-Don't force someone else's medicine down your throat.
Mama Bayo's husband hit her always. He gave her scars that could not be hidden. Scars that were difficult to lie about.Her friend, Mama Ibeji had a similar case. She poisoned her husband and now she lives without fear. Mama Bayo took the kitchen knife and stabbed her husband repeatedly. Her son who watched her butcher his father, shot her in the head. Bayo loved his father. He was his father's son.
-Be a good friend regardless.
Tola was a good friend to Ore. Even when Ore started trafficking drugs, she worried about him enough to report him to the police to have him arrested. Ore would come out a better man because of Tola.
Amanda's father never forgave her for letting herself be molested when she was barely 7. He lashed her repeatedly with the iron buckle of his belt. The belt cut her skin deeper than the assault she barely understood. Amanda never forgive her dad for it. She doesn't remember being molested but she remembers her father's hateful words and the belt buckle...
-Avoid bad romance.
Joseph liked Lara since first grade. He'd do the sweetest things like give her flowers and write love poems. He'd dream of her smile. After graduation, Lara began to like him back. But he was always too busy to reply her. He had moved on to his best friend Tolu, who he discovered he was in love with...
Carry no burdens. Learn to let go. Find happiness in the littlest things. Pamela let go of all her lovers. Even George who proposed the week before to dedicate herself to God and the church. She found the joy of the Lord in His temple. His temple was her body. She'd touch herself each night till she made herself cum.
Thursday, 26 December 2013
-Don't force someone else's medicine down your throat.
Sunday, 15 December 2013
A lesson I learnt; "Don't mock a pain you have not endured". Halima gave in midnight showers. Something about the way the water reassured her that she was not alone even when she still had to face her lonely cold bed. She'd curl up and cry her eyes out for the people she trusted enough to see the real her. The people she wanted to stay. The ones who didn't. She gave into songs with lyrics that cut her deeper than knives. Songs that made her remember who she was. Lonely. She belonged too deeply to herself to belong to anyone now.
Nobody could want to be with her like she did. Or understand her like she did. Yet they wondered why she didn't blossom like the other flowers, why she didn't blush foolishly like the other girls. Like Mariam who blushed and laughed in her high pitched voice to everyman's joke. Who made them feel like the men they were. They flocked around her like bees. She never knew a lonely bed. Halima believed in love enough to try to be honest. She told each man of her burden. Of how her father crept in her room every night after she turned thirteen. How her mother was to lost to want to notice. How she bore scars that wouldn't heal. No one wanted a damaged girl. Some laughed waving her tale off. All of them ran.
Tonight she's fading away to memories. She's fading away to her own darkness. Somehow she wanted the comfort her own death would give her. She slit her wrists and laughed at her own pain in the same mocking way they all did till the red filled her bath tub
Monday, 2 December 2013
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
Thelma’s whole head was sick, her whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot to the head, there was no soundness in it. It was full of bruises, sores and bleeding wounds. Most of them unseen. She had been hurt a bit too much for her health. Her emptiness was like that of a desolate land. She sings herself to sleep each night, songs of heart break, the rhythmless song of the names of her lovers. The ones she had given her heart to. The ones that had broken it. She had known strangers, maybe a little too many in the name of looking for love. The strength of the poor is in their hunger. We are known to thirst most for the things that we are deprived of. So she tried to ignore the many strange hands that knew her body. She tried to make these people stay and grow to love her. Maybe her desperation made her ugly, maybe it made them run. But at the end of it she was cold and alone. Soon she stopped believing. It all become dreams and fairy tales till she met Bola. Love is love, I’ve come to believe. Wherever you find it, as long as it is true, hold onto it and never let it go. Bola had been a lesbian since high school. On the other hand, Thelma had known only men. But when friendship blossoms in something we cannot explain, the unexpected happens. From comforting heart-to-hearts to heated make out sessions, Thelma found happiness and knew true companionship. The dark shadows that clouded her countenance have risen and she smiles these days, smiles as bright as the sun.
Ojo had been searching for a job for forever. Maybe a bit longer than that. His face had lines that told stories of his journey of hardship, of poverty, of problems. Mama Ijesha never stopped being one of his prominent problems. His landlady had extreme ways of embarrassing those who couldn’t pay rents before the set deadlines. She had called him all sorts of names, thrown him out, and more. His fellow tenants were cold to him, always looking at him with scorn like he was the cause of their poverty as well. They would murmur behind him, some of the women hissed in contempt and snapped their fingers at his back. His mother was sick in the village, nearing her death more each day as he couldn’t afford to save her. A poor man cannot find sleep in the midst of his many problems. He had gone from church to church looking for prosperity and financial healing. He only came out poorer than before. He couldn’t even afford a wife. Laide, the girl he intended to get married to, could not bear enough to wait for him. She insulted him to his face and became another man’s wife. Poverty ate deep, deep into his small sack of garri, deep into his worn out clothes, deep into the holes in his shoes. He had given up. People had to be poor for others to be called rich. He was beginning to embrace his fate. Till Mrs Anjola got interested in him and what he could offer. She paved a way out of his misery for pleasurable satisfaction. He got a job through keeping her warm on cold nights and working himself so hard inbetween her legs. He got new clothes and shoes, and an apartment spitting on Mama Ijesha in the face. He was able to pay the hospital bills for the treatment of his sick mother and live a comfortable life. Good life is showing on him, you could hardly see those hard lines on his now chubby face.
Thursday, 3 October 2013
I remember the days when Father would come home singing his depression a bit too loudly in his drunk state. He would sing his poverty and bitterness in songs only him and his beer understood. Papa’s problem was refusing to accept the truth of his poverty. His wealthy days as a trader still haunted him. He would throw parties his jobless pockets could not afford. He wore his pride like a knightly armor. An armor that couldn’t protect him from the truth that cut deeper than knives. He was his own downfall. I always pitied Mother on such nights. He made her suffer for his temporal madness. The silence of the night was naked enough for one to hear her hushed pleas to him in their bedroom. She was a strong Nigerian woman, the perfect wife, submissive and never giving her own opinion. We were silent too. We knew better than to advice father against the things he could not afford. I remember the whispers behind our backs when my sister and I went with Mother to the market. Gossips of Father’s not-so-secret lover. The world is open to all, everything has ears, and nothing can be hidden. Mother didn’t even flinch. She was devoted as a saint. I knew she had heard because I heard her prayers that night to the Virgin Mother to have her husband back from the claws of the whores that held him captive.
I remember how I grew to hate men. I bought myself a dildo and never looked back. I got obsessed with being successful and replaced a man’s love with late nights at work. I was an independent woman, strong like a brick. I worked long hours to forget my drunk father. I worked long hours to forget my abused mother. I worked long hours to forget the nights my dad’s brother crept into my room. His sweaty fat body on my fragile one, his breath reeking of kola nut and beer close to my face. I remember how I became a woman way too fast. My innocence and virtue ripped right from my tender hands. I remember crying silent prayers for him to be struck dead by lightening even as he roughly satisfied his dirty lustful desires on me. How I wondered whether his wife slept too deeply to realize her husband had left her bed. How I couldn’t tell anyhow. Fear held my mouth shut. I remembered my silent tears full of hate and spite. Somehow I was afraid of myself and what I had become. I craved to be held in the arms of a man on cold nights. I craved for love and things my heart did not believe existed. Those nights, those dreadful memories would replay and I would again bleed afresh. I knew my burden, I accepted my truth. My scars were not ones that time could heal.
Monday, 30 September 2013
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. - Jeremiah 29:11
And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them. Romans 8:28
Bimpe had been waiting for two hours now since church closed. She needed to see Pastor Matthews. With the seriousness of her situation , she was ready to do a whole lot more than wait two hours. She was tired of whatever misfortune that followed her. She needed big men that rode big cars. Her problem was that she attracted the wrong kind. She believed the solution to her problem was to go to God. She had earlier kept vigils, crying to God in the darkness of the night to bring her some happiness in form of a young man in a big car. But somehow God hadn't heard. So she came to the church. Pastor Matthews however found her problem hilarious. "Pastor, look at me", she said desperately trying to make him understand. "I deserve better than okada riders and mechanics. I need my breakthrough. This is not the plan God has for me." Pastor Matthews was at loss of what to say. He said some comforting words and prayed with her. That night she dreamt of the life she wanted. Exotic hotels, big men boyfriends who rode range rovers. However she woke up to the reality of her misery. She found Alhaji Aminu weeks later and abandoned the church for hotel bars. She has got the blessings of the Lord now, just hugging old pot bellied men in different beds. She has got two jeeps now and apartments in the best part of town. She has got everything now. Everything but what she needs to fill that hole that keeps growing within.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
I havent written because I'm too afraid to write
I'm afraid of words
I'm afraid to give them expression and meaning.
I'm afraid of the thoughts in my head.
But today I'm determined to overcome that.
Hope you enjoy today's post.
Its almost October. Simi hated the rain. She had not left the house and it was raining already. Umbrellas were useless. Frail things that couldnt even withstand the wind. It was always a tug of war to hold the umbrella right against the wind. With an umbrella, one would get wet still anyway. It rained almost everyday these days. Heavy droplets of water hitting you everywhere that hurts most. They felt like hail stones falling from the sky to her. Getting wet could be so annoying when it meant ruining your weave, getting your clothes and your shoes soaked. There were mornings when she would cry under the rain out of frustration. She screamed at the skies in her head for the fear of being considered to be mad. Not that she cared. No one cared about her to notice even if she was mad. She hated the rain the same way she hated work. Emptiness and depression made her whole. Today she's on her desk meditating over Cyril's pictures on instagram dreaming of her day of release. She was tired of crossing the road, the long walks and the bus rides. She hated the hard life. She needed her good days to come to her. Days were her fantasies would become more than what they are. She looked at Cyril's picture again. His middle fingers were thrust upwards in it. She bit her lips thinking of what those fingers could do if they were thrust up, up into her. However it was his eyes that appealed to her most. The evil glint in them like they knew she was looking. Those eyes suggested a whole lot of dirty things and she was game to each and everyone of them. She liked the way he lived. He lived in the pictures with no care for the world. She loves that. Maybe one day he would reply the Facebook message she sent a year ago, and maybe, just maybe, this fantasy would be more than what it is.
Tuesday, 17 September 2013
Monday, 16 September 2013
It's been 3 months since we wore those long, large gowns the color of carpet grass. I still dream of our graduation day, the way you were so happy to finally be moving out into "the real world". How you nudged me and wrapped me around in your hood for being too quiet. What was I to do? I knew I was going to miss you endlessly. I wanted to make you understand that graduating meant parting from you and I would rather die in the damned dystopia than crash with heartaches. That doesn't matter now, most of it anyway. I moved back to Abuja, you're somewhere in Lagos doing God knows what. It's been 3 months since I last held you. Months that seem to span into years. Months that don't even speak the truth, those whatsapp conversations where were too busy paying attention to flimsy details "I miss how you used to pull my hair to get my attention, no one does that anymore" the stupid smiley that rolls her eye is my favorite reply anytime you type "I miss you" I cant bear to be honest. Honesty would mean the whole truth, how I dream of you pulling my hair and moaning my name, How much I wish, I spent that last night before graduation on your bed. I didn't. You have a girlfriend. The old me cared, I don't now. I'm packing my bags we've got to be in school for our call up letters....
Call up letters meant seeing your face again. Seeing your face again meant emotional torture. I don't know which I dreaded most, I had put all that behind me. Being away from you or seeing you with her again, stealing kisses behind the pink hibiscus flower beds. I still detest the colour pink. I remember before you settled with her, how you didn’t want her, you even called her fat. “She isn’t my type” you said too easily, I wonder what changed your mind. How one day I mocked you with her name aand you simply smiled. No protest. No nothing. You were hers. You wore her proudly like your bvlgari perfume. I began to hate you. I detest her. I hate the way your instagram pictures now scream you belong to her. I'm sick of your lunch date pictures, oily fries and cold stone ice-cream. I don’t enjoy them anymore you would never call me fat. When I become your girl we wouldn’t need that account. We’ll have secret pictures of nudes and my less oily body in lingerie, meant for only your eyes. I’m letting my silly daydreams and endless fantasies torture me into sleepless nights. No. Now I'm packing to see you. My mind replaying videos of your lips on my neck, your fingers in my hair and your olive brown skin next to my dark one. I love the videos in my head, here you moan out my name and no one else's.....
Thursday, 12 September 2013
Bisola asked herself this this question. She never understood why Chief still visited her room every night. How much more was he willing to take from her emptiness.She remembers nothing now from her twenty two years of existence. She made herself forget the pain, and all that came with being sexually abused. She learnt to be numb and submissive just so he wont be rough with her anymore. So she lay each time beneath him almost lifeless as he pleasured his plump disgusting self on top of her.
Yetunde asked herself this after Bayo still refused to date her.She had done everything according to the books to prove she was woman enough to be wife material. She would stay over at his place, clean up his ever messed up house, cook him mouth-watering meals, look hot for him with money that came out of her own pocket and then let him fuck her every which way he wanted. He was still dissatisfied somehow as his crush on Pamela hadn't died yet. The cunt was even married to someone else but Yetunde had to endure watching Bayo act a fool for Pamela whenever she came around.
Tunde had given his parents everything. He had tried so hard to please them. A first position result all through primary and secondary school., and a first class degree after university. He had gotten various awards from the different competitions he went for. He was the kind of child parents prayed for. Excellent, brilliant, Godly and well behaved. He worked through burning night candles and sick days. His parents never noticed though. No award or degree could replace the space their late son, Tunde's baby brother left when he passed on.
Secondus had given Paula everything. Everything was everything. He sold his shop out last week to buy her a Samsung S4 phone. He needed that shop to open his trade business but Paula was more important. Her charming smiled scattered his young head. He needed a pretty wife to take back to his parents in the village. And Paula was the prettiest. He wanted her to himself. He wouldn't have her chasing rich old men for money so he tried to attend to her many expensive needs. Now he had nothing left to keep her interested. She broke up with him two days ago, spitting on his face for being too poor. Now he hears her gist. She is ever in those hotels with one rich Alhaji or another.
Friday, 6 September 2013
Or Papa Biodun, who has been jobless for three years now. Mama Bolu's work as a cook for the Jones could barely provide for their three children and now she was pregnant again for the fourth child. Another child they had brought into the world to suffer. Guilt and misery filled him up inside. Till he found his happiness in beer.At least it made him forget his problems for a while. Sometimes he would be too drunk to make it home. Mama Bolu would cry herself to sleep each night. But he was happy. He ignored the looks people gave or their loud gossip. He didn't care. He was happy.
Tunde had failed jamb three times now. Sometimes he wondered why his parents bothered paying for it. He found his happiness in cocaine. It was his escape after the horrible end to his parents marriage. His father was an unfaithful bastard. His mother was too busy with work to care about him. They were both rich. he was their only child. Till now they haven't discovered his new addiction. They are never around.
Sylvia finds happiness with men. Since she got raped at 13. She couldn't deal with the pain and the shame. She never forgot her grief. Her scars found their own way to heal. She is still healing, just in the beds of different men. Sex is her form of release. She is a big girl and lives the big life. She has got governors, ministers and oil company contractors as lovers. She wears designer clothes and drives big cars. She looks in the mirror and she is finally happy with what she sees.
Audu dropped out of school. His mother has tried on countless occassions to get him to return to school but to no avail. He finds his happiness in music. He is going to be a rapper. His happiness doesn't care if he makes money or not. His CDs never sell but his happiness is still complete everytime he goes to the studio to record.
The world is dark. But find that light. Find that happiness and let it consume you. Let it be your comfort in this dark cold world.
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
Aisha had lost both of her parents now. Her dad died a year ago. Her mom on Saturday. The girl was beyond helpless as an only child.The death of her parents unfortunately was not her only problem but the satanic greed of her relatives from the both of her parents. They had moved into the house, and got busy with squabbling and fighting for the documents to the properties of her parents. They made her a prisoner in her own house and refused to feed her. Her mother's body was still in the hospital and had not been moved to the mortuary...
The selfishness of some of us many never be understood. I couldn't bring myself to write extensively on this due to the fragility of my efforts to keep myself from breaking down emotionally. This is a true story. A girl was ripped away from all she had, all her parents left her. Maybe we should begin to value the things that seem little. Life, health, loved ones. Be grateful. We complain about the things we don't have when we've got so much. So much to be grateful to God for.
Monday, 2 September 2013
She looked at me again. "Why do you want to model then?". She ignores me and goes on pouring the concoction into the well folded moi-moi leaves. I felt my body relax relieved that she had found out nothing. This was the continuation of the argument we had last night. "Virgins would never talk about modelling." she goes on. "How many of those..those models do you see that end up having a family, a good marriage? Ehn..tell me." I didn't want to remind mama of how she had done everything right and still didn't have a good marriage. I didn't even want to begin to tell her of my plans of not getting married at all. What is marriage if not constant endurance. To some grief and pain like Mama Junior who gets blows regularly from her husband. We hear her cries for help everyday even the neighbors are tired of intervening. "That thing is of the devil. Get your mind off it." she says, finally dismissing me. I went back to my bed and silently wept all my dreams of becoming a super model into my pillow.
It seems like forever since we smiled at each other. I spend hours in my room trying to picture your smile, that smile, how i never get tired of it. You always seemed to get my spirit lifted with it, how you would always make me feel better even if I was having a bad day. The nights grow longer as I patiently wait for our reunion, now much of a mirage that seems to be. My heart stays focused as my mind tries to play tricks on it, tries to sway it away from the hope of seeing you again. Passing days start and end the same with out you in them. Regardless of the fact that we talk all the time, nothing can replace your physical presence. Nothing can replace how you make me feel, nothing can replace you.
It seems like forever since we prayed together, I remember how we use to always hold hands in agreement on a matter, how you always seemed to inspire me to pray longer, how being around you fueled me even more. The Ora around you can't be explained with words, you can't be explained with words. Some days the pain of missing you so much increases with each passing hour, I try to forge on, try to block it out with other activities, but to no avail. You've become such an integral part of me, almost like a limb, you're connected to me. Saying I miss you never truly qualifies anything, never gives true meaning to the emotion behind it, I search my vocabulary for a more suitable phrase, one that would truly justify the emotions I feel without you, none seem to fit.
Friday, 30 August 2013
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
...It is in pain that our minds release the most wonderful expressions. It is when we hurt that our heart spits out creativity in disgust. It is when we are broken that our words are most alive....
...I cannot stop thinking about last night and how beautiful your eyes were in the darkness. In them I saw a desire that reflected my own. I remember how sweet your mouth tasted. How my small palms cradled your face. How despite my helplessness, I wanted to protect you....
...I was too tired to understand why bad things happen to good people. Its been a reoccurring event. In the morning I was half mad with sleep. I am rambling because I don't want to say that I was heartbroken when I didn't see you yesterday...
...Your hands were warm as they held my cold ones. I didn't want you to leave me on my lonely bed to face the cold night alone. I thought I saw something reassuring in your eyes but the darkness made me uncertain of what I saw...
...I've realized its okay not to understand sometimes. We simply cannot have the answers to everything. Half of my emotions are strangers with no names. Tormenting me to confusion. But today, I want to smile so I'm concentrating on beautiful things like love and how its brings true happiness...
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Monday, 26 August 2013
Things became worse when I entered secondary school. When Mama noticed I had started growing breasts, she made me wear big clothes. "Your body is God's temple", she said "...respect it". When we walked to the market together. She would make disgusted noises when she saw the young ladies skimpily dressed. Her "hmm"s and "haaa"s and "Tufikwa"s would be loud enough for the person it was directed to. Some of them walked past quickly, ashamed of themselves, others would eye Mama and hiss or throw in and insult or two. During such occasions, I would be quite embarrassed and quietly pray for the ground to open up and swallow me. One night, Mama came to me while I was sleeping, feeling my legs, then my laps, her hands traveled still in between my legs. I tried hard not to cringe, and lay still. After a while, she left the room. The next morning she called me. "Adanma, you sleep like a drunk, a man can have his way with you. You must learn to sleep with one eye open always." So the next time she came to me. I held her hand to stop her and she nodded in satisfaction and kissed my forehead. "Sleep well my child" and left the room.
I began to know sadness more than before and in a new light when I entered the University. I had no friends. In fact maybe no one wanted to be my friend. I was the girl they laughed at. I was the girl who wore the worn out clothes that were several sizes bigger than her. Guys wanted nothing to do with me, girls also.I knew loneliness intimately. Mama still came around to make sure I didn't backslide from the ways of the Lord. She came to talk to anyone who would listen to her. My professors pitied me. Some advised her to let me be, that I was grown enough to make my own choices. Instead she told me to beware of those lecturers that she was sure they wanted to sleep with me. Mama would make me kneel outside when she was about to leave and she would pray for me in the open where other people on campus would see and laugh. Mama made me scream amen to the prayers. If I was not loud enough or if I did not say "Amen" when I was supposed to, Mama would knock me hard on the head for being ashamed of Jesus. "If you are ashamed of Jesus, He will be ashamed of you too". Mama scarred me in so many ways. But I feared her too much to disobey her. Sometimes I wished her dead in my mind. The only reason why I never added that in my prayers is that I feared the thought of her dying as much as I feared her....