"There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” 
― Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

This thing called 'home'

I've made a huge fuss about going home. Oh, it's so exciting! Oh, my friends! Oh, my wonderful life! Let me tell you, it has all changed. I'm not even back yet, and I already know a few things. I know that my room looks different, and has frequently been inhabited by foreign bodies, I know that people have moved on from all the places I used to love, I know that I do not hold the same position as I did in the lives of my besties a year ago, I know that my heart doesn't fit in the same place it used to in September.

I know that it won't be easy to find a new groove - I know there's no getting the old one back - I know that I won't be able to spend hours on the phone anymore because I would finally be a hundred percent responsible for bills, I know that I'll make more visits to the hair dresser's, and also that I won't make very many to the grocery store. After all, I know there won't be any gluten-free items to stock up on.

I know I'm different, and I know what it cost me to become different. I know now how lonely it can be to live away from the people you've come to take for granted. I know how loneliness can heighten feelings you wouldn't even pay attention to otherwise. I know what it means to feel desperate, to be afraid of failing, and I have learnt that I am also afraid of winning. I know what it means to be terribly disappointed, to be irrevocably hurt. And oh, what it means to be the cause of someone else's pain.

I have shed real tears in front of two relative strangers, where my best friends have never seen me cry. I have studied vulnerability from rock bottom, and seen myself accept decisions I never thought I would. I have learnt the importance of humility, but not how to let go of all my pride. I am still learning.

I have learnt love. Seen it in different forms, finally accepted that there is no absolute manifestation of it, and learnt to accept the fact that the feeling of it can be very, very separate from the choice of it.

And forgiveness, what it means to truly let go. What it means to give yourself a second chance at a relationship with the people who have hurt you in the past. Because, I hurt them too. And I probably will again. And they probably will again. But the choice to let go of the burden of malice means that each time, you can forgive again. Because you will need all these people, and you will love them, because you simply must.

I have learnt jealousy. I live in it. I have not learnt how to let go of it. I have also learnt that it is true that  I do not regret anything, not anymore. Most of all, I have learnt that I am enough. I am truly happy with the choices I've made, and with the lessons I have learnt. I am blessed.

Home has changed from what it was before, but I have a feeling it has become exactly what I need.

Page 263

Look ma, I made it!

(Not really)

You will not find a table of contents in there, but I'm on page 263 ^_^

Order a copy here.

We need a Chris Rock joke here

You've heard the news about the Nigerian parents who've been locked up, yes? Let's take a peek into their household:

Mum is yelling.

"Am I the first woman to have children? You children will not kill me in this house. I brought you into this world and I can take you out. Can't you hear your sister crying? Come on, go and change her nappy! And who is going to cook, ehn? Or you expect me to use my broken hand to turn eba? What are you children for if not to help me? Useless, all of you! Ehn? Are you hissing at me? The devil will not use you in this house. I will beat that devil out of you."

Later that night...

I hate my mum. She makes me do all the work, and then she beats me when I don't finish everything. I wish I had a new mummy. 

"What is this you're writing?" mum yells.

Uh oh. I jump, tear the page out and throw it out of the window.

"Nothing, mummy!"

"It better be nothing," Mum says, "go and change your sister. I'm going to wash up." She slams the door and walks out.

-----

Let's examine the evidence.

"The Nigerian couple... claimed their children were possessed by evil spirits..."

"The children were rescued after their eldest daughter threw a heart-wrenching SOS note out of a window... The heartbreaking plea read, 'My mum is the worst mum ever because she can't cope with the five of us, her broken hand, and being pregnant... If I don't get enough work done, I'm beaten without mercy with the wooden end of a broom... I would like a new mom.'"

DISCLAIMER: This is a child-abuse-free zone.

But you know you wrote that note too, right? I wanted a new mom until I was like, seventeen. Then I grew up.

Whose mum whupped they ass when they talked back/ ate too much/ ate too little/ didn't answer when they were called/ didn't walk fast enough/ didn't walk slow enough/ cried when they were whupped/ when they sniffled... etc? 

My mum still prays against evil spirits in her children's lives. 

But it sounds terrible in writing, doesn't it? 

And, facts are facts, so it wouldn't be at all difficult to give disgruntled kids a few doughnuts or lollipops (ice-cream!) and get them to describe in detail the way daddy chased them around the room with a broomstick.

Yes, maybe these parents were particularly negligent. They were in the uk, with more kids than my father had, no external help - and more stringent childcare laws. It couldn't have been easy - and I have no explanation for the morphine - but I can't help but feel a little sorry for them.

What happens to the kids now? They go into foster care. *shudders*

Define attractive.

For instance, the gentleman below:

I mean to say, his face is not the most chiseled, it is decidedly not symmetrical and I can't really call it handsome. His suit - according to the commenters on The Sartorialist blog (who this photo is by) - is not well tailored, and his shirt cuffs should be showing, and something about hips and shoulders.
So tell me, o readers, why he still looks so incredibly debonair and attractive?
Is it his eyes, his hands? Posture?

Here's one opinion:

This is one of those times when I wish I had a lot of readers, so that we could all have a nice chat in the comment box about what exactly makes this dapper young man so... take-home-able.

You can google anything.

Recent obsession: Kiernan Shipka

"Sally Drapery?" 

"No, just regular drapery."

One man's instruction is another's suggestion

For example.
I was recently asked to write a monologue. You know, person talking alone to an audience.
Ha.
Here's what I wrote instead:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nnwaneka told her mum that Frank was planning to propose.

Her mum said, “How big is the diamond?”

She didn’t know, so she asked her bestie what ring Frank had decided on.

She forwarded the reply to her mum without looking, “Let something of the surprise be real.”

Her mum humphed and said, “I melu ofuma, you did well. It’s massive,” then she blew her a kiss and hung up the phone.

She missed that woman.

Later, Frank led her into the restaurant. It was empty, save for the waiters, and it was quiet, save for Etta James.

When he knelt, she let a tear drop. When he asked, she let her hands flutter. When he slid the ring on, she said yes.

She didn’t stay over that night, something about New Beginnings. He didn’t insist. He told her he loved her with his words, and she said it back with her eyes.

“You’ve made me the happiest man in the world!”

“Also the cheesiest,” she laughed.

Her mum was away; the house was quiet. She took off her Tiffany-blue Lanvin dress and kicked off her Nicholas Kirkwood heels. She broke open her La Prairie box and gave herself a mini facial. She unpacked her new Apple TV thing, got bored when she encountered manuals, flopped down on her bed and heard a loud crack. She lifted her duvet to confirm that she had indeed broken yet another iPad.

She tossed it onto the carpeted floor with a hiss. A trip to the Apple store was due anyway; she was so over her blackberry bold touch.

Nwanneka couldn’t sleep.

She padded over to her mum’s room and sat at her dressing table. She piled on her gold necklaces and pretended she was a kid again, drooling over her mother’s jewellery and waiting for the day she would grow up to be just like her. When that got boring she walked over to the bookshelf for something to read; at least she couldn’t break a paperback with her bum. What she found instead were her mother’s old journals.

February 3, 1978

I have stopped working, so I have started writing. Di m said I don’t have to work anymore. Have to? I enjoy my work. He said, “nonsense, nke m. No woman wants to have to work for money, and no wife of mine should have to.”

When Nwanneka was eight, she went to her papa and told him that Emeka had called her useless.

“How did he say it?” Papa asked.

“He said the boys did not want to play with me because I’m just a useless girl.”

“Is that all? Girls should not behave like men. Go to your mother in the kitchen.” So she went.

In the kitchen Nwanneka said, “Mummy, why are girls useless?”

Her mum didn’t answer.

After her husband had gone to bed, Nwanneka’s mum went into her daughter’s room.

“Mum?”

“Shh,” she said, “listen. Don’t ever let any man tell you you’re useless, do you hear?” Then she slid a notebook under her pillow and kissed her goodnight.

Nwanneka didn’t understand, but she read the notebook.

When she finished it her mum gave her another one, and another one.

January 10, 1984

Di m has been cheating. Confused. I said to him, “have I done anything wrong?” He said no. He said, “Nwunye m, I love you, but I’m only human. I’ll make it up to you,” and he bought me a pair of Italian leather shoes. I get new shoes to celebrate his infidelity? Mama said, “It’s his way of saying he’s sorry, nwa m, stop complaining.” Okay.

March 23, 1985

One year since he was last only human, and he has gone and done it again. Ogini? Is my vagina too big to carry his penis after carrying his three sons?

He laughed. He said, “Nke m, your vagina is beautiful.” Then he showed me. Then he bought me a gold set. For my beautiful vagina kwa, or for his humanity?

Mama saw my earrings at papa’s birthday. She said, “ah, so beautiful. You’re very lucky!” I didn’t tell her what they were for.

September 19, 1985

I have a new car. It’s the new Jetta. Di m got me a driver to match. I have learnt to deal with his human nature; it yields many gifts. He said since I am pregnant for his fourth son, I cannot be driving myself. I didn’t complain.

December 8, 1985

It’s a girl.

When Nwanneka was sixteen she decided she hated her mother. She stopped reading the journals and forgot she wasn’t a boy.

Papa reminded her.

It was the long vacation and the boys were home. They were sharing stories about America – ‘Yankee’ – and papa was nodding on, proudly.

It sounded so beautiful, so different from Enugu, so she told papa she wanted to go to school in America too.

She knew she had done something wrong when the room went silent, but she didn’t understand until he called her mother by her proper name. “Adanna!”

“You mean nke m?” Nwanneka whispered, but no one heard.

Papa accused his wife of raising a daughter who did not understand her place in life.

“That I should spend so much money to send a girl to school!”

He made his wife apologise in front of her children, then he slapped her to drive the point home – but only once; papa was not a violent man.

Adanna went into her daughter’s room that night and heard her sobbing into her pillow. She held her until the sobs subsided. She kissed her on the forehead and gave her a notebook.

July 27, 2001

Di m said, “You know I only did it for the boys.” I didn’t answer him. “Nke m, my love,” I turned my face. Then he started crying, “I’ve never hit you in my life! Can’t you see? They needed to learn!”

Tears, eh? He will cry gold.

For her seventeenth birthday, papa gave Nwanneka a new wardrobe as a reward for her good behaviour.

“It’s for Lagos,” he said, “Better represent your papa well at university, o!”

After he left for work, her mother smiled, put in her Madonna cassette, and they did their chores to the sound of Material Girl.

Nwanneka’s mum got them a house in Lekki by some stellar behaviour of her own. Phase one, too – after all, everything after that is Ajah. Papa liked the sound of it; other people had second houses in the village, but his was in Lagos!

His new mansion made him prone to more human mistakes – which he compensated generously for – and after graduation her mum all but moved to Lagos. Papa didn’t visit much anymore.

Her mum opened a store in Ikoyi, selling lace and gold. She was working again, a long way from Independence Layout, Enugu.

***

Nwanneka woke up to her mother’s humming and opened her eyes to find that she’d fallen asleep in her room, with the journals around her.

“You’re awake, eh? I thought you’d passed out from too much celebrating. Biko, let me see that rock in the daylight.”

Nwanneka laughingly extended her hand.

Her mum smiled, then picked up her iPod and pressed play. She pulled her daughter up to dance as Madonna’s voice blared from the speakers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Needless to say, this won't work. 
I got some interesting characters out of it though, and I would appreciate any comments anyone has on the actual writing. (There! There's a monologue.)
Also, can anyone guess what I was originally asked to write about? A truly fun game for anyone who's reading. 

Q&A

Why should you get almost everything you want? Why can't I get everything I want?

Because you've learnt to want what's important.

Thought in progress

Human beings, we do things in cycles. Think, work, react.
Habits, yes?
If you do the same thing enough times, you will continue to do it. Good, bad, it's all the same to that part of you that says "this is how you've done it, so this is how you will do it."
Civilisation has become a habit, yes? The conscious decision to challenge thought and norms has become unconscious. There's a thin line of course; challenges become complaints. People learn to nitpick. It's ninety percent good, but what about all of that ten percent?

In the same way, our lives. Monkey see monkey do. But what is monkey looking at? And what happens when what he sees changes? In essence, what happens when we realise that our old habits no longer suffice in our new circumstances? (OMG!! DOES I.E. MEAN "IN ESSENCE?")*

What happens is, we revolt. We fight it. We do not accept it.
Change can not be allowed to happen, otherwise, what would that say about everything we've ever believed in until now?? Was it all a lie?

Truth is, sometimes it is. But most of the time, we've just outgrown it. A kid who didn't talk back to bullies learnt to keep his thoughts to himself. Functional. Same kid grows up to unable to articulate his feelings. Dysfunctional.
Nigerians learnt to smile in the face of the early civil disputes as the country settled into its own. Now we smile in the face of corruption. We have found a way to turn adaptation into a negative.
You learn to laugh at yourself so that no one else would laugh at you. Then you stop believing in yourself.

Protective barriers can become traps.

Why does it hurt so much to break destructive cycles, when what really hurts is the decision to keep at them? I think it's because it is easier to cut yourself than to heal the wound.
It stings. It itches. It scars.
You heal. You learn. You grow.

But it takes too long. We're all going to die, anyway.

*Okay it doesn't. But it should.

Off with their branches!

How do you replace the smell of paper.
How did we replace the smell of fresh straw from our mattresses?
How did we replace the smell of firewood in our food?
How did we replace the smell of the stove that heated up our hot combs and irons?

What makes up for the feel of the pages.
What makes up for the feel of the pen when you write?
What makes up for the feel of the telephone handset from your head to your chin?
What makes up for the feel of the earth beneath your feet as you walk?

Does stark white look better than light brown.
There are apps for that.

Alternative titles for this post were:

Don't cry for me, Argentina

Let's all just kill the trees

iWorld

Sometimes, paper is just paper

Remember when they said that about EVERYTHING?

No matter what the cause of your headache is, the treatment is still the same. There's nothing more special about any experience than the fact that it's happening to a new person. Baby's first poo is still just poo. Wipe. Eat. Repeat.

Is everyone else talking about weddings these days

or is it just me?

It started in December. Friend number one got engaged. Then friend number two's bestie got engaged. Then in April, friend number three, my brother, and friend number four followed suit. In June, friend number five asked me to help his process, and in July friend number six jumped on the bandwagon (geddit?)... etc.

After friend number three got slapped with a stunning diamond rock, she bullied me into finding out what kind of ring I would like - sans beau. You know, just in case. Didn't I know anything could happen?
I said no, I don't care about the ring. Anything will be fine as long as I love him; whoever he'll turn out to be.
She said no, I had to find out!
As co-conspirator on three (and maybe four!!) of the proposals, I now consider myself something of a guru at ring shopping. The four Cs have nothing on me; I have already considered getting remuneration for my services. Carrie's Bridal Startup, anyone? Gotta keep the initials for legal purposes.
I'd seen so many sparkly rings over the past few months that I couldn't resist the lure of looking over them once more.
I gave in.
I have since figured out whether or not I want to wear a veil (yes), how many people I want on my train (five), my wedding colours (coral and yellow), and whether or not I'm having aso-ebi for my friends (no). I even think I know what my dress looks like.
I don't even have a boyfriend.
It's embarrassing.

The wedding preparation phase has commenced.
The bride requires certain things of a trainee (ha). We're buying shoes and having fittings and choosing hats and planning surprises (whoops). Also, we "must buy rose-petal red peep-toes with cutouts at the side - not at the front or I will go crazy!! - and they must be three and three-quarter inches high, with no more than a half-inch platform."
Uhm.
Also, does anyone else find that colours have gotten a heck of a lot more complicated these days? For instance:
What. Is. Rose-petal red??? Or, I know one: Coquelicot?
Google has no answers.
But we love our friends - and we've heard that bridal trains are effective at dealing with the problem of singledom - so even though we have to buy the same shoes as everyone else, we'll make sure our hemlines are considerably higher.

Of course, we all know that now is not the time to talk about marriage - the wedding is the only thing that matters. So why is it now that the rest of us un-engaged females suddenly start to hear the worst stories?
That girl, the one with the amazing wedding on Bella Naija last year? She's divorced.
That other one, her husband beats her.
Those two, with their matching, jewel-encrusted wedding shoes? He takes his mistresses to his marital home when she's not around.
But, shhhh. That will not be our portion! And Amen! we chorus, as we exclaim over the price of french lace.
Perhaps we listen to these stories to feel better about ourselves.
Regardless, it leads me to wonder:
1: Didn't those women know?
Before they said I Do, before they even screamed yes and told all their friends about the oh-so-romantic proposal. Did they forget all the times he cancelled dates because something came up at work, or ignore all the times he grabbed her in anger? Did they ignore his disrespectful flirtations at parties, or did they make up excuses for it?

2: What is the point of no return?
Is it after a certain number of years of dating? After he proposes? After he buys you a car? After your first child? After your last?

3: How much does it matter?
If he's cheating, but he loves you and "just can't help himself", is that a dealbreaker? What if he hits you, but only on the anniversary of his mum's death? What if he's always angry, but you know it's because you won't let him in the back door? What if you don't believe in love, and he provides every other thing you need? What if you love him and you just don't believe all the 'haters' that keep trying to 'destroy your happiness' because they're bitter?

4: Do feelings mean anything?
Hormones affect feelings. Heck, hunger affects feelings. If you're sleep-deprived you can be convinced to hate your mother. Is "I don't love you anymore" ever valid? What is the purpose of marriage? And at what point is it alright to break that contract because of personal feelings?

And, what if you truly believe you've been sent to help change the other person's life, a la Redeeming Love?

We are all grownups at this point, and there is a certain naïveté that comes with the idea of dealbreakers. At the same time, I wonder if people wouldn't perhaps make different choices if they paid attention to the signs, to their instincts.
In marriage, love is a decision. We are lucky if we have a little infatuation and attraction in there to sweeten the deal - or so I'm told. But we won't always be infatuated, and we won't always be attracted. Then what?

I don't know, but I do know what I want my ring to look like (cushion, emerald or princess-cut diamond - preferably a yellow diamond on a white-gold band, or a white diamond on a yellow-gold band.) Never mind the marriage itself.

They made a movie about me.

Out on Friday in other parts of the world.
Cannot wait to see what I decide to do in the end.

Go back to sleep.

It's not as if there's no one else. Life is a basket of choices. A basket, I say. The music is just there to encourage us to look at it perhaps as a basket of pretty flowers, or green, or gold, or perhaps smiles. At the bottom of every smile is a mouth full of cavities, but the lesson is, as always, don't throw out the rose petals with the manure.
We choose, to smell the flowers, because otherwise all there is is shit.
We choose to move on, because otherwise all there is is regret.
Love is not made of regret. Love is made of sad sighs and longing. Heartache that throbs so bad you could cry. So do, because then the tears, they fall to the ground, and you know what that means.
Something will sprout out of the piece of heart you left on the spot of past you finally chose to move on from.

It didn't really hurt that much, did it? It felt a little empty. You didn't know which way was 'on'.
You didn't know what to do with your fingers after there was nothing left to clutch. You didn't understand why nothing hurt anymore.
That's why you cried, you see.
That's what the tears were for. Are for.
When there's nothing else, your head makes them. From beating hearts that no longer have anything to beat around, and empty smiles that no longer have any sadness to hide behind,
and wishes. That sprout out of the place where there once was someone.
Someone who left. Someone who didn't know better than to let you go, so you let them go.

And sometimes, your fingers will twitch. In the middle of the night, long after you've forgotten. You'll open your eyes; you'll look for something. Something you know you lost. Something you know you need. Something you... don't remember.
And maybe, maybe there'll be a tear left.
Maybe you'll fill your twitching fingers with sheets. Maybe you'll feel around inside and find only damp. But see, it's then, that you must remember, that you can't go back. You mustn't. You only remember what the music is asking you to.
It wasn't really that beautiful. He wasn't really that perfect. There's nothing there.

Go back to sleep.

Crack skull. Peer in. Listen:

♬ Stan Iyke ft. Tiwa Savage - Darlin'

OBSESSED.

More from Stan Iyke:

Lovequito. Lols. ^_^

stop dying, everyone