I can’t do this anymore, I think to myself as I lean against the bathroom sink. This time I actually vomited. That has never happened before. I turn on the tap to rinse my mouth with water as I hate the taste of the mouthwash.
After I’m done, I look in the mirror. My nose is running and my puffy eyes are watering—effects of the nausea. I want to speak to someone but I don’t think I would know what to say if I ever have the chance. How would it sound after the words escaped my lips?
One night, I threw up after my husband made love to me. Every time we make love I always come close to vomiting, but on that day I actually did.
Seems incredible doesn’t it? Who would be able to explain such an occurrence to me? I’ve thought so many times about leaving him. I feel terrible just thinking it and I can already hear the surprised voices of my friends and family if I do decide to follow through.
“But Jake dotes on you,” they would say. “He treats you like an egg!” Continue reading “Prose || What Pastor Kayode Said”
Ask me how I know I’ve read an amazing book—if after I read the last word of the book, I want to start all over again. That was exactly how I felt after reading Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing and yes, I know I’m nearly a year late to the party. Forgive me, fellow bibliophiles. Deal mercifully with me.
The plot was absolutely fantastic. A historical fiction set in Ghana and the US, the book paints vivid pictures of the cruelty and darkness of slave trade in Africa as well as slavery and racial segregation in America. I must warn you, this book is not exactly what I would call a happy book. If you ask me to describe it in one word, I would say: intense. I didn’t mind at all though; that quality favoured the melancholic part of me. I also wouldn’t describe Homegoing as an easy read, but it’s highly gripping and thought-provoking. Continue reading “Book Recommendation: Homegoing By Yaa Gyasi”
About three years ago or so, a friend of mine who is a teacher in a private primary school in Abuja, told me they had begun teaching the pupils Sex Education. Honestly, that didn’t sit too well with me. I had felt it was too early. I still feel it’s too early. The average age of the oldest pupil in any primary school is ten years, maximum, eleven.
I have always had the thought that if you expose something to someone that they didn’t know about before, and you make it seem forbidden, their interest is piqued. You know what they say about the forbidden fruit seeming sweeter. I fear that exposing a child to that type of information may further arouse their already highly curious minds and cause them to become interested in ‘testing’. Continue reading “Banter || Sex Education: How Early Is Too Early?”
The faded gold car I had seen earlier pulled up next to me.
‘Sister, where you dey go?’ the driver of the car said. He seemed to be in his late-thirties.
I looked at him and his car in confusion, not sure if he was a cab driver or just someone who wanted to give me a lift. It was a 2-door sports car, you see, a rarity for taxis in Abuja. With skepticism, I told him where I was going. He turned out to be a cab driver; we settled on a price and I got in. Reggae music was playing from his car speakers and he was excessively bubbly and chatty. I rolled my eyes internally.
Oh God, he’s one of those people. I don’t need this today, abeg.
Unfortunately, he was so blissfully unfazed by my silence and would not stop talking. Eight or so minutes into the journey, I received a phone call and was thankful for the distraction, albeit a momentary one. After I hung up, the driver turned on the air conditioner.
‘Make I on A.C for you,’ he said. ‘E be like say your body dey hot…’ Continue reading “The Pursuit of Happy-ness: A Cab Ride, Lucky Dube and a Major Life Lesson”
To say I was shocked when I was nominated for the Blogger Recognition Award would be putting it mildly. I was pleasantly surprised. Apparently this is not a real award. It’s a kind of chain-post where one blogger tags another. The tagged blogger then answers a few questions and tags other bloggers. Still, I’m honoured.
1. You have to thank the blogger who nominated you and provide a link to their blog;
2. You have to write a post to show your award;
3. Give a brief story of how you started your blog;
4. Give two pieces of advice to new bloggers;
5. Select 15 bloggers you want to give this award to; and
6. Comment on the blogs of these 15 bloggers and let them know that you have nominated them, providing a link to the post you created. Continue reading “My Blogger Recognition Award”
“What is it?” a distant part of my brain heard my mum scream, her strong arms enveloping me. “WHAT IS IT?!”
Oh crap, I thought, feeling helpless and unable to control the horrific thing I knew was about to happen. And that’s how I fainted in the market on Friday…
* * *
“Let’s buy the chiffon first,” my mum said as we got to the entrance of the market. It was a sunny day but the weather wasn’t too overbearing.
I agreed to her suggestion and we made our way to the section of the market that sold fabrics. In no time, we found the seller she knew. The next thirty-something minutes were spent selecting fabrics, haggling over the prices, interacting with other customers and finally, paying. It was time for us to get the other things we came for—beef, egusi, okazi, Cameroon pepper, smoked fish, okporoko, crayfish…
“We need to buy garri,” she said, looking at the piece of paper which contained our shopping list. “But let’s buy cow leg first.”
She, as well as every other Nigerian, referred to a cow’s foot as ‘cow leg’. We got to the seller’s stall, his table filled with various cuts of cow feet and hide and we had to wait our turn, as there were two customers already there. I don’t know how long we stood before I started to feel funny. Out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever—first, my right shoulder started aching, my neck felt stiff, then I became dizzy, my vision blurred, everything around me becoming pixelated; my head, my whole body, in fact, started to feel heavy, my limbs turning to jelly. Continue reading “Story Time || Drama At The Cow Foot Seller’s Stall (Mummy’s Day)”