Mahogany- The Series

I was ten years old recently forced bald by my missionary school; this made the morning of resumption start with a pain in my chest—a sense of loss, I suppose it was. The pain didn’t start overwhelmingly. It was mild like a sting. When it started a little before evening, I placed my right hand on the centre of my chest hitting it as the pain intensified. It was what Mama; Mum’s mother did whenever she coughed. She always said hitting the chest restored peace. As I lay on my bed at night, I slept freezing my hand on my chest but removed it as soon as I heard Mum’s door crackle. I waited a little before placing it back. Mum smiled as she woke me spreading her lips until they birthed dimples. My hands were still there. it was six and school was to start 7.30. As we hurried to be on time, she repeated how happy she was. And this was true; her joy blinded the fact that I was going to a school she didn’t like. A day before at the barber’s shop; it was in the way her hands rushed to pick up the tresses of hair the clippers devoured. She had pressed her lips together as her eyes darkened. And how, she looked at Lola, our neighbour who had gotten 492 over 600 in the National Common Entrance and had been admitted into Regina Girls’ College, her dream school for me. It was the school I had not been offered admission into not because I didn’t pass but we didn’t know the right people. I made 572.

Since, my uniforms had not been given I wore the clothes Mum got me last Christmas: a white three-quarter cotton blouse and an ill-fitted jeans skirt flared at the bottom. Mum had arranged everything for me the night before. It would be a busy day for us because we had books to buy, uniforms to collect and my registration to finalise. Missionary All-Girls’ Secondary School had red and white as its colour code. The beret was brown, though; a thick woollen piece whose front bore the school’s initials with a dot separating each letter. The uniform caused me to cringe in my deep insides: red and white stripes with brown beret didn’t fit my ideal somehow. The cringe intensified when I envisaged the possibility of wearing the combo for six years.

Mum had driven the silver Mercedes 190E with the humped back. We entered the Main entrance of the school compound; there as an introduction lay the public version of my private missionary school. A vestige of free education gone bad. It was named after the founding father of the Methodism—John Wesley. A state-run school that had no windows and inadequate chairs; the most appalling feature I would come to hate were the toilets. I never understood why it was difficult to get running water in their toilets. Not that I used it though, I just didn’t like the stench that rose up our windows during classes. The pungent smell of ammonia that took with it everything we learnt.

Even though, it was the first day of resumption, latecomers excluding JSS1 students were told to cut the wild grasses with their hands. One would have expected pardon for the first day. After I thought this, I looked at Mum. She removed her gaze and entered the wide entrance into the main compound. The lawn of the quadrangle had been mowed, so the lush green sparkled in the morning sunlight. The storey to the right had three floors with clay bricks designing each balcony and stone walls at the sides. The building to the left was a single storey strictly for senior school. In front were the labs, bungalows joining each other. All buildings were painted grey. It was a lovely sight.

I wasn’t the only one without a uniform. We were about ten. There was a girl in uniform who braided her hair into cornrows. Two teachers- I learnt this later- had told her mother that she would not seat in the classroom until her hair was cut short. The mother begged. Mum stared at her watching as she explained that she only wanted her daughter staying in the school for a term. The teachers laughed. Mum asked the woman which school her child was going to.

‘RGC,’ she replied.

‘Are they still admitting?’ Mum asked.

‘They are not but we know someone.’ She replied.

Mum stared at her daughter—a dark-skinned girl with bright eyes. Her face still saddened probably that her hair would be cut. I wished I was her. I wanted Mum to give me the fortunate stare she had given her.

In the school office, I sat as Mum signed some consent letters. Minutes later, I was given my class.

‘J.S. S. 1B,’ the school secretary said to me, ‘Next person,’ she shouted before I was able to ask her where it was.

Mum held my hand as we walked out of the crowded room. She searched her bag for her phone to call Dad.

‘Yes, she is fine. We have finished registering.’

She paused frowning a little and continued.

‘I know what to do.’ It followed another pause, this one longer than the former.

‘Please, be considerate, it’s not suppose to be this bad.’ After this, she faced me reassuring me with her smile.

‘Hello… Are you there? Hello…’

She returned the phone and held me again. I waited for her to say something, to break the discomfiting silence. She didn’t. When I looked up, she maintained her gaze ahead. Something had happened between her and Dad. She knew I knew this.

‘Let’s find your class,’ she said finally.

‘Okay,’

I stood beside a flower pot by a room with the tag ‘Principal’s Office’ as Mum asked another student where JSS1B was.

‘Uppermost floor, ma,’ she said pointing to the junior building.

‘Thank you,’ Mum said.

‘You’re welcome, ma.’ She sized me with her eyes, gently, not too much to become a scorn. I reciprocated it too. She was in the junior uniform but was full-chested, her belly protruding slightly. I recognized now that beauty in this low-cut secondary school would be dependent on the shape of the head. Like her, I would be called beautiful.

My class was the second class on the floor. A teacher was inside. I greeted as Mum handed me my school receipts. I had never been given receipts before. All through my primary school years, she never handed me my school receipts. I felt a little more responsible.

‘Keep them well,’ she said.

‘Yes, mummy,’ she waved the teacher and told me to hurry. She promised she would get my books to me soon. My seat was on the fourth row, four seats away from the front. It placed me at the centre of the class.

‘Can anyone name any hardwood they know? If you know any that is,’ she smiled as she spoke. We were in the first class in junior school; it was important we got the sweetest teachers.

‘Iroko,’ a girl in front answered.

‘Obeche,’ another girl by her side answered.

‘Baobab,’ another answer from the other half of the class; no answer came from mine. I waited watching everyone intently. Their eyes dazzled in ignorance.

‘Mahogany,’ I said.

‘Good. I expected that, second to Iroko, of course.’ She said, then, laughed. For some reason, I think she expected we’d laugh too. No one did. The bell rang. She reached for the seat at the front of the class where her notes lay. She straightened her skirt and said to us with a more serious face.

‘Okay girls! I don’t think the next subject teacher would come as it is the first day. We are still setting up. Again, welcome to Missionary All-Girls’ Secondary School.’

We rose as we chorused, ‘Thank you, ma,’

‘Bye for now, girls!’

I didn’t know everyone had been introduced before I came. My name would become the first word I spoke in class that day. Mahogany. My name would become Mahogany.

 

A Heavy Thing

Hatred is this heavy thing,

pulling the heart lower and lower towards the centre of the earth,

Love, sweet love, is the lightest thing,

Giving wings, taking me higher and higher against gravity,

It is a continual struggle between these two things that pull and push

That I’m almost always found in between

This region called life

Where I have to negotiate what I should feel from what I most feel,

 

and yes, hatred is hell,

with heat burning sensibility

humanity

destroying the foundations upon which our lives were built

but sometimes it feel granted, guaranteed too

for people to be hated,

we keep bargaining in this trade between obvious products,

both consuming and unwilling to coexist

but love, yes, it’s heaven,

a space where perfection breeds

and zeal to forgive births good deeds

it lingers longer than life

thriving our collective destiny

 

so, we face the battle to hate

daily,

pushing against the tides,

swimming across a river with no life guide,

we thrive upon this,

what we can do regardless

of what we could do

Naked Word, Clothed things

Perhaps we will talk more with time,

Or perhaps we never will be able to say it all, to clothe things in words,

Things that have long been naked

                             Purple Hibiscus, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

 

Abule-Ijesha cried in silence as her landscape screamed for change. The soiled earth mourned for new occupants, the land bitter and soon men too became so as though both deserved each other.

Rebecca walked towards the gutter kicking the plastic bottles that covered the path. Her lips paused in thought akin to one hushed by a force greater than herself.  With eyes vacant, almost teary, she mounted each step with a chiselled move, pace steady, legs progressing assuredly on the ground like a hammer targeted on a spot. She walked well exuding a confidence, one that had come to define her.

I watched as she approached, expecting something from her. Perhaps a nod of recognition. She only looked through me. It seemed she didn’t see me because she looked beyond my face. I nearly turned back expecting a figure at my back but I was directly in front of a wall.

Rebecca placed her eyes on the ground thereafter. I heaved. She only continued on. Even though, I could do same I didn’t even without any obligation to the girl almost towards me. I felt a need to ask her about herself.

The ‘boys-on-the-street’ were not boys anymore but I didn’t see how I could ever refer to them as men. They lacked the subtle sign that brought about the referral. They lacked responsibility, although, it was a little more than that.

They were crowded at a spot, speaking in loud tones almost fighting. I looked over them trying to understand the reason for the ruckus. But I knew it would be ‘ibo’. I smiled as I looked at Rebecca again. This time she was closer. Her walking was taking a slower pace; she tried more to absorb the irritable environment than to look on the road she walked.

She looked at me. This time, intuition whispered to me that she actually saw me. Her eyes pierced through me.

I moved away after noticing that the boys started to grab each other in wild places. I looked at them for a moment and hurriedly, returned to Rebecca.

The time came when she uttered something I heard. I pretended I hadn’t and looked at her still. She repeated herself this time with mild touches of anger showing its gleam. I had achieved something, I thought. She asked another.

And I smiled at her. She didn’t return it. She looked at me. I knew what she was doing but I began to reply.

‘I came to look for you but I didn’t see you.’ That was the answer to the first question.

‘I remember that but I forgot to. I will do it later.’ The answer to the second one, this came out easily. She took my left hand as we walked to her house. We had a lot to talk about.

‘Something happened.’ She said almost carelessly.

‘I know,’ she squeezed my hands. I pinched hers and smiled at her.

She returned it with a trickle down her eyes. My joy lessened and I wiped them with my unbound hand. Rebecca tightened her lips forming an expression of grief. I looked at her; frowning hoping the tale wouldn’t resemble the face.

 

‘The Church: The object of Christ’s love’

  

Hitherto, it spelt sacrifice to attain righteousness,

Christ redefined that,

Spelling love with His blood,

Proving you don’t fear to love,

But rather, with love comes everything else,

 

Perfect love, truly, casts out fear

Exemplified in God’s revelation of love to us,

For where the law was inadequate,

Imperfect and flawed,

God thought it wise to give the greatest sacrifice,

A part of himself,

His son,

 

 With Christ laying down his life

For a yet to be known bride,

His church,

Redeeming her from iniquity,

Paying the most uncommon bride price,

His blood,

Transforming our position from sons of men

To sons of God,

 

Happy to include us

In His wonderful, new design,

Unselfish to share his heritage with mere men,

 

He taught us love,

  Its true meaning,

How love is more than the feeling,

But a responsibility and a commitment,

He didn’t blame us for our wrongs,

But took it upon himself to correct an error

He was never part of

 

That’s what the law never did.

What it could never do,

He built upon that structure to recreate a realm,

A new era,

Where love was attainable,

And to be loved was believable,

May our Christian journey

Which, is a life of love and sacrifice

Be truly about what Christ died for,

His massive love for us,

 

And as we move in our faith and grace level

May we hold unto our collective responsibility, to love ourselves

Each other,

Just the way, He loved us

And still does

 

The Pedestrian Bridge

I had a Liberian classmate, Pearl, once who called herself a ‘half caste’. We were close because we entered the same bus home. So often times, we would ‘lap’ ourselves because we wanted to save some change. She told me this ‘half caste’ story one of the days I had waited for her. I was the class captain so she waited for me most times.

‘Are you serious?’, I looked at her genuinely surprised, taking a brief run of my eyes through her features, carefully matching them up with those of biracial origin.

‘Yes, I just don’t like talking about it.’ She patted me on the back as if she had made a comment that was dignified. I smiled and nodded.

‘Half castes are usually light-skinned but you are not.’

‘My dad is Liberian. My mum is Nigerian.’ Her face beamed with an inner satisfaction, a triggering delight that she had something I didn’t. I stared at her hair: its darkness, thickness and kink were giveaways. I promised myself I wouldn’t be the one to get her out of her grand illusion.

Sabo bus stop was always filled with people clustering and rambling especially in the afternoons after 3:30pm. It was the time most private schools closed. On Fridays, both public and private closed 1:30pm.

There was a bitter rivalry between the two schools—private schools were believed to have a sort of arrogance; public schools were not posh enough to private schools. So, there were general rules: private schools didn’t ‘lap’—because it wasn’t cool. But we did. Whenever public school students ‘lapped’, they could be up to four on one passenger’s space which made anyone sitting near them uncomfortable—shifting and adjusting till alighting. On this day, we hoped none would seat close to us. Pearl was smaller than I so I ‘lapped’ her. She looked at the younger boy that entered with his food flask and water bottle. She sized him with her eyes then turned to me expecting I match her disapproval too. I didn’t. I turned to the window till the bus got moving again. Sitting beside us were three children, one crying with mucus moving down his nose. The eldest sat down holding every other person’s effects in her hands yet balanced.

She looked at me and greeted. I answered her and waited for her to greet Pearl. She didn’t. The performance thrilled me and I laughed. Pearl looked at me making her face into a question. I laughed harder. I couldn’t control myself. The conductor started to collect the bus fare, we called it ‘TP’; I knew the ‘T’ represented ‘transport’ but the ‘P’ never really had a meaning to me except the obvious ‘pay’ because in full, we would always say ‘transport fare’.

The conductor looked to the back. We were about ten for a space of four.

‘Oya, come down. No lapping for dis bus. If e no be one-one, no going; driver, stop!’

Pearl and I exchanged looks. The no-lapping rule hung in the air. We didn’t come down when everyone that lapped alighted. We were in private schools; after all, he had to respect the uniforms.

‘You know hear me sha, I say no lapping for my motor.’ He scowled as he spoke. We got up and made our way down. The driver had stopped us at Agnes bus-stop so there were many who replaced us gladly.

‘He is a wicked man,’ Pearl said as she took her flask from my hand and continued, ‘I hate people like that. If not that I was in my uniform, I would have shown him sege! Who does he think he is?’

The others had stayed at the bus-stop. We walked on till we reached the pedestrian bridge just before the Lagos Mainland Library, it had been years I used the outdated bridge. I had always wanted to use it but my mum hated it. She always mentioned how it had been the same bridge of the ‘70s and ‘80s without any reconstruction. I wanted to try.

‘Let’s use the bridge,’ I said.

‘Because of what? Abeg o! I am not looking for death,’ I wanted to tell her that Pearl didn’t ‘fit’ her and that she didn’t talk like a half-caste because they always had influences on their tongue. I only looked at her a long time showing her that I didn’t care if she followed me or not.

‘I’m trekking to Yaba because there I will see a keke napep that will take me home. It’s always cheaper anyway.’

I climbed first. She watched me from below as if waiting for an imminent disaster to happen. I watched the holes on the bridge carefully avoiding them together with the wraps of faeces filled nylons lying at the sides. A beggar sat beside a pile of clutter—which looked like his belongings—he greeted first and began to chant the Allah  bamusa chorus. I smiled at him; half hoping it would bring him joy as it did me. Pearl was hurrying behind me. Her face muddled by my reaction to the Northerner. I looked down to see the children; they were still there. It could only mean one thing: No vehicle.

‘Chei! My beret! See what you’ve caused now, it’s flown away.’ She screamed amidst tears.

I smirked and shouted, ‘I didn’t force you on the bridge. And I always tell you to take off your beret after school. You never listen.’

‘You are wicked! You and that driver and the conductor! All of you are wicked.’ The beggar stood up and started saying something both of us didn’t understand. He ran down. We watched him. He flagged down a bus to halt and picked the beret at the centre of the road. Pearl had stopped crying. We walked down to meet him.

He laughed indicating his joy for doing this as he handed it over to Pearl. She took it and thanked him.

She was silent till we got to Yaba.

Predictions

 

Lami started to pack her bag since the rain had become too heavy—bellowing through the lecture theatre’s windows; she had been the last to leave. She planned to take the boy’s hostel thoroughfare— because it was shorter. She would use it to get to her hostel only that she had to pass through the alley it led to—a lonely marshy stretch. She preferred the park but it was a little too long and there would be too many people to greet. From the window, she looked ahead. The park was filled with people boarding and alighting from the campus shuttle buses—many without umbrellas. Lami smirked, a knowing smirk. All week she had been beaten by the rain; she had decided to remember her umbrella.

‘Hello, may I join you?’ A fellow from behind called out whose white tunic visibly soaked yet its draping not sagged.

‘Sure,’ Lami adjusted to accommodate him. She wondered where he was going to. This path led only to the female hostel and since it was late, visiting hours were over.

‘The weather can be so unpredictable,’ He said after he had greeted.

‘Very. But it’s been raining all week. It’s not that unpredictable.’

‘True.’ He smiled and helped Lami hold the umbrella as she adjusted the position of her bag; rainwater had entered it.

‘You couldn’t predict that, even though, the wind blew from that direction,’ he said as he pointed to his left with his unengaged hand.

Lami laughed and replied, ‘It is life; you can’t predict everything. You can only try.’

‘Maybe not everything but the obvious,’ He handed over the umbrella.

 

The hostel was in sight now. The words dropped bit by bit till they made meaning—the words from the devotion.

‘And in the morning, ‘It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threatening.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.’ Matt. 16:7

‘Did you say something?’ Lami asked but he was hundreds of feet away from her, walking into dense darkness—she finally understood why his clothes didn’t sag. A rush of cool air filled her; her feet became too heavy to move, her hands traced her trembling lips.

All she could do was dwell on the experience.

Oyintare Abang

Casual or consensual?

HER.

And it started with your smile reaching out to him in the room after which he walked up to you and started the conversation. It reminded you of a scene in a popular movie you had watched recently where the ‘girl’ draws the ‘guy’s’ attention to her and he walks up to start the talk.

When he came close, you sniffed his cologne; it had a hint of vanilla, you wondered why a man would have on vanilla scented cologne. You had hoped that he wouldn’t be so feminine in character.

The bar had amber lightings, a rare choice for a bar but yet, his skin glowed in it. He commented on your dress and you thanked him; it was as if he sought for a remark for his tailored suit but you didn’t give him. He talked about his career, his family and you listened, partly, because you were interested; partly, because you were bored all along and you needed the kind distraction. You could tell that he enjoyed the conversation amid the pauses he gave. He would ask you what you thought about this and that. You tried not to give yourself away. You felt this indulgence ‘to not act too smart’; so, your replies were concise. He took pleasure in believing that he knew things he thought you didn’t know. At times, you would laugh. He would ask you what was funny: you never gave him the true reason.

HIM.

You had waited for Feyi all night. She told you she had forgiven you. She mentioned that to prove it she would come tonight to be here with you. You waited for her yet she didn’t come. It angered you in a way it had never before, even, when you tried to believe that it was a woman thing to do—to be fashionably late. You still didn’t want to justify this action of hers—promising and not fulfilling. You started to drink alone.

Across a lady had just entered, you straightened hoping it would be Seyi. Your anger started to subside and you reached for the minty gum you had bought earlier. You didn’t want her to know you had been drinking again. It was the reason for the fight anyway. You chewed and chewed, straightening yourself but the lady didn’t walk to your side.

The lady was light skinned with fine bone structure. It was opposite of what Seyi was. You had put everything on hold this night just because of her and yet, she didn’t come. Worst of all, she didn’t call. You didn’t know all the while you thought about what to do with the night you had been staring at Miss light skin. You saw her smile, a warm streak that spread across her face into her eyes, endearing and enchanting. She touched her nape and closed her eyes. Then, she looked away.

You were excited, hardly, had any woman excited you this openly not even Seyi. Your hands trembled as you stood up to walk towards her.

‘Hi.’ You whispered into her ears matching suggestive with suggestive.

‘Hello,’ she said as you sat on the backless seat beside her, ‘are you waiting for someone?’

‘Was. Not anymore.’

‘Okay.’ She said as she smiled again, an allusive and appealing smile. You thought about how the night would end.

THE WATCHER.

The night had just started for both of them. Tam realised that he had not mentioned his name to her. She mentioned hers; he first spluttered, arranged himself better and repeated the name—Ijeoma. As the crowd lessened, he looked at her intermittently searching for discomfort—to back his belief that bad girls found solace in darkness and number. She noticed the pressure of his eyes and would often look away. So as the conversation blossomed, he allowed her talk more, drink more and loosen her inherent calm. A kind of privacy was established between them through the give and take of their converse. Their laughter and words.

The bar finally closed. Ijeoma staggered as Tam helped her to the entrance of the bar. He didn’t understand why she had come, why she had allowed herself to get drunk especially by an unknown man. He pitied her because at some point in their discussion, he realised she was a smart woman: daring, successful and wise. But yet she had release herself to him. he searched her clutch purse for her address. She was giggling by his side and passers-by gave him the sympathetic stare as of one given to a husband who had a misdemeanour for a wife. He returned the stare. It only made perfect sense that he did.

Her address was on the filler in the purse: a paper that contained information about the bearer of the clutch. He thought probably she had predicted how the day would go—a stolen purse—or she would go home drunk of her own volition.

He carried her on his back and walked to the car park at the back of the bar. There were only six cars. His and five others—which looked too manly to be hers. He looked at her hoping she would say something but she was asleep already. Her hair— a mess already—was all over her face. It was a weave and her scalp showed the threads and the joining. It had been badly placed, he thought.

Tam sighed as he placed her on the passenger’s seat beside him. He would go to her place; he would stay there tonight.

Her sounds were throaty when he laid her on the bed. He waited for her to be still before helping her to undress for the night. He had entered the apartment with the spare key under the mat. He was disappointed that she had kept it there because it was too usual, too predictable. All through the night she had made him think; believe too, that she wasn’t predictable.

‘Where are we?’ she asked sheepishly.

‘Your home,’ Tam said as he took of his tie.

‘Do you want to sleep here tonight?’

‘I think it’s too late to have an option of anything else, Ijeoma.’ Tam stood to get a better view of her. He smiled as she placed her hand on her head and moaned.

‘I feel terrible,’ she muttered with a belch, ‘Come sleep here. I mean on the bed with me.’

He didn’t listen to her. She asked again but he waited.

The light brought little pricks of pain. She looked around a little shocked at how much her head thudded. Her clothes were on the floor. Her panties too. She walked through her apartment and found him there. Nearly naked on the couch.

‘What are you doing here?’

He turned and faced her, his eyes swollen. His face alighted by the light. He greeted.

‘I brought you home,’ he answered.

‘Did you do anything to me?’ She asked as she touched her head saddened by his bear bottom.

‘Yes, of course. You asked me to.’

‘I was drunk and you should have known I was in sort of a personal conflict.’ She said.

Tam stared blankly he had never been awoken to a confused woman before. He laughed at her. Again. Again.

‘You are blaming me, really?’

‘Yes,’ she said lightly now.

‘You are telling a stranger to predict when you have inner conflicts. Personal conflicts or wars are not predicted my strangers, miss.’

‘I am not blaming you. I’m just saying.’

He picked his clothes, wore the trousers and waited for a reply to drop t give her.

He replied, ‘Even at war, there is always sex, my dear. ’

She looked at him with reserved hatred just as she raised her hand. Her slap was womanly: soft, full of hunger than anger. He held them to kiss them.

‘I trusted you,’ she cried. The words made him laugh especially how she made trust that blatant, most especially how easy she made trust seem.

‘Trust is overrated,’ it was all he said afterwards.

Ijeoma waited for reality to dawn reaching for it with her heart, her hands and all she possessed but as she walked towards it; it ran away—the reality she had worked all her life for.

His words kept on circulating her space, her domain of existence, in all their conversation she agreed with one thing, trust was truly overrated.

Ijeoma never saw Tam again.

Without

She doesn’t call anymore. I have convinced myself that it is alright, also, that it is a perfect agreement for her to not call as much as she would normally. But now, she never calls again. She puts me at a distance like a disease. She gives us an assumed friendship, a strange way of pretending that there is something to hold unto that is a lie. I’m not sad about this but indifferent. I enjoy using her as a good oak gone bad when I write. This, I am happy about.

She doesn’t call anymore. In a rare undertone, I believe we were never friends because of what we have become and I am happy about this revelation. In converse, she speaks as though I am not there and I reply with a caution, an unwanted affection I am proud of. This, I am happy about.

I think sour love has benefits like the wind it blows but it destroys. Like the sea, it calms yet kills. Duality of purpose.

 Life has this rare quality too: the ability of us to do ‘with’ and ‘without’.

She will always be blown by the wind to the sea as I stand watching her words, memories drown holding unto nothing yet feeling something.

 

Abroad, adv: in a place of success.

In Nigeria where I happen to live, success is predominantly dependent on the word ‘abroad’. First, it starts with the ease to travel. A person’s ability to travel ‘abroad’ for summer, for a job, for an interview, for anything under the sun immediately suggests that the person is successful. Hence, the reason for the post!

 

The kind of job the person does is absorbed from the picture, the time he/she has for himself/herself is placed secondary. All that matters is this: once a person is abroad; he is successful.

 

My anger at this platitude cannot be overrated. It is so appalling as far as I am concerned that we create such principles for ourselves.

 

I wish for some reason that my choice of going abroad is largely dependent on choice and not that I am running away from a society that cannot provide for my needs. I guess I have to bear in mind also that this reason is largely dependent on the fact that a lot of things in our society do not work— beginning with our minds.

 

I always refer to the Nigerian issue as this: we live in a country that is full of numerous microcosms of other countries. In my family, for instance, I consider our existence as such. Water is not provided for by the state, we substitute our borehole for that. No problem. Regular supply of electricity comes after intense prayer, no problem! Generators are gotten to dampen the need. The cycle of anger as become worse.

 

Though, I hate the realization that I live in a country where success as become definitive by standards that I dislike. I must respond to this with love: knowing that I too at some point in my life I have defined success as the first ticket out of Nigeria.

One Day, There would be a movie about us….

American movies are known for hope, an overwhelming degree of hope, and life. It is particularly how the stories are arranged logically to appeal to emotions and sense of reason at the same time—especially at the same time. These movies have various themes they work with: hard work, love, living and thriving, hope, faith, race and generally the journey through life.

 

As one of the many film export consumers, I love these movies. I love them because I enjoy their wit, glamour, sense of justice and the lease to live. On many occasions, I have daydreamt about how my life would play out—if it ever could—on the American ‘silver screen’: the actor who would play my life’s tale; the screenwriter who would have the job of documenting my actions in a believable way to appeal to a general audience but the part of this ‘future’ movie that I am most concerned about is who would be play the man I marry—the one I would have children with. My imagination doesn’t do me well on this one. Well, the reasons are that I first wonder who I am likely to become in the future. ‘The future’ was a phrase I used a lot whilst growing up and in many ways, the future ‘is’ still what I use now. Yes, of course, there is the heightened feeling of remaining forever young that sort of causes me to want to keep regarding to this time as ‘the future’; maybe, it is a way to psych myself into believing that I am not getting older. I don’t know which but what I do know is that I still regard to the future as another time, another sphere of my human existence that cannot come close to my ‘now’ because I don’t want it to.

 

Back to the movie, I am so interested in this ‘man’ character because I imagine that this figure would be central to a lot of my dreams as I his and I expect that he would be that very lovable person, angry when he wants me to listen to him intently and knowledgeable on my levels. I expect that he would possess those rare but approachable gifts that make him close to God in my life but near to home in my heart. He would be a wonder not just a wonderful person but he would be wonder personified.

 

So, this future American production would have our lives as central characters, I hope at the end they are able to learn about true love, real life, hard work, friendship and the many other things that my life is about. I hope this movie would teach the importance of having God as a friend and having his as the centre of it all. I hope with all of my heart that this movie teaches about what family is in Africa; how it is important to me, to my ‘man’ and our children. But most importantly, I hope the movie teaches that people change and they should because life gets better or worse depending on what we choose and it’s our fault sometimes, and it’s not our fault other times but either way, you get the blame for whatever happens to you because it is your life and your life bears your name.

 

One day, there would be a movie about me and my ‘man’; it’s going to make me blush all over.

NANNY-GOING

You loved the little girls. They made you happy on many levels. You taught them their first word and watched them grow up into their own persons. You thought them the meaning of ‘character’; you remember this because you never knew what it was till they came one morning and you had to define it for them, how it was the beginning of so many definitions for you. You defined: love, virginity, period, boys, sex, genitals and so many other words. By teaching them how important these words were to life, you taught yourself what life was really about. You took care of these children and there was fulfilment in doing so. Life had a truer meaning for women in motherhood.

 

Ebikefe would never let you go and you knew it. You knew this; the day you took her to school and she asked if you would be back by three to pick her up. It was how her eyes softened at their sides and how the quiver she produced spoke wordless thoughts to your hearing—it spoke of a need to always have you beside her—teaching her the things that were important, the ones that could be placed underarm. But you did the thing—the one thing—that nanny’s never do: you committed yourself to always be there for her, for her sister too. And you recognised that today would be hard.

 

Today, you would talk about Itoro, the village boy you meant last Christmas. He had promised to come to make this less tough for you. He wasn’t here now. You both had decided to get married—the marriage was still in talks—before the end of the year. You loved him. He loved you back, you thought.

 

Mien would be easy to deal with because after she went to secondary school she lost the love for home.

 

Ebikefe was the reason you were thinking. She was the reason you didn’t want to marry Itoro. She was the reason leaving was difficult. This child didn’t need you anymore she had a mother now. She had someone else who bought her uniforms, school books and Christmas accessories. She had a ‘new’ everything.

 

As the time approached for you to leave nanny-hood, Itoro’s face was what mattered most—how he would give you children too that would make you feel something like this again. This thing, this fresh desire to want to take care of something growing—like a plant—something harmless and so full of promise. Itoro would give you your own child. This thought became health for you. It became a reason to want to say it. It became a reason to want to forgive yourself for leaving the child you had always mothered.

 

‘I am leaving next month,’ you said even though, Ebikefe heard you but she continued to play with her doll still silent.

 

‘Did you hear me? I said I am leaving.’ You spoke louder, a little higher than the norm.

 

‘Keffy, you hear?’ Then, she turned to face you and smiled. The six-year old dark beauty that learnt what to smile was from you nodded.

 

‘You heard what I said,’ it was the rush of anticipation that you didn’t expect in your chest. The bang and the pain in your tummy caused you to wheeze and panic. You began to gasp for air, for life, for Ebikefe’s voice.

 

She turned again but returned as if she didn’t understand what was happening.

‘Ebikefe, please say something. I need to hear your voice. Please!’

 

‘I heard what you said. You said you were leaving us.’ You liked that she used ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. It made it less painful. It made it seem like it was for the collective good of everyone and not her. You had a new definition for us.

 

‘Don’t you want to know why I am leaving?’ You asked hoping for an immediate answer.

‘No. Thank you, if it makes you happy then, I am happy.’ As she smiled, you looked into her eyes and saw the emotion—the indescribable emotion—you saw that day she asked you never to leave.

 

‘I have to get married. I am getting old, you know.’ Then, you laughed at yourself but it was really because you remember how easy it usually was to talk with this child, to have her on your side against everyone but yourself.

 

‘It’s okay. I understand.’ You looked at her eyes again. The emotion was lost. It wasn’t there anymore. The fire was absent and suddenly you felt a need to rekindle something that could flame your heart. This hunger inside of you started again to show. After a need to hear her speak, you wanted to disengage without feeling disengaged. You wanted to be needed by this child but yet you wanted to marry Itoro. The hunger confused you as you cried silent tears. It confused you again because you needed to gather your heightened senses scattered like broken tableware on a tile.

 

‘Sometimes, people go. Even mummy went. You can go too. It’s alright.’

 

You rushed to hug this child. It was the first time in six years she referred to her mother. You didn’t know she thought about her because she never really knew her. You sensed a sadness that was deserved.

 

But, Itoro was waiting for you. It was another thought. Itoro would not always wait for you neither would Ebikefe. So, you had to go this time. Now. Nannies had to go sometimes, you said this to her.

 

‘Yes, I know. One day, I too will go. I’ll go away from a person I said I’ll never go away from.’

 

‘Yes, one day you’ll go from daddy, all your aunties, everyone. We all go.’

 

‘Who would you marry?’ She asked.

 

‘My friend from the village, I have known him a long time. And he would come today. You would see him.’

 

She smiled half-heartedly.

 

You had a new definition for ‘go’; it meant something other than movement. It meant growth too.

 

Ebikefe would go too. She would go away from your heart someday, sometime, somehow.

 

As Nanny-dom went.

Love structures!

You were told love was a thing you feel. This little wonder that creeps into your heart gently and rocks it violently, thereby, making you unable to breathe, unable to think straight, unable to understand even yourself. You believed what they told you but you don’t remember who told you. All you do remember is that when you came to the world, there were a lot of things you were programmed to believe and disbelieve whether or not you saw them—these things were given the word ‘abstract’. Like love.

 

You were told that what you felt for your mother, father, sisters and little brother was love but there were times you wanted to contest this. You wanted to let them know that you felt different things for them: anger, tolerance, jealousy and disgust respectively. But amongst the other things, you really wanted to ask if love could combine all these things together. You made up your mind that you’d have to look for them and that when you did you’d tell them that love didn’t make sense. You would lay your points and make sure it made sense to them.

 

You waited patiently for the day you’d see this people—the same people that told mum that dad would change one day, that bad relationships got better. You still waited. Until, you started to grow up.

 

Layefa told you these people were structures when you asked her. She told you that they didn’t live as humans but they interfered in how humans acted. You wondered how non-humans could dictate to humans how to live. You felt angry at these structures. You wanted them destroyed. Layefa listened as you told her this. She listened to the many things you mentioned. She called you a great speaker and said one day you’d be a feminist. You liked the word ‘feminist’. You put in into the pink Barbie diary that Layefa gave you last Christmas, the one she had mentioned was for only one year. She was your first-cousin. It was what mum called any of her siblings’ children to you all. She said it to make them more important to remind you that ‘your bloods were stronger’.

 

So you told Layefa about love one day. It was the day Ivan held your hand; you really didn’t know that people could use hands to make other people feel things except pain. You told her how your insides twisted. She laughed. She said it was love. It brought the word again.

 

The next day in school, you asked Ivan how his inside felt the day before. He said nothing. You asked during break time, he still said nothing. After school, he left you a letter. It was stuck with gum under your desk and he wrote ‘I felt something’. You smiled and carried the letter home because Layefa said she’d come to hear his reply. She was the one that told you to ask him.

 

Layefa said he didn’t know it was love. She said you should tell him. Since, your handwriting was not as lovely as you’d like it to be. You asked Layefa to do it because she wrote cursive.

 

LOVE. It was all she wrote in the letter. You smiled when Ivan opened it because it made him smile. Ivan scribbled something again. He passed it to you through Deola.

          ‘I know. Good penmanship.’

He tried to copy Layefa’s cursive but you waited to talk to him. You planned to ask him if he knew about structures. You really wanted to know if both of you could find the structures and ask them why love was about what it was about and if they could change it just of the both of you. Ivan would understand, you believed, after all, it was love.

Do you write?

Call for Entries!

Call for Entries!

Entries for the 6th edition of the annual Port Harcourt Book Festival (PHBF) – formerly the Garden City Literary Festival – Writers’ Workshops are now being accepted. The Writers’ Workshops are a creative platform wherein aspiring writers sit under the tutelage of their established counterparts. The workshops are recommended for all who desire to improve on their writing skills.

Each applicant must indicate his/her preferred workshop choice. Applications to more than one class will not be considered. Participants are required to submit samples of their writing (in line with the requirements for the different genres) before Friday, Sep 13th, 2013, to secure a place.

 

All applicants must submit the following:

 

FOR SHORT STORIES –

  • A sample short story of between 1000 & 1500 words. Send in only your best story.*

 

FOR POETRY –

  • 2 poems of between 20 and 30 lines. A synopsis or abstract will not be accepted.*

FOR SCRIPT –

  • A synopsis of not more than 1000 words.* Indicate the genre of your choice e.g. ‘Comedy’

 

PLEASE NOTE THE FOLLOWING:

  1. Submit a one-page personal CV along with each entry
  2. Include a brief paragraph about what you intend to learn from your selected workshop
  3. Type all manuscripts, double-spaced, with a header showing the author name (yours) to the left, story title in the middle and page numbers to the right
  4. Ensure your entry is original
  5. Handwritten entries will not be accepted

 

All sample materials must be submitted to http://www.portharcourtbookfestival.com/index.php/workshop no later than 12:00 noon on Friday, 13th September 2013. Materials submitted after this date will not be accepted.

LØVÉ + (?) =HAPPY EVER AFTER

There are so many things in-between love that matter, that are significant in making love last. There is no one truth about what any relationship needs to make it lead to the ‘happy ever after’ philosophy. Every relationship is unique and that is very true as it is difficult to adopt.

For some reason, quite a number of us have been immersed in the belief that love is all that matters. For a relationship to start, love is definitely all that matters but for a relationship to go on, to possibly lead to ‘happy ever after’. Love has a lessened role. This is something that a lot of us are going to doubt to the end of this write-up but when we do match this with our lives we’ll reluctantly reconsider.

Well, there are a whole lot of things involved in love, in making love lead to ‘happy ever after’. I disagree with the belief that love can be exaggerated. In case, this write-up permutes this to you, well, that is wrong. Love is never exaggerated. It is a wholesome concept. In fact, as far as a lot of people are concerned: it is sum-total of every positive emotion.

So, yes, if love has little to do with a relationship lasting forever: what then is important?

  1. Thoughtfulness: there are very few words in the dictionary that mean a lot. This is one of them. My favourite synonym of this word is ‘pensiveness’, which means ‘deeply, carefully thinking something through by anticipating their needs, desires’. In a relationship, when anyone of the party is willing and able to think ahead so that he/she can please their partner. This action proves love. Going ahead to look nice for your husband, getting your hair done and many other things are ways in which a woman makes herself thoughtful but it transcends this. For the man: buying her something when you get yourself a new shirt shows you care for her.

 

  1. Communication: whether emails, calls, text messages, anything at all. Once, there is a break in communication in a relationship; there is a break in something that matters. Your spouse, partner or fiancé should always be someone that you find easy to talk to. He should be someone that brings out words that you don’t even want to tell him. It is a natural essence. In fact, you should be rushing home from work so that you can have him tell you about his day so that you can tell him about yours. A lot of couples are unaware that this is very therapeutic.

 

  1. Time: you should regularly make out time for him/her. Time to talk, to listen, to share, to be together: time generally for everything. Each time you spend with someone you are in a relationship with, you become more comfortable. In a relationship, ‘comfort-ability’ means ‘loosening up yourself, becoming less conscious of yourself and more conscious of each other, fostering a common bond ’. Time is something precious, perhaps, the most precious unit of our lives. Hence, spending it with someone you like is both spiritual and psychologically delightful.

 

  1. Laughter: Happiness and joy are important facets of relationships. Usually, relationship experts advise that once you are with someone that makes you laugh hard enough especially someone that can make you laugh at yourself; marry them! It’s a weird sort of truth but yes, it’s that important. Being with someone that is serious is a blessing but someone that makes you laugh is even a bigger blessing. It takes a lot to have a sense of humour. Laughter keeps a relationship on the good side especially when the laughter is in the person’s nature.

 

  1. Solidarity: This has to do with ‘joint effort’. Once, you are able to do things together and yield something that actually works out very well, you’ll make a good team and that is a very good thing. Once, the both can successfully do this, it shows: compatibility, which is a very good sign for happy ever after. So, whether it is a business venture, a cause or anything at all. It is significant in telling how right you both are for each other but again, we must remember that not all good partners/spouses are great business partners. Certain relationships have their limits but still both of you are going to have to try and do something together that works—the most important which is a family.
  2. Tolerance: this is synonymous to long-suffering, which means to endure greatly. It is to allow faults but recognise them. It is to sense anger and neutralise it with a smile or a sobriety. Tolerance is extremely important in any relationship at all because for every human being there are weaknesses, excesses and strengths. There is usually a perfect balance of all of these. Image

Sincerely you, From her…

The dew fell the day she sang in church. It was the same day she didn’t look at you with her defining stare. It was the day you realised she had glossy honey brown eyes. It was the day you smiled because of a woman.

That morning your neighbour’s dog growled unreasonably. It was the sound that woke you up early enough to meet your parents preparing for church service. First, you stood up from bed and walked to make a cup of tea. Your mum boiled water on the gas cooker for Dad. It meant that she hadn’t had her bath. It also meant you were up too early.

You ended up with the hot water in your bucket. Your anger towards the dog couldn’t be overemphasized.

For your mum, she was joyful about you attending church in a way that puzzled you. She selected your clothes for you, rubbed your hair oil and massaged it until it evened out. She held back her contentment calmly. It was long ago she treated you like this— a child.

The back seat was where you hardly stayed in so you hadn’t realised how worn out the seats were and how the upholsterer you employed a few months back didn’t do half of the things you asked him too. You are just as guilty; you didn’t inspect his job. You only concentrated on the driver’s seat. Your dad had insisted upon driving you and your mum. You couldn’t help but feel there was slight vengeance in his resolve.

You sat close to them but distant in heart. It was the church you were born into. It was the church you were christened. It was all the church you knew. You had been a member of the choir before you had a change of heart because you didn’t understand what it meant to be born again. You had told your mum that you felt absorbed from it all. It was the reason you left.

As you watched her up there, you remembered how you got along with the choir girls and how they loved your rich baritone voice. You remembered how they would ask you to ensure that their seats were close to yours and how you would intentionally keep all of them close to each other. You remembered how they still showed their awe of you even after you came to church once a month just for the ‘Praise Night’, how they would wink at you and shove notes into your hand after service telling you how they loved you just because they were ashamed to let their parents know this.

You remembered as you sat that no one had a lovelier voice as this young girl who was standing on the podium. You didn’t realise that you were the only one standing and that you were crying. You didn’t realise that you were screaming and asking the Lord to forgive you for the things you did that were wrong and the many things you wanted to but didn’t. You asked for His forgiveness just for the thought of them because you felt just dirty as she sang.

You watched as you were moved away by the ushers and they kept on telling you that everything was going to be alright. You nodded believably agreeing to them because they believed themselves.

You touched your face and became conscious of the warmth that radiated from it. You imagined how red your eyes were and sank in your seat as you thought you had embarrassed yourself.

You asked the usher standing near you what the name of the girl was. She told you Ebilaye. You thanked her and asked if you could return to your seat. She stared at you as if to ask if you were alright. You nodded. You appreciated that she cared.

You started to feel the beginning of a cool breeze upon you head. It was like dew. It descended and circumnavigated your head. As you reached your seat, you caught her staring at you. She looked at your head and you believed in your heart that she could see the dew fall. She smiled after you thought this.

It was then you smiled back. It was then you smiled because for the first time you shared a common understanding with a woman. It was then you knew you would know her one day, that you would really know her.

The Young Woman in a relationship (2)

As for the hope of finding what a young woman should be in her relationships; the journey never stops. Days ago, I watched a Tyler Perry movie where a young woman described her love as, ‘The beautiful reflection of God’s heart towards her.’ The sequence of these words have troubled me, I beg to say, thrilled me too. There and then, I found a practical approach to what love should be about. I think! The beautiful reflection of God’s heart towards her but it’s so figurative that I lose its practical context.

What troubles this odd state of euphoria is that certain times, when we really get swept off our feet we forget that though we should love; we should love with our hearts only. We unconsciously give up our minds, our sense of judgement, our reason and all our dreams too. We let them lie on the altar of love. Truth be told, reasons crumble on the altar of love.

The young lady in a relationship is constantly learning how to defend herself from danger by creating a wall. Sometimes, she creates complex walls that love doesn’t break easily. But, the reason why these walls will always give way is the simple fact that no matter how she bothers herself with a facade of how to and how not to love; love doesn’t give you any reason because it betrays your sense of reason. It is like treason. Love betrays you into thinking thoughts unworthy, implausible and intangible. All of which- eventually- you build your life on and might crumble later.

Thankfully, young ladies are not always the victims sometimes the cards turn but the wonder about these species in their relationship is that fact that the ‘young lady in relationship’ will never leave them. The innocence, the child in these young ladies will never leave them. And when a young woman breaks the heart of a man she is with; in an abstract way, she breaks hers too.

So, for some reason, men my advice for you is to know that the confusion can be certain. Just like my character in Beautiful Beginnings, Noelle said, ‘…you cannot make yourself love a person, like you cannot make a person love you…’

If you want her; there is so much work you have to do.

Good luck!