A little context first (it occured to me that the topic has a Nigerian flavour to it).
I grew up in a christian home. Yes, my parents were a part of the S.U. movement of the seventies. And they were in the academics- trained at the prestigious University College, Ibadan (now called UI=University of Ibadan). So growing up, the values I was taught were hardwork (which translated as school diligence) and serving God. That was what I really needed to lead a successful life.
I’m not sure if primary school children have any ethics but ‘hardwork and God only’ served me well in Secondary school. Again, I need to clarify. By ‘God only’, I’m referring to serving God from a mostly religious point of view. Yes I loved Him, but I also needed to ‘settle Him’ by doing all the right things. (Obviously I wasnt perfect but I tried reaalllyyy Continue reading God is my only connection o…→
I over really loved this one- the ‘accidental Cougar story’. Lol
“Hey Babes, can you pass me a fiver?” Noah called out to me.
We were at a KFC Drive-Through and he had his head stuck out his window to place our order.
I love KFC chicken and I think it is the Holy Grail of chicken and if anyone dares disagree with me on that, I’ll be bringing out the claws. So, this beautifully freezing Saturday morning, I made him drive through Clapham Common despite the traffic we were bound to face, all so I could get my chicken-fix.
“I haven’t got a fiver.” I said as Beyonce’s Smash Into You came on the radio. The moment couldn’t have been anymore perfect. I had my favorite person in the world, Robb Howard seemed to be reading my mind and I was two minutes away from chicken-heaven, Ah-mean, what more could a girl ask for?
“Will a twenty do?” I asked.
“Nah, can you check the cubbyhole?” he replied.
I reached into the cubbyhole and made a face at the junk inside of it. I was crazy about the guy and he ranked up there along with my beloved KFC chicken (which really is saying something) but mehn, his car was the stuff of nightmares.
Whats the point of being chief blogger if you cant be using your veto power and picking best articles? Lol
I really loved this one.
For as long as i can remember, I avoid going for Yoruba service in church. Growing up, i didn’t have much of a choice till i was older, as the family used to go to church together. For me, it was simple, the Yoruba service was always longer than the English service. While English service starts at 8:00am, Yoruba service starts at 10:00am. Naturally, there’s a little pressure to end 8:00am service, but none for 10:00am service.
Another reason was, English was just easier, easier to speak, read, sing and write. I mean, in primary school, speaking ‘vernacular’ was an offence unless it was during the language period, so it was English all the way.
At home, Yoruba language ruled. In fact, the only times i spoke English to my folks growing up was when i was very upset. I attributed it to being able to think and speak faster in English. Home devotion was either English or Yoruba depending on who was leading. Of course, we, the kids, always opted for English. Dad on the other hand, you have different fingers always went the Yoruba way. I daresay, most of the prayers i can pray in Yoruba today are the ones I’ve heard him pray over the years growing up.
In secondary school, i enjoyed Yoruba as a subject. I mean, i probably never got above a c grade, but i was able to read, write and speak it. If you ask me, i will say i am fluent in Yoruba. I may not be able to match my friend, kk spicy baby, but i can hold my own.
Well that was what i thought, till the last Yoruba service i attended.
The preacher said “eko kika wa la o ri ninu iwe Jacobu, ori…” (read: our bible reading can be found in the book of Jacobu)
I stopped short.
That can’t be right? I mean, i was like
But there is no book of Jacob, is there?
I looked at the Mrs, she was just as lost. I scanned through the Old Testament, looking closely at the minor prophets, thinking perhaps there was one I’d missed during the years of Bible study. I pulled out my tab, I have a Yoruba bible app, searched Old testament again. Still no Jacobu.
By now, he had started reading. I just chilled and listened to what was being read. I was like this is not Old Testament na, this is James!
James is Jacobu in Yoruba! I was slightly amused and embarrassed, because at this point, i remembered i’d been in this Jacobu scenario before.
I have once again committed to attending Yoruba service more.
What really made this experience important for me to pen down, is the fact that many of us are already speaking less of Yoruba (read: mother tongue) and probably not even writing it anymore. Language is a key part of our heritage, a very important one at that. Beyond the beauty of the language(s), are the depths of messages one can convey with them.
There’s so much of our culture and heritage we have lost to being westernized, I won’t even begin to list, but let’s cherish and hold dear what is ours.
So I was driving one night on one of those Lagos roads that both sides of it double as carparks. Anyway, needless to say, the road had been reduced to one lane and I soon found myself directly facing an oncoming vehicle.
One of us had to reverse.
No problem, I’ll do it.
As I started maneuvering, I noticed that the other car’s full headlight was on- shining right into my eyes.
Maybe the tiredness got to me. But I momentarily snapped and started gesticulating furiously to the other driver.
Isnt it common courtesy when you are face to face with another car to dim your full lights?
I don’t like fizzy water. I never have. I thought I never would.
It’s like drinking tasteless soda, which to me is pointless. Very pointless. The only reason I would subject my teeth and my body to soda’s assault is to enjoy that short-lived pleasure of sweetness on my taste buds. I don’t even like carbonated drinks to start with, so why on earth would I drink fizzy water!
Every time I saw someone take fizzy water, I would shudder, imagining that tasteless taste on my tongue and I would gag. Like seriously, It’s like paddling a boat on sand and wondering why you’re not getting anywhere. It’s like running on a treadmill to catch the bus.
Then one day, I was having a meal and started to choke and all there was within my reach was a bottle of fizzy water so I gulped it down. Then some other time, I drank it, just for the sake of it, just to prove to every crazy person out there who thought the idea of fizzy water was a great one, that they were crazy. And before I knew it, it didn’t seem so bad. From not so bad, it started to have a character of its own, the way the gas effervesces in your mouth, filling it up temporarily before the bubbles all pop, that tasteless taste that was full of abstract flavors, each one unique and telling your taste buds a different exotic secret of its own, the way it goes down your throat, still bubbling and popping…sigh.
Now I’ve become the one who asks for fizzy water at restaurants or eateries and sighs long-sufferingly when she’s given the blank, uncomprehending stares.
And you know the very worst part of it all? Now that I have finally admitted how much in love I am with the infuriating thing, it is nowhere to be found! I think I have checked every single Supermarket in Lagos and the very best I have got is “Sorry, we just ran out.” It’s as if the silly thing is trying to make me pay for all the years of snobbery and turning up my nose at it and doing my mouth like they put ewúro in it.
Sometimes, I wonder if it didn’t just come after me relentlessly, stopping at absolutely nothing to woo me just for the satisfaction of dumping me and stomping on my heart when it finally had it.
And you know how these things work, the more it eludes me, the more I want it. Even knowing as I do right now that this whole romance of ours was just a farce and it was all just a ploy at payback, doesn’t stop me from wanting it and craving it. I can just imagine it standing with its fellow carbonated drinks on a hidden shelf somewhere in Shoprite (probably in Port-Harcourt or Kano or Pluto), bragging with pride “I broke the Ice Queen, I climbed the tree no one else can, brought the Wench to her knees!” 😡
I hate and love the annoying thing in almost equal measure!
Someone please, please get me a bottle of fizzy water…
I have lost track of time,
I swapped tracking how long it will take you to find me,
For if you will ever find me.
First I made sure I couldn’t be found,
Am I not making this too difficult?
Then I let the crown of my shoe show,
Do I change my location?
And then I changed location,
Sneaking…….really hopeful you would catch me in transit.
I can’t hear footsteps anymore
I induced choking,
No one came to my rescue.
I know how I worked hard to find you,
I knew I wanted to get you,
Did you give up on me?
Did I take this too far?
Should I just become the seeker?
Would you be glad I found you instead?
Then there would be no scream,
No pure laughter
Just realization that you gave up,
I wasn’t worth the chase,
A lesson never to form “hard to get”
The fact that boredom led you to me,
that you don’t have to find me,
And that the game ends when you are tired.
I love beautiful well cut dressing. And I love our African designs.
The very essence of our traditional prints lies in the way it embraces the exquisitely sculptured nature endowed curve of the African queen.
But when I see the figures of a plethora of female models on our runways, fashion articles and showrooms, I worry oh.
For how long must we copy everything and everyone from everywhere except our homeland?
When are we going to fully embrace our uniqueness?
Quite a good number of ladies will mortgage their homes, and work three jobs to get the ‘bootilicious’ look. In fact, I recently learnt from a friend that Balogun market is rife with ‘instant plastic curves’- upper and lower figure enhancers.Yet our burgeoning designers continue to inundate us with the bony thin forms. Continue reading FASHION SENSE : Bone Of My Bones, Flesh Of My Flesh→
‘A moment of silence for our brothers stuck in the friendzone’
We had a veeerrrryyyy interesting Connected hangout earlier this year where we discussed zoning.
Incase you’ve been living under a rock for the past few years, or you are of a certain generation (I dont know what age that generation starts from), zoning essentially refers to when two single people of the opposite sex are good friends and somehow, can be nothing more.
As in, you didn’t even consider asking God or thinking twice about it. They just cant.
Let’s try that again; we should have all watched Batman. In some form.
Most of us are familiar with the character Two Face and if you watched the more recent adaptation of the movie, then you probably remember the line ‘He’s not the hero we deserve, but the hero we need’ (I love ‘tight’ movie lines by the way)
But I digress, forgive me.
The concept of the two face character is that he has one side of his body that is handsome and smiley and buff while the other side is an ugly monster. The side that faces you is what you get. Handsome side = nice, sane side; monster side= wicked side.