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Our teenage
daughter, Ominira, and I have a complicated relationship. We love each
other and we are in constant communication about stuff. Our
conversations are usually in the form of random questions. I remember
when Ominira first introduced me to Facebook. Well, I was loitering
around our house; I had come home a bit early from work hoping to spend
some quality time with Ominira. She slunk into the house from school
muttering to herself, something about when it would be appropriate to
drop out of school, when she spied me in the living room.

She immediately
stopped like an American deer that just spied a cutlass-wielding
Nigerian. “Daddy, why are you here?” she asked. ‘Enh?” I responded, “I
live here! Is that okay?” Then, “Daddy, are you in an arranged marriage
with mommy?” ‘Enh?” I asked, feeling really, really, really faint.
“Where did that come from?” “Well, my friend, O-K, said his parents are
in an arranged marriage; that is why they hate each other!” My wife and
I love each other.

O-K is really
Okechukwu, yes, these children in America, they reject their African
names. Ominira has a three letter word for the name that my father gave
her, a beautiful name with meaning thus: “I sent my wayward son to
America to make millions of dollars, he has failed woefully at that. I
guess a female child is also good, a son would be nice! Sniff!” Our
other daughter was named “Kindness will not kill me in this village of
Unokas who borrow money but refuse to repay their benefactors. A son
would be nice!” My father uses my children’s names to express stress.
Our first son came after the two girls and my father danced for many
days on occasion of the birth of a SON before giving the kid this name:
“AT LAST! AT LAST! MY SON HAS PRODUCED A WORTHY SUCCESSOR TO MY GREAT
THRONE! A BOY! AT LAST!! NOW I CAN DIE!” Today, our son calls himself
Ike, as in Ike Eisenhower! Ingrate!

O-K had shared his
suspicion that his parents are in a stressful loveless marriage that
was arranged for them by their “tribes” back home. O-K has exactly
5,000 very inquisitive amebo friends who each have 5,000 very
inquisitive amebo friends, who each have 5,000 very inquisitive amebo
friends. You can see where I am going with this. Be very afraid of your
children. Do not, I repeat, do not tell them anything. For verily,
verily, I say onto you, their friends, and their friends’ friends, and
their friends’ friends’ friends will find out on Facebook.

The other day, my
wife and I were having date night in the family room which really
involves chomping on roasted plantain and stale groundnuts from home
while watching a nice Nigerian movie with a great title like WHO ARE
MY? (Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! Ikhide, stop!). Well, Ominira our daughter
sauntered into the room and announced casually, “Mummy! Daddy!! Auntie
Kehinde is dying!!” This terrible piece of information ruined our
entire date, and we took turns yelling at Ominira for not giving us the
home phone when the horrible news came. Ominira calmly assured us after
rolling her eyes and texting “smh” to her friend, that she does not
know what a home phone is plus the news is all over Facebook. When my
lover asked what “Bookface” was, she was quickly corrected with several
eye rolls and teenage put-downs. It was only the threat of police
intervention that prevented my wife from dispatching Ominira to the
great beyond. Be very afraid of your children. They are talking about
you. On Facebook.

So I am on
Facebook, I don’t really know why. I do like that I can surround myself
with only non-jerks, real people who really love me, even when I say
inappropriate stuff, which is all the time. Who needs the stress of
hearing the truth from bad belle prophets? I am a dictator in my corner
of Facebook; if you do not “like” what I have to say, you are gone. My
two favourite words on Facebook are “like” and “LOL!”

The first time I tried to get on my daughters’ Facebook accounts as
their friends, they laughed so hard, I thought they were going to have
a heart attack. Then they threatened to report me to the Police for
stalking and other crimes. Well, about a year ago they added me because
I told them I was going to Nigeria to visit my relatives. Their Social
Studies teacher, a Nigerian, had told them that Africa was a place of
darkness, where a lot of bad things happen and people get robbed,
stabbed, murdered, etc, like in Washington DC. They wanted to monitor
my movements since I was going to be on Facebook in Africa (yes,
Nigeria is Africa!) via my Blackberry. They didn’t want to miss
anything in case I got shot. They also asked for copies of my life
insurance. I came back alive. They were happy to see me. I think.