Once Upon My Green Carpet
It was stuff beer parlour legends are woven out of.
Tutu had pissed himself all over my carpet and sleeping O.J. at 2 am in the morning, drunk as Obatala on creation day.
The sound of splashing water broke through my befuddled sub consciousness and cognac fuelled sleep shortly before O.J.’s bewildered Hey! Heeey! Heeeyyuurrghh…! And then all hell broke loose. It seemed Tutu had mistaken and misjudged the size of O.J.’s open mug thrown back over the carpet because the brother had calmly stood over snoring O.J. and practised his aim with a staggering but steady squirt right onto…( well, in deference to O.J.’s dignity I leave the rest to your imagination) and the rug.
Doesn’t sound much of a legend, eh? Well, consider Tutu’s in his later twenties, impeccable corporate type, some ten good years at a leading insurance house on Lagos’ bustling business Mecca; The Island, and here’s the best part – give or take 4,380 hrs of green bottle active duty, in the course of which he might have downed a little less than 700 cartons of Star Lager, a little less than the average daily output of a mini brewery. That’s technically speaking. In natural language, it means our friend Tutu swigs down at least 2 bottles of Star on a daily average (work days) and between 6 to 8 bottles on weekends and that’s a reasonable estimate (I wouldn’t attempt the thorough accuracy of scientific methodology) and does it ever show or tell on Tutu. Nah! He’s just that big groan you hear from a corner of the crib daily at 5:30 am when the alarm goes off. And after two cold buckets for a bath - irregardless of our conservative protests (I mean TWO buckets for a bath in Lagos state? Not unless you take the Aquatic splendour thing literarily). Anyway back to my story, a bath involving two cold buckets and a quick early bottle (curing – he calls it, for the hangover) later, Tutu’s your quintessential life policy salesman in bespoke black suit and a haircut that’s the envy of rap stars the world over (Okay I got carried away – maybe Lagos anyway). And weekends? Whoosh! After a whirlwind Friday night jaunting of the Island clubs and a few parties here and there on Saturday, Tutu’s that bothersome blur whizzing around the flat 6 am Sunday morning, playing loud Agidigbo blues(apologies to baba Dollar), frying plantain and eggs, now bending over you screaming wake up! And generally making sure the landlord upstairs is reviewing his rental policy to include a clause on letting out flats to sober looking hooligans masquerading as insurance salesmen and accountants. Office hours he’s so sober, so respectable and appealing he could sell you a policy for every rat that inhabits a cupboard in your home. So you do understand when I say Tutu drunk and pissing over the parlour passed out is legendary beer parlour epic.
But then, our friend Tutu is just one other big fish in a lake bursting with sharks. In simple English there are those who scoff at Tutu’s abilities at the drinking table or the beer parlour at large and claim that his characteristic sponginess is an inversion of the law of marginal utility – whereby Tutu had never taken enough beer to make him drunk and useless etc. In simpler English I am surrounded - at home, the workplace, and play spots - by drunkards who take pride in boasting that they never get drunk or misbehave no matter how many vats of beer they put down. I had of late concluded that this is a characteristic feature of living in Lagos. But friends and visitors from up country assure me that far from it, while of course not every adult male in Lagos drinks, it wouldn’t be going too far to assume that six out of every ten Nigerian males above 16 years old drinks (Remember my position on science and provable statistics) and about two out of those six drink very well. Like fishes, very big fishes. Sharks, maybe. This is not saying that Nigeria is a nation of drunkards, it’s not a national thing like for the Irish anyway, but we do hold our own when ‘pour comes to swallow.’ And did I mention a township down in the middle belt region of Nigeria where it is proudly said that grown men stagger down to work every morning drunk as, well, fishes if you ask me. Speaking of lakes and sharks however, perhaps we can spare a few seconds on the dynamics of ‘Shakkin,’ which is the essence that binds all the dynamics of relations in that great lake I mentioned back there. Perhaps I have lost you. Patience, dear readers, a little background detail never hurts.
It is a great sport. Shakkin, that is. A national pastime and social phenomenon next in importance only to, well, Almighty Soccer, of course. But great things, they say, go hand in hand. And if you don’t believe me, ask the Irish. Grown men drinking themselves into oblivion every night, mature adults throwing drinking contests, bout after bout and making ego-inflating boasts over who can hold down the more. But then, the above picture paints a seedier side of ‘Shakkin’ – the local Nigerian patois that denotes the consumption of alcohol. Actually drinking (beer, mostly) today reflects one of the greater aspects of Nigeria’s bustling male population’s relaxation or leisure culture. The above 18 years strict prohibition which holds in most of the western world’s bars and pubs is more loosely interpreted in our country. A great ‘plus’ to the liberality of our social systems. Public motor parks teeming with underage youths is not a feature that raises much eyebrows in our nation, however a recurrent feature of these parks is the ‘Paraga’ table – a makeshift fuelling station where aforementioned youths and bus drivers tune their systems up every morning and between trips with every alcoholic concoction bearing the funniest names imaginable to humankind. Try Jedi, for example, and if you wonder why your mind keeps going back to Star Wars its because there’s one going up before your walloped eyes. Yet again I have been assured that Nigeria’s local brews contain three times the alcohol content of similar brands elsewhere on the continent. And here I would point out the observations of Nigerian sojourners across the African continent I have met who regale me with tales of how they downed 20 cans of their favourite brand in faraway Kenya or Zimbabwe before making the earth shaking realization that these things do not quite taste like the ‘green bottle’ they left back home. And believe me I have met many, sojourners, that is. One traveller flying in from the southern part of Africa couldn’t wait to get out of the airport before tasting real beer once again, as he put it.
Shakkin cuts across class divisions, ethnicity, race, religion and every social barrier man has ever erected or will ever dream up between men. A drink together, at parties, concerts, an evening out or any social gathering builds friendships, social cements and gets more business deals sealed than the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce and Industry. The casual “Yu dey shak?” i.e. Do you drink? has spawned more lifelong friendships than the Rotary Clubs of Lagos put together. That is not to say even Rotarians do just sit out occasions extolling the merits of the 4 way test, do they…? (Forget you read that here).
In the restrictive Islamic northern parts of Nigeria, where most states incorporate a Shariah Islamic judicial system, drinking out in the open is heavily frowned upon, both by state and citizens alike.(The emphasis however lies heavily on the open in the statement above). While newspaper headlines scream punishments meted out to transgressors of the alcohol laws – 3 sentenced to 50 lashes and 2000 bottles smashed in sleepy ___? Township etc, one famous table legend in Shariah Kano is of an Alhaji who orders his favourite Gulder into a golden tea kettle, a favourite household item in the region, and in the evenings, sits casually out in the yard swigging cool ‘tea’ from his kettle.
In the more liberal (read westernized) southern Nigeria, in the mega city of Lagos, Nigerian breweries rolled out its 1st bottle of Star lager beer in 1949 and hasn’t looked back since then. 577 kilometres and 54 years away to the east, in Enugu, the Ama brewery, the largest brewery in Africa (a fitting monument to Naija’s drinking prowess, if you ask me) was commissioned in October 2003.
In Lagos and environs, the Yoruba’s are universally renowned for their philosophy of socialization. This translates in the sphere of everyday into Owambe – freely translated: it’s happening there (somewhere). Wild, flamboyant parties in which whole city blocks are cordoned off illegally. A problem already traffic ‘constipated’ Lagos could do without. And your guess is as good as mine what’s overflowing on those hall tables turned street tables.
The rising tide of Nigerian immigrants in London and New York have been able to successfully export the beer parlour culture after them with successes like Obalende Suya, a joint that holds forte in an area of Lagos renown for its beer parlours, seedy red light districts and never ending night life and now claims prime spot amongst Nigerians in Diaspora.
So, to end this sober story of mine, we go all the way back to Tutu. And well, what about Tutu, I hear you ask? Of course he denied the whole incident. Quite vehemently – after jumping up for a two bucket shower and a quick change of pants at 4 am. He’s looking so spic and span the next morning the events of the midnight might have been a dream, or a figment of our collective imaginations, me and the rest of the boys. Except for that fading mug shaped patch of liquid stain on my green carpet. To show where a drinking legend fell off his high horse. And another table legend got spawned.
Tutu had pissed himself all over my carpet and sleeping O.J. at 2 am in the morning, drunk as Obatala on creation day.
The sound of splashing water broke through my befuddled sub consciousness and cognac fuelled sleep shortly before O.J.’s bewildered Hey! Heeey! Heeeyyuurrghh…! And then all hell broke loose. It seemed Tutu had mistaken and misjudged the size of O.J.’s open mug thrown back over the carpet because the brother had calmly stood over snoring O.J. and practised his aim with a staggering but steady squirt right onto…( well, in deference to O.J.’s dignity I leave the rest to your imagination) and the rug.
Doesn’t sound much of a legend, eh? Well, consider Tutu’s in his later twenties, impeccable corporate type, some ten good years at a leading insurance house on Lagos’ bustling business Mecca; The Island, and here’s the best part – give or take 4,380 hrs of green bottle active duty, in the course of which he might have downed a little less than 700 cartons of Star Lager, a little less than the average daily output of a mini brewery. That’s technically speaking. In natural language, it means our friend Tutu swigs down at least 2 bottles of Star on a daily average (work days) and between 6 to 8 bottles on weekends and that’s a reasonable estimate (I wouldn’t attempt the thorough accuracy of scientific methodology) and does it ever show or tell on Tutu. Nah! He’s just that big groan you hear from a corner of the crib daily at 5:30 am when the alarm goes off. And after two cold buckets for a bath - irregardless of our conservative protests (I mean TWO buckets for a bath in Lagos state? Not unless you take the Aquatic splendour thing literarily). Anyway back to my story, a bath involving two cold buckets and a quick early bottle (curing – he calls it, for the hangover) later, Tutu’s your quintessential life policy salesman in bespoke black suit and a haircut that’s the envy of rap stars the world over (Okay I got carried away – maybe Lagos anyway). And weekends? Whoosh! After a whirlwind Friday night jaunting of the Island clubs and a few parties here and there on Saturday, Tutu’s that bothersome blur whizzing around the flat 6 am Sunday morning, playing loud Agidigbo blues(apologies to baba Dollar), frying plantain and eggs, now bending over you screaming wake up! And generally making sure the landlord upstairs is reviewing his rental policy to include a clause on letting out flats to sober looking hooligans masquerading as insurance salesmen and accountants. Office hours he’s so sober, so respectable and appealing he could sell you a policy for every rat that inhabits a cupboard in your home. So you do understand when I say Tutu drunk and pissing over the parlour passed out is legendary beer parlour epic.
But then, our friend Tutu is just one other big fish in a lake bursting with sharks. In simple English there are those who scoff at Tutu’s abilities at the drinking table or the beer parlour at large and claim that his characteristic sponginess is an inversion of the law of marginal utility – whereby Tutu had never taken enough beer to make him drunk and useless etc. In simpler English I am surrounded - at home, the workplace, and play spots - by drunkards who take pride in boasting that they never get drunk or misbehave no matter how many vats of beer they put down. I had of late concluded that this is a characteristic feature of living in Lagos. But friends and visitors from up country assure me that far from it, while of course not every adult male in Lagos drinks, it wouldn’t be going too far to assume that six out of every ten Nigerian males above 16 years old drinks (Remember my position on science and provable statistics) and about two out of those six drink very well. Like fishes, very big fishes. Sharks, maybe. This is not saying that Nigeria is a nation of drunkards, it’s not a national thing like for the Irish anyway, but we do hold our own when ‘pour comes to swallow.’ And did I mention a township down in the middle belt region of Nigeria where it is proudly said that grown men stagger down to work every morning drunk as, well, fishes if you ask me. Speaking of lakes and sharks however, perhaps we can spare a few seconds on the dynamics of ‘Shakkin,’ which is the essence that binds all the dynamics of relations in that great lake I mentioned back there. Perhaps I have lost you. Patience, dear readers, a little background detail never hurts.
It is a great sport. Shakkin, that is. A national pastime and social phenomenon next in importance only to, well, Almighty Soccer, of course. But great things, they say, go hand in hand. And if you don’t believe me, ask the Irish. Grown men drinking themselves into oblivion every night, mature adults throwing drinking contests, bout after bout and making ego-inflating boasts over who can hold down the more. But then, the above picture paints a seedier side of ‘Shakkin’ – the local Nigerian patois that denotes the consumption of alcohol. Actually drinking (beer, mostly) today reflects one of the greater aspects of Nigeria’s bustling male population’s relaxation or leisure culture. The above 18 years strict prohibition which holds in most of the western world’s bars and pubs is more loosely interpreted in our country. A great ‘plus’ to the liberality of our social systems. Public motor parks teeming with underage youths is not a feature that raises much eyebrows in our nation, however a recurrent feature of these parks is the ‘Paraga’ table – a makeshift fuelling station where aforementioned youths and bus drivers tune their systems up every morning and between trips with every alcoholic concoction bearing the funniest names imaginable to humankind. Try Jedi, for example, and if you wonder why your mind keeps going back to Star Wars its because there’s one going up before your walloped eyes. Yet again I have been assured that Nigeria’s local brews contain three times the alcohol content of similar brands elsewhere on the continent. And here I would point out the observations of Nigerian sojourners across the African continent I have met who regale me with tales of how they downed 20 cans of their favourite brand in faraway Kenya or Zimbabwe before making the earth shaking realization that these things do not quite taste like the ‘green bottle’ they left back home. And believe me I have met many, sojourners, that is. One traveller flying in from the southern part of Africa couldn’t wait to get out of the airport before tasting real beer once again, as he put it.
Shakkin cuts across class divisions, ethnicity, race, religion and every social barrier man has ever erected or will ever dream up between men. A drink together, at parties, concerts, an evening out or any social gathering builds friendships, social cements and gets more business deals sealed than the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce and Industry. The casual “Yu dey shak?” i.e. Do you drink? has spawned more lifelong friendships than the Rotary Clubs of Lagos put together. That is not to say even Rotarians do just sit out occasions extolling the merits of the 4 way test, do they…? (Forget you read that here).
In the restrictive Islamic northern parts of Nigeria, where most states incorporate a Shariah Islamic judicial system, drinking out in the open is heavily frowned upon, both by state and citizens alike.(The emphasis however lies heavily on the open in the statement above). While newspaper headlines scream punishments meted out to transgressors of the alcohol laws – 3 sentenced to 50 lashes and 2000 bottles smashed in sleepy ___? Township etc, one famous table legend in Shariah Kano is of an Alhaji who orders his favourite Gulder into a golden tea kettle, a favourite household item in the region, and in the evenings, sits casually out in the yard swigging cool ‘tea’ from his kettle.
In the more liberal (read westernized) southern Nigeria, in the mega city of Lagos, Nigerian breweries rolled out its 1st bottle of Star lager beer in 1949 and hasn’t looked back since then. 577 kilometres and 54 years away to the east, in Enugu, the Ama brewery, the largest brewery in Africa (a fitting monument to Naija’s drinking prowess, if you ask me) was commissioned in October 2003.
In Lagos and environs, the Yoruba’s are universally renowned for their philosophy of socialization. This translates in the sphere of everyday into Owambe – freely translated: it’s happening there (somewhere). Wild, flamboyant parties in which whole city blocks are cordoned off illegally. A problem already traffic ‘constipated’ Lagos could do without. And your guess is as good as mine what’s overflowing on those hall tables turned street tables.
The rising tide of Nigerian immigrants in London and New York have been able to successfully export the beer parlour culture after them with successes like Obalende Suya, a joint that holds forte in an area of Lagos renown for its beer parlours, seedy red light districts and never ending night life and now claims prime spot amongst Nigerians in Diaspora.
So, to end this sober story of mine, we go all the way back to Tutu. And well, what about Tutu, I hear you ask? Of course he denied the whole incident. Quite vehemently – after jumping up for a two bucket shower and a quick change of pants at 4 am. He’s looking so spic and span the next morning the events of the midnight might have been a dream, or a figment of our collective imaginations, me and the rest of the boys. Except for that fading mug shaped patch of liquid stain on my green carpet. To show where a drinking legend fell off his high horse. And another table legend got spawned.
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