No, I am not talking about love (though that would be good), or money (even better), or fame and wealth (oh, best), but what I am actually talking about is what none of you will see coming. I’m talking about the greatest feeling ever…I’m talking about having the power to get rid of your frustration. I’m talking about having the physical and mental ability to expose a portal from which your burden and frustration can be let out. To be more specific, I am talking about shitting. Yeap, that’s what I’m talking about.
What is it about shitting that has you feeling like a new person at the end of it? You go into a room (also known as the bathroom or the toilet), sit on a commode, expose this bizarre portal (also known as your anus) and before you know it, some slices, or tubers, or pieces (whatever you decide to call them) come sliding out. You sit there and just push and push and have all kinds of grimaces on your face; so much that if one did not know what you were actually doing, he or she would think you’re having an orgasm.
Bathroom time for me is a very sacred time. I go in there, relax and let all my troubles unwind (physically and mentally). I even have magazines to entertain myself while I’m in there handling my business. Most times, I do not read the magazines though, so I take a novel in there with me, and I also take any other thing I may need while I’m having my private spa.
I’m talking about things like the cordless phone, cell phone, earpiece, etc. I have recently upgraded to also taking my laptop in (with cords and all); after all, I do have to check my mails…right? If we are in the winter, I might take a cup of hot cappuccino. But when the brutal heat of summer rolls around, I might take a popsicle or two to cool me off while I’m working out (you know it’s a workout trying to squeeze the slices out, right?). Oh, and let’s not forget my lip gloss. One’s lips can get awfully chapped after working out for a long time.
There is something so fascinating about one’s own shit that you never feel like it stinks. In fact, you think it is the best smelling shit ever (if there is such a thing). I mean, I can talk, eat and do any thing at all while I’m shitting, and I will relish every breath I take of my shit, but when it is someone else’s shit, I would not even dare go close to that place because it stinks! My shit smells so good that I do not even feel the need to spray an air freshener when I’m done. If anything, I will go back a few minutes later just to get one last sniff before it completely dissipates. Oh, the joy I feel!
The smart people (also known as scientists) who came up with the theory of matter coming in three states (solid, liquid and gas) are very smart people indeed! Think of it; shit is solid, urine is liquid, and fart is gas. Brilliant! I find it very astounding that you can get rid of your excess luggage in three different states. I am yet to decide which one is my favorite one; they all seem to do miracles to my comfort level.
I do not know what kind of people you have in your life, but I think I have the weirdest people in mine. Whenever my father farts (which he does very often and quite loudly too), he demands that we hail him…and even clap for him. Every time he farts, we have to say, “Ogbuefi!” And then he answers. My mother on the other hand feels the need to describe to me in details, the fine points of her shit. It might have been long, maybe watery, or just plain ol’ hard. Till date, the only air freshener that has been mildly able to tackle the foul odor of my mother’s shit is Febreeze. As for my father’s shit, I do not think it can ever be tackled. It is one of those things we leave up to God, and hope that He will not let us down.
My friend, Funmi learnt the bitter lesson of one-flush-per-shit after she foolishly filled her toilet with long, hard shit. Can you guess what happened? Yeap, the toilet got clogged up by shit. Do not ask me who had to plunge it; she might not want that information disclosed, although I am tempted to do so. But imagine what the person had to go through; I mean, seriously, how cruel was that? Needless to say, she has never repeated such a careless mistake.
Now, what is it that makes shit so personal and private? Nobody ever wants to shit in someone’s house…unless it’s a very close friend or family, of course. What would you do if you are in the house of a new romantic interest and the urge suddenly comes? I’ll tell you what I do when I’m in a house where I do not wish the stench of my shit (however pleasant) to be smelt. I try to cover the whole commode with my butt and thighs, so that the stench does not escape, and then as soon as the shit enters the water, I flush, and wait for the next arrival. Brilliant, huh? Of course, I do not guarantee that this will work on your shit; stenches of shit do come in different flavors, you know?
The feeling of releasing a fart is absolutely phenomenal! There is an ah moment that comes after one is released into the world. It is a feeling of liberation! It feels so great to release one of your own naturally-made tear gas into the world to do some mass damage to some bad, bad people. It is quite unfortunate we cannot see it because I would love to see it dissipate and sleekly go up people’s noses. The vile looks on their faces would give me all the joy I need.
My lovely aunt, whose name I will not mention in order to spare her the shame, is always talking about the special shit she shits. It is the one where you take off your pants/skirt and underwear completely because you need the space to spread your legs apart. And while shitting, you have to put both hands on your head. I guess you must be going through an Oh-thank-you-Lord-for-this-miracle phase. Did I mention she has her eyes closed and her mouth open? Go figure!
It goes without saying that I have never said shit so many times in one write-up. It is even more interesting that I do not mean it in a bad way. Now that I think about it, how did shit even become a bad word? This is something that I have to investigate; I do not know how constructive this research will be, of course, but I will find out once I am done – if my interest in said research lasts long enough. Somehow, I doubt it.
As I end this baby, I can think of only one person who finds shit and all its components to be rather interesting. Do you?
Comments are generously welcome
verastic@yahoo.com
http://verastic.blogspot.com/
http://veraezimora.blogspot.com/
443-834-7374
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Sunday, August 05, 2007
When I Became A Woman
The older I get, the more I realize just how much I have to learn. But this article is not about mental maturity; this is about physical maturity, if you will call it that.
When I was in elementary and secondary school in Nigeria, I always thought I was grown and sexy. In fact, I could have sworn I was grown and sexy. The boys in my school always liked me; I was not that light-skinned, but they called me ‘yellow paw-paw’, and the young men on my street assumed my name was ‘Chi Chi’ because in their limited minds, only Igbo girls were light-skinned. It flattered me then, but I now realize it was ignorance on their part and mine. When I was in JSS2, my French teacher told me he thought I was a little Chinese; apparently, I have ‘Chinese eyes’. To be politically correct, this would be called ‘Asian eyes’. I thought he was crazy for thinking I was a little Chinese, but when I came to the States, a few people said I had ‘slanted eyes’, and therefore hinted a little bit of Asian blood. Well, I have asked my mother, and she is quite sure that neither she nor my father has any Asian blood in them. Furthermore, she is also very sure that my father is my actual father.
So I was pretty much at the top of the ‘grown and sexy’ list even though I was only about 10, and I put myself at the top of that list. No need to discuss that I had no clue what sexy meant; if I did, I could have sworn it was a dirty word. Everything was great. Life was great. I was sexy. Life was sexy. I remember how I always used to wear a ‘shimmy’ under everything I wore. Thinking back on it now, I do not know why every woman in Nigeria felt the need to do so. But I have to say that I wore the heck out of them. I had the ‘long shimmy’, the ‘half shimmy’ (otherwise known as under skirts), and the ‘singlet (also known as vests)’. My favorite was my white mini long shimmy; it stopped right above my knees. Every time I came back from school, I would take my school uniform off and walk around in the shimmy.
My God, I was on fire! I was so hot that you could have fried a crispy chicken on me, and still had to use a fire extinguisher. Yes, I was that hot – or so I thought. Everything was going great. Every day, I would put on my blue school uniform, sparkling white socks (which were now looking blue because I soaked them in ‘blue’ the previous night. Remember ‘blue’?), and shining brown sandals (which my aunt sent from America, so you know that even increased my hotness level), and I would match out the door feeling too hot for my own good. Sure, I had to trek to my friend’s house to catch a ride, but I was still hot. As far as I was concerned, that only gave me ten extra minutes to show a few extra people just how hot I was.
I thought I had it all until things suddenly changed. Without notice, I became the bottom of the food chain. What happened, you wonder? I’ll tell you what happened. My friends started growing peanut-sized lumps on their chests and I did not! Do you know how humiliating that was? Night after night, I cried and begged God for breasts. I told him to give me a little, just a little bit! I had absolutely no breast at all; I did not even have enough to qualify for a training bra! My friends complained that their ‘lumps’ hurt and itched, so I too started pretending that my invisible lumps hurt and itched. I would kneel beside my bed, praying and crying to God for breasts. I made all sorts of promises, if only He would give me lumps! I would never lie again. I would never insult my class mate. I would never cheat in a test. I would never use markers to draw on Ngozi, the house help’s face while she slept. I even fasted for lumps!
Just when my lumps started showing and I thought I was back at the top of the list, something else knocked me off. One day, my best friend, Uchenna came to school feeling down. All day, she had her head on her desk, not really talking to anyone. Finally, she revealed the reason for her downcast attitude.
“It came yesterday.” She said to me.
Confused, I asked, “What came?”
“My menses. And I’m having cramps.” She whispered. I neither know why she whispered or why we called it ‘menses’. Today, I will gladly tell anyone and everyone about my monthly visitor, Ms. Flow.
“Cramps?” I asked her. I had no idea what cramps were. Uchenna, on the other hand, knew everything because she had two older sisters while I had none.
I am ashamed to say this, but I was green with envy. I knew that almost all of my class mates had been getting their ‘menses’, but it did not hit home until my own best friend started seeing hers, and mine was no where to be found. I asked her what the pain felt like, but she could not really describe it. She just wanted it to stop. That night, I was back on my knees, praying, crying, begging, and promising to keep all the promises I failed to keep earlier. Did I mention I was fourteen by this time? I fasted some more too. Everyday, I eagerly ran to the bathroom and pulled my underwear down, hoping for at least one spot of blood. I even bought a pack of Simple Sanitary Pads. Remember Simple? It came in a bright yellow pack. I only wanted it because my favorite aunt who was now married and living in America used to use it when she lived with us – although I had no clue that it was for blood.
Can you imagine how betrayed I felt by God when I found out that my friend, Isabella whom I was fourteen whole months older than not only had much bigger breasts, but also had her ‘menses’? Isabella, on the other hand used Always pads, which I experimented with a few times – even though I had no ‘leakage’. I prayed for my ‘menses’ and everything that came with it. Yes, I also prayed for the cramps. Without my ‘menses’, I did not feel complete; I did not feel like a woman. It did not help that I was round and had low cut hair – not that I’m no longer round, but my hair is long now.
I was fifteen when one day…voila! A drop of red appeared. I was so excited that I could have had a seizure. So off I went to put on a Simple sanitary pad. As soon as I put it on, I sat on the porch outside my house, feeling accomplished and complete. I had done it all. I was now officially a WOMAN. I sat down confidently with one leg crossed over the other, chin held up high, and there was no stopping me now. I waited a few hours to go and change the pad; I was sure it would be full and almost pouring out by then, but to my greatest surprise, there was nothing! I cried. And cried. And cried some more. The next day came, and there was still nothing. Where did my drop go? My mother explained to me that it was not ‘regular’ yet. Ms. Flow disappeared until I was sixteen when she reappeared and has continued to do so every twenty-four days.
These were the big stumbling blocks I faced in becoming a woman. The little stumbling block was being teased for having too little hair. I am not a hairy person, so if I shave my underarms, the amount of hair that will be there after a month would probably be as long as the one a regular person has kept for only a week. I used to think it was a problem. Now, I am grateful for it. But once upon a time, I begged God to give me more hair. And do not get me started on begging for pimples. That is a story for another day.
After all has been said and done, I now realize that Ms. Flow did not make me a woman. She only made me fertile. Everyday, I realize that the day before, I knew less, and as I grow, I continue to learn. I am a woman today – I think. But tomorrow, I will be more woman than I am today. Needless to say, I no longer beg, pray, or cry, or fast for lumps, hair, pimples, and Ms. Flow. But I especially do not ask for any shape or form of cramps. Been there. Done that. Do not ever want to go back there.
When I was in elementary and secondary school in Nigeria, I always thought I was grown and sexy. In fact, I could have sworn I was grown and sexy. The boys in my school always liked me; I was not that light-skinned, but they called me ‘yellow paw-paw’, and the young men on my street assumed my name was ‘Chi Chi’ because in their limited minds, only Igbo girls were light-skinned. It flattered me then, but I now realize it was ignorance on their part and mine. When I was in JSS2, my French teacher told me he thought I was a little Chinese; apparently, I have ‘Chinese eyes’. To be politically correct, this would be called ‘Asian eyes’. I thought he was crazy for thinking I was a little Chinese, but when I came to the States, a few people said I had ‘slanted eyes’, and therefore hinted a little bit of Asian blood. Well, I have asked my mother, and she is quite sure that neither she nor my father has any Asian blood in them. Furthermore, she is also very sure that my father is my actual father.
So I was pretty much at the top of the ‘grown and sexy’ list even though I was only about 10, and I put myself at the top of that list. No need to discuss that I had no clue what sexy meant; if I did, I could have sworn it was a dirty word. Everything was great. Life was great. I was sexy. Life was sexy. I remember how I always used to wear a ‘shimmy’ under everything I wore. Thinking back on it now, I do not know why every woman in Nigeria felt the need to do so. But I have to say that I wore the heck out of them. I had the ‘long shimmy’, the ‘half shimmy’ (otherwise known as under skirts), and the ‘singlet (also known as vests)’. My favorite was my white mini long shimmy; it stopped right above my knees. Every time I came back from school, I would take my school uniform off and walk around in the shimmy.
My God, I was on fire! I was so hot that you could have fried a crispy chicken on me, and still had to use a fire extinguisher. Yes, I was that hot – or so I thought. Everything was going great. Every day, I would put on my blue school uniform, sparkling white socks (which were now looking blue because I soaked them in ‘blue’ the previous night. Remember ‘blue’?), and shining brown sandals (which my aunt sent from America, so you know that even increased my hotness level), and I would match out the door feeling too hot for my own good. Sure, I had to trek to my friend’s house to catch a ride, but I was still hot. As far as I was concerned, that only gave me ten extra minutes to show a few extra people just how hot I was.
I thought I had it all until things suddenly changed. Without notice, I became the bottom of the food chain. What happened, you wonder? I’ll tell you what happened. My friends started growing peanut-sized lumps on their chests and I did not! Do you know how humiliating that was? Night after night, I cried and begged God for breasts. I told him to give me a little, just a little bit! I had absolutely no breast at all; I did not even have enough to qualify for a training bra! My friends complained that their ‘lumps’ hurt and itched, so I too started pretending that my invisible lumps hurt and itched. I would kneel beside my bed, praying and crying to God for breasts. I made all sorts of promises, if only He would give me lumps! I would never lie again. I would never insult my class mate. I would never cheat in a test. I would never use markers to draw on Ngozi, the house help’s face while she slept. I even fasted for lumps!
Just when my lumps started showing and I thought I was back at the top of the list, something else knocked me off. One day, my best friend, Uchenna came to school feeling down. All day, she had her head on her desk, not really talking to anyone. Finally, she revealed the reason for her downcast attitude.
“It came yesterday.” She said to me.
Confused, I asked, “What came?”
“My menses. And I’m having cramps.” She whispered. I neither know why she whispered or why we called it ‘menses’. Today, I will gladly tell anyone and everyone about my monthly visitor, Ms. Flow.
“Cramps?” I asked her. I had no idea what cramps were. Uchenna, on the other hand, knew everything because she had two older sisters while I had none.
I am ashamed to say this, but I was green with envy. I knew that almost all of my class mates had been getting their ‘menses’, but it did not hit home until my own best friend started seeing hers, and mine was no where to be found. I asked her what the pain felt like, but she could not really describe it. She just wanted it to stop. That night, I was back on my knees, praying, crying, begging, and promising to keep all the promises I failed to keep earlier. Did I mention I was fourteen by this time? I fasted some more too. Everyday, I eagerly ran to the bathroom and pulled my underwear down, hoping for at least one spot of blood. I even bought a pack of Simple Sanitary Pads. Remember Simple? It came in a bright yellow pack. I only wanted it because my favorite aunt who was now married and living in America used to use it when she lived with us – although I had no clue that it was for blood.
Can you imagine how betrayed I felt by God when I found out that my friend, Isabella whom I was fourteen whole months older than not only had much bigger breasts, but also had her ‘menses’? Isabella, on the other hand used Always pads, which I experimented with a few times – even though I had no ‘leakage’. I prayed for my ‘menses’ and everything that came with it. Yes, I also prayed for the cramps. Without my ‘menses’, I did not feel complete; I did not feel like a woman. It did not help that I was round and had low cut hair – not that I’m no longer round, but my hair is long now.
I was fifteen when one day…voila! A drop of red appeared. I was so excited that I could have had a seizure. So off I went to put on a Simple sanitary pad. As soon as I put it on, I sat on the porch outside my house, feeling accomplished and complete. I had done it all. I was now officially a WOMAN. I sat down confidently with one leg crossed over the other, chin held up high, and there was no stopping me now. I waited a few hours to go and change the pad; I was sure it would be full and almost pouring out by then, but to my greatest surprise, there was nothing! I cried. And cried. And cried some more. The next day came, and there was still nothing. Where did my drop go? My mother explained to me that it was not ‘regular’ yet. Ms. Flow disappeared until I was sixteen when she reappeared and has continued to do so every twenty-four days.
These were the big stumbling blocks I faced in becoming a woman. The little stumbling block was being teased for having too little hair. I am not a hairy person, so if I shave my underarms, the amount of hair that will be there after a month would probably be as long as the one a regular person has kept for only a week. I used to think it was a problem. Now, I am grateful for it. But once upon a time, I begged God to give me more hair. And do not get me started on begging for pimples. That is a story for another day.
After all has been said and done, I now realize that Ms. Flow did not make me a woman. She only made me fertile. Everyday, I realize that the day before, I knew less, and as I grow, I continue to learn. I am a woman today – I think. But tomorrow, I will be more woman than I am today. Needless to say, I no longer beg, pray, or cry, or fast for lumps, hair, pimples, and Ms. Flow. But I especially do not ask for any shape or form of cramps. Been there. Done that. Do not ever want to go back there.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Blogging - The New Ebe Ano
If you have not heard, then hear it now: blogging is the new ebe ano. It is where we are o! For all those looking for a life partner, forget about what your mother, Aunty Buki, Uncle Paul, and Cousin Ngozi told you. Back in the day, you may have found your life partner in Church, at a wedding, or wherever else you have been directed to, but today, it is on the internet. No, no, not just any site on the internet, but in the world of blogging.
Blogging is such a big deal today that it has its own world; it’s called Blogville. The thing is just like AIDS: easy to catch, impossible to get rid of. It is spreading faster than wild fire in Winter. I did not find out about Blogville until the end of 2005. Before I discovered it, my Oyibo friend (who was aware of my writing) asked if I had a blog. Blog??? I had no clue what she was talking about. But then an online friend of mine directed me to her blog, and that was it o! I caught the virus too. I have been a loyal member since December of 2005.
When I started blogging, I was oblivious to the fact that there were other bloggers around. I just wrote whenever I felt like it, and for the most part, I never got any comments because nobody knew about me (just like I did not know about them). But little by little, my wings began to really grow, and I started leaving comments on people’s blogs. By doing that, they returned the favor. Most bloggers have a “Blogs I Read” list, which is usually ridiculously long, and I used to wonder how they got that long. Well, now I know!
My list keeps getting longer and longer, and it is not easy keeping up oh! How can it be easy to read countless posts in a day AND leave comments sef? Of course, people will also leave comments on my own blog, which I had to reply. Chei! Every time I have to add another link to my ‘Blogs I Read’ column, I have sweat beads forming on my forehead, and a secret silent prayer that this latest blogger of mine does not update everyday. Chineke biko o!
I am so into the whole blogging thing that when a recent Naija Blogger Awards was conducted, I won the ‘Blogger I Most Want To Meet’ category. Me ke? This is serious oh. I am tempted to make a speech, but I will spare you the horror. So now, I have something else to add to my résumé. Well, meeting my fellow bloggers would be great, but I just have one question: who is paying for this meeting?
Let me tell you, there are allll sorts of people residing in Blogville. A lot of people choose to be anonymous because they want to disclose information that they would not be otherwise disclosing. I thought about being anonymous, but I could not handle the risk of being caught. How would I explain what I wrote? So I decided to be open; at least that way, I can foresee any incoming wahala. Some anonymous bloggers do get discovered (I have even discovered some myself), and after that, a lot of them choose to “come out of the closet”.
There are people who blog about their life, there are people who are there to inspire others – spiritually, that is. There are blogs about relationships, work, sexcapades, God, friends, fashion, entertainment, etc. You name it, they got it! If it is not in Blogville, then I can guarantee you cannot get it anywhere else. As for me, I blog about my life. I have a vow on my blog to tell the truth, and nothing but the whole truth, albeit, I do not promise to tell the whole story. Considering the fact that I have my actual name and last name on my blog, it is only fair that I save some information now. I should not be spreading all my dirty laundry outside, abi how you take see am?
Internet dating is out; blog-dating is in. Forget messengers too; nobody does them anymore. Now, all you have to do is sit in front of your computer screen, read all you care to read about a person, and believe what you want to believe. Whatever you choose to do after that is at your own risk. Whatever and whoever you are looking for, you’ve got them in Blogville.
There are all sorts of Nigerians; people that you may not have crossed path with in the real world. You’ll laugh, you might cry, you’ll get inspired, you’ll get nauseated, you’ll get turned on, you’ll broaden your thinking, you might narrow it too, you’ll get curious, you’ll be mystified, you’ll make new friends, you might make new enemies too, you’ll find old friends, and you’ll find friends you did not wish to ever find. You might find an ex-lover, or make a new one. You might ‘discover’ you’re homosexual, metro sexual, bisexual, bicurious, homophobic, a drag queen…or just good ol’ heterosexual.
You might ‘discover’ you’re bipolar, a nymphomaniac, a narcissist, an addict, an overeater, a sadist, a sociopath, a nudist, or you might just discover that that thing you do in the night when everyone has gone to bed is abnormal. Go figure. So if you’re still doing some soul searching, Blogville might just be the place for you. Think about the fact that you can do it anonymously; great huh?
So what have I discovered since I bought my house in Blogville? Nothing that I did not know already. I’m still heterosexual, I’m still sweet (if I do say so myself), I’m still not attracted to metro sexuals, I’m still a little bit of a clean freak, I’m still trying to experience romantic love in a romantic way, and I’m still trying to find my own corner in this big, bad world we live in today. I have however learnt to accept people for what they are; it does not mean I have to condone their lifestyle, but rather leave judgment up to God. Besides, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right?
In case you’re wondering what it is that I blog about exactly, well then, I guess you will just have to find out on your own, wouldn’t you? http://verastic.blogspot.com My intention was to end this baby by mentioning a few blogs I love, but I realized there are just too many of them. So if you do take the time out to check out my blog (which I’m hoping you do), then do check out my ‘Blogs I Read’ column. I believe you will be pleasantly surprised!
Until next time, adios!
DISCLAIMER: I am not responsible for whatever happens between you and any blogger, and neither am I responsible for your possible addiction to Blogville.
E-mails/comments are generously encouraged
verastic@yahoo.com
Blogging is such a big deal today that it has its own world; it’s called Blogville. The thing is just like AIDS: easy to catch, impossible to get rid of. It is spreading faster than wild fire in Winter. I did not find out about Blogville until the end of 2005. Before I discovered it, my Oyibo friend (who was aware of my writing) asked if I had a blog. Blog??? I had no clue what she was talking about. But then an online friend of mine directed me to her blog, and that was it o! I caught the virus too. I have been a loyal member since December of 2005.
When I started blogging, I was oblivious to the fact that there were other bloggers around. I just wrote whenever I felt like it, and for the most part, I never got any comments because nobody knew about me (just like I did not know about them). But little by little, my wings began to really grow, and I started leaving comments on people’s blogs. By doing that, they returned the favor. Most bloggers have a “Blogs I Read” list, which is usually ridiculously long, and I used to wonder how they got that long. Well, now I know!
My list keeps getting longer and longer, and it is not easy keeping up oh! How can it be easy to read countless posts in a day AND leave comments sef? Of course, people will also leave comments on my own blog, which I had to reply. Chei! Every time I have to add another link to my ‘Blogs I Read’ column, I have sweat beads forming on my forehead, and a secret silent prayer that this latest blogger of mine does not update everyday. Chineke biko o!
I am so into the whole blogging thing that when a recent Naija Blogger Awards was conducted, I won the ‘Blogger I Most Want To Meet’ category. Me ke? This is serious oh. I am tempted to make a speech, but I will spare you the horror. So now, I have something else to add to my résumé. Well, meeting my fellow bloggers would be great, but I just have one question: who is paying for this meeting?
Let me tell you, there are allll sorts of people residing in Blogville. A lot of people choose to be anonymous because they want to disclose information that they would not be otherwise disclosing. I thought about being anonymous, but I could not handle the risk of being caught. How would I explain what I wrote? So I decided to be open; at least that way, I can foresee any incoming wahala. Some anonymous bloggers do get discovered (I have even discovered some myself), and after that, a lot of them choose to “come out of the closet”.
There are people who blog about their life, there are people who are there to inspire others – spiritually, that is. There are blogs about relationships, work, sexcapades, God, friends, fashion, entertainment, etc. You name it, they got it! If it is not in Blogville, then I can guarantee you cannot get it anywhere else. As for me, I blog about my life. I have a vow on my blog to tell the truth, and nothing but the whole truth, albeit, I do not promise to tell the whole story. Considering the fact that I have my actual name and last name on my blog, it is only fair that I save some information now. I should not be spreading all my dirty laundry outside, abi how you take see am?
Internet dating is out; blog-dating is in. Forget messengers too; nobody does them anymore. Now, all you have to do is sit in front of your computer screen, read all you care to read about a person, and believe what you want to believe. Whatever you choose to do after that is at your own risk. Whatever and whoever you are looking for, you’ve got them in Blogville.
There are all sorts of Nigerians; people that you may not have crossed path with in the real world. You’ll laugh, you might cry, you’ll get inspired, you’ll get nauseated, you’ll get turned on, you’ll broaden your thinking, you might narrow it too, you’ll get curious, you’ll be mystified, you’ll make new friends, you might make new enemies too, you’ll find old friends, and you’ll find friends you did not wish to ever find. You might find an ex-lover, or make a new one. You might ‘discover’ you’re homosexual, metro sexual, bisexual, bicurious, homophobic, a drag queen…or just good ol’ heterosexual.
You might ‘discover’ you’re bipolar, a nymphomaniac, a narcissist, an addict, an overeater, a sadist, a sociopath, a nudist, or you might just discover that that thing you do in the night when everyone has gone to bed is abnormal. Go figure. So if you’re still doing some soul searching, Blogville might just be the place for you. Think about the fact that you can do it anonymously; great huh?
So what have I discovered since I bought my house in Blogville? Nothing that I did not know already. I’m still heterosexual, I’m still sweet (if I do say so myself), I’m still not attracted to metro sexuals, I’m still a little bit of a clean freak, I’m still trying to experience romantic love in a romantic way, and I’m still trying to find my own corner in this big, bad world we live in today. I have however learnt to accept people for what they are; it does not mean I have to condone their lifestyle, but rather leave judgment up to God. Besides, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right?
In case you’re wondering what it is that I blog about exactly, well then, I guess you will just have to find out on your own, wouldn’t you? http://verastic.blogspot.com My intention was to end this baby by mentioning a few blogs I love, but I realized there are just too many of them. So if you do take the time out to check out my blog (which I’m hoping you do), then do check out my ‘Blogs I Read’ column. I believe you will be pleasantly surprised!
Until next time, adios!
DISCLAIMER: I am not responsible for whatever happens between you and any blogger, and neither am I responsible for your possible addiction to Blogville.
E-mails/comments are generously encouraged
verastic@yahoo.com
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Every Woman - Chapter 1 (working progress)
The Chapter Has Been Completed. Click HERE To Read It
...And Don't Forget To Stop By For Chapter Two
Thanks Y'll!!!
...And Don't Forget To Stop By For Chapter Two
Thanks Y'll!!!
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Love And Be Loved
Dedicated to all who fit the bill.
Love is the most complex emotion I have ever experienced. It has so many sides and shades that sometimes I wonder if it is still love. How can you love a person one minute and want to kill them the next? How can you love a person and yet hurt the person so much? You know it will kill him when he finds out, but you do it anyway. You know he is hurting inside, but it does not stop you from lying in the other man’s bed. Love. Is it really that complex, or do we just make it that way?
I am particularly concerned about women who do not know how to love themselves. If a woman does not know how to love herself inside and out, then how can she love another? If a woman cannot treat herself like the queen that she is, then how can she make a man treat her like one? How can you convince people that the building is on fire if you are calmly lying under your blanket? The world we live in is a monkey-see-monkey-do world; it is a world where leaders lead by showing examples. No one can love you better than you can love yourself, so if your love for yourself is fifty percent, then how can you expect a man to love you one hundred percent?
I get very sad (more like enraged) when I see a woman in a relationship where she is giving her all to a man and getting almost nothing back in return. I mean, seriously, let us get real here; ask yourself these questions: why can’t he call? Why can’t he say I’m sorry? Why can’t he explain his actions? Why can’t he do it for me? Why can’t he accept my apology? Why can’t he understand where I am coming from? Why can’t he do it my way for once? Why can’t he be sweet to me? Why can’t he stop being malicious to me? Why can’t he remember my birthday? Why can’t he get me a birthday gift? Why can’t he spoil me? Why can’t he treat me the way I treat him? Why can’t he stop hurting me? Why can’t he love me back? Why??? My guess is that you cannot answer any of these questions rationally. Now ask yourself again – why can’t I stop loving him? Ladies, love with your heart and think with your head.
We, women have the tendency to do imprudent things. We know our man is treating us like last month’s Chinese food, but instead of facing our problems head-on, we make excuses for our man’s absurd behavior(s). As women, we want to be cared for; we want to be treated like queens, we want to be held, and we most definitely want to be loved. If a man is causing you to cry on occasions that any sane person would not be crying, then you should know something is wrong. If you have to call your man’s phone on his birthday and cry your eyes out on his voicemail because he is too angry at you to pick up, then something is wrong. If you have to beg your man to pick up your calls and talk to you, then something is wrong. If you cry more than you laugh, then something is wrong, and if you are ready to be with your man regardless of what he may do to you, then something is definitely wrong with you. I do not know what is wrong with you; is it low self esteem or just unadulterated lack of common sense?
Believe me, love is not that complicated. Relationships are not easy, but they are really not that hard either. When two people have understanding, patience, trust, and a big dose of maturity, love can not only be born, but can also be nurtured (by both partners, and for both partners) to reach its fullest potential. Forget about love at first sight; it does not exist. Your mind is only playing tricks on you. Yes, you may have dreamt about him last night, and the love you made felt so real (in fact, you are still dripping), but that was only because you thought about him before you went to bed. Wake up and smell the coffee (or tea – which ever one you prefer).
Seriously, why are you still in this relationship? Is it the sex (if sex is involved)? Is it the companionship? Is it the feeling of knowing that someone somewhere has you as number two on their speed dial (that’s if he cares enough to put you on his speed dial)? Is it the fear of being lonely? Is it the convenience? Money? Or do you just think you will never find someone else to want you enough to commit to you? What is it? Better yet, why is he still in this relationship? Could it be because of the convenience and all the ‘privileges’ that come with said convenience? I mean, if you break up with him, who will cook for him? Who will do his laundry? Who will warm up his bed? Who will run his little errands? Who will buy him gifts on his birthday? Who will cry on his voicemail? Who will beg for his attention? Who?
If you think this through with your head, and your head tells you that you are in a good relationship, then your head must not be properly hydrated. Some of you are living in denial (yes, I’m talking to you; stop pointing at your chest in confusion and looking around); you tell yourself that the only reason why you are putting up with his bullshit is because you are not married yet, but as soon as you get married, things will change. Yeah, right! As a poor man (unmarried), you should not take anything right now that you will not take when you become rich (married). Your desire for meat should not lead you to call a cow your brother. Be honest with yourself; put yourself first, and love yourself because ‘you are fearfully and wonderfully made’ (Psalm 139:14).
What – are you surprised I quoted the Bible? Don’t be ooooo. I happen to be God’s favorite; you better ask about me!
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
If You Must, Do It The Right Way
Cheating on your partner is a bad, bad thing, which I would never condone (no matter how many times I have been involved in it; not that I’m saying I have been involved in it), but in the name of high-quality thinking-faculties and properly hydrated brains, if you must cheat, please do it the right way!
I notice that a lot of men have a popular line they use when they have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar; I’m sure you’ve heard it too. They say “Baby, it’s not what you think; I can explain. I know what it looks like, but it’s not anything like what you’re thinking”. Oh, you know, huh? Well, go ahead and explain then. Just because I have caught you butt-naked on top of a woman whom you’re joined at the waist with does not mean there is no logical explanation. It’s not like sex is the only thing you could be having with her. I’m pretty sure there are a million other things you could have been doing. Besides, these satin sheets on the bed make it mighty slippery; I’m sure you merely lost your balance. No broken bones, I hope.
It is a universal fact that when it comes to cheating and being devious, women do a better job. You know why? Because we are just plain smarter; we think ten steps ahead of our men. Men, on the other hand seem to think twenty steps behind their partners. I mean, if you are going to lie about going to the grocery store when you’re really going to your mistress’s house, the least you could do is come back with a carton of milk! Contrary to the popular belief of the men, no one believes you when you say the store was out of milk and you had to drive through the city for three hours looking for milk….especially when there is no need for the milk since there is a huge unopened gallon sitting in the fridge.
If you must lie about having a flat tire, then be smart enough to have a little dirt on your hands and shirt. Wouldn’t you agree with me that it looks a little suspicious when you come in smelling like Zest? And it doesn’t help to see that your spare tire is tucked away neatly either.
If you are the type who wipes his face with a handkerchief often, then just make sure you that what you actually have in your pocket is a handkerchief and not your mistress’s red, lace thong. I doubt your wife will believe you when you say, “Oh look, how did that get there?” I mean, come the hell on! And claiming that the thong belongs to your wife when it is clearly obvious that not enough Crisco would make her thighs pass through it is a redundant scheme that is bound to fail. For that matter, the earrings in your car cannot belong to your wife if her ears are not pierced!
Let me tell you a little secret; forget what Shaggy sang about…telling your wife it wasn’t you does not work either. I’m sure that by now she does not need a torch to figure out who her husband is under the bright light of the sun. You may think that French-kissing your mistress (and claiming she’s actually your secretary) is a good way of saying farewell to your alleged secretary, but trust me, it does not work. First of all, French-kissing should not be done with anyone but your wife, and second of all, you have to have a job before you have a secretary.
You may be surprised, but telling your wife that the used latex condom in your car was used by two of you, but that the sex was so good that she is currently suffering from temporary amnesia of said event does not work either…especially if she is allergic to latex and is on Depo Provera. It definitely does not make it better if she was out of the country at the time the supposed amnesia-causing sex happened.
When your wife finds the receipt of the dozen red roses you bought last weekend, it really does not make your case better when you claim you bought it for your best friend, Mike. Neither does it help when you say you bought them for her (your wife) but the wind must have flown them out of your open window on your way home and you completely forgot about it…especially if it was five degrees outside.
Whoever told you that the line “Forgive me, for I knew not what I was doing” works on human beings (especially women) lied to you. Claiming not to know who you were having sex with is arrant nonsense. Saying you were so dehydrated on your way back from work that you stopped at a random house to drink some water (and much more) does not work either.
If a man catches you butt-naked in bed with his wife, it will be in your best interest to put your clothes on as fast as possible and run like the wind. Or you could play dumb and tell the man that you were being raped by his wife since she was on top. Yeah, your moans might have been heard from across the country, but I’m sure they were only moans…or rather, groans of pain, right?
It goes without saying that you should not bring your mistress into your matrimonial home. In fact, you should not have a mistress in the first place, but if you find yourself caught up between a rock and a hard place and having to hide your mistress under your matrimonial bed, you should at least do it the right way. If God decides to have some fun and tell on you by compelling your mistress to sneeze loudly in her hiding place, don’t even think of telling your wife that your enemies are after you again. Sure you might have enemies, and they might be after you, but why must they do it in the fashion of a naked woman lying under your bed and sneezing frenziedly? If only your wife had vacuumed under the bed, there would not have been so much dust!
I do not know if I should be proud to say this, but I know for sure that women do a much better job when it comes to hiding their dirty laundry. Why do you think that unfaithful men are the quickest and most confident to speak about how faithful their wives are? Yeah right! Give me a break. Of course, if he decides to come home early from work one day, he will find out that the handy man has been fixing more than the sink. And if he even takes a closer look at Junior, he would notice the striking resemblance between him (Junior) and the handy man. But he will never find out because on the days he gets off work early, he is too busy bonin’ his mistress. Alas, the player gets played.
In essence, I could sit here and type away till Kingdom come, but it is up to you to be smart enough to cover your tracks. If you are weak enough to cheat on your spouse, then you should try to make up by being smart enough to cover your tracks. You might think that quickly tucking your penis into your pants with the condom is a way of covering up, but somehow I doubt your wife will feel the same way; especially if your partner in crime (your mistress) is still spread-eagled underneath you.
If you must do it, then respect the professional cheats and do it right!
Copyright © 2006 Vera Ezimora
verastic@yahoo.com
I notice that a lot of men have a popular line they use when they have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar; I’m sure you’ve heard it too. They say “Baby, it’s not what you think; I can explain. I know what it looks like, but it’s not anything like what you’re thinking”. Oh, you know, huh? Well, go ahead and explain then. Just because I have caught you butt-naked on top of a woman whom you’re joined at the waist with does not mean there is no logical explanation. It’s not like sex is the only thing you could be having with her. I’m pretty sure there are a million other things you could have been doing. Besides, these satin sheets on the bed make it mighty slippery; I’m sure you merely lost your balance. No broken bones, I hope.
It is a universal fact that when it comes to cheating and being devious, women do a better job. You know why? Because we are just plain smarter; we think ten steps ahead of our men. Men, on the other hand seem to think twenty steps behind their partners. I mean, if you are going to lie about going to the grocery store when you’re really going to your mistress’s house, the least you could do is come back with a carton of milk! Contrary to the popular belief of the men, no one believes you when you say the store was out of milk and you had to drive through the city for three hours looking for milk….especially when there is no need for the milk since there is a huge unopened gallon sitting in the fridge.
If you must lie about having a flat tire, then be smart enough to have a little dirt on your hands and shirt. Wouldn’t you agree with me that it looks a little suspicious when you come in smelling like Zest? And it doesn’t help to see that your spare tire is tucked away neatly either.
If you are the type who wipes his face with a handkerchief often, then just make sure you that what you actually have in your pocket is a handkerchief and not your mistress’s red, lace thong. I doubt your wife will believe you when you say, “Oh look, how did that get there?” I mean, come the hell on! And claiming that the thong belongs to your wife when it is clearly obvious that not enough Crisco would make her thighs pass through it is a redundant scheme that is bound to fail. For that matter, the earrings in your car cannot belong to your wife if her ears are not pierced!
Let me tell you a little secret; forget what Shaggy sang about…telling your wife it wasn’t you does not work either. I’m sure that by now she does not need a torch to figure out who her husband is under the bright light of the sun. You may think that French-kissing your mistress (and claiming she’s actually your secretary) is a good way of saying farewell to your alleged secretary, but trust me, it does not work. First of all, French-kissing should not be done with anyone but your wife, and second of all, you have to have a job before you have a secretary.
You may be surprised, but telling your wife that the used latex condom in your car was used by two of you, but that the sex was so good that she is currently suffering from temporary amnesia of said event does not work either…especially if she is allergic to latex and is on Depo Provera. It definitely does not make it better if she was out of the country at the time the supposed amnesia-causing sex happened.
When your wife finds the receipt of the dozen red roses you bought last weekend, it really does not make your case better when you claim you bought it for your best friend, Mike. Neither does it help when you say you bought them for her (your wife) but the wind must have flown them out of your open window on your way home and you completely forgot about it…especially if it was five degrees outside.
Whoever told you that the line “Forgive me, for I knew not what I was doing” works on human beings (especially women) lied to you. Claiming not to know who you were having sex with is arrant nonsense. Saying you were so dehydrated on your way back from work that you stopped at a random house to drink some water (and much more) does not work either.
If a man catches you butt-naked in bed with his wife, it will be in your best interest to put your clothes on as fast as possible and run like the wind. Or you could play dumb and tell the man that you were being raped by his wife since she was on top. Yeah, your moans might have been heard from across the country, but I’m sure they were only moans…or rather, groans of pain, right?
It goes without saying that you should not bring your mistress into your matrimonial home. In fact, you should not have a mistress in the first place, but if you find yourself caught up between a rock and a hard place and having to hide your mistress under your matrimonial bed, you should at least do it the right way. If God decides to have some fun and tell on you by compelling your mistress to sneeze loudly in her hiding place, don’t even think of telling your wife that your enemies are after you again. Sure you might have enemies, and they might be after you, but why must they do it in the fashion of a naked woman lying under your bed and sneezing frenziedly? If only your wife had vacuumed under the bed, there would not have been so much dust!
I do not know if I should be proud to say this, but I know for sure that women do a much better job when it comes to hiding their dirty laundry. Why do you think that unfaithful men are the quickest and most confident to speak about how faithful their wives are? Yeah right! Give me a break. Of course, if he decides to come home early from work one day, he will find out that the handy man has been fixing more than the sink. And if he even takes a closer look at Junior, he would notice the striking resemblance between him (Junior) and the handy man. But he will never find out because on the days he gets off work early, he is too busy bonin’ his mistress. Alas, the player gets played.
In essence, I could sit here and type away till Kingdom come, but it is up to you to be smart enough to cover your tracks. If you are weak enough to cheat on your spouse, then you should try to make up by being smart enough to cover your tracks. You might think that quickly tucking your penis into your pants with the condom is a way of covering up, but somehow I doubt your wife will feel the same way; especially if your partner in crime (your mistress) is still spread-eagled underneath you.
If you must do it, then respect the professional cheats and do it right!
Copyright © 2006 Vera Ezimora
verastic@yahoo.com
Saturday, April 29, 2006
When The Pendulum Swings
I would like to take all the credit for this piece, but truth be told, I had some help. Though I had been thinking about this piece, it was not until Dammy Odetola of Michigan came up with the title that I started giving it some serious thought.
As usual, I’m concentrating on Nigerians because I am one, and they are really the ones I know. We as women are quick to talk about all the bad and wrong things men do; especially Nigerian men. Nigerian men are not romantic, Nigerian men are not sensitive, Nigerian men are flirts and cheats, Nigerian men are heart breakers and liars….blah blah blah. Yes, they are all these things (and even much more), but ladies, we have to give it to them, it’s not easy dealing with us. With our hormones constantly going on roller coasters, it’s not easy keeping up with us.
We are as uncomplicated as a two legged table (and you know a two legged table is damn near impossible); just when you think you have gotten it stabilized, it topples and falls. Are Nigerian men unromantic? Well, it depends on whose eyes are looking at it. A typical Nigerian man’s idea of romance will be taking his woman out to the store (not a grocery store, please) and spending a lot of money on her. An American man however will write his woman love poems (that do not include her being the only sugar in his tea or cockroach in his cupboard), buy her flowers, and take her out for romantic dinners, so you see, it all depends.
We as Nigerian women tend to forget the culture differences between us and the American women. Expecting a Nigerian man to be as romantic as the American man is as redundant as a Nigerian man expecting us to be as “sexually open” as the American woman; it’s possible on both sides, but what are the odds? I’m not saying that there are no Nigerian men who are very romantic, or Nigerian women who are sexually uninhibited. We as Nigerian women tend to read in between the lines of what our Nigerian men say; the problem is that sometimes, there aren’t even any lines.
We endlessly complain of how Nigerian men cannot keep their ding-a-lings in their pants, but we are no saints either. We always want to keep committed relationships, or rather be in a relationship with someone who is completely committed to us even though our eyes are constantly outside looking for greener pastures. We feel like “yeah, he’s a great guy, but…I really want to keep my options open; I don’t want to get stuck with the wrong guy.”
But speaking of looking for greener pastures, I am beginning to agree with men that we (women) really do not know what we want. I mean, when you ask a woman what type of man she wants, you would be surprised at the speed that the words would roll off her tongue. But what will actually happen when this ideal man shows up in our life? I’ll tell you what will happen. Most of us will be excited for the first few months about the little things he will do like call us every morning to say ‘good morning, love’, or buy us flowers, but as soon as he stops, we get angry that he has changed. We will talk with our girlfriends and come to the conclusion that all men suck, and they are all the same.
The problem is that another guy would come by and buy us flowers, then without thinking, we would say “this one is different”. Like hell, he is! If every man is the same, why do we always think the next one will be different? If truly we know what we want in a man, then why can’t we recognize it when it comes in a man? Why do we always get excited over the most insignificant things, and leave the more important things yearning for our attention? Why do we always chase after that which is not after us in any shape or form? Why do we want a man to be in love with us and yet complain about him being ‘too in love’ with us? Why do we always leave one guy for the other? What makes us think that the angel we do not know is better than the devil we know?
I met a girl who has a boyfriend that any other woman would be dying to have. He buys her flowers and whisks her away to romantic settings (and yes, he is Nigerian). She went on a four-day trip with her friend and got mad that her single friend was getting all the attention. Well, duh! She was single, was she not? Anyway, she is now drooling over a man who cannot give her even a quarter of what her boyfriend is giving her. I simply do not understand this. What the hell is wrong with us? Do we say what we want but mean the exact opposite?
I know a girl who had a boyfriend that loved her from here to there. He would do just about anything to make her feel better. She said she wanted to be married by 2008, and her boyfriend was more than happy at the news. But how do I begin to explain to you that she temporarily fell out of love with him, and fell in love with someone who already had a girlfriend and said he will not be getting married till at least 2014? She fell for someone who had absolutely nothing but bullshit to offer her. Do we have veils of stupidity hovering over our heads that make us unable to reason rationally? Needless to say, her veil of stupidity has fallen off, and she has come back to her good senses. Can I get an Amen?
I'm not trying to make excuses for indecent behavior(s) on the part of our men, but sometimes I wonder if our men cheat because they want to or because we expect them too. We obsess so much over our men cheating that we do not have the time to celebrate their fidelity. Calling every woman that talks to our man a whore or a bitch will not stop him from cheating if he so desires; the only thing the name calling will do is expose our insecurity. Endlessly slandering an ex-boyfriend/lover/husband and comparing his ill-mannered attitude to every other man (especially our current man) is the best way to say “I’ve got some serious baggage”, and trust me honey, there is nothing attractive about that. Unfortunately, confidence is not a genetic factor; it’s something we learn as we grow, so I suggest you better learn quickly and pass it on to your children.
When the pendulum swings, we realize that the problems we have in relationships do not all rest on the shoulders of the men (even though we may want to believe they do). We are also huge contributors to the trouble, and sadly, we are also benefactors of the disastrous end result(s). It will be in the best interest of everyone involved if we realize what we want and actually mean it; or else, each of us would become “the bride that wasn’t”. A fifty year old man can still find a woman to marry, but a fifty year old woman is considered “shagged out”, and unfortunately, simply considered to be expired. Hey, don’t blame me; I did not make the rules. I’m simply ‘shagging’ them.
Copyright © 2006 Vera Ezimora
verastic@yahoo.com
As usual, I’m concentrating on Nigerians because I am one, and they are really the ones I know. We as women are quick to talk about all the bad and wrong things men do; especially Nigerian men. Nigerian men are not romantic, Nigerian men are not sensitive, Nigerian men are flirts and cheats, Nigerian men are heart breakers and liars….blah blah blah. Yes, they are all these things (and even much more), but ladies, we have to give it to them, it’s not easy dealing with us. With our hormones constantly going on roller coasters, it’s not easy keeping up with us.
We are as uncomplicated as a two legged table (and you know a two legged table is damn near impossible); just when you think you have gotten it stabilized, it topples and falls. Are Nigerian men unromantic? Well, it depends on whose eyes are looking at it. A typical Nigerian man’s idea of romance will be taking his woman out to the store (not a grocery store, please) and spending a lot of money on her. An American man however will write his woman love poems (that do not include her being the only sugar in his tea or cockroach in his cupboard), buy her flowers, and take her out for romantic dinners, so you see, it all depends.
We as Nigerian women tend to forget the culture differences between us and the American women. Expecting a Nigerian man to be as romantic as the American man is as redundant as a Nigerian man expecting us to be as “sexually open” as the American woman; it’s possible on both sides, but what are the odds? I’m not saying that there are no Nigerian men who are very romantic, or Nigerian women who are sexually uninhibited. We as Nigerian women tend to read in between the lines of what our Nigerian men say; the problem is that sometimes, there aren’t even any lines.
We endlessly complain of how Nigerian men cannot keep their ding-a-lings in their pants, but we are no saints either. We always want to keep committed relationships, or rather be in a relationship with someone who is completely committed to us even though our eyes are constantly outside looking for greener pastures. We feel like “yeah, he’s a great guy, but…I really want to keep my options open; I don’t want to get stuck with the wrong guy.”
But speaking of looking for greener pastures, I am beginning to agree with men that we (women) really do not know what we want. I mean, when you ask a woman what type of man she wants, you would be surprised at the speed that the words would roll off her tongue. But what will actually happen when this ideal man shows up in our life? I’ll tell you what will happen. Most of us will be excited for the first few months about the little things he will do like call us every morning to say ‘good morning, love’, or buy us flowers, but as soon as he stops, we get angry that he has changed. We will talk with our girlfriends and come to the conclusion that all men suck, and they are all the same.
The problem is that another guy would come by and buy us flowers, then without thinking, we would say “this one is different”. Like hell, he is! If every man is the same, why do we always think the next one will be different? If truly we know what we want in a man, then why can’t we recognize it when it comes in a man? Why do we always get excited over the most insignificant things, and leave the more important things yearning for our attention? Why do we always chase after that which is not after us in any shape or form? Why do we want a man to be in love with us and yet complain about him being ‘too in love’ with us? Why do we always leave one guy for the other? What makes us think that the angel we do not know is better than the devil we know?
I met a girl who has a boyfriend that any other woman would be dying to have. He buys her flowers and whisks her away to romantic settings (and yes, he is Nigerian). She went on a four-day trip with her friend and got mad that her single friend was getting all the attention. Well, duh! She was single, was she not? Anyway, she is now drooling over a man who cannot give her even a quarter of what her boyfriend is giving her. I simply do not understand this. What the hell is wrong with us? Do we say what we want but mean the exact opposite?
I know a girl who had a boyfriend that loved her from here to there. He would do just about anything to make her feel better. She said she wanted to be married by 2008, and her boyfriend was more than happy at the news. But how do I begin to explain to you that she temporarily fell out of love with him, and fell in love with someone who already had a girlfriend and said he will not be getting married till at least 2014? She fell for someone who had absolutely nothing but bullshit to offer her. Do we have veils of stupidity hovering over our heads that make us unable to reason rationally? Needless to say, her veil of stupidity has fallen off, and she has come back to her good senses. Can I get an Amen?
I'm not trying to make excuses for indecent behavior(s) on the part of our men, but sometimes I wonder if our men cheat because they want to or because we expect them too. We obsess so much over our men cheating that we do not have the time to celebrate their fidelity. Calling every woman that talks to our man a whore or a bitch will not stop him from cheating if he so desires; the only thing the name calling will do is expose our insecurity. Endlessly slandering an ex-boyfriend/lover/husband and comparing his ill-mannered attitude to every other man (especially our current man) is the best way to say “I’ve got some serious baggage”, and trust me honey, there is nothing attractive about that. Unfortunately, confidence is not a genetic factor; it’s something we learn as we grow, so I suggest you better learn quickly and pass it on to your children.
When the pendulum swings, we realize that the problems we have in relationships do not all rest on the shoulders of the men (even though we may want to believe they do). We are also huge contributors to the trouble, and sadly, we are also benefactors of the disastrous end result(s). It will be in the best interest of everyone involved if we realize what we want and actually mean it; or else, each of us would become “the bride that wasn’t”. A fifty year old man can still find a woman to marry, but a fifty year old woman is considered “shagged out”, and unfortunately, simply considered to be expired. Hey, don’t blame me; I did not make the rules. I’m simply ‘shagging’ them.
Copyright © 2006 Vera Ezimora
verastic@yahoo.com
Sunday, March 05, 2006
All Hail The Inter-Galactic Force Of Girlfriends
Yeah, I know what everyone is thinking, “It’s Vera again”. Well, yes indeed, it is me again. A lot of things have happened to me lately, and they have really opened up my eyes a lot. They have really taught me that in reality, not all that glitters is gold. In fact, majority of what glitters is only gold plated, so after only a little wear, they begin to show their true colors.
I notice that we (females) do not spend enough time appreciating our girlfriends. We may talk about our family and lovers… especially lovers, but we do not give enough credit to our girlfriends, and that’s either because our friends are not worth being mentioned, or because we are just too blind or maybe ungrateful to realize the influence of our friends in our lives. In my case, I know what my friends mean to me, so I am here to hail them because they are worth it.
It sounds like such a cliché, but good girlfriends are those ones that are there through thick and thin. They are the friends that will tell you the truth no matter how much it may hurt to hear it. They are the ones that will not stand and watch someone walk all over you; your pain is your girlfriends’ pain. Boyfriends (and unfortunately, husbands sometimes too) may come and go, jobs come and go, money comes and goes, but good girlfriends stay. Good girlfriends are hard to find and even harder to keep, unlike bad friends who are easier to acquire and even easier to discard.
I have been Blessed enough to have real girlfriends, so now, I have my very own inter-galactic force of girlfriends. Please, allow me to tell you a little about them.
Sola: Born Oluwabusola Osun, is my best friend; we have been friends since 2000 (unfortunately), and she is from Ondo State. Even after five (almost six) years of friendship, I am proud to say that we still have great chemistry. The other night, we talked on the phone until the wee hours of the morning. We talked about absolutely nothing. We had that type of conversation that at the end when you look at how much times has gone by, you ask yourself “what the hell did we talk about?”. Apart from that though, she is someone that I can give the shirt on my back to (as long as she gives me something to cover up my front, of course). She’s a trouble maker who will gladly and readily torture her enemies or anyone she feels has not been fair to any of her friends. Can it really get better? I must say however that though she may have a sharp mouth, she really does not have the physical strength to back it up (but that’s a secret anyway). I cannot go without mentioning that Sola is a hopeless romantic. She fantasizes so much (of impossible things) that I often call her Theresa Lopez Fitzgerald (of Passions, the NBC daytime soap opera). More times than I care to remember, I find myself telling her to “shut the hell up!”
Funmi: Born Oluwafunmilayo Aladeseyi, is from Ondo State; we have been friends since 2002, and she is one in a million. She’s one of those friends that you hear of or dream of, but actually never meet (just like a romantic Nigerian man). Funmi is one of those friends that you can rely on to be there for you when you need her. She will be there for you come hell or high water; she might be extremely late, but she will be there. However, her inability to say “no” is sometimes viewed as not having a backbone. She is a wonderful cook nonetheless…. *hint hint* for the fine single, eligible Nigerian men out there (although we have been trying to get her to cook a little less often, as people are beginning to see her good gestures as an obligation of hers, rather than her sheer choice and good heart at work, but anyways…). I cannot go without mentioning how supportive Funmi has been of my writing; she is always asking me how far I have gone with my book, and she is always on my neck about finishing it. Her enthusiasm for my book has been very encouraging. Thanks Funmi!
Uju: Born Obianuju Nnameka, is from Anambra State; I met her in 2003, and she is definitely one of a kind. When I first met her, I did not like her because I thought she had a stand-offish kind of attitude. Funmi was actually the link between us; she was Funmi’s friend and I was Funmi’s friend too. Today however, she is a proud partner of the inter-galactic force of girlfriends…. loyal girlfriends, to be more precise. We have always known Uju as the “big mouth” of us, but truth be told, her big mouth is a Blessing to us all because a lot of times, she says things that we are thinking but too spineless or maybe nice to say so (just like Madea from Tyler Perry’s Madea‘s Family Reunion. Speaking of Tyler Perry, is the man good or what? The fact that he is six and half feet tall is a plus, of course, but anyways…). Her big mouth is just honesty and straight forwardness in a new dimension. Uju is not the type that will sugar coat anything for anyone. You know how they say “if you can’t handle the heat, don’t enter the kitchen” right? Well, the same goes for Uju. If you cannot handle the truth, then do not ask her cause she always tells the hardcore truth…most times.
Toha: Born Anyatoha Kamanu, is such a very, very sweet girl. I do not know how else to describe her. Toha has something very unique about her, and that’s her laugh; it is heard from miles away (and I am not exaggerating). When I enter a building, and I’m trying to spot Toha, all I have to do is listen for her laugh, and I will find her. She is from Abia State, and I met her in 2002. She is the perfect combination of beauty and the brains, so you do not have to decide which one you want because she is both. Yes indeed, she is. She is the type of friend that will always lend a helping hand, and always be in support. There is something else about Toha that I have to talk about, and that is her humility. She is so humble and very down to earth; you should hear her thanking you. She thanks you even when she does something for you...hmm, never seen anything like it before (but after meeting her mom, I can understand where she gets her humility from).
Jennifer: Born Jennifer McNair, is another sweet friend I met in 2002 too. She will always tell you the blunt truth, just like Uju, but the only difference is that Jennifer would at least prepare you for it. Her mother is from Ogun State, and her father is African American, though Jennifer considers herself Nigerian. Make no mistake, she is indeed very Nigerian. Talking to her alone is enough for you to know just how special she is, but unfortunately for you (guys), she is not single. Some lucky guy has snatched her away, and is not ever going to let her go. A few months ago, Jennifer blew my mind away when she offered me something I did not expect her to; I have to say I fell in love with her. She is just too much. She is a friend I will not be letting go either.
Ibukun: Ibukunoluwa Odetoye, is from Kwara State, and I met her in 2002. She is the black sheep among us, or so to say (and I do not mean that in a bad way). Her thinking patterns are different from the rest of us, but she is still a girlfriend. One thing I have noticed about Ibukun over the period I have known her is her generosity. She is always giving and giving; well, at least she is always giving to me. Sometimes she takes us all out to lunch, even when she does not have a job. Ibukun truly is a very sweet girl, and just like the rest of the girlfriends, she will be there for you when you need her (like when she takes a twenty-minute drive to my house to fix my computer. Of course, I could have taken my computer to her house, but it is kind of hard carrying a desktop computer around).
Now that I have told you all about my friends, I hope you do not take it as a cue to stalk them, but in case you decide to, I would like to state a disclaimer that I am not responsible for the actions of anyone (to my friends) due to this article. With that being said, tell me, do you not think that I am wonderfully Blessed? I have so many other things I could have written about (like err, I don‘t know….men?), but I can always do that later. For now, I would rather talk about the people that put a smile on my face everyday.
For a lot of us (Nigerian females), we do not have that relationship with our mothers where we can say, “Mom, you would not believe what [boyfriend’s name] did”. Like I said, a lot of us do not have that relationship; I’m not saying all of us do not have the relationship. Who then do you call when you need some relationship advise, or when you need someone to calm you down (verbally) and stop you form committing murder in the first degree? That’s right, your girlfriends.
Sometimes, you just need someone to say “yes, you’re right; he’s wrong”, so who do you call then? That’s right, your girlfriends again. Of course they will say you are right, and of course they will not care what he did or why he did it; as long as you think you are right, they will always have your back. Who do you call when your boss gives you a tough time at work? Your girlfriends again. Who do you call when your car breaks down on I-95 and you’re panicking because you’ve got that all-important interview that your livelihood depends on? You got that right, your girlfriends! (right after you call a mechanic, of course).
To my friends: I hope your eyes do not get misty when you are reading this (especially Funmie and Sola). Without a doubt, you’re all a Blessing to me, and I hope that some day, you’ll meet the Adam whose rib you have in you (more details about that in an upcoming article).
So my wonderful ladies and gentlemen, would you please all stand and hail the inter-galactic force of girlfriends. They deserve a standing ovation…don’t you think?
I notice that we (females) do not spend enough time appreciating our girlfriends. We may talk about our family and lovers… especially lovers, but we do not give enough credit to our girlfriends, and that’s either because our friends are not worth being mentioned, or because we are just too blind or maybe ungrateful to realize the influence of our friends in our lives. In my case, I know what my friends mean to me, so I am here to hail them because they are worth it.
It sounds like such a cliché, but good girlfriends are those ones that are there through thick and thin. They are the friends that will tell you the truth no matter how much it may hurt to hear it. They are the ones that will not stand and watch someone walk all over you; your pain is your girlfriends’ pain. Boyfriends (and unfortunately, husbands sometimes too) may come and go, jobs come and go, money comes and goes, but good girlfriends stay. Good girlfriends are hard to find and even harder to keep, unlike bad friends who are easier to acquire and even easier to discard.
I have been Blessed enough to have real girlfriends, so now, I have my very own inter-galactic force of girlfriends. Please, allow me to tell you a little about them.
Sola: Born Oluwabusola Osun, is my best friend; we have been friends since 2000 (unfortunately), and she is from Ondo State. Even after five (almost six) years of friendship, I am proud to say that we still have great chemistry. The other night, we talked on the phone until the wee hours of the morning. We talked about absolutely nothing. We had that type of conversation that at the end when you look at how much times has gone by, you ask yourself “what the hell did we talk about?”. Apart from that though, she is someone that I can give the shirt on my back to (as long as she gives me something to cover up my front, of course). She’s a trouble maker who will gladly and readily torture her enemies or anyone she feels has not been fair to any of her friends. Can it really get better? I must say however that though she may have a sharp mouth, she really does not have the physical strength to back it up (but that’s a secret anyway). I cannot go without mentioning that Sola is a hopeless romantic. She fantasizes so much (of impossible things) that I often call her Theresa Lopez Fitzgerald (of Passions, the NBC daytime soap opera). More times than I care to remember, I find myself telling her to “shut the hell up!”
Funmi: Born Oluwafunmilayo Aladeseyi, is from Ondo State; we have been friends since 2002, and she is one in a million. She’s one of those friends that you hear of or dream of, but actually never meet (just like a romantic Nigerian man). Funmi is one of those friends that you can rely on to be there for you when you need her. She will be there for you come hell or high water; she might be extremely late, but she will be there. However, her inability to say “no” is sometimes viewed as not having a backbone. She is a wonderful cook nonetheless…. *hint hint* for the fine single, eligible Nigerian men out there (although we have been trying to get her to cook a little less often, as people are beginning to see her good gestures as an obligation of hers, rather than her sheer choice and good heart at work, but anyways…). I cannot go without mentioning how supportive Funmi has been of my writing; she is always asking me how far I have gone with my book, and she is always on my neck about finishing it. Her enthusiasm for my book has been very encouraging. Thanks Funmi!
Uju: Born Obianuju Nnameka, is from Anambra State; I met her in 2003, and she is definitely one of a kind. When I first met her, I did not like her because I thought she had a stand-offish kind of attitude. Funmi was actually the link between us; she was Funmi’s friend and I was Funmi’s friend too. Today however, she is a proud partner of the inter-galactic force of girlfriends…. loyal girlfriends, to be more precise. We have always known Uju as the “big mouth” of us, but truth be told, her big mouth is a Blessing to us all because a lot of times, she says things that we are thinking but too spineless or maybe nice to say so (just like Madea from Tyler Perry’s Madea‘s Family Reunion. Speaking of Tyler Perry, is the man good or what? The fact that he is six and half feet tall is a plus, of course, but anyways…). Her big mouth is just honesty and straight forwardness in a new dimension. Uju is not the type that will sugar coat anything for anyone. You know how they say “if you can’t handle the heat, don’t enter the kitchen” right? Well, the same goes for Uju. If you cannot handle the truth, then do not ask her cause she always tells the hardcore truth…most times.
Toha: Born Anyatoha Kamanu, is such a very, very sweet girl. I do not know how else to describe her. Toha has something very unique about her, and that’s her laugh; it is heard from miles away (and I am not exaggerating). When I enter a building, and I’m trying to spot Toha, all I have to do is listen for her laugh, and I will find her. She is from Abia State, and I met her in 2002. She is the perfect combination of beauty and the brains, so you do not have to decide which one you want because she is both. Yes indeed, she is. She is the type of friend that will always lend a helping hand, and always be in support. There is something else about Toha that I have to talk about, and that is her humility. She is so humble and very down to earth; you should hear her thanking you. She thanks you even when she does something for you...hmm, never seen anything like it before (but after meeting her mom, I can understand where she gets her humility from).
Jennifer: Born Jennifer McNair, is another sweet friend I met in 2002 too. She will always tell you the blunt truth, just like Uju, but the only difference is that Jennifer would at least prepare you for it. Her mother is from Ogun State, and her father is African American, though Jennifer considers herself Nigerian. Make no mistake, she is indeed very Nigerian. Talking to her alone is enough for you to know just how special she is, but unfortunately for you (guys), she is not single. Some lucky guy has snatched her away, and is not ever going to let her go. A few months ago, Jennifer blew my mind away when she offered me something I did not expect her to; I have to say I fell in love with her. She is just too much. She is a friend I will not be letting go either.
Ibukun: Ibukunoluwa Odetoye, is from Kwara State, and I met her in 2002. She is the black sheep among us, or so to say (and I do not mean that in a bad way). Her thinking patterns are different from the rest of us, but she is still a girlfriend. One thing I have noticed about Ibukun over the period I have known her is her generosity. She is always giving and giving; well, at least she is always giving to me. Sometimes she takes us all out to lunch, even when she does not have a job. Ibukun truly is a very sweet girl, and just like the rest of the girlfriends, she will be there for you when you need her (like when she takes a twenty-minute drive to my house to fix my computer. Of course, I could have taken my computer to her house, but it is kind of hard carrying a desktop computer around).
Now that I have told you all about my friends, I hope you do not take it as a cue to stalk them, but in case you decide to, I would like to state a disclaimer that I am not responsible for the actions of anyone (to my friends) due to this article. With that being said, tell me, do you not think that I am wonderfully Blessed? I have so many other things I could have written about (like err, I don‘t know….men?), but I can always do that later. For now, I would rather talk about the people that put a smile on my face everyday.
For a lot of us (Nigerian females), we do not have that relationship with our mothers where we can say, “Mom, you would not believe what [boyfriend’s name] did”. Like I said, a lot of us do not have that relationship; I’m not saying all of us do not have the relationship. Who then do you call when you need some relationship advise, or when you need someone to calm you down (verbally) and stop you form committing murder in the first degree? That’s right, your girlfriends.
Sometimes, you just need someone to say “yes, you’re right; he’s wrong”, so who do you call then? That’s right, your girlfriends again. Of course they will say you are right, and of course they will not care what he did or why he did it; as long as you think you are right, they will always have your back. Who do you call when your boss gives you a tough time at work? Your girlfriends again. Who do you call when your car breaks down on I-95 and you’re panicking because you’ve got that all-important interview that your livelihood depends on? You got that right, your girlfriends! (right after you call a mechanic, of course).
To my friends: I hope your eyes do not get misty when you are reading this (especially Funmie and Sola). Without a doubt, you’re all a Blessing to me, and I hope that some day, you’ll meet the Adam whose rib you have in you (more details about that in an upcoming article).
So my wonderful ladies and gentlemen, would you please all stand and hail the inter-galactic force of girlfriends. They deserve a standing ovation…don’t you think?
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Limbo
I’m at that point where I don’t know what’s going on
I’m at that point where I’m withdrawn
I’m at that point where everything is a blur
I’m at that point where I just concur
I’m at that point where I just don’t give a damn
I’m holding my breath for so long, I’ll fail a breathing exam.
I’m crying but I have no tears flowing
With each passing day, my perplexity seems to be growing
I’m screaming but no sound is coming out
I don’t know what all this tension is all about
It’s day and my eyes are wide open but all I see is night
Wait a minute, how come it’s so bright?
Why are the people around me making so much noise?
I can’t see them but I can hear all their noise.
The blue sky is suddenly under my feet
But for some reason it feels as hard as concrete
Those silly kids just broke the sun with their ball
I don’t understand why that book is climbing the wall
Why are there so many moons and only one star?
Why is that squirrel smoking a cigar?
There is a ship traveling on land
Apparently, snakes can now stand
What is up with that pig flying?
If only I knew why the wind is sighing.
Where the hell did my house go to now?
That lion needs to quit trying to milk the cow
I’m awake, but I need to wake up again
And I need to quit picking the lint off my brain
…I’m in limbo
I’m at that point where I’m withdrawn
I’m at that point where everything is a blur
I’m at that point where I just concur
I’m at that point where I just don’t give a damn
I’m holding my breath for so long, I’ll fail a breathing exam.
I’m crying but I have no tears flowing
With each passing day, my perplexity seems to be growing
I’m screaming but no sound is coming out
I don’t know what all this tension is all about
It’s day and my eyes are wide open but all I see is night
Wait a minute, how come it’s so bright?
Why are the people around me making so much noise?
I can’t see them but I can hear all their noise.
The blue sky is suddenly under my feet
But for some reason it feels as hard as concrete
Those silly kids just broke the sun with their ball
I don’t understand why that book is climbing the wall
Why are there so many moons and only one star?
Why is that squirrel smoking a cigar?
There is a ship traveling on land
Apparently, snakes can now stand
What is up with that pig flying?
If only I knew why the wind is sighing.
Where the hell did my house go to now?
That lion needs to quit trying to milk the cow
I’m awake, but I need to wake up again
And I need to quit picking the lint off my brain
…I’m in limbo
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Ahem, We Really Need To Talk
I do not know how men feel when they are in situations like this, but ladies, have you ever been in those situations where you want to break a man’s heart softly (if there is such a thing), but as soon as you open your mouth to utter the words that you have so carefully premeditated, he decides that he has something to say to you first and he says “baby, the past few weeks (or months) I have spent with you have been the absolute best of my life. I just want to tell you that no matter what happens or what life may throw our way, I will never ever let you go. We are soul mates, baby!” And then before you know it, you are standing there feeling and looking stupefied, mortified and petrified when he asks you “so what is it that you wanted to say?” You’re feeling this way because you’re either a sucker for romance or because you’ve just realized that this is not going to be as easy as you thought, or maybe because of both reasons. So in the midst of the psychological chaos that is brewing in your head, you voice out the right words at the wrong time at the wrong place and sure as hell to the wrong person, “I feel the same way too.” If only you could turn back the hands of time…well, too bad. Once again, you begin conspiring and developing and constructing the right sentence or words to capture your true feelings without the pain and guilt of being a heartbreaker. At the end of the day, you figure “well, maybe I should just give him a chance. It’s not like he’s that bad…right???”
Needless to say, whether you are male or female, breakups are never a thing of joy; and being the dumper or ‘dumpee’ does not make much of a difference either (unless you have a heart of stone). It makes it even harder when you are the dumper and you cannot come up with any logical, legitimate, plausible reason for dumping the ‘dumpee’. It may be a heavy weight lifted off your shoulder when you and your partner are no longer together, but no matter how much weight is lifted off in the process of dumping your partner, it is unquestionably not the path of least resistance. As most soon-to-be dumpers would do in situations like these, you would give your partner the chance to break up with you instead. You will begin to do things just to piss your partner off enough for him to dump you instead because you know you will not feel the hurt, though you can always pretend. Of course, at a crucial moment like this, Heaven would decide to turn deaf ears to your mischievous yet allegedly selfless plan, and a proof of that is your partner saying “I still love you” instead of breaking up with you. As a true human being, you will seek comfort in the words of your friends. They will ask you why you want to leave your partner and all you will be able to say is “he is just not it.” Just not what? Of course you have no idea, but deep down your guts, you know that there is something terribly wrong with this relationship.
He probably does everything you want, and never really gives you any trouble, but still, there is something missing. Maybe you have met someone else, or maybe it’s just your inner vibe telling you that you cannot possibly spend the rest of your life with this person. The thought of it probably repulses you. Instead of your friends taking your side and telling you that they understand what you must be going through, they will tell you that you are just an ingrate who does not recognize what she has. Your friends would tell you that if they were in your position, they will thank the Lord everyday for bringing such a wonderful person (your partner) into their lives. In resentment, you will say something along the line of “if you like him so much, why don’t you date him?” Now, it’s evident to you that your friends just don’t get it; they don’t get your partner, and they sure as hell don’t get you. Yes, this is all their misconception, not yours. But what is it that is there to get? Genuinely speaking, you do not know either, but you know they do not get it (whatever there is to get); but of course, you get it, or don’t you?
You begin to reconsider breaking up with your partner; I mean it’s not like you have a prince charming stashed away somewhere waiting for you to come so he can profess his love for you. You begin to think that maybe you are just being too stiff and rigid; maybe you should just take a deep breath in and let yourself love this man, but damn, it’s really not working out that way. No matter how much you try, you just can’t bring yourself to love him or even be attracted to him. You try futile efforts of breaking up with him again in different ways and different scenes, but over and over, he says and does all the right things at the wrong time. Six months ago, he said he loved you more than his own life; four and half months ago, he gave you a promise ring that you got appraised for $5,500; three months ago he introduced you to his mother as his soul mate and her future daughter in-law, and last month he proposed to you at your cousin’s huge wedding in the presence of all your family and friends, and you were considered the luckiest woman alive.
If things continue this way, you will be standing in front of him at the alter and still saying “ahem, we really need to talk.” You have only been dating for eight months, which could either be considered as long or short, depending on who is looking at it. You decide that the only reason why he’s acting so sweet is because you both have not been intimate, so after reviewing the situation, you figure you might as well stick in for the next month; by then he should be tired of loving you and tired of hearing “I’m not ready” when it comes to sex, and then you will have the perfect chance to let him go; matter of fact, he will let you go himself. Moreover, he is a proper Naija man, and Naija men do not like doing the mushy stuff, and neither do they like being deprived of sex, right?
“Happy Anniversary, baby!” your lover says to you with sheer joy. Wow! That one month really zoomed by, huh? Who would have thought a year could feel like a month? You planned on staying for one more month, but somehow four months elapsed instead, and now it’s your one year anniversary. You realize he is starting to grow on you; you realize he’s not so bad after all, but something still isn’t right. You beg God to show you the way and lead you in the right path, and for Pete’s sake, show you the right man! But God has been on vacation, and no it’s not in Hawaii. He had to go somewhere you will not be able to reach him; you realize that even God is tired of your endless baseless bickering.
Your wedding is a month away; you’ve got a ring that has a rock so big and bright that people need sunglasses to look at it, you’ve got the wedding gown of your dream, and the wedding arrangement of your dream, but unfortunately, you cannot say the same about the man you are about to marry. On your wedding day, you stand in front of your husband-to be and tell the priest to hold on for a second while you whisper into your fiancé’s ear, “we really need to talk.” He says “don’t worry sweetie, we have all our lives to talk…just the two of us.”
Twenty years later, four kids down the line, a wrinkle here and there, generous stretch marks on your stomach and hips, breasts a few inches ‘longer’, he says to you “honey, remember on our wedding day when you said we needed to talk? What was it you wanted to say?” You roll your eyes at him and curse him under his breath, and then he says “You know, I was hoping you would break up with me; I tried so hard to irritate you, but it never seemed to work; you were stuck on me like white on rice. Every time I said something to put pressure on you and make you feel like I was moving too fast, you would return the favor. I thought you would be intimidated by me introducing you to my mother as her future daughter-in-law, but you weren’t. I thought you would be alarmed by the price of the promise ring…and don’t even tell me you did not get it appraised, but you weren’t, and I even thought you would reject my proposal since we never directly talked about marriage, but you gladly accepted my ring. I was so close to breaking up with you, but my friends kept on telling me how great you were and how ungrateful I was, so I learned to tolerate you. You’re not half as bad as I expected, so I guess it all worked out; plus you gave me four beautiful children”. You look at him intensely (if looks could kill); you think of all the meanest things to say to him, but of what use will it be? Hell, you might as well go with the flow. You kiss him passionately and say “I love you too”. You go to bed and say to God, “God, if I catch you ehn…!!!”
Needless to say, whether you are male or female, breakups are never a thing of joy; and being the dumper or ‘dumpee’ does not make much of a difference either (unless you have a heart of stone). It makes it even harder when you are the dumper and you cannot come up with any logical, legitimate, plausible reason for dumping the ‘dumpee’. It may be a heavy weight lifted off your shoulder when you and your partner are no longer together, but no matter how much weight is lifted off in the process of dumping your partner, it is unquestionably not the path of least resistance. As most soon-to-be dumpers would do in situations like these, you would give your partner the chance to break up with you instead. You will begin to do things just to piss your partner off enough for him to dump you instead because you know you will not feel the hurt, though you can always pretend. Of course, at a crucial moment like this, Heaven would decide to turn deaf ears to your mischievous yet allegedly selfless plan, and a proof of that is your partner saying “I still love you” instead of breaking up with you. As a true human being, you will seek comfort in the words of your friends. They will ask you why you want to leave your partner and all you will be able to say is “he is just not it.” Just not what? Of course you have no idea, but deep down your guts, you know that there is something terribly wrong with this relationship.
He probably does everything you want, and never really gives you any trouble, but still, there is something missing. Maybe you have met someone else, or maybe it’s just your inner vibe telling you that you cannot possibly spend the rest of your life with this person. The thought of it probably repulses you. Instead of your friends taking your side and telling you that they understand what you must be going through, they will tell you that you are just an ingrate who does not recognize what she has. Your friends would tell you that if they were in your position, they will thank the Lord everyday for bringing such a wonderful person (your partner) into their lives. In resentment, you will say something along the line of “if you like him so much, why don’t you date him?” Now, it’s evident to you that your friends just don’t get it; they don’t get your partner, and they sure as hell don’t get you. Yes, this is all their misconception, not yours. But what is it that is there to get? Genuinely speaking, you do not know either, but you know they do not get it (whatever there is to get); but of course, you get it, or don’t you?
You begin to reconsider breaking up with your partner; I mean it’s not like you have a prince charming stashed away somewhere waiting for you to come so he can profess his love for you. You begin to think that maybe you are just being too stiff and rigid; maybe you should just take a deep breath in and let yourself love this man, but damn, it’s really not working out that way. No matter how much you try, you just can’t bring yourself to love him or even be attracted to him. You try futile efforts of breaking up with him again in different ways and different scenes, but over and over, he says and does all the right things at the wrong time. Six months ago, he said he loved you more than his own life; four and half months ago, he gave you a promise ring that you got appraised for $5,500; three months ago he introduced you to his mother as his soul mate and her future daughter in-law, and last month he proposed to you at your cousin’s huge wedding in the presence of all your family and friends, and you were considered the luckiest woman alive.
If things continue this way, you will be standing in front of him at the alter and still saying “ahem, we really need to talk.” You have only been dating for eight months, which could either be considered as long or short, depending on who is looking at it. You decide that the only reason why he’s acting so sweet is because you both have not been intimate, so after reviewing the situation, you figure you might as well stick in for the next month; by then he should be tired of loving you and tired of hearing “I’m not ready” when it comes to sex, and then you will have the perfect chance to let him go; matter of fact, he will let you go himself. Moreover, he is a proper Naija man, and Naija men do not like doing the mushy stuff, and neither do they like being deprived of sex, right?
“Happy Anniversary, baby!” your lover says to you with sheer joy. Wow! That one month really zoomed by, huh? Who would have thought a year could feel like a month? You planned on staying for one more month, but somehow four months elapsed instead, and now it’s your one year anniversary. You realize he is starting to grow on you; you realize he’s not so bad after all, but something still isn’t right. You beg God to show you the way and lead you in the right path, and for Pete’s sake, show you the right man! But God has been on vacation, and no it’s not in Hawaii. He had to go somewhere you will not be able to reach him; you realize that even God is tired of your endless baseless bickering.
Your wedding is a month away; you’ve got a ring that has a rock so big and bright that people need sunglasses to look at it, you’ve got the wedding gown of your dream, and the wedding arrangement of your dream, but unfortunately, you cannot say the same about the man you are about to marry. On your wedding day, you stand in front of your husband-to be and tell the priest to hold on for a second while you whisper into your fiancé’s ear, “we really need to talk.” He says “don’t worry sweetie, we have all our lives to talk…just the two of us.”
Twenty years later, four kids down the line, a wrinkle here and there, generous stretch marks on your stomach and hips, breasts a few inches ‘longer’, he says to you “honey, remember on our wedding day when you said we needed to talk? What was it you wanted to say?” You roll your eyes at him and curse him under his breath, and then he says “You know, I was hoping you would break up with me; I tried so hard to irritate you, but it never seemed to work; you were stuck on me like white on rice. Every time I said something to put pressure on you and make you feel like I was moving too fast, you would return the favor. I thought you would be intimidated by me introducing you to my mother as her future daughter-in-law, but you weren’t. I thought you would be alarmed by the price of the promise ring…and don’t even tell me you did not get it appraised, but you weren’t, and I even thought you would reject my proposal since we never directly talked about marriage, but you gladly accepted my ring. I was so close to breaking up with you, but my friends kept on telling me how great you were and how ungrateful I was, so I learned to tolerate you. You’re not half as bad as I expected, so I guess it all worked out; plus you gave me four beautiful children”. You look at him intensely (if looks could kill); you think of all the meanest things to say to him, but of what use will it be? Hell, you might as well go with the flow. You kiss him passionately and say “I love you too”. You go to bed and say to God, “God, if I catch you ehn…!!!”
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Bottomless Pit
Bottomless Pit
Since the age of eleven when I was privileged to be a flower girl at my older sister’s wedding, I had always dreamt of one day finding a man as fine as my sister’s husband and getting married to him. I later learned that there was a term used to describe people like me…”hopeless romantic”. Of what difference did it make if I was hopeful or hopeless? The most important thing is that I was a romantic. While I sat in the front pew with the rest of the flower girls, my mind wondered away and took me to where my tender heart longed to be. I was standing in front of the priest with my elementary school crush, Jideofor, and he was putting the ring on my finger and telling me that he would love and cherish me till death do us part. I was quickly brought back to reality by Ify who jolted me (almost violently) in order for me to realize it was time to go pour the flowers on the newly wedded couple. It was over already. Was I gone for that long? I had never seen my older sister so happy before, so on that day, I vowed to find true love like she did, or like I thought she did, and come what may, I would marry him.
At the age of fifteen, I thought I had grown into a woman, and I was pretty sure that if I intended to be married by my target age of 22, then this was the right time for me to start looking for a husband. I was in SS1 in a federal government secondary school when I met Oscar. He, like all other horny teenage boys told me that I meant the world to him, and on Valentine’s Day, he bought me a huge fluffy teddy bear, chocolate and a frame with romantic words in it. I was in heaven, or so I thought. Oscar’s parents were very wealthy, so it was no surprise that he could afford to buy me the gifts he bought. For Valentine’s day, we planned on sneaking out of our boarding school at night and spending the night at an expensive hotel because “that’s what lovers do” according to Oscar. He had the N250 to bribe Ali the gateman, but as fate would have it, that night Ali was sick and was replaced by someone who refused to let us out no matter how much we offered. We begged and begged along with other students, but it was a much wasted effort. Oscar and I ended up doing some heavy smooching in the cafeteria at about 1A.M in the morning. He wanted to disvirgin me, but I refused to let him simply because I did not want to lie down on the table and stain my white shirt with oil. Things went smoothly for Oscar and I that term, but when we went on holidays, I did not see or hear from Oscar. His family sent him to London for his vacation. When he came back the next term, he acted like he did not know me; he boasted of an English girlfriend he had in London, and of course, all the boys lobbied around him to hear more. I choked it up to experience and moved on.
At age seventeen, I realized how silly I was to think that I was ready for a relationship at the age of fifteen; I believed that I was now mature at seventeen. That was when I met Joseph who refused to stop pestering me. He wrote me several love notes and professed his undying love for me, but Joseph was Hausa, so I refused to give him a try, but that was until he took me to the newest club in Jos and spent a lot of money on me. He made me feel like a queen and before I knew it, I was in love with him. We ate suya every weekend and drank it down with fanta. Joseph proved his “manhood” by giving me the speech about how sex was a result of love. I told him to go to hell with his lies, but that was until he bought me the reigning shoe at the moment. I gave up my virginity and thanked the Lord for bringing Joseph into my life, but that was until he introduced me to Jennifer, his “true love”. I cried for weeks, maybe months before I decided to choke it up to experience again and move on. At the age of twenty, I attempted yet another failed relationship. Tunde and I instantly hit it off and we truly believed we were meant to be, or at least, I believed so. Even my friends called us husband and wife, and once again, I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I became sexually intimate with him and at first, it was great. Tunde was on my mind every single second and life was good, but then his family won the U.S visa lottery, so he had to relocate. I went with him to the airport where I shed my sad tears; he promised he would come back for me, but that was the last I heard of him. It was time to choke it up to experience. I had two more years before reaching my target age for marriage. I figured I had two more years to find, date and marry a man, so I strategized. I found Iyke, but something was not right with him and I soon found out what it was the day he pressed his hands firmly against my neck and tried to strangle me because he suspected I was cheating. I ran for my life and never looked back; thank God, I had not fallen in love with him.
From that point on till I was twenty-seven, all I did was date one man after another after another and sleep with every single one of them. It was not my intention; I was only trying to make it work. On my 28th birthday, I met Tony who seemed a lot more mature than all the men I had been dealing with. Though I was not physically attracted to him, I did not waste any time before deciding to date him because I was already six years past my target age of marriage. Tony turned out to be a wonderful man; our relationship was so good that he even proposed marriage to me. I wasted no time in accepting his proposal because not only had he proven to be a real gentleman, but we were also deeply in love with one another. We set a date for Tony and his family to come and officially ask my parents for my hand in marriage, but that day came and passed with neither Tony nor his family. The next day, Tony’s junior brother came to our house to inform us that Tony had been in an accident and his body was now lying in the mortuary. I blacked out.
Two years later, I turned 30 and won the U.S lottery, so I moved to California where I met Steve, an architect who stimulated my mind and body. At this point, I had practically given up on finding my true love because from where I was standing, my true love and soul mate was Tony and since he was dead, there was nothing else for me. At this stage of my life, I had decided it was time for me to indulge in meaningless sex, which people preferred to call a “one night stand”. I was sitting at the bar alone when Steve approached me and told me how beautiful I was. I told him he did not have to kiss ass, and that if he wanted sex, I was open to almost anything. Steve seemed shocked and appalled by my offer, but not enough to refuse it, so I followed him home that night where he sweated out my curls… a man I had just met. The morning after, I did not feel so good about how cheap I had sold myself. I wished things had turned out differently, but I was just too tired of falling in love, having it blow in my face and then having to start all over again only to meet yet another dead end. I figured it would be more beneficial if I just satisfied my physical and sexual needs without getting my heart involved. I had learnt the bitter lesson that falling in love meant letting my guard down and exposing my heart to a battle field where my ribs could not protect it. No more; I had had enough. When I woke up that morning and looked over at Steve who was snoring lightly; he looked really nice and seemed like someone who would have taken good care of me, but I refused to let my heart think that way. I got dressed and walked the walk of shame back to my one bedroom apartment. When I got into my house, I dropped my bag on the floor and wept. There I was, a beautiful 32 year old lady living in an empty house. No pictures on the wall, no husband, no kids tearing the house down…just me and my furniture. Apart from me, there was no other living thing in my house… not even a plant. I was still standing there and crying hysterically when someone knocked my door. I wiped my tears and unconsciously hoped it was Steve. I opened the door to see a maintenance technician standing in front of me.
“Yeah?” I asked irritably
“Morning ma’am, I’m from the apartment office. I’m here to fix your fridge.”
“There is nothing wrong with my fridge.”
“Isn’t this apartment 6A”? He asked puzzled.
“No, it’s 9A. The ‘9’ lost a screw and that’s why it’s upside-down and…”
“Oh, I’m very sorry about that ma’am. My apology.”
“Yeah whatever. Bye.” I said and banged my door shot. I felt bad for displacing my feelings towards the innocent man, but not bad enough to run after him and apologize. I was still standing there when there was another knock.
Without looking to see who it was, I snapped “I said there is nothing wrong with the fridge!”
“Good. Does that mean there’s breakfast in it?”
It was Steve. I was ecstatic and the broad smile on my face was a living proof.
“How did you find me?” I asked not really caring.
“I followed you. And you left your wallet in my house.”
“Oh thanks.” I blushed.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, definitely.” I said. I had forgotten that he was still standing outside.
“I love your home.” He said.
“It’s just a house. I’m the only one in it.”
“What about me?” he asked smiling.
Steve and I spent the rest of the day together and discovered we had a lot in common. He didn’t leave my house till the next day and ever since then, the story has been different. It had been almost two years since we started dating and it was great, though I could not help being reminded that I was 12 years past my target age of marriage, but I refused to be bothered…a lot. Steve and I had planned to go out and see a movie, and I was driving to his house…that was until I woke up in a strange room. After looking around for about 30 seconds, I realized I was in a hospital room. I started screaming to get someone’s attention.
The nurse came flying into the room and said “oh, good, you’re talking.”
“Of course I’m talking. What kind of stupid question is that? How did I get here? Where the hell am I?”
“Calm down ma’am. I’ll get your doctor.” She said and walked out hurriedly before I had the chance to reply. A few minutes later, an Asian doctor came in and introduced herself as Dr. Yiu. She told me that I had been in a psychiatric hospital for the past two weeks and I had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. She claimed that I had been having visual and auditory hallucinations; I had claimed that I lost my soul mate, Tony, but that in reality none of it was true. How couldn’t it have been false? I pinched myself to wake up from the bad dream, but I did not wake up. I asked her why I could not remember anything about my stay in the hospital and she told me it was because I had a fight with my hospital room mate the previous day and that she had pushed me into the wall so hard that I was temporarily suffering from amnesia. How had this happened? As far as I knew and remembered, I was on my way to my boyfriend’s house. Had I had an accident and died? Was this what heaven was like? Or maybe hell? Dr. Yiu was still trying to explain the enormity of my illness to me when Steve came walking into my room.
“Hey sweetie! I’m so glad to see you’re finally awake. How are you?” He said as he reached down and kissed my lips passionately.
I was very happy to see him because his presence gave me some hope that the doctor did not know what she was talking about. If Steve was still my boyfriend, then how could I have been in the hospital for the past two weeks? “Wait here; I have a surprise for you.” he said and walked out of the room excitedly. I was sure he noticed the apprehension on my face.
“Did you see him? He’s real right?” I whispered to Dr. Yiu. Even though I believed in the love Steve and I shared, the past 10 minutes had been the most confusing of my life, so I wanted to be sure I was not hallucinating again.
“Yes, of course I did. He’s your husband.”
“What?! When?! How?!” I exclaimed and looked at my finger. That was when I saw a ring with a huge rock sitting on it.
Before I could gather my thoughts together, Steve came back into the room “baby, I’m back! I brought our children to see you.”
I blacked out. When I woke up, I was still in bed, but not in the hospital one I remembered being in. I jumped up from bed and looked around me, but I could not recognize where I was; I was in a bedroom, but whose was it? I spotted a picture on the dresser so I went closer to see who was in it; it was a picture of me, Tony and the two kids Steve said belonged to us. What the hell was going on? Tony was dead or maybe non-existent as Dr. Yiu claimed, and I could not remember being married or having kids. Could it be that…
*the preceding story is a fictional account.*
Since the age of eleven when I was privileged to be a flower girl at my older sister’s wedding, I had always dreamt of one day finding a man as fine as my sister’s husband and getting married to him. I later learned that there was a term used to describe people like me…”hopeless romantic”. Of what difference did it make if I was hopeful or hopeless? The most important thing is that I was a romantic. While I sat in the front pew with the rest of the flower girls, my mind wondered away and took me to where my tender heart longed to be. I was standing in front of the priest with my elementary school crush, Jideofor, and he was putting the ring on my finger and telling me that he would love and cherish me till death do us part. I was quickly brought back to reality by Ify who jolted me (almost violently) in order for me to realize it was time to go pour the flowers on the newly wedded couple. It was over already. Was I gone for that long? I had never seen my older sister so happy before, so on that day, I vowed to find true love like she did, or like I thought she did, and come what may, I would marry him.
At the age of fifteen, I thought I had grown into a woman, and I was pretty sure that if I intended to be married by my target age of 22, then this was the right time for me to start looking for a husband. I was in SS1 in a federal government secondary school when I met Oscar. He, like all other horny teenage boys told me that I meant the world to him, and on Valentine’s Day, he bought me a huge fluffy teddy bear, chocolate and a frame with romantic words in it. I was in heaven, or so I thought. Oscar’s parents were very wealthy, so it was no surprise that he could afford to buy me the gifts he bought. For Valentine’s day, we planned on sneaking out of our boarding school at night and spending the night at an expensive hotel because “that’s what lovers do” according to Oscar. He had the N250 to bribe Ali the gateman, but as fate would have it, that night Ali was sick and was replaced by someone who refused to let us out no matter how much we offered. We begged and begged along with other students, but it was a much wasted effort. Oscar and I ended up doing some heavy smooching in the cafeteria at about 1A.M in the morning. He wanted to disvirgin me, but I refused to let him simply because I did not want to lie down on the table and stain my white shirt with oil. Things went smoothly for Oscar and I that term, but when we went on holidays, I did not see or hear from Oscar. His family sent him to London for his vacation. When he came back the next term, he acted like he did not know me; he boasted of an English girlfriend he had in London, and of course, all the boys lobbied around him to hear more. I choked it up to experience and moved on.
At age seventeen, I realized how silly I was to think that I was ready for a relationship at the age of fifteen; I believed that I was now mature at seventeen. That was when I met Joseph who refused to stop pestering me. He wrote me several love notes and professed his undying love for me, but Joseph was Hausa, so I refused to give him a try, but that was until he took me to the newest club in Jos and spent a lot of money on me. He made me feel like a queen and before I knew it, I was in love with him. We ate suya every weekend and drank it down with fanta. Joseph proved his “manhood” by giving me the speech about how sex was a result of love. I told him to go to hell with his lies, but that was until he bought me the reigning shoe at the moment. I gave up my virginity and thanked the Lord for bringing Joseph into my life, but that was until he introduced me to Jennifer, his “true love”. I cried for weeks, maybe months before I decided to choke it up to experience again and move on. At the age of twenty, I attempted yet another failed relationship. Tunde and I instantly hit it off and we truly believed we were meant to be, or at least, I believed so. Even my friends called us husband and wife, and once again, I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I became sexually intimate with him and at first, it was great. Tunde was on my mind every single second and life was good, but then his family won the U.S visa lottery, so he had to relocate. I went with him to the airport where I shed my sad tears; he promised he would come back for me, but that was the last I heard of him. It was time to choke it up to experience. I had two more years before reaching my target age for marriage. I figured I had two more years to find, date and marry a man, so I strategized. I found Iyke, but something was not right with him and I soon found out what it was the day he pressed his hands firmly against my neck and tried to strangle me because he suspected I was cheating. I ran for my life and never looked back; thank God, I had not fallen in love with him.
From that point on till I was twenty-seven, all I did was date one man after another after another and sleep with every single one of them. It was not my intention; I was only trying to make it work. On my 28th birthday, I met Tony who seemed a lot more mature than all the men I had been dealing with. Though I was not physically attracted to him, I did not waste any time before deciding to date him because I was already six years past my target age of marriage. Tony turned out to be a wonderful man; our relationship was so good that he even proposed marriage to me. I wasted no time in accepting his proposal because not only had he proven to be a real gentleman, but we were also deeply in love with one another. We set a date for Tony and his family to come and officially ask my parents for my hand in marriage, but that day came and passed with neither Tony nor his family. The next day, Tony’s junior brother came to our house to inform us that Tony had been in an accident and his body was now lying in the mortuary. I blacked out.
Two years later, I turned 30 and won the U.S lottery, so I moved to California where I met Steve, an architect who stimulated my mind and body. At this point, I had practically given up on finding my true love because from where I was standing, my true love and soul mate was Tony and since he was dead, there was nothing else for me. At this stage of my life, I had decided it was time for me to indulge in meaningless sex, which people preferred to call a “one night stand”. I was sitting at the bar alone when Steve approached me and told me how beautiful I was. I told him he did not have to kiss ass, and that if he wanted sex, I was open to almost anything. Steve seemed shocked and appalled by my offer, but not enough to refuse it, so I followed him home that night where he sweated out my curls… a man I had just met. The morning after, I did not feel so good about how cheap I had sold myself. I wished things had turned out differently, but I was just too tired of falling in love, having it blow in my face and then having to start all over again only to meet yet another dead end. I figured it would be more beneficial if I just satisfied my physical and sexual needs without getting my heart involved. I had learnt the bitter lesson that falling in love meant letting my guard down and exposing my heart to a battle field where my ribs could not protect it. No more; I had had enough. When I woke up that morning and looked over at Steve who was snoring lightly; he looked really nice and seemed like someone who would have taken good care of me, but I refused to let my heart think that way. I got dressed and walked the walk of shame back to my one bedroom apartment. When I got into my house, I dropped my bag on the floor and wept. There I was, a beautiful 32 year old lady living in an empty house. No pictures on the wall, no husband, no kids tearing the house down…just me and my furniture. Apart from me, there was no other living thing in my house… not even a plant. I was still standing there and crying hysterically when someone knocked my door. I wiped my tears and unconsciously hoped it was Steve. I opened the door to see a maintenance technician standing in front of me.
“Yeah?” I asked irritably
“Morning ma’am, I’m from the apartment office. I’m here to fix your fridge.”
“There is nothing wrong with my fridge.”
“Isn’t this apartment 6A”? He asked puzzled.
“No, it’s 9A. The ‘9’ lost a screw and that’s why it’s upside-down and…”
“Oh, I’m very sorry about that ma’am. My apology.”
“Yeah whatever. Bye.” I said and banged my door shot. I felt bad for displacing my feelings towards the innocent man, but not bad enough to run after him and apologize. I was still standing there when there was another knock.
Without looking to see who it was, I snapped “I said there is nothing wrong with the fridge!”
“Good. Does that mean there’s breakfast in it?”
It was Steve. I was ecstatic and the broad smile on my face was a living proof.
“How did you find me?” I asked not really caring.
“I followed you. And you left your wallet in my house.”
“Oh thanks.” I blushed.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, definitely.” I said. I had forgotten that he was still standing outside.
“I love your home.” He said.
“It’s just a house. I’m the only one in it.”
“What about me?” he asked smiling.
Steve and I spent the rest of the day together and discovered we had a lot in common. He didn’t leave my house till the next day and ever since then, the story has been different. It had been almost two years since we started dating and it was great, though I could not help being reminded that I was 12 years past my target age of marriage, but I refused to be bothered…a lot. Steve and I had planned to go out and see a movie, and I was driving to his house…that was until I woke up in a strange room. After looking around for about 30 seconds, I realized I was in a hospital room. I started screaming to get someone’s attention.
The nurse came flying into the room and said “oh, good, you’re talking.”
“Of course I’m talking. What kind of stupid question is that? How did I get here? Where the hell am I?”
“Calm down ma’am. I’ll get your doctor.” She said and walked out hurriedly before I had the chance to reply. A few minutes later, an Asian doctor came in and introduced herself as Dr. Yiu. She told me that I had been in a psychiatric hospital for the past two weeks and I had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. She claimed that I had been having visual and auditory hallucinations; I had claimed that I lost my soul mate, Tony, but that in reality none of it was true. How couldn’t it have been false? I pinched myself to wake up from the bad dream, but I did not wake up. I asked her why I could not remember anything about my stay in the hospital and she told me it was because I had a fight with my hospital room mate the previous day and that she had pushed me into the wall so hard that I was temporarily suffering from amnesia. How had this happened? As far as I knew and remembered, I was on my way to my boyfriend’s house. Had I had an accident and died? Was this what heaven was like? Or maybe hell? Dr. Yiu was still trying to explain the enormity of my illness to me when Steve came walking into my room.
“Hey sweetie! I’m so glad to see you’re finally awake. How are you?” He said as he reached down and kissed my lips passionately.
I was very happy to see him because his presence gave me some hope that the doctor did not know what she was talking about. If Steve was still my boyfriend, then how could I have been in the hospital for the past two weeks? “Wait here; I have a surprise for you.” he said and walked out of the room excitedly. I was sure he noticed the apprehension on my face.
“Did you see him? He’s real right?” I whispered to Dr. Yiu. Even though I believed in the love Steve and I shared, the past 10 minutes had been the most confusing of my life, so I wanted to be sure I was not hallucinating again.
“Yes, of course I did. He’s your husband.”
“What?! When?! How?!” I exclaimed and looked at my finger. That was when I saw a ring with a huge rock sitting on it.
Before I could gather my thoughts together, Steve came back into the room “baby, I’m back! I brought our children to see you.”
I blacked out. When I woke up, I was still in bed, but not in the hospital one I remembered being in. I jumped up from bed and looked around me, but I could not recognize where I was; I was in a bedroom, but whose was it? I spotted a picture on the dresser so I went closer to see who was in it; it was a picture of me, Tony and the two kids Steve said belonged to us. What the hell was going on? Tony was dead or maybe non-existent as Dr. Yiu claimed, and I could not remember being married or having kids. Could it be that…
*the preceding story is a fictional account.*
I Will Really Show You!!
If there is anything I have learnt from being in a relationship, it is the fact that a lot of times, once one partner realizes the other loves him/her, he/she begins to act out. What is it with them? I have taken the time to write a letter of anger to my partner who thinks life will not go on without him in my life.
My Dear,
It has been almost a year since we started this sick, twisted, strange and perverted saga that we stupidly call a relationship, and I am yet to see the benefits. Ok, maybe there has been some benefits (in the beginning and a little now), but the fact that we have both invested reasonable amounts of our time into this will not stop me from putting a screeching halt to it. I did it before and I will proudly and happily do it again without a second thought. This is exactly what happened between me and my ex; as soon as he realized I was in love with him and dependent on him, he decided to start malfunctioning. Yes, I said it… malfunctioning.
It has been almost a year since we started this sick, twisted, strange and perverted saga that we stupidly call a relationship, and I am yet to see the benefits. Ok, maybe there has been some benefits (in the beginning and a little now), but the fact that we have both invested reasonable amounts of our time into this will not stop me from putting a screeching halt to it. I did it before and I will proudly and happily do it again without a second thought. This is exactly what happened between me and my ex; as soon as he realized I was in love with him and dependent on him, he decided to start malfunctioning. Yes, I said it… malfunctioning.
You always say how much you love me and how much you want to spend the rest of your life with me, but instead, all you do is break my heart every chance you get. Either that, or you embarrass me in private or in public. I have tried so hard to make this work just because I love you. I take your insults and inadequacies simply because I love you and also because I foolishly think you will change. Every time you mess up, you apologize, I take you back and you do it again. In case you have not noticed, you’re not the only man out there, so if you are not ready to commit to me in the manner that I deserve, then I advice you find love some place else.
Tell me, what is it you want that I have not given you? What is it that I have not done for you? You are with me practically 24/7, so you cannot possibly say I abandon you. You are the first person I see when I wake up, and the last person I see before I go to bed. I cater to you like all men wish their women would do, and I have never for one day mistreated you. I respond to your every need no matter when, where, and how. I find myself doing things that I never thought I would do, yet you have the effrontery to treat me like I’m nothing. Why? Did you find someone else? Are you in love with someone else? It is only a matter of time before she realizes what a pain you are and will continue to be. You’re a liability and I am sick and tired of your instability. You either change or we are over… for real this time. I was brought on this earth for many reasons; you are not my sole purpose and mission on earth. God put me on earth to be many things to many people; I am my parents’ daughter, I am my friends’ friend, I will be somebody’s wife, I will be the mother of some future children, I will be the author of the book someone will be reading in the future, I am a student at my school, I am a T-Mobile customer, and I am even a Yahoo! and MSN account holder, so you see, you’re really not even my priority.
So my dear Nokia 3660, if you think you can keep tripping off when you feel like it or not ringing when you don’t feel like it, then you have another thing coming for you. For your information, you are not the only phone out there; yes, T-Mobile has other Nokia phones… new flip ones for that matter. Just wait till December when I’m due for an upgrade… I will really show you!
Is It Really Wishful Thinking?
Is it really wishful thinking to actually believe I would end up with my dream man? I guess that depends on who my dream man is. Well, I dream of a Nigerian man (at least six years older than me and educated) that would love me day, afternoon and night. I dream of a man that would love me on day one, and love me as much or even more on day ten thousand when we are wrinkly and old. I dream of a man that would bring me a rose for no reason; he does not have to do this every week or every month, but once in a while. I dream of a man that would hold my hand whenever we go out; I dream of a man that would be proud to have me as his woman. I dream of a man that would find me enough for him, and not have the need to run after another woman. Tell me, is that too much to ask for? I dream of a man that would occasionally sit with me in the kitchen to keep me company while I’m cooking (after all, he will open his wide mouth and gladly let the food pass through his esophagus), and I also dream of a man that would know and understand me inside and outside. I dream of a man that would be wise enough to show and teach our children the right examples. Tell me, is this a wishful thought? I dream of a man who would not hit me out of anger, or call me names. I dream of a man who would want my success as much as he wants his. I dream of a man who would not be an alcohol, cigarette or drug user, and I also dream of a man who is God-fearing and family and career driven. Am I still thinking wishfully? I dream of a man that would respect me and not treat me like a grocery bag from the dollar store; I dream of a man that would trust me and be confident in our union and know that there isn’t anything I would need from any man that he already does not give me. I dream of a man who I can tell all my dreams and fears and he will not throw it back in my face, and I dream of a man who I can talk to all day and night and not feel the least bit bored. I dream of a man that would not make me start pulling my hairs out or seriously start considering chewing a bottle for lunch because of his inability to stop pissing me off. I dream of a man who would love to hear my voice first thing in the morning and last thing in the night instead of his news station. Finally, I dream of a man who is undeniably dreaming of me right now and “wishfully thinking” I am dreaming of him too.
If God could create King Solomon full of wisdom, Daniel full of faith, David full of courage, Joseph full of generosity, and Jesus full of love, then why not a Nigerian man full of Vera’s dreams? In the past, people have often called my dreams “wishful thinking”, but God in his infinite mercy has made them all reality, so why not this one? Can someone tell me that there is no single Nigerian man on the face of God’s green earth that can do all of the above? Apart from causing heart ache and producing the key ingredient for making babies, what else can men do? Well, I refuse to settle for less. I do not want a man who is only called a man because of the package he carries between his legs; I want a man who is my man. Life is too short and marriage is too long, so even if I can settle for a shoe from payless because of the unavailability of funds to buy one from Bloomingdale’s, I cannot do the same for my man. He’s got to be designers, and I’m not talking Kenneth Cole or Calvin Klein ‘cause those are cheap and common; I’m talking designers that will only make one brand and one item that has not even been heard of, and that one brand and one item is mine and no one else’s. Is this still wishful thinking?
I do not think this is wishful thinking because I know that one day I would make a great wife to a great designers man, and he has to meet me half way. I’ll be that wife that men believe do not exist anymore; do not get me wrong, I do not mean I will become a computerized robot who only hears the commands of her husband, but rather I would love and nurture him so much, he will not know what hit him. But do you know what wishful thinking really is? Wishful thinking is when you believe a man will change…. Ha! That will not happen; hell would have to freeze over and a midget would be able to reach the top shelf at a “Big n Tall” store before a man changes, which is why it is not one of my dreams.
I would love to continue writing, but you have to excuse me; I have to go think wishfully… it has really been paying off. (Maybe I should wishfully think of winning ten billion dollar lottery.) At the rate it has been paying off, you all need to watch out for part II, which would be me capturing (since he has been found) this dream man of mine; my soul mate in every shape and form. It is never complete if it is not a trilogy, so after that, you can watch out for Part III (Operation ‘Marry My Soul Mate’). Off I go to capture him; as you know, there is a huge scarcity of soul mates in the market these days (I wonder if like gas, it has anything to do with the war in Iraq).
If God could create King Solomon full of wisdom, Daniel full of faith, David full of courage, Joseph full of generosity, and Jesus full of love, then why not a Nigerian man full of Vera’s dreams? In the past, people have often called my dreams “wishful thinking”, but God in his infinite mercy has made them all reality, so why not this one? Can someone tell me that there is no single Nigerian man on the face of God’s green earth that can do all of the above? Apart from causing heart ache and producing the key ingredient for making babies, what else can men do? Well, I refuse to settle for less. I do not want a man who is only called a man because of the package he carries between his legs; I want a man who is my man. Life is too short and marriage is too long, so even if I can settle for a shoe from payless because of the unavailability of funds to buy one from Bloomingdale’s, I cannot do the same for my man. He’s got to be designers, and I’m not talking Kenneth Cole or Calvin Klein ‘cause those are cheap and common; I’m talking designers that will only make one brand and one item that has not even been heard of, and that one brand and one item is mine and no one else’s. Is this still wishful thinking?
I do not think this is wishful thinking because I know that one day I would make a great wife to a great designers man, and he has to meet me half way. I’ll be that wife that men believe do not exist anymore; do not get me wrong, I do not mean I will become a computerized robot who only hears the commands of her husband, but rather I would love and nurture him so much, he will not know what hit him. But do you know what wishful thinking really is? Wishful thinking is when you believe a man will change…. Ha! That will not happen; hell would have to freeze over and a midget would be able to reach the top shelf at a “Big n Tall” store before a man changes, which is why it is not one of my dreams.
I would love to continue writing, but you have to excuse me; I have to go think wishfully… it has really been paying off. (Maybe I should wishfully think of winning ten billion dollar lottery.) At the rate it has been paying off, you all need to watch out for part II, which would be me capturing (since he has been found) this dream man of mine; my soul mate in every shape and form. It is never complete if it is not a trilogy, so after that, you can watch out for Part III (Operation ‘Marry My Soul Mate’). Off I go to capture him; as you know, there is a huge scarcity of soul mates in the market these days (I wonder if like gas, it has anything to do with the war in Iraq).
Imprudent Heifers
There really isn't anyway for me to call a woman an "imprudent heifer" and mean it in a nice way, unless of course there is a new meaning to "imprudent" that I do not know about. I chose to use "heifer" because my other choice would have been "bitch", but since I am not a fan of that word, all hail the "heifer". Pay attention closely because you might be one of them. I know most people are used to me pointing out all the wrong deeds of the Nigerian man, but let's face it, we are not saints.
I cannot count how many times I have heard Nigerian men complaining about how Nigerian women have suddenly become ?smart? because they have left Nigeria. While some of what they say is only due to their inability to handle a little independence in favor of the woman, the rest of what they say is actually true. In one simple word, most of us (Nigerian women) are extremists. Instead of being assertive, we are either idiotically passive (in Nigeria) or ludicrously aggressive (out of Nigeria). Why does it have to be that way? Have I lost you? Let me explain. In Nigeria, when a man cheats on his wife, what does the wife do? She does nothing; instead, she consoles herself by saying "he's a man; he will always be a man and act like one". Out of Nigeria (America, for example), if the man so much as looks at another woman, they are headed for Judge Mabeline Ephraim at the Divorce Court (ok, maybe not Judge Mabeline, but somewhere along that line). Not only will she divorce him, but she will also claim alimony even if the man never gave her a dime throughout the marriage. Unless she decides to marry a non-Nigerian, I hope she knows that finding another Nigerian man to marry her and all her baggage will not be a day's work. Divorcing one Nigerian man is like divorcing them all, because they will believe that if "Man A" got divorced, then he will likely be taking the sane path; not to mention that in the event of the divorce, he will be loosing half of the house he solely owns.
What about the spinsters? In Nigeria, sex is considered sacred. Something you only do with your husband, or at least with someone you're indisputably in love with, but once they are out of Nigeria?forget that. Sex becomes something you indulge in once you're horny. Heck, you do not even have to be horny; just have the craving to be horny and everything else falls into place. In their defense, "men do it, so why shouldn't we?" Who are these men and what do they mean to you? Let's just be realistic for a second here and answer this question honestly "who is really loosing? The man or the woman?" If you were honest as I asked, then I know you will have the same answer as I do right now. Of course the woman is loosing. Think about it; what are people's reactions when you scream out "he slept with thirty women!"? They will probably say something that sounds like "Nna, na him own better oh!" What if you said "she slept with twenty men!" instead? Then you?ll hear something like ?I bin know say the girl na proper aseowo!? God has not given us the privilege to know all about anybody?s life, neither has he given us the right to judge, but we are humans and we do it everyday. Just because she has slept with twenty men does not make her a whore, but that is what we think. She may have fallen in love twenty times and been intimate with all twenty of her lovers; she might have been raped, or maybe she just likes sex, but either way, we are not at liberty to judge. If she likes sex just as much as the man next to her, then why does she get called a "whore" and not the man? Let's face it; there is a double standard and sanity is a personal race. Our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit, so keeping it a temple should not be about the man, but about you. A woman's private part is like a new pair of shoe; every time a different leg steps into it, it changes its shape and no matter what happens, that shoe can and will never be the same.
What about our beautiful ladies (married and married) who have taken it upon themselves to wrong the man before he wrongs them? Again, their reason is that "men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why are you cheating on him? He seems to love you earnestly. "Oh, men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why are you leading him on when you know you're really not into him? "Oh! Men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why are you dating his money instead of him? "Oh, men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why do you want to have his baby just to trap him in the relationship? You know the answer to that one. There is only one word to describe these behaviors "IMPRUDENCE!" That is the only sane reason why someone will deliberately hurt herself and think she's hurting someone else. You say "men" do it all the time, right? Who are these men? This is a classic case of being penny-wise and pound-foolish. Basically, you cheat on Akin because word on the street is that Mr. Okeke cheated on his wife, but meanwhile Mr. Okeke is off to Paris with his new blonde girlfriend and does not know that Akin is receiving punishments on his behalf, but even if he knows, who the hell cares? That's Akin's problem anyway. So think about it: who is really loosing? Akin may be hurt, but he'll move on and find himself a woman who actually cares for him. You on the other hand will have no lover, and we all know how scarce soul mates are. There are a whole lot more women than there are men, so good luck finding one.
Ariztos. I cannot help but mention this. Can somebody please help me to understand why a young beautiful woman would be sleeping around with a married man who is old enough to be her father? Being the "other woman" is a degrading position to take, and it will only lead to hurt, heartache and sometimes, even death. Yes, death because a woman scorned (the wife) will do anything to avenge her anguish. I recently met two ladies (whom I would only call beautiful on a freezing day in hell) and when I asked them how they would feel if their husbands (assuming they got married, of course, which I really doubt) were sleeping around with women young enough to be their daughters, they said they did not care. As far as they were concerned, it was a man thing, and whether they (the ladies) slept with married men or not during their youth, their husbands were still going to do it. They were just going to pretend not to know that their husbands were doing it. May that not be my portion in Jesus' name, Amen! (I hope you said Amen too). What has marriage turned into? It is no longer a sacred union. If any man will marry me and still want to go outside of our matrimony to handle his business, then I beg him to take his proposal elsewhere because the repercussions of his infidelity will be very drastic on his side. Let's just say some things may or may not be functioning properly after his infidelity; I suggest you think more on the latter side.
What about heifers that are ready to engage in a "girl fight" for the sake of a man? Tell me, if he really cares about you, then why do you need to fight for him? As far as you're concerned, you're trying to save your relationship from another heifer who is trying to steal your man. And uhm, where is this man whom you're fighting for? Oh! That's him on the couch over there saying "baby, go on with your bad self and show her how it's done!? Who exactly is he talking to? From where I'm standing, there are two heifers fighting. Take it from me; any man who would make you fight for him (physically, verbally, emotionally or otherwise) is not even worth a second of your time. Why is he making you fight for him? Why can't he tell the other woman that she has no place in his life? You fight for him and in the process, you humiliate yourself in the presence of people, but when all is said and done, he will leave you for yet another heifer. So then, what did you stand to gain? Nothing! Nada! Zilch! What did you lose then? Nothing but your pride and dignity.
Imprudence is one thing, but being a heifer at that is just a damn shame. I've said my piece, but if you want to go ahead and still be an imprudent heifer, then all I'll say is "you go on with your bad self!"
I cannot count how many times I have heard Nigerian men complaining about how Nigerian women have suddenly become ?smart? because they have left Nigeria. While some of what they say is only due to their inability to handle a little independence in favor of the woman, the rest of what they say is actually true. In one simple word, most of us (Nigerian women) are extremists. Instead of being assertive, we are either idiotically passive (in Nigeria) or ludicrously aggressive (out of Nigeria). Why does it have to be that way? Have I lost you? Let me explain. In Nigeria, when a man cheats on his wife, what does the wife do? She does nothing; instead, she consoles herself by saying "he's a man; he will always be a man and act like one". Out of Nigeria (America, for example), if the man so much as looks at another woman, they are headed for Judge Mabeline Ephraim at the Divorce Court (ok, maybe not Judge Mabeline, but somewhere along that line). Not only will she divorce him, but she will also claim alimony even if the man never gave her a dime throughout the marriage. Unless she decides to marry a non-Nigerian, I hope she knows that finding another Nigerian man to marry her and all her baggage will not be a day's work. Divorcing one Nigerian man is like divorcing them all, because they will believe that if "Man A" got divorced, then he will likely be taking the sane path; not to mention that in the event of the divorce, he will be loosing half of the house he solely owns.
What about the spinsters? In Nigeria, sex is considered sacred. Something you only do with your husband, or at least with someone you're indisputably in love with, but once they are out of Nigeria?forget that. Sex becomes something you indulge in once you're horny. Heck, you do not even have to be horny; just have the craving to be horny and everything else falls into place. In their defense, "men do it, so why shouldn't we?" Who are these men and what do they mean to you? Let's just be realistic for a second here and answer this question honestly "who is really loosing? The man or the woman?" If you were honest as I asked, then I know you will have the same answer as I do right now. Of course the woman is loosing. Think about it; what are people's reactions when you scream out "he slept with thirty women!"? They will probably say something that sounds like "Nna, na him own better oh!" What if you said "she slept with twenty men!" instead? Then you?ll hear something like ?I bin know say the girl na proper aseowo!? God has not given us the privilege to know all about anybody?s life, neither has he given us the right to judge, but we are humans and we do it everyday. Just because she has slept with twenty men does not make her a whore, but that is what we think. She may have fallen in love twenty times and been intimate with all twenty of her lovers; she might have been raped, or maybe she just likes sex, but either way, we are not at liberty to judge. If she likes sex just as much as the man next to her, then why does she get called a "whore" and not the man? Let's face it; there is a double standard and sanity is a personal race. Our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit, so keeping it a temple should not be about the man, but about you. A woman's private part is like a new pair of shoe; every time a different leg steps into it, it changes its shape and no matter what happens, that shoe can and will never be the same.
What about our beautiful ladies (married and married) who have taken it upon themselves to wrong the man before he wrongs them? Again, their reason is that "men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why are you cheating on him? He seems to love you earnestly. "Oh, men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why are you leading him on when you know you're really not into him? "Oh! Men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why are you dating his money instead of him? "Oh, men do it all the time, so why shouldn't we?" Why do you want to have his baby just to trap him in the relationship? You know the answer to that one. There is only one word to describe these behaviors "IMPRUDENCE!" That is the only sane reason why someone will deliberately hurt herself and think she's hurting someone else. You say "men" do it all the time, right? Who are these men? This is a classic case of being penny-wise and pound-foolish. Basically, you cheat on Akin because word on the street is that Mr. Okeke cheated on his wife, but meanwhile Mr. Okeke is off to Paris with his new blonde girlfriend and does not know that Akin is receiving punishments on his behalf, but even if he knows, who the hell cares? That's Akin's problem anyway. So think about it: who is really loosing? Akin may be hurt, but he'll move on and find himself a woman who actually cares for him. You on the other hand will have no lover, and we all know how scarce soul mates are. There are a whole lot more women than there are men, so good luck finding one.
Ariztos. I cannot help but mention this. Can somebody please help me to understand why a young beautiful woman would be sleeping around with a married man who is old enough to be her father? Being the "other woman" is a degrading position to take, and it will only lead to hurt, heartache and sometimes, even death. Yes, death because a woman scorned (the wife) will do anything to avenge her anguish. I recently met two ladies (whom I would only call beautiful on a freezing day in hell) and when I asked them how they would feel if their husbands (assuming they got married, of course, which I really doubt) were sleeping around with women young enough to be their daughters, they said they did not care. As far as they were concerned, it was a man thing, and whether they (the ladies) slept with married men or not during their youth, their husbands were still going to do it. They were just going to pretend not to know that their husbands were doing it. May that not be my portion in Jesus' name, Amen! (I hope you said Amen too). What has marriage turned into? It is no longer a sacred union. If any man will marry me and still want to go outside of our matrimony to handle his business, then I beg him to take his proposal elsewhere because the repercussions of his infidelity will be very drastic on his side. Let's just say some things may or may not be functioning properly after his infidelity; I suggest you think more on the latter side.
What about heifers that are ready to engage in a "girl fight" for the sake of a man? Tell me, if he really cares about you, then why do you need to fight for him? As far as you're concerned, you're trying to save your relationship from another heifer who is trying to steal your man. And uhm, where is this man whom you're fighting for? Oh! That's him on the couch over there saying "baby, go on with your bad self and show her how it's done!? Who exactly is he talking to? From where I'm standing, there are two heifers fighting. Take it from me; any man who would make you fight for him (physically, verbally, emotionally or otherwise) is not even worth a second of your time. Why is he making you fight for him? Why can't he tell the other woman that she has no place in his life? You fight for him and in the process, you humiliate yourself in the presence of people, but when all is said and done, he will leave you for yet another heifer. So then, what did you stand to gain? Nothing! Nada! Zilch! What did you lose then? Nothing but your pride and dignity.
Imprudence is one thing, but being a heifer at that is just a damn shame. I've said my piece, but if you want to go ahead and still be an imprudent heifer, then all I'll say is "you go on with your bad self!"
Sticks Or Worms?
It does not matter what you decide to call yourself: girl, lady, woman, female, spinster, damsel… we all still want the same thing. We want that man that will sweep us off our feet and carry us to the land of forgotten troubles, which is why it’s a tremendous pain in the rear end when you meet a man who is a man, but isn’t quite the man. How many times have you had to start over because you had to accept the fact that “it’s just not gonna happen”? I know I’ve had to do so plenty times. As always, I will put my attention on Nigerian men because they are the ones I know. I have come to realize that [relationship-wise] there are three kinds of men: the stick, the worm, and the wormy stick. For most, if not all Nigerian women, we want the latter, the wormy stick, but of course, we are stuck with either the stick or the worm.
You go to Cynthia’s house and you meet Peter; you have a lengthy and interesting conversation with him, and at the end, he asks for your number. You give it to him, but he never calls. You run into him at the grocery store and exchange pleasantries, after which you ask ‘how come you never called me?” He says “I’m sorry, you look familiar, but I cannot quite remember where we met” even though he’s been blowing Cynthia’s phone up trying to ask about you. He’s the stick. He’s the man that will go above and beyond to prove that he’s tough and no feline can ever cut through him. He wants to make you work extra hard for everything, including things you don’t even give a flying boot about. He’s the man that will purposely forget your birthday and claim he “forgot” even though you spoke to him the day before. He’s the man that will tell you how troublesome women are, and how he can do perfectly fine without them. Like hell, he can! Let’s ask his mother. He’s unable to show emotions, unable to accept responsibility for his actions, unable to apologize, unable to say “I miss you” without breaking a sweat, unable to say “you look gorgeous” without loosing some hair, unable to say “I love you” without cracking a tooth or more, unable to make love, and unable to cuddle after ‘sex’ because he is not a “p*ssy”. He’s the stick; he’s inflexible.
You go to Funmi’s house and you meet Lanre; you have a lengthy conversation with him, and at the end, he asks for your number and you give it to him. You have to leave Funmi’s house for another engagement, and as soon as you step your foot outside the door, your cell phone rings. You pick it up and it’s Lanre; he says “I miss you already, baby.” He’s the worm. Now, what are you supposed to say in response to that? “I miss you too, pumpkin”? The worm is needy and sometimes insecure. He wants to so desperately please you that he ends up repulsing you. He will call eleven times in ten minutes, and if you dare not pick up your phone, he will show up at your door because he was worried about you. On your first date, he will tell you he loves you and talk about marriage and even kids you will have for him. He will tell you how important you are to him and how he never wants to lose you. After about a week of knowing him, he will start attaching his last name to your name. In all honesty, for a man to consider you to be the one to bear his last name and have his children is an honor, but when you consider who the man is, it leaves you in a less than comfortable position. The worm is the man that will never give you a chance to miss him; “do you miss me?” he will constantly ask, and deep in your guts you want to say “you mean in the five seconds that I walked from your couch to your door? Urh…not really.” The worm wants to be at your side 24/7 and never gets tired or bored. I’ll share a personal experience of this particular day that I was in my friend’s house with blood-shot eyes and was aching to put my head on a pillow. There I was barely falling into the beta phase of sleep, and this guy (whose name I will not mention in order not to get beaten) was right next to me yelling on a cell phone. I decided to leave the leaving room couch and move to the bedroom, but he followed me (still on the cell phone). I moved back to the living room, but he followed me again; one last move to the bedroom, and guess what? He’s right behind me. What’s a girl to do in such a situation (apart from screaming at the top of her lungs)? And they ask me why it did not work out.
Now, you go to Vera’s house and you meet Toby. You have a lengthy conversation, and at the end, you exchange numbers. He asks you the best time to call you and you tell him anytime from 7pm. He calls you at 9pm and you talk for about an hour about nothing intimate, but just a little history on you both (like place of birth and middle name). He calls the next day and you talk for about two hours this time, and at the end, he asks you about your marital status. You tell him you’re single, and he says he’s single too. He calls you the next two days and asks you out on a date. He decides to take you to a pool parlor since you said you did not know how to play pool and would like to learn. The pool parlor would provide an opportunity for you two to talk, yet have fun. It will give him the right to intrude on your personal space without being an intruder. He compliments your outfit by saying “you’re really wearing those jeans”; it’s a light but appreciated compliment. He’s the wormy stick. You go on dates for about a month after which he makes his intentions known to you. He tells you he wants to have a relationship with you; you agree and you both put all (or at least, most) of your cards on the table and pray to God that everything goes well, and the ending is happy. He compliments you reasonably, not when you look tore up from the flo’ up and he knows it, but he lies through his teeth and says “baby, you look absolutely beautiful” (the worm); or when you look like a million dollars, he says “well, you hair is a little messed up, but you look alright…I guess…” (the stick). The wormy stick is the guy who knows the beauty and magnificence of boundaries. It does not mean he is perfect, it just means that his imperfect days are way lesser than his perfect days. He gives you time to feel something that he feels instead of trying to force it on you, or pretend it isn’t there. He always wants you two to be on the same page; he’s always by your side, not in front of you or behind you.
Women also fall into the same three categories, which is why everyone should hook up with his/her own type. A stick should be with a stick, a worm with a worm, and a wormy stick with a wormy stick, so that way both parties receive as much as they give, and everyone one is happy. Some men see the obvious differences, but they choose to disavow the warning bells. For example, when you ask a woman “you missed me, didn’t you?” and she replies with “ok”, that’s not a good sign. It means she did not miss you, but she does not want to make you feel bad. If you tell a woman “I love you” and she replies with “thanks”, it means she does not quite feel the same way and/or is not comfortable with you telling her you love her. And if she says something along the lines of “really? Aww, that’s so sweet”, what she’s really saying is “you what? You must have lost your damn mind.” Or as a typical Nigerian woman would think “you’re in love with who? See this fool that thinks he can get into my pants with this 3rd century lie. What year does he think this is?” I remember when a friend of mine (whose name I will not mention, but she knows herself) went on a date which started out nice, but at the end, she was not feeling him at all (you know how that goes). He asked her if he could give her a kiss, and she said “no, thank you.” What do you interpret this answer to mean? Well, it means “no, I’ve had enough of you already, but thanks for offering me more nuisance.” Without being told, you know he is definitely a worm. Nigerian men tend to misread every single vibe that a woman is sending. You should know when she’s into your conversation, and when she isn’t. If she’s constantly looking around and checking her time or giving her cell phone that “please ring” look, then you know you’re boring her. And no, telling you that you’re obnoxious does not interpret into “you’re a really cool guy; I want to get to know you better.” And “I have a boyfriend who I’m committed to” does not interpret into “I have someone I’m talking to whom I’m willing to leave as soon as you chase me harder.” Get this: unreturned phone calls mean “I don’t want to talk to you; you’re bothering me, so please refrain from dialing my number.” If you have fallen in love with her before you even met her, please don’t tell her that on your first, second, third or even tenth date; it reduces the weight of “I love you” from 1000kg to 1 once, and that is a massive loss. Give her time to like you; make her want you; make her appreciate every single second she spends with you.
I cannot help but talk about this foolishness of Nigerian men: do not ask her very personal questions in the beginning, if at all. Do not ask questions like “are you a virgin?”, “how much do you weigh?”, “what’s your favorite sex position?” Those are the wrong questions, and God help me, I do not believe there is really ever a wonderful time to ask such questions, that is, until you know her better; as in, until you actually begin a relationship. If you’re the kind that likes to spend on your woman, then read this properly: START SMALL. Some men are so eager to impress a woman that they go in dept, and I mean serious debt. Start by buying her flowers, or maybe her favorite ice cream or candy...just be creative. Ibo people say it’s little by little that you lick hot soup, so please start small. Do not under any circumstance promise her more than you can give her; you want a woman to love you for who you are, not what you are or what you can do for her. Do not tell her that you’ll take her to a big fancy restaurant where you’ll have a candle lit dinner and end up taking her to TGIF. Now, that’s something that does not look good on your credit record of relationships. And get this, girls talk. When you do nice things for them, they tell their friends, and when you go wrong, you better believe your behind is being roasted, so when you get that funny look from her friends, you know what it means. When you do go on a date, do not spend the whole time talking about yourself, your accomplishments, and yourself. If I’m right, she probably stopped listening after your third sentence that started with “I…”. Ask her about herself, but do not be too personal, and do not press her for answers when she already said “I don’t want to talk about it.” Be a thoughtful man and open the door for her, pull her sit out for her, and if you’re dining out, please don’t place her order for her; that’s the first sign that you must be a control freak. When you go out with a woman, she has a mental list in her head and she is watching your every move, and of course you know we are better listeners. And do not do that thing where your head practically wants to break off because your eyes are following another woman; that counts for three strikes, and if you get three strikes on one date, that means you get dropped. Breaking your neck because you are looking at another woman takes you from the list of A-Active to C-Inactive, and it will take the Grace of God to get you back on even A-Inactive; being back on A-Active will only be a figment of your imagination. Finally, please, please, please and please, be sensitive to the vibes she’s sending. If she wants to be kissed, you will know. Do not spring a kiss on her lips when she is not looking or least expecting it; it’s neither cute nor sexy. It’s disgusting and repulsive. If I may, I’d call it a lip-rape, and as soon as the congress passes it as a law, I’ll be sure to put all you lip rapists behind the bar.
I could go on and on and on about all the wrong things Nigerian men do, but frankly, I neither have the stamina nor the desire to do so, but with the little I have written, I wish everyone a happy dating life, and I pray to God that you meet that special someone one day (preferably before menopause and before you start receiving senior discounts at the local grocery store), Amen.
You go to Cynthia’s house and you meet Peter; you have a lengthy and interesting conversation with him, and at the end, he asks for your number. You give it to him, but he never calls. You run into him at the grocery store and exchange pleasantries, after which you ask ‘how come you never called me?” He says “I’m sorry, you look familiar, but I cannot quite remember where we met” even though he’s been blowing Cynthia’s phone up trying to ask about you. He’s the stick. He’s the man that will go above and beyond to prove that he’s tough and no feline can ever cut through him. He wants to make you work extra hard for everything, including things you don’t even give a flying boot about. He’s the man that will purposely forget your birthday and claim he “forgot” even though you spoke to him the day before. He’s the man that will tell you how troublesome women are, and how he can do perfectly fine without them. Like hell, he can! Let’s ask his mother. He’s unable to show emotions, unable to accept responsibility for his actions, unable to apologize, unable to say “I miss you” without breaking a sweat, unable to say “you look gorgeous” without loosing some hair, unable to say “I love you” without cracking a tooth or more, unable to make love, and unable to cuddle after ‘sex’ because he is not a “p*ssy”. He’s the stick; he’s inflexible.
You go to Funmi’s house and you meet Lanre; you have a lengthy conversation with him, and at the end, he asks for your number and you give it to him. You have to leave Funmi’s house for another engagement, and as soon as you step your foot outside the door, your cell phone rings. You pick it up and it’s Lanre; he says “I miss you already, baby.” He’s the worm. Now, what are you supposed to say in response to that? “I miss you too, pumpkin”? The worm is needy and sometimes insecure. He wants to so desperately please you that he ends up repulsing you. He will call eleven times in ten minutes, and if you dare not pick up your phone, he will show up at your door because he was worried about you. On your first date, he will tell you he loves you and talk about marriage and even kids you will have for him. He will tell you how important you are to him and how he never wants to lose you. After about a week of knowing him, he will start attaching his last name to your name. In all honesty, for a man to consider you to be the one to bear his last name and have his children is an honor, but when you consider who the man is, it leaves you in a less than comfortable position. The worm is the man that will never give you a chance to miss him; “do you miss me?” he will constantly ask, and deep in your guts you want to say “you mean in the five seconds that I walked from your couch to your door? Urh…not really.” The worm wants to be at your side 24/7 and never gets tired or bored. I’ll share a personal experience of this particular day that I was in my friend’s house with blood-shot eyes and was aching to put my head on a pillow. There I was barely falling into the beta phase of sleep, and this guy (whose name I will not mention in order not to get beaten) was right next to me yelling on a cell phone. I decided to leave the leaving room couch and move to the bedroom, but he followed me (still on the cell phone). I moved back to the living room, but he followed me again; one last move to the bedroom, and guess what? He’s right behind me. What’s a girl to do in such a situation (apart from screaming at the top of her lungs)? And they ask me why it did not work out.
Now, you go to Vera’s house and you meet Toby. You have a lengthy conversation, and at the end, you exchange numbers. He asks you the best time to call you and you tell him anytime from 7pm. He calls you at 9pm and you talk for about an hour about nothing intimate, but just a little history on you both (like place of birth and middle name). He calls the next day and you talk for about two hours this time, and at the end, he asks you about your marital status. You tell him you’re single, and he says he’s single too. He calls you the next two days and asks you out on a date. He decides to take you to a pool parlor since you said you did not know how to play pool and would like to learn. The pool parlor would provide an opportunity for you two to talk, yet have fun. It will give him the right to intrude on your personal space without being an intruder. He compliments your outfit by saying “you’re really wearing those jeans”; it’s a light but appreciated compliment. He’s the wormy stick. You go on dates for about a month after which he makes his intentions known to you. He tells you he wants to have a relationship with you; you agree and you both put all (or at least, most) of your cards on the table and pray to God that everything goes well, and the ending is happy. He compliments you reasonably, not when you look tore up from the flo’ up and he knows it, but he lies through his teeth and says “baby, you look absolutely beautiful” (the worm); or when you look like a million dollars, he says “well, you hair is a little messed up, but you look alright…I guess…” (the stick). The wormy stick is the guy who knows the beauty and magnificence of boundaries. It does not mean he is perfect, it just means that his imperfect days are way lesser than his perfect days. He gives you time to feel something that he feels instead of trying to force it on you, or pretend it isn’t there. He always wants you two to be on the same page; he’s always by your side, not in front of you or behind you.
Women also fall into the same three categories, which is why everyone should hook up with his/her own type. A stick should be with a stick, a worm with a worm, and a wormy stick with a wormy stick, so that way both parties receive as much as they give, and everyone one is happy. Some men see the obvious differences, but they choose to disavow the warning bells. For example, when you ask a woman “you missed me, didn’t you?” and she replies with “ok”, that’s not a good sign. It means she did not miss you, but she does not want to make you feel bad. If you tell a woman “I love you” and she replies with “thanks”, it means she does not quite feel the same way and/or is not comfortable with you telling her you love her. And if she says something along the lines of “really? Aww, that’s so sweet”, what she’s really saying is “you what? You must have lost your damn mind.” Or as a typical Nigerian woman would think “you’re in love with who? See this fool that thinks he can get into my pants with this 3rd century lie. What year does he think this is?” I remember when a friend of mine (whose name I will not mention, but she knows herself) went on a date which started out nice, but at the end, she was not feeling him at all (you know how that goes). He asked her if he could give her a kiss, and she said “no, thank you.” What do you interpret this answer to mean? Well, it means “no, I’ve had enough of you already, but thanks for offering me more nuisance.” Without being told, you know he is definitely a worm. Nigerian men tend to misread every single vibe that a woman is sending. You should know when she’s into your conversation, and when she isn’t. If she’s constantly looking around and checking her time or giving her cell phone that “please ring” look, then you know you’re boring her. And no, telling you that you’re obnoxious does not interpret into “you’re a really cool guy; I want to get to know you better.” And “I have a boyfriend who I’m committed to” does not interpret into “I have someone I’m talking to whom I’m willing to leave as soon as you chase me harder.” Get this: unreturned phone calls mean “I don’t want to talk to you; you’re bothering me, so please refrain from dialing my number.” If you have fallen in love with her before you even met her, please don’t tell her that on your first, second, third or even tenth date; it reduces the weight of “I love you” from 1000kg to 1 once, and that is a massive loss. Give her time to like you; make her want you; make her appreciate every single second she spends with you.
I cannot help but talk about this foolishness of Nigerian men: do not ask her very personal questions in the beginning, if at all. Do not ask questions like “are you a virgin?”, “how much do you weigh?”, “what’s your favorite sex position?” Those are the wrong questions, and God help me, I do not believe there is really ever a wonderful time to ask such questions, that is, until you know her better; as in, until you actually begin a relationship. If you’re the kind that likes to spend on your woman, then read this properly: START SMALL. Some men are so eager to impress a woman that they go in dept, and I mean serious debt. Start by buying her flowers, or maybe her favorite ice cream or candy...just be creative. Ibo people say it’s little by little that you lick hot soup, so please start small. Do not under any circumstance promise her more than you can give her; you want a woman to love you for who you are, not what you are or what you can do for her. Do not tell her that you’ll take her to a big fancy restaurant where you’ll have a candle lit dinner and end up taking her to TGIF. Now, that’s something that does not look good on your credit record of relationships. And get this, girls talk. When you do nice things for them, they tell their friends, and when you go wrong, you better believe your behind is being roasted, so when you get that funny look from her friends, you know what it means. When you do go on a date, do not spend the whole time talking about yourself, your accomplishments, and yourself. If I’m right, she probably stopped listening after your third sentence that started with “I…”. Ask her about herself, but do not be too personal, and do not press her for answers when she already said “I don’t want to talk about it.” Be a thoughtful man and open the door for her, pull her sit out for her, and if you’re dining out, please don’t place her order for her; that’s the first sign that you must be a control freak. When you go out with a woman, she has a mental list in her head and she is watching your every move, and of course you know we are better listeners. And do not do that thing where your head practically wants to break off because your eyes are following another woman; that counts for three strikes, and if you get three strikes on one date, that means you get dropped. Breaking your neck because you are looking at another woman takes you from the list of A-Active to C-Inactive, and it will take the Grace of God to get you back on even A-Inactive; being back on A-Active will only be a figment of your imagination. Finally, please, please, please and please, be sensitive to the vibes she’s sending. If she wants to be kissed, you will know. Do not spring a kiss on her lips when she is not looking or least expecting it; it’s neither cute nor sexy. It’s disgusting and repulsive. If I may, I’d call it a lip-rape, and as soon as the congress passes it as a law, I’ll be sure to put all you lip rapists behind the bar.
I could go on and on and on about all the wrong things Nigerian men do, but frankly, I neither have the stamina nor the desire to do so, but with the little I have written, I wish everyone a happy dating life, and I pray to God that you meet that special someone one day (preferably before menopause and before you start receiving senior discounts at the local grocery store), Amen.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)