Posts in Random

A Story of Art Meeting Art

Beauty Random Uncategorized March 31, 2023 16 Comments

Art. It makes the world worth living. Art in forms of paintings, writing, fashion, music, and nature. Art in human form. That’s right. Every form of art makes life worth living. I am obsessed with art, so it isn’t surprising that I am also a beautiful piece of it. “You are what you’re attracted to.” –Ekata, 2023. But I beg you, quote me at your own risk. I shall not be held responsible for the ridicule you may attract.

For the first time in my 73 years of schooling here, I attended a proper social function. You know why? It was all about the arts! I was super excited when my friend shared the flyer with me, asking if I’d be free. Of course, I would. It didn’t matter that I had to put work on hold. We are talking about art and music fusion. For free, for that matter. Hell, yes! I was free.

I arrived the event looking like one of the exhibits, registered, and got in to feed my eyes and soul with some creations human with just one head like me made.

As I walked around waiting for the acts to begin their performances, I stumbled upon some artists painting a couple of people’s faces. I thought those people were models for the event, so I sat and admired them, wishing I could have my face painted too. I was impressed by a particular young man’s painting; I had to compliment him and the model.

When I noticed people from planets away approaching the artist, whom I had complimented, to have their faces painted, I was like, “Enhen?! Before my eyes?” I was forced to go ask him if anyone could have their face painted, and I got a positive answer. Without thinking, I asked if I could get one. So I waited my turn with the excitement of a child. I even caught myself bouncing.

While waiting, Ekata, the worrier, showed up. You know what her concerns were? “What if my skin reacts to their paint and breaks out?” “But I haven’t taken good pictures yet. If I get to paint my face now and I find someone to take my pictures later, I’ll be left with only pictures of me with painting.” Ekata, the art lover, instantly shut the worrier up with irritation.

It was finally my turn. “Just do anything you think would fit my face,” I told the artist. With a smile of acknowledgement, the artist held my face gingerly and started to paint, but there was a problem. He was really struggling to paint smoothly. “Your face is oily,” he said, looking concerned. Of course, it was expected since I splashed 21 litres of coconut oil on my face and whole body before the event.

Thankfully, I had a small towel in my purse, so I took it out, wiped the part he was trying to paint on, and made the devil weep. Of course, it’s always better to blame the devil than the actual culprit.

So we go again, he holds my face with the gentleness of a lover and begins to paint, and my heart starts to bla-bla-blu. He suddenly felt too close to me, and it began to feel like we had been on it for hours. At some point, I think my heart crawled to my cheeks, then to my eyes, and back to its original position.

Minutes (it was probably seconds) into the painting, I let out a smile that I had been holding back for fear of ruining the process and let him know I was really nervous. He gave back a knowing smile, like he could sense the several bombs ticking off in my body and told me I had no reason to be. I was slightly embarrassed when he smiled back and wondered what he was thinking.

I had always known I wouldn’t make a great face model, but I became more confident at that moment. I don’t know how to be still. I can be a shaky-shaky auntie, especially when work is being done around my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I was helplessly in love with this lovely young man because what happened at that moment is precisely how Silhouette and Harlequin books would describe a scene between potential lovers trying to mask their true emotions.

When he finally finished painting my face, he proceeded to paint my arm as I requested. Guess what I got. A flame-like painting, as the queen of flames that I am. When he finished, I thanked him for the painting and asked for a picture with him. I should have asked for his phone number or Instagram handle too. I totally loved both paintings. Anyway, I went on to enjoy the rest of the activities, feeling like the finest piece of art in the room cos “new painting, new me.”

I watched a talented artist do some live drawings of random people, took in the spoken word poetry performed to open the event, and was blown away by the dance performances—which got me teary at some point—the music performances, and the bands.

***The artist, his muse, and his art.***

While thoroughly enjoying the performances by one of the bands/instrumentalists, the gbedu fully entered my body. I found my rhythmless self moving energetically to Lagbaja’s Konko Below. Can you believe it? I forgot to be shy or conscious. That should tell you how much I enjoyed my time at the event. To think that I almost gave in to the urge to stay in bed, away from the sun. It would have taken me 27 years to forgive myself. It was indeed a day to remember.

Special thanks to Aggie for the invitation. May your life always be colourful and exciting.

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?”

The Year I Bonded With a Beast

Life Random January 1, 2022 10 Comments

I need to put this on record; I need all and sundry to know that 2021 is the year I got to finally let myself trust a beast.

I met Simon on Christmas day. Our relationship went from “hold your dog. Don’t let him come near me…I love dogs, but from afar. I don’t trust them” to “hello, Simon. Did you miss me? Good boy!” While patting his head or letting him have my fingers in his mouth. The transition happened within a space of two or three days. This right here, is what I call growth. Probably my most significant growth in 2021. My dad must be really proud cos the last of his offspring finally bonded with at least one dog in her lifetime (man was a huge dog person and owned quite a number).

Can you believe I trust that white furry beast, enough to let it eat from my hand and lick it? Of course, you can. Why wouldn’t you? I just said I let it playfully bite my fingers —”while letting him have my fingers in his mouth.” Best part of having a dog as friend is the burst of excitement when it sights you. Oh my! Makes you feel like the best thing to have happened to the universe.

There’s been some other growth and beautiful experiences this year. I started a saving plan with Cowrywise on my birthday, in August—oh, my. This one is really hard. It takes a lot of discipline to be consistent, considering that I have no stable source of income. I just saved for the month of December and it took a whole lot of strength to do. The amount I save monthly is probably a friend’s daily feeding allowance, but trust me, taking that sum aside made me feel feverish. My only cure right now is credit alerts upon credit alerts.

In addition, I eventually got comfortable with twenty-five (could be better); interned in a company of my choice, an international one; made good connections; and I got my first paid writing job too…I could go on and on, but I won’t.

About the writing job, it started with this beautiful young lady, of whom I’m a fan, sliding into my DM on WhatsApp and asking, like two thousand and twenty one others before her have, “Soniaaaaa, do you take content writing jobs?” My heart first did a quick leap as in a contemporary dance, before I could give an answer— it leaped out of anxiety, not joy. I was about to give my usual flat “no,” but you know that saying by Chinua Achebe, that a sparkling clean bank account is the beginning of wisdom? That happened to me. The state of my bank account spoke to me “ji, ma sun!” and it pushed me to modify my usual response to a “I don’t, but I could.”

You’re probably thinking if that was necessary. I mean, I could have just said yes cos “fake it until you make it.” No? Let’s just say I gave that response cos honesty is important to me and partly because I was giving her a chance to walk away and go find an experienced professional writer. Why would I do that? Well, well, I guess we have imposter syndrome to blame. It’s crazy, considering the fact that I’ve been doing free jobs for friends.

As the universe would have it, the job was mine to execute, cos why else would my client (this feels good to say) just say “oh,
greaaaaatttt!” and trust me with the job?

I eventually got the job done and got my pay. I even got tipped. You know what that tip did to my confidence, ehn? Oh la-la! In other news, guys, I’m available to accept writing jobs. You know, with that money I earned, I could have been a land owner on Banana Island and acquired some properties in Maldives, but I chose not to, cos I honestly can’t deal with harassment from EFCC right now.

If I had to award one month most generous month of the year, it would be December: My first writing gig was in December. I met and bonded with Simon in December; got the most credit alerts; had my first ever karaoke; learnt to play Monopoly; let myself drink more than a glass of wine outside my home… In short, I let my wings spread wide in December.

While I may not have had what most consider a major breakthrough, I’m very thankful for the little wins which are big to me. Overall, 2021 was good to me. I’m even more positive about 2022.

Happy New Year, dearly beloved readers. You’re the reason I write. Thank you for always listening.

While we drink to a prosperous 2022, don’t forget to bring gigs—especially ones that would give me Elon’s kind of wealth. I’m just one mail away.

The Twenty-ninth Day of Christmas

Life Random December 29, 2021 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.

Sugar-Daddy Magnet

Life Random July 26, 2021 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 July 8, 2021 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 April 5, 2021 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.

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 March 19, 2021 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 March 3, 2021 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.