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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.

Expectations for 2021

Life Random 10 Comments

I had just come back into my room, after lighting up some fireworks and knockouts when it struck me that bad as twendy twendy had been, lots of people are really grateful and positive. ‘How did you come to this conclusion?’ You may wonder. Fireworks! Knockouts! Okay. I’ll make this make sense. I don’t think anyone without gratitude and hope, would spend money on fireworks, or stay up till 12am, just for the ceremony of knocking out twendy twenty. And o boy! I tell you, the amount of knockouts and fire works that have gone into the sky, leaves me with a certainty that while 2020 may have been the ‘dreary year,’ it was also one of hope.

Did I have resolutions for 2020? No. But I did have plans which were ruined by the pandemic. I’ve lost a whole academic year, all thanks to ‘Coloma vilus.’ Twendy twendy, was my closest to being depressed. The first few months were blessings to me, I got to spend a lot of lone time; gave my body and soul proper care; loved myself more; found my be-you-ty-full; I found friends in four beautiful ladies that were just acquaintances, before the lockdown.

A few months later, I felt my life was stagnant; no school, no job, no skill, nothing! It bothered me that an extra year in school was being shoved down my neck, and that my mother still had to give me daily allowance. Ah mean, am I back in my past? Am I still 13? Unfortunately, that was my reality. A sugar mummy like me, still collecting money for snacks and whatever, everyday. And then came the End SARS movement, that was the straw that broke the Carmel’s back. I was very livid about the whole situation, it got me feeling helpless, coupled with the helplessness from the uncertainties the future holds. I love to be in control of my life, but Covid-19, Nigerian government and leaders, and ASUU said, ‘Not this year, madam I-love-to-be-in-control.’

A whole lot of terrible things happened (there were good things too, no doubt), I can’t even list them all. Luckily, I’ve been blessed with the gift of happiness and contentment. Despite all the setbacks and chaos, I chose to be happy and not be weighed down. Though I let myself feel other emotions that isn’t related to happiness, I always found room for happiness. I always found a reason to smile— the radiant moon, dressed in her glamorous golden robe, with silver linings; people that genuinely love me and constantly remind me, with their actions; my fine ass low maintenace hair and skin; the wild but charmingly clothed flowers; my goofiness; my oxygen, my mother; my sweet siblings, and family, generally. These are just some, out of many reasons I had, to smile. Twendy twendy wanted me to drown in misery, but little did it know that I’m garri, I can’t be drowned, I’ll only rise to become bigger.

Now, I’m lying in my bed, writing this, in the year world people say is 2021, with no resolutions or expectations. After all, Coloma is still very much around, and we still have the same government. While I do not have expectations, I can only hope that this year is better and that God heals those that were wounded or scarred in twendy twendy.

We breathe in positivity here, no bad vibes or energy. Amen? Cheers to soaring above all negativity.

Is this the point where I wish you, my very dear reader, a happy new year, not minding that we’re in the second week already? Anyway, tell me, do you have expectations for 2021? I want to hear it all.

It’s A Hard Knock Life For Us…

Life Nature Random 7 Comments

I’m back again with my “weird” thoughts. Are you ready for the spill? Ready or not, I’m spilling anyway.

I had just had my night bath, and was using my deodorant that smells like a blend of exotic flowers, just for the sake of smelling nice. And I thought, “it would be nice to actually have a fragrance unique to me alone, like flowers” (let’s all pretend we don’t know most flowers smell like God-forbid). Then I went farther to think of the kind of flower I’d be, if I were to be one.

Now, here’s where the real gist starts– That’s how my mind travelled back to certain events and times when I’d wish I was something else , other than a human, like days when my gender and the other gender won’t stop their endless and sometimes meaningless war; or days when the amount of evil in the world overwhelms me.

While most, think animals, trees and other objects have life easier for them, you may want to listen to what I have to say, and tell me afterwards, if you still think the same way.

Has it ever occurred to you that animals have their own personal and “family” problems to think of too? Animals, like us, do not always have things easy; they starve, they look for food, and they fight one another to get it, when it’s in limited supply; they call it survival of the fittest in Biology. Most animals are hustlers, come sunshine or rainfall, they’re hustling. Most don’t even have proper shelter. You may want to argue that they’re animals and were built for suffer-head, I’ll let you have that.

There’s also this constant fear of the unknown. Let’s use birds– fowl, as our case study. You see how they jump out of their feathers, at the slightest noise, especially hens with chicks. Why the constant fear? Of course, it’s cos of the predators year and dear (here and there). There’s the hawk to worry about, there’s the dog, not to mention the slick snake, and many others. And there’s us too! You didn’t think I would forget. Right?

Sadly for them, It’s that time of the year, where many are victims of our cravings. May their souls, undeserving of such cruelty, rest in peace.

You know, I honestly can’t stand the sight of animals being slaughtered, but I pretend to have amnesia, when it’s time to consume the final product. I’m sorry, I love meat too much to not take part in such grave sin. Being vegetarian has crossed my mind several times, considering the fact that I’m a big fan of veges, and fruits too, but e go hard o. I’m sure the souls of the departed animals, slaughtered for my sake, will understand; man must chop.

If we must be fair, we shouldn’t be eating plants too. They too, are living things, remember? Difference is, they don’t have blood and they aren’t mobile. So las las, all of us are murderers. That leaves you with no right to judge me.

I am still giving you reasons why I think animals don’t have life easier, right? Okay.

While it may seem like animals have a shorter life span than humans, have you ever stopped to think that a month to us might be equivalent to a year to them? So you can’t really say they’re quickly relieved of their sufferings, compared to humans that have to deal with it for many years, especially when suicide isn’t an option.

Excuse you, if you’re thinking “oh, they don’t have to deal with pressure or harassment from men” or “there’s no pressure on them to be macho and to impress na,” my dear! Think again, or better still, find yourself some goats and fowls, and observe them for a week. I assure you, you won’t think the same again.

There are a whole lot of other things, including those I’m not aware of, because I can’t observe them all and because I’m not an animal, so I can’t exactly think like them. I can only imagine.

I remember little curious me always observing those big brown ants on fruit trees; soldier ants, with the ones with very big heads positioned in front and at the back of the long lines; butterflies competing with flowers; earthworms wiggling (though the sight nauseated me. Still does); snails shying away from a touch; real life glow-in-the-dark– fireflies, lighting up the night;… I can go on and on. These things fascinated me.

There were times I told God I’d love to be an ant for a day, hoping he’d really answer, cos you know, nothing is too insignificant or impossible for him. Why the stupid wish? I really just admired how they cooperated and looked out for one another. How an ant would go get help for an injured or dead ant, with so much anxiety and panic. How they weren’t selfish, and would call out to other ants excitedly, at the sight of their daily bread or in some cases, manner from heaven. I really wanted to be them for a day; to see what their house underneath the ground looked like. Did they have duplexes? Did they have bedrooms, storage rooms, sitting rooms, and dinning rooms like us– humans? Did they have estates and palaces? Was there a social class? How deep was the hole in which they built their homes? Was it close to hell fire?

One day, I woke up, and didn’t want that anymore, cos I thought, what if I got killed as an ant, the day I become one. What would my poor mother do? Who would tell my story? That was when I stopped really wishing to be any other thing or person that isn’t me. Note that I said “stopped really wishing”, not like I totally stopped wishing. I still do, it’s just never that serious.

I was one hell of a curious child, and I can’t really say I’ve changed much– but this isn’t the point here. Don’t lose concentration.

With these few points of mine, I hope I’ve been able to convince, and not confuse you, that animals, plants and others, have life just as hard, if not harder. Wahala for who refuse to get convinced o, and wahala for who confuse.

Drop your comments and tell me what you think…

PS: Being a bush plant must be hard; all that feces and rubbish flung at them, shotput style… They don’t even eat meat! Oh. They do, but never mind… I don’t envy them one bit.

Why Birthdays Are Meh For Me

Life Random 31 Comments

Go! Go! Go shawty! It’s your birthday, we gon party hard, cos it’s your birthday… Lol. Okay. That’s the farthest I can go with the lyrics of 50 Cent’s hit song. A groovy song that sets you in the mood to party silly and hard on your birthday. Unfortunately, the song never works its magic on me; I’m never excited about my birthdays. Birthdays are a reminder of my setbacks, a reminder that things didn’t work out as planned, a reminder that I’m getting old, without achieving any of my very big dreams which sometimes scare me.

On my birthdays, I’m always thankful for the gift of life, and at the same time, moody. I’m usually very reflective and sober. Most times, I want to be alone but the people who love me, despite my flaws, never allow me be sober for long. They flood me with love on my special day. Love so overwhelming, till the point I shed some tears— happy ones.

When did this lack of excitement start? Since I clocked eighteen. Not like I was ever a birthday person. Before eighteen, all I always wanted was to be treated specially (no punishment, no scolding, no hard labour… Just pampering) and prayed for on my special day. Nothing more, nothing less. Good thing is, my birthday was usually during the long break from school— I owe fate for that. There were times I forgot my birthday on my birthday (please, don’t roll your eyes at me. Shit happens).

Before I officially became an adult, I had my life mapped out. Here’s what it looked like;

Graduate from secondary school at 16-17.

Get into a higher institution at 17-18, cos you know, smart pants, acing my exams at one sitting shouldn’t be a problem.

Get my first boyfriend in my 3rd year at 20, or after university at 21-22 depending on whether I studied Agric or Nursing.

Finish service at 22-23.

Get a job immediately after service, work for a while to attain financial independence before getting another degree, cos you know, all that brain can’t be wasted.

Make my first million before I’m 25. Own a nice home and car before I’m 30.

Get married to my one and only boyfriend (worst case, third boyfriend cos you know, life happens) at 27-35.

Have four kids and adopt two.

Build my mama a school and others…

Occupy a top position in my field. Be a model for young girls and teenagers in general. Own an NGO. Make an impact in the world and have my name written in the sands of time.

Life looking at me like, “guuurl, where in the happily-ever-after do you think you are?”

Looking back at my ridiculous list, I find it laughable. I must have thought life was just in black and white. I didn’t think I’d have many challenges. So you see, why I totally stopped being excited about my birthdays after 18, is cos I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, and I hated that I wasn’t in control.

Once upon a time, I would confidently share my age with those who asked and I got comments like “you’re very wise for your age”, “you’re such an old soul”, “you act and look older than your age”. Such comments acted as confidence boost, and left me always pleased.

What about now? Except I’m comfortable with you, I just tell you I’m in my early twenties cos I think it’s stupid to lie about it. Truth be told, most times, I have to deduct my birth year from the present year to get my present age. Yes, it’s that bad, and for three years straight, I kept thinking I clocked 18 on my last birthday. Tragic, right? And Just when I was gradually beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel cos you know, one more year and I’ll be done with school, Covid-19 happened, and ASUU decided to add some toppings with their strike. How perfect! Anyways, all I know is that I’m deducting this year from my age and I won’t be disclosing my age freely, until I complete my first degree program, and I’m financially independent.

Well, well. I’ll make deliberate effort to be excited about my birthday, next year. So help me God. I might just end up taking special birthday pictures too, and maybe for once, friends won’t have to stress, digging out pics from the last decade to celebrate me with. Lord knows how many of my potential customers they’ve sent off with some of those embarrassing pictures (which I honestly find cute and funny)… In case you’re wondering what service it is I offer, I offer backbone services. I can be your backbone, if you’re invertebrate. My services are for men only, PLEASE!

To my star girl, Nkechinyere, thank you for being my ginger and for infecting me with your excitement for my birthdays. You’re the reason I have more birthday cake pictures than I’d have had. Thanks for the peppered chicken and chocolate that year.

And that concludes my story of why I’m never excited about my birthdays. Who else can relate to my story? What do you think of birthdays? Do you find them overrated? Feel free to drop your comments.

Reincarnation— A Myth or Reality?

Life Nature Random Spirituality 19 Comments

I’m sort of restless again, tonight. It happens to be one of those nights when I can’t stop thinking of certain things. Reincarnation is what is on my mind now. This isn’t a first, and I’m very certain it won’t be the last.

I was having a bath when the thought of the Oba of Bini and the Ooni of Ife attacked me. For reasons unknown to me, I’ve always been attracted to their respective palaces, though I’ve never been privileged to visit any. I’m almost convinced I have some kind of connection to the two royal homes. It feels like I have history with them. And it could just be my love for their rich history that is giving me ideas.

My train of thought took me from trying to understand my obsession with the Bini and Ife palace, to reincarnation.

I very much believe in reincarnation, though my religion and faith doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as that. I guess it’s cos it contradicts the “theory” of judgement, heaven, and hell. As a result, I don’t get to really talk about it. Though the topic interests me very much, I try not to dwell much on it, whenever it sneaks into my head, cos who will I have the conversation with?

I believe life is a cycle, that we die and return through a different body, without having to await judgment. Now, I’m not limiting reincarnation to Iyabode and Babatunde/Babajide. This includes people who die and are reborn into families that were kind to them in their previous life. It includes people who are reborn into any body of their choice, without necessarily having history in their past life with their new family.

While there may be no physical resemblance to our last being, there is usually a resemblance of character, I believe. In some cases, some return as what they couldn’t be in their previous life but swore to be in their next —when they were in their previous life (I hope this isn’t confusing). Our lifestyle in the past and the things we swore to be, influences how we act and what we become in our present life. While these aren’t facts but my assumptions based on stories and observations, I believe them to be true.

For instance, I think I was betrayed in my last life by someone or people very close to me, people I trusted, most likely through food poisoning. This is because of how distrustful I’ve always been of almost everyone but my mom—News flash: I’m more relaxed now. Hurray!— I’m talking of before I had enough sense to start making decisions. As a very little child, I only ate my mother’s food, I never accepted food from any other person, whether packaged or cooked, whether from family or friend. I only agreed to eat or drink, after my mother assures me it’s safe, by tasting it first, in my presence. I remember cos I, surprisingly, still have some memories of those times, and cos my mom told and still tells me of how some, accused her of instructing me to not accept food from them, and how she’d ask them how a baby like me would understand that even if she gave such instruction.

I feel whatever happened in my past life has influenced how much I expect from people. I don’t, and have never expected a lot from people, so that when they disappoint me, I won’t be caught off guard and be destabilized. No matter how much I trust a person, I always leave a very tiny room for disappointment.

Again, this is just me dropping one of the many things that fill my head. No research done, just me pouring my thoughts on you. And I’d like for you to flood me with your thoughts, in return, like I’m your Lekki.

What do you think of reincarnation? A myth or a reality? Please, drop your thoughts in the comment section.

Religion Is Sexist?

Life Random Spirituality 8 Comments

I met her when I was 12, we fell in love almost immediately. We had a deep connection and shared a mutual knowledge of this connection without really speaking about it. It was a mother-daughter love, a love so deep, my life was turned around, I became a better person. I really wanted to make her happy, so I became more obedient and less rebellious, started to do my house chores at the right time, I got closer to God. Call it the power of love. Even my mother used it to “blackmail” me.

At 13, I was very sure I was going into the religious life. I wanted to be just like her, and maybe someday, meet a young girl and transform her for better. I wanted to be like her, with hopes that I’ll be able to pour out all my love to children and teenagers, since I won’t have mine to channel them to. I had hopes that I’d smile at children, and they’d see God smiling at them. I made a strong resolve, to be a reverend sister, or nothing. I considered being a Dr. Rev. Sr too. I thought I could study medicine and use my knowledge and experience to help people as a reverend sister.

Guess who was having none of that— my dear mother! I was one very strong willed girl. We argued, we fought, we talked, yet, I was hell bent on going to a convent after secondary school. After several intense arguments, I said, If God willed, I’ll be professed, and if not, I’ll be sent back home, while she insisted God was never going to will it.

According to my non-Catholic mum, sisters take an oath of poverty and everlasting suffering. She went further to say she’d have left me to be a priest if I was male cos she’d be rest assured that I’d have parishioners to take care of me, and to be the family I wouldn’t have. Please, take note that this was just a myopic view, based on the impressions she saw. She saw sisters as sufferheads, and she wasn’t going to suffer for me, sweat blood and water, only for me to end up a “suffer head,” have a romance with poverty and still not give her grand children on top that.

Prior to her statement, and meeting Sister Immaculata, I always fancied being a priest, dressed in my perfectly pressed robe, on the altar, offering gifts to the Lord; chanting and singing prayers; breaking bread and repeating the words said at the last supper; spreading out my arms gingerly as I invoke blessings on my congregation; sprinkling the Holy water, with a proud tilt of my head as I look at my congregation and a warm smile on my purified face; walking, like Jesus walked on the troubled sea like it was nothing, during recession, and placing my hands on little and blameless children who’d see me as Jesus or an angel in flesh and blood, as they hug me. So, when my mother made the statement about priests having more privileges like being able to own a car, and having parishioners to cater for them, I became angry and thought life was unfair to women. But I didn’t really mind at that point, I just wanted to live and share in the life of sister Immaculata.

Now 14, with sister Immaculata taken far away from me, to a foreign country, I was left with only memories of her, which are some of my most cherished memories, by the way. I still wanted to go into the religious life. At this age, I was fortunate to have known some smart philosophers with whom I had enlightening conversations and arguments.

One of such, was about I how thought religion was sexist. I gave several reasons and instances. Mind you, by religion, I wasn’t referring to just Christianity or the church, though I later narrowed down my argument to the Catholic church. If you’re thinking one of my arguments was of women not being allowed to be priests, you’re right! That was my major argument.

While still into the argument, my adult friend asked if I was a feminist cos I behaved like one, from his observations of our past and current conversations. I didn’t give a definite answer, my response was “I guess I am,” cos I wasn’t sure of who a feminist was but I just knew it had something to do with females and supporting females and for reasons I don’t know, I didn’t ask for the meaning. That was unsual, not asking a question when I do not know. I guess I was more interested in continuing our argument, than finding out the meaning of feminist, since I was pretty sure my assumption wasn’t far from the actual meaning.

The first thing I did after that conversation/argument, was pick up my dictionary. I looked up the word “feminist” and smiled with satisfaction at the definition and said to myself, I am a feminist, I believe women and men should be given equal opportunities to be whatever they want, cos no gender is greater or lesser then the other, no gender is inferior or superior to the other. It was from that day I wore my feminist badge in my heart, little did I know that it was an actual movement and a very big deal, and that years later, people would redefine it to suit their agenda and make me ask myself if I still want to wear the badge. I guess it’s a till death do us part thing.

If you started out, reading this piece, hoping to find a totally different content, sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t write to give one thousand and five reasons why I think religion is sexist or not, I wrote to share my story and to know your thoughts on religion and sexism.

Don’t hesitate to give your two cents in the comment section, please.

The Thing About Hugs and Handshakes

Hygiene Random 29 Comments

“Next year babe, but I actually wan resume, so I go fit dey hug you after mass 😩😩.”

Those were my guy, Gbenga’s words to me on a Sunday morning. The plan was to have the message put up on bill boards and sign boards, just to let the world know someone misses my healing hug; probably my biggest achievement in years. Well, I changed my mind and decided against it, cos you know what they say about pride. I don’t want to end up like the president’s daughter; a character in one of the many children literature books my mother got me as a child.

Instead of broadcasting, I decided to do some reflection, on how I transitioned from being an anti-hug and anti-handshake person, to being one who’d always reach out for a hug in greeting. This is one of the things I actually miss about my church on campus.

Before University, I was one who avoided hugs. I’d only hug those who I considered special. Explaining to people why I’d rather make out with the wild wind than hug them was stressful, cos humans usually aren’t satisfied with the “because I don’t want to” answer.

The major reasons I avoided hugs are;

  • I was not a preacher of love.

I didn’t like any form of public display of affection(PDA). I didn’t even know how to show my excitement when I saw people I missed after a long time. I still don’t know how to. Hugging, just felt like a very socially awkward thing to do.

  • I was suffering, and still suffer from Obsessive compulsive disorder(OCD).

    I was overly conscious of my appearance, especially in my school uniform which was a white shirt and green skirt, and any white cloth at all. A crease on my perfectly ironed and glossy skirt would ruin my mood for the whole day. It mattered a lot to me, to the extent that I mastered the art of sitting, without a crease appearing on my skirt. I could go a week without ironing my skirt (only when power holding company decides to hold power), and there’d be no crease at all. What about my white shirt? Oh lord! Mistakenly get me stained, and see hell let loose. So you see? I wasn’t willing to risk my immaculate look for a hug that probably wasn’t even genuine. For the few times I hugged, my eyes would immediately look in the direction of where the hugger’s hands or face rested; it was a reflex action for me. Put the blame on OCD.

    On days when I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid hugs, like days when there’d be an announcement of a win or some sort of commendation, I’d wear my green woven sweater over my white shirt. It didn’t matter if hell’s gate was left ajar. What’s shedding a few buckets of body fluid for a sparkling white shirt? Nothing!

    As for handshakes, I think I was more anti-handshake than anti-hug. This is cos I have trust issues. I mean, I don’t know where your hands have been, but I know for sure that some are allergic to water. So, shaking hands anyhow was very risky, I wasn’t willing to put my sanity at risk. I was already comfortable with the “proud” and “snob” tag. A few more meant nothing. I had just few people I could trust, people who took hygiene quite seriously; the only ones I could comfortably shake, without putting my sanity at risk.

    Fast forward to years later, I’d exchange hugs and handshakes with about almost half of the school’s population. Just imagine! Let me tell you my little secret, I enjoy the hugs, especially when the person being hugged smells nice; very calming…don’t tell anyone I said this, it’s a secret.

    As for the shakes, hmmmm. It wasn’t so bad, since I have a habit of always washing my hands, until one day! Hmmm! A very terrible day. My innocent eyes saw terrible things.

    I was jejely walking to God-knows-where from a lecture hall, when I saw this dude (most likely an Awo hall guy) blowing his nose furiously and with reckless abandon, with his bare hand. In my mind, I was praying he’d miraculously bring out some water, from I-don’t-care-where, to wash his hands. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. All I could do was cringe and make a disgusted face. Guess what happened few seconds later… This guy used this same desecrated hand to shake an unsuspecting friend. It wasn’t a light shake, fam! At that point, my soul must have left my body for a split second, I just simply could not can.

    I started to have flashbacks of all the people I’d exchanged handshakes with, from birth to that very moment. It was a traumatizing experience for me. I got back to my room and washed my hands like I was trying to wash away the sins of the whole world. Just so you know, I noticed the world became a better place, hours after my cleansing ritual. I guess ‘Lamb of God II” would be a befitting name for me.

    I had another tragic experience, and I’m not about to go into details. Now, almost every time a male stretches his hand for a shake, I can’t help but wonder if he washed his hands after guiding his little man to pass out some unwanted fluid. You can put the blame on men who don’t wash their hands after using the restroom. Thank you!

    I’m already exhausted from thinking of the many unsacred hands we get to shake everyday.

    I haven’t stopped shaking people sha. You know why? Cos In 2019, my mentor, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, said, and I quote; “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.”

    How do you feel about hugs and handshakes? Kindly share your thoughts.

    Forgive, But Do Not Forget

    Life Random 14 Comments

    “Forgive and forget” is a very common phrase used among Nigerians, especially the religious ones. From being a little girl to being the young woman I am now, I’ve heard different opinions and explanations, but I’m yet to hear or see one who has same opinion as I, on the matter. If I have, I do not recollect.

    Here’s what I think;

    We have memories for different reasons, one of them being; to guide our future decisions. If we keep on forgiving and literally forgetting every sin against us, we’d never learn from our past mistakes, and will keep repeating the mistake of letting people step on our necks.

    In the context used, I believe “forget” simply means “Dude, if you want to live long and have good skin and healthy hair, let go of the anger and bad energy this person’s offence caused you. Let go of the malicious feeling and be assured unlimited supply of uncontaminated oxygen.” And not “Dude, press delete and erase every memory of this person pissing in your mouth. Open your mouth again to be pissed in. Rinse and repeat.”

    Imagine a life where everyone forgets the sins against them, there would be no tales to tell, and no moral lessons to learn from. The rate of ruined lives would be drastically high. No, I don’t like this picture I’m seeing.

    So you know what I say? Forgive, forget to be angry, for your peace of mind (only if it matters to you. If not, you may stay angry), but do not forget the lesson(s) learnt. Once bitten, twice shy. Right? If you forgive and wipe off the memory, how would you know you’ve been once bitten?

    Also, I don’t think you can say you’ve truly forgiven, without forgetting the bad energy. Personally, I can only say I’ve forgiven you when I see you or think of you, and I don’t think evil or feel anger towards you. I most likely wouldn’t remember your offence(s) immediately, without being reminded. And if I do, there’d be no malicious feeling or anger felt. Me remembering, would only keep me alert, to not give you a chance to bite me again.

    Luckily, forgiveness comes very easily from me. In fact, I think I forgive way too easily, without making the offenders earn it, and sometimes, I wonder if it is a bad thing. But my good skin and healthy hair kicks me out of my doubts. If you’ve ever wondered what my skin and hair secret is; you’ve gotten a cheat, and you’re welcome.

    What is your interpretation of the saying, ” forgive and forget”?

    Please, let me know your thoughts. I’m eager to know.