'Know Thyself' By Adesina Ogunlana

“Man, know thy self.” This instruction uttered ages ago by a sage, unknown to me in one credo, I believe in. It is awful if a man does not know himself. Such a fellow invariably makes a fool of himself and can very easily prove his own ruin.

To ‘know one'self’ is to have a clear, objective and true appraisal of one’s character strengths and weaknesses. For example a stammerer, even for a million pounds will not participate in a competition to determine the fastest reciter of tongue twisters.

I think I know myself. Or at least, reasonably so. I have certain types of good luck and equally possess some areas of badluck.
We won’t talk about the good luck today. You see, one area of ill-luck pertains to wedding reception entertainment.

Hard, bad luck is my repetitive lot when it comes to getting food and drinks at wedding receptions. The ill-luck is so strong that if I had been a guest at my own wedding (to the Real-Deal Ibis,) it would not have been a RSVP (Rice and Soup Very Plenty) situation for me.

It does not matter where I sit at receptions. The fare must either miss me or do a Passover, sometimes tantalizingly so.
If I choose the front row that’s when service would commence from the rear. If I elect for the back seats, you can be sure that the servers would that day obey the rule of “first things first.” By the time they get to the rear, the munificence would have dried up.
It is even worse, if I find myself seated at the centre. With the ever-present ill-luck, I become instantly invisible to the ministers of food and drinks. The excuse always is that, the center is a beehive of activities, full of distractive sights.

Last Saturday proved an opportunity to test the constancy of my anti-refreshment luck at reception.
We were five in our party. Four innocents and one Jonah. We hardly had sat down, when drinks (‘softs’ water and juice packs) surfaced on our table. I was not deceived. I was even less deceived when some fifteen minutes later, one of the principal pillars of the reception specifically asked me what particular drinks I would like for my table.
I almost laughed at the gent’s face. When I told him my party’s preference, the good man bustled off to see them moved over. But that was the last I saw of him, till we left more than an hour later.

When I saw servers moving about with trays laden with food, I shook my head. Not for myself but for the sections nearest to me, to the right and left.
Sometimes, my afore-said ill-luck extends its repellant jurisdiction to affect my immediate neighbours.
Soon the refreshment train came to our table. Then it happened, the trained chugged to a halt mid-way as only three of us got served.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty even fifty-minutes later, the only plate of food that surfaced was just a small mound of semovita, some questionable egusi soup and a big chunk of fried meat.
It was intantly rejected by the fellow to my right. I on the other hand quickly claimed it. I knew what would follow later. So while four of our party got food and started due process on them, the fifth, popularly known as ‘prof’ could only look on.
Poor Prof. How he waited for manna to came down. I really felt sorry for the poor man. It must have been excruciating seeing your companions having a swell time at table, leaving you high and dry.

From the wicked corners of my eye, I was espying the man. I followed his internal turmoil intimately. I saw him dangling between cultured silence (siddon-look) and a yearning to ask for food.

Then after about fifty minutes of “guest-earnestly-yearning for-rice”, the Lord intervened in prof’s case. Might be the Lord saw the unholy glee in my heart and decided to end prof’s suffering.
This story has a moral. And it is that except, you are on a fast, don’t accompany me or don’t let me accompany you to wedding receptions. You doubt me? Ask ‘prof.’

CHECK OUT THE WEDDING PIX AT http://www.squibsociety.blogspot.com