You can't be my friend if

You don't find this hilarious:

Nothing.

My greatest fear is making a mistake that I cannot fix. It is also being alone for the rest of my life, and being forgotten - being irrelevant; and not doing anything substantial - significant - with my life.

So, to battle this fear, I rationalise all my choices until I either a) not do anything at all, or b) convince myself that the less ideal decision was made as part of a necessary growth process. Everything gives me an opportunity to learn something new, and so there are no mistakes. Only lessons. 

I know that the universe and fate and life is one massive game of dominoes. I know that everything that is, is as a result of something that happened before. I know that, truly, there are no mistakes in life, and there is no growth without pain, or experience, and that, for example, one failed class results in increased motivation not to fail the next one. I know that arrogance is believing you are above certain circumstances, and that only errors knock us down to earth. I know that I would not be here today, if it weren't for decisions I took a few years ago. I know I have grown, and that I am better, and that the future is clearer to me than it has ever been. I know that. But I am alone today. 

I guess, I have learnt that I can do something significant with my life, and I am on that path. But I am on that path alone, and that fear is stronger than it has been in a while. Because, what if I have made a mistake? I don't know what to do. So I am not doing anything.

For want of an answer, the woman was lost

Posted on glamtings.com in March 2011. Glamtings is dead now. Sorries.

I do not think that women have truly spent any considerable amount of energy trying to understand men, and why they act the way they do, from a practical, problem solving perspective. All our lives, our mothers have taught us to shut up, deal, and make a nice meal. Old wives' tales have it that all the problems we may have with our men will be solved with food: If he's upset, cook him something. If he's upset with you, cook him something different. And if you want something from him, cook him something special. 

It seems, however, that women of the 21st century have started to see things somewhat differently. Perhaps this is because we've broken all our mothers' rules; perhaps it is because now, we actually know what secret lies hidden in little john's shorts, or because now, we know better than to lie still on our backs. Whatever the reason, we are now daring to look for answers outside of the kitchen.

Now that we have stepped into the territory of men, armed with red-soled shoes and skin-sewn bags, ladies, do we know any better than our mothers before us? Sure, we can rival our men in the boardroom and manipulate them in the bedroom, but do we understand them any better in the living room?

I will never understand what switch it is that goes off in their heads when the game comes on, or how they can be so tight-lipped about their feelings, and suddenly animated when it comes to who played what game better. The offside rule? *Insert confused face* Try getting a grown man to remember the 'call back' rule, or the 'pick up your dirty socks' rule. Forget it. 
There's a different algorithm in the computation of Male that makes only things involving sports and games clear to them. 

Have you ever been in a car with a man who has no idea, which way he's going? I have. In that scenario, I like to play a little game called How Many Wrong Turns. How many wrong turns can you make without cursing? How many wrong turns can you make without snapping at your girlfriend for suggesting you ask for directions? And how many wrong turns can you make without coming up with a ridiculous excuse to go back home so that you do not have to pull up to the curb to ask? 

This game is a lot of fun. Unless of course, you're the tired girlfriend in the passenger seat who'll be missing her best friend's rehearsal dinner, and (very rightly) refusing to make any for said boyfriend.

But these scenarios are for the seasoned, the ones who bravely fought through the sea of indecisive, commitment-phobic men. They are for those who have succeeded in answering all those other questions the rest of us ask every single day: "He said he liked me, why hasn’t he called since?” “He said he was single, who’s that girl?” “He said he wants us to see each other. What does that mean?” or the age-old, “Where is this relationship going?”

We’ve all sat down staring at our phones, rejecting calls from pesky suitors all the while waiting for a call from the chosen one that never comes through. Some of us have made excuses for cheating men because we’ve been attracted, and most of us have found ourselves in compromising arrangements with men who call us their ‘girls’ but never their girlfriends. What does it all mean?

 
Hats off to those women who've graduated to bigger troubles than these: the ones who successfully scaled the wiles of the wandering ones to become ‘Wifey’. Our heroes, who have lit the narrow path of hope… only, this path seems to lead to discarded garments, Sports Saturdays and geographical disorientation. Is this confusion the circle of our lives? And, in searching for answers, has curiosity indeed killed the cat?

I cannot help but wonder if our mothers had it right all along. Perhaps we needn’t bother with the why’s or the what’s of the minds of our boys. When it all boils down to it, perhaps there’s no point trying to master their motivations when we can just cook up a storm. 

Two times the charm?

Maki Oh + Solange = 2.0

Even more perfect than before.

From RCFA. ♥

Cancer ♋

Previously posted on my other other blog...

I grew up believing astrology was of the netherworld. Anybody who believed in it would quickly find their feet increasingly warmed by the fire of hades, etc. However my fascination with it was so keen that I read the monthly horoscopes in randomly scouted teen mags just so I could scoff at their inaccuracy and pat myself on the back for having escaped intact.
As I got older, I met more people who allowed themselves to be guided by the zodiac. Not for daily predictions of their lives – which are clearly suspect – but as a tool to understanding personality and behavior. I spent hours talking to these people, saying how implausible the whole thing was and asking how they could believe in such rubbish, secretly hoping to be convinced and at the same time looking for loopholes in their arguments that I could shut their beliefs down with.
Even my dad found the descriptions useful, and had apparently been a self-taught student of the stuff! He'd been my hero for so much of my life that it was significant to learn that he found some validity in the whole process...

Anyway, one day I was googling the personality traits of the Cancer woman and scoffing vile phlegm at the description, and the next I was crying over its incredible accuracy. I am fairly dramatic, you might say.

As to how I feel today? Basically, I understand better the application of the zodiac to the study of personality.
A few things to note when weighing your skepticism against the idea of coincidence are:
1: The Zodiac is not prescriptive. It is merely a guide.
2: Personality varies by intensity, suppression, intention and expression. (4-way rhyme – SCORE!!)
3: Because a significant portion of personality is learned, very few people exhibit the traits of each zodiac sign 100%.
4: I find that people who believe in the character descriptions of their zodiac signs will often match said descriptions accurately. I put this down to evidence of self knowledge.
5: Daily/weekly/monthly/annual horoscope readings are, in my experience, inaccurate. Nobody can predict the future without a significant degree off voodoo, which Cosmo and Elle are unlikely to be willing to pay for.
 “Fabulousity is in the air for you this week, as the moon has moved into orbit with Venus. You will find a great deal on handbags today as the planets hover over mars. Watch out for your credit limit though, even as you get ready for the perfect first date. More for Cancer…” 

The cancer person is said to be Loyal, Dependable, Caring, Adaptable and Responsive. On the downside we are Moody, Clingy, Self-pitying, Over-sensitive and Self-absorbed.
From my observation in general, I have found that Cancer people are also intuitive, mothering, often to the point of smotheration, extremely clannish, and can appear to be extremely cold, aloof and unfeeling. This aloofness is almost always a protective, defensive mechanism, to shield themselves from being hurt. They also enjoy and often prefer to be by themselves, or at home – their comfort zone.

Two Cancer people may appear to be completely different (as with other signs, however I only speak with some authority on mine). One may be completely extroverted while the other the opposite, but these different ‘faces’ are merely different shells under which they hide. If you picture a crab, which is the symbol of Cancer, you will have a perfect picture. The hard shell protects the vulnerability of the inside, and they scurry into their holes as soon as they no longer need to be outside.

As much as believe we Cancerians are awesome, I have found that I abhor the attentions of Cancer men. They are overly emotional and at the same time detached and aloof. They will say a simple ‘hello’ and assume that by that, they have expressed all the interest they feel. They’ll hold your hand too soon and when you withdraw they’ll stew for ages, covering it up either with hurtful teasing or distance. Even in friendship two cancer people are unlikely to grow very close without the insistent encouragement of the environment.

(This post has no conclusion)

Something catchy.

Four of us girls, we went out, by ourselves, in our little car. We drove to an empty club people were calling fashion themed. We walked in, there was a clothing store downstairs and a bar upstairs. We figured it fit? Anyway, we catwalked up the stairs, smizing fiercely, and there was maybe ten people up there. So we found ourselves a quiet corner (the dance floor) and we danced like no one was watching. Ha.
Some guy, some short guy, he walked up to me after an hour or so. He pulled me aside. He said, "Hey, what are you ladies doing in this dead place? Come with me if you want entry into the hottest club in Lagos." How could I resist. I rounded up the troops. We left.
I walked with him. I walked with him until we got to his car, and then I climbed in. I sat down. I put my seatbelt on. My friend, she showed up in the back seat. She said - after he got out 'for a second' - she said, "What were you thinking going into his car alone?"
"Oh." I said. And I thought. Because, oh, of course, that was silly of me. I never do that. Absolutely ever. But then, as I'd walked beside him, I hadn't been thinking at all.

He'd meant it literally when he said it was the hottest club. My bad, I guess, I'd forgotten to clarify. There was a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor with a short table in the middle of it. It was wide around the middle and crammed full of alcohol. In hindsight, I should have said that - about the table. He would have thought me clever. Instead he poured us all a glass of champagne and shuffled across the cracks to where his friends were, and so we left.
Halfway across the street he came out after me. He said, "Oh, are you leaving?" And so I smiled and said, "Yes." I know. I could have said, "What does it look like?" or, "No kidding, Einstein. What gave it away? The fact that I'm walking away from the doors of the club?" Instead I smiled and looked at him expectantly, thinking indifferent thoughts to mask the expectant ones. I think he heard it in the way I said yes, part question, part plea, and so he asked for my number. I didn't even think to front.

I think I was nineteen when it happened, but I was probably already twenty, so I can't even hide behind my age. He was engaged to be married. I was inconsolably smitten. Once, he asked me - in the middle of the night - he asked me to drive down to his. I said, "I don't have a car." In no language is that a no. So he picked me up, looked right at me, and said everything my eyes were begging him to say... and then I walked all the way home from Ikoyi to Yaba.

How perfect!

My celeb crush Solange Knowles in Nigerian designer Maki Oh!

From RCFA

(We'll ignore the fact that FC + the readers didn't love Solange's overall look.)

More Maki Oh here :)

This is what I do when I'm sad.

Real post coming up. Sometime.

More music:

Really enjoyed this video. It didn't feel repetitive or cliche, even though it was technically both. And the music worked perfectly with it, even though I barely heard the words. It has a nice melody, a nice vibe, and apart from the fact that the hot-girl-outfit was not the hottest they could have come up with (pants didn't quite zip all the way up. Too tight, maybe?), I have no complaints. Also, the 'me, myself and I' similarity did not cross that very thin line into imitation.

It's called 'Loving Me'

Well done for this, M.I. 

On repeat...

...and not just because it's choc full of yummies. Promise.

Wait for it

It feels like someone pressed the pause button on my life, these past few days. And at the same time, there's someone on the other side pushing Fast Forward. For instance, it's 9:20pm, and I have done nothing today. The hours don't move, and then they're gone. It's a cruel, cruel trick.

I went home for a while. Nothing had changed, but everything had changed. I needed that trip, to get back to me. What I knew, but forgot, but didn't realise, was that there is no going back. I need a new now.
Until then, pause?

Dear Ryan Gosling: (On being a sexpot)

***

Update: In related news, here's a *crucial* tip to help get you through a rough day:

Source

Character

The last post was an exercise in perspective. What really happened? Who's telling it? Is it the truth? What is truth? Bla bla.

Then there are all the characters that resulted from that - or is it the same one? (Oooooh.)

Here's a few lines I wrote about a character I suspect will continue to appear for a while:

---

Once upon a time, there lived a girl who met a boy who didn’t ask for her phone number. Instead he said, ‘Hey, yo, I think you’re cool, and shit, hit me up on that blackberry, ma.’ So, she did. 

Later that night they chatted for a few hours, and when she said goodnight he said, ‘That’s what’s up.’

The next day, after he asked her what she’d had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, he said, ‘That’s my shit right there!’

And when she told him what she did for fun, and added him on Facebook, he said, ‘Tight.’

In the days between he asked her what she was wearing, offered to scrub her back, and sent her a picture of himself. It was one of those ones where you just know the camera was positioned right beneath a nostril – the better to smell you with, my dear? He sent it and said, ‘??’ and so she said, ‘Lol.’

One morning, four days later, her phone pinged with a message. It was him, again. It said, ‘Don’t wanna be a pest, ma. If you’re not feeling the kid, it’s aight,’ so she didn’t reply.

And they lived separately ever after.

One

1

Bimbo and Akintunde were at the party. Bimbo carried the baby. Akintunde watched, smiled. Nume and Rima and Zainab and Demi cooed. Akintunde beamed, proud. I walked over. I said, “She’s adorable! Can I hold her?” Bimbo said yes.

I touched her face, put my nose in her hair. I did that thing everyone does where they force their fingers into the baby’s palm. 

Bimbo reached out to take her back and she fell.

2

I met a guy, his name is Coolio. I don’t even know what that means. I don’t care. Some guy had invited him to a party that I was at, just a little thing; couple of people, couple of drinks, couple of losers on the prowl. He walked up to me, he said, “Yo, ma.” The only reason I didn’t burst out laughing was because, well, I didn’t find it funny at all. This guy, he was dead serious, rocking up to me in his oversize tee, feeling cool with his clinically even ‘fro. Yuck. But I gave him my number. I don’t know, I thought maybe he could take me out somewhere, sometime. Maybe it could be fun, you know? I don’t know, he left early, he said, “I’ll hit you up later.” Whatever. I don’t remember, I don’t think I’d had that much to drink. They weren’t drinking, of course, because they were being responsible. He was cracking a joke, she was smiling because she didn’t want to laugh too loud, because, “shh, guys. Don’t wake her up.” So we laughed in whispers, and that cracked us up so we ran outside and doubled over and laughed and laughed, and she shook and shook and shook because she couldn’t laugh, and I saw the tiny head nestled against her breast and I thought, what if she shook so hard the baby fell?

Then it was time for them to leave and I said, “Aww, she’s adorable! Can I hold her?” But they were walking and her dad took her and she made these little purring sounds and I thought, of course not. She could never fall.

3

There’s no 911 in Lagos. How would they get anywhere? I was in traffic for three hours on my way to Ikoyi from Surulere, the other day. Guess why? There’s a ditch in the middle of Western Avenue and everyone has to slow down to manoeuvre it. One guy – maybe the first guy, or just the dumbest one, – he tried to drive over it. His tyre practically fell off. Guess he miscalculated? The guy right behind him – we’ll call him the second guy, – he tried to speed by him as the first guy was trying to smart-arse himself over the ditch. Half his car ended up over the edge. Not enough space in between? I don’t know, I wasn’t there. Until later, when there was only space for one car at a time to crawl through. I guess maybe if we had flying ambulances? My head hurts. Hers cracked open on the floor in the middle of the party. We were like, screaming and running around. Funny, just a second before I had been like, cooing about how, oh, she’s so adorable. Oh, can I hold her, bla bla. No one stepped on her, thank goodness, but some of the blood got in the cracks of my slippers. I guess cuz I was standing right in the puddle?

4

“Oh my God is that your baby?”

“Yes,” she said. And him, too.

“She is gorgeous!”

“Isn’t she? She looks just like her father.”

“And so she does! Look at that little nose!”

“That’s the one thing I’m not proud of having passed on.”

“Oh she’s adorable. Can I hold her?”

“Of course.”

“Aww, aren’t you a pwetty liddle thing? Aren’t you just the cutest? Aren’t you just mummy’s little angel! Do you like it when I swing you up and down like this? Do you? Do you? No no, I’m not going to let you go. You’re too little for that. Yes you, yes you, yes you!”

5

“…I go, ‘oh she’s adorable can I hold her,’ and then, he’s like, ‘what if you dropped the baby?’ Hahahahahahaha!” 

Save our anthology! Pre-order a copy!

My classmates and I have worked very, very hard to put together an anthology of short stories that represents our class.

We've fallen out over commas, pondered the merits of popcorn, decided against Spoken Word and have fussed about funds. As writers, that last one has played to the least of our talents. 

Which is why we need you!!

Click on the link, pre-order a copy, and send some money our way, please. It's all going to the printers, because, as we all know, no print no publication.

Thank you! 

PRE-ORDER THE ANTHOLOGY HERE