THE Whisperer’s mother is in town, here on holiday from the far parts she resides in, usually. I went looking for her the other day, planning a surprise, banged on the door to her home many times and finally figured she had gone visiting.
Then I called her mobile phone and found she was on the way to Ibadan with her sister. My mother does lightning visits like that, enters Nigeria and then disappears to Ghana in search of a relative who is incommunicado.
This time, she and her sister, my Aunt Idowu, were in pursuit of another sister of theirs whom they had heard nothing of in a while.
As I stood outside her place speaking to her on the phone, a lady of indeterminate age walked into the frontage of the next building and waved at me. Trying to be friendly and imagining her to be someone who knew me, I waved back and continued my call.
From the corner of my eye, I saw this woman, aged about 50 plus and if younger, she had lived a very hard life, sidle up to me and lean against my car the way a girlfriend 30 years younger than her would. I said nothing but continued with my call, slightly annoyed at the intrusion.
She looked like someone who walked the streets for a living (there are some things you cannot hide no matter how hard you try). I uttered the word ‘Mum’ several times in my phone conversation but undeterred, my ‘guest’ began to try to interrupt me.
I angrily waved her off, pointing at the phone. She took no offence but returned to her original position, as graceful as a hyena in heat.  When I finished on the phone, my ‘new friend’ went straight to the point. “I am hungry,” she said. “Could you give me N50?” with a smile that looked as if that scourge of American society, meth, had eroded her teeth, leaving each one half the width it would be, ordinarily.

NOW make no mistake about this situation; our country is full of hungry people and the Whisperer would be the last person to talk derisively about a person in trouble. However, this was not the case. This stranger did not come as if she needed help.
She had come coyly, trying non-existent sex appeal on me and when I told her I had nothing to give her, she lowered the demand to N20, saying she went to bed the night before, having drunk only gari, that saviour of many Nigerian lives.
I suspected she was hooked on some illicit drug and no amount of money would help her case if she didn’t seek for some form of rehabilitation first. Still, I told her I had nothing to spare.
Now, to make things clear, if by some chance, I was able to get back all I have given out in my life as charity, I would be able to buy a house on Banana Island today.
I have no problem with giving, I just thought this woman had approached me oddly, firstly as if she knew me; the initial hand-wave from next door had fooled me, and then by trying to act coy as if she was some 21-year old coquette.
When I insisted I had nothing to give, this stranger asked where I was going, a question that caught me off-guard but to which I replied, brusquely, that I was going to my work place (my office is really called “The Play Station” on account of the fact that stage plays come out of it, apologies to those who create game consoles). Then came the ultimate shocker that morning; she asked if she could follow me. I didn’t reply this time but got into my car and drove away.
In retrospect, it was a terrible thing to see anyone in a situation like that but N50 would have done no good to one that appeared to be on drugs.

THE Whisperer has had cause to reflect over the past few weeks on whether the girl (or boy) next door whom you met when you were 12 or 14 years old is the girl (boy) of one’s dreams. Like many people, I have wondered as to the accuracy of the book title, “All you need to know you learnt in kindergarten”.
Sometimes I wonder if the specifications we wanted in a female (or in a male, if it’s a woman reading) when we were in high school are not the same dimensions we expect as adults in a potential partner. People don’t really change.
Personally, The Whisperer has always loved skinny, long-limbed females and (as I found out at the Radisson Blu Charity Tournament in which I played a week ago Saturday) if she can carry a low hair cut (not many women can) all for the better.
The Whisperer was part of a football team that played the 5-a-side competition at Campos Square and one of the people in the stands was this lovely female with a low hair cut who conjured memories of beautiful times as a teenager.
I would like to state for the record that my interest in women generally lacks vulgarity. I like the female form and the very idea of what it is to be a woman but this is strictly from a male point of view, The Whisperer being heterosexual. It is not a thing of vulgarity, neither is it mean-minded or low.
I love a woman with a rich sense of humour, one that has a laugh that starts from deep within her before it erupts into the night skies, I like a woman who isn’t pretentious yet retains enough femininity to still be a woman.
At different points in my life and like other men, I have loved Nicole Kidman (I still do), Brittany Murphy, Gabrielle Union, Maya Rudolph and many others. I do not think base thoughts when I contemplate them or have school-boy dreams. It’s the same way some women like jewellery and some men, cars. I just like women. I like to listen to them (when the moon isn’t affecting their moods) and to converse with them.
Often, we spend our lives wandering about looking for the perfect form but the perfect form was probably that one we loved when we were young. Human beings generally remain the same except some kind of trauma alters their well being. If we cast our minds back, we might be able to conquer the wanderlust that troubles us as adults and drives us from partner to partner.
The end of the year draws near; let’s make these last months count.