Choosing to Live

Your body hates you. This much you know. It is something you have always known. It is something you do not need to be reminded about.
 

For who better to tell of the many times your body has let you down than you yourself, the victim? Of the numerous  times when as a little boy it had chosen the shame of urine over the fear of monsters that lay beyond the door of your bedroom and guarded the path to the bathroom? Of the blinding pain it inflicted on you, crisis after crisis? Of the many diseases it has embraced with open arms over the years-malaria, typhoid, cholera, mumps, measles, asthma, diabetes- the names sounding more complicated as you aged. Of the day it succumbed to fear and the heat of Lagos as you gave your daughter's hand in marriage to a man you knew would never make her as happy?

And now, this...

You listen to the doctor go on about new research. He suddenly looks so very tired-like a man who has given the same speech too many times to too many people and no can longer hear himself. You want to tell him it will be alright but your body again refuses to do your bidding. So you stay silent and let your mind wander instead.

You think about your grandmother, your father's mother. You remember that time your father had dragged his reluctant city living family to the village to visit a woman as far removed from their world as night was from day. It was so long ago and yet you remember the events of those days like it was yesterday.  

You remember seeing her for the first time and falling hopelessly in love with the bald head and wise old eyes. You remember how she had looked at you suspiciously at first; and how when you had bowed in greeting, she had caught you before you could touch the ground. You remember how small her hands had been but also how strong. How she had held you to her and began to sing. Later, your mother would tell you, the song was your Oriki.

“What is an Oriki?” You had asked your mother.

“It depends. Sometimes, it is a song of praise. Sometimes it a celebration of an identity. Other times it is a prayer.”

“Which one was mine?” You had asked your mother as you watched her dole out your prescriptions later that night. Flagyll for the tummy aches. Ibruprofen for the joint pain. Chloroquinie to fight malaria. Calcium tablets for your bones.

She had looked at you for a second or two before saying.

“Take your drugs and go to bed.” As you slept on the soft mattress, you had wondered if the way your mother’s eyes glistened as she looked at you had anything to do with stars that were a little brighter in the village. You had hoped with all your heart that it was the stars and nothing more.

You had spent hours sitting with the old woman in the days that followed; watching her weave her baskets, listening to stories about your father that you were sure were made up but you loved anyway. It was she who told you that you were an Abiku. A child who didn't want to live.

"But I want to live." You had said to her, coughing as you said the words.

"So why then did you die four times already?" She had asked you smiling.

It was from her that you had heard of the ones before you. It was from her you finally got an answer to the question you had peppered your parents with for so long.

"Can I have a little brother? Or sister?"

It was from her you had learned the reason why you were born in Nigeria even though your parents had always lived in London. They had come back because the old woman had insisted on birthing you herself. She would see to it that you did not die like the others had done in Charing Cross, she had promised your parents. She would birth you with her own hands and you would live, she assured them. And so they had gotten on the next plane they could find and put their faith in the old woman.

 It was your grandmother that told you everything and when she was done with telling, you said "I will live, I won't die this time."

"I believe you." She had replied. "Now go and drink the ‘agbo’ I made for you this morning."

You had made a face but acquiesced. If drinking the bile inducing 'agbo' meant proving to her, to the world, to your body, that you wanted to live, then you would gulp it down by the gallons.

You look at the doctor now and smile. He knows nothing about you. Even though he has known you for years now, even with his fancy tools, complicated diesease names and all the information he has on your body; he knows nothing about your grandmother or the 'agbo'.

You interrupt him to say.

"When do we start treatment?"

You can tell he is caught off guard and you almost laugh. You miss your grandmother and her bitter elixir at that moment, her easy solution to living well.

"Olu, it is Alzheimer’s. I am not even sure where to start from. I have to consult with other doctors. There are no cures for old age, Olu. You know this, you are a doctor yourself. You can stop teasing now. There are some medications of course but there isn't much they can do to halt it. All we can do is prepare for it."

You smile again at him and tell him you would like to go home now.

The drive back home is short and you are thankful the traffic has chosen another part of town to belabor. Your driver is quiet and you want to ask him if everything is alright but then you know the answer to that. You still remember regaining consciousness to find the poor boy crying like the world had ended. You can tell he is still not over it and so you let him be and watch the world from your car window.

Your daughter is waiting at the door when you arrive. You wonder who it is that called her. Probably that pesky housekeeper of yours or the driver-it would explain why he kept mute throughout the drive. Her hair is starting to gray and you are taken aback by the realization that she too has not escaped the disease of old age.

"Well , well, what did the doctor say was wrong?" She asks wiping her hands on the dish towel she is holding.

There is a reason you named her ‘Yewande’; for that old woman who had made you feel like living was worth doing. ‘Yewande’ to remind you of your promise to live.  'Yewande’ for the nights when you wanted to give in and give up to the pain. ‘Yewande’ for the good times, Yewande for the bad times; Yewande,an ‘agbo’, a ‘cure’ for every season.

She is smiling but you can see the worry in her eyes. It is alive and breathing; waiting in the shadows, ready to take over the rest of her and leave you with nothing to remind you of the amazing woman you have created. You don’t want that. You want to remember her as the reason you have stayed with your body all these years, even though it has let you down one time too many.

“He says you need to start minding your own business and to leave this old man alone.”

You take her hands and kiss them- they are small and yet so strong, just like the old woman's. She blushes and it warms your heart to know some things do not age and never grow old.

“How are the boys?” You ask her.

“You can ask them; they are here too.”

"I should wander away from home more often then. I try it once and the whole football team is here to see me.”

“Don’t joke, Baba mi.”

You smile at her and want to ask her forgiveness- for the tears she will cry, for the emptiness that will soon replace where you now stand, for the diseased and old body you will leave behind.

“The doctor  says hello and to make me some agbo for the malaria."

“Agbo??? Since when do medical doctors prescribe ‘agbo’? You better not be lying to me, old man. You know I will find out. ” She says as she kisses you on the cheek and takes your hand to lead you inside.

You hold onto her small, strong hands for as long as you can because you know that when the time comes and you have to make your way from life to death, from one world to another, from everything to nothingness; the only way not to lose your way will be by holding on to the hands that guided you into this world, the hands that saw to it that you did not die, the hands that saw to it that you lived.

Song of the day: Jason Nelson - Nothing Without You

The Liberation of the Tortoise and other poems

So these days I have been listening a lot to Alysia Harris and the Striver's Row. This is the result of that. i am trying my hands on poetry again. Here are two wacky ones.

And of course they tell a story. I am all about the stories, people. :)


He waits till you are breathing again before he steals your breath away

He waits till your tears have dried up before giving you new and beautiful reasons to weep

He waits till that moment
When you think it is safe to come out of your shell
Before he breaks it,
Before he breaks you,
To pieces

So that there is no more hiding
No more shells
No more heavy burdens to carry through life

You are no longer a tortoise
You are free
You are his
And you steal his breath away,
Time after time.

GPS

 

Her skin is the color of nighttime and though I have been here many times,
I find that it is still easy to get lost
In mountains and valleys and waterfalls

Time is my GPS
And so I spend it tracing her body with my fingers
Seeking directions to truths that were never lost

But there is never enough of this thing called 'time',
And soon another night finds me lost
In ancient streets of warmth
In dark rivers of joy
In valleys laced with milk
In her midnight skin...


Song of the day: Lorde- Royals
 

Social Media and its Pitfalls

I am putting in this quote late, probably everyone has read this already...but better late than never

“You used to be much more..."muchier." You've lost your muchness.” 

Alice in Wonderland

It has been a while since I ranted on here.

This has been a long time coming... Y'all have had it coming.

And feel free to tell me I am pot calling kettle black...

Like everything we lay our hands, Nigerians tend to take something that was meant for good use and find a way to make bad use of it. Social media, Twitter specifically has not escaped our leprous fingers.

From ordinary people pretending to be all that they are not
From uncrowned princes crowing in their pajamas about lives lived in their castles
From unknighted preachers telling you what to do and how to do it and failing everyday to swallow their own medicine...
From writers with no shame pining for votes

The list is long and boring.

I stumbled upon a blog recently and I was so enamored by the writer. This was the real deal-tackling real issues and sharing experiences. And then Twitter got ahold of the blogger. Today, said blogger has become a Twitter celebrity. I resisted the temptation of following for a few weeks and then I did. It took a few weeks for me to retrace my steps.

Why do we need validation? Why do we crave love from people we might never meet? Why are we so hungry for things what isn't ours in the first place? And in so doing, we soon loose the essence of what it was all about in the first place.

Today, very few real people blog anymore. What we have now are preachers who have never been to Bible School, writers for whom writing is all about gaining popularity, relationship experts who wouldn't know real love if it slapped them in the face...Name it, we've got it!

And I will be the first to say I am guilty. I can smell crap on myself too.

Even on here, i find myself writing stories i know people will like, stories that are not me and ring hollow, just because I want people to say 'oh you are a great writer.'

But I AM a great writer. I am validated in myself and the feeling I get when I read my own work. I don't need anyone else to tell me this. (Feel free to tell me though. :) )

This weekend some guy copied me on his 'Letters to my Daughter' or something like that. I read it and all i could think is 'what an insult?" to fathers everywhere. I asked the said dude if he was a dad, if he knew what it was to birth a child and watch that child grow away from you and you can do nothing about it? if he knew that fathers went to bed sometimes crying for their children? If he knew that fatherhood meant fear and courage at the same time? (i dont know all these things either -lol)

Guess what, dude has no child. And yet he writes "letters to his daughters". These letters, according to him are based on his experience as a relationship coach. I swallowed my next question but i am sure you can guess it.   

I am so tired of the rubbish I read on blogs these days.I am so tired of people telling me to hold my tongue and not say anything. I am so tired of conforming. Why can't we stop for a moment, breathe and ask ourselves why? Why am I doing this? Is it for the praises or because I will get no sleep if i don't type out the words burning in my heart? Is it because I bear a  burden for the unsaved or because I want to be called a 'man of God' or whatever titles people use now? Is it because I love my neighbor or because I love myself and the sound of my own voice? is it because I love what I do or because you love it?

I am a great girlfriend, an amazing sister, a loving daughter, a friend that sticks closer than a sister, a smart business woman, an evolving great writer (lol), a Child of God. I do not need anyone's validation of any of these facts. It is like asking for validation from the next person on my skin color. Don't I know I am black? Don't I know who I am? Why am I waiting on your approval to go ahead and be me? Why won't I stop, breathe and just do me and let you jump into the Thames if you don't like it? Why do I open myself for definition from people who wouldn't know where to start, from people who have no sense of worth, from people who go along with the crowd always?

I am Kiah.
I am a Season's beginning
I am a lover
I am a warrior
I am more than what you say I am
Who are you?

This one is for all the amazing bloggers who have kinda let the mediocre ones take over. Come back! Yeah, you, T.Notes, to start with. Then maybe we can Muse to come back too. Stay away from Twitter though- there are Mad Hatters thereon.

Song of the day:  Jewel - Hands

Poses

This was written by one of my favorite writers and an amazing human being...He says I inspire him and he is only trying to be like me... i think he is flattering the crap out of me. He has his own style so jst in case you don't like my work, hopefully you will like his. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the one, the only, ooluwafunminiyi . 

He had been talking about it for a while, and when he was excited about something, he became a child again - sated only by the fulfillment of his fantasy. 

It was their son's first birthday. He said they could not make any noise about it, for obvious reasons. Instead, they'd have a sunny day out in the park, just the three of them, and cap it off with a photo shoot at the new and expensive studio where the creme de la creme took powerful photographs with state of the art cameras and printing machines. He talked animatedly of the poses he would strike with his son. She watched him handle the child like a pearl while he dreamed up pose after pose; she eagerly agreed with the poses he tagged 'fantastic', and laughed indulgently when he discarded others. And when their son began to cry from all the activity, she had stuck a nipple in his mouth before asking his father to show her the poses he and she would strike.

There had been a new light in his eyes when he described those, a light that held hope in its beams. Laughter rang out in her little apartment that night, the first time in a long while. Long after the baby had slept and she had placed him in his Graco playpen, they practiced their poses under the flickering lights of the muted television. It felt a little awkward at first, their bodies touching like that. He had not touched her since she had broken his commandment. The sun rose in her heart when they held hands and locked eyes across the miles that stretched out between them. Finally, they practiced 'the pose of the shoot' - as he called it, the one in which she laid on the rug, her head propped up by a palm, and he got in behind her.

'This is a risky one,' he laughed, his voice suddenly husky, his breath hot against the nape of her neck.

They knew they were going too far when they stayed like that a little longer than was necessary, 'refining the pose'. It wasn't long before she felt him hard against her back, before she felt her skirt lose its tightness against her stomach - before she helped take away what was left of his inhibitions.

The made love like a prayer, a word less plea for forgiveness - for her desperate attempt to trap him with a child, for her inability to bear the thought of losing another woman's husband, that he forgive himself also for cheating on his wife, and for the many other wrongs he had done to her and perhaps, countless others. Her passion implored him to stay with her and with their child. Yet when she had paused and held his face between her palms, earnestly searching for answers, any at all, he had kept his eyes shut, refusing to let anything through except a recalcitrant tear drop.

And for that rare moment, no matter how much she was hurt, she had been eternally 
grateful to him.

The following morning, they had gone back to yesterday. He was gone before she awoke. Her world was empty once more, the harsh silence of the apartment interrupted only by the cries of her baby and the ricochet of the curses and threats they had traded in that room.

It was also not surprising either when three days later, at the photo shoot, he had taken gleeful pictures with his son - and when they had gotten to the part where she was supposed to join in, he had refused, asking her to take her pictures alone with the baby.

She was stubborn too. 'Let us go then,' she said, and picked up her hand bag, her voice quivering, her eyes brimming with tears. The photographer had never met a stranger couple.

That evening, she left the apartment that he had rented for her and her baby in a part of town where he was sure his wife would never have found them. She had no clear idea where she was headed. She would let her destiny work that out.

'Where ever we go, your father will never find us,' she smiled sadly at her babbling baby as they melted into the night.


Song of the day: Ellie Goulding - Burn

Babajide

This one is for the grandfather I never met, the one with skin the shade of anthills, the merchant, whose gap-tooth I have only admired in fading photographs, the one people still refer to as 'the good man', Babajide..



It was the 4th day.

Aduke could hardly believe it. It seemed just like yesterday the midwife had first placed the child in her arms. And yet it had been 4 days. 4 days since she came to full knowledge of what it meant to love. 4 days since he looked at her with those eyes of his and etched his place into her soul forever.

He had filled out a lot since he was born and even though everyone said he resembled his father, there was no doubt in Aduke's mind that the child was his mother's son.

His chin was hers. His smile, the long fingers that latched onto her breasts as he fed, the anthill shade of his skin; it was all her.

His eyes though, his eyes were Baba's.

3 more days before they could present him to the world. 3 more days and she wondered if 3 days would be enough for the shriveled old man sitting in front of her.

"Aduke, are you still here?" Baba called to her.

"Yes Baami, I am still here."

He sighed and spat out the kolanut he had been chewing, his sightless eyes depending on his ears to help him determine the right direction for his spittle.

"Go home, my child." He said when he had rid his mouth of the kola.

"Your child will be waking up soon and seeking his mother's breast. Go home."

"How can I go home, Baami? The naming ceremony is in three days' time and yet the gods refuse to pick a name. "

"Aduke, you must learn to be patient and trust the gods. Your son will have a name by his naming ceremony. Go home to your husband, my child and trust. Go on now"

Her breasts were starting to ache and she knew she would get no respite until the mouth of her hungry son had found them. She sighed and made to get up from the mat. It was hard to believe the frail old man sitting on the mat was her Baba. The same Baba that had swung her high over his head as a little girl. The same Baba that had made a place for her on his shoulders and in his heart even though she was an unexpected child, a child of his old age, a child the gods had sent to renew his youth like he loved to say. Aduke's breasts ached even more and this time it had nothing to do with the child and everything to do with the old man. She got up from the mat and took both his hands in hers.

"Don't cry, Omo Ola, Omo Ekun, Oriade mi, you are a woman now, you know, with another's tears to tend to. Be strong, Aduke. Your child will have a name. You will not be ashamed."


The old man waited till he was sure his daughter had walked far enough. It was then that he turned towards the direction of his gods.
They had never failed before when it came to giving him names for the children. They had not failed now either. He had a name. He was just not ready for the destiny it would bring.

He smiled to think of Aduke. She would have made a great priestess- she had a good heart and a determined soul, the tools of the trade- but her name had not suggested such a destiny. Ifamuyide, his second son would do just fine. He would miss her most of all of all his scions.

He closed his sightless eyes and took deep breaths before speaking.

"I am ready whenever you are, my fathers. I am ready for my destiny."

When the 7th day finally arrived, they would name the child 'Babajide', for his grandfather, the chief priest whose funeral was the same day.

Song of the day: Corinne Bailey Rae - Like a Star

Blank Canvas

He would finally make it to bed sometime before dawn. She would feel him get in beside her and turn sleepily towards him so he could hold her. She need not have bothered. He would have held her anyways. She was his anchor afterall, the one thing that held him down. 

It would take some time but soon enough, the kissing would begin and then the clothes would come off and the dance would start Her eyes would be wide open by then and even though the room was still dark, she would look into those tortured eyes and long to erase the fears they reflected.

He went limp before either of them had a chance to get the release they sought. She closed her eyes and waited, shutting them so he wouldn't search for answers that she didn't have. She held on fast to him with her thighs, letting him breathe and come back to her in his own time.

"I don't think I have it anymore." He said to her.

"Hmmmm..." She answered.

"It has been more than 2 years since I last painted anything worthwhile."

"Yes." She answered

"It isn't like I lack inspiration. I am inspired all the damn time. But what is in my head never comes out right on the canvas. I feel like a failure, like a one-hit star, like this was all a mistake. This moving to New York to pursue my dream. This adventure that haS slowly become a living nightmare. I have lost it, Alero. I think we should just go home to Baltimore and start afresh."

"Hmmmm..." She responded.

"Are you even listening to me?" He asked the woman underneath him.

Her eyes were still closed and she shifted slightly to bear his weight better. The movement sent a jolt down his spine and he found that he was suddenly ready again. The dance continued from where they left off. Only then did she open her eyes and let him know it was okay to drown his fears in her.

When it was over and their heart rates had calmed, she began to speak.

"Have you ever thought that making art is a lot like making love? Sometimes it is slow and sometimes it is fast. Sometimes, it is nothing - a mere reaction to pent-up hormones, and sometimes it is everything - the only way to show how much you love something. At the end of both processes, there is always a release. It is why a lot of people have sex. For the release. For the end. They look forward to the end of a thing and so they forget the right way to begin. So there are rapes, faked orgasms, unsatisfied parties and so on."

"You paint like most people make love. You paint for an end and so you do not know where to begin.  You keep looking forward to the painting that you forget that there is a certain beauty to the process, to the foreplay. Maybe you need to start looking at blank canvases as beginnings and stop seeing them as the paintings you want them to end up as. But what do I know, I am only a girl who hasn't orgasmed in months now."

She kissed him then and went to make ready. She had rounds of the children's ward today. She liked children a lot- they were in no hurry for endings.

When she got back that evening, he would meet her at the door with paint in his hair and a brush in his hand. He would lead her up the stairs and watch as she clapped excitedly over the three paintings he had completed in that one day. Even when she kissed and said "I have never seen anything more perfect," he would only be thinking about beginnings and the many blank canvases that were waiting on him.

Even when he would get his first reviews in the art section of the New York Times.
Even when one of the three paintings would fetch them more money than they could dream of. Even when she would tell him she was pregnant and other fathers-to-be would have been ready to paint a clear picture on the blank canvas of their minds of what their child would look like.
Even then, and forever after, he was content to stare at blank canvases, at her flat stomach, and enjoy beginnings as much as he did endings.

Song of the day: Sheryl Crow & Kid Rock - Picture

Stormy, with 0% Chance of Rain

Everyone came to help us move. Even Uncle Ansa whom I had not seen for a long time. I still remember the night you and he fought and you slammed the door at his exit. Mama had tried to calm you down but you had gone into your study and shut the door on her too.

I was supposed to be asleep but the argument woke me up. I came downstairs and cuddled up to Mama as she waited for the storm clouds to pass.

That was the way it was with you, Papa; stormy and cloudy, but with 0% chance of rain.

Mama says I have your temper, and your big heart. She always smiles when she says that. I smile too. 

I do not want to leave this house but Mama says we must. It is strange how it is the things that give me comfort that keep her awake at night. I heard her talking to Uncle Azu last month, when she told him about us moving to Nigeria.

"Every time the door shuts in this house Azu, I imagine it is Ifeanyi in one of his moods again. Everywhere I turn, I see him; his smile, his dance, the bushy eyebrows he would never let me shape, his glasses, his brandy... Every sound I hear, I imagine it is a harbinger to his laughter, his terrible singing... Every man in uniform I see, I want to run to. I want to ask him if he has seen my Ifeanyi, if he can tell me where to find him. I can't get away from his memories Azu, not in this house, not in this country. And I need to. I need to for my sanity."

I listened to their conversation and cried. I went to the study and found the book you had been reading. It was a book of poems. Your place mark was on W.B Yeat's "An Irish airman foresees his death".

We don't have much to pack but it takes hours for us to be done anyway. Mama told me the other day that our things will be sent to Nigeria on a ship, just like the ones you spent most of your life on, just like the one you died on.

"Why can't we send it by air" I asked her. "What if something happens to this ship too?"

She had burst into tears at my questions. It was just the two of us at home that day so I counted my toes a thousand times and let her cry.

We will spend a month in Uncle Azu's house and then it is off to Lagos where Mama has family that can help her 'cope'.

She sold most of the books but let me keep the one with the poems.

They tell us, you died serving your nation but didn't you always say you were Nigerian at heart?

They tell us we should be proud and hold our heads up high but they forget sadness weighs heavy.

They tell us you were one of the best sailors the Navy ever had but what does that matter to a 12 year old boy who loves planes and needs a father? Or to his widow who will never again sleep in her husband's arms?

I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above.

My father met his fate somewhere among the seas below. Does that make it less worth it?

"Maybe someday you will join the Navy too, son and make your father proud," One of the men in uniform said to me as he shook my hand, on the day that we buried you.

"I think I’d rather be an airman." I informed the man.

"Whatever you are, this country will be honored to have you."

I miss you every day, Papa, and when the storm clouds gather and the rains start to fall, missing you gets harder. It makes me miss the storm clouds with 0% chance of rain.

I will be an airman so I can stay close to those clouds.

In balance with this life, this death

Song of the day: Fergie - Finally

It Rains When You Dance

So this one is for Mr Kiah. 

For you my darling, a thousand times over...


When I walk into the room, she is still writing. Sheets of paper lie forsaken all around her chair. The waste basket is brimming with even more scrunched up balls of paper. I wonder about the trees they came from. If there ever was a house deserving to be haunted by the ghosts of trees, it is this one. 

My wife is a writer. 
She prefers to be a writer the old fashioned way. 
This translates into weekend shopping lists with requests for pens, pencils and of course, more dead trees.

I can tell things are going better. The unruly curls that had previously formed a halo around her head are now tucked behind her ears. She isn't nibbling on pencils and pens like she was when I checked in a couple of hours ago. Her head is cocked to one side and her lips are moving silently. She does that sometimes; reading aloud to herself to see if the words fit.

Behind her, the sun is out and the rain clouds have moved house to some other part of the world. I can hear the sounds of children coming out of houses that can no longer contain their excitement. It is the first rain of the year. There will be little ponds on the road to explore and splash in.

She taught me to dance in the rain, to move in sync with the rhythm of the earth, to open my mouth and drink from heaven, to break the rules, to be more than the world expects of me.

It will break her heart to know it rained while she stayed in this room and put more trees to death.

"Has it stopped raining?" She says to me. There is a half smile on her face. She has caught me longing for another dance.

"You knew it was raining?" I ask her in return.

"I always know when it is raining."

She sighs and stands to stretch her tired body.

"Come, come, let's dance." She beckons to me with hands stained with blue ink.

"It isn't raining." I say matter of factly.

"Do you  dance when it rains or does it rain when you dance?" She asks winking at me.

I glance outside the window and it is darker than it was a little while ago.

I hear the screams of the children as they seek shelter inside the houses they had been set free from only a few minutes back.

I walk to my wife and hold her in my arms and we dance to the rhythm of the rain.

"Is it a good story?" I whisper.

"Who knows?" She answers.

I breathe in deeply and am overwhelmed by the scent of all that is right with the world- of trees, of paper, of ink, of rain, of someone who is as in love with me as I am with her...

We dance and it rains.

Song of the Day: Elton  John - Can You Feel the Love tonight

Liam's Lilies

Dear Blog world, you have no right to judge me for my absence  You all haven't done diddly squat yourselves so pluck the plank form your own eye and other stories...

Hello everyone! Clears the might cobwebs in this space. Happy happy August. My birthday came and went-it was such fun. I can never get enough of NYC in the summer. 

This story; i began an hour ago so forgive me for the many mistakes it will have. 

I do not support cheating or being unfaithful. There is no such thing as eating different soups. If you want to continue to eat different soups, please don't go before God and commit to someone. I am just saying. May God give us grace.

As much as I dont support being unfaithful, I also know that we have all been unfaithful to God; like an adulterous partner, seeking peace in the arms of gods and idols that profit nothing. Yet He takes us back again and again. So before you give up on that marriage, go to God and ask Him what He would have you do. The tabloids, celebrities, pastors, WSJ; they do not have the answers. Only God does.

Ok that's my 5 minute sermon. Enjoy the story darlings..

BTW, i want a destination wedding; where are all the money bags on blogger? Come and contribute to my dream... I will write you stories for the rest of your life (hopefully you are like 70/80 and you don't have much longer-am just saying):)



The day she decided to leave was the day he sent home roses.They were a bright red and fit right in with her kitchen decor. They were beautiful and smelled really nice.

But she was a lilies' girl and he knew that. He had always known that. He had not sent her flowers of any kind in a while. And now he sent roses.

She had not even looked at the note that had come with the flowers. She had just started packing her things and Liams'.

There was no where for her to go. Her family would never take her; her father's political ambition could not afford the disgrace of a separation or divorce. She had alienated all of her friends since she had Liam. Motherhood was tough on friendships, especially when your friends were single and spent their nights at the bars while you stayed up late with a teething child. There was no one to run to, no where for her to go.

Lola.

The best friend she had walked out of her house a few months back because she brought news of her husband's philandering.

Lola who had always been her rock, her safety, the one who always stood up for her when she was a shy girl in boarding school and easy prey to mean seniors, the one who kept her company when her influential parents flew all around the world and left her all by herself with just the help for company, the one who was always there no matter what....

Lola

Maybe Lola could forgive her and take her and Liam in while she made up her mind on what next. LOla loved Liam as if he were hers so Kunbi knew that her son would not be a problem.  Lola would console her, empathize with her and maybe even kick Charles' ass if Kunbi asked her to. She would also probably remind her of how she had warned her not to get married to Charles in the first place because she had a bad feeling about it. Lola and her feelings. 

They had not spoken since that day when Lola told her about Charles' affair. Maybe it was because it came out from the mouth of someone so dear to her. Maybe it was because Kunbi could not stand the fact that the shame and secret that she thought was so well hidden was known to others.  Maybe it was the way Lola told it. With a finality. As if there was no changing it.

"Charles is in love with another woman. It is really serious." 

There had been tears in her friend's eyes as she said those words. It was almost like Kunbi's pain was hers.  

Many times since then, Kunbi had started to call her friend but pride would set in. Pride and something else she had no name for. To let Lola back into her life would mean letting truth in, a truth that she was not ready for. 

She picked up her phone and started to dial the familiar number. Truth was here to stay.

"You are all packed, I see."

She had not heard him drive in so his voice startled her and she dropped the phone. There were tears in his eyes and in that moment he looked so much like the 2 year old that slept on innocently in the next room. 

"I am sorry." He said, the tears choking him from saying any more.

She waited for him to say the florist had mixed up his order with someone else's. She waited for him to tell her the perfume she smelled on him many times meant nothing. She waited for him to make it alright again.

He lifted his left hand to his mouth as if trying to see if he could bring the words out that way. He was wearing the ring she had put on it 3 years ago. She wondered if he took it off when he held the woman. She wondered if it shone in the dark when they made love. She wondered if it made any difference.

"Please don't leave me, Kunbi. Please don't take away my son. Please Kunbi. Please... I swear to you the roses were to end it. It is over. I promise you Kunbi, it is over!"

She said nothing. He continued to cry. They stayed that way for what seemed like forever.

Liam should be waking soon. He would want his sipping cup. He had taken to that thing like he had never taken to her breast. She remembered the many months she had spent trying to get him to breastfeed. How could a child survive without breast milk? How could he turn his head away from the nourishment his mother offered him and seek something else? How could he be so stubborn even as a baby? How could he deprive her of the opportunity to nurture him with the only thing that was only her could give him?

Her mother-in-law had laughed when she complained.

"Let the child be. Breastfeeding is just one of the many ways you are a mother to him. Spend your energy in the other ways that life will afford you both."

It was growing dark outside. She didn't want Liam waking up in the dark. She needed to be the light in his darkness. She needed to be his mother in other ways.

"Did you throw the roses out?" She finally said to the man.

"Yes, yes. I did" He stuttered and Kunbi could see hope returning to his face. She smiled to think of the innocent boy that had stuttered his way through the crowd to ask her to dance back in college.

She needed to be his girl as much as she needed to be Liam's mother. 

And so she opened her arms and let him run into them. She let him cry and soak her blouse. She let him seek absolution between her breasts. When he took her nipple in his mouth, she closed her eyes and let her spirit nurture their love back to health. When he reached his release and called her name over and over again, she cradled him in her arms and sang him to sleep. 

Liam would sleep through the night too; father and son leaving her to contemplate why the note on the roses in the bin said "For Lola. Goodbye."

Lola always loved roses. 

Song of the day: Seal - Kiss from a Rose

Smoothies and Mendings

It was a really short walk.

Not long enough for a fight. But just about right for him to say something off and for her 

to let go of his hand and remember the reason she had left him in the first place. More than enough time for the cold of the streets to find its way back into their hearts.

By some tacit agreement, they kept on walking to their destination even though their 

appetites had disappeared. They had made it far enough that it made no sense to walk back home without the food they set out for in the first place.

"What will your order be today, sir?"

"Two servings of Fish and chips to go please," He answered the man taking their orders. 

The server's nose was red from all the cold and he was ready for his shift to be over so he could go home and cuddle with his wife. He envied the young couple standing in front of him. He wished he could spend more time with his wife. She was always complaining about his late hours. Yesterday they had fought and this morning he had left the house without kissing her goodbye. He would give anything to trade places with this young couple and see his wife smile that smile that she reserved only for him.

"I don't want chips," the girl suddenly interjected.

Dele looked at her for the first time since she let go of his hand. There was a sadness in her eyes that only he could have put there and his heart broke all over again. It was a mistake, he wanted to say, one that he was determined to spend the rest of his life making up for, if only she would have him. 

Instead he asked "Why don't you want chips, Ada?" 

"I just don't," she said, her stubborn chin sticking out in defiance, daring him to question her.

"Alrighty then. Two fish and one chips coming up," the server said, suddenly in a hurry to get away from this lover's quarrel. It reminded him too much of his own problems. He had not taken two steps when he heard the man 

call out.

"And one strawberry smoothie!" 

There was no way they could hold hands on their walk back to their apartment; their hands were occupied with bags of food. 

"You don't like strawberries" she said as they neared home.

"But you do." He replied.

"I didn't ask for it."

"No, you didn't but its yours for as long as you want it."

"What if I don't want it, Dele? What if I am not ready for it?"

"Then it will wait till you are. So long as you don't give up on it totally."

She held onto the bags while he fetched the keys.

When daylight returned, it would find the bags intact, fish and chips going sour, a smoothie that had gone flat, clothes strewn everywhere and love returned to its rightful place.

Song of the day: Cece Winans - Mercy Said No