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 15^th 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 6^th 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 7^th 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.

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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.

xoxo,

Nazzy.

I COME KNEELING

**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.

xoxo,
Nazzy

THE BODY: A VESSEL OF HONOR

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.

Xoxo,

Nazzy

TO PEOPLE WHOSE PRESENT ARE MY PAST

There’s so many things I’d love to tell the world; things I know and know not of, things I believe in and things I doubt absolutely, things I fear and things I confront courageously, things I succeeded at and the others that dubbed me a failure. These lessons are like a turbulent tide in my mind, seeking an outlet . . . seeking release.

This is to the children; youth; girls struggling with crushes, low self esteem, annoying mothers, overbearing fathers, ambition, rules and pain; people whose today are my yesterdays.

This is for girls struggling with things mama doesn’t understand. For girls whose pastors say to their mamas “Hey, your girl isn’t normal. You should get her to the deliverance sessions”, when all they are, is different.

This is for girls growing up alone even though everyone around her could lend a helping hand. This is for the girl putting up the façade of a tough exterior when the inside reeks of decaying flesh.

This is for the girls wishing they had what others had even though others didn’t have what they had; for little women straining to make snowballs from the mist.

This is for girls whose backs are broken from the weight of obligation; girls charred from the heat of juggling dreams that are not theirs.

This is for girls constantly looking in mirrors that only tell them that they just aren’t enough. This is for that lass who cannot admit that she loves a part of herself just because all eyes stare at that part with disdain.

This is for the girl who knows but is knocked down every time she dares believe that she’s more than breasts, buttocks and kitchen utensils. This is for the young women who walk faced down because their brown bodies cannot take the shape of an hour glass.

This is for girls whose realities are based on myth and mirages. This is for girls whose tear glands are strained from over-secretion.

Listen!

This is a new year. This is the dawn of a new era. This is a new life. This is time for a new “you”. At the beginning of Joshua’s ministry, God said to him, “Moses is dead, arise…” You are now at that point where God is saying to you “The old you is dead so arise.” This is the point where nothing else matters except what God has to say about you, unto you and through you. This is the time when you become who God has destined you to be and has programmed you to manifest.

Do I sound too spiritual? Well, this is time to be spirit-minded if the physical and all other realms in which you operate in will receive life. Many times, we try to write things like this with our wits and savvy but I’m convinced that what I have to tell you cannot be compared, by any standard, to what God has to say to you concerning the same situation.

If who your peers, your parents, that man and even you say you are doesn’t mirror what God has already said about you, you shouldn’t be listening to them. You must learn to rise above rumors, random opinions and heresy when you are concerned. You must define to yourself who you really are and must refute anything contrary to that.

You are better than your deficiency; that bad skin, bad relationship, guilt or even habit. You are brighter than the depression that eats deep into you or even the failures you have to show for your endeavors. You are exceedingly mightier than lack and the pain that tears through your heart each time you think about your problems. You are simply greater than who you have been no matter the reasons that justify the state of your past. You have the life of Christ in you and are created in the image and likeness of God. This means that all you have been subject to, are now to be subject to your own authority.

You are beautiful   You are special      You are loved         You are wonderful

You are not abnormal       You are extraordinary     You are talented

You are wanted      You are strong       You are courageous                   You are visionary

You are bold          You are healthy      You are wealthy     You are excellent

You are appreciated        You are God’s beloved

INSPIRED

NYSC Camp, YIKPATA.

I sat with two older, smart men today and answered a bunch of questions being thrown at me as though it were an interview. The difference was that they were trying to know me, understand how my mind works and generally, just make good conversation. I was in the mood today. I answered questions I’d usually get defensive about as best I could. Do you know what I call good conversation? It is that talk laden with lessons and a truckload of laughter. I’m a sapiosexual person so sitting in the midst of two men bellowing with laughter and carting away tangible life lessons was absolute bliss. At some point, I mentioned that I am a writer/blogger and I was asked for my URL. One of them, instantly checked it out and I don’t know what particular article they were looking at- because I was on the other end of the table- but they looked at each other and blurted “What inspires you to write?” For some reason I couldn’t blurt out the answer to that question just as soon. I started rummaging through my mind for an inspired response. Well, I think I found one because I started giving them an answer, at least before one of them stopped me short. “You know this is not a TV show right?  What really inspires you?” Just then, one of them read through a line or two and then I realized where they were coming from.

Apparently, they had read a line addressed to mothers and some things I felt they were not doing right with respect to their teenage kids and thought that perhaps, I must have had a rough childhood. That must have been my inspiration. Of course I refuted that perception. I had a beautiful childhood despite the fact that I had a lot of drama with my mum during my teenage years. After a very remarkable discussion filled with practical instances of parent-children relations we had experienced, I left. Then I left and started thinking about what the answer to that initial question really is.

Here it is:

§  I am inspired by the reality that my thoughts, ideas and stories can color a life somewhere. I really don’t care about how it plays out but my creative juices flow turbulently each time it strikes me that my writing could be “it” for someone out there.

§  I am inspired by the stories, tales and impressions of writers before me, especially African writers. It intrigues me that the same heritage, people and world can birth accounts so diverse and rich yet so fundamentally alike. It makes me want to see where I fit in the picture.

§  I am inspired by freedom; the free reins given to the mind to communicate its strengths, weaknesses, fantasies, pains and inventions in any way it deems fit. The ease that comes with bearing burdens after they have been transferred to paper.

§  I am inspired by heritage; the quest to find and define who I am as it grapples with the foreign elements that strive to lay claim on a part of me.

§  I am inspired by my experiences. It’s amazing how some of the most potent words are birthed by reflections upon encounters, no matter how irrelevant they might have seemed at the time of occurrence.

§  I am inspired by love, beauty, nature and even evil. How can I not say anything about a world drowning in tides of tears as it loses its essence to darkness?

§  I am inspired by the thought of being called inspired.

I am grateful to my friends for asking me that question. The year is still young and this is a right time to define essence of who you are and what drives you. Remind yourself of why you do the things you love or ought to do. They could be the answers to the questions you’ve been asking for long.

Happy New Month…

Happy New Year My Lovelies.

Since you’re just seeing the first of me this year, I’m expecting the “happy new year” compliments and of course feedback on this post. So kindly drop your comments below.

Xoxo,

Nazzy.

YOU ARE NOT SNOW WHITE'S STEPMOTHER

I was at the mall a few days ago and I saw a white family; a man, his wife and son. This kid was cute and big enough to even carry a baby brother or sister, if he had any. However, his parents apparently thought that he was pram-worthy so he sat comfortably as the Nigerian housegirl pushed and pulled him around the entire mall. That’s not the point. The point is that the said housegirl looked scrawny and scruffy and of course very sad as she did her job. Well, that’s not exactly the point again; it was apparent that the girl was not well taken care of, as if the racial contrast and class difference were not obvious enough. I was mad. I mean, what was that all about?  My friend couldn’t understand why I was so irked. Maybe it’s the fact that lately, there’s been so much tension surrounding white dominance and the devaluation of black lives to them. Maybe it’s because I looked at the white woman and saw Snow White’s stepmother. I’m sure the parents of the poor girl gave her up enthusiastically, thinking that having their daughter work for an Oyibo man would bring them some fortune. Just maybe…Maybe she’d be looking healthier if she stayed back in the village eating fresh fruits from trees and drinking spring water just as it flows from the belly of rocks. Amidst my complaints, my friend asked me whether I had not seen Nigerian women whose house helps looked just as bad. I knew she was right but this scenario seemed much worse to me at that moment. Somewhere in my head, I blamed black people for treating themselves with so much disdain that these people thought it was okay to treat them in the same way that they treat their brothers. I was so mad because it was so obvious that the poor black girl meant absolutely nothing to them. Again, I blamed us for saying to these people committing so much crime against ourselves that justice is now defined as “crimes against us”.

Today is not for talking about how our skin color makes us seem like better slaves than CEOs. Or how they think we are better off with no air in our lungs than walking on the streets our ancestors worked on with backs bleeding from the whips of white Lords. Today is not for that. We will today talk about mothers who see beings less than human in the faces of other people’s children. We will talk about a practice that is perhaps even more common in the African society than in the western societies.

First of all, I do not want to see your house help and know that that is exactly what she is, except of course she’s putting on a well-tailored uniform with an apron tied to her waist. I do not want to see your kids wearing smart clothes while the fruit of another’s womb is clad in rags as she caters to your munchkins. I do not want to see your children having skins as smooth and glossy as magazine covers while another’s walks around your house with bruises and cuts from your belt or shoes. No, I do not want to look at you and see Snow White’s stepmother because you know what? You are worse than her simply because you are a real life monster human being and she’s not.

I do not what to understand why you would knowingly batter another in every way that you can just to highlight the already present truth that he/she can never mean as much as your kids (who by the way are spoilt) to you. Why would you see the poor and uneducated as a threat to you and your oh-so-royal family when you do not give them the tiniest opportunity to get to where you were ages ago? Why do you feel the need to see another tremble and shudder before you? Are you Karashika? Oh!! And why have you forgotten that what goes around comes back around? Like why will you treat an orphan with so much undeserving hate, forgetting that if you and your husband get hit by a truck while doing your love thing on the streets, the baby in the pram would have the same cross to carry as that battered maid pushing the stroller? What point are you trying to make?

In civilized countries, the average person does not batter their maid or nanny with khoi khoi shoes or with the buckle of their husbands’ belt. They do not go around buttering the private parts of their house helps with pepper because the kids did not eat at 7pm, after the poor housegirl might have begged them for 2 hours while taking the insults being hurled at her by your pretty little darlings. It’s a shame that among ourselves, we create terror for reasons more subtle than skin color. Even that is not enough to treat another like a creature from hell else everything we are hearing today would be justified.

There is no reason…none at all…that makes okay to treat a human being as anything other than that. There is no justification for maltreating your domestic workers just because it feel right to you. Slave trade was abolished for a reason. I am not saying you should take all the crap that these workers bring with them, especially in the African society, I’m saying that you should be civilized while dealing with them. If you’re going going to spank a child for doing wrong, do it as though he/she were your own. Don’t buy your dog KFC chicken while your domestic help feeds on your children’s leftovers. For the record, I knew a man like that. And please, don’t ask your housegirl who weighs less than 4 boxes of cereal to cart around a child who weighs more than a sack of rice and is old enough to wash his socks. He’s not crippled for a reason.

Mothers must learn to do these things right or else their daughters will learn from them and a vicious cycle would be triggered. Charity they say, begins at home. If we are going to fight for ourselves at the global level, we must learn to defend and protect ourselves at home. There is much more beauty in a world filled with kindness and good deeds that reeking of rancor. I know we all want to live fairytales but I think it’ll be better to emulate the sweet-natured princesses or the gracious fairy-godmothers rather than the Ursulas and Snow White’s stepmothers.

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I really want to hear what you guys have to say about this one. Kindly drop your comments below and thanks for stopping by. Cheers!

MORE THAN OXYGEN

It is more than sucking in invisible air.

It is more than the force that keeps the heart pumping.

It is more than flaring nostrils to acquire gases that will sustain you.

It is the romance between elements, and more.

It is the breath of God running through us.

It is more than just oxygen.

It is more than the bi-products of plants

It is more than the gas that flares up fire.

It is more than the air that fills the cylinder by the bedside of a dying man.

It is God saying “No resource is a waste; the plants don’t want it doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”

It is the element without which the soul and spirit would be homeless lot.

It is life travelling up tubes struggling with the death trying to claim the sick.

It is more than just oxygen.

It is more than a colorless, odorless gas.

It is more than just a component of water.

It is more than the 20 elements chemistry students sing about every day.

It is more than the emptiness you gulp as soon as your face rises above water.

It is more than just air as we call it.

It is the power of God made alive in us.

It is the most basic example of how purity enlivens a body and even a soul.

It is the most fascinating instance of God’s love for us, freely given and never ending.

It is the peace of God reinvigorating our being continually; Take a deep breath and tell me you don’t feel it.

It is God’s simple way of saying “I am essential”; If you can’t live without His breath, why do you think you can live without him?

It is God saying “My breath is soluble. No matter what, you need me to be.”

It is the facet that underlines our existence as gods made after His image and likeness.

It is freedom thriving in its most fundamental form, swimming into bellies and exuding verve.

No matter how you look at it,

It is more than just oxygen.