BLURRED LINES

She did not expect to spend the evening with him when he called her earlier that day. She had made other plans to see a friend after work. He called and said he was in the area, could he just see her face for a bit? She laughed and quipped,
-Why not?
She was a bit jolted at the sight of him in his crisp white shirt, dark skin gleaming. He smiled his easy smile at her from behind the wheel of his car, a new interest contained in his eyes as he regarded her dark eyes and plum-colored lips. He couldn't seem to stop touching her, there in the parking lot, hand sweeping over her hair, her arm, her shoulder as she leaned into his window and laughed gaily.
-Come and sit in the car.
-Give me a minute, let me get my bag. You can drive me to my friend's office.

Her friend was in a meeting and he said to her after waiting for only three minutes,
-We can't wait all evening. Let's go and get a drink.
In the car, she pulled the jack from his iPhone and plugged it into her phone.
-I can't listen to this noise you call music, she said, eyes dancing.
-Let me introduce you to actual music, the kind that will feed your senses.
He smiled slowly and said,
-Introduce me.
Introduce me. She felt the jolt again at those words and mentally shook her herself. It couldn't have been so long since a man smiled at her like that, words laced with meaningful innuendo. They listened to Dexy's Midnight Runners and she was impressed when he sang along to Come On Eileen.

They went to Chocolat Royale and sat in a corner booth. After scrutinizing the menu with her mouth scrunched up in utmost concentration, she decided on a cup of frothy cappuccino and a thick wedge of vanilla cake. He ordered a cocktail with an extra dash of Cointreau, and when the waiter called it ‘Koin-tree-ahu’, she caught his eye and they both sniggered.
They sat side-by-side, legs touching, his hand on her knee. She knew she should swat it away, but he did everything with a certain kind of endearing innocence that she recognized at the back of her mind as lethal. He played with her palm, her nails, her knee. They talked about everything between sips of coffee and cocktail, soccer, mutual friends, food. They numbered the benefits of eau de parfum over eau de toilette and he sniffed obligingly at her neck when she lifted her hair off it in invitation. He asked her to come and watch him play 'footie' on Sunday. She wrinkled her nose and asked him not to waste her precious Sunday afternoon. She fed him slices of her cake and he fretted about shortening her ration between forkfuls. She spoke deprecatingly about her weight and he ran his palm down the folds of flesh on her back, pronouncing each one beautiful. Her stomach hurt from laughing so much in one evening.

She went to the bathroom right before they left and gazed at her reflection. She saw herself, flushed and twinkly, and she wondered when this attraction started. She would not do anything about it, she decided. She had neither the experience nor the ability to contain the mess it would surely be if she let her body take over.
On the drive back he asked,
-Where will you get a taxi?
-Front of Four Points.
He sped past the taxis and she demanded,
-What are you doing? Will I go back to the mainland with you?
-No. I'm taking you home.
-Why? The traffic on the road to my house is insane.
-I want to.

He kept touching her in the car, holding her hand, tickling her side. She laughed and told him that he was drunk. He was mortally offended.
-On top of one dash of alcohol and a glassful of ice? Please.
They joked about the crazy drivers on the road and his easy smile and soft-spokenness warmed her like a blanket. She was beginning to hurt all over from laughing so much. He drew the laughter effortlessly from her with the wry way he phrased every other sentence he spoke.
By the time he pulled up in front of her house, she was pleasantly buzzed from caffeine and good company. She regarded his profile fondly and felt an almost platonic wash of affection sweep her. She was just beginning to wonder how she thought herself to be attracted to him when he turned to look at her and the mood shifted almost imperceptibly. He carefully took off her glasses first,  then his, and drew her towards him. The caution that was second nature to her made her duck her head and rest it on his chest.

He eased her away and said, smiling that maddening smile,
-You're so shy. Oya go inside.
She felt herself bristle.
-I'm not shy. I know you want to kiss me. I just don't know if I remember how.
-Who wants to kiss you? Abeg, go inside.
She laughed with abandon, throwing her head back, a small snort escaping her. She turned her head to him and he pressed his mouth against hers. It was as pleasant as she remembered it could be, searching, soft. She eased back and he said,
-You remember how.
-And you are trying. You're coming up, she answered, grinning.
He took a long look at her face.
-You're so cute without your glasses.
-I know.
He kissed her again, briefly.
-I had better go. You need to get back to the mainland.
She placed her spectacles on her nose.
-I know, he said, gazing at her mouth.
He kissed her a third time, and she felt the jolt again this time. He bit her lip and her answering sigh curled like a mist around his tongue.
She shifted away, patted her hair and gripped her bag. She stuck her finger under the black frame of her glasses and wiped the foggy lenses. Her chin tingled pleasantly from the abrasion of his beard.
-This was nice, she said.
-Yes, it was.
-Tell me when you get home.
-You tell me when you get home.
-I AM home, she giggled.
-Will I see you tomorrow?
-I don't know. Call me. Goodnight.
-Goodnight, honey.

She slid out of the car and walked slowly towards her gate, dreading the unavoidable postmortem she would do in the morning, laying tonight's kisses at the table of guilt. She didn't want to think about how out-of-character this was for her generally prudish self. She didn’t want to see in her mind’s eye the glint of gold on his third finger, a damning brightness she had successfully ignored all evening. She pushed the gate open and stepped into her compound, deciding to savor the smile she had been unable to shake off all evening, for now.

MUTATION

Heavy footfalls sound on the staircase. You roll off the bed and huddle behind the door. Your nightgown is caught on the bedpost in your haste, snagged on the jutting nail you've been meaning to hammer down. It rips, the sound resonating in the still room. You feel an alien pang, so tiny, you almost miss it. The nightgown was a gift from him, your beloved husband whose wrath you’re about to face.

You know what’s coming, but still you pray. You know that praying has not changed anything, not yet, at any rate. Praying did not calm him down the day he raged against you and poured ice water on your face in front of your children. Praying did not keep your hair glued to your head the night he yanked large chunks of it off your scalp and hit your head against the wall. Praying did not make the padlock on the front door magically unlock the night he locked you out of the house for returning late from the market. Praying did not render your hand immune to the flames when he held your wrist and forced your hand into the fire of the stove and you screamed and screamed and begged God to let you die. You rub the satiny scarring that covers the back of your right hand now and pray, regardless.

He bursts into the room and doesn't see you at first. His eyes roam over the bed and around the large bedroom. You shakily rise because you know that it will be much worse if he finds you crouching behind the door. His eyes light upon you and he approaches you in that almost quizzical way that you have come to dread. You know what is coming because you have come to know this man, to cast out what you knew he was and now know who he is, after the accident. You immediately begin to stammer out explanations, to explain that you didn't invite your sister over; you didn't know she would be coming. To reassure him that you share none of her sentiments about him. To apologize for the insults she hurled at him for his perceived mistreatment of you. To register how appalling you found her ridicule of his condition. To earnestly swear that you haven’t been telling her anything, that you've been true to nobody but him. To promise that you will forbid her from visiting ever again until she can keep a civil tongue in her head.

You never get to finish your profuse explanations because the back of his massive hand has just connected with your teeth. You taste blood and blink back tears and doggedly continue your appeal. He mutters under his breath and drags you by your hair to the center of the room. Your scalp screams in pain as you try to claw your way away from him. He pulls you back and slaps you so hard, you collapse to the floor and black spots dance before your eyes.

You feel the familiar fear now, dread filling your belly and rising up to choke you. You look up at his hulking form, the powerful build that once upon a time filled you with excitement filling you with terrible trepidation. His eyes are vacant, ruthless. He slams your head against the ground and stands up. The next thing you feel is the weight of his foot against your cheek, bearing down. You grunt in pain as you feel your tooth hang loosely from the gum. He hunkers down beside you and yanks you up to your knees. He forces your mouth open with one hand and reaches into your mouth with the other, pinching your tongue between two massive fingers. He pulls your tongue hard, all the while muttering unintelligibly. By now your tears are flowing hot and free, blood trickling down the side of your mouth. Your eyes meet his and he stills.

He stares at your tear-stained eyes as his erstwhile blank pair fill with tears of their own. You can’t tear your eyes away from those orbs as the tears leak down his face in twin rivulets. He lets go of your face slowly, gingerly. His fingers leave your tongue one first, then the other. He sinks to his haunches and buries his face in his palms, his great shoulders quivering. You don’t even register moving; you find yourself kneeling beside him, your arms going around him as much as they can. You place his head against your breasts as you sob with him, for him.

You pray, knowing that praying has not changed anything, not yet, at any rate. Praying has not given you strength and courage to stare him down and declare that enough is enough. Praying has not given him peace and acceptance of his acquired lot in life. Praying has not miraculously made his tongue grow back, since the day of the accident when he fell while at a building site and sustained several serious injuries, the worst being biting his own tongue off and rendering himself incoherent. Praying has not miraculously turned back the hands of time and restored him to the smooth-talking, playful man you married.

As you kneel there, cradling your sobbing, bitter husband, your face swollen, bloody, tear-stained and stinging, you know these things. Still, you pray.

I had this published online last year on Dancing Silhouettes and I decided to post it here for anyone who hasn't read it and may be interested in doing so. 

CRACKS IN MY FOUNDATION.

(based on a true story)

It rained this morning. I gazed out of my window, contemplating the clouds in the sky and the ones in my mind. Burdened with anxiety and depression, I rolled my shoulders and tried to summon the strength needed to face the day. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I dressed listlessly, I detachedly observed the bleakness of my expression; my eyes were two disused tunnels.

I don’t know how many of you have been here before, but I’m here to tell you that it’s not for children. Whenever I sit in a group of people, forcing my face to go through the motions, my mind is shrouded in black velvet, dark, heavy.  For everyone else, life is moving on, getting better, getting brighter. For me, I am at a terminus. It is the end of an era. For me, I have been forced to grow up.

You see, just one short month ago, I was a well adjusted, happy young woman who had life in a firm grip. I was in my final year at the university and I couldn’t wait to graduate. I had finished my final exams and it was that anxious yet giddy time of waiting for results to be out. A group of us decided to stay back in school instead of spending the pseudo-break at home. You know how it is; trying to run away from the endless errands that is par for the course when you’re at home, doing nothing.

I had known Kingsley for a long time. We were buddies, him and I, unencumbered by any pesky attraction or tension. He was one of my favorite people in the world, and considered him perfectly safe, contrary to the dire warnings of many of my friends. He was a bit of a skirt chaser, that Kingsley, and had a reputation that would make Solomon weep. He worked at a known nightclub for extra money and would often take me there on Thursdays. Everyone from the bartender to the bouncers knew who I was, and I spent many a Thursday night doing assignments smack dab in the middle of the club.

This Thursday in particular, my mother had called me to come home for a reason I can’t remember now. I blew her off, pleading that I had to tweak my project some more. We went to the club as usual, and Kingsley and I hung out at the bar. He always kept an eye on me, even if he was grinding against some girl in a corner. Today, he was called off to the VIP lounge to do some troubleshooting and I decided to go to the little girl’s room to fix my face. On my way out I bumped into someone. He steadied me and laughed, apologizing for his clumsiness. I noticed he was rather bright-eyed. I assured him I was fine, and made to brush past him, when he grabbed my hand and asked to buy me a drink. I agreed, and to this day, I question that decision.

We got to talking, and he was so witty and charming. He told me he was called Ade and he was an architect. He seemed so enamored of me, it was cute. He kept gazing at me and grinning like an idiot. I had never felt so powerful over a man. He suggested that we go outside to his car where it would be more quiet and private. I was a little apprehensive, and he laughed and promised that we would leave the car door open.

We were sitting in his car, talking and laughing, when I saw a shadow loom over me. I looked up to find Kingsley, his face thunderous. He asked me to step down from the car, that he wanted to speak to me. I wasn’t happy, but I went with him because I knew he wasn’t above creating a nasty scene. I apologized to Ade and told him that I would be back soon. I followed Kingsley to the little room off the back where the members of staff keep their personal effects. Immediately we got in, Kingsley started screaming at me about how I had no sense, that why would I follow a man I barely know into his car, if I was so sex-crazed that I was willing to get it anywhere. Of course, I wasn’t having it and I soon started screaming back. One thing led to the other and next thing I knew, my palm was tingling and he was staring at me, hand on his cheek.

The next few minutes I don’t remember much of. I remember him slamming me face forward against the wall. I remember tasting blood and screaming at him that what did he think he was doing. I remember him muttering over and again about teaching me a lesson and giving me what I was so desperate for. I could smell the overpowering scent of alcohol on his breath, his hands, all over. I remember I tried to kick him and he kicked me back so hard, my knees gave way. I struggled and tried to turn, but he backhanded me and pinned me against the wall. At that point, I left my outrage at the side and true fear filled me. I started begging Kingsley. I told him to remember who this was, who I was. He was beyond listening and as I felt the first sharp searing pain, I fell quiet.

Afterwards, I sat limply on the floor, staring into space. He sat beside me, hands on his knees, head bowed. I had nothing to say. Nothing left in me, no anger, no hatred, nothing. Kingsley lifted his head and started begging me. He was crying. I simply looked at him blankly. I struggled to get up, and he scrambled to his feet and lifted me, bundled me into his car, and we went back to school. I didn’t say a word throughout.

The next day I went home. I didn’t bother trying to act jolly; I basically shut myself up in my room. My folks were worried, but they assumed that I was flunking and I silently encouraged the assumption so that I could be left alone. I had ample time to think. I wondered where I went wrong. I wondered whether I secretly wanted it, maybe I could have fought harder. I wondered if I’d ever tell anyone and if I did, if anyone would believe me. A lot of people already assumed that Kingsley and I were friends with benefits. Above all, I cried. I cried and cried until I was so sure that my heart would break. I turned my phones off because Kingsley wouldn’t stop calling.

Yesterday, he came to my house. I was in my room when the gateman rang the bell and said there was someone outside to see me. The moment I saw it was him I almost ran back in. he grabbed my arm and the old fear came back. I had to remind myself that nothing would happen to me here. He knelt down there, outside my gate on the street and started crying, begging me. He said he was drunk that night, he said it was the devil, he said he had never forced anyone in his life. I asked him why he started with me. He cried harder, and begged me to forgive him. Strangely, I was not angry. You reading this may think me crazy, but this was Kingsley. I was disgusted and sad, deeply sad. I turned my back on him and locked my gate.

Inside my house, I crumbled. I lay on the floor in my room facedown with my hands on the back of my head and sobbed, deep wracking sobs. I didn’t know I still had any tears left in me. I cried for everything I had lost, my pride, my innocence, my naïveté, my trust. You hear of these things, but you never think it would happen to you. And if it does happen, it suddenly seems like there’s nothing you can do that will ever put things right again.  I knew what I had to do, but I was so afraid. What if I told people and they blamed me? Would anyone believe me? Plus, a part of me wondered what would become of Kingsley. I got absolutely no sleep last night. Instead I sat huddled in a corner of my bed, the enormity of my situation weighing on me.

This morning, it rained. I gazed out of my window and rolled my shoulders. I dressed and observed my face in the mirror. I walked out of my room, crossed the hall to my parents’ door, lifted my hand, and knocked.

Taxi!

Taxis are one of the most useful elements you can think of for city residents. They always seem to know everywhere, they can be found at almost every street corner, they deliver you right to the doorstep of wherever you wish to go to and, unlike buses, you can actually doze in one and-get this-the driver will actually wake you up when you get to your destination. Not a moment before and not a moment after. He certainly won’t elbow you awake with a cheeky grin and gleefully inform you that yes, this is indeed the last bus stop, three bus stops further than yours. Bloody buses.

Yes, a taxi is extremely convenient and ideally ideal. There is one cloud on the horizon of this realm of perfection. So heavy is this cloud, it is tantamount to three clouds. The tendency that taxi drivers have to be talkative has to be one of the greatest jokes life plays on us. There are some things more annoying than a cabbie that won’t shut up, I’m sure, but those things are a precious few.

One day, I had to leave work a few hours early because I had very unwisely gone to the dentist during my lunch hour (which turned into lunch three hours) and through the haze of pain and novocaine, I managed to stumble into a cab and after three labored tries, successfully communicate my destination. As I laid back, groaning, I shut my eyes and tried to mentally plead with the Lilliputian Nazis that were slamming sledgehammers into my jaw.

“Sister, this traffic na wa oh,” said the cabbie. I grunted in reply. Really, it was all I could manage, and I assumed he would pipe down since I said nothing.

Reader, I assumed wrong.

“Na this our government dey cause kata kata for us for this country,” he said. At the mention of the word ‘government’, my eyes flew open in horror. No, no, no, no, no, no. Not the government. Anyone who has ever had to listen to the ‘government’ speech from a cabbie/bikeman/welder/plumber can understand my panic. The speech only comes to an end when you press money into their hands and make a quick escape.

Let me not torture you as I was tortured. By the time we were turning into my street, I was staring desperately out of the window, scalding tears of rage rolling down my cheeks. He did not shut up for ONE second on this thirty-minute journey. The worst part was that he kept asking prompting questions, mentally elbowing me with “you get it?”s and “you know?”s until I gave another miserable grunt. I gazed at the back of his head and wished that he would lose his voice. I wished his children would be struck dumb. I wished he would have a lunch hour dental appointment with my dentist.

Another day, I went on a date with this seemingly nice chap and on our way back, we took this taxi with a seemingly-quiet driver. We gabbed on, date and I, with the mutual but tacit understanding that we would lock lips sometime during the ride. I was all but quivering with anticipation: me, on a proper date in this Nigeria where people just fall into a relationship, and the (very good-looking)guy was going to kiss me in the cab. I could have sighed out loud with the romance of it all.

All went smoothly until I had the ghastly misfortune of catching the cabbie’s rheumy right eye in the rearview mirror. I took the mistake to a higher level by smiling broadly at him (in my defense, I was giddy from the whole day and smiled broadly at even the police officer that relieved us of two hundred naira, but still.) Immediately, that accursed right eye lit up.

“You are the carbon copy of my daughter,” he croaked.

My broad smile wavered. If his daughter looked anything like him, this was not a compliment.

“Really?” I murmured.

“You don’t believe?” he cackled, feeling about in his glove compartment with one hand until he produced a stack of photographs and tossed them over his shoulder into my lap.

At this point my date was looking incredulously at the old man, who, oblivious to our astonishment, launched into an epistle about his paragon of a daughter. How she lost a tooth at five, how she cooked a bird at twelve, how she went to Gabon at sixteen, how she’s doing her youth service at eighteen. I hated the overachieving little cow by the end of the night.

But my poor date. As the old man waxed more and more poetic about his offspring, my date’s face got stonier and stonier. When the old man produced achievement certificates for us to coo over, my date handed them to me with hands shaking with fury. The moment the cabbie pulled up to my hostel door, I scrambled out, intended kiss forgotten. Heck, I almost forgot my leftover popcorn in my hurry. I left them there, faintly hearing the cabbie describe a special stew his daughter made him and made a swift escape.

Talking cabbies, if you ask me, should be outlawed. These people have the ability to drive a toddler to drink. After a hard day’s work, peace still eludes you at the back of a cab. And these are men. I shudder to think of what might ensue if I stumble across a female taxi driver. Now, they’re not all bad. Or so I hear. I still patiently wait for that one day when I will enter a taxi and be treated to blissful silence all the way. Certainly, this cannot be too much to ask.

CHIVALRY IS DEAD....AND WOMEN KILLED IT

            Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Iseult. Lancelot and Guinevere. Ramsey Nouah and Genevieve. Common factor- these men have proven time and again that they would die for their women if need be (although I can't really vouch for the last couple, you know how deceptive Nollywood can be). They have slain dragons, and braved storms, and fought armies, and even drank poison to prove their love for the leading ladies in their lives. Over the years, chivalry evolved into being just that show of general courtesy-you know, when to a man, a woman’s a lady in every sense of the word. For men these days, chivalry is opening the door for a woman, getting up when a woman enters the room, giving up your place for a woman, the whole nine yards. I imagine men reading this saying in their minds,” for where?”

            This concept is so foreign to men of this generation because of the simple fact that chivalry is dead. Deader than Attila the Hun. The sad part is that the women killed it. Ruthlessly. Thoughtlessly. Brutally. Now I imagine women around the world (I like to think) reading this and going, “Oh no, she didn’t!” I am indeed sorry to say, Yes I did.

            Come now, think about it. Little by little, act after act, women methodically prove to the male folk that they are just not worth the bloody effort. I know there are a few good women out there, but just ask the guys, and they’ll tell you these women are like gold dust. They’re either in the convent or they’re married to assholes (who, by the way, can only be managed by the aforementioned few good women).

            The women of this generation don’t offer any incentive for men to even be nice to them, talk less about exhibiting chivalry. I’m sure that at this juncture, feminists reading this will be filled with righteous indignation (why the hell do we need them to be nice to us, etc). But let’s face it, the world was a much more civilized place when women were ladies and men were…well, whatever they were. The concept of liberalism has created an allowance for all things previously deemed inappropriate and decadent. At the risk of coming across as a prude (which I am most assuredly not, I assure you with full assurance), I believe that I would have liked to exist in those days of knights and their ladies fair. Think of all the heavy lifting I would have avoided. All the noses I have been dying to bloody would have been taken care of by a misguided chivalrous fool with just some discreet, well-placed nudging on my part.

            In those days, men would knock their own brother into next tuesday for even hinting at the intent to insult a woman. If you don’t believe it, refer to Benedick and Beatrice in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. In these women-wear-pants-too times, a man may meet his brother on top of his wife and the worst that will happen is that he may not speak to him for a weekend until they go to the family reunion and iron all their issues out. The innate respect that men have for women has been irrevocably stamped out by the antics of women. What man would waste the blood of a total stranger much less his brother over a slack-thighed woman (pardon my French) who didn’t even have the decency to have his dinner on the table before climbing into bed with the maiguard.

            Why would any man respect a woman who would climb into bed with every Tom, Dick and Calistus, who he met when he picked her up in some bar? What man would respect a woman who dresses like Cinderella after her sisters had snatched all their accessories from her-shabby, worn and naked?  How can any man respect a woman whose mouth is dirtier than a chimney sweep, a woman who could turn the air around her a ribald shade of blue with a handful of choice curse words? Show me that man and I will show you a transvestite feminist.

            Women live by the principle of “Give a little, expect a lot”. They want men to be men and women to be whatever they want to be. But it is a simple case of action and reaction. Women demand incessantly to be treated as the equals of men. The part that they did not shout out loud is that this equal treatment is only feasible when it suits them. The same woman who goes nose-to-nose with her husband over equal rights in the kitchen suddenly becomes skittish when he raises his hand to hit her. If she’s his equal (as she has spent all this time reminding the poor thing), then both of them should be able to go, as equals, equally into a physical combat. But no. It suddenly occurs to her that it is cowardly for a man to hit a woman. If that’s not convenient, I don’t know what is.

            There is a reason why men are created the way they are inside and out. They’re here to serve and protect their women, but to their utter astonishment, their women are no longer women (the servees and the protectees) but they have now evolved into this other creature which is a very convenient hybrid of man and woman characters, and which no one thought to inform the poor men of their existence. Left confused with these mutants (yes, I said it), they adapt the only way they know how-employ brand new relationship skills. Voila-and so we have the contemporary man-woman relationship.

            And so, friends, my point is proven. Chivalry is dead, and women killed it.

EARLY DAYS

While doing some (much needed) spring cleaning, I came across a certain "thought book" I wrote when I was sixteen (I think). By the time I was about halfway through, I was amazed at the kind of stuff that went through my head back then. As one of the oldest works I have, I then decided to put it on this blog, the raw and unedited version. Here goes....

There always comes a phase in the life of every individual when that individual's emotions and thoughts and body and what-have-you turn cartwheels and reaches the brink of insanity, or more succinctly put, gets messed up.

You tend to realize that you yearn for many diverse things, particularly if you're a female. Sometimes being a female seems like such a curse that one wishes that one had a Y chromosome.

On one hand, you find that you begin to develop funny feelings and funnier thoughts. You are so impossible to please. You realize that you yearn for some certain things you never yearned for before. To be crystal, you realize that being just you is not enough. You want to look like that girl who is always color-coded. And oh, you want that creme guy with the perfect diction who also happens to be your lab partner to finally notice all the signals you keep sending out. Guys are so clueless. They always read messed-up signals. You like one, he asks you out, you front a bit,, but he thinks you mean no, and that's the end of that. No more thoughts in that direction. You don't like one, he asks you out, you say no (and mean it), but he keeps coming back because he thinks you're playing hard to get. Crazy, innit?

Females, on the other hand, are really hard to understand. She doesn't like a guy, he asks her out, she says no. If he pesters her, she doesn't like it. If he forgets about her, she doesn't like it either. So hard to please.

But all of this is just on one hand.

On the other hand, you realize that you begin to yearn to have a closer relationship with God. I can identify with this one. You go to church, fellowship, etc... and see other people in the spirit, people who are prayer warriors, people who can speak in tongues with minimal effort. Quite painful, I assure you, when you realize that you find it hard to even concentrate on thanking God. One wonders if it's just that one wasn't cut out to worship God, but then, that's blasphemous wondering. So, one goes on to wonder if everyone else is faking, but that's kinda ridiculous, as well.

Then there's the parental factor. Your parents are beginning to annoy you a lot. Daddy- go getter, always came first, never did wrong, could sing, dance, run, balance a carrot on his nose, memorized the log and sine tables at the tender age of six, the list is endless. It's no wonder you inherit nothing from him, because most of his accomplishments are merely fictitious. He continuously laments on how none of you, even among the boys take after him. He wonders who you resemble. Astonishingly, he also dotes on you, and amidst much mumbling and grumbling, gives you virtually everything you ask for. When it's time to play, it's a competition for the biggest baby. He's fun, outgoing, etc....To sum it up, when he's good, he's very very good, but when he's bad, he's simply horrid.

Mamman, though, id daddy's sidekick. His crony. His yes-man, or shall I say, yes-woman. She is ready to accept that you're a martian, if only daddy says so. Mamman is the equivalent of Wonder Woman, hurtling through the trees and skies in her damask gele and matching shoes and bag, rescuing the little ones. Mamman is, according to her, when she was your age, she ponded yam with one hand tied behind her back, the tied hand washing the little ones at the stream,*******(lost a page there...sorry)******* own recipe) and you are expected to find the cure for Aids. Every mother's dream. But that's drifting away from the point.

Aunt Virus, on the other hand, is the official catalyst, praise singer, and all round hypochondriac. She is usually a maiden aunt, about late fifties, and is a hot hippie with oither a tinted skin cut or dreadlocks. She has a man who has been asking her to marry him since she was 25 (she says).

Aunt Virus can finish a six-pack of Heineken in one sitting and ask for more. She is the official preserver of the family history and never allows a situation where she can let it rip pass her by. Aunt Virus always has one ailment or the other, but as you know, she is not one to complain, so she only mentions it every other minute. Aunt Virus never misses a quarrel, and with the air of pouring oil on troubled waters, manages to cause more catastrophe.

Then comes books, lectures, etc... This is leaps and bounds away from Aunt Virus, I know, but since I'm writing carte blanche, I can do whatever I want. Imagine when you're in that mood to sleep, that mood when you realize that if you do not sleep in that instant, you would collapse. No revival. And you have a two-hour lecture on capacitors (I always wondered what they have to do with anything, but you never know). Hmmm. I wonder what you'd go for. Capacitors, or sleep. My my, I can't seem to choose.

When you now make the adult decision and go to your lecture, you wish you didn't. First, you get jostled, hit and squeezed when trying to force you way into the lecture room (I think Nigerians are quite unfamiliar with the term "ladies first".) I always just stand back and go in after the ruckus, ergo my back-benching.

When you finally get cooped up inside one cubicle of a seat, you get so opressed when the "efficos" stretch their hands (in a Hooke's Law-defying maneuver) fighting to answer questions. Questions, if I might add, that you will not hear, as the lecturer is rivalling with a mouse for Lowest Tone Award.......

And so I ended so abruptly. This short attention span of mine....

I should really make a few comments:

1) I didnt realize how fond I was of the word "realize" at sixteen. It's quite ubiquitous in my work.

2) Kudos to Segun Johnson of True Love, from who I plagiarized the term "Aunt Virus"...I'm his biggest fan. Cliche, but true.

3) I realize I rambled a lot back then. Chalk it up to youthful exuberance.

I was a smart cookie, though!

THE WEIGHT LOSS CHRONICLES

I've always been relatively comfortable with my weight. Of course a nip here and a tuck there is always welcome, but its not like I'm dissatisfied or anything. i've always been a comfy size10 with the right curves in the right places, if I may say so myself. Each time I modestly comment on bow big I am, I am immediately reassured(very eloquently) on how bodacious and perfect I actually am.
You can then begin to imagine my horror when someone innocently mentioned that I might be putting on a bit of weight. Unwilling to believe, I weighed myself. I was a weight 70-something! then someone else (innocently, of course) called me orobo. I almost cried. The last straw was when I ceased to fit into my size10 jeans..my favorite pair. It was then I made THE vow.
THE VOW:
I will eat no chocolates, no icecream, no cake, no biscuits. There goes the bulk of the food I eat.
I will go jogging every morning starting from monday, the 21st of september.

Monday, 21st September:
Woke up at 7:00am. Bugger it. Too late to jog. Don't want the whole world to see me carting around all that lard...

Tuesday, 22nd September:
Woke up at 8:00am. Extremely late to jog. Oh well, tomorrow is another day. I hope.

Monday, 12th October:
Don't say it. I know. I am a lazy bag of (I wish, desperately, that I could say bones, but alas-) meat. But then, the running around I did today more than equates any morning jogging. I think.

Tuesday, 13th October:
Finally ! I did it. I jogged from 5:30am till 6:10am...well, if truth be told, it was more of a brisk walk most of the time than a jog...but no matter. The point is, I did it! I hope that the fact that I slept for five hours afterward doesn't negate all my hard work...

Sunday, 19th October:
I have been ill, ergo my skiving. Really, I have. A flu is a really limiting illness, I tell you. But I can hardly wait to get on the tracks tomorrow. Weight loss, here I come! Shucks. Who am I kidding? I"ll probably tie my teeth at the end of the day...I'm too bloody lazy for this!