So a few months back I took a trip. What was supposed to have been a weekend trip finally became 10 days. And as you can imagine I came back to a number of unfortunate occurrences in my flat. And one of such is the basis of today’s musings.
Read the rest of this entry
A child was born, we celebrated.
Earlier today a saw a photograph of a man who was burned alive in South Africa because he was a foreigner. On the day his mother gave birth to him people celebrated. Why? Because a life that had the potential to end so tragically had just started? Or because a man and a woman could now proudly answer that elite title – parents? They had, praise the Lord, dodged the stigma of childlessness and now, hallelujah, had an additional feather in their cap. And if this new life had just been introduced into a world so broken that he would one day experience the unfathomable fear and anguish of being burned alive by animals who wear his skin, so be it. At least, his parents did not die childless.
The other day I read the story of a woman who had a child at 65. We were told she had been trying for well over 30 years. There were over a thousand comments below her photo, most of them saying “Thank God for you, ma” and “God answers prayers”. But let’s do a little math. That child will be 10 years old with a 75 year old mother. Even mothers in their prime find it tiring raising a child properly so where is this boy to get his discipline? But no, we do not think of that, we celebrate, because finally this woman has dropped the label of ‘bareness’. And if this child becomes an orphan before he is 20 with no siblings to lean on, who cares? At least his parents did not die childless.
But then when a woman decides not to have children for reasons of her own the world works up the nerve to call her selfish. Bloody hypocrites.
My friend comes to me with all her problems. She calls me up at midnight when she fights with her boyfriend not giving a hoot that I live half a world and six hours in time zones away. When the phone rings at ungodly hours I let out a groan, heave a sigh, remind myself that I am single and so must ALWAYS subtly side with the boyfriend and then I pick up the phone. Read the rest of this entry
Before I start let me state that I am not married, have never been. In fact I am in no way qualified to speak on this matter. But who ever let that stop them from giving unsolicited advice on Social Media? So listen. Read the rest of this entry
On Friday evening they called me aside.
“Bimpe, you need to step it up a notch”, they said. “You don’t look like you try hard enough. You should use more makeup and do your nails and wear, like, four inch heels. You’d totally look good in a weave and you could do with a pushup bra. And it’s a sin to hide those legs, girl, please DO get a shorter skirt!”
So off I went, sore at heart that the me I knew wasn’t good enough, but relieved as well that I had finally found the magic formula – if I could just look like them I would finally fit in.
Therefore, on Monday morning I wore red lipstick and painted my nails red, exactly as I’d seen them do. Hair racing for my bum and skirt struggling bravely for the finish line I click-clacked my red soles noisily into the hall exactly as I’d heard them do.
It niggled at me that the girl I saw in the mirror wasn’t someone I knew anymore, but I beamed up my practiced smile and adjusted my supplementary bosom as they called me aside, their acceptance had been a long time coming and I was going to soak it up.
“Bimpe, you need to tone it down a notch”, they said “You look like you’re trying too hard.”
A fine boy made me write this. And the fact that I usually cannot come up with 5 things about myself is a testimony to how fine this boy is. He is so fine that he asked me for 10 things about myself and I gave him 20! (See number 15, you’ll understand) Read the rest of this entry
Written 19/11/2012, 1st published on ParadigmShiftNG
So last Sunday I woke up with this intense yearning for jollof rice. It reminded me of one other Sunday like that back in Bayelsa during my Youth Service days. I’ll tell you the story. Twas a bright and glorious Sunday morning and I simply couldn’t find the N50 I was to use for a bike to church so I decided to cook jollof rice instead. I was broke as glass but at least I had the standard ingredients so I got to work. Midway through the cooking I got a call from a fellow Corper who ‘was just around my side and was just checking to see if I was around’. Now, if you’ve endured proper NYSC (not the ajebota fixed type) you’d know that that’s Corper-speak for “Babe, u get food 4 dat ur house so?” So I said, “yeah, come over, I’m even cooking sef”.
Now, for some background gist. This was like the latter half of the NYSC year and the well-meaning public had been drumming in our ears that we had better come back home with two certificates – one in paper form and one in man form, and this corper was a nice, handsome young man with a not-so-terrible job and some really good prospects, so the plan was to wow him with this my perfectly cooked jollof rice and hopefully get him to take the toasting to the next level. Of course, am still single today so we know how that turned out. Read the rest of this entry
4th June, 2012
I wrote this the day after the Dana Air crash where we lost 153 people, five of whom I knew back in Zaria.
There are two things we need to stop doing if we don’t want a repeat occurrence of yesterday’s sadness, (a) praying, praying and praying with absolutely no change in our character and (b) castigating the government and absolving ourselves of all the blame. Let me explain.
I’ll share four scenarios with you, some from my own experience and some from experiences of friends. None of these scenarios involves someone in government, no, it is all us, the common man, who is supposedly innocently suffering under our evil government. Read the rest of this entry
Now, before you read this I need to mention that it was written as a reply to someone who said something bad about women. I can’t even remember what it was. I love guys, una too try, so don’t take this personal!
The Perfect Man is tall, dark and handsome, with piercing eyes and a weakening smile.
He is big, strong, reliable, the Rock of Gibraltar, always there, always able.
He observes when you get your hair done, says “you’re beautiful” and “is that a new dress” and “your nails are gorgeous”.
The Perfect Man knows your exact shoe size, jeans size, suit size and doesn’t really care about ur bra size.
He opens the car door and carries the groceries and says “after you”.
Her never scratches those unmentionables, at least not in your presence, and he never EVER walks out of your house zipping his fly and adjusting his belt.
The Real Man, on the other hand, may be tall OR dark OR handsome. Seldom a combination, more often a complete negation. Read the rest of this entry
I’ve always liked to write. I express myself best by writing. If you don’t believe me, ask my ex-boyfriends, I broke up with all of them by letter, text and later Facebook status. I think the next might be by tweet or maybe by this blog even. I like to write, but I’m a bit lazy about actually typing it out and having people see it, so I’m hoping that having this page will teach me some sort of commitment.