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A LETTER TO MY SISTERS: DEAR YOUNG GIRL

Life Poetry or Something Like That Uncategorized November 24, 2022 2 Comments

Part One: Dear Young Girl

I see it. I feel it. The pressure to be like certain people you think are the standard.

**Hairstyle was inspired by your mother, my dear friend, Dr. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.**

You want to think and act like them in certain situations. You want to emulate their style and even their personality. You forget they were once youths. You forget they were once foolish and probably wild.

You forget you’re in your 20s. You forget you’ll never be twenty again. You don’t want to look back and wish you had done things differently, right?

You are just eighteen or maybe a teen, but you want to be Chimamanda so bad because you admire her poise and eloquence. Don’t you think she was once a teen and eighteen too? Don’t you think she’d advise you to live in the moment? I don’t know, but I think she would.

You want to be ‘decent’ like Madam Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala and cover up in the queen’s suits and hats. You want to be swallowed up in a skirt and blouse big enough to accommodate three and start tying the signature scarf, too, just because you think that’s the only way to greatness.

May I ask what decency is to you?

Do you realise Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala was a teen and eighteen like you? She once wore skimpies, and she let the wind raise her dress a little higher, too, don’t you think?

Anyway, I do not know about these women enough to speak for them. They haven’t bared their soul to me like mama Maya did. You know Maya Angelou, right?

Here’s what she’d say to you: “Darling, you are eighteen and young. You are twenty and wild. Go get life. Make those mistakes. Be foolish now that you can afford to. Cos foolishness in your teens and twenties is easily pardonable. Live your truth.” How do I know this? I am her daughter, and she wrote me a letter just as I’m writing you this.

**A letter from my mother, Maya Angelou.**

Wear that dress. Be impulsive if you want. You might decide to take it a notch higher and get a child out of wedlock (just kidding. We do not recommend).

You will never be her. So just stick to you. You know how to do “you” best. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t be hard on yourself. Your role models have walked this same path. They’ve made unwise decisions. They’ve also had things slow at some point in their lives. They didn’t always win in life. So enjoy the moment, darling. Enjoy your youth. Trust God. Trust the process.

Part Two: Let’s Call This an Epilogue

I felt the strong urge to write this when I was browsing the internet and realised a lot of young girls are trying so hard to be their role models that they forget to be young and be themselves.

They want to emulate established public figures in entertainment and their lifestyle. They forget that these people started with okrika and mismatched fashion before they could afford the luxury they own now. They forget that these people have had moments of wanting to figure out who they really were and what they wanted.

This is not to mislead people to be ‘immoral,’ constantly make bad decisions, or anything like that. This is me saying, ask yourself, “Do I want this?” This is me saying, It’s okay to make a few bad or unsure decisions.

Bimpe, are you really against ashewo dresses because it’s not your thing? Or is it because you do not have the courage to deal with the judging eyes of your neighbours whose morally-upright daughter does things even darkness cannot speak of? Let me guess; it is because your 73-year-old idol doesn’t wear them.

Role models are good, but in the process of imbibing some traits you consider positive or attractive, do not lose yourself.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to wear a robe permanently. With not attending parties or reading books. No, there’s nothing wrong with not doing what people think is popular. I’m just checking with you to see if it’s what you really want and you not doing it out of fear of X.

Keep a bare face if you wish. Oh, you prefer to always wear make-up? Then what’s stopping you? Tight and short clothes make you uncomfortable? Then why do you wear them, Bimpe? Is it the pressure that is getting wersser?

Dear young girl, do things at your pace. If you dislike drinking or wearing accessories, stand your ground. Don’t let anyone make you feel like an outcast. Whatever you do, do it because it is what you want. Do it with your full chest, it doesn’t matter if it is big or small.

Dear Bimpe, live! The world will definitely adjust; so far, your actions do not endanger your life and that of others. And if the world refuses to adjust, I hope they have enough needles and thread to keep mending their clothes to fit due to undesired weight loss.

I bet by now you know how obsessed I am with this woman… Lol. No, I’m not going to lose myself, and I’m not trying to be like her. If anything, she’s taught me to be unapologetic for being my authentic self.

Where Did Our Soulmates Go?

Life Uncategorized October 21, 2022 10 Comments

Do you ever wonder about your soulmate? I do, occasionally. I wonder if he died already. What if he never made it to adulthood? What if he’s already found someone else and has made a family with them? So many what-ifs. And what if a soulmate isn’t what most of us think it to be? Could your soulmate be a parent, a sibling, or a friend? When I was much younger, I was convinced that a soulmate is one that you connect with on every level (emphasis on every). I was sure a soulmate was the one that would give you many butterflies and cause a spark in your soul and tingles in your erogenous zones.

But now, I’m beginning to think I was wrong. In fact, I think I was wrong. I’m now more open to finding my soulmate in any gender without romance. I sometimes wonder if my mother is my soulmate. With the way I’ve been love-proof, I suspect I’ll find my soulmate in a friend without romance. At this point, if I have a soulmate I’m supposed to meet and spend the rest of my life with, I should have met him by now; fifty may be too late.

Whenever I think about soulmates, I always think about God’s plan. I think about people in terrible marriages. I think about people who died before getting a chance to settle with a ‘life partner.’ If God has our lives mapped out, and if everyone really has a soulmate, why then do people end up with incompatible partners? Why do people die young? Could it be that those that die early were not people’s assigned soulmates? Or do their soulmates die too? Wild thoughts, I know. But I just can’t help but wonder about these things sometimes.

This maze of thoughts brought me to think that the general belief that God has our lives mapped out may be true. And just like a map, there are different routes to get to a destination. God leaves us with the choice to take whichever route we like to get to the destination he has assigned us.

For illustration, let’s say your core purpose on earth is to nurture children, not necessarily yours. Maybe start a foundation to support unprivileged children, and perhaps become a minister of children’s affairs. I believe on the map, you have several routes (A, B, C, D,…). God places different people, situations, challenges, and temptations on every route. On each route are also planted good fortunes. And as a child, the choices your guardians/custodians on earth take influence the path you find yourself on.

This includes the friends you’ll have, the school you’ll attend, your religion, and so on. Then you become a young adult, and a large part of your fate is now in your hands. The choices and decisions you make influence the following path you take.

On each path are people that will make and mar you. You either meet people that will act as catalysts to your journey or people that will be obstacles, depending on the path you choose. Let’s assume you decide to take route A. You might meet great people. People and circumstances that will teach you life lessons the hard way, a reasonably good career, and a partner you can manage like that. You’re satisfied.

But would it ever occur to you that you could have met your soulmate (romantic) had you made a specific decision that would have taken you through route C? That you could have had an even better career? Or that you could have had a worse life or even died sooner if you had taken route B? We’ll never really know these things. This is where I think prayer comes in. Not prayers against principalities and power or for Otedola’s kind of wealth. But prayers for discernment, alignment with your purpose, and the ability to make the best long-term decisions.

Doesn’t this make you wonder why God would take his time to create us only to have us see shege and even die young? Do you also wonder if those who die early have already fulfilled their life purpose? But even though! Even though! Is it really necessary? Anyway, God is a mystery, and so is life. The mystery that makes God who he is will be lost if we get answers. So we wonder till it’s our turn to receive death’s cold kiss.

And as for soulmates, I may have found one. I’ve found myself a soul sister, and I must say we have a weird relationship. We’re both discreet. I think she’s even worse. At least I tell you stories about myself and what goes on in my head, but that one? I don’t have her time yet. But I love what we have; there’s no rush. It’s beautiful how we don’t have to say anything to understand each other. And it’s even more beautiful how we’re both in awe of our personalities and pulchritude.

I don’t know if someone has married my romantic soulmate. I have a feeling someone has because the one person I felt was my soulmate has been stolen. After him, no one comes close. He’s the closest I’ve been to being in love. If not for the circumstances of the time I met him, this love-resistant heart would have fallen yakata. He had me wrapped around his fingers sha.

To be honest, maybe the bleakness of the situation made me ‘love’ him. If the situation were normal, I most likely would have put on my defense and resisted. But for the sake of tales to tell when other people are talking about love and related matters, I’m sticking to “he’s the first and only person I’ve fallen in love with.” Because if I face my truth, my life will be a sad and boring one.

Anyhoo, this is a story I’d like to tell someday. It’s pathetic and maybe tragic. I realized it was tragic when the only man who knew how to turn my stone-cold heart to Stone Cold ice cream got himself a wife and a child, and I didn’t react the way I should have. It was a moment of truth; I had been lying to myself about being in love. Anyway, I’m still in partial denial. But I really want to be loved and to love without restraint.

At this point, it is a must. My life cannot end on a sad note. God forbid! Not on my heavenly father’s watch! Cupid’s arrow will not chook my heart ke! No, no, no! God forbid. I really want to do mumu things for love and have it reciprocated. I don’t want to be hardhearted again.

I want to stop making funny faces and laughing out loud when I come across a non-fictional couple’s post or see people actually doing this love thing. But for real, I’m too much of a romantic not to be able to have my own story. Anyway sha, I’m not desperate, and I’m not settling. A lirru relationship experiment with people that don’t mind ‘being used’ isn’t bad (God bless your kind souls) so that when we finally jam soulmate, we won’t be naive or totally clueless.

And I really hope this write-up doesn’t make me a crazy woman. Do your thoughts take you on wild trips like this?

A black woman staring at iconic pictures on the wall.

Finally, I’d love to know your thoughts on soulmates. Have you found yours, or do you think they died or have fallen for another?

Hello, Obinna. How Are You Today?

Uncategorized September 12, 2022 13 Comments

A note to an old friend, Obinna — Hello, Obinna!

Hello, Obinna. How are you today? Hope you’re flourishing and shining like the star I knew you to be. If so, doxology (I’ve always wanted to use this). I don’t know if you remember me, Sonia. The cute cheek-full girl that joined you in primary two at Oakland Kiddies School. The Lagos socialite, Mrs Owonifari was our proprietress, Mr Abatan was our headmaster, and Miss Tosin was our class teacher. Remember?

I hope you do because I never forgot about you. Not once. How can one forget their nightmare so easily? You were my nightmare. What I felt for you was love-hate. I mean, I admired your excellence and brilliance. I bragged a lot about this exceptionally brilliant boy in my class to everyone who cared to listen; that boy was you. How could I have hated you then? I’ll tell you. You probably already know. As much as I think I liked you more than I hated you, I expressed my dislike for you more.

I joined you at the end of the term, just before exams, and took the third position, despite not taking several classes with you. And I thought to myself, getting the first position should be easy after getting accolades from Mr Abatan and some staff members. I knew you came first, I don’t remember who came second, but I knew Bolu and I shared the third position. The plan was to beat you the following term and get the crown; little did I know that you were a beast.

You reduced me to second-position material, and I didn’t like that. I later discovered you were a star boy and never took any position below first. Annoying boy! A fine one at that, with an annoyingly beautiful smile and hearty laughter. You were a daredevil like me too. You were artistically inclined, and your appearance was always immaculate. We competed in everything but handwriting. Mine was not anywhere close to yours. Your writing was too good to be a child’s. It was perfect. You were perfect.

I think I hated you more for being a daredevil and constantly doing things to annoy me. I thought I was the most daring child till I met you. You did the most stupid things just because “I dare you to.” The one that made me lose it was when I or some boy in our class dared you to lick the sole of your shoe, and you did. My God! I almost died. Your immaculate appearance didn’t save you from the new identity I gave you; I started to see you as a pig. I took a lot of dares, but I would never have done that. I was too much of a cleanliness freak.

Do you remember how you, Uzondu, Shannon (the artist in our class), and I used to draw superheroes in notebooks during breaks and after school while waiting for our parents? I remember those Ribena drawing and colouring contests to feature on the KKB show. You were my only concern; not even Shannon got me worried. You were my only competition; what couldn’t you do? Of course, your lines were always slightly straighter than mine, and your curves more perfect. Again, annoying boy!

Obinna, you were my nightmare. And God knows every session, I prayed not to be in the same arm as you, cos that was the only way I could come first in class. I wasn’t willing to be studious just to beat you. Who studies in primary school? Obinna!

But I honestly thought studying was silly every time my mother preached it because what’s wrong with your head? How can you not understand and remember the little things discussed in class? I thought studying was for adults and complex things that requires studying. I was a reader but never studied. I’m paying for that as an adult. By the way, I’m still not a studious person, and people think I’m just being modest when I say that.

Not like I have facts that you studied at home, but rumours had it that your dad only let you and your siblings watch the news, especially CNN, on TV. It was very believable. It explained why you were our “current affairs teacher,” supplying our actual teacher with a fool’s scalp full of the latest news and the best student in the class when all you did in school was play.

You were the most playful in class. In fact, you were a clown. You were the gang leader of jumping desks and chairs, playing super heroes (particularly spider man) and police and thief. I was the only girl in the gang, remember? (I thought girls’ play was dumb). I wonder how we remained the neatest in our class with all that rough play. So the rumour was very believable; I didn’t doubt it a bit. I still don’t.

Do you know you influenced my decision to become Catholic? I’m not saying I became a Catholic cos of you. I always wanted to be Catholic, but seeing you and your brother gave me an extra reason to want to be Catholic. The way you two carried yourselves, with your scapulars adorning your necks, was admirable.

Anyway, I converted at ten, and it’s one of the best decisions I made with my mother’s complete support. So, I write as a baptized and confirmed Catholic now. It’s silly how I used to take sides with you as a Pentecostal child in those silly arguments about Catholics being idolators, with my full chest and sharp mouth, even when I knew nothing about being Catholic. I had only attended a few times.

You were the standard then, a trophy child. A whiz kid. Obinna this, Obinna that. Everyone thought you’d get some crazy scholarship to study abroad, like at the Ivy League schools. I was one of them. You were the overall best student in that school, both primary and secondary. Your brother followed in your footsteps, but you did raise the bar really high.

So as I write to you, like every other time I think of you, I wonder where you are and how you are doing. Did you remain the exceptional child you were known as? Did you get that scholarship? Or did life happen to you too? Did you even live to see adulthood? I really hope you did.

If given another chance to meet you again, I’ll sing your praises and tell you how much I’ve grown to like and appreciate you. And yes, I’ll like to be your best friend, if you’re still interested. I know I was mad, even disgusted, the first time you publicly declared me as your best friend (this was after that stupid dare, hence, the disgust). I remember begging someone to replace me as your seatmate after that, and if I’m correct, I think it was cute, calm Jennifer.

I really was just a bad belle sha. I’m still very competitive in things that matter to me. Thank you for giving me a good run, and maybe because of you, I hate to be the best or brightest in a room. If I must, I love a good challenge.

Are you wondering why I’m suddenly writing to you? Well, it’s not sudden because I never stopped talking about or looking for you on social platforms. I don’t know why I can’t find you, and it scares me. Anyway, I recently witnessed a live interview of a brilliant young man; an acquaintance. During the interview, I couldn’t help but remember you, Obinna Uchenna, and wonder where and how you are, with a wide smile on my face.

Most times when I struggle with studying, I remember my mother’s words, “If only you read like your mates, there is no way you will not get at least one scholarship.” And then I remember you. Now, I really want to know. Were you really studious, or just thrived on talent, and everyone else assumed you were studious? Please, let your answer be yes. It would be good for my bruised ego, and I’ll continue to lie to myself that I can be exceptionally brilliant, too, if I put in the work. Would you believe if I told you my retentive ability gets worse with age? It’s a miracle that I remember my name, everyday.

Honestly, I don’t think I can ever be the studious type at this age. I just care to not be foolish enough to be a pandemic and to be smart enough to hold conversations. Hahaha, you could tell I just lied, right? I do care; maybe not enough to be an Einstein or an Obinna.

It feels so good to write to you, Obinna, though I fear this “letter” might never get to you. I ended it with a big smile. BTW, I hope you are still as handsome as ever. Have you grown muscles like The Rock, or are you built like a sugar daddy? I’m really curious. You know, I tend to like people named Obinna or Uche just because of you!

Anyway, send my love to my baby boy, your brother. Sad that I don’t remember his name, to think I claimed to like him more. I was just a fecking hater! Sadly, it took some growing up to realize that your little crush on me may not have been one-sided. I was just too blinded by the “hate” of your audacity to see it.

Somehow, I hope the universe brings you here and we reconnect. It’s okay if we’re now worlds apart in beliefs and character and can’t stay connected. If the universe doesn’t agree to you ever seeing this, I’ll hold on to beautiful memories of you. Again, thank you for a beautiful childhood memory and the challenge. Would it be weird to say I love you? Yes. ‘Cause, really, I don’t know you. So correctly put, I love the memory of you.

We’ll talk more if and when we meet again, Obinna. Until then…

Sincerely,
Sonia/Ekata

PS: I still move with the boys; I just don’t take stupid risks anymore. Can you believe I can’t ride a bike? A shame, I know. I don’t even follow superhero movies. Double shame. I failed the geng. Forgive me.

Ogadinma— Everything Will Be Fine

Uncategorized August 16, 2022 12 Comments

A year ago, I was highly downcast but wasn’t depressed. I hated the month of July, and I hated August even more. There was nothing to be excited about. God had forsaken his favourite child after big bros J.

A smiling african girl with a big afro — Smiling because I know everything will be fine

The 15th Day of August, 2021— My Birthday Eve

Apparently, God wasn’t going to answer my silly prayer—to make time still. I was to face my worst fear of the year, hitting that milestone age. “Hei God! This wasn’t the plan o!” I lamented. I cried my eyes out under my duvet. I dedicated one hour to crying (from my eyes and nose). I cried. I crode. I crude.

It was a terrible time for me. No money. No savings. No love. No life. No industrial training placement (I was a beggar with a choice. It was either a leading food company or nothing). The only good thing about the month was the huge box of clothing my big sister sent me. The joy sustained me till the eve of my birthday when it hit me that my mother was still giving me daily allowance and money for data and transport. Ah! At a quarter of a century?! When I should be doing big auntie and having my little relatives come to spend their holidays with me?

Are you wondering why that was such a problem for me? Let’s take a walk down memory lane.

The evening before my birthday, right after I had cried my eyes out. Hanging out with two of my favourite people made me forget my sadness for a minute

A Little Walk Down Memory Lane

I was an independent child growing up. An empathetic and thoughtful one. I am still very sensitive about people’s feelings. I’m also good at reading a room and acting accordingly. I was raised by a widowed single mom. I was aware of how hard she worked to give me a comfortable life. She could eat once daily to ensure I had at least four meals daily. There was not a day when I missed a cup of milk. I was always one of the best-dressed children in a room. I went to the best schools, I used the latest stationaries in school, changed my shoes and school bag regularly, and was well-fed.

Some people thought she was my nanny because of the contrast; others thought she was my aunt because of the resemblance and difference in appearance. I was a typical ajebo. Others called me agric. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t shabby; people just thought I was too ajeboish to be hers. Funny, ehn?

I saw the sacrifices she made, so I never made demands. I think this is how I started the “don’t worry habit.” I remember convincing my mother I preferred egg to chicken or beef just so she wouldn’t feel bad when those things weren’t available. I will tell her I didn’t care for this and that because I knew she’d go out of her way to make them available and beat herself up when she couldn’t.

Good thing is that I’ve always been a garri lover, but I did the garri-lover thing a little too much for my mom. It was so bad that my mom started to hide garri from me. Every time I saw my mom worrying about the meal to prepare for dinner, I’d be quick to suggest garri and milk with groundnut (using milk was a must). And she’d only give in because she thought I really wanted it. I didn’t mind; I really liked garri.

I started a saving habit at a very young age. At seven, I wasn’t saving for toys or junk. I had a long-term goal of saving enough to buy land and build a house for my mom. I was lovable as a child and had lots of gifts, mostly monetary. I got money from strangers almost daily just for being cute, respectful, well-mannered, or a “sharp girl.” On days when we went out to visit family or friends, I got even more money. My mom also gave me money for snacks every day during the holidays. So I had plenty to save. I saved in kolos, bags, books…I saved money in every place savable.

My savings always came in handy, and I was always happy to offer financial help to my mom. I was concerned that touching my savings meant more time to complete my savings for the land I planned to buy. I wasn’t even ten yet (my ten-year-old self will be shocked to know I don’t own a block to my name yet). Sometimes, I loaned my mother money, but I never collected it back because that was my way of appreciating her love.

There was this incident that made her sad. In fact, it made her cry, and nothing breaks my heart more than seeing that beautiful woman cry (BTW, she’s the cutest when she’s mad or cries). It was a holiday. She left for work early and left some instructions for me before leaving. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t let me process and retain anything she said. I didn’t know where my breakfast and snacks were and decided to starve myself, despite receiving a gift of N50 from my adopted mother.

My adopted mom was a neighbour who lived opposite us and was obsessed with me; she declared me to be her adopted child. BTW, I didn’t use to eat from people without my mom’s approval. Cooked food from other people was a NO for me. So I didn’t eat in this my adopted mother’s house when I had options.

Anyway, my mother returned home in the evening and found out that her beloved daughter had almost starved herself to death because she thought there was no food in the house. “Why didn’t you go to XYZ to get a bottle of Mirinda and buns or doughnut and tell me when I return?” My mother queried. “I didn’t want to buy something on credit,” I replied.

“What of the money in your kolo? Why didn’t you take out of it? Did you not say Auntie Maureen (now I don’t know if it’s Monique) gave you N50? Why didn’t you use it?” She queried further. “I wanted to save it. I didn’t want to spend my money.” My mother was so upset with my obsession with saving. She gave me a long talk, and the summary was that saving is good, but na who dey alive dey enjoy savings.

Well, all that talk fell on deaf ears. Saving became an addiction. I got into secondary school and hardly ever spent my snack money; my lunch was sufficient for me. There were times I’d walk back home with some of my classmates with the excuse of listening to premium gist when in fact, I was saving. My mother wasn’t aware until one period when the federal government workers were on an indefinite unpaid strike. She needed quite a large sum, and I offered to borrow her; that was when she knew how much I was into saving. She knew I saved but just didn’t know the extent.

The End of the Lane

Anyway, that’s enough walking. The whole point of this story is that, at a very young age, I took it upon myself to buy things for myself. I bought my first phone with my own money at twelve. I paid small fees in school without my mother’s knowledge. I bought myself school sandals and wristwatches (I was obsessed with wristwatches, thanks to my mom). I wore a different watch every week. As a teenager, wristwatches were the only things I ‘spent money on.’

So you can imagine how difficult it must be for me as an adult to still be financially dependent. It is hell. It is why I can never be dependent on a man. Not in this lifetime. I love me some baby girl treatment, but I must have my own source of income. Depending on a man would be slavery and not a luxury for me.

It is the same not wanting to ask for money that made me have zero savings as a young adult in university. It is only when I’m left with nothing that I remember I have people who will take care of me with pleasure. I try to make my asking periods as infrequent as possible. And when I’m asked if I need anything, my response is always no, even when I know my last 2K is waiting to be snatched by responsibilities that come with adulting.

The 16th Day of August 2021 — My Birthday

Finally, the highly dreaded day came, and I didn’t want to wake up to it. I had severe anxiety; I almost purged out my intestines, couldn’t eat, and couldn’t sit still. In short, I was restless. I cried again.

Guess what happened when I received something hooge from my sugar daddy in my account! My body became whole again; anxiety flew out of my body, and my appetite miraculously returned. As if that was not enough, his wife now sent her own. What was supposed to be my worst birthday turned around to be my best. Turned out that lack of money was my real problem.

The turnaround didn’t stop there; my second sugar daddy got me a cake with candles, a sash, and a tiara (it was so girly, it felt like my sweet 16 birthday).

Oh. I also started saving again with the mindset of “if I perish, I perish.” But my good God refused to watch me perish. He provided abundantly, using numerous people. I think I owe Cowrywise a shout-out. Thank you for helping Ekata get her groove back.

My 25th birthday cake from Nuts About Cakes

The End of Chapter 25

I now have a bias towards the number 25. Looking back, 25 was a beautiful chapter. It is special. I was really excited for my friends that flipped to that chapter in their own lives this year because I feel good things will come for them, too, just as they did for me.

To say I didn’t experience the pre-birthday sadness this year would be a lie. I did, but I refused to let it overwhelm me this time. Though I’m still not where I dream of being, I have faith that everything will be fine, and I shall live my dreams.

I can’t wait to see what this new chapter has for me. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be getting a cake this year; everyone thinks I now have money. It looks like they’ve suddenly stopped seeing me as a baby girl (God abeg). I don’t blame them, na me dey live fake life.

No, no, no. I’m not spending any money on something that might cause me diabetes. All the money I have right now is for a new phone (this is one of those terrible adult decisions one is forced to make. What is life without mistakes? Just make sure you open your door to me when I come knocking for bread and fish).

A picture of a page from Poet Tolu's Funny Men Cannot Be Trusted — Poetry by Poet Tolu (Akinyemi)

The Beginning of Chapter 26: Everything Good Shall Come

In this new year, I pray for discernment and clarity of purpose. I pray for the ability to love back when I find a genuine one. I pray to find my purpose and find peace in it. I pray for more spiritual, mental, and financial growth and stability.

May this new year bring more beautiful people into my life. May my butt continue to have the power to change destinies. May my skin always be like milk and honey. May my hair continue to grow wild (the one on my head, dear God. The ones on my legs can take a bow and rest).

Happy birthday to me. Special shout-out to my sisturh and birthday mate, Jadesola, the queen of design and branding (check out her work on IG @exquisitedesigns_by_jade) I love you! Happy post-humous birthday to my late best friend and first birthday mate, Ojorane. I love you forever!

A black and white picture of an African girl in the dark — Everything good shall come

My Songs of Thanksgiving/Celebration

-Oni lojo pe, edumare. Olupilese, oba mimo; o seun. Olugbala, ope ye o; o seun. Mo wa dupe, mo yin oluwa. Mo de o baba, mo wa juba re, Iwo lo je koni soju mi o; mo wa dupe…

-The Lord bless me and keep me. The Lord make his face to shine upon me, and give me peace…

-Iwo ni mo wa fiyin fun o baba loke, ose o baba. Gbope mi, dakun. Gbogbo oun to wa lara mi o, Jesu, ni ma fi yin o o baba lorun…

-Eka me a ta, whese nosa whu ni me? Eka me a ta? Eka me a ta o?…

-Champion by Fireboy DML (Apollo)

-Remember Me by Fireboy DML (Apollo)

Ogadinma book cover — My title inspiration

Here’s to a new chapter and unapologetically living life on my terms. And to attracting good things and people. 🥂

Just Like Oliver Twist

Uncategorized July 1, 2022 12 Comments

About a year ago, I was in a not-so-good place because I was a month and a few days away from hitting a milestone age. You’d think that would be something to be thankful for, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t where I wanted to be. I wasn’t doing the things I wanted to do. Time was flying, but my life was dragging.

“This was not part of the plan, Lord. I know there’s a high table you’ve prepared for me, but when shall I get there? When the party’s over?”

That summarizes the kind of thoughts I had. I was scared. I panicked. I wanted time to wait for me to do the things I wanted and find a balance before the clock continued to tick. Well, God disappointed me; he didn’t listen to my unrealistic wish. But did he fail? NO!

Why am I spilling this tea? Like I’ve done several times this year, I looked back again today, and oh boy! I have come a long way. I’m living my prayers. I have grown tremendously. I have lived way more than I have in the previous years. The last six months have been one of constantly being overwhelmed. If it isn’t work, it would be love. God’s overflowing love.

On most days, I go about feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. I could be showering, and my eyes will suddenly be filled with tears. I could be in the kitchen organizing breakfast for myself, and my eyes will be attacked by tears. Other times, I’ll be on a job, and my eyes will be clouded with tears.

As I write, I have tears in my eyes, and I’m laughing at myself. All those tears weren’t a result of onion-cutting or pain. The tears came as a result of an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Gratitude for how far God has brought me and the people he has brought into my life. “He has done so much for me, I cannot tell it all,” is the song in my head right now, and this stupid tear won’t stop sliding down my right cheek.

I’ve still not answered the question of why I’m telling you this. It is because today I feel overwhelmed, and this time it isn’t work or gratitude overwhelming me. I think I’m mentally exhausted, and the Oliver Twist in me is no longer impressed by what she’s getting. She wants more. She believes she deserves more, and she’s working on getting more.

I don’t think it was a coincidence that I kept stumbling on posts asking me to take it easy and be kind to myself last week. I work hard. I know most people do. But my brother-man, I really do work hard. I stretch myself, and I fear that I’m a little burnt out.

The last few months have been filled with sleepless nights and days because I work at least three times more than I should. But then, I haven’t had to ask anyone for money, and it is one of the best feelings in the world. Lord knows how much I hate being dependent on people. It sucks the life out of me. I’ve also been able to do things for the people I care about because I can now afford to. And because I never want to go back to where I was last year, I triple my hustle. Now, look who’s tired.

To be honest, the tripled hustle is only a contributing factor to my tiredness. The sole reason is that I want more than I’m getting now, so I’ve sort of logged out. I think I’m capable of doing bigger things and deserve to get bigger things. At the same time, the thought of getting something better scares me because what if I’m not as good as I think? What if I get it and it becomes too much to handle.

Impostor syndrome? Yes, that’s it. But I’m always quick to call myself to order. I’m the girl who puts in her best whenever she’s assigned a task. I’m the girl who beats herself up when it takes her more than 24 hours to know everything about a new job. I’m the girl who puts passion and dedication into her work. So I tell myself, “you can do anything. You can always learn on a job. You learn fast. You’ll be fine; just go for it.”

A screenshot from The Happy Writer’s blog post

Anyway, today hasn’t exactly been a great day. It wasn’t bad; It was just lined with grey clouds. I know tomorrow will be better; it is always better. I’m even more confident about tomorrow being better with the words my father planted in my heart this morning. He said, “when the time is right, I, the Lord, will make it right.” I muttered this to myself throughout the day. More than ever, I’m convinced that my sweet pops is intentional about me.

So for July and whenever I’m not getting what I want, my pops’ words to me shall be my mantra. I trust his timing, and it is always perfect.

But isn’t it funny how you want something, you pray for it, and start to act like an ‘ungrateful’ hippopotamus when you get it? Because now, your answered prayers are no longer sufficient. Like Oliver, you want more. That is life. This is life. We are insatiable. As we grow, our needs and desires change to match our growth.

It’s okay to be uncomfortable with your situation and dare to dream for more, even if your current place is what you once climbed mountains for and burnt calories for. It’s like sitting on the floor watching people eat bread on the table and thinking, “it must be nice to have bread to eat; if only I can taste the crumbs, I’ll be the happiest person on earth.” God hears your plea and grants you crumbs. He goes further to elevate you to the table.

It is only normal that you will want to have bread too at some point. Because of the newness of the whole experience, for some time, you might remain excited and content with bread crumbs while every other person at the table eats bread loaves. So no, you eventually wanting bread isn’t ungratefulness. I mean, you only asked for crumbs because you were on the floor, and at that level, that was the most you thought you’d ever get.

It is also okay if you decide crumbs are all you will have for the rest of your life. It’s perfectly fine. I’ve come to the realization that not everyone is ambitious. Not everyone wants the glamorous things of life. Not everyone wants to change the world. Some people just want the basics and are happy having them, table or floor.

If you’re a crumb lover, don’t let anyone make you feel small for wanting just crumbs. If it makes you happy and peaceful, stick to eating crumbs. And if you’re like me with big eyes, always wanting more, don’t let anyone make you feel ‘your own is too much.’ Why settle for less when you have access to more? If you can have it, go for it!

Stolen from Amaraa’s WhatsApp status. Keep swimming!

I promise, I didn’t start out to write some maguire to perspire speech. I just wanted to talk about my feelings. Hopefully, someone finds my speech meaningful and timely.

Anyway, people, do have a beautiful July. Remember, your God will make that thing work when the time is right. But before you get to the point where it works, keep swimming!

Love,

Olivia Twist.

The Girl in the Mirror

Beauty Uncategorized June 15, 2022 41 Comments

Mirror, mirror on the building! Who is the fairest of them all?

If you ask me what I’d like to change about my physical features and I say some BS about loving myself the way I am and all that nonsense talk, just know I’ve successfully served you a cold sobo (zobo), a very cold one with more ice than liquid.

Of course, I’m a fine girl. Skin on fleek. Hair on fleek. Soft bum-bum wey dey change destiny. A handful of succulent East-West breasts. I mean, I’m a spec. But do I have insecurities? Hell to the YEAH! I hate my teeth! I’m not even going to try to sugarcoat it. I know hate is a strong word, but I really do hate my dentition. I wonder maybe it’s because I was in such a hurry to leave the warehouse for babies in wherever-humans-are-made, and the artists hurriedly threw teeth in my gum as Nigerians throw spices in food. For context, I was a tenant in my mama’s belly for only 7 months.

I hate that I can’t smile with every cell in my face like Mmesoma, Nkechinyere, or Daniel ( my baby daddy no 2). I love people who can smile and laugh without holding back for the camera. If you know me in person, you’d know I laugh a lot with my whole body and mouth. I don’t have good laughing manners… but. Yes, there’s a but. I reflexly cover my mouth when I laugh because I hate my teeth. Have you seen the several plots of land I have in my teeth? Not only does it make me feel ‘unbeautiful,’ but it also causes me physical pain.

Guess what I was doing here… Right! Hiding my teeth from the camera.

I love pictures where unplanned moments are captured. Like a moment of genuine laughter or smile, the kind that reaches the eyes. Of a thoughtful expression. Of the love in someone’s eyes when looking at the one they love. Of the different kinds of emotions. But I hate it when I’m caught with my 34 out in the open because I don’t think I look good with my teeth all out (I was blessed with the wisdom tooth twice, so 34 isn’t a blunder). In all honesty, I think I look like a grinning donkey when I smile with my teeth out.

I’ve been considering getting braces to fix them when I can afford it myself. At the same time, I don’t want to lose my diastema. It has become a part of my identity. Unfortunately, most people in my life don’t even know I have one. I’m always either pouting, serving a straight face or my “cheekful” smile in my pictures, so I can’t really blame them. “But don’t you talk? They should be able to notice it when you talk,” you may ask. Let’s just say my beauty makes them lose focus. Or my wisdom. Has to be one of the two, or both.

I hate how aggressive the veins on the back of my hands are. I don’t like my slender fingers when my nails are really short. I also don’t like how my arms look out of proportion with my body. They’re unusually long for a shortie like me. As for my long flat feet, I’ve made peace with them. They’re actually not bad until I wear sneakers, and you’ll start to wonder, “whose shoes did this one borrow?”

Of all the things I’d like to change about my features, my teeth take the lead by a wide margin. As for the others, they don’t bother me, but if I get a pain-free and money-free chance to change them, I wouldn’t need to sleep on them.

Maybe like my wide lips and stretch marks on my butt cheeks, which I’ve genuinely grown to love, I’ll love my jaga-jaga teeth someday. Not like I see that ever happening, but a girl can hope, right?

Again, I know I am beautiful. But I have my days too. Days when I feel my “beautiful” is overhyped by my lovers and cheerleaders. Days when my confidence is ‘shook.’ On days like that, I don’t even attempt to look beautiful. I could plaster all the makeup on my face, wear the best outfit, and still won’t feel beautiful. And I think it’s okay to feel that way sometimes. I don’t think we were made to feel and experience only positive things. Cos how else would we value the positive feelings and experiences when they come?

So I don’t bother anymore. Days when I don’t feel beautiful, I just tell myself, “they’ve seen your beautiful moments several times. That you’re beautiful is no longer news. They’ll survive this one time. I can’t always be fine, abeg.”

And there are days when my beauty overwhelms me. I’m not exaggerating; I wake up from sleep looking and feeling way more beautiful than before I slept. By the way, I get overwhelmed when I see beautiful people. I literally lose my breath, and my heart starts to race. For real, for real. I love beautiful people, but I hate how they make me feel. So on some days, I am “beautiful people,” and I legit say the things I say to other beautiful people to myself.

On days like that, every time I walk past the mirror, I wonder how God did it and think, “dayum, girl! Aren’t you God’s favourite, cos all this beauty for one person?” My skin, eyes, and hair glow differently. I wonder if it’s only me who sees it or if an obvious change really takes place. It’s usually a crazy feeling when it happens. Like what happened in the place where people go when they sleep? What changed between the previous night and this morning?

Anyway, I think everyone has something that makes them feel insecure. Huh-hun! Including your perfect confidence-oozing role model and celebrity crush. Today, I talk about physical attributes that shake my confidence. Maybe tomorrow, I will talk about confidence itself and what makes me confident.

On a final note, I don’t think it is necessarily a bad thing to occasionally feel insecure. Be aware of your insecurities, feel them, and own them. Key word is “own them.” Never let them own you. My jaga-jaga teeth haven’t stopped me from laughing or taking pictures. I’m only conscious of them when I’m being filmed or photographed by others and can’t see what they see ( I mean! I don’t want them to remember me the next time they see a grinning donkey). But when I’m in control, I feel more confident taking pictures and making videos with my teeth all over my face and sharing them. Lol. Silly, right?

Also, making fun of what I consider my flaws never gets to me. You know why? Cos I’m aware, and I own them. I make jokes about them, so trying to shame me will be futile. I’ll most likely be laughing with you. But the few times a negative comment about my looks got to me, I didn’t waste time calling the offender to order. I don’t joke with my confidence or peace of mind. I don’t let myself share a space with people that will make me shrink or question my worth. I’m never giving anyone that power. I call the shots.

So tell me, what makes you or once made you feel insecure? How do you/did you handle it? This is home, remember? Let’s talk.

The Popular Loner

Life Uncategorized May 31, 2022 18 Comments

It’s 1:10 am, and I’m busy resenting humans and craving some sweetened warm milk when I should be sleeping or working. I usually don’t take my milk with sugar, but I feel the need to consume some sugar and my go-to guy, Pepsi, isn’t available.

As I write, my head pounds, not because it is being used as a mortar, but because Rema chose my head as his studio to record “another banger!” I’m trying to sleep, but for some reason, sleep doesn’t think I’m a hot chick like some of you humans. I have seduced it, but it has vehemently refused to be seduced. Have I given up? Yes! Cos, I have some pride, and I’m going to walk away with the little that is left. So I’m writing instead, cos I don’t want to rant on my Whatsapp status.

I was talking about not liking you people, right? Just in case ghosts and animals read my blog posts, “you people” is synonymous with humans here. Yes, I’m in one of those moments when I think I can do without you, but who am I kidding? We all need people.

Even a loner like me needs people. And, really, no one does life alone. No one is totally self-made if we’re being honest with ourselves. But I get it when people say that. I really do, but after a deep reflection while having a bath ( by now, you should know I do this a lot), I don’t think I can ever use that phrase again. I may have done the bulk of the work or put in the most effort, still, without the input of others, no matter how insignificant they might seem, my efforts would be futile.

I think like this, and I still don’t like humans? Well, this is not always the case. Was it not just some hours ago I was feeling so overwhelmed with love and gratitude for my sugar boy’s contribution to my future? Was it not the same me that was thinking of several ways to show him appreciation? Like buying him all the onion and sour cream flavoured pringles in Ebeano or C-mart before I blow and buy him more luxurious gifts? Was it not the same me that couldn’t stop talking about one of the best forehead kisses and warm hugs I received some days ago? And I suddenly don’t like humans and want to be alone?

Funny, ehn? But it is what it is. I am a loner. Call me a popular one. A lone ranger. I do get tired of people; I honestly do. These days, I try to not live life alone. I let people love me. I let them get me gifts and do nice things for me. I burden them with some of my burdens without overthinking it to the point of not asking them for help. It hasn’t been easy, but I think I’m enjoying it, and I have “Mr Young Man” to thank.

Being able to run to your friends when you need help, as you should. Saying yes to dates and letting people appreciate you in their way. It is beautiful, and I hope I never return fully to the “don’t worry lifestyle.”

You know, to be totally honest with you (no offence to those I call friends), I often think I don’t have a single friend because on many occasions when I need help, nobody comes to mind. When something good or bad happens to me, nobody immediately comes to mind to share with, and I think, “shit! You’ll die a ‘lonely’ woman.”

Fortunately, dying alone doesn’t bother me. I care more about being remembered for the change I brought. For the impact I made. For being authentic. I could be in a room filled with amazing people and still feel lonely and alone. But I never feel that way with books, writing, observing God’s artistry, and photography. You get the point I’m driving at, right?

Now that I think of it, it is not your fault that I sometimes don’t consider you ‘friend.’ This is a case of “It’s not you. It’s me”, and I promise I’m not trying to break up with you. It is really me. I never really give my friends a chance to be my friend. I do have beautiful people as friends who have been nothing short of amazing and would cross oceans to make me happy. I just hardly give them a chance cos “don’t worry,” “It’s fine, I don’t want to bother you,” and I have few expectations from humans.

As much as I love fairy tales, I’m very aware that my life isn’t one, and I am not in one. So! I leave a lot of room for disappointment, betrayal, and deceit so that when people mess up, it has little to no impact on me. It is my ‘odeshi’ mechanism. It’s how I’ve lived over twenty years on planet Earth without a scratch on my heart. It is why I may never get used to people being all kind and going out of their way to make me happy.

Friends doing nice things for you may seem normal because “what are friends for?” Well, relationships aren’t that way to me, which is why when I like people, and I am not liked back with the same intensity or at all, it doesn’t bother me.

If I choose to like you, how you feel about me won’t change anything, you could detest me or be unaware of my being, and I won’t stop liking you. The only thing that may change how I feel about you is you wishing me evil, mudding my name, or disrespecting me ( let it be known that I do not condone any form of disrespect).

I like without the entitlement or expectation to be liked back. So long it isn’t a romantic relationship, we’re good. You can keep your “liking” to yourself if you want; I’ll like you still and shamelessly so.

If we’re talking relationship, you have to worship me, treat me like the air you breathe, and value me like your pulse. No, I won’t settle, and I expect a lot from you. The moment we are in something, you aren’t just other humans to me. And trust me, I am no jailer. If you want out, I’ll help you with the door. Just know that I’m not settling.

The same thing goes for giving (time, money, resources, etc.). I give without expectations. I give only when I want or feel the need to, to avoid entitlement and resentment. Don’t bother guilt-tripping or shaming me into giving; save the energy for another person.

As much as I go about carrying distrust in my heart, I still give people a chance to prove themselves worthy of earning my trust. I’ve met some people who seemed genuine at the start, but trust me to always smell foul play ( if only my senses would be this sharp to know what the future holds). I might just give up on intelligent people not trying to play mind games.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I currently do not like humans; someone is trying to be slick with me and play on my intelligence. And as usual, I’m acting all ignorant cos it takes two to Tango. Right? I really thought this one would be different. For one who sucks at Math, I am really good at finding X and solving puzzles in mind games. Anyway, I’ll be back to liking you when tomorrow comes.

To the one who would finally penetrate this heart, bring down my defences, and earn my complete trust, I apologise for the stress I’ll cause you. You will have to work at least two times harder than the Devil, cos for here? Indabooski bahose!

On Death: Tomorrow Is Not Promised

Life April 25, 2022 10 Comments

Finger pointing at the expiry date on canned food

Today marks the start of my favourite season in the church. I was in church, seated on the first pew, absorbing the beautiful melody coming from the amazing church choir while the rest of the church went forward to receive the holy communion. We were all gathered to celebrate and observe the Ash Wednesday ritual, and it was already past 7 pm.

person in green long sleeve shirt holding clear drinking glass

I was concerned about the time because I needed to be home before it got really dark— I stay far away from the church and don’t own a car. So I picked up my phone to check the time while still enjoying the beautiful melody from the choir stand. I had missed a call from my friend who expected to hear from me. So I opened my green app to send a quick message. I honestly wish I hadn’t.

I saw a message from another friend. Earlier in the day, I had gotten a message and a call which I had missed from her. The message said, “Sonia, I’m sad”, with a lot of crying emojis (for those who know me as Ekata, Sonia is my first name). I got scared, more because she called after the message. That was unusual, she’s my oldest and closest friend, but we seldom call each other. Something terrible must have happened, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I called back and left a message when she didn’t pick up. So it was natural for me to immediately open her message when I got a response from her. It wasn’t good. My eyes saw something terrible, and I wish I could press control z.

The fact that the Lenten hymns had already softened my insides and gotten me emotional did not make it easy to suppress my tears. Luckily for me, I had my scarf wrapped around my neck like a hijab, so I could cover my face a bit. I wiped the tears as soon as they fell. I didn’t want to deal with unnecessary attention.

“From dust, we came, to dust we shall return.” But dayum! This news hurts; news of our secondary school classmate’s death. I’m again reminded that I could have been her. The next second is not ever assured, but sometimes, we’re just hopeful that death doesn’t pick us. And other times, we’re just arrogant and cocksure we can’t be picked by death because we’re too important to earth.

“We have a father who never fails us.” What about those that die? Do they not share that same heavenly father with you? Does he love you more? You say it is grace, but do these people lack grace? I’m not mad at you or anyone. I am you too. These are the kind of thoughts I can’t help having.

Just like everyone, I’ve lost people— family, friends, classmates, and acquaintances. Of all these losses, two touched my core and shook all of me. One of them was my best friend, the other was an acquaintance. I’ve spoken about losing my best friend in this space before, so I’ll just talk about this acquaintance.

Wendy. Wendy was a beautiful bright girl with a good dress sense. Tall with beautiful long legs, slim and curvy, beautiful face with a beautiful dimpled smile ( I can picture it right now), beautiful brown skin. She looked like she belonged on a magazine cover. She had star qualities I couldn’t quite put my fingers on. She was popular too, and she seemed to be loved and admired by many. I was a fan.

I saw her first on the stage acting. I couldn’t help seeing the popular Ghanaian actress, Yvonne Nelson, on stage because I saw many similarities. After her performance, I had to find her to compliment her. Those who know me know that I can’t keep compliments to myself; I don’t have to know or like you. Having to hold compliments to myself feels like a death sentence. So, I ensured I looked for her after the show like a fangirl just to inform her that I appreciated her talent. I told her how much I enjoyed her acting and how good she was.

Wendy had a bright future, we were in the same age range, and we attended the same school and church. We had mutual friends, and we were all planning toward our Weekend with the Lord at Ede— a program targeted at improving our spirituality while having fun at it. We weren’t planning to lose anyone, but then it happened; we lost Wendy. It was a rude shock. No one saw it coming, especially as we hadn’t lost anyone recently in our fellowship; not alumni, not current members. We were humbled. I was humbled.

Her death shook me so much that one would think we were best friends, even when we weren’t friends. The only ties we had was our fellowship. I remember not being able to spend the night in my room; I needed to be with one who knew her and could share my grief with me. I couldn’t cross the road for months without my heart racing and thinking of her and death. Cos if death could choose gorgeous Wendy on the road, then who was I?

You know what comforted me after her death? It was the fact that I gave her that compliment before her death despite not having a personal relationship with her. I don’t think I would have ever forgiven myself if I hadn’t done that.

Though I do not have a memory of it, I’m certain I complimented her beautiful dimpled smile after my first encounter with her. I’m more certain of it than I am of my Nationality. Whenever I think of her, I’m grateful I gave her her flowers before she left this world.

PINK ROSE ON THE GRAVE AND LIGHTED CANDLES UNFOCUSED IN THE BACKGROUND

Wendy was a good one, and I thought she was special. A person as good and special as her wasn’t supposed to leave earth as early as she did. But then she did. Good people die. People with potential die; death doesn’t give two fucks about that. But what is it that keeps us longer than those who left before us? Don’t tell me “grace.” I’m sure you too do not know the answer. The only one who knows is the one who brought us into existence and controls the universe.

I have just displayed arrogance by drafting my thoughts to edit and publish later. If it isn’t arrogance, why else would I act with such confidence when I could easily do all the job now?

Of course, I am God’s favourite in a world containing approximately 7.9 billion people. But what if I’m not as special or “covered” as I think. My late “husband” was special; Wendy was special. Like me, and most people, they probably thought they were God’s favourite too ( this won’t stop me from considering myself as God’s favourite, by the way. It is what makes me stay hopeful on dreary days).

What if this doesn’t see the light of day? What if? I can only hope for my Chi to continue to wrestle against death and keep me from its claws. I can only hope that the universe will object to my elimination because I’m still very much needed. I can only hope that I live to the age where my hairs are grey, and my “skin like meek” become naturally blessed with beautiful wrinkles. May we not be chosen by death. And May the supreme one spare our lives.

Update

I woke up to another day, and guess what! Today is Wendy’s birthday, and I had no idea when I decided to share this today. This can’t be a mere coincidence. Happy posthumous birthday, beautiful soul. We still love you here.

I Am Judging You: Leg Shaving

Beauty Random March 14, 2022 24 Comments

Until recently, I used to judge people who shave their legs. I didn’t know leg shaving was a thing until 2015 when an aunt of mine said she needed to wash her hair and shave her legs that day. It took longer than usual to process the information.

You mean people actually sit and dedicate time and energy to shave off innocent and harmless hairs from their legs? For the longest time, I thought her legs were naturally smooth like that of the one who bore me. Wow! Talk about strange things. I hate to pick beans cos somehow, it triggers migraine and the more beans to pick, the worse the migraine. At that point, I’d have chosen beans picking over leg shaving if asked to shave.

How do y’all even keep up? Ah mean! Shaving the two essential places ( you know where and where) takes a lot of mental preparation. If not for the sake of hygiene, I’d let those things flourish like a wild bush. But then, hygiene! So we have to keep them immaculate for the second coming of our lord. I wouldn’t want to be caught unfresh when the lord comes, yunno. Thank God for the invention of shaving creams because I think shaving sticks were invented to give us an insight into hell and put us in check.

I still don’t think I’d ever subscribe to leg shaving cos I don’t think I possess the level of commitment it takes. And I suspect shaving them off makes them grow with a vengeance. This would mean having to shave at the sight of new growths. Wahala!

The absence of hair on legs makes a lot of difference and is more aesthetically appealing, I must admit. In my opinion, the presence of hair (coily ones, particularly) dulls one’s skin glow. I came to this conclusion from my recent observation. And maybe I don’t really see the need to shave the hairs on my legs off cos they aren’t wild. Even with leg hairs long enough to create the shortest kinds of false eyelashes, I’m still maintaining beauty with my glow intact. So I’d instead let sleeping hairs lie.

It would take an observant person to notice how hairy I am because the hairs don’t like stress and are always asleep. Very lazy things. Due to friction with surfaces like the bed, I noticed that some parts (the side that rubs the bed when you lie on your side) aren’t so hairy.

However, if I would have someone in charge of the scheduling and shaving of the hairs, with sitting pretty as my only responsibility, maybe I’d give in. I shouldn’t have much to worry about if it’s permanent hair removal. It should be easy to give in.

Suppose you’re one of those who shave your legs; I’m no longer judging you. I now see what you see. The judgment has been transferred to people who make being hairy—in the places that aren’t the ‘two essential places’—look like a sacrilege.

I am judging you; leg shaving — I am judging you! Yes, you!

Having hairy legs isn’t dirty or unhygienic. Possessing hairy legs is not a disease. Having hairy legs is as normal as having a head on your neck. Possessing hairy legs doesn’t translate to having testes. You need to stop shaming women with hairy legs. Though I’ve never been shamed for being hairy, I’ve witnessed beautiful women being shamed for something so natural. You all can do better. Dear hairy queens, be yourself and say no to “gender norms.”

Meanwhile, I’m going to schedule an appointment with my hairstylist. Locs on my legs should look good, right? While I do that, don’t forget to tell me what you think about leg shaving.

Update:

This is me, eight months later. The hairs on my legs are beginning to annoy me. Those things now look thicker and are more conspicuous. I honestly don’t know what changed, but I’m suspicious of the coconut oil I use on my skin. These days, I harbour the fear that I’ll one day wake up to a face with a full moustache and beards; the signs are there.

I used to have 99 problems, but now I have a 100 because having to trim my nasal hairs has been added. Those things are wild! Seeing someone’s nasal hairs while speaking to them is a turnoff, so I try not to be that person. I’m still very suspicious of the coconut oil. Don’t ask me why; I just need something to blame for the wildness my body hairs have been exhibiting lately. And I really can’t bring myself to stop using it. If only the hairs on my head and eyes would be that wild.

Can’t wait to become rich. The first thing I’d probably do is book a waxing appointment and be consistent with it. Until then, I’ll just enjoy my hair. My beautiful, dark solid hairs God intentionally put on me.

How Much Can I Say? How Much?

Life Random February 28, 2022 13 Comments

From the native names my father gave us, his children, one can tell he was a petty man with lots of imaginary haters. Maybe he really had haters; he possessed things one could be hated for. So, I’ll cut him some slack and not roast him.

My name is Ekata /’eika:ta(r)/, which can be translated simply to how much can I/we say or how much can be said? But if we decide to interpret deeper, it could mean any of these: how much of God’s goodness can I testify to? How much of my travails can I tell? How many of my stories can I say? But my best interpretation is the pidgin version; how many I go fit talk?

Can you guess which of these interpretations my dad had in mind when he chose it? If you guessed, “how much of my travails can I tell?” You guessed right. Like “una know wetin my eyes don see for this life? Enemies here and there, but God is a majority.”

On the other hand, my mom had a different interpretation—” how much of God’s goodness can I testify to? Countless, I can’t say all. It’s like attempting to count the sand grains at the beach.” Of course, there’s a story behind my name, I’m a special baby, and Ekata is a perfect name for me. I must give my dad credit for being intentional about our names; behind every name is a story.

I recently found out (mid-2021) that my name would have been Arewe if my mom hadn’t stood her ground that no child of hers was going to bear such a silly name. Arewe, in pidgin simply means dem be say—” dem be say I no go make am; dem be say this pikin go die; dem be say… but look who’s laughing in your faces now. Shame!”

Do you still think that man wasn’t petty? It now makes sense to you why my mom rejected that name, right? No child of hers would be a scroll for whatever beef he was having with life. So, they settled for Ekata. My mom named me Osamudiame (God stands in for/by me or defends me).

I wish she’d have been more creative cos more than half the population of Edo state bears that name. But then, with the circumstances surrounding my birth, I can’t be mad at her. It’s a good name, just not as original as Arewe and Ekata. “If God is for me, who can be against me?” That’s another way to see Osamudiame. I have two other beautiful and prophetic native names, but that’s not for today’s story.

Growing up, I hated the name. I mean, what sort of well-meaning parent would give their child a name that rhymes with catarrh? Are my parents really my parents? I would later grow to find out people had been calling my name wrongly. When the “kata” in Ekata is pronounced “catarrh” (the Nigerian way), it has no meaning. I preferred to be called Sonia, the “English” name my siblings chose for me. I wonder if my parents had plans to give me a non-indigenous name. By the way, Sonia is of Greek origin. And now, I’m obsessed with Ekata and wish I had no non-indigenous name.

The older I get, the more I love my name. I mean! Just take a look at me (I know you can’t do that now); how much can you really say? You wouldn’t have words; trust me. Cos OPP (if you don’t get this, I’d advise you to get yourself a Nigerian friend for an explanation. A Yoruba one, precisely).

Really, how much can you say?

Okay, now, I’m lost in my story. I don’t know if I started out to write about my petty father or about my beautiful indigenous names. Anyhoo, the thought that I could have been an Arewe excites me. The name sounds beautiful and stands out.

These days, I love to go by the name Ekata, and it is imperative to me that people call it right. I’ll keep correcting you until you get it right, and no, you aren’t allowed to be lazy. Almost every time I introduce myself as Ekata to people, I get one of these: “Ah! Your name is hard o. Don’t you have another name?” “Do you have an English name?” “What is the short form?”

Do you know what goes on in my head when I get such reactions? I think such people are just damb lazy; mentally lazy. They do not even bother to make an attempt. I understand that the name might be hard to remember because it isn’t popular, but try, at least! Cos how else would it become a familiar name to you?

Whenever people want to take the shortcut, I insist on being called Ekata, not Sonia. This is not because I’ve suddenly become allergic to the name, but because I need them to be intentional and not be lazy. I mean, most of my friends still call me Sonia. So, the name isn’t the problem; I have a problem with people’s attitudes. And no, you don’t get to tell me Sonia is a better choice just because it isn’t local. Only when you get my native name right will I answer Sonia if you call me that.

Let’s just stop here. Again, this story has taken another dimension. But before you go, you should keep in mind that I am a lot, and you’d always be left with the question, “how much can I say?”