Something I wrote on Medium. Check it ❤️
I don’t have an entrepreneurial spirit and it scares the shit out of me. The world is moving at a pace where the richest, most successful people are entrepreneurs: tech startups, trade, television, you name it. Meanwhile, my field (oil and gas) is phasing out with each passing day and I’m just stuck here throwing my hands up because I honest-to-god don’t know if I can move in the direction of the world, if I can become an entrepreneur.
My mom is the business person in my family. The other day we were talking about the poor economy with oil prices dropping like my flipping grades, and how I don’t like business so nothing seemed to be working in my favor, so she should “entrepreneur me.” So she talked about what pushed her out of the corporate sector and how she would tell her younger self to quit earlier than she actually did after spending 20 years in the company. I laughed. I’ll give a few reasons why don’t I see myself as an entrepreneur:
1. Because I am my father’s child. I have always wanted to climb up a corporate ladder. Invest on the side but work a 9 to 5, or in my dads case, a 7-10 and travel the world for work in the times in-between. I don’t like saying this to my mother because she starts talking about me starting a family and the difficulties I would face (she’s right though, I just don’t like the topic).
2. While hustling is a gift for some people, mine is watching Netflix. In my house, we call my mum “market woman.” Well my dad does. If we openly did, she’d smack us on the back of our head. I watched my mum hustle to get people to patronize her new business (and that’s why I have a love/hate relationship with church. They can be the most supportive people in your life…sometimes). My mum is a distributor/marketer/brand curator. She works on the supply/demand level for many companies, building a brand that is in direct contact with the market. It’s her own. It’s flexible. It’s her side-family. She loves it. But she still earns pretty much the same, if not a little less then when she worked in a company. So what exactly is the appeal? I already know her answer: “Not everything is about money.” Sometimes I think my mum’s business makes her fluctuate in and out of reality, LOL. But really though, have you ever seen someone who complains about how her business is stressful and how people are owing her money here and there and how her bus broke down on the road, but still glows when you ask about her work and speaks so proudly of it, genuinely loving her blessings regardless of their costs. Mum meet world.
3. I don’t cope well with disappointment or failure. I remember when the corporate gifts side of her business wasn’t growing. The grace with which she shrugged it off with an “on-to-the-next-one” attitude. I’m pretty sure I would’ve cried my eyes out and quit. Business is a risk. I am not a risk-taker
4. I’m pretty bomb at studying and calculating shit than creating a five-year plan. And even at that, I could be a better student.
I have never seen my mum not work. My family is going through a couple of changes and my mum has to adjust her niche. She’s actively searching and praying for something to put her hands to good use for again. She was the only one with a job when my parents got married. She managed to work and care for us at the same time while we were growing up, and although she isn’t perfect by any means, she really tried to make her dreams come true (I wonder if it did); and somehow I have now turned a post about my lack of entrepreneurial spirit into one about my mum.
I’m sure there are more reasons why I don’t see myself as an entrepreneur, including my tendency to forget I have a business if I’m left to run it on my own, like I do my blog (forgive me). I have considered writing more, cooking more, reading more so I can tap into a something that will profit me, literally. But I believe that the greatest thing that holds me back (apart from not knowing what it is that I can do better than studying, LOL) is fear. I’m afraid of failure and everything else life can throw at me, and this is one reason why I keep mentioning my mum. My mum will throw every bible verse at her problem. You can call her myopic but its working for her.
I hope that one day, I’ll come to you with the fruit of my hands and say, this is what I did with that fear. This thing is mine. But until then, I will keep hitting those books hard, so I can bring home some mad coins once the economy behaves itself. I finished exams yesterday, so Netflix is calling my name now. I’ll be back soon. Promise.
Cover Image by John Milinovich via Flickr
I wrote this piece about a year ago. It’s funny how you can feel the labor pains of some stories you birth, and how, unlike a child, they never really change.
Banshee: a female spirit, in Gaelic folklore, whose wailing warns of an impending death in a house.
I stood transfixed, eyes on traffic light showing the blinking orange hand
“Babe?” His hand is held out, urging me to cross. I’m tired. We’ve been walking for about an hour. Sometimes we stop to take pictures of the streets, the boats, the cathedrals… It’s all very nice. For him.
I struggle to match his pace as we walked up Cambie Street.
Don’t get me wrong, he did ask me where I wanted to go; but being the queen of indecision, I really didn’t know. It’s the end of April; North America is only just warming up. There’s nothing I want to do here. Six flags, Wild Wadii, haunted houses, those are the kinds of places I enjoy visiting. I’m all for the thrill, not this quaint sightseeing and photo-taking. Especially when nothing had me in it. Probably because I don’t like taking pictures in public, but still, I wished he’d asked.
“Come. Let’s go into the pottery shop.”
I nod. This was going to suck.
And it did.
I fought the urge to say “I told you so” on our way out moments later.
“We good?” He asked, glancing at me with a soft smile.
He always asks me that; whether I am okay, or if I am good. As if every time I’m silent, it was a bad sign. Or as if he feels guilty about something.
No. I wanted to say it so bad. But he looked so happy. I wouldn’t spoil that for the world. I smile back at him reassuringly. This is what I have been reduced to for his happiness. This silent yielding. Aching to please and not wanting to make too much of a fuss
I remember our fights too during the trip. They started with little things. Sometimes I was the one being silly, but he stirred the pot too and I was tired of making excuses for him. Tired of feeling manipulated into thinking I was at fault each time
During our last fight, we had just gotten back to our hotel when he asked if I was angry because of his comment on the way I spoke in public.
We had a heated argument after that. I knew I felt disrespected at the beginning of the argument, but at the end, everything had somehow become my fault. Even I was confused. Okay, let me tell you how it all started.
When we had first arrived in Vancouver, there was a blind dog with no eye-patch at the terminal. One eye seemed to have been plucked out. It was a very sorry sight. I’m not a big fan of dogs but I felt sympathetic towards to this Golden retriever. A few days later, on the streets of Vancouver, we were at a zebra crossing and I see a similar blind dog.
A little too excited at the coincidence, I tapped him while we crossed the road and pointed my head in the direction of the dog just a few feet ahead of us, and asked, “Do you remember that blind dog at the airport?”
I hadn’t realized that I had spoken a little too loudly and that some people around us had heard me. I didn’t even know whether that was rude or whatever. That is when he said with a condescending tone,
“The way you talk in public sometimes…”
Note, talk. Present continuous tense. Yes, I’m that girl who takes people quite literally. You have to be careful and mean exactly what you say, because with me, you may not be able to take it back. He knows this.
I felt so bad. Like I had embarrassed him. So I kept my mouth shut.
I could feel the hot tears brimming behind my eyeballs. I was tired and angry. This marked the umpteenth time I had been scolded or talked down on like this. I wish you had heard his tone. Hell, I wish he had heard his tone. I made up my mind to keep silent all the way back to the hotel. He noticed but neither of us said anything. It was awful.
Finally on the bus back to the hotel, he asked warily, “What did I do wrong again?”
I just stared at him, silent. He had smaller, darker features than my ex. His five foot nine frame slightly hunched because of the weight of his (if I’m being totally honest) very ugly green and black backpack. For all my love for him, I couldn’t stand him at this moment. Giving him the silent treatment usually caught his attention which I have struggled to gain throughout the past week. I shrugged and ignored him. He sighed heavily.
“Is it because of what I said earlier? About the way you talk in public?
Good. He remembered. That was rare for him. His reminder left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Still ignoring him, I got up, walked towards the door of the hotel room where wifi was best and just lay there. I texted Uche, hoping he would make me laugh. I wanted him to hear me laugh; to know that at least there was someone else who would unreservedly grant me all their attention. Someone who would not make me feel small or feel like I talk too much.
“I’m talking to you. So talk to me, let’s squash this.” I could feel his piercing gaze boring into my back, his voice begging me to behave.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” I was upset, and I wanted to make him as uncomfortable as possible
“Are we really going to do this?” Yes! But instead I sigh.
He turned on the TV. Something about hockey is blaring in the background.
“Sometimes I don’t like the way you talk to me.” I mutter
“I can’t hear you.”
I lose my nerve and say, “I’m talking to myself.”
He sighs. It’s one of those “I’m about to go into some rant” kind of sighs.
“It’s about the dog shey? I know oh, even though you won’t admit it because you’ve been silent ever since.”
He’s prodding me for a reply. I don’t oblige. I’m just about done with this back and forth. That obviously only angered him the more
“You can just leave if you can’t take me correcting you.”
That caught my attention. Remember that bit about a person meaning what they say before they say it to me? Well this was one of those times. You can imagine how that evening went. On second thought, maybe you can’t, but I don’t want to bore you with too much detail.
We pretty much went at it for a few minutes. Me shouting for some respect; him yelling about my constant over-reacting. He wanted me to leave? I would leave his sorry ass!
Somewhere in the middle, I ordered KFC, and then there was silence for almost an hour before the food came.When the food came, we squashed it.
It was always like this with us: fight, hold it out for a while, and then squash it. It was a cycle. Definitely an unhealthy one. A dance that I was not too sure I wanted to be a part of. And it always ended up with his head between my legs under the sheets, like the whole drama was some twisted aphrodisiac.
I knew it was her even before I opened my eyes. He always sounded so energetic when he was talking to her. Not slack and tolerant like he usually was with me. I don’t know what it was about her that made me so observant, and him so fucking giddy. A bible passage strangely came to mind: “Be watchful. Be vigilant.”
“She’s always sleeping, I’m tired,” he’s telling her.
It’s true. I’m always sleeping these days.
Yesterday, I had a terrifying dream in which I paid sixty-six bucks to have an abortion (weird number, I know), but woke up to find that I had given birth to a beautiful baby boy (whom I named Bailey. Yup, Grey’s anatomy), and had to give him up to save face, while the proud papa just played on his phone, silent. I cried when they gave me a black and white striped blanket to remember him by. I woke up with tears in my eyes. It felt so real. I had to check my birth-control pills to make sure I hadn’t missed any. I hadn’t. Thank God.
Anyway, there was something about her. She was fun. Almost wild. She was everything I wasn’t, and I guess he saw it too…wanted it, but couldn’t have it. Whenever I felt shameless enough to ask why he didn’t go after her, he always said, “She has a boyfriend.”
That was his excuse for not going after her. Not me. Never me.
I was ashamed to tell anyone that he said that. I always made excuses for things he said. Always reminding myself that I may have interpreted him wrongly. She was my friend too, but it had come to a point where I didn’t want the friendship anymore because I wasn’t built to share anything (only child syndrome). Not her or him. Plus, it’s always easier to let go than to confront someone. At least, for me it is.
They had almost kissed once, and God knows what else. He confessed it and I forgave, but those sorts of things just don’t erase of their own volition, do they? Am I being selfish for not wanting them to be friends?
He’s laughing. I don’t know what he’s laughing about. Why don’t I make him laugh like that? I probably have…once or twice, but it’s just so much louder with her. Or maybe that’s my insecurity talking.
“So what are you doing?” he asks
Ugh. The bait question. I don’t know if he realizes how bad the answer could be. I struggle to hear her through the phone. I imagine her saying, in her deep, and I like to think, sultry voice, “getting into the shower.” I can hear her breathing through the phone; I can picture her nostrils flaring. They always flare. He, on the other hand, is very laid back. Attentive.
I struggle to listen, but I’m not sure if the voices are just in my head. I don’t think I really want to know.
What were we doing to each other?
I drift back to sleep.
They’re having sex in our own hotel room.
She’s bent over on the old air-conditioning unit in the corner, eyes trained in my direction, while I’m seated on the bed, legs crossed, watching them. He’s grunting, holding onto her breasts so tightly I can almost feel them hurt from across the room.
Then all of a sudden, we’re at the zoo, all three of us. But I couldn’t have felt more alone. We’re eating pistachios and watching the mountain lions. I feel really tired and cold. There’s a buzzing near my ear. It’s such an annoying sound.
I wake up. The AC is so unbearably loud and I’m cold. I stare at the wide gap between our bodies, somewhat amused at how the plain white duvet that covers us seems to be stifling a secret, or perhaps, our solution. Then I walk to the bathroom and cry.
Cover Image by Katja Kemnitz via Flickr
In the spirit of International Women’s day, I wanted to talk about some “Feminist” thoughts on rampage in my mind. My focus group is mostly Nigerian women because I am one and I am familiar with our thinking. I’ll start with those who say, “I’m not a feminist but…” when making a point. Lord knows how tired I am of that shit. You’re either a feminist or you’re not; you either believe in equality for women socially, economically, politically, and in every other respect or you don’t. Even if you were slow in fully embracing all that feminism is, like myself, making a statement like that is really unnecessary, apart from the fact that it irritates me.
The two most annoying things about this “I’m not a feminist but…” statement is that it is always used by women (especially my fellow Nigerian women), usually when they are giving a reason why something should or shouldn’t be happening to a woman, and it is always said in the presence of men. According to a study by Vox media, 85% of Americans believe in equality for women, but only 18% consider themselves to be “feminist.” This most likely translates into a much lower number for both sides when talking about Africans; but it is no less disheartening. It is as if feminism is some foul element we do not want to be associated with, even when African women are perhaps most subject to the unfair prejudices of our immensely patriarchal society.
I was hanging out with a few friends one evening last semester. During the course of our evening, the discussion turned a little political. With respect to a subject I cannot recall, a girl said “I’m, not a feminist but I think that…”, to make a point about women and the African society, and that set me off. So I asked if she could tell me why she did not identify as a feminist. She tried to explain and defend herself, but to me it was just an awkward stumble for words and not a coherent answer. Then one of the guys joked about me and my feminism arguments, and how I should stop being so serious, then we changed subject. I wasn’t upset, but it just didn’t make sense to me how you can agree that women are one of the most marginalized groups on the planet, yet you do not want to rebel against that or identify with a movement that seeks to cross over those boundaries that society has placed before a woman based on her gender. You don’t even want to at least talk about it? Understand it? Despite the fact that you know that there are significant disparities between male and female rights? This same thing happened in a YouTube video from a channel I actually enjoy watching. A group of Nigerians were talking about slut shaming of women and one of the girls, the owner of the channel, proclaimed how she wasn’t a feminist but slut-shaming was stupid because guys are never subject to it, blah blah blah. I just rolled my eyes. I wonder if she would’ve distanced herself from feminism in that way if those guys weren’t there.
“We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller. We say to girls, you can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful, but not too successful. Otherwise, you would threaten the man. Because I am female, I am expected to aspire to marriage. I am expected to make my life choices always keeping in mind that marriage is the most important. Now marriage can be a source of joy and love and mutual support but why do we teach girls to aspire to marriage and we don’t teach boys the same? We raise girls to see each other as competitors not for jobs or accomplishments, which I think can be a good thing, but for the attention of men. We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings in the way that boys are.”
-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We Should All Be Feminists
I can mention a few reasoning of a Nigerian woman (because this is a group I am all too familiar with) who refuses to identify as a feminist. My mum and a couple of my friends are examples of these women. No shade to them, but yes, I am also sort of calling them out.
- Because our culture teaches submission. Funny enough, I too believe in submission in marriage, but to each other, and not just a woman to her husband. The Bible even asks us to submit to one another out of reverence for Christ (Eph 5:21), if you’d prefer me to justify my belief. Furthermore, even if you’re so traditionally inclined, like myself again, feminism does not tell you to wage war against your spouse or be rude or disrespectful or even try to do everything by yourself (although independence is also be one of the fruits). It simply stands inequality. Heck, women only got the right to vote less than 100 years ago.
- Because the Nigerian society is so damn patriarchal. Imagine a country of about 170 million people where a majority of a population believe that a husband cannot rape his wife. Meaning that sex is always consensual in marriage. Many little girls are still getting married off to men that are as old as, if not older than, their own fathers. Women are always being silenced. Even myself. One of my stories got published on Brittlepaper.com recently (Link here) but I blocked my family and their close friends from seeing it because apparently, I’m not “supposed” to liberally talk about sex, and they would definitely call me out on it. I once took a picture with a guy and put it as my whatsapp picture when he was going through some stuff. We pretty much had a family meeting about it! Even my brother said that that could’ve never happened to him if he was in my shoes. And please don’t say they were only protecting me or anything like that; because if they were, their defense for our chat wouldn’t be that they were concerned about what people would think of me…about a picture of me and a guy… about a picture of me and a guy without physical contact and with our clothes on. Because I had made it my profile picture. LOL. When I tried to defend myself…oh well.
- Being a feminist is still quite unusual in our society, but it is not immoral. And on that note, why are we so afraid to talk about abortion? Anyway, I’ll get there in a second. I believe that a majority of Nigerian women agree that the gender pay gap exists (I used to think it was because of the general view that a man is the head of the home, but even that isn’t accurate for obvious reasons), and that violence against women is still at a threatening high (Can we talk about the threats to aboriginal women sometime? It’s such a big problem here in Saskatchewan?), and that abuse, assault, discrimination, social, economical and political stagnancy are a big problem for women. These are things feminism stand against and create awareness for. It fights for men and women to be seen as equals, for women to be heard and not just seen, for me as a woman to be able to serve my country in whatever capacity (Hello Military), and get the same pay as a man in the same position as me. It speaks against a woman getting shamed when she embraces her sexuality (even I can be very conservative about this. i still have my reservations about #freethenipple movement, but remember what I said about reactions to me writing about anything remotely sexual. I’m just like leave me alone so I somehow kinda get it), and when she chooses what she wants for her body and her future. Feminism stands for access to EDUCATION and good HEALTHCARE; and yes, I’m also referring to abortions and other reproductive health care (even though, to be clear, I wouldn’t necessarily choose abortion for myself). It took me a long time to understand the argument for and against abortions. What won the argument for me was that not everyone thought like me, or was in the same condition as I was. At least there should be access to safe abortion centers, if not, many women will die. Watch “Trapped” Trailer here ; John Oliver on Undue Burden here
- Feminism is not born out of hatred of men or love of attention, but simply out of the need for equality for women despite arguments about the natural/emotional/fragile/whatever-you-call-it tendencies of woman.
- We care too much what others, especially men…especially Nigerian men, think of us regarding the feminist argument. It defeats the purpose. Why do you care when you know you’re doing right by yourself and your daughters and their daughters. Even if the men refuse to be feminists, should we sit there in silence too? If not you, then who?
- Feminism is necessary. Because it is born out of the blood sweat and tears of women before us who died unspoken for at the hands of their husbands, boyfriends, fathers, etc. For those who bled on the tables of circumcision houses, on the pillars of honor killing plots, on the altars of rape and ritual killings, and even at their desks in their classes or on the seats of their school buses because they dared to go to school. I could go on.
- Feminism is not always about extreme causes. It also gives women a voice, and that seemingly ordinary purpose gives many of us satisfaction. That voice is way too important to ignore.
- Feminism is not only about creating awareness of gender disparities. It is also about being more, always and in all ways.
- Not all feminists are angry, although you probably don’t believe me because I sound angry in this post, lol. I’m really not. We just wonder why change isn’t coming any faster, because it should. But we are patient. At least things are actively progressing, even in Nigeria.
“I looked the word up in the dictionary, it said: Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes. My great-grandmother, from stories I’ve heard, was a feminist. She ran away from the house of the man she did not want to marry and married the man of her choice. She refused, protested, spoke up when she felt she was being deprived of land and access because she was female. She did not know that word feminist. But it doesn’t mean she wasn’t one. More of us should reclaim that word….My own definition is a feminist is a man or a woman who says, yes, there’s a problem with gender as it is today and we must fix it, we must do better. All of us, women and men, must do better.”
-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We Should All Be Feminists
If you realize that there is something fundamentally wrong in the way society considers and treats women, and you seek to fight against it, you are probably a feminist.
If you have to say the words “I’m not a feminist but…” when you’re fighting for women in an argument, you’re probably feminist.
If your heart feels compassionate to the plight of discriminated, murdered or abused women (or the girl child), or concerned about the realities of the gender pay gap, or heck, even pink taxes, you are probably a feminist.
If you flare up against misogynistic acts and statements and think we can do better as a society with regard to women, the portals of the earth, then you’re probably a feminist.
And most importantly, if your heart soars at the knowledge of women who have overcome barriers and stepped over boundaries that their genders have posed and became success stories and legends in their own rights, names that never will be forgotten in the history books or even just in your community or on your timeline on social media; and if you aspire to be like them, to be more than what society has defined you to be based on your gender…Oh honey, welcome. You are a most likely a feminist.
And just identifying as one is important because one woman cannot break the stereotypes and limitations alone.
Happy International Women’s Day!
Cover image by Sylvie Pankhurst via flickr
Quotes from We Should All Be Feminists, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Friday, the 12th of February is a date that will be etched in a memory for years to come. I made a spur of the moment decision to go to a mental wellness event that involved a talk by Frank Warren, the creator of postsecret.com. I was floored. I teared up several times. I think that apart from his talk which involved sharing secrets sent to him anonymously from all over the world for more than 10 years now, hearing the brave few from the audience tell their secrets and then, for those who had super emotional things to share, seeing the hugs, pats and words of comfort that they received from total strangers… man… how do I explain? The red eyes in the full room when the lights came back on… it was intense and funny and calming. I had to do a power walk to One Republic’s “Secrets” at the end of the talk just to calm myself down.
I was quite disappointed that a couple of people that I invited couldn’t attend because they would’ve enjoyed the talk. So my next post will be a follow-up to this with… wait for it… my secrets. I’ll also share other secrets I’ve been privy to, but with a spin. I do this because I want it to be harder to figure out which secret is mine and which are not. The narrative will be different but the essence of the secret will not change. Disclaimer though, people I have confided in in the past may be able to identify some things because I pride myself in being an open book, but many of you will have no idea about the things I will write. I hope you read and maybe even share a thought or whatever else you’d like in the comments. Wait for it.
Age is the accumulating heaviness in your bones. A reminder every time you move that time passes. That time is passing.
I was going through my TL on Twitter, and I read a blog post from one of those Nigerian women who are strangers to me, but whom I just can’t help but admire. So this lady (@iKanyinsola) talked about turning 23 and I identified with much of what she said, but with a lot less calm. I’m turning the big 2-0 in a couple of months, and even though I say it a lot because I like to remind my family that I can grow wings now, it hadn’t really sunk in until I read her blog post.
With age comes less accommodation for mistakes. I feel like if I don’t get my life together at least the day before I turn 20, things would only get harder. I’m scared of growing older because I know how mistakes are a pattern for me. I live it. What of love? I’m not even going to pretend that I don’t think about it cause my mum may see this one post. Like Kanyinsola, I feel like my biological clock has already started ticking and I have no clue who turned it on. I find myself wanting to be single, then wanting to be with someone, then wanting to live the baby girl lifestyle, and on and on. I swear it’s Bellanaija weddings. Why the hell am I still following them on Instagram?
I’m struggling with the concept of faith and how it clashes with issues of the heart, struggling with my identity, my body and settling. With setting boundaries, and tearing them down with careless abandon. With jealousy, pride and all-round neuroticism. I don’t know if I fit, how I fit, or where I fit. I obsess about how I want my life to be perfect by my standards, and how far off it seems right now. I struggle with control and wearing my heart on my sleeve. Don’t say it’s what makes me beautiful. It’s what makes me vulnerable. Vulnerability. That’s another struggle. I struggle with giving too much and never feeling like I get enough.
Turning 20 is scary because I don’t want to struggle like this for the next three years. I want too much for age to be my solution. “Once I turn (fill in the blank), I won’t feel like this anymore.” Does that even hold water? I do know who I want to be, I can see it, but it’s not that easy getting there. But it’s not all bad. I have accomplished a few things that others may see as trivial but I don’t. A few years back, I didn’t even have half the confidence I have now. I never would’ve done a big chop, talk less of walking around with my pretty cool low cut. I never would’ve been able to look at my reflection and call myself beautiful; no pulling at my cheeks or love handles like they were burdens God punished me with. I never would’ve gotten a job that puts me way out of my comfort zone, I never would’ve had the confidence to wear a low-cut top even, etc.
Regardless, the need for improvement never ends. I still don’t like where I’m at yet. I want to be even more confident and badass and in control of my emotions. I want to be okay if I were alone, but still explore what love truly is. I want to spend less time demanding how I want to be treated and more time receiving it because my personality makes it clear. I want to stop setting deadlines for myself based on other people’s achievements or good fortune, and wait for my own time. I want to just bask in God’s love instead of run away from it; maybe that way, I’m giving him more control than trying to control the pace of my faith. I want to grow and blossom and help women around the world one day, directly or indirectly. I want to be generous and fruitful. Maybe down the line, the title of wife and mother would come, but “Engineer” definitely takes the cake (no more bellanaija for me man).
Badass. That’s the only word I can use to describe it. Lord knows I love that word too much. The day I can confidently describe myself as badass, I’d just be like “Mama I made it!” Like Mary M’mukindia, @EloOsunde, @iKanyinsola, @llynJ, @werucheopia, @t2pitchy, @gracie_danqs, etc. Everyday women that work on that grind and pursue after the purpose of a God who is a constant even when everything changes. They really are extraordinary and are inspirations to me even though they don’t all have a million dollars in their bank accounts. Yeah, I don’t really give a shit about Oprah.
After this post I’ m actually just going to write a schedule on not pacing myself…wait, is it just me or is that a little contradictory. Whatever. I’ll just try and live more than worry. Everything good will come in its time.
Image via http://www.someecards.com
A creepy old man stopped by the booth I was volunteering at today. I was selling tickets for an event for black history month for URASS, the African student association at my school. He donated about 2 bucks then asked where we were from. Then he went on this tirade about how he had been abducted in Nigeria and how his cousin was killed by the rebel army. I was just like “Uh…okay.” LOL. I actually thought he was lying at first but now I don’t think he was. I swear he went on for five minutes while there was awkward silence around the table. I was almost scared. He kept looking at me directly and saying how he went back and rid the world of the man who had tortured him for twelve months, and how he had done my country a favour. Can you picture my face? Absolute horror. But I apologized for his bad experience in my country and kept nodding like some lizard with no words in her mouth. I didn’t know who to tell so I came here 😂😂. I only have so much patience for Twitter. Anyways, I’ll be watching my back on the streets of Regina man.
As always, I hope your week is going better than mine.
I don’t know how to be alone
At least not anymore
I hate hearing my own voice echoing back at me
the lack of response or even silent presence
the absence of touch
Not that I had it in abundance anyways, but I had it
And now it just feels like my two year old baby died and I can’t move on from it
I’m just stuck
I have to constantly and consciously remind myself that this is happening
And that I’m going through the motions of withdrawal
I jerk my hands away from my phone as if it could burn my fingers
or as if a single text or call was synonymous to my head under the blade of a guillotine
But does it really matter that I want to bare my soul to him
or that I want him the way I do. Still.
That I’m needy beyond understanding and loving a woman like me is difficult
Because I’m hurt with or without him, so much so that choice does not even make sense
HAPPY NEW YEAR! Let’s just pretend like I didn’t go on an extended hiatus. Thanks :*
So I watched this movie today,”About Time.” In summary, the movie is about this guy, “Tim,” who is pretty much ordinary-looking and a little awkward. He finds out he has the power to travel back in time like his male ancestors (though he cannot change the future), and uses that to his advantage, attempting to right all his awkward, god-awful moments in his life and in the lives of the people he cares for (like blurting out to his girlfriend’s parents about doing everything but oral sex with their daughter. Which was a sad lie by the way), and ultimately trying to win the woman of his dreams.
First of all, how am I just seeing this movie! It’s a 2013 production. And I just love Rachel McAdams. I loved the whole cast. I bawled like a baby a the end while the credits rolled to “How long will I love you.” I actually shed tears you guys! I don’t shed tears for a movie. And the funny thing is, it wasn’t that monumental a movie; but I’m in a hurting phase right now I think, and it knew just where to bite.
What struck me the most about this movie was that right of the bat, Tim knew he wanted to find love. And although it’s not very practical to travel back in time to ensure the girl you want is besotted with you (and that kind of deceit is on another level to be quite honest), Tim chased after what he wanted.
Another thing that struck me was how the other people in Tim’s life really didn’t have any control in the matter. They had to go back in time too. Some of their destinies got altered as well. SPOILER ALERT!! For example, Tim’s love interest, Mary, ends up with him instead of some other bloke, because Tim went back in time to change the way they met. Tim also changes the experience of their first night together 3 times! Later, Tim’s sister is in an accident, so he goes back in time to stop that from happening it. Then when he gets back to present time, he find out that his actions changes the future outcome as his baby is no longer a girl but a boy. So he has to go back to make his sister go through the accident again so the former future remains as it was (his baby remains a girl)…and I’m sure I’m confusing you right about now. Lol.
Ultimately, I want to be Tim. I want to wake up from a hangover one morning to discover that I have a family secret…that some of us have the power to change the course of our lives. It’s a bit selfish, I know, but the grass is always greener on the 0ther side…of the screen. In the end, Tim has to learn to relish each day as it comes without changing anything; because then, he’s actually living life, not just fixing it.
He says this:
And in the end I think I’ve learned the final lesson from my travels in time; and I’ve even gone one step further than my father did: The truth is I now don’t travel back at all, not even for the day, I just try to live every day as if I’ve deliberately come back to this one day, to enjoy it, as if it was the full final day of my extraordinary, ordinary life.
Amazing afterthought isn’t it? As I said…greener on the other side of the screen. Yes, there’s a lot of things I would change in my life if given the chance, especially things that have to do with my emotions and vulnerability. I’d never have cried in front of my almost-entire family that one time, embarrassing myself for no reason at all; I would not cussed that time I took a group on a tour at my university and the elevator broke while we were still in it; I would never have had that terrible fight with my mother which never leaves my mind completely; I never would have fallen so hopelessly in love, making it so hard to let go because it was time. There’s quite a lot of stuff, I could go on. But I’m trying now to focus on the good sides of my story. That I have a future that I can at least influence. And that I can find what makes me happy this year, no matter how long it takes.
On this earth, we will live, learn, laugh, love, and eventually die; but most importantly, we will live. So why not relish every moment of it? Not every moment in real life comes with second chances. This year, I want to spend less time trying to fix stuff and just live. It’s about time.
Image via Wikipedia.
Love is so many things that I don’t understand. It brings you up one minute then puts you down the next. Especially when you love with someone who’s going through something that you can’t make better, something you don’t understand. It’s just like “what the hell do I do?” You cry for hours because you have to keep this all to yourself. Your comforter is your image on your camera, your voice etched in the memory of your phone.
Both of you are breaking. And each time you don’t know if you’ll both survive the episode, and you have to live with the knowledge that there will be another and another and another. The google searches don’t help much cause the situation being addressed is never the same as your own.
But it’s love, shouldn’t I stay in the hard times? Should I really be feeling better when he’s still down in the dumps? Should I confide in someone about how I feel when he doesn’t have that luxury, not for lack of words exactly, but for lack of proper expression of what he’s going through. Afterall, you’re a writer, he’s a photographer. You talk and write, he sees and feels. But you’re dying inside from all the emotional stress, because his happiness is your happiness. But you don’t even remember how that feels like. You feel selfish because him being okay will ultimately lead to you being okay. You wonder if it’s even okay to love someone that much; that hard. You want to help, but there’s a chasm between you two, so your hands are tied, and the rope is on fire, and your hands are on fire.
How are you supposed to remember the victories when they’re only present 10% of the time? Cause distance is a bitch that you can’t get rid of, making your situation so much worse and that much peculiar.
Love man. Love. Love will be the end of us. Love and pain are brothers. And you carry both on your chest.