Birthday.

"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal." (From a Headstone in Ireland)

Little Sister,

I want to tell you how very very much I miss you today. Not because I miss you any more today than any of the other days combined but because today is the one day I fully allow myself indulge in the act of Missing You. I lie in our memories, let them quietly cover my head or noisily scream inside my head as my tears soften and melt them, causing them to stick to me; heart, mind and soul. I miss you today not because you are less special any other day but because some days don’t deserve the indulgence of mourning. Some days are not special like today. Today when the heavens stopped to watch the tiny fair being squeeze and struggle to eventually dislodge herself, noisily, from mummy’s person.

Today I am letting it be yours because in all truth it belongs to you. It’s the one day you would preen and prance, turning your head this way and that as the other kids yelled their happy birthdays from their wooden seats as you strolled past their classes on your way to yours trying to restrain your excitement and appear with vacant eyes when your classmates shout “SURPRISE” as you enter into your class. Beaming as everyone pushes a card, or a gift most random…or starts a little chant accompanied by the drum-on-desk to the now appropriately afro-beat remixed Happy Birthday song. I can see your face as you write me a letter or the now permitted email from the breezy computer room that is Mr Sani’s (The Alchoholic’s) lair. I will later read your notes to myself and smile as you describe each present that was obviously much thought of even as we share the understanding of boarding school students with the prioritizing and rationalizing of tiny daily usefuls as gifts. A notebook here, a glittery pen there…You go on and on, throwing about names of friends. The ones I called imaginary. Names, names, names…when will I meet them???!

Then my smile turns to a full-bellied laugh as I read your very serious inquiry; “Why do you always write one-zero-one’s to me when something is funny?” and I glorying in my role as big sister, tease you mercilessly for mistaking my fancily crafted “lol’s” for “101’s. “

Shame I no longer use that account. I can’t afford to look at those messages.

I miss you. As the years go by, I worry and worry that I will not remember your face. The pretty one we told you we would use to get a husband to pay all our school fees and give daddy a break whenever you didn’t do well at school. I worry that your laugh, that almost annoying one that reminds me of a gurgling fart (yes, it did!) will no longer be familiar due to misuse. I worry that my memories will not be enough, for me , for my children when I tell them colourful tales of growing up in a house with too much laughter and so little seriousness. But most of all, I worry about you. Where are you? Are you ok? Who is watching out for you? Who are you hoarding your boarding school stories for? Whose clothes are you stealing? Who is sending you new and improved Yo Momma jokes? Whose friends are you stalking? Who are you grudgingly saying “I love you” to after much cajoling and bribery?

I wish you were here. That everything could go back to what it was. That we didn’t have to cry on the last day of every November or mope on the 10th of December. I wish we didn’t light candles in our hearts and houses, as if their burning flames should remind you that there is always a home waiting for you here, house or heart.

And I will tell you a secret, that death day means nothing to me when perhaps it should be everything. It was after all the walls round my life did a Jericho and fell down round my ears. The date I literally (can you believe it??) saw my entire life, past, present and future sail unchecked away from me as my heart seized and my breath caught as I realized for the first time, “What if my little sister dies?” The first time I realized that I had come to deem Us, The Untouchables.

I can’t believe you are gone, sometimes it seems like I’m talking about someone else’s sister, watching someone else’s life; hearing someone else’s mum cry, seeing someone else’s wonderful daddy’s heart break…or that other girl’s sisters try to be strong. So while I think about you everyday (its amazing, sometimes I don’t even know when I am doing it), I don’t dwell on it. That would make me mad with longing, weak with “What-ifs”. And you know, the spinning on the axis continues with or without you, unfortunately. (Seeing as you weren’t the Hercules holding the world on your shoulders stopping its spins, this of course makes sense).

My Sister, on your deathday when the world mourns for you, I can’t. That day has no meaning to me. It wasn’t with me long enough to accord it that special honour reserved for the day you came into my 6 year old earth. Your birthday. The one I’ve been privy to since I was six. Since I saw your too-fair self for the first time. Since I sat in the kitchen on a tiny stool scooping 2 sweets and 3 lollipops amongst other ‘goodies’ into those party packs for your birthday as you buzzed excitedly around after choosing your ‘fabulous’ party clothes…you the little lady of style, dictating to maids what colours went together once you could talk. I still remember mummy coming back from the hospital after she had you and telling us how she told the doctor on the 30th of November 1992, “The baby must come out today! I have one December child already. I want a November baby. I will not give birth in December!!” Not that I need to remind you but mummy is still a movement by herself.lol.

My dear Abu, lover of tea, licker of limes (which I always happily gave you just to see that ugly, squeezed look on your face as the tart taste slaps the insides of your cheeks even as you look up pleadingly at my 4foot nothing frame and beg the imperial 8 year old majesty for another taste of that sour fruit). I remember just sitting with you watching cartoons after Baby came with her coup d’etat that dethroned you from the Last Child position of power. Your downfall was so sweet to your big sisters who had been dethroned at one time by several military regimes of the baby kind. In its fourth republic, the territory was quite old to us but you didn’t know what to make of it; suddenly your crying was no longer the priority as tired hands dropped you to play with your ‘big’ sisters who teased you wickedly, pinching your eyeballs and calling you Aladdin’s thieving monkey Abu…to your very annoyed screams. Lol. Goodtimes.

In writing this, I realise (thanks!) that I will never forget you. The contours of your cheek bones may fade in my mind, like the sound of your voice or the swagger of your ‘S’ shaped walk, but you are too much a part of me to be forgotten. We belong to each other and like two people that go to the very distant corners of the earth, never to see again in life, we are each sustained by several lifetimes of memories. Poor substitute for the real thing but my sister and friend, I am so happy that you have left these with me.

I Love You.

Your biggest Big Sister




"And, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of Heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun." -William Shakespeare

I heard.....

"Observe the women of France how they achieve what they want not be stamping their little feet. But by making the men believe that they are in charge. THAT is the art of being a woman."-Mrs Boleyn, The Other Boleyn Girl.

A Lot.

"Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn."
-Anna Akhmatova


There are certain things that happen in life that have the potential to humble a person; death, divorce, defeat. Sometimes inevitable parts of living on God’s Grey Earth. For some life is chequered, with these Inevitables sprinkled here and there. For others life in it entirety is one big hustle causing them to tiptoe through life simply to arrive safely at death. Still for others, some very fortunate ones, nothing has impeded their enjoyment of this life. Not too long ago I counted myself a proud part of this fortunate class. *Dusts Membership badge*

I rephrase, I did not count myself a part of the class more like I considered myself an elite and privileged sub-section of the genus Untouchable. There I was a carefree woman, never believing any evil could be audacious enough to approach my dwelling space not because I am God’s favourite child (I didn’t even know this then) but just because in my idealistic, idyllic, sheltered world, bad things just did not happen to Us. I do not know why but they just did not. *Shrugs*

Oh to go back to those days where such assurance was concrete. The older you get, the more life seems determined to remind you that all the world is a stage and we herein are merely its unpaid amateur actors. The script has been written. Now, now ‘I Am The Captain Of My Faith, I Am The Master Of My Soul’ proponents reel in your bulging eyeballs and palpitating hearts, I am not talking about predetermination here. I am not Sibyl; the only wondrous orbs I glare into from time to time have little plastic people inside and fake snow falling when it is overturned. I merely suggest when I say that we are but actors on this great stage of life, that sometimes the control of this life is out of our hands...far beyond the reach of our greedy, yearning phalanges.

How do I know this? I don’t.

I don’t know, I think so though.

I think so because, I plan my life; map out my memories, determine my destination and propose my purpose for the year/5 years/10 years ahead. I make plans based on my hopes, goals AND ability. But as Robert Burns warns us “...The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry”. King Solomon a.k.a The Sage agrees with cher Monsieur Burns, pithily he tells us “Man proposes and God disposes”. (Prov 16:9 Paraphrased). It seems that the older one gets the less likely the world is willing to indulge the individual. Life’s lessons do not bring you up…they drag you up. Forcefully. As the years pile on themselves in a vicious effort to draw you ever closer to your twilight years, you will find that childlike qualities are very quickly replaced, as a paradigmatic shift in perceptions occur. Your perceptions change and you find your sheltering idealism suddenly snatched away from you like a wig you find yourself holding after a violent breeze blows it off its owner's skull.

For me, after a life of very few hard-knocks and idyllic life that might be surreal to many, I found that the very first slap Life gave me almost took me out of the match; I almost passed the baton to the next runner and abandoned the field of play. First life blow-slapped me with a death. To say it left me reeling is an understatement. There was after all the well established rule that bad things did not happen to me or mine. “I thought you knew this?” I asked God. This was a well recognised law. The universe respected it, the stars didn’t but appreciated it anyway and nature, naturally cooperated. But death visited and snatched a life from me, exalting in its victory. A short lived victory because here I am having lived through my worst nightmare. I stumbled, badly, after Life gave me the first hard-knock but as Tolsoy says, "If I know the way home and I am walking along it drunkenly, is it any less the right way because I am staggering from side to side?" I found my way back home.

In recent times Life has again attempted to blow-slap me into submission. Not to the same degree as before thanks to the God that watches out for me and mine, but still a healthy slap was dealt. I failed an examination. This is humbling for me because it is an entirely new experience. This is deeply embarassing for me because...well it just is. No one likes to fail I guess. *Shrugs*
So the exam for which I studied for two months and this very blog helped document some of the struggles, is the same I failed. I was close to the pass mark, a blessing and a curse, but obviously not close enough. I cried and cried like the broken hearted negro slave on a plantation bound slave-ship I referred to in a previous post. (I’ve always thought that though crying is cathartic, it’s very useless as a relief tool. It has no ability to wipe away the past, it largely serves an indulgent purpose..making me feel better.)

After this epic fail(who knew the term would ever be used in seriousness), I am humbled. As I try to make sense of this, I realise that this failure for me sounds exactly like a reverberating death knell on my joy. I hear the heavy bell ringing as if in mockery of my many successes, so loud that my accomplishments seem a distant dream. And I am awed by how much past failure can limit future success. 3 solid weeks, 21 days, atleast 504 hours and potentially trillions of seconds after receiving my results, I still find myself sad, constantly doubting my intellect, mentally limiting myself, questioning my abilities and warring with my emotions. Some how I have managed to plummet into the proverbial 'Funk' y’all. * That made more sense in my head.*

I read the story of Lot's wife today and it's gone some way in giving me insight that God willing, will drag me out of this 'funk'.

Lot’s wife in the Bible.

Lot’s wife’s suffering in the Bible is a story I never really paid attention before. BUT this is an amazing analogy of human beings & life today. (The Bible has done it again!). Lot’s wife had been told to leave her city with her family because it would be destroyed by God. “Don’t look back!!!” Lot warned and warned according to God’s directions. But as Lady Lot ran out of her city, she cast one last look back at her city.

In sadness, seeing her city full of her friends perish? In wonder, at what God rescued and saved her from? In happiness, at her ‘haters’ eventual downfall and total destruction? In fear and worry, as she witnessed all that she had worked so hard for go up in hellish flames? Whatever the case, Madame no look road she stay dey look back. Lady Lot wouldn’t focus on the road in front, instead she looked back and received her punishment. Not just for disobeying God but for two other reasons, I suspect.

For one thing, Lady Lot did not trust God and His promises enough to let go of her past. Secondly, by turning around to take inventory of what was behind her, she inevitably slowed herself down. She hampered her progress by those few minutes or even seconds that she stood staring at all that she HAD rather than looking forward at all that she would HAVE if she trusted her Maker.

Lady Lot turned into a pillar of salt. An immovable block of salt is actually the paragon of stagnation. If I was Aunty Nkem of ‘Tales By Moonlight’ fame, I would tell you that the moral of the story is that her past had held her so captive that she could not move forward to face the future. A free, unlimited, unmarked, potential-filled future by the way. Maybe she should have been considering the future with anticipation of another chance? Perhaps with thanksgiving to God for remembering The little Lots in their tiny Sodom home? Or maybe standing in awe of God’s mighty power in saving herself AND her family.

I realise that in many ways I have been Mrs. Lot. Standing mobile crying over the lot I have lost. Shame really, when my best is yet to come.

I heard.....HD Edition

The Resilient, Rejoicing, Recalcitrant Spirit of Africa.

I heard.....

"Nothing suceeds like excess." -Mr Wilde....Just realising how true this is.

Favourite Things

WHO UNDERSTANDS ME BUT ME

They turn the water off, so I live without water,
they build walls higher, so I live without treetops,
they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine,
they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere,
they take each last tear I have, I live without tears,
they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart,
they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future,
they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends,
they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell,
they give me pain, so I live with pain,
they give me hate, so I live with my hate,
they have changed me, and I am not the same man,
they give me no shower, so I live with my smell,
they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?
who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms?

I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand,
I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble,
I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love, my beauty,
I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears,
I am stubborn and childish,
in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred,
I practice being myself,
and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me,
they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart
when the walls were built higher,
when the water was turned off and the windows painted black.
I followed these signs
like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself
followed the blood-spotted path,
deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself,
who taught me water is not everything,
and gave me new eyes to see through walls,
and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths,
and I was laughing at me with them,
we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?

Jimmy Santiago Baca

*I love Latin American poetry. And poets:-)

I heard.....

"Nigerians laugh at themselves a lot, though. Never mind that it hardly appears that way in our literature. Maybe we are afraid that the foreign aids and grants will stop coming if the world catches us laughing." (Adaobi Nwabauni interview)