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.