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Cameras rolled around 1:15 p.m. Monday outside Halas Hall as Adewale Ogunleye stepped out of a black stretch limousine wearing a throwback Pete Maravich basketball jersey and shorts. They caught Ogunleye smiling widely, opening the glass doors to his new football home and offering to help the chauffeur carry Ogunleye’s designer luggage.

A few hours later on the practice field, cameras clicked and pens scribbled as Ogunleye stood next to coach Lovie Smith and chatted about things known only to them and skilled lip-readers. Defensive line coach Karl Dunbar came over next for a handshake. Then defensive tackle Bryan Robinson stopped by to hug his new, rich team mate.

But as much as media and fans will zero in on Ogunleye’s every move in the coming months, Bears opponents will do so even more intensely.

In Miami, Ogunleye benefited from the emphasis by Dolphins opponents to stop defensive end Jason Taylor, one of the NFL’s most feared pass rushers on the other side.

In Chicago, Ogunleye becomes the object of that emphasis.

“It’s nothing that’s going to hamper my ability,” Ogunleye insisted after changing into a suit for his news conference. “This defense is one that defensive ends are going to make plays. There’s no pressure. To be frank, I’ve just got to do what I’ve been doing the past couple of years, and that’s to get to the quarterback.”

Ogunleye was more concerned about the pronunciation of his name, telling reporters:
"Ok, guys, let's try this once-Add-uh-Walay Oh-GOON-lay-eh," Ogunleye said. “It’s not that hard. If you can say Janikowski, you can say Ogunleye.” – Redeye 8/24/04

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Just the same way I supported Akeem Olajuwon when he played. – Biafra

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...Of course I insulted all those who disrespected and insulted the Igbo with every arsenal real or imagined...-MeBiafran confessing his sins

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"A lot of people say, well, this happened during Awo period. It is not true. 1961 to 1966 most of these things were constructed. I am talking about Cocoa Board, I am talking about Obafemi Awolowo University, I am talking about so many things that were constructed at that time.., it was under Akintola's government, not prior, not after."

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Here’s the difference between the Igbo, which I belong and the yoroba. To a yoroba, anything Igbo is bad and I am supposed to overlook this annoyance?

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My brother MeBiafra I missed your initial posting on this thread and I couldn't help but respond eventhough its now old. That is the typical generalisation we've been "preaching" about!

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How's your highway code?
Wednesday, April 27, 2005 Aig Imoukhuede.

A young friend of mine drove to my house in a brand new Toyota and, as is the custom in these parts, I was asked to perform the "launching" of the car. In the course of the launching I offered the customary prayer - that the car and its owner would never be involved in an accident, that car snatchers would always fail to see him as he passed by in the car, and that, before long, the car would have a sibling or two ("gba aburo", as the expression is.)

The prayer session was rounded off with my splashing some brandy (Very Special Old Preserve) over the engine. I am a beer drinker myself, but I am willing to make an exception on special occasions like this one.

The ceremony over, I asked my young friend if that was his first car.

"My very first," he confirmed.
"I hope you have passed a driving test?"

I continued. "In my days every driver had to do that. The test came in two parts: an oral quiz about the highway code, followed by a road test during which the testing officer assessed the candidate’s driving skills under traffic conditions. Does that still happen?"

My friend laughed. "Anyone who has driven a car between Mile Two and Okokomaiko just once on a Friday evening does not need to take another test. Driving in Lagos is as much a matter of nerves as of skill."

"Skill and experience," I corrected him, "and a good knowledge of the Highway Code."

"Highway Code?" he asked, puzzled.

"It’s a set of rules for the guidance of drivers, like: don’t park your vehicle on the crest of a hill, observe the speed limit, signal before making a turn, and so on. Anyone infringing the Highway Code usually got into trouble with the police"

"Things have changed," my friend said. "These days, if a person is pulled up for a traffic offence, all he needs to do is let the policeman see the colour of his money. Incidentally, the Highway Code no longer fits into today’s reality."

"And what’s this reality?" I asked.

"We live in dangerous times," the young man said. "What’s needed is a highway survival code that tells drivers what to do when faced with certain problems - like what to do if you’re driving along the Lagos-Ibadan expressway, and somebody hiding in the bush throws a tyre rim in front of your car."

"I’d swerve to avoid the rim," I said, "and continue at top speed without stopping."
"Correct," the young man said, "but the old-style Highway Code would t say that you shouldn’t swerve at 90 kilometres per hour.

Here is another question. What do you do when your tyres are being deflated at a checkpoint by a traffic warden because you refused to settle him?"

"Take down his identification number and report him to the nearest police station." "Where his boss would be waiting for him to come and hand over the day’s takings at that same checkpoint? That would be unwise."

"All right, wise guy," I said, getting into the spirit of the thing, "what action would the highway survival code advise if you have a flat tyre on the Third Mainland Bridge at 10 pm?"

"Call my wife on the mobile phone and tell her where to find my will." "Correct. How about this? If your car drops almost out of sight into a deep pothole in Lagos, do you sue the government?"

"Not until I know if it’s a state road or a federal road. There is some dispute over that at the moment."

I gave up. Perhaps none of this sounds like what one would find in the old-style Highway Code, but then as the young man said, one must move with the times.

l l l
Traffic was light. The opulent car with the L-plate was just ahead of me. The person driving it was a woman, and sitting beside her was a man. He was wearing an expensive looking suit, so I assumed that he was her husband, not her driver. Without any warning whatsoever the woman stalled the engine, and the car came to a jerky stop. There then followed a long wait, during which I could hear the woman frantically trying to restart the car, but there is an immutable law which says that the more feverishly a learner-driver tries to restart a car whose engine is stalled in traffic, the longer it takes him or her to get it restarted.

When the engine was finally restarted, there was a grinding of gears, and the car leapt forward, only to stop once more with the engine again stalled. The two people in the car exchanged glares, and then exchanged words. By now a queue of cars had formed behind me, with the more impatient among the drivers sounding their horns and trying to edge past the distressed car. In the midst of what was rapidly building up to a chaotic situation, the man sitting beside the woman got out and, with a scowl on his face, walked round to the driver’s side. The woman slid into the passenger’s seat, and the man got in. He started the car at the first touch, and eased it smoothly into gear. As a display of superior driving it was perfect, but something told me that he would not be getting any supper that evening, and if he did he would not be allowed to enjoy it. He had broken two rules of wedded bliss:

Rule One: Never teach your wife to drive. Get someone else – preferably a paid instructor – to do it. That way, you would have one less cause for quarrel in your home.

Rule Two: If you must teach your wife to drive, don’t do it with the Rolls Royce. Use the rusty old Beetle that is already on its last legs. That way you won’t be so quick to lose your temper over a small matter like the destruction of a gearbox, and she won’t have cause to go and complain to her mother that you love your car more than you love her.

One day both rules may be incorporated into the Highway Code.

A most peculiar tree

A bonsai, for the benefit of those who are strangers to specialized gardening, is a dwarf ornamental tree or shrub, grown in a small shallow pot by selective pruning. The art of growing bonsai was discovered and perfected in Japan. A true grower would choose a suitable tree at seedling stage and undertake the delicate process of stunting it to the desired size, which ideally would not be more than about twelve inches tall, if tall is the word. For anyone who is too lazy to prune his own trees, seeds can be bought at specialized stores or garden centres.

The process of germinating the seed of a bonsai tree is long and arduous. The specially prepared soil should include some chicken manure, the seeds should be planted in a shallow tray, and the tray covered with brown paper to keep out the light. The whole thing should then be placed in a refrigerator, where it must remain for three months. (That last bit makes sense; any living thing, whether animal or vegetable, that is shut in a refrigerator for three months is bound to come out of it stunted.)

Some years ago, a friend who had just returned from a trip abroad presented me with a packet of mixed bonsai seeds, on the understanding that after the bonsai had been cultivated I would give him two of the full grown trees.
At the end of the three months, during which I watered the germinating seeds at the prescribed intervals, I lifted the tray out of the refrigerator, removed the brown paper, and was rewarded with the sight of several seedlings that looked quite healthy. Now all I had to do was to sit back and watch the bonsai trees grow.
When telling this story in company I usually enjoy keeping my audience in suspense as they wait for the denouement, but we don’t have time for that here today, so I will make the story as short as, well, a bonsai tree.

A few days after the tray was taken out of the refrigerator, the nature and character of the seedlings became unmistakable. They were of the species of edible vegetable known as "water leaf", what the Yoruba call gbure. The chickens that produced the manure I had mixed with the soil had been gorging themselves with gbure seeds, and the end result (if I may use the expression) was a soil enriched with gbure seeds. Of the much desired bonsai seedlings there was not a trace.

I kept my promise to the friend who had given me the packet of seeds. In fact I gave him, not two, but four gbure seedlings. He was not noticeably effusive in expressing his gratitude.

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