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.

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

As opposed to before:


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-

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?



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.


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!


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).


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.

“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: It’s all shades of amazing.