The bride was stunning and
The Groom was all smiles.
Mama got lots of hugs
It was all about the bride and her man.
And did I mention: he was all smiles.
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.
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]:
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’s counted 3 dates… in 3 months!Sigh. Is chivalry truly dead?
Lola is this girl I know who lost herself for years to Mr. Potential and irresponsible Mr. Bullshit. – While she fell in-love, they enjoyed the benefits of loving her back. Her unbalanced relationships eventually took its toll, and one day – instead of whining – Lola sat down to write her rules:
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:
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!…
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
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 – too scared to believe I was good enough.
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” 🙂 I am happy people don’t get me.
And to be me.
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.
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’d 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 ‘scheming’ in the above description, had Mr. Okoye not – when mama pushed for his resignation from the school – showed up at the house with his wife to suggest that an 11 year-old girl made up this story about him.
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.
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.”
I love me. Yes, I say this often.
People scoff—they hear it too many times.
“You’re full of yourself”, they scold.
“I love you too. I just love me more.”
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?
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’ve been mugged at gun point somewhere in ‘Mandiba Land’.
I was visiting a friend who was ‘studying abroad’ in Cape Town, South Africa. At about 6pm one day, we (against our better judgment) decided to take a short cut home and… 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 “my own”.
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.
That day, Auntie Beatrice stood outside on the streets yelling for everybody to hear. “Ashawo!”. “Whore!”. “You have no shame!”. She was clapping her hands feverishly as she jumped around to heighten the impact of her voice. I remember loud honking in the background,—from the market on a neighboring street—and 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.
I’ve fought desperately to let go of the hate I feel. Hate towards Papa; because he didn’t 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—a trip she made for love, and there was no one to protect her. I watched my mother’s heart break. And on this day, Papa became the man who broke my mother’s heart, and the first man to break mine.