My best Friend’s Dad: And now, Ebube (Scene 5)

EBUBE
I looked up from the fascinating tableau before me, a mixture of emotions. Fear, that my sister is not happy. Because why else would she have both a fiancé and a boyfriend? Or two fiancés now, I guess. Gratitude, because Bunmi’s first fiancé dropped me here and is surely on his way up. If he had seen this scene, I don’t know what would have happened. And impatience, because the sorting out of this drama will delay my own news.
He, the man kneeling before Bunmi, stands up now, a delightful blush on his cheeks. I feel something in me stir.  He stares at me like any second now, he’ll begin to apologize. Which is odd because, why should he apologize to me?

Meanwhile, Patrick, Bunmi’s original fiancé comes into the office. Bunmi, who has been laughing and chuckling, runs to him now, giving him a full kiss on the mouth. Her second fiancé keeps staring at me like he’s been thunderstruck. It makes me uncomfortable. “Look at her’, I want to blurt. ‘Why do you want to settle for somebody else’s woman?” Abruptly, I snap out of my trance.
Patrick is walking toward the man, Bunmi’s face pressed against his chest. “Look up,’ I want to yell at her. “See what you’ve caused”. But I don’t. Patrick is in front of the man now, they’re saying something. Why can’t I hear what they’re saying? Then I realize that my heart is pounding and blood is roaring in my ears.

Though my sister has been a coward, though she’s probably been cheating on Patrick with this guy, I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. Nor, I’m surprised to discover, to the guy.
Then I see Patrick hug the guy and laugh and an involuntary exclamation from me sends my papers floating to the floor and everyone turns to look at me oddly.

BOMA
It was like a replay of the first time I’d seen her. She kept staring at me. I kept staring at her. The only difference was that today, we had an audience. Then I noticed that she was looking furtively at the door. Then I realized that she didn’t know that I was Bunmi’s friend. To her the mock proposal was real.
Patrick burst in and distracted me from my thoughts. Bunmi ran to him and kissed him. I turned away in embarrassment. Lucky dude, he wouldn’t have to ask a girl out after (mock) proposing to another.
Speaking of which, why is Ebube here? Is she Bunmi’s friend? Her secretary? A neighbour? What is she doing here?
I contemplate that when Patrick extends his arm, teasing me to go find a girlfriend and stop disturbing his. I walk into it, laughing. Such a funny person.

We hear a strangled noise, and the sound of papers hitting the floor. Ebube immediately gets on her knees and begins to pick them up. I stoop to help her. By the time I’m done picking up the papers, I hand them over to her. Our hands touch for a brief moment before she yanks it away like I’ve administered surprise electroshock therapy. And then, before anyone of us can say a word, she runs out of the office. I find myself fighting an odd feeling of loss. I had really wanted to ask her out today.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bunmi do a face palm. And I cheer up, because at least, I’ve got a lead.

EBUBE

I run out of the building and into my car. I see Frank while I’m running but I don’t stop to talk. I’m shaken. I’m hurt and upset and my brother is coming today. I don’t want him to see me like this, a basket full of nerves and barely contained anger. I need to run.
The minute I get home, I run to my room, remove my shirt and change into my athletic tank top, kick off my strappy heeled sandals and wear my running shoes. I put on my waterproof wristwatch and set it to beep once by 4:20 so I know to head back on the course and again by 4:50 so I know to get back from my meandering early enough to meet my brother. Then I snag my water bottle, cut an orange in half and suck out the juice of one half and I’m off. I run hard and fast, my wireless headphones blocking my ears so I have a legitimate reason to ignore the catcalls and “Hey sisters” I’m sure to receive.
By the time my watch beeps the second time, I’m already on my street, walking this time, my knee torn from where I fell,  but a pleasant exhaustion working its way through my body. I get inside the house and immediately smell food. I check the time again; 4:52. I check the door; no one has broken in. I’m quite hesitant about going into the house still. Then the culprit shows up,  lips pursed, staring at me with distaste like I might want to hug her.
Not very likely.
“Hey”, she says.
“Hi”, I reply, jogging to my bathroom. After my shower, I return to my room to see her reading my research and my business plan. In a way, I feel gratified.
She’s finally looking at the file.
She looks up to watch me approach and does not appear surprised when I bypass her to start moisturizing my body.
“I’m sorry,” she begins. “We haven’t had a deep conversation in such a long time. I know you ran away from my office because you thought I’m cheating on Patrick”
“You’re not?”
She laughs. “Definitely not. Boma is one of my closest friends. In fact, I met Patrick because of him. Ask him to tell you that story later”
“Why should I ask him? Why can’t you tell me yourself?”
She laughs again.
Then she sobers up.
“The funny thing about you is how you’re always looking to see if anyone of us is unhappy. But we’re not. Of all of us, you’re the unhappiest one.”
Then she takes the papers and without another word to me, she walks out.
*

Article Recommendations
http://whatcherylsaid.wordpress.com/2016/02/21/whats-wrong-with-loving-ourselves/
http://poetrybydeborahann.wordpress.com/2016/02/26/strengthen-me-lord/

Charity Recommendation
As lifted from their website: Slum2School Africa is a volunteer driven social development organization operating in Africa whose vision is to transform the society by empowering disadvantaged children in Slums to realize their full potential through the provision of educational scholarships, health support and other psycho-social support. For more information, including how to donate, please go to their website – http://www.slum2school.org

Cheers.

Advertisements

My best Friend’s Dad – And Now, Ebube (Scene 4)

Author’s Note (I feel so important writing this): This series will end soon. I don’t know the day, I don’t know the time, but I know I’ll end it soon. Most probably, next week. More recent last words: Har-dy-flipping-har.
*
BOMA
I saw her again today. In the most unlikely place. It started with a phone call. The office was going to be fumigated tomorrow. We were given a couple of days off. For over 3 months, I had gone to the office, made friends, settled into a rhythm. I hated to admit it, but I was at loose ends without my work. I called my sister, cooked up a storm and stocked the fridge, hung out with Kelvin, cleaned the house, my car, arranged my drawers five times. I knew I was trying hard to avoid reading the remaining letters. I couldn’t read them. Not yet.
I loved reading when I was a child. I wasn’t very interested in the words, I was more interested in the portraits of people the stories painted. Then, I was bullied at school. Then my mom had to leave the house to go take care of my grandmother. Then I was kidnapped. And, although I did not say it at first, I was raped. I moved from precocious little boy to wild, unruly teenager. At a time, both my parents despaired of getting me under control before I did something stupid to hurt myself or someone else. 
When I was in my first year at the university, my sister came into my room and took my favourite music CD without my knowledge. I upended my room searching for it. When she came back to return it, I was overcome with rage and I’m ashamed to say, I beat her. By the time the haze cleared, I saw that my sister’s milky skin now had red bruises covering it. Her lip was split, she was bleeding from her nose and she had bruises on her neck from when I had begun choking her. She looked terrified of me. This was my little sister. I adored her. I changed her nappies when she was born. I used to read her to sleep. I tried to touch her, to apologize. She ran away from my room into hers. I followed her, I kept apologizing. When she spoke, I could hear the conviction in her voice, “I hate you. I never want to see you again!”
I ran away from home. I left her my CD, the one she had taken from me and a note to my parents. After my blood had cooled, I realized I had nowhere to go. If I went to a friend’s house, I’d have to leave before it got dark and if I didn’t, my parents would find me there. If I went back, my sister wouldn’t speak to me and my father would kill me once he saw her bruises. My mom would be so disappointed in me. I was such a failure. I saw a figure walking towards me when I had just about given up hope. Then I realized that I knew the person. It was an old classmate of mine. Bunmi. She was very quiet, and she usually sat at the back of the class. It had been a while since I saw her last. I remember that I had avoided her like the plague because I suspected that she had a crush on me.
But this afternoon, as she drifted by, arms folded around herself, I knew I needed her help. So I hailed her. We talked that day. I told her things I’d never told anyone before. I told her what I had done to my sister, in detail. Her face never changed. She simply placed her hand atop mine and asked, “Do you plan to do it again?”. I said no. She nodded. I begged to stay in her house. She begged in turn that I go home. But I could not.
So, she took me home, introduced me to her father and her stepmother and told them everything I had told her about the incident in my house. I was shocked, hurt, betrayed. Then she equably asked that I be given a room for the night and she’d escort me back home tomorrow.
Her father agreed. Her stepmother asked me to call my parents first. Then she left to get a room ready for me.
I picked up the phone and I pictured my house; my dad would be getting home from work now, my mom would be tending my sister’s wounds. Everyone would be angry with me. I put the phone down. That night, I ate with a family that wasn’t mine, played with a seven year old boy I wasn’t related to, and complimented cooking that wasn’t my mother’s. Life went on. And when I went to bed that night, I thought to myself; I should have spoken to Bunmi in school.
The next day, after an early breakfast, Bunmi kept her word and took me back home. When we entered the house, after my parents had fussed over me and my mom had thanked her, she left. My sister came out then, the bruises on her neck were clearer in the sunlight, silently rebuking me for my angry stupidity. I was about to apologize again, when she launched into my arms and said, “I love you. Never run away again.”
The next morning, I received the first of my mother’s letters. Addressed to: My son, who is now a man.
It was the first of many. Every week mostly but sometimes, when there was a monumental event in my life, two or three. It contained Bible passages, it contained witty sayings, it was funny and it was totally like my mom. She began sending them to my sister, to my father. We began to write letters, one to another, fairly regularly. If you were hurt or humiliated by a member of the family or you wanted to talk privately, you wrote them a letter. It was through a letter that I told my mom about the rape. It was through a letter that my mom apologized for leaving me to take care of our grandmother and for the bullying.
It didn’t solve absolutely anything but at least we were speaking. I spent a lot of time with my family after that. And with Bunmi. She even confirmed that she had had a crush on me in secondary school. And we laughed about it. Till date, she’s one of my closest friends.
The letters my mom wrote are addressed to me at specific points in my life, ranging from past ones – For when you get your first car to hopefully, future ones- for when you meet the woman you want to marry. That one was unusually bulky.
And while I might be stuck on Ebube, but I barely knew her.

I had done everything doable. The house was spic and span, the freezer was cleaned and loaded with food, my car was pristine.
I called Bunmi. She laughed when I explained the situation and asked me to come to her office with the letters.
By the time I got there, the draw to tear open the letters had subsided. We spent a pleasant hour together. We ate, we drank, we relived memories. When she told me she was planning her wedding, I fell on my knees in pretend sadness, I mock proposed to her, she mock accepted it. We were in the same position, me kneeling, her standing and laughing when we were suddenly overcome by giggles. The door suddenly opened and Ebube, holding a sheaf of papers walked in.
*
Charity Recommendation
On this episode, I wanted to highlight a simple and oft overlooked fact. Boys do get sexually assaulted and raped too.
Today’s charity is Mirabel Centre. I first heard of them about 2 years ago in a newspaper article. They’re a bit difficult to find information on but I do know that they provide legal and medical services for rape and sexual assault victims. You can read more here ->
http://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/my-nigeria/2015/09/nigeria-lagos-rape-support-centre-150906092402721.html

If you want to donate, their account information is:
Account Name: Partnership for Justice
Account Number: 0001462896
Bank: Standard Chartered Bank

*
Article recommendation:
http://yevandy.wordpress.com/2016/02/18/finance-ways-to-save-part-1/.
It’s a super helpful article. I’m waiting for Part 2.
*
In this episode, we delve more into letters a woman writes to her son, her daughter, her family. The truth is, this is an idea I’ve always planned to implement myself. I might give you a general preview. I may not. But it is something I plan to do.
*********************************
NOTICE (Notice how today’s post is chock full of notices? Notice how I just played on the word Notice? Nedoux should be proud of me, being the wordplay queen and all).
I recently got depressed. Nothing special. Just your normal, run of the mill irritation with life and circumstances. It passed quickly enough. But one of my favourite Bible verses is Romans 4:17 (As it is written, I have made you the father of many nations. [He was appointed our father] in the sight of God in Whom he believed, Who gives life to the dead and speaks of the nonexistent things that [He has foretold and promised] as if they [already] existed)

Call forth the nonexistent things as though they already exist.

I began to toy with an idea. I know I’m not the only one who has twinges of depression from time to time. And I’m definitely not the only person who gets bad news. But what if I highlighted the good news instead?
Funny stories, touching stories. Five a week, posted here every Tuesday. I can’t say I’ll be consistent in posting, I can’t say they’ll be much more than saying five times that I woke up (that’s a testimony though) but I do plan to try.

You see, there are many ways to challenge God. I choose to challenge him positively with this. Every week, with this post, I’ll be saying to him, “Daddy, your children will be reading this post. What miracle do you want me to tell them about this week?”

I’m not asking for anyone’s permission. I’m informing you. And asking; who wants to join me?

My best Friend’s Dad- And Now, Ebube (Scene 3)

EBUBE
The day I saw him was the day the idea of a new commodity I wanted to research on dropped into my head.
He was fair and he had adult acne and pothole- like scarring covering most of his face. As he approached my car, looking longingly at the clean, air conditioned interior, I contemplated and discarded the idea of giving him money. Instead, I gave him the packed, untouched lunch (oghwo soup and starch. I still hadn’t made up my mind as to whether or not I liked it) that my mother had given to me earlier that day along with enough money to buy a cold drink (I hoped he’d buy something nutritious though). He genuflected, tears in his eyes and started praying for me. The traffic light turned green and I zoomed off only to halt about a metre away. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw that he and a child, presumably his, were going to a private place to eat the food. The traffic light turned green again and this time, I zoomed off without glancing backwards.
When I got home, and put my dad’s share of the food in the fridge, I started up my laptop and while it was booting, I switched on the internet and went to make myself a couple of sandwiches with some of the coleslaw I’d made yesterday.
When I returned the laptop was already on, connected to the Wi-Fi. I opened about 6 windows, directed them all to Google and searched: places where maize/corn is being farmed in Nigeria, what can I produce out of corn etc.
The research lasted well into the night. I heard my dad come into the house, heard the generator go on, heard the microwave being switched on, but I was too fascinated to leave my position. And I was craving boiled corn.

BOMA
For 6 days after reading one of my mom’s letters, I was swamped with a longing for her. Her warm hugs, the way she smelled of cinnamon and pineapples even when she was bathing dead fishes, the way she deliberately mangled my native name in front of my dad. He’d glare at her, she’d put on an innocent face, the-transplanted-American-woman-who-is-doing-her-best-please-don’t-yell face and then the both of them would burst out laughing.
I missed her so much. My little sister had helped us cope with her death but now, she was back in the US, doing a second masters degree programme, quite unavailable to be used as an emotional crutch by two fully grown, supposedly self sufficient men. It had been over a year. Would the pain never go away?
On Friday, at work, although I still hadn’t seen Ebube, a couple of my colleagues invited me for an outing.
We went out, I met 3 of my colleagues and had instant camaraderie with one in particular, named Kelvin.
When I got home that day, tired and happy, my thoughts didn’t drift to my mom or my family situation. I was content.

Blog and Article Recommendation
http://youareneveraloneng.tumblr.com. This blog made me cry. I’m not saying you should read the stories with a view to sobbing. I want you to read the stories with a thought running through your head; what part can I play so that this NEVER happens again?

https://muomelu.wordpress.com/2016/01/29/do-you-have-a-pg-playlist/. This article is from a new blogger friend. I’ve been a bit too busy to do more than scroll down her posts but in all, she strikes me as witty, funny and very intelligent. Check her out!

Charity Recommendation

image

I had never heard of a homeless shelter in Nigeria before this year. Then I heard of Touch A Life Charity.
If you want more information about it, just head on over to http://www.touchalifecharity.com.

Cheers!

My Best Friend’s Dad- And now, Ebube (Scene 2)

Adaezenwa brought it to my attention that a lot of you might think this is a new story. It is not. I posted the first episode here and I thought I had concluded it. Obviously, I haven’t. I hope you read the beginning if you haven’t and follow the series from there! And comment.
But now….
*

BOMA
It was a heart wrenching 2 weeks. Just as I suspected, I got the first job I had interviewed for but I held off my acceptance of it until they announced who had gotten the position at the second place I interviewed. While I waited, I helped my dad pack up my mom’s belongings. When we got to my mom’s closet, he walked out. The pain was too fresh. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to pack her clothes so I picked and boxed her shoes and her hats. I saved her jewelry box for him. I wasn’t sure what he’d want to do with it. Then I continued putting her shoes in boxes. Until my hand touched something soft on the closet floor. I gently carried it out. It was my mother’s worn shawl. The first birthday present I ever gave her. I lifted it to remind myself of how she smelled and a big brown envelope fell out, landing squarely in my laps. The spooky thing was, this envelope was addressed to me. I was gently easing it open when I got the call. I had gotten the job.
I called my father joyfully, to tell him the good news and in my excitement, I dropped the envelope in my bedroom to read it later.

EBUBE
A while after I came back from my travels, I shelved my plans to psychoanalyse the world or maybe just Lagos. Instead, an idea that formed on my journeys had me venturing into the uncharted waters of entrepreneurship.
In my travels, I had taken note of the prices at which farmers sold their harvested crops to the wholesalers or drivers and the ways they were being scammed. It made my blood boil to find out that these same wholesalers would then come to Lagos to sell at about 300% profit to the retailers, most of whom would then ensure that they made 200% in profit. So for instance, by the time a 300 naira basket of tomatoes from Benue gets to Lagos, it is sold to the retailer at N1200. And the retailer would then sell it to the final consumer at N1800. What irritated me the most though was that failure to sell at such a low price would mean acres of wastage.
I was angry enough to create a business plan which ensured that the farmers would at least be able to break even. And because I personally wanted to break even, I asked Bunmi to look over my plans before I initiated them. That was a year back. Now ABIM Foods employs about 50 people, we have a factory that produces tomato paste, both in cans and sachets. We started exporting tomato paste a month back and we’re currently looking into expanding into other foodstuffs. Best yet, the farmers were able to break even and even make a profit. I’m happy with myself. I know Iris is happy with me too.

BOMA
I accepted the second job as soon as it was offered to me. But I was right. I was extremely busy. Between looking for opportunities for CSR, filing reports, market research and interviewing factory workers for another branch of the factory, I barely had time to see my current friends, talk less of making new ones. And I didn’t see Ebube again.
Then one Saturday morning, before I got up to make breakfast, my eye drifted to the envelope my mom had addressed to me. It was time I opened it.

*
Article Recommendations

Hearts may break but they also heal

http://www.punchng.com/look-around-you/

Charity Recommendation

Have you heard of Athousand1000?
It’s an initiative set up by 4 people. It has not yet been registered as an NGO though.
The objective of the initiative, is to get a thousand people to commit to donating a thousand naira every month. The collated money is then used to ease and improve the quality of life of Internally Displaced Persons in Borno and other states where Boko Haram has rampaged.
Check them out here.

My best friend’s Dad- And now, Ebube

Hi all! I’m sure this post is a surprise. I’ve been considering starting a new series but Ebube wouldn’t leave me alone. She wants her story told. And so, here she is.
*

The air in the house is scented and perfumed, the smell of vanilla and chocolate working its way up my nose. Due, of all things to scented candles. My mom hates candles! But she sits now, directly in front of one, holding hands and exchanging naughty looks with Mr. Aghoture. He told me to call him Frank but it sounds really weird to me. As does calling him Pabby. So when I refer to or talk to him, I refrain from using his name.
For some reason, I feel irrational today. I’ve chosen to blame it on the candles.
Next to my mom and her husband, sit Bunmi and Patrick. Another candle; peach- scented this time, flickers before them. They are engrossed in silent conversation. I can hear snippets of it if I concentrate and imagine.
Her: “I love your eyes in candlelight”
Him: “Your hair smells like mangoes and oranges”. I want to scream; ” it’s MY shampoo!” But I don’t scream. I roll my eyes instead.
To my left, not illuminated by any lighting at all, Amara and her husband are feverishly making out. She told me once that they don’t want to have children immediately. I once planned to stay with them for a couple of months but they would not stop with the touching. It was kissing each other like they were sucking oranges, touching each other in places it’s indecent to refer to. Every time they were together, the passion was tangible. I had to cut my visit short. I expect that any day, Amara will announce that she has gotten pregnant.
The most incongruous guest at this little get together, is my father. When my mom married Frank, she gave my father the property we used to live in. I haven’t plucked up the courage to ask her what she’s repaying him for. Her 3 daughters? Being an above average husband for 11 years?

He lives there now and I live with him. Every two weeks, his son, my half brother comes over to spend the weekend. I hadn’t been around him much but I quickly discovered that the way to his heart was his video games. So I stocked up on them and learned how to play each of them. Whenever he comes over now, he comes to my room first and we play a death round of Mortal Kombat. After the first round, which I almost inevitably win, we relax and start another round, leisurely this time and he fills me in on school and his home life. Then we go to the kitchen and I cook for him or he cooks for me or we both cook for Daddy. Bunmi lives with Amara and my mom. She has rooms in both their houses. My mom and Pabby live within a walking distance from her office but on the weekends, she likes to visit her fiancé and go for premarital counseling. Her fiancé lives next door to Amara.
However, every once in a while, she stays at my mom’s on the weekends or she comes to visit with dad. Whenever she does so, I search her face for hints of problems. She seems happy. Really, truly happy.
My dad stands up and in the dim lighting, he hits his leg on the table and lets out a loud yelp. Soon we’re all laughing at him. The overhead lighting is switched on and I breathe a sigh of relief. It does not last.
With brighter illumination, Amara who has become a serious jokester begins to tease me. Bunmi joins in and finally my mom stops them. Then she asks why I did not bring a date. I smiled and replied that I did bring a date; dad. There is utter silence for a moment. I see my mom and Pabby exchange stricken looks and I wonder what that’s all about. Soon I notice that everyone is done with their food. So I pack all the plates and go into the kitchen to do the dishes and escape from the atmosphere of romance that for some reason, saddens me and makes me long for something I cannot articulate.

*
Six Months Later

BOMA

It is November, Christmas decorations are already up. I’ve been invited for 2 job interviews and they’re both in the same area. I’m done with the first and I suspect I’ll be given the position but my stomach is roiling as I wait for the elevator that will take me to the office where the 2nd interview is supposed to take place. This is the job that interests me. The job description suggests that it would be more work for me but I’d love to be a part of it. The opportunities are extremely attractive; I’d get to create jobs for other people, head the CSR operations of the company and even more importantly, at the interview stage, I noticed six other people like myself. They were definitely in my age group and they seemed friendly. If I got the other job, I’d work with people older than my dad. If I get this one, I’d have colleagues my own age. I’d left so many friends behind and I hadn’t had many chances to reconnect with the two close friends I left here. My dad has been dropping subtle hints that I need to go out more. And I finally realize that he was right. I’d love to make new friends. So as I entered the elevator, I closed my eyes and begged God to give me this job. When I opened them, the elevator was stopping at the 2nd floor to pick up more passengers. I shut my eyes again and repeated as in a litany, “Please Lord, you know what I need. Please let me dazzle them. Let them hire me”
When I opened my eyes, there was only one passenger left. I was about to close my eyes again when she bent down to adjust her shoelaces that had come loose. For a minute, I thought she was Bunmi, then I saw her face. I’d met her before, at the reception for Bunmi’s mom. Ebube. The same powerful thud was in my heart, the same breathlessness. However, before I could approach and alert her to my presence and hopefully remember to take her number this time, the elevator opened and she stepped out. I noticed that it stopped on the 22nd floor and I noticed that she stopped at an office with Rock Pension Managers emblazoned.
I started praying again, I had another reason to want to work here now.
***************
Scene 2 will be up tomorrow.

My article recommendation for today is:
http://lifeinpagessite.wordpress.com/2016/02/16/i-didnt-mean-to-they-told-me-to-do-it/. It’s long but I like it. Hope you do too.

Until the last episode, I’ll be bringing a charity to your attention. You are not obliged to do anything, or donate anything. I’d appreciate you sharing and praying. But you’re not obliged. Today, it’s a girl (Dolapo Jasmine Igboin), a year away from becoming a medical doctor when she faced a loss of funding. The goal has been met but I guess with arrears in school fees and all it entails, there’s still a need for more donations. Just go to this link: http://www.gofundme.com/mun4wm78?utm_source=internal&utm_medium=email&utm_content=cta_button&utm_campaign=upd_n.

Cheers!
Hugs.

The February Angels and other super short stories

Sooo it’s been a while. How is everyone doing?

I recently wrote two guest posts – here and here. If you can, please check them out. The blog owners would appreciate insightful comments, as would I.

Back to the subject of the instant post- February is a special month. All the more special in my family (My mom’s birthday falls on this month – February 10th. I would really appreciate if no one asked me where the cake(s) is/are. That question is a serious pet peeve of mine). February, from record, is also the month I feel the strongest urges to cut my hair.

image
I wanted to live with it for a week before I showed y'all.

As opposed to before:

image

About 2 weeks back I was in bed, I’d just loosened and washed and moisturized the hair when a sudden longing for short hair almost doubled me over.
I’ve always had long hair. Even when I cut it in 2014, it grew back super fast. For example-
image

I know it seems strange, that any girl wants short hair but I’m not just any girl. And while other people look for hair that falls to their hips, I look for hair that can barely stand (I sounded like a bully, shebi?).

Anyway, last time I went to a salon and told the woman to snip off about 21 inches from my hair which I later took home, not because I was afraid or anything but because I wanted to touch it and realize it was my hair (I’ll explain this a lot more, a lot later).

This time, I took the family clippers, located a barber and told him to shave the hair. I didn’t bother to take it home. Yes, I completely realize that some people are terrified of their hair being used for sacrificial purposes but if I believe that there is no enchantment against Obianuju and no divination against her or her family (Numbers 23:23), would it not be a big blow to my professed faith if I indulge in that kind of silly thinking? After I got the hair shaved, I bought akara and buns from a roadside vendor and went to my house to eat it there.

I had to have a shower because there was hair all over my clothes, my neck and my face. And I washed the hair with my friend’s black soap scrub and a conditioner the next day.

If I was a different kind of woman, I would create a Mohawk using gel. But I’m not. And I’m excited to just leave the hair be for as long as possible. So far, reactions to the hair have been mixed, my mom thinks it looks great, my dad reserved comment, my colleague almost cried.

It helps that I’m madly in love with my hair as it is. What do you think?

image

MOULTING/ECDYSIS (12TH OF FEBRUARY)

The picture immediately above is from earlier today. I woke up in a foul mood. I usually talk myself out of bad mood days but I hadn’t been in a bad mood for a while and I decided to leave myself alone.
So many things went wrong and with each terrible thing I felt a little better. I know it is supposed to be the other way around, I couldn’t explain it to you if I tried.
Today, I registered my SIM again. I first registered it when it wasn’t mandatory, I think about 4 years ago. Recently, they contacted me that I needed to update my registration (register again). I went to register. The computer went off when I was through and I had to start all over again. When I was leaving, I gave the person who was registering me a huge grin.
I had to walk a long distance to get a bus. I got to the office really late, I fell victim to a pickpocket, I went to a police station and was treated in turns to rudeness, sycophancy, a request to “know me better” by an extremely disrespectful policeman and finally a request for a bribe, I went to 3 different banks, one answered me with moderate speed, the other at high speed and the last at snail pace. On my way back home, I got the coveted spot in the bus after the previous occupant left, next to the driver but with a stool separating us and a window and door on my side. The stool was empty. One person had to cross the road to enter the bus. Instead of moving to the unoccupied seat or politely asking me to, she refused to leave my seat and had the effrontery to tell me I was disturbing her. I retorted. With time though, I eventually moved to the stool (sometimes I detest my conscience). On the second leg of the journey, the scarcity of buses going in my direction caused greedy drivers and conductors to double the fare. When I found one that was normal fare, I entered only for the conductor to claim it was the doubled fare. Eventually though, it was reduced to the original.
In other words, it’s been a good day all in all.

image

This is NOT my childhood

On the post I submitted to Ada(ezenwa), after the introduction where she thoroughly dissected my matter and made me laugh seriously, after the first paragraph, she made a note that my childhood soundtrack should be Michael Jackson’s “Childhood”.
Biko, mba! (Please, no!)

You see, this is the danger of a single story, a single perspective and now, I will paint another picture for you.

My parents love me. They loved me. I’m a daddy’s girl through and through. We were, still are a very tight knit unit. Decisions affecting the whole family are taken by the whole family. We jointly took the decision to stop hiring domestic help. We jointly took the decision to fire the driver.

I remember a lot of restaurants and fast food places. I remember that although I hated and still do hate boiled eggs, I’d ask for scotch eggs so I could eat the “scotch” part of it. Someone else unfailingly ate the egg part. I remember a lot of people in our house. Quite often, they numbered more than we did. Once we had 15 people living in the house. It was beautiful chaos.

I remember never being afraid to talk. The girl I am now is the girl I remember. The February angels brought my voice back and my laughter from where it went to hide.

I remember my big sister (my cousin) and my little sister (another cousin). I remember the time my uncle gave me a huge pack of Toblerones. He gave my brother some as well but this one he gave specifically to me. I went to hide it in a place I knew no one would find it. The next day I came back from school and they had halved my stash. Halved it!

image

I remember Super story and the first time my baby brother took his first steps. I didn’t finish that episode. I remember Passions and making the decision to stop watching it. Diego and Paloma (When you were mine/ Cuando Seas Mia – very addictive something).

image

I remember wrestling matches, between me, my brothers, their friends. I remember tears, and laying on a mat looking at the sunset.

I remember love, and laughter. Family and friends.
I remember home.
I remember me.

This is my childhood. The one I accept.

Glossary
“Conductor”- a person who sorts out change for the trip, opens the door, insults people who don’t get down fast enough. Can be extremely nice. Can be extremely mean.

Article Recommendation:
http://eclectictope.com/2015/10/09/are-you-pregnant-for-your-pastor/. It’s all shades of amazing.