How I Am beating Type 2 Diabetes

Diabetes care: Photo credit - Medical Care Today

I was diagnosed with diabetes in late July. At the time of diagnosis, my blood sugar was at 365 ml and my vision was already very bad (I couldn't make out the features of people who are not standing right in front of me. If I know you, I would know you are the one, but I wouldn't be able to describe your features if asked. My fingers were constantly tingling (A symptom of nerve damage caused by the extremely high blood sugar) and I felt like a total wreck.

I knew I was overweight but didn't feel it was that bad (I weighed like 90kg, weigh below 80 now). At least I was hardly ever the biggest person in the room. I do drink, but very passively—once in a long while—mostly while hanging out with friends and at most 2 bottles.

I didn't consider myself a candidate for diabetes as I didn't know of a family member that had it. So getting a diagnosis that read diabetes was a shock.

Selective Outrage: Are we guilty of ignoring human suffering?

Photo credit: Mazi Nwonwu

Years ago, a Dana aircraft travelling from Abuja to Lagos ploughed into a two-storey building in the Iju area of Lagos killing everyone on board and some others on the ground. News of the crash soon spread as social media went abuzz. In the ensuing weeks, the fatal incident hogged the headlines on blogs and websites, while many dedicated status updates to mourn the departed, especially those on board the plane.

As is common with Nigerians, some constituted informal committees to measure how certain people mourned: Did he/she cry enough; or show enough concern by taking one week off work? Was the government’s three-day mourning period too short? Did the officials who lost bosses or subordinates in the crash mourn for a respectable enough period?

Questions were asked and people were called out.

The gang wars no one is talking about

There is an ongoing gang war on the streets of Lagos that the media is ignoring.

I choose to call it a silent war, but this classification – my attempt to stress the media’s seeming disinterest in the matter – is false. The war is by no means silent; it is loud and, as anyone who pays attention to happenings on the streets of Mushin, Bariga, Oshodi and affected parts of Lagos know too well, bloody.

I became aware of this war when I moved from Ajao Estate to Mafoluku, Oshodi, in 2008. Armed robbery and other associated crimes were at that time an issue in Ajao Estate, a town once considered prime real estate by the 419 dons of the ’90s (Eze Ego’s house still stands impressive and imposing opposite the CPM chapel). Ajao Estate later became a magnet for Yahoo-Yahoo boys and the Pentecostal preachers that are ever drawn to owners of easy money.

Linda Ikeji When Not to Call a Spade a Shovel

Photo: Linda Ikeji's blog

As sad as the whole Linda Ikeji saga is, and I admit it is sad on all fronts, we need to look beyond the sentiments and face some very fundamental facts. And one glaring fact is that Ms Linda Ikeji did take materials from people without attribution, and she made good money in the process. Another truth is that we all talking about this because a Linda Ikeji is involved—this story would not have gotten to Google if it was a Mazi Nwonwu complaining about Intellectual Theft.

I must admit that I am a fan of Linda Ikeji. Her story is a testament of what a motivated person can achieve.

Untitled (discarded work)

1972 Soviet Union 16 kopeks stamp. Mars 3 lander. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

11: 15 am, June 1 2089, Abuja, Capital city of the Union of West African States

Very little has changed in the spaceport. Not that I was expecting much to have changed in the time that I had been away from home, but I had not expected things to remain the same. Near the exit doors, just beyond where the customs desk ended, the touts, not so camouflaged by well-sown but low quality Aba-copy business suits, still lurked, hungry eyes searching for the next victim.

Behind them, closer to the exit doors, loitered taxi drivers, pick pockets, potters, and an assortment of humanity who make a living from transit ports of any kind.

I felt the touts edging closer from the corner of my eyes and marvelled at how much space they covered while appearing not to move at all.

A lifted palm was all I needed to ward off those that my stern mask did not discourage. Outside the port the same approach served to scoot away the throng of taxi drivers and potters, who wanted me to believe that my simple shoulder strapped hand luggage was an encumbrance I needed to be rid of.

As I walked towards the extended storage area to retrieve my car, I felt the need to look back at the shuttle that had carried me back to earth. I didn’t look. I knew what I would see: a needle shaped, rust coloured bulk that lacked the majesty of the real space going ship. The rocket functions merely as an escape vehicle, one that takes you from earth to orbit, where you would switch to a space going ship.