F is for Family.

I travelled home last week for a celebration. It was an amazing family reunion and to be honest, I’ve only been back a day but I already feel out of place. I miss my family – my safe space. I have felt true happiness this past week; pure joy, security, calmness and peace.

Maybe I’ll go into more details about my trip when I’m settled in properly but that’s all for now. I just felt the need to share how I’m feeling at the moment.

Forever,
B.

Time to leave.

This story is available in an audio version on iTunes Podcast.

We lived in Abuja, the capital of Nigeria, where my husband owned a thriving manufacturing business. I was a stay at home mother of one – my Oriade. We were stinkingly rich, wealthy, affluent – whatever word you could use to describe two people who lived in a seven-bedroom house with a gym, basketball court, two playrooms and a swimming pool.

Well, my husband was. He always liked to remind me that it was his money, and I was only sharing in it. He didn’t want me to work though, never. Whenever I brought up the topic his brows would do a wiggle dance and his nostrils opened up as he threw a fit.

Didn’t he give me everything I asked for? I obviously didn’t appreciate his hard work. Why was I such a thankless wife?

“Nike, the Bible says to train young women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, kind, working at home. Please, let’s not anger the Holy Spirit.”

So I just stopped asking.

Continue reading “Time to leave.”

Back rubs

The back pains started again yesterday.

It was a sad day.

If this happened last year, I’d have comforted myself in the fact that my mother would be back soon to give me her healing back rubs.

“Just a few more months. Be patient”

There was nothing to comfort myself in yesterday. Knowing that I’d never feel her tender, yet firm hands kneading my back and sharing in my pain with her words.

But I’m comforted in the fact that there’s a God who loves me more than my mum could have ever been capable of. So he’ll give me those back rubs when I need them. He’d not only share my pain, but he’d also take them away completely.

I have to learn to trust in his love and realize that he’s enough for me.

Uncle Kareem.

I had my first kiss when I was twelve years old. It was from my uncle Kareem. His lips were soft and plump like the pillows on my bed. His upper lip was dark like that of a chronic smoker and the bottom was deep pink, like the colour of the cotton underwear I was wearing. He had his hands cupped around my face and had the look of love in his eyes. I knew this wasn’t supposed to happen but he had promised to help me with the Math homework I had at school.

‘Don’t tell your mummy oh. Don’t you like it?’

I could feel the heat of his breath very close to my skin. It was obvious what he had had for dinner – Two scoops of fried rice, three deep-fried turkey breasts and a cold bottle of Fanta; just the way he liked it. And yes, I did like it. I liked the way his moustache tickled my face, but my head shook side to side in disagreement. He pulled back and sat on the rim of the bed with an offended look.

‘Ehn, your teacher will give you zero and mummy will beat you.’

So I let him carry me on his lap and kiss me – His tongue wagging in my mouth with too much force than I had expected.

Continue reading “Uncle Kareem.”