tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16770709601721130042024-02-07T14:36:08.893-08:00MusingsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-83659035254153665792016-05-14T15:00:00.001-07:002016-05-14T15:00:43.182-07:00Another Strike Story<p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> It's been a grueling one-month stay at home after the school had to be shut down on April 11th, 2016. I daresay that in this one month I've gone through all the stages of grief.</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> First was the denial phase. On that fateful day, exams were slated to begin. I had no papers that day and so I slept pretty well the previous night. However, my beauty sleep was cut short. I was awoken by a loud noise. The atmosphere was charged and chants that the VC <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">"Lale must go"</i> rent the air. The protest started off peacefully and unsurprisingly metamorphosed in the blink of an eye. I was confident that everything would be abated in a matter of minutes. The last time a protest , this one violent from the get-go, had tried to be staged, law enforcement officials were called in. Although school activities were suspended for that day, the next day was business as usual. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> This was my initial thought on the morning of April 11th. I had a rude shock as after an hour, the intensity of the protest only seemed to increase. I and some people recounted stories of how we had once been chased out of our classes with machetes, cutlasses and sticks, yet order was quickly restored. Minutes turned into hours, there was still chaos everywhere. I started to feel like a Hala Gorani. I attempted to take some pictures and record some videos with my phone. In retrospect, that was not one of my smartest moments. A guy with a stick chased me to make me delete whatever pictures I had taken. I escaped unscathed. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Law enforcement officials eventually made their way into school - hours after the students had put all campuses on lock-down by shutting the gates; hours after the protest had resulted in vandalism and flagrant destruction of buildings, and hours after in the name of protests some people had broken into the ICT building and made away with laptops. In the spirit of truth, I can't verify if laptops were actually stolen. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> One by one, students started to leave school in dramatic fashion. It was a scene straight out of a CNN coverage on refugee camps and people fleeing war-torn regions. People carried heaps of boxes on their heads and arms and walked long distances. Cabs were very rare to come by. At this juncture, I realized it may truly be game over. But I'm an optimist and so I settled into my bed and started to watch a movie. I couldn't accept the stark reality that looked right at me. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I knew it was game over when a drama ensued at Choba. It seemed the presence of law enforcement agents only exacerbated the protest. I don't think anyone is quite sure of the events that followed leading up to the death of a student. Only thing that is sure is that it is a truly great tragedy that a life was lost that day. It's what some might term an unnecessary death. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I was angry for some time. I was angry at the forced holiday. At times, I was angry at Nigeria. I quickly realized that the statement that <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">"vex no fit fry egg"</i> is very apt. I sunk myself into my favourite past-time, watching movies. Next was my bargaining stage and my depressed stage. I resigned myself to fate. I steeled my heart and prepared for the worst, a six month shut-down like the time of the fabled ASUU strike.</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> After all has been said and done, everyone has to step back and evaluate what could have been done better. How do we prevent this kind of occurence from happening again? It is certainly not the time to start laying the blame at anyone's feet. It takes two to tango. I might be in the minority but I was always against the protest. I must still extol the fact that youths could come together for a perceived common grievance. It bodes well for the future of Nigeria. I only wish the protest had been peaceful. The story would have been different. Exams will come and go, we will graduate but we would never forget this period. Just one of the experiences of the Nigerian educational system.<br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Finally, I am at the acceptance stage. I have spent slightly over a month out of school with possibly some more weeks to spare. <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">Last last</i>, I have tried. We have all tried. I'm starting to forget that I'm a student.</span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-80069505235624658652016-05-14T14:40:00.001-07:002016-05-14T14:40:37.389-07:00Heartbeat<p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> <a href="https://treasureakela.files.wordpress.com/2016/03/img_1607.png" style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://treasureakela.files.wordpress.com/2016/03/img_1607.png" alt="" style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; width: auto; height: auto; margin: 0px; min-width: 30px; min-height: 30px; max-width: 100%; opacity: 1;"></a> <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Some people fall apart in one fell swoop. Some people fall apart in bits and pieces - a chip everyday, finally a large crack until they fully disintegrate. I learnt this when I was nine or maybe ten. This was about the time mother lost herself. I don't know how it happened. I only know when.</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Mother was a very pretty woman, still the prettiest I have seen. I could be biased, but she was pretty in every sense of the word. She was tall, her skin as light as condensed Peak milk and a figure that put many other women to shame. Her picture still adorns the living room. Father wanted to remove it after what happened but I fought and fought and won. I stare at mother's pictures sometimes and admire her. I would never be half as beautiful or graceful as she was. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I knew something was not quite right. I suspected but I could never put my finger on it. When Grandma Ma- my maternal grandmother died, mother cried and locked herself in her room for 3 days. She didn't eat anything, no matter how much I begged her. She only accepted a cup of water once each day and only from Nonso, my elder brother and only sibling. I was worried but father said to give mother time. Death was a concept I knew but didn't grasp. I couldn't understand her grief - I didn't know if people as old as my mother seemed to me cried. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When mother came out of her solitary confinement, her hair was unevenly trimmed all around like a barber had left a scissors in her hair to wreak havoc. I hugged her and told her sorry. She just smiled, a manic kind of smile that didn't get to her eyes. I hugged her tighter. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was August break, a period after the heavy rains of July ceased for a bit. People sat on their porches swatting housefly after housefly whenever there was no light. My family lived in a face-me-I-face-you apartment and so it was easy to know what everyone else was doing. Curses rang in the air as each house tried to outdo the other in describing their hate for the government. "<i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">It won't ever be good for this President and his family." </i></span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I never failed to say Amen to declarations like that because I had heard that in America, there was always electricity. When my best friend's cousin had come back from the US, she went about the whole school prancing about like a princess with her foreign candy. 'NEPA doesn't ever take light in America and they share free chocolate and candies every break time', she'd said. This was when I started to hate the President and his government and make my own declarations that we would have a new president that would make candy free. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On one of the days as the sun had just begun to set and father like every other person was swatting the flies on our verandah, someone rushed towards our doorstep. My head was buried underneath father's big arms and I could hear the soft rhythmical beat of his heart if I listened closely. I had a clear view of the person advancing towards us. I chuckled at how funny the person ran like one leg was shorter than the other. It was Nonso's friend, Peter. Father stopped swatting away the flies in annoyance. I could tell. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> "Peter, your friend isn't home. Go and check the playground". It was then that I noticed that Peter's eyes were welling with tears as if his parents had just punished him with a whip. If sympathy was what he wanted, father was the last person to offer that to anyone. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> "Uncle", Peter stammered. "Nonso is lying on the field. He can't get up."</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> "Ehn, what do you mean by he won't get up?" father questioned, subtly replacing the 'can't' with a sheer force of will. His heart skipped a beat. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In a string of less than three coherent sentences, Peter explained that Nonso had been hit by a <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">big man</i> in an SUV. The SUV had veered off the road into the field. There were no more questions. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Father leapt up from the verandah floor so quickly, his speed belying his massive six feet something frame. I stood up even quicker and followed him as he trudged on towards the gate. He gestured that I should stay behind. I didn't listen. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The sky was blue with a hint of dusky orange. The grass was green and a bit damp. Everything seemed normal except for the way Nonso's teammates seemed to be crowded around a spot that was not the football. Everything seemed normal except for the way Nonso's brains were scattered all over the playing field, his right arm crossed awkwardly over his chest, lightly touching his severely battered left shoulder. I wasn't prepared for this. I doubt father was. I felt violated and angry and confused - all three emotions at once. Peter hadn't told us about this part. He had lied to us brazenly. He told us that Nonso couldn't get up. He didn't say that Nonso would never get up. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Father held his head solidly from the base like his head suddenly weighed a ton. If I could still hear his heart beat, I knew it would be strong and fast <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">bam-bam-bam </i>like Lagbaja's talking drum. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Nobody sent me. I left to go call mother, outrightly disobeying father who now insisted I stay by his side. I wove through the crowd of onlookers and passers by as fast as I could. Mother always knew how to fix any problem. She always knew how to make things better. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">This time she didn't. When she came, she only sat down on the grass beside Nonso's body and bawled. She had no magic words or prayer to save the day. I sat down beside her utterly disappointed and the tears gushed out. Fearlessly, with salty tears streaming down my face I rested my head on Nonso's chest. I heard no heartbeat. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> ***********************************************</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I used to know a quote that said - <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">Madness is like gravity; all it takes is a little push for everything to come crumbling down. </i></span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Mother first took off her wig. She never did that in public. She was almost bald undderneath. Next came her wrapper. She had only one on her waist instead of her customary two. All she had underneath was a flimsy excuse for underwear. This happened in less than a minute. She tried to remove her blouse but father stopped her just in time as she made to unclasp her zip. Mother started to mumble some things. I'd seen her do this a couple of times, but always in the night when she sat on the kitchen floor biting her nails thinking no one would see her.</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I knew mother would be the talk of the neighborhood for at least a week. What I didn't expect was for mother's pastor to order me to go on a 5 day fast to break the ancestral spirits of madness that were supposedly my destiny. I did it because that was what mother wanted as well. I did that because maybe then, mother would not bark like a dog in the afternoon while preparing lunch. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A week passed and mother was still the talk of the little community we lived in. It didn't help that she was always unkempt -wrapper casually slung over her shoulders even when she left the house. It took a while for me to get used to the maniacal laughter and fierce outbursts that followed whenever anyone suggested that Nonso should be buried. In between her fits she smiled at me sometimes and hugged me. I looked forward to those times. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The prayer sessions for mother seemed to intensify with the passing of each week. Nothing seemed to work and finally mother's pastor's visit became fewer and infrequent. Sometimes I wished there was a drug mother could take but father said there was none and we could only pray away mother's demons. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Eventually, father got tired and fed up. He removed all of mother's pictures from the living room. I put them back up. It was a cycle until he finally allowed only one of her pictures to occupy the spot almost behind the bookshelf. It was a picture where she was at the peak of her youth and looking her best. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">Mother broke the picture. It was on the same day that mother said father was sleeping with Martha, the maid from next door. 'He thinks I don't know'. She told me in hushed tones like I were her co-conspirator instead her ten year old child. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She stared at her sole picture and asked, "What does she have that I don't have? Is she even half as pretty as I am?"</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I couldn't answer truthfully. Mother's once radiant yellow complexion was sallow. Her cheeks were hollowed out and her eyes looked dead like ghosts inhabited them. But I answered nonetheless. "She is nothing like you ma". That didn't seem good enough. Mother smashed her picture on the mirror, breaking the mirror as well. I had to replace the picture with another one. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I woke up some days later to utter tranquility which was strange. This was early October, a week after school resumed. Father said mother was nowhere to be found. He said she had packed her things and left in the middle of the night after they had an argument. I asked what it was about. He told me that mother had accused him of cheating on her. <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">Can you imagine? </i>, he reiterated. I could imagine.</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That day I didn't go to school. I stayed home all day waiting for mother to come back. At night I dreamt that she came back and lay beside me on the bed, my head resting against her bosom, her heartbeat clear as a clarion's call. My dream never materialized. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The next week, Martha moved into the house. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-10536278191798653642016-05-14T14:39:00.001-07:002016-05-14T14:39:50.520-07:00Cadaver Diaries<p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I'm no stranger to cadavers. I'm in a room full of cadavers at least once every week. This has gone on for almost two years now. I'm almost used to the pungent smell of formalin that makes the eyes of even the strongest of men(and women) water. I always wear my glasses as a shield to reduce the formalin-induced tears that must drop. It's the harshest of environments that does not give you room to even dry your tears. The dissection must go on. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Four months from now, I will be done with the pre-clinical class. (<i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">This is where as a Nigerian I have to insert 'by the grace of God'</i>). To me, most importantly, it means that there will be no more 'cadaver rooms'. I am not a fan of Anatomy practicals but I must confess that as I get closer and closer to finishing one half of the six-year race, a certain form of nostalgia envelops me. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> This brings to my mind the first time we all encountered the cadavers - the look of awe and astonishment that was written over everyone's face. There was a certain revered look as we uncovered the various cadavers. Some people wanted to take pictures of the stiff bodies laying on the dissecting table in the most helpless positions. Arguments ensued and it was unanimously agreed on that it was against all rules of ethics to do that. I agreed, never mind that I had never read any book on ethics. I guess that some things are just common sense. I remember that a few people still took some pictures regardless. They probably thought they were flouting the rules - a daredevil sort of rebellion. I want to ask any of them what they eventually did with the pictures. I won't anyway. I already know the answer. They couldn't have put it on social media and with the pressure from all around, surely they deleted any photos. Also, I'm not sure of the people who may have taken any pictures. <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> That first time, we had already heard of tales of people that threw up once they saw the seemingly myriad of dead bodies. Others couldn't eat well for a while and for those heavily vested in believing that evil spirits roamed the earth at night, they had bouts of sleepless nights. Those were only tales and none of that happened to the best of my knowledge (or maybe they did). <br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> The dissection ensued, but not before we took forever to put on our gloves and some asked stupid questions like '<i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">ew are we really going to touch that</i>?' . Identifying the necessary items like the scalpel, dissecting blade and others took some time that initial day. It's a whole different story presently. Our gloves are put on as fast as the speed of light and we all know what each dissecting instrument is for, in addition to the hack saws and drills we may require. Procedures in the lab take place as clinically as possible and certainly no stupid questions are asked. Any possible answer to relevant questions one might need must be in the Cunningham's manual. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> So far so good, my most memorable dissections are for the brain and anterior chest wall (ermm breast region). The brain struck a chord with me. I'm not sure what expressions to use to capture the different thought processes that occur when one sees an unsullied human brain for the first time. As many times as you may have looked intently at the brain in the atlas(es) and textbook(s), it still doesn't prepare you for the intricacy and the delicate arrangement of structures found once the skull is cracked open. It might sound weird to a non-medical student, but it is a truly beautiful sight. As a class collectively, we must have spent so long 'appreciating' (to use Dr. Mike's popular expression) the cranial structures.<br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> I've had my last dissection (again by God's grace) and I can say with absolute certainty that I will miss the jokes that accompanied every cut and incision we made on the cadavers. We called ourselves surgeons and at times teased another person by calling them a quack. We bristled with confidence and half-baked knowledge of procedures derived mainly from popular medical series like <i style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;">'Grey's Anatomy', 'House' and 'Chicago Med'. </i><br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> Nonetheless, as is the normal way of life, everyone is already looking forward to the remaining three more years, ceteris paribus, when we will be in the clinical class. I feel the same way as well. I can't wait for the next phase where I will have to face the 'P- dragons' - Pharmacology and Pathology. I'm almost ready for words like Ciprofloxacin, chloramphenicol and fluoroquinolones. I'm also almost ready for my barely decent writing to get worse. More importantly, I'm ensuring I savour these present twilight moments of the pre-clinical year while fixing my eyes ahead. </span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-24020903373967591592015-12-06T10:51:00.001-08:002015-12-06T10:51:39.859-08:00THE LUMP IN MY THROAT<div>Possible Titles: "MEN DO NOT CRY" , "THE LUMP IN MY THROAT" </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> Papa used to say to all of us that a man that could not provide for his family was worse than a murderer. He wasn't a very wise man, my two brothers and I agreed. If he were so wise, he wouldn't have married a second wife when mama was still there. It wasn't as if he wanted male children like Uncle Ndubuisi whose first wife had given birth to five girls. Uncle Ndubuisi married three more wives. It wasn't as if he was a title holder in the village. It wasn't as if mama didn't take care of herself anymore. She did. She'd won best dressed in her women's meeting the same year father married his new wife. It wasn't even as if mama could not cook very well. Her ofe aku sauce was praised by her in-laws that would touch her waist and say "Nwere anyi" . Our wife. </div><div><br></div><div>They never said that to the new wife, Amara whose Aja soup tasted like cement, the leaves always half-done. They never said anything to the new wife who hadn't given birth after six years of marriage. </div><div><br></div><div>The only time they said anything to her was when she had screamed one morning that father was dead. I rushed to father's room and saw him lying peacefully unaware. I stared at his corpse from the side of the bed. Amara huddled in a corner sobbing, perhaps thinking about her fate. I touched my father's body, it wasn't slightly wrinkled and leathery anymore. It was hard, not quite like a stone yet. His body had the texture of made garri - eba - that had been untouched and exposed for some days. He must have died in the night. Goosebumps covered my skin. </div><div><br></div><div>I stepped away from the bed as I heard footsteps. I could hear mama shouting, "It can't be. It's a lie." I wanted it to be. </div><div>She entered father's room flanked by Uncle Peter and my two brothers, Emeka and Ovunda. "You are a witch. You have killed my husband", mama wailed and beat her chest, pointing at Amara. "Why have you done this to me and my children?" She rolled on the floor for some minutes and pulled her hair. I feared she would hit her head. I did not understand why she cried. If I were her, I would have hated papa. I would not be sad that he was no more. </div><div><br></div><div>I looked away from mother wailing and gnashing her teeth on the concrete floor. A child should not see such. I wished I could erase from my memory the little I had seen. Nobody tried to stop her or hold her as she rolled. My fears were baseless as her circular movements on the floor seemed to have a pattern that ensured she wouldn't bash her skull. Her voice also had a sort of rhythm and was at its peak whenever she exclaimed 'Chim o!' My God. </div><div><br></div><div>My brothers said nothing, feeling the same way I did. We shouldn't have to see this. Uncle Peter said to mother, "Our wife, it is okay. Please stop crying. Pick yourself up from the floor, you have to take it easy." It sounded like something the young Bishop at the diocese would say. </div><div><br></div><div>Mother spurred, leapt up immediately and moved towards Amara and promptly gave her three slaps in sequence. I held her back from doling out more. "Mama, this won't solve anything". My brothers looked at me like I had just said I worship the devil. Amara looked at me as if to say thank you. I looked away and held on to mama. She clung onto me and sobbed, drenching my shirt with her tears. I felt hot tears trying to escape from my own eyes just then. I blinked them back and swallowed the heavy lump in my throat. </div><div><br></div><div>Men do not cry. My father used to say this to us. </div><div><br></div><div>" I will call for a family meeting later today.", Uncle Peter said, calling us away from our mother. "Jisike. Have you heard? You have to be strong for your mother".</div><div><br></div><div> I was 14 and the youngest. I did not know even how to be strong for myself, not to talk of my mother. My brothers seemed to know because they nodded their heads. All I knew was that just like my brothers, I couldn't cry. The lump in my throat grew bigger. </div><div> </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The walls closed in and threatened to squash me. I wasn't sad or bereaved. That was my mother. I wasn't numb - my brothers were. I was flat, an emotion I didn't even know existed. I was like an orange that was thrown away and run over by a car after being sucked dry and spat out. </div><div><br></div><div>My brothers and I huddled together in the room we shared, needing space but needing something familiar as well. Some women from mama's church group came to keep her company. I imagined the women telling mama to be strong for her children in the same tone they would have told her to hold on tight when father had remarried. 'You are not the first, you know?' </div><div><br></div><div>I played Whot cards with my siblings. Pick 2, pick another two, last card, check! Ovunda, the eldest had just won me at the game. Everything almost seemed normal except for the poignant silence that was ever present, interjecting our monosyllabic expressions in which we tried to say everything. Everything was almost normal except for the lump that threatened to choke me. I needed water. </div><div><br></div><div>"You are lucky. You have three sons, three good sons my friend", a shrill voice said, repeating her words like they were supposed to have a deeper meaning. The voice was coming from the backyard where mama sat with some of her friends. "Didn't you hear what happened to Ebere last year?" Mama must have said No because the voice proceeded to narrate how Ebere had been chased out of her husband's house with her daughters when he had passed away. "She didn't even take a pin", another voice joined in. "My dear friend, you are a lucky woman. Stop crying and wipe away your tears.". </div><div><br></div><div>I made shuffling noises with my feet and turned on the tap seconds later. I didn't want it to seem like I had been eavesdropping from the kitchen. I drank at least three glasses of water with each gulp I felt a lightness in my chest. </div><div><br></div><div>Later in the day by 4pm, Uncle Peter came with some other members of the family - some of father's uncles, brother and cousins. We went out to welcome them. </div><div><br></div><div> "Good evening sirs", everyone said, my mother punctuating her greeting with a curtsy. </div><div> "Peace be unto this home", the eldest of them all said. "It is well." </div><div> "Where is Amara?", Uncle Peter asked. </div><div> "I have not seen that murderer ever since you left this morning", mother replied. </div><div> "I have not seen her either", Emeka said. Ovunda nodded in consent. I looked away. </div><div><br></div><div>After Uncle Peter had gone in the morning, mama had locked Amara in the room with the corpse. I didn't understand why she did that. She said she wanted Amara to confess. Amara only cried. Mother said they were crocodile tears. When my brothers had said they wanted to call someone that knew how they could take the corpse to the mortuary, mother refused. It was strange this word corpse, that meant you were no longer worthy of the present tense. That made you become was. </div><div> </div><div>"I don't know where Amara is", I said. I should have kept quiet. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The meeting took place in the verandah. It was long and tedious. Mama served everyone with a plate of okwu ose - peppered fried meat. I didn't know how she had managed to cook anything. Uncle Udoka requested for father's best brandy. I was angered. I never liked him anyway even when father was alive. </div><div><br></div><div>Mother was dismissed and told to wait inside the house. Uncle Udoka and his nicotine-stained teeth said to her, "Your sons will represent you". It was as though mother and Amara were on trial only worse, they weren't allowed to make their case.</div><div> </div><div>They broke the kolanut and passed it around for everyone to take a lobe, from the eldest to the youngest. I sat meekly barely listening, occupying a fraction of space on the bench. Ovunda did most of the talking with the family elders.</div><div><br></div><div>"It is important we iron out certain issues now to avoid future problems in this family", said the eldest uncle called Onye isi - literally, The Head. </div><div><br></div><div>It was agreed that the funeral would be in three weeks time. Amara was to wash father's corpse the day before the burial and drink from the water used to bathe the corpse while mother watched her. It was tradition for a man's first daughter to wash the body but father had none. Also, they said, a suitable punishment would be meted out on Amara except she could prove before the burial that she had not killed their brother. I felt a slight pity for Amara. She would leave the house and go back to her people immediately after the burial.</div><div><br></div><div>The property division was concluded in the crudest way possible. Ovunda as the eldest would get father's house and crops. Father was a palm wine tapper. Emeka got the furniture in the house. There was nothing else left for me to inherit except father's clothes which was as good as nothing. I wasn't even angry. Father didn't really have much and it was the way things were. At least I wasn't a girl and I could say I inherited something. </div><div><br></div><div>Nobody questioned anything. There was nothing to say. Onye isi said that effective immediately Amara and mama would have to shave their heads until it shone. </div><div><br></div><div>"Why?", I asked the Head shocking everyone. My brothers looked at me like surely, Ike must be mad. </div><div><br></div><div>"To pay respects to your father of course."</div><div>"If mother had died, would Father allow his hair to grow like a woman to pay his respects to her?"</div><div>"That is not the way we do things. It is not so."</div><div><br></div><div>There was a collective shaking of heads. Some of my uncles spat away their brandy to show their disappointment. Emeka looked at me solemnly, conveying without words that I had said what was on his mind. </div><div><br></div><div>The meeting was over. My uncles were still eating their fried peppered meat, legs spread out and potbellies bobbing up and down as they swallowed. I was choking.</div><div> . . .</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>It was over fifteen years since father passed away. I barely remembered him anymore, only in passing. I'd left home at fifteen to stay with an uncle in Lagos. Things had been difficult at home after father died. We barely managed to survive when he was the breadwinner and mama assisted with her job as a tailor. At least we never lacked food. No matter how bad it was, people always bought palm wine. </div><div><br></div><div>Uncle Uche, my father's cousin twice removed was a nice man but mama did not like him. She said he was too proud because he had not attended father's funeral. He thinks he is too good for this family. Yet, he was the only one that sent money from time to time to help out when things got too hard. None of the uncles that had attended father's funeral and eaten mama's okwu ose gave anything at all, not even when there was no money to buy a tin of milk. </div><div><br></div><div>I hated to think about those times when it felt like I had swallowed a bone and it was stuck in my throat. I had done well enough for myself. I wasn't what people called a big man yet but I could be, in the not-so-distant future. Uncle Uche had helped me set me up my own truck company that delivered timber to people. I made enough money that I started thinking about settling down with my girlfriend. </div><div><br></div><div>I was in my pastor's office for pre-marriage counseling. At thirty, I was getting married before my brothers. I had always thought I'd be the last. </div><div> </div><div>"Are you sure you are ready to take this big step in your life?". I was. I nodded.</div><div><br></div><div>"To be a husband is to be a provider, a giver. A man that cannot provide for his family is worse than an infidel." Father used to tell me this, only he said murderer and not infidel. Maybe, he was a little wise after all. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Bad things happen in pairs or in threes, never alone. Armed robbers had hijacked one of my two trucks, the bigger one on its way to Ibadan. I lost hundreds of thousands of naira that month. The smaller truck couldn't deliver much timber. I made barely enough for my partner that drove the trucks and I to split and still settle certain people.</div><div><br></div><div>The next month, the small truck was also hijacked by robbers, this time on its way to Onitsha. It was later I realized that my partner had duped me. The scales fell away from my eyes. I was angry at my partner initially. It metamorphosed into self-anger. That was the worst. </div><div><br></div><div>The next couple of months were the toughest. I realized money had an elastic limit. I stretched the little I had left to take care of myself, my wife and twin daughters. I still had to send money home to mama. My brothers didn't help out with finances a lot. A lot of my money had gone into buying a piece of land and building my own house. I was not even close to completing my building project. </div><div><br></div><div>I scoured the newspapers looking for a job. It was tough to get a job especially without being a University graduate. I was optimistic however. I couldn't afford not to be. Optimism doesn't change reality, it only makes it easier to bear. </div><div><br></div><div>A friend helped me get a job as the driver of a big man's wife. Oga was a stingy man and paid very little but I couldn't complain. Madam Caro gave me foodstuffs at the end of every month. Things were not good, but they were not bad as well. My wife brought her relative to stay with us. It was an extra mouth to feed but I did not complain. She said she needed the help. </div><div>My job as Madam Caro's driver lasted for exactly seven months. I told no one but Uncle Uche the reason I was fired. I had refused to sleep with Madam. "You ungrateful cow. You are not ready to succeed in this Lagos." Uncle Uche told me I was stupid and that I should go and beg Madam. I told him I couldn't because I loved my wife. He laughed. 'Let's see if your wife will eat love two months from now."</div><div><br></div><div>We stretched the money we had and exceeded the elastic limit. It got to a point that there was no money to buy a tin of milk. The lump in my throat grew and my eyes would water once in a while when my wife went to the neighbours to beg for some foodstuff. But men do not cry. </div><div><br></div><div>My wife came home one day and told me she'd gotten a job at a bank in Ikeja. My wife was a graduate, but even at that jobs were hard to come by. "We are not living, Ike. We are merely existing." She told me she'd slept with the bank manager. At least she was honest about it, I tell myself when the lump threatens to choke me. </div><div><br></div><div>I know that if I could go back, I'd sleep with Madam in a heartbeat. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-75930767621332242922015-11-02T13:33:00.001-08:002015-11-03T22:49:35.101-08:00President-ess.<div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> My future was planned from the start. My mother used to quote from the Bible Jeremiah 1:5 to me quite often so I knew it by heart. I knew a lot of things about my future like my husband had to be Yoruba. I knew that I was going to be a lawyer even though I hated art courses and loved Mathematics and Science. At family gatherings my mum would boast to everyone, "Our little Tola will one day be our family lawyer."</div><div> I once tried to disagree telling Aunty Funmi, "No, I will be an Engineer." </div><div> Mother smiled adoringly and said, "Funmi, you know how all these children are. When you leave now, she will start watching all these tv shows with lawyers and say that's what she wants to be." Aunty Funmi would nod in acknowledgment and talk about how her son Peter said he wants to be a musician. </div><div> "Oh these children won't kill us", mother said and burst in raucous laughter that went cah-cah-cah. Aunty Funmi joined in. Her phlegm-filled voice disgusted me and I hated that I was standing in the sitting room and not lying down in my room so I could block my ears with my pillow. </div><div> Later that day after aunt Funmi left, mother dragged me to her room pulling my ears. </div><div> "Ow.", I squeaked. </div><div> "You better shut up your mouth. So you think you are now grown ehn that you can argue with me and in front of visitors for that matter? Ehn Engineer ko, bricklayer ni?" </div><div> I wanted to reply with something sassy but Aunty Dora had preached on wisdom in Sunday School. I was wise enough to know that the only reply to prevent slaps from raining on my back was "Sorry ma."</div><div> Three years later, I pulled another stunt. This time I told my mother I would like to be a doctor . "Your older brother is already the doctor in the family . We need a lawyer now that your father is no more."</div><div> I understood this perfectly and started to work towards this goal by attending only Art classes when it was time to make the great decision of Art vs Science. even though I dreaded literature class and history. I couldn't grasp why I needed to know in explicit detail all that happened millenniums ago and to be very honest, Shakespeare wasn't that great. I once voiced this opinion and my teacher made me write a thousand word essay on, "The Eternal hero, Shakespeare". </div><div> That was only my initial penchant for mischief. I quickly fell in line and got my Cs and Bs in school. I even got an A sometimes in Literature. Passing was not an issue for me. My own problem was how I would have to wear those scratchy wigs favored by lawyers in Nigeria. I was much too fashionable for that. </div><div> As I grew older, life happened. The post-JAMB exam kept me at home for 3 years. I was begging any university to give me any course at all because my family was slowly turning me to a maid. Law, farming, ritual killing, animal husbandry - I didn't mind which. I was just begging any university to give me any course. I wasn't tired of staying at home. I loved it, but my family had come to an unspoken agreement that Tola was the maid. </div><div> I eventually got my admission letter. It wasn't really a letter like in the American movies where the university would send you a mail to tell you your fate. I couldn't expect that luxury from a Nigeria that cared for nobody. </div><div> From the living room, my mother shouted. "Tola, <i>wa</i>. Come o. Bisi just told me that her daughter, Angela gained admission." </div><div> I feigned ignorance. I already knew but I was too scared to go and check. Now that I knew Angela had gotten admission, I knew I had to as well. Aunty Bisi could boast for Africa and I wanted to give my mother bragging rights as well.</div><div> "Ah really? I did not know." I scratched my hair. I always did that whenever I lied.</div><div> Mother pressed some notes into my hand. "Take this money and go to the cybercafe to check."</div><div> My mother did not pray with me before she sent me off to check my results like the last three times. The last three times, her prayers were never answered. I prayed alone as I made the 15 minute walk to the cybercafe on my street. </div><div> "Give me 20 minutes time. I wan check my admission status.", I demanded. </div><div> "Na 100 naira. This year own no good at all.", the attendant at the cybercafe with yellow teeth said.</div><div> "Okay, I have heard you", I practically screamed as I proceeded to check the university website.</div><div>Yes yes yes. I was accepted. That evening, mother threw a house party of some sorts and even Wale, my brother came home. It was just another excuse for a neighborhood get-together and hot juicy gossip. The jollof rice never finished. </div><div> <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I wasn't sure I was as elated as I portrayed to have gained admission to study Law . It just didn't feel like it belonged to me. It belonged to everyone but me - from my mother to Aunty Funmi to my father who'd passed on and even to the majority of my extended family. It was hard, juggling all these expectations. That night, I dreamt I was attending to patients in my consulting room. </span></div><div> </div><div><br></div><div> There's such a thing as broken dreams, but what's even worse is unacknowledged dreams. Maybe that's why 11 years later I chose to quit working for the firm that hired me right after graduation. I was frustrated of acting out the script set out for me <i>ab initio.</i> I really hated the wigs I had to wear in the court room in addition to my normal wigs. When I told my husband my decision, he looked at me like I was crazy and told me to talk to my mother. I did and the next day she came to my house with her pastor. </div><div><br></div><div> "Tola, I know you are not thinking right. You could be going through mid-life crisis."</div><div><br></div><div> "Ma", I replied. "I'm not even forty yet." I was getting close.</div><div><br></div><div> "Exactly. This is why I know my enemies are at work. How can you just wake up and </div><div> say you want to quit your job. <i>Mogbe</i>. You know your husband's salary alone can't</div><div> take care of you and the kids." </div><div><br></div><div> I earned more than my husband and maybe my mother was right. Mulling it over, my resolve started to weaken. "Pastor please. You have to pray for my daughter', mother continued. </div><div> We knelt down, held our hands and the pastor prayed for me not to make the wrong decision. In the same breath, he managed to kill the enemies and condemn them to death by fire. Intermittently, mother adjusted her scarf and squeezed my palms to urge me to say Amen.</div><div> Two weeks later, I quit the firm much to everyone's dismay. I didn't know for sure if God had answered the pastor's prayers and I had made the right decision. </div><div><br></div><div> </div><div><br></div><div> "What do you want to be in future?", I asked my nine-year old daughter.</div><div> "A teacher", she said. Last week she had wanted to be an astronaut.</div><div> I asked why. She wanted to be like her teacher Mr John that told them interesting stories in English class. I laughed at how idealistic she was. I told my husband about it that evening over a glass of wine. We didn't have much to talk about anymore. </div><div> The next week, she wanted to be the President. She had to write an essay in class on what she wanted to be in future and she wrote on wanting to be the President. I laughed. She wanted to have the ability to command a whole nation to do her bidding. Her essay was judged the best and she had to give a presentation. I was a proud mom until she came home sad o<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">n the day of the presentation.</span></div><div><br></div><div> "Honey, what's wrong?", I asked. "How did your presentation go?". </div><div><br></div><div> She told me about a little boy that came second in the essay writing. He'd told her that she couldn't be president of Nigeria because she was a girl. There had been no female president. She argued that she'd be the first <i>girl president. </i>The little boy told her that President was a male noun like duke. My daughter argued that then she would be the <i>Presidentess</i>. She asked me if it was possible.</div><div> </div><div> "You can be anything you want to be", I assured her. She told me that she'd asked Uncle John, her teacher the same thing if she could be the President. He'd told her that girls were not to be Presidents but the wives of presidents. <i>I could kill her teacher. </i></div><div><br></div><div> I hugged her close and reassured my daughter once more that she could rule the world. I didn't sleep well that night. I wanted badly to tell my daughter with more confidence that the sky wasn't a limit- that it went without saying. </div><div> I filed a complaint to the school management the next day all the while thinking that dreams that are not allowed to sprout is injustice. The next day, she told me she wanted to be a doctor and the wife of a president. A part of me wept. </div><div><br></div><div> </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> </div><div> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-8658646733942843042015-10-26T07:57:00.001-07:002015-10-26T07:59:23.231-07:00" Na Who Send Me Message? " <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> I once heard a tale of how clay pots are made. My grandmother said that only the best clay is gathered from beside the stream. The molding process begins and it is put through a fiery kiln. It is then panel-beaten and molded once more into just the perfect shape. Finally it is then allowed to cool and various designs can be done to fit just about any purpose. </span><div> Medical school is a lot like this fiery kiln. The entire journey is akin to the production process. After the rigorous process of writing WAEC, UTME, Post UTME and perhaps myriads of other exams accompanied by detours in other departments, the final selection occurs. This marks the first induction into the cult that is medical school. The cult that threatens to cut you off and question your living for existence if you dare to hope for optimal hours of sleep every night. </div><div> Finally, you're in the revered secret society everyone knows about and you garner the respect you of course deserve. You worked quite hard to be chosen. However, you're finally in and often times you find yourself asking "Na who send me message?". You ask time and again in your little room in Aluu, Alakahia or Choba as you read with poorly lit rechargeable lamp because you have not had electricity for 3 days. </div><div> In the night also, some others ask this question in class on chairs high enough to be bar stools and seemingly made of concrete. Every night, it seemed the esteemed cult made of medical students met in spirit or physically. You try to come for the meeting - mostly in the sanctity of the place called Ofrima. You forfeit your sleep because half-loaf is not always better than none. </div><div> In the morning, when classes are as early as 7am the entire class is yawning in synergy. It's an orchestra. By 9am, everyone already looks frustrated. As you try to grasp the new concepts, you ask yourself once more "Na who send me message?". You look around the class to be sure you are not alone struggling - your misery loves company. </div><div> After the class, everyone swears they haven't read in the past 2 weeks. Even an hour to the exams, people never say, "I've read.". Everyone constantly says, "I'm behind. I still have a lot of things to cover". It's quite easy to believe until the exam hall when 20 minutes in and your friend starts demanding for, "Extra sheet sir." Pretty soon, the entire hall is asking for extra sheets. You're astonished - an hour ago no one had read. </div><div> As you write, you shake your head at some of the 'toxic stuff' you write. You have to do this so you can also say 'Extra sheet, sir'. You know the system is designed to make you fail. Your response regardless must be voluminous enjoy to satisfy some sadist lecturers that tauntingly say, "Briefly discuss". You're disappointed. Medical is nothing like the fiery kiln your grandmother told you about. It's worse. After the fiery kiln, the pots get a chance to cool and are pampered with beautiful designs drawn on them. This never happens in medical school. There's a never a time to cool off as the case may be. It never gets easier. The higher you go, the hotter it becomes - a new rule you quickly learn that defies the physical laws of nature you know. </div><div> At the end of the semester exams, arms are stretched and hugs given freely. Joy is evident and you know you're home with people who understand what it means to constantly ask, "Na who send me message?" </div><div> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-41244881859557589882015-09-19T13:04:00.001-07:002015-09-19T13:05:23.910-07:00Message From A Mini-Skirt Wearer<div id="zss_field_title" class="field ipad_field_title" nostyle="" dir="ltr" placeholdertext="Post title" style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; padding: 15px 10px 5px; box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; direction: ltr;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Message From A Mini-Skirt Wearer</span></div><div id="separatorDiv" style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; -webkit-user-select: none; padding-left: 10px; padding-right: 10px;"><hr style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; border: none; height: 1px; width: 844px;"></div><div id="zss_field_content" class="field ipad_field_content" dir="ltr" placeholdertext="Share your story here..." style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; padding: 15px 10px 5px; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px; min-height: 635px; direction: ltr;"><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> See ehn, I don't know why I'm writing this. I don't like to preach to anyone or blab inspirational stuff. I'm the last person that would walk up to you to read to you from the Gospel. If you know me, you'll know that I'm not the one. The reason for this disclaimer is so no one will see me walking down the street and start quoting the scriptures to me when I'm wearing my hot mini-skirt. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Anyway, even mini-skirt wearing, occasional cleavage-showing ladies do open their Bibles (even if na by mistake). I was once innocently listening to my One Republic while browsing through pictures of the goddess Rihanna on Instagram. To be honest, I was just appreciating the goodness of my new phone and downloading the requisite apps like the Bible of course so no one would call me a pagan. I even went the extra mile to download different versions. As it so happens, I happened to flip to a letter my lover Paul wrote to Galatians. I unabashedly love Paul and I think Galatia is a beautiful name for a city. So I really wanted to know what he had to say especially when he opened with "Live creatively, friends." I was interested in knowing more about his friends particularly if there were any female ones. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I continued reading and well I struck a cord with verse 4 to 5 of Galatians Chapter 6. Luckily, because I'm not sure I could have gone any further. I got to a line where the scripture categorically said, "Dont compare yourself with others." In my mind I was like , 'Word!' ....(of God of course.)</span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> <a href="https://treasureakela.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/img_0504.jpg" style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; text-decoration: none;"><img src="https://treasureakela.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/img_0504.jpg" alt="" style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; width: auto; height: auto; margin: 0px; min-width: 30px; min-height: 30px; max-width: 100%; opacity: 1;"></a><br style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none;"> </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> It's really easy to get lost in the deep sea of comparison. Parents compare their kids to others and mostly this comparison is in a negative light. "Edward, why is your head so big? Why can't it be as small as Junior's own?" Oh well, and other sturvs like that. That's another story though. A more realistic one is when you look around and everyone is in Chapter 13 and you're still in Chapter 3. It's pretty easy to lose focus and throw in the towel. You put yourself in a state of unnecessary pressure trying to keep up with others. If you fail, depression could ensue. This is probably highly far-fetched but I really just want to say that eventually this depression could lead to breast cancer as a friend once said (Identify yourself). This paragraph is probably highly erroneous and steeped in fake-deepness. </span></p><p style="outline: transparent solid 0px; -webkit-touch-callout: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 24px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> One thing remains unmistakably true at least. "Don't compare yourself with others." The best thing is no be me talk am. I have to say this lastly, please please I am not a preacher just in case you still see me wearing my mini-skirt.</span></p></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-12676323534077515412015-08-11T10:06:00.001-07:002015-08-11T10:06:19.449-07:00Secret Confessions<div> <b>Secret Confessions </b></div><div><br></div><div> I'm an ardent lover of Paul. Yes, I unabashedly and unashamedly say it. Call me whatever name you want, I'm not going to deny him. However, I'm not sure he loves me as well as I do cause he already has another whom he proclaims his love to always. Essentially, I'm his side chick. It's all right though because his first love is Jesus. Who am I really to compete with Jesus' long golden locks and beard? He's a bearded God, literally.</div><div> Anyway, the lover Paul once told me to address him with his appropriate title and so I will only refer to him rightly as Apostle Paul in case he reads this. He gets pissed at things like that, much like professors when you refer to them as 'Dr.' <i>Ordinary doctor</i>, you mean? Such impudence! Bear with me, but I really need a 6-bedroom mansion in the sky seeing as I don't have one on earth right now. </div><div> I might not be top on Apostle Paul's list of babes but I don't mind. He's a smooth player if I'm being honest and I've fallen too hard. This is an excerpt of a letter he once wrote to me. </div><div><i> "You are always in my heart! And so it is right for me to feel this way about you..."</i>. I blushed as I read this declaration of love. I'm not going to continue with what the letter said because it's highly personal. I always knew my very own Apostle Paul was a little shy because he hid this message in the Good News Bible Supermarket on the corner of Philippians, Road 1 verse 7. I replied LOL just in case you were curious. I'm not very good at voicing my feelings, you see. He must have been a little upset with my reply and so I have decided to be effusive. I need him to know how much I appreciate him.. It's been a long time since we talked and it's my fault. It's also kind of hard because he's left me to go to the other side. However, just in case he ever decides to look at the paper on the doorstep to his mansion in the sky, he'll see this.</div><div> I love the fact that you always tell me that I don't have to conform to anyone's opinion. You encouraged me to think for myself (Rom 12:2a). I was only 13 when I first got this message from you. I'm in the university now and I finally understand why you always emphasized that. I'm my own woman, partly because you encouraged me that I could. I never told you thanks for this. I also never told you thanks for elevating my reasoning level and helping me put away most of the tantrums of childhood behind. You made me modify my thinking and aim very high because I wasn't just a little baby girl anymore who can't swallow garri. I can now aim for fufu and pounded yam. Now, I don't even speak, think or reason like a child anymore. (1COR 13:11). I'm not up to your level yet but there's hope.</div><div> Apostle Paul dear, remember I told you that sometimes I want to do the right things but somehow, I end up doing the wrong things? You told me that you felt the same way too. To be very honest, I was surprised but I felt glad to not be alone. You fought the same battles as I do now - the war within (Rom 7:18). You made me feel even better by telling me that 'I'm not even a prisoner of "<i>the law" because grace abounds.'</i> I quoted you directly because I just couldn't paraphrase. I also don't really understand the word grace even after attending Sunday School but it sounds reassuring. Could you please explain a little better? By the way, talking about "the law', I know you got your law degree and are very learned. Do I have to add Barrister to your title now? </div><div> I'm on my bed now struggling to read some school work but it's really difficult because I just got a new episode of my favorite series to watch. I also have a class by 7am, and I always battle with my flesh because it just does't want to leave the bed. I'm really conflicted. Like you said, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. How did you overcome your flesh eventually? I hope you don't get angry because I seem to ask a lot of questions. </div><div> My Embryology textbook is calling my name and I have to answer. I really hope you write to me again mostly on the subject of love. Are you really serious about all you said in your last letter I saw when I was in number 1 of Rue de la Corinthians 13? I really hope so because when I got to 1 Rue de la Corinthians 8, I had no choice but to agree that love is eternal, it never fails. I'm still cynical about the whole love thing but it's a beautiful concept. Please reply. </div><div><br></div><div>PS: I think you're a great writer Barrister Apostle Paul. </div><div>PPS: I think you'd have made a great doctor as well.</div><div><br></div><div>Treasure .A. @TREZHI </div><div> </div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-75350966467012103102015-07-30T12:28:00.001-07:002015-08-11T10:15:16.528-07:00Why You Should Kiss Ass<p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;"> </span><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">Why You Should Kiss Ass</span> </span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;"></span> </span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> </span><span class="s5">I</span><span class="s5"> should probably start by </span><span class="s5">apologising to </span><span class="s5">everyone</span><span class="s5"> who think</span><span class="s5">s </span><span class="s6" style="font-style: italic;">kiss ass </span><span class="s5">is some sort of curse. I'm sorry, forgive me? Nah, I really don't care. Okay, I'm sorry. I really am. Just keep on reading. </span><span class="s5">I'll admit I'm also uncomfortable so I will just shorten it to KA.</span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> I'</span><span class="s5">m sure we've all been told </span><span class="s5">by people older than us</span><span class="s5">, perhaps parents </span><span class="s5">to do the opposite of</span><span class="s5"> KA.</span><span class="s6" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="s5">You know to stand up for yourself, speak your mind and similar loft</span><span class="s5">y</span><span class="s5"> ideals.</span><span class="s5"> While all that is beautiful and you really want to just stop reading this, I urge you to go</span><span class="s5"> on. </span><span class="s5">Remember, </span><span class="s5">a</span><span class="s5">s kids</span><span class="s5"> </span><span class="s5">we were also told to not pick stuff, in particular money </span><span class="s5">from the ground </span><span class="s5">or we would turn into yams or goats. Well, how did that turn out? How many of our friends turned into yams or if you were the errant child, did you turn into a goat? So</span><span class="s5">, now you should really listen to me. They don't know everything and won't always tell you the truth, but I will.</span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> </span><span class="s5">For starters, you have to </span><span class="s5">KA</span><span class="s5"> if you want to be successful in the 21st century. This is of course the only century I can speak abo</span><span class="s5">ut. </span><span class="s5">If you feel you're too good to </span><span class="s5">KA</span><span class="s5">, well I can only say you should come down from </span><span class="s5">your high horse and learn how to. </span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> </span><span class="s5">It doesn't matter whether you respect Jon</span><span class="s5">athan or not but that man was elected into the office of the President of Nigeria. He wasn't born into a political legacy of a home. But he got to the top. He did that by </span><span class="s5">KAing</span><span class="s5">. By saying a whole lot of</span><span class="s5"> 'oga', 'madam', 'boss', 'I dey loyal'</span><span class="s5"> initially</span><span class="s5">. </span><span class="s5">He probably always paid OBJ a compl</span><span class="s5">iment, telling him he looked fine on certain days. </span><span class="s5">People like to feel important, to feel acknowledged eve</span><span class="s5">n</span><span class="s5"> if they're </span><span class="s5">terrible people. </span><span class="s5">T</span><span class="s5">ell them all they want to hear.</span><span class="s5"> This sounds</span><span class="s5"> atrocious but you pretty much do this sometimes when you're trying to get a girl. You might as well use it for something better, I dare say. </span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> </span><span class="s5">Learn your boss' birthday, send them cards, make them feel like you </span><span class="s5">care, give them credit even when it's not due them. </span><span class="s5">Pretty soon, they'll start including you </span><span class="s5">in whatever and giving you small crumbs. From there, you can get the whole loaf. </span><span class="s5">You should actually try to care even if a little bit though. People can usually smell dishonesty from afar. It's not a good smell. </span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> KA has gotten such a</span><span class="s5">n undeserved</span><span class="s5"> bad rep</span><span class="s5">. The key is not to overdo it. You can't be paying someone a compliment eve</span><span class="s5">ryday. Pretty soon they become desensitised to it, it pretty much becomes a chore . You need to find the right balance just in-between <i>I couldn't care less avenue and I'm starstruck street. </i></span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> You don't have to only KA your superiors only, you cou</span><span class="s5">ld also do the same to your colleagues. Many smart people will never get to the top even though they might be the best. This is mostly true when the person at the top needs to be elected. People won't choose someone they don't like, someone they feel they </span><span class="s5">can't trust. If your goal is to be at the top, well start working to get people to like you and definitely don't alienate yourself. Don't</span><span class="s5"> over-do it as well</span><span class="s5"> or act like a door mat because people will see through that fakeness with quickness (</span><span class="s6" style="font-style: italic;">see what I did there?) </span><span class="s5">or we</span><span class="s5">ll use you as a door mat</span><span class="s5"> a</span><span class="s5">nd that's pretty much </span><span class="s5">where you'll remain forever</span><span class="s5">. </span><span class="s5">Just make people feel you can listen to them. Brush up on your listening skills. Everyone wants to feel heard. Once people know that they can project their thoughts and you'll unde</span><span class="s5">rstand them, the sooner they'll also want to believe that you can execute it and bang you're where you want to be. </span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5"> I'm really just ranting anyway. </span><span class="s5">To </span><span class="s5">KA</span><span class="s5"> is to get what you want. Admittedly, it takes practice. But once you get the hang of it, you're good to go. Pay people compliments every now </span><span class="s5">and then. Sure the</span><span class="s5">y</span><span class="s5"> may say "wash, wash" </span><span class="s5">as is common but best believe a well-placed compliment gets you into the person's good graces. So yes, you could carry on these skills and pay your boss or lecturer or compliment. But remember, I no send you if you </span><span class="s5">bring</span><span class="s5"> </span><span class="s5">unnecessary attention to yourself except that's what you already wanted.</span></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-6343610317337124582015-06-06T01:45:00.001-07:002015-06-06T02:13:55.835-07:00Musings <p><br>
     It's a cold day in hell for you to be able to say that medical students aren't smart....book smart and intelligent. However, days like this happen and they happen for a reason. I suppose to humble everyone.<br>
      After struggling or not to get admission into the prestigious course of study called medicine and you eventually get it, you feel like a queen or king. Your friends, parent's friends and acquaintances start looking at you differently, like "damn you must be so smart". <br>
       You don't really feel like that's a compliment though, because you've felt that way your whole life. You've known it. However, your first day in medical school and your interaction with others lets you know that you are not so much the <i>shit </i>anymore. It's really a melting pot of high ego individuals who most likely had been the best or top of the class at their secondary schools and previous departments. Suddenly, you see yourself fading away and blending into the curtain or you are among those rattling off their previous accomplishments. <br>
      Barely a week into school, and everyone is struggling or trying very hard to cover a semester's work in two weeks. You are either among that category or you are unserious. Unserious enough to be in chapter 1 of your textbook the first week of school when previously you won't have touched the textbook until a couple of weeks to the exam. The exam comes and you realise that it's really not about who covered the most initially. Even the late-comers will still catch up. You discover that there are people who can finish textbooks in one day. You are shocked by the sheer caliber of students in your class. <br>
      At the end of the first year, a bunch of people drop out or transfer.They couldn't cope with the pressure or they flat-out wanted to leave. At times, it was a combination of both. Slowly, medical school chips away at you. You learn to make friends but also know that they could leave at anytime because medical school allows no room for slack and just a little, you would be kicked out to the curb. You learn that life is like <i>udara</i> <i>seed</i> - sweet but must be spat out - when you start to look at cadavers day in day out. Start to touch them, acquaint yourselves with them, cut them up and discover the building blocks and essence of what it means to be a human. At times, while reading new concepts you marvel and are happy and know you belong in medical school. You are certain of your place in the world. At other times, when the words seem blurry and the nights long, you ask yourself <i>"How the hell did I get</i> <i>here?".</i> You question your place. <br>
       You find solace in the things you are used to and like. The things that you let define you- sports, your favourite football club, music, tv series, shows, movies. Sometimes, you have to sacrifice them a little or you sacrifice your sleep. It's usually one or the other. You sacrifice one the night before the big test. You read but you can never be prepared or you still believe that you will always know what to write even though you've barely read. You see the questions, tough but not insurmountable. You do your best and write enough to just about fill the booklet. Everyone does this.<br>
A couple of days later, the results are out and pasted. You find yourself getting a grade that borders close to an F, or an F. Sometimes you're among the lucky ones and you are just right on the benchmark of pass. Very few people surpass the benchmark. If your first test comes along and you get the F or something close, you don't believe it. You scan the list a hundred times because that just can't be your grade. That grade can't be for you, as far as you're concerned. You want to question it, but you really can't for fear that the little you have would be taken away from you. So you cry silently or out loud, whether male or female. You shake your head and wonder of this is how easily one can fail out of medical school.<br>
       You keep quiet if you managed to scrape a barely decent score. You can't be happy out loud because it really isn't worth it. You can't also complain or berate the lecturer with <i>"That man is wicked"</i>  because in a way you haven't really earned the grade that allows you the right to say that. If you are among the high-fliers, your task is harder. You have to sympathise with everyone, make yourself scarce and make sure as few people know your score as possible. If confronted by people with <i>"congratulations",</i> you have to play it off and say nothing or emphasize that it's just luck but you must agree that the lecturer is wicked so your classmates are reassured that you are on their side. You don't dare say that you hardly slept the previous night, that you didn't go out during the weekend because you were preparing. You can't complain that you got a 70 when you know what you wrote merited at least an 85%. You can't complain about having ugly shoes to the person who doesn't even have feet. <br>
          All in all, you are humbled. Everyone with half a brain always is. You develop a newfound respect for those way ahead of you who are doctors already or senior colleagues who have passed the MB exam. You respect those who failed and resat and still passed. You respect those who even failed out later on even after repeating because you now know that the race isn't easy. The pig-headed pride of 1st year that tells you you are one of the smartest people alive dissipates. You know that being smart isn't really all that med school is about and that in fact, it means nothing in the long run. You now understand the saying, "You know nothing ....Jon S<i>now". </i><br>
      Determination courses through you and you vow to always play your part in the journey that's medical school. A six-year long flight that takes no stops or breaks. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com3West Africa, null13.531665 -2.4604144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-44243632027318922015-05-30T13:50:00.001-07:002015-06-06T02:23:54.124-07:00RED<p><br>
       There was something unique about Rumuma. The way mad people seemed to congregate at its roundabout every Sunday morning intensifying the usual hold-up. Every Sunday as her dad drove past, she stared at them. How happy they seemed absorbed in their rituals. The way they seemed to laugh at absolutely nothing. The women jiggled their waists occasionally and tugged off their badly torn wrappers every once in a while.<br>
      Today, they weren't there. She felt a little worried because no one else seemed to be. Just a little further past the roundabout was a place swarmed with beggars and the handicapped. Residents called it "Nyem iwai" bus-stop which meant "Give me money" in the local Ikwerre language. The beggars always came in hordes and droves to any SUV or car that looked promising screaming 'Nyem iwai'. Some bore placards that read 'I am blind, help me' or any other epitaph. Some were led by kids in tattered clothes who sought for alms on their behalf or they dangled damaged limbs or body parts so disfigured until you felt disgusted enough to give them money so they left your window.<br>
The only problem was once you gave one, the others didn't leave until you gave them a piece usually red - the common name of the ten naira note. It was standard procedure. Everyone knew this which was why she was shocked when her dad gave the woman with decomposing breasts two pieces of 10 naira notes. Every beggar on the road swarmed to the car hoping to get their own share all the while mumbling 'Oga God go bless you'. Her dad chuckled -the kind of rich man chuckle that said 'I'm blessed already'. He called out to her, 'Nkem, get the black nylon beside you'. She didn't even know it was there all the while. She handed it over to him and he gave each beggar at least two pieces of ten naira note out of the black bag. Her dad quickly wound up the car glass and she shivered in the coolness of the air-conditioning.They were happy beyond words and she shook her head in awe at how far removed she was from their world. She wondered why her dad would do this and then she remembered. He was going to be honoured in church as a founding father and benefactor. <br>
            <br>
  ****** **********<br>
       This Sunday was different because they were only one hour late to church instead of the usual two hours whenever her father, Hon Chief Chidi George Weli came to church with the rest of the family. <br>
    'No condition is permanent. You shall get your breakthrough today. We shall break every ancestral curse today....', the guest minister's voice rang out. On and on he went and she knew the tirade would continue. She cherished moments like this because it meant she could tune out and be absorbed in her own world. She began to wonder why the mad people weren't at the roundabout earlier on. Maybe the new governor had bundled them up in a van and sent them to a psychiatric home? She just couldn't say. She let herself become absorbed in her immediate surroundings. Some members of the congregation were sprawled out on the floor shaking violently in sync with the minister saying, <br>
     <i>"Brethren break free from every demon or family curse plaguing you."</i><br>
Chairs were being broken every minute and more and more people fell to the ground. The minister urged that deliverance prayers be said by those standing on behalf of those on the floor. Hands were raised, voices soulful and people tried to outdo the other in the ferocity of the prayers meant to cast out ancestral and wicked spirits from those on the ground. In scenarios like this, Nkem thought, it was very easy to differentiate the poor and struggling from the rich. <br>
     The poor were the ones who rolled on the floor, raised their hands so high up to the heavens and screamed the loudest. The rich merely nodded their heads and hardly shouted and they never rolled on the floor. The rich were the ones who came midway into the service and stayed behind to meet with the pastors to exchange words while the poor were the ones who came to church very early even before the service started and stayed behind to clean up the church. Nkem could see that clearly as she looked around. She was one of those that merely raised a hand as though to say hi to God. Her mother's maid Ekaette didn't even roll like every other person. <br>
       Being poor or rich also had to be an acquired feeling. Ekaette only knelt with one knee as if to say she also couldn't afford to ruin her Calvin Klein hand-me-downs from her madam. Her father and other church dignitaries which was just another way of saying money-bags and millionaire donors- stood with their hands in their pockets, eyes opened and heads bowed. They never seemed to be possessed of any evil spirit of any sort. There had to be a level you got to that you could buy your way out of things like such. Her dad was at that stage. The pastor, a young bubbly man took the mic from the guest minister and started to proclaim blessings.<br>
  He joked about the offering saying, <i>"Our God is a god of purity. He deserves the white currency." </i><br>
White was slang for 1000 naira note. And in that split second, she realised that everything was really just colour coded.  Like how the police officers asked for twenty naira bribes with "Oga where is your green card." Or how officials at notable establishments subtly demanded for brown notes in brown envelopes. It was an unwritten rule that you gave them 100 naira or they found a way to frustrate you. <br>
      She felt not quite right and during family thanksgiving, although she had her customary 1000 naira to give as offering, she chose to put her five naira note. That afternoon, as her father drove back home she wound down the window as a child beggar cajoled her for red. She gave the little boy the white note. He didn't tell her thanks but she swore the angels sang just then. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-30265112022231232862015-04-09T13:22:00.001-07:002015-04-09T13:22:17.422-07:00Clouds<p>       At times like this, you try to remember that the sorrow goes when the morning comes and that the tears stop at the break of dawn. But that's a lie, it doesn't. It goes on and on throughout the day. You think it's gone but it lurks around in the shadows waiting for every little thing to crack open the hell once again. The shadow is so strong and at times, you're able to push it back by sheer will and you smile throughout the day. You hold it together and every one thinks it's all peaches and cream. No one knows the turmoil you're going through, no one understands. You doubt they would so you keep it all bottled inside until the dark of the night comes. When you can be yourself and be free. When you can let it out, with restraint of course. Never too much because you can't let it all out at once. Because when you let it all out at once, it's bound to flood you and everyone would know, would see it in your eyes the next day. So you let it out, bit by bit, piece by piece and the night-morning cycle continues. You face your demons at night and when the morning comes you hide them. These are the hardest times. But you have no choice. The demons start piling because bit by bit on your own you just can't face them all. You still try. Until everything comes crashing. Until you can't hide them anymore. Until they take full possession and control. Until you can't push them and hide them in the daytime. Until you become withdrawn or snap at everything. It's one or the other.The cycle continues. It never ends because you refuse to share, because you're too scared to. <br>
          You're still going to be hopeful that the storm would pass away because life can't be this miserable and unkind. Life can't give you just bitter-leaves without melon. You couldn't afford to think that way because the last time you had, you had wanted to kill yourself. No, commit suicide because that sounds way better. For that singular reason, you choose to come out of the clouds and finally let it all out. You find your joy in screaming at the top of your lungs, in dancing to music at the loudest volume. You find it in all the extremes your melancholy music couldn't do for you. You find that bit of happiness and you cling to it like your life depends on it. It does. You don't let go but at times you falter like the umbrella dancing to a dangerous wind. You still cling onto the happiness and don't let it evade you. You finally gain hold and that which torments you is evanescent now. You don't know how, you don't care how. It doesn't matter. Your grip is so strong now you can never let go. You are in control. The clouds have passed.  </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-58616604454305131232015-04-03T14:49:00.001-07:002015-04-04T14:52:06.887-07:00What your Pastor Won't Tell You (2)<p>    In the spirit of Easter, you may or may not want to know that 32% of the world's population are Christians which is approximately 2.2 billion people... Wait, before anyone starts attacking me on my terminology, let me make something clear. When I say "Christian", I mean people that believe in Jesus Christ. This includes ex christians -new-age Nigerian atheists who were formerly christians. You're still gonna fill 'christian' when you apply for that Shell job. It also includes those that swear they can judge every one but themselves while breaking every commandment known to man each day. Basically, it's a very loose term so feel free to hop on board. Now we've got that settled, we should all know the major antagonist in this little story is Satan who goes by the first name Lucifer and family name Devil. That mean old ugly ass creature we were all told about as kids in Sunday school. That's not a good enough description for him (or her) though. A vital characteristic is usually left out. I'm gonna add "smart" to that description to complete it. Lucifer works day and night trying to snatch people from the Kingdom of God in really creative and extremely effective ways. Christians are expected to go to church for "spiritual nourishment" every Sunday or Saturday for some. The Devil being the hater, and in order to prevent the spirit of the Christian from taking its own Sunday rice, finds ways of stopping us from going...or so is the belief. I call BS on all this. For me, when it comes to church and the devil, there are three categories of people...</p>
<p>       The first are those the devil actually don't want to go to church... These people are those that actually come back from every service as changed and 'better' people. They are those that honestly cry when prayers are going on, sing and dance with all their heart, take notes during the sermon and actually study it when they get home. The devil hates those people... He uses every technique in the book to keep them from entering that building and taking their "spiritual chow" by making them oversleep, giving them certain illnesses, or causing their wives to dress up for hours so they'll go as late as possible, when the meat is finished or more preferably when it's just toothpick remaining...</p>
<p>    <br>
     The second category are those the devil actually wants to go to church. Yes i just said that. Relax let me explain. These people are the 'baby boys' and 'baby gehs'. These people are those my friends and I like to refer to as "gamblers"... They are those guys that go to "toast" choir girls and pastors' daughters. They are those girls that go to seduce the pastor or brothers in the Lord. These people are actually helping the Devil populate his crib by bringing fresh innocent girls and holy guys into the fold. So tell me, why would the devil want such MVPs stay at home when they are moving his ministry? I'm sure he might even volunteer to wake them up, get their bath ready and brush their teeth any week they feel lazy.</p>
<p>       The last category are those the devil really doesn't give two fucks about. You disagree? Hold on a minute... Do u know anyone that goes to church, doesn't join any unit, doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't really dance or sing or do anything really? They hear the word but you can see clearly that their minds aren't there, probably thinking of the boobs and ass of the girl last Friday night... Or how to murder their boyfriends for not calling them the previous day? Now these people are not helping the devil capture the souls he wants, and are also refusing the Jollof and Chicken. Now tell me why the devil would care since they are not moving or hindering his ministry.?</p>
<p>Which group do you belong to? None? I just might have to find a special category for you then because you must belong somewhere.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-66493318458110765822015-03-19T14:19:00.001-07:002015-03-19T14:19:17.435-07:00<p> We are told repeatedly, 'You all filled your Jamb forms by yourselves' which I'm guessing we all did (hopefully). At times when listening to a boring lecture, I ponder and ask why anyone would voluntarily decide to choose and study a course that requires a lot of voluminous reading and assimilation. What kind of spirits inhabit us that day in, night out we trudge on trying to understand everything about the human body. This is no mean feat and I continuously wonder why we don't just give up. <br>
I try to justify that it's probably the monetary reward, but it isn't. An oil company worker could easily make more than a doctor without blinking an eye. A politician gets a doctor's yearly salary in like a month ...or less since this is Nigeria we are talking about. Really, it has to be beyond that. I still have no explanation beyond selfless service but that just isn't it as well.<br>
In a dark and twisted way, I see a lot of doctors and aspiring ones as sadists. I recall our first contact with cadavers. Before we even got into the lab, there was so much joy on faces that we were about to walk into a room filled with corpses on each table. This can't be normal, I thought to myself. We stepped into the room, and there was a scramble. Every one wanted to have the 'best' cadaver to work with. It was basically like a selection process. 'That one on table B is too skinny, barely any muscles. That one has a 6 pack. The one on table A is perfect'. I was beyond stunned. It was like we had all transformed into something else. What shocked me the most was that I was undergoing the transformation also. The human body in rigor mortis thrilled me beyond words. I wanted to explore, to palpate every part of the body. A few years ago, I shuddered to even look at a corpse on tv. It's all part of the transformation process I guess. Sometimes, I look at myself and wonder if I'll someday be the doctor with the stereotypical terrible writing. I guess, this is how it all begins.<br>
If there's anything I took out of the lab that day, it is that I learnt to value life more than anything. I look forward to other transformations as I'm sure my colleagues do. Most importantly, I look forward to one day saving a life with these hands that roam gleefully and wondrously over a corpse. The long years ahead which will be filled with studying would be worth it for just that. I hope this is not delusional. <br>
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</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-7131002451376854722015-03-07T11:00:00.001-08:002015-03-10T23:55:02.779-07:00What Your Pastor Won't Tell You Your pastor won't tell you this, mine didn't either. <div> With that being said, contrary to everything you've heard, almost every Nigerian will go to heaven. I dare say that the majority of people in heaven will be Nigerians. Let me give you a background story. Nigeria is a country riddled with violence, insecurity and <i>gra-gra. </i>For anyone to survive in Nigeria, you have to effuse a whole lot of gra-gra. Somebody mistakenly steps on your shoes in public, you have to shout and possibly retaliate. You have to be constantly prepared to exchange words or even fight with the most random stranger. This spirit of gra-gra life is passed down from generation to generation. It's in us and it is even taught in primary schools. Remember those nursery school songs like <i>'Nzogbu</i> nzogbu Enyimba' that involved a lot of feet-stamping and air-punching? There are many others.nI still don't know what 'nzogbu-nzogbu' means but by the ferocity with which the song had to be sung, you are taught early that Nigeria is not a country for songs and rhymes about lilies and roses. It is a gra-gra nation. </div><div> Where am I headed with this? Just keep going. Now, if you check your dictionary you'll see that gra-gra is the antonym of the word meek. (You can't find it? I didn't tell you to not use an updated </div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">dictionary). But at least, you've learnt it. A little more research still and it involves the Holy book. It says in Matt. 5:5 that the meek shall inherit the earth. Now, I didn't write that but with a little knowledge of antonyms from primary school and simple grammar, we can simply substitute saying <i>"the gra-gra shall inherit heaven". </i>If that doesn't convince you and you need further proof, look at verse 3 . It says, <i>'</i>the poor in spirit will inherit heaven.' Not poor physically, but poor in <i><b>spirit</b></i>. No country could have people with poorer spirits than this dear nation, Nigeria. It's even a given what with erratic power supply and bad governance and you complete the rest. It's in the holy book y'all that most of us (fellow Nigerians) will make heaven. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> And yes, once more. Your pastor won't tell you this but I did. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdAIjtL8pu3VWav4NZHQvAhAV7Y6L5kQI-tN1N-WkWrJMaT1oIGLzkWIOq58MEHIXy4rVbG90f5JDEksNJzWAP62HOlBgyNDnGyTmC0lsFes34rc3OkI_VxrrXWqWSlTJWRx_5GsLzBNzf/s640/blogger-image--1390939275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdAIjtL8pu3VWav4NZHQvAhAV7Y6L5kQI-tN1N-WkWrJMaT1oIGLzkWIOq58MEHIXy4rVbG90f5JDEksNJzWAP62HOlBgyNDnGyTmC0lsFes34rc3OkI_VxrrXWqWSlTJWRx_5GsLzBNzf/s640/blogger-image--1390939275.jpg"></a></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-19723535812416814742015-02-17T09:28:00.001-08:002015-02-17T09:28:54.990-08:00Since Thursday Of Last Week<p>Since Thursday Of Last Week </p>
<p> It was a piercing scream that felt like its timbre could shatter the windows. Her shrill voice broke through the silence of the night daring anyone in the compound to wake up and tell her to keep it down. No one did which should have been strange seeing as she lived in a "face-me-I-face-you" apartment. But it wasn't. This was not a strange occurrence. It was more or less routine for this to happen. Neighbours spoke in hushed tones around her as if afraid to awake the spirits they were sure lived in her. Who except someone possessed woke up screaming almost every night ever since that day the self-acclaimed estate pastor purified the compound with holy water. <br>
It's an almost normal Saturday morning - as normal as it could be since Thursday of last week. Her mom is outside praying, knees bent and every inch of her shaved head covered with a scarf, face contorted with every emotion possible. "Father Lord, put my enemies to shame. I bless your holy name. I thank you. Do it for me like you did for your servants of old. Let my enemies not have the last laugh...... ". There was a crazy look in her eyes. On and on it went with her interjecting every coherent sentence with "my enemies". She seemed to have a lot of them these days. Head bowed like a eunuch, she beat her chest regularly as she prayed and even harder whenever she uttered the phrase "my enemies". Olanma was scared her already sagging breasts would elongate even more. She feared her mother's knee caps would fall off. Mother used to spend close to an hour praying in the comfort of her bed every weekend. It had advanced to kneeling and praying for over three hours on the concrete floor outside every day since last Thursday. Ola feared people would think her mother was crazy but that was one of her lesser fears. Her father didn't complain anymore and she missed the sound. Her parents barely spoke anymore. She missed hearing her dad tell her mom that her prayers were were worthless. "Utter balderdash", he used to say. He was a Professor of philosophy so one could imagine. He prided himself on being an atheist and couldn't fathom why his wife bothered praying to a creator. He grieved what had happened by sitting and staring at nothing for long periods of time after which he would shake his head. She didn't know which way was better. Grief was grief, she reasoned. She treaded on eggshells around all of them and couldn't wait to leave the house but a part of her didn't want to leave her parents to go off to the university especially after what had happened. <br>
Her brother, Tobi was the golden child, the one who finished secondary school at 14 because he was so smart. She had had to write her WASSCE twice and Post Utme thrice before she'd eventually gained admission to study English Language. Tobi wrote his WASSCE, Utme and Post Utme in one sitting. He had gotten a scholarship to a prestigious university out of the country to study medicine. He was everything good she wasn't. The child who never got into trouble, the male child her father's people had castigated her mother initially for not having. The child her mom had prayed and fasted for, the favourite child. Now, only one adjective described him. He was just dead. The word seemed so cold, so unfeeling, so cruel like someone pouring a bucket of ice water on you on a cold harmattan morning. <br>
She'd never really liked her brother. He was the reason her parents had never loved her enough. She'd been mean to him for as long as she could remember. She called him out repeatedly for being a tad too chubby, for almost everything. Yet, he'd stepped in front of her to pull her back from an oncoming trailer and he'd died in the process. She couldn't fathom why he would do that. For his sake, she wanted to believe in a heaven. She wanted to join her mum outside to pray for her brother. Maybe if she prayed, the nightmares would stop and she'd sleep through the night. She didn't think he'd come back to life like her mother did. She wasn't that hopeful, her faith couldn't be that strong. She eventually went outside and saw her mum kabashing, her wrapper which was casually slung across her chest almost falling off. She looked like she was in great pain and Ola not for the first time wished she was dead instead of Tobi. Maybe if she had died, her parents would be less traumatised. Her dad would stop moping about and her mum's suffering would be alleviated. She won't have to fear for her mum's knee caps anymore. Her mum wouldn't have to go to burn incense at the New Age white-garment wearing church where Tobi's corpse was kept in the hope that he would come back to life. She'd gone once and the prophet had preached saying "God is a miracle worker. Didn't Jesus raise Lazarus from the dead?" The crowd in their white dresses had jumped up with vigour shouting, 'Amen!'. "Didn't Jesus say his servants would do greater things than he did? We will resurrect Tobi." Her mother was bright-eyed with hope and happiness. She wished she could believe for her mother's sake but it was all bollocks. But she fasted with her mum every day for Tobi to be raised back to life. With each passing day, the circles beneath her mother's eyes seemed to get deeper and darker. Her dad merely shook his head at all this saying nature wouldn't go against itself and that mother should stop praying. He went about life like nothing had happened giving reassuring hugs to her and her mother. However, Ola could see the sadness in the depth of his eyes and in the hollow in his voice. It was beyond that which was etched proudly on her mother's face. It was the kind of hidden sadness that's filled with despair. He'll never be the same, of that she's sure. <br>
She's sure of few things these days. She doesn't know what kind of demons would plague her at night, she doesn't know if she'll try to kill herself again. There are words for a child losing a parent, sympathy for parents that lose their child but never any for the sibling of the dead child. Nobody acknowledges them, she writes in her diary. The neigbours only console her parents and they still keep away from her. She can feel a silent judgement emanating from them - she must have killed her brother or she must have some spirits tormenting her.The neigbours irritated her. They looked at her mum like she was crazy, shaking their heads in pity as she continually repeated, 'my Tobi is not dead'. How could they offer their condolences and in the same breath ask for more wine?Their farce of sympathies disgusted her and she wished her father could drive them all away. But of course, nobody cared. <br>
***************<br>
Time they say heals wounds, so she's hopeful. Tobi's body is being put to rest in a box that will be covered in 6 feet of dirt. The casket is filled with his favourite game cds and his ps4. He would use that in heaven, if it were up to her to decide. The Reverend says "God has a reason, Tobi has been taken to be an angel in heaven, God works in mysterious ways". It sounded cruel that one could even say that. She was sure that if Tobi had a say, he'd rather be on earth living his life. She looked at her parents beside her. Her mother's face bore a similar look to her dad's. It was devoid of emotion, withered with sunken eyes that spoke of many travails and a stoic expression of one bereft of hope. The Reverend extolled the virtues of Tobi - a humble boy, dutiful, God-fearing, respectful. On and on, it went and with each passing second she felt more inadequate. Ola thought once more, maybe if she had died instead, her mother would suffer less, fewer people would grieve. <br>
They say time changes everything. She hoped it was true but she knew the nightmares would come with the dark and her screams would be deafening.<br>
<br>
<br>
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</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-39350166208903402362015-01-23T00:06:00.001-08:002015-01-23T00:06:32.228-08:00Much Ado About Nothing<p>      I've lived a little, I've laughed a little, I've loved a little, I've learned. I can't quantify how much I've learnt because learning is infinite so here goes nothing....you can stop now because I'm about to be really boring.  <br>
    1.  I've learnt that it's important to have people on your side that you can trust unconditionally.<br>
2. I've learnt to be forgiving of myself and others, to say please and thank you. <br>
3. I've learnt that it's important to have a goal and it's also super important to work towards it and review it. <br>
4. I've learnt that it helps to think carefully and write down your views about life issues and change them only after deep reflection. <br>
5. I've learnt that family is everything you need to survive in this world. I've learnt that family will always stand by you no matter what. I've learnt that family can also include friends. <br>
6. I've learnt that the power of friendship is wonderful and I dare say that the best type of angels come in the form of friends. <br>
7. I've learnt that there is a time for everything and life doesn't need to be rushed. Everything will come in due time or in due time, you can go for everything. <br>
8. I've learnt that I can never doubt my mum's love for me. <br>
9. I've learnt that no one should make your decisions for you. You should make your own decisions and stick to them. <br>
10. I've learnt that standing up for your convictions no matter how difficult is necessary. <br>
11. I've learnt that everyone needs some guiding principles - be they the ten commandments from the Bible or Quran or wherever, just something you should try to live by. <br>
12. I've learnt that you can stand up for yourself and choose to not be side-lined, this is perfectly okay. <br>
13. I've learnt that you should not be saddled with insecurities especially about things you cannot change.<br>
14. I've learnt about the good, the bad and the ugly....that life is especially  beautiful when you care about others. <br>
15. I've learnt that surely we harbour happiness within us, sometimes we only need to just unlock it and let it gush out.<br>
16. I've learnt that it's okay to ask for help, that doesn't make you any less of a person.<br>
17. I've learnt that sometimes we may fail or fall but we got to get up and keep moving forward, the stream of life is ever flowing and we can't afford to be stagnant.<br>
18. I've learnt the art of fearlessness in the pursuit of all that I want because I (we) can do just about whatever.<br>
19. I've learnt that all human beings are equal and we should never look down on anyone, never. <br>
20. I've learnt that it's important to appreciate good music, they are kola nuts for the soul. <br>
21. I've learnt that having a good relationship with your parents will help you in the long run. <br>
22. I've learnt that it's okay to be alone at times. <br>
23. I've learnt that people should not always be taken at face value - trust is something that should be earned. <br>
24. I've learnt that it doesn't hurt to say "I'm sorry" no matter how difficult. <br>
25. I've learnt that life should be taken with a smattering of sugar alongside salt, the fun and sensible can go hand in hand.<br>
26. I've learnt about laughing hard until you want to cry. I've learnt that wherever there is laughter, there is a cornucopia of joy and you don't have to take life too seriously.<br>
27. I've learnt to sing my favourite songs at the top of my lungs. Life is not long enough to worry about if you sound like a frog. <br>
28. I've learnt that I can be comfortable in my own skin.<br>
29. I've learnt to shut up and listen to others irrespective of how wonderful my voice is :) <br>
30. I've learnt that unlearning a lot of things is a constant process. I've learnt that I'm going to have to keep on learning. <br></p>
<p>PS: Life is short, wear your highest heels and enjoy every moment or at least try to. <br>
For some reason, before an important birthday I wanted to share my thoughts on the little I've learnt simply by virtue of being a human being.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-60809455989644354962015-01-15T01:36:00.001-08:002015-01-23T10:42:47.168-08:00To Love Or Not<p>Yes, I said it. Love isn't a unicorn. Someone would ask me now, "What is love?". Hian! After all your years in secondary school and university, you still don't know the meaning of that simple word? To be fair, neither do I. And o you believer, I'm not talking about Christ's love, brotherly/sisterly love or parental love. I'm talking about....oh well you know what I mean. <br>
Now that's settled, I think love is when you can see yourself putting someone else before yourself . It's when you can wake up in the morning or in the middle of the day while you are busy at work and smile and feel happy because of the simple fact that they exist. It's when you can overlook the little things society says matter- Is he 6ft tall? - nope he's 5 feet. Does she have D cups? - nope, none. Your friends don't think she's pretty or he's rich enough, but you still don't care. Love is when you can't go a day without thinking happily about the person, even if for a fleeting second. It's when you are eager to see the person succeed or whatever would make them happy, you'd be happy for them as well. It's when you are willing to sacrifice for another without even thinking about the consequences most times. It's when you can remove every physical attribute you like about the person and realize they still have a special place in your heart. It's when you are mad and angry but there's still this fuzzy warm feeling you have because love covers a multitude of sins. Love is contentment. It is not blind because it can see the shortcomings of another and realize this doesn't diminish the person. Love thinks about others. Love is considerate. Love is accepting of so-called imperfections. Love understands that imperfections are what make you perfect. Love doesn't want to hurt another in any way. Love hopes for the best. Love strives to be better. Love knows when it is not appreciated or returned. Love is forgiving and Love knows when to move on. <br>
I still don't know how to define love. It's a word that can't be boxed into a three-line definition (but you can try to). It's one of those words that has no synonym because it is all encompassing. It is not one emotion. It is everything beautiful in one. <br>
Now, go into the world and fall in love. :) <br>
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</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApltYYlEtVxf1S_doP1QX-bftKpJD3ACLYlRgXC8a5x2N8FiQa0ufGu3MG9yMB-A1IBOVYcADy9zjuG0ATDB_iPm7yyXiyrALL7ISb5qck3hy2pyfjZ-c89er-c0UvnuSSq-pmE8sZrBj/s1600/_new_Tw_gallery_img.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApltYYlEtVxf1S_doP1QX-bftKpJD3ACLYlRgXC8a5x2N8FiQa0ufGu3MG9yMB-A1IBOVYcADy9zjuG0ATDB_iPm7yyXiyrALL7ISb5qck3hy2pyfjZ-c89er-c0UvnuSSq-pmE8sZrBj/s640/_new_Tw_gallery_img.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-72912112173118468252014-12-23T13:05:00.001-08:002014-12-23T13:10:25.931-08:00Electricity Day<p>"Happy Electricity Day", a little girl on the streets who I didn't know said to me. She was a beggar, dressed in raggedy torn clothes and she obviously  wanted me to take notice of her so I could give her some change. This was after all a new Nigeria or so my parents said. In their time like they always reminded me, strangers used to greet each other as they walked by. It wasn't that way anymore. A certain distrust of other people had arisen as the nation prospered.<br>
         Electricity day was a holiday celebrated on the fourth of July every year to mark uninterrupted power supply. So far, this was the 25th Electricity Day. A lot of things had changed or so the people of the old Nigeria liked to say. We were now a country called Naija, once a ghetto corruption of the word Nigeria. However, we were still known as Nigerians and not Naijans. <br>
      Nigerian History class is the worst, I thought to myself as I walked down the hallways of the prestigious Dora Akunyili University. I didn't know much about her or about any of our founding mothers. I only knew she was a kick-ass fighter against fake drugs which were once prevalent. That was all I needed to know as far as I was concerned. Professor Malibu droned on and on about the Nigerian civil war. I didn't get why I had to learn about a bunch of adults who couldn't sort out their mess without resorting to violence and by 4pm for that matter.  Halfway into the class with most of the students zoning off, all the bulbs went dead. A power cut? There had been some rumours flying around that there had been issues with the Lekki power dam and electricity problems could resurface. Professor Malibu tried to calm us down, "Give it a minute or two and the power will be back." The wait was agonisingly slow. Ten minutes and there was still no light. The air conditioning was even down and the school didn't even have provisions for an emergency generator. Could this be the Nigeria my parents once lived in? I couldn't fathom it. School was cut short that day. <br>
     The atmosphere was sweltering with mosquitoes buzzing about. I sat on the porch of my house in the student lodge. It was too hot to be inside what with the power being out. I swatted a mosquito that came close to my ear. This was frustrating. My neighbour next door was also on her porch using her notebook as a makeshift fan while her bedside lamp doubled as a reading lamp. I didn't have one. I never needed one. I made a mental note to buy one the next day. Eventually, we all decided enough was enough and went inside bravely determined to brave the unbearable nightmare. <br>
     That night, there was a break-in. People must have realised the cover of the dark was a perfect time to rob students blind. It was a silent operation especially as most students slept with their doors or windows open. This was of course a Nigeria with the lowest crime rate in the world. Hardly anyone slept with their doors locked. I still did though. Everyone said I had trust issues. The next morning, I was one of the few people who had not been stolen from. <br>
      Two days later, we still had no electricity. So much for electricity day. The price of the bus fare had increased and fuel prices were sky high. Next, there was an ASUU strike. Lecturers were complaining that they couldn't teach in such an unfriendly environment. It seemed like everything was crumbling at once. The foundation was crumbling because the cement hadn't dried properly before the house was built. Flyers were being passed around. There was going to be a protest at the Iweala square in Abuja. I had to go. That morning, I joined a bus conveying people mostly students to the square. People bore placards saying, "No going back", "Forward ever" and "Never will we lack shoes" while some discordant voices carried a tune of 'Solidarity forever' . I stepped out of the procession to go to a kiosk stand across the express to buy a can of Coke and meatpie. I sat down on a bench just beside the kiosk to eat my snack. The environment was a bit shabby, but it would have to do. The earth trembled. Did you feel that ?, I asked the young girl selling. She nodded shyly, her pigtails bouncing.<br>
I looked over to the square from the kiosk. People were still marching along, but now not in unison. "Take cover, take cover! Bomb blast", someone screamed. This was something I only saw on CNN. That was when I knew it was over. We had lost our Naija, our new Nigeria. Blood pooled around the floor of the square and I looked from a safe distance. There were corpses all over and people writhing in pain. I shook my head and looked one last time at the country that once was. We would have to start rebuilding  once more. There was still no electricity when I got home and saw 35 missed calls from my mother. I called her to let her know I was ok. She wept, I wept. <br>
      </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-76677699724359421552014-12-09T12:25:00.001-08:002014-12-09T12:25:14.739-08:00<p> I'm about to be really boring right now but I need to share a life lesson I learnt when I was in a dark place and couldn't summon the courage to do anything probably because I couldn't for the life of me see the point. To put it simply, I was in a funk so here goes nothing.<br>
A lot of times the problem is not the number of hurdles we have to jump over to get to our destination. It's rarely even about how many days it takes to build Rome because Rome sure as hell wasn't built in a day. It's never about how high we have to climb because almost everyone wants to get to the summit.<br>
It's more about that first hurdle that we have to jump over, that first step - the one that sets our journey in motion. It's always difficult to take that first climb up Mountain Everest or lay a brick to the foundation of our figurative Rome. The problem therein is mustering up the courage to make that initial move in the right direction. <br>
We find it fairly easy to see the grand plan from a distance, that beautiful finish line and the applause when the curtains close. It is however not so easy to get up on that stage but when you dare to, it's only gonna be uphill from there (at least that's what I want to believe). Even when it seems like you're going downhill, you are actually getting into a better..... or the best position for another climb which will be worth it.<br>
The key thing is to know where you are headed and have that initial courage to get on track and realize that failure is always an option, just one that you can't afford to take. <br>
************<br>
<br>
</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-31074747708144142902014-11-07T13:59:00.001-08:002014-11-08T15:29:17.592-08:00<p>I always thought death would be more interesting. After all, it's the culmination of everything we've done on earth. <br>
     I sat on the bus impatient to get to the new cinema. I was so excited to watch <i>The </i><i>Amateur.</i> It was all everyone could talk about. When I got to my stop where I would have to get a cab to take me to the cinema, I came down giddily and started to cross to the other side of the road. The conductor smiled at me as I came down from the bus. Halfway across, I realized I had left my 940 naira change with him. I started to go back trying to catch up with the bus. Things happened in a blur. I knew it would happen. I saw the car speed towards me and I knew I wouldn't make it in time to the end of the road. I saw the bus driver's smile turn to an astonished look. I heard multiple screams of "Get out of the way", "Run" but for some reasons my legs wouldn't respond. The car was fast and I knew I wouldn't make it. It was a slow steady pain at first when it hit me, then it increased exponentially. A million thoughts ran through my mind. I knew death was inevitable but like everyone, I expected to live to at least 70. I was going to die in my sleep while I sipped on coconuts in a calm, tranquil place. I looked at the blood pooling around me and heard shouts. "Chai. Such a pretty young girl. Why? Lord, why?". I waited for someone to call an ambulance or try to perform First-Aid on me. No one did any of that. The driver of the car was running away but he was caught by some guys in ill-fitting shorts. He ran like a chicken with legs that were 60 degrees apart. This made me smile, more like grimace. A crowd was forming and people started to beat him, tearing his already torn shirt. The police became involved and the beatings seemed to double. "I swear to God, na brake failure", the bus driver kept on repeating like a mantra. I felt a kind of guilty pleasure. The end was closer now. I couldn't feel the pain anymore. I pictured myself in a blissful place away from the accident scene. I was in the cinema hall with my friends. I was eating chocolate ice-cream on a hot harmattan day. Someone put a finger to my wrist to check my pulse. Talk about reverse order. Such an annoyance. Get your hands off me, I wanted to say but I couldn't form the words. Some idiot stepped on my phone and I remembered that the next episode of Scandal was due to come out that night. That was when I started to cry. The cry evolved to other things, crying for my family because they would cry for me; crying because I wouldn't see another day. I didn't want to go to a heaven where I would sing hymns and lullabies. I wanted better. A wonderful life on earth and a painless quick exit to nothing. I shuddered to think about what would be said at my funeral. "RIP, Kamara. Gone too soon. A daughter, sister, friend. We love you but God loves you more." I wasn't even a mother or a wife. I was pissed at the mere suggestion that I was taken to go be with God. Where was my free will? It was my fate and destiny, the preacher would say. It must have been planned even before I was born, I imagined the pastor thinking this.  I wish I could laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of this type of thinking. I used to. <br>
      It was a tranquil peaceful song playing on the radio. A powerful voice filled the eerily familiar white room with a melodious tune. It was such a strange place with people dressed in white. I had no idea of how I got there. My mum was sitting by my side, fingers laced through mine. She looked astonished as I stared at her. I noticed her usual perfectly coiffed weave was in disarray. There was something different, older about her. "Doctor, Doctor!", she called out, more like screamed at the top of her lungs. "She's awake after a whole month, Thank you Father God". I wasn't dead? I couldn't close my eyes anymore. I didn't even want to blink. There was beautiful light everywhere, a refreshing change from the pitch darkness I had been in for the past month. That's how long I had been in a coma. My mum kept on hugging me while the doctor occasionally cautioned her to keep her distance as I was still weak. There was a flurry of calls and I knew my homecoming would be celebrated in a major way. I managed to sit up straight with the aid of the pillow and whispered that I wanted a burger. I had missed it more than anything. My legs still hurt a lot and one was wrapped up in a bandage. Despite my unending discomfort, my lips broke into a wide smile. I looked crazy. I knew it but I didn't care. I wasn't dead. I wasn't afraid. I knew it would all get better because no matter what, O ga di mma or so they say. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-54850246762057497742014-10-12T22:56:00.001-07:002014-10-12T22:56:19.659-07:00Sometimes In My Boring Life, Not-So-Boring things happen<p><br>
This young old guy, I will call him 'The Alchemist' (Disclaimer: In no way connected to Paulo Coelho) was performing some ermm magic tricks, so he said. Dude had a huge tattoo on his arm and used some "magic" fluid to remove it where water and even detergent had failed. I guess this was to prove it was a permanent tattoo? He photocopied stuff without using a photocopying machine. My dear, it was like feem trick. I was sceptical and wondered how all these were possible. I was feeling him but of course I knew they were not magic tricks. He probably just had a good knowledge of chemistry or something. The man had to spoil it by bringing up different concoctions for sale which were supposed to cure erectile dysfunction, cancer, AIDS, stop menstrual cramps forever and so on. What irked me was how much people believed this. I couldn't believe the gullibility in front of me as people scrambled to get the goods especially the one meant to cure AIDS. Anyway, I was still fascinated and decided to keep on watching the proceedings. He performed many more tricks and many more people gathered. It was like I was in a trance, standing there not of my own accord (sorry, this sounds like what a pastor would say). <br>
The crowd increased and soon I felt someone touch my bag. I'm not Jesus, so I knew something had to be wrong. You can never be too careful. This was close to a car park and things got stolen on the regular. I was prepared to chase whoever it was till I got whatever was taken. When I checked, everything was still intact, sadly. I looked around to see if I could see the human being that wanted to give me a heart attack (I mean, if my galaxy s20 had been stolen...). An old lady beckoned to me. Was I in a dream? Was she real? Should I go to her? After 2 seconds of deep thinking, I went to her despite all warnings of don't talk to strangers which I heard as a kid (sorry mum). It seemed like The Alchemist (remember him?) was looking at me strangely. He must have been saying in his mind, "don't leave me, young soul". The old lady told me she had tapped me because I was enjoying the show a little too much and she could see that I was a nice girl :). I also reminded her of her granddaughter. She quickly advised me to take my fascination elsewhere fall and notfall prey to the "bad people". She spoke in Igbo and all I could think was, "Damn, my Igbo listening skills are getting quite good". With the message received, I thanked my lucky stars that my galaxy s67 was safe. I promised myself that day that since I don't want to die any time soon, I won't be Miss Curious Cat. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-34226505583991613122014-09-12T15:19:00.001-07:002014-09-12T15:55:54.437-07:00Are You Nigerian Enough? <p>      Being a Nigerian is not a day's job. It takes years and years of practice to hone and get used to. It's also not easy too. The most useful skill to have in Nigeria is the art of "looking and not seeing". Kids are taught it as a preliminary course before even kindergarten. It includes  visiting a family friend as a kid and not  "seeing" whatever food is being offered or served so you can easily refuse the meal; when your parents give you the famous side-eye, you have to look at them but not look at them so others in the room can't take note. As you grow older, it evolves. You have to look and not see the beggars on your street, you have to not see people being beaten to death because once you decide to go beyond looking, you've failed the first test of a true Nigerian. <br>
     You may be Nigerian, but how Nigerian are you? Some are more Nigerian than others. We can't all be equal in our Nigerian-ness. However, there are some definite parameters that show if <u>you</u> are Nigerian and to what degree. These are all common-place things for any Nigerian. <br>
1. It's quite normal for several people to be on a motorcycle or moped with neither wearing a helmet because God dey. <br>
2. There really is no legal drinking age(don't quote the constitution to me). <br>
3. When you say someone is raped, it must mean she wore indecent clothing and as such she deserved it.... or she must have seduced the rapist. You just have to blame the victim. <br>
4. You have to be overly religious and infuse the "blood of Jesus" or your church slogan into your statements. The more often, the better. Doctor says you have malaria, you just have to rebuke it in Jesus' name. <br>
5. Exam runs is necessary for every external examination eg WASSCE and JAMB. And no, you non-Nigerian, don't you dare say examination malpractice. In fact, the priority when you go to write an external exam is not your pen or calculator, it's your exam money. Reverend Mary or not, you just have to pay for security/gate fee, chairs and tables, drink money or any other ridiculous thing the examination supervisor comes up with.<br>
6. The emphasis placed only on female virginity because the loss of ermm *coughs* virginity is usually a one-person process? <br>
7. You almost always have to be responsible for electricity. Your power is in your hands.... literally. Let's not  talk about other utilities because we all know they are nonexistent. <br>
8. Good and well-planned roads are not the norm. So whenever you come upon this 8th wonder of the world in Nigeria, you have to take some time to stare. <br>
9. Boyfriend? Is that an English word?  But Adanna has to be married by 20. <br>
10. You have to always choose from mediocre options. From your cell phone company and internet provider to your cable tv. You learn to always expect shitty service wherever. <br>
11. Constant "kabashing" of enemies of progress and witches who are the old women in your village or those uncles who just don't want you to hammer. Blaming someone else IS the way to go. <br>
  13. I can't end this without talking about bribery and corruption. I honestly don't even know where to start. Is it among the police who ask for roger or if you have "anything for the boys". In our justice department where just about anything goes? In getting into the university where slots could be sold to the highest bidder? So many more examples but the best part about this is that it's only wrong when someone else does it or it doesn't benefit you. Another fascinating thing is that "Nigerian" is synonymous with corrupt or corruption. I dare you to always substitute these words with Nigerian in sentences :) <br>
       With all these being said, I'm proudly Nigerian. Are you? The real question though is if you are Nigerian enough. </p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-81100981513953356792014-08-02T14:06:00.001-07:002014-09-05T23:47:57.227-07:007th Call<p> Some relationships don't end. They just drag on and pretty soon you start to wonder where did it all go wrong? What happened? It starts with that day he didn't call you and you just happened to be done with your exams for the semester. He calls the next day. You get angry and don't pick the call. You chuckle to yourself, you would punish him. He calls some more, five more times and you don't pick willing him to call once more to make it seven because well, there are seven days in a week. He doesn't. Your phone says 6 missed calls from Kachi.<br>
The next day he calls. You don't pick. You are still angry he didn't make the 7th call. You wait for him to call the third time before you pick. But he doesn't. That night before you go to bed, you contemplate calling him. He likes when you call him just before you go to bed. You twiddle your fingers, roll on your bed many times. You start to go through your contacts to get to his name even though you have it on speed-dial. You pause when you get to it. You want to call him, you want to stop listening to the red-headed monster called pride singing in your ears. But you don't. You say to yourself when he calls tomorrow, you will answer on the first ring. You are satisfied with the conclusion you have come to and so you sleep peacefully. You dream about spending the weekend at his place. It will be a long one, you smile in your sleep. You were done with your exams and would be going to your parents' home soon which meant you wouldn't be able to visit as much as you wanted or sleep over at his place. <br>
That morning, you woke up to a missed call and text from him. It read, "What did I do wrong?". You were indignant. Where was his apology? His long heartfelt text telling you how much he loved you and wanted to see you. He did this all the time. He didn't buy you flowers when he made you angry like the heroes in the romance novels you read. He didn't declare his love with beautiful words composed for you. You knew he loved you because he had said it once when you had broken up for a week. He had called everyday of that week and finally came to see you to beg you to take him back. You smile at the memory. That was over 3 months ago. You need to hear it again, to be sure your memories aren't lies. You are angry again. You aren't going to call him back. You would just wait for him to call again and tell him how you feel. It was over an hour since his call and he hadn't called back. You are getting angrier by the second. You decide to go to the cinema with three of your girlfriends to watch (insert Zac Efron movie). Before the movie starts, you lounge on the chairs in the hall eating ice cream, talking about how glad you all were that the exams were over and finally, swapping boyfriend drama. You show them Kachi's text. They are enraged on your behalf. You smile forlornly. They are quite theatrical, you think and you know they love you. You tell them what has happened. Their response is unequivocal. You don't call. You wait for him to call again. Adaura even suggests you wait until the next day to pick his calls. Adaura is bold, strong and super confident. You wish you were more like her. She is everyone's go-to for relationship advice even though she currently has no boyfriend. You link hands with her for mental and physical support. It will all turn out right, you assure your self. You take a huge chomp out of your ice cream. It calms you. You smile and continue talking with your friends. It's time for the movie, you check your watch. You all stand up and head to the movie hall. You watch the movie half-heartedly. You are hoping for a call from Kachi. Your phone is on silent mode and every couple of minutes you check it. He may call.</p>
<p> *************<br>
You are on edge and don't want to hang out with your friends anymore. They all seem so happy, laughing like they have no care in the world while your stomach is tied up in knots. Occasionally, they look at you, tug you and urge you to smile. You consent and bare your teeth. You figure it counts as as a smile, and at worst a grimace. They get the message and leave you alone. You say goodbye and head to a nearby kiosk to buy airtime to renew your monthly internet subscription. You had cancelled it so you could focus on reading for your exams. When you get back to your apartment and start to load the recharge cards, you are hesitant. Kachi usually pays for your Internet subscription. You go through the motions of dialling the codes and numbers and you subscribe. When it's done, you quickly update your Facebook, BBM and Whatsapp profiles knowing he would take note. You are frustrated and want to send him a message over one of the social media platforms. You hate them but since they always seemed so impersonal, you figure it's your best bet. You send him a long message via WhatsApp. You feel like you've exorcised your ghosts. You quickly turn the screen of your phone to face the bed while you wait for his reply. It doesn't deliver. You think to yourself, what if he had blocked you? You know Kachi wouldn't be that immature. You wonder why he still hasn't called. Your evening is restless and you watch all kinds of sad movies. None seems gloomy enough. You know you should call him, but you can't seem to lift the phone to do so. You finish the half-empty tub of Nutella on your bedside table and watch more movies. You need one dreary enough to make you not to feel sorry for yourself. You need to pity someone else. You find the perfect movie and immerse yourself in it while obsessively searching your phone for another call, text, something, anything. <br>
Somehow, you fall asleep. You don't know how but it's a long horrible night. You toss and turn and imagine he's at your door. You go to open it and kiss him. Just before your lips make contact, he vanishes. Your imagination becomes more vivid but it always ends in the same way. You wake up sad, you are angry with yourself for caring too much, for caring too little. You aren't sure anymore. You know he will call today. You know you will answer it on the first ring. You hold on to your phone like it's your life-force. You can't let it go until he calls. He doesn't. There is no more Nutella for you to use to assuage your soul. You settle for butter. It just has to do. The minutes pass, the hours pass. You have made up your mind to not call. It is a battle of wills now, you reason. You cannot lose. He has to make the next move. Or. You shudder to think about what the alternative was if nobody called. You are so sure he would call, you smile. After all, you are devious. You go out to a party that night and have fun with your friends. If fun means sitting alone at the bar and growling at whoever offers to buy you drinks. Your friends tell you they understand you need to sort things through in your head before they fly in their heels to the dance floor when the latest pop song comes on. Adaura later comes to sit beside you. She drums it into your head that the stakes are higher now and so you can't call first. You find yourself agreeing even though in your reverie some minutes ago you had decided to call Kachi. You miss him. You have to be strong, you mentally chastise yourself. You put on a stoic smile and go to dance. You are in fiery red four-inch stilettos and a shimmery dress that stops some inches above your knee. You look sexy and you know it. You get swept up quickly in the sea of dancers once you are on the dance floor. The night moves by quickly and you get home early in the morning of the next day. You sleep the morning away. When you wake up, you feel numb. You recall it's a Friday and you would have gone to Kachi's house. You blink away the thought. You can't think about that especially after the pep talk Adaura had given you yesterday. You clean your room, mop the floors of the toilet and kitchen. You can't let yourself think. You still check your phone every minute for any signal from him. You remember you had taken some pictures yesterday. You choose one to update on different social networks. You knew your legs looked fabulous in that short dress you had worn. You smile with delight as you upload the picture. Kachi had bought it on your birthday. You hope he remembers. You hope for many things. Hugging yourself, you continue your cleaning. You are sure he would contact you now. You forbid your heart from uttering the word 'Kachi' until he calls. You put the memories in a treasure chest and lock it. The key to open it would be a call. A place in your heart still tells you to call but you quickly put it to bed. That day, there was no sign from him. <br>
On Sunday, you give a generous offering and you pay your tithe, even more than your usual. Maybe you could ask God, no beg him to make Kachi call so everything would go back to normal. God loves a cheerful giver, this you were sure of since you couldn't bribe him. You ask for forgiveness from all your sins. You wait for a signal from God, maybe he would tell you in some way to call. You hear no voice and conclude you are in the right. You expect a sermon on how to forgive and forget, that's how it usually happens. The preacher magically talks about something that's related to what you're going through. Your case is different. The sermon is about standing your ground. You know the youth pastor is talking about sexual purity but you tune out the rest of what he's saying. Surely, this is a sign from God, you need to stand your ground and not call first. You smile. God works in mysterious ways. But then, a sad thought creeps in. What if God is punishing me for not being sexually pure? You had slept with Kachi. God couldn't be that vindictive, you know. It had to be the other. You are content for the rest of the service. You leave church feeling absolutely sure that God had given you a sign, he had talked to you. <br>
The days blur by. It's Wednesday already and you have to start packing to go home. Your parents have been calling non-stop to find out when you would come back. You will come home on Friday, you tell them. Later in the day, your friends call you. They want to take you out. You make up a lie and tell them. You blanch at the lie you have just told. You have a newfound relationship with God and don't want to jeopardise it. You listen to some songs on your phone and start to cry when you listen to Say Something. Your heart is hollow. You shuffle to a christian song. You have to stop thinking about Kachi and focus on God, you say to yourself. A couple of songs later, when you have successfully held off your avalanche of tears, your phone skips to Need You Now. Damn, Lady Antebellum! ,you mutter aloud. You should stop playing the song. You don't want to cry anymore but you can't. Their voices are just so beautiful and soulful. You cry. You hate yourself. Why do you have to be so emotional? You want to call now, you are ready. But the red-headed beast rears its pretty head. No, you can't call. Why can't he call? You slam your hand on your bed and throw your head back towards the dashboard of the bed. There is a vibrating noise disturbing the music. Someone is calling you. You are angry at whoever it is that dares to disturb your pity-party. your heart quickens, it could be him. You glance at your phone on the bed beside your thighs. You peek. "No, no", you say aloud. You are the one calling him. You must have speed-dialled him when you slammed your hand on the bed. Damn touch-screen phones. You want to cut the call but you don't. You can't let it seem like you flashed him. You cry even more when he doesn't pick. You search for a christian song, it doesn't help. You move to rock. You find yourself comforted by the metallic sounds emanating from your earphones. You are disturbed once more by a call. It's from Adaura. You don't pick. The phone rings again twice. You can't be bothered to check the caller ID. You un plug your earphones and fume. She's also banging on your door. You want to scream at her to leave you the hell alone. You don't want comfort especially after you had lied that you were sick. It wasn't really a lie anyway, since you were emotionally sick. "Aaaaargh" you mutter. You want some peace. That girl is relentless. Sure, she cares about you but you just want to be left alone. No one is invited to your pity-party. You still wish you were as strong as her but you really could do about her advice right now. She's still knocking and calling. You don't spare a second glance to your phone as you stalk to the locked door to open it.<br>
It's Kachi. You look at the phone and he's the one calling.<br>
You are shocked, no bewildered to see him at the door when you open it and for what seems like ages you stare at each other, not saying anything. You have a million things to say to him, but you can't remember. <br>
He finally breaks the silence. "Can I come in?". Hesitantly, you let him through. You hear him heave a sigh of relief. "So...", he begins. You smile despite wanting to drag out a sorry from him. It's all going to be ok. He's with a plastic bag. You can't wait to see what dress he's bought you as an apology. It's always a dress. He brings out a bouquet of roses. You are floored, speechless. God does answer prayers. <br>
"I'm sorry", you mutter, half to yourself and half to him. As you inhale the drunkenly sweet scent of the roses again, you say once more,"I'm sorry". This time, loud enough. He hugs you and tells you he's sorry as well. "I love you", he says deep in the middle of an embrace. You say the words back. They roll off smoothly from your tongue. Now, you're wondering what he has to be sorry for. You keep the roses on your bedside table. Your treasure chest bursts open. It just couldn't stay locked. There's a kiss, he doesn't vanish. There's no nightmare. It's real and he's with you. You want to cry, but you will yourself to be strong. You really shouldn't have waited for the seventh call or maybe you should have. You smile and sidle closer to him. You don't want to think. <br>
He stays at your place that night. There's a kiss and another and ..... It's a long night. <br>
<br>
</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677070960172113004.post-45402443314832786562014-07-15T15:53:00.001-07:002014-09-12T15:53:40.187-07:00Black Beauty<p>     "She's a dark beauty", my neighbour said looking at a picture of a popular dark skinned Nigerian actress. How come no one says "white beauty" or "fair beauty"? Is there a beauty ladder only light-skinned females can climb with the occasional dark-skinned girl being allowed to crawl through? <br>
        Growing up as a kid in Nigeria, you learn that the pretty girls in your primary school class are the mixed kids or the non-mixed kids with skin so yellow they were called "paw-paw". Every other person was ordinary or ugly. It doesn't get easier when you grow up. Evil is denoted by black. The people with skin so dark it had the undertone of blueberries were made fun of as teens. No one was excluded. They were likened to charcoal. It was especially worse for girls. As time goes on, in most cases, self-esteem is severely battered. A lot of people carry on with the notion that beauty or self-worth is tied to their skin colour and that the farther they are from Beyonce', they would never be perceived as beautiful. In short, dark skinned girls are never the babes. In movies, they are not the girl the guy falls in love with. They are the best friends or the obese one. <br>
         The pressure to lighten the complexion comes in. They could resort to bleaching creams and soaps to remove the supposed curse of darkness. They probably heard things like, "You're pretty for a dark girl. You'd be even prettier if you were lighter". Despite the dangers associated with skin bleaching, the self-hate is entrenched too deeply and all caution is thrown to the wind. After all, melanin is always your enemy. Skin lightening products are advertised daily and fill the shelves of our malls. Some people may even be advised to bleach their skin by family and close friends. <br>
I have no idea how this beauty caste originated but one thing is for certain. There needs to be a paradigm shift in the perception of beauty. Let the term "dark beauty" and every other one used to imply that beauty isn't a characteristic supposed to be associated with ebony skin be erased from our mental dictionaries. Let's start asking, "What exactly has beauty got to do with skin colour?" </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAVKDo6Fo0JyQ_c5e8ied3KV8osqpmHV1PXM28Qb5YDHxgGlxNrHDwiCb9LJNxHofFV53H9FH8E6TsnZ5IOdJxtroAFNnpaOZutVWLR1rVPnooft4basAwKpe-_d1J_LmWmdo5pVUn98w/s1600/Bqi-JB0IEAA0BVC.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAVKDo6Fo0JyQ_c5e8ied3KV8osqpmHV1PXM28Qb5YDHxgGlxNrHDwiCb9LJNxHofFV53H9FH8E6TsnZ5IOdJxtroAFNnpaOZutVWLR1rVPnooft4basAwKpe-_d1J_LmWmdo5pVUn98w/s640/Bqi-JB0IEAA0BVC.png"> </a> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09637779580460343404noreply@blogger.com1