Bald Men Do Not Buy Combs

Travelling through London Victoria station last night I couldn’t help but notice a poster advertisement for a company called Hiscox Insurance (never heard of them either!). It read, “There is a reason why bald men do not buy combs”. I thought it was quite funny but I didn't understand it at the time. I tucked it away in my mind and unpacked it slowly on the way home.

A little research revealed the concept behind the poster. Hiscox Insurance sells insurance products to small businesses. It is not uncommon for small businesses and individuals to purchase insurance products which include coverage for things that they may never use or need. For example, you wouldn't need insurance for earthquakes if you don’t live in a part of the world where such natural disasters happen.
However, many insurance products offered by the large corporates tend to wrap up more areas than may actually be needed by small businesses. Enter Hiscox Insurance!! Their niche in the market is to provide small businesses with cheaper and tailored insurance products. In simple terms, the insurance products sold to ‘MTN Nigeria Plc’ should be different from products sold to ‘Osareme Ugbodaga and Sons Limited’.

I find that in life, we often carry around baggage that we (knowingly and unknowingly) pick up from friends, family, work, play, relationships. With time, this could potentially become both emotionally (and financially) expensive and draining. In simple terms, pick up only what you need to carry and leave the rest. In the George Clooney movie ‘Up in the Air’ (2009), he uses a similar analogy when he gives the lecture titled "What's In Your Backpack?" where he extols the virtues of a life free of burdensome relationships with people as well as things.

As we progress in 2011, I think we could all do with less baggage in our lives. You don’t have to be going physically bald (like me unfortunately) before you realise that you don’t need to buy a comb.

Flying London to Lagos? 10 reasons why Arik Air isn't such a great customer experience

I love Nigerian entrepreneurs and will proudly fly a Nigerian carrier to Lagos from anywhere in the world if the circumstances are justified. I would rather patronize ‘my own’ country’s fledgling services just to identify with the spirit of entrepreneurship. Arik Air describes themselves on their website as ‘a wholly-owned Nigerian airline with a commitment to the people of Nigeria to deliver new standards in aviation’. However, on a recent trip to Lagos by Arik Air, I had reasons to question the entire customer experience. Here are ten of them:

1. The Arik Air website does not provide a means for you to make on-line payments for flight reservations. You only find out after searching frantically for a 'Payment' button. There is no information on their website informing the customer that on-line payments are not possible. In this age of electronic payments being offered by almost EVERY world class air carrier, this is not only shocking but also NOT in their own best interests. I understand the worries about internet and credit card fraud; but surely there are proven ways to securely collect payments online.

2. Anyway, after you’ve decided your dates, you can make a reservation online. You are given a reference number for your reservation. With the reference number in hand, you have to call up a service centre (on a premium rate 0844 number may I add) to find out how to pay. This adds at least another £5 to your bill (when you factor in the time spent waiting in the call queues listening to elevator music).

3. When you finally get through to a service centre agent, you learn that the only form of payment accepted is cash. Also, payment MUST be made in person, in cash, at any branch of Barclays Bank. I don't expect that many potential travelers have £800 lying idly in their accounts. Imagine if a family of four were planning to travel. They would need at least £3, 200 CASH….CASH! Sadly with Arik, there is NO recourse to your credit cards. This must surely discourage patronage of Arik Air. The service centre agent reads out a bank account number into which you are expected to make your payment. She advises you that you have a limited time to do this otherwise you could lose your reservation.

4. You have to put your schedule on hold and make time to physically go to your bank (assuming you do not bank with Barclays) to withdraw the total cash value of your ticket. Again, this must surely discourage would be travelers who do not have the time to do this. In addition, withdrawing such large amounts of cash arouses and attracts suspicion in some climes. You need to appear composed and at ease or else the cashier may ask you some additional security questions just to be sure you’re not pulling a fast one. It doesn't matter that it is your money in your account. You see, cashiers are trained to make psychological evaluations of people withdrawing uncommonly large sums of cash. Lack of eye contact, sweat on your forehead, fidgeting from one leg to another and general impatience will not help your case.

5. If you're unlucky not to bank with Barclays, you have to travel from your bank branch to a Barclays bank branch carrying the huge sum of money, risking becoming bait for the nifty London pickpockets. The best advice is to find a branch of your bank where you do not have to travel too far to a Barclays branch.

6. If you go at peak times, you will most likely have to queue at the Barclays branch. As it is likely that you can only do this kind of transaction during your lunch break (if you are a 9 to 5 worker), you are likely to be caught in the middle of the rush hour.

7. On the bank pay-in slip, you will need to write your full name and the reference number you received when you made your reservation earlier on-line. This is a necessary step, the Arik agent tells you, to enable them trace your payment. At this point, you should rightfully begin to worry about your money getting lost in some manual and archaic tally number system.

8. While you ponder this, the Barclays cashier begins to eye you with suspicion. You see, he or she is trained to....you guessed right, 'to perform psychological checks on people paying in huge cash sums'. The fact that you're black and speak with a Nigerian accent only makes things worse. Remain calm and make eye contact as you watch the cashier use her magic highlighting pen to test each bank note to determine that you haven't presented counterfeit notes.

9. Cash validation and payment completed, you need to note the name and location of the Barclays branch you've just visited. You will have to call Arik Air again (on the same premium rate number...cue another £5) and tell the agent who you are, the bank branch where you made the payment, WHEN you paid it in and how much you paid in.

10. If you're expecting to receive immediate confirmation that your ticket has been issued, you're wrong! The agent tells you that they'll need to confirm receipt of your payment (likely to take between 24 and 48 hours) before your ticket can be issued. After a nail biting wait, you receive an email saying that your ticket has been issued. Congratulations…you can now fly Arik Air to Lagos!

In fairness to Arik Air, their aircraft is modern, spacious, and clean and appears to be well maintained. The cabin crew conduct themselves professionally and in a courteous manner (you somehow expect the worst with Nigerian air carriers). The best part is that they seem to ‘get’ Nigerian air travelers (unlike some other airlines I have travelled with) and our unique flying behaviors and seem to handle it quite well. Arik Air offers relatively affordable prices for flights to Lagos. It is a shame that the customer experience they offer is not much more of a bargain as well.

PS: I have one more poor customer experience to note. The flight to and from Lagos (six hours each way), for me, was rather forgettable as the in-flight entertainment system was broken and didn’t work both ways!

Part 2: The mystery of the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap''

Continued from Part 1 below...

11:00am – The automated announcement system reads out #60. I begin to hope. Ten minutes later, ticket #61 is called up. My heart starts to beat faster. After what seems like an eternity, #62 is called. I mentally punch my fist in the air and suppress a shout of Hallelujah! I squeeze my way through the crowds to the counter where a bored looking official points my attention to a poster on the glass partition. He asks, “Do you have this paper”? The paper he asks for is my appointment letter and evidence of payment. I present the paper and he scans and signs it. Still wearing his bored expression, he nods his head in the direction of the next cubicle and barks, “Next window”! At the next window, there’s an argument in progress with the lady official there. The man ahead of me appears to have some type of problem with his application. The lady official screams at him to clear away from her desk so she can attend to other people. The man, half kneeling, half begging, asks for her to have mercy on him. I recognize him as one of the hapless people who came last week and only to be locked out of the embassy. The poor guy came with his wife and baby. God only knows where from and how much it cost them to come here twice. I decide to be patient and let him finish. Lady official eventually reaches me, collects my passport and postal order of £20. She gives me a receipt. Obviously on edge from having screamed so much, she gives me a curt, “Go and wait until your name is called”. I presume she is referring to the Northern Nigerian embassy official who was calling names earlier. I wade back into the sea of sweaty humans and await the ‘salvation call’ from my ‘Northern Nigerian rescuer’. This time, I have to stand as there is no longer a seat.

11:30am – I’m still waiting for my ‘Rescuer’. The environment is becoming stuffy and hot. Body odour and soiled baby nappy smells permeate the room. I spot an embassy official meandering his way across the room. As he reaches the middle of the room, a bald, thickly set Ibo guy (whom I shall call Mr Advocate) in my vicinity shouts at him, “Excuse me, is that television not working?” I didn’t even notice the television until our advocate asks the question. The room goes very quiet for a few seconds as all eyes turn to the embassy official who by now must be wishing he was a fly on the wall. He meekly replies, “I don’t know where the remote control is.” ‘Mr. Advocate’ shouts back at him, “Can you not operate it manually?” All eyes are still on the embassy official, who by now, realising that he has become the object of the collective frustrations in the basement and perhaps fearing for what is left of his pride, stammers something unintelligible to Mr. Advocate and slinks away in a hurry. The room erupts in incredulous laughter. The non-functioning television suddenly becomes a metaphor for spin off jokes about Nigeria and how the entire country is non-functioning with our leaders appearing to be clueless to the solutions. The non-functioning television has now been added to Nigeria’s multiple problems.

11:50am – The ‘Rescuer’ returns and reads out a few more names. Again my hopes are dashed as there is still no salvation. I grit my teeth and return to the waiting position; shifting uncomfortably from one leg to another.

12:30pm – It is one and a half hours since I submitted my documents. Two young kids are being unruly near me. They’ve been going at it for some time, putting more strain on their mother, who has become increasingly cranky. I’ve never seen this done before but this woman manages to pull it off. She does what I call the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap’. With one hand (this must take some skill), she slaps BOTH unruly kids at the same time! Imagine that! As my eyes widen with wonder at the prowess of this Nigerian mother, a loud round of wailing from the two kids begins. Some elderly women start to berate ‘Cranky Mother’ for slapping her kids so hard. They say she’s lucky that she’s in Nigeria High Commission as that is the only place in London where she can get away with such high handed discipline. Having seen the unruliness that Cranky Mother has had to put up with for the past half hour, I mentally disagree with the old women’s view, still wondering how the slap was perfectly executed!

12:35pm – I notice that there is a sudden buzz in the room. People start to talk in hushed tones as if heralding the arrival of some celestial being. There are no trumpets or clashing cymbals to announce him …but there he is, my ‘Rescuer’! He shuffles the passports and documents in his hand and soon shouts my name. From the back of the room, I raise both hands and shout, “I am here!” and make my way towards him. As I try to find a gap in the crowd, a woman makes a remark to her daughter in Yoruba about my surname. I laugh to myself at how she wrongly assumes that because of my surname (non Yoruba) that I do not understand what she said. To be honest, I am too ecstatic to care anyway. My name has been called, my time in this basement prison is over and I am cleared to make my way upstairs to the ‘Holy Grail’ of the Nigerian High Commission—the fingerprinting and photographing room.

12:35pm to 1:30pm – I spend some time waiting in the fingerprinting room which is pleasantly air-conditioned and not crowded. Things are much more organised up here with embassy officials walking with business-like urgency from one room to another. The fingerprinting and photographing process takes a few more minutes than I hoped but I don’t mind; my ordeal is nearly over. At 1:30pm, I walk towards the exit of the embassy proudly clutching a stamped piece of paper bearing my passport collection date (generally 10 days from when you submit your application). As I emerge into the sunlight, I am greeted by a crowd of angry Nigerians all shouting one thing or another. A group of mothers who have been told that they cannot take their prams and push chairs into the building (i.e. the basement) due to lack of space remonstrate very loudly with the poor embassy official who I fear might soon be the victim of a stampede as the women angrily insist that they must be allowed to take their baby transporters in. I squeeze my way through the crowd and as I walk up the street, I sight two officers of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch making their way on horseback towards the scene of the commotion. You can take the Nigerian out of Nigeria, but you cannot take Nigeria out of the Nigerian.

Note: It would be a great idea to gather a group of London Based change/transformation/process improvement consultants together with a view to offering pro-bono services to the Nigerian High Commission. If anyone knows the management at the High Commission and if they would be receptive to or interested in such an intervention, please contact the author of this blog.

Part 1: The mystery of the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap' and other observations from the Nigerian High Commission in London

Prologue: This is a collection of random observations from my day at the Nigerian High Commission in London where I went to apply for a new passport. I must commend the officials at the High Commission for their mostly professional and approachable attitude in spite of the frustrating conditions they appear to work in. It was refreshing to observe the manner in which they dealt with simple enquiries and highly agitated applicants. Sadly, such praise cannot also be given to the appalling level of organisation at the High Commission. For those considering applying from the UK, the process takes about five hours in total. To start the process, please go to: https://portal.immigration.gov.ng

8:15am – I arrive at the Nigerian High Commission in time for my ‘appointment’ (please note that this word doesn’t really mean anything at the High Commission). I am mistaken into thinking that I am early enough until I sight the queue (over 500 meters long by then) that has already wrapped itself around the building on Northumberland Avenue. There must be at least 100 people ahead of me. I imagine that some people must have arrived here for 6am with hopes of getting in early. The chatty guy in front of me, with the South Eastern Nigerian accent, makes a joke to a Caucasian man ahead of him advising him to go round the corner to Selfridges and buy some patience. The Caucasian man chuckles in response. He’ll need patience. Little do I realise that we’ll all need lots of it before the day runs out.

9:00am – Friendly banter with other applicants on the queue keeps me occupied. It turns out that most of us on the queue had been given appointments on Thursday and Friday of the previous week; only for us to arrive and find the embassy locked up. What was the reason? The Federal Government declared those two days a public holiday and the embassy officials decided to shut down operations without and warnings or contingency plans being communicated to the hapless Nigerians who had come from all over the UK to honor their appointments. As we exchange stories in the queue, we jointly wag our collective finger at the poor organisation of our High Commission.

9:05am – About fifty minutes later, I finally arrive at the entrance. An official standing just inside the door is remonstrating in a loud voice with someone. I hear raised voices. Fortunately, no fists are involved. The official stretches out his hand and asks me for my current passport and payment/interview confirmation. He gives it a quick look over and lets me in. I’m directed to a basement room where I quickly scan the room (about 20ft by 40ft in size) and notice that it is nearly full already. Another official hands out ticket numbers depending on the purpose of your visit. I quickly find a place to sit. I’m lucky to find one.

9.30am – I slowly take in my surroundings and in the process, I notice that the air conditioning appears to be struggling to cope. The basement soon fills up. People are starting to stand in every available space. I wonder if there isn’t a health and safety law being brazenly flouted here by allowing this many people into such limited space. I quickly scan the room and make a mental note of the fire exits…just in case we need to evacuate! Surely they can’t possibly fit more people in here. I am wrong. More people continue to arrive. If we all have ‘appointments’, then why are we all here at the same time?

9:35am - The embassy has an automated announcement system which appears to be calling out the pre-assigned numbers every 10 to 12 minutes. They are at number #28 when I get in. Deep sigh. My number is #62. An embassy official appears and begins to call out names in a high pitched Northern Nigerian accent (Hausa). I smile to myself. It is always refreshing to hear a northern accent in London. I have a theory that Yoruba speakers (from South Western Nigeria) constitute the bulk of Nigerians living in the UK. As said official reads out the names of people who have obviously completed the first hurdle of the application process, I notice that one in every five names appears to be South Eastern, South-South or Northern Nigerian. The rest are Yoruba. In the microcosm of the Nigerian High Commission, my demographic theory is proven! Take that Lord Malthus!

9:45am – I am stirred from my musings when I hear a woman at the counter yelling at an embassy official. The embassy official appears unfazed and stands his/her ground. He or she is probably immune to this kind of attitude. It’s probably a routine job hazard I guess. The loud woman backs down. I guess she realises that she will get nowhere with ‘gra-gra’ (Yoruba slang for unruly behavior). She calms down and adopts a more conciliatory tone and interjects her sentences to the official with ‘please’. Nice. At least someone is finally crossing the social evolution barrier.

10:00am – “Oloyun O p’omo O!” This is a familiar shout in Lagos meaning that people should make way for a heavily pregnant woman trying to board some form of public transport whilst carrying another child on her back (truth be told, Lagos bus conductors also use this as a veiled insult to overweight women or those blessed with generous backsides). As some pregnant women squeeze their way around the embassy basement, I wish someone would shout this on their behalf. Everywhere I look, there are infants and toddlers screaming to the heavens and mothers losing the battle to calm and control them. For some kids, I imagine this might be their first ‘taste’ of Nigeria. One kid manages to sneak his way into the ticketing office unattended. An embassy official grabs the hyper active kid, raises him in the air by the arm and shouts, “Who get this pickin (child) oh?” I love my country!

10:30am – I slip back into my musing. There are a few Caucasians and mixed race people around. There are lots of reasons to travel to Nigeria. However, tourism isn’t usually one of them. I guess they’re mostly going to Nigeria for work. The Caucasians stand around the embassy basement in different states of despair. “Welcome to Nigeria”, I say to them in my mind. There are some who appear to be of mixed parentage/dual nationality who I assume may be planning to visit family. If there is one country that has contributed significantly to the propagation of mixed race peoples on this earth, it must be Nigeria. With our citizens living (legally or illegally) in almost every country on this planet, this should not be surprising. I go back to observing the Caucasians. Suddenly, an interesting distraction walks in. She is a stunningly beautiful woman who appears to be of Ethiopian/Sudanese extraction. I immediately sense a collective holding of breath by all the men folk in the room. She flashes a smile at the ticketing official who seems to be transfixed by her flawless looks. She picks up her ticket from his frozen hand and meanders to find standing space at the back of the room. I watch as the men folk innocuously follow her graceful movement with their eyes and then let out their collective breath when she reaches the back of the room and buries her head in a book. The interesting diversion is over. However, the rest of the day holds far more interesting diversions such as the 'One Handed-Double Impact slap'.

Concluded in Part 2

The American experiment

These days all I seem to hear is the question, "So when are you getting married?" Well seeing as I am not a hermaphrodite and cannot marry myself, it is only necessary that I find someone to marry (who by the way also needs to agree to do this marriage business with me). This dating thing is actually more difficult than I thought. Having recently come out of a long term relationship, I feel like a footballer who hasn't kicked a ball all season and now finds that he must play a crucial Champions League game. I am bound to put a foot wrong somewhere.

Like many young unmarried people, there is no shortage of offers to 'help'. I suddenly feel like the object of a charity campaign on British television with slogans screaming 'Your donation can save these dying children'. Conversations with friends and family these days tend to end with questions such as: "Shall I give you my cousin/sister's/friend's number?" or "I know this girl; the two of you would be great together!" I genuinely appreciate the concern and while I do not doubt their sincerity, I doubt that the cacophony of voices is actually helping my case. "Listen to your heart", someone said. Well, the problem is that I cannot trust my heart to decide anything these days.

A few weeks ago, I received a phone call from an uncle. He had just returned from a trip to Atlanta where at a family function, he happened to catch up with his niece, Sade, and learned that she was single. “Bling!” went the light bulb in his head as it immediately occurred to him that Sade and I could be great for one another. In collaboration with Sade's mum, they hatched a plan to 'hook us up'. He explained this to me and my immediate reaction was to object to the whole idea. He insisted that I at least make her acquaintance. He went so far as to offer to set the scene (without the stereotypical Barry White music of course!). I would go over to his place at a prearranged time, he would make the call, introduce us then leave the room, allowing Sade and I to 'meet' each other.

On the appointed day, I arrived one hour late! This was not an attempt to make a grand entrance or appear to be fashionable. Uncle was not happy about it. Sade had waited for 30 minutes and had had to leave. I apologised and waited patiently for 2 hours for Sade to return. In that time, I actually considered calling the experiment off and bolting out the door. When Sade eventually answered the phone, Uncle did his bit, handed me the phone and left the room according to plan.

I had already been given the low down Sade. Two years younger than me and single, her family had relocated from Nigeria when she was 8 years old. She had never been back since (first red flag!). She had gone on to excel as a track and field athlete and many awards and medals later, she won a sports scholarship to study Pharmacy at the prestigious University of Maryland. She was currently in the middle of her internship year and was preparing to launch her career. Uncle had showed me pictures on his computer from his last visit. Sade is quite good looking! Armed with this knowledge, I picked up the conversation making sure to apologise for my lateness. The call was brief. I stammered, sputtered like a faulty engine and spoke incoherently and after 10 minutes, it was clear we had very little in common. We exchanged contact details and promised to keep in touch. I felt unprepared and clueless. I likened my situation to an army sergeant recently discharged from active duty who bewilderingly finds that military tactics employed on the battlefields of Afghanistan are unsuitable for the tranquility of civilian life and even less so in the never-ending 'battle of the sexes'.

Uncle came back into the room with a glint in his eyes and wanted a status update. I explained that I thought it didn't go too well. He encouraged me to overcome my nerves and stick with the process. "She's a very busy girl", he said. "She's used to working with test tubes rather than meeting guys". "Yeah right!" I thought to myself. "Now I'm also supposed to be a lab rat for this weird social experiment?" I respect and appreciate Uncle a lot and I know he only meant well. I therefore decided to follow up the initial contact with Sade with emails, texts and phone calls. Her responses, when she bothered at all, were crisp, unenthusiastic and detached. I didn't need a palm reader to tell me to swallow my pride and stop wasting my time. I silently closed the chapter in my head and mouthed to myself the words, "Never again". I am not angry with Sade. I understand that it must be uncomfortable for her to be the family ‘case’ that everyone wants to solve. Surely, being ‘guided’ to meet some bloke from God-knows-where must be an unnerving experience!

Haruki Murakami, the acclaimed Japanese author in his book ‘What I think about when I am running’ put it very aptly…’I never could stand being forced to do something I didn't want to do at a time I didn't want to do it. Whenever I was able to do something I liked to do, though, when I wanted to do it, and the way I wanted to do it, I'd give it everything I had’. For me, this obviously wasn't one of those times when I felt convinced about a course of action and I therefore was not surprised it ended in failure. I have no doubt that arranged introductions, relationships and marriages work in some cases. When I do decide to get back into dating and relationships, I must be surefooted. No more weird experiments for me!

Tick! Tock!

I don't do mornings. I'm not one of those people who have the discipline to get up without prompt at 5:30am and start their day with lots of energy and enthusiasm. I need an alarm system to get me going. Even so, for maximum effectiveness, I have three different alarms set within 10 minutes of each other. Generally, after hitting the snooze button on the first two, by the time the third one kicks in, I have usually worked up enough guilt to get up, clear my head of cobwebs and stumble through my early morning routine. Most days, to my own surprise, I actually manage to get out in time.

Time, this intangible gift from God, is given to every living creature in different measure. Some, like the fabled tortoise, may live beyond 100 years. Others like the honeybee only live for a few weeks or months. With no sense of the brevity of its life, the latter (the worker bee variety) does its work diligently every day, cleaning the hive and collecting nectar for processing. Its tedious existence is further shortened once it releases its sting. Once the sting is discarded, the insect slows down and finds somewhere to die. Its life clock begins a downward spiral. Every day, we draw from our time account but lack the ability to put anything back in.

I've always wondered if life would be any different on earth if we all knew the day, month and year we would die. Would we live more fulfilling lives knowing our time here on earth is short? Would we be less selfish and more responsive of the needs around us? Or would we live life on the edge, sticking the middle finger at everyone, striving blindly, seeking only fame, fortune and glory?

These thoughts were recently heightened when news reached me of the death of the mother of a friend from cancer. My friend and her family had been battling this malaise for a number of years. They had received the sad diagnosis a few months ago that their mum only had a limited time to live. I had met this colleague of mine a few weeks earlier at her birthday party and though she put up a solid front, the fear, anxiety and sadness were just visible in her eyes. She is understandably still dealing with the pain.

Knowledge can sometimes be a burden. How does one live with the realisation that a ‘death sentence' has been passed on someone you love? How do you stand by and watch their life seep away slowly like the grains of sand in an hour glass; knowing that only a miracle could save them from the inevitable? How do you say goodbye? I've never faced this situation so I cannot pretend to know how it must feel. I however have met a few others who have had to fight this battle.

Rebecca (we called her Becky) was a tall, African beauty who was full of life. She lived with a boldness that was robbed from her when suddenly, she was diagnosed with cancer. I was friends with her family but didn't see too much of her in the months leading to her death. I heard that she was deteriorating fast. Her family was full of faith and never stopped praying for healing till she passed away in 1997 at the age of 33. I remember riding in the convoy of mourners to their village where she was laid to rest, my heart weeping for a life cut short in its prime. Buried in a desolate land but not forgotten.

Mrs. A was the wife of our Baptist pastor. I recall that despite her delicate features, she possessed strength of character and a zeal for God that was exemplary. She was a humble woman, serving diligently beside her husband in ministry and raising four lovely children who delighted everyone at church. When the news broke that she had cancer, the church with one voice petitioned heaven for healing. To the world outside, she remained stoic in the face of difficulty, showing no outward signs of illness. One day in 1996, she said goodbye to her family, closed her eyes and quietly passed to the world beyond. Gone too soon but always remembered.

Iwa was the sort of person who brightened your day just by saying hello. There was always a smile playing around her lips. She danced, she sang, she wrote poetry and she loved God. I wasn't that close to Iwa in her lifetime. Years after she died, I became good friends with Yolanda, her younger sister, and Cleo her widowed husband. Through Yolanda, I got to know more about Iwa, her passion for life and her testimony and how much her loss had left a vacum in the hearts of her family. Iwa died during childbirth on the 27th of November 2001 from complications caused by a previously undetected cancerous tumor. She was never to know or nurture her beautiful daughter, Isabella. Gone too soon but still celebrated in hearts and minds.

Globally, each year, *10.9 million people are diagnosed with cancer. Cancer Research UK further states that there are 6.7 million deaths from the disease. They also estimate that there are 24.6 million people alive who have received a diagnosis of cancer in the last five years. Statistics are even less accurate in Sub-Saharan Africa where the mortality rate is generally higher and where affordable healthcare less accessible. Cancer is like a suicide bomber. It quietly steals its way into a hitherto safe area and then pulls the trigger. Sometimes you hear the sound of the explosion and you can run, maybe even escape the tragedy. Many others never get a chance and can only stare death in the face, as powerless as a rabbit immobilized by the full glare of an oncoming train. I pause to remember others, like my dear friend Dede, who have very recently a lost loved one to this killer. My heart goes out to them and their families.

Today, I habitually snoozed my first two alarms again and rolled over to enjoy the stolen luxury of an extra half hour of sleep. As I prepared to turn my back on the third one, I was suddenly reminded of those to whom time gave no choice; and those who have to live with the knowledge that their time is limited and that each day is a gift, a blessing and an opportunity. I am humbled by the grace of God and the time I am blessed with. The Psalmist prays, "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalms 90:12).

This writer plans to run in a short distance marathon in 2010 in support of Cancer Research UK (http://www.cancerresearchuk.org).

*statistics are quoted from Cancer Research UK
* Some names and dates have been changed to protect confidentiality

The Third Room

...continued from My Sixty-Twenty window

You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theatre whom no one notices until she slips out. Then only those near the door themselves...notice. To the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room.
- Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones (2002)

Clive's back ached as he bent over to sweep up more shards of books and old papers which had somehow found their way into the most obscure corners of the room. His lithe black skin glistened with sweat in the hot October weather. To him this was as much of a necessary domestic chore as it was a mission to exorcise the personal demons which had hovered over his family for the past sixteen years, casting long dark shadows over whatever secrets they guarded in the mysterious Third Room.

In a few weeks, the house would again be filled with the sounds of laughter. Sue, their father's first child, was getting married; bringing genuine cause for celebration. This was perhaps the most significant event since the man's death sixteen years ago. Preparations were in top gear to sort out the traditional asó ébí clothing, catering, drinks, hall decorations, music, chauffeurs and bridal train. Clive mentally ticked the ever growing to-do list off in his head. It was bound to get busy in the flat very soon. Guests were expected from far afield. "As if the place wasn't cramped enough", he thought. There was only one place to put them though...the Third Room! It was no 'room with a view' but it would have to do. The lot had fallen to him to clean it out.

No one remembers what it looked like before it became known as 'the Third Room'. In those days, the children were small and young enough to share bunk beds in one room and so the Third Room was regarded as additional storage space for broken toys, elementary school books, old clothes and an occasional play area for hide and seek games.

The games ceased the day a truck pulled up in front of the house laden with possessions no one needed let alone knew what to do with. These were their father's books, his work things, his clothes and furniture from the new flat in the shiny capital city where he had been setting up a new home for them. The planned relocation never happened because one day the man was and then suddenly the fates cruelly ruled, and he was no more.

As Clive reflected on the events which transpired the day the truck pulled up, he remembered the jaded look on their mother's face as she directed the movers to store father's things in the Third Room. He and his sisters looked on curiously as their mom shut the door to the room and forbade them in solemn tones never to disturb its peace. It was as if Death had come to make its dwelling among the living. Like the tomb of a pharaoh, no one ventured in for fear of unsettling the spirits which lived within. From time to time, mice would find their way into the flat. After furtive attempts to evade capture, they usually ended up sneaking into the Third Room through the little gap under the door. No one bothered to go in after them for it was almost certain that they would never be seen again. Death claimed the rodents just as it had claimed the man whose possessions they dared trespass against.

The years passed and life slowly assumed a semblance of normalcy. Whatever lay behind the door to the Third Room was lost in mystery. One hot sweaty afternoon, the air-conditioning broke and someone remembered that a whole unit lay idle in the Third Room. It prompted a long discussion between him and his sisters about why perfectly useful furniture was being allowed to waste when it could be put to good use. When their mom returned that night, the kids presented their argument to her and strangely enough, she agreed they could go and check out the available option in the room.

The door creaked on its hinges as they pushed through to reveal the memories that had been painfully shut up many years since. The light bulb was long dead so someone lit a candle. The low yellow flame cast long eerie shadows along the walls as one by one they silently filed in. The kids held their breath as they watched the expression on their mom's face. Expecting a flood of tears, they were taken aback when she cheerily set the pace and began to explore. The woman had finally found a way to deal with the painful memories of her late husband. Sometimes the best way to deal with fear or pain is to confront them. This may be as simple (or as difficult) as stepping through doors that have remained closed for one reason or another.

This first step was the beginning of many visits to the room. The Third Room became a museum-cum-library-cum-refuge. You went there to sit and think, to pick up and read a dusty and dated volume from the piles of books/papers or simply to hide from the world and cry. "It still remained a dump though", Clive thought as he began cleaning out the rubbish that everyone had somehow continued to throw in there.

As he picked his way through the rubble, deciding what to salvage and what to destroy, he tried to piece together the forgotten years and wondered how different life would have turned out had the man been alive. Pity he would never know. Sometimes there are things we don't need to know; impossible thoughts that were best left alone. The fates may have robbed them of potentially life changing experiences but one thing was certain, there were many better ones to come.

Death had come like an unexplained breeze and had trapped time and memory in the Third Room. As Clive’s muscular arms wrestled the last window open, to ventilate the room, he felt like he had finally set them free.