Continue reading »]]> I think I love my wife ?

“Guys will cheat”.

Quickly, the typical Yoruba-superstitious-religious-Nigerian in me kicks in with a resounding-

“My own husband will not cheat; I reject it in Jesus Name”

(Of course, I remember to include the finger snapping over the head movement”.

My ‘enemy’ returns with a smirk and another-

“Better prepare yourself for it”

I mumble something like ‘I won’t even bother’ which translates to something in between ‘shut-up’ or ‘I’m ignoring you’.

I saw I think I love my wife sometime in May or so and I loved it. The fact that critics weren’t falling over themselves, grading it an A+ confirms my suspicion that most Americans are ignorant. Chris Rock rocks- funny, witty rocks. Although, I won’t let my little niece see it- too much profanity-but it did the comic-job. The story is about the seven-year hitch and how Chris Rock manages not to actually cheat on his wife with super-hot-old friend Kerry Washington. (Sorry, if I’ve ruined the movie for those who still want to see it) but the point is at least Chris grasps the point that it is not right to cheat- which is a huge relief from the general “Guys cheat”.

Most of 20^th century Nigeria with all religiosity and church going assume that it’s okay for the guy to cheat while the thought of the woman doing the same thing is as outrageous as Bush having a sex change. Everyone accuses me of having an ‘oyinbo’ mind for expecting that marriage is more than a little convenient part of our lives, along with getting Saturday manicure or trip at the barbershop.

After all, Sarah (Abraham’s Sarah- Abraham-Jewish father of all nations; Christian epitome of faith) actually ‘offered’ her female slave to Mr Abraham for the purpose of an heir to the Abraham lineage. Since she insisted, Abraham loved his wife and was willing to go through the hassles of procreation- you know the rest: the slave Hagar has Ishmael, turns around to mock Sarah, who latter on has Isaac. Apparently, Mother Sarah recognised a ‘difference between fidelity and loyalty’.

I don’t. I really don’t.

So I need help. Some way to sort this out.

Am I weird for thinking my husband will never cheat?

 P.S: 

Of course, women cheat too- I realised that a bit late but women don’t think it’s normal for them to cheat. Usually, a woman cheats because she’s looking for something else- most of the time, an emotional need she wants to fill. Men, on the other hand cheat because they think they have to; like an affirmation of their sexuality or availability. They look to cheat. Check- Brad Pitt and Jennifer (ok, well I guess… Jolie or Jennifer- Jolie or Jennifer) but Eric Benet on Halle ? (OMG, what on earth is better than super-everything Halle?)

Is it like a fling thing? I really don’t understand. Is it really possible to be ‘in’ love with someone and sleep with someone else?

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Continue reading »]]>   

Sometime in the eighties, our TVs ran a syndicated advert for Venus, an old brand in the Nigerian hair-relaxer market, featuring our own ex-Miss Nigeria, Nike Osinowo (is she still ‘Osinowo’, never quite understood marriage-to-another-woman’s-husband gossip), maybe you’ll remember-

  “A- Wow, my hair could never be like that”

(A stares ‘lustfully’ at a woman’s picture in a magazine)

N. Osinowo replies from the magazine page, (cue in smile)-

 “You’re wrong you know, you should have seen how dreadful my hair used to be, before my hairdresser introduced me to Venus, the vogue in hair care…” (Emphasis mine) 

There’s no trouble going nice and sweet consolatory cliché about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder. That doesn’t cut ice anymore.  

We all know what ‘beauty’ is- silky hair, lightly-tanned skin and if necessary, nose-job-aided-pointed slits for nostrils. Undoubtedly, there’s the blond or auburn tresses (depends on the colour of the bottle), plastic-tipped nails and rake-thin arms that perfectly compliment the anorexic body. Of course, now, it’s almost okay to be botilicious, as long as you have the light tan, blond tresses and other glam features.

And except she’s lucky to be Egyptian, from Cape Verde or some other pretender-African country (SORRY!), your African woman is at the wrong end of the stick with her full luscious lips and thick, dark, shiny hair. She’ll need to lose some weight because her full-figure simply doesn’t werk. There’s a little hope though- her melanin-protected dark skin can always be lightened to a ‘perfect tan’.

The ‘ultimate’ babe, a la, supreme object of seduction, AKA, showstopper-music video siren (with the six-inch heels underneath a barely-there bikini) is anything but typically ‘black–looking’. Oh, it’s okay to be ‘black’, but definitely not look ‘African-black’. African-black is what you see in the AIDS adverts, NGO commentaries on Adopt-A-Child initiatives, and documentaries on wars and genocide.

I agree that ‘black-looking’ is rather relative. You’ll have to distinguish between school-girl black (which really depends on whether you’re in Egun girls’ grammar school or Vivian Fowler for Girls’), Lagos-chick black, high-flyer black, Debbie-Ogunjobi black, Beyonce-black, Nike Osinowo-black, India Arie-black, Funmi Iyanda black, Christiana Milan-black, Jill Scott-black etc

I usually hate the self-pitying-blame-colonialism-loser-tirade. But I think that along with slavery, colonialism, subsequent decolonisation, later-decades westernisation and the division of God’s one World into first, second and third, we have been stuck with George Orwell-type ‘black is bad, white is good’. I’ll quickly mention my thoughts on what I think is ‘clearly inappropriate use’ of ‘black and white’ (looooong story and definitely for another article). I’ll like to share my ignorance and unworldly-perception- I have not met a white- or black- person. I absolutely look forward to, though. A real white or real black person! Wow! That’ll be weird. I wonder how ‘white skin’ will look, transparent? Clear-white? And ‘black people’, that’ll be something; you’ll keep running into them in the dark!

Whatever is beauty is what we say it is. We should redefine beauty, by our own, rather than borrowed standards. We are not oyinbo. The weave-on and hair relaxers we spend a fortune on are simply not ‘us’. We don’t have to look like a black Nelly Furtado to look good. We don’t have to wear wigs to be all snazzy and glam. We don’t have to look like someone on TV to be beautiful. Our thick black hair is fantastic. Our dark skin is smoother than camwood, we don’t need plastic for out nails. We are Beautiful.

We don’t have to try to be. We are.

I’m not anti-technology or unrealistic- wear your Prada, pay a fortune for your Gucci, if you want (even if you could get a nameless-and-blameless for one-tenth of the price). Wear make-up if you have to (save yourself the uncertain expressions when you try to prove to your colleagues that you are you- just you without make-up). But let’s draw a fine line at concerted efforts to make us think we have to look like what we are not.

The ‘Proudly-Nigerian’ fad is a relief. Now, designers realise that our beautiful Ankara is perfect for our weather. I also think the conceited ‘it’s from jand’ along with the immediate reverential awe that follows is now ‘razz’. Made in Nigeria is creeping into everything but the beauty part of our lives- not with the huge money industrialists continue to make off selling cheap weaves and getting ‘Nollyowood-faces’ to endorse them. Certainly not with the convenient way we burn our scalps to look ‘nice’. And wait for this (I find it laughable) – black relaxed hair with blonde rubber-weaves as bun!

It is not ‘normal’ to apply harmful chemicals to our hair to destroy our natural curls. Just because we’ve look forward to using D&L since we were six doesn’t mean that all grown ups have to look a certain way. It’s laughable that black-woman and Last King of Scotland actress Kelly Washington tells us to use L’Oreal to get rid of tight curls into free flowing hair, while displaying her perfectly fixed weaves. We should ditch the lie that hair should be straight and silky, that we have to look like Kate Moss, or that there’s a problem if our noses are not somewhat pointy.

The general reason for the six-weekly hair destruction is that ‘natural’ hair is unmanageable, hard and difficult to maintain. If you believe that God created man and so on, then you’ll know that He doesn’t make mistakes and he didn’t when creating your hair; or if you believe your grandparents were monkeys, you’ll agree that evolution did it’s best to adapt to what’s best. The only ‘difficultly’ lies in paucity of natural-hair-products and it’s largely because there’s little market for it, and that is because we have been told that our hair’s a mess that way.

Stay healthy- the iyan and efo riro way. Eat healthy, technology has made a lazy no village-farm-village that made our grandparents strong, so we should exercise and maintain a healthy weight.

Beauty is what we can make it to be.

Beauty is what we enjoy and Black is how we enjoy what we have.

Black is not razz. Black is not unmanageable. Black is not ‘not-classy’.

written 7^th October 2007

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Continue reading »]]> Goriola’s Love Story …  Series four(With ‘Funmilayo) I soon became impatient.And Someone knew too.It was the end of the semester and it was promising to be a long break since ASUU was threatening another strike.A few days after I was accosted for ‘anti-toasting’ offences, I saw the object of my affections in class. I walked past, and pretended not to see her. She didn’t even notice.I walked up to her-

Hi, was followed by asking her if I could sit with her and maybe chat for 15 minutes.

15 minutes?I thought she was going to say something about being busy and rescheduling until later but she said-

‘How about thirteen?”

It was good enough for me.“Well, I just have a few questions and as soon as I get answers, I’m gone”. I gave her my ‘I-am-also-serious and busy’ look.

“Let’s hear it”.

She wasn’t impressed. 

“ I’ve being hearing my gist around. I like you. I told you that. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way but please let me know rather than my having to find out through people I don’t even know.”

It wasn’t a question. She simply ‘answered’-

“I’m sorry”

I left her seat but hung out outside until she was ready to leave. I walked her to her room that night. I asked her for her home address, so I’ll come see her during the break.Femi smiled her Smile, and murmured- “shebi you are a guy, you have a way of finding these things out, find a way”Eh eh! See me see trouble o, this girl has turned me to 007- I was thinking. I liked it.  

But like the best-laid plans- when I got home, I didn’t get around to it and the ‘distractions’ didn’t help any. For two months, aided by pre-GSM no-phone, I slept on my oars until I heard ASUU was calling off the strike soon. I became worried that we were ever going to hit it off again after the long break.I didn’t need to worry. Someone wanted us to work.  

((((You left out the story about the the Olu guy who misyearned in her house and how she lambasted him afterwards)))) 

I started to ‘work’ again. I sent her cards, I saw her often; I continued to let her know I wanted us to be together, managing to keep away from the pest-zone. I met her brother and the rest of the family at her grandma’s burial ceremony and they took to me. It looked good but she was still not totally gelling. She later told me she was not ready for a relationship because her primary aim in school was to get a degree (as if the rest of us came to jump on our heads).

But we talked more, we talked about everything, soon enough we became friends. We agreed on many issues but disagreed on some. For instance she was celibate but I was not finished with my ‘experience’. 

We met in February 1996 and on the 1^st day of December 1996, we finally stated dating. A month after she finally said yes, we were coming from one of her friend’s birthday and in a public bus, and she placed her head on my shoulders, smiled the Smile…. Then I knew I had my babe.

P.S:Really, I don’t think I actually deserve Femi, but she said she prayed and fasted before settling for the relationship. I can only think that if God said I was good enough for her, then in His infinite wisdom, He must have seen something good in me-something worthy. While we dated, she stuck to the no-sex issue. I thought she’ll yield with time but after one year of ‘active persuasion’, I realised I was in for a long wait.

Seven years later, December 2003, in front of God and Man, the Smile looked into my eyes and said ‘I do’.

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Continue reading »]]> Goriola’s Love Story …  Series three(With ‘Funmilayo) 

I steadied myself as I felt the world shift.

 

I couldn’t say anything. I just looked at Moyo, wishing her to disappear, wishing thirty-two seconds in reverse order, wondering what I did to make Moyo act this way. The only thing I was sure of was why I never had a gun- just so I don’t use it for cases like this (I could see the headlines- Boy Kills Girl over Big Mouth!).  

Why did this girl burn my cable? 

After four minutes of loud silence, I managed to make a weak 911-

“Moyo, what on earth are you talking about?

“We both know what I’m talking about. Leave my friend alone, she’s not another of your experiments”

I was about to start another round of wishing etc…  Femi was looking like she wanted to laugh but was too considerate to do so. I could imagine Moyo finishing me off, the moment I stepped out of the room.

I made another try for the telephone-

9-1-1.

This time, a bit more aggressively.

 

“I assume you have actually seen me with other girls, and now you think I want to use your friend?”“Yes now, is that not your plan, umm, I know you now”, she was gearing up with pride, amused at my discomfiture. I made for the kill-“Mention one girl you know, any one girl, you have even heard about that I actually dated or was with”It worked. Girls like Moyo were too dumb to remember anything apart from general gossip. . “hmmmmmn… come to think about it, that’s true o, its not as if I have seen you with any girl like that, but you are a Unilag boy now. And I know you have a car and I always hear your music blasting, you are always cruising round campus. And it’s not like you are ugly and I know the kind of guys you hang out with… I’m sure you’ll have a babe, abeg leave my friend”. She was still smiling.She didn’t sound as stupid as I had wanted her to, but it was enough.I was gratified.I moved in for the ‘finishing move’- “Oh, so you really don’t know, you just assumed. I like your friend very much. I think she knows it. I just hope she’s nothing like you”.I looked at Femi. She looked more curious than amused.“Femi, maybe we should hook up later or something? Bye.”I walked out.I could hear the soundtrack…. gen gen gen gen gen gen…. 

 

P.S:

I hoped my exit would provide some effect- anything to make her think of me. I decided to keep my cool, give her space to miss me.

A few days later I saw Gbenga with some other guy at the common room.

Hey, and Gbenga called my name.

The other guy suddenly started to laugh. I made sure my zipper wasn’t down and was about to ignore him when he leered (he actually leered), followed by a guttural- “Na you dey toast my babe”.“Who”, I asked

“Femi tell me say you dey toast am”, another grunt

“Oh”, I said, “no vex o, just trying my luck”

I checked out my ‘rival’. He seemed like an okay-guy, but I knew he wasn’t her boyfriend, merely another toaster but I sensed that if Femi actually told him about me, I must have been a little ‘important’.

It was enough for me… for a little while.

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Continue reading »]]> What on earth is everything coming to?

Maybe it’s the public character of the telephone that makes it ‘accountable’ to give non-discriminatory information fairly.

How come we allow corporate censorship to interfere with messages on racism, war, genocide etc but not abortion?

Who called for discrimination when Verizon dropped Akon a few month ago?

The issue is not the rightness or wrongness of abortion. It’s about advertising your convictions wherever you want. Nobody has whatever he or she wants.

Get your advert elsewhere… Television, radio, the Internet etc, just don’t call me discriminatory for deciding not to advertise your opinion.

Very soon, we be called paedophilphobics for thinking paedophilia is immoral.

 Shmff!

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Continue reading »]]> Goriola’s Love Story …  Series two(With ‘Funmilayo) 

“Guy, wetin u dey look?”

I knew I heard Gbenga, I knew he said something about me still looking but it took longer for my mind to process. 

“Now that’s what I’m talking about” I finally managed to utter.

“No, wait, you mean………..aah no way, no road for there”

 

Quickly I switched to my Mr Smooth mode-

“You know what, we should not be talking about Dupe, we should be talking about this Femi girl”

 “Paddy mi, gbagbe e” my friend turned killjoy was not interested. “And why” I enquired“She’s not your type, she’s a Christian, and you…” Gbenga was insinuating that I had horns underneath my Afro.

“If she’s not my type, I want to be her type”

I knew I sounded stupid, but I was far-gone.

 

My friend just laughed at me, figuring I would get over her soon. He was wrong. For three weeks, I continued staring, catching her smile as she caught my stare. I did the background checks- we were both in 200L, she was in Industrial Chemistry, she had an elder brother in school too (I knew from experience that this was bad news- I also had a sister in school), and she also had an aunt who had a boutique close to Moremi Hall- I was planning my ‘toasting’ strategy.After my CIA runs and terrorising Gbenga, he finally agreed to my plan- he’ll go to see her and I’ll just happen to be with him at that time.  

I had it all planned out- Gbenga and I get there, he remembers he has to get a note from a chick in the next block, leaving Femi and I to hang out; I make her laugh; we talk a little and fix a date for the next day.Well, we got there……she wasn’t in her room. I was so sad.

Just as Gbenga and I were strategising for alternate arrangements, she appeared from down the corridor. 

I was so happy and so unprepared that I said a lot of stupid things, the least stupid being something like “Your palm is so soft and I would love to touch your hand plenty more times”.  I wanted to punch myself on the teeth.

She smiled (clearly thinking I was an idiot) but was too polite to tell me.

But Someone had a little mercy on me and from time to time, we would bump into each other. During one of those mercy-bumpings, I summoned up courage to ask her if I could come to see her. Fortunately, she said yes and two days later (that was hard but a Man had to have a little pride, I could at least pretend that I wasn’t that far gone), I was in her room.

Actually, I was at the door of her room, when I saw her. She told me she was on her way home. That meant I couldn’t spend time with her so the next best thing was walking her to the park; where (God loves me), her aunt’s car was parked next to mine. Better still, her aunt took her time to close shop, giving me time to talk with her, (and I hoped), enough to make her think of me at least once that weekend.

While I was turning on the charm, Femi suddenly asked me- “don’t you think It’s funny that I always see you at Moremi?”

I had seen this question coming and I had a ready (and mostly true answer)- I come to check on my jambite-sister, to make sure she’s okay.

I scored easy points on that one- one, maybe, I wasn’t the ‘player’ she probably suspected and two, I was a nice sweet brother.

I was smiling to myself. I must have succeeded in making her thoughts stray so when she got back we agreed to meet again in her room. This time, she was on her bed; she was wearing an old pair of jeans, slightly frayed at the hems, and nicked at knee with a white sleeveless vest that clung… she looked beautiful. We did the motions- me asking her how she was, chatting about everything but the weather… until I got down to business.Carefully, I opened my heart (or what was left of it), stating how much I liked her, how I’ll like us to date etcShe didn’t say anything, I was busy congratulating myself on finally getting her to think about me so deeply when I realised she was … wait for this- fast asleep. Apparently, she still thought I was an idiot and realised her time was better spent sleeping than listening to me.I couldn’t believe it. Me, Mr Smooth, aka Mr Women-just-love me. Femi slept off on me!I dropped my keys as loudly as possible. She opened one eye. I needed to do something to keep that eye, and the other one opened, so I asked her for some water (as if that was going to help). It sha made her stand up.

She was pouring the water into a white mug (she must like white, I was thinking) when the ‘devil’ struck- some girl, Moyo, walked in, took one snide look at me and did a pull out the gun, (technically, she only spoke but it couldn’t have been worse than the Iraqis felt after Bush started showing who was boss)-

 “ah ah! Bobo yi, you are in Moremi again?”

She cocked the gun again and pulled the trigger again -“Femi, so you are his next runs?” and the stupid girl laughed. 

I understood why ordinarily sane people kill. I suddenly realised why OJ Simpson, Timothy McVeigh and all the murderers on God’s earth existed. I am not saying they were right; but I just understood.

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Goriola’s Love Story …  Series One(With ‘Funmilayo) 

I’d always thought I was a cross between Einstein and Pele- you know, genius and consummate sportsman.My skin and hair almost convinced me (you never can tell with the African sun) that I really wasn’t Master Einstein. Then, since Pele never came to reclaim his long lost son, I had to settle with knowing I was simply ‘brilliant’ (well at least until I got to the university). I was also (let’s try for modesty)- ‘lucky’- information clung on me like gum, so I knew a lot more than the average in everything. For a little over twenty years I had it all- I played football in primary, secondary, university (and later in the platoon team during service year), I was a good sprinter, making relay teams in both primary and secondary schools and trying for the state. The
Cicero in me (I forgot to mention – I think he’s my uncle or something) made debate teams with (naturally) lots of prizes. My Pele-intellectual side was also a sports encyclopaedia (still is!). I was the guy “who wants to be a millionaire” would be worried about.  

Generally, I was a ‘good boy’- my only problem was a woman-issue- I loved women, and they loved me. I wasn’t even hard to please- dark, fair, smart, dumb, silly, fat, thin…  (I think I’ve covered most adjectives), I had them everywhere- school, church, extra mural classes, my neighbourhood, my friends’ neighbourhood, my cousin’s neighbourhood-everywhere.  It took to much trouble to remember their names so I simply called girls ‘baby’ (*Funmilayo cringes*).

But it was fun. It was easy and by the time I got to Unilag, I was the ‘Man’ and I wasn’t complaining. Everything was ‘perfect’- I convinced my dad to get me a car, and I had girls and more girls.

‘Unfortunately’, in my 100L, just when I was gearing into Casanova-mode, I started hanging out with one of my cousins at Lag, who had met this girl he liked. They were the ‘perfect’ lovebirds. They were always together – with this sickening-irritating smile. They seemed happy and I hated it. I tried to persuade him to ditch his girl and ‘have fun’. He just smiled and looked at me pityingly.

I hated him, I hated it… actually I hated the way I was, I hated the way I never seemed to have my own girl. I realised I was envious, not irritated at my cousin’s happiness. Soon, my Christian background kicked in and I prayed. I prayed for my own woman, someone I would love and eventually settle down with. Of course, I never let my guys on, knowing they would all snicker and laugh at me… I’d even laugh at me. But I prayed.

Nothing happened for a long time.

I thought about ‘settling’ down with one of the girls I was with but dem no make am. Soon I recruited Gbenga for my ‘Beauty-for-my-Beast’ search. Gbenga was ‘my guy’. We grew up together. Gbenga also knew all the girls but in a ‘Gbenga is my friend’ way.

Gbenga’s first nominee was Dupe, who was going to gain admission to Unilag the following session.

‘Nice one’, I thought- it was foolproof. Dupe would be a jambite, clean, fresh and waiting for the picking. In a few months, Dupe resumed and Gbenga introduced us one night. I didn’t see her that well but I saw enough to be convinced- she had a curvy body, and apparently fine and all mine to take. But like a proper omo boy, I took my time_, waiting for the right time.Soon enough, the ‘right time’ came in form of a show at the main auditorium and we agreed that I was going to pick her up by 11pm at her hostel. Promptly, minutes to 11pm I, Romeo was there, and since there were no mobiles then I had to send some chick to call me Juliet. Enter JulietYou could see the commotion, no it wasn’t her shorter shorts with never-ending legs in hooker-heels, barely under a backless spaghetti strap top; it was the five Romeos for one Juliet drama. Apparently, some other guys, three with unfriendly faces and boxer arms with cult written in red on their foreheads (the last one was my imagination), who I had casually spotted while waiting for Dupe downstairs, were also on the same quest. ‘Help me God’, I continued to murmur, as Dupe ‘dismissed’ all the others one after the other, while pointing me out as ‘the guy she was going to the show with’, punctuated with ‘maybe next time’s.

In between my ‘help me God’s, I was thinking of the fastest way to escape in case any of the boxer-arm-guys decided to take a swing at me- I could either beg, or just continue to lie down on the floor… or I could … Help me God….

‘Ok, let’s go’

Dupe interrupted my reverie and escape plans.

I looked up and we were alone at our corner of the lobby.

‘Let’s leave now, where’s your car?’

I mumbled something half-intelligible and we stepped out. It was then I noticed that her over made-up face didn’t match her botilicious body. But I wasn’t really disappointed, I wanted something serious, the over-made face could be remedied with soap, water and silently muttered advice on her ‘natural beauty’ with subtle make-up.

At the auditorium, I snaked out what I thought was a ‘hard-to-see’ corner- for safety (boxer-arms) and lustful (her shorts caused it!) reasons. I was just congratulating myself on our dark hideout when I heard ‘GASBIO!!!’ I turned to see some my guys, gathered in one corner, hailing me- ‘wa se ‘re, osomo’.  Dupe simply smiled at them and at that moment I made up my mind that this was our last date. Soon, I found some excuse and I asked that we leave. I dropped her off at her hostel and barely paused to say bye before I left.That was Friday.  

Monday, and I unsuccessfully tried to avoid Gbenga at the car park after lectures. ‘Man yi, You no try!’ Gbenga said in a ‘why cant you ever get things right?’ way.“Wetin now’, I pretended not to understand him.

“She told me that you barely said a word to her”

I quickly got on the defensive- “Aah, what could I say? The girl no pure o, imagine, there were five of us waiting to take her to the show”.“Ah! Sharp girl”“Too sharp for my health o…” I trailed off 

While I was trying to vindicate myself and assure Gbenga of my ‘seriousness’, I saw this girl, coming towards us, just behind Gbenga.

I’ll never forget that moment – she was wearing a white mid-elbow length shirt, layered with vertical lilac stripes on deep blue jeans with the same shade of stripes as belt with white slippers. Her hair was in a loose bun. She wasn’t wearing earrings, but she was wearing huge white and lilac bracelets.

She looked like fresh air.

And she caught me staring- I had my mouth opened. She tried to hide her smile.

I was trying to work my jaws to a ‘hi’, when she said-

“Gbenga, how now”My friend turned round and replied“Eh! Femi, wassup”

‘Femi’, that was her name.

Femi walked past us and into my life.

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I love love-stories.

I may play cynical, laughing at the plot and lines while the screen moves from one sob to the next laugh but I love them.

They give me some warm gooey-lovey-anything is possible feeling and I like that.

It’s even better when you actually know someone who lives love story.

This is Goriola’s story- the story of a real life person, who went to Unilag and works in Ikeja,
Lagos, Nigeria.

I’m going to be running his story in a four-week series.

If you’ve liked ‘The story of Us’ or ‘When Harry met Sally’ or French Kiss, or  any of them love stories, that make you  go aawwwww… you’ll love this story.

Thank you Goriola for sharing!

P.S:

I’ll be unavailable between mid- October and mid-November, while I run this series and wont be able to reply to emails or responses, but please keep them coming, Goriola will come read too and  I promise to sort them out when I get back.

‘Funmilayo

X

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Continue reading »]]> Giving yourself some credit?

I had some pretty good news recently- I wrote an exam and I did ok.

Quickly I rushed off the emails and texts, sharing my joy with my friends. The message wasn’t quite the archetypal Nigerian text/Email a la- “Come rejoice with me and my family’ etc but close. It went something like-‘Results are out. I’m grateful to God’ etc.

Almost every one I sent it to simply said, ‘oh, thank God’ or something as ‘seeming’- a fellow man/woman’s recognition of the favoured ‘hand’ of Supreme Being in this little woman’s business. I was calm, pleased, grateful that ‘He deemed me fit to have done well’ etc.

Soon I felt a bit mischievous so I sent a similar but more elaborately crafted text to an agnostic friend of mine.

I tried to keep my face straight and waited.

The reaction came as quick and as precise as I thought it would – “You should take some of the credit yourself”.

The drama-queen eyes in me went on the overdrive, willing them to unread the words in front of me. The coordinate inner-voice (which is a nice way of saying I talk to myself, too) screamed “Blasphemy! Irreverence! Sacrilege! (Insert other suitable synonyms!!!)

If you are a member of the Nigerian religious society (automatic membership for Nigerians and most people who live in Nigeria), you’ll know that ‘God’ is the omnibus reason for almost everything that happens- Corruption-induced riches are due to the Glory of God, rigged-in politicians give God the glory, and ‘God is good’ heralds all ‘testimonies’, that could have been averted by better planning. The disadvantage of the office is that ‘God’ also takes the blame for chaos caused by careless driving, legal punishment for wrong done and every riot, flood, or disaster we experience.

I guess it’s easy to feign modesty and ascribe what my friend will consider hard work to an unseen Entity. In fact, it seems win-win: you get off as being humble in a ‘gifted’ way. Like ‘Oh, I really didn’t deserve it but you know We (speaker and God), go way back… then again, I’ve always had his unlisted number’.

Sometimes, understanding God’s ‘intrusion’ in Man’s affairs can be a bit of a trick. For one, unlike the plant that must grow where it’s planted, or the animal that is perceived to be led by its instincts, humans have a choice issue. I use ‘issue’ carefully because choice on its own is a lot of responsibility. Decisions are always harder when you can choose- any woman will agree- the pink-chequered shirt with the white belt or the baby blue one on the deep blue jeans etc. Worse still, choices are based on what we think is right, that is eventually based on what we know or think we know and things around us. Yet, we are stuck with having to decide on our own- when Someone who knows all things can simply make the decision.

Do we always earn our accomplishments? How do we explain cases where doing the right stuff ends up with awful consequences? How do we explain when some people get results so easily while others have to strive for theirs.

I’m not done with understanding a lot of these. There are a few things ‘m sure of- one of them is that all the diligent studying, burning at candles at both ends do pay off, just like in life when you strive in your own way to make a mark. But there times when they don’t matter that you did- when you lit the candle while others were asleep, that you were diligent, that you did all the right things, that you did right by others…

Accidents happen, people will mess up, and sometimes we make it worse with choices to concentrate on the un-needful.

What I know is that my God makes up for those accidents and all, because I asked him to.

Or maybe I’m all just too Nigerian.

P.S:

How did I really feel when I received my friend’s message?

I smiled. I was amused for two reasons-

One, I was right about him.

Two, the credit was barely mine and I am actually very grateful.

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Actually, the ‘toosh-er’ headline will be ‘cluck cluck’ or a birdie chirpy chirp but since I’m yet to see a chicken actually cluck cluck….

I didn’t do it!

Yes I‘m chicken… all talk, no action, chicken, etc- I didn’t do it.

The ‘no time’ excuses wont work- I had an extended weekend (oh, dear, I forgot to mention Nigerian became three years to fifty on Monday) … but I just couldn’t.

Got home on Friday and told my mom I was going to cut my hair. She said something like ‘oh, you will eh?’ dismissing my ‘confession’ in an “I want attention too, but I’m not pretending I want to cut my hair to get it” tone.

On Saturday morning, the sanitation exercise meant I had to wait till 10am before doing the deed. So I took my time, washing and conditioning it- I wanted to have a befitting exit, like a convict’s last day before the execution of the death sentence. She asked me why I was washing the hair since it was ‘due’ and I reminded her that I was keeping it natural. Oh, so what are you going to do to it now? she asked me. I am going to cut it now, I told you yesterday, I said.

Eh?Eh, what?No, you are not going to cut your hair oh?Why now?Ha, ma she be, (don’t do it), the hair is the glory of the woman.Ha ha… which one is that now?

It went on and on, and you know what they say about women always getting their way- well, my mom is a woman… so.

I guess it also helped when I realised that my hairline hadn’t fully recovered from the last Ghana weaving I did so I decided to take her advice at least now, until I’m sure I wont look like one iya eko.

On Monday I decided to not look scattered to work so went to get my hair braided. I didn’t quite get to it because there were four women at the salon, by the time I got there, three of them wanting to get her hair in braids too.  I simply took the excuse – I don’t like making my hair, I like the finished look but not the whole 4-6 hour process. So I dropped a few words to threaten my hairdresser (not the one that made me leave dye in my braids) that I was going to cut my hair and then I went home to sleep. 

I simply decided to fall back on the odd wig. I can hear it in my head- sell out; traitor. I know. But what can I do? I have to go to work and my hair has to ‘conform’ in some sense. It’s sad that conformity makes me look like I’m trying hard to pretend I‘m one oyinbo (that’s why I hate weaves in the first place)

But I promise to make it up to my hair- next weekend; I’ll get it in braids or something ‘African’- I promise.

 

Have a lovely week

x

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Location: At work (- what ‘employer’ pays for)

(and actually busy and all seriousey)

(I usually can’t stand eavesdropping I don’t even like it. I don’t even do the ‘acceptable’ Lagosian gawking .

I’m laying all these down so you can be sure I didn’t even try hard to listen, it just sorta ‘filtered’ into my ears, I just did the honourable thing and surrended.)

 

(The conversation was in Yoruba, so translation’s in brackets)

 

Mr. A. is the unsuspecting man atmy end of the conversation-

 

Mr. A:.            Iyawo mi ti bi mo o (we just had a baby)

(Mr. A pauses…)

 

Mr. A:             … Eh, obirin ni   (oh, well, it’s a girl)

(Mr. A says this in a somewhat apologetic tone, then listens for a while, sighs. )

 

Mr. A:             ahh, omo sha lo mo n je (Oh, well, it’s a child after all- literarily interprets as -A child’s a child.)

(Listens, then continues-)

Mr. A:             A try next time (We’ll try harder next time)

  Ugh??? 

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About six years ago, I had an ‘accident’.

It was one of those adventurous periods of my life- I braided my hair, and wanted to dye it mid-night blue. Unfortunately, since the hair refused to dye, my hairdresser suggested that I re-dye it and leave the dye in for a couple of hours. Well I did. Few weeks later when I undid the braids, most of my hair fell out with it. I did the honourable thing and cut it off- very low. It was the only thing that made sense at that time since the hair looked a pitiable sight of valleys and barely-there hills.

My best friend tried to console me- but I could see through her reassurances of “It’s not that bad”s that she was only being a ‘best friend’. It was that bad.

I looked at the mirror and I screamed… It was horrible. My unseen but hearable enemies “No hair, no hair, no hair….”

And in front of that mirror I vowed – first, to change my hairdresser; second; that Never again! Never again will a scissors touch these locks. NEVER… etc.

 

Oh well, I broke the first- after I told the poor guy, he begged and managed to bribe me a free hair-do with the very short hair (I think I fixed weaves using bonding glue at his own expense) But I’ve kept the second ever since- only reneging for the necessary snips required to keep the hair healthy.

I kept the faith… willing the hair to grow, conditioning and all the stuff people say will make your hair healthy and growing.

I knew what I wanted- long, luscious tresses.

They refused to come.

But I wasn’t ready to fall back on my vow. I continued in the path, willing to grow, and aiding it with smelly and sticky hair-grow stuff.

It failed me and refused to pass the barely 8-9 inches. I got used to it, helping it with weaves and braids- and never dyeing it again.

 

Five months ago-

I had met this really intelligent young woman not so long before then- she was smart, beautiful etc…  with all natural hair which she kept in twists and sometimes afro.

I never gazed upon Alec Wek with love and awe. I just didn’t get the short hair look. While I admired Yeni Kuti’s strength from afar, I hardly glanced her natural hair.

I just never noticed the ‘natural thing’ as cool.

Until I met this real-life person.

And it struck me- I realised that this was what I wanted.

It started with green envy of her black fro, only stopping at not actually chopping it all off while she was asleep. Well, the greed in me finally won when I decided to start on the Afro too, starting with ditching the relaxer.

So, here’s five months with all natural locks and me. 

Practicality has been near zero- I cant pack it into a bun without looking like an SU and I cant weave or braid it because the natural hair keeps sticking out. All that’s left is the weave-on option- that is very sad and a mockery of all the natural hair drama.

So, I finally find what I want. I was reading on adefunke’s blog when it finally struck me- I shall cut the hair!

Now, I think ‘m in between crazy and stupid, but I figure I’ll try it one more time- I’ll cut my hair, keep it short and uncombed and see if I look anything between glam’ and areaboyish.

This is a hard decision for me- not sure I can go through with it- but waddihel (what the hell), there’s always the wig I bought last year to fall back on.

What does anyone think?

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Continue reading »]]> THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD THIS WEEK: LIVING RIGHT?.

I grew up as a Christian- that really meant I, along with the rest of my then-nuclear family was chauffeured by my dad to church every Sunday. I didn’t have a choice. No one in my family did. Besides the free chauffeur privileges, it also meant that I marked “Christian” in the “Religion” box in the countless forms I’ve filed since I could hold a pen. It took most of nineteen years of doing most of this (after one semester at the university, I realized that I didn’t have to do church) before I finally came around to any meaning of what being Christian was… or is.
I wish I could say it’s been a smooth sail from my moment of epiphany but that would be as true as claiming my weaves are real.
It’s been a mix of stumbling and falling and getting up, and falling and running, and returning, and living and falling and living and wanting and … a lot more.
Sometimes I want so much of God, it’s overwhelming, like I live so much in him and I don’t want out. Like I‘m walking a few inches on air, lots of space between the floor and my silk-stockinged feet. It feels like lots of fire and love, like He’s right beside me, inches away- everything seems so possible.
Then sometimes, even faster than my eyes can catch it, the clichéd tables turn- it’s like it seems not worth it- a sense of my failure unforgivable by God and myself. It’s more like a feeling of helplessness, all the Christianese about Christ and His sufficiency, bout how he’s willing to have me back, about the strength in getting up- they just don’t work, at least not then.
Sometimes it gets so hard that I don’t even want to try.
Psychologist call it “depression”, though I’m more inclined to go with “condemnation”. I recognize it by the heavy feeling of helplessness, a “why bother”, a sense of failure and shame in God and myself. It’s dark and heavy and it nudges me to give it all up.

Through time, I have learnt to remind myself that He really will have me back. At my darkest, I cling to an assurance that my foolishness is not enough to wipe out His love and that he will.
It could be hard, but I try to cling harder.
I rely on Him to help me up and I try to pay attention to the reason the darkness started.
Sometimes, it’s easy to give it up, sometimes it’s difficult. Especially when I have managed to convincingly lie to myself about its harmlessness, or when I simply ignore His quiet warnings.
I want to always remember that there’s something more important than whatever I’m holding on to, outside of Him. I strive hard to remind myself that He’s God anyway, He knows better, He’s assured me of something better- (Christianese again). Sometimes, it’s I hit my head against a “life” brick, too many realities in my face and the shortcuts seem quicker. But I know, at least my pint-size faith tells me. I hold on to it and believe.

And I mess up… again.
And I start over… again.

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