Early Mornings

There’s this online magazine I read called Zikoko. I don’t think I can hype it up enough. It makes me laugh and cry and sometimes, the quizzes make me feel like the writers dabble in black magic because of how accurate the answers are for me.

This morning, I read something that made me very uncomfortable on their new segment where Nigerian young adults talk about their sex life – the good, the bad, the funny and the surprising. It’s called SexLife by the way in case you want to check it out.

I’m not going into details so read it yourself. Anyway anonymous tells us that his first encounter with a professional was not the greatest because they asked if he had ‘tried Jesus’.

TRIED JESUS! TRIED JESUS?

Hold your horses. While I am a firm believer in the power of Christ and his ability to set ‘captives’ free, I also believe in professionalism in the work place.

‘But Deb, the things of the spirit don’t make sense to the canal minded. We need to evangelize any and everywhere. Your church personality shouldn’t be different from your work personality…’

Okay why did this professional go to school to learn psychology or whatever they studied? Why didn’t they just go to bible school and sit in the church to pray for those who came WILLINGLY and asked for it? I mean if they aren’t going to use the professional methods to help others then what is the use?

I just think that if I go to a professional to speak about things going on in my life, that’s what I want to get. Do you understand me? Of course I know there is a God. I know about Jesus and prayer but I didn’t give you my hard earned money to ask me if I’ve tried Jesus.

Maybe after my session, when you have listened to me and realized I’m open to talking about Christ and prayer you can then bring it up. Like my mother used to say ‘kini gbogbo frapapa yen na’ (loosely translates to ‘what is all that rubbish’).

Let me know your thoughts on this please. Maybe my thought process is wrong.

Also don’t forget to check out Zikoko Magazine because they make my days better.

The Other Side of Fear

Let me let you in on a secret – I’m scared of water. It doesn’t matter if I’m knee deep or ankle deep. I just don’t like it.

So when my friend, N, suggested that we add jet skiing to our day trip plans, my immediate answer was a solid “hell to the no”. And I settled for rock climbing instead whilst she went into the water (gotta get these abs popping one way or another yh? LOL).

Don’t ask how I found myself on the passenger seat. I’m not really sure. She really knows how to get me because I went from ‘I would never’ to ‘fine, I’ll come to watch’ to screaming and laughing in the water.

And girl, it was so exciting. The wind, the water, the speed; I had never experienced such wonderfulness. I wasn’t even scared when the waves got really rough. All I saw was the beauty in it. It looked like someone had put a high-speed fan under a light blanket. Absolutely stunning.

We didn’t make it back to land before the heavy rain. Half of my makeup was gone (deffo looked like a clown), and my wig was a mess. That didn’t dampen the mood though. I wiped the rest of the makeup off my face, combed out my natural hair and was ready for the next adventure.

I have tasted and seen (that the Lord is good) the life on the other side of fear and it’s ridiculously exhilarating! There’s no stopping me now. Next stop is jumping out of the plane!

I’m kidding. That’s a hell to the no.

Unteachable

Unteachable.

That’s what he called me before he banged the door and left for work.

We haven’t spoken in three days. Well, I haven’t spoken to him. He’s done a lot of speaking. The voice notes, the texts, the DMs, the emails, and when none of those worked – the flowers. He could always get me back with flowers. You know those green and white ones with purple streaks. I forget what they’re called. I wasn’t a flower person until I met him. Anyway, it’s not going to work this time. I have to let him know what being unteachable really means because I’m not that. Far from it.

Continue reading “Unteachable”

One with you.

I became one with you
the moment I proclaimed You Lord over me 

I became your heart
the minute you ran towards me 

Somewhere along,
I lost my way; ashamed to find your face

But your love found me
your peace, wrapped around me tightly  

Never in my broken girl's wildest dreams
did I see such a beautiful redemption happening to me.

I am one with you;
because I proclaimed You Lord over me

Does it hurt to die?

Does it hurt to die?

When the soul leaves the body
does it slowly drag 
in a gruesome manner;
allowing the body to experience
an unbearable pain
For the last time
Just for the fun of it?

Or does it leave
quickly - 
in one swoop;
so fast that the body 
doesn't even notice 
that it's been left alone
With no life to continue?

Home.

I was able to put this together after months of being under a creative dry spell. I hope you enjoy it. If you have any tips for me to get over this block don’t hesitate to drop them in the comments, please.

            *                       *

A lone tear rolled down my left cheek as my mother ignored my nagging and struggled to pull the comb through my thick, afro hair. I shuddered, imagining little blobs of blood forming on my scalp.

Maami, it hurts!’

We were outside in the hut-like building where the bicycles and hula hoops slept at night. It was the place maami made us stay because she knew that if baami saw my tears, he would rescue me from her smooth, long, shaven legs that were tightly wrapped around my torso.

I wondered if I would ever grow up to be like her. She was beauty in itself. Speaking with purpose and eloquence. When she walked, her hips swayed from side to side with force. It was her big bum-bum that caused it to move that way. “Shine-shine baby!” The Igbo man selling shirts on the corner of the house always hailed her with his two hands raised to the sides of his face in salutation.

As she weaved my hair into a neat Shuku Ologede, her hands pressed my head closer between her thighs and her index finger lightly tapped my head in rhythm. I didn’t mind it. She didn’t smell like Iya Yewande, who oozed an unpleasant rotten fishy smell when she pushed my head between her fat thighs, almost in a bid to push me in and give me a rebirth.

Continue reading “Home.”