Women, Sexuality, Men; The truth we hate to think of.

I would love to borrow this long quote:

"We teach girls to shrink themselves
To make themselves smaller
We say to girls
'You can have ambition
But not too much
You should aim to be successful
But not too successful
Otherwise you will threaten the man'
Because I am female
I am expected to aspire to marriage
I am expected to make my life choices
Always keeping in mind that
Marriage is the most important
Now marriage can be a source of
Joy and love and mutual support
But why do we teach to aspire to marriage
And we don't teach boys the same?
We raise girls to each other as competitors
Not for jobs or for accomplishments
Which I think can be a good thing
But for the attention of men
We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings
In the way that boys are" - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie


This brings us to the topic; women and their need for male approval.

90% of the time a woman stays in the mirror to preen and look good. She is trying to impress one or several men. She wants to look good so that she can be admired (most of the time in a sexual manner). This isn't something a girl sits down to decide. Somehow it's like that.
Most women expect to be treated differently because they are women. They want to buy favours by batting their eyelashes. They want preferential treatment because they are fine. And, the day a girl would take her time, dress up and apply all the make up she can lay her hands on, and no boy walks up to her and asks for her number, or nobody even admires her, there would be trouble.


So many times a girls self confidence can be measured by the amount of male attention she gets. A girl who isn't naturally too pretty tends to suffer from serious inferiority complex, and one who is fine even though she is dumb, is all puffy and proud because boys tell her she is fine (as if she is God that created herself).





It is the truth that our brain shuts down to. That women have been objectified as sexual beings. No matter how successful you are, there is that heaviness in your back that brings you down to just being a woman, nothing else.
Especially in Nigeria, men here are quick to say 'she is a woman'. That alone is enough to excuse or trivialise anything you do.

There isn't much we can do about this situation. If a woman decides to find her own voice, she is doing an abominable thing. You must come under the canopy of a man. It's what it is. That's the way it has always been. But is that the way it should be?

We are first human beings, before we are women. Before you think 'Ha! She is a woman'. First treat her like a human being. Don't go to a table surrounded by guys, and shake hands with all of them and ignore the lady sitting there too. Because she is a lady or because something in your screwed up head doesn't think she also deserves a hand shake . Not only is it improper, it is disgusting and galling.


Men and women have different roles to play. And for all these roles, God has given us tools to handle them. If a woman tries to play the role of a man, it becomes irritating and vice versa.


Men and women are equal. We were created equal, but just differently. For the people that think that a man is the head of the house. Remember, the head rarely controls the heart.

WE NEED A PIECE OF MADIBA

"Heal the world, make it a better place, for you and for me and the entire human race" - Michael Jackson

When the lights go off, and the curtains are closed. When you are asked off the stage, and your name wiped off the cast. What will you have achieved? What will you leave behind? Will you die with a smile on your face or a frown? Will people shake their heads and move on. Or will they cry and wish you to come back. Will you have wasted God's time and yours?
Am guessing your parents will cry and your siblings. Maybe few of your friends will update their bbm and twitter and write "What a shock! Rip my dear friend. Life is cruel". But what else?
These were the questions I asked myself during Madiba's ten days memorial ceremony. And I think everyone should do the same.
Life is empty, worthless, meaningless, pointless without Love. It was the love Madiba had for his fellow South Africans that made him fight tooth and nail for their freedom. Madiba did a superhuman thing. It would have been impossible for apartheid to end without massive bloodshed if not for Madiba (look at the lifes we lost during the Biafran war which was fought between us Nigerians, imagine if we were fighting people who weren't Nigerians. People who came into our country, stripped us off our rights, our dignity, and our sense of belonging? Trust me it would have been way bloody).
But Madiba in his supernatural way ended the apartheid. Freed so many South Africans from the shackles of slavery. Madiba gave hope to others selflessly. He fought for humanity, and he was ready to die.
Madiba was humble. He was principled. He was a good man, who believed in forgiveness and love.
A man that spent 27 years of his life in prison for what he believed in. And in those 27 years never was there a time that he decided to bend. He knew what he wanted for his people and he achieved it.
We should all emulate Madiba. Let's begin with our personal lifes. We should rise above jealousy, anger, hate. We should fight for what is right and stand by it at all times. We should always ask: Is true? Is it fair? Will it be beneficial to all concerned? Will it bring goodwill and better friendship?
We should seek at all times to be like Madiba. Rise up against injustice. Ditch the "chop alone" mentality. Don't be useful to yourself and family alone. Reach out to people. If you can't give money, give a smile, give a word of encouragement or even a listening ear. Let selfless love flow out of you. It takes practice, hard work, and determination. Just today, do a little something for someone you don't know. If we can have a piece of Madiba in Nigeria then we are on a short walk to happiness.

HOW SHE DIED

Her gaze lingered on the back of his shirt as he strolled to the door. Her hands grabbed the sofa seat desperately. She knew he was going to see that woman, even though he lied that he was going to see his friends. She knew because of the way he took more time preening in front of the mirror. She felt a pang of dizziness as he banged the door, and she imagined what he was going to do with that woman. The thought of it made her cringe. She tried to wipe it off her mind, but the image of his mouth sucking on another woman's nipples stared at her.
A text came into her phone 'Don't wait up for me, I'll be late'.
A reconfirmation of the evil he was going to commit.

His arrogance, his domineering nature was what attracted her to him in the first place. That he could make up for her weakness was the magnet that pulled her towards him. Now, that grip he had on her felt more painful than ever. It made her feel worn out.

She walked painfully to the bedroom, and stood in front of the mirror. Her hair was a mess. She ran her hand through it. The bones on her neck popped out. She was growing thinner and thinner by the day. She knew it was the drugs. She went under her brown animal skin duvet, and cuddled her pillow. She was going to sleep alone again. The pillow soaked the tears that pumped out from her big brown eyes. She slept, and dreamt of an old bearded man trying to choke her.
                             * * * * * * *

She stared at the cold eba on the dinning table. She stared at the wall clock that hung near the television stand. She stared at the door. Then her vision became clouded with tears. She lay down on the sofa, and kept staring at the door till sleep came. The old bearded man appeared, and once again tried to choke her to death, and once again she was sleeping alone, and her husband was with another woman.
                             * * * * * * *

He knotted his tie, and wore his suit jacket.

'Baby' he called 'am ready to go'.

She stood up from the chair, and walked to meet him.

'Take your medications alright, and don't wait up for me I might be in a late meeting today'.

She nodded numbly. The way he lied, with ease and charm. He pressed a kiss on her cheek, as he grabbed his suit case, and headed to the door.

'Sweetheart heart get me the keys, the door is locked' he said, turning the door knob.

'Ok' she took slow steps to kitchen.

She came back to the sitting room, with the keys on her left hands, and a big gun and rope on her other hand.

'What the fuck are you doing with a gun' he screamed.

She pointed it at him.

'Be calm, I have got enough bullets to blow off your brains. Just do as I say'.

'Eleanor, calm down and put the gun down. Shit! For chriss sake, that stuff is dangerous shit'.

'I am the one with the gun, and I am the one giving the orders. And, I swear with what is left of my womb David, I would blow off your brains and damn the consequences.'

He was sweating all over. His expressions changed sharply; anger, sadness.

'Sit down' she told him pointing at the chair on the dining, with her gun.

'Eleanor you need to take your drugs. Goodness! I have been too busy to look after you. I am sorry'.
He was trying to charm her, to deceive her.

'Just shut up and sit down'. She said in a low voice. She felt weak from her head to her toe. She always felt weak.

He sat down on the chair.

'Don't move' she said, as she walked close to him and stuck the syringe in his arm. He gave a piercing sound, then she watched as he batted his eyelids. He was losing consciousness as she was just gaining hers.
                         * * * * * * *

He woke up. He tried to move his arms but they were stuck.

'No need to struggle' she said.

She was sitting directly in front of him, waving the gun in his face.

'Why are you doing this' he asked, almost choking on his words.

'Because I want to spend time with you' she replied.

'This is no way to spend time with me. Tieing me up, and waving a gun in my face'. He queried.

'I tried to get your attention but you were to busy with the other woman'

'Baby, there is no other woman'

'Shut up'. She screamed.

The lie infuriated her. Such a bastard. She wanted to dive a knife into his eyeball. She picked up one of the knifes she had lain beside her.

'I'd chop your fingers David if you don't tell me her name.

'There is no woman. I swear'. He was lying again.

Anger gripped her. She walked to his back, where his hands stuck out of the rope. She held out his index finger and started cutting.

'Fuck. Shit. Bloody Joe.' He screamed. 'Stop. Her name is Amaka. Just stop please'. He was crying loud.

She stopped, and watched as his blood dripped to the floor. It gave her sinister satisfaction.

'Ok'. She walked back to her sit.

'You deserve every bad thing I can think of doing to you.' Tears rolled down her eyes. The cold was getting the most of her. The pain was eating into her. Cancer was eating up every part of her.

'I am dying. You know I am dying and you throw it in my face. You know I have just few days to live. Yet you can't even wait for me to die before you start cassanoving.' She coughs. A wave of dizziness hits her. She gulps water from a can.

'I am sorry babe'

'What exactly are you sorry about? You have an ice cold heart David. You are so heartless you deserve to die. Don't call me babe again'.

She was shaking, everywhere felt cold. In the past month, her sickness had really kicked in. The sickness that would claim her life. She looked at him, and tears filled her eyes because she had wasted her life loving him. Loving a man that hated her so much he couldn't wait for her to die. Everything in her life, had to be different. Why did she keep loving people that wanted nothing to do with her; her husband, her father, her mother.

Now, she was going to die alone. With no one to hold her hands, and stroke her hair.
She stood up from the chair, and walked out of the sitting room. She locked the door behind her, and took slow and painful steps up to her room. She lay down, and covered herself with a duvet. Shutting his screams that pierced through her walls. At least when she dies, on her bed, he would be in the same house with her, thinking about her. No more drugs to stop the illness from taking her life. She had decided to die. There was no use waiting for a few days or weeks. Nobody wanted her. There was nobody to live for. She was ready to leave forever.

MARRIAGE: THE A-B-C OF IT

The confusion about marriage is not a 'Nigeria thing' it's a 'world thing'. But, the confusion in Nigeria has graduated to madness. Everybody is missing the whole point of this institution. It's has taken a very social meaning. It's now a responsibility that must be carried out; like emptying your waste bin every saturday. It's now a sickness; marriage fever. Men and women have been infected with this illness, and even the married ones are still not free of this social responsibility.
Let me start with the guys: There comes a time in the life of every man when he feels it's time to 'settle down'. This is when the madness creeps in. Every girl becomes a desperate-i-must-get-married-person to you. You begin to read meaning into what is simple. If your girlfriend should insist on seeing your mother, she wants to tie you down. If she talks about children, she is showing signs of desperation.
At a point no girl is good enough for you. You begin to notice that the girl you have been dating for three years isn't good in the kitchen. What of her bed acrobatics? Zero!
Your madness gets to the level that you see a girl in church, praying sincerely to her God, and you are like 'Woah she is prayerful, she would be a good wife'. Or you see a girl playing with her sisters kid, and you are like 'Woah, she is wonderful with kids. She would be a good mother'.
Isn't that madness? Isn't it madness to look for a wife like you shop for a good shoe?
You begin to pick women like they pick beans. You sieve and sieve; you complain,and complain. Ngozi is too fat. When she gives birth to one child now, she would become a bulldozer. Amara is not industrious; I don't want to marry a house wife. Gift is extravagant. She would finish my money.
Now, I am not saying that choosing is bad. I am just saying that whenever you are choosing and picking, and sieving, always remember that the more you look, the less you see. And never forget that word called change. Your angel today, can turn to a witch tomorrow.

Over to the ladies:The craziest of all. The society has unconsciously twisted your psychology - marriage is a do-or-die affair. Not that girls are totally to blame. If you are clocking thirty, and you haven't hooked a man. You become an ashawo that has lost her womb in the course of her job. In short, you are not woman enough. You have a problem. And, not that they are too wrong. Because, even you would begin to act like a mental patient. Everybody begins to look like a potential husband. Even that son-of-a-bitch that beats you black and blue. You begin to attend every wedding you can. You begin to act like a jelly fish; suppressing your personality, dulling your intelligence. So men won't find you intimidating.
Every chance you get, you would make it known to that guy that is financially comfortable, that you can cook soup, and wash cloth like a dry cleaner (essential housewife quality).
Every man/boy/thing (as far as he has a penis) becomes marry-able.
And you are ready to visit the most powerful babalawo, in the deepest of forests, if that your boyfriend you have been 'saving' for marriage gives you hint that there is another girl in the 'wife-to-be-zone'.
You turn into a Lion. If any other Lion enters your territory you would claw, tear, scatter and shed blood.

It's madness....
But we all are or would be victims of this madness. We can only pray that we don't get there. And pray that we understand that life's too short to waste worrying about things that would work out perfectly if we let them be.
Marriage is a chance to let someone else experience your life. A life that you live only once. There is no coming back and un doing your regrets. Or un marrying your husband or wife. Follow your heart most of the way, follow the voice of God (but don't be a religious hypocrite. Don't sleep in the church because you are looking for a husband).
Marriage is not compulsory, but it is extremely necessary. To have someone who would see the world with you. Who at the end of it all would be there for you. It's priceless. It's a gift from God. I believe we all deserve that gift.

WHAT'S LOVE?

I have had my own fair share of relationships. And I just found out that every guy I have dated, I have said 'I love you' to him. I don't know if that makes me a liar. Since I really have not come around to understanding what love is.
The bibles definition of love is absolutely out of this world. Love is not jealous? Really? Like seriously?
Let's just forget about that and focus on the love that is in this world.
What really is love? Is it that period when you feel butterflies in your belly anytime you think of him. Or when you make really stupid decisions because of him.
Abi is love when you refuse to call, even though you are dying to hear his voice, so you would know if he would call first.
Those periods when you skip classes, appointments, girls night outs. Can that be counted as being in love.
Is love when you have the strongest urge to touch him, or have skin contact with him.
Is love that tickling at the back of your ear, or the moisture between your legs( abi we call that one lust, but is it not part of love? Can there be 'love' without lust?)
Or is love, deciding to spend your entire life with someone, because the person is easy to live with, or is available, or is 'good husband, or wife material'.
Or is love a scam, a grandiose word people use to generally refer to attraction to the opposite sex?
That feeling when you can't let go of someone because you have been together for so long, and you can't imagine life without him even though you know letting him go might make you happier. Can you call that attachment you feel for him love? Even if sometimes you think you can do better.

Really I don't know what love means. But I know that I have felt that flush of beauty, and excitement. I have felt that heart cramping they call heart break. I have felt that sickness that leaves you weak, they call crush. I have felt that addiction-like-feeling called obsession. And all these feelings pass. That moment it feels like I would never get over it it. It seems like the feeling would stick with me forever. Like I would choke in the shocking emotions they bring. But, like every other crazy obsessions in my life they all pass. Yet, I heard love dies hard or doesn't even die at all.
Would you say am inexperienced, or can you relate to this. Can I say that truly love is a phenomena that man created to give hope to that hopelessly needy part of us that needs someone to lean on.
Please, What is love?

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THE RANTINGS OF A PAINED NIGERIAN

So I bought this beautiful pumps that cost 8k. Since it is low heeled and fits my black jumpsuit. I decided to wear it and jump bus to see a friend. (Not that I wanted to impress him or anything. Heck! It's comfortable). Now, 8k is not money you see lying on the floor. It's something- a big something.
Anyway, I went to see him; we talked business. And I was frantically watching the time. I knew that once it is 6pm, the traffic on the road to my house would be something else. But I don't know what spirit kept me there, gisting, and staring at fine girls, and fine boys. When I reluctantly decided to stand up and go to my house, it was 6.05pm. I wasn't bothered until I got to the bus stop and saw dozens of people looking for bus - no bus. My palms were getting sweaty as I thought of the way I would jump inside a moving bus, and still manage to safely tuck my purse under my armpits, so that it won't mistakenly slip into the pockets of one of this agbero boys. Bus one came. I saw. I struggled. I lost. Bus two came. Same thing. About five buses stopped, and people rushed in like mad. By the time the sixth bus came, I had already matured into a typical lagos girl. And I fought tooth, nail and hammer to get into the bus.
Finally, I was sitted inside a bus that was almost a molue, except that it was a little smaller, and people were not standing, holding the top rail. I wanted to bring out my phone, so I could at least ping, and pass time, and also take my mind away from the stench that came from the combination of all our sweats - the tension in Lagos can make you sweat in places you never knew could perspire - but the whole place was really cramped, and I couldn't move my hands freely. I decided to do my second best thing; people- watching. So I watched agberos harass bus conductors. Hawkers glued to the side of every bus displaying their wares. I watched policemen gingering one man for only God knows what.
Then we met the traffic. I seriously thought it would clear. Because, ten minutes into the traffic, two people sitting on the same row with me alighted and I stretched my legs a bit, and brought out my phone, and updated 'Traffic o!' on my bbm. Ten minutes later, I realized that the bus wasn't moving. When I realized that technically this was where you stop, and trek through the traffic, the bus was already empty, and the conductor was looking at me as if I am one 'Johnny just come'.
I alighted the bus.It was already evening. My heart was beating. First, because of my Blackberry. Then because the next place I could get a bus to my house was one hour away. The whole thing meant I would trek for one hour.
I trekked, and trekked, and trekked with thousands of people because the road was blocked. The traffic was terrible; it wasn't moving at all. While I was trekking, I was thinking about how we Nigerians are comfortable with things we shouldn't be comfortable with.
Is this how people should live? Like cows? Why do we have to be so quiet when there are so many things to trash out in this country. I later found out that the cause of the traffic was a trailer that one of it's tyre fell into a deep pothole in the middle of the road.
Is it fair, that a road where thousands of commuters ply would be in such a dilapidated state? Is it fair, that a fine girl like me would trek for one hour in the night because of bad roads. Is it fair that, that old woman who had earlier labored in the market selling her cheap atagungun and tomatoes, would close from work, and still be subjected to trekking because of traffic that just wouldn't move. Or is it fair, that the beautiful baby on the back of the woman, that trekked beside me that night, might still be subjected to the same hardship because we have gotten too comfortable with suffering. And we have refused to fight for our rights?
No! It's not fair. We Nigerians don't know we deserve better than the dehumanizing situation we are today.
When I got home, after my one hour walking marathon, not only was I left to nurse my aching muscles and head; I was left to mourn my 8k pumps. Because somehow the road spoilt my shoes. It gave it scratches here and there. No matter how much Kiwi polish I apply on it. It still remains tattered because of that nonsense stone filled road.
We need good roads. We are poor enough. Please Mr president and co don't add trekking to our massive list of problems. Build our roads, we deserve it!

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IS THERE REALLY A REASON?

It's sad, pathetic, painful what bad things have happened in this world - and are still happening. Most times I find them incomprehensible, like the Hitler time. I still stand in awe at the psychology of that man. He is one person I find interesting in a way that annoys me. If you have read about the war, you probably would understand me. The way people were killed like cockroaches, all in the name of some stupid stereotype. Hitler hated the Jews, and he wanted to kill them all; he wanted them to disappear. So he created extermination camps all over, where these jews were sent. Some were killed, some had to starve to death, some had to go through extreme labour till they dropped dead. And children of nine, and ten, and eleven. Really little kids were used for medical experiments - They were cut open while they were still conscious, and those German doctors had their fun with them. I don't want to teach you history -definitely not. But it brings shivers to my body to think that just because a person was a Jew, he totally became an enemy. See! Listen! People died. Over six million jews lost their lives. Just jews. I am not counting the Russians who had their women raped, and most of their able bodied men killed. I am not counting the Romani children. I am not even counting the Germans that were killed during the war. All in all, twelve million people died (that's like wiping out an entire nation).
Do I have to  talk about the Great Famine in China were over 36 million people died? They freaking starved to death. No food, they had to even start eating human flesh. A woman ate her little daughter, and when the older daughter noticed that she might be next, she begged her mother not to kill her, promising that when she grows up, she would make life easier for her. Should I now start with the Hiroshima bomb blast? Even the recent one of the Nuclear weapons in Syria by that Assad guy. What of the Biafra war, in our country, that claimed millions of life.
Now the Philippines are dying. The last time I checked about 10,000 deaths were recorded.
And someone told me, God has a reason for all these. There is a reason He keeps quiet when children die of starvation. There is a reason He keeps quiet when parents bury their children, when some wacko comes into power and decides he wants to fight a war that would consume millions of lives. There is a reason He keeps quiet and watch people commit genocide. There is a reason for Boko Haram. There is a reason for everything. God always has a reason. And sometimes I question whatsoever reason that is. But, somehow I know it's hard for him up there, watching us behave like beasts, killing one another, and hating on each other. So I never question him. I just pray that He helps us, because I know He can.

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IT'S REALLY NOT FAIR

I don't understand why it has to be normal. Girls, women hawking their bodies. It's an eyesore for me. But, I don't get why it has to be a norm. Why people cannot see what I see, or feel what I feel when I unfortuantely stumble into one of this breast baring, flabby skinned women standing on the road, waiting for men( who obviously are mentally retarded) to price them, like bad goods.
I see beyond a girl standing on the road at an odd hour. I see beyond the rascal in her eyes, the desperate in her actions. I see beyond the skimpy clothes, the sagging face and breast. I see beyond the loud make up, and the smacking of gum. What I really see, is a broken girl. A human being that has been tortured by life. A girl that has been abused, cursed, rejected. A girl with blighted hopes. I see a girl that doesn't know what it means to have self worth. I see a depraved girl. I see a girl that been served a bad dish by life.
It's pathetic when I hear people judge them, and call them all sorts of names. I don't mean to be sentimental. Yes! I know prostitution is bad, in short, very bad.
But somehow, maybe because I love the story behind the story. Because I know behind every person, whether bad or good there is a striking story that either broke or made them. Maybe that is why, when I see this girls I cringe. Not because of them now, but because of the story behind, that has made them what they are now; Desperate, greedy, shameless.

Prostitution is like slow suicide. The first time you do it, you kill something in you. But, you don't entirely kill yourself, you just kill yourself, a little. Small. And, it's this simple; No matter what kind of girl you are, no matter where you come from. That first time you feel disgusted, very disgusted. But you do it again, and again till you have completely killed the very essence of your womanhood. That thing that makes you feel uneasy when a man's gaze linger on your breasts longer than necessary.
More than the prostitutes, the people who I feel bad for, are the ones who exploit this women. Who actually pick them up, price them like stolen goods, and maltreat them. It's really unfair.

My point is that, every prostitute you see on the streets, in Nigeria, and in the whole world started naively, ignorant, scared, ashamed.

You are free to judge them. You are also free, to be like me, and understand them.

There are some girls that are financially comfortable, but still go into prostitution for the fun of meeting men (or some other spiritually inclined madness), TRUST ME those ones don't stand on the road. The one's I pity are those ones who at a point felt they have no other option than to sell their body for money. Standing on the road, in the middle of the night, not knowing if it's a blood sucking monster that would pick you up, is something a person does out of extreme desperation, and I feel they deserved to be pitied.

And I feel the government should do something about it. It's poverty that lead this girls to prostitute. Apart from that, it's a topic people fail to trash. Everyday we see NGO's upon NGO's, springing up here and there. But, none has decided to help take these girls off the street. To teach them self worth. To help them financially, and emotionally. To give them a good future. Not all of them want to be where they are, they just don't know better.

PRICELESS

Esiaba did not understand why his wife had to cook so poorly, he did not just understand why she had to add more pepper than needed, or forget to add salt, or even burn the food beyond recognition. He was staring at the plate of overly cooked yam porridge that looked like baby's poo. What business did yam have with water leaf. He asked himself. Why did she jump Ugwu, even Utazi and buy water leaf. Esiabi was a strong man, but things like this could bring him to tears, because he had told her several times to stop bothering herself. He had told her politely, he had told her sharply, he had even screamed it into her ears, but she would always promise him, she would say 'Darling this one would be different', but it was always the same, disgusting food.
Beads of sweat rolled than his faces, he felt sad for himself. Hunger attacked every nerve in his body, and if he had known he would have saved himself the trouble, and stopped at Tasty fried chicken to eat. She walked into the dining with a bowl of fresh fish soup. 'Dessert' she said, grinning from side to side. He really wanted to slap her till her teeth fell off. He eyed the bowl of fish soup, and gave a loud hiss. Snatching his wallet, and car keys from the chair by his side, he walked out, jamming her shoulder, and ignoring the fear in her eyes.
As Esiaba, opened his car, actual tears flowed from his eyes, he felt silly, and bitter, and hungry. But as he geared the engine of his car, he felt more silly. He wanted to go back and apologize to his wife, instead he said 'Ahmadu, open that gate'. He drove off crescent springs street, into Ifesinachi road, and a small reflexive smile danced on his face for a while as the big sign board of Tasty fried chicken came into sight. What hunger could do to a man, he thought.
He ate hungrily, and even though he had ordered two portions of everything on his plates, he wanted to order some more, he played with the thought of buying take away, and hiding it, so he could have it for breakfast in the morning, but he decided that he would have toasted bread, and tea. At least that was one thing his wife didn't mess up. A text came into his phone. 'I am sorry'. It was from his wife. He felt guilty. Seriously guilty. How he loved her. She was the best woman he knew, a gentle heart, a kind spirit. He wished he could treat her better, but she always tried to frustrate his efforts. He had hired a cook, but she would always insist to cook for him. He had told her several times that he didn't care whose food he ate, as far as it was good food. He didn't mind if some else cooked for him. In short he preferred it that way. But trust Sarah, to always want to please him even when he didn't want to be pleased. Sarah was a Professor of Physics, she graduated magna cum laude from MIT. She was best at everything, every other thing that wasn't cooking food. She had gone for cooking classes, she even hired a personal chef teacher, but this one was something she couldn't learn, and from the deepest part of his heart Esiaba didn't mind. He wasn't all those traditional men that expected their wives to cook, wash, and even feed them. He just wanted her to do whatsoever made her happy.
He stopped at Paula's place for a drink, he was hesitant to go home. In an hour three bottles of Hero beer, stood gallantly on his table. Impulsively he jumped up and cleared his bill. The road was clear, and the street lights made him happy somehow. He drove into his compound praying that Sarah had gone to bed.
She was sitted on the dining chair, on his chair. He could see from the pink under eyes that she had been crying. He felt really bad.
'I am sorry hon, I didn't mean to go all crazy on you' he said, as he placed his wallet and car keys on the table.
'I am sorry too, I don't know why I keep doing this, I just can't help it' she replied. Her voice was quivery, and tired.
He nodded, he was too tired to delve into lectures upon lectures on why she doesn't have to keep stressing herself.
They walked to the bedroom, hand in hand. She smelled of curry, her skin was hot against his. She tightened her grip on his arm, and he kissed her hair.

His love for Sarah was beyond petty. It was stronger than the physical, she was his soul mate. What she could do and not do didn't matter. All that matter was her heart. So kind. Her love for him. So selfless. And that was all he required. She was his friend, lover, and wife. Things that he couldn't buy hire. He could live without her being his cook, because that, he could hire. He promised himself never to reject her food. No matter how bad it was, he would swallow it.

AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TWELVE OF MY COOKING NOVEL

CHAPTER TWELVE.
It smelt like an old shoe; the police station. 'Nene Akujieze' my Mother said to the police man who was filling some sort of form. 'Madam you can only see her for 10 minutes. Don't let us come and remind you'.
We entered a small room that had a stronger smell of old shoe. The paint on the wall were peeling. The crevice had a V shape on each side of the wall like someone had carved it in, and the ceiling of the room was so low that I had the strongest urge to reach out and touch the water marks on it. I was carrying a flask of Egusi and pounded yam for Aunty Nene and Chizoba was carrying homemade orange juice, and water with another flask of Ugwu and Upkaka.
 'She needs all the nutrients her system can hold' My mother had said while we were preparing for the visit.
They had come two days before, but I refused to go with them. I was sick with feelings I couldn't describe. Chizoba told me when she came back from the prison 'Aunty Nene, asked of you. She said I should tell you she is sorry'.
The information was funny. 'Sorry for what' I asked
 'You can ask her yourself'
That night I couldn't sleep. I tossed from one side of the bed to another. I wondered what she was doing, whether she had eaten. All those terrible stories I heard about prisons, police men raping women. Cell inmates peeing on new cell inmates, came to mind. I was terrified that one day my life could take a very bad turn and I might end up in a horrifying place. Nine years ago I would never had envisioned such a thing; Aunty Nene in prison for murdering two people.

Aunty Nene entered the room. 'Nno' she welcomed us. ' Kasie, how are you'
'I am fine'
'They haven't called off the strike yet?'
'Mba; No'
'Okay. Chizoba, how are you'
'Fine Aunty'
She ate hungrily.
'Aunty it's like I have infection' she told my mother in ibo 'You know I don't bath here. My vagina is now itching me'
'I would bring you medicine tommorow'
'Thank ma'
Then she faced me. I could see her face clearly now. Her eyes were sunk deep inside their sockets. Her lips were cracked and white. Her hair had undergrowths at their roots but they were packed up tight in a knot. Ironically she looked better than I remembered.
'Kasie, are you still angry with me?'
'No'
'Thank you' she said.
'Madam your time is up' a voice said from the front counter.
'We would come tommorow' my mother said. I packed the flask and cans from the table. My mother and Chizoba hugged her. I didn't. Aunty Nene was mad. I was sure she was mad; there was no other reason to explain why a woman who has been seperated from her children for one week would not ask about them. I just concluded that she was stark raving mad!
The next day while we were preparing to go the police station to see Aunty Nene my mother sent me to buy antibiotics for Aunty Nene.
'Good afternoon, please I need antibiotics for vaginal infection'.
'Okay' the phamarcist replied
'One more thing' I said 'Give me the type that can't kill somebody if the person takes an overdose'
The man stared at me like I was talking baloney. He gave me antibiotics, the one that cures vaginal infection and the one that could kill a person that takes overdose of it.
'Mummy you know Aunty Nene wants to commit suicide with these drugs.
'Hian! Suicide!'
'Yes, she wants to drink overdose'.
'God forbid'
'Mummy it's not a matter of God forbid. Just make sure you give her just two tablets'.
'Okay' My mother was nodding her head, she was actually taking my advice. I realised how much she had changed since daddy left us. She was softer. I wondered if daddy heard of what was happening to Aunty Nene. He must have heard, it was all over the news, ANGRY WOMAN KILLS HUSBAND AND MISTRESS.
WOMAN FROM HELL STABS HUSBAND TO DEATH. The kind of news that was featured on the cover pages of News paper but in tiny captions.
I and my mother went alone that day.
'Kasie, how are you' she asked
'Won't you ask about your children' I said
'How are they?'
The way she said 'they' irritated me.
'Kasiemobi respect yourself ' my mother sneered.
Aunty Nene started to cry.
'Nene its okay'
'Aunty it's like am running mad. I don't understand what is wrong with me.'She mumbled in between tears and the granulated food in her mouth.
I didn't know if I was being unreasonable, attacking her, but I everytime I tried to feel sorry for her, I felt a greater sorrow for Mukaosolu, Ralph and the baby. It was that anger that I haboured when daddy abandoned us. Aunty Nene was doing the same to her children; Abandoning them, refusing to be strong for them.
'He beat you, so you killed him and his mistress, now you might spend your whole life in jail' that was what I really wanted to tell her until she said
'I don't regret killing him. I feel sorry for his bitch, but Ben deserved death for killing my baby, for everything he did to me and my children.'
'Aunty you stabbed him till he was no longer recognizable, you put a knife through his eyes.' I said, aghast.
'And I felt good about it. I would do it again. Do you know he raped Mukaosolu?'. Her voice cracked 'That is why I can't bear to see her. He raped her continously, she tried to tell me but I didn't hear her. I was deep in my own sorrow. Mourning my youth that I lost because of her, blaming her for my marriage to Ben. I failed my daughter. I destroyed her life with my own hands. That was the least I could do for her.'
I wanted to believe she was making the story up, unfortunately it wasn't a made up story. It struck me like a blow. Aunty Nene's voice was filled with immeasurably pain. I stood up and hugged her tight. 'Aunty am sorry'. I whispered.
'He raped my daughter, after raping me, he put his rotten penis inside my nine year old daughter.'
My mother couldn't cry, move or talk. She just sat still trying to assimilate what she heard. She cried when we got home, her body vibrated under my embrace. 'Mummy it would be fine' I said, my voice masked with disbelieve. We slept together holding hands and completing each others snore.

AUNTY NURSE

This is a true life story, it happened to a woman I knew.

The stinging pain made tears cloud my eyes, then she pressed the syringe down, and it was as though the needle came in contact with my bones. She removed the needle, and sharp pain that reminded me of my school headmasters knock followed; the famous knock on the head that could give you an instant headache. But, all through the pain I refused to cry, because she had promised me sweet and biscuit if I stayed calm.
'My strong baby' She said, beaming with pride. The look on her face made all the pain worth it. She ruffled my hair and handed me a packet of biscuit, and a sweet we called Baba dudu. That was one of my many experiences with Aunty Nurse.

Aunty Nurse, was a fair beautiful woman. Unlike so many nurses, she was kindhearted and gentle. She was the only nurse on our street then, so people trooped in and out of pharmacy, but she made everyone feel important.
My mother used to say, she had the talent of love. 'Some people don't have love but they show love. That's talented love'. Unlike my mother, I didn't think Aunty Nurse didn't have love in her life. But since she wasn't married, didn't have kids, didn't have any relation we knew about, most people considered her lacking in the love department. I felt she had the greatest love of all; she had love for herself.
I guess it was the frequent murmuring about her single status that pushed Aunty Nurse to get married to a fair, stout looking man, who had a permanent frown. I don't even know if they courted. We just found him one day married to our Aunty Nurse. Everyone was happy for her 'Of course she who has found a husband, has found fulfillment in life'.

Things began breaking in bits, and becoming clearer when Aunty Nurse got pregnant. She would always come to the pharmacy with one bruise or the other. Nobody asked her what was happening instead they gossiped about it, and pitied her. Everyone knew her Husband was abusing her.
She became withdrawn, and quiet. Her cheery nature had gone to the winds, they were no more biscuits and sweets, just a stern 'Stay calm if you don't want this needle to break in your bum bum'.
No one said anything, after all she was not the only woman whose husband was beating her.
Nurse gave birth to twin boys. Very beautiful kids. And, they brought back some of her cheery nature, but not all.
Her husband was a jobless man, all he did was play chess with some ogogoro drinking men, but that too didn't matter, because of course 'She who has found a husband, any husband at all, has found fulfillment in life.'

No one knew it would happen. No one even thought of it, because it seemed unthinkable, that he would beat her to death. But, he did. According to gossip, he pounded her head on the ground a thousand times. Till she died in his arms, screaming and kicking, pleading and begging. No one knew what they were fighting over, we just knew that one day Aunty Nurse was gone, and a man she shared her bed with, gave the best part of her life to, and had children for, killed her.

*In my memory of a beautiful woman, with the kindest heart. May her soul and the souls of all the departed, rest in perfect peace. Amen

DIFFERENTLY PERFECT

I came into the world a broken child. I can't say if it was the weed my mother smoked while she was pregnant with me, or the effect of the beating my father gave my mother, that brought me into this world with one eye, and one ear. All I know is that I am half. Everything about me is a minus one, deformed in every sense of the word, and it made me bitter. It made me angry, until Bimbo waltzed into my life, making me feel things I never knew existed.

My mother was a beautiful woman. She was like me, except that the other half of her body that was missing, was her brain. She lacked common sense, and she didn't try to hide it. 'I will break your head' was her answer to everything.
'Mama, what happened to my ear and eye'
'I will break your head' she would reply.
'Mama, where is my father'
'I will break your head'
'Mama, please I want to eat'
'I will break you head'
'Mama, please can I have my school fees'
'I will break your head'
That was how our conversations ended. I didn't hate mama, I pitied her. She deprived me of love and affection, but I could see that she had no option. Papa killed her spirit, Igbo killed her mind, Cancer killed her body.
She loved me in the way she knew how to love me best, by beating me. At a much younger age, I felt I deserved the beating. I was deformed, I was never going to be of any good. When I enter places, people stare at me surprised, some are even disgusted. A child once called me a monster and I cried all day. So, I deserved every blow mama landed on my body. I believed I was a cursed child.

I found succor in music. When mama would drink to stupor, and vomit all around the house. I would clean her up, lay her in bed and sing to her, while playing my fathers old guitar. When I play for mama, in that moment I become complete. I forget about my face, and feel my heart. With her drunkenness, mama would open her eyes a little, and she would smile from the bottom of her heart, and it would feel like heaven.

Music was food to my dying soul. When I was falling off the edge, the sound of the guitar strings would pull me. It was my medicine.
But, mama broke my guitar, on my head. That was the day, I decided life was not worth living for people of my kind.
I asked her for my food. I was so hungry, that I began to stammer. I had not eaten for two days, and Iya Bisi that used to sneak around, and give me food had traveled. Mama had replied with her infamous 'I will break your head', but you know how they say ' A hungry man is an angry man'. I kicked the table where the only picture of mama which didn't have her grabbing a bottle of Ogogoro, or her lips lazily holding a cigarette stood. And, it fell to the floor. That day, mama carried out her threat. She broke my head, with my guitar. I cried. My heart squeezed in anger. It wasn't anger that usually come with my normal self pity. What I felt then, was anger anger. The kind that dazed you, the kind that made you want to smash things, the kind that gave you invisible chest muscles. For the first time, I raised my hand to hit mama. I just raised it, I couldn't hit her. Even though I had just one eyes, I could see fear in her eyes. By beating me, she could hide from the reality of what I was. One more thing she failed to do right in her life.

Mama died when I turned Eighteen. The ordinariness of her death was galling. I woke up just to find her dead on her bed. Her body smelled of alcohol, cigarette and death. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just took calm and collected steps to Iya Bisi's house. When I told her mama was dead, she cried. A cry of responsibility; the way it was her social responsibility not to leave satchet water nylons around the compound, it was also her social responsibility to cry for a dead neighbor.

Mama was buried at the cemetery in Barracks. The pastor who officiated the ceremony, was a lanky looking man. He was Iya Bisi's pastor. He spoke too rapidly, I barely picked a word of what he said. He would glance at me at intervals, stutter, and continue his rapid speech. His reaction didn't bother me at all. I was used to it already. It was the reaction of the lady standing beside him that bothered me. She didn't flinch, she didn't stare in disgust. Her face was filled with a softness that touched my heart. She stared at me, and she smiled. I couldn't smile back, I was stunned. Nobody smiles at me, except mama when she is drunk.
After the ceremony, she walked to me.
'My name is Bimbo'
I was silent.
'What is your name?' She asked.
'David'.
'I am sorry for your loss'. I nodded, I couldn't believe a girl was talking to me, a fine girl.
She asked if she could come visit me any time she is around to see Iya Bisi. I nodded again. I felt so shy around her. She stared into my one eye, and made my legs wobbly.

The day Bimbo came to visit me, she came with her bible. She told me that if only I would accept, Jesus could take away all the pain I felt. I laughed inwardly. She wouldn't understand. She was complete, even beautiful. Any problem she had would be easy for her Jesus to solve. But, because she was beautiful and kind. Because her voice was gentle and sonorous. I listened to every word she said with seriousness. When she asked for us to pray. I opened my eyes, and I watched her lips part and come together. I watched her tongue lick her lips, and I fell in love with Bimbo, even though I didn't know then.

She left that day, promised to come back the next day, but she didn't. I waited for her the day after, and the day after. She didn't show up. She couldn't stand me. I was a monster. What was I even thinking loving her. She too had left me. I felt a crack in my heart. The pain was suffocating. I had never felt so alone. I fell to the floor. I cried, and sang. I cried for mama. I felt lonely without her. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. 'Stand up' Bimbo said from behind. I stood up, too ashamed to look at her.
'If you would leave me like my father and mother, then please, leave me now'. I blurted out.
'Your problem is that you have decided to wallow in self pity' she said 'Dress up, I want to show you something. I would be waiting outside'.
I changed into my nicest outfit. A black trouser, one of mama's many boyfriend gave to me, and a blue shirt Iya Bisi gave to me.

We stood in front of a big hospital building. 'This is the biggest hospital in lagos' She said to me.
'What are we doing here' I asked.
'You will find out soon' she replied.
I tagged along. She was familiar with the nurses. 'I come here to pray for the patients' She said.
Our first stop, was a jam packed room that smelled like medicine and vomit. It had four bed, and each had a patient on it. We stood at the door.
'You see that man there' She said 'His name is David, he was involved in an accident few weeks ago, he lost his family, and his legs were amputated three days ago'. She paused. 'You see the other woman lying there' She said, pointing to a woman whose face was covered in cotton wool. 'Her husband bathed her with acid. She is dangling between life and death as I speak to you. That man over there was in an accident also, he lost his both arms, and one of his legs'. Tears filled my eye. I was speechless. We moved to another room, and my heart broke into bits. It was filled with little children, with the worst health condition one could think about. 'David, that child you see lying there with a swollen chest, has a heart defect. He doesn't have up to one week to live. The other child, has been in coma for two years, he feeds through a pipe'.
I couldn't stand anymore of it. 'I want to leave' I said to her.
'You will leave, but I want you to understand something. You have a good life. Thousands of people wish to be in your shoes right now. Thousands of people want to be healthy, and walk around with their legs. Some people would give everything in this life to be YOU. That you are different doesn't mean anything. That people look you in the face and squirm shouldn't make you think of yourself as a lesser being. God created you in his own image and likeness. David' She said with my hands in her palm 'You are special, never see yourself as less.'

That was all I needed to live again. Even though Bimbo left too, like mama and papa. She left me with hope, determination, and self confidence. And now as I look at my wife and kids walking towards me, complete and happy. I say a silent prayer for Bimbo, and I hope she is as happy as I am.

SHAME

It's called writers block, that point where you are unable to write. You see a blank page, and you just stare. Ideas run through your mind like an angry storm, and you can't seem to grasp a hold of just one to develop. People have writers block for different reasons. Mine usually arises when am ashamed of something. When I can't put down my feelings, because I am so ashamed to write them. And, I can't lie on paper. I can't form a story. I can't write what has not been whispered to me by my muse. I can't just do it. My writers block, usually appears, when I disagree with my muse, and refuse to write what has been whispered to me, either because I am too ashamed, or feel very strongly about it. That's my reason for not posting for a week now. Shame! Shame! Shame!
When am brave enough to stumble out of this disease called writers block. I may decide to write about that thing that makes me so ashamed, but for now, do say a little prayer for me.

AN EXCERPT FROM COOKING NOVEL

CHAPTER NINETEEN
It didn't happen, until two months after - the nightmares, the late night sweating, the fear.
 'The baby is chasing me'. I told the Reverend father, as I knelt on the confessional.
'Calm down'
'I killed a baby'.
I had waited till the last person left the church, I wanted us to be the only one in the church; just I and the priest.
'Forgive me father, for I have sinned greatly'.
'Whose baby did you kill' he asked.
'My own baby'. I replied. 'It was an abortion' I added.
'Are you truly sorry'.
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. It was dark, the church light was dim. I don't know if they did it on purpose, so no one could see the terrible weight of sin that sagged peoples faces as they walked to the confessional.
'Yes father, I am truly sorry'. If only he knew how sorry I was. If only he knew that I was on the verge of running mad.
'I forgive you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go and Sin no more.'
He said.
'What is my penance father' I asked.
'Go and Sin no more'. He said with a tone of finalty
I walked to altar, and lay on the floor. In the last months, I had lost weight. The baby and the voices followed me all about. Ujunwa told me it was my imagination. 'It's not even a baby' She said. But, in my head, in my dreams. It was more than a baby. It was a gripping image of myself. A baby that had my eyes, crying and chasing me, with hands stretched forward. Was it madness, was it a figment of my imagination or was it actually my baby? Whatever it was, it was possessing me. It was unsettling my innermost being.
The confession would help, I said to myself as I ran to church. The priest would forgive me in the name of Jesus, and like sun shining on debris after rain, my soul would smile again. But, as I lay on the floor, in the silence of the church. I felt weak, I felt like shutting the pain, the confusion. I wanted peace. I wanted to shut out the voices inside my head that always talked loudly. The voices that always contradicted each other. If only they could stop talking, if only they would shut up and give me absolute silence. If only I could switch off my thinking button. Maybe I would feel peace. My head turned like nylon in a whirlwind. I looked at Jesus on the cross, I wanted that relief that they so much talked about. 'Give me peace Lord' I begged. 'They said if I kneel in your presence and ask, you shall give me. I need peace'. I cried. I waited, for seconds, then minutes, then an hour, for peace. I didn't find peace. God had rejected me. I left the church, worse than I came in. Those voices in my head questioned my existence. Everything seemed, nothing actually was. Is there really a God? Where was the miracle people talked about? This God! Were we just his game guys, things he could crush and destroy. Did he play with us in his free time. Did he twist us to the point of insanity to see how we would react. If we would cry or laugh. Did he dispose us when we bored him, like we dispose toys we have outgrown. And I hated this God, he was playing with my head. People make mistakes, people do things that are wrong. He asks us to forgive, why couldn't he forgive me. Why did he send things to talk in my head, why was the baby I aborted, in my dreams, in my head...crying. I walked through the small path that had grasses springing out. I walked through the lines of shop. I walked past children playing and laughing. I walked past the beggars that sat on the street, and I noticed nothing, because I felt nothing, and like sudden thunder, it hit me; the solution to my problem. For the first time, the voices in my head were of one accord, they had one firm standing agreement 'End it' they said 'Kill yourself and have peace'. And like a blind man that had just regained his sight, I saw the light. I saw hope for peace, for silence, for absolute peace.

WHAT'S IN BETWEEN MY LEGS

'Is that all you know? Sex this, Sex that'.
'I don't understand you again o!'
'How would you understand, when all you think about is sex'.
'Dozie, it have do for you. Don't insult me'.
'You are mad for spitting that rubbish out of that your pit latrine of a mouth.'
I was aghast. Meaning what nau? Look at this idiot o! I began dressing up. He lay down on the bed, with his dirty boxers. All I could think of was how I have suffered in this Lagos.
'Please give me transport money'. I asked him, standing akimbo. If he wanted trouble, I would give him fire.
'Which transport money?'
'Go and ask your prostitute mother in the village that question. If you don't want hell fire to fall on your head now, better give me 20,000.'
'20 what?' He screamed, jumping from the bed with great alacrity.
'Try me now, just try me'. I held my shoe on my hand, and turned the 'Koi Koi' so he could see that it was long and pointy enough to make a very deep and painful hole in his brain.
'Ashawo, Ogbanje, Mammy water spirit' he cursed as he counted 20,000 from the bundle of two hundred naira bills he collected from his pocket.
'I hope this money is complete', I said, waving the notes in his face. 'Idiot, you want to do osho free'.
I could see his face turning red, he tightened his fist in anger. I banged the door. 'Fool' I muttered under my breathe.


I scrubbed my body thoroughly, washing away his touch, and his smell. I smiled, a loose smile, he wanted to use me, but I reared my ugly head in his face. No man can ever use me again. The first time I was dumped, was the last time, and would remain the last. Any man who finds himself between my legs must pay, in cash or kind, preferably in cash. Even now, as I ran my hands all over my body, I could still remember his little kisses, that sent waves of shock to my body. Ikenna, the name that was once like butter in my mouth. My hands roamed around my big buttocks; he loved it, he used to sleep with his hands grabbing it.
Ikenna showed me pure desire, he showed me what it was like to crave, to deeply want something. I was addicted to his laughter; the marks that appeared on his face when he laughed, the way he flipped his head to the left and held his belly. Ikenna laughed with his soul, and I loved him for it.
He was the first man I loved. I gave him my heart, body and soul. He feasted on my body, like a parasite. And when I was almost dizzy with love for him, he knocked me back into reality. Every waking moment reminds me of his betrayal. I remember the day, he turned my world around.

'I am pregnant' I said, shaking in fear.
'Whaaaat' he screamed, 'for who?'
My breathing stopped, goose pimples invaded every part of my body.
'Ikenna, you know you are the only one that I have ever been with.'
'Shut your stupid mouth, before I shut it up for you. I don't know what you are talking about. You better go and look for the father of your bastard'.
'Why, Why' I cried, as I fell on my feet. 'Please, Ikenna don't do this to me'.
'Leave my house'.
I fell at his knees, and grabbed the edge of his trousers. 'Please, I don't know what to do'.
He kicked me in the stomach, 'Get out'. I squirmed in pain, and he kicked me again.
'Leave my house, and don't let me see you here with anybody'.
'Please Ikenna, let's settle this' I said, in between coughs and snorts.'I would abort the baby, I just need some money'.
'Get out' he screamed. I ran out to the streets like a mad woman. The pain I felt overcame shame. I ran faster than my legs could carry me, with my slippers on my hands.
 I died in that moment. It was betrayal in its deadliest form. At 16, he deceived me and  abandoned me. It was in that moment of confusion that a car knocked me down. All I could see was blood, and people trying to help me. I lost my baby, I lost myself.

It's been ten years since Ikenna, but it still feels like yesterday. I don't hate men, I just feel nothing for them. Everything they say, everything they do is for one ultimate goal - What's in between your legs.

ME AND CELINE.

I have friends that like giving advice, even when I don't ask for it. 'Esther, your are bald, this hairstyle wouldn't be nice on you, Esther you shouldn't wear that gown, it's making your legs look endless, Esther that dress color doesn't suit your skin color, Esther this your boyfriend doesn't fit you. He is too short'. I can go on and on.
The truth is that they don't actually give me advice, they just yab me, and make it sound like advice. Now, I would rather be yabbed, than be given bad advice.
Of all the useless yabbings and advice I have received, one has proven more useless than the rest, In short, it has destroyed my sanity. I am not ashamed to say it. Ok, maybe a little ashamed.
Here is my confession:
Sometime in my puberty years, I was crushing on this guy. To me, he was a god in human body. To my friends, he was an arrogant, not too fine boy (but you know how girls are naa. I can swear with my left eye, that they were all tripping for him).
I was very confused, I liked him a lot. Of course, my friends all liked him and i couldn't ask them for advice. So, I let it go. I just kept dreaming of the day he would notice me, and chyke me. My dreaming ended after listening to CELINE DION and BARBRA STREISAND'S 'Tell him'. I would love to write the lyrics here so you can understand better, but I don't have strength - go and download the song.
While I was thinking of how to makes this hotness of a human being notice me, Celine dion came with her advice:

'Tell him, Tell him that the sun and moon rise in his eyes, reach out to him, and whisper, tender words so soft and smooth, hold him close to feel his heartbeat, love would be the gift you give yourself'.

Let me warn you, Love will not be the gift you give yourself, disgrace will be the gift you give yourself, shame will be the gift you give yourself, when you decide to tell a boy that the sun and moon rises in his eyes.
I can remember that day clearly, I ironed my school uniform till I could hear the material scream for help. I even applied lip gloss (which was an abomination in my school) I really didn't care about the punishment. What was four strokes of cane, compared to the love I had for this boy. I was nervous when they rang the bell for short break, but it was the only time I had to really tell him how I felt. I stalked him till he was alone, and I opened my big mouth, and told him that 'the sun and moon rise in his eyes'. I went on and on about how much I loved him. He just pasted a funny smile on his face. I waited for his reply for days, only for me to read a text message he sent to his friend saying 'That Esther girl with long awkward legs, is really weird.' (Another of my friend that loves giving me 'advice' was the one that hunted down that message and showed it to me.)
That was my first heartbreak. The second time my heart was broken, it was still because of this advice. I guess I had forgotten about my first experience. Six years after, I really liked a boy, and I decided to go all out and tell him how I felt about him...If it turned out well, I wouldn't be writing this article.

Celine Dion, gave me the worst advice ever. This is Nigeria! Our love here is a funny kind of love. A girl doesn't hit on a boy first. It's not right. If you like a boy, you have to hold it with all your strength. Make sure he doesn't notice. If he chykes you, do shakara till you can no longer take it. Girls don't, I repeat, don't tell a boy you like him first. Don't listen to Celine dion, this is Naija, not Oyinbo land. Don't be a victim.

MY ADVICE ON ADVICE

Recently, I watched the season ten of 'Greys Anatomy', and I learnt something exciting. I don't even know If it works, but it is something I have adopted anyway.
If you have seen 'Greys Anatomy' thumbs up. If you haven't ermmmm *No words*, just try to follow anyway.
Dr Bailey, the nazi, gave Derek, the guy with the awesomest hair in the world advice about advice. She said (not her exact words though) if someone asks you for advice, give them a metaphor. Yes! Any damn metaphor at all. You know why? Most of the time people already know what they should do, what they want to do. They just ask you for advice because they really want you to say what they already have in mind. If you give them a metaphor, they automatically interpret into what they already have in mind. Just say it with a stern voice, and a serious face, that would do the trick.
So am going to leave you with one metaphor, and one actual advice today, ' Failure is like having chewing gum stuck in your hair.' And the advice: watch Grey's Anatomy.
DID I MAKE SENSE AT ALL?
#OKBYE

WHAT HAS BEEN DONE THAT CAN'T BE UNDONE

It started with the body odor. 'Honey there is something I want us to talk about'.
'What is it'. He asked, squeezing his nose in that way, that showed he didn't want to be disturbed.
'Come a little closer'. I said to him, as though if he actually came closer it would reduce the intensity of what I was about to say.
'Say it please, am busy'.
'Ok' I said, I took a deep breathe. This was hard, telling my husband that his body had an odor so fetid that I had been taking drugs for the way my tummy churned anytime he came close.
'What I am about to tell you right now, is very sensitive'.
'What'
'You need to see a doctor or something about the way you smell. You have body odor'. I felt as though a big stone had been sitting on my chest, and it had just been pushed off. He was silent like he didn't hear what I said. He was typing faster and blinking faster.
'Nkem' I called, and he didn't reply. He just kept punching the keys on his laptop.
'I am sorry' I said.

Four months after, he still refused to speak to me. Even though he had done something about the way he smells, he just ignored me. And I felt, what the hell, if it's because I aired my mind about something that was almost threatening to my health, that he is going to sulk like a baby, he should sulk on. So when, the voice on the phone said 'Mrs Douglas, I need to talk to you about your Husband'. I was half listening and half stirring the pot of soup on the gas stove. 'This man and his wahala again' I thought.
'You need to come down here Mrs Douglas, your husband is in a terrible condition'.
'Where, What is wrong with him, Where is he, Is he fine.' The questions rolled out of my mouth in panic. The man gave me the address to a hospital.
I had never driven so fast in my life, I kept sounding the horn, and moving into lanes that weren't mine.

'Where is he' I said to a lanky nurse sitting at the reception.
'Where is who?'.
'My husband.' I could almost feel my heart exploding.
'Calm down madam. What is your husbands name?'
'Mr Douglas'.
'Ok madam.' She looked into a big book.
She called another nurse and asked her to direct me to my husbands bed.

'Nkem.' His body was extremely hot, he looked thinner than ever.
A doctor came into the room. 'Are you Mrs Douglas?'
'Yes'
'Please I would like to see you in my office.'
My head twirled in confusion as I walked down the hallway. Seeing my husband, lying on that bed, in a pool of his own sweat, motionless, did things to my head. What did I miss, how could I not have known he was this sick.
The doctor pulled out a chair for me, his face was contorted with pity, and his eyes sank in with grief. I was stiff with fear.
'Mrs Douglas, your husband is dying.'
'What do you mean?'
'He has a very bad liver'.
'I don't understand' I cried 'He is fine, we were together this morning'.
'He is not fine madam, he has been ill for more than five months'. The doctor said, I was sure he was wondering what kind of wife I was.
'You can treat him right' I asked.
'That is why I called you in, your husband doesn't have up to a week to live'.
'Liar' I screamed, 'Are you God, ehnnn'
'Madam, calm down'
'Why should I calm down, who are you to say that he would die in one week, are you God?' The tears flowed, this time. I fell to the floor, and let it out. He won't die, I kept saying to myself. I felt so much bitterness towards myself, my insensitiveness towards the only man that I had ever loved. If only I had asked, he would have confided in me.

I ran to his bed, 'Nkem, I am sorry, Please wake up'. He didn't stir, he was in a coma. I was devastated. How could I not have known that my husband was dying. The body odor must have been because of the excess sweating, since his liver was bad.
I had to pray, God must wake my husband. I prayed and cried, asking for another chance. I prayed until I could no longer utter a word, I cried until I could no longer move. 'Nkem please wake up'.

It was one week, and he still hadn't woken up, but he was still alive and breathing. God was answering my prayers. Then finally he woke up. I wanted to pause in the moment, and relish the pleasure of hearing him say his first words, in one week. 'My love'.
'Nkem', I cried 'You are awake'.
'How are you'. After four months he was speaking to me.
'I am fine my baby'.
He requested for water, and I poured water into the pipe I had been using to feed him for the past week.
'I love you' he said to me.
'I love you too baby'. We held hands in silence, looking into each others eyes. How I had missed him. He looked alive and well, his face glowed, and he had a big smile on.
'I am sorry about everything baby'. I said, holding on to him tightly.
'I am sorry too love, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to bother you'
'How can you even say that, you can never bother me. You are the most important person in my life. You would be fine now, everything would be fine now'.
'Call the doctor' he said to me.
I stood up reluctantly, I was too scared to leave him all by himself.

'Doctor my husband is calling you' I told him.
In the one week, that I had been sleeping in the hospital I had grown to hate the doctor and his guts.
'That's not possible, madam, your husband, can't be awake, talk little of talking'.
Anger burned my heart. Is this man stupid.
'Come and see for yourself'.
He followed me to the room.
'Nkem' I called, he didn't answer. His eyes were closed.
'The doctor is here' I said.
The doctor checked his heartbeat.
'I am sorry madam' he said.
'Sorry for what' I asked, dreading the worst. 'He was awake now, he just spoke to me'.
'I am sorry madam' he repeated.
'Sorry for what' I shouted 'My husband is alive, he just spoke to me'.
'Your husband is dead'.
'My husband is not dead'
'Nkem' I screamed. Two nurses rushed into the room, and that was the last thing I saw.

Everyday, I hate myself. When he was suffering, I wasn't talking to him. When I was supposed to hold his hands, I was ignoring him. When he was taking heaps and heaps of drugs, I was complaining about his body odor. When he was going on countless visits to the hospital, I was going on shopping sprees so I could frustrate him.

There are mistakes that can't be undone. These mistakes are like mushrooms, everywhere you turn you see them; Staring at you in the face, tormenting you, scolding you. Eventually these mistakes grow into monsters and eat you up slowly, and slowly till you vanish, till you are just a shadow of yourself.

MY AIRPORT EXPERIENCE

There was something about the woman that made me look twice. I don't know if it was the glassy sadness in her eyes, or the way her shoulders dropped in defeat, or the deep dark circles under her eyes.
She was staring at three children playing around in the waiting lounge. Her eyes scanned the mother of the children, as though she was comparing herself with the woman, as though she was questioning God about something. The woman made me curious, there was so much sadness emanating from her.
She looked about forty years old. I could tell she was a very rich woman from the way she was dressed. She sat down, legs crossed, lips pouted, straight faced. She looked like a queen. She looked like someone who was trained for royalty, but still she looked incomplete. I didn't know if anyone noticed but I did, it was glaringly obvious that she had a problem. Though everyone at the waiting lounge in the airport looked like they had a problem, hers was different. Was it sickness I thought, was it marital problems. Then I saw her eyes lit when a baby on the mothers shoulder smiled at her. Her eyes lit for a second, for a second it seemed like she was a different person entirely. She smiled so heartily. Then her countenance changed, she remembered something and a heart breaking, mind drenching, brain bursting sadness filled her face. Her eyes glistened with tears. The sadness came back again but this time harder and stronger. I could see her body vibrate in pain. Her hands shook terribly. That moment I caught it, I knew it. I knew the woman was childless. I knew she was barren. I knew the reason why she looked incomplete. I knew the reason why she looked at the mother of the three children with so much envy. She had an emptiness inside her, that emptiness that can only be compared to losing someone you love, that emptiness that can kill you, that emptiness that you can't do anything about no matter how hard you try, that emptiness that won't go away, that emptiness that forces you to cry in public places, that emptiness that makes you give up on life, that emptiness that makes you question God, that emptiness that makes you feel alone.

I wondered how long she had wanted child. I wondered if she had a supportive husband. I wondered if her in-laws were on her neck, I even wondered if her husband married a second wife who has children for him.

I wanted to go talk to her, hug her and tell her everything would alright. But her flight was called, she was going to Abuja, I was going to lagos. As she stood up and walked towards the departure hall. My eyes lingered on her back.
A childless woman is a broken woman. Worse still a childless woman who knows she is the cause of her childlessness.

GOD'S TIME

'You are alright, perfectly okay; the both of you'. I have said this a hundred times, I just wish you can stop coming here, and wasting money on check ups'.
'Thank you doctor'. My husband said. He held my hands tightly. I sat there, stiff and motionless.
'Madam I know your plight' the doctor said. I looked at the frame standing on his table, and the one hung near his bookshelf. Three girls and a boy. He has four children and he is saying, he can understand my plight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to pull at my hair, and use his beautiful polka dotted tie to squeeze my neck. I wanted to push everything on his table to the floor, climb over the table, pull him forward with his tie, look into his eyes and say 'You don't bloody know my plight'. But I just sat there and listened to him say what he had been saying for the past ten years. 'Mr & Mrs Ezeugo you have to put this matter in God's hands'.
We walked to the car in silence, small beads of sweat form a half moon line on my husbands face. 'Kamara, everything would be fine' he said to me like he always did. I nodded a non chalant nod. I didn't want him to console me, it made everything worse.

We got to Rapuluchukwu's house in Lekki peninsula, she was having her childs naming ceremony; she already had five. I knew I was better that Rapulu; I had a husband who wasn't a drunkard and a woman beater. Yet, I still felt jealous of her. In our university days, she was notorious for her hot pants for men. She had five abortions that I know of, but she still has children. And me? Good girl, best student in my class, best student in law school, Harvard law graduate on scholarship, Virgin till 23 and i was barren, twelve years of marriage and nothing to show for it.
'Sweetheart', Rapulu said, as she threw her hands around me in such an ostentatious manner, it made me sick. I smiled, trying to match her fakeness. 'Congratulations my dear'.
'Thanks God o! He is the one that keeps blessing me'.
'Yes thank God' I said. She walked us into the big garden were the celebration was taking place. Sitted in one corner of the garden were her friends dressed glamorously, in red suede wrapper and gold blouse with matching gele. I walked fast, I didn't want them to see me, but Rapulu, with her big mouth asked me to sit with them.
'I would sit with my husband, you know how he hates being alone in public'.
'Larry, would survive without you for 30 minutes, and that corner is reserved for my friends'. I pinched Larry, hoping he would come to my rescue.
Finally, I went to sit with them. We exchanged pleasantries. I knew all Rapulu's friends because we all attend the same church. 'How is the family, How is business, How is your mother' they asked. I kept saying fine, I felt my mouth would get stuck saying it. I pulled a chair to sit down when Chiwendu, the leader of the catholic mothers association said 'Kamara what are you doing?'. It was difficult to comprehend the question. 'I am sitting of course'.
'You can't sit on this table',
'Why, if I may ask'.
'This table is for mothers'.
It was as though someone slapped me in the eyes.
'Rapulu said...' I stammered, then stopped. I could feel the tears building up. I pushed the chair back in place. I waited for a minute, for any of this church women, who gave large donations in church, who carried Rosary and Scapula everywhere they go, to say something that wasn't spiteful, but they all sat there like demons.
'It's not the way you see it, it's the rule'. One of them said, I didn't look up to see who. I felt humiliated and frustrated as I walked to the car. Larry followed me outside.
'Babe what is it' he said, as we got into the car. 'Nothing'.
'Don't tell me nothing, you are crying'.
'Rapulu just humiliated me, she knew that table was only for mothers, and she asked me to go and sit there.'
'Is that why you are crying?'
'Why won't I cry, goodness gracious, Larry, I am getting to forty, forty years and I don't have one single child. I can't even boast of an abnormal child. Nothing! I am just a piece of flesh and bone walking around.'
'Don't say that babe, you are the most intelligent person I know, the best goddamn lawyer in this country. You are awesome.'
'It's nothing without a child, I feel so empty, I am not awesome'.
'Gods time is the best.' He said. 'Let's get out of here.
We drove home in silence, in all the years of our marriage, I have never been able to understand the man I married, he was an enigma.
'What are you thinking about?' I asked him.
'How much I love you'.
'Funny you'.
'I am serious, babe, I don't think I could be with anyone else',
'I love you too baby'
'Can you do me a favor'
'What hon?'
Let's forget about this baby issue, please don't ever bring it up'.
'Hon, I try, I try so much.'
'You have to try harder babe, you have me, and God would give us a child when he deems fit'.
This wasn't normal, how could he always be like these, so undisturbed about my childlessness. He hadn't spoken to his mother in six years because she told him he had to choose, Me or her. And he choose me.
He was no longer the 30 years old Larry that swept me off my feet, he was a now a man, who was always thinking. I squeezed his hands, as we listened to the music playing on the car stereo ~ Luther Van dross, I'd rather ~
'I'd rather have bad times with you, than good times with someone else' He said to me.
For the first time that day I smiled a genuine smile. Fuck Rapulu, and her wife beater husband, and fuck those Stupid women. I had love.

SAVE ME

It had to be a dream. It couldn't be happening. 'Stay with me baby, just stay with me'. He was shaking uncontrollably, blood was gushing out of his head. 'Jesus please save my baby, don't let him die'. I wanted to cry but I couldn't, my heart was going to shut down from fear. Oh god, the blood, it was everywhere. I tried to move my legs, but I couldn't feel them. 'Mummy' he whispered. 'My head'.
'You would be fine baby, just hold on, just stay with me'. I could see blood dripping from his head. I feel dizzy, everything was falling apart right before me. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't leave my son. I couldn't die and leave my baby. I wanted to hug him, but I couldn't feel my legs. I was really tired, my eyes were closing. I didn't want to sleep. 'Somebody help us'. I screamed. All I could hear were the chirping of birds, and the growling of animals. We were in the middle of nowhere bleeding to death. My damn phone, i stretched my hands to get them, and I slept off. All I could see was nothing, darkness.

NEW SERIES ALERT!

Hello peeps,
'I’m not saying I’m gonna change the world, but I guarantee that I will spark the brain that will change the world.'
    - Tupac Shakur

I want to say a big thank you to y'all for reading my blog *Shines teeth* *dishes out hugzz*. I am most grateful. It would definitely be frustrating if I write, and post the links on my facebook, twitter, bbm etc, and I stalk my page views and see that no one has even mistakenly opened it! Trust me, it would just kill me moral. But, reverse is the case here o! Even though you guys don't comment (plus I have fixed it, you can now comment with anonymous).
I want to inform you guys that as from tomorrow, I would be posting a new series. I would officially release the title tomorrow. I would be posting the stories bi- daily, and I would make it as short as possible so you can enjoy reading. Till tomorrow *dancing Skelewu*

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN BLOOD

He is your brother, not just your brother, your twin brother. You shared the same womb at the same time, suckled the same breast at the same time. Was it not plausible that you die at the same time, in the same space, breathing the same air - just the way you came into life. You feel like all the life in you has dried up at once. You feel like a tree in a dessert, because life holds no meaning for you. The only thing you believe in - Love. Has left you, because of you. Yes! He died because of you, and in some way, you think, you killed him. If only he had listened, a little longer, been a little more cautious, maybe he would be here, with you, in Somali, saving lifes.

It started with the 'Igbo', not the normal one, this one was darker, and stronger. Mayor called it 'Skunk', but you preferred calling it Igbo; Skunk made it sound dangerous. Mayor, your mother's younger brother, used to bring it home from work. All of you; you, Chimezie and Mayor, would go to the back of the house, and like ants gathering a cockcroach that has fallen on its back, three of you would gather around the Igbo. Chimezie, knew how to wrap it perfectly; He knew how to do everything perfectly. He would spread the rizzler - which was like a special kind of paper - pour a certain amount of Igbo in the middle, then he would wrap it, slowly and carefully, after which he would lick the end with his tongue, so that his spit would seal it. He used to say wrapping Igbo was an art, and you agreed with him, because you used to try, but you always failed to make the tip thin and pointy like Chimezie's. Mayor taught you and Chimezie how to do so many things aside smoking Igbo. He taught the both of you, how to drink kai kai. But, of all the things he taught you and Chimezie, the one you were good at was stealing. After smoking Igbo, the three of you would go to the market, were people swarmed in and out. Mayor, who somehow knew where people kept their purses or wallets, would tell you 'Chidozie, see that man, the one wearing blue. He has money in his back pocket, go and collect it. You know how I taught you'. You would nod obediently, because Chimezie had collected his own, and nothing happened to him. You would walk gently, fear gripping you legs. On getting to the target, you would take a deep breath, you would think of Chimezie the perfectionist, your twin brother who did everything better than you, then as always you would try to be better than him at this one. And, you were better than him, at picking peoples pockets. You always did a clean job. Using just two fingers, your middle and index finger, you could lift any kind of purse or wallet from any kind of pocket. At last, you too had found your art.

It wasn't too long before Mayor took you and Chimezie to work. His office was an uncompleted building at the towns outskirts. He had three co-workers, Jumbo, Yaya, and Sniper. The first day you met them, you almost bolted in fear; especially Sniper. He had too much of everything; he was too dark, too tall, too fat. His eyes were too big, and he was too scary. But it was Sniper that was by far the kindest. You remember that day you were scared, and couldn't pull the trigger on a policeman that was chasing you. That was the day they took you and Chimezie on your first mission. Sniper did it for you, he shot the man in the back of his head with his own gun. Even though the mission was successful, when you got to the office that night, Mayor was furious. He had given you a hard slap at the back of your head, and said 'So after spending my time teaching you how to pull a trigger, you couldn't shoot an ordinary policeman. So you want to die abi. I have told you several times, this game is for the fit, not for babies'.
You had cried that night. You cried because of that policeman. You cried because you had disappointed your Uncle Mayor. Chimezie crawled next to you and hugged you. He made you a promise, he said 'If you don't want to kill, I will kill for you. Whenever we go on a mission, and you have to shoot, but can't shoot. Just call my name, and I will come and save you'.
You never needed to call him on any mission, because as time flew past, you became stronger at heart. On missions, you would shoot anyone that threatened your life. You and Chimezie, became very rich. The biggest and most notorious armed robbers in Enugu. Sniper retired, so did Uncle Mayor, Yaya and Jumbo. You and Chimezie had your own gang - Fidelis, your cousin joined the both of you. Nnamdi, your childhood friend was also initiated. You and Chimezie built a house for your mother in the village. You decided never to get married. You had Chimezie, his love was enough for you. Moreover, a woman would ask questions. You hated questions you knew you couldn't answer.

Your life was moving in the best way possible, until you went on that mission that changed your life. It was the mission that was supposed to give you the money you had always wanted. You planned as usual, smoked plenty of Igbo. Your guns were in the right places, your team was on top of their game. You hugged Chimezie, as usual. If you had known, it would be the last hug, You would have held on longer. But, you didn't.
It was mid afternoon when you entered the bank, walking casually. Your guns were neatly stacked in your pocket. The banks metal detector couldn't detect your guns, because Nnamdi had paid the bank a visit the previous night. Chimezie strolled in next, then Nnamdi, then Fide. You said a silent prayer, that you didn't have to kill anyone. You entered inside the bathroom, and wore your mask, so did Chimezie, Nnamdi and Fide. Everything went as planned. You waved your gun in the air and calmly told everyone to lie down and keep quiet, they obeyed. You saw some shivering, some peeing on their clothes. You had outgrown feeling pity for your victims. Nnamdi and Fidelis, got busy throwing money inside the big 'Ghana must go' bag, while you and Chimezie, made sure no one moved. It took 30 minites to get everything done. It was when you were set to go that you heard the police siren, they were bursting in on you and your gang. You were scared. There was a back door, all of you exited through the back door. The police sighted you, and they began to chase you, you ran inside the car and Chimezie sped off. Two police vehicles were behind, you wished he would drive faster, but you didn't say, so he wouldn't panic. You could hear your heart drum out of your chest. Chimezie said he had to park the car, because there was a check point in front, and he was sure the police had alerted them. Nnamdi was crying, Fidelis was blinking hard and fast - the way he behaves when he craves Igbo. You all jumped down from the car, and ran inside a thick bush. The police was closing in on you, you didn't stop running. Your legs vibrated in pain. You heard gunshots but you kept running, there was no one in sight, and you didn't care because you were scared. Then, you heard a voice, calling out for Chimezie, you didn't know if it was Nnamdi's or Fide's, fear had contorted the voice. A few seconds later you hear a gunshot, and you hear Chimezie, screaming in pain. You heard him call your name, then you heard another gun shot. And, in your heart, in your bones, in the blood that flows through your veins you knew that Chimezie was gone. The air became stifling, the clouds became darker, and you felt the trees crashing in on you. You fell to your feet and began to cry, because you knew that Chimezie ran back to save you. You knew that he thought you were the one calling out to him, and like he promised years ago 'Just call my name and I will come and save you'. He did come to save you, only that it wasn't you, It was Fide that the police had caught, it was Fide that called out to Chimezie, and he ran back thinking, that once more you were 15, and needed him to save you, thinking that he couldn't leave his brother to die. In the blink of an eye, Chimezie left you...in a world that no longer made sense to you.

Now, you are in Somali, spending all the money you stole on sick children. You will never hold a gun again, and for Chimezie's sake, for God to accept his soul in heaven, you will travel round Africa, helping sick and impoverished children. And, every night before you sleep, you hear his voice, that one last time he called your name and you wish you had died with him.

YOU CAN'T KNOW WHERE IT PINCHES EXCEPT YOU HAVE WORN THE SHOES

I grew up in a family were we always had tea and bread for breakfast. My mother always bought novels and books for me and my siblings and forced us to read them. As a child, myself and my siblings always waited for my daddy at the door post every evening, knowing that the first person to take his bag, would always get the promo meat roll (gala) inside the nylon of the loaf of bread, along with the compulsory cheese balls biscuit, and yogurt ice cream he always bought for all four of us on his way back home from work. We would lick the ice cream sluggishly, looking at each other from the side of our eyes to know whose ice cream would finish first. In the home I grew in, we ate rice and stew with chicken every sunday and on Christmases, Easters and birthdays we had additional salad and Vita malt to go with it. In the home I grew in, going to church was a culture, I attended block rosary every evening and knelt down with bare knees on the concrete floor in penance for my childish sins which to me then were very terrible. I received Holy communion regularly and went for confession every month even though I had nothing to confess. My mother taught me to love God. My father taught me to love myself. My parents were far from rich but I had a comfortable childhood with rich memories.
Even though things have changed. Even though I have experienced so much more since then which had changed me, the days of my childhood are still the days I relish whenever I want to get in contact with my real person. The days of pepper snacks and speedy biscuits, the days of Zobo and kunu drinks, the days of baba dudu sweet.
My childhood days formed me, they made me who I am. It is a vital part of my life. It is part of my lifes story. Everybody has a story. I turned out the way I am because of how I was raised, because of the people around me, because of my parents, because of the wonderful experiences I have had, which I hold on very tightly to. Some people aren't as fortunate as I am, Some people have worst childhood days. Some people don't know the meaning of family because they have never had one. Some people have lived all their lives homeless and hopeless, sleeping under bridges at night and wandering during the day. Some people have never had anyone buy them biscuit and ice cream. Some people have never read a single book because no one bought or encouraged them to read. Some people have never seen the four walls of a school because they couldn't afford books talk little of tuition fees. Some people have been sick all their lives. Some people have never been told about God. Some girls were raped and abused as children. Some boys were taught as children, that the way to survive in life was to steal and kill, by people who their childish heart trusted. Some people have watched their siblings and parents die because of poverty. Some people have gone days without food begging on the streets with tattered clothes and lice filled hair.
Everyone has a story. A story that makes them who they are. A story that has moulded them into what they are. A story that broke or made them.
Never Judge a person without knowing his or her story. Never say you are better than someone if you haven't been in his or her shoes. It's only the one who is wearing or has worn the shoes that knows where it pinches. Never look down on people. Never conclude about people, because behind every man or woman there is a story. A story that might shock you.

THE BRIDE

'It is your marriage but their wedding' My aunty Nene told me when she noticed my deep frown. I gave a quick nod and busied myself with blowing air into balloons. 'Kpa', the balloon bursted and it jolted me into reality.
'You do that a lot' she said 'When you are angry you just shut everything out. Do you think that is a good strategy? You should learn to tell people how they make you feel'.
'You want to know how you make me feel? Mad! Just let me be' I exploded.
I stumped out of the room with the busted balloon in my hands looking like my broken heart.

My head was a mess. I lay on my bed, the smell of my pillow brought back childhood memories. How could I not have been grateful then. When I had nothing to worry about except what socks to wear to school, and what type of hairstyle to wear. The door creaked, my mother stepped in smelling like fried beef.
'Can I come in' she asked
'You are already in'.
She came in and sat at the edge of the bed. Her hair tie sat loosely on her head. It so badly irritated me. I never could understand why one could not properly tie a scarf and would rather prefer it sitting on the head like a frog about to hop.
'What is the problem? Why were you screaming at Aunty Nene'
I thought of several answers to give. I tried to figure out the shortest and simplest answer, one that won't lead to my mother's usual series of advice and talk on how a decent girl behaves.
'I didn't mean to shout on her, but you know how she likes making a big deal out of nothing'.
'That has not answered my question yet'
'She annoys me, with this useless it is your marriage but their wedding. Who is their. What nonsense is that? You know what annoys me more? I know where she got that line from. I saw the movie with her. She just keeps saying that to justify the fact that she is trying to make my wedding hers. She wants the theme color to be gold. She thinks it's better I do a buffet serving. She wants the cake to have the shape of a Palm wine keg? She is just too nosy'
'Why do you hold so much anger inside? You shut people out when you are angry. It's hard for you to say how you feel and when you let it out. It's shocking for the other party'.
Tears streamed down my eyes as the true reason for my frustration clicked. Aunty Nene wasn't my problem. The poor woman was just excited about the wedding.
'I don't want to marry him' I said in a quivering voice. 'He is a good man but I don't love him, I don't even like him' I cried, burying my face in my pillow. My mother looked askance at me. ' I don't understand you at all. Do you know you are the one that brought him to this house? What exactly is your problem?'
She spread her palms apart and began a long harangue. I heard her of course, but I refused to listen. I knew she went on about how I would later come to love him. She would tell me that I should be happy with the fact that I was going to get married at this age. Then she would refer to my cousins who were striking menopause, and are still unmarried. She would end the speech with a low tone, wide eyes, her hands on her hips, and her head stretched forward, saying 'Time is never on a woman's side. You have to grab the chance of marriage while you still can'.
When she left I heaved a sigh of relief. As though the devil just wanted to frustrate me further, my phone rang.
'Hello'. I said
'Baby how are you'
'I am fine'
'This one you are sounding like these, hope there is no problem' he asked.
'I am fine' I repeated 'Could you call me back am in the middle of something'
'Okay my baby, I would call you when I get home from the market'.
I dropped the call before he could say goodbye. How can I marry someone I can't even have a conversation with. Someone who pronounces 'picture' as 'pishur'. Someone who carries a bag around his neck like a fish seller. What was I even thinking? What? How did I allow it get to this level. The plan was to just indulge him for a while, now, I was two days away from wedding him. 'Jesus help me' I said almost bursting out in tears. Even money could not blind me this time. I can't spend the rest of my life with him. I might just kill him in his sleep. I needed a plan.

It is my wedding morning, my phone is buzzing continuously, my friends are everywhere in the room, caking their faces like they were the ones wedding; selfish idiots. It's time to execute my plan. Ralph, my supposed to be husband is in the opposite room dressing up. My mother walks in with a big smile on her face, she hugs me ostentatiously. Her is gele almost touching the roof, her face looks like a make up accident. 'You look beautiful' she says to me. I smile, I try to pity her, but I can't, she too is selfish, all of them are. I send a text message. In three minutes my plan would have been executed. 'Excuse me' I say to the hair stylist. Nobody notices me walk out of the room to the car park. I sight him, he is in a 2.2 Toyota camry. I enter the car and he speeds off. I am a runaway bride.