I had a dream that I broke up with my friends.

I just woke up, one day, and realised I didn't fit. Hadn't, really, for a while, now.

In my dream, I realised I had leaned on their kindness so much, I had let myself go, and I was a heavy burden to carry.

The weight of me was crammed into the tight circle, my excess spilling out of the seams, the air full of the pressure of unmatched life goals but no one was going to say it.

So when I realised it, I broke up with them.

It wasn't them, it was me. It had always been me.

I should have gone out when they said so. I should have straightened out my hair. I should have given him a chance. I wouldn't have grown so conspicuously single if I had just paid attention when they had told me. I should have not been so determined to be, when being was followed by "alone." What were they going to do with me, they didn't know, they didn't know, they didn't know.

So then I knew, I got an idea, I had a eureka moment, I figured it out, just like that!

I said, "It's not you, it's me."

I told them I would miss them.

I told them I still loved them.

I told them I understood.

I told them I would be back, once I had shed all their pity, if they would have me. And then I cried and cried and cried.

If only tears burned calories.

In my dream, as they huddled together in the aftermath of my departure, they realised they finally had room to breathe. The air was fresh with shared marital wisdom and there was no need to choke on the forgotten woes of aloneness.

They realised they weren't even sad at all.

I woke up, of course. I snapped out of it. I didn't break up with anyone, come on, don't be so dramatic. I opened my eyes, considered going on a date diet but decided on some body magic instead.

"At least they won't have to look at it, anymore," she told herself, as she bit into a bar of chocolate-flavoured singleness.

Ancient of Ways

Do people still blog like this?
You know, random brain spurts all over the page, no AdSense, no endorsements, no perfectly packaged presentation for consumption. Just. Word-vomit.

I've figured it out!

I think I stopped writing because I started talking so damn much. And in the last couple of weeks (or so), I haven't talked quite as much, and just look how many of these I've done.
Before I made loads of friends all at once and turned my life around, I only had one or two friends at a time. Mostly one, really, or none. And we never had all that much to say to each other. I remember when I first got a phone, and my friend just got a phone too, and her phone number was made up of the same numbers as my phone number, and so we called each other all the time and sometimes for no more than two and a half minutes just to say, "Hello, what are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"Me too, I'm bored."
"Me too."
"Okay."
"Bye."
Bye.

I loved to play that game, where I'd sit with my brothers and imagine what I would save out of a burning house, and my answer was so simple: the current novel I was reading and my walkman/discman. Now I can't actually ask myself that anymore because, what would I save?
My laptop. My tablet. My phone. My kindle (even though, really, I hardly need it). Good, clean underwear. Maybe tweezers. Omg my wig. And CHARGERS. Actually, how much is the house burning, and can I pack a bag, please? And on my way out I need enough time to snapchat the fire, then take a picture, then take a proper short clip for Instagram that's longer than 10 seconds, then find the right emoji to describe the feelings I'm experiencing, and oh, look, she died taking a selfie. RIP.

I always had a lot to say, but not a lot of people to say it to.
And now that I have bought asoebi for the wedding of almost twenty "close, personal, friends" who I do love, my creativity is leaking and maybe I actually need the isolation.

Oh.

My dad came home from work. I live rent-free in his house, so, of course, I partake in my share of chores and assistant wifery duties. Sometimes, this requires me to roll up my sleeves and shuffle about in the kitchen until sufficently edible things appear, but for the most part it is simply a supervisory role.

When it is a supervisory role, I take the entire thing rather lightly. There will be food, however the arrangement, plating and presentation couldn't concern me any less.

What I seem to forget is that the arrangement of plates and cutlery is actually indicative to my father about the degree of readiness of his dinner. And what he seems to forget is that I still use the old plating style and have not upgraded to ios10 (because, didn't ios 9 point whatever just come out ten minutes ago?) Apple and my mum have that in common.

So when he came back from work and didn't sit down to eat I assumed he had other things to do, until he came down an hour later, fetched his food from it's regular holding cell (the microwave) and said, "You didn't tell me my food was ready."

I said, "But your plate was here, all covered up. I assumed you had something else to do."

And he said, "No, plates doesn't mean food, everything has to be on the table. That's what means food."

And I said, "Ah, for me, the napkin over the plate means food."

And he said, "No, that doesn't mean food, my food was not on the table."

And I said, "Maybe when mummy is around it's different. But me, o."

And he humphed.

And then I thought, "Oh."

I should have said, "Sorry, daddy, is there anything I can help you with? I'm so sorry, it must have slipped my mind." That's what a good wife/daughter (wife-in-training)/ non-cantankerous person should have said.

Because his wife isn't home and he's alone and he must miss her. Right?

And he's hungry and has had a long day at work. Right?

And what was the point of engaging him in that discussion argument, when the point was the point. Right?

And I thought about my friends, who are like me, who love to have their own say.

And I thought about the times we sometimes fuss, because we just need a break.

And I thought about little opportunities for kindness that we miss out on, because we're so used to covering our behinds and talking back.

I didn't want to have been caught out doing something wrong, because then I would feel guilty.

But he just wanted to have dinner after a long day.

And now I feel guilty, anyway. Because, you know, I could have just said sorry. 

(So then I went to talk to him, and I said, how are you, and he said, well. Long day. And I made nothing noises, and he said thank you. So I feel better, and I suppose he feels better, and it all feels strange how much I'm growing up and learning grownup things.)

I'm slowly enjoying writing again.

With These Few Points of Mine.

I had a memory, yesterday. A memory from a distant lifetime. And it was all triggered by the word, "literacy."

It's not a very long story, but it is incredibly embarrassing for a teacher, especially when the memory had to do with definitions.

It was my first day as a Creative Writing teacher, and I'd been asked to go to the existing Creative Writing teacher - whose job I hadn't realised I was taking at the time - for guidance on being a Creative Writing teacher.

(I hope I have sufficiently set this story up for the everlasting cringe of embarrassment that still tightens the innermost parts of my belly even as I recollect the events that transpired.)

I'd had my own lofty plans, going in. I was going to teach these kids how to write stories. I was going to take the five W's and H, break it down into little chunks, mix it up with a little bit of age-appropriate literature, and churn out future Enid Blytons. So of course I was only talking to her to find out what she'd been doing so far, you know, maybe bridge the gap between our approaches, a bit. I don't know, I assumed there'd be some sort of partnership? I don't know, I don't know.

So she said. Okay. Where do I start. Here's what we do. Basically, literacy. Do you know what literacy is.

Do I. Masters in writing, over here. BA in English, ma'am. The language, and the litera-chure of the thing. What a question, do I know what literacy is.

So I said yes.

And then she had the nerve to ask, okay, what is it.

And, not knowing enough to smell the rat that was hidden under the flurry of misplaced pride I was basking in (Masters. In. Writing. Thankyouverymuch), I said, with a smirky smile, "Being literate. Being able to read and write."

Oh, ladies and gentlemen, the bubble of laughter that burst forth from her lips, uncontrolled and unrestrained, still rings in my ear to this day.

After she managed to control herself, she smiled and said, yea, yea, and then excused herself, leaving me alone to puzzle over the happenings of the morning.

No doubt she'd gone off to tell her friends to countdown until I would fall flat on my face, get fired, and get my ass off her seat, for good.

***

Okay, so here's what literacy is: Remember when you were in primary school, and you had a subject called "English", where you studied comprehension and spelling and grammar? That's what literacy is. It is a subject, not the descriptive word for the ability to communicate via the written word.

The twin of the subject, Literacy, is Numeracy, which we used to call, "Mathematics."

With these few words of mine, I hope I've been able to convince and not confuse you, of the degree of embarrasment it was for one to have started a job and to have had one's lack of qualification so thoroughly exposed on one's first day.

The seriousness of the matter.

My uncle turned up late, apologising profusely. He sat down, and then asked me what I do.

"Do you still teach?"

Quit that.

"So what do you do, now?"

You know, I can't quite explain how my life is structured so, here, let me talk about filmmaking and impress you with the fact that we made tiff last month. Twice.

"Wow," he said, "I didn't know that." 

And then he looked dead into my eyes, "That means I don't know you."
Well, if we're going to be so dramatic.

"You know, " he continued, "there are a few things people don't know about me, too."

I promise this is not a scary movie.

My uncle and I spent the next thirty minutes bonding over work, and thirty minutes after that bonding over his hook-up expertise and so of course I was now calm and at rest because I realised I was in safe hands?

No. Not at all.

I was panicking. Because the more I spoke, the more determined he seemed to go ahead with the introduction he had already planned. But I didn't realise this until he hit me with, "The guy is travelling tonight so he's coming here on his way to the airport."

Oh, father of mine, why are you such a clairvoyant. OR had he been in on it from the beginning, hmmm? The plot thickens.

***

A flustered young man burst into the restaurant two and a half hours after I got there. He had all of five minutes to, I don't know, make an impression? Figure out if he liked what he saw? Make polite chit-chat while he sat next to me who was seated next to my uncle who was trying to facilitate a conversation between two people he was introducing - one of whom was totally AMBUSHED, by the way?

Here's how it went:

1. I'd already met the guy, six years or so ago. *insert ominous music*

2. (See 1. above.)

3. My uncle was sitting. right. there.

4. So it wasn't awkward at all.

Poor guy was panting and sweating because he'd been rushing from somewhere fancy to meet me, who he'd heard about for ages prior, on his way to catch a flight, for which he was running late.

He recognised me, which actually made it more awkward because, now, instead of a handshake with a stranger, it was the awkward side hug with barely-a-stranger in front of my uncle who was watching to see if sparks would fly.

("Is it even okay to put this much information on the internet?" she asks, a thousand words later.)

The strangest thing happened

to me the other day. There I was, hard at work doing really important work stuff, when an uncle called me on the telephone. I picked up, and with all urgency he said, "Omotayo. Could you please meet with me at seven this evening? I really need to see you. Please. If seven doesn't work I can work around your schedule, but please, ehn, please."
My first thought was, "Ha! What have I done?"
Not because I make it a habit to get in trouble, but because never has an uncle called me with such urgency, to speak with me "over drinks" outside, in a public place and not his family home, without even being able to even give me a hint of what it was about, over the phone.

I said okay, we set a time and he chose the place.
Then ten minutes later he called me and said, even more urgently, "Omotayo, I'm so sorry, can we do 4 instead? I'm so sorry, it's just--" (trailed off, sounding disturbed, then continued) "--it's just. I really need to speak with you."

Enter: Panic Mode.
So I called my dad.

"Daddy! Uncle called me. He wants to see me urgently and I have no idea what it's about."
"Well, uncle is harmless, he probably just wants to talk about something... maybe your films, you know."
"But why won't he be able to talk about it on the phone?"
"Oh, you know your uncle, maybe he wants to introduce you to someone."
Oh.
"Oh. But why would he change the time in five minutes, sounding so urgent??"
"Maybe the person is travelling tomorrow, or something."

Turns out, he was travelling that night.

Impostor syndrome

In 2010 four friends and I sat together and started a film production company. What we wanted was to make films, because we loved movies and great stories and thought we could do it better than everyone else because we were smarter, more talented and more innovative than everyone else, and so no one else had ever thought about it and we were going to be the ones to change the movie industry in our country for good.

And then we awoke from our slumber.

One of the first lessons I learned is that everyone has good ideas, your ideas aren't as good as you think they are, and several other someone-else's have had your greatest idea.

By the end of 2010 we were now four friends in total, one man down and a little shook up for it. We figured we'd go along with it and see where it took us, what's the worst that could happen, eh.

In 2016 we were selected to show our third movie at the Toronto International Film Festival.

Now that's one heck of a happy ending.
Except, it's not the end, not even nearly. TIFF means, "what are you guys working on next?" and "wow, that's so great, congrats," and, "what exactly do you do, exactly?"
What, it's not enough that I'm on the team? That it was our dream, that we're all here, that my name is in the credits, that I'm in the official photos? You need more?

Wah, story of my life.
I studied English in the university, so I've been getting that since I was seventeen, and until I worked in an art foundation, I didn't realise there were lesser creative subjects on the societal-acceptance totem pole. Since then I've needed to find increasingly vague ways to describe the choices I have made to live the life I currently lead. The life of a creative has no financial rewards unless you are Beyonce and Will Smith (and everyone knows they sold their your souls to the illuminati).

TIFF gave me validation for all of two seconds, but now everyone wants to know what I'm doing next. I don't know what I'm doing next, is that allowed? I'm properly an adult so I can't hide behind my youth anymore and now the "congratulations" give me failing-at-life anxiety.

"So many people would be so grateful for the opportunity you have."
I know that. What I need to know now is what to do with all these opportunities I've heard I've landed, you know?

But you don't want to hear me whine.

Throwback Thursday

*Skip the last couple of lines of the first paragraph if you get queasy easily.

A few weeks ago my brother told me he wasn't going to eat/ drink/ ingest milk anymore.
He'd done some research, you see, and had found out that cows are treated horribly, and that they're made to lactate for years after they'd given birth, and that sometimes the pressure of the constant milking causes the cows to bleed and secrete pus, and that this gets into the milk that we end up eat/drinking.
When I said to him, "But they heat it up and dry it and it evaporates and so both evaporated and powdered milk(s) are hygienic," he said, "Yea, but it's still powdered blood and pus."

For days I couldn't get that picture out of my mind: a cocktail of red and yellow swirling around in a bowl of cream.
So when I had my Crunchy Nut cravings, I couldn't indulge. I was glad to have an excuse to not sit with a box of cereal and create an endless bowl that would lead me to such bloatedness, it'd take me half a day to recover. But I missed my gross, over-eating days, you know? They were really quite comforting.

Anyway so I'd been healthy for, like, two months. My body didn't know what to do with itself and so it started craving gluten. If you dig into the archives (for all of five minutes) there'll be a post somewhere in there alluding to my gluten intolerance (in compensation for which I'd begun to overindulge on dairy and sugar), but as they say, in the absence of one vice...

No one says that.
But in the absence of one vice, white flour became my best friend.

But this isn't about that. This is about how I broke down today and figured, if I could eat bread (made with milk) and biscuits (made with milk) and cake (made with milk) and even butter, and cheese. Why were they less disgusting than just plain milk? And I walked into my friendly neighbourhood supermarket to purchase a box of Crunchy Nut flakes.
(While at the supermarket I remembered the real reason I hadn't indulged in gross over-cerealing was not, in fact, primarily because of the milk, but because the last box of Crunchy Nut I had purchased from here had been stale. I'd returned it and had not been refunded and I lived in dread of buying another stale and unrefundable box, especially since we're in a recession and Nigerians have been coming up with really disgusting ways of bypassing health and safety rules in order to get their stale, rotten and polluted wares off their shelves.)

Well I decided to take a chance on them. What is community without a little trust, hmm? I took a risk to better the pockets of my neighbour even though it cost me my hard earned, but highly devalued naira. And I went home. And I poured myself a bowl. And it was deliciously crunchy. And I overate. But I suddenly started tasting something strange which was definitely in my head and I didn't enjoy pigging out at all, and so it was indeed a waste of cows-blood-and-pus. (If you skipped the first paragraph, you should probably have skipped that last one, too.)

Do you know! I still haven't talked about the actual throwback I'd remembered, which was that time when I was maybe thirteen, and my darling mother had hidden powdered milk in her high-up cupboard, and my bros and I broke in, and we found this sachet of Cowbell milk, the ones that are so old there are no pictures of them on the internet to prove they ever existed, and we opened it with relish, and inside, the powder was brown and smelled of maggi, and we checked the expiry date, and it had been in her cupboard for years after the expiry date, to the point where it had turned into actual flipping maggi.

Just a quick note to say:

The "love" we feel for ice-cream and the "love" we feel for people can't be the same.

We either need more detailed ways to define love or to learn to exaggerate less.

Is My Heart Made Of Stone? (#ForeverDuncan Edition)

The internets are abuzz with the most romantic surprise in recent history. This young man surprised his girlfriend with a surprise proposal and a surprise wedding, all in the same day. He had planned every detail: her dad walking her down the aisle, her best friends, her family, everyone was in on it. She had bridesmaids and bouquets and wore a really hot black wedding dress and when she turned up at the surprise venue, blindfolded, she had no idea there was a wedding ahead of her.

My boo Sherrell Duncan and her now husband Alfred Duncan broke the internet with their love for God & each other! Holding this secret from someone that I see almost every day was hard but I knew how deserving she was for this amazing experience!! The Wedding was a secret but the MARRIAGE wasn't they made sure to take they took Pre-marital classes, got parental blessings and talk about what marriage looked like to each other! Alfred had great men of God to call on Pastor Keith Battle & Pastor Marshall! So when you see them know that you're seeing God's work! #ForeverDuncan thankful to be apart of your day! #aprilmichelleMUA

A photo posted by April Michelle (@aprilmichellemua) on Oct 2, 2016 at 2:15pm PDT

Videos of her friend trying to force a bouquet into her hand while she wailed uncontrolably have since flooded the internet, and everyone is in love with love again but all I could think was, Gurl you better be cute, this is your wedding. A commenter said, "If #ForeverDuncan doesn't move you to tears then we can't be friends." I think I've lost a few friends.

A video posted by simplyjess120 (@simplyjess120) on Oct 2, 2016 at 2:16pm PDT

I found the hashtag and scrolled through every video, every photo, every caption, every meme. And while I did get one or two, aww moments, I was really just... neutral.
I blame Greys.

Not enough results, imo.

But. Guys. A surprise wedding?
I get a surprise proposal or a surprise birthday party, but wedding?
What about my childhood fantasies? What about the fact that I'm currently not speaking to so-and-so, and if I knew I was getting married I'd have had time to properly decide whether or not I even wanted her on my train enough to kiss and make up.
What about the fact that I just saw a picture on Pinterest the other day and had decided that that, and only that, was the acceptable and most perfect decor theme for my dream wedding?

 
What if I didn't want my hair in twists on my wedding day? What if I wanted this dress as a second dress, not as the first one?
What if I wanted to elope? What if I just didn't want the whole world knowing how ugly I get when I'm this ridiculously emotional?
What if I wanted to play it cool for the 'gram but now everyone in the world has seen me crumble to my knees under the weight of your perfect love?
And now what am I supposed to do for our anniversary, surprise vow-renewal to get you back?

Perfect or Die.

 My friend's girlfriend took him on a trip to an exotic country for his birthday, early in their relationship. When asked what his plans were for her birthday he replied, "Dinner."
They eventually got married so I guess they're now even.

Surprises are unfair because they don't have to be enjoyable for the surprised to feel indebted to (repay or to show gratitude to) the surpriser. But I guess if it's a surprise wedding it's for better for worse so you can tell him later that you actually didn't want aunt so-and-so at your wedding. Or that the dress was pretty but you'd really wanted tulle, but you love him and in five years he can do it again and just in case here's the password to your carefully curated Pinterest account and thanks I love you babe mwah.

Why Greys Anatomy Makes Me So Mad.

I quit Greys in 2015. Yes, it was after Shonda killed Mc Dreamy.
I tried to continue, I tried to see what she would make of his memory, but after she moved forward a year in one episode and then tried to start the next season with a chirpy Meredith, a secret love child and sisters-doing-it-for-themselves I couldn't hack it. So I quit Greys.

So when I found myself watching the first episode of season 13, two days ago, I wasn't worried about delving back into the messy mire of Shonda's mind, I was just trying to see what she'd done with the rest of the characters I'd grown to love over the past eleven years.

Eleven. Years.

I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
Episode one was alright. I had no emotion toward the characters and the storyline was so obviously emotionally manipulative and so I figured, hey, let's see if last season would validate this season premiere.

I should have known I couldn't be that detached.

I started from episode 13 and watched my way through Shonda's TGIT writers' - many who were probably tweens when the show started (sorry, unnecessary hate, I apologise) - attempt at rescuscitating past emotions they are not worthy to touch, and mingling those hallowed memories with their cruel and manipulative plot twists. I mean, Karev hasn't been violent for so long but now you're going to make it look like a tragic flaw that's taking him down?

So, score. Miz Rhimes has clearly not lost her touch and has sufficiently infected her writers with it and so even though I should be detached enough to recognise that this is just Final Destination: Greys Anatomy Edition - aka business as usual - I am here, writing a blog post about why Greys makes me so mad without talking about why I'm actually mad but screaming passive-aggressively all over the page.

And this is why Greys still has an audience. We're in year thirteen and I'm still upset that it is now socially more popular to leave the incredibly insensitive character who is Arizona with a baby she only accidentally decided she wanted, leaving her birth mother to beg her for rights to see her, etc, etc.

But none of this is why the show makes me so mad, and now that I've built it up so much I feel like the rest of this will quickly devolve into (even more of) an emotional rant because the show creators have figured out a way to do exactly what they set out to do: control the audeience's emotions and keep them watching.

So I'll leave off talking about the really annoying way sex is portrayed as a tool to buy love, to prove love, to empower, to let off steam, for recreation and for procreation - all at the same time.
And the way every single character acts exactly the same, at the whim of the plot. And the way no one waits for an explanation ever, because they live in a world where being an adult means throwing tantrums and making decisions with as little information as possible. (No adult would survive in a world of retorts and conclusion-jumping exercises. I would know, I've been an adult for around ten of these almost-thirteen years, and the only thing stomping off in a huff ever got me was misinformation. Which, I guess, is the predominant tool of the creation of these storylines, whithouth which they wouldn't be able to create love (with sex) kill it (with sex), prove it's over (with sex) introduce new love (with sex) and kill that one with sex and anger and misinformation... and repeat the cycle over again.)

Not coherent but feels so good to not edit a piece of writing and send it flying willy-nilly into the internets.

Until we meet again, don't watch Greys.