Abuja-O, true and fro

With Smitta Smitten

At sunset on the Wenski before my weekend in Abuja for the MTV MAMA’s mizzle, I met our real CEO, Tsar Paul W. (notta be mixed with Big Paul M, our share man) at the offices of a smaller mdosi, Peter G. Tsar Paul waz lookin’ longingly at the Barrack Obama portrait on Peter G’s wall, n I waz thinkin’, if I was tsar Paul, I’d simply abuse my power n spin Pete a memo goan — "Now, let’s have a talk regardin’ dat Obama portrait in ya office. The only ports allowed here are of the Baks." Next tyme G came to tha offy, Barrack d be up on me executive wall … n dare he say ‘ngwee.’ Heh heh.

Last tyme I waz in Russki, I brought tsar Paul a boddla vodoski. This tyme round, he was interested in ‘Naija powder,’ the finest tombakko north of Bamakko, tee hee hee.

Nxt day, at dawn, I waz on me way to JKIA wid diss feller called Ken, a cabby-man all tha way ferm Zimmerman. At tha airport, me, Tell-Em’s Ann Nderi n a peeps called Phil furlonged our way to Duty Free, where me n Drum’s Julie Masiga had a swigga of Count Pushkin’s vodoski, as Nameless n Wahu looked on in amazement. But, if the Game can gluck down dem dizzle, for shizzle so can the Smittle.

But my-oh-my, not Miz Masiga. At some point, tha smoke-a alarm went off kumbe twas she in tha loo-ski with a feggie. As head stewardess Florence tried ta contain the situation, Wyre’s chiqdee, Air Hanifa, waaz trying hard to calm Julie down.

Lagos

Anyways, by the tyme we landed in Lagos, a coupla coppers waz waitin’ for us, but with tha help of a KQ dude called Eze from Naija, I managed ta spring Julie free after tha Medic Centre rest (durin’ which tyme I chatted wid Wahu n gave her me special Smitta-luck) and at tha next airport, simply propped tha lady up tween Jua Cali n Clemmo. Outsyde a Nando’s.

We got to Abuja early in tha nyte, n held court at tha Nicon Luxury Hotel (which waz luxurious, but also full of hoes) and we thoroughly enyojed this UG twit called Nigel, by tellin’ him "Ug ni SQ ya Kenya." Heh heh. Back at the BOLINGO (yez, we waz stayin’ at a hote called ‘Bolingo’) I had beer n x-changed lingo with these two guyz from Britto, b4 goan to the hotel disco called ‘The Crunch’ where they were havin’ a retro nite with MJ.

Man, when waz the last tyme you saw guyz doan the Moon-Walk? Naija may be ahead of Kenya in many ways, music shore ain’t one-a dem. I donno, 1993!!!

Next morning over brekker, I bonded with neo-writer Olivia Otieno, Sheila Mwanyiga’s sworn enemy n the lady is actually quite funny. She tole me she plans ta be the next Bond Seven gal, thaz gwatta she keep the double-oh name for. Altho wid dem marks on her shingo, me predicts Double-OO will be also good to go for ‘Cut Throats of Carribean.’

Sato shenanigans

After the brekker n a long aftie press confie at tha Abuja Hilton, twas tyme ta get back to the Bolingo to change then go for dinner wid some Naija Chief. Already, life at tha Bolingo was falling apart … like Tell Em Baker’s door which fell off its hinges, n crashed into the corridor. Gwatta gan, mon?!

The dinner itself, done under jisty tents on a clear nite skies waz luvly. Chapad maji like there was no Abuja, chatted with Elaine Bar, Sa’s pr equiv of tha ole Linda Holt, n dropped dem vodoskis like they waz hot. Halt.

Sato started with a hangie dat soon cleared, like the clouds over hot Abuja and in the aftie, we waz at tha Hotel Bar to watch Arses tackle Man City. But watt a shitty afty for the Goons. They were torn apart like useless makaratasi, which they are, n went ha second goal from Robinho-nyo-nyo (thaz why he likes his finger nyonyi) went in, one broad screamed in pidgin, "Now why dem arse boys gone play dat useless football?"

"You’re too old to support them Gooners," I gently tole him. "After 35, your blood pressure gets in danger, n you get more prone to strokes, hot-ottocks, that sorta bollox. What yu need to do, Oga, is to defect to a team dat is gone mek you feel real-locksed all dem tyme. A team like Chelski-oh."

After that very neat aftie, twas time to roll to the VELODROME for tha MTV Awards.

Sunday, 5.30am I went down 4 a Star beer to go wid a sandwich from last nite, only to find dat de witch Ann N of Tell-Em has left me. In fact, she shud (thanx Victoria) just change her name to ‘Don’t Tell Em.’ What if we’d b-od? How are ya a PR person whose ready ta leave her people stranded, n banged up abroad. The mogotio goatess!! As I check out at reception, I akses if any other Kenyan has been left behind at tha Bolingo, n watt dya know? Julie Masiga had too.

So me n house-keepin’ n a master key burst into her room, find the mamsilla aswatch, n drop tha news, Boom!, we gotsa scatter. So now tis 6am, the flight from Abuja to Lagos is at 7am, n by 6.11am, bado hatujapata a cabski to go airport. So dat wen the hotel mini-bus turns up, we simply hijack it … widd a two thao naira bribe (Sh1,500).

Abuja sundays

We rush on the road … but then the mini-bus kwishes fuel on tha highway, and in Abuja on Sundays, petis open at noon). Next despa move – we see electric maintenance bikes, n bribe the guys to dash us off the resta-way airport. Kumbuka tunabeba full luggage like suit-cases dangling from tha sides of these mo-bikes.

At tha airport, it just so turned out we waz at the Intl airport, instead of the local flights.

So for a g, yaani a thao nairas, we were finally gotten to tha right joint, in tha nick of tyme – feeling very much like Foggski from ‘ Around the World in 80 Dayz.’

On tha plane, the triumphant MTV winner Wahu cuddled up to hubby Nameless after she’d coo-ooed on fone wid daughte, Tumiso. Got me thinking why Wahu n Nikki went so splitski on winning. Well, while Wahu’s video wid Bobi Wine waz party centric wid folkskis innit, Nikki’s shell video waz more artsy, wid her ethereality n its old school surreality skippin’ most-ov our shallower viewers. And while Nikki’s songs lack dat strong touch of inspiration from da heart, tho she got artistry, all Wahu’s hits have been angry songs (Sitishiki na Liars) till Tumiso, then the Sweetness o Love grabbed the continento.

Back on ground, Professor Jay of TZ waz in his ‘lack of bongo’ element. When the Smitten tried ta take a snapski of tha idjut’s over-size t-sho n shorts, he triedta grab n smash tha Sharonova’s one thao Euro kamera wich I tole him his ‘cheap bling cannot buy back.’

Prof Jay then say he’ll ‘kata kata me, n drive around with the pieces of me in his boot in TZ.’ ‘Are chopped up pieces of tha Smitta called smithereens?’ I kidded, then told Nazizi to lend half her degree from Indonesia to the ‘fake professor’ to slightly raise his IQ.

At which point Nameless stepped in and forced an uneasy peace on us. I tell ya.

Artur K of MTV kept tha tempo up all the way to Lagos, then I spend the greatest tyme at tha Lagos hotel pub with Emukule Ekirapa who kept askin stuff like ‘why do we wear seat belts on aeroplanes when after you crash from fifty thao feet in the sky, they don’t saidia you?’ Tis true. You ever heard ati, oh, So n so survived the air-crash coz they waz wearin’ their seat belts. Not dat I dared tell dat to nice Mr Jack of KQ on tha way back to Nai. I waz scared he’s cut off me lil Smirnoff Blu vodka supply.