BASORGE TARIAH - The Comedian/Actor Explains Why He Vanished From The Social Scene And Why He Isnt Bitter....A MUST READ!

Basorge and lovely wife Doris and their lovely kids

Basorge wrote this himself for his new column in YES! Mag and he explains a lot of things you need to read for yourself.

When you grow accustomed to the scenario of having frequently to answer the question: “Where have you been? Then you must find time for a hard-boiled answer to this constantly paraphrased enquiry. So, last week, I set my mind firmly on answering this seemingly familiar question. It shocked me that I was evidently as puzzled as they were about my whereabouts. Of course, not by the same premise of concern: mine was embarrassing because I couldn’t really tell when I vanished!

I couldn’t obviously find a safe time or place for my exit. I have taken breaks at various times. Like when I stopped accepting some annoying movie scripts. Another time was when I ran out of interest – or more like funds – to finance my passion: the stylized Warri-subject comedy movies. Or the time when a light bulb went on in my head to do a freelance (note: very free, non-paying) contribution for Saturday ThisDay in local parlance (Pidgin English). This bright idea was truncated by the twin factors of my threatening case of deep-vein thrombosis, and the lack of apathy on the part of the publishers. No alliteration intended! I recall being hit by the realization that I did not even get a mention; I bet a staff visit would be asking for too much! I laid on my bed in Ward C (of the Lagos University Teaching Hospital) in the company of new-found allies, some of whom never made it through that horrifying year. Alas! I may have found the turning-point.

That horrible year when I lost my verve, my knack and penchant for this enviable craft that I have adored for three decades, may be more. That year was 2005. This withdrawal was an aggregation of a series of events, one lapping onto the next like a relay team heading to the finish line. It began when a dear friend, a Christian messenger of God, Pastor Goke, asked me to be a part of a select-group of individuals who share a common passion for soccer. It was the age of the football fanatics, and this strange, unexplainable Freudian phenomenon was raging through Nigeria, all the way from England. The throng to the throne of the Barclay’s Premier League by Nigerians was helped – in more ways than we realize – by the incompetence and myopia of our football administrators. The more they killed our league, conversely, more and more people were drawn to the beauty and finesse of English soccer.

Inevitably, these fans – many of who lay claim to a football skill or two – set out to stretch the hostilities at the popular Astro-Turf around the Dolphin/Kingsway Road axis in Ikoyi, Lagos. The events that led to the tragedy of that ill-fated football match were premonitions I did wrong to ignore. First, I had been chosen by a Christian youth organization in Maryland (Lagos) to deliver a speech at their seminar as against lacing my boots for that football match. But the pull of a chance to do a Zola on a few hapless opposing fans was so strong I declined the seminar. Second, when my wife dropped me off – still standing by the open door – glimpsed, for the first time, at my pre-chosen Chelsea team-mates, as against a more robust, athletic and obviously well-trained Arsenal fans, I should have just sat back down in the car and claimed I forgot my hair-band at home! But I stood there, as the sound of my wife driving away receded with all hopes of whipping my team-mates into world-beaters in a matter of minutes.

Clearly, it was Pastor Goke’s way of avenging a flurry of losses suffered by Arsenal in the hands of a Mourinho-inspired Chelsea FC of England. So, as I lined up beside my respectable, though less talented mates, I could still have bailed out of the pitch, but I stayed put. Perhaps my tree will make this forest…

It took only ten minutes for the selection cheats to shop in five goals beyond our goal-keeper, who was still warming up between the posts! My hapless team-mates were the dregs of football fan players of Goke’s cronies. It hit me that as captain of the Chelsea fans, I had been set up for humiliation for my past and recent glories. So, I fought hard and played harder, to my detriment. Attempting to beat a stubborn opponent, I twisted my right knee and got a severe dislocation for my skills.

A condition I treated with levity. Shortly after, and against doctor’s orders, I flew to London to perform for an industry colleague in his “Crack Ya Ribs” event. This robust activity put a huge strain on my knee, next thing I knew, I was having palpitations until I collapsed in Pekham, the Nigerian local government area in London. I was rushed back to our makeshift campy, where the drama (or better, dilemma) of who-will-bell-the-cat and call for an ambulance was scarier than my heart giving up! That night, everybody clearly abandoned me, including my colleagues, even the benefactor of my patronage and some groupies who had turned up to hobnob. In this milieu, however, the silver lining came in form of a Ghanaian, Amankwa, who proved to be a brother’s keeper. On my return to Nigeria, my doctor told me I had a swollen calf, laden with a blood clot that was affecting blood flow to my heart. Deep-vein thrombosis may be a new medical term for me, but the reality of the condition lived within my body for a while. I was close to death, but did not realize it.

Then came a flush of SOS calls from Dr. Kuti (owner of the highly rated MRI facility) to Dr. Jane Ajuluchukwu (a seasoned cardiologist) to no avail: she was out of the country. Dr. Kuti’s persistence led to Professor Oke, head-cardiologist at LUTH. At some harrowing, carousing point, I was even refereed to a posh hospital on the Island, but the excellent service and attention I got from the LUTH doctors not only restored my faith in the medical personnel, but added to my list of friends. I must lightly, but firmly, say that the doctors and nurses are some of the best in their approach to service. Subsequently, I made many young doctor friends. From the non-medical side, Tope Ezekiel and David Anukwu stood out.

On the flip side, my brand and business suffered. Corporate clients, unkindly, asked for refunds. There were hardly get-well or consolatory messages.

Even industry colleagues, besides the true friends – who know themselves – I soon realized that when you need to be strong, if you look deep enough, the needed strength will well up in you and flood your senses and limbs. So-called friends (apart from a handful I won’t mention here) were never by my bedside. No cards. No flowers. No phone calls. For the few that showed me love, I shall never forget. My worry was my family. They suffered in no small measure. It was in the midst of all this I had this overwhelming feeling of betrayal and unloved by the throngs of people and fans I had come to know and regard as family.

When I recovered, the decision to withdraw into my shell was easy. It would take time to recover from the treachery. Time to be myself among the same people I figured had abandoned me. I can’t lay blame on all or vent my bitterness on everyone, but OMG, I had the right to hide away from the horror! But here I am. I am back. All the experiences of the past, I put down to human frailty and a learning curve for the living. My best line has always been: “No shaking”.