…is a lasting impression. The sooner you learn that the first impression you make on a woman is a lasting – and possibly perpetual – impression, the better for you.
In the event that you meet a woman you would like to know better, there are a few things you should keep in mind. There are three phases to this: the pre-meeting phase, the meeting phase, and the post-meeting phase.
Pre-meeting phase: At no point in your life are you sure of what will happen in the next second. Therefore, it is imperative that you plan accordingly and expect the unexpected. Sure, you do not think you will meet a girl at the mechanic shop, but what if you do? That being said, keep the following in mind:
1. A funky man is not a sexy man. Did you know our sense of smell is our strongest one? How can she take you seriously when your stench is clogging up her lungs? You should endeavor to smell good at all times. This is not an impossible task. I do not ask that you shower in cologne that will cause her to wheeze and suffer from symptoms of bronchitis; I do, however demand that you brush your teeth before leaving the house. Some kind of working deodorant will not hurt either.
2. Nobody – and I do mean NOBODY – looks good chewing gum. Whether your mouth is open or close while chewing has no bearing. Whether you chew or suck the gum does not matter either. Do not be caught leaving your house with a piece of gum in your mouth. Chewing gum while talking to her is a major distraction to her.
3. We are in the 21st century. In this century, you do not beckon on a woman by making kissing sounds as if you are calling out to Bingo, your dog. In this century, you do not get a woman’s attention by doing the ‘pssst!’ thing; for goodness sake, you are not in third grade hollering at your boys. You do not whistle at her as if you are flagging down an okada. And you most certainly do not guess her name by her complexion. Just because she is light-skinned does not mean her name is Chichi or Amaka. Lastly, you may think it is cute, but licking your lips as you stare at a woman like she’s a piece of steak or suya is very disgusting, and it sends all kinds of mixed signals.
Meeting Phase: So you have spotted the girl, and you think you would like to get to know her better. You look good; you smell good; life is good. Sometimes, it is not easy thinking of what to say when you approach her. Calm down; it’s okay. If you cannot think of what to say, please think of what not to say.
1. No hanky-panky please. If you want to know if she is single, ask her. Approaching her with cheesy lines like “I cannot believe your boyfriend let you come here all by yourself,” is as dumb as it is annoying. What if she agrees with you and says she cannot believe her boyfriend let her come there alone? What then becomes of you?
2. Contrary to popular belief, flattery will not get you everywhere. Only the right flattery will get you everywhere. Complimenting a light-skinned lady as ebony will not score you any brownie points. And if you are not sure of the color of her eyes, please reserve your right to not compliment them. Hazel eyes are not brown eyes. They never have been; they aren’t now, and they never will be.
3. The truth does not always set you free. You must not say everything that comes to your mind. It may be hard to believe, but some things are better left unsaid. Yes, Dakore has a striking resemblance to Bob-Manuel Udokwu, but must you say it? If the lady you are interested in happens to look like Dakore, please do not tell her that she reminds you of Bob-Manuel. Bob-Manuel is not a bad looking man by any stretch of the word, but no woman wants to remind a man of another man. It is as troubling as it is painful. That being said, Dakore remains a very beautiful woman.
4. Say what you mean and mean what you say. There is a trend going on in the boy-meets-girl world. I call it the he-screwed-up-at-the-last-minute trend. There are countless demons in the world, but I am yet to figure out which one possesses a man to screw up in such a way. I want to know why a man, after approaching a girl, successfully having small talk with her, making her laugh, and acquiring her ‘digits’ would say to her, “Call me sometime, okay? We can hang out.” Why, oh, why would you lay the burden of calling on her? This may seem small to you, but on our planet (Venus), this is a major offense, and it is punishable by permanent deletion of your number from our phonebook, or the movement of your number to the do-not-answer group. Look at it this way: if she wanted to call you, she would have asked for your number one way or another. You do not ask a lady for her number and then tell her to call you.
Post-Meeting Phase: You have survived the pre-meeting phase and the meeting phase; do not screw up in the post-meeting phase. You have come too far to end it. There is light at the end of the tunnel, gentlemen --- if you keep it up.
1. Do not make a career out of calling. All things being equal, the day you meet a girl and successfully excite her, you leave footprints in her memory. The thing about footprints is that time washes them away. The longer you take to call, the fainter your footprints will become. If you are not there to make more prints, you will be demoted from ‘Luke, the funny guy I met at the bar’ to ‘some guy.’ In other words, you may be nice, but you are still very forgettable, trust me. If you do not want to be actually forgotten, call within no more than forty-eight hours, or else you will become a faceless name in her phonebook.
2. Limit the phone calls. If you call her and she does not pick up, leave a message and wait for her to call you back. If she says she will call you back, wait for her to call you back. If you do not hear from her for days, you can call her again, but please wait at least twenty-four hours before you do so. If she has a habit of not picking up or returning your calls, cut her off. Any woman who wants to call a man will never be too busy to do just that. Badgering her with phone calls raises red flags. There is a thin line between an enthusiastic admirer and a crazy phone stalker. You do not want to be identified as the latter.
3. Pick a date. Keep the date. Assuming you called her at the right time and you both finally picked a day for your date, make sure you agree on a date that works for you...and keep the date! Cancelling your first date is like cancelling an interview for a highly competitive job: the rescheduled interview (if there is one) is a steeper hill to climb. Keep in mind that just because you are not calling her does not mean no one else is calling her. In order words, make hay while the sun shines. If you must cancel, it better be because you are trapped in a whale’s stomach – or something like that.
4. Save the drama. There are countless things to talk about on your first date. Your psychotic ex who slashes your tires and sabotages all your potential relationships should not be one of them. Save the doggie-style-is-my-favorite-sex-position conversation for a dozen dates later. And while we are on the subject of sex, please refrain from the how-many-people-have-you-had-sex-with conversation. You can always have that conversation some other time – like never.
***When you do have that successful date, please feel very free to send me a bottle of perfume (like Pour Femme by Bvlgari) as a thank-you gift***
DISCLAIMER: If you follow all the rules and things still don’t work out, please forward all your complaints to God. Unlike me, He’s available 24/7.
http://www.verastic.com/
vera@verastic.com
P. O. BOX 7893
Essex MD 21221
United States of America
443-934-9039
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Poles Apart
Have you ever had a phone conversation with a man you have never met, but whose voice you find irresistible? Even when he says a word as simple as “Hmm,” (which technically isn’t even a word), you simply cannot get enough of it. Everything about his voice is fascinating. You cannot quite place your finger on it, but you know that you do not mind hearing his voice right before you sleep and hearing it again as soon as you wake up. His voice is just … just so entrancing. Have you ever had a man with that kind of voice talk to you? I have.
Is it not simply amazing when you see a man who is as fine as fine could ever get? White dentures, no bournvita stains. He has that Colgate smile. His hair is cut low and neat like a military man. He looks darn good, and he knows it too. Everyday you see him, he looks like he is wearing his best outfit. He looks so good that you have sometimes forgotten yourself in the process of watching him. Everything about him betrays his opulence. My God, he is scrumptious. He walks the walk, but does he talk the talk? Certainly, a man like this must have that captivating voice, right? Eager to know, you approach him and strike a casual conversation with him. You say – more like ask, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
He looks at you, smiles that expensive smile, and says, “Oh yes, it’s a beaurriful day.” Not wanting to believe you heard what you just heard, you ask him, “What did you say?” With confidence and a million dollar smile, he repeats, “I said it’s a beaurriful day.” But how could such an epitome of visual perfection pronounce beautiful as beaurriful? Surely, it must not have been him. Unfortunately, it was indeed him. Apparently, a person’s looks can be poles apart from the words that exit his mouth. Not wanting to believe he is as dumb as he sounds, you continue the conversation, hoping it will get better.
Did he just ask you if you are Yoruba or Igbo after you told him you are from Ondo State? Yes.
Did he just ask you if you were born in London or in UK? Yes.
Did he just tell you he needs a glass of ‘warer?’ Yes.
And yes, he just said the humidity is hot.
Do not tell me I am the only one who has experienced this.
It feels a lot better when you see a guy who is forgettable. He looks like an average Joe, nothing special. But the moment he opens his mouth, you need not wonder just how high his IQ is. He speaks English like he invented the language. Who knew that English could make you feel all girly inside? He makes you feel like enrolling in English 101 again. Who cares if you are a grad student?
When the case is reversed and you see a good-looking man who looks like he just stepped out of the cover of a GQ magazine, the last thing you want is for him to sound like an Onitsha trader, throwing in at least one ‘nna men’ in every statement he makes. You cannot help but wonder how such a man got into such clothes. It is a mystery, I know.
Of course, this problem does not discriminate against any gender. Men are just as susceptible to having the shocker of their lives. As a man, you may see a woman whom you swear is Halle Berry’s twin. Her hair is beautiful. Her skin is flawless; she looks like Mac used her face to create ‘pancake’ for women. She’s got the high cheek bones, the hypnotizing eyes, the small waist, big hips, powerful ass, and of course, kissable lips and touchable tits (excuse my French, but I needed to rhyme).
So you take her along with you as your date to your ex’s wedding. You need to show your ex that you have moved on, and are now with someone more beautiful. You are now with someone who beats her hands down. In the reception hall, women stare at your date; men gawk at her. In fact, you could swear you saw your ex, the bride, rolling her eyes at her. Amongst the other women, your date looks like a rose in a field of green grass. Men seem to be quietly begging you to tell them the koko – how did you win this chic over? You are the man. She’s perfect. You’re perfect. Life is perfect. You smile the smile of a confident, self-assured man. Only winners can smile that type of smile. And you are a winner, right?
Dinner comes along. Your mouth drops open and hangs open for an uncalculated amount of time.
Is that your date licking – more like sucking - the egwusi soup off her fingers? Yes.
Is she doing it with all the sound effects too? Yes.
Is that your ex, the bride laughing at your date? Yes.
Did she just stain your white tuxedo shirt with soup? Yes.
Is she chewing (and sucking) that meatless bone? Yes.
Did she just hit the bone on the ceramic plate to force out everything inside the bone? Yes.
In public? Yes.
Are all eyes on you? Oh, yessss.
Thus goes the cycle of life: everyone is missing something. The good-looking man and sharp dresser does not have the voice. The man with the voice looks like a village headmaster. What is a girl to do? Of course, there is always that guy who has both the looks and the voice, but he has no words. He’s a beautiful man with a beautiful voice and ugly words. Well, the words themselves are not ugly; it is the sound of them that is ugly.
Have you ever heard a sexy, baritone voice that sounds like he just erupted from the village square? He’s got the voice, but no words. What a waste! Even when he is speaking English, he still sounds like he is speaking Yoruba. All the words that start with ‘h’ (like house, horse, etc) have somehow managed to exit his mouth without the ‘h,’ so they now sound like ‘ouse’ and ‘orse’. Instead, he has decided to put the ‘h’ in front of every word that starts with a vowel. He pronounces ‘earring’ as ‘hearring,’ which now makes it sound like ‘hearing.’ As you can imagine, this can complicate things tremendously, especially for those whot are not aware of what is going on. It is fair to say that the ‘h’ has been lost in transition. The Igbo ones, on the other hand, are very good at changing the pronunciation and syllables of words. ‘Make’ is often pronounced as ‘mek,’ and ‘did’ is often pronounced as ‘didi.’
Countless disappointments have thought me to expect nothing. Not having any expectation means not having to deal with any disappointment that is likely to follow through. I should say, however that I would rather hear a beautiful voice and be disappointed by the look than see a beautiful man and be disappointed by his voice. Somehow, it is easier to get over the look. As people begin to grow on you, they begin to look good. And it makes a lot of sense because beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This explains why no one ever thinks that his or friend is not good-looking. But how does one begin to fall in love with a voice that is sure to send him/her to an early grave? Well, either an early grave or prison – for killing the owner of the annoying voice.
If you ask me, I would say this is just one of God’s many ways of being funny. The man’s sense of humor is uncanny. I have never met anyone quite like Him. I maintain that He is the funniest Man ever. No one else in history has set a judgment date that everyone must attend, and yet refused to tell anyone the date. Simply amazing, I tell you.
www.verastic.com
P. O. BOX 7893
Essex, MD 21221
United States
443-934-9039
vera@verastic.com
Is it not simply amazing when you see a man who is as fine as fine could ever get? White dentures, no bournvita stains. He has that Colgate smile. His hair is cut low and neat like a military man. He looks darn good, and he knows it too. Everyday you see him, he looks like he is wearing his best outfit. He looks so good that you have sometimes forgotten yourself in the process of watching him. Everything about him betrays his opulence. My God, he is scrumptious. He walks the walk, but does he talk the talk? Certainly, a man like this must have that captivating voice, right? Eager to know, you approach him and strike a casual conversation with him. You say – more like ask, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
He looks at you, smiles that expensive smile, and says, “Oh yes, it’s a beaurriful day.” Not wanting to believe you heard what you just heard, you ask him, “What did you say?” With confidence and a million dollar smile, he repeats, “I said it’s a beaurriful day.” But how could such an epitome of visual perfection pronounce beautiful as beaurriful? Surely, it must not have been him. Unfortunately, it was indeed him. Apparently, a person’s looks can be poles apart from the words that exit his mouth. Not wanting to believe he is as dumb as he sounds, you continue the conversation, hoping it will get better.
Did he just ask you if you are Yoruba or Igbo after you told him you are from Ondo State? Yes.
Did he just ask you if you were born in London or in UK? Yes.
Did he just tell you he needs a glass of ‘warer?’ Yes.
And yes, he just said the humidity is hot.
Do not tell me I am the only one who has experienced this.
It feels a lot better when you see a guy who is forgettable. He looks like an average Joe, nothing special. But the moment he opens his mouth, you need not wonder just how high his IQ is. He speaks English like he invented the language. Who knew that English could make you feel all girly inside? He makes you feel like enrolling in English 101 again. Who cares if you are a grad student?
When the case is reversed and you see a good-looking man who looks like he just stepped out of the cover of a GQ magazine, the last thing you want is for him to sound like an Onitsha trader, throwing in at least one ‘nna men’ in every statement he makes. You cannot help but wonder how such a man got into such clothes. It is a mystery, I know.
Of course, this problem does not discriminate against any gender. Men are just as susceptible to having the shocker of their lives. As a man, you may see a woman whom you swear is Halle Berry’s twin. Her hair is beautiful. Her skin is flawless; she looks like Mac used her face to create ‘pancake’ for women. She’s got the high cheek bones, the hypnotizing eyes, the small waist, big hips, powerful ass, and of course, kissable lips and touchable tits (excuse my French, but I needed to rhyme).
So you take her along with you as your date to your ex’s wedding. You need to show your ex that you have moved on, and are now with someone more beautiful. You are now with someone who beats her hands down. In the reception hall, women stare at your date; men gawk at her. In fact, you could swear you saw your ex, the bride, rolling her eyes at her. Amongst the other women, your date looks like a rose in a field of green grass. Men seem to be quietly begging you to tell them the koko – how did you win this chic over? You are the man. She’s perfect. You’re perfect. Life is perfect. You smile the smile of a confident, self-assured man. Only winners can smile that type of smile. And you are a winner, right?
Dinner comes along. Your mouth drops open and hangs open for an uncalculated amount of time.
Is that your date licking – more like sucking - the egwusi soup off her fingers? Yes.
Is she doing it with all the sound effects too? Yes.
Is that your ex, the bride laughing at your date? Yes.
Did she just stain your white tuxedo shirt with soup? Yes.
Is she chewing (and sucking) that meatless bone? Yes.
Did she just hit the bone on the ceramic plate to force out everything inside the bone? Yes.
In public? Yes.
Are all eyes on you? Oh, yessss.
Thus goes the cycle of life: everyone is missing something. The good-looking man and sharp dresser does not have the voice. The man with the voice looks like a village headmaster. What is a girl to do? Of course, there is always that guy who has both the looks and the voice, but he has no words. He’s a beautiful man with a beautiful voice and ugly words. Well, the words themselves are not ugly; it is the sound of them that is ugly.
Have you ever heard a sexy, baritone voice that sounds like he just erupted from the village square? He’s got the voice, but no words. What a waste! Even when he is speaking English, he still sounds like he is speaking Yoruba. All the words that start with ‘h’ (like house, horse, etc) have somehow managed to exit his mouth without the ‘h,’ so they now sound like ‘ouse’ and ‘orse’. Instead, he has decided to put the ‘h’ in front of every word that starts with a vowel. He pronounces ‘earring’ as ‘hearring,’ which now makes it sound like ‘hearing.’ As you can imagine, this can complicate things tremendously, especially for those whot are not aware of what is going on. It is fair to say that the ‘h’ has been lost in transition. The Igbo ones, on the other hand, are very good at changing the pronunciation and syllables of words. ‘Make’ is often pronounced as ‘mek,’ and ‘did’ is often pronounced as ‘didi.’
Countless disappointments have thought me to expect nothing. Not having any expectation means not having to deal with any disappointment that is likely to follow through. I should say, however that I would rather hear a beautiful voice and be disappointed by the look than see a beautiful man and be disappointed by his voice. Somehow, it is easier to get over the look. As people begin to grow on you, they begin to look good. And it makes a lot of sense because beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This explains why no one ever thinks that his or friend is not good-looking. But how does one begin to fall in love with a voice that is sure to send him/her to an early grave? Well, either an early grave or prison – for killing the owner of the annoying voice.
If you ask me, I would say this is just one of God’s many ways of being funny. The man’s sense of humor is uncanny. I have never met anyone quite like Him. I maintain that He is the funniest Man ever. No one else in history has set a judgment date that everyone must attend, and yet refused to tell anyone the date. Simply amazing, I tell you.
www.verastic.com
P. O. BOX 7893
Essex, MD 21221
United States
443-934-9039
vera@verastic.com
Monday, May 05, 2008
By Their Looks, You Shall Know Them
There is something about a Nigerian woman that makes it impossible to not spot her. She may be properly dressed (and I use the word ‘properly’ sparingly), but there is just something about her that is very Nigerian. It is in the way she looks. There are so many aspects to this, but I will try to tackle them all.
I will start with the aspect that bothers me the most: the eyebrows. Seriously, is there a rule that says it is wrong for women to keep their eyebrows? What is up with shaving it off completely and replacing it with eye pencil streaks? As if that is not bad enough, these streaks come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some are thin and curvy; they even go so high that they are almost touching her hair line. Some are thick; they make her look like an angry witch. Some are straight and thin; they are so straight that they look like they have been drawn with a ruler. For goodness sake, who came up with the idea of straight eyebrows? They’re ugly and unnatural. I must mention however, that some drawn-on eyebrows do not look so bad, but more often than not, they look terrible.
While the size and shape of the eyebrows are scary enough, some people also feel the need to paint them. I do not understand the logic behind having red, burgundy, or gold eyebrows. I can understand the need to match your shoes, hand bags, jewelries, and make-up to your outfit, but why must your eyebrows compliment your outfit too? And while I am on the subject of eyes, I would like to make it clear to all Nigerian women – regardless of your complexion – that black women do not have blue eyes! Apparently, contact lenses are now part of our Ankara and Swiss laces. Yes, your eyes must now match your outfit. What happens when your outfit is pink or purple? Do they make contact lenses in those colors?
What about the hair? Why do Nigerian women think they look good with bright blonde wigs and weaves? A light skinned woman hardly looks good with a blonde weave, but a dark skinned woman looks worse. The embarrassing thing about the blonde weaves and wigs is that the women wearing it never wear it well – not that wearing it well will make it look good on them. What exactly is the point of wearing a blonde wig when your black hair is clearly visible under it? And maybe I am dense, but I cannot comprehend the sense in having pitch black hair and attaching a blonde synthetic pony tail on it. On a serious note, how does this work?
I want to address the issue of clothes a little bit. When it comes to pants (trousers), Nigerian women seem to think that all pants have to sit above their navels. Not only are these pants sitting high, but they are also afraid of touching the ground. In other words, they are always ‘jump up’ pants. Somebody needs to tell our women that it is not okay to wear white socks (or any kind of socks for that matter) with open-toe shoes. It is also not permissible to wear knee-high panty hose with a skirt that does not reach your knees. And if the elastic band in your knee-high panty hose is no longer elastic, please throw them away! Wal-Mart sells four pairs of knee-high panty hoses for only one dollar!
When it comes to jewelry, there has to be a rule that one must wear all her rings to any single event. I do not know why Nigerian women wear at least one ring on each finger, and these rings are huge and expensive. Oh, and also very ugly. If she does not wear all her rings at one time, she will not feel complete. If she does not wear a huge, ugly, expensive necklace, she will not be able to breathe well. She must always adorn her beautiful body with as much jewelry as it can handle.
Have you ever met those women that cannot seem to let go of their youth? After much observation and deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that the problem is not that they cannot let go of their youth, but rather that during their youth, they did not have much fun. I think they must have lived somewhere in the village during their youth, and all of a sudden, like a jack in a box, they have been let out and released into the city life – whatever that may be. Why else will grown women be dressed like teenagers? What is the essence of putting on a five hundred dollar lace and accessorizing it with colorful plastic jewelry from the dollar store? What is the sense in a voluptuous, curvy woman forcing herself into a pair of red skinny jeans and wearing it with those Italian shoes they usually wear with the laces? Why, oh why will a woman who has had five children and breasts that have succumbed to gravity feel the need to leave the house without a bra?
Make-up is a beautiful thing – when done right. There is no rule that says every woman must apply blush on her cheeks. But if she chooses to, does she have to look like she stuck a very red slice of pepperoni on each cheek? Must the eye shadow also extend into and beyond the eye brows? Must she really use the eye pencil to create cat eyes – or the pitiful equivalent of it? Must her lipstick really come in unnatural colors like purple and lime green?
When it comes to foundation (alias ‘pancake’), some of our Nigerian women seem to think that everything that can be applied must be applied. That is why they first start with the liquid foundation. From there, they take it one step up to the liquid-to-powder foundation. After that, they apply the pressed powder, which must then be followed by the lose powder. And of course, she must also use the concealer – whether she has something to conceal or not. By the time she is done applying the pancake on her face, she weighs at least ten pounds more. If you look at her face carefully, you will know where her face ends and where her make-up starts. That is never a good sign. Your foundation is supposed to blend in. It is imperative that our women learn that the amount of pancake that goes on the face is highly dependent on how much coverage is needed – not how much pancake she can lay her hands on.
While there is such a thing as too much make-up, it is also possible to not have enough make-up. This is evident in the women who confidently leave their homes looking as if they had just emptied an entire can of Crisco on their faces. There is so much glare on their faces that you can literally see your reflection. Their faces are so bright that one will need sunglasses with 100% UV protection to look at them. God forbid that they directly face the sun. The impact of that will be equivalent to a mirror facing the sun and beaming its reflection into someone’s eyes. These women’s cheeks and eyes are so puffy that they look like they have just emerged from an intense physical battle which they lost. But alas, they were not in a physical battle. They just believe they look too good to use make-up. Make-up only serves to enhance what one already has.
One Nigerian accessory that I absolutely adore is the scarf. When done right, the scarf can be the icing on the cake. It is almost equal to the crown that sits on the Queen’s head. The scarf is often the first thing that foreigners notice and compliment. It is imperative that you note that all scarves are not created equally. Some women tie their scarves shallow and wide. I do not mind it at all. In fact, I love it. Some women make theirs narrow and tall. Again, I do not think this looks bad either. The ones that boggle my mind are the big ones that look like they were rumpled and placed on the heads of the wearers. If you stare at those scarves long enough, you just might get busy. They are as shapeless as an amoeba. What about the little ones that are so small that one could mistake them for hats? Why did the wearer not just wear a hat? Some scarves are so flat that they look like the wearers had been carrying heavy buckets of water on their heads. Some are so flat and boring that one would think the wearer was trying to achieve a ‘wrap’ hair style on her head with the scarf. Must the scarf be so lifeless?
This is not to say that Nigerian women are not fashion-conscious. Those who are fashion-conscious are fashion-conscious. Likewise, those who are not fashion-conscious are really not fashion-conscious. In other words, the good ones are really good, and the bad ones are really bad. The next time you attend an event – Nigerian, African, or whatever else, take a minute to inspect the women around you. By their looks, you shall definitely know them.
http://www.verastic.com/
vera@verastic.com
Yahoo! ID: verastic
I will start with the aspect that bothers me the most: the eyebrows. Seriously, is there a rule that says it is wrong for women to keep their eyebrows? What is up with shaving it off completely and replacing it with eye pencil streaks? As if that is not bad enough, these streaks come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some are thin and curvy; they even go so high that they are almost touching her hair line. Some are thick; they make her look like an angry witch. Some are straight and thin; they are so straight that they look like they have been drawn with a ruler. For goodness sake, who came up with the idea of straight eyebrows? They’re ugly and unnatural. I must mention however, that some drawn-on eyebrows do not look so bad, but more often than not, they look terrible.
While the size and shape of the eyebrows are scary enough, some people also feel the need to paint them. I do not understand the logic behind having red, burgundy, or gold eyebrows. I can understand the need to match your shoes, hand bags, jewelries, and make-up to your outfit, but why must your eyebrows compliment your outfit too? And while I am on the subject of eyes, I would like to make it clear to all Nigerian women – regardless of your complexion – that black women do not have blue eyes! Apparently, contact lenses are now part of our Ankara and Swiss laces. Yes, your eyes must now match your outfit. What happens when your outfit is pink or purple? Do they make contact lenses in those colors?
What about the hair? Why do Nigerian women think they look good with bright blonde wigs and weaves? A light skinned woman hardly looks good with a blonde weave, but a dark skinned woman looks worse. The embarrassing thing about the blonde weaves and wigs is that the women wearing it never wear it well – not that wearing it well will make it look good on them. What exactly is the point of wearing a blonde wig when your black hair is clearly visible under it? And maybe I am dense, but I cannot comprehend the sense in having pitch black hair and attaching a blonde synthetic pony tail on it. On a serious note, how does this work?
I want to address the issue of clothes a little bit. When it comes to pants (trousers), Nigerian women seem to think that all pants have to sit above their navels. Not only are these pants sitting high, but they are also afraid of touching the ground. In other words, they are always ‘jump up’ pants. Somebody needs to tell our women that it is not okay to wear white socks (or any kind of socks for that matter) with open-toe shoes. It is also not permissible to wear knee-high panty hose with a skirt that does not reach your knees. And if the elastic band in your knee-high panty hose is no longer elastic, please throw them away! Wal-Mart sells four pairs of knee-high panty hoses for only one dollar!
When it comes to jewelry, there has to be a rule that one must wear all her rings to any single event. I do not know why Nigerian women wear at least one ring on each finger, and these rings are huge and expensive. Oh, and also very ugly. If she does not wear all her rings at one time, she will not feel complete. If she does not wear a huge, ugly, expensive necklace, she will not be able to breathe well. She must always adorn her beautiful body with as much jewelry as it can handle.
Have you ever met those women that cannot seem to let go of their youth? After much observation and deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that the problem is not that they cannot let go of their youth, but rather that during their youth, they did not have much fun. I think they must have lived somewhere in the village during their youth, and all of a sudden, like a jack in a box, they have been let out and released into the city life – whatever that may be. Why else will grown women be dressed like teenagers? What is the essence of putting on a five hundred dollar lace and accessorizing it with colorful plastic jewelry from the dollar store? What is the sense in a voluptuous, curvy woman forcing herself into a pair of red skinny jeans and wearing it with those Italian shoes they usually wear with the laces? Why, oh why will a woman who has had five children and breasts that have succumbed to gravity feel the need to leave the house without a bra?
Make-up is a beautiful thing – when done right. There is no rule that says every woman must apply blush on her cheeks. But if she chooses to, does she have to look like she stuck a very red slice of pepperoni on each cheek? Must the eye shadow also extend into and beyond the eye brows? Must she really use the eye pencil to create cat eyes – or the pitiful equivalent of it? Must her lipstick really come in unnatural colors like purple and lime green?
When it comes to foundation (alias ‘pancake’), some of our Nigerian women seem to think that everything that can be applied must be applied. That is why they first start with the liquid foundation. From there, they take it one step up to the liquid-to-powder foundation. After that, they apply the pressed powder, which must then be followed by the lose powder. And of course, she must also use the concealer – whether she has something to conceal or not. By the time she is done applying the pancake on her face, she weighs at least ten pounds more. If you look at her face carefully, you will know where her face ends and where her make-up starts. That is never a good sign. Your foundation is supposed to blend in. It is imperative that our women learn that the amount of pancake that goes on the face is highly dependent on how much coverage is needed – not how much pancake she can lay her hands on.
While there is such a thing as too much make-up, it is also possible to not have enough make-up. This is evident in the women who confidently leave their homes looking as if they had just emptied an entire can of Crisco on their faces. There is so much glare on their faces that you can literally see your reflection. Their faces are so bright that one will need sunglasses with 100% UV protection to look at them. God forbid that they directly face the sun. The impact of that will be equivalent to a mirror facing the sun and beaming its reflection into someone’s eyes. These women’s cheeks and eyes are so puffy that they look like they have just emerged from an intense physical battle which they lost. But alas, they were not in a physical battle. They just believe they look too good to use make-up. Make-up only serves to enhance what one already has.
One Nigerian accessory that I absolutely adore is the scarf. When done right, the scarf can be the icing on the cake. It is almost equal to the crown that sits on the Queen’s head. The scarf is often the first thing that foreigners notice and compliment. It is imperative that you note that all scarves are not created equally. Some women tie their scarves shallow and wide. I do not mind it at all. In fact, I love it. Some women make theirs narrow and tall. Again, I do not think this looks bad either. The ones that boggle my mind are the big ones that look like they were rumpled and placed on the heads of the wearers. If you stare at those scarves long enough, you just might get busy. They are as shapeless as an amoeba. What about the little ones that are so small that one could mistake them for hats? Why did the wearer not just wear a hat? Some scarves are so flat that they look like the wearers had been carrying heavy buckets of water on their heads. Some are so flat and boring that one would think the wearer was trying to achieve a ‘wrap’ hair style on her head with the scarf. Must the scarf be so lifeless?
This is not to say that Nigerian women are not fashion-conscious. Those who are fashion-conscious are fashion-conscious. Likewise, those who are not fashion-conscious are really not fashion-conscious. In other words, the good ones are really good, and the bad ones are really bad. The next time you attend an event – Nigerian, African, or whatever else, take a minute to inspect the women around you. By their looks, you shall definitely know them.
http://www.verastic.com/
vera@verastic.com
Yahoo! ID: verastic
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
This Marriage Thing Sef
Marriage today is not what it used to be. Let me rephrase that: marriage is not what I thought it was. It is not what I think it should be. And no, I am not yet married.
Marriage is supposed to be a bond between a man and a woman, held by love. When you are getting married, you are supposed to be getting married to your best friend, your soul mate, your other half. For men, you are supposed to be getting married to the woman who has your rib in her, the woman who has your missing rib. And for women, you are supposed to be getting married to the man whose rib you have in you. When ‘marriage’ comes to mind, people often think of love, romance, happiness, eternal bliss, love, love, love.
For too many, however, marriage does not quite live up to its expectation(s). Obviously, before you get married, you ought to keep in mind that problems will come up. There will be trials and tribulations. You ought to keep in mind that there will be difficult times. Philosophers will always advise you to expect the unexpected. Married people expect problems, but ironically, they never expect the problems they actually get.
A man gets married to what he considers a beautiful woman. He expects that she will undergo physical changes, especially after having his children. Her stomach might get a little rounder; her thighs might get a little chunkier; her feet might get bigger. Hmm, it will only be a matter of time before gravity descends on her breasts. So he expects all of this, but he does not foresee one of her butt cheeks to equal the size of their jumbo pillow. He does not foresee her stomach to be bigger than his beer gut. And while, he expected her feet to grow a little bigger, he did not ever think they would grow big enough to fit his shoes. And her breasts? Let’s just say it can go for miles. The thing seems to be longer every time he sees it.
They used to have a great sex life, but now she is too busy catering for the children to satisfy his needs. By the time she comes to bed, she smells of maggi cubes and curry. Her hair consistently remains undone. He is not quite sure if she is taking out the weave on her head or fixing a new one. The whole thing is a mess. Her nails are as sharp as a razor blade. He has the evidence to prove this on their bed sheets which are constantly sliced by her toe nails. And when was the last time she shaved? She has taken the word, ‘natural’ to a whole new level. Whoever told her he wants to be in bed with a grizzly bear?
Once upon a time, she used to wear neck-breaking lingerie to bed, but now, he is constantly being assaulted with the hospital gowns she calls night gowns. If only she will take a minute and reinvest in deodorants. She does not stink, but he will prefer a less natural smell. This woman who once used to be very discrete no longer feels the need to close the bathroom door while she is doing number two. She no longer deems it necessary to excuse herself before farting. Why excuse herself when her husband will love to inhale the fresh, unadulterated stench that escapes from her butt hole?
But these are all minor problems compared to the real, serious problems. Ever since she got a better job, she has become rude and disobedient. She cooks food that only she will enjoy. She has become a little too willing to order food. Wait a minute; is that Papa John’s Pizza on speed dial? She has become very quick to talk back and even tell him that he is not her God. Apparently, she can make it on her own. It amazes him that in spite of the increase in her salary, she does not make as much as he does, yet her insults continue to increase. He shudders to think of what will happen if she ever makes as much as he does. God forbid that she ever makes more. If she does, he will turn his manhood in without disputing it because he knows it will be the end of his manliness anyway.
One of the things he cannot get past is the fact that she will not stop sending so much money to her mother. He understands that her father left them with almost nothing, and he understands that her mother suffered so much for her, but she is a married woman now. She does not understand that she is now a part of him, and what she does affects him. For God’s sake, his mother is still well and alive, and he would love to send her money more often, but he knows he has a wife and children to cater for. These are just some of his complaints. The Mrs. probably has a different side to the story.
*******************************************************
She thought she was getting married to her best friend and confidant, but there is nothing confidential about their affairs. She does not really speak to Nneka, Peter’s wife, but somehow, Nneka knows about her inability to cook egwusi soup well. Nneka knows that every time she cooks egwusi soup, the water and the oil become very bitter enemies in the pot: they simply refuse to be joined together. The other day, Nneka offered to teach her how to cook egwusi soup. What insolence! Who told Nneka about this? Oh yeah, her husband is a good friend to Nneka’s husband.
Before they got married, he promised to stop drinking and smoking. He is yet to quit either. He smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish. One day, he will drink himself to stupor and smoke himself to ashes. He comes to bed smelling like an ash tray dumped in a cheap bar and expects her to wear lingerie to bed? He has to be high on something.
She sees the way he looks at her. She knows he does not like the way she looks. He looks at her like she disgusts him. He looks at her like he would much rather be looking at something else, or someone else. Perhaps, someone slimmer, someone prettier, someone lighter. She knows he does not like what he sees in her. Why on earth will she wear skimpy lingerie to bed when her husband cannot even stand the sight of her? Why will she expose her ‘lumps’? No oh.
These days, she has no interest in sex anymore. Well, she still has interest, but she refuses to subject herself to such degradation. She would rather utilize Mr. Denzel, her three-hundred dollar vibrator. He is worth every penny she spent on him. Too bad he is not tax deductable. He probably thinks of someone else while he is inside her anyway. He probably closes his eyes while he is on top of her. He probably cannot wait to burst a nut, so he can get out of her. He probably only does it because he needs to – not because he wants to. Why will she want to have sex with such a man?
She believes he is very selfish. Why else will he expect her to work several hours a day, come home and take care of the kids, help them to do their assignment, prepare dinner, and then be in the mood to satisfy his needs in bed? When she is in the mood, she is too tired; when she is not tired, she is not in the mood. And when she is in the mood and not tired, she would rather be with Mr. Denzel. At least, she is guaranteed to have his time for more than five minutes – unlike some other people she knows.
She does not know why he keeps complaining about the money she sends home to her mother. Has she ever stopped him from sending money to his own mother? Does he know what her mother went through when her father left them for another woman? There is nothing he will say that will make her stop sending money to her mother. She works hard for her money, and she has every right to spend it how she wants to. Besides, she has always dreamt of the day she will finally be able to show her mother some appreciation for all she went through when her father left them high and dry. And now this man thinks she will stop spoiling her mother because some husband said she should? Please!
She does not know why he is always complaining about the money she makes. It is not like she makes more than him anyway. He just cannot handle the fact that she now makes so much money. He cannot seem to comprehend that she is no longer the young, naïve little girl whose bride price he paid several years ago. He cannot accept that she no longer needs to run to him for every little thing. Gone are the days when she used to beg for money for bras, panties, and sanitary pad. He needs to get over himself already. She is no longer a girl; she is now a woman.
I am quite certain that at the point a couple says, ‘I do,’ they are probably in love. They might spend thousands of dollars on the wedding and everything concerning it, but a few months down the line, trouble sprouts up like weed: the more you kill them, the more they grow. Somehow, no chemical can completely get rid of them, and the chemical that does get rid of the weed also hurts the plants. Is there really a win-win situation?
Once upon a time, I used to go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ whenever I heard about a wedding, but these days, I am almost filled with sadness for the couple. I almost want to give them a condolence card. This is not to say that I do not want to get married. I do want to get married, and I intend to get married, but marriage does not have the same effect anymore. I do not even have any couple to look up to and say, ‘aww.’ Apart from tax breaks, a possibly fatter income, and beautiful children, I am seriously beginning to wonder what else one stands to gain from marriage.
I think I would be speaking for most when I say that for unmarried people in my generation, marriage is something we want but fear. No man is an island, and no sane man would want to be an island. Somewhere inside of us, we all crave a kind of connection that only a spouse can give us, but are we willing to do the work? Are we really willing to have petty arguments over and over? Are we willing to be used and abused by our in-laws? Are we willing to not be always liked by our spouse? I mean, marriage is a life time commitment, or at least, it is supposed to be a life time commitment. Who wants to make a mistake and live with it forever? I know I do not.
There is just something about Nigerian/African marriages that make me stop and ponder. Does jumping the broom mean you are no longer allowed to be yourself? I realize that after jumping the broom, there are certain things you should probably stop doing (like going out and coming in at three in the morning…unless of course, it is just a once in a blue moon guys/girls night out with your friends). But does getting married mean that your going out should be limited to work and home alone? Does getting married mean that your wardrobe should now be limited to only Iro and Buba? I do not condone wearing clothes that are too revealing (regardless of your marital status), but should getting married mean that you should start wearing only turtleneck lookalikes no matter the season?
I may not be married, but having observed a lot of marriages and found in them nothing that thrills or excites me, I have realized that one problem with marriages is habit. Marriage becomes a game of habit. Who says you cannot attend a friend’s night party because you are now married? Who says you cannot spend an entire day at Six Flags and scream your hearts out on every ride? What stops you from going to a poetry parlor? Oh, that’s right. You are married now. You can only go to work, come home, eat egwusi soup, watch TV, do whatever you do in bed, and sleep. Then you wake up in the morning and repeat the cycle.
There has got to be a better way to be married because this current marriage thing sef…e get as e be oh!!
www.verastic.com
vera@verastic.com
Marriage is supposed to be a bond between a man and a woman, held by love. When you are getting married, you are supposed to be getting married to your best friend, your soul mate, your other half. For men, you are supposed to be getting married to the woman who has your rib in her, the woman who has your missing rib. And for women, you are supposed to be getting married to the man whose rib you have in you. When ‘marriage’ comes to mind, people often think of love, romance, happiness, eternal bliss, love, love, love.
For too many, however, marriage does not quite live up to its expectation(s). Obviously, before you get married, you ought to keep in mind that problems will come up. There will be trials and tribulations. You ought to keep in mind that there will be difficult times. Philosophers will always advise you to expect the unexpected. Married people expect problems, but ironically, they never expect the problems they actually get.
A man gets married to what he considers a beautiful woman. He expects that she will undergo physical changes, especially after having his children. Her stomach might get a little rounder; her thighs might get a little chunkier; her feet might get bigger. Hmm, it will only be a matter of time before gravity descends on her breasts. So he expects all of this, but he does not foresee one of her butt cheeks to equal the size of their jumbo pillow. He does not foresee her stomach to be bigger than his beer gut. And while, he expected her feet to grow a little bigger, he did not ever think they would grow big enough to fit his shoes. And her breasts? Let’s just say it can go for miles. The thing seems to be longer every time he sees it.
They used to have a great sex life, but now she is too busy catering for the children to satisfy his needs. By the time she comes to bed, she smells of maggi cubes and curry. Her hair consistently remains undone. He is not quite sure if she is taking out the weave on her head or fixing a new one. The whole thing is a mess. Her nails are as sharp as a razor blade. He has the evidence to prove this on their bed sheets which are constantly sliced by her toe nails. And when was the last time she shaved? She has taken the word, ‘natural’ to a whole new level. Whoever told her he wants to be in bed with a grizzly bear?
Once upon a time, she used to wear neck-breaking lingerie to bed, but now, he is constantly being assaulted with the hospital gowns she calls night gowns. If only she will take a minute and reinvest in deodorants. She does not stink, but he will prefer a less natural smell. This woman who once used to be very discrete no longer feels the need to close the bathroom door while she is doing number two. She no longer deems it necessary to excuse herself before farting. Why excuse herself when her husband will love to inhale the fresh, unadulterated stench that escapes from her butt hole?
But these are all minor problems compared to the real, serious problems. Ever since she got a better job, she has become rude and disobedient. She cooks food that only she will enjoy. She has become a little too willing to order food. Wait a minute; is that Papa John’s Pizza on speed dial? She has become very quick to talk back and even tell him that he is not her God. Apparently, she can make it on her own. It amazes him that in spite of the increase in her salary, she does not make as much as he does, yet her insults continue to increase. He shudders to think of what will happen if she ever makes as much as he does. God forbid that she ever makes more. If she does, he will turn his manhood in without disputing it because he knows it will be the end of his manliness anyway.
One of the things he cannot get past is the fact that she will not stop sending so much money to her mother. He understands that her father left them with almost nothing, and he understands that her mother suffered so much for her, but she is a married woman now. She does not understand that she is now a part of him, and what she does affects him. For God’s sake, his mother is still well and alive, and he would love to send her money more often, but he knows he has a wife and children to cater for. These are just some of his complaints. The Mrs. probably has a different side to the story.
*******************************************************
She thought she was getting married to her best friend and confidant, but there is nothing confidential about their affairs. She does not really speak to Nneka, Peter’s wife, but somehow, Nneka knows about her inability to cook egwusi soup well. Nneka knows that every time she cooks egwusi soup, the water and the oil become very bitter enemies in the pot: they simply refuse to be joined together. The other day, Nneka offered to teach her how to cook egwusi soup. What insolence! Who told Nneka about this? Oh yeah, her husband is a good friend to Nneka’s husband.
Before they got married, he promised to stop drinking and smoking. He is yet to quit either. He smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish. One day, he will drink himself to stupor and smoke himself to ashes. He comes to bed smelling like an ash tray dumped in a cheap bar and expects her to wear lingerie to bed? He has to be high on something.
She sees the way he looks at her. She knows he does not like the way she looks. He looks at her like she disgusts him. He looks at her like he would much rather be looking at something else, or someone else. Perhaps, someone slimmer, someone prettier, someone lighter. She knows he does not like what he sees in her. Why on earth will she wear skimpy lingerie to bed when her husband cannot even stand the sight of her? Why will she expose her ‘lumps’? No oh.
These days, she has no interest in sex anymore. Well, she still has interest, but she refuses to subject herself to such degradation. She would rather utilize Mr. Denzel, her three-hundred dollar vibrator. He is worth every penny she spent on him. Too bad he is not tax deductable. He probably thinks of someone else while he is inside her anyway. He probably closes his eyes while he is on top of her. He probably cannot wait to burst a nut, so he can get out of her. He probably only does it because he needs to – not because he wants to. Why will she want to have sex with such a man?
She believes he is very selfish. Why else will he expect her to work several hours a day, come home and take care of the kids, help them to do their assignment, prepare dinner, and then be in the mood to satisfy his needs in bed? When she is in the mood, she is too tired; when she is not tired, she is not in the mood. And when she is in the mood and not tired, she would rather be with Mr. Denzel. At least, she is guaranteed to have his time for more than five minutes – unlike some other people she knows.
She does not know why he keeps complaining about the money she sends home to her mother. Has she ever stopped him from sending money to his own mother? Does he know what her mother went through when her father left them for another woman? There is nothing he will say that will make her stop sending money to her mother. She works hard for her money, and she has every right to spend it how she wants to. Besides, she has always dreamt of the day she will finally be able to show her mother some appreciation for all she went through when her father left them high and dry. And now this man thinks she will stop spoiling her mother because some husband said she should? Please!
She does not know why he is always complaining about the money she makes. It is not like she makes more than him anyway. He just cannot handle the fact that she now makes so much money. He cannot seem to comprehend that she is no longer the young, naïve little girl whose bride price he paid several years ago. He cannot accept that she no longer needs to run to him for every little thing. Gone are the days when she used to beg for money for bras, panties, and sanitary pad. He needs to get over himself already. She is no longer a girl; she is now a woman.
***************************************************************
I am quite certain that at the point a couple says, ‘I do,’ they are probably in love. They might spend thousands of dollars on the wedding and everything concerning it, but a few months down the line, trouble sprouts up like weed: the more you kill them, the more they grow. Somehow, no chemical can completely get rid of them, and the chemical that does get rid of the weed also hurts the plants. Is there really a win-win situation?
Once upon a time, I used to go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ whenever I heard about a wedding, but these days, I am almost filled with sadness for the couple. I almost want to give them a condolence card. This is not to say that I do not want to get married. I do want to get married, and I intend to get married, but marriage does not have the same effect anymore. I do not even have any couple to look up to and say, ‘aww.’ Apart from tax breaks, a possibly fatter income, and beautiful children, I am seriously beginning to wonder what else one stands to gain from marriage.
I think I would be speaking for most when I say that for unmarried people in my generation, marriage is something we want but fear. No man is an island, and no sane man would want to be an island. Somewhere inside of us, we all crave a kind of connection that only a spouse can give us, but are we willing to do the work? Are we really willing to have petty arguments over and over? Are we willing to be used and abused by our in-laws? Are we willing to not be always liked by our spouse? I mean, marriage is a life time commitment, or at least, it is supposed to be a life time commitment. Who wants to make a mistake and live with it forever? I know I do not.
There is just something about Nigerian/African marriages that make me stop and ponder. Does jumping the broom mean you are no longer allowed to be yourself? I realize that after jumping the broom, there are certain things you should probably stop doing (like going out and coming in at three in the morning…unless of course, it is just a once in a blue moon guys/girls night out with your friends). But does getting married mean that your going out should be limited to work and home alone? Does getting married mean that your wardrobe should now be limited to only Iro and Buba? I do not condone wearing clothes that are too revealing (regardless of your marital status), but should getting married mean that you should start wearing only turtleneck lookalikes no matter the season?
I may not be married, but having observed a lot of marriages and found in them nothing that thrills or excites me, I have realized that one problem with marriages is habit. Marriage becomes a game of habit. Who says you cannot attend a friend’s night party because you are now married? Who says you cannot spend an entire day at Six Flags and scream your hearts out on every ride? What stops you from going to a poetry parlor? Oh, that’s right. You are married now. You can only go to work, come home, eat egwusi soup, watch TV, do whatever you do in bed, and sleep. Then you wake up in the morning and repeat the cycle.
There has got to be a better way to be married because this current marriage thing sef…e get as e be oh!!
www.verastic.com
vera@verastic.com
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Men Are Like Cars
You know what cars do to you? They make you feel like life will be better with them. Before you get a car, all you can think about is how much better life will be once you get a car. You will be able to go and come as you please. You will not have to plan your schedule around your sister’s free time anymore. You will not have to leave the house two hours before you start work to catch the bus, and you would not have to spend fifteen dollars on cab fare. Oh, and you can stop receiving all those insults from Mama Nkechi. Ah, if only you had a car!
So finally, you work your butt off and you save up for a car. You had to clean up your savings account to buy your car, but you figured it was worth it. You could have bought yourself a cheap car, but you did not want to take the risk. Why buy a cheap car that will break down in the middle of the road? You decided you would rather spend the money to get yourself a reliable car that would not stop you halfway, and so you did!
As usual, everything was great at first. It drove great! Its engine came on when you put the key into the ignition and turned it a certain way. It drove when you put the gear in ‘D’, and it reversed when you put the gear in ‘R’. In your head, you did all you were told to do. You did the oil tune up every three thousand miles – just as the little sticker on your wheel screen said you should. You checked the gauge of the tire, and even learnt how to check the fluids. Inside and outside, you never kept the car dirty; in fact, some will say you were obsessed with keeping it clean. You never let it run out of gas either. You always kept it smelling good with air fresheners, and everyone who entered your car could not stop complimenting you.
Why then did it start messing up? It started with you putting the car in ‘D’ and it started reversing. And then, not only did you have a flat tire, but the tire was damaged beyond repair. How come? You had just checked that tire in the morning and you had no clue that there was something wrong with it. It seemed to have happened out of nowhere. It got to the point that the car completely refused to start. You had to have it towed to the local mechanic. Of course, that put a heavy dent in your bank account. Having spent all that you did, the car seemed to be in a good shape again.
Your friends are constantly telling you, “You don’t have to spend so much for a car to work,” but as far as you are concerned, they do not understand the kind of bond you share with your car. They have tried “hooking you up” with other cars, but you have sternly declined, stating that your car is a good car – if only they give it a chance to prove itself.
You were starting to trust it again, but it started jerking on the road. You managed it like that to the mechanic’s shop where you dished out some more money to have it fixed. You cried your eyes out and wondered if having a car was really worth it. Perhaps, you could just go back to waiting for the bus and paying fifteen dollar for the cab fare. Perhaps, you could just go back to receiving insults from Mama Nkechi. Ah, but how can you go from grace to grass? Everybody already knows you have a car. Noooo. You will be patient. Things will get better. Your car is just going through a tough time. It will come around – eventually.
Maybe it is because you have been putting the regular gas in it. From now on, you will start putting the premium gas. You will stop letting your friend’s teenage brother wash it for twenty dollars; you will start taking it to the professional car washers. For a second, you wonder if you have been putting fake antifreeze liquid into your car. Perhaps Gucci, Versace, or Prada makes antifreeze liquid for cars. Nah, you conclude that your thoughts are a bit extreme. They probably do not – at least not yet. But as soon as they do, your car will be the first to use it. Who cares if it is just a ninety-five Honda Accord?
Once again, you have to trust your car. This time, you decide to be careful. You avoid going on the highway because it will be a lot harder and more expensive to have it towed from the highway. You only drive inside the city. The car drives well and gives you no sign that something is wrong with it, or that it will collapse any time soon. But you still leave it on probation for a while. It passes the test with flying colors. Slowly but surely, it begins to gain your confidence back. You start taking it on the highway again, and it does not mess up. Great!
On this particular day, you are scheduled to go for the most important interview of your life. If you miss this interview, you will have to start everything from the beginning. What do you think your car does? Yes, it disappoints you. While on the highway, it starts smoking. You do not know what to do. What do you do? It has not stopped moving, so you could actually manage it to your destination, but what if something happens while you are driving it? You are too close to your destination to just give up and go back home; yet, you are too far from home to turn around and start the journey again. What do you do? If you keep driving it like that, the car could just combust. If that happens, both you and the car will not make it to your destination. If you turn back and go home, that means you have wasted your time.
So now you are stuck on the highway, wondering what to do, where to go, and how to go. You are in limbo – neither here nor there. You are stuck between a rock and a very, very hard place. Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. You have given this man two, three, four, maybe five years of your life, and now it seems you have done it all for nothing. You have invested so much of your time and emotions into him, and you do not feel like you are yielding any profit. You have two options: you could either give up on him and start all over with someone new, or you could continue with him and damn the consequences.
The thought of starting all over repulses you; you are not young anymore. Besides, you have spent so much time ‘training’ this man. He knows your likes and dislikes. He knows you like chocolate and dislike cookies and cream flavored ice cream. He knows your strengths and weaknesses. He knows your secrets. You tell him things you can never, ever tell your best friend. Everybody knows the two of you; his family has met yours. The trees have even been whispering about his possible proposal. His family has been hinting at their impending trip to your parents’ house to pluck the very ripe flower in their garden. You are more than ready to be plucked. But what happens after you have been plucked? Will you live the rest of your life being stranded on the highway by your man? How many times will your car have to stop you on the highway before you give up and decide that it is time to get yourself a new car? You just might die of heartbreak.
Men are like cars. Some days you wake up, enter your car and just drive off. You think about the days you had to freeze in the cold waiting for the bus, the days you had to take a cab, and the days you had to endure Mama Nkechi’s insults, and you cannot help but be thankful to God for giving you the car. On other days, however, when you are stranded on the highway and paying your future paycheck to the mechanic, you cannot help but wonder the point of having a car. You start wondering if you have been living in an illusion you created. Even though having a car has given you the opportunity to get a second job, you really have been spending all the money from the second job on the car, so technically, you are not better than you were before you got the car. Or are you?
verastic@yahoo.com
443-834-7374
So finally, you work your butt off and you save up for a car. You had to clean up your savings account to buy your car, but you figured it was worth it. You could have bought yourself a cheap car, but you did not want to take the risk. Why buy a cheap car that will break down in the middle of the road? You decided you would rather spend the money to get yourself a reliable car that would not stop you halfway, and so you did!
As usual, everything was great at first. It drove great! Its engine came on when you put the key into the ignition and turned it a certain way. It drove when you put the gear in ‘D’, and it reversed when you put the gear in ‘R’. In your head, you did all you were told to do. You did the oil tune up every three thousand miles – just as the little sticker on your wheel screen said you should. You checked the gauge of the tire, and even learnt how to check the fluids. Inside and outside, you never kept the car dirty; in fact, some will say you were obsessed with keeping it clean. You never let it run out of gas either. You always kept it smelling good with air fresheners, and everyone who entered your car could not stop complimenting you.
Why then did it start messing up? It started with you putting the car in ‘D’ and it started reversing. And then, not only did you have a flat tire, but the tire was damaged beyond repair. How come? You had just checked that tire in the morning and you had no clue that there was something wrong with it. It seemed to have happened out of nowhere. It got to the point that the car completely refused to start. You had to have it towed to the local mechanic. Of course, that put a heavy dent in your bank account. Having spent all that you did, the car seemed to be in a good shape again.
Your friends are constantly telling you, “You don’t have to spend so much for a car to work,” but as far as you are concerned, they do not understand the kind of bond you share with your car. They have tried “hooking you up” with other cars, but you have sternly declined, stating that your car is a good car – if only they give it a chance to prove itself.
You were starting to trust it again, but it started jerking on the road. You managed it like that to the mechanic’s shop where you dished out some more money to have it fixed. You cried your eyes out and wondered if having a car was really worth it. Perhaps, you could just go back to waiting for the bus and paying fifteen dollar for the cab fare. Perhaps, you could just go back to receiving insults from Mama Nkechi. Ah, but how can you go from grace to grass? Everybody already knows you have a car. Noooo. You will be patient. Things will get better. Your car is just going through a tough time. It will come around – eventually.
Maybe it is because you have been putting the regular gas in it. From now on, you will start putting the premium gas. You will stop letting your friend’s teenage brother wash it for twenty dollars; you will start taking it to the professional car washers. For a second, you wonder if you have been putting fake antifreeze liquid into your car. Perhaps Gucci, Versace, or Prada makes antifreeze liquid for cars. Nah, you conclude that your thoughts are a bit extreme. They probably do not – at least not yet. But as soon as they do, your car will be the first to use it. Who cares if it is just a ninety-five Honda Accord?
Once again, you have to trust your car. This time, you decide to be careful. You avoid going on the highway because it will be a lot harder and more expensive to have it towed from the highway. You only drive inside the city. The car drives well and gives you no sign that something is wrong with it, or that it will collapse any time soon. But you still leave it on probation for a while. It passes the test with flying colors. Slowly but surely, it begins to gain your confidence back. You start taking it on the highway again, and it does not mess up. Great!
On this particular day, you are scheduled to go for the most important interview of your life. If you miss this interview, you will have to start everything from the beginning. What do you think your car does? Yes, it disappoints you. While on the highway, it starts smoking. You do not know what to do. What do you do? It has not stopped moving, so you could actually manage it to your destination, but what if something happens while you are driving it? You are too close to your destination to just give up and go back home; yet, you are too far from home to turn around and start the journey again. What do you do? If you keep driving it like that, the car could just combust. If that happens, both you and the car will not make it to your destination. If you turn back and go home, that means you have wasted your time.
So now you are stuck on the highway, wondering what to do, where to go, and how to go. You are in limbo – neither here nor there. You are stuck between a rock and a very, very hard place. Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. You have given this man two, three, four, maybe five years of your life, and now it seems you have done it all for nothing. You have invested so much of your time and emotions into him, and you do not feel like you are yielding any profit. You have two options: you could either give up on him and start all over with someone new, or you could continue with him and damn the consequences.
The thought of starting all over repulses you; you are not young anymore. Besides, you have spent so much time ‘training’ this man. He knows your likes and dislikes. He knows you like chocolate and dislike cookies and cream flavored ice cream. He knows your strengths and weaknesses. He knows your secrets. You tell him things you can never, ever tell your best friend. Everybody knows the two of you; his family has met yours. The trees have even been whispering about his possible proposal. His family has been hinting at their impending trip to your parents’ house to pluck the very ripe flower in their garden. You are more than ready to be plucked. But what happens after you have been plucked? Will you live the rest of your life being stranded on the highway by your man? How many times will your car have to stop you on the highway before you give up and decide that it is time to get yourself a new car? You just might die of heartbreak.
Men are like cars. Some days you wake up, enter your car and just drive off. You think about the days you had to freeze in the cold waiting for the bus, the days you had to take a cab, and the days you had to endure Mama Nkechi’s insults, and you cannot help but be thankful to God for giving you the car. On other days, however, when you are stranded on the highway and paying your future paycheck to the mechanic, you cannot help but wonder the point of having a car. You start wondering if you have been living in an illusion you created. Even though having a car has given you the opportunity to get a second job, you really have been spending all the money from the second job on the car, so technically, you are not better than you were before you got the car. Or are you?
verastic@yahoo.com
443-834-7374
Friday, November 30, 2007
Is It Just Me?
For so long, I have stayed away from writing about this because I figured certain people might not take it the right way and it might strike some controversy, but now that I think about it, when has controversy ever been my enemy? Never! So I apologize, but I can no longer keep my peace. Seriously speaking, all things being equal, how much should an engagement ring cost?
Let me make my stand known. I, Vera Ezimora, do solemnly swear that I cannot and will not appreciate a cheap ring. I will take it, but I cannot appreciate it. Now, I do not expect him to rob a bank or remain in perpetual debt because he wants to buy my ring (unless he insists, of course), but common, cut me some slack.
This is the way I think about it: if you can finance an eight hundred dollar camera and a one thousand dollar computer, then why not a six thousand dollar ring? Seriously who says you have to pay everything at once? Likewise, I do not want my husband wearing a cheap ring either. I know men do not generally care too much for their bands, but I do.
I have been in perpetual disagreement with my friends, Funmi and Busola. Actually, Busola and I are on opposite ends; she does not care how much her ring costs while Funmi and I completely agree that the ring should cost a little something-something. Know what I mean? Funmi wants her ring to cost at least ten thousand dollars, but she will settle for nine (funny, I know). I, on the other hand, do not have a particular amount, but I do know the ring I want, and I know it is at least five thousand dollars. If it means anything to you, Uju is on our side.
I am glad that I have one Yoruba girl on our side because you know how we (Igbo girls) are famous for being famous gold diggers. Needless to say, any gold digger that will accept a five thousand dollar ring cannot be a true gold digger; she needs some lessons. That being said, I am removing myself from the list of gold diggers – just in case you have put me there.
I am not someone who is big on jewelry; in fact, my everyday life does not consist of me wearing any jewelry apart from my wrist watch. If you were to run into me on the street, you would probably think I am a member of one of those churches that do not believe in wearing jewelry. I need not mention any names. I only have time for jewelry when I am actually going somewhere – as in attending a function. And when I do attend those functions, the jewelries I wear do not put dents in my account. Can you believe that at my age I do not have one single real diamond? Do not be fooled by the sparkly things I wear; they are all fake, but I do not mind really…at least not yet. Of course, if you are considering buying me a real diamond, I would be foolish to say no. Speaking of things I do not have at my age, can you believe I have received flowers only twice? And both times, I got them from the same guy (an admirer). Do not let me bore you with my tales of woe.
But when it comes to my engagement ring, I refuse to compromise. I can wear my fake jewelries for a few hours and take them off, but my engagement ring stays on twenty-four-seven. I get to meet a lot of brides-to-be on a daily basis, and some of them do not even have to say they are engaged before you know it. The sparkle from their rings is enough to blind you. Sadly, the brides with the sparkling rings are hardly Nigerians. Or Africans. Only a handful have been descendants from the Motherland. For some other women, of course, you can hardly even notice they are engaged. When they tell me they are engaged, I have to dilate my eyes to two hundred percent to find the rings. Sometimes, I want to say something ignorant, like “Oh, is that your ring? I thought that was just glitter from your lotion!” The only reason I do not say it is because I am afraid of getting beaten up. You know I cannot fight.
I am not an inconsiderate person – at least not to my knowledge, so I do not expect a man who truly cannot even afford to make the monthly payments to buy me such a ring, so in such a case, I will most definitely compromise. But I will do it in hopes of a better tomorrow. In other words, I will do it in hopes that my ring will be upgraded in the nearest future. However, if he can afford it, but simply thinks it is a waste of money, then we are going to have a problem. Whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well, right? If my fiancé (whom I do not have right now) gets me a ring I do not want, I will be crying during the proposal, but they would not be tears of joy. I bet you know what I will be crying for.
Am I asking for too much? I do not think I am. I am not asking that he buys me bracelets every month (although that will be good); I am not asking that he even goes to Jared every Valentine’s Day (although that will also be good); and I am most certainly not asking that my engagement ring be from Harry Winston (although the thought of it causes sweat beads of joy to form on my forehead). All I am asking for is my engagement ring – the one I want – the one with the visible diamond, set on platinum (not gold, thank you!). Will he not gloat and bask in the glory when other people praise him for my ring? Will his head not get swollen when other women tell me how lucky I am to have him? Have I asked for too much? Will I not wear this ring everyday for the rest of my life? Should I not be entitled to a ring that will not fade after a few months or years? Is it so bad for me to adore the ring my husband has so beautifully adorned on my finger? I know you know the answers to my questions.
So I ask again, is it just me? Surely, there has to be someone else (apart from Funmi and Uju) who believes that an engagement ring should cost a pretty penny. Of course, it is what the ring represents that truly counts, so why not make it count for a lot? The weight of my big diamond is enough to remind me that I belong to someone. But if I am forced to wear a light weight ring, I cannot be blamed for forgetting that I am engaged (or married). And you know what will happen when I forget.
Diamonds are forever. Heavy diamonds are forever and ever and ever…and then some!
You're welcome to reach me...
verastic@yahoo.com
http://verastic.blogspot.com
http://veraezimora.blogspot.com
443-834-7374
Let me make my stand known. I, Vera Ezimora, do solemnly swear that I cannot and will not appreciate a cheap ring. I will take it, but I cannot appreciate it. Now, I do not expect him to rob a bank or remain in perpetual debt because he wants to buy my ring (unless he insists, of course), but common, cut me some slack.
This is the way I think about it: if you can finance an eight hundred dollar camera and a one thousand dollar computer, then why not a six thousand dollar ring? Seriously who says you have to pay everything at once? Likewise, I do not want my husband wearing a cheap ring either. I know men do not generally care too much for their bands, but I do.
I have been in perpetual disagreement with my friends, Funmi and Busola. Actually, Busola and I are on opposite ends; she does not care how much her ring costs while Funmi and I completely agree that the ring should cost a little something-something. Know what I mean? Funmi wants her ring to cost at least ten thousand dollars, but she will settle for nine (funny, I know). I, on the other hand, do not have a particular amount, but I do know the ring I want, and I know it is at least five thousand dollars. If it means anything to you, Uju is on our side.
I am glad that I have one Yoruba girl on our side because you know how we (Igbo girls) are famous for being famous gold diggers. Needless to say, any gold digger that will accept a five thousand dollar ring cannot be a true gold digger; she needs some lessons. That being said, I am removing myself from the list of gold diggers – just in case you have put me there.
I am not someone who is big on jewelry; in fact, my everyday life does not consist of me wearing any jewelry apart from my wrist watch. If you were to run into me on the street, you would probably think I am a member of one of those churches that do not believe in wearing jewelry. I need not mention any names. I only have time for jewelry when I am actually going somewhere – as in attending a function. And when I do attend those functions, the jewelries I wear do not put dents in my account. Can you believe that at my age I do not have one single real diamond? Do not be fooled by the sparkly things I wear; they are all fake, but I do not mind really…at least not yet. Of course, if you are considering buying me a real diamond, I would be foolish to say no. Speaking of things I do not have at my age, can you believe I have received flowers only twice? And both times, I got them from the same guy (an admirer). Do not let me bore you with my tales of woe.
But when it comes to my engagement ring, I refuse to compromise. I can wear my fake jewelries for a few hours and take them off, but my engagement ring stays on twenty-four-seven. I get to meet a lot of brides-to-be on a daily basis, and some of them do not even have to say they are engaged before you know it. The sparkle from their rings is enough to blind you. Sadly, the brides with the sparkling rings are hardly Nigerians. Or Africans. Only a handful have been descendants from the Motherland. For some other women, of course, you can hardly even notice they are engaged. When they tell me they are engaged, I have to dilate my eyes to two hundred percent to find the rings. Sometimes, I want to say something ignorant, like “Oh, is that your ring? I thought that was just glitter from your lotion!” The only reason I do not say it is because I am afraid of getting beaten up. You know I cannot fight.
I am not an inconsiderate person – at least not to my knowledge, so I do not expect a man who truly cannot even afford to make the monthly payments to buy me such a ring, so in such a case, I will most definitely compromise. But I will do it in hopes of a better tomorrow. In other words, I will do it in hopes that my ring will be upgraded in the nearest future. However, if he can afford it, but simply thinks it is a waste of money, then we are going to have a problem. Whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well, right? If my fiancé (whom I do not have right now) gets me a ring I do not want, I will be crying during the proposal, but they would not be tears of joy. I bet you know what I will be crying for.
Am I asking for too much? I do not think I am. I am not asking that he buys me bracelets every month (although that will be good); I am not asking that he even goes to Jared every Valentine’s Day (although that will also be good); and I am most certainly not asking that my engagement ring be from Harry Winston (although the thought of it causes sweat beads of joy to form on my forehead). All I am asking for is my engagement ring – the one I want – the one with the visible diamond, set on platinum (not gold, thank you!). Will he not gloat and bask in the glory when other people praise him for my ring? Will his head not get swollen when other women tell me how lucky I am to have him? Have I asked for too much? Will I not wear this ring everyday for the rest of my life? Should I not be entitled to a ring that will not fade after a few months or years? Is it so bad for me to adore the ring my husband has so beautifully adorned on my finger? I know you know the answers to my questions.
So I ask again, is it just me? Surely, there has to be someone else (apart from Funmi and Uju) who believes that an engagement ring should cost a pretty penny. Of course, it is what the ring represents that truly counts, so why not make it count for a lot? The weight of my big diamond is enough to remind me that I belong to someone. But if I am forced to wear a light weight ring, I cannot be blamed for forgetting that I am engaged (or married). And you know what will happen when I forget.
Diamonds are forever. Heavy diamonds are forever and ever and ever…and then some!
You're welcome to reach me...
verastic@yahoo.com
http://verastic.blogspot.com
http://veraezimora.blogspot.com
443-834-7374
Monday, October 22, 2007
This Is Not A Love Story. Or Is It?
If at the end of this piece you conclude that this is a love story, I will not mind at all. But I did not set out to make it such. I just figured I owed it to this special someone to say a few things about this special someone.
The special someone is none other than my one and only Busola Osun. I mentioned her a little in a piece I wrote about girlfriends last year, but this time, I am dedicating this entire piece to her. Yes, I have that much to say about her.
You see, Busola has been my best friend for the longest time. I am not writing this piece because I woke up on the right side of the bed today; neither have I fallen hopelessly in love with her. And in case you are wondering, I am not high on any kind of drug either – at least none that I know of. Rather, I am writing this because in a little while (October 27th 2007), I will be handing her over to her new best friend, her husband. It saddens me to know that I will no longer be her best friend, but rather her best girlfriend. But such is life. We must grow, and we must move on.
As her maid of honor, I will be making a speech on that blessed day. The problem is that I do not know how I can possibly give a sincere speech without crying my eyeballs out. I am a person who has more guts in the written word; when I write, you cannot hear my voice or see my face, so I can write exactly what I feel. It is different when I have to stand in front of her and hundreds of other people to give my heartfelt speech. It is because of this reason that I have decided to write this down here.
Busola, you should know that as I write this paragraph, I cannot help but cry. I am so glad you are not here to witness it. Please do not call me to make fun of me either. Well, who am I kidding? I know you will do so as soon as you finish reading. Before you go off to your husband’s house, I just want you to know that you are the best friend a girl could ever ask for. You have been there for me every step of the way. We have had our rough times, but your presence in my life has made a significant difference. Even though you are only going to be an hour away from me, it feels like you are leaving me. I know I constantly joke about moving in with you, but half the time, I wish I could. The problem is that the walls in American houses are thin.
I will no longer be able to drop by your house without calling ahead. I will no longer be able to sleep on your bed with you (alright people, get your mind out of the gutter, please!), and I will no longer be able to call your phone unceasingly at three in the morning for no reason. I guess I could look forward to your daughter being born and named after me. I know I joke about it all the time, but underneath those jokes lie the truth. You know me well enough to know that I mask my feelings with humor. Most times, I really do find things funny, but sometimes I just use my humor to mask my actual feelings.
I am on the phone with you right now, and you are seriously bugging. I wish you would just get off the phone and let me work on this. I wish you would get off the phone and let me cry all I need to cry; you are hindering my tears from falling down. I am really only half-listening to everything you are saying. And your chewing is seriously messing up my flow. Good, you are off the phone now.
Back to what I was saying…I know this is a weird way to convey my feelings. Perhaps, I might be sending the wrong message to a few people, but I guess I just realized just how much I will miss you. And just how much I love you, of course. Tomorrow, I will be at your house to help you move your things, and I hope to God that I keep my emotions in check. I really would not like to cry, but you know how fast my tears flow.
I wish you all the best in your marriage. You know what we have both prayed for, and I know your fiancé is a wonderful man. I am glad you found him, and I trust he will take very good care of you. If there is any kind of blessing a girl owes her best friend, then you should know that you have it all; I give it all to you. Your joy is my joy; I know you know that. And when you hurt, I hurt, which is why I always cry with you when you have a problem. Of course, it is pitiable that you usually end up consoling me over your own problem, but it is all part of the love, right?
As I stated earlier, I am writing this because I know I will not be able to say all the things I have stated here during my speech without crying. And considering the fact that you are paying the make-up artist to do our make-up on that day, I do not think you would appreciate me ruining my make-up. Maybe if I picture your fiancé running around in a mini pink coat and hot pants, it will help me keep my emotions in check. But then again, that might not be such a good idea as it might end up making me laugh uncontrollably. I will not be bold enough to tell your guests why I am laughing hysterically when I should be giving a speech. Besides, your father might finally carry out his threat and have me placed in a psychiatric unit.
Busola, you should know that I have nothing but good thoughts for you and of you. You should know that as long as I live, I will remain your sister. I look forward to attending your children’s wedding and reminiscing on our lives together. If God shines on us enough, our children just might marry each other! Perhaps, I could betroth my future daughter to your future son. By His Grace, sixty years from now, you and I will still be doing the same things together; the only difference is that we will be going at a much slower pace in order not to dislocate our joints. Sixty years from now, I am guessing you will not be able to jump up at every scene in a Nigerian movie. Hopefully, you will also be too tired and sleepy to talk through the entire movie. The most important thing is that you are there. With me.
I cannot wait to tell our children about our history. There is a certain kind of familiarity that comes with time. You and I already have that familiarity; that explains why we can communicate without saying much. But imagine what it would be like sixty years from now! I cannot even begin to fathom the beauty of such a friendship. I have always been there to lend a shoulder to you when you need it; things will not change now. They really will never change. You will always be my sister from another mother.
As you become Mrs. Somebody, please do not forget who you are and where you came from. I trust you will love your husband the way God wants a wife to love her husband. I trust you will love him with everything you have. I trust you will make him your King, next to God. Do not forget He is your other half. Do not forget you were made from him. Do not forget he is your Adam. Keep him happy always. Give him reasons to constantly thank God for having you. I know you are more than capable of doing your part, so never neglect it.
Olubusola Osun, you are beautiful both inside and out. I still think you are the craziest girl I have ever met, and I still think you have a low IQ, but you are still very beautiful. In case you are wondering, I still think he is only marrying you because of your low IQ. And yes, of course, I still do solemnly believe that a few screws are missing from your head. Either that, or your mother dropped you on your head. Honestly, I think both happened. That is the only plausible reason for your craziness.
So my lovely, beautiful, crazy, mentally-challenged best friend, this is my way of saying I love you, and I miss you already. This is my way of saying good luck with your marriage. And lastly, this is my way of saying ‘I love you dearly, but I am too chicken and emotional to say it in front of hundreds of guests without crying and looking like a big baby.’ Finally, I know you hate this word, but may I just say you are the bomb diggity!
In my head, this is not a love story. Or is it?
Saturday, October 20th 20007
1:57 AM
The special someone is none other than my one and only Busola Osun. I mentioned her a little in a piece I wrote about girlfriends last year, but this time, I am dedicating this entire piece to her. Yes, I have that much to say about her.
You see, Busola has been my best friend for the longest time. I am not writing this piece because I woke up on the right side of the bed today; neither have I fallen hopelessly in love with her. And in case you are wondering, I am not high on any kind of drug either – at least none that I know of. Rather, I am writing this because in a little while (October 27th 2007), I will be handing her over to her new best friend, her husband. It saddens me to know that I will no longer be her best friend, but rather her best girlfriend. But such is life. We must grow, and we must move on.
As her maid of honor, I will be making a speech on that blessed day. The problem is that I do not know how I can possibly give a sincere speech without crying my eyeballs out. I am a person who has more guts in the written word; when I write, you cannot hear my voice or see my face, so I can write exactly what I feel. It is different when I have to stand in front of her and hundreds of other people to give my heartfelt speech. It is because of this reason that I have decided to write this down here.
Busola, you should know that as I write this paragraph, I cannot help but cry. I am so glad you are not here to witness it. Please do not call me to make fun of me either. Well, who am I kidding? I know you will do so as soon as you finish reading. Before you go off to your husband’s house, I just want you to know that you are the best friend a girl could ever ask for. You have been there for me every step of the way. We have had our rough times, but your presence in my life has made a significant difference. Even though you are only going to be an hour away from me, it feels like you are leaving me. I know I constantly joke about moving in with you, but half the time, I wish I could. The problem is that the walls in American houses are thin.
I will no longer be able to drop by your house without calling ahead. I will no longer be able to sleep on your bed with you (alright people, get your mind out of the gutter, please!), and I will no longer be able to call your phone unceasingly at three in the morning for no reason. I guess I could look forward to your daughter being born and named after me. I know I joke about it all the time, but underneath those jokes lie the truth. You know me well enough to know that I mask my feelings with humor. Most times, I really do find things funny, but sometimes I just use my humor to mask my actual feelings.
I am on the phone with you right now, and you are seriously bugging. I wish you would just get off the phone and let me work on this. I wish you would get off the phone and let me cry all I need to cry; you are hindering my tears from falling down. I am really only half-listening to everything you are saying. And your chewing is seriously messing up my flow. Good, you are off the phone now.
Back to what I was saying…I know this is a weird way to convey my feelings. Perhaps, I might be sending the wrong message to a few people, but I guess I just realized just how much I will miss you. And just how much I love you, of course. Tomorrow, I will be at your house to help you move your things, and I hope to God that I keep my emotions in check. I really would not like to cry, but you know how fast my tears flow.
I wish you all the best in your marriage. You know what we have both prayed for, and I know your fiancé is a wonderful man. I am glad you found him, and I trust he will take very good care of you. If there is any kind of blessing a girl owes her best friend, then you should know that you have it all; I give it all to you. Your joy is my joy; I know you know that. And when you hurt, I hurt, which is why I always cry with you when you have a problem. Of course, it is pitiable that you usually end up consoling me over your own problem, but it is all part of the love, right?
As I stated earlier, I am writing this because I know I will not be able to say all the things I have stated here during my speech without crying. And considering the fact that you are paying the make-up artist to do our make-up on that day, I do not think you would appreciate me ruining my make-up. Maybe if I picture your fiancé running around in a mini pink coat and hot pants, it will help me keep my emotions in check. But then again, that might not be such a good idea as it might end up making me laugh uncontrollably. I will not be bold enough to tell your guests why I am laughing hysterically when I should be giving a speech. Besides, your father might finally carry out his threat and have me placed in a psychiatric unit.
Busola, you should know that I have nothing but good thoughts for you and of you. You should know that as long as I live, I will remain your sister. I look forward to attending your children’s wedding and reminiscing on our lives together. If God shines on us enough, our children just might marry each other! Perhaps, I could betroth my future daughter to your future son. By His Grace, sixty years from now, you and I will still be doing the same things together; the only difference is that we will be going at a much slower pace in order not to dislocate our joints. Sixty years from now, I am guessing you will not be able to jump up at every scene in a Nigerian movie. Hopefully, you will also be too tired and sleepy to talk through the entire movie. The most important thing is that you are there. With me.
I cannot wait to tell our children about our history. There is a certain kind of familiarity that comes with time. You and I already have that familiarity; that explains why we can communicate without saying much. But imagine what it would be like sixty years from now! I cannot even begin to fathom the beauty of such a friendship. I have always been there to lend a shoulder to you when you need it; things will not change now. They really will never change. You will always be my sister from another mother.
As you become Mrs. Somebody, please do not forget who you are and where you came from. I trust you will love your husband the way God wants a wife to love her husband. I trust you will love him with everything you have. I trust you will make him your King, next to God. Do not forget He is your other half. Do not forget you were made from him. Do not forget he is your Adam. Keep him happy always. Give him reasons to constantly thank God for having you. I know you are more than capable of doing your part, so never neglect it.
Olubusola Osun, you are beautiful both inside and out. I still think you are the craziest girl I have ever met, and I still think you have a low IQ, but you are still very beautiful. In case you are wondering, I still think he is only marrying you because of your low IQ. And yes, of course, I still do solemnly believe that a few screws are missing from your head. Either that, or your mother dropped you on your head. Honestly, I think both happened. That is the only plausible reason for your craziness.
So my lovely, beautiful, crazy, mentally-challenged best friend, this is my way of saying I love you, and I miss you already. This is my way of saying good luck with your marriage. And lastly, this is my way of saying ‘I love you dearly, but I am too chicken and emotional to say it in front of hundreds of guests without crying and looking like a big baby.’ Finally, I know you hate this word, but may I just say you are the bomb diggity!
In my head, this is not a love story. Or is it?
Saturday, October 20th 20007
1:57 AM
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
So When Are You Getting Married?
It seems like just yesterday January fourteenth rolled around the corner and I had to turn plus one, but now we are almost at the end of September. In four months time, I will be confronted with turning plus one again. God does not give me the option of getting older without turning plus one. I want to get older; I want to be more mature; I want to be wiser; I want to get the experience one only gets by spending more time on earth, but I do not necessarily want my age to go higher – at least not at the rate that it goes. Perhaps, I will feel better if it took eighteen months to turn plus one instead of twelve months.
I am not a child, and I do not wish to go back to my childhood; however, I am really just a kid at heart. The thought of being married excites me; the thought of having a man to call my own fascinates me; the thought of having children that come out of me thrills me, but even more than all that, the thought of leaving my parents terrifies me. Yes, I want to start a family of my own, but I still want to live with my mommy. Who will rub my back when I am feeling down? Who will rub my feet? Who will play with my hair? The probability that my husband will do all these is not very high – unless my husband happens to not be Nigerian which is highly unlikely. I am tempted to get into all the reasons why my mother might be a more romantic husband, but I will save that for another day.
The older I become, the more often I hear that question that no girl ever wants to hear (especially if she does not know the answer to it), “so when are you getting married?” My best friend is getting married in a month’s time, and I have stopped telling people about it because it always leads them to ask me the question I do not want to hear. I do not know when I will be getting married. I do not know how I will be proposed to. I do not know where or when I will be proposed to. But most importantly, I do not know to whom I will be getting married. But no one asks me who I will be getting married to; everyone is concerned about when.
Things have gotten so bad that my own father gave my number to his friend who has a son. My father told me all the supposed good things about his friend’s son – he is in the military (is that supposed to be a good thing? I hear the military guys are all whores); he flies planes for the military (Oh great! In addition to possibly being hit by a stray bullet, he also runs the risk of dying in a plane crash); he is Igbo (so what? I hear they do not make them like they used to anymore. But then again, were they ever really that good?); he is in med school (how nice! I can look forward to my potential husband spending all his time in the hospital. And let us not forget the student loans), but my father failed to tell me if his friend’s son was single and looking. I guess all that mattered was the relationship between my father and his father.
I concluded that the guy would have to be really desperate to actually call me. I mean, what would he say when he calls me? “Hi, my name is ---, and I got your number from my father who got it from your father who said we should mingle and see where this might lead to.” Yeah, there goes the introduction I have been waiting for all my life. I did not expect him to call; he never did call, and my mind forgot the issue. But then months later, my father asked me if he had called, and that was when I remembered him. I am ashamed to admit this, but a part of me was sad. Why did he not call?? He should have at least called to hear my voice. He should have at least considered the possibility of God working in mysterious ways. Yes, indeed, I am pathetic, I know. So that was how my relationship with the flying military man in med school ended before it got a chance to start.
Like I stated earlier, my best friend is getting married in a month’s time; another close friend of mine is getting married this Saturday (September 29th 2007), and yet another friend is getting married in November. Everyone has been asking the same question, and I am sick and tired of saying I do not know. Besides, saying I do not know only prompts the one asking to ask another unanswerable question, “Why now?” What the heck?! I can go ahead and explain to anyone who cares to hear that I have an idea of what I want my wedding gown to look like; I know the exact engagement and wedding ring I want; I know where I want to do my traditional marriage; I know what I want the ceremony to be like; I know what I want the white wedding to look like; I know what kind of marriage I want to share with my husband, and I even have an idea of the songs we will play that day, the names of our children, and how many I want to look like me (I want at least one boy and one girl to look like me)!
In fact, I also know that I want five children (including a set of twins). I am so sure of my twins that I have secretly started calling myself Mama Ejima or Mama Ibeji. Yes, I have claimed it already. All I need now is the ‘who’, but no one is asking me that. I guess all that matters is that I know when I will be getting married. Finding the ‘who’ should not be too difficult seeing as I have thousands of men knocking my door down and asking my parents for permission to pluck the ripe flower in their garden. Yeah, right!
My friend Uche (who will probably kill me when she sees her name in this article) has been single for the longest time. She has been so single that I have started wondering if she has died and just does not know it. Perhaps, she is a ghost and I am the only one who can see her. Why else would able-bodied men keep passing her by and not asking her if she is at least in the market. But that all recently changed. Uche went on a date on Friday (September 21st), and he was an able-bodied young man. Not only did Uche go on a date, but she also has another guy begging for her attention. Uche is still single to my knowledge, but the difference is that she now has potential boyfriends. Suddenly, Uche’s new wave of ‘manfullness’ has given her the confidence to have pity on me. She said she will help me out of my predicament. I did not even know I had a predicament!
How am I supposed to tell people when I will be getting married if I do not even have a man to propose? Or am I supposed to propose to myself and marry myself? That would actually not be such a terrible idea since I consider myself the best partner anyone can ever dream of, but I cannot afford the ring I want. Besides, I kind of need a man to have the five children that I plan on having, and going to a sperm bank is out of the question. Another perk of getting married is the tax breaks that married couples get. Who does not want or need a tax break? I know I do. Oh well, I guess I would just have to wait for my darling to show up. I have to say it is taking him a mighty long time to get here, but with all the humidity and global warming occurring, transportation must have slowed down. That is my story, and I am sticking to it.
Of course, if I could have a meeting with God, I would suggest He creates a Custom-Made Spouse program – a program in which people – men and women alike – can create their partner just as they want him or her. But I know this is merely a fantasy that will never come to pass. But if for any reason God decides to create such a program, I will not mind being the first to utilize it. Heaven knows I am in dire need of it. Until then however, I will just have to wait for my darling like every other woman out there.
So when am I getting married? Beats me. But if you find out, do let me know, please.
Comments are generously welcome.
verastic@yahoo.com
443-834-7374
Comments are generously welcome.
verastic@yahoo.com
443-834-7374
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This
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
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
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!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)