Musings of a mildly neurotic chic

Posts from the “My Life In Short” Category

Amaka’s traditional wedding ceremony

Posted on March 14, 2013

The bride was stunning and

 With my sister at her traditional marriage ceremony. Anambra, Nigeria.

With my sister at her traditional marriage ceremony. Anambra, Nigeria.

The Groom was all smiles.

Dance. Dance. Dance!

Dance. Dance. Dance!

Mama got lots of hugs

Yes, I matched my mom’s colors.

Everyone gawked.



It was all about the bride and her man.

And did I mention: he was all smiles.


Apologies: I promised these pictures months ago. And at the same time, started other projects. I apologize for my lack of consistency with Nifti’s Book, and hope my friends will continue to support the blog until I ¬†can return fully. Now, I am working with @VeryLoudYouth.¬†

Please Help

Posted on December 16, 2012

What my heart knows

my eyes cannot see.

Where my eyes go

my heart cannot lead.

And my feet cannot get me there yet.

What is it about human nature that causes us to want specifically those things we cannot have?…

I am away in Nigeria planing my sister’s upcoming traditional marriage. Please bear with me until I am back stateside, reading, liking, and blogging again. In the meantime, I would love to discuss the above stated issue and read your thoughts.

What goals can I set to live properly within my means?

Please help.

Me, & my Sis. She's mastered patience and thrifty living... But since I don't listen to her much, I need your help ;)

Me, & my Sis. She’s mastered patience and thrifty living… But since I don’t listen to her much, I need your help ūüėČ

Nifti’s Back

Posted on November 5, 2012

she dreamed a sweet dream. where she stood beside her beloved. the image of everlasting peaceful love filled her soul…

Рin these times? good luck finding Mr. Right.

I only speak of the lessons life teach.
I am not jaded. At least, not yet.

My Story

I was a scrawny little girl in grade 5 when a boy picked on me because I was the easiest girl to bully. I remember he grabbed at me, and pulled my dress up. I punched back. When the teacher stood us in front of the class and gave us each seven whacks of her whip, I cried like a baby. [I only had to hold out my palm. The unfortunate boy however, was struck on his backside; and I learnt a valuable lesson]:

Do let boys take responsibility.

I remember my first kiss chased me for almost a mile around the streets in our neighborhood.

These days, the boys are just too lazy.

Take the man who meets me once and texts – instead of calling – to ask me out; or calls after 10 pm as if my job is to wait up for him. And the man who talks about marriage after one week of knowing me; or the man who calls once a week to ask why I haven’t called him. Worse yet is the foolish man who expects to be invited into my home because he‚Äôs counted 3 dates… in 3 months!

Is chivalry truly dead?

Lola’s Story

Lola is this girl I know who lost herself for years to Mr. Potential and irresponsible Mr. Bullshit. РWhile she fell in-love, they enjoyed the benefits of loving her back. Her unbalanced relationships eventually took its toll, and one day Рinstead of whining РLola sat down to write her rules:

Yes please! the ex, the mistake you made last week, the junk you put up last year‚Äď give it away; if it cost too much, sell it.

Back to my story

I’ve said that boys begin the dating game long before girls realize it is a game, and that the goal is to win –¬†so I try to win too.

But I should have learnt another important lesson that day in grade 5:

Do not fight boys. –

Just let go.

Keep loving you.

Wait for Mr. Right,

and let him win.

This is me
PS: Life’s lessons are learned when our hearts heal.

I Wanna Be

Posted on July 18, 2012

Sitting quietly doing nothing. Spring comes and the grass grows by itself. ~ Zen.

I am the master of worry. I care what strangers think, and how coworkers feel.¬†I plan every detail in my life long before the event is even ¬†possible –¬†I plan to marry at 30, and finish my PhD at 32. ¬†I plan to have three kids.¬†I complain that things don’t go as planned, and get angry when Mama responds, “Be grateful.” But,¬†I did not plan our latest vacation. Mama and Sis did. And they failed to tell me there was no plan. I realize now that I’ve lived my¬†entire¬†life fretting over things that have been out of my control. I have missed out on so much because I have plans (that can’t always work out).

We entered St. Vincent and The Grenadines with no idea what we’d do. I felt knots,¬†“Where are we going to stay? How much is this going to cost? Would we be comfortable?!”¬†So far, we’ve seen all the towns on mainland (St. Vincent). We’ve seen several of the islands of the Grenadines. We managed to get a free boat ride to go snorkeling¬†on a couple of the islands in the Tobago Cays. We stayed in a beautiful home overlooking the beach in Union Island¬†for free! We got invited to a private beach party where we ate the most amazing ¬†foods. We’ve seen the volcanic mountains and black sands of Chateaubelair. Gosh!…

 I wanna be

A rock star, a movie star, an astronaut.
I wanna be billionaire, an island, a village.
I wanna be a valley, a mountain, a gully.
I'll eat. I'll love. I'll live.

I'll do all the things I've said.
I'll chase dreams that never end.
Sail seas, climb rocks, eat grass.
Cry when I want.

Scream if I please. Give because I can.

Smile. I just will.

I wanna be free, so [freagin'] bad.

Every picture taken with my Apple tablet.
I got carried away.
Related posts

In a day: Barbados (07/11/12)

Posted on July 11, 2012

My first trip to the Caribbean Islands; first stop Barbados.¬†Quite an adventure and so much to see, so we start at¬†Harrison’s¬†Cave (named after Thomas¬†Harrison¬†who owned much of the land in the area). Touring the cave is an amazing experience.

Stalagmites with a view in Harrison’s Cave (Calcite formations growing up from the floor are called stalagmites).

I see a carnivore’s mouth in this formation.¬†What do you see?

We spend well over our allotted time at the cave, but we want more. So we take a drive to see more sights.

The Portuguese called the island Los Barbados (The Bearded One), after they saw these Bearded Fig Trees from the coast.

Old Sugar Mills were used to process Sugar Cane in the 60s and the raw product from the canes sold in barrels. Now, Bajans have their own factories and export processed sugar.

Green ‘Canelilly’. Sometimes dried and used to make baskets and other crafts.

The yellow kind? Beautiful still.

Red Ginger Lilly. We saw some beautiful pink ones too.

Half the day is spent. Tummies are rumbling; luckily food is everywhere, and EVERYONE is incredibly welcoming and nice. Time to sit, chill and eat.

“Mami Apple” – Something of a cross between an apple and a mango.

This Roti – Curry beef and chicken with chic peas and potatoes, stuffed in baked split pea (tortilla-like) skins. Yum.

Enjoying the scenery some 200+ ft above sea level.

Goodbye Barbados. Until next time!

Next stop? St. Vincent and the¬†Grenadines¬†ūüôā

All pictures taken with my new Apple tablet.

The road overgrown

Posted on June 14, 2012

   © Roxann Phillips

¬†she dreams a sweet dream.¬† where she stands beside her beloved. ¬†the image of everlasting peaceful love fills her soul….

But by trying to will herself to reason, she insists this¬†love can never be… Fear sets in – a disguised anchor – to take over and lead her lonely heart. It overpowers all reason, and she outgrows her dream.¬†

yet, little hope remains: she will one day walk that road. to eternal bliss. to meet him.

…be still my soul.

Inspired by Madison Woods Photo Prompt for Friday Fictioneers.

I Like Being Me

Posted on June 5, 2012

I picked up my journal to write today

And began to think of my journey as an awkward, misunderstood girl. There was a time when I felt terribly weird compared to my peers. I cried; I lost sleep; I skipped class Рtoo scared to believe I was good enough.

… Sigh.

I started this blog to help¬†release some of the pent-up energy¬†from¬†holding back….¬†Everyone is different. Some embrace this fact fully. Others like me,¬†are¬†more¬†bashful.

Life however,¬†has forced me to interact with, and open up to you.¬†I’ve slowly become more comfortable about being¬†“weird” ūüôā I am happy people don’t get me.

Now [in the real world too] it feels like I am doing everything possible to be weird. To be different. To stand out.

And to be me.

And it’s soo much more fun.

The School Bus Kidnapping

Posted on May 9, 2012

I did not choose to get on that bus. I was 11 and Mr. Okoye was one of the friendlier school bus drivers that lived down the road from our house. He greeted papa well, and would sometimes try to coax my mother into leaving him tips. There was no reason not to trust him.

But I did feel uneasy. I can say now that I got on that bus because I did not want to disobey the demands of an elder. I was scared, so I got on the bus.

In my culture, we are taught to pay absolute respect to our elders [I will always be an advocate]. This pervasive culture, along with my extreme introversion, made it really difficult to think freely.

I cannot share the exact details of the ensuing hours on that bus, but I assure you that what followed was just an attempt by a scheming, scamming, scumbag, who understood his power, and used it against trusting young girls.

He spent hours trying to convince me that he‚Äôd tried nothing inappropriate, and that there was no need to tell mother. I believed him, but mother knew better. When she got the details out of me…, I later swore to my friends (in an embellished story), that mama went mad that day.

I would have stopped at ‚Äėscheming‚Äô in the above description, had Mr. Okoye not ‚Äď when mama pushed for his resignation from the school ‚Äď showed up at the house with his wife to suggest that an 11 year-old girl made up this story about him.

Painting entitled Mother and Child by Vinod Arora.

I stood to behold the jury; mother, anxious that I speak, Papa patiently waiting for my response, Mr. Okoye avoiding my eyes, and it seemed Mrs. Okoye was praying.

You see, she contended that the family needed her husband’s wages to survive. It would be wicked for my mother to strip him of his reputation, and his job…

At that moment, I choked. I felt this man would lose everything he’d worked for because of me. My panicked eyes darted back to mother and she understood,¬†because she quickly found her voice.

“My child is not lying!”

She turned to Papa, “Honey, ¬†please ask them to leave.‚ÄĚ


Thanks Mom.

My Future. My World.

Posted on May 2, 2012


I love me. Yes, I say this often.

People scoff‚ÄĒthey hear it too many times.

“You’re full of yourself”, they scold.

‚ÄúI love you too. I just love me more.‚ÄĚ

What’s wrong with this?

The trials in my life require that I love me.

The echo of my past insists that I love me.

The seed of my womb needs me to love me.

The passions of my heart live because I love me.

My future… My world… Demand that I love me,

And that I love you too.

What’s wrong with this?

The Grand Lie-Opening

Posted on April 25, 2012

On August 24th, I followed in the footsteps of many bloggers, and challenged readers to find my lie. This challenge turned out to be a bit too much fun for me! The list you see is a compilation of somewhat odd events that have occurred throughout my existence and of course, one little fib.


 1.       I talk to 12 year-olds high on mushrooms and something blue every day.

This is unfortunately true. I work at a middle school, with high risk kids. It surprises me that they can afford half of the stuff they use.


2.¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† I‚Äôve been mugged at gun point somewhere in ‚ÄėMandiba Land‚Äô.

I was visiting a friend who was ‚Äėstudying abroad‚Äô in Cape Town, South Africa. At about 6pm one day, we (against our better judgment) decided to take a short cut home and‚Ķ well, the thieves made away with an old cell phone and a homemade purse.


3.      I was once kidnapped and hidden on a school bus.

The details of which will make for an awesome post.  I was 11 and my attacker was a perverted old man who happened to be a school bus driver.


4.      I owned a little piggy that wore a hat and lived in my backyard.

We never owned any animals growing up. I came up with little fib after some coworkers cracked some joke about a hat wearing Jewish bacon?


5.¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† I am called ‚Äúmy own‚ÄĚ.

My birth name means My Own in English.


6.      I got lost in the smoke of 9/11.

I did. It was my first year in the States. I had gotten this new job on Wall Street, and I just happened to be lost when all the commotion started that morning. Then I got even more lost.


7.       I have skipped school to see a headless woman.

Yes. Her body was dumped by the train tracks behind the school grounds. This was the most gruesome killing, and the worst of all the dead bodies I’ve seen as a child.

The day Auntie Beatrice left town

Posted on April 7, 2012

That day, Auntie Beatrice stood outside on the streets yelling for everybody to hear. ‚ÄúAshawo!‚ÄĚ. ‚ÄúWhore!‚ÄĚ. ‚ÄúYou have no shame!‚ÄĚ. She was clapping her hands feverishly as she jumped around to¬†heighten¬†the impact of her voice. I remember loud honking in the background,‚ÄĒfrom the market on a neighboring street‚ÄĒand whistles, and bells…¬†Mama Chika¬†from across the street was calling for Nkechi, her servant girl. I hoped that all the bustling would drown out Auntie Beatrice’s voice.¬†I prayed no one was listening.

Auntie¬†Beatrice continued up the street, still laughing and taunting my mother. My mind retreated to its safe place, and to hopefully repress the memory of this experience.¬†I convinced myself that there was¬†no way¬†anyone heard her. I remember now… That day, I vowed to hate her forever.

Papa¬†heard what happened when he¬†came home the ¬†same afternoon. What followed until he put Auntie Beatrice’s suitcases in the trunk, and she waved us goodbye, is a blur.¬†They argued when he returned. Papa grumbled something about Auntie Beatrice being right, and he too, walked out the door. I heard my mother cry later that night.

Auntie Beatrice left and Papa’s soul went quietly with her.

I’ve fought desperately to let go of the hate I feel. Hate towards Papa; because he didn‚Äôt have the ability, or the faith to stand up for his wife. Hate towards his sister; because she let jealousy drive her to committing this purely evil act against a mother and her innocent child.¬†Auntie¬†Beatrice saw me standing there; watching her.¬†She looked directly at me when she stuck her chin up, and started to scream. Every word she¬†spewed stung worse than the previous one.

That day at eight years old, I realized that my mother was by herself in a foreign country‚ÄĒa trip she made for love, and there was no one to protect her. I watched my mother‚Äôs heart break. And on this day, Papa became the man who broke my mother’s heart, and the first man to break mine.


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