Posts in Life

The Twenty-ninth Day of Christmas

Life Random 20 Comments

Seated on the floor, eating my breakfast of sandwich, chips, and tea, I pick up my phone to check today’s date and to my surprise, it’s the twenty-ninth day of Christmas— if we’re counting from the first of December, cos I honestly don’t know how the days of Christmas work— already and it’s a Wednesday. Hoooooww?! Must be all that fun I had that made me lose track of time, courtesy of an old friend I recently reconnected with (by old friend, I do not mean an ex, I mean exactly an old friend).

The thought of how time flew past me without me seeing it, left me reminiscing on the past few days and the many kind acts I was witness to. This took me further down the memory lane of “top kind acts of 2021“.

In order of occurrence, I’ll take you down the lane of top three kind acts of 2021. I have received a lot of kindness this year, but these three I’ll share, stand out for me because they were very random and unexpected.

Act One; October 2021

It was a Tuesday evening, at past five pm, and I was heading out of the plant, walking like I was being powered by my last one percent of energy. To say I was exhausted would be an understatement. I was drained and my muscles were in purgatory. I could barely walk, I had a bad left leg, due to pressure from long hours of standing and walking ceaselessly. Getting myself to the gate took so much effort, I just wanted to get back home and throw my useless self on the bed.

I was outside the company gate, waiting impatiently for a bike, when this black car, driving out of the company, stopped in its tracks. Its driver asked me where I was headed and offered to drop me get there.

My initial reaction was surprise, cos I had walked past this man earlier and didn’t greet him. On a normal day, even one that isn’t gay, I’d greet everyone I come across, the birds and the grasses included. But on that fateful evening, my tiredness had extended to my mouth and vocal cords, the most I could do was a mental greeting. And there was no way this gentleman could have known that I had greeted him in my head.

A regular Nigerian elder would not have bothered to stop for a girl who saw him and didn’t greet him. This particular Nigerian elder saw beyond my “poor manners” and chose to be kind. He had noticed the limp in my gait, so he decided to help me when he met me at the gate.

The first thing he said to me when I got in his car, after exchanging greetings and expressing my gratitude, was “How was work today? You must be very tired, I saw you earlier at the plant. I was behind you watching how you were walking, that’s why I stopped for you.” I was touched by that, but somewhere in my heart, I was expecting that he’d ask for my contact. He had to want something back, most Nigerian men aren’t just kind to women for no reason. It’s always tit for tat, even if they’d ask for tat much later, strategically.

This man was to be different. I thought he was also helping cos he was headed in my direction but it turned out he had no business in my axis at all, our paths were very different. He meant what he said when he said he wanted to help— this man dropped me right in front of my home gate, not minding that it was really far from work and his own home. Can you believe it?

I was skeptical when he asked for my house address. I almost gave him a wrong direction cos I didn’t totally trust his intentions. And I’m glad I didn’t do that. I’m about to shock you again, are you ready? Okay. This man dropped me off without even asking for my name, throughout our conversation on the ride! You know what that means, right? He didn’t ask for my number! And he didn’t bring up all that talk about when we could hang out.

My gracious God! Whatever charm I wore that day, I love it! Cos this man saw me the next day at work and didn’t even recognize me. Ran into him a couple of other times, and every time, I had to reintroduce myself as the girl he helped “the other day”. Lol! The cute part is how he’d always have a questioning do-I-know-you? look in his eyes, while politely acknowledging my greeting, which was always familiar, with a smile.

You are probably wondering what kind of slow man he is. Well, he isn’t. We both wore face masks throughout our interactions. I would have had problems identifying him too, but for his feet (sandals, actually)—he didn’t wear boots like the rest of us.

Act Two; 25th of December, 2021

On Christmas morning, I woke up with a soaked pad of tissue, a sore body, hungry and clueless on what to eat. After hours of lying lazily in bed, I dragged myself out of bed to prepare and eat the only available breakfast cereal in the house, a depressing one.

Ho! Ho! Ho! It was about to be a depressing Christmas, but my Chi, in conjunction with my soul sister, said “not on our watch, not on the Prince of Peace’s birthday!” Lo and behold, a call from an unknown number came in.

It was an elf, disguising as a dispatch rider from Country Kitchen, delivering food from Santa Omachalacha. My soul sister had made arrangements for food to be delivered to me on Christmas morning. Oh boy! I could have drowned the rider in Christmas tears, but hard girls don’t wear their emotions on their sleeves… My Soul Sister changed the trajectory of my day. It didn’t matter that she was in Lagos and I was in Osun.

Act Three; 25th of December, 2021

That same morning, while basking in the love from thousands of miles away and trying not to think of my soaked “pad”, my Chi led this young man to my doorstep. Prior to the young man’s arrival, I had gone out in a futile search for sanitary pads. I had used the last one the previous morning, I thought I had a spare pack somewhere. I always do. By the time I realized I had no extra pack, it was too late; all the neighbouring shops were closed. I had to wait till Christmas morning… Long story cut short, Mr young man climbed mountains and crossed oceans to get me two packs of sanitary pads and he paid for them.

Two times in a row, without a break, my soft spot was tickled… Did Mr Young Man end there? No, but the remaining part of the story doesn’t really concern you. Sorry.

The End.

To a beautiful Christmas; to kind hearts; to love spread; to my Chi, Omachalacha, Mr Young Man, and my Elf friend who sent me money on Christmas eve, Cheers.🍻

Merry Christmas, everyone (according to my Church calendar, it’s still Christmas). In the spirit of Christmas, I am still receiving gifts (including money) on behalf of infant Jesus, a.k.a, Prince of Peace.

Account Number: 2125556651

Bank Name: UBA

Account Name: Emmanuel Jesus God

A very happy and prosperous New Year in advance, to those who would show love to our (myself and infant Jesus) joint account.

A Note to My Late “Husband”

Life 31 Comments

Hey Ojorane,

It’s our birthday today, and again you aren’t here. It’s been fourteen years now? And I still miss you. I’ve always wanted to write to you. In fact, I have written several times, but just never had the balls to complete my note. Guess who’s quarter of a century today. Me! I wish you were here, so I’d rub it in your face that “I be your mama o.” You’d have been that, minus one, today.

You know, Rane, I’m certain if you were still here with us, you’d have been doing very well for yourself. I have a feeling you’d have rounded up your masters degree or be rounding it up by now. You seemed like the kind that wouldn’t settle for just a Bachelor’s degree. If you were here, you’d have been my urgent 2K plug, as per undergraduate and jobless old woman that I am na (I like to assume our bond would have gotten stronger). But you aren’t, and I’m left with no supplier. Sad stuff. I know.

I wish you never left, Rane. Oh, your death hurt me. It broke me. I might have been eleven, but I saw pain and recognized it. I remember how I kept muttering “no” and shaking my head with hopes that my actions would make me wake up from the bad dream where I was informed of your death; except that I wasn’t in a dream. The tears wouldn’t come at first, cos you, my friend, couldn’t be gone. You still had a long way to go. Therefore, news of your death had to be a distasteful prank.

I was in the bath later that day, when it hit me really hard that you truly were gone. I was not to see your shy angelic rabbit-toothed smile again. The realization made me lose balance, and I sank to the tub floor and cried from the core of my heart which left my whole body vibrating like a faulty bike. I don’t know how long I spent in the bathroom but I remember not wanting to ever come out to a world without you and I also didn’t want anyone to see me mourn you. I was defensive, cos them seeing me cry would mean I had accepted defeat. You just had to still be alive somehow. So, no, I refused to cry in public.

I remember being at your house to pay a condolence visit. I honestly didn’t want to be there, cos seeing your parents broken, shattered what was left of my heart to fragments more minute than atoms. I hated that I couldn’t bring you back or take away their pain. I felt guilty for being alive while you, their first child only son, were no more. I mean, we were birthday mates and were in the same age group, why did you have to go? You knew how precious you were, didn’t you?

At every knock your home received, during my condolence visit, my heart jumped into my throat, with anticipation leaving me tense. I hoped for a miracle, Junior. I hoped for news that there was a mixup and that you were only deeply asleep. I kept looking up to see if you’d walk in on us, laugh, and tell us to stop being silly. Call me foolish, but even at your funeral mass, I expected you to bang the casket to be let out. I waited and waited, but your casket was peaceful—no movement, no bang, nothing. I was disappointed. So you really were gone, my dear friend.

You should have seen your funeral (I’m sure you did), it was filled with people. Who would have thought that a child funeral mass would be filled with people to pay their last respect?

Junior, you were loved by both old and young. You were a remarkable 10-year-old. The kindest I knew. I want to say the kindest 10-year-old after me, but who am I kidding?! I was a kind child, but you, my dear, were kinder. You oozed kindness. You treated everyone you met with respect. You saw people, and treated them as humans, irrespective of their position. You were full of empathy. You were always considerate and selfless. You had privilege, and could have acted like a brat, like most privileged kids, but never!

You were wise beyond your age, this quality made you a very good big brother. I loved watching you guide your younger ones and act so responsibly. I was always in awe of how you settled dispute amongst your sisters, without really taking sides. I’d never forget how you’d come to my defense, when any of your sisters tried to be disrespectful (I’m not crying). Rane! You were such a sweetheart and gentleman.

Do you remember those times when auntie Maria, your nanny, would call me your wife and you’d start to smile and blush like an idiot? And I’d be mildly furious and want to slap sense into your head, cos forghursake, I was a year older, and by default thought myself your big sister. I must admit, somewhere behind the hard girl cover, I thought it was cute and sometimes considered it. But God forbid that I, the indaboski bahose, admitted that then. I couldn’t even admit that you were my best friend! If I could go back in time, that’s one thing I’d correct— tell you you are the bestest friend and sweetest boy in my life.

I know I was a pain sometimes, being bossy and acting indifferent towards you, but I really did like you and how you always stood up for me. One thing your loss taught me, is to show a little more emotions and not act like a china doll. Given a second chance, I’d give you your flowers. I’d tell you how your smile lightens a room, and how I wished I wasn’t older…

To think that I got close to your family cos of your baby sister, S, but ended up being best friends with you. I remember falling in love with baby S, who was stinkingly cute, at first sight. The feeling turned out to be mutual (as expected cos babies love me) and that marked the start of my regular visits to your home. I’d be at your house at every chance just to play with her. In the process, you stole me from her. Finding out we were birthday mates made us even bond more. You remember our first birthday together, right? I bet you do. That was my first visit to the amusement park. Your parents made me feel special. You obviously learnt to be kind from them.

After your departure from this imperfect world, my relationship with your family was never to be the same again. I couldn’t bear to face them without feeling guilt. Avoiding them became a task I had to deliver. Despite the distance I kept, I made it an obligation to pray for your family everyday, asking God to give them solace and restore what was lost. My joy knew no bounds when I heard your mom put to bed a baby boy. I screamed. I danced. I cried. I felt a bit relieved. A bit cos I still couldn’t bring you back.

You know, sometimes, I think it was you who came back. And other times, I think he’s just another soul, with hopes that you’re still where souls go after departure from their body and that I’d birth you into your next life ( crazy thoughts, I know. That’s how much I really wanted you back). I don’t think I even visited to congratulate your parents, I didn’t want to jinx the joy or stir unwanted memories. All I do is send word through my mother, and admire them and your siblings from afar, knowing I once had bonded with them. I hope this doesn’t make me a bad friend. I think I just never got over your death and somehow feel responsible (I don’t even know why).

Oh, Rane, your sisters are so grown now. B is doing a great job being a big sister, but I don’t know if sassy O still tries to bully her (that sister of yours was such a mood). Even your baby brother has grown so much. He’s growing into a fine young man.

I wish I had seen you moments before your death, maybe I’d have had something like your action or words to cling to, to help me move on. Maybe I’d have interpreted your usual smile that reached your eyes as a goodbye, or your regular act of kindness as a sign that you knew you were going. Maybe, just maybe I’d have felt a little less guilty. So you see, I can’t even hold on to anything and claim it to be a sign that you knew you were going and hinted at it, cos I didn’t see you, prior to your last moment here.

There’s a whole lot to say to you—like my boy adventure in 2019; my struggles; my wins; and lots more— but I’ll leave that to when you choose to visit me. Lord knows I’ve been expecting a visit from you (except you’ve already found a home here). Asides having gist for you, I have questions and I’ll ask some now.

Did you really like the boiled fish and butter mash sandwich, or you liked it cos I introduced and liked it? And what secret did you share with B that she wouldn’t tell me? I’m dying to know what it is.

Finally, Rane, I hope you’re proud of me, not minding that I like to roam the world naked and that my progress, according to human standards, has been quite slow. The past few days has left me in deep reflections, and in one of those reflections, I realized that my circle of friends is filled with kind people. This realization makes me grin so hard, everytime it crosses my mind. This might be my greatest achievement yet. Funny, enh? I really hope for a world filled with more Ranes, and I’m glad my circle is full of imitations.

Happy posthumous birthday, Ojorane. Cheers to twenty-four… And to twenty-five. Lol!

Love you, always and forever,

“Your wife,”

Sonia.

Sugar-Daddy Magnet

Life Random 7 Comments

Still a fresh secondary school graduate —excited about finally making my hair that was constantly cut short, enough to display my yellow scalp, for six long years— It was finally time to step on necks and collect more hearts in jars. I was about to be the be a uni babe too (I thought life was that straight).

While waiting for my O’levels result, I registered for computer lessons cos you know how the devil just bounces on people and uses them as a workshop. I wasn’t going to be people, so I registered with some of my friends and secondary school classmates for computer basics. It felt like a mini reunion.

Legend has it that I had a much juicier butt than I have now (still beats me, cos isn’t it supposed to get juicier with age?), not like I believe it. But looking back at how men and boys lusted after me like goats at the sight of yam peels, makes it easy to believe. There’s also the factor of me looking older than my age cos my mother fed me fertilizers while growing up, but the juicy derriere remains my best bet. I was basically a handsome boy with curves, cos hello! Almost bald head and just ‘tondo’ earrings. So you see what I mean?

Just beside my training center (a cafe, actually), was a barber shop. This man had some ‘rich’ men as clients and one of them happened to be very much interested in me—a teenage girl still growing her hair with local hair styles. He started subtly and he gradually became expressive.

As the sweet baby Jesus junior that I was, I never in my wildest imagination would have thought a man as old as this man would think of me in a sexual way. He must have been in his late forties or early fifties. He was a good looking man and had a good dress sense. He looked like one who knows how to chop life. Like I said, he started subtly, with the barber (who was probably even older but thought himself young) as his middle man. The barber would send airtime to me without asking. This gesture, I wasn’t comfortable with (was never comfortable with receiving gifts from men who aren’t family).

At first, I didn’t give it much thought, cos I was Me, the girl who gets lucky with even strangers. But when the gesture became consistent, accompanied with questions concerning my welfare, I had to tell him to stop, cos it was making me uncomfortable. It was beginning to look like he had a mission. Did he listen? No!

You’re probably wondering how he got my number; he got it from me cos “friendly neighbour” and older people are supposed to have sense by default— my bad!

Anyhow, the Don himself finally contacted me without his mouthpiece, and I almost ‘sir’ed him to death. He still didn’t hit the nail on the head, but with the way he looked at me and called my name whenever he came for a haircut, I felt very uncomfortable. I started to act like I broke out of prison and was on the run, whenever I was at the cafe.

I went out of the cafe less and would only go out as a group and hide amongst my friends, pretending to be very into a pretend conversation. It was terrible. I avoided those two as much as I could. I was always a bit relieved whenever the Don was out of the country or state. Apparently, he travelled out a lot and from the look of things, his mouthpiece was getting something from him cos all that ‘hardwork’ couldn’t be for nothing.

The Don and his mouthpiece would call, and I’d hide my phone beneath my mattress and abandon it there for hours. I was tired. At this point, I was drained from turning down advances from different people and of being an almost-adult. I was close to hating myself cos I honestly hated the attention, I just wanted a normal life (which I’m getting now, by the way).

The last major memory I have of him was him calling me late at night—after his mouthpiece had sent me some airtime again— asking of my wellbeing and informing me he’d be out of the country longer than usual. So, basically, he called to get my clothes and shoe sizes, and to know which of the blackberry phones I wanted. I felt sick to my stomach cos for crying out loud, this man had grown kids and a living wife (I believe; though it doesn’t matter if there was a wife or not, cos I was still a child).

I told him to not bother; I wasn’t walking around in rags, and my phone was still performing its basic function. He insisted he really wanted to get me gifts—a big box of clothing and edibles— and I remained adamant on wanting nothing; I was fine. He tried to give me some money too, but I stood my ground. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to worry about bumping into either of them cos I was done with my training. All I had to do was ignore the several texts and calls from both of them, especially the mouthpiece.

I’ve seen things in this life o. Sometimes, I wonder if it was beyond my body. I wonder if it was my look of innocence, giving me the look of an easy prey, that attracted these men.

These were days when I still wore only skirts below my knees and without slits, just cos I was trying to hide my stretchmarks as much as I could. Days when I wouldn’t wear trousers without tying a cardigan around my waist or wearing a shirt long enough to cover the outline of my butt. Days when I was very uncomfortable in my own skin. I didn’t even think I was that fine— had skin flawed with stretchmarks; thought my mouth was too wide for my face; teeth reminded me of a shark’s; fingers were too long; veins at the back of my palms were shallow rooted; complexion was too flashy; bum-bum was too big; I didn’t even want breasts—this made it even harder for me to wrap my head around the unwarranted attention and magnetism.

There were also times I suspected my light skin to be the magnetic force. I guess I’d never really know what these men saw. Boys, I can understand cos teenage hormones and all that stuff. But grown ass men? I’d always wonder.

Or could it be fate telling me to try this sugar daddy thing? What do you think?

I Am Judging You: Big-feet Matter

Beauty Life Random 27 Comments

I found myself awake at 4:15 am, after almost staring holes into the shoes of my friend, in my dream. She had really nice sneakers on, and I just thought it wasn’t fair. I didn’t bother hiding my irritation, I told her I didn’t like her again cos she had no right having varieties to chose from. In fact, you know what I wish for right now? I wish that y’all with small feet, would wake up one day and not find the left foot of each of your shoes. Only then would I be pacified.

I believe shoe designers/manufacturers treat us— ‘big feeted’ women— as after thoughts. That has got to be the reason why most times, we’re left with god-forbid designs. They probably feel we don’t deserve happiness cos we take up space on the path leading to greatness with our big feet. Or maybe they think we’re aliens and wouldn’t love to look good.

I love shoes, but you can’t tell since I’m always wearing slippers and sandals, most of which look borrowed, cos my toes or soles are always poking out of the edges like they are trying to run away from me. As a result, I unconsciously fold my toes sometimes, in an attempt to make them appear smaller.

My feet grew so fast, growing up. There could have been a thing such as feet fertilizer cos how else would a human being’s feet grow so fast? Y’all remember that trick our parents did back in the days—buying shoes one or two sizes larger so we’d be able to wear them for long? Well, it never worked for me. At eight, I was already sharing shoes with my mum. I wore a size 38. At ten, I wore a size 42; it was at this point I took my cross to the altar and told God to burn it. Cos what business did a short chubby girl like me, have with big feet and long fingers? The fingers, I could live with, but the feet? Hell no! I had had enough of walking about in shoes that looked borrowed when in fact they were sucking oxygen out of my feet.

You know the painful part about this whole story? My mom and the rest of the world, including me, had hopes that I would turn into a tall young lady, cos why not? All that bigness in the feet and palms couldn’t be for nothing. To our greatest shock, I stopped growing tall, but my feet kept growing ahead of me. Tragic, huh? I know.

So yes, I went to my dad—God— and cried out my eyes and bared my soul to him. I told him “I know I’ll be great and wealthy enough to afford specially made Italian shoes in this life, but I don’t want.” I forgot to mention how my mum would tease me and say I’d wear pam slippers specially designed by a shoemaker, on my wedding day, if my feet didn’t stop at 42, cos I wouldn’t be able to find my shoe size. My only other option would be to ask for custom made Italian shoes, which would be ridiculously expensive. That was her hinting I had to work towards being rich, else I end up wearing only handmade slippers everywhere. Our fear was that these feet would reach a 45.

This wasn’t a joke, I took that prayer point seriously. With tears in my eyes and voice, “God, make my feet stop growing, I beg you! Please,” I said. I prayed my rosary, wrote petitions, and went to the blessed sacrament. I wasn’t taking any chance. I believed in miracles.

If only my breast grew with so much vigour. I started growing them at eight, the impatient things really gave signs of being in people’s faces, but you should see them now—very humble. I must confess, at that time, I also didn’t want big breasts. I prayed against it cos the two little puffs were restricting my easy movement. They made life tuff, and I honestly wanted them gone at ten, especially when ‘they’ were forcing bras down my throat.

I thought I had seen it all, but it only got worse. Nobody warned me about the acne and stretchmarks that hit me like a tornado, afterwards. I honestly felt cursed. Why else would a child like me be going through so much trauma?!

Let’s get back to big-feet problems. I guess it’s safe to say my request was granted and my feet stopped growing. Did I just hear an Alleluia? That’s right, go ahead and scream it on my behalf, as you should. But I still hate y’all with the options of wearing the finest and cutest shoes. You are definitely not going to heaven, so enjoy life and your shoes while you can. In the end, nobody would take shoes to wherever souls go, after death.

To my fellow girls with big-feet problems, especially short ones like me who do not have the height to complement the big feet; we have a very big mansion in my Father’s estate (he told me that himself). We’ve suffered too much in this life—blisters, sore feet, ugly options— to now suffer in the other life again.

The short girls would get the VVIP mansions (for the extra suffering—going about in shoes that look bigger than us). The girls with height would get the ones without the VV (it’s not too late to trade your height now).

Now, here’s the summary of my story: I’m judging y’all in the fashion industry, designers particularly. Y’all can do better, plus size (boobs, ass, body, feet) folks deserve to look good too.

I’m also judging you if you have nice collection of shoes (I know it’s not your fault, but I’m judging you anyways, cos I can!).

#AllFeetMatter #SayNoToBigFeetDiscrimination #BigFeetGirlsDeserveHappiness too… I think we should start an Aluta. What do you think?

Is God Male or Female?

Life Random Spirituality 7 Comments

Let’s talk about God. Hollup! Do not turn your back on me. Don’t worry; I’m not here to impose my beliefs on you or pass judgment. I just want to know what goes on in your head when you think ‘God.’

Do you believe there’s a supernatural force that controls all things? Do you believe there’s a God? Who is God to you? I’ll start.

I do believe in God. Growing up, in Sunday school, I was taught that God made me in His image and likeness. I remember wondering and asking, “If God made me in His image and likeness, why do you address him as “he”? How could we all be made in the image and likeness of God and yet look so different?” It didn’t really make sense to me. And I never got any satisfactory response from the elders.

In fact, I had a lot of questions that never got answers. Like where did this almighty God come from, and who made or gave birth to him? If he created the world, then where exactly was he before creation?

Trying to get answers to these questions felt like getting lost in a maze. Even now, my head got cloudy asking those questions. So, I decided to leave it all as a mystery.

I think the mystery of God is what makes him intriguing. I wanted God to be a “woman” cos why not? I was a girl, to become a woman. I was made in his image, meaning he’s supposed to look just like me. So yes, I thought it was unfair that this almighty was assigned ‘he.’ Anyway, I got used to it. I eventually got to love the idea of God being male.

Image from Unsplash


Why the change of heart? My mum used to say God is the father of the fatherless and the mother of the motherless, especially in her prayers. Being a fatherless child who lost her dad at six, I loved to hear that I could have a father in God. He stopped being the almighty to me. I started seeing him as my father instead. And I interact with him like I do with my mum.

I don’t see this God who is my father, but how I talk to him and make requests can be funny. I talk to him like he’s just somewhere around. I even make the faces I make when talking to my mum. I laugh when I have flashbacks. But I don’t tell him I’ll beat him, playfully, like I tell my mum cos I’d have to see him first. I can wake up in the morning, and my prayer on most days, before I get out of bed or while getting my day started, would be like this (in a mumble or silently):

“God/Almighty father/Daddy, thank you for this beautiful morning. Take care of today and continue to be a good and loving father.”

There are days I feel disappointed in him because he would fail his baby girl, despite knowing how important granting a particular wish was. Like when did I stop being your baby girl that you wouldn’t grant me this important wish when it is within your power? At times like this, my prayers can be hilarious. I really have a heart-to-heart talk with him and let him know I’m not happy with his action or inaction. I don’t talk to him like some distant person.

“See, God, I’ve come again o, since you refused to add the sense for Mathematics when you were making me, I must not fail this course o. You’ve seen all of my efforts, and the thing still does not want to enter. You better not disappoint me; just let me have a 40E. I don’t even want a ‘C.’ A ‘D’ or an ‘E’ is okay, just make sure it is not an F. And if you wish, you can give me an ‘A.’ I don’t know how that would happen; just do your thing and don’t let me fail,” is the kind of prayer I say when I’m pissed at God for my inability to excel at math without struggling.

Then when I feel remorseful, I’ll say something like, “Okay, God, I’m sorry for talking to you like that. I just really need to pass, and since I’ve done my best without making much progress, I’m leaving the rest to you. Don’t be angry; I’m no more mad at you too.” Lol!

As I write, I’m laughing like an idiot, remembering some daughter-father moments with God.
On some days, when I’m in awe of his goodness, I start to laugh, sing his praises, and sway to no rhythm in my excitement. Other times, I just shout, “Daddy! I love you! Thank you!” grinning from ear to ear.

There are times I cry out my eyes to him and let him know of all my worries. Just the way I call my mum at the slightest discomfort, for assurance, and to hear her call me her baby ( though now, I only call her when it’s a major, major problem).

Asking for help is always a struggle for me, unless I’m asking from my mom or God. Yes, that’s how I love this guy called God. He gives me butterflies in my belly, and I love him so so much—I’m not even going to lie, I love my mum more—and my love for him makes me not do certain things.

It doesn’t matter who or what the world says God is. I think he can be whoever you want him to be (just like I’ve assigned him male and made him my dad). Now, it’s your turn. Who is God to you? Before you answer that, do you believe there’s a God?

I Am Judging You; Party Guests

Life Random 20 Comments

Today looks like a very good day to be judgemental, plus I just finished feasting on the liver of a lion.

You know what I really love being in charge of at events? Food and drinks! Let me be clear, I don’t mean deciding on and organizing what and what not to feast on, but the actual distribution and manning. Because why not? Who wouldn’t hop on a chance to do the Lord’s work and teach people manners (and garner enemies in the process)? I also get to play fairy godmother and grant polite people their wish (some lucky ones even get blessed with extra), and reward them with a cheeky smile.

There are two sets of people that annoy me to the core of my soul, at parties or events;

  • The I-swear-I-haven’t-eaten-since kind of people, even after eating two rounds and hiding three take-away plates and five plastic drinks in their Ghana-must-go sac of a handbag. What beats me is that this set of people are very many in church (our dear minsters of God have a lot of work to do sha. Looks like they aren’t preaching enough of how real and hot hell can be).
  • The I-don’t-want-Coke-give-me-Sprite folks (with an I-sponsored-the-food-and-drinks-whole-handedly expression, even when they didn’t get an invite to the party).

Let’s talk about the first set of people— the food envelopes and warehouses, aka the Linus. If you fall in this category, I just want to tell you to fear God. I’m not done o. I also want you to know that I’m judging you( you can call me JUDGINA). If you think you’re being smart when you do that, I’m here to tell you you’re not; you’re just greedy, and the next time you want to open your mouth to call your leaders corrupt, remember what I said.

Nobody is saying you shouldn’t be a grubido; all I’m saying is don’t deprive others of the opportunity to get served too. Let the food go round first, or own it with your chest that you just want another round. Do away with that “I have not eaten” lie. Don’t you even fear that your airflow may get restricted by the ‘stolen food’? You can surely do better, dear. Henceforth, I expect you to do better. Go, and sin no more (I’m still judging you sha).

Enhen! I’m very excited about judging this second set of people. The ones with the pungent entitlement. Yes, if you’re one of them, don’t you dare run away; keep reading and face your judgment.

You know, I’m just really curious to know if some of you missed or slept during the whole ‘etiquette’ and ‘good manners’ talk, taught in Moral Instructions or whatever the subject was, in primary school.

It’s okay to have preferences for food, what’s not okay is being entitled and rude, when you’re offered food you didn’t pay for, especially at someone’s event.

“I don’t want 7-Up o! Give me Coke.” If I happen to be the one serving, and you give me that attitude, be ready to drink the 7-Up or to go and buy your golden Coke outside. If I mistakenly possess the gift of patience that day, I’ll nicely ask you to do a trade by barter with another person (that’s if it’s a small gathering). And if at all I end up granting your request, it’s because I’m in a good mood or because “home training.” But, but… one thing is sure, you won’t escape my lashing stare(can’t help it). I’ll judge your lack of manners on the spot.

“Don’t give me rice o. It is pounded yam I want— cos in my village, if we eat anything that is not pounded yam, we will be rendered impotent.” My friend, will you keep quiet?! When last did you eat pounded yam in your house? It’s like you aren’t ready to eat. You’d be shocked to see people like that eat at least two plates of that rice that is a community abomination, after eating their beloved pounded yam or whatever it is.

Well, on second thought, I’ll reduce the intensity of my judgment on this second group, let’s put the blame on the classes they missed.

Sometimes, you just have to be stern when serving, if not, you’d be played around like lawn tennis. Imagine everyone rejects one same thing, who would take it?

Instead of throwing tantrums or causing a scene, be a decent human being and politely ask for your preferred choice. If the server declines, accept what you’re offered or reject it (politely) if you really can’t manage it. I promise you, you won’t die, you may only suffer some hunger pangs (trust me. I’m speaking from experience).

I want to continue judging you, but looks like this is enough judging for a day.

Those of you that go about complaining about how small the food is and how the meat isn’t as big as your greed. Or about how the host didn’t try, cos your ojukoro wasn’t satisfied and you couldn’t do your usual illegal carting away of food; today isn’t your day. No, I won’t judge you—yet. Your time is coming.

This judging session is officially over; go, and do away with your shenanigans.

PS: If I’m ever in charge of food at any event you happen to be in, feel free to ask for another round from me. I’ll most certainly attend to you, provided I’m sure the food would go round, and you don’t use the I’ve-not-eaten card when you’ve actually eaten. Just tell me you want more food, it’s allowed. I love me some honest people.

Let me quickly throw this in; if you serve diet soda at your party, I’m judging you with all my heart. Please and please! Don’t do that again. Just tell us you don’t want to feed us or better still, tell us to stay in our homes… Peace be with you.

Feel free to add your judgment(s) in the comment section.

I’m Not Bad But I’m Wicked

Life Random 16 Comments

This shirt—the inscription, precisely— reminds me of one of my favorite clothes ever.

It was a pink and brown round neck shirt. The body was light pink and the cup sleeves were chocolate brown. I inherited this prized shirt from my favourite cousin at that time, to whom I was literally a pest and a handbag to. I followed her everywhere.

On the shirt was written, ‘I’m not bad but I’m wicked’ in a fancy bold print in shimmery chocolate brown.

Those words didn’t make sense to me (cos doesn’t being wicked make you a bad person? I thought ‘I’m not wicked but I’m bad’ would have made more sense) but God! I loved that shirt! It made me feel very bad ass. Letting that shirt go was one of the hardest things to do.

While my ownership of the shirt lasted, some of my relatives never forgot to remind me of how much of a gospel those words on my shirt were. I’d hear stuff like ‘this is so true! You’re not a bad person, you’re just wicked,’ ‘you’re truly not bad, you just have a strong heart.’ I don’t know if comments like that were supposed to make me cry or feel bad. If I felt anything, it was feeling like Mama-G had nothing on me. Like yo, una never see anything. I guess the joke was on them.

With comments like that, a stranger would be left to wonder how a sweet looking baby girl like me, all cheeks, could possess the evil I was accused of. Little would they know that wickedness to these people, was being unapologetic and firm.

Going down the memory lane, I realized I must have been one annoying, yet likeable child. I was called wicked cause I’d stand my ground on anything I believed in, and not falter. My ‘no’ was final and no one could make me do anything I didn’t want to. I’d refuse to apologize if I believed I wasn’t wrong. My apology was always genuine—even now. I’d never apologize just for being the younger one, even if the adult was wrong.

I had a response to everything, not even a duct tape over my mouth could stop me. I was in no way timid. I even got a nickname—madam you talk one, I talk hundred— as a result of my smart mouth. Nobody was above hearing the truth from me. You disrespect or cheat me because I’m a child? Be ready to hear me give you a large saucy piece of my mind .

Now, all of that doesn’t count as wickedness, does it?

I must confess that I miss my younger self, she was very confident, so confident, some thought she had some spiritual powers giving her liver. I’d catch the occasional glimpse of fear in the eyes of some adults when I made retorts. It always amused me, like na me them dey fear so? Shokolo me? This made me wonder, on several occasions, what having spiritual powers would be like, and I’d start to laugh at how silly those adults were.

On one occasion, I had to voice out my thoughts and said to this female adult ‘you think if I had such powers, I’d let you be talking to me like this? I’d have flogged the hell out of you, at midnight, and leave marks as reminder to treat me nicely next time.’ And that, dear reader, was on Mary had a little lamb. The female adult was left in disbelief. I must have been just ten, or eleven when this happened.

Though I was reserved, very respectful, and maybe shy, there was nothing timid about my character; while I miss that, I’m thankful for growth. With time, I developed a more diplomatic approach to life and situations. While it’s good to always say things as they are, wisdom sometimes should be applied, especially in this part of the world where most are still in mental shackles—This isn’t me saying I’m wise, but you know, my name is Sonia(if you’re wondering what my name has got to do with this, do yourself a favour and search for the meaning of my name).

My mother, from whom I learnt subtlety, made me know there’s a thin line between being rude and being straight to the point—this isn’t to say I’m not occasionally rude, I dish it out when it’s asked for. You can make your point clear, respectfully.

She also taught me that sometimes, when you have a goal, it pays to act the fool; acting the fool will never make you a fool, just know when to act it. An example is having to give a certain answer to a question in an exam, just because that’s what your teacher clearly wants, not because you think it’s correct. The goal is to pass the subject, so you do what you have to do, even if it makes you want to beat sense into that teacher.

That ends my story on my good but wicked heart.

Would I love to own a shirt like that again? Most definitely! It’s been on my bucket list for the longest time. This looks like the best time to own one, cos it looks like somebody got more wicked, even with her subtlety.

My only concern is that I may get stoned by angry citizens. Citizens channelling their frustration, at their leaders, to me, for having something in common with them—wickedness— and shamelessly parading it. Since not everyone reads my blog, I’d have to explain to them that my wickedness is a special kind, and very different from that of their leaders (that’s if I survive the stoning sha).

Are you a fellow wicked person? Show yourselves in the comment section, let’s know ourselves. And let us know when you started being wicked.

On Becoming Master-Chef II

Food Life Random 6 Comments

I tried calling my mum, but there was no signal cos I was in a village. “Dear lord, please, do not put me to shame,” I prayed. I knew my mom made egusi, using different methods, but my memory decided to fail me, as I wasn’t sure of which step came first.

Eventually, I went with the frying method–this remains my best method, because it saved in time of distress– You should have seen my excitement when whatever I did started to look like soup, and tasted like one. I was feeling fly, until it was time to slice the vegetable. What was a girl going to do? I still didn’t know how to handle a knife properly. I don’t remember exactly how I went about it, but I did it, and I remember leaving the kitchen with at least, two cuts and chipped nails, from cutting onion and vegetable.

So, people ate my food and not one soul was mourned, nobody had diarrhoea. It was in fact, a big win. Nobody, but one annoying human, complained. He, with so much entitlement, said I didn’t put enough salt– it was at this point I decided I didn’t like him, and we couldn’t be friends. I remember telling him something was wrong with his taste buds, cos the salt in that food was the perfect amount.

Just imagine the audacity, if only he knew the kind of battles I fought in that kitchen, he would not have opened that mouth without thinking first. It wasn’t even the comment that grazed my heart, it was how he said it, like he paid me to cook for him. He could have even appreciated my effort first, before criticizing. I guess he was busy learning how to cook at ten, instead of learning good manners.

Well, that marked the start of my cooking journey. Though I’m inconsistent, whenever I decide to visit the kitchen, I perform magic. If I hadn’t been alone for three months, during the first phase of lockdown, it would have been about a year and one month since I last cooked.

Just two days ago, I decided to check if I still had it in me, cos my little cousins’ comments would not stop ringing in my head. Those little cupcakes of mine didn’t think their dear aunt could cook, they didn’t even trust me enough to prepare their cereal when I volunteered to give them breakfast one morning. The eldest asked, “Auntie Ekata, can you even cook?” At least, he was kind enough to ask. The younger one was very certain I couldn’t cook, cos he exclaimed, “but auntie Ekata can’t even cook!” and I felt that in my soul as I burst into laughter.

I couldn’t blame them, after all, all I do in the kitchen is to take food to eat. Even I, started to doubt that I could cook. Guess who came asking for more after tasting the magic I made…

Two plates of magic, created by the Masterchef herself… Presentation is the best part of cooking, for me.

To be honest, I was kind of concerned that I would flop, but then, I remembered that my God never flops. And oh boy! I dey cook! This isn’t bluff, trust me.

If you’re wondering why my mum cut me some slacks in the kitchen, it’s because there were more important things to teach me, like good manners and values. She’s of the belief that, cooking can be learnt at anytime, it isn’t rocket science, but good character is something one has to build early. And my mom is always right, cos look at me! This doesn’t mean I don’t have my bad days in the kitchen, and I’m sure this is same for everyone.

Cooking is obviously an essential skill everyone should have, for survival, especially when you can’t afford to pay for the service.

If you missed the first part of this story, you can read up on On becoming Master-Chef , to get yourself acquainted before scrolling down.

Have you caught up yet? If yes, you can proceed to the end. If no, please, go back and open that link (I’m not begging, I really just care about you and do not want you to feel left out😉).

Now that you’ve read the complete story, do you think it is important to start learning to cook at a very young age or you, like my mum and I, think it can be learnt at anytime?

Before you answer that, here’s a bit of unsolicited advice for you, especially for aspiring mothers: Focus on raising your kids to be good humans first, before any other thing. Teach them the same values.

Never let your training be about ‘is this how you’ll be doing in your husband’s house?’ ‘If you can’t cook in your husband’s house, your husband’s family will send you packing’ and I’m sure you’re familiar with other instances, so I won’t bore you with them.

Apparently, the major reason most mothers put so much pressure on their girls at very young ages, is for them to be the perfect ‘100 yards wife material,’ while they let their boys be anyhow cos ‘Boys Will Be Boys.’ They forget to let their children–girls– be children, in the process… Well, I didn’t plan for this to become a TED talk, but here we are– free unsolicited advice, or you can call it ‘TED talk,’ for zero kobo. You’re welcome.

Now, back to the question. Let me know what you think and drop your answers in the comment section.

On Becoming Master-Chef

Food Life Random 11 Comments

“I have to wake up by 4:30, every morning, to cook and get myself and my younger ones ready for school,” Lola said. I looked at her in disbelief, and to confirm that I heard right, I asked, “so you made this food?” Referring to her lunch. She laughed and replied “yes na. I cooked it myself.” I couldn’t help but wonder if her mom was late or if she lived with her step mom, cos why else would a fifteen year old be dealing with so much responsibility already? So I voiced out my thought and asked “what of your mummy?” Again, she laughed and was probably wondering what kind of ridiculous question that was, and still laughing she said “my mother cannot be waking up to cook for me na.” “Wow!” I exclaimed in my head, while trying to process the information.

I later discovered that out of the few that still carried lunch to school, in my class, I was probably the only one who didn’t make the food herself. I also found out that some had been doing that since junior school (imagine my shock).

At that age, I was still struggling to make proper Eba, without koko — trust me, this was a very difficult time in my life. I couldn’t even cut onions into thin slices. Slicing leafy vegetables was totally out of it. I hardly ever cooked beans to be soft enough, to not cause heartburns. Well, my white rice game was fair enough. I could make stew, though a few times, I never let the salt be great. And I only cooked during holidays and occasionally on weekends.

Now you see why I thought cooking regularly for your family at that age was strange. I mean, I could not even prepare custard or pap without cooking it on fire, after pouring hot water into the mix —Making it without koko was a big struggle, I always needed to say a few Hail Marys for that.

Despite my obviously poor culinary skill, my mum never failed to commend my effort. She’d tell me I did better than she expected, that I really tried and with time, and more practice, I’d be a pro. She sometimes told me my food would have tasted better than her’s, if only I had added a little more salt. This helped my confidence, she left me convinced that I had her very good culinary skills in my genes. She told me I was a natural at it. And guess what, she didn’t lie, all I needed was practice.

I started cooking properly, at seventeen. I made mistakes, and learnt from them.

The first time I cooked soup, it was Egusi soup, and it was for over fifteen people. It was a very funny experience, I remember fidgeting around the kitchen and wanting my mummy to be there so bad. A lot of things ran through my head; is this how I’m going to shame my mother, after all the home training and love put into raising me?

I could have written an essay of not less than 5,000 words, ending with ‘had I known’, in that moment —Had I known, I’d have listened to my mother, all those times she asked me to sit and watch her cook. I shouldn’t have let my coconut head win. I wished I didn’t argue that I didn’t need to watch a second time, to know how to prepare a meal. I shouldn’t have given her the condition that I’d stay in the kitchen only if she lets me do the cooking. But it was too late.

My God! What was I even thinking when I agreed to be a volunteer? Did I think I was going to cook just stew, rice and pasta?

I tried calling my mum for help, but there was no signal cos I was in a village… To Be Continued.

Watch out for my next post, to find out if it ended in premium tears. You can also subscribe to my blog to get notifications. You certainly would not want to miss the follow-up post— just do it, subscribe now.

Eyes— Door To The Soul

Life Random 9 Comments

Of all the places to receive a revelation, the toilet seat would be the last to come to mind. Well, turns out I get some of my craziest thoughts on the toilet seat and in the bathroom. Please, don’t give me that look. I’m sure there are many of us, so, rest!

On hearing ‘revelation,’ your mind probably already created a scene where I’m in some kind of trance, seeing or hearing things. Sorry, to disappoint you— though I ain’t sorry— that wasn’t what happened. I, on the contrary, was very conscious. All I did, was connect a few dots I never realized were disconnected, and that was it— a revelation.

How many times have I used the word ‘revelation’ now? You’re probably getting impatient and thinking ‘can you just spill the juice already?’ Hold on, I’m getting there. Patience is an important virtue, to survive this life (you probably didn’t know this before. So, you’re welcome).

For the longest time, I was very sure a smart mind is what first gets and keeps me attracted to a man. I realized I wasn’t entirely correct, on the toilet seat, today.

Now, I realize it’s a soulful eyes, coupled with a compassionate heart, and a bright (smart) mind that turns my cold stone heart to water.

The soulful eyes is the gravitational force that pulls me towards the lucky man. The smart mind keeps me attracted. The compassionate heart gives me more reason to stay in place, and not oppose the force of gravity, which in this case is the force of love.

I’ve been attracted to a lot of incredibly intelligent men, but not enough to cause butterflies in my belly. If I hadn’t experienced that head-over-heels feeling when I was 18, I would have concluded I am incapable of having butterflies. That experience has helped me set a standard for myself, though sometimes, I feel like I may never feel that with another again— scarcity of soulful eyed men, you know.

This man who gave me so many colourful butterflies in my belly, didn’t even have to try. All he had to do was; have soulful eyes, be intelligent, and be compassionate. That was all, and he had a girl’s heart rolling out of her mouth.

It took me over a year to realize it wasn’t just my shy nature that made me want to hide (I used to be really shy. I’ve just found ways to put it in check), every time I saw him; it was his piercing eyes. I feared they’d see through me, and unveil my secrets and thoughts I didn’t want to share.

It took me more than a year, and talking to my best friend, to realize that alien feeling wasn’t just a crush, like the other 999 ones I had. And I asked myself, ‘how did I get here?’ cos we didn’t even have that kind of relationship. We never talked about things like that. In case you’re wondering, I killed all the butterflies, as soon as I realized they were butterflies— it wasn’t to be. I thought it to be an inappropriate feeling, at that time.

Years later, I met another man, at a place where I trained for a few months, and history almost repeated itself. If you are wondering if this man too, has soulful eyes, he does. Just like with the first man, he didn’t even try. With no inappropriate conversation or action; just him being kind to me and others, and looking right into my soul with those eyes of his, I missed a step. I almost tripped.

You know what kept me from tripping? He’s a married man. Doesn’t God just work in mysterious ways? He saved me from butterflies!

I called the fire department to come extinguish the tiny spark, as soon as I got to know there was a Mrs. A drop of water could have done the job, but I wasn’t going to take chances, just had to call the fire department to do their thing.

Did you notice I didn’t add that he has a smart mind? Could it mean that intelligence isn’t the most important thing to me? Or maybe that was just an exception. I didn’t get to have lots of conversations with him, but he sure is a very sensible man. He listened, and was open minded. I won’t be surprised to find out he’s a very intelligent one.

I wish I could elaborate on how the eyes of these men affected me, just so it makes sense to you. There’s nothing extraordinary about their eye colour or shape, it’s just the depth those eyes carry. I could stare and just drown in them, and feel understood, without uttering a word. I think the thing about people with soulful eyes is that they are by default, kind people.

It’s funny how the similarities between these men didn’t end at just soulful eyes and kind hearts. They are both sinfully handsome; have beautiful voices that can make you confess things you didn’t do; have smiles that make you wonder what the face of God looks like; both men are tall; and they both have the ability to make me feel very special and vulnerable— must be how they looked at me with those piercing eyes, which I believe is the same way they looked at others. Eyes that made me wish I had big dark sunshades worn over my eyes, to deny them access to my soul.

So! I guess it’s safe to say, I cannot be totally trusted around men with soulful eyes, cos I may trip, and break a hip.

My shades may deny them access to my soul, but may not save me from tripping.

I guess it’s also safe to say, I know exactly what to settle for, now. This, dear patient reader, was the revelation. Just have soulful eyes, a heart full of compassion, and a smart head on your neck, I might just propose to you with a bunch of wild flowers, and a diamond ring. Oops! I forgot to mention, they both had good personal hygiene practices. That too, is very important.

Now that I’ve shared with you, my big revelation, do you think I’m out of my mind? Do you share with me, the belief that the eyes are doors to one’s soul?

Do not hesitate to drop your comment, and let me know what you think.