Touch not my Anointed…

I can tell you so much about a lot of churches. I am more than well-equipped to delve into an in-depth discussion on what makes each denomination unique – their worship style, beliefs and practices. I can advise you on what church would suit your personality, and spiritual goals. I know the denominations with lit praise and worship sessions, the ones which you dare not attend on an empty stomach due to their vigorous praying style, the churches that frown on the wearing of trousers and lack of a head covering for females, even the ones who have a very snack-rich welcome package for first timers and those who just give you a form to fill and never seem to have a pen to lend you.

And no, I didn’t take a course in the university about the various branches of the Church. I gained this knowledge from a different type of institution; the school of experience.

‘See your Mate?’ – The Danger of Comparison

So many details from that day will remain forgotten or repressed in one dusty corner of my brain, but I clearly remember how excited I was as I skip-ran to our flat. My mum had sent me on one of her numerous and highly urgent errands that morning; she had a way of remembering crucial items just a few minutes before they were needed. I had dashed to the neighbourhood store without muttering any complaint about how her lack of bulk shopping always seemed to inconvenience me. My mind was fixated on something more important- I needed to make a quick decision and relay same to my Dad. The day before was the last day of the 1^st school term, and I had passed with flying colours, as usual. My parents weren’t the typical demanding African parents, we (the kids) just had to ensure that we finished in the top 3 positions and all would be well. Even though I hadn’t cinched the 1^st position this time, my placing 2^nd in a class I had received a double promotion into was truly a remarkable feat. So remarkable that my Dad in an uncharacteristic rash manner had given me a blank cheque, and had told me that night to let him know the next day what gift I wanted from him. This was what my basic mind was ruminating on as I made my way back to our flat when I heard my neighbour call my name.

Of Terrible First Dates

 

 

This is a work of non-fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s real life experiences and/or unfortunate interactions. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is definitely not coincidental.

 

“I’m so sorry.” I bit my lip in desperation as I muttered the phrase for the umpteenth time. I knew that my words barely registered in her consciousness. I also knew that she deserved better than the weak apology I kept mouthing, but I felt powerless as she expressed her pain. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t have anything uplifting to say. ‘I’m so sorry’ would just have to be on auto play until I had a light bulb moment.

I observed her exquisite face closely as she launched into another outburst. “I wish you had been there to witness it first-hand. My God! It was horrible!!! He kept embarrassing me with his bad behavior and there was nothing I could do.”  Her voice shook as she spoke, her eyes were teary. My tough sister, the happy go lucky one, the so not a cry baby one. The tears threatening to burst out of her lacrimal glands were due to suppressed anger… suppressed anger directed at me.

How I learnt to speak Yoruba

I could hear my Dad call my name a short distance away as I chatted excitedly with my new friend. I paused to deliberate for a second on whether to answer him, then shrugged my shoulders as I continued my conversation. Hopefully he wasn’t calling me for anything serious and would let me be. A short while later I felt someone tug at my hand, I tore my gaze away from my companion in mild irritation, only to look up into my father’s face.

It was my first resumption day in my new secondary school. I had spent the previous term as a day student in a Model college in Lagos, but my parents had been insistent on their desire to have me school in a Federal Government College. Their wish had been granted, so here we were, resuming for the second term of J.S.S 1 as a boarder in a Unity College in the South West. I was as excited as could be for my own personal reasons. The day had gotten off to a good start: we had gotten to the school premises without incident, my registration had been hitch free, I had settled in nicely and was already making new friends. All that was left was for my parents to head home as I couldn’t wait to start this new independent phase of my life.

Let’s talk about the birds and the bees

“I wouldn’t even want to do it that night, I’ll wait for about 3 months so my husband and I can get to know each other more. I think it’s better that way”; The girl stated with a clear conviction. A sizeable number of girls in the room nodded in agreement with her decision, others started supplying additional reasons to buttress her stand. It was clear to see that everyone shared this point of view.

“Three months ke! For what?!” rang a shrill voice from one corner of the room. Evidently someone had a dissenting view. The small wiry girl with the unpopular opinion strode to the middle of the room to deliver her counterargument in an animated fashion. “What are you waiting for? To know each other after you are already married?! Hian! As for me it is that night o, I can’t wait!”

The Fear of Juju

My mother had a land encroachment problem. It wasn’t the typical ‘neighboring land owner trespasses by a few feet’ matter, this was a case of ‘trespasser moves in with construction men and machinery to boot’ land grabbing.

She had purchased the parcel of land for speculation purposes a few years ago and sold it sometime after to a colleague. The said colleague had been unable to secure the property, thereby resulting in this unfortunate episode. My mum had been called in to assist in resolving the matter and in her usual superwoman manner dove into the issue head-on.

What type of driver are you?

Driving in Lagos could be nerve-racking; it’s not enough that you are driving correctly, you also have to be extremely mindful of other motorists. One minute you are cruising down the road, humming to your favorite song or lost in one happy thought, next thing you know they don use their reggae spoil your blues. From ‘Godwin’ to ‘You don hit my car’ in a split second, just like that.

My 3 step approach to driving in Lagos goes thus: ensure I’m a decent driver, let God take the wheel when my patience is being tested, and if all else fails I relax knowing that my insurance company has my back.

I share the belief that one’s personality is reflected in their actions and inactions. Driving is not an exception to this rule, you can get a glimpse of one’s character and values by their theatrics on the road. Over time I have been able to profile most of the drivers I’ve come across into a few groups. You may ask, “How does that help reduce the price of fuel?” In my case I have noticed it helps when I identify the type of driver I’m dealing with; I am better guided in my response to the situation, thereby helping God to help me.

So let’s check out the 7 categories of drivers that caught my eye, we have the:

The Travails of a Modern Day Ajala

Moshood Adisi Olabisi Ajala was a renowned globe-trotter credited with the feat of traveling to the most countries (reportedly numbering 87) on his scooter in the 1950s. This earned him an enviable spot in many Nigerian songs, thereby ensuring that generations unborn at the time would be familiar with the phrase “Ajala the traveler”.

Nowadays any Nigerian intending to tow in Daddy Ajala’s footsteps will find the experience a lot easier; faster and more comfortable means of travel, an enhanced means of sharing sights and sounds aka showing off on social media, also travel tips can be doled out or received via online forums etc. Hence we should have a lot of Nigerians smashing Guinness records related to traveling, right? However, there is one small but… one’s green passport will not let them be great.

Why Mills and Boon Novels should be banned

It’s not a bad habit to read novels, but it’s quite dangerous when you adopt ideas picked from the novels and infuse them into your mind set, especially when the “ideas” are unrealistic.

My first Mills and Boon novel came from my mother’s preserved treasure trove of fiction books which included titles from the Pacesetters, African Writers etc. She in agreement with my dad gave me the first of many M&B paperbacks to expand my horizon and vocabulary when they felt I was too old for Enid Blyton (instead of them to have left me on my own jeje)…and that my friend was how I got initiated into the world of “romance”.

For the weird few who for some weirder reason have never read any of these romance novels or my gals who may have forgotten due to the paper chase, heartbreaks, plus any drama the real world has thrown your way…let me give you an insight… you have: