A few weeks ago, an argument broke out on my twitter timeline. Now, for those of you who do not know, I follower twitter arguments with the same level of seriousness that Olympic contestants follow their training regimen. This particular argument was between two people who had attended the same secondary school – Loyola Jesuit College, Abuja. Now, I have forgotten the bone of contention, the same way you can’t remember what you had for lunch two days ago, but I still remember the fact that the girl said she went to prom.
Now for a second, I was sure I had misread. But then I backtracked and saw it again. She went to prom! Prom. PROM?! In Nigeria? Of all the crinkum-crankum higi-haga! I have only heard of people going to prom, in those inane high school movies Hollywood keeps churning out to ensnare the entire teenage girl population of the world into believing in the I-will-jump-off-a-cliff-wearing-nothing-on-my-feet-and-catch-a-bullet-between-my-teeth-for-you kind of love.
So why would a school in Nigeria arrange for PROM? Dear rich people, you guys suck! And by suck, I mean, I wish I was like you people.
Speaking of rich people, have you ever walked into a bank to deposit some hard-earned cash, and then right in front of you is this person about your age about to deposit a sum that makes the hard-earned cash in your hand begin to diminish in weight and size?
Like you are right there, in your work clothes, and you have managed to save up this amount of cash, after an intense battle with the urge to buy that shirt you really like, so that the only way you got to the bank without buying the shirt was to change your entire route… Instead of passing in front of the shop that sells that shirt, you decided to take an alternative route, about the same length as a round trip to London… And here you are, having overcome obstacles placed by the witches that say you won’t save money, the same witches that drive you to the beer parlor or Shoprite every month… And someone enters ready to save money that is ten times your salary.
And right there of course, your brain inadvertently jumps in to help you, in a bid to make you feel better, your mind cooks up such thoughts as: He has to be a ritualist, or a criminal, or a relative to a big politician. All these people are one and the same, you sneer. There, you feel better already.
The other day I was reading an article where someone interviewed little rich kids. One of the questions asked was: ‘How do you make a marriage work?’
And this little kid of about 8 responded, “You have to tell your wife she is beautiful, even if she looks like a truck.”
That is honestly the best piece of advice I have gotten from an eight-year-old.
Written by Chika Jones, tweets at @chika_jones