Tuesday, December 15, 2015


I had heard stories about the NYSC Orientation Camp; stories of fun, adventure, frustration laden with bizarre experiences and even pain. Altogether, I was excited for it all. I had to have my own stories. I made up my mind even before it was time to leave for the camp that I’d get my own pound of exciting memories. As usual, my whole family would drop me off at the NYSC camp. I doubt that I’ll ever out grow out of that. I’m in early twenties and this stuff about growing up sucking keeps getting more real. The least anyone can do is not judge me for having my folks fuss over me like a 10 year old. That’s the only childish experience I can currently relate to and no, I’m not willing to lose that popsicle.

A few days earlier, my friend Moy had told me that in some camps, the soldiers coerce people to carry their boxes on their head while doing the frog jump simultaneously. Of course I laughed at the pictures she showed me. The voice of reason deliberately chose not to remind me that the same fate could befall me. That day, all plans made in preparation for my departure to camp just didn’t fall into place. My luggage hadn’t arrived from Ibadan, a host of essential items had not been bought, my parents did not feel the need to hurry, the Reverend Sister who came all the way from Owerri to help process my redeployment was already worked up and everything else just felt wrong. Everybody tried to proffer a solution and everybody rejected everybody’s opinion. Talk about being stuck! Eventually, we came up with a plan; I’d go with the Reverend Sister to camp without my luggage and then my parents will come later on bearing the things I’ll need for my 3-week stay there. It sounded fair to me and frankly, the day was far spent and so we had no alternative. The driver and orderly were to drop the Sister and me off at the motor park. However, we had a few errands to run first. I’ll just cut to the chase and spare you the details of how I got to print my call-up letter, take passport photographs and get money from the ATM. To say the least, if you need to get things done, in a hurry, get yourself a Reverend Sister. I had no idea that people in these parts have so much regards for the clergy people; all she had to do was say “Bless you” and crowds parted like the Red Sea.

The journey to Yikpata, Kwara state (where the NYSC camp is situated) was the most uncomfortable I’d embarked on in a while. The Sister and I had to sit in front together. Hey, I must add that she is ‘not’ a slim woman. After about 2 hours and 15 minutes, we arrived at camp. Oh, I felt the rush. Ripples of adrenaline crept up my spine. At this point, I couldn’t figure out if it was a good or bad feeling. Photographers stood around, calling out to me in the bid to make some money off me. Soldiers were everywhere wearing scowls and frowns as though scary faces were some kind of welcome sign here in camp. Just ahead of me, people were in a straight line, squatting with their boxes on their heads. I smiled to myself; I guess I was lucky not to have carried any luggage. I quickly joined the line and easily lifted my handbag to my head as I squatted. As expected, a soldier picked me out. “Hey, you there! You think you are smart abi? Wey your box?” My voice suddenly became thin. “It’s on its way sir”. “See this girl oo! Are you okay? What do you mean by that?” Silent prayers escaped my head to God’s, I hoped. “I had to hurry down here. The car with the box is not here yet. I’ll come get it as soon as it arrives…” Before I could even complete the statement, the soldier standing at the beginning of the line started yelling. “Oya Corpers, una dey hear me? As soon as I say move, all of una go start to dey frog jump until una reach that mama there”, he said in a hoarse voice pointing at a slim female soldier just a stone throw away. I began to sense that this wasn’t going to be so funny after all. As usual, the Reverend Sister had worked her magic and disappeared into the crowd ahead of us. The soldier gave his command and we all began to frog-jump towards the female soldier who was dancing to a song some corps members before her were singing. After about five jumps, I felt my sandal snap. I gasped as an “ah” escaped my lips. This was going to be some story.

By the time we got to where the female soldiers were, we were separated into two groups. Apart from the female soldiers who looked like normal girls I’d walk by in the market, there was a man clad in a brown uniform I later discovered was the man-o-war uniform. He was slightly handsome and fair, with a beautiful smile. However, he wore his pants so high and his manhood was bulging through his pants in a fashion that implied it was suffocating. I couldn’t understand why anyone would wear such thick clothing and still have so much revealed. Of course I could not afford to snicker; I had no plans of compounding my issues. They asked the group before us to sing and sway to a song with the lyrics “Oh Oh Oh… We are the monkey. We are the Chimpanzee.” I cannot explain the measure of bliss their faces exuded as these corps members sang those words grudgingly. It was funny up until the soldiers asked the group to squat with their boxes on their head because they were not satisfied with their performance. I think my group took a cue from that because when it got to our turn, it sounded like a choir. I contributed with my rich alto as we sang with feigned enthusiasm. We even clapped and danced, all in a bid to avoid more severe punishment. We were then asked to bark, bleat, meow, moo, squak, bray and the list goes on. I don’t know why we struck them as animal material. Eventually, we were asked to carry those boxes on our heads while squatting. You know that look you have when you’re thinking ‘why did I just waste all that effort?’ Well that’s what we all had. I was already doing back flips in my head when one soldier noticed that all I had on my head was a handbag that weighed not more than a box of cereal. “Kai Mama! You think say you get sense abi? Wey your box?” I gave him the same explanation I had given the soldier at the last check point but apparently, this dude cared more about me. “Oya carry that other mama box. You give am your other box” he said directing the latter order at a girl ahead of me who had two boxes. I went to the girl to carry the box only for the girl to hand me the bigger, heavier box. The look I gave her could literally paralyze her on that spot. “Sister, abeg mind yourself. Na wa oo” I hissed as I snatched the lighter box from her. Of course, since I couldn’t yell at the soldiers, I redirected it to the poor girl who was trying to maximize the opportunity to give herself a breather. Well, I choose not to be her means of relief. Did she think I was some kinda Dwayne Johnson that came to camp to lift burdens off tired heads? Mtchew. Anyways, after the soldiers had tortured us to their fill, they released us. Since, I didn’t have a box, I explained myself to a police officer who was supposed to search my luggage for any contraband. He let me in and I was given a pass. I dragged myself along in sandal-induced limp until I got to a place with queues that reminded me of the children of Israel as they passed through the Red Sea. I took the one on my right since it was closer to me. People on the queue either wore a smile or a frown. The ones who were smiling were probably the ones who found their earlier experience funny and most likely were discussing it with the person next to them. The ones frowning had to be the ones who like me, had spoilt shoes, chest pain or something ugly to think about as a result of the earlier event. I joined the latter group. Where was the Reverend Sister anyway? I began to turn to every direction in search for her. I recognized a few people from my school on the queue and unconsciously began to look out for any of my friends. Call me lucky, cuz I found one; Dolly. The smile I put away returned to my lips as I called out to her. She had just arrived and was the last person on the other line. I limped over to her and exchanged hugs and pleasantries. We soon started to talk and laugh over our earlier encounter with the soldiers. She gave me a pair of slippers and put me out of my misery. I told her I had to find the Reverend Sister. I soon found her in a building I later learnt was the OBS building. She had introduced herself to the man in charge and was making inquiries about how she could speed up my registration process and commence my redeployment process. I told her about Dolly so that she could include her in whatever process would speed up our registration process. I returned to the line where Dolly constantly asked me to shut up because I found myself singing or humming the “we are the monkey” song I dreaded just minutes ago. We talked about so much as the line steadily got shorter. It got to our turn and we had ourselves put in the same room. Sister called me out and introduced me to two men who were supposed to help me make my stay easier. Something told me that I would not have any need for them and in the long run, I didn’t.

We got to our room and met about six other girls, three of which were from our university. That automatically set us at ease; better than staying with total strangers. The three girls weren’t exactly my friends back at school but we’d certainly get around that during our stay there. The other girl in our corner wore a straight face and after failed attempts to come up with an impression about her, I forgot about her. She turned out to be Tayo, a very pleasant, funny girl who would never give up her sleep even though the soldiers were breathing fire down her back. Someone was already sweeping out the room so we just chose bunks and decided to proceed to find foams. Before we could even walk out of the cubicle, a soldier came in to the hostel yelling stuff I couldn’t understand. I however heard her counting numbers and knew it was code for “Get the hell outta here or get punished”. Of course, we ran like there were lions behind us. Since we couldn’t return to the hostel immediately, Dolly and I decided to go and continue our registration process. We followed other people who we assumed were going to the same area as us. We found out that we had to be at different places because we had used different medium for the initial NYSC deployment registration. Thankfully, I was a step ahead because I did mine online so while Dolly stayed on the first line we got to, I proceeded to the other one. I quickly saw my schoolmates: Lolade, Sade and O. Lolade and O. are my old friends who I had planned to come with before my plans went sour. It was really surprising that they were still on the line at about past 4pm. Of course they let me join them on the queue. No one really had the conscience to take the last position on such a queue when you had the option of literally moving yourself up by a day. Yes, because some people on that line finally had to wait till the next day to complete the registration. After about 40mins of standing on a spot, we decided to go get lunch. We were sure that we’d return to the line almost unchanged. Along the way, my roommate in 400 level decided to go get foams. I got two, one for myself and the other for Dolly. I will not inflict your imagination with the pain of describing the state of the foams we got. At this point, I was making silent prayers for my skin who cannot speak for itself. On our way out, we bumped into the Reverend Sister. You have to applaud the way the lady disappears and reappears without a sign. You’d think she’s worked there for three decades and knew all the nooks and crannies. She suggested that we return to the line so I followed her back to where I was coming from. As usual, she usual, she worked her magic and in 10 minutes, I was done with my registration. I received my state code and platoon. I was in platoon 6 so I proceeded to the platoon stand to claim my uniforms. The uniforms I received had to have been made for Sumo wrestlers; Nothing else explains the unreasonably large size of the wears. I gave them to a seamstress who introduced herself as Mummy Simbiat. She said she’d amend a pair of trousers and jacket for N1000. Talk about the Zimbabwe inflation. The shoes I got had to have been for Jack’s giant. Why in the name of snow white did they ask us for our measurements during the online registration of they knew that it was literally useless? I figured everyone was meeting other people trying to find someone with a size they wanted and who wanted what they had as well. Apparently, trade by barter survived right into the 21st century. Quite frankly, I couldn’t care less so Sister and I decided to go get some food. I had some rice I hoped would not be what I had to eat every day. By the time we were done eating food worth roughly #400 in regular canteens, we got a bill of #760. Haha… At this point, I knew I was in for it.

My parents called to say they were at the entrance of the camp. Like I said before, I don’t know if the sister has some canine traits that aid her with trails but she took me through a winding path in the bush till we got to the entrance of the camp. I was truly glad to see my folks; like some part of me was seeing saviors. I got to them with ease, showing my pass to men in uniform, some of who remembered me as the girl without any luggage. I was glad they did; it meant I was not going to be asked to lift the box to my head. On my way out, I saw my friend Tolu carrying his box on his head. I just had to laugh. Camp really humbled people, I thought as he wore a grin at the sight of me. I had to mouth to him to stop grinning before he became the scapegoat for the soldiers who would do anything to make a show of anyone. I retrieved my box fro my parents after narrating to them how everything had been so far. They laughed and encouraged me to be brave and try to enjoy myself despite how things were. The box they brought me was big and heavy. It’s a flaw I have; I just don’t know how to pack light. “Adanne, how will you be able to carry these things on your head? Aren’t they too much?” my dad asked with concern. I quickly told him I had carried someone else’s box earlier on and showed him the pass I’d show any soldier who tried to make me go through all of that again. After a few minutes, I turned to leave with my very heavy box and pillow. I could barely drag it along. Who could, with all the glassware, water bottles and tons of white T-shirts and shorts? Its funny cuz I couldn’t think of any stuff to jettison. Anyways, I kept dragging my burden along the serrated dry ground. The policemen let me pass as soon as I showed them my pass. Just as soon as I got comfortable, a soldier called out to me. “Corper carry that box on your head, now!” I was just about to explain myself when a female soldier who was closer to me faced me. “Are you deaf? C’mon carry that thing on your head! Oya Oya” I tried to explain to her that besides the fact that the box was really heavy, I had already carried a box on my head earlier on. “Ehen? And so? No be you pack am. C’mon carry am. When you go dey pack load like say na your husband house you dey go, you no sabi abi?” She yelled. I looked back at my parents staring at us in horror. My aunt had her hand to her chest as she watched the female soldier try to lift the box to my head. Of course she had a hard time doing that, who wouldn’t? By this time, the policemen at the previous checkpoint had come forward to plead on my behalf. Trust soldiers to be bullheaded; the soldier insisted that I carry the box on my head. I was already close to tears as I struggled between taking slow steps and swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. After about five labored steps, the pillow sitting on top of the box fell. I stood looking at the soldier before me with a plea in my eyes. She bent to pick the pillow up for me. “Please sir. Help me beg the men; you know its really heavy” I begged as she replaced the pillow. I was beginning to see Jesus’ journey to Calvary in a new light. The only reason I think she released me is that she knew how heavy the box was having had several failed attempts at carrying it to my head. “As soon as I bring it down, just start running. Do you hear me?” She admonished. “Yes ma” I exhaled heavily in relief. As soon as the box hit the ground, I took off. I had no time to look back at my family and register the relief that must have crept into their faces.

The most adventurous part of the day had passed by. I hung around with friends, got dinner and bought a few essentials at the mammy market. You’d think I had everything I needed and more with how big and full my box was. It was a good night, finding old friend and sticking together while exploring the environment together. I called Akin, who by the way is becoming my personal human diary. He’s the perfect optimist so he went on about how I should relax and make the best out of whatever would be thrown at me. Amidst the complaints that filled conversations, I was grateful to be there. It was an achievement of some sort; another milestone had been reached.

Hi guys!! I hope y'all are good. I know I still owe y"all the 5th part of THAWED. It's coming right up but I thought we could all make use of a good story that actually happened while we wait for THAWED 5.
Anyway, this is a true life story of my first day at NYSC Camp. I wrote it as soon as I left camp; the memories were still fresh. I hope it made a great read. Those Happy Golden Years!!!!

Of course we'd all love to hear your tales from camp or frankly, any adventurous tales at all.

Thursday, November 12, 2015


I thought you should know...
That I haven't seen your faces but the space in my heart is getting crowded cuz of you.

I thought you should know...
That in your comments and retweets and even silence, I hear answers to questions I've asked and then questions that open me up to possibilities.

I thought you should know...
That because of you blogging is neither a hobby nor an occupation but a part of who I am and who I will always, in some ways, want to be.

I thought you should know...
That I like to think that I make you smile, laugh and even look like the crazy person always laughing at his/her phone screen.

I thought you should know...
That every word you've ever read here holds some kind of truth about me. I've shown you all more than you'd ever know.

I thought you should know...
That because I can stain my paper with beautiful words doesn't make the pain, passion, joy or numbness any less. Sharing them with you is what magnifies it minimizes the weight.

I thought you should know...
That I should be sleeping right now but just couldn't stay away from you.

I thought you should know...
That I'm learning and growing and will take you on this journey with me cuz you are the "spice".

I thought you should know...
That I'm in Uyo and the weekend is right here. Le Meridien, anybody? I think I should have earned a treat.

Cheers my lovelies,

Monday, November 2, 2015


Source: blenderartists.com

It’s been two weeks since Edikan went to Ghana and things had returned to normal. The adults had gone back to school. Edidiong was doing great and wouldn’t let me hear anything but how her dad promised her a trip to Texas during the summer to spend some time with Uzo, her best cousin. The two girls started calling each other that after the two summers they spent together. The first was when the kids travelled to the states during the summer break, two years ago. The second time was last year, when my sister had visited home with her kids and spent three weeks at my place. She had married an Igbo man who I should emphasize is an amazing husband. That explains why her daughter bears the name Uzodinma. I was checking out the latest orders we received when I got a call from Dami. Dami and I have been really close friends since my second year in the university and we’ve literally been through thick and thin together. I find it special that we’ve never really been apart from each other since we became close. We both obtained our masters degrees from the UK at the same time. We got back to Nigeria in the same month and have lived in Lagos since then. She got married a year before I did and fortunately for us, our husbands became great friends after we introduced them. I was pretty relieved to have something distract me from the numbers and logistics that crowded my mind for about four hours. “Hey babe” I answered enthusiastically. “Madam, wait for me to offer you a cow before you deem it fit to check on me oo” she responded in a feigned accusatory tone. “Pele baby. I have valid excuses but I’ll spare you the details. Ma binu. I owe you lunch. Just let me know where and when, and I’ll make it happen” I was sure the food deal would work. My friend is such a foodie and after two kids, she has absolutely no excess tissue to show for both facts. She laughed at my offer and as I predicted, accepted it. We talked about a lot of things, from work to the kids and even to the trip we’d both been planning for our families for over a year now. Halfway into pleading with her to send me some of the Ijebu garri her grandmother had just sent her, she interrupted me.. “Abeg! Before I forget my main reason for calling you, my wedding anniversary is around the corner. Lekan and I have decided to throw a party and babes, there’s no me without you oo. I know you’re better with details and these kinda things in general” she said in a pleading tone. “Whoop! Whoop!! Oga go and look for an event planner oo. My own is to come and eat on the ‘D’ day.” Of course I would help out; she didn’t need to ask. We spoke for a little while longer and I went back to my work.

The next two weeks got busy for me. Nini took ill so I had to cater for her while simultaneously running my business and planning Dami’s party. I could bet I had lost a pound or two. My baby was responding well to treatment so I was becoming somewhat relaxed. I just received a call from the lady who would most likely be the one to provide the meat recipes for the party and I was to meet her at Ikeja to discuss how things should work. Nini had just come home from the hospital where she was admitted and luckily for me, my mum had come over two days ago to help me out. Content that my child would be alright, I dashed out to make my appointment. After being stuck in traffic for an hour, I had to refill my fuel tank. I drove into the nearest fuel station and got in line. Before the next minute ran out, I noticed the Benz directly in front of me on the queue. I really don’t know how to name labels but I know a sleek car when I see one and this Benz was smoking hot. I was gushing to myself about how I need a birthday surprise like this when the Benz rolled forward to the pump. Thank God the line’s moving, I thought checking my time. The sales attendant replaced the nuzzle and tried to cover the tank but was having a hard time. “Na wa oo. Does the car have a special mechanism? Just twist the cork in or something” I mumbled as I honked twice. The driver’s door opened and I figured the person had decided to help the attendant out. That was the last of my thoughts concerning any fuel tank. Standing in front of my car was Amanze. The same Amanze I have been avoiding for nearly four months now. Of course he dealt with the cork in no time and turned to get into his car. For reasons I’d never fathom he glanced in my direction and stopped. He had seen me and I wanted to just disappear. He smiled, shut his door and walked towards me still wearing his smile. I can’t quite remember the facial expression I wore but it must have been awkward because I cannot imagine coming up with a nice one amidst the unease I felt. “I never thought this day would come” he said leaning down on my window. My mind was racing and I was still trying to figure out an appropriate response when shouts erupted behind us. “Make una comot this nonsense make person buy fuel. See this werey. You dey follow woman talk on top queue.” “Gerrout naa…who be this ones naa?” The shouts finally gave me what to say. “You should move your car before we cause a scene here”, I said trying to smile in the bid to allay the awkwardness.

He drove to a clearing towards the exit if the fuel station and parked there. I was next in line so I bought my fuel, all the while dreading the inevitable meeting I was about to have with Amanze. I parked directly behind his car and got down to meet him. He was already leaning on the trunk of his car, waiting for me. He looked pristine in his crisp white shirt and hourglass cufflinks, black pants and brogues. You’d think I’d have neither the time nor inclination to check him out. Well, I did. Before I could gather my thoughts enough to say anything reasonable on reaching him, he smiled and spoke. “Hello Edima. It’s a pleasant surprise running into you here. I was beginning to think Lagos was getting bigger I’d hoped and…” he paused. “You look great.” It sounded like he meant to say something other than great. I smiled back at him and to my surprise it was an authentic smile that meant I was truly glad to see him. Imagine the irony. I had been avoiding this man for four months and here I was glad that he’d run into me on a random day. I bit the insides of my mouth; probably an unconscious act to chastise myself. “Hi Amanze. Thank you. How are you?” I asked as I held out my hand for an intended brief handshake. “I’d be crazy not to be fine now. How’s your family and work?” he asked still holding unto my hand. “Great. Everything’s great. How’s your end?” “Business is good although I almost fired the Chef that prepared your order that day we met. Why pay him so much if a woman with such fine taste in food couldn’t come back even one more time to have another bite?” he laughed. So he was the owner of the place after all. Frankly I was not surprised; he looked like the man who might even have more going for him. “Aha! So it’s your place after all. Do you fire all your chefs for every customer that doesn’t come back in four months?” I asked sarcastically. “Look who’s counting. And I thought you’d probably forgotten all about me and my food” he said with an undertone of victory in his voice. “Good taste buds never forget great food. It’s funny how food beats people to it sometimes.” I was somehow enjoying the witty banter and the subtle flirting. He laughed so hard at my last retort. “Perhaps when next you come around, I’d personally make you one of my specials. That way you’d probably be forced to remember the food alongside the Chef” he said folding his arms across his chest and leaning back as if to get a better look at me. “You sound very sure I’ll be running back to your restaurant.” “I’m not quite sure ‘running’ is the right word but you’ll be back. I’ll try all the tricks in my hat to accomplish that one. Perhaps we’d start by exchanging numbers, if it’s not too much trouble” he said smiling. His eyes were brighter than I remembered them to be but that smile was just as striking as I recall. His white teeth and full lips and the unintentional confidence he reeked of. “I’d be a jerk to say no yes?” I asked knowing well what the answer would be. “Yes”. We exchanged numbers and shook hands again as we said goodbye. He walked me back to my car and stood by while I got in. “Lady those are some badass wheels” he said with his attention on my tires. “Thank you. My husband got them for me” I blurted before I could stop the second part from coming out. “Ah yes!” he said in a manner that seemed as though he’d just remembered that I am married. I honestly don’t know why I said that. It was probably my subconscious trying to protect my so-called marriage. I looked at him from my rear mirror as I drove out. He was walking back to his car with a content look on his face.  I knew once again that this was shaky ground and that I had to be careful with this one.

I woke up on the Saturday of the party without any excitement. You’d think that after all the weeks Dami and I have spent running around that I’d be nervous, to say the least, about how everything would play out. Nonetheless, I got around to the things I had to do. I made a couple of phone calls to ensure the vendors were on track. It was a house party so we didn’t really need décor. Dami had a beautiful home with a lovely garden that would work just fine. I spent some time with Nini; it took me about an hour and 30 minutes to weave her full, natural hair into some style that I have no name for. She looked pretty and that’s all that matters. By the time we’d finished, it was already 1pm and I knew I had to hurry. I called the matron at my other kids’ school at 1.30pm so that I could speak with them as was our ritual. As you’d imagine, this ritual didn’t include their father who had not called me in two weeks. The few times, I’d tried, I got his machine and I just wasn’t given to all that drama so I faced other things. Just as I was about to step into bathroom, my phone rang. It wasn’t anyone whose number I had. I muttered a complaint as I picked up the call. I was already running late for my appointment with Dami. We had to go pick up the small chops. Thankfully, he husband was in charge of the drinks and music. “Hello” I answered a little irritably. “Good day Edima. It’s Amanze. You sound like it’s a bad time. Is it?” Butterflies I hadn’t realized lived in mu tummy suddenly came to life. I’d have known he was the one even if he hadn’t introduced himself. It was like some voice recognition program had been set in place. “Oh hi… Umm…How are you? I’m sorry, it’s not exactly a bad time. I just have a place to be tonight and I need to be on my way as soon as possible” I explained with a slight plea. “I can understand that. I can always call you back tomorrow. I’ve got an engagement myself.” “My apologies once again” I said applying my face mask. “No worries. Let’s blame Saturdays. They used to be a lot less busy for us all” he responded with a laugh. “Very well then, take care” I replied and dropped the phone on my table without waiting for him to drop the call. With a lot of effort, I ignored the butterflies still doing back-flips in my tummy over a man they didn’t know, and stepped into the bath tub. It was a quick shower since I knew I’d spend a quite some time making up and styling my hair. I quickly held my braids into an up-do and got my face done. For my eyes, I went for a smoky effect using nude shades and my mac lipstick in “media” worked its wonder as usual. I have to admit I loved who I saw in the mirror. I wore a fitted peek-a-boo blouse with lacy sleeves and a flared midi skirt with sandals and a pair of dropping earrings. I’d gone for simple and gorgeous and my mirror told me I’d chosen well. The colors sat well on my skin and matched my make-up. I got my car keys and purse and headed out. Nini insisted I had two spoons of her jollof rice before leaving and I hoped I still had some mint gums in my car.

The traffic was light and in no time, all the food had been brought to the venue. It was 4pm already so I asked Dami to go get dressed. I stayed around making sure all the elements were in place. I didn’t want any stone to be left unturned and in the next hour everything was set. By 5.30pm, the guests began to show up in trickles. I did a lot of hugging and pecking and serving that I’d already begun to feel tired. I quickly got myself a plate of rice and shredded beef sauce and went to the guest room to eat. I knew I’d be busy organizing stuff when the event was in full motion, at least until the VIPs were all attended to. So this meal was intended to be a life saver. The sauce was amazingly tasty and creamy. I soon got out noticing that the place was getting packed. The next two hours were really busy for me. The couple had made a grand entrance; thanks to the D.J and the M.C. When I thought things were pretty much great enough for me to hands off, I sent a waiter to get me a bottle of chilled white wine and a glass. I quickly spotted an empty and surprisingly secluded area around where the family cars were packed. Two randomly placed chairs were there and for some reason it was dark. Perfect spot! I quickly retrieved the wine and glass and headed off to my haven. I quickly took off my shoes as soon as I sat down and placed my feet on the other seat. I opened the bottle of wine and took a swig, totally ignoring the fact that I had a wine glass. After a couple of more swigs, I leaned back and let the effect of the wine kick in. I was slightly tipsy and very tired, and with nothing else to do, I slept off. 

I am really glad that I have finally posted the long awaited 4th part of these series. I apologize for the delay and hope that the latter parts will come in quick successions. If you have not read the previous parts, do not fail to click on the following links.
  1. THAWED PT 1
  2. THAWED PT 2
  3. THAWED PT 3
I'd love to read your comments below and to have to re-share the links on social media platforms. I hope it was a great read. Where do y'all think this is going by the way?


Saturday, October 31, 2015


I don't know why you're glaring at me as though I'm supposed to be handing you boxes of red velvet cake and a handful of apologies for being absent. Just so you know, I was kidnapped and it was horrible being away from you! But hey, I'M HERE NOW!! *expecting cat calls and bear hugs*

Moving on without stopping to say how much I've missed you guys... *winks*

If I were to get married right now, I doubt that I'd be expecting/scared of "ex boos" as long as half of my bridal train to walk through the door when the priest asks that "who has any reason why they shouldn't get married and bla bla bla..." question. So maybe those people who count EX's in dozens might ask me to keep quiet but...its my blog anyway.

With the much I have experienced in relationships and friendships coupled with my personal values, I think I have come to be very sensitive towards what people say to each other in those heated moments during arguments or fights. I have learned that different people have different red zones and you cannot from the outside, know how much damage you'd cause just cuz your last ex didn't mind being called "a bitch". I am yet to understand how some extremely vulgar names symbolize endearment. I mean I can't even call my female dog that despite the fact that technically, she's just that.

I have seen couples whose arguments cannot possibly be free of phrases like "fuck you", "you're stupid", "Foolish man. Is it because I love you?" Umm...why are you even in love with a fool? Does calling your partner " a stupid idiot" really explain why you'd rather have him take out the garbage thrice in a week rather than weekly? Does calling the mother of your kid "a nasty bitch" tell her why you insist of having a fruit salad every night despite the fact that she just chopped her muscles into pieces to be home in good time to prepare dinner? What is it about calling people names that makes us feel as though our argument or opinion when verbalized would lack clarity without all that vulgarity? I have these two friends who are in a relationship and always lash out at each other in a manner that quite frankly, no longer surprises me. What still surprises me is the all mushy display of affection that follows up when things settle. Biko nu explain how this works to me.

I am of the opinion that love in its fullness cannot be extricated from respect and there are just some things you wouldn't say to a person you respect. Perhaps you could think them cuz you are mad and vulnerable to wild emotions but love and respect are what make you pause and filter your words because once hurtful words step into your threshold, you may not be able to control their effects. The effects they have on the other individual may open doors for insecurity, distrust, lower self esteem, despair and may even trigger the kind of defensive behavior that will lead to reciprocating with verbal or physical abuse.

I have a lot of respect for friends and couples who have heated arguments whilst restricting abusive words to a barest minimum. I do not recall the last time I insulted a friend or partner, especially to their face. And it has made me place higher value on relationships with people in my life; like what we share isn't petty and based on scars from negative words. I'm not saying I haven't thought those things but would saying them solve the problem on ground? I must also add that it increases the respect and love the other individual has for you. We all, in some way, respond positively to love and respect when its given to us consistently.

I'd also add that if you are someone who's predisposed to using vulgar language when you're joking (we all know those people who'd always say "I was joking oo" each time they spit acidic words at others), you may have to learn to curtail it so that it doesn't always pop up when you're truly mad and also be sensitive to the people you find around you. Some people are are not used to being called "thief" or "ode" as a joke. When you are in your circle and if y'all are accustomed to those kinda jokes then perhaps,some of these things can be let to slide. We must also be tolerant, bearing in mind that not everybody has a positive understanding of how these things work. We can try to teach people this things but ultimately, it is unhealthy for you and that relationship if one party just cannot let go of abusiveness. However, with all individuals, boundaries must be set.

I am also preaching to myself because I understand that we all have weak moments and yes, some people are verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry annoying and it can be maddening. I have friends with whom I go all out and crazy with but when it boils down to it, we know when to get reasonable. And yes, I have stopped being friends with people who wouldn't learn to respect those verbal boundaries despite all the time and patience I spent on them. Let's be civil and let's let love be love and stop tainting its definition with the things we say to the people we supposedly love.
Do I really have to be called stupid before you can drive hope your point?

P.S- Some people really are can be stupid and blablabla but do we really have to be the ones to break the sad news to them?

On a lighter note, I didn't know "virgin" had become an abusive term until I saw these two babes having a quarrel and one went like "See this stupid girl oo. What do you know about life? Virgin! Virgin ooo!" Na wa ooo. E no get wetin I no go hear.

Ehen!!! I didn't get kidnapped by dem big boys oo. I was referring to work and all those real life issues with hands and legs everywhere. Thanks guys for being here.

Nma Nazzy

Thursday, July 23, 2015


I have no proprietary rights to this photo. Unknown source

My life fell back into place except that my palette kept craving the exquisite meals from Nri- that’s the name of the restaurant where I met him- and my mind kept replaying jokes and witty banters from that evening. It’s been over a month and I have succeeded in not being able to forget Amanze- contrary to my plans. I am grateful for my ego that has prevented me from walking into that restaurant and making a big fool of myself. I also thank common sense for not letting me ask for his phone number that day. I have tried to push that meeting out of my mind and life like I promised myself I would but each time I pass that building on my way to work, I can’t help looking up to the window where I last saw him. Of course, he has more important things to do than stand all day waiting for me to pass by. Only idiots like me- married idiots- go around looking up at windows to find non-existent people. The strangest thing however, is that that vase never left the window sill and it always had different flowers in it. Like I said before, that man was too smooth for his own good. Anyways, I knew better than to come any closer than I already was. Besides, my husband came home about four days after I met Amanze.

Truthfully, I was glad to have him home. Amidst all my complaints and heartache, I must have forgotten to mention that I love my husband. I am not sure about being in love with him but I do not believe that love is just a feeling. I chose to love him so I do. He certainly doesn’t awaken my butterflies but he holds the keys to some of my best memories and of course, I made four amazing humans with him. That means something in my books. So he came home after months of being away for God knows what. At first, I was glad that he was alright but each time I remembered what he put me through during his absence, I grew mad at him. The striking thing is that when he was absent, I was fine. I was numb, remember? I didn’t care enough to be mad. I channeled all I had into being a mum, making good money, indulging my taste buds and just being another woman trying to remember what happiness feels like without allowing pain anywhere near her. I hadn’t even realized that there was anything to be mad at until another man reminded me of what it feels like to be noticed, indulged, taken care of and perhaps wanted. I didn’t care to feel all these things if I was not going to be allowed to have them. And that was maddening. Howbeit, I kept my cool. I have always been good at that. I took care of him and made sure he got to spend some time with the kids. Two years ago, we had a huge fight in which I clearly stated that I could tolerate being ignored but wouldn’t if thought he could do the same to my kids. I even threatened to give him a divorce and take full custody of my kids if he kept neglecting their paternal needs. By the time he got calls from two of my lawyers within three days, he knew that I wasn’t to be messed with on that matter. Needless to say, he made extra efforts when it came to the kids. He would always check his time when he was playing video games with the boy or excuse himself to take short phone calls when he was playing chess or monopoly with the girls but it was obvious he spent a great deal of himself trying to keep it up. If my kids were okay, then I would stay. We spent lesser time together; I guess he gave the kids what extra time he might have had for me but I was too frozen to be bothered.

This time around, I could feel myself creating more distance between him and myself. Usually, I’d put up a front and try to be all over him but I put in no effort this time. He probably sensed it and his play boy instincts were aroused. You know that primal trait that draws men to things that appeared inaccessible, that was probably it because I can’t think of any other reason why he came home one evening bearing a box of my favorite chocolate, midnight blue lace lingerie by Victoria secret and a pair of red bottom Loubs. The day before I was making my afro into two-strand twists in preparation for bedtime when he called me “Ima”. That’s the word for ‘love’ in Ibibio, our native dialect. He had just walked into our bedroom after spending some time with the kids. Eno, Nsikak and Aniekan had come home from boarding school for the weekend.  Eno and Kaka (Nsikak) are the boys and are older than Nini (Aniekan) and Didi (Edidiong) who’s the baby of the house. She’s just seven and she keeps me company and busy when the rest of the family are away. They couldn’t imagine not being able to see their day on his first visit in five months. Eddy had gotten them loads of stuff; books, games, clothing etc and they were elated. Yes, Eddy is my husband’s name. Actually, it’s Edikan but his friends and colleagues call him Edikan. I used to call him baby until it started to sound foreign and odd on my tongue. So I just joined others in calling him Eddy. Right! So he walked into the room and said “Ima, …” Frankly, I didn’t hear the rest of it because I burst into laughter. I found it absolutely amusing that a man would be away for five months, call weekly or even bi-weekly, doesn’t text, hasn’t called me anything but Edima in two years, hasn’t touched me in almost a year would return and suddenly call me his love after I’ve decided not to care about any of the above. He stood there gaping at me while I continued twisting my hair still amused. He must have been embarrassed because he walked into the bathroom where he stayed until I finished my twists and went to Didi’s room to read her Bible stories, as is our tradition.

That next day, I was literally astonished. All the signs were in place; my mouth was hanging wide open, my eyes were almost popping out of their sockets and Most of all, I was dumbfounded as I stared at Eddy holding out his presents to me. I certainly knew what to do with chocolate and Christian Louboutin shoes but what did this Mr. expect that I’d so with the oh-so-beautiful lace lingerie? Who told him that we still have that kind of chemistry? I must have been thinking for myself because he came unto me muttering under his breath about how he knew he must have hurt me all this years. I was quite disgusted. I picked up the box of chocolate, said “thanks” and headed for the door. Just before I left the room, I couldn’t resist turning back to mention how he didn’t hurt me because I didn’t give him the luxury of doing so. He stood there visibly shocked; he had never seen me react in that manner. He could feel the anger seething beneath the surface and the coldness underlined it just like I hoped it would. A few hours and twenty-four chocolates later, I returned to find him asleep after he had dropped a note on my pillow. The note said he got a call the previous day and needed to go to Ghana for three months for some mega project. He said he understood that I have made great sacrifices for us and deserved better. He said he just wanted the night to be special. After reading the note, all I could think was that he had no idea whatsoever about what I had or had not sacrificed. I went into the bathroom, washed my face and a few tear drops away and went to bed. I had imagined that someday, something would cause me to start feeling again but I had envisaged it would be him awakening the love and intimacy we shared, and I imagined it would feel good. I never thought I’d ever be open to pain again. Nobody told me that another man would crack the glass or that Eddy making advances at me would be repulsive rather than endearing. Nobody told me that what looked like a gesture that I had always prayed for in years past would feel like vomit thrown in my face. I could feel the ice melting and all the rage and pain that were frozen were frothing over the surface. The next morning, I decided to act as if nothing happened the previous night. I chose to give him the treatment I had always given him. I had always performed my duties in silence and without warmth. I could give everything except warmth; I didn’t have it to give anyways. I had run out of warmth almost five years before now. I helped him pack all what he would need, got the kids to calm down and drove us all to the airport. Just before he boarded, he gave the adults (that’s what we call the ones in secondary school) some money, hugged them tight and whispered something into Didi’s ears that made her stop crying. When he walked up to me, he was about to say what I sensed would be mushy so I stopped him from going any further. “You’re running late” I said and dusted the lapel of his jacket. I was about to go for a hug when he lifted my chin and kissed me. It was a long, bland kiss but I obliged him if that would leave me with some peace. He hadn’t kissed me in almost a year, and it felt like the entire flavor had been lost with time. 

Hello darlings. I hope you love how the story is unfolding. Pt 4 is on its way. 
Anyways, I traveled home and it feels great to be with family. they are simply everything.

P.S- My laptop fell and some parts cracked and a few places got chipped. Its a Lenovo S400 Touch ideapad. I need to know if it's possible and what it'd take to change the carcass/casing/exterior. Its urgent. Kindly help me out. This laptop is my prime possession. More than half of me is literally saved in it. I have literally shed tears...and I need to do something asap. Biko....

I hope you are all having a great week.


Tuesday, July 21, 2015


                source: blenderartists.com

“I think it worked. May I sit please?” My mouth was full so I just nodded to the man standing before me. He sat comfortably and flashed a grin. I just kept on chewing slowly and waiting for him to say something but he simply said nothing. After I swallowed, I took a sip of wine, wiped my mouth and broke the silence. “Was the champagne from you” I asked with sincere curiosity. “Yes. It was and I think you certainly look happier. I’m hoping it’s the wine.” His gaze was piercing like when someone wasn’t getting a good look at something and was pouring more effort into looking at it. “It’s not just the wine. The food’s great too.” I replied in the bid not to give him all the credit for the beautiful evening I was having. Truthfully, I wasn’t happy just because of his gesture; I had bottles of Dom Perignon sitting in my bar at home but he definitely scored good points on the scale. I scrutinized him as he sat silent looking smug. He wore an adire jumper dominated by the color green and a pair of mahogany-brown loafers. He wore a plain gold chain on his right wrist and a TAG Heuer wristwatch I couldn’t help but notice on his left wrist. There were no rings and it wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t mention that he smelled like heaven on a man. Go figure. The last time I was this taken by a man’s scent, I was in university, he was my best friend and I slept hugging his jacket for months. Yes, the very same jacket and no, the scent didn’t leave. Don’t ask whether I washed it cuz I did not. Anyways, it’s needless to tell you that amidst his simplicity, he reeked of class. The kind of man you’d see standing in front of a hotel and ignore until the valet brought his car to him. He wasn’t strikingly handsome but I thought he looked pristine. He wore an afro trimmed at the sides, and neat side burns that ran down his profile to his beards. None of the bushy beard gang drama that seems to be in vogue was going on there. His eye brows were full and well aligned. His lips were full with an undertone of pink. I was able to take note of his height before he sat and he was quite tall; about my husband’s height. That means that without heels, I’d be just about four inches above his shoulder. His teeth were perfect; I always, always check out the teeth. So he wasn’t strikingly handsome but he had my attention alright. I caught myself studying staring at him and quickly thought of something witty to say.

Unfortunately, all I could muster was “So it wasn’t the man in the cubicle then?” “You must be good at math.” he replied visibly amused by what he figured must have been me trying to say something clever. I laughed at myself. Apparently, he had caught me and his sarcastic retort didn’t go unnoticed. I might enjoy this conversation, I thought and decided to drop my defenses and have this potentially interesting dialogue. “I like sarcasm on a man who knows how to wield it.” I said honestly in between mouthfuls. Of course I went back to my meal. “Yes? I guess we’re different. I like it coming from dogs. Its special cuz they can’t talk” he laughed lightly. I offered him some of my wine but he declined politely; something about not interrupting a lady’s greatness. “So you’re not the guy from the cubicle” I said giving him a cue for some proper introduction. “No I’m not. That’s Mr. Eno. He’s a regular. He probably doesn’t look it but he’s not big on wine. He’s more of a fruit juice-shakes kinda guy.” “I find it interesting that you’ve told me everything about that fine young man and you haven’t even dropped your name by mistake.” How did he even know who was a regular and who wasn’t? I was pretty sure he wasn’t in the room when I tried to find who the gift was from. He laughed and shook his head. “My apologies ma’am. My name’s Udoka Amanze. I hail from Imo state and I absolutely love your smile.” This time, he didn’t smile, as if he was trying to convince me that that wasn’t just another pick up line. This guy was too smooth for his own good. “I’m Edima and I’m married.” He caught the not-so-subtle hint and leaned back. “Of course. Your ring is quite visible. I mean, that diamond is nearly blinding. If it helps, I used to be married.” He said with a shrug. I almost asked what happened with his marriage and caught myself before it fell out. It was none of my business. “You must be proud of your home. Tell me about it. Any kids?” I liked how he asked these sensitive questions with a touch of innocence and a great deal of sincere curiosity. At least, that’s how it seemed. Thank God he specifically mentioned the kids because I certainly didn’t want to talk about my husband. “Yes, I have kids. Four. Two soldiers, two princesses” I could literally feel myself glow. I never spoke about my kids without that glow spurring from the pride that made my heart swell. “Four? Who would have thought?” he asked surprised. “You barely look as though you’ve had any. It’s really admirable” he complimented. “Well, if I keep coming to this restaurant, I won’t be able to keep it up for long. The food is amazing. You probably know that. I mean, you know the regulars…and you sent me wine without being visible. You either stalking the people here or you definitely know your way around her and how to go unnoticed while you’re at it.” “Yes, the food here is amazing but I’m sure you can handle it. And no, I don’t stalk people here. The cameras just make it easy to see what goes on here” he pointed at about two lenses that had gone unnoticed before now. “That explains it. So you work here. Chef?” I thought he had the sophisticated air of Chefs. Maybe not. Maybe I was just lavish with my graces tonight, probably from lack of attention. “Yes, I work here but I’m not a chef.” Honestly, he was quite easy to talk to. We talked about food, my kids, politics in Imo state, how married folks in Lagos forget many times that they are married and how husbands are never caught because they can blame their late homecoming on the traffic on the third mainland bridge. There was a lot of laughter and a few awkward moments of prolonged eye contact and seconds of silence. He was very accessible; it felt like he was holding nothing back. On the other hand, I was trying not to give away too much about myself and honestly, it was pretty exhausting. Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, a woman,probably in her sixties, walked up to our table. Apparently, she was here for him and I could see the admiration she had for him in her eyes. "Mr Amanze, thank you for the other day. I don't know what I'd have done without you" He just grinned at her and said "Now you're embarrassing me. You deserve better ma'am. You should order today's special...on the house of couse" "Very well son. God bless you" and she laid a hand gently on his shoulder before moving to one of the empty tables towards the end of the room. Something about that little exchange moved me. It was obvious that he had done something for the lady that she considered a great deal while he on the other hand didn't consider it as such. He was a helper and I couldn't ignore that. Of course, I didn't ask what it was about; it was none of my business. He carried on with the conversation as if there was no break at all. We talked about places we had both traveled to. We even found out we had two mutual friends and that we both hate popcorn. After about two hours and not a few glares from customers who probably taught we should get a room, I checked my iphone screen to see what time it was. He also turned to his wristwatch and we both smiled. “I should get going” I said, secretly wishing there was more time. I was surprised at myself for thinking that. I was not in the habit of enjoying the company of men; I barely let them close. I didn’t even really notice them. The special ones were like cute dogs; notice them, flash them a smile and forget once they walked past me. But this night, this man had put a crack in my castle of ice. It was probably for the best that the evening had come to an end. There was certainly a reason, I stayed away from craving all this warmth and it was probably for the best. I suddenly couldn’t wait to leave. What was I even thinking at first? I was married with responsibilities and I couldn’t afford to have this particular man around me. That’s right, this particular man.

“You suddenly look uneasy” he said breaking into my thoughts. “No, I’m fine. I just need to get home to my baby girl. Thank you for the wine. Have a lovely evening.” I said rising. I didn’t wait for him to say anything. I picked up my bag and left him at the table. The ride down the elevator felt long with me replaying the entire evening in my head. A pang of fear struck me in the chest. There was something different, wonderful and scary about this man. And I chose to stay away. Just before I got into my car, I looked up at the building and there he was looking down at me with my flowers still sitting on the window sill. I got in, started the car and as soon as the engine purred to life, I drove away without looking back. I had decided; I was going to forget Udoka Amanze and gosh, I’d miss their recipes.
Hello Readers. I hope you enjoyed the second part. Sit tight and look out for the this part. Click here to read THAWED (Part 1) if you haven't read it. I'd love to see your comments with respect to how the story is unfolding...

P.S- This was supposed to be flash fiction and although it might be slightly longer than intended, it will be a short one. Brace yourselves for impact.

I hope you all had a beautiful holiday.


Friday, July 17, 2015

THAWED. Part 1

                                                                      source: blenderartists.com

I am numb. I do not feel pain and that’s the only reason I’m thriving. This has nothing to do with physical pain; I have a really low threshold for that one. After my fourth child, I decided I could not deal with labour pains again. Give me some credit. If three are a crowd, then I certainly pushed boundaries with four. I am not here to talk about my kids so let’s move on.

Last week Tuesday was my 15th wedding anniversary. I expected nothing to happen and I wasn’t disappointed. When you expect too much for so long and get absolutely nothing every time, you learn to look away when the ice cream van passes through. My husband isn’t a bad man. I wish I could say he was so that there’ll be justification for my feelings. He’s just a bad husband and a caring but absent father.

We met as though we were from a story book; actually, he bumped into me on my way from the library. Cliché? I know. Everything else followed just like you would expect it to. He was charming, caring, supportive and most of all, not too busy. Sometimes, I like to think that he still has all these things somewhere inside of him but I probably do not get to see them because he’s a busy man. He is busy being the CFO of one of the biggest retail chains in Africa and I wouldn’t be the insensitive wife standing in the way of that. Now would I?

At first, it was hurtful not seeing your husband in months, getting five phone calls in a week, getting flowers and chocolates on birthdays and holidays from the same delivery boy who begins to look at you with pity after some time. At first, I would cry from being alone, sex starved and invisible. It was horrible. To be fair, he grins at me whenever our eyes meet, and he takes me to his corporate dinners and plants wet pecks on my cheeks each time he introduces me to his elite friends. Oh and whenever I wear my afro in a huge puff, he always says “Nana, I like this hairstyle on you”. I haven’t heard “you’re beautiful” or “I love you” in ages so each time I want to hear a compliment, I quickly pack my afro into a huge bun. Weird? I know.

After some time, the pain stopped. I just stopped crying and trying to be visible. I accepted insignificance and channeled what strength I had left to my kids. I am a full time mum; the shop where I sell shoes and make-up is just a part-time venture. It’s for those days I don’t wanna stay holed up at home or for when I feel special enough to wear makeup and glam clothing. I like to take drives and I have an array of benz models to pick from and each time I hit the streets, I’m visible to everyone. I see it in their eyes the look of wonder as they appraise my hair, clothes, car, shoes and even kids. I do know how to put on a good show. But all of it doesn’t matter because the one person who’s supposed to see me only sees dollar bills.

I love fancy food. It’s one of the things that help me stay numb. The pleasure my taste buds experience when enveloped by strange, exotic flavors zaps through my body and fills the spaces that would otherwise have been filled with the pain. Bliss is the only word for it. My relationship with haute cuisine is the closest thing I have to a marriage. I used to work out a lot and take yoga classes so that I’d be fit and sexy and perhaps, visible and alluring. But again, I put that to rest. The other day, my last baby walked up to me and said “Mum, I think you should start going to the gym again. You might get fat and I don’t want that. My teacher says you are a hot mum and I want you to continue being hot”. I just stared at her with my jaws hanging wide. The next day, I called the gym to reactivate my membership card. I haven’t dropped by since then though.

So on this day, I sat at one of my favorite restaurants in V.I. It is on the 6th floor of an 8-storey building and the view was amazing.  I love to look at Lagos from above and the waters are always a plus. I was waiting for my order to arrive: bacon-wrapped pork loin with peach and blue cheese stuffing. It took over an hour to prepare so I came prepared with a novel written by a veteran Kenyan novelist. Let’s not even start with my love for African literature. I had chosen a sit by the window and moved the vase of fresh flowers to the window sill. I loved how I caught a whiff of their scent each time the wind blew in. I caught my reflection in the glass hanging opposite me and was just thinking about how my kinky fro wouldn’t allow the wind to make my hair fly with it. I was just about to smile wryly to myself and turn back to my book when a waiter dropped a bottle and flute on my table. I looked up at him and he just smiled and handed me a small white piece of paper. He nodded and walked away. I looked at the bottle and it was a Krug NV Grand Cuveé. That’s a $200 bottle of champagne. I had only had it once and it was heaven. I quickly opened the note and it read you look sad. People usually look happier drinking good wine. J.”  I looked down at my left hand. I was wearing my wedding ring and trust me when I say it’s far from unnoticeable. I wondered who would have sent me the bottle of wine. And did I really look that sad? I guess there’s more damage than I thought. I scanned through the room for anyone that looked like they just sent a strange woman an expensive bottle of wine. I am not sure there’s a way the person was supposed to look but I couldn’t pin down anyone. There were just a few people in the restaurant. As expected not everyone would be able to afford the internationally-acclaimed chefs that run the place, or the marbled tables and Italian leather chairs and sofas or even the expensive bottles of wine like the one standing right before me. I looked around more carefully this time. There were three couples and I doubt it came from any of the three men. There was a middle-aged woman around the corner and I am sure women don’t just buy each other expensive French wine on normal days in Lagos. Just as I was about to turn away, I noticed the group of cubicles towards the bar. They were half-hidden by pots of plants and china sculptures standing as though they were protecting that territory. This was my 7th time in the restaurant and I had never seen people sitting in the cubicles. I guess I just assumed subconsciously that there’d be no one there. But there was in fact, a man sitting there smugly raising was I supposed would be chicken or turkey dipped in some fancy sauce, to his mouth. I am almost sure I saw him smile at me before he turned back to his meal. It had to be him. I

I turned back to my book but as you must have guessed, no words from this Kenyan jumped at me. I was surprisingly flustered. Usually, I pushed advances away with a kind of polite coldness that I could bet, felt worse to the receivers than the normal front they’d have expected the average woman would put up. But here I was thinking that this stranger was sweet. Nobody had done this kind of thing for me in years. The only person who once did was currently in South Africa and hadn’t reached me in three days.  Typically, I’d call the waiter and ask him to send the bottle back to the person who had sent it but instead I opened the bottle and poured myself some of that golden goodness. It was heaven in a bottle. I leaned back and opened by book. This time, the words flew at me crystal clear. If this John Doe didn’t want to introduce himself and thought I should look happy drinking excellent French wine, I guessed I could oblige him. Just then, my meal arrived and I dug in. I registered every sensation; the tenderness and moistness of the pork and the velvety feel of cheese sliding along me tongue. This was definitely worth every thousand I paid. Ed Sheeran’s voice flowed from the speakers and I grinned. It was the song “thinking out loud” and I think I just raced to the moon and back. Here, they usually played fancy genre of music that I personally cannot relate to but think are fit for the class of food and people they serve. I began to sing along in low tones in between mouthfuls. Gosh! I was in the mood. Everything was perfect in those moments and I held on.

Hey there Negriville! I hope you had a good read. The second part will be published tomorrow or the day after. Kindly re-share the post, drop your comments and Tell us your own story if you think its related. Don't forget that you can comment as anonymous if you think the info you want to release is sensitive.

The new website/blog is practically ready and entries for the "bold enough" series are being compiled. Kindly send in your tales of love, passion, love, hurt, struggles and triumph. Be bold enough to have your story make a difference in lies all over africa and the world at large. 
The change we need lies in our mouths and inks.


Wednesday, July 1, 2015


**tiptoes into your day**

I do not even have the guts to come in here sounding all cheerful and righteous. I know I have disappointed many with my chronic absence sponsored by a host of reasons I'll give after I have been forgiven. I probably sound like a broken record but y'all should know that I do not lie to you...ever!! And this is not a lie when I say I have always wished to be more available but just couldn't help it.

However, I have resolved to keep you all in the picture from now on. I will make you all a part of my life; drop prose poetry and flash fiction from time to time, tell y'all about the little experiences and lessons that make the clock's tick-tocks worthwhile and even rant when NYSC and life try to shut me up.

I AM SORRY FOR BEING ABSENT FOR SO LONG. I know I'm not dealing with hard-hearted people so I'll now relax and say...

Wats up lovelies! E don tey...Oh and there's so much gist, I don't even know where to start from.

1. NYSC is coming to an end in a bit so I'm really bust tryna make sure I'll have a living to earn from afterwards. Masters is set for next year by God's grace, so I'm just tryna get into trainee programs and run one or two professional courses. Success doesn't come to people who sit down, fold their arms and pop chewing gums all day long.

2. Can you smell the coffee? If you can't, I'll save you the suspense. The Negrifille Blog is on its way to being overhauled, upgraded and established as a media platform for running several initiatives geared especially towards African women, youth, businesses/lifestyle. A new website is being created for that purpose. Expect new features, series and a youtube channel. Yes!!! And the most interesting part is that I do not intend to fly solo. Most of the features will be interactive and involve obtaining some form of feedback from you guys...Could be thru interviews, reviews, guest features etc. There'll be super exciting issues on both regular and controversial stuff. Full house people.
      I am super excited about all of it and look forward to having everyone be a part of it. I am still considering whether or not to do away with this particular blog..It feels like home and makes it really easy to access a wealth of bloggers on blogsville. Please advice me.
      I will return with more details about the features that we'll kick off with. If you've been a part of this, you definitely have stakes in the new world.
      P.S- Blogsville has its own special slot for a series involving bloggers. I hope y'all will be available because the world is ours and we'll seize it and recreate it with our pens.

3. Matters of the heart have been on my agenda of late. If you like gist, clean your ears and stand on your toes cuz this ine will come like a thief in the night.

4. Durulicious, I have missed you in a special way. Whenever I remembered this blog, I thought about you and how you've been checking in and pleading with me to come back. Well, here I am. Thank you.

5. Biko can someone advice me on the easiest and still very efficient video editing software to use? I have downloaded lightworks, avidemux, wondershare etc but I end up vexing and feeling dumb each time I try to figure them out. I need help biko...Ain't nobody wanna see sub-standard vlogs.

6. I have conceived the idea of writing a book.. Two, actually. One will be co-authored by someone else. Oh and I promise, y'all will be proud of me by God's grace. So wish me well and pray for me. Pay special attention to binding and casting out the spirit of writer's block.

7. Before the new website/blog is launched, I'll grace these pages will regular uploads that I hope will keep us all happy.

8. Welcome my darlings, to the second half of this new year. If you're reading this, you're not dead, and that's something to be grateful for. I wish you all life, health, wealth, wisdom, love and the grace of God in all ramifications. I love you all...

Thank you so much for being here. Now its my turn to be here.


Friday, April 24, 2015


When you look at me, what do you search for?
When you touch my skin, what do you hope to feel?
When you think of me, what do you remember?
Know this:
I am a person not an hourglass.
I am a person not silk.
I am a person not a fantasy.

In our world, there is no one woman. There are women; individual women, unique women, different bodies carrying different souls created to mirror the creator’s person- the lover, the helper, the caretaker, the teacher…

Tell society to redefine them; they are more than makeup, false lashes, padded bras and hourglasses. 
Tell the women to disbelieve what they have been taught; that they are not beautiful until their waists are thin and their hair stretched. Tell yourself you are above the insecurities that bind you tight.
You might have heard this before. Perhaps, you might have said it yourself but do you believe that you are enough? Do you really believe that there is nothing to be ashamed of?

Virtually every woman has some part of her body she is insecure about. It may be the ears they’ve called “big” or the extra full lips or even your muscular tummy. Let me tell you about “Beautifulness”. It is a feeling that accompanies belief in you as a carrier of a great measure of beauty. The moment you believe that there is beauty in you, you will glow with confidence and people, either intentionally or not, will believe you as well. Being beautiful is an art. You study yourself, you discover what is unconventional about your body (note that I did not say ugly), decide whether or not it should stay (In conformation with the lifestyle you find ideal for yourself), discover the features that are most striking or gorgeous and hone them. Do not dwell on your imperfections; accept them, treat them like patients that get better with care and tell them they are beautiful anyways. That is why those muscular “hot instagram moms” are called sexy while Obioma the maid who isn’t half as muscular is called “yam legs”. It is in the impression and expression.

I have been there. That world made up of me, standing alone with mesh walls surrounding me. Mesh walls made from wires of insecurity and lies that I had listened to and accepted as my story. But one day, I kicked down the wall and walked away. Today, those liars come to me with the truth, the truth I had already told myself and believed. They come seeing the real me, the one I want them to see because in their eyes lie the reflection of how I feel about myself.

I am not tall and while it used to be an instrument to taunt me years before, I now get compliments about being cute and portable and confident because that’s exactly how I feel about it. It is funny how I have a lot of people call my lips sexy and full and blabla when in secondary school, it was the first thing I’d get teased about. For some reason, I have that kinda athletic body that people go to the gym to get. So while, it’s not perfectly shaped like an hourglass, I remind myself that it is beautiful and strong and is the only vessel that’ll hold my insides together so gracefully. I remind myself that mannequins and magazine covers are not bodies of people but are illusions that cause people to neglect how unique each feature is as it marries the rest of the body to produce you. Your body belongs to a person; one who has habits, problems, feelings, goes through childbirth, gets stressed out and craves the wrong pleasures sometimes. So give it a break from all that shame, neglect, strain.

I saw a picture that showed off different body shapes for ladies; the figure 8, A-shape, I-shape and T-shape. Each time, I told somebody that there were anything but the “8”, they got mad or a little withdrawn or even defensive. They’d rather be told a lie than believe and see the truth about themselves. It was funny to me because as soon as I saw the picture, I knew I knew where I fell and I was happy to point it out.

Sweethearts, never be embarrassed because you’re not busty or as hippy as the hippo in Madagascar (the anime). Never feel lesser than the girl beside you because your eyebrows are too full; I mean, why do they line them to be wide if they wanted their brows scanty or empty? Never apologize because your ears are too wide apart (whatever that means). Care for your body without hating any part of it. Conceal what needs to be concealed, enhance what needs to be enhanced, reveal what needs to be revealed and even eliminate what needs to be gone but never beat yourself up over any part of it. Be comfortable in your skin. Go without makeup sometimes; plainness doesn’t bite. Take walks in comfortable clothing; waist trainers and padded bums are not your birthmark.

Please note that I am not against healthy lifestyles and makeup etc. On the contrary, they are the tools that help us stay beautiful but be sure that you indulge in the things in the things you do for the right reasons and that you’re not burning yourself out or living a fake life just because. In fact, find out what beauty and work out routines you ought to adopt, the kind of clothing that suits your body type, the right way to make up in accordance to your unique features and embrace a healthy diet.

It would not be complete if I didn’t tell you that as God’s beloved, you are a reflection of him. Do not insult that privilege by conforming to anything lesser than that. Do you know that your love for God reflects on you? You cannot love God wholeheartedly and despise any gift he has bestowed upon you. In other words, in loving God, we learn to love ourselves the right way and manifest his fullness here on earth. There is a depth of wonder you reek of when you perceive yourself in the light of God’s word. Being an African woman can ONLY be a gift. Any limitation you see is the scheme of the devil targeted at reducing the content made available to you by God to manifest his glory.

Stay beautiful.