Single & Mighty

Randomly going through notes I’d written on my ipod from ages ago and I found some gems I’d written and forgotten on the crafty device for about a year. Between seven different ‘Things To Do’ lists and notes on random gossip my sister and I had indulged in at church (I use the bible on my ipod in church), were some notes that made me smile, side-eye myself and/or pause to think. One of these pretty hard rocks was a note I had made from a House On The Rock program I’d attended called...wait for it...SINGLE & MIGHTY. *so many jokes, so little time*.

Before you judge me as a typical Nigerian woman attending Single Fellowships in hopes of bumping into my Mr Right With God a.k.a JesusIsMyNiggah, the program came on a day where I had asked God “Please send me some advice for _____ relationship problem before I do something Typical Me l #Kano.Add the fact that my pastor from my church in England was one of the visiting pastors...ok, ok and the fact that charlatans all over the city were touting rumours of free snacks and such...but that’s neither here nor there.

Anyways, I enjoyed reading this note I made because it’s really in line with how I feel about marriage at the moment. The culture in Nigeria is so marriage-minded, marriage is so touted as the ultimate accomplishment that many people get themselves in sticky situations in the process of attaining and keeping this ‘holy marital grail’. But thats a post for a whole ‘nother day yo! Below are the short notes i made with liberal sprinklings of incomplete sentences and huge chunks of my own paraphrasing. Hopefully someone will be able to follow and get some pick pearls from swine:).

Pastor Tai Adeshugba from Worship Taberncale church;


“Marriage is a means to an end not an end in itself. Being single and being married are not ultimate goals in themselves, rather they’re a part of the process of living. Singleness is an essential pathway, a transitional stage on the way to marriage so enjoy it while it lasts.

It is important to empower yourself as a single person. Being single does not put disadvantage you in any way. Being single is an opportunity to focus on yoursels; to find and study your purpose in this life. This is what this time is for; praparation, understanding yourself, learning why you were put on this earth. This is a journey we need to all go on alone. This is why you should find your purpose before you get married. People are looking for complete people, not people who are looking to be completed because that is a heavy responsibility for another human to bear. Sometimes, God brings you along to propel a significant other to where they are supposed to be and in so doing, you propel yourself too.


So what do you do with your years of pre-marital bliss?

Expect the best.

Prov 23:18.

If you refuse to accept anything but the best, you will often get it. Your mind set should be: “If God told me to live in this way and I am following His words, He will bring the best for me”. You want the best, you have to be prepared to wait for the best. In your waiting, always maintain a positive attitude, people who expect negative things are usually not disappointed. Many times, your expectations determine your results. So motivate yourself to be the best YOU that you can be; challenge all self limiting beliefs as you will always see what you already believe. Don’t focus on your faults, work on them, highlight your strengths. Selling yourself short will make you settle for less than you should.


2. Be the best
Do whatever you do excellently well, it is in thIS that you find fulfillment. Doing the best at this moment puts you in the best position for the next moment. Focus on being a Purpose NOT Passion Driven person. Remember, until you're over qualified in your current position you are not due for a promotion. See Daniel 3:6
Daniel distinguished himself from the other (incredibly good) contenders. What is it about you that is special?

To get the best out of others you have to be the best of yourself. Remember, Life puts the best things out of the reach of Mediocrity. Try to bring the best out of every inordinate development.

Prepare yourself for marriage...
Women don't have problems submitting... to men who make right decisions. If you're going to lead, be the best...Provider protector Priest you can be.
Find and develop your purpose in a line that will sustain you in the long term.
Do not look for wealth in a partner first, search for; potential vision passion purpose...there are many undiscovered ‘diamond in the rough’ characters.


3. Do the best

“Whatever your hands find to do, do it well.”-Ecclesiastes 9:10. Whatever you do, do it with all your might. Give it your all. Develop, for yourself, a culture of maintenance. Your best is what is in you not what is around you so even without resources, you are wired to progress. God blesses the works of our hands, the passage does not say “He blesses our hands”. You have a responsibility. As Pablo Picasso said, inspiration will come but when it does...let it find you working.

Do not be weary in well doing (Galatians 6:9).

4. Start living in the moment

Love's Disability

I arrive back into the blogosphere, after my self imposed hiatus, like a triumphant donkey rider invading the wild wild world of cyber space. Descending down crowded cyber streets, bursting into e-Jerusalem…with no welcoming mats and peasants singing praises at my arrival. No worries, the plebeians never recognise royalty. Or deity.

In one phrase, I am back.

In the last few months I have grown up considerably… although to watch my daily exhibition of foolery and mayhem would be to think otherwise. *Insert pensive pose here.* Despite the many other-wise thinkers and nay-sayers, I stand resolute in my declaration that I have indeed grown up.*Puffs out chest and points to sky*. I am not the same.

*Key inspirational music*

One thing I have learnt a little more about in my recent grown & sexy musings is about love. Yes children, not lurrve, not luv, or lv or lov, or V….lol, ok I don’t know who says ‘V’…but I mean L.O.V.E, Love. Not infatuation, intense like, warming concern, I mean LOVE! That great emotion that fuses all of those; Infatuation, Like, Concern and so much more, into one. I'm amazed at myself, a few months ago I honestly believed love was simply a concept created by selfish people to get their way. Seriously, how else do you explain people justifying foolishness in the name of love?! Take for instance the case of a woman who, several years after making vows before God and man and birthing several children that depend on a balanced two parent home for well rounded support, declares “Toby, I am no longer in love with you, I am leaving you for our post man. You must understand that I'm in love and mUst follow my heart”. Two days later I'm watching Toby on the Crime TV arrested for eating his wife’s heart.

Morbid humour, I apologise.

Actually I wonder what the origin of this word is. Wait, I'm off to wiki it.

*Back* Didn’t find it on wiki, thank the geeks for Google!

“The word love goes back to the very roots of the English language. Old English lufu (sounds like the igbo pronounciation!) is related to Old Frisian luve, Old High German luba, Gothic lubo. There is a cognate lof in early forms of the Scandinavian languages. The Indo-European root is also behind Latin lubet meaning it is pleasing and lubido meaning desire. The word is recorded from the earliest English writings in the 8th century.”
-GOOGLE.


With all the wondrous things that Love is, its little wonder that we very quickly lose sight of its many incapabilities. Love’s Disability I call it. As a world, we have conditioned ourselves to believe that love; the all consuming, unassuming, fully-loaded potential-filled feeling has the power to do all things; cancel debts, cover a multitude of sins, leap over tall buildings unaided etc. But I'm not sure I agree. Sure the bible speaks of such awe-inspiring love…but in what context? Biblical love manages to live up to all its professions simply because of its inhuman nature. Love, 1 Corinthians 13 Love, describes the same kind of love that Romans 8:35 confirms. A love that gives constantly in the face of distress, peril and persecutuion and expects nothing in return. A love that is patient even in a “Girl Hol’ My Earrings’ moment. A love that is kind, that rejoices in truth no matter how bitter that truth is. I humbly suggest that this is a standard that humans can ever only aspire to because it is divine in nature. Not human.

It’s the kind of love that can only come from one who plays the dual role of Lover AND Creator. Think about this; it is only a deity, God Himself, that took the time to create a face like Dennis Rodman’s orangutanic visage, that can afford to favour him with such a love as that described in 1 Cor 13, because in making him He knew everything about him…and chose to love him regardless. Well, only God and Dennis’ mama (who incidentally also plays the role of both lover and creator).



As humans we can only give a fraction of this brand of love but because it comes from the Giver of all true and pure love, it is enough. However, the question that plagues me is that we as a people have been conditioned to believe that Love contains some magic powers that can cure the Human in us and injects us with some godlike propensities to perform Herculean exploits.

What magic powers do you think LOVE contains that allows it to erase the humanity in us and make us gods?

In recent times I’ve had to contemplate this billion Naira query often whispered in a tear choked voice; “If you loved me as you claim, you would not have cheated would you?!” The standard answer from hurt women all over the world is a big “NAY!” or to expound “NAY! IF YOU REALLY LOVED ME THE LOVE WOULD HAVE STOPPED YOU FROM CHEATING!” Now, I would have been at the fore front of the Women Speaking Out protest nodding merrily along with the best of them but truth be told, recent events have made me stop mid-nod and re-access my stance. Your love for me and my love for you does not extinguish the human in me. Your love only improves on the flawed human that I am, sometimes so much so that I am so far from what I was that I may be considered “…a different person!”

Love is not a magic potion that wipes away the realities of our humanity. They still remain. It is up to each of us to constantly make an effort to discipline those parts of our humanity that shield the deity present in each of us, deposited at creation (Genesis 2:7).

The Benettonian Approach

It’s the season to be merry and all that goodness so a jollified seasons greetings to all! May the [surprisingly] unconditional love of God pervade this commercialized Rudolf-ridden season and find its way to your hearts & hearths.

(I haven’t blogged in a bit, not because I have run out of things to say, *whispers “Tufiakwa” whilst simultaneously spitting on the ground and snapping fingers over head like an Igbo elder receiving bad news at the dibia’s shrine*. I have quite simply, been busy. Life happened. As ‘it’ will continue to happen (God willing) there’s no use apologising). To today’s news.

“The British National Party is made up of refugees, migrating from the reality of the real world”
- columnist from the Evening Standard, whose name I forget now.

So I have concluded that I’m definitely not reading The Evening Standard on the tube ever again. I’m sitting here with all sorts of looks running after each other on my rather expressive face. I’m confused, then fascinated, then tickled, then heavily ANNOYED and finally so incredulous that I have to physically restrain the fingers of my right hand from reaching out and poking the now dozing hombre on my right, shouting “Can you BUHHLEEEVVE the nerve of this damn fool?!?!”...whilst pointing viciously at the newspaper in my hand. The reason for this aggression is found littered all over the comment section of this paper:

Race.

Little thanks to the BNP, the general populace of England has, in the last months of 2009, either grown fiercely patriotic or excessively liberal. The normally apathetic of course remain unmoved, but we don’t care about The Don’t Cares.

That many people in 21st century London are rather suspicious of immigration laws, societal intergration and race is not new, strange (or interesting) information. However, most people have managed to hide under the banner of tolerance by putting up an accepting front of people from varied backgrounds and cultures. To a certain extent the BNP debate blew a little of the lid off that tin.

In London today, you would be forgiven for thinking we are all liberal minded individuals roaming round the littered city streets but one thing I learnt from the uproar surrounding Nick Griffin’s appearance on Question Time is that The Patriots *does air quotes* number far and exceedingly above the figure originally suspected. It’s just that in today’s world where Common and Lily Allen duet, you can really only afford to be racist or bigoted inside...DEEP inside. So more people than we would like to believe are distrustful and afraid of people who are unlike them. But they keep any suspicion, fear or even hatred deeply buried, disguised by a veneer of acceptance and normalcy. Just like a religious, married M.P with 3 kids, from Framlingham…whose dearest fantasy is to be a cross-dressing cage fighter. I mean, do you *Kanye shrug*…just don’t let anyone else know and we’ll all live happily ever after. (At least until your insatiable desire to rock frocks causes you to mistakenly wear red kitten heels to a Parliamentary meeting paired with your Brooks Brothers suit... or do something equally media-friendly.)

On the pages of the free newspapers, the comment sections in August and September were sprinkled with comments whose undertones said one of two things on the race/immigration debate. There was an equal divide between the Patriots on one hand and the Liberals on the other hand. The former group support of Griffin and what he represents. They have fallen for the BNP’s rhetoric of reverting the damage caused by ‘foreigners’ (by foreigners I assume they refer to 1st, 2nd and 3rd generation men, women and children some of whom had very little say in deciding to settle in this country…that is obviously overflowing with milk and honey *ahem*). The Liberals on the other hand, argue for freedom for freedom’s sake. With little or no support for the BNP’s policy, they staunchly advocate the freedom of every one with an opinion to spew forth unrestrained, no matter how asinine or insidious to a brittle electorate straining under the weight of an economic downturn and searching for anyone to dump the blame on. While I do support the U.S’s first amendment and believe the right to free speech is a hallmark of a democratic and progressive society in this 21st century, I believe that giving free reign to ignorant and uneducated rhetoric cleverly disguised as fact has caused serious problems in the world’s history. Please refer to Hitler’s hate-fueled propaganda for details. BUT, I will ruefully admit that the dissemination of information, no matter how useless, is the basis of a free society. After all, if we are still allowing the Kardashians drone on aimlessly on our box-screens, why shouldn’t Griffin be allowed to mix verbs and consonants all day long on the public airwaves?

In this case I am especially happy that Nick Griffin and the BNP have been given a chance to expose themselves simply because despite the heavy criticism meted out by vexed members of the public, the BNP confirms that the membership of the party grew after their exposure. For some this showed that insidious ideas must be monitored and not given exposure to prevent them spreading and contaminating the public. For me, this growth merely confirmed the fraud that is the general English public. While we are so quick to point to our solo white, Jewish, hispanic or Muslim friend that will finally confirm to the world our United Colours of Benetton-ian approach to diversity, increasing numbers in the BNP’s ranks surely indicate that we are not as far along in this tiring game of self-deceit as we thought we were.

For some people the revelation of the extent to which we have been fooling ourselves as a society chaffed their righteous consciences. How can there be so many hidden racists amongst us? (Because try as you might, to convince yourself that the BNP is merely aggressive not racist is as foolish as calling an Ikwerre man an Igbo man to his face with full knowledge of the Nigerian civil war behind you and an understanding of the relationship between an Ikwerre man and his cutlass. This would be a foolish mistake you may only make once in your soon-to-be-severed lifetime).

Some people were upset and disappointed by the swelling ranks of the BNP but I wasn’t upset, just saddened but thankful that the truth was slowly coming to light. Rather than a hidden hatred of all things foreign, it is much better that intolerance be practiced in the open, if it at all. If there were a sign to let everyone know where one’s allegiance belonged on sight, that would make things easier. Some people would not bother to apply for certain jobs were class is a requirement, for instance. Others still would not bother going into establishments were skin pigmentation were graded…or even considered at all. And it would be convenient to know who to avoid at networking events. Amongst others.

The world would be much easier if we abandoned this Great Pretense and agreed that Super Barack or not, as a society we are in some ways mentally confined to the civil rights age as we wander about God’s grey earth; each race deathly afraid and eternally suspicious of the other. When the self-deceit stops, maybe the progress and real quest for unity will start. Until then let those of us that understand that the things that separate us are far smaller than those that unite us start the work, gaining one white, Jewish, hispanic or Muslim friend at a time.

(How's this for a Christmas message though!...Baby Jesus, Baubles & BNP..???.. MERRY CHRISTMAS!)

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

Sod's Law

So 12.39pm finds me not in my class, as expected of a respectable College of (the) Law of England and Wales' student with classes from 12pm to half two, but in the library blogging away in reckless abandon.

The reason for this is not my purpoted(read; disgustingly shameless) laissez-faire attitude to the things I am uninterested in. The College of Law currently ranks in the ‘Supremely Unconcerned’ zone...with every suspicion of its languishing in this zone for the foreseeable future, what with the daily barrage of work they pile on my dainty coiffure. Honestly, for someone who works best….ok then, someone who works ‘okay’, right at the very end of the year by subsisting on cramming and sheer willpower, having to attend classes everyday and hand-in substantial amounts of work DAILY is not really my thing….*hears mother’s voice in head “Oho! So whose thing is it then?!”* Well, for one, it certainly is some other Law students’ thing, I assure you! If I hear one more solicitor-in-training excitedly chirp about the glorious joys of detangling Tax Law equations, or spot another raising hands, unprompted, to answer questions like his armpits have hedgehogs lodged in their depths, oh it will be on! *snaps finger in ‘Z’ formation*

I have never been a stickler for daily attendance at school largely because I honestly believe that the amount of money we pay as tuition fees can NOT possibly cover the amount of suffering each disturbingly boring class brings. (Sit down Mr Cameron! I don’t mean I agree with your hair-brained scheme to increase fees…we all know who will be the real victims of that; England’s Money Pigs a.k.a The International Students. The BNP always conveniently forgets this group of sacrificing youth, in its incessant lectures on immigration. And all their 'Nigger Get Like Me, I'm Ethnically British' swagger. Ok so that was a David Banner remix of what the BNP actually say not what they have said, well at least not what they have said in public. Yet. But one does hope.

One digresses.
 
So, supreme unconcern aside, I have long since the first term of my first year at university realised that law was not really my passion in life. *Hears daddy reasonably intone, “Its stability not passion that provides food for one’s table”. Regardless of this untimely realisation, I have gone on to complete a law degree from a renowned university, attained a masters from another prestigious institute, studying at the ‘UK’s best law school' and I’m looking to crown my scholarly pursuits with knowledge of the nefarious laws of my motherland. (So yes, I do believe I have successfully stolen the Great Pretender award from King Edward VI).

So attending classes and doing all those things that are necessary in the quest for the haloed grail of good grades is something I have gotten quite skilled at. Even when all i want to do is make like Little Britain's Vicky Pollard and ask the world "AM I BOVVERED THO'?" Now, after this long winded whine session, you may conclude that this general disinterest in my daily studying is the reason I am currently lounging in the library blogging away with nary a care in the world as my class goes on 3 doors away? Simple answer, Transport For London....To borrow a most Nigerian term; in short, LONDON as a whole!

Now, I must profer a disclaimer at this point to my accusing TFL when I am Nigerian. Mainly because the Nigerian traffic causes us to give at least a two hour grace period when scheduling appointments. I guess I shouldn't complain about slow trains and all. I will anyways.

As I was saying, from time to time it seems like the universe syncs with all its natural accomplices to frustrate the milk of human kindness out of a person’s spirit. Apparently this is called Sod's Law. The stated law is defined by the Urban Dictionary as "A humorous axiom stating that anything that can go wrong will go wrong." In London, 'time to time' appears to be every other day for most commuters.
 
Take for instance this ordinary day in the life of a regular London student.

Today you have an early, essential lecture. This is of course, the very day that the bustop in front of your house is ‘Not In Use’ as the bus has to be diverted due to an accident at dawn caused by rival gangs playing Stab-Da-Bredrin on your street. You finally decide to walk to  the next available bus stop 15 minutes away on this blisteringly cold morning. Halfway there the heavens open and blessings of the wet variety descend on your newly coiffured hair which you were rather eager to show off at this morning’s lecture.

You hurriedly sweep your fingers through your heavy bag, frantically searching as you still attempt to walk briskly along, stopping only once to remove your gloves for a more thorough search. Refusing to believe the obvious...that your umbrella is cushioned warmly between your wallet and housekeys, both still laying calmly forgotten on your dresser. Dearly wishing you were in a country littered with street hawkers with whom you would have conveniently picked a fight and vented your frustration, you instead Bolt to the bustop like a mature post-graduate student towards a ‘Free Food’ sign.

You obviously miss your bus. Wait 10 minutes in the vicious, sleeting and perpetual English rain, finally smiling as you see another bus approaching your bus stop. As you look into your bag to find your Oyster, Oga Driver just take style scale pass you, leave you dey gawk!! In English, the one second you put your head down to withdraw your Oyster card, the bus driver assumes you are not waiting for his bus and it sails past on its merry way.

You finally get on a bus, and there is no place to seat. Of course. So you stand there creating your own puddle as little children in bright wellies look longingly at the water pooling at your feet even as their mothers give them that 'Step Into That Water And Feel My Wrath' look that must be a compulsory elective at Mummy College. You stand for the short ride to the tube station and quickly rush to your platform on your arrival....then watch your train go chugging past IMMEDIATELY you arrive at the platform. Just like your train was waiting for that ‘monkey-sucking-a-lemon' look you now have on your face as you stare at its cheerfully retreating backside.
 
The next train of course will be delayed because today is the day someone decided to end their life AND inconvenience the world at the same time, by jumping in front of a train. Not to make light of suicide, but it seems a rather selfish thing to do. Furthermore, jumping in front of a train seems the very height of selfishness. Think about the driver who will now live with a guilty conscience forever. And how about the other commuters who might be scarred by the experience. Although admittedly many Londoners will unremorselessly think ‘good riddance’. But still!

So, the train is delayed and when you do get on a train(FINALLY!), it moves so slowly that you immediately believe that what you have  always suspected is indeed true, “Little midgets move trains”. Yes indeed, the train proceeds to move like it is being slowly pushed by a group of elderly midgets. Is this train-crawling limited to the Northern Line only?? Oh BORIS!!!!!
 
Anyways, you finally get to your destination, in my case School, so late that barging into the class at this point is tantamount to slapping your teacher Leona Lewis style (Is it too soon?... For someone to be so angry at her lack of personality that he slaps her is NOT funny. Well, not THAT funny.) So, you find yourself quietly seated in the library blogging away. Pretending you are not beyond elated to be given a reprieve from the mindless boredom that is an Accounting Law class.

Lady.

LIFE. There is never a break. Every mountain you conquer, every pinnacle you reach is the beginning of a new struggle. You surmount your 19,331 feet Kilimanjaro only to confront your 29,002 feet Chomolungma patiently waiting for you to attempt its treacherous heights. Relaxation periods seem minimal and far between in this rat race that all mankind seem to be perpetually running. Like the imprisoned hampsters we amusedly watch on endless ferris wheels, humans are also on the ferris wheel of life. Amusment, minimal. Hobbes has arguably, come the closest to describing the true state of life; Nasty, Brutish and Short.

Arguably.

At age seven, life’s greatest conundrum revolved around the monumental decision; ‘Sky Dancers OR Jem & The Holograms?!?!?!’ When K-TV and Cartoon Netwrok dared to show both at the exact same time! Throwing little girls into fits of pure panic and apoplexy.





By ten, getting detention at school for something as criminal and dangerous to the morality of the youth as forgetting my slippers under my bed (one never forgets one's first encounter with a disturbingly over-zealous prefect,) was the death-knoll signifying the end of life as I knew it. How I wept and wept on thinking about the mark that first detention would make on my afore this time, Tabula Rasa of a record. Oh if only I knew how ‘graffitied’ that very slate would become, and how quickly I would morph into the African version of Miss Blyton’s Elizabeth Allen that I did eventually became in that local jail for children cleverly disguised as a boarding school (a ruse many a parent fell for), I would not have wasted my carefully rationed crocodile tears.

By thirteen, getting a result that boldly declared me ‘an average student’ to the consternation of my father meant that my quintessential purpose in life revolved around destroying any suspicion of mediocrity in my erythrocytes. So with the fear of Dear Daddy’s wrath weighing heavily upon my 13 year old shoulders, my life’s blood went into proving that mediocrity was indeed my kryptonite. That achieved, 16 found me trying to explain why the Government AND Literature-IN-English awards did not come home with me at the end of the year....in addition to the History award sitting in its honourary place in our family’s home.

So you see, with one problem comes another. Life goes on, for every problem there is a solution. AND an additional problem. Often the new problem is an inherent part of the solution that once provided much relief. For instance, there I was thinking if I did well enough I would have solved my problems. But ‘well enough’ opens your eyes to the realisation that there is MORE to achieve. 'More' quickly leads to 'Much More', then to 'Too Much' and Beverly Feldman wisely tells us that “Too Much Is Not Enough.”

From a sixteen year old girl to a 23 year old woman, I am beginning to understand that “...To Whom Much Is Given, Much Is Expected.” Luke 12:48. Leave what you heard, the Bible continues to spew forth relevant and surprisingly accurate advice that goes to the centre of today’s dliemnas. But I digress. The universe does not owe any of us a singular thing, in fact it is the most dubious of creditors, a veritable Shylock who will demand that ounce and a half of flesh, whether you are Ready or Not. Fugee la la la. I always thought this 12:48 referred to wealth but it can apply to any and everything you have. Be afraid. Be verrrrry afraid.

At 23 (as a barely 2 weeks old 23 year old, see how I brandish the number about. Eyes still gleaming with the joy and pride of registering another year on my life’s calender...not yet dimmed with the realisation that I am aging. Quickly. Benjamin Button style) I realise that the more years you hoard in your Basket of Life, the more, hell, the MUCH more is expected of you!

In the most basic of examples for instance, a 23 year old woman walks into the room and what people see is a young WOMAN. A young LADY. Not a young GIRL. Not just “The daughter of...” or “The friend of...” but she is seen first as a person in her own right. One whose actions will be attributed to herself alone. Rude words wont be easily chucked into the ‘Bad Home Training & Blame The Parents’ basket as easily as they once would have. Reactions to rudeness are quickly directed straight to the source, the rude woman. She very quickly deteriorates from ‘The young woman...’ to ‘ That young woman that can not carry herself in public’. As a young woman, you are now fully responsible for your words and actions in a different manner than you were as a young girl.

Long gone are the days when men look at a you and think ‘She’s a little girl, she will grow into a beauty.’ The time has come when much more is conveyed in received looks and first thoughts are not necessarily of the ‘Duckling to Swine conversion’ variety. (So woe betide you in this image-driven world if you have not shaped into the promised beauty!).

Rambunctiousness is no longer considered the ‘...excessiveness of youth’...smilingly said with a nostalgic sparkle in the speaker's eye. Boisterousness is often equated with loudness which seems to be indirectly proportional to a womans age and attractiveness. All of a sudden, carriage becomes the watch-word.

So at 23, at this new junction in my life, I am carefully consolidating all the information I have learnt in 23 largely pleasant years on God's Grey Earth. I’m observing the subtle nuances each additional year brings to the world’s expectation of me. Everyday, reveals more of myself as I interprete my role as an actor in the stage of life and my contribution to that niche in the world where my placeholder stands, with my name engraved waiting patiently as I find my place and fulfil my purpose.

I am learning that childlike charm like beauty, has its place. A 23 year old of the female specie is expected to be a woman. It’s like as soon as St. Peter italises that ‘21’ next to your name in The World’s Registry, He sends an internal memo to everyone you will meet and the expectation of ‘Woman NOT Girl’ is there from the start of the conversation to its very end. At 21 or even 22, you may still be forgiven for slacking and regressing (not too far back though) to your glorious teens. But by 23, the world staunchly ignores that Little Girl Inside Every Woman. And if she is not careful...or listens too carefully to the world.... the woman will neglect rather than tame her inner child, until the child's spirit is broken. And the Lady loses her Little Girl.

Favourite Things

(BTW.....See you later Mr. Jackson, thank you for helping me dust the floor with numerous 9year olds' faces in dancing competitions! You are present in so many of my favourite childhood memories....although with your [alleged] trackrecord for little kids, I should probably be more worried than I am*shrugs*.Thank you anyways....I believe the only people sadder than most of us 9year old 'Dancing Champions' are the many Nigerian women who will now never be able to know your bleaching secrets. So thank you sir, even in death, you continue to Heal The World...and make it a better place. So to you, Mr. Irreplaceable Legend, I'm saying "see you later" not "goodbye" because...."When you’re larger than life, you never can say goodbye, because nobody will let you leave"*)

Another of my favourite poems....and totally unrelated to MJ:

First Day at School

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don't let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don't take sweets from?
Perhaps they're to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

Roger McGough


* verysmartbrothas.com

Monday Blues:-(

I woke up today completely overwhelmed by the task I’ve set for myself. And I woke up late. My phone was still on silent mode from studying yesterday night so all pings and wake up calls were promptly ignored…probably to my phones utter delight as I have been known to physically assault this non-living being several mornings a week. Anyways, I woke up frightened, like “What the hell was I thinking thinking I could take the New York bar exam?!?!” I have 35 days remaining. And 23 subjects left. To memorise by heart. *gulp*

I get up looking like I’d done a Jacob and engaged in battle with a burly angel in my dream; crazed and harassed. I stalk in my jammies to my pee’d-on territory in the study room. (Its so funny when you wake up angry and just stalk around, angry at everything and nothing in particular...until you mistakenly see yourself in the mirror; weave glued to head or electrified-out, eye crusted closed, looking like you’re channeling your inner Quasimodo…at that point you just have to laugh at yourself!).I sit, I try to study. But nothing is going in…..my brain is so full of fear there’s no room in the peanut for anything else. So I leave the dreaded McNasties sometimes referred to as ‘books’ and go back to my room.

I just sit in the dark and meditate. I need some help and no one can help me. All the Obamagery is totally useless now, of course it’s easy for everyone to say “You will be fine” and “You can do it”, what else will they tell you??? “Yeah um, dumb idea thinking you will pass this exam, it’s a lot of work for anyone, be realistic how will you pass?!? Just come home”. Times like this words can not suffice.

So, I go to the source of words….and thoughts….and actions. I go to God. Some people trust their self-sufficient will and strict discipline or their abilities or their history of success or their brains. This is good if it works for you (One of my best friends here is an atheist and I am slightly surprised by how genuinely fond of him I am regardless of the fact that our stances in life are so different. I don’t even bother preaching because my words can barely convey what God means to me and I don’t want to sell Him short, so I just do me and hope my actions whisper a little louder than my nonexistent words). If self-belief is enough for you, great…..but I have come to realize that some things in life require at least a modicum of luck, or favour or SOMETHING cos sometimes you do everything right but achieve what Greek mythologists describe as an EPIC FAIL!(LOL, I love those words!).

Sitting in the darkness in my room, I think & talk….. and I trust. I trust that the words I’m saying mean something to a higher power somewhere. I sit and I speak and I ask and I wonder out loud and I worry and I explain and I think. And I remember the words of Fred Hammond’s ‘Be Magnified’. Now, for the longest time, I didn’t get this song, I thought it was one of those gospel songs that incorporates abstract concepts eg ‘glorious’, wondrous, faithful etc. (I have always thought these are odd ways to describe God. I mean wondrous? Er, yeah maybe to the Isrealites after watching Him part a whole bloody ocean before their very eyes, wondrous, glorious, goddammm magnificient would be appropos. But to me, a girl living in a busy, smelly city, for whom oceans and miracles are only things you read about….a wondrous god means little. Honestly. I didn’t even get what Faithful meant until I heard a pastor say it means consistency. From my understanding, if you think God doesn’t save and He always fails you….then at least He is consistent and you can count on Him to not come through for you.lol! And I began to like and then fully understand what Christians mean by His faithfulness).

Anyways, so Be Magnified starts with Fred’s prayer: “ Lord we enlarge you in our vision greater than our problems, greater than our fears,greater than our insecurities, greater than the enemy himself.” It took me a while to understand what he was asking for in this prayer and in the song. I get it now and it think its really him just saying to himself “Lord I have this problem. And its huge. Seriously, its huge. But im choosing to focus on You and your promises. And to stare so much at you that I really can’t see anything else.” It’s like running a race.

When you’re running you have to look ahead, at the finish line and let that be the focal point of your race, because you need the direction. If you’re running and looking around you, a few things will distract you. I can just imagine myself running a race(I couldn’t write that without laughing due to my absolute hatred of any form of physical activity coupled with the fact that [apparently], when I run I look like I’m running backwards, according to my friend) and looking around me, the thoughts running through my head will include:“Oh wow, Tina has gained weight, hmm if a member of Team Chunk beats me today I will die of shame!” Or “Oh my lord see how fast O.J is running….wait oh, are those those new shoes that I wanted!?!?!Chei! This girl has started stealing, how did she afford them???!?” etc. Somehow you can see how this may not be good for Racewinning.

So after all of this, I felt better and returned to the McNasties energized, and determined to make like Peter and press on in Racerunning with my eyes fixed on Jesus. Not because I’m a good Christian but because right now, I can’t afford to look at anything else without falling.


Psalm 20:

1 May the LORD answer you when you are in distress;
may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.

2 May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.

3 May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings. [b]

4 May he give you the desire of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.

5 May we shout for joy over your victory
and lift up our banners in the name of our God.
May the LORD grant all your requests.

6 Now this I know:
The LORD gives victory to his anointed.
He answers him from his heavenly sanctuary
with the victorious power of his right hand.

7 Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.

8 They are brought to their knees and fall,
but we rise up and stand firm.

9 LORD, give victory to the king!
Answer us when we call!


My friend Presido:-) sent me this psalm on the last anniversary of my sisters passing with a message that said something like, "Sometimes I dont know what to say but I really want to say something to you"...this psalm always lifts my spirit.

Dear Daddy

Happy Fathers day to The Sage, The Head, The man trusted above all others. To the Simple man, the honest, straightforward Advice Giver, The One who laughs with eyes crinkled at the corners, just like mine, and refers to me(voice laced with pride) as 'A Clown'. To my Daddy, The One with the booming voice and endearing names for his girls, The Proud One whose greatest happiness is sharing my happiest moments.

Happy Fathers day to you Daddy, in thanksgiving for all the little things you do that you don’t think I appreciate, the usually unwanted but always needed advice, your vicarious living through me; my successes are always sweeter for knowing you enjoy them far more than I do…..with the way you boast about even my tiniest achievements.



Thanks for our arguments; for listening to me loudly & angrily state my often flawed opinion…..and then promptly shutting me up with a clever argument or the sure-fire “So long as you live in my house…..”

Thank you for reminding me that regardless of who thinks otherwise, THE WORLD IS MINE....and everyone else is just visiting:-). For teaching me that I am worth much more than the sum of my body parts, important enough to set standards and expect them to be kept by anyone daring to (attempt the impossible &) replace you as ‘Mon Homme Numéro Un’. So, to Daddy, for making me believe impossible is nothing….I am Me,only because You are You.

Love always,

Your (prettiest & most likely to procure the highest bride price*watches her sisters frown angrily like the Biblical Gad & Nahptali*)Daughter.

Epistle to The Left

"The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
-Funeral Blues, W.H. Auden (1 of my fave poems & poets)



Today, the news said that a plane is missing. A plane full of people ,a huge object floating through a traffic less sky, has suddenly vanished. A passenger plane with someone’s baby, a daughter’s daddy, a brother’s sister, a wife’s husband, a girlfriend’s friend friend’s friend. I saw the news and all I could think was “Uh-oh, someone’s about to have the rug suddenly pulled from under her. I thought, “…someone is about to hate God with everything inside him....and perhaps someone, is about to find God in a way she never knew.” All reactions to death.

Death. It comes really without warning. Someone on that plane, when she clicked on her seat belt was only thinking of ‘du pain et la beurre’ she would be ‘la consuming’ in Paris. It did not even cross her mind that THIS plane, this very one whose seat she just adjusted, would not indeed reach La Chez de Baguette without a quick pit-stop at death.

Death. No one really knows when exactly it’s going to come. The worst kind is the unexpected youthful-not-ill kind of death that doesn’t allow you prepare. It just arrives and you’re left looking like a black girl with a bad weave strolling round London on a windy evening in March, without a comb. In other words, looking electric shocked & wildly crazy. I mean, one moment the person is next to you and the next she is gone forever. FOR-EVER. And you haven’t told her all the things you want to say. You haven’t finished teasing her, or hugging her, or lying to her, or crying with her, or making her laugh, or telling her how proud you are of her, or stealing her yet unbought clothes, or….

You just haven’t finished living…with her. And now they tell you she is leaving…..that she has in fact, left. But all you can think is “She couldn’t have left already…because she holds a bit of my soul with her and I need it”. You think the apocalypse must be upon us, that the world must come to an end before this evening or else one of the sharper edges of your broken heart will find a way to kill you. You suspect, somehow, that you will not be able to go on. How can you with a broken heart? But you must. Why? Because you don’t have a choice.

Very soon, you will watch the news, if you haven’t already, and see that GM’s bankruptcy is greater news than the loss of your baby. Can you beat that shizzle???? Some company losing money is important BUT at this moment, nothing else registers. All you can think is that the entire world did not pause to empathise with your sadness, to celebrate the amazing person your friend was, to mourn the extinguishing of the light of your brother’s star. The world is not angry at the unfairness that took away your love and leaves your heart bleeding, in fact, toddlers are still giggling in the park at this very moment. Worse, a 12 year old girl in Indianapolis is crying over the ‘love’ of her life who has broken her heart today by sitting with Marylyn Green (who witnesses say has began to sprout growths that look annoyingly like boobs) at lunch. And you just don’t understand. How can the world go on like they don’t know the end is here?? You are probably watching the news and wondering “ Why isn’t that newscaster out looking for my child?!”… The GM boss is talking but all you can think of is “WHY ISNT HE OUT LOOKING FOR MY HUSBAND?!!?!! What could be more important AT.THIS.TIME??”

At this moment, it feels like nothing will be right with the world again. You don’t believe the world will carry on as normal, I mean how can it, when an essential life to its existence, to your existence has been quenched??! But the world will go on, because no one is indispensable to it, it owes no one and it owns no one. And you, you too will survive and grow and indeed go on. So your life as you know it has changed and the future looks like this: ....inspiring feelings of dread, pain, anxiety, fear, worry, anger, hurt, disappointment, cyniscism[….yes, just that ONE face….say 'NO' to surgery, people!!!]. So your life may never be the one you had before…but it might be a new one, one where you are no longer afraid of death; ‘cause you have seen her do her worst and lived to testify, you might find in your new life some of your shackles of fear are loosened and you feel stronger and brave enough to handle any challenge. In your new life, you my friend are legend, you are an inspiration and more confident of your abilities by virtue of living-through tragedy. While this is no replacement to the loss suffered, this is just encouragement that IT.IS.NOT.OVER. You are strong and will now look any challenge in the face and with a mean mug, a palm full of Diva Dust, God-given peace that passeth all understanding and a calm spirit and say “Bring. It.”

In that way, you dear friend, have cheated death.