilometres or so.

Port Harcourt is called the Garden City. Make no mistake, it is not like the garden city of India. The gardens here refer to the natural growth. It is gorgeous, nonetheless. Went to Choba the following evening. One of our instant noodles plants is in Choba. Basically did not do much there except have a jolly good time. Went to the plant sometime after midnight where I was quite the bundle of joy to discover that I still can recognise a shell and tube heat exchanger when I see one. Yes Dad, all that money you spent on my education did not go down the drain.

Chaand sifaarish jo karta hamaari deta woh tumko bataa
Sharmo haya ke parde giraake karni hai humko khata
Zid hai ab to hai khudko mitaana
Hona hai tujhmein fanaa

Humse door jaaoge kaise
Dil se hamein bhulaaoge kaise
Hum woh khushboo hain jo saanson mein baste hain
Khud ki saanson ko rok paaoge kaise

Saw Fanaa. Finally! I was wrong, and it is not often when that happens. They still know how to pen lyrics. And they still know how to write good Urdu shaayari. As the song goes, 'Subhaan Allah'!

Kan o!

I have had my fingers in a few pies - both the metaphorical and the American variety, if you get my drift. This post is not about the latter. Partly, because my sister reads my blog. Mostly, because I really really really wish to avoid being run over by a mob of pissed women should I choose to discuss their pies or my fingers in them out in the open. Also, that would be crass. I like to maintain the delusion of class, not only as far as others are concerned.

That is important to me. For instance. You won't catch me dead with an unattractive woman. So what if I don't go out with women at all, or rather they choose to not go out with me. The point is you won't catch me dead with an unattractive one. In fact, that statement is oxymoronic. I have not come across any woman who is unattractive, though there are those with unattractive feet and those with unattractive minds.

May be that is a delusion too. No matter. The charm of delusion lies in that with time you do not know if you are deluded or if reality has moulded itself to fall in line with your delusion. That does not mean you are not able to differentiate fantasy from life. There is no difference, save that fiction makes sense. Besides, nothing exists except atoms and empty space. Everything else is an opionion.

But this is definitely real. I have the plane tickets to prove it. I was in Kano last week. Beautiful place. As different from Lagos as the colour of Jenna Jameson's hair on her head is from that between her legs. It is a medieval kind of place, one frozen in time. It was the biggest centre of commerce in Nigeria. The political power and the money still wrests with the people here. The weather was lovely - cool and breezy like Pilani in late October. The atmosphere of the city is laid back, and it has a very welcoming air to it.

I realised something this Saturday. I have very strong thighs. I have lovely feet too, and I am not the only one to say it. I know a gorgeous woman who concurs. Anyway. About the thighs. I did not take a moment to sit from 10 in the morning to 7 in the evening on Saturday. There was the year end customer party we threw. Huge guest list. 1200 people. Kept moving around all the time, talking to customers, doing the PR, things of that sort. Took a few shots of flaming B-52s at the end of the day to feel the blood running through my legs again. But it was all worth it.

I need to invest in a mosquito net. Nothing else keeps these blood suckers at bay. I have slept with LGMFs (Little Green Motherfuckers). They were bad, very very bad. But African mosquitoes are goddamn fantastic. Usually Indian mosquitoes respect air-conditioning. The bitches here laugh in the face of it, even when my room is cold enough to keep meat fresh for weeks.

All whores are bitches but all bitches are not whores. Interesting aside I came up with today while I was in that wonderful period of drifting in and out of sleep. A whore is a bitch because she does not care which dog rams her for she gets what she wants when it is done. A bitch is not a whore because she gets what she wants before it is all done. However, the act is always done. It is the chronology that differs.

Aside bonus: Why is love so hard to get once you find it?