Built for love.

Hello!

It’s been a while since I’ve talked to you. I’m not even going to sit here and lie – it was intentional. I was running away because I was embarrassed. I’m not the same person you met and I didn’t want you to see this part of me. However, I feel like I’m accountable to you as I have shared some parts of my journey with you, so I’m back to let you in.

The last time we spoke I told you my stance about showing love and being vulnerable. I said I had found a balance and everything was going to be finally perfect and yadiyadiya. Well, it turns out I tipped the scale. The girl who preached to be kind, loving, forgiving, honest and open is MIA.

Continue reading “Built for love.”

Regrets

The day the mechanic died, I was in the kitchen giving a dance performance to one of Ayefele’s songs in front of my cousin.

I heard my dad’s loud voice from upstairs. He was singing loudly as he usually did. Flakes and I rolled our eyes and shook our heads laughing at his untuned voice and resumed my show. We stopped abruptly a few seconds after. That wasn’t a song. He was lamenting. 

“O God! O God why? O God why? Why?”

My heart sank and I ran upstairs jumping two steps at a time.

I met him in the prayer room. His eyes were red and wet with tears and he hid his face from me.

“Daddy what happened? What’s wrong?”

My mind raced and many thoughts entered my head. Did something happen to mum? Was his business okay? What could have happened to make daddy breakdown?

I probed some more before he looked up to me and broke the news – “Oluware is dead.”  A cold shiver went down my spine. 

You see, uncle Oluware was not just a mechanic to us. He was like family and there was not one week that passed that he didn’t come over. In fact, it was when he didn’t come over the last week that my mum figured something was wrong and reached out to him. He was terribly sick. He had adult measles and another sickness at the same time. But that’s not the point of my post.

Continue reading “Regrets”

Not so fiction.

I recently listened to Chimamanda’s Ted talk ‘The danger of the single story’. It reminded me of old times so I decided to tell you my story.

For the longest time, all my characters had ‘English’ names; from Kate to John to my favourite name, Eric (I overused this name sote I’m sure all the Erics were sneezing multiple times). I struggled to give them the ‘abroad’ lifestyle that I was not familiar with. Forced them to eat baked beans, drink orange juice with their bowl of cereal and speak back to their parents. I mean, unlike Chimamanda, I knew what baked beans tasted like but it was the underlying problem I became worried about. I held the ‘international’ lifestyle so high that I started to think I wasn’t good enough. The characters in my writings mocked my Nigerian accent and my lunch of stewed beans and plantain. Why didn’t school serve us burgers as lunch? Why couldn’t my thirteen-year-old boyfriend sleep over in my room? Why couldn’t I go for walks to the parks? Continue reading “Not so fiction.”