Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness should be a sin.

There are times when I think that if it were, people(me inclusive) wouldn't find it so easy to complain, murmur, be mean etc.

I look over this past year of my life. My dreams are coming true, even much better than I dreamed. I am in a good place. People laud my writing everyday. My family is well, I am well. I have amazing people cheering for me in the stands, people I don't know why they even like me. I know people i can call up and they will come to my aid in a heartbeat. I wake up everyday in a comfortable bed, small but comfortable. On my wall are pictures of people I love that love me back. In my bank account is more money than some people dream of ever having (yes it dwindles everyday but what the heck). I get to live in a land that is free and rich. I can pay my bills. I speak and people stop to listen. I write and people hold their breath to read. I smile and the sun shines even brighter. I eat what I want. I can live, worship, dance, sing...all of it freely

A year and some months back, I would never have imagined I would be all this. I wasn't even sure I wanted to live. Today I am here and it is all by God's grace. Yet when something happens, do i remember whither i come from? Do I remember that the God who has brought me thus far is still alive? Do I remember to trust this God? Do I remember to smile even when my heart is heavy, knowing fully well that sorrow endures only for the night and my joy will show up as surely as the sun rises?

No! To my eternal shame, I don't. I forget so easily, every time, all the time. I can't even imagine how hurt i would be if i were in God's shoes and I had this ungrateful and forgetful child who shakes her fist at me whenever i guide her as carefully as i can over the rough patches and potholes in this road called life.

It is almost 10am here and my stomach is beginning to growl and complain. I silence it with promises of my pancake recipe. It stops immediately, trusting my skills in the kitchen.  

Today I am going to shut the hell up and stop whimpering. I am going to be still and know that my God is still in the business of turning plain water into wine. Batch after batch, the pancakes will turn out just right. I will sit still in the corner and sing His praises while He does what He does best. A couple of times I will stand up and dance for Him. I will tell thank Him for His mercies, His Love, His grace and everything in between. When the kitchen gets too hot, I will thank Him because the winds blow at His will and the heat is but temporary. When it gets too cold, I will lift my gloved hands in worship of the God that does not die. When the kitchen of life is just unbearable, I will bless His name for the good times that will be sure to return

I am done forgetting. This is my testimony.

Song of the day: Marvin Sapp - Never would have made it

Nimota

She is the one that lingers at the theatres when everyone else is gone. She is sitting in those empty seats and dreaming up a new end to the movie she just saw.

She is the one who blends in with trees. You have to look a little harder to see that she is there.

She is the one who has been broken by life and yet stops to smell the thorny roses by the path.

She is the one you look at and can see through. And yet, you are all she sees, all she wants to see.

Her name is Mota.

Some people call her Daughter, some others, Sister.

She longs for when you will call her, Love.

She has been there all your life, waiting in the shadows, ready to break your fall.

The little girl holding your hand while your mother packs up and gets ready to leave your drunken father.

The teenager squinting through her glasses as she applies balm to the bruises you have suffered from the relentless bullies in high school.

The ‘almost’ woman with tiny breasts hanging onto your every word and laughing at your dry jokes.

The person you ask for advice on where best to buy an engagement ring for your current girlfriend…

Her name is Mota.

It takes you 32 years, one failed marriage, packed suitcases, the pieces of your broken heart, two tear-filled eyes, to finally see what has been there all along.

Mota.

It was the packed suitcases that did it. You watched the woman you married pick up her suitcases and walk out the front door. It was like you had walked back in time; to a couple of years before when you had watched your mother walk away from you. Only Mota's hand on yours had kept you from running after the taxi that took your mother away. 

Mota.

She is the one that lingers at the theatres when everyone else is gone. She is sitting in those empty seats and dreaming up a new end to the movie she just saw.

This is where you find her when you finally know what it is you have been searching for all your life.

You sit beside her.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey babe!’

‘The movie is over, you know.’

‘No it isn’t. There is always room for a sequel.’

You take her hand in yours and join her in staring at the dark screen.

‘Maybe we can be the major characters in that one.’ You finally say.

She squeezes your hand a little tighter.

Nimota.

© Damilola Ashaolu 2012

hahaha...i think of how as children, we used to laugh at that name 'Nimota'. i am older now and wiser and think it is a beautiful unique name. For all the Nimotas, Godswills, Rukayats, in the world that suffered from teasing kids, this one is for you :)

Beautiful Mess

I am probably Jason Mraz's long lost soul mate. I know this because he sings all the words i want to say, to write, to dream...

I have this song on replay. 

It makes me think of my life. I am really a beautiful mess. The beautiful is God, the mess is me-my mistakes, my scars, my past, the many, far too many dark days i have had in my few years here on earth.

I am a storyteller. I accept that title but there is one story I am fine not telling, one tale I am more than willing to let Someone else script. The blank sheaves of paper that will someday tell of my life...

*******************************************************************************************************************
I am supposed to write a story for a blog series about not believing in God. I have written only five words and my deadline is in a few days. I almost want to tell the organisers that I cannot do this and how much of a mess I have made of every story line that has come to mind since i got assigned this job of telling what it must be like to not believe in God. I don't know why i am still hanging in there. I should just give up and let someone else write this.

But somehow, I am still holding on, looking at a blank screen and the five words on my otherwise blank Word document. I need God to fill this blankness, to make this mess and emptiness into something beautiful...

And through timeless words and priceless pictures

We'll fly like birds not of this earth

And tides they turn and hearts disfigure

But that's no concern when we're wounded together

And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts

But it's nice today, oh the wait was so worth it

Song of the day: Jason Mraz- A Beautiful Mess.

Trying too hard

I am intense. 

I know this.

Therefore I should know better.

But do I? Sadly not. 

This is my reality check. 

My wake up call

There are some stories I will never be able to write

Some lives i will never be able to live.

Some 'losses' i will never be able to find.

I need to stop trying.

Happy September people....too many people close to my heart were born this month. So it is my next favorite  month after August. It is only fitting that it follows August on the calendar.

Song of the day:  Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals - Steal my Kisses

The Other Woman

He died on a Sunday. He chose the day of rest to rest his case. I found him in bed and without moving from the spot where I stood by the door, I could tell he was gone. 

You see, even in sleep, he was always in motion. His eyelids would flutter and I would watch him, wondering what images filled his dreams. His mouth would tremble and I would hope it was because somewhere in never never land, he was kissing me. His chest would move and I would wonder if it was to the rhythm of his love for me.

So that November morning, as I stood by the door that led to the bedroom we used to share until the pain of rheumatism had forced us apart, I immediately knew it was over.  I didn't have to take the next step to know love had taken flight. I stood by that door and watched for a while. I waited for those lips to tremble, I bid the eyelashes to flutter, I prayed his chest resume movement...all to no avail.  I walked back down the stairs not too long after, each step blinding me with the pain of age, each step, a goodbye to the man on the bed. 

I called his doctor first, some young upstart who reminded me of myself when I was young. And then I called the children. Again I waited. I waited till they were done with their crying and mourning. I waited till they had buried him. I waited till the noise of grandchildren, running around, oblivious to the sadness that hung like a cloud, had departed with the last car. I waited till it was just me and his ghost. It took a while for it to happen but it finally did.

I sent away the housekeeper. ‘You deserve a holiday and I will be fine for one day’. 

She took off and I made for the stairs. His address book was still on the bedside table where it always sat. I picked up the phone and called her.

‘He is dead.’ I said when she answered the phone.

A shrill wail pierced my ears and I allowed myself to cry for the first time since I found him. Finally, here was someone who shared my pain. Finally, here was someone who could share this burden of loving someone who had died. Finally.

I spoke first. The wailing had become cries and then sniffles and suddenly it was much too quiet.

‘Were there any children?’

‘No, no. He never wanted any with me. I had children before meeting him.’

The silence grew louder and I searched for the right thing to say to a woman who was  million of miles away, a woman with whom I had only one thing in common.

‘Maybe someday you can visit.’ I said.

‘We will see how it goes.' She answered after a few hesitant seconds.

I could hear the clinking of glasses in the background. Was she going to drink to dull the pain? Maybe it was time to say goodbye.There seemed to be nothing left to say.

‘He never stopped loving you.’ She said as if sensing I was about to put an end to her last connection to the man she loved. ‘Even when he was with me, it was your love that filled his life.’

I closed my eyes and saw him smile.

‘I know. And I am glad he had you for those days when my love was not enough. Some people are like that. They need more than just sunshine to flourish. They need the moon as well. So thank you for loving him even when you knew he couldn’t love you completely.’

We said our goodbyes with less ceremony than I had played out in my head. I extended the invitation to visit again even though I knew it would never happen.  I placed the phone receiver back in its place and tried to imagine her sitting by the phone, in a lonely house in faraway Brooklyn, surrounded by the cold of winter, and now sorrow.

I looked outside my window where the world was filled with sunshine and greenness. I smiled for the first time.

Song of the day: Train- Marry me

A City

I dream of Lagos mornings, 
rainy Lagos mornings, 
horns blowing, 
hawkers trading, 
my hand perfectly fitted in yours. 

I dream of Lagos afternoons, 
 stormy beaches, 
 palm trees swaying to a rhythm only they can hear, 
my smile reflected in your eyes. 

I dream of Lagos nights, 
a city gone to rest, 
its heartbeat calmed. 
Asleep in each other's arms
Dreaming of a city; 
buoyed by many waters, 
buoyed by love.

Song of the day: Ne-yo - Sexy Love

River of Love

My people...Una do oh!

The cobwebs in this space, while not as mighty as those on some other folks' blogs (T.Notes,Bee, Sir Farouk- take note) are getting annoying.

I have been writing...a lot...I am just putting them all up on Naijastories...

Today sha, i have written rubbish and i thought to myself who better than the members of blog world to share this with. I know you all love me regardless of whether I write better thing or not! So here goes...be kind in the comment box! Even Wole Soyinka doesn't write as much as I do. Better? Yes. More? No.

We walked to the river at our own pace

With only the birds of the air to witness our dedication.

We marched on resolutely

Determined to drink of the waters of love.

Laughter erupted from our bellies.

Tears of joy from our eyes.

Orgasms from our loins.

All of these, as we walked to the river.

We finally made it to the spot.

The place they said we could set out our roots and flourish.

But there was nothing to be found.

The waters had dried up.

The river had become a valley of bones.

'What is it that you seek?'

The bones asked us.

'Love, the end to sorrow.'

We answered.

'Then keep walking...

Love is a journey, ongoing.

But if it an end to sorrow you seek.

Then you are welcome to join us.'

We said our goodbyes by that dried up river.

Unable to see beyond those bones,

Unable to get past the end,

Unable to continue on the journey that is love.

We each took on different paths,

With only the birds to remind us

Of what it is that was left behind

At the river of love.

Song of the Day: Nelly Furtado- I'm like a bird

Sisi Eko

In Nigeria, it is my birthday already. 


The folks who are awake are scribbling on my wall already. I always say i don't like birthdays. That is not true. I love them; I just don't like the fact that I am older. This is the first birthday I am spending outside my country. People ask me all the time if i miss home. I wonder why they bother. 


Surely it must show in my smile or my forced American English or in the fact that I balk at the cuisine here or the fact that my real laughter echoes only when i am on the phone to Nigeria.


I recognize my country is plagued by numerous problems. Like me, it is far from perfect. Like me it suffers from its own handiwork and mistakes. Like me, it is unsure of what next. 


Like me, my country is hopeful. We both know we have no other place to go but up. My last birthday, i toasted to a future in a new country. This birthday, i look back and embrace my Nigerianess with all my heart. 


For all of you that have left your countries behind and think it is over, i have news for you. Some identities you can never leave behind. 


So this birthday, I celebrate my identity. I am more than just a color, more than just a gender, more than just a statistic. I am Kiah, I am ever so proudly Nigerian (even if Hilary Clinton refuses to acknowledge we exist), I am a Lagosian, I am a year older and I can't stop smiling.


Song of the day: Darey ft Flavour - Sisi Eko.

Listen

Nobody writes anymore...


All I see on my blogfeed are spurts these days. Spurts of a creativity that still exist but have been caged by real life.


I am guilty as well.  I almost want to be in another writing competition; just so I have stuff to look forwarding to reading every week. I am still waiting on TNC to do round 2. Obviously I am disqualified from that one.


Life gets in the way; but only with our blessing. Remember that, people and fight. And write.


I should just shut up and take my own advice.

In the real world,

My heart beats out the same old rhythm.

Nothing has changed

Except for the different set of ears

That are cupped to hear its melody

Listen...

(and yes i came up with this crap in 2 minutes-bite me-at least i am trying. what do you have to say for yourselves? :) )

Song of the day: Maxwell- Whenever, Wherever, Whatever

A Sunday for Ibifare

Death is not final. We all need to remember this. There is a better place after it all. It is where my Mama is. It is why tomorrow, I will not cry(okay maybe I will a  little). I will celebrate her and I will celebrate the King who died to make it possible for us all to look forward to that better place.


No matter how dark the cloud of your pain, know this - It will pass and  your Blue Skies are waiting for you to let them in.

‘And where is my amazing wife off to this early in the morning?’ He asks her.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’ She answers with a smile from the dressing table where she sits, as graceful as a queen. ‘Last I checked, it was a Sunday. Normal people go to church to worship God on Sunday, remember?’

‘Well I am glad you know we aren’t normal.’ He says smiling at her reflection.

‘Speak for yourself. I am normal; you might be abnormal but I am just fine.’ She retorts.

‘Yes, yes, and that is why you kept me up last night with your tears.’

She looks at him and all the gracefulness leaves her shoulders. She says nothing to hint at the sadness that has descended heavily on those shoulders but he knows he has struck a raw nerve. It is a nerve they both share.

He sighs and gets up from their bed. He moves to where she sits.

Every morning she goes through this same routine. She sits on this same chair and applies all the makeup in the world. When he complains, she tells him there is no need to betray the scars carved in her heart on her face as well.

He places his hand on her downcast shoulders in a gesture that says it all:

I am sorry, I love you, I wish I could make it better.

He doesn’t say it but she hears him anyway.

She gives up the futile attempt of trying to cover up the scars. She reaches out and pulls him to sit with her. His head finds her shoulders and they stare at the mirror together till she is late for church.

‘I should go.’ She says finally.

‘You should. Let me drive you.’ He says.

‘No, you will only make me later than I already am. Unless of course you have changed your mind and decided to come with me to church.‘ She answers.

He wrinkles his nose as if he can suddenly smell something foul and she laughs.

He walks her to the car. Just before she drives off, he says to her.

‘Tell God hello for me.’

‘I bet you can tell Him yourself in that man cave of yours where you are headed to play FIFA 2012 once I leave.’ She teases.

He smiles. She starts to drive off and then stops. She gets out of the car and beckons to him. He walks, almost runs to her. She holds him an embrace that he never wants to break away from.

‘I love you Reverend Bailey.’ She whispers in his ears.

‘I love you Mrs Bailey and I am no longer a Reverend.’ He answers.

She nods her head knowingly as if to say ‘Oh but you are, always will be’

He smiles ruefully and sends her off with ‘Say hello to the congregation.’

He knows she goes to church in search of Ibifare. She sees him as a baby in all the babies the mothers bring to her to bless. She sees him as a toddler in the cranky 2 year olds driving their nannies crazy. She sees him at 6 in the rambunctious children playing football after service while waiting for their parents. Her Sundays and going to church is really all about Ibifare.

He rather stay home than see Ibifare in all those children that are not and will never be him.

She is a braver person than he ever will be. He will never be brave enough to face the church. He will never be able to stand on that pulpit again and look into the congregation. He will never be able to look them in the eyes and assure them of how much God loves them. He has accepted that.

‘Daddy.’

‘Yes, Ibifare.’

‘I want Spain today. You can have Italy.’

‘You can have whatever team you want. It is your birthday after all. But know that just because you have Spain doesn’t mean your team still won’t lose to mine.’ He answers the child playfully.

There was a time when playing with his son was the farthest thing from his mind and nurturing the souls in his congregation was all he lived for. Not these days. Not today.

Today, his child’s soul was all that mattered. Sundays had taken on a new dimension for the Reverend.

‘Happy birthday Ibifare’ he says to the child.

Okon watches from the gates he just opened for Madam. He watches as Oga talks to the air. He can make out the word ‘Spain’ and ‘birthday’.

It would have been Ib’s birthday today. How I miss that child and his antics, Okon thinks to himself as the pain reaches out and blinds his eyes with sudden tears. Okon remembers how Ibifare had loved football more than any other thing. He smiles as he remembers the child demanding he play football with him every day after school.

He still has the Arsenal jersey Ibifare had given him last Christmas. Okon never really liked Arsenal but he wears the shirt proudly every Sunday for Ibifare. He  really would have prefer a Barcelona jersey but how could anyone refuse that child with his winning smile and passion for his club.

Madam says Ibifare died smiling. Okon knows mothers exaggerate a lot about their kids. God knows his own mother does her own fair share of exaggeration about his life in Lagos to all her neighbors in Ikot Ekpene. But somehow, in his heart, Okon knows that if anyone could die smiling, it would be Ibifare.

He wonders if he should mention the going ons of Sundays to Madam. He shakes his head sadly as he remembers what his mother in Ikot Ekpene told him about loss and the things it could do to a person. Poor Oga and Madam. Poor little Ibifare.

Okon picks up his watering can. It is time to water the flowers on the little grave behind the house. When he is done, he will sit by his little friend’s grave and tell him about the Euro Cup and how he thought all the Arsenal players shined for their various countries. That will make Ibifare happy, Okon thinks.

Song of the day: Lara George - Higher