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  • This love Issue.

    “You do not own the person or thing that you love?”

    How can I understand this, and what does it even mean? When you love someone, is it to say that, despite their flaws, you still do? Or that your love cannot change? Which ownership does it refer to—our souls, or the physicality of our being?

    If love and affection can change, what is it that can keep one in a relationship longer, till the end? Is it that we marry undeveloped people? And if we do, how can we tell the difference between who is developed or not when our eyes are coated in the thick grease of love?

    Although it plays a big part, love is not the actual presence of the other, but the awareness of each other’s minds within the other. I am here and you are here, yet we are not the same; but we are present to represent the other in each one’s mind. Do I find, for myself, in you, the belonging I search for? Does it reside in you?

    Every year, and maybe some months here and there, we listen to people talk and educate us on meeting the soon-to-be love of our lives, yet we are still getting it wrong. Are the people who are getting it wrong just exhausted from all the energy it takes to get it right, or are they simply lost in what it is they want or are looking for? Even with that, we still do not know. But I must say, dear cheats and cheatresses, you are really making it hard for us to tell the difference. After all, some of them do believe themselves to be in love with those they cheat with. But is that love as well? When they come out in style to drink champagne and shake their bums after the vows are exchanged, do we celebrate and wish them happiness, or do we relish the momentary pleasure and await the gossip of their expected separation?

    I am beginning to think, as I see people get divorced and live such loveless marriages, about what I can and should do to acquire a life full of love and goodness—about what is important, and, amidst the thousands of suggestions, who is simply spouting nonsense.

    It is all exhausting, I tell you—hearing of such separations and divorce, and still having the audacity to wish for something soulful for yourself. It is as though you have been told to go to an island with the little information that it has a beach and that you will enjoy yourself, so you do not know of the limb-collecting creatures in the sea or the poisonous plants you must not touch. It is all an essence of bewilderment, this love we all seem to long for, we all seem to crave. But I do want to love and receive love, and although I desire such things for myself, there is no guarantee that it will end up that way. So I am thinking to work on myself first, to improve myself and my values to the utmost quality, so that I am ready to be a good person—a proper version of myself that I shall never be ashamed of—so that when I meet this magical someone, they shall meet me as I am.

    I tell my friend that it is a matter of percentage between flaw and affection, and as I listen, I ask myself, “A matter of percentage? Girl, how do you know that? Have you been married?” I laugh; wistful imaginations cloud my mind, hungry for wild manifestations.

  • A fire laid within.

    I didn’t understand the enthusiasm about Chimamanda. Everybody talked about her like she had saved West Africa. A savior of west Africa, Nigeria even so, she was nearly a demigod. I didn’t understand these worshippers, because to worship was to serve this god but this god of fiction I didn’t know or understand. I had read her book Half of a Yellow Sun in secondary school, and thought it was impactful, but that was it, no other impressions. 

    I began re-reading recently, when My brother, My Father and I had an argument about the Biafran War, apparently the difference between the mind of a teenager and that of an adult varies greatly. The pores on my scalp prickle at the flush of thrill, and I have developed an intense obligation, to  eradicate all her books  from the shelf at the bookstore. 

    Omelogor was the latest character I imagined  would come to life. She would form, like little gel soluble  gathering from the book to frame her body and to fill its vessel, and when she had formed, with a piercing gaze she would stare at me, her brows would raise as she scanned me, with her arms crossed, a sneer would form on her lips, her eyelids would be taut and her eyes would stare, not blinking as she assessed me. She would scan me from my head to my knees, because she wouldn’t see my feet tucked under my seat. She would sit by my side, and  with her legs crossed, ask. “Are you the one ? ”. I will nod my head, unable to speak or swallow the puddle of saliva, that would have gathered in my mouth, then she would relax and smile confidently, taunting me with her lips painted with a bright Red lipstick and, say “So what will it be, that you would like to know ?.I had questions to ask her, her opinions I wished I had known, and more I wished to know, maybe it was because I wanted to befriend her, because befriending her would be in beauty of how confident she was. 

    Reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s books always imbues me with a slight feeling of self-obsession. It is not in the stories of Feminism and us as a community being completely capable of greater things or even how pretty the covers of her books looked. It was the swell of confidence she supported within us, the specificity of her voice, like she whispered in our ears, creations and imaginations of characters unborn. The type of power she wielded for her words to be brought to life. To the point, where I am audacious enough to disagree with my father on opinions that I had never really agreed with ,but had rather feigned agreement to please him. Most times he appears to be shocked and other times extremely annoyed. I open my mouth to say “Daddy I understand what you mean and how you want it, but I don’t really agree with it. His fingertips would reach for his lips and his eyebrow’s would be knitted in confusion, as if his daughter of over 20,had gone mad for having a different opinion. It seems as if, the one who is supposed to be an  extension of him, must simply have no idea to think of rather than his. He tells me, “Whatever I say ,just say yes and do it”, and I say “I apologize in advance Daddy, I won’t always say yes”. 

    It is easy not to look at our inner workings and marvel at how gorgeous we are. We are often  stricken by the shame of neglecting its beauty, so we become occupied with tearing it apart, searching for some wild perfection, we believe is pleasing to ourselves. I think and want to be occupied as a person, searching for myself, the oddities and wonders I can bring to life. It seems as if many are not focused on this, it seems as if many of us aren’t taught to be centered on this 

    Who would have thought that I would think of my writings as something worth of value, social media worthy even, to look at them and admire random words put together, as they form blissful imaginations. For the years they were secretly kept I mourn for them, fading in ink and lead, smelling of damp moist air. My stacks of A4 paper, some days reeking of sadness or exhilarating joy. They were nothing but mere appearances of a confidant and some solace, put together as a means of escape. How beautiful, I think to myself as I look at them now. I read and read and read again, the things written as a teenager, amazed at the humor it exudes and how empathetic the sorrows are, crafted from words. What more can I write, how well can I write, what forms of phrases could possibly blow my mind. I am curious to see, excited as well, as I think of them, kicking my feet inconsiderately at the hour of day. Perhaps it is a necessary excitement for the pieces I am yet to  imagine. 

    So, Dear Chimamanda 

    You may, or may not be aware of how far your books travel, or how much depth has been reached as we read, but it is good you know, that your words wiggle and jump into our chest, setting us free, urging us and changing us. We are suddenly becoming aware of an audacity inside us, to have the courage to imaginatively thrust into the future and grasp at an opportunity well deserved. A serenity of unbelief I thought, that someone could write like this, It makes me forget and  doubt that the people in the books are real. What was worshipping has now become an intense Admiration. 

  • It is not a Competition.

    According to the dictionary or shall I say “Google”, Feminism is defined as the advocacy of women’s rights on the basis of the equality of the sexes, it is also the belief that women deserve equal, social ,economic and political rights and Freedoms. 

    Before I understood the word Feminism, I hated that some Men at my college institute thought I couldn’t carry my technical drawing board, perhaps it was because I was a lady and as I thought so, one of them said it was because I was a lady. I wished they  asked ,so that I could say yes or no but hardly did they ever bother and when I insisted to tell them, that  I could, they thought me pompous and proud. There are generalized behaviors for Men and Women, including the one society expects of us, but I sometimes think, it outrageous that women had to start fighting for themselves before Men saw that there was problem. It was how men in the Earlier years were comfortable with these points of views, that they belonged at home, and not for the ideas of the world. Was it because they birthed children that they  were thought, to automatically be fantastic at motherhood and domestic duties or that they were the only accomplishments a Woman truly needed . I disliked cooking in the kitchen, but more so when my brothers were resting, even after having done the same activities. I would think to myself “Who came up with this ridiculous Nigerian concept of Women in the kitchen and Men in the living room ?. I would argue with my Mother. Is the most popular chef not a man?, And why on earth, did it take this long, for feminism to be known ?. Is a woman not also birthed from both a male and a female. Why then are there doubts that she can not exhibit the potentials of her father, especially when she has both genes. 

    You must  think that Feminism is some sort of competition with Men. To drink as much alcohol as a man can drink, shielding and harboring pot bellies. To smoke cigars as much and to be accepted for it. To be as strong as the popularly idolized Man or perhaps to talk about the other genders body, picking apart, for sexual gratifications, but it is not. 

    It is a demand for inclusivity. it is not, that  we want a trophy if the whole world became Feminists, it is simply to see someone beyond their gender, and to see them for the potentials they have. There is a whole truth in saying that there are differences between both genders, but it is different when it comes to the task at hand. If a Male and a female are given a task, they should be judged as just that, if the Female fails she is not up to it, if the male fails he is not up to it, but not to be placed on a pedestal of assumption, that because she is a woman she will not be up to the task. 

    It is with haste that we speak and compare physical strength, especially to that of  football, and male dominated departments and rush to declare that women can not beat the male but we forget and oh do we forget that there also Men in football who won’t last a minute on the field when that said Female football team is playing. 

    There are Women who approach Feminism with the hurts and pains of Men in their lives and there are those that have been wounded through them, so in many ways Feminism has been distorted and twisted with pain and Anger, but it is not to forget the definition and be dismissive of the time worthwhile for it to be involved in . 

    Beyond the words Equality and Advocacy, are the words Rights and deserve that speak to me. it is because I have seen the maltreatment of women that these words draw me in. These words speak to me as other words, chance, opportunity and option. 

    Women must want and desire to be looked at, assessed and judged after being given the chance, they want to escape the assumptions, when the opportunity arrives for a task, and they want to be given the option to decide their fate and their life without the many imposing opinions and conclusions of the society. 

    I hope that one day we can all be Feminists, not the branded versions we place on our Instagrams or social media profiles, but feminists in our activities and in our relations with men and how the world is to accept women for the things they can do and achieve.

  • Present Mourning.

    I was jealous of Mether, the man whose legs were almost crushed by a 2000 pound pipe yesterday. I was jealous not of his pain, but of his stillness. I craved the hospital bed he lay in because it was easier than doing life. Easier than participating. 

    Life is not a race you can opt out of. There are no other options but running. You can only change how you reach the finish line. So I wished carelessly. I only want to write, but fear clouds my judgment. It makes me an imposter of the thing I love. If my legs were gone, I could sit and write for as long as I can. Yet it is a cruel thing to dream of. It robs my family and friends  of happiness and leaves long streaks of heartbreak I fear may never mend. So I am here , after quiet rounds of self pity and loathing, grieving my incapability to bear courage. 

    I know and tell myself this, that self pity does nothing. It is a comforting mirage that lets us stand still until regret arrives. So I have decided to do something else. I have decided to mourn my twenties, as I write. 

    In mourning my twenties, I savor what will not return. The person I will never be again. The togetherness and familiarity of my siblings. I look at my sister and carve her baby face into memory before she turns into a thirty year old woman. I pinch my brother’s bony skin before he gains weight, and I sing loudly with my brother before time robs us of it. I spend my money before they begin offering to pay for meals. I watch them knowing these moments will not come again. We will soon be different people, and I mourn it because it is already slipping away. 

    My bathtub feels surreal, though some might disagree. I think there as I soak in soapy water, arms weaving, curating the person I am to be. I consider the structures that must guide me, the ones that must help my feet sink into solid ground so I am not lost. We change. Experiences alter us forever. I imagine becoming someone else and forgetting who I was, and a sharp fear flashes in my chest. It may be a better version of me or not. We are never the same as who we once were, so I tell myself change may be good, even while the fear lingers. 

    I remember that Rain brings me joy. I find comfort in its sound and in the heaviness of the sky. It excites me in a quiet way. When it rains, the city slows. It feels as though nature commands everyone to pause, to breathe, to feel and  to cool. Rain is rejuvenation. Each time it falls, I take it in and long for the next. I wonder whether it will feel the same when time has passed, when we have all shifted slightly into new versions of ourselves. 

    We never know what we should have done until later. So I choose to be present in the mourning. It helps me grow. There will be moments that remind us of who we were and how beautiful it felt to be that person. So we must hold ourselves. Press your  feet into the ground and  experience what you can. I wish you grace, as you continue this journey. 

  • Orange Hat

    Dear Diary Diarrhea, short for DD,

    No particular reason for that name, for this is my journal, and I call the shots.

    ’Tis I, Vanessa… longest of years, DD, since we last spoke, and I feel terrible already that we haven’t spoken at all in a while. I feel guilty, but we cannot dwell on that, because we simply must speak now.

    I went to a wedding this other weekend and I saw a man—boy, child. I say “saw” and not “met” because that is what it was. It seems to me that I have been afflicted with the disease of thinking spells: the ones that bring upon you plagues of wistful imagination and make you inescapable to them. But in many ways, I think that is what I wish to believe myself.

    I remember clearly his skin tone and think to myself that he must hate it when someone tries to pacify him by saying that he escaped albinism. But then it wouldn’t matter what people would say, because he would be perfect. I tell my friends that he is perfect—in fact, for Rebecca—because Rebecca is a classy girl and I am not. I am rather a silly, opinionated, bull-headed, and uncouth girl, who may not be a good match for him. So I say Rebecca is best, and in many ways I agree, because she is cute and, all the same, classy. I think she would be perfect for a supposed Yoruba man—boy, child—with an accent.

    Today’s thinking spell is an elevator day. I would sit at the bottom café section reading a book as he passes by. I would stand up almost at the same time he passes, and we would both head for the elevator doors, oblivious to each other’s destination in the same direction. He would not speak to me, because I imagine him to be nonchalant. I would also see that I do not grab his attention, because he would appear eager to leave the elevator, shuffling his feet and checking his wristwatch. I would forget that it is not his eyes up close that leave me breathless, but my corset woven too tight.

    I would stare at his reflection on the other side of the elevator because he is a handsome person, and I would etch a set of teeth into his face to make it a blissful memory. “Perhaps,” I would then say in my head, “I could be humorous enough to draw out a chuckle.” It would certainly be better than the smile etched into my memory. But I wouldn’t do that. Instead, I would fuss with my dress, thinking of what to say, praying for a slight malfunction of the elevator as I bear down that same fear of elevators that I now suppress momentarily because of him.

    How I feel tells me that I have a crush on this mysterious man—boy, child—but I believe and know that it is not true, because I do not know this man. It is something my heart does: it looks around a room and selects a suitable participant for me to swoon over. And the swooning, I do enjoy, because it means that I can have a rom-com in my head when I want to, and for as long as I wish. Although my curiosity questions why I crave for it to happen this way instead of the participatory, realistic ways people ought to meet, I think instead that it may be the horrendous feeling of abject loneliness that I do not want to admit. But then I do not wait to dwell on the thought and dismiss it alongside its answer.

    Before the elevator doors would open, I would say a rhetorical question about his cologne and receive no reply. He would move to leave in a hurry, and his hat would fall because of his contrasting height as the elevator doors open. At this, I would inch closer—further toward him—a distance less than that of a creep, to receive whatever lovely scent floats around him, and I would not be disappointed. It would become embarrassing that he could see the haste with which I reach for his hat, but I would not mind, nor would I care. Instead, I would pick up his hat, holding it firmly to ingrain in memory the texture of its fabric and wonder why it is such a deep orange.

    The moment would be brief as he reaches his hand out for his hat. He would offer a thank you that I wouldn’t reply to, and without a second glance at my face, he would walk away hurriedly—never to be seen again.

  • No matter how much more.

    Life had become a Teacher who made forceful requests of a “ fill in the blank space” assignment ,and she was expected to submit hers, because, time was up, But it didn’t mean anything that she was not done yet, because no matter how many times she told the teacher that she needed to finish, that she needed to just write a word, she was met with deaf ears. 

    A spot, left open and waiting, needing to be occupied, the spot now too rusty, too old-fashioned, to be occupied, so it needed to be discarded. It had to be kept aside for supposed growth. 

    Another shiny new spot had appeared for him to sit on, new, young, exciting and approved  

    “More soap, It needs more soap”. Alanna poured more soap, the viscous liquid crawling slowly on the smooth brown chair. She scrubbed and she scrubbed. “Its going to be perfect, you’re going to be perfect, just perfect.” 

    After she finished rinsing of the soap, she took the perfumed cloth she had ironed a day before and began to mop the liquid off the smooth mahogany, smothering it till the cloth appeared to be coming apart from friction, she was almost finished with the last part of the chair, when she smelled his cologne, she turned her head to look at him, her face beaming with smiles. Baba did not fix his gaze on her; he looked at the chair shortly and started walking towards Bo’s room. “Baba, I’ve cleaned the chair, it’s perfect for you to sit, I have made it so that it is smooth to touch and adorned it with the sweetest smell,” Alanna said. Baba continued walking. Alanna called out, raising her voice, “Baba, look, see the chair, see it. I have made it perfect for you to sit, Baba, look”. 

    Baba turned his head sideways to look at her and not the chair, and said. “Alanna what is this sight you have presented, yourself to be seen ,disheveled and unpleasant. Certainly Not acceptable”. Then he walked out of the room. 

    The friction injured cloth in Alanna’s hand fell to the floor. Alanna crumbled beside it, picking it up and smoothening the frays. As her tears and sweat fell to the cloth, Alanna sighed and lay quietly and slowly beside the chair. Heart throbbing with an exhausted despair.

  • Nigerian, but Ignorantly African

    I had a friend named Chad, ask about a Country called Chad. He said he had heard that the people who lived in Chad were poor, and that it was close to Nigeria, and he wanted to know If I knew anything about it. In the split seconds I had before I replied to him, I thought to myself, “Why was that the first thing to be thought about?”. I didn’t know anything about the country Chad and had never looked it up, except from in school where we had to draw my country’s map and represent a portion of Chad as an intersection to the country itself.  

    I defended Chad. I defended Chad like I had forgotten about my own country. I told him that they were not poor, they were living peacefully according to their population, but they weren’t poor. I asked him if he was going to visit there sometime, and he responded with “Nah, I don’t want to leave my home”. There was nothing wrong with what he had said, but his nonchalance displeased me. What a weird way ,I thought, to say that a country was poor, with confidence and without the general sympathy. 

    Another person also asked me if I knew about the Wars in Congo. I didn’t know, but I thought that I may have heard of it happening. The only Congolese person I knew was Jonathan from South Korea, and I had never even met him in real life. This person also asked me if there were any wars in Nigeria. I turned and I looked at him as I drove. I was disappointed, but there was nothing I could do about my disappointment, except to change my facial expressions. Was there really nothing positive these people could say ?,Wasn’t there something good about African Countries that this people knew about? 

    Every Sunday when My Dad drives us to church, I am forever amazed at the homeless people on a particular street we pass, it is to the point that if I tell my Friends, they would gasp and scream, “you’re lying”. But I would not be lying, I would only be saying exactly what I had seen, it is not as if it is not possible for a country to have homeless people but to say that the “ The Great America”, “The U S of A” had those people, would almost be to insult the Economy itself. 

    No matter how much I thought of it, there was no way in which all these could be America’s fault, A country I assume is expected to be majorly individualistic towards its own roots and progress, to work hard for the betterment of a nation and to yield profits for its general growth, but how many are interested in that growth ?,Is it a concern for the government or the citizens who would later become the government. My Mum used to say to me that even if there is a brand new man ready to sit on the presidential seat, his hands would have been soiled and his mind and heart changed from the original goal, before he is even able to sit in the seat. What I think might be the fault of America’s media is the excitement that comes with talking about a poverty that is not theirs, the display of pictures, and the things only their citizens are made to know. I wonder what it means to perhaps feel joy for another’s misfortune. Maybe someone had spoken of our Agriculture, our Music, or culture and had been dismissed, and told that that was not what the people wanted to see. Whenever I checked for pictures of the Biafra War, I wished Google would just blur the images of the starving children and show the Bright Ones, the ones of their temporary victory, their patriotism and courage, Or was no one interested in that ?, Did no one take any ?, and is there really no one interested in seeing them?. 

    I am usually familiar with the general upsetting curiosity of the place of my origin and its environs , but never thought to be a human background spectacle for other African countries. Perhaps Chad  wanted to engage in a conversation, and thought to begin with the poverty of another country, but if that was his first thought choice, of a topic for a conversation, what a terrible job he had done. Recently, I have been on a journey of discovery for South African Movies, and have developed an affection for their manner of speech and their variety of languages. One in particular I like is “Chomi” meaning Friend. Here in America, I am also beginning to discover and learn more about countries in Africa, and it has only dawned on me that I had only known to be Nigerian, but never truly African. 

  • Hypocritical

    It is with ease, you criticize
    So well, you seem to be the originator of the solution.
    Because where you stand is void of retribution and conflict
    You peel and speak with confidence.

    You do not speak of a position you obtained,
    But one from a place of comfort
    Your loins are not soiled with guilt and pain,
    And hidden struggles, so you are brief and careless with your words.

    Of what great sacrifices do you know of.
    What pain resides in you, that you strive to hold yourself together 
    Unbelief should stream from your veins
    Mocking you, and rendering you unworthy to speak.

  • Trusting You

    It was the authenticity of your voice that bothered me.  

    The certainty you exuded. 

    In obvious ways that made you seem, perhaps  

    Indestructible? 

     

    It grew my fears as you chatted away. 

    And rather than being imbued with faith and strength 

    I become afraid, I tremble in fear.  

    Because in waking nights, Perfect doesn't seem close by. 

     

    Your confidence gave no warning.  

    Nor did it share any sense of safety. 

    It usually gave the impression of the one blinded rat. 

    Leaving the blind ones to a place prepared for death

  • Being a part of your comfort

    I met a Korean man today at my workplace. He was Korean because of his English accent and his eyes. His eyes were slightly oval with a curve at the top left and a curve at the bottom right, seemingly soulful, cautious, and warm. I felt an overwhelming familiarity course through my heart as I looked at him, and watched him. I paced closely in his direction, hoping he would say something, maybe he would notice my accent and ask me where I am from, so that I could ask him too. In my head, a couple of words formed sentences and phrases, all trying to win competitions for actual qualifying conversations, but he didn’t look at me, and I couldn’t speak to him. My co worker walked to my side and said, “all these Korean people never knowing what they be doing”, this wasn’t unusual for him to say, making random comments about peoples activities, and I would laugh because I didn’t know what he was trying to say, but this time, my eyebrows twisted weirdly and I avoided his gaze, it felt like a betrayal to laugh at that statement, and before the Korean man had left I was already upset. I thought it weird to be upset, but it did not change that I was upset; I didn’t even know the man, and yet I was so unsettled within me.
    I am popularly known among friends, families, and acquaintances for my love for korean drama and its country, How I fell in love and the moment it happened i do not remember, but I had often found myself looking for something related them, My friends in school outgrew it and kept telling me that this was a phase, I told them it wasn’t a phase but waited to see if I would also at some point fall out of this phase, instead, in place of the attractive men that occupied our attention as teenage girls came the beauty of its scenery, the words spoken and the comfort it brought, crafted from reality into fantasy, and the giggles that eluded me, there was something pacing about the emotions the actors and actresses always seemed to portray, their eyes were mostly so deep and when they cried, something felt like it was escaping from my chest.
    I mourned characters that died but were never real, crying for days and annoying my sister who was already sick of my tears, The men being very fine was still appreciated, but I had built something so warm and accepting with Korean drama’s that it wasn’t exactly about the actors anymore but the stories, stories rich and acknowledging of passion, made with so much love that I could only want and dream to be a part of them.