A lot can happen in a year.
A year can change you to become this totally different person that you cannot recognize
A year can carry so much burden
A year can bring a whole bunch of wrong people but one right person
A year can teach you new things
A year can bring so much hurt...
Friday, 23 December 2016
A lot can happen in a year.
Tuesday, 22 November 2016
Everything grows still and tonight I remember you by the silences, the words that didn't fall out of my mouth.
Like the times when we are together with my body leaning on yours or you're holding me or when our fingers just intertwine like they are saying the things our mouth don't say. Sometimes I love you isn't enough to explain that you're the one rooted in my heart with every vein in my body carrying a trace of my longing for you.
I miss you when we aren't together. And sometimes when I'm up at night I'd spread my dreams of us out like stars and wish there was some magic in the world so I could get an eternity with you, one where no one knew who we were, one with no past where our love would be simple and we could be extraordinary together.
Wednesday, 2 November 2016
Monday, 19 September 2016
1. Strive to become what he wants in a woman (starve yourself, do squats, learn to cook numerous delicaces). What you want in a man is not important. You should be grateful you even have a man.
2. Get used to the loneliness that comes with being in a relationship. No one likes a needy girl. Understand that your man has other important things in his life like football, drinking with his friends, work, family, etc.
3. Accept whatever you get; lies, unreturned phone calls, dates only once a week, lateness to all the dates.
4. Do not complain about anything. Its not attractive to nag. Learn to close your mouth more. Don't argue, it's not necessary. Your opinions don't matter. His beliefs should be your beliefs.
5. There will be other girls. You can't simply hold a man down. Be thankful you're the one he chose to be his girlfriend.
6. Sex is the most important factor in a relationship. So darling, don't be naive, open your tight shut legs up for your man. Show him how much of a secret pornstar you are if you want to keep that man.
7. Be a mind reader. You're supposed to know; what your man is thinking of, when he's in a mood, what he wants. Men hate talking about feelings and they get upset when you don't understand. So the gift of mind reading is important so you'll know and act in the appropriate manner.
8. Don't have high expectations. Don't have expectations at all. Don't expect romance, flowers or random gifts. They're fairytales. They happen only in movies.
9. Look pretty for your man always; draw your brows, contour your face. He needs to be proud youre his girl. It doesn't matter if he's an ugly baboon and looks as fat as five bags of rice combined. He's your baby, so beautiful on the inside.
10. Forgive yourself for settling for something less than you deserve. It makes it easier.
Monday, 12 September 2016
My voice was born from years of silence, years of being afraid, years of being ashamed, years of being in unbearable pain - the type of pain where in the deadness of the night you're curled on your bed clutching your heart, barely breathing, sobbing uncontrollably.
My voice is my mother, pouring her entire soul, blood and energy into someone - without wanting anything in return.
My voice is my father who fought wars within- the ones we never understood. All we did was hide from the stern man who always found something wrong with us.
My voice is the girl who was let to be vulnerable, the one who opened herself up like a flower to the worst kind of dog that preyed on her vulnerability and left her feeling less of a person - questioning whether she was enough.
My voice is the child who was so beautifully born, but carries the burden of his father's words - stupid, bad, worthless, lazy, dumb.
My voice is the girl who is still looking for love at 30. Having no one stepping forward to call you his own does something to you. You begin to think there is something wrong with you. You become desperate to find love in anybody - a wife beater, a drunk, a womaniser.
My voice is the boy who was raped at 5 for the first time by his uncle who was giving him a bath. He slapped you and told you you're not man enough to bear a little pain. You grew up shrinking inside, dreading going into the men's washroom anywhere for fear of being abused.
My voice are the helpless people on the streets of lagos, the ones who sleep by the road side, the ones who do not know where the next meal will come from, the ones with throats so dry they could barely beg.
Thursday, 19 May 2016
How do you pick what to wear the next day?
Do you pick an outfit that shows your lonely. The sadness you attempt to carefully tuck away in the morning, the sadness you cover with the concealer, trace with your eyeliner, you’ve tried to hide it, haven’t you? It still escapes, pouring through your forced smile and awkward conversations with strange men that will never call you home. They listen well enough to know when you’re horny, they call you beautiful. If they stay silent, if they listen long enough they will hear your desperation, smell it off you, strong as shisha from a magic hookah. It’s a good thing they don’t.
Do you pick an outfit that is a shameless plea for attention, because this is what you’ve been your whole life. You can’t remember a day you got up for you, it’s for these strange men, the rows of skirts small enough to show off your tight ass. The lip lick from the man in accounting, Dare from TI would linger when he passes you by the dispenser. This is all you, the desperate plea in a tight dress.
Do you pick the opposite, an outfit that hides all your woman. That hides the curves, covers up the contours, tells the truth, that you can’t ever remember being kissed like you mattered. That you’ve gone 25 years without this elusive thing called love. That you’ve been searching your whole life for a place you can be vulnerable.
Do you pick an outfit that shows how haggard and unkempt you are. That you are a place of ruin and everything you touch decays? That this isn’t just metaphors. Its Midas touch but the opposite, that you haven’t been alone from lack of trying. That men have walked in and found your insides an abandoned house, just too much effort is required and not worth the investment. That you will always be alone.
Saturday, 9 April 2016
You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one where you feel like the other woman after 23 years of marriage, his ring on your finger and the 5 children you gave him. The other 5 children he had before you, the ones who never forget to make you feel like filth, like a home breaker, that make you live in fear. Because somehow they are always coming for you, the one that broke their home. Somehow their mother didn't tell them how she was long gone before you came. And now? After 23 years he still doesn't feel like yours and home doesn't feel like home, it becomes just a place you go to sleep. You need assurance, the house in your name, your signature as the other signatory to his accounts, your children in his will.
You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one where you are someone's secret. Something to be hidden; in his car, bent to him as if in worship, gagging yourself with his penis trying not to vomit your feelings and your shame or walking into a hotel separately to the same room. There is no conversation; you don't talk about his exotic girlfriend with skin like milk, you don't ask him why she is not enough, you don't ask him what he is doing with you, you don't talk about his likes or dislikes, you don't ask him how his day was, you don't tell him how you feel a little less woman and more like a call girl when you get his texts, "Where are you?", "Send me a video", "I want to see what panties you have on". You don't tell him how spend a little too long trying to get the best angle of your body, to look anything close to his girlfriend. And all he says after is "Nice"."Damn"."More".
You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one where you hide your scars with clothes, makeup and lies. You stopped exposing your arms with the dark red marks all around them from the cuts and bruises he inflicted. You started using concealer and foundation to hide the black eye and the map of his fingers when they slapped your face. You told stories about how you fell on the stairs, slipped in the bathroom and ran into the cupboard when your lights went off. You listen to him tell you over and over again that he will get help. You look at his desperate eyes and your legs become paralysed so you cannot leave. You love him instead because it is all you know.
You like the type of love that is not easy.
The one that leaves sawdust in your mouth when your husband introduces you to the 21 year old girl with fake lashes and red claws he is in love with and is going to marry. After you quit your job because he thinks you are ridiculous for wanting to work. After having two of his kids who always cried like bleating goats in the dead of the night robbing you of sleep. After becoming this fat unattractive thing because all you did was stay home to cook food you ended up eating alone. The love that destroys you from your soul, the one that reminds you of your wretchedness, the one you warn your daughter of; that sometimes the worst things come in the name of love.
Monday, 4 April 2016
The past is always heavy with us, could have beens, had beens, sometimes just memory with the bias of remembrance. Memories casted in a different light, given deeper implications. Remembering the past like an ecstatic director bringing his favourite monochromatic piece to colour. Everything is brighter, louder, attractive. There are reminders everywhere, following you, haunting you.
You now listen to Cold play's Magic and you think about him, the weather that night, how his eyes lingered, his musky breath. You remember feeling liquid from his touch, legs turned to water when his lips met yours. The lyrics and the electrifying voice of Chris Martin the only battle to the silence, how you felt transported, unable to think. How you gave yourself to someone for the first time. Now you listen to Magic and remember the blinding pain when he left some months after for a lightskinned girl with a squeaky voice and the most annoying laughter.
For some it's a movie. "Mr. Bones". You remember how you and your three siblings sat on the floor too close to the television screen, laughing at the almost naked man with no idea of how things will be so different later that night. The youngest cried against your dress and you hid his face so he did not see the strangers hit your mom, again and again in the stomach. Your dad was tied up to the chair with a swollen mouth helpless. Your other two siblings were hiding in an unknown location in the house, praying not to be discovered.
Sometimes its a date. 2nd of April 2013 in the hospital that smelt of death. He had been in a coma for 2 months. Unresponsive. You had been by his bedside all that while, talking to him about everything and nothing. Sometimes just pleading with him to wake up. Telling him you forgive him, begging him to forgive you for being unreasonable, for not listening to his pleas. 2nd of April 2013 was the day his parents gave up and signed to take him off life support. You had been brave, fighting the doctors and nurses anyone who tried to come close to him to take the tube away. It's 2nd April 2018 and you're in your bed crying yourself away like you just lost him.
Sometimes it's a place that becomes a bag full of memories. The university, it had been six years since you left but you remember everything, even now, driving through the school to pick up your younger brother for the holidays. You remember the hard days, the less difficult ones, the archaic set of rules, the secrets, the insecurities, friends that were not really friends, the many empty relationships, and her. Her laughter that was everything, holding hands to sleep, staring a little too long without caring how awkward it would be if someone noticed the way you looked at her longingly. It wasn't just a friendship, it was more.
Monday, 21 March 2016
This was so impromptu and I'm glad myself and Obute had fun writing this together (check her blog here: https://amnotablogger.wordpress.com/)
I will be looking forward to your comments on what makes you happy and update the post with your contributions! Happy International Happiness Day or whatever the fuck that really means lol.
1. Happiness is blissful sleep. Waking up lazily at 10am because it's a holiday/weekend. Not at 5am, 5:10 or 5:15am by the consecutive alarms you set because you know one alarm isn't enough to get you out of bed and ready for work on time.
2. Happiness is food, not the fat or the calories, or table manners you have to be conscious of. It is purely from the joy of eating.
3. Happiness is you! Making me feel like a kid again. It is my heart before and during you, and not after.
4. Happiness is found sometimes at the bottom of your 4th glass of long island. It is when you become relaxed enough to twerk for the stranger watching you from the other corner of the bar.
5. Happiness starts on friday evening and ends with the massive hangover called monday.
6. Happiness is FREE INTERNET, CONSTANT ELECTRICITY, FREE ROADS and FUEL.
7. Happiness is the confidence of repeatedly swiping your card to get yourself new clothes without worrying about account balance.
8. Happiness is the smell of burnt toasts in the morning. Knowing he wasn't another one night stand.
9. Happiness are old rainy nights that have you cuddled up in your blanket .
10. Happiness is not going to bed alone. It is his scent reminding you that he hasn't left. Having his body envelop you with warmth and love.
11. Happiness is an unexpected credit alert.
12. Happiness are gifts, flowers, anonymous love notes that make us melt a little bit inside and feel appreciated.
13. Happiness are your little cute kisses all over my face as you hold my head still with your hands.
14. Happiness is when the light comes on at 2am and you know you're not going to die in the heat that already got your night shirt soaked.
15. Happiness is the laughter of my one year old baby, the excitement in his eyes, his cute cheeks, his front two teeth and little pink gums.
Monday, 29 February 2016
This is really personal for me and I am glad to be sharing. I and my friend Damola collaborated to bring this to you. I love how she brings out light and emotions in her words and I was so syched to be doing this with her. We hope this empowers those it's meant for. Check out her blog also (https://thenigerianstoryteller.wordpress.com/) & thank me later!
1. Remember the time your father called you his little banker. The time your mother said you held the key to happiness when you prepared vegetable soup to the perfect shade of green. Forget you're having trouble meeting up with both obligations at the same time. Swallow these expectations. Don't burst.
2. Be strong enough to dream, your dream is in a faraway location, modelling, writing, creating something, this is not compatible with the Nigerian dream of hammering. Do not forget to dream but more importantly remember to leave it at your bed when you wake.
3. Do not end up being a stifled voice with unfulfilled dreams. Listen to everyone around you filled to the brim with "could have beens." You don't have the guts to become who you want. Practice along with the crowd, name your dreams. Picture yourself at 30, 40. Weigh the consequences, choose wisely.
4. Think of your friend Chioma who is now 3 times her size, but lives with her husband, she says it is better than being alone. She says it's not just the food, there are lots of things you swallow as a woman, things you see and cannot repeat; husband's text messages, in-laws requests. The food is just something that takes you away for a moment and fills you up with something other than tears.
5. See yourself being a house wife one day too. Start practicing, do everything to keep him before he thinks of leaving. Wake up to make his meals, wash his underwear, wait up for him when he doesn't come home, talk to yourself alone in your room. "Do you like how it tastes"
6. I hope your goal in life isn't just bearing another man's name. no actually, you have bigger goals, you intend to bear six sons, all of who will also take his name.
7. I hope your mother's unhappy eyes haunt you, every second she spent trying to make it work. Every time she changed reasons. "I'm not doing this for him anymore, I'm doing it for my children". I love him but he's hurt me a lot. I hope you don't make the same mistakes.
8. Ignore how many times you've been called a slut. Don't explain anything to them, or how lightly you gave yourself away. How many men you let in between you because you liked the taste of their lips or how they pronounced your name. Or the times you just wanted some fucking attention because you're human.
9. It doesn't matter how they can't see you or what you're capable of becoming. How much you love the camera and how you can take everything off before it. You are a goddess, you are unafraid of worship. You are a goddess and even all his unbelief will not conquer you.
10. He talks to you about how you are older than this, now 23, an age where men need to find you respectable, to consider you. Fuck him, tell him you're not a candidate, you're the damn examiner. That you cannot be stripped down into a word, a definition. When you're done cursing, ask him if he considers himself worthy enough.
11. Baby girl I hope you always remember this last point. You are too awesome, too wild and beautiful to be defined, to be stripped down to wife material, or to just one thing. You are this person made of carbon, hydrogen and calcium and capable of incredible things. Baby girl you are a miracle.
Sunday, 31 January 2016
CHEERS TO OUR IGBO PALM WINE. Sourced from the tree of her ancestors.
From deep within the forests of Anambra and beyond.
From the ages.
They worked for millenniums until they had made her.
After aeons of refining.
They had finally produced their best drink yet.
Always fresh. Yet aging like the fine wine that she is.
Fluid. And graceful in fluidity.
Those she passed by caught a whiff of her and yearned to taste.
Lusting for the intoxication that came with a drink of her.
But only few had tasted.
Only few had experienced the intoxication of her presence.
Of her kindness. Her intellect. Her laughter. Of her love.
We rise, we fortunate few, on the day she was born to say cheers to our Igbo Palm Wine.
She will live forever in our hearts. Even when she ages no more.
Happy Birthday Okwukwe. Our Igbo Palm wine.
Monday, 25 January 2016
Stare into nothing. You are deep in thought. Pretending to try to remember what you never really forgot.
"Did you forget how to feel?"
"Feelings are visitors, let them come and let them go"
Have teary eyes now. It is important you look like someone capable of exhibiting emotions.
"You used to be vulnerable and fearless"
"We all have paranoia inside us"
This wasn't a lie.
"I meant you were an optimist. What changed?"
This wasn't a lie either.
"Did someone hurt you? Is that what changed you?"
"I still carry memories of how each one of them left"
You were too intense. Most of them had said this.
You don't talk about the details.
That it is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything, so very deeply.
To feel real love and true happiness with someone in a way that made you complete
And then have it all taken away
leaving you the worst kind of hurt.
You don't talk of the huge man and his huge self inside you.
He was going to help you get a job so you agreed to visit his hotel room even though you were aware he had always looked at you with hungry eyes. Despite your tears and pleas, he pins you down and pushes himself forcefully into your tight space. His hand is over your mouth and no one hears your muffled screams. He rolls away from you, speaking as though to himself how disappointing you turned out to be. You are in so much pain for the next few days.
You don't say who you are. A drunk
You don't say you got it from your father.
Who after working 12 joyless hours with the other laborers at the site and answering "yes sir" to a boy half his age, could only find his testicles was in the big Ragolis bottles filled with vile tasting white water he bought mostly on credit from his palmwine tapper friend. Your mom had scars almost every time this happened, other scars cut deeper than the dark pink colored bruises on her skin.
You don't talk about the looks and whispers that came with being unmarried at 40.
For people to see you as undesirable. The looks of scorn, the unbearable ones of pity. Your younger sister had been married off while you were the stock fish drying up in your father's compound. Your mom would kneel and pray at night, binding the witches that were chasing men away from you.
You don't talk about the accident at your sister's house.
How you carried your married sister's baby in your hand and a cup of American honey in the other.
You slipped, missed a step and let the baby go. Her head met the edge of the step. There was so much blood. You didn't drop your drink however, It didn't even spill, not one drop. Your sister doesn't know the truth, but she doesn't forgive you either.
You don't say anything. You just stare into nothing.