I haven't been on here in a while, but i'll be back writing something soon. I took a much needed vacation cause crap was going down in my life. Anyway, to those that checked back. Thanks. :)
Soon to come!
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
I am 27: the walls have ears and so do people.
I am me, I am you, I am he, I am she, I am all of us; people. I change with the news, with the times, with my friends, with the trends, with your experiences and with mine…
Today I am 27 and I just got screwed by “love”.
You called me like nothing happened, but I knew you were ashamed because when it happened, you left without a word. No call, No note, No goodbyes. You just up and left. You were ashamed of what you did and you took solace in the fact that I wouldn't find out because you wouldn’t tell it. But walls have ears and so do people.
You came back the next day, with a sturdy gait ready to make things work between us. Realizing after your stupidity that you really did care. But I knew, for walls have ears and so do people.
I stood still. Back facing you, listening to Bob Dylan’s “The Times they are A Changin” through the speakers. Then I heard the sound coming through the closed doors behind me. Though the doors were closed, I could picture it. She was in front of you hunched over, while you did the "evil deed" clearheaded and sober. She was a good-natured girl that wanted everyone to love her. She felt if she consented to everything, she’ll never be resented. Bring no fuss and there’ll be no fuss. She never meant harm, but she caused it anyway. We agree she was wrong, but you knew you were too strong. You were too cute, too suave, too cool for school. Yeah, i know 'cause its one thing that drew me to you. She knew me quite well too. She was my roll out girl. She hated each second but she still couldn’t say no. I didn’t look in but I could hear. I recognized the voices but I didn't walk in. I turned on my heels, chin raised high, a woman unafraid to be hurt. Out of sight, I sat on the floor, a baby unafraid to cry. And so I did. I wept. The walls have ears and so do people.
I thought I would rave, be a lunatic, "fight for my man" who I suppose in reality was less than one. No, I’m a woman unafraid to be hurt learning that feeling this hurt, understanding this hurt and why I was hurt is what makes me strong.
I pulled her aside and said:
You, I know what you did.
She looks scared and tries to deny it, but...
I said again:
I heard it. I know what you did.
Timidly, she says:
I think I have a problem I cant say no.
I can never refuse anyone anything. I am so sorry.
Me:
When any man loses his voice in life, with it goes his dignity, his meaning and worth in life. If you claim you have no voice, then to me you have no worth.
That’s all I could think to say. That’s all I felt the need to say. A part of me felt sorry for her. I knew her struggle, I saw this trait in her even before any of this happened. I felt no animosity towards her, just pity. She wept.
When he came in I stared at him with a love that burned so deep and a hate the pierced right through my love for him. I said:
I loved you so much you know. I have never loved this way before.
I told him I heard. I leaned in to him and told him how i was still tormented by the sounds i heard behind the closed doors. I didn’t have to see, but I knew. He knew that I knew. She knew that I knew. The walls have ears and so do people.
I said, never once raising my voice in anger. Simply speaking because I was so weak from weeping:
It’s the worst thing you can do to me.
The worst insult one can ever bear
My brother’s girl and I was there.
No regard for me at all,
I opened the front door and said, half confused by what I was saying but saying it and hoping it made sense to him as it did to me:
It wasn’t brunch it was dinner.
I served you good food you served me poison
I died and you are staring at a corpse
The new me you’ve wrought
I have nothing left for you here so please… get out.
He storms out defensive and angry. Angry at himself for letting this happen, angry at me for not giving him a chance to make things right. Angry that his dream with me was not coming true, angry because he knew he fucked up but he didn’t quite know how to take it back. He knew I was hurt and it hurt him that he hurt me. He knew he was wrong, but instead of asking forgiveness, he showed his anger and frustration and in his defensiveness yells:
That’s it.
That’s it.
You’re just gonna walk away.
Fuck it then.
You didn’t even give me a chance to explain.
You don’t want to hear what I have to say?
Do you think I don’t feel bad about this?
The issue is not what I did, it is what led me to do it.
That’s what you should think about!
Fuck it!
The whole time he’s trying to walk away but he comes right back saying one thing after the other, then the next and the other. I stare at him. No emotion just drained.
Still drained and trying to maintain my composure I say:
Come in.
You wanna talk. Lets talk.
Come in.
He still shuffles back and forth. Not leaving but not coming in. I see the tears already streaming down his face. He fears the thought of losing me forever and is ashamed that I’m handling this situation much better than he is. He feels stupid by his reaction. He knows he’s wrong but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s looking away, wiping the tears. It’s his turn to cry. He looks at me and walks towards my door and in that moment I’m thinking only one thing. I feel his love for me. He had told me of this love at other times and i believed him, but i never felt it; not until this incident. He was consumed by a good love gone awry and in it he lost all inhibition trying to get my attention. What happened to old-fashioned communication? What happened to what you said about being honest, loyal, and outspoken? Did you lose yourself along the way or were you portraying yourself to me as the ideal of what you still strive to be. Now I see you better than I’ve ever seen you but how does it count when we are at the end of what we had.
My thoughts strayed:
I could never pay him back for this
This is the worst evil man could inflict
It is the hardest slap one could ever endure
The deepest heartbreak that has no cure
I was not sure what he would say to bring back "us",
or that my love, even still strong, could keep us on course.
I could forgive now but how could I forget?
Love wouldn’t do that.
Finally, he walked in.
Today I am 27 and I just got screwed by “love”.
You called me like nothing happened, but I knew you were ashamed because when it happened, you left without a word. No call, No note, No goodbyes. You just up and left. You were ashamed of what you did and you took solace in the fact that I wouldn't find out because you wouldn’t tell it. But walls have ears and so do people.
You came back the next day, with a sturdy gait ready to make things work between us. Realizing after your stupidity that you really did care. But I knew, for walls have ears and so do people.
I stood still. Back facing you, listening to Bob Dylan’s “The Times they are A Changin” through the speakers. Then I heard the sound coming through the closed doors behind me. Though the doors were closed, I could picture it. She was in front of you hunched over, while you did the "evil deed" clearheaded and sober. She was a good-natured girl that wanted everyone to love her. She felt if she consented to everything, she’ll never be resented. Bring no fuss and there’ll be no fuss. She never meant harm, but she caused it anyway. We agree she was wrong, but you knew you were too strong. You were too cute, too suave, too cool for school. Yeah, i know 'cause its one thing that drew me to you. She knew me quite well too. She was my roll out girl. She hated each second but she still couldn’t say no. I didn’t look in but I could hear. I recognized the voices but I didn't walk in. I turned on my heels, chin raised high, a woman unafraid to be hurt. Out of sight, I sat on the floor, a baby unafraid to cry. And so I did. I wept. The walls have ears and so do people.
I thought I would rave, be a lunatic, "fight for my man" who I suppose in reality was less than one. No, I’m a woman unafraid to be hurt learning that feeling this hurt, understanding this hurt and why I was hurt is what makes me strong.
I pulled her aside and said:
You, I know what you did.
She looks scared and tries to deny it, but...
I said again:
I heard it. I know what you did.
Timidly, she says:
I think I have a problem I cant say no.
I can never refuse anyone anything. I am so sorry.
Me:
When any man loses his voice in life, with it goes his dignity, his meaning and worth in life. If you claim you have no voice, then to me you have no worth.
That’s all I could think to say. That’s all I felt the need to say. A part of me felt sorry for her. I knew her struggle, I saw this trait in her even before any of this happened. I felt no animosity towards her, just pity. She wept.
When he came in I stared at him with a love that burned so deep and a hate the pierced right through my love for him. I said:
I loved you so much you know. I have never loved this way before.
I told him I heard. I leaned in to him and told him how i was still tormented by the sounds i heard behind the closed doors. I didn’t have to see, but I knew. He knew that I knew. She knew that I knew. The walls have ears and so do people.
I said, never once raising my voice in anger. Simply speaking because I was so weak from weeping:
It’s the worst thing you can do to me.
The worst insult one can ever bear
My brother’s girl and I was there.
No regard for me at all,
I opened the front door and said, half confused by what I was saying but saying it and hoping it made sense to him as it did to me:
It wasn’t brunch it was dinner.
I served you good food you served me poison
I died and you are staring at a corpse
The new me you’ve wrought
I have nothing left for you here so please… get out.
He storms out defensive and angry. Angry at himself for letting this happen, angry at me for not giving him a chance to make things right. Angry that his dream with me was not coming true, angry because he knew he fucked up but he didn’t quite know how to take it back. He knew I was hurt and it hurt him that he hurt me. He knew he was wrong, but instead of asking forgiveness, he showed his anger and frustration and in his defensiveness yells:
That’s it.
That’s it.
You’re just gonna walk away.
Fuck it then.
You didn’t even give me a chance to explain.
You don’t want to hear what I have to say?
Do you think I don’t feel bad about this?
The issue is not what I did, it is what led me to do it.
That’s what you should think about!
Fuck it!
The whole time he’s trying to walk away but he comes right back saying one thing after the other, then the next and the other. I stare at him. No emotion just drained.
Still drained and trying to maintain my composure I say:
Come in.
You wanna talk. Lets talk.
Come in.
He still shuffles back and forth. Not leaving but not coming in. I see the tears already streaming down his face. He fears the thought of losing me forever and is ashamed that I’m handling this situation much better than he is. He feels stupid by his reaction. He knows he’s wrong but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s looking away, wiping the tears. It’s his turn to cry. He looks at me and walks towards my door and in that moment I’m thinking only one thing. I feel his love for me. He had told me of this love at other times and i believed him, but i never felt it; not until this incident. He was consumed by a good love gone awry and in it he lost all inhibition trying to get my attention. What happened to old-fashioned communication? What happened to what you said about being honest, loyal, and outspoken? Did you lose yourself along the way or were you portraying yourself to me as the ideal of what you still strive to be. Now I see you better than I’ve ever seen you but how does it count when we are at the end of what we had.
My thoughts strayed:
I could never pay him back for this
This is the worst evil man could inflict
It is the hardest slap one could ever endure
The deepest heartbreak that has no cure
I was not sure what he would say to bring back "us",
or that my love, even still strong, could keep us on course.
I could forgive now but how could I forget?
Love wouldn’t do that.
Finally, he walked in.
Friday, March 30, 2007
I am 25, this is my reality.
I am me, I am you, I am he, I am she, I am all of us; people. I change with the news, with the times, with my friends, with the trends, with your experiences and with mine…
Today I am 25 and I am depressed. It’s hard to know for sure how I got here, but I know I’m here. At first I thought I was sick because of the pain, but the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. After the second check-up with the pain still recurring, the doctor suggested I was either highly stressed or depressed. I laughed then because it all seemed too bizarre, depression that is. I knew I was stressed but I couldn’t possibly be depressed. I was wrong. Now, I’m battling this disease that has walked into my home and is making no attempt to leave.
I have always had very high expectations in life. What I didn’t know was where it would lead me or just how dissatisfied I was with my life. In my mind, I had it under control. I have tried to explain to my parents but they can’t understand it. I’m too young to be depressed, they said. Their prognosis was stress, the easiest option to live with. I tried a long vacation but after a day or two of excitement in one city, the sadness returned so I cut my trip short. Their next solution was to go out more often and make new friends. How can I make new friends, when I am not confident in what I have to offer? I get claustrophobic and I want to hide in my room. It’s where I feel the safest. Even though I am aware it means digging a deeper hole into the world of reclusion, I feel better in that moment. I can handle the silence and the dark, but not life when everyone else seems to be going on well. I feel more alone that ever, like I’m the only one acknowledging the trivialities of this world.
Suicide has crossed my mind several times but I’m not that bold. At first I felt ashamed even thinking of it; Nigerians don’t think about things like that, we know better. But do we? Does race or culture really have anything to do with survival with regards to depression? I confess, I can relate to those that actually go through with it. Some people think they are cowards or selfish, but they don’t have to deal with the pain we go through. One day is unbearable enough. Thinking of forty years in this same dark hole is torture.
I am slowly losing those who are dear to me and I’m no use to those that look up to me. My cousin watches me and I see her concern. She’s the only other person I have because we are the only kids from our parents. She knows me so well. She notices I am struggling but she doesn’t know how to help. I wish I could give her some satisfaction by fixing myself, but I don’t know how or where to start. My boyfriend finally got frustrated and left. He tried so hard to make me happy but nothing seemed to work. I’d dump me too if I were him: my moodiness, my sporadic tears, my alcohol addiction, my compulsive behavior and my gluttony. It all got the best of him. I was dragging him down the hole with me, but he wasn't having it. I almost envy him because he could walk away from the situation. I try to do that. Just get up and forget I am depressed but it’s impossible. I can’t stop the pain.
I have tried denial and my parents have tried secrecy. I’m scared of where it is leading me because it gets harder to bear. Some days are better than others, and in those days I pray the satisfaction carries over to the next day, but it always wears off too fast. I still hope that one day, just as Mohammed walked away from me, my "daymares" will end. Until then, I will keep waking up to find out which hand I was dealt: if its the lonely day of drawn window curtains or the day I’m bold enough to venture out of my prison. This daily struggle is the life I live. This is my reality.
Today I am 25 and I am depressed. It’s hard to know for sure how I got here, but I know I’m here. At first I thought I was sick because of the pain, but the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. After the second check-up with the pain still recurring, the doctor suggested I was either highly stressed or depressed. I laughed then because it all seemed too bizarre, depression that is. I knew I was stressed but I couldn’t possibly be depressed. I was wrong. Now, I’m battling this disease that has walked into my home and is making no attempt to leave.
I have always had very high expectations in life. What I didn’t know was where it would lead me or just how dissatisfied I was with my life. In my mind, I had it under control. I have tried to explain to my parents but they can’t understand it. I’m too young to be depressed, they said. Their prognosis was stress, the easiest option to live with. I tried a long vacation but after a day or two of excitement in one city, the sadness returned so I cut my trip short. Their next solution was to go out more often and make new friends. How can I make new friends, when I am not confident in what I have to offer? I get claustrophobic and I want to hide in my room. It’s where I feel the safest. Even though I am aware it means digging a deeper hole into the world of reclusion, I feel better in that moment. I can handle the silence and the dark, but not life when everyone else seems to be going on well. I feel more alone that ever, like I’m the only one acknowledging the trivialities of this world.
Suicide has crossed my mind several times but I’m not that bold. At first I felt ashamed even thinking of it; Nigerians don’t think about things like that, we know better. But do we? Does race or culture really have anything to do with survival with regards to depression? I confess, I can relate to those that actually go through with it. Some people think they are cowards or selfish, but they don’t have to deal with the pain we go through. One day is unbearable enough. Thinking of forty years in this same dark hole is torture.
I am slowly losing those who are dear to me and I’m no use to those that look up to me. My cousin watches me and I see her concern. She’s the only other person I have because we are the only kids from our parents. She knows me so well. She notices I am struggling but she doesn’t know how to help. I wish I could give her some satisfaction by fixing myself, but I don’t know how or where to start. My boyfriend finally got frustrated and left. He tried so hard to make me happy but nothing seemed to work. I’d dump me too if I were him: my moodiness, my sporadic tears, my alcohol addiction, my compulsive behavior and my gluttony. It all got the best of him. I was dragging him down the hole with me, but he wasn't having it. I almost envy him because he could walk away from the situation. I try to do that. Just get up and forget I am depressed but it’s impossible. I can’t stop the pain.
I have tried denial and my parents have tried secrecy. I’m scared of where it is leading me because it gets harder to bear. Some days are better than others, and in those days I pray the satisfaction carries over to the next day, but it always wears off too fast. I still hope that one day, just as Mohammed walked away from me, my "daymares" will end. Until then, I will keep waking up to find out which hand I was dealt: if its the lonely day of drawn window curtains or the day I’m bold enough to venture out of my prison. This daily struggle is the life I live. This is my reality.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
I am 13...I knew it was wrong.
I am me, I am you, I am he, I am she, I am all of us; people. I change with the news, with the times, with my friends, with the trends, with your experiences and with mine…
Today I am 13 and my Uncle molests me. It started when I was 12 but I didn’t know what to do because he is Mummy’s younger brother. I tried to tell Mummy but I didn’t know how to tell her. Mummy and Uncle Daisi are very close. They talk everyday and go out together. He helps Mummy in the shop so he stays with us. Every time I tell him to stop, he says he would beat me if I talk. At first he just held be down but now he gets angry when I try to struggle. I have seen uncle very angry before. He is very scary. I didn’t know what he was doing when he started, but I knew it was wrong.
The first time it happened, Mummy sent me to the kitchen to get Maltina from the fridge. Uncle was just coming home when I entered the kitchen. I was so happy to see Uncle so I ran to give him a big hug like I always do. He smelled like Daddy after his favorite drink: Coca Cola and Guinness. His eyes were red just like he had been crying, but he was smiling and walking funny. He carried me up and put me on his lap. He said, “Give your uncle a BIIIGGG kiss”, so I kissed him on his cheek. He said, “Just one! How can you give your Uncle Daisi just one kiss”? I was giggling. “Give your Uncle another BIG BIG BIG kiss”! So, I kissed him on his other cheek and stuck out my tongue to make a funny face. I tried to leave Uncle’s lap to get the maltina, but he held me tight. His face had changed now and his hands were moving from my waist to my stomach. I thought he was playing so I started to laugh and play fight, but his face was still serious. I was getting scared. I had never seen Uncle’s face like this before. So I said, “Uncle, I have to get Mummy’s Maltina o”. He said, “You’ll get it after. Wait”. So I waited. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how. He was my Big Uncle.
Uncle started rubbing my back with his left hand, then my legs with his right hand. His hand started moving up my legs then under my dress. I wanted to tell him to stop but how can I tell Big Uncle to stop? Mummy said it is rude to talk back to people older than you or to tell them they are wrong. I knew Uncle was wrong but I could not tell him. So, I just put my hands on my lap. I was shaking. My eyes were getting hot. I can’t cry. I am a big girl. His hand started moving up and up till it reached my pant. I tried to get up again but he pushed me down. He was too strong. I said, “Mummy sent me. She’s waiting for her Maltina”. His left hand stopped rubbing my back and he held me tighter. He said, “Just wait, it’s a game. You’ll like it”. Then he started touching me there. I started crying. I didn’t know what to do because it felt funny. His eyes were closing and he was kissing my neck. I started feeling something hard on my bum-bum, and Uncle was breathing fast. I don’t like this game. I was pulling my dress down and crying, “Uncle please, let me go. Mummy’s Maltina, please”. He didn’t hear me. He didn’t stop.
Mummy started calling me: “Kemi! Where is the Maltina I sent you to bring? Abi o ti sun lo ni? Oniranu omo kekere”! Uncle jumped up. I had to bring her Maltina but I didn’t want her to see me. Uncle walked to sink to wash his hands and gave me his white handkerchief to clean my face. I was ashamed. I kept smoothing my dress down with my left hand, and wiping my tears with my right hand. I didn’t like this new game at all. I don’t want to play it again. I didn’t like Uncle too for teaching me. I rushed to the fridge to get Mummy’s Maltina and left as fast as I could to meet Mummy. Just by looking at her fuming, I could not tell her.
Today I am 13 and my Uncle molests me. It started when I was 12 but I didn’t know what to do because he is Mummy’s younger brother. I tried to tell Mummy but I didn’t know how to tell her. Mummy and Uncle Daisi are very close. They talk everyday and go out together. He helps Mummy in the shop so he stays with us. Every time I tell him to stop, he says he would beat me if I talk. At first he just held be down but now he gets angry when I try to struggle. I have seen uncle very angry before. He is very scary. I didn’t know what he was doing when he started, but I knew it was wrong.
The first time it happened, Mummy sent me to the kitchen to get Maltina from the fridge. Uncle was just coming home when I entered the kitchen. I was so happy to see Uncle so I ran to give him a big hug like I always do. He smelled like Daddy after his favorite drink: Coca Cola and Guinness. His eyes were red just like he had been crying, but he was smiling and walking funny. He carried me up and put me on his lap. He said, “Give your uncle a BIIIGGG kiss”, so I kissed him on his cheek. He said, “Just one! How can you give your Uncle Daisi just one kiss”? I was giggling. “Give your Uncle another BIG BIG BIG kiss”! So, I kissed him on his other cheek and stuck out my tongue to make a funny face. I tried to leave Uncle’s lap to get the maltina, but he held me tight. His face had changed now and his hands were moving from my waist to my stomach. I thought he was playing so I started to laugh and play fight, but his face was still serious. I was getting scared. I had never seen Uncle’s face like this before. So I said, “Uncle, I have to get Mummy’s Maltina o”. He said, “You’ll get it after. Wait”. So I waited. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how. He was my Big Uncle.
Uncle started rubbing my back with his left hand, then my legs with his right hand. His hand started moving up my legs then under my dress. I wanted to tell him to stop but how can I tell Big Uncle to stop? Mummy said it is rude to talk back to people older than you or to tell them they are wrong. I knew Uncle was wrong but I could not tell him. So, I just put my hands on my lap. I was shaking. My eyes were getting hot. I can’t cry. I am a big girl. His hand started moving up and up till it reached my pant. I tried to get up again but he pushed me down. He was too strong. I said, “Mummy sent me. She’s waiting for her Maltina”. His left hand stopped rubbing my back and he held me tighter. He said, “Just wait, it’s a game. You’ll like it”. Then he started touching me there. I started crying. I didn’t know what to do because it felt funny. His eyes were closing and he was kissing my neck. I started feeling something hard on my bum-bum, and Uncle was breathing fast. I don’t like this game. I was pulling my dress down and crying, “Uncle please, let me go. Mummy’s Maltina, please”. He didn’t hear me. He didn’t stop.
Mummy started calling me: “Kemi! Where is the Maltina I sent you to bring? Abi o ti sun lo ni? Oniranu omo kekere”! Uncle jumped up. I had to bring her Maltina but I didn’t want her to see me. Uncle walked to sink to wash his hands and gave me his white handkerchief to clean my face. I was ashamed. I kept smoothing my dress down with my left hand, and wiping my tears with my right hand. I didn’t like this new game at all. I don’t want to play it again. I didn’t like Uncle too for teaching me. I rushed to the fridge to get Mummy’s Maltina and left as fast as I could to meet Mummy. Just by looking at her fuming, I could not tell her.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
28 and unmarried...
I am me, I am you, I am he, I am she, I am all of us; people. I change with the news, with the times, with my friends, with the trends, with your experiences and with mine…
Today, I’m 28 and I’m not married. I’m a Nigerian woman, so you can imagine my parents are worried my ovaries will rot. 28 and unmarried? Now, that’s just a taboo. I’m not necessarily the prettiest girl on the block, but I can hold my own in a room full of girls. I mean I have seen ugly girls get married… no offense. I work hard. Very hard. Sometimes I think a little too hard for me to have a “Real Life”, whatever that means. What drives me? I don’t know. The easiest thing to say is the need to succeed, but the more I think about it, its more than that. The hardest thing to admit is I’m afraid. I’m afraid of not being comfortable because it is all I’ve known. They say fear is the biggest motivator so that could very well be the drive.
I work in a little private bank in Switzerland. I am convinced I can find love here. I think I can but I have limits. My parents want a Nigerian man. I want a Nigerian man. They will have nothing less. I could have something less… but I don’t want to. They know what they want down to the tribe, like picking a good guy is not hard enough. Ahh… I guess I don’t mind much. I do have moments where I think of these “oyinbo” men as options but it is hard. I want someone that speaks my language, understands my culture and isn’t too embarrassed to eat Isiewu with his hands. The hard part of it all is I also want someone that would cook the Isiewu with me, tuck me into bed, and be a little more communicative than I’ve experienced Nigerian men to be. Finding that Nigerian man is a job in itself, and the one I have is stressful enough. Now, I’m definitely not saying they don’t exist. I am only admitting they are few and far between. Nod if you agree. So, I’m in a predicament: I love my Nigerian men, but I hate my Nigerian men. Okay, so maybe hate is a strong word, but I’ll let it sit a while.
I get paid very well, so I’m very comfortable. I guess I shouldn’t be afraid anymore, but who ever said human beings are ever satisfied when they achieve a milestone. They just want the next. When you get money, you want gold. When you get gold, you want diamonds: although I’m not sure how many Africans are so eager to buy diamonds after the Scorsese movie, “Blood Diamond”. Deep. Well, I am comfortable enough so I go home a lot. Okay so maybe not enough but for now every other year works for me. I stay connected and grounded. I see my grandparents and my old friends. After my 25th birthday, each trip became more and more bizarre. The “blind dates” and spontaneous match making fiascos couldn’t get any MORE bizarre. I try not to be rude because my parents are very old-fashioned and sensitive about the situation. They want grandchildren and I’m not giving them. But how many blind dates could you possibly go on before you wish you were actually blind. My last trip home I went on five dates in 3 days; that’s more than I can do in a year when I really set my mind to it. I don’t know how they do it but my mother definitely gets the ball rolling. It always starts something like this:
“Mr. Okogie’s son is a fantastic boy. He graduated from Harvard Business School with Summa Cum Laude and works for Merrill Lynch here in Lagos. Very handsome boy. He’s coming to pick you up later today so get ready! And put make-up o.”
Or
“Ah have you seen Robert Emekalu. He’s now a big boy in Lagos o. I saw him driving the new SLK and he’s the top oga at First Bank. Hmmm… why don’t you call him Ehn?!?”
I think the last straw for me was when my grandmother started recommending men. She looked me dead in the eyes; arms folded, with a desperate look on her face, O gini?
Great! Now even Mama thinks I have no hope. Sigh. I hate the pressure. I don’t want to bend but I have to say it is getting to me. Are my standards too high or am I just being plain condescending to my “suitors”? The few I get. I recognize I am getting older. But I’m not that old am I? Well, my boobs are starting to sag a little. Thank God there is plastic surgery, they’ll never know. I don’t know…. Maybe a little compromise wouldn’t hurt anyone. I just don’t want to regret my compromise down the line. You know when they say, “He’s your husband, never raise your voice!” Or “Deal with your problems at home, no one else needs to know.” Or “Yes, he has a mistress. So? At least you're the one at home.” These are the men accosting me. I just sense their conservativeness. I’m afraid that’s what I’ll end up with 25years down the line. That word again. I’m afraid. What can I say, I’m a Y2K woman barricaded in this weird world I find myself in because of obligations to family and expectations of culture. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing but it’s definitely hard to navigate through successfully. Maybe when I’m 29, my luck will kick in. Sadly, it also means I'll be one year closer to 30. I hope I’m doing the right thing.
Today, I’m 28 and I’m not married. I’m a Nigerian woman, so you can imagine my parents are worried my ovaries will rot. 28 and unmarried? Now, that’s just a taboo. I’m not necessarily the prettiest girl on the block, but I can hold my own in a room full of girls. I mean I have seen ugly girls get married… no offense. I work hard. Very hard. Sometimes I think a little too hard for me to have a “Real Life”, whatever that means. What drives me? I don’t know. The easiest thing to say is the need to succeed, but the more I think about it, its more than that. The hardest thing to admit is I’m afraid. I’m afraid of not being comfortable because it is all I’ve known. They say fear is the biggest motivator so that could very well be the drive.
I work in a little private bank in Switzerland. I am convinced I can find love here. I think I can but I have limits. My parents want a Nigerian man. I want a Nigerian man. They will have nothing less. I could have something less… but I don’t want to. They know what they want down to the tribe, like picking a good guy is not hard enough. Ahh… I guess I don’t mind much. I do have moments where I think of these “oyinbo” men as options but it is hard. I want someone that speaks my language, understands my culture and isn’t too embarrassed to eat Isiewu with his hands. The hard part of it all is I also want someone that would cook the Isiewu with me, tuck me into bed, and be a little more communicative than I’ve experienced Nigerian men to be. Finding that Nigerian man is a job in itself, and the one I have is stressful enough. Now, I’m definitely not saying they don’t exist. I am only admitting they are few and far between. Nod if you agree. So, I’m in a predicament: I love my Nigerian men, but I hate my Nigerian men. Okay, so maybe hate is a strong word, but I’ll let it sit a while.
I get paid very well, so I’m very comfortable. I guess I shouldn’t be afraid anymore, but who ever said human beings are ever satisfied when they achieve a milestone. They just want the next. When you get money, you want gold. When you get gold, you want diamonds: although I’m not sure how many Africans are so eager to buy diamonds after the Scorsese movie, “Blood Diamond”. Deep. Well, I am comfortable enough so I go home a lot. Okay so maybe not enough but for now every other year works for me. I stay connected and grounded. I see my grandparents and my old friends. After my 25th birthday, each trip became more and more bizarre. The “blind dates” and spontaneous match making fiascos couldn’t get any MORE bizarre. I try not to be rude because my parents are very old-fashioned and sensitive about the situation. They want grandchildren and I’m not giving them. But how many blind dates could you possibly go on before you wish you were actually blind. My last trip home I went on five dates in 3 days; that’s more than I can do in a year when I really set my mind to it. I don’t know how they do it but my mother definitely gets the ball rolling. It always starts something like this:
“Mr. Okogie’s son is a fantastic boy. He graduated from Harvard Business School with Summa Cum Laude and works for Merrill Lynch here in Lagos. Very handsome boy. He’s coming to pick you up later today so get ready! And put make-up o.”
Or
“Ah have you seen Robert Emekalu. He’s now a big boy in Lagos o. I saw him driving the new SLK and he’s the top oga at First Bank. Hmmm… why don’t you call him Ehn?!?”
I think the last straw for me was when my grandmother started recommending men. She looked me dead in the eyes; arms folded, with a desperate look on her face, O gini?
Great! Now even Mama thinks I have no hope. Sigh. I hate the pressure. I don’t want to bend but I have to say it is getting to me. Are my standards too high or am I just being plain condescending to my “suitors”? The few I get. I recognize I am getting older. But I’m not that old am I? Well, my boobs are starting to sag a little. Thank God there is plastic surgery, they’ll never know. I don’t know…. Maybe a little compromise wouldn’t hurt anyone. I just don’t want to regret my compromise down the line. You know when they say, “He’s your husband, never raise your voice!” Or “Deal with your problems at home, no one else needs to know.” Or “Yes, he has a mistress. So? At least you're the one at home.” These are the men accosting me. I just sense their conservativeness. I’m afraid that’s what I’ll end up with 25years down the line. That word again. I’m afraid. What can I say, I’m a Y2K woman barricaded in this weird world I find myself in because of obligations to family and expectations of culture. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing but it’s definitely hard to navigate through successfully. Maybe when I’m 29, my luck will kick in. Sadly, it also means I'll be one year closer to 30. I hope I’m doing the right thing.
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