Thought Picnic: The stereotype of a hypersexual black man persists

Just trying to help

The first thing that came to mind was whether I had just missed an Emmett Till moment, though the comparison is a bit too severe; England has never been the American South of the 1950s, but some stereotypes are so ingrained that people act on them before reality and modernity can adjust their thinking.

I was walking home when I saw two ladies seemingly in a rush, going in one direction and then the opposite, wondering aloud if they were headed the right way. As I overheard them, and being quite familiar with the area, I thought I could help, so I inquired about which direction they wanted to go.

As I looked back, a man approached me and asked what I was looking at. His aggression was met with equal disdain. "What is your problem?" I retorted. He claimed that I was the problem, to which I suggested he should go home and not look for trouble because I had no time for crazy people.

The stereotypes betraying us

He blurted out, “That’s my wife you are looking at.” A strapping (I guess in the dark, appearances can be deceptive) black man, and I am hardly that, going after and ogling a white woman with rampant sexual desire?

Maybe if I could whistle, but the ladies did not even deserve an anachronistic catcall, but let’s not disparage the innocent. It did look like an Emmett Till moment, as a white man had just suggested I had disrespected his wife by looking lustfully at her.

Where did this kind of thinking emerge from, and how could it even be expressed so strongly in Manchester of 2025? The situation was about to escalate totally out of control if I did not have a response or chose to walk away, which was the wise choice.

Easing the built-up tension

I replied, “I am a gay man, I am not interested in your wife; I was only asking if I could help.” He showed character; immediately he offered a profuse apology, saying he was very sorry for making a wrong assumption. His wife joined him, and they both pleaded for being unnecessarily defensive; they asked for my name and introduced themselves.

We shook hands as they explained they were out looking for their friend, who they thought was lost. They were a bit distressed about it and did not know what to do. I gave them some encouragement and wished them well as we parted ways. I was just a block away from home.

The present is the past

On reflection, I thought about how suspicion and the exchange of coarse words could have led to a fracas and needlessly so. How we are informed by the stereotypes of others until we seek to learn more about their story out of interest and engagement rather than an initial dislike based on falsehoods.

How in the UK, we are fortunate that even the irrational is contained in the exchange of words before it becomes physical, hurtful, and sometimes fatal.

Then, the basic willingness to hear the other out and listen can diffuse the most tense (as I use British rather than American English, "most tense" is the most appropriate superlative for tense, rather than "tensest" in American English) situations; someone had to be ready to play the pipes of peace before we come within the sound of the drums of war.

It was both an unsettling and teachable moment. We might have come a long way, but that basic animal instinct is always ready to impose itself on our unsteady coexistence.

This Humpty Dumpty does get up

Ambitions live on

If ever I needed to be reminded, I was chasing waterfalls when I should have, for now, stuck to the rivers and lakes that have grounded me after that prostate cancer diagnosis in June last year, I faced a brutal reality on Wednesday night.

Inadvertently, I found myself having completed more than 10,000 steps in the previous six days, not out of deliberate effort, but in the drudgery of everyday events. That realisation on Wednesday indicated I needed just over 5,000 steps to make it 7 days in a row, a feat I have not achieved in quite a long time.

Maybe, make it a charted and timed walk, which records pace, heart rate for intensity, cadence and some other interesting, though mundane data along with the time to recovery. I set out on a route I had not plied in over a year, thinking I would catch the breeze on my walk.

Brought to ground suddenly

I was barely over a kilometre into my walk and out of nowhere, I do not think I tripped, my legs and feet seemed to scatter below my frame, and my brain kindly suggested I was going down. I was soon tumbling down, breaking my fall with my left knee and hands that thankfully had leather gloves on.

There was some momentum in the fall, and I rolled into half the outer lane of a dual carriageway that was not well-lit. I was so fortunate that no cars were coming. I picked myself up, took a few strides and rested on a wall as I caught my breath.

Someone waiting at the bus stop opposite must have seen it because he called from across the road to enquire if I was alright. I could only lift my hand in a gesture towards him.

A fresh whitish knee

A few minutes later, the debate was ongoing in my head about whether to continue or return home, my knee seething with the rage of a graze, my determination was to continue, and so I did to complete 13,408 steps for the day.

When I eventually got to look at my knee, I had revealed almost a square inch of flesh, but not much of a bleed compared to how I did not stop bleeding after I went for blood tests on Tuesday, and my shirt was stained.

There is a lot that I want to do, but I am not where I think I am; certain limitations constrain me even as I defy natural laws to do more than my body seems equipped for currently. The recovery process, as I am gently told by both my body and advisors, will take a while, I need to be patient with myself and adjust my goals within the framework of mental and physical abilities.

I have continued to exceed the 10,000-step goal, while my knee is not healing as fast as I had hoped. Meanwhile, Brian suggests I apply a dash of methylated spirit, considering how he’ll bawl at the application of a denatured and non-alcoholic dressing. Two fingers to my eyes and pointing those fingers at him.

Childhood: And we were sent away

Parental Angst Versus Child Welfare

I observed two news stories from afar until I found myself commenting on a Facebook post, to which the author suggested my comment should be an essay.

Previously, I had written about my parents’ decision to send me to secondary boarding school after the cloistered bubble of an international primary school education. I will not dwell on that matter, but there are many facets to not being born and raised within the traditions, culture, and lands of one’s parents’ birth.

Blog - Childhood: When Parents Think They Know Best

For that, there was a term coined: Third-Culture Kids. This comes with many connotations, including the conflicts of environments, the anxiety and angst of our parents, the issues of not finding belonging in any place, and all the attendant psychological challenges that are somewhat ignored because our parents assume time will eventually resolve things and make everything work.

Send Them Home to Learn 

What bothers ethnic minority parents today is what might happen to their kids in the UK, where I am somewhat more familiar with the situation, and in the Americas. The tendency among parents who have the means is to extricate their kids from abroad and place them in the sometimes-harsh environments of their home countries, usually in West Africa, where they hope to address the lapses in discipline, educational attainment, purpose, and character that they have observed in or around their children.

Recently, a child took his parents to court to compel them to return him to the UK after he was apparently deceived into going to Ghana to see a sick relative. We all have variations of the same plot. He lost his case, the judge empathising but ultimately siding with the parents. [BBC News: Son Loses Case Against Parents Over Move to Africa]

Continuing with the narrative, some men have come forward to share their own stories about being sent home and how, in hindsight, it saved them. It probably did save all of us, one way or the other. However, it is never comfortable during that absence from what the kids call home. [BBC News: I Was Duped Into Leaving London for School in Ghana - But It Saved Me]

Before I share my comment, many kids have been brought up in the UK and the US and have thrived; this is great credit to their parents and communities that nurtured them. All these stories need to be told.

My Facebook Comment 

I suppose this is another aspect of split upbringing that is rarely discussed.

We returned to Nigeria when I was hardly six years old; however, because I was with my parents, I had the pleasure of attending primary schools filled with foreign-looking but Nigerian-born schoolmates, while many of us black kids were foreign-born.

It was the secondary boarding experience that was brutal, but I survived, despite the lasting scars of that environment.

You eventually become streetwise without losing the kind of daring that some people regularly said we Ajebotas [Kids who eat bread and butter rather than local fare; a pejorative term for lacking experience in local customs.] have.

The longstanding benefit of my early education and experiences in Nigeria meant building resilience, grit, and, mostly, self-esteem, while retaining the precocity I always had.

Upon my return to the UK, my blackness was always a part of me; no one could racially abuse me and get the upper hand, as I had a better retort, coupled with wit.

Escaping the race and deprivation politics of the inner cities and suburbs, which would have found me in Walsall and Birmingham in the 1970s and well into the 1980s, meant I never had the sometimes-invisible baggage or chip-on-the-shoulder that affected ethnic minority kids who never left.

I left Nigeria with just an OND and built an IT career that was earning top rates by the mid-1990s, before the extraordinary fortune of being invited to pursue a master’s degree after providing a character reference for a friend.

Moreover, unlike the scolding in Nigeria that implied one wouldn’t amount to anything and spurred you on, in England at that time, it was a limit on your horizons, pushing you towards low achievement and menial roles.

My parents left after qualifying in their respective professions; even though my dad placed third overall in his accountancy finals, his colleagues suggested that they never thought he was that bright, instead of congratulating him on his success.

I assume they both decided that the England of Enoch Powell, whom my father once challenged in a pub, was not a suitable place for them or for their boy—and the children that came after me.

Now, each experience is different; I cannot suggest that any of these actions are in the best interests of any child, but having the agency to intervene when you see things going awry is a privilege of opportunity that many do not have.

I even had my own personal intervention; after a relationship breakup in 1999 left me lost and listless, I packed my bags and started anew in the Netherlands, where I remained for almost 13 years.

Our parents mean well; whether they were right is another conversation altogether.

I cannot argue against being immersed in a totally different culture; it presents opportunities that we often fail to fully appreciate until later in life, as the men have suggested in the article.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXVI

Getting some perspective

You may wonder why I am writing about the Coronavirus, having written the last in my series of Coronavirus streets in Manchester way back in June 2024. Obviously, there was also the minor distraction of dealing with Men’s things, my prostate taking on an unregulated growth spurt that was trammelled with blasts of radiotherapy.

Then you consider I was out grocery shopping today and one of the passengers on a bus I boarded had a facemask on, you do not see that about quite often, though a lady who attends my church whose full face I have never seen dons a facemask almost as a fashion accessory, a shade of brown, but quite distinct from her South Asian skin tone.

Saying his prayers

The bus out of the city centre towards Salford, where I planned to board another to my intended destination, presented nothing of great significance apart from wheezing and many with coughs that might indicate something more serious than portends. On that sampling alone, we are easily a nation of the unfit, the infirm, the unwell, and qualitatively unhealthy.

However, it was the bus ride within Salford towards Cheetham Hill that offered much to amuse or intrigue. It was first an unkempt man sitting on one of the priority seats. In what seemed like a headbanging the bar in front of him, I soon realised it was an unconventional approach to Muslim prayer as he was muttering, clasping hands, and then bowing in obeisance to the Sallah edict.

The bus was driving eastward but I could not suggest his heading was facing Mecca, but who am I to intrude on the religiosity of an adherent faithfully saying his prayers before Goosey Goosey Gander takes umbrage?

The fiery Ijebu wars

At Ade’s Cash & Carry, of the many designations it has, at the checkout till, there were conversations going on in Yoruba, the tiller with facial scarification I would have mistaken for an Ogbomoso indigene, but with the brutal nose strike, so that might default to Ibadan.

Two tubers of water yam, quite different from Puna yam, were being weighed on the tiller scales, but they did not have the hairy fibres one would expect on that species I was accustomed to. As I voiced my misgivings, an engagement began about where I was from.

Answering Ijesha-Ijebu, the man interjected, Ijebu-Ijesha, a different place some 197 kilometres away. That confusion between my village and the other town, in entirely separate states and they do not remotely speak the same dialect. It so happened that the customer being served was also an Ijebu-man, he knew where Ijesha-Ijebu was and began to converse in Ijebu that I have never deigned to master.

My excuse is that I was born abroad, and I pleaded innocence by volunteering. One of my names is Adetokunbo, and the crown was brought from overseas. That was the beginning of our schism, he is from Ilishan-Remo and has been advocating the creation of an Ijebu State with Sagamu as the state capital. Let’s just say as the boundary between the real Ijebu-land headquartered at Ijebu-Ode and Ijebu-Remo, which is a few kilometres west of my village, the idea falls on its face with infeasibility.

It is totally unlikely that the Ijebus aligned to Ijebu-Ode and the expanse of the 16 Agemo masquerades of Ijebu-land would subsume themselves to the leadership of Ijebu-Remo that gained prominence out of the colonial chicanery of divide-and-rule. We would seethe with disdain and disparage any such advocacy to chop Ogun State into hamlet fiefdoms.

While I would rarely feel challenged with Yoruba expression, I was clearly found wanting facing a son of Ijebu soil. Other interesting banter ensued, and we shook hands, and I left.

The Yorubas have occupied

On the bus back to Salford City Centre from Cheetham Hill, I must have been transported to some place in Yorubaland, I half expected the only Caucasian on the bus to burst out in Yoruba song as literally every else on the bus was speaking in Yoruba.

One even had a playback of some Yoruba-speaking event on the speaker of his phone and some of the narrative did cause stifled giggles without anyone wanting to reveal they knew what was going on. I could see from my vantage point that everyone was straining to listen even as one or two mobile phone conversations cared nothing for the public space they were in.

I sometimes forget some parts of north Manchester have been colonised by Yorubas; I could be one of the exceptions that lives in the city centre. Now, that Ade’s Cash & Carry has stiff competition in Salford on range, quality, and price, apart from ready-made stews, it won’t be long before these interesting Yoruba engagements happen closer to home.

The Coronavirus is still out there, and I had my 7^th booster in November before jetting out to Cape Town. Nine vaccinations and boosters altogether mean we all must be careful, five years on.

Thought Picnic: More than hope in living

We are not hopeless

Our Lenten study began with the question, “Can the dead live again?” It centred on the story of Job, his suffering, and a narrative of man's mortality against the nature of trees that spring up from a seeming hopeless death into new life.

In Christian hope we have a place, a destination, and a promise; death is not the end of the story, but eternal life brings the life of God into our existence and present, not in the bye-and-bye, but from the moment we accept Jesus Christ as our personal lord and saviour, here on earth, in the now.

Hope is an anchor

Comparing optimism to hope, optimism is a feeling, and hope is an anchor; I am optimistic about something, but I hope to do, get, achieve, realise, sometime that has focus, borne of my imagination and what my faith can work on. "For faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." [Bible Hub: Hebrews 11:1]

Giving AI a look-in on my blog, this is an overview. “Hope is the belief that you can make things better, while optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is an active process that involves setting and working towards goals, while optimism is a passive thought pattern.”

Hope versus Optimism from a Generative AI perspective. (Click to enlarge.)

I can work towards extraordinary goals based on the promises of God from what God has said in His Word, that is why the Bible matters to me and listening to both the Word of God and sermon inspired by the Word of God give me the confidence that life is considerably more than existing like another living thing.

Hope lives for new life

However, as we discussed these topics, I found that certain personal experiences are quite difficult to articulate; with survival or the passage of time, the recounts are raw with deep emotion, that what we left behind still grabs us in ways that memory overwhelms the present as if we are still with that human experience.

Yet, that does not mean optimism is not meaningful, for in all the aspects of adversity I have encountered, I always had one saying in Yoruba that tells me this too will pass, “A ma fi pàtàn ni.” This translates loosely to, “These too will become stories.” I am thankful that my past does not choke me of the gratitude for having some experiences behind me.

Of cancer twice or of deaths of people and close to me, whilst amid the experience, none of it is pleasant, for the hope ahead that these would again become stories to be told in recognition of the amazing human spirit sustained by the mercy, grace, and love of God. We can be full of hope, and I am full of hope. Can the dead live again? Yes!

The Slave Bible - A Closer Look

Another look at the Slave Bible

In my original blog about the Slave Bible yesterday, I expressed muted outrage at the role of the Anglican Bishop of London and his involvement in commissioning the book. Beilby Porteus, the Bishop of London from 1787 to his death in 1809 was a rather different person than I portrayed in my first assessment of the situation.

Blog - The Slave Bible

History would suggest, the bishop was the first in authority to challenge the Anglican Church’s stance on slavery in a concerted campaign that lasted almost three decades. He was an abolitionist who stated his case in sermons and in the House of Lords, long before the cause became popular.

The bishop was an abolitionist

In his advocacy, he was concerned about the plight of about 300 slaves on the Codrington Plantations in Barbados that was bequeathed to the Church of England in the early 18^th Century and was overseen by the Archbishop of Canterbury and a committee of Church of England bishops.

From the time he was Bishop of Chester through when he was translated to the bishopric of London, Bishop Porteus worked with slavery abolitionists, and much was made of the fact that disease and maltreatment led to the death of about 40% of the slaves within three years of their arrival that the slave cohort needed constant replenishment from West Africa.

Besides these myriad issues, the bishop was desirous of proselytising the slaves and this must have informed his decision to commission an abridged bible for the slaves of the British West-Indies, as one of the most passionate advocates for the cause of the slaves, he by default assumed responsibility for their spiritual welfare. I can conclude from this reading of history that Bishop Beilby Porteus was neither malevolent nor evil.

Between the marketing and the product

A careful reading of what pertains to the content of the Slave Bible requires nuance over the sensational reductive view that essential parts of bible history were expunged. We can attribute this view to the publicity machinery of The Museum of the Bible (MOTB), which has had its share of controversy and scandal in terms of the provenance and integrity of exhibit acquired for display at the museum.

An academic assessment of the assertion of the MOTB would suggest a variance from the reality. The writer purports an exaggeration by the MOTB when in fact the book does contain verses of liberation as much as some pertaining to slavery were left out. Though the compendium leaves out the book of Revelation, it is not bereft of eschatological hope expressed in other epistles of Apostle Paul. [The Revealer: The “Slave Bible” is Not What You Think]

It would appear Bishop Porteus is both misrepresented and vilified by the MOTB to whatever ends of widening the participation of visitors to the museum beyond its evangelical roots. As I can only offer commentary on the reported events and observations along with not having access to the said Slave Bible to verify any of the claims, my only shocking discovery is to learn that such a book existed, the circumstances around which the book was published are quite different and open to debate.

Where history leaves us

It is obvious from the onset that the bishop met with both deaf ears and opposition to his abolition quest, as Founder of the Society for the Conversion and Religious Instruction and Education of the Negro Slaves, “envisioned a collection that expanded beyond biblical texts and included liturgy for public worship.” It is questionable whether the result achieved that aim.

However, while certain abridged versions of the bible available today as excerpts of the Psalms, Proverbs, or mainly the New Testament of the Gideon bibles found in the bedroom drawers of international hotel chains have not suffered the manipulation and cannibalisation of the Slave Bible, the motive in its origin seems both honest and malign to our reading today.

What cannot be disputed is the Anglican Church of England was integral, participatory, and a beneficiary of the evils of the slave trade and slavery. 

The Slave Bible

A grandiose title

“Select Parts of the Holy Bible for the use of the Negro Slaves in the British West-India Islands”, otherwise known as the Slave Bible, a heavily redacted version of the bible that removed about 90% of the Old Testament and 10% of the New Testament. [Wikipedia: Slave Bible]

It emphasised every need for the slave to know their place and removed references that gave any sense of emancipation or freedom to the slave reader. Imagine a book purporting to be a Christian bible without the Exodus story or the Psalms commissioned in the early nineteenth century by the Anglican Bishop of London, in the same year of the enactment of the Slave Trade Act of 1807 for the abolition of slavery.

I learnt of this malevolent piece of evil propaganda masquerading as religious text, reading the first chapter of the book we are sharing for Lenten studies in the Church of England this year. Wild Bright Hope: Reflections on Faith - The Big Church Read Lent Book 2025 has twelve voices and perspectives on hope, life, experiences and what a revelation the first two chapters were. [The Big Church Read]

It was very profitable

I realised how the transatlantic slave trade thrived visiting The Maritime Museum – Het Scheepvaartmuseum in Amsterdam, over twenty years ago. I saw the profit ledger, a human cargo of slaves with the loss of 10% after accounting for all costs, including the ship and voyage, yielded stupendous profits, and that was the value slave owners placed on acquiring cheap or free labour.

Even after multiple visits to the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool (currently closed for renovation), I was not as moved as that other experience in Amsterdam. I have heard stories about how an interpretation and version of Christianity promoted, validated, and justified slavery, it was the bedrock of belief systems espoused by the American South acquiescing to man’s inhumanity to man.

Changing the Christian perspective

What I did not expect to find in my appreciation of slavery was a “Slave Bible”, and you can never know if other versions of this abridged work of the devil did not exist to keep the slave a slave and the slave master as a god.

What was perpetrated in the name of Christianity is unmentionable and you can only wonder what bible the missionaries gave in exchange for land and resources to the natives in the new world to the Europeans, from the sixteenth century onwards.

It would seem the Christian narrative of those times was to serve European commerce rather than God, a consummate love of money being the root of all evil, including the trading in slaves.

This is one striking question asked by a thirteen-year-old, “What do you do when your saviour and oppressor have the same face?” That gives pause for reflection, the depictions of Jesus are rarely of typical middle eastern features, you will think Jesus was Scandinavian from some artist’s impressions, long flowing blonde hair with blue eyes and much else that has seeded our imaginations of who the son of God is.

Acknowledgement is progress

Yet, I rarely think of Jesus Christ in terms of what he looks like, as no one knows, apart from having participated in our humanity and human race over two millennia ago. His presence confirmed by the new birth and the Holy Spirit given to dwell in us and be our helper, brings us to the inclusive sonship of God the Father and a recognition of such great grace that no man can offer.

Indeed, we study and understand history just as we should know who we follow and believe. The Gospel of Jesus Christ sets us free, any other gospel besides that left men in bondage and chains, physically, mentally, and spiritually. However, I want to believe even through the darkness of a rotten slave bible, some light shone on those who received Christianity with purity of heart, prayers would have been heard, though some might have taken much longer to be answered.

Certain Christian denominations need to acknowledge fully the parts they played in slavery and the slave trade; this should be documented for the historical record.

This is not to impute guilt or culpability, but to advance the knowledge of the truth and the positive changes to our common respect for each other’s humanity, as we strive to make the world a better place, and espouse more the human rights to dignity, life, and freedom.

Let us acknowledge the harm, and work to heal.

Please read: The Slave Bible - A Closer Look

Mending holes in my home

Now it was the pens

Here I was wanting to write down details as I began to give attention to my test lab, a neglected computer test lab because of the distractions of the year past. There were three pens on my desk, and none were ready to give their ink.

On one of my visits to a bookshop in Cape Town, I bought quirky pens with different writing widths like you would have with pencils and a wooden pencil case. I looked up on the shelf and retrieved the pencil case, there was only one pen left in the pencil case. There should be at least six pens in that pencil case.

What is so irksome is over two months of reclaiming full access to my place by taking the keys off my friend and I am the one at fault for first being a poor judge of character in making acquaintances with people who I thought valued friendship beyond benefits they gained from having access to me and my place, I am still finding vestiges of his carelessness and abuses of my things without remorse.

His mittens ruin all

Each time I have had him housesit on my visits to Cape Town, I have returned to a house that is not my home through the way he has rearranged things, misplaced things, or damaged things without a second thought to fix them. The last time, he bested himself, how I restrained myself from blurting out in apoplexy even when I asked for my keys escapes me.

Soon after, when I thought a phone charging unit or a power extension tower had been damaged, I painstakingly when through assessing each element of the connections, and can you believe it was the USB C cable that was damaged? Let us not get into when he thought the USB cables, because of their colours, could be adornments like neck chains, bullet chains, or belts that he wore about his person.

The number of times he invaded my privacy was innumerable, but I just worked on the assumption, I was not the only occupant of my home. I’ll be in bed and hear scurrying about the apartment, the keenest of my hearing would register the key in the lock as he entered, and the rest was left to my imagination, what he could be up to and that might include a litany of misdeeds and mishaps. I rarely let these bother me.

The translation of a wallet

On the eve of my penultimate visit to Cape Town just after the prostate cancer diagnosis and the one occasion he was able to attend the hospital with me, so he knew the seriousness of the condition, I emptied a brown wallet of things I needed for my travel and placed the wallet on my desk.

A week into my visit, I got a message from my neighbour, they found my wallet on a windowsill in the courtyard behind the apartment block. How it got there, no one could explain, the CCTV recording saw a resident runner pick it up and place it there, it had rained some days prior, and I know I had not been in the courtyard for more than a week before my travel. There was one other logical explanation.

I should have taken back my keys on my return, however, I am wont to forgive than to show resolve. My neighbour was of the good mind of kicking him out of my apartment, it would have served me well.

He just does not care

Even though I wrote a long email to him explaining why I had to take back my keys without accusing him of anything apart from remonstrating the unnecessary rearrangement of my apartment including finding my bathroom scale in the wine rack, his response acknowledged nothing, he just did not and could not care, that is fine.

Fundamentally, he had progressively taken away my enjoyment of my home by the things he had unwittingly done whether in thinking he was cleaning up the place by rearrangement or the simple things damaged that he had grown accustomed to me not saying anything about.

I have my place back to myself, I should just enjoy it despite the fact I still find rat droppings somewhere in the house, not so literally, but signs that my friend, if he still qualifies as one has been there, a tormenting daily reminder of associations I should have long abandoned before they hurt me much.

My Lenten vision beyond temptation to triumph

By the Spirit of God

As this Lenten season according to church tradition begins tomorrow on Ash Wednesday, I have been thinking about what spiritual growth I seek to achieve. There are many struggles and situations I find myself in that challenge my discipline and resolve, understanding how to triumph is a walk of faith and “Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the LORD Almighty. [Bible Hub: Zechariah 4:6]

Yet, we think that by mental capacity and fortitude, the force of determination and discipline, we can totally overcome the vagaries of humanity to which we are too susceptible in habits, desires, temptations, and tests. There is a reason why the phrase, “Lead us not into temptation,” exists in the Lord’s prayer. Temptation is more than a lure; it feeds on our natural instinct to yield and fall into it. There is always a way out, but we rarely find it.

No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it. [Bible Hub: 1 Corinthians 10:13]

Bible Versions, so many

In view of how temptation seems to wield such influence over us, I have decided to revisit the temptation of Jesus Christ, not in what He was tempted of, but in how He responded to each temptation. Those red letters in the gospels have drawn my focus to a new understanding of what is possible.

While I have developed a preference for listening to and reading the New Living Translation (NLT), the traditions in which I was taught and how I remember verses are in the King James Version (KJV). However, when I share single verses, I offer links to over 30 English translations covering the modern, classic, literal and other versions, to give context and understanding in the different modes of English we use.

Temptations abound, but we can win

Apostle John talks of the ways in which temptations take hold of us, in each of which Jesus was tempted too. “For we have not a high priest who cannot be touched with the feeling of our weaknesses; but was in all points tempted like we are, yet without sin.” [Bible Hub: Hebrew 4:15]

The apostle lists out the fundamentals of temptation and how they are all not of God.

“For the world offers only a craving for physical pleasure, a craving for everything we see, and pride in our achievements and possessions. These are not from the Father, but are from this world.” [NLT]

“For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.” [KJV] [Bible Hub: 1 John 2:16]

The lust of the flesh

To the first temptation of turning stones to bread to feed his hunger after a 40 day fast, Jesus answered the devil and said, “It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.” [Bible Hub: Matthew 4:4]

I find in this the need to immerse myself and feed on the Word of God for strength and sustenance. This always transforms my thought processes and guides me in places where I need inspiration, insight, peace, and resolution.

The lust of the eyes

When the devil took Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple and asked dared him to jump because angels will bare him up, lest he dash his foot against a stone, the devil was quoting from Psalm 91:11-12, though inaccurately, Jesus said unto him, “It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.” [Bible Hub: Matthew 4:7]

Understanding God’s word better would give one an understanding of God’s will, what He would do, and what He does not do. God is not into the sensational or theatrical displays for entertainment, feeding our egos or lusts, but for bringing men into the kingdom of God.

The pride of life

Finally, the devil chose to tempt Jesus with giving him the world he came to die for by suspecting he could have the world just by falling and worshipping the devil. The same devil and the works of the devil; he came to earth to condemn and destroy. Then saith Jesus unto him, “Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.” [Bible Hub: Matthew 4:10]

Temptation always offers a shortcut to pleasure and attainment, but never by the right and just means. We could be easily drawn away with pride and that sense we could do things alone without anyone’s help or the discovery of how we have achieved success by suspicious means.

Stoicism and strength in faith can only come from trusting in God, feeding on His word and seeking only to do His will with the power of the Holy Spirit in us.

This is my Lenten vision and my greatest desire to live and love this way. Have a wonderful Shrove Tuesday. Now to find a Lenten prayer group for study and devotion.

It comes in a can

How Condensed Milk is Made in Factory | Step by Step Process

WhatsApp is eavesdropping on us

I got home from work this evening and switched on my smart television to watch YouTube to understand the news of the past few days from the comedic genius of late-night show hosts.

There is no way the news can be taken in neat from the new channels with their rolling and interminable analysis of analyses and the postulations over bizarre prognostications, the chaos from the calico bunker on Pennsylvania Avenue already puts the earth’s rotation in a wobble, only humour keeps the stress at bay.

What showed up first on my list of suggestions to playback was titled, “How Condensed Milk is Made in Factory | Step by Step Process”, that was quite scary, yet an interesting first 7 minutes of information before moving on to the production of other mass manufactured goods.

Different milks for different folks

You would recall that last week I wrote about the sleight of hand that had opened and poured the milk I brought in without me noticing as I made tea and put in some sugar. My milk was all gone by Friday morning, indicating that someone or some people do prefer whole milk over semi-skimmed milk. Whole milk is unmistakable, it has a blue cap on the bottle, semi-skimmed milk has a green cap, and skimmed milk has a red cap.

Blog - Just milking the milk

Today, rather than suffer the privation of milk by the end of the week, I bought a larger bottle of milk, our office manager even offered to have the bottle marked as private in a public access fridge, I declined as I hoped there would be much left for us to use. If that optimistic expectation fails, I might take her up on that offer.

Condensed to irrelevance

I was relating the situation to Brian as we had our regular morning chat, first by audio as I walk to the office and then switching to video on WhatsApp when at my desk, when he talked of getting condensed milk. What an opportunity to relate one of the seminal moments of my boarding school experience.

I bought condensed milk with some bread and was walking towards the field in front of the staff room, and behold my tall and almost gangly aunt, my mother’s big sister of blessed memory, had come to visit. Seeing my goods, with such dismissive disdain, she said, Ọmọ fish and chip (child of fish and chip), which would never have been the staple of Nigerians studying abroad, but for the unacculturated deviance of their kids born there. It was as cutting and hurtful as being slapped across the face, even the condensed milk lost its sweet taste after that encounter.

Whatever Brian wanted condensed milk for which I cannot remember I have had again since that unfortunate meeting, he chose to excoriate me for having condensed milk with bread when he planned to get can of condensed milk, punch a hole or slit in the top of the can, and suck out the gooey stuff like a suckling child. Just the temerity of the accusation.

It comes in a can

Indeed, it comes in a can, and one other can I do have an affinity for is evaporated milk, which goes well on my custard and in caffeinated coffee that I have barely had for almost six months. That taste returned when I was in the Netherlands, for they have a version of evaporated milk called koffie melk, milk for coffee, and it works for filter coffee better than other types of milk.

Most of the common brands now come with a tab to rip off the lid, and the cost of those cans has doubled or tripled in the supermarkets nearby. Only one other supermarket retains a reasonable price with the cans indicating two opposite depressions to make holes for the milk to be poured out freely.

Koffie melk usually comes in a carton or a glass bottle, the pasteurised cow’s milk comes mainly in plastic containers except from long life milk in cartons, evaporated milk in tins, and well, condensed milk in hermetically sealed cans, you might need a chisel and hammer to get to the contents and who better to give all muscle to the can, than you know who.

Someone is eavesdropping with AI transcription

As for the YouTube video I was presented with, we only had a conversation on WhatsApp, I fear WhatsApp with its AI mechanisms was eavesdropping on our conversation and it presented the topic of our conversation to YouTube. It was no coincidence, and we never searched for anything regarding condensed milk during or after that conversation.

The history of condensed milk goes back to France in 1820, England in 1835 with sugar as a preservative, but the successful commercialisation of the process came in 1865 in the United States after the proprietor visited England.

Thought Picnic: The result of excusing bad behaviour

When we excuse the inexcusable

I have sometimes been concerned if not worried about the way we reward bad behaviour by excusing things because of our better nature, accepting things because they are out our control, commending things because another characteristic of the person appeals to us, or through some lack of moral fibre in us, we allow such until that behaviour becomes commonplace.

From the observation of many things as close as within my family or further afield in political leadership in places that would have been bastions of good manners, the vilest of characterisation has emerged that one is both filled with revulsion and disgust as one recoils into some sort of recluse unable to comment about each particular issue.

How broken fences cannot be fixed

That I deployed myself to specifically address one such instance, which was the culmination of a series of mistakes and mishaps we had allowed to fester and had been fostered more by filial relationship than anything else had drawn the most out of our better nature, we had to draw the line somewhere.

It is too easy to be taken advantage of because of the familiarity and the reading that we cannot follow through with the inconceivable. It only takes a little more disrespect and discourtesy to breach that thin curtain that veils what we conceal of the worst of what we can be.

For safety and self-preservation, which might be selfish and sinful, we find that essential resolve against emotional blackmail.

Witchcraft cannot be understood

Rebellion, the good book says, is as wicked as witchcraft, and in witchcraft is an unmistakable recognition of the inexplicable, because nothing reasonable or logical is understood from what you find yourself perceiving.

The thought that people might recognise and seek a space for self-reflection on their own flaws rather than regard themselves under siege is one we rarely find as the appropriate resort.

In certain relationships with friends and even leaders, elements of affection and regard will wane, in family, it creates drift and exacerbates rift. Does one have the energy for making peace?

This only depends on whether things are redeemable from an initial point of people willing to engage and listen. You cannot get far if the default at the mountain is obstinacy, and some mountains are better not climbed or scaled, there are other meadows for appreciation.

Facing down the schoolyard bully

On the leadership front, on which I would rarely want to comment because too many are entrenched or enthralled, my heart goes out to Volodymyr Zelenskyy. He has come from a comedy to exemplify Ukraine's fighting spirit.

To stand up to bullies who have become so powerful because we have always excused bad behaviour and accepted an inexcusable narrative masquerading as truth is the greatest danger we now face, but only a few can face down.

There comes a time when bad behaviour should never be excused again, I know where my red lines are and where they have been crossed, I have done the selfish and sinful, yet within the human sphere of things, it is a needful and rightful thing.

Facing down the schoolyard bully just takes one person, courageous enough to challenge the seeming potentate and call out the abuse of power, to the wherewithal to stand their ground. Of such men, few remain.

Dreamscape: Was this old Manchester?

Back to the yesterdays of yesteryear

The wonder of dreamland and what one can discover in almost hallucinatory repose is an interesting spectacle. The other night, I walked by the University of Manchester and landed in a picturesque landscape more than 40 years ago, buildings I recognised and things that had changed.

A distinct Manchester Business School sponsored by a large conglomerate, its hoarding atop the school, so unmistakable, yet I forget. Buildings that have been replaced, old in Victorian red brick or new with the facade of brutalist architecture in stark concrete, I was somewhere I knew and did not know.

A picturesque idyll, I recall

Oxford Road was a narrow and busy tree-lined avenue, looking like a forlorn escape from the city to a remote location that you might only visit on business or purpose alone. A village road with cottages from a bygone time, now lost to the sepia of a picture found in the attic of a long-gone ancestor’s home.

I walked up the nondescript pavement that looked more like a grassy verge, dusty rather than macadamised, dust swept up by the heat of summer, all the way to St Peter's Square that had the semblance of a motor park terminus bustling with the energy of an African city station.

In the wonder of dreams

It was full of confusion, I could not find the bus I needed to board, if I could determine where I was even going. I wandered around listless and thinking about why I consciously felt I had travelled back in time from a more familiar present.

Indeed, Manchester was different back then, before I ever came to live in Manchester, but between my dream and the reality, I cannot vouch for truth in my dreams. I guess it just brought many memories to play and create a dreamscape of a time it was best I never experienced. The power of imagination in dreams sends you to times and places you never knew existed.