Posted in Other Authors

When Love Goes Sour

I met him four years ago. He was handsome and tall and spoke English like an Englishman. He played the piano and someone had introduced him to me as a pianist because I sang. (Now that I think about it, maybe we would have made the perfect couple, like my parents)
We seemed to hit it off right from day one, talking about everything and nothing and laughed late into the night. We read together, went to class together, went to church together, and choir rehearsals and every other place there was to go to together. We shared everything (well almost everything), our dreams and fears and goals and failures. We had a whole life ahead of us. I love words: poetry, small notes, letters, any form they came and he knew how to give me these little surprises that warmed my heart and I’d stay up late some nights, reading them and giggling like an idiot.
He was responsible, strong, disciplined, funny, intelligent, handsome, and he had a relationship with God. I loved him. I was willing to go to any length for him, willing to stay with him when it was hard to get up from bed to face the troubles of day, willing to stick with him even when I knew he didn’t even have enough for himself, talk less sharing with me. You can say that if I had a second chance at life and I had to pick who I wanted to be with, I would pick him over and over and over again. Not that he didn’t have terrible flaws, but something in me just seemed to overlook them. Note that those flaws were his undoing because I’m a kick-ass lady *winks*
So three years down the line and three years of his persistence and I finally said yes. I thought it had be electric and it will send butterflies running round my tummy but it didn’t. It was quiet. He was strangely and unusually quiet. It was a quiet walk home and I assumed (wrong move that was: you must never assume for a guy). So I assumed that he probably was so happy that finally we get to be together and didn’t want me to see how stupid he’d look if he actually grinned and expressed himself. Boy was I wrong!
A lot of times we tend to look at the faults of the other person and analyze what they did wrong and what they did that hurt you and then we capitalize on it. But the truth is that sometimes, we might have had our own part to play in coming apart. I understand that at that point in time, we are blinded by our hurt and anger and frustration that all we see faults.
When he broke up with me, I felt like my world just came crashing down. It was worse than the feeling you get when a door gets slammed in your face. I wanted to cry but I just didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. I took a bus back to my place and while walking, my heart started to beat faster and I started to hyperventilate as I began replaying all the scenes in my head. The break up scene, the words he said to me, the insults he doused on me, the poems I sent to him while trying to make things works and his thoughtless nasty reaction to it. I felt like the biggest fool of the century. I tried to pull myself together. I remember getting to my room, changing into more casual clothes and dashing off to my mentor’s room. I got there and broke down in tears. She seemed surprised to see me cry and she knew it was over. At that point nothing she seemed to say made me feel better. She talked about me finding a better man and how God worked like this sometimes and how God was prepping me for something even more beautiful.
All I could think about was nothing but the pain I was feeling. I felt empty. I felt like the oxygen in the air wasn’t enough to breathe anymore. I thought about all my compromises and mistakes, all my principles that I threw in the trash can to make him happy and I realized how stupid I was for spending the last cash I had on me buying him a present on Valentine’s Day only for him to confess to me later that he bought the scanty chocolate bars and flimsy card he got for me out of duty! I stooped low and made a fool of myself and I cried every other night after that. I had sleepless nights and long days and bouts of headaches and fever, even heart contractions sometimes. Sometimes I groaned out of my sleep and stayed awake through the night. Gradually as the slow days passed by, I started to smile again and they were sincere, I didn’t have to fake a laugh and I could even chuckle.
I honestly cannot tell you that there was one thing I did in particular that changed everything for me. I’ll say it was a series of actions born out of a decision to stop hurting and whining and crying and move on with my life. I didn’t know how that was going to happen but I knew, well at least a part of me wanted to leave that chapter. I’m grateful to heartbreak songs like Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri and Man who can’t be Moved by The Script. I’™m also grateful to my cute bear, Sebastian (yes I know it’s a goofy name) for soaking in all those tears.
God told me on one of those days when I went off into the quiet to talk to him, to make a list of ten things I loved about myself. I thought hard for a while then I started to write and got stuck on number 5. Then I knew I had to work on my esteem there. It may seem all calculated but it wasn’t as easy then as I speak now. So I started to take some steps to really move on. I was tired of hoping that he’ll come back. So I understand when someone says the best way to not get hurt is to never expect anything.
I took to journaling. I poured out my thoughts, my frustration, my anger, my pain and when I ran out of words because words were never enough, I would sit there and cry and draw little doodles and smileys or just scribble jargons on my journal.
Then my friend gave me a book Called a Break-Up because it’s Broken by Greg Behrendt. The title alone made me cry. I never imagined that there will be an end to us but here it was staring me in the face. So I stared at the book for a while. It wasn’t a christian book nevertheless, as I flipped through the pages of the book, I knew my healing process had begun. I poured over the book all day. I had sticky notes glued to the wall right above my head rest on my bed. There were different ones. One told me ten things to do in place of calling my ex, one told me my bestfriend was me and there’s nobody who could make me feel better other than myself, there was another to remind me how amazing I was regardless of what I did or didn’t do in the relationship. There was another that said to me;
your life is not a yard sale. It’s time to get rid of all the broken stuff that you’ve been lugging around for days, months, and maybe even years, and make the bold decision to start looking for stuff that works.
There are no hard and fast rules to recovering from one. I won’t take you down the spiral of hurt feelings and of crushed hopes and hearts because that will only make you cry again and hate him or hate yourself for letting it happen. You might have even stalked him for a while, hacking into his e-mail account or asking your mutual friends about what’s new in his life or going to his favorite restaurant or hanging out in places where you know you’re sure to see him. That would only hurt you even more especially when you find out that it seems he has moved on. (girl, you know those things that we do.)
I cannot carefully craft out a healing pattern or process as it were, if I did maybe I would have tagged it getting past the heartbreak. But I’ll say this: moving away from this stage of your life is born out of a decision; the decision to be happy, the decision to refuse to let anyone and anything put you down; the decision to love again and love hard because without love, life tastes bland and success is empty.
So change into a cute red dress, dab on some powder (I’m so grateful to concealer too, that make-up tool works wonders), put on rouge or orange lipstick and take yourself out on a nice dinner. Treat yourself to all the comfort you can afford,and don’t for a split second give room to hurt or pain or thoughts that might make you cry and I promise that with every step you take at being happy, you’ll find yourself going farther and farther away from everything that has held you down and you’ll embrace the beauty of being single and of course love when it comes along your way again BECAUSE IT WILL.

 

Written by Angela Adebiyi.

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Posted in Other Authors

I Don’t Need a Man and Other Unthuths

Hold up ladies before you even start on my case. This was written by a lady. Yvvette is an adorable friend who write (click here to view her blog). As it is Thusday were controversial topics are brought I decided to share this. Enjoy

It was Sunday morning and I needed to get my dress pressed. I’m one of those who don’t press until I’m about walking out the door. I can chalk it down to laziness but some other times, it’s just indecision over what to wear or even going out. To quote Manny from Modern Family; “too many choices is a prison.” So there I was trying to open the door to get out the pressing iron. The more I turned the key, the stiffer the lock got. Ok, to be fair, everyone knows I’m terrible with locks. You should see me trying to get the door of my room open, you’d never believe I live there. Knowing full well I was engaged in a losing battle, I yelped for help. I called on my brother.

He is four years younger than I am but as nature and design would have it, he is taller, much more muscularly toned and by far stronger. Three seconds is too much for the time it took him to open the door. That sealed it for me; whatever doubts I had about having/wanting/needing a man. To think of how much easier all our lives would be if we let go of our pride and ask for male assistance, ladies!

From as far back as I can remember, people have called me strong and independent. I don’t know where they get that idea, but slowly and sure enough, it entered into my head that I was strong and needed no one. I did things on my own and always differently. I was that kid with a chip on the shoulder always trying to prove an inane point. I’d see people laughing in groups and want in but a complex from years of perfecting the “I can do it all by myself” demeanor held me back. I’d go into relationships with this idea at the back of my mind. I’d do the calling, travelling, loving, giving, etc, after all, I was the strong one. I’d be the man and the woman in relationships. And when it didn’t, couldn’t work out in the end; I’d lie to myself that I was better off on my own anyway.

Here’s something hidden behind all that façade I and women like me try to put out for the world to see. When we say we don’t need a man, smothered is a yearning and bleeding heart crying out to be chosen, touched, loved and wanted. We’d lie in the light of day to all who care to listen and swear our lives are better off without all that “male drama”. But the nights would come with attendant tears only our pillows and bedroom walls can reveal with our musings of why we are all alone.

No woman wants to be alone. You can take that to the bank! We all yearn for hearth and home. We yearn for a man to call our own, a home full of laughter and love to walk into after a busy day busting our butts off. Because sooner than later, our maternal hormones kick into overdrive; we need someone/something to mother and a smother (LOL) when we come home to an empty house. In this instance, technologies and battery operated devices won’t do. We were after all created male and female for a reason. I’m washing this gum of delusion off my eyes this year. I’m saying it to all that I am allowed to say it to, I’m not as independent as y’all say I am. What are you planning on doing differently?

 

Yep, it was written last year. My question now is HOW UNA SEE AM???

Posted in Other Authors

Be Inspired

Another day to be Motivated.
So a friend sent me a write up and I was not only impressed, I was inspired. This was written by a young writer. I decided to share.

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Osas was a young athlete in whom his father spotted the ability to run long distances, but the problem was that he was blind. However, the father believed in this raw talent and signed him up for the state championship. He had big dreams, which he communicated to Osas while giving him a grand picture of what winning the tournament would be like. Osas was excited and willing.
The father took him to the stadium and he ran with all his might and before he knew it, he had crashed into an opponent and fallen down. He got back up and finished the race, but he didn’t come first, he came second to the last, so he didn’t receive any medal at all.
He was very ashamed of himself and hurt that he had let his father down. His father comforted him. While they were in the car, on their way home, he asked his dad why he fell during the race, and the father said, “You left your lane boy.”
“I’m blind, dad,” he answered, “It’s impossible for me to stay in one lane?”
“Its possible if you learn how to move straight forwardly when running,” the father gave him a pat on the shoulder.
When they got home, he practiced how to run in a straight forward fashion so that he wouldn’t collide with anything.
He went for about six different races and everytime, he would make a different mistake, sometimes the same mistake and his father would comfort and correct him on the way back home. This happened everytime they went out for the race, he came home with blood and tears often.
One day, his father took him to yet another race. For some reason, it felt different. He could sense that there were more people in this stadium and the cheers and jeers were a lot more louder than the other stadiums. He felt discouraged and tired and could even hear people mock him for being blind. He wanted to run away but his father held him and led him to the ‘starting point’, the jeers increased, but Osas resolved to please his father as this meant a lot to him.
When the gunshot went off, he ran again with much fervor and determination. He tripped, but he did not fall and he ran without expecting to fall. This time, he was given a gold medal.
Osas wept when he felt the gold. It was exactly what his father had described to him and suddenly, he knew that he could never have gotten that kind of gold in those other competitions he had partook in.
On their way back, Osas asked his father the questions that had been bugging him.
“Why did you make me go through those races when you knew that I wasn’t going to win them? I was getting tired by the day and was wondering when the race would be over and I didn’t even believe in myself anymore because I thought I had lost too many races.”
“Son, I knew that you could make me proud. But also importantly, I knew you would need a lot of training, to develop your senses looking at your incapacities. So I took you everyday to the local stadium in the small town where we resided and would train you. I did not want to let you know that it was just a rehearsal as I wanted you to put in all your efforts. Every time you fell down and sustained injuries, I was hurt, especially by the rude comments that people made, but I knew it was for your good.”
Osas was sorry for doubting his father and said thank you.
You can do anything you set your mind to do, the like of Cobhams Asuquo, Stevie Wonders, Oscar Pistorius are doing impeccable things because they set their minds on achieving success.
Be Inspired!

Written by Angela Adebiyi.

Posted in Other Authors

ABUSE

The issue of Domestic Violence is something very ommon in our society. I personally feel a person (man or woman) who hits a another who isn’t physically his/her match is weaker than that person and feels the only way is to show power by brutalizing.
So a friend of mine showed a piece by a young writer I got aquainted to. I hope it helps us be better people.

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The voices came from upstairs. It was one of those fights again and Papa always had the upper hand, the only hand. He would put her down; sit on her belly and rain blows on her soft frame. Sometimes, he would pull her hair along with her whole body down the stairs, his eyes red with fury the whole time as though two of the most deadly demons from the realm of the dead were dancing atilogwu within and mama would stagger along like one possessed by the spirits. She tried wearily to block the heavy handed slaps to no avail. They hit her in quick succession so that she could do nothing but whimper and moan.
After the hits were over, she would lie down there for what seemed like eternity, the whole house silent and hollow. Then Mama would pick herself up with all the strength she could muster, occasionally, she would lean on the wall for support till she got to the kitchen, lock the door, then the loud throaty sobs would release themselves into the kitchen bowls, pots, spoons, knives and what have you. When she came out of the kitchen, she came out with face disfigured and her heart broken, carrying a tray of delicious food that mocked the smell of death lurking around the house and the sizzling aroma from the food would send Papa scurrying downstairs like a cat who could sense the smell of fish around the corner.
We would all seat and eat in silence. Mama said little. She was a strong woman, an expert at bottling up her emotions. She never told anyone about her pain or sufferings. To her, one should never tell strangers about family secrets. After we had finished eating, she would kneel down beside his chair at the head of the table and say, “Dim oma, I am only a child, forgive me”. He would nod at her, pleased.
The bastard. I hated him. Words cannot express the rage that surged within me whenever my eyes met his. I pitied Mama on the other hand. I tried to be there for her all the time, running errands and doing anything to make her smile. Whenever I saw her black eye or a deep wound on her neck or hands, I swore NEVER to raise a finger against my wife in the future. I would NOT hurt her.

I was really close to Mama, but we never talked about it. I guess it was too painful a topic to discuss and we could not find the words to express our thoughts. I wanted to comfort her, shield her from the monster that was my father and the opportunity presented itself one day.
That fateful day, mama was helping me with my homework and I guess doing that gave her so much joy she had forgotten the pot of bitter leaf soup cooking in the kitchen.
“Woman”, Papa yelled from behind us, “You have planned with your association of witches to burn down my house, but you will not succeed.”
Mama shuddered. She tried to run into the kitchen in order to turn off the cooking stove, but Papa dragged her from behind, so that she fell on the chair that we had been sitting on and he started to hit her, sowing fist after fist of pain all over the molded soil that was Mama’s fragile frame. I stood there with muscles twitching in anger, mind roving like a madman, chest heaving like the ebb and tide of the ocean, eyes burning with tears.
Mama, the only sane person in the house, called out to me, asking me to put off the stove. I ran into the kitchen, my heart beating at its highest pace and by now clouds of smoke had filled the kitchen. The whole atmosphere was charged by the terrible smell of burning food, my loud coughing and Mama’s high pitched screaming as Papa continued to do abominable things to her.
I wanted to put off the stove, but the smoke had slowly seeped into my mind making it a haze. I couldn’t think. I just grabbed the kitchen knife and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of my father with a blood-stained knife.
Many years later, when I met Stella and fell in love with her, I treated her like a queen, gave her anything she wanted, practically worshipping the sand she walked on. I was too afraid to become like Papa, so I loved her fiercely, she loved me back and we got married.
Five years down the lane, she begins to spend more time in front of the mirror. She applies so much make-up; tones and tones of foundation and concealer, a hundred layers of red on her lips, heavy dosages of mascara to hide the emptiness in her eyes, several shades of eye shadow to shadow the pain within and lines upon lines of eye liner in a poor attempt to line out the sorrow that flowed forcefully in her soul.
Every day, Stella wears a mask all in the name of make-up and I know it. She doesn’t feel beautiful or worthy anymore. My beautiful wife is now reduced to a shadow of her old self and every time I see her, I see the reflection of Papa that I have become. I hate the monster that I am now and although I want to protect her like I did Mama, I am too afraid to be left alone with the demons inside of me. I fear that they would destroy me, so instead of protecting her, I put her in a prison of rules. No calls from men, no friends are allowed to see her, family members are barred from visiting, I make sure she never dresses seductively or go to parties and I rant and rave at the slightest offence just to keep her in prison with me, bound together with the chains of low self esteem, guilt and fears of what people will say.
Did I mention that I hate myself? I can’t say it enough times. I hate me and I think I deserve the same judgment I passed out on Papa several years ago, but Stella had a better idea; A drive to the psychologist’s. Of course she did not tell me about it, she tricked me with the help of Mama. Apparently, hurting people know how to connect in amazing ways and Mama was the best accomplice, an expert in these matters.

Well, I got help, I’m willing to take responsibility for my weaknesses and I’m determined to break this cycle of wife battering. I do not wish to bring a generation of women beaters into the world and this change starts with me.

written by Angela Adebiyi

Posted in Other Authors

Another Trafic Story

This piece is from a good friend who’s writing inspires mine. So thank you Nnadozie for letting me reblog this. Enjoy!!!

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Dada is always on the roads, you might have seen him before but you probably didn’t notice him.

In the morning when the roads are stock full with cars of ongoing workers heading to their various offices and at night when those same people are making their way home, Dada is there, on the roads. You might have seen him before, but you never did give him a second stare no doubt. He like all the other inconspicuous fellows we see on the roads hawking one item or the other are never noticed as individuals themselves. No. They only get stared at when someone fancies the items they are marketing. Not that they care about the people themselves. It’s the items they actually want catching your attention, anyways.

At the age of 15, Dada is already a vet in this line of business. At the age of 7, Dada began his career with the lowest, cheapest possible, item out there- pure water. From there on, he progresses through a vast variety of products sell-able on the traffic. He has canvassed various busy roads around you. Even now, Dada has no specific working area or product. He goes where the traffic is most compact with the product most in demand.

We won’t talk about Dada’s past or background, because… who cares? It’s only the product we care about right? That and the traffic.

Dada is a unique hawker though. He’s got a special talent when it comes to the trade. The skills every traffic hawker needs to be successful include the ability to be alert and notice when a potential customer has his/her attention on their product, but most importantly the speed and techniques to get to the customer before they change their mind, or before the traffic itself changes it’s mind and speeds the vehicle holding the customer away. This is the aspect in which Dada’s talents are most prominent. It’s like holdups are specially made for him. His speed far exceeds those required but his movements are the main catch. There’s no traffic too dense for Dada to weave his way through. He always leaves angry drivers madly blazing horns and curses at him in his wake due to the way he jumps pass moving vehicles. What they don’t know of course is that they couldn’t hit the boy even if they tried. It’s like that movie ‘The Maze Runner’, and this maze gat nothing on him. Hardly, very hardly, almost impossible, can a customer signal interest in a good Dada is selling and not get it, even if the traffic is moving fast.

One of the very rare occasions where he missed his intended customer had an especially spectacular twist. It was one of those evenings when for some inexplicable reason the road was congested far beyond usual levels. As usual, people propagated their theories… An accident, some said. Soldiers checkpoint, other suggested. Of course, like all such scenarios you’ve no doubt been in, the true reason is never deduced. Anyway, the traffic was so nightmarish that commercial buses refused to go that route. Due to the lack of buses and the lack of movement of those already going that way, a very large part of the home bound work force turned to their God given legs for mobility and started trekking home.

Of course, Dada was present, not one to miss out on a potential ‘trade fair’ of such magnitude. On that day, he was selling recharge cards. A customer signaled him from a taxi and in the blink of an eye, he was by her window. She wanted to buy N200 airtime, she collected it and did what we all do- showed Dada the N500 bill she intended using to pay, expecting him to get the change before she’ll give him the money- we all have those trust issues.

And then, just as Dada was shuffling out her balance ‘change’ to give her, for some weird reason, the traffic suddenly picked up an uncanny momentum, taking Dada’s customer and her still unpaid for purchase away. But it was Dada, the boy with magic feet. He calmly sorted out the required balance from his money stack, not caring about the ever increasing distance and cars between him and his unpaid good. When he had the money ready, he stared up and located the taxi. The traffic had once again ceased motion making his work all the more easier. His aim being to get there before the traffic moved again, Dada immediately darted into the maze of cars, his favorite track.

And then, it all happened so fast. He would later reflect that he had passed a barely remembered figure immediately after passing that bus window, the window that changed his evening. He had just passed a bus –the bus– on his way to catch the taxi when a woman shot her head out of one of the bus windows and cried out in a loud voice;

“THIEF! MY PHONE! THIEF!”

Naturally, Dada along with everyone turned to stare at her. However, Dada was still in motion, not wanting to lose the taxi. And then, every other eye left the woman and steadied on him. He realized, only too late that his run seemed so very guilty at that point.

“Thief!” Someone else echoed, this time directed to him and suddenly two people started running towards him. A wiser move would have been to stop moving, let them meet him and so doing, prove his undeniable innocence. But adrenaline- The ‘fight or flight’ hormone-took charge where brains would have achieved a much better outcome. Dada has been a street kid almost all his life. He has witnessed street justice first hand on numerous occasions. He knew what street mobs could do to one suspected as a thief. Dada panicked and chose the flight option, in so doing, in the eyes of onlookers, cementing his guilt.

Half of the angry- forced pedestrians on the roads joined in the chase and suddenly, instead of two people, Dada had a multitude chasing after him.

His greatest advantage was that this was his own accomplished race track- He increased speed immediately. His sleek movement between cars at such a tremendous speed left his pursuers in the dust.

His greatest disadvantage- The shouts of ‘thief thief’ kept recruiting the interests of pedestrians. More people were joining the chase, some even ahead of Dada. He still managed to meander pass most.

Dada tried to think. His heart was throbbing faster than even his feet. He had never been this scared in his life.

Where am I running to?

Where should I run to?

Crossing the road to the other side was not an option. It was a highway, there was no traffic for him to meander through, no buildings to run into. Just plain roads, even Usain Bolt would get caught eventually under such circumstances.

Where?

And then it clicked. There was a military checkpoint ahead. Perhaps if he could make it there, the soldiers could slow down the mob enough for him to plead his innocence. Perhaps. Maybe a few of the soldiers would recognize him as one of the hawkers. It was a long shot but Dada was ready to try anything that could make him escape the imminent jungle justice.

Yes. Dada decided, he just had to make it to the military checkpoint, just a few…

GBAM!!!

The door to a car he was passing was suddenly opened in his path violently slamming him backwards. He wheeled back trying not to fall, and then a punch from nowhere slammed him completely off his feet, knocking his breath out and in the process temporarily taking away his sight. While he was going to the ground someone with especially hard palms slapped him from the back of his head, and then another person (or the same person kicked him). As he rolled from the force of the kick, hands held him and forcefully carried him out, away from the middle of the road and the cars… away from his habitat… to his grave. At that point Dada started crying, not due to the pain from the multiple hits but due to his imminent demise.

He was dropped unceremoniously by the road side and the onslaught began. Slaps, kicks, punches, stones, woods. It was like every person around him had become possessed by some wild spirit as they utterly ignored Dada’s cries, pleas of innocence and for mercy. Possibly a few onlookers abhorred the barbaric lynching, but like most such people always do… Like we would most likely have done if we were in their shoes… They just kept their distance. Why go through stress to save an unknown stranger from mortal peril, right? A few managed to voice their opinions…

“Make una calm down.”

“Carry am to police,” Some tried to suggest.

“No kill am na.”

Opinions that were completely ignored. Of course, words are wind… perhaps some action might have helped the boy.

And then, amidst all the commotion, curses and lynching, Dada heard the one suggestion that scared him the most. A suggestion he had heard a couple of times, once on the internet video of those Uniport murders in Aluu, a few times on the streets. It always had the same outcome.

“Bring that tire!”

Death by burning… If only he had been faster. The army block couldn’t be more than a kilometer away. If only, and Dada starting throbbing bitterly.

“DROP THAT TIRE!”

Whoever said that had a loud and uniquely authoritative voice that compelled everyone’s attention. Even the extremely devastated Dada stared up… And then he started weeping profusely again.

This time it was tears of joy because standing near him were two men in the to Dada, angelic looking camouflage. Both were holding rifles and staring menacingly at the crowd.

Perhaps, I did get far enough.

The people who had almost just been murderers transformed to cowards, they halted in their steps, scared and confused and some quietly dispersed. The pause was all Dada had hoped for to prove his innocence.

It turned out that one of the hawkers had muzzled up the nerve and instead of watching idly, had covered the short distance to the checkpoint, and managed to beg two soldiers to come save his colleague

Of course, when questions were eventually asked, 40% of his persecutors didn’t even know what he was alleged of stealing, while the remaining had varying answers, all from hearsay.

He never got to locate the taxi woman who had his unpaid card, but at least, he got to live.

Dada is always on the roads, you must have seen him before but you probably didn’t notice him.

 

If you enjoyed this there is a lot of great writing on his blog (Art & Science)

Posted in Other Authors

The Unexpected Thorn – Final

Hey people, I apologise for the long absence. I know everyone wants to know how the story ends and here it is.

burning-wire

This is the last part, and before I continue , I will really like to thank Muyiwa for this fabulous opportunity he has given me. Really you are the best, Jeff for all the corrections and encouragement that I always roll my eyes at when you say and finally to every body that read, called and encouraged me. I know really awesome people. Really Thanks. Please remember it’s all fiction. God bless – Ester Daodu

…..  …..  …..

My own mother didn’t even have the dignity to move to the room when screwing my husband, yes, that’s right, I said my husband. I opened the door they had stupidly left unlocked and caught both of them, in each other arms after “God knows how many rounds.”

I got over my shock immediately, “you are not a mother, you are a beast.” To my surprise, she laughed and stretched while David was rushing to wear his clothes. I left with a huge pile of anger in me. I was going to do something terrible, I thought to myself. I was going to make her regret everything she had done to ruin my life, but really what could I do?
One hour later, I was at my in laws place, crying on the lap of my mother-in-law. “Why would David do a thing like this, ” she lamented. “my dear, this is a deliverance case oh. We need to pray for my son because it is unlike him. We are all decent in this family”. After much effort she finally managed to console me and I went home.

Few weeks later, we had a family meeting in my house. My mother was not invited, my father-in-law and mother-in-law tried to persuade me to give David a second chance, but I knew my marriage was over. Then my mum came in and the whole story changed.

“You witch! How could you do this to your own daughter” David’s mum yelled as soon as she saw my mother.

“She is not my daughter, she is your husband’s daughter. ” My mum replied back with serious hostility. Everyone including myself looked at her with expressions going from rage to surprise to interest.

David’s dad stood up and quickly said, “that’s not possible.” His wife was already looking at him suspiciously, so was his son and myself included. Could it be true, I thought to myself, but that would make David my….

I shuddered I couldn’t even think about it. I didn’t know when I stood up grabbed my mum and screamed “Explain you mad woman or I will kill you with my bare hands.”

She laughed and replied, “that will be fair since I tried to kill you even before you were born.” My hands squeezed her harder.

“Who are you?” I whispered. She replied, “I will tell you” and so she started.

“I was an orphan when I was nine years old, I lived with my aunt and her husband, they were okay, and took good care of me, they were both elders in the church and well respected. I met David when I was fourteen, I guessed cause I looked older than my age he thought I was older than that, he usually gists with my uncle once in a while” she started giving David’s dad a knowing look.

“It seemed he was trying to get a business started. Our relationship was purely physical, we eyed each other for a while, before he started talking to me. The first time I went to his place, he showed me things I thought were impossible, and after that, we became lovers. I would sneak out to see him in the middle of the night or early afternoon anytime my strict uncle and aunty weren’t looking” my mother spoke like she was lost in a different world, a space and time of her own.

“Soon he started getting me gifts, looking at me more and saying nice things to me. He said he would take me to Abuja very soon, he didn’t tell me so much about his family but I knew his surname and address in Abuja and it was enough. Then all of a sudden, there was trouble in paradise. His business partner ran away with his money, David was devastated, he told me he had to leave for Abuja. I told him to take me but he refused, that he couldn’t, his family wouldn’t approve. I told him I was pregnant but he laughed in my face and said that was a silly thing to say. He told me I was just an entertainment but now the fun is over, he has to leave”. I watched as tears rolled down my mother’s eyes, I could hear the pain in her voice.

My mom turned from looking at my father-in-law to face me, “that was the second time I felt such pain, the first was when I was told my parents had an accident and died. I thought he loved me, I wasn’t really pregnant but I was trying to see if he would at least care for our unborn baby apparently the joke was on me. He left for Abuja that day and he never came back”.

“Few months later I was sitting with my uncle and aunt in front of a doctor, I was three months pregnant and my uncle was furious, they asked who the father was and I said nothing, they yelled, threatened, fought but I didn’t bulge. Finally they decided they wanted me to remove the baby, I didn’t care all I wanted was to see David, maybe if he saw that I was truly pregnant he would love me again. So that night, I stole the church money my uncle has been saving for church project, he was supposed to take it to church the next day, it sumed up to two hundred and fifty thousand naira and I travelled to Abuja. My first time away from Ilorin but I was a clever girl. I made it through. Soon I found myself at the address David gave me but to my greatest surprise the gateman told me no one with that name lived there and I wasn’t allowed to enter. I suffered. I don’t want to go into all that” my mother said looking at me, “you experienced some of it yourself, but one thing that kept me going was my desire to make David suffer. I was determined to find him. I grew to hate him and in doing so I hated his unborn child too”.

The silence in the room was massive. My mother-in-law mirrored the reaction I had on my face, out right shock. My father-in-law was shaking his head miserably. The thought that one could be so wicked, so devious, so vengeful. My mother continued.

“I was given a job in the guest house where I stayed after I told a sob story about how I was pregnant and alone without any family. The owners were a nice couple and the only reason you are alive. When I was six months pregnant, I asked if you had legs and hands, if you could feel. When I got an affirmative reply, I took various types of pills to kill you, I wanted you to suffer the way I did. After you, your father but you didn’t die. You still came out a strong reminder of the fake love David gave me. I never stopped looking for him” she said, she removed a handkerchief and wiped her face.

“So imagine my surprise when a much older David came into my bar to get drinks. He didn’t even flinch when he saw me. I watched him carefully and soon he became a regular. It was either he has forgotten me or a very good actor, which ever I didn’t care so I seduced him and soon he was eating out of my hand, I met his son David Jnr and I introduced you two after all love in the family is the best type” she smiled sarcastically at me. “Soon I was sleeping with both father and son, I didn’t feel guilty about it after he has cheated on his wife before God know how many times.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was looking at a mad woman, I had been living with a psycho all my life and I never suspected. Maybe I was the bigger psycho. I turned and looked around the room as I saw expressions ranging from shock, anger, disgust, sorrow and confusion. My mother-in-law burst into tears, I could feel her pain.

David Jnr (My husband/brother) stammered w w wait! You mean I married my sister, what type of sick joke is this?” he turned to his Dad, “say something,” he yelled.

David Snr ( My father/in law) finally got over his shock. “ I am not David, I don’t know you except when we met few years back,” he explained “David was my twin brother and unlike me didn’t get married on time, he died 26 years ago in an accident, he got back from Ilorin he came straight to my house and told me he got a girl pregnant and he was going to bring her back to Abuja and I supported him but he never came back, he died on his way there.”

He looked at my mother who was whispering “no no no no” with deep sadness and continued “I had no name, nothing I couldn’t go to Ilorin looking for a faceless and nameless person. I didn’t support his going there so I knew nothing about his life there, you did all this to the wrong person” and he walked into his room.

I looked at the mad woman who was still chanting ‘no’ to herself and started laughing. David Jnr was still standing probably trying to wrap his head around things, his mom sitting still weeping for whatever reason ( I didn’t want to know). I left the house and came here. I looked at my friend waiting for his reply.

“Madam! Ba turanchi ba English. I don tell you since”.

End

…..  …..  …..

Thank you so much Esther for this lovely piece. To all my readers, thanks for reading, thanks for not stalking me to deal with me despite i didn’t post last week. Have a fabulous week ahead!!!

Posted in Other Authors

The Unexpected Thorn – 2

Hi people. Happy father’s day to all great dads out there. And to single mothers who have to play both roles. God bless you.

In case you missed it here is what happened last week (click here). We continue our story…. What unfolds next??? Enjoy.

burning-wire

I met Yomi during my fifth year in school, I was in my 300 level thanks to all the strike the school is popular for going on. We were friends at first but it quickly became something more, we started dating without my mum knowing because I didn’t know how she will react to it. My mum and I were still close but it seems her mind were always on other things, or can I say other people. She started going out with different men and she looked happy. I was happy because through out my up bringing I never saw her with any man. She was wise enough to wait till I was older.

During my final year, Yomi was already rounding up his NYSC. Luckily for us he was posted to Abuja so we saw each other a lot. I loved him so much and he showed me love too. He was such a caring and humble person, he was managing his dad’s company branch here in Abuja. Soon after my final exams I discovered I was pregnant, I was scared of my mum but when I told Yomi he was very excited. He promised to marry me, and asked me not to worry, we would talk to my mum and his family would not be a problem he had reassured me.

Just like he said, he’s parents accepted me, I wasn’t snubbed or seen different because of the social difference. The only problem was my mum. I tried to hid my pregnancy but she noticed. I would never forget that day, she went crazy , was shouting at me, telling me how stupid I was. That she won’t allow me to destroy her. Although, I thought the words were pretty deep, I just assumed then she was talking about me leaving her.

With the help of Yomi, I was finally able to calm her down, she agreed that we could get married. She even prayed for us. I was grateful to God. Everything was going according to plan. Soon I will be Yomi’s wife and will be away from my controlling mother.

Four months later, I lost my baby. All I remembered was feeling so much pain and when I opened my eyes and looked down I saw blood. My mum rushed me to the hospital, where the Doctor told us that I lost the baby, and it was forceful.
I was confused, he asked me if I tried to remove the baby. I was shocked, I told him no, he insisted that the baby was forcefully removed. By the time Yomi got there I was in tears. All I could remember was taking the herbal drink my mum gave me to help with the dizziness and nauseous feeling I was getting the night before. I pushed that to the back of my mind. My mum has been supportive and she would never try to do something like that.
Yomi and my mum comforted me, we all assumed it was something I ate.

A year later, Yomi left me. We never got married, we decided to take it slow since there was no baby any more but he left the country to expand his family’s company. He wasn’t sure when he will be back but he didn’t want me to wait. It was one of the most painful experience yet, I threw myself into work and being there for my mum. Things were going well for us, just like I was promised I got to be the manager for the hotel, my mum got a business to add to her job, she started a little evening bar and before we knew, it grew very popular around our environment.

Soon we were very comfortable, my mum still refused to leave the environment, even the house. Her various clients got her different type of gifts and she was definitely enjoying the attention.

I got home one night and heard my mum crying, she kept saying,”he didn’t recognise me.”She refused to explain what she was saying and she cried herself to sleep that night.
My mum did not take it likely with any man that tried to come close to me, so imagine my shock when she introduced me to David. I was taken by him immediately, she told me his dad was her “favourite customer” and she wanted him to meet her daughter. David and I hit it off, and soon we were dating, my mum was ecstatic, she told me to hold on tight and not make any mistakes, he must not slip from your palms she had warned. I agreed, David was a terrific person.
David and I got married a year later, his family was also very quiet and respectable, his dad was a lively man and his mum was very lovable. Some how my mum was able to convince them into not having a big wedding, whatever she told them worked because we did a little traditional wedding with just her, his nuclear family and my boss. The court wedding was equally a little affair.

After the wedding, I moved away from my mum to other part of Abuja. Surprisingly, she didn’t complain, and all was well. My husband and I loved each other and suited ourselves just fine. My life was perfect, too perfect. Then one day it all came crashing down.

Two years into the marriage, and we still had no kids, the only people who were bothered about this were myself and my mother-in-law. David said it will come naturally and my mum said exactly the same thing. I was not satisfied.I decided to seek professional advice, after series of tests and questions, the doctor informed me that I was barren, it seems the herbal drink my mum gave me was for forceful removal and it worked. Denial, Grief, Anger and different types of emotions ran across my mind but I decided my mum might have made a mistake, she couldn’t have tried to make me abort, what’s the purpose. With that in my mind I left the hospital and went straight to my mother’s house. What I met there till today is still hard to say with my mouth.

…………………………….

Enjoying the story? You can always drop a kind word to the Author in the comment bar or send her a tweet or check her instagram page via @miss_owa. Have a fabulous fabulous week people.

Posted in Other Authors

The Unexpected Thorn – 1

Okay, so I promised showing a couple of my favourite posts from bloggers I follow, eerrm… will still do that. This here is fresh. She writes deep and I just had to have her on my blog.
Thanks Esther for agreeing to do a trilogy, I don’t even know what comes next till Saturday so folks, we all in this together.
Enjoy my people.

burning-wire

The world is crazy and everybody in it, or what else could explain the ridiculousness of the situation I am passing through right now, sitting outside my husband’s house, rather soon-to-be ex-husband. Funny enough in all these crises i have the strangest urge to laugh, to laugh at the silliness of all these. You might think I’m going craxy, you are not wrong, I am, but not the good type of crazy the type that makes me want to take a rope and hang myself. Why? You might wonder, apart from the fact that my life is basically over. I just found out I have been a pawn to a woman’s game of chess. Not just any woman, my own mother.

She has carefully planned, crafted and executed all this. I usually take the saying Hell has no fury like a woman scorned for granted, I see my mistake now, I should have known all along, I should have seen it but I couldn’t believe it so I ignored it. Why would someone who gave birth to you, hurt you as bad as this, all in the name of vengeance. Now I believe am not the one crazy. She is. She is crazy and has been for awhile now and I have been blind to it. That’s the only explanation to this.
What sort of mother will do this to her own daughter that she suffered for most of her life just to punish a man, you might ask, but to understand this I must go back to the beginning, must follow every step, maybe in doing so you might see where I myself might have made mistake due to my inability to change her. Here it goes

My mother gave birth to me at the age of fifteen, and from the moment I could remember she has been my everything, my best friend, my confidant and my rock. I remember her always telling me I look like my dad. She said she didn’t believe how a girl could look so much like a man. She said my Dad would have loved me but unfortunately that is all I knew about my dad. My mum’s family I knew nothing about either but I was content and happy. She loved me and took very good care of me. She worked as a cleaner in a hotel from when I was born till when I became three years old when she was promoted to a kitchen Cook due to her talent for making every meal taste different.

I won’t lie and say life was easy but we were okay. I had her and she had me. I entered into a day Secondary School by the time I was nine years old. It was very close to the house, so I could trek to school and back. We lived in the same environment for a long time, the only time we moved was to the next house, from a self-contained to a one bedroom flat. My mum used to say she liked the vibe she got from the environment. I never understood the vibe she talked about. It was just very quiet and lonely. My mum didn’t allow me make friends.

Soon I grew up and threw away my dad’s look and took my mum’s, I looked older than my age and I developed everything faster than my age mates. By the time I was fourteen I looked sixteen with huge breasts, nice figure and butt. I knew most men in my school and environment wanted to be with me but I was overprotected by my mum and no one came close. I had just finished my Senior Secondary School and was getting ready to go to the University of Abuja. Again in the same environment since I stayed in the outskirts of where the school was located.My mum was very excited about me being a “university babe” as she would say. When I was done I was going to work as the manager of the hotel she worked, she had already been promised this by the owner if I got a good result. I remember the first day I asked my mum why we can’t move to another state or place, she got angry and reacted very unexpectedly. She asked me if I wanted us to loose our only family, by that time I thought she meant the hotel workers. Little did I know. . . . .