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Every time I have writers block I have the urge to close down QD. I feel she has become useless and is no longer doing the job that she once did in my life, but I snap out of it usually.
It’s been a tough few weeks, with the stress of exams, broken friendships and the loss of loved ones taking its toll on me I am honesty tired. I feel a little weaker than I’ve ever been, a little less able to control my emotions, a little more than upset but I have this (what I believe to be) inherited gene from my mother that allows me to plough through it all, sticking a smile on my face and getting by.
The Art Of Getting By, a great movie if you haven’t watched it, directed by Gavin Wiesen. To be honest, I am starting this post with nothing I want to talk about, I feel that any subject I delve into will only expose any raw emotion I am currently experiencing which may cloud my judgment and/or perspective on any issue. I’ve been reflecting on the year so far, from the heartbreak of January to the new love of August, it’s funny how many people you promise the world to, how many people you say I love you to someone whether you mean it or not, the number of people you envision your future with, yet here you are, promising and saying all these things to another person. If you do not break away from the habit of dreaming of the future whilst living in the present you will end up like me, unable to forgive myself for letting myself down. It is important to live in the present in your relationship, it is nice to dream or want or wish for those amazing treasures of the future but what if it doesn’t work out? It upsets to me to hear people, especially young girls, talk about the guy they are with being the only one for them, or having an obsessive way of handling their relationships, struggling to keep the guy by any means necessary because they “love” him.
You don’t NEED anyone.
You don’t need to search for “the right” guy.
If you search you will not find. It’s that simple.
I describe the realization of what or who you are as ‘fat belly-ism’.
Fat belly-ism – [Fah-t-bel-e-iz-m] the point at which you realize that you actually have a fat belly and decide that this is what it is. Once you come to terms with the fact you have a fat belly, there are only two options you can choose from; the first, you can ignore the fat belly and leave it till it becomes a ginormous belly, or you can work at getting a toned bikini bod. The same principle can be applied to ones self-actualization process, once you see yourself as the strong independent man or woman that you are you can either work hard at remaining this person whilst thriving to be better or you can coast, be happy in your spot, chill, not worry about that fact that China is about to send 30 odd men and women that are probably smarter than you to take your place in whatever position you hold, whether it’s at work, a school or at home.
This is a major problem in Nigeria; most people have this fat belly disease (literally too, why does no-one look after their bodies in this country!), everyone is happy to live at average. “I’m making a decent salary, I’m good”, “I’m in the top set, I’m doing okay” etc., why is it okay to be “okay”? Does no-one want to be at the top of the game anymore or are we letting our fat bellies grow?
There is something special about people who aim for above average, and something so different about those that aim for higher than that. It is the weight of your fat belly that will not let you live the luxurious life you imagine, the cars, the clothes, the homes you wish for will never come to pass because your belly is just to fat.
All it takes is for you to strip, look in the mirror at your belly and decide there and then that this doesn’t cut it. Fat belly-ism is a positive thing and should be used to benefit yourself.
Once you realize who you are and what you stand for, then you know that it’s okay to be yourself and to build and mend relationships around you. You just need to get rid of that fat belly.
Big booty-ism. On to something completely unrelated, I just noticed a peculiar thing about many Nigerian women that I had to write about. Maybe it’s just my eyes, maybe I’m secretly into big booty (if I was a guy though, I don’t think I’d be an ass man) or maybe there is a stage that many Nigerian women pass through in which there has been a time delay between their body an their bums and so they seem to be carrying two extra humans on each butt cheek, causing their bum to swing one way whilst they move in the opposite direction therefore blocking the isle so that my trolley full of stuff can not get pass them till we reach the end of the aisle, which seriously pisses me off.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just weird.
I have taken time to write. This time, oddly enough, it has been hard.
I feel sort of lost, lonely, biding time till I can confidently express my thoughts.
My fingers are itching to type but my thoughts are still.
I can feel the urge within to write my emotions out, but everything in me seems lifeless.
I guess that’s how a break-up is supposed to feel.
Whatever the reason may be.
But, I have no one to talk to. The people I would are the last people I want to, so I walk around like there’s joy in my steps but I’m hollow.
Hollow. The words I want to spill on to the page are noiseless echoes within me.
It makes me sick. The needy helplessness, the unwanted pity, the reminiscing, the daydreams, the denial, the hate, the love, the stillness, the nothingness, the fact that as much as it bothers me I don’t feel any of it.
But this feels different.
I don’t know what to make of it.
It’s the pathetic feeling of helplessness and hopelessness that aches in my bones
It’s the loss of a bond, the loss of a friendship that had been molded and shaped with words and actions from the within.
The loss of a lover, the loss of a friend…
I would like to address a current problem that I feel is beginning to creep into the youth culture as something acceptable, as a norm even.
The thing I love about Nigeria, especially during this world cup season is that although we all knew we were not going to get very far we were very patriotic. We hate our country but we love it at the same time. It doesn’t matter if we haven’t been there in 10 odd years, as long as your full name and/or surname is difficult to pronounce and of Nigerian origin then you support your country because those are where your roots are set. Your roots are very important in the way that you interact with people and behave, if your roots are set in the sewers you will be full of shit.
The issue I have identified comes from the fact that many people have set their roots in the sewers, spouting shit from every hole in their body at every given opportunity. No one has any respect anymore. Respect for personal space? None. Respect for privacy? None. Respect for your relationships? Absolutely none. Nobody cares whether you’re in a relationship anymore, according to everyone else it doesn’t matter. This really confuses me because I’m sure that most people also believes the notion that “if you can cheat with me, then you can cheat on me”, so why on Earth do guys (yes, you guys) think it is acceptable to say shit like “don’t worry it’d be low-key”, or “it doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend”.
To be fair on the men, some of you snaky-ass females would lead a guy on, only to tell him you have a boyfriend when his trouser snake is digging into your thigh, boxers wrapped around his ankles and his breaths are heavy across your neck. You are she-devils. Apart from these unruly demons, most guys just think it doesn’t matter. Let me tell you now, it does. It does to me, it does to the female friends I have, and if you find yourself curled up on the floor with one ball looking a bit flaccid then that is nobody’s fault but yours.
It really pisses me off when guys underestimate the will power of women too, and truth is we do not make it easier for ourselves. How can a man you have just told to leave you alone, that you have a man already tell you some sewer shit like “don’t worry I can change that”, am I a dickhead? Am I a dumbass? You think you can just flick your fingers around a little and it’s all over, if it works for you, allow me burst that ego of yours, it is because she allowed it work. It makes me angrier than Uzo Aduba’s character Suzanne ‘Crazy Eyes’ in the series ‘Orange is the new Black’ with all that head banging you’d think I would have lost all my brain cells by now.
Uproot yourself and set your roots in good soil that will ensure you don’t end up with a flaccid ball. The anger I used to write this post is slowly dying out so I will stop here.
Women, take control of your body, if you can’t not cheat do not be in a relationship, save everyone the stress and save me the blistering fingertips from typing with so much frustration. Men, shut the hell up and find a single woman before you lose your chances of reproduction.
hey guys! It’s been a really long time since I’ve posted anything due to exams and shit, it’s been a very stressful break but I’m so glad to be back. I’ve really missed writing, can’t wait to get everyone up to speed on all that sucks and is wonderful about life. So I dabbled in a little bit of creative writing (check out my piece Owaseme on africaisdonesuffering.com) and I got inspired to do more, it’s based on the idea of growth and changes, I hope you like it x As a child I would watch my brother run around the garden with his friends, picking up pieces of gold near the assembly of palm oil trees from the grounds surrounding the castle I called home. The aim of the game was to pick as many lumps of gold as you can until there was none left on the garden floor. The person with the most would be crowned prince, of course, my brother had to be prince. Watching him closely at the starting line, demarcated by the palm oil seedling, you could see his quadriceps strengthen as he stabilizes his legs, his hands tucked into a clenched fist, his shoulders pulled back to give him room to take in the last breath. As he does so a little bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face, his eyes locked on the first mound of gold bits he could see, he does not weigh up his competition, seeing who he can take out first, instead his eyes were on the prize and he was going to get it. I would get so lost in the fixation in his eyes, the whistle blower would startle me and every time I would miss the push off, by the time I realize what’s going on, my brother would already have a full sack and run around beaming from ear to ear at his victory before the game was over. My mother would have prepared her usual Sunday evening snacks for the boys before they come in from playing games. I would risk being smacked for a handful of chin-chin or a corn-beef sandwich, although I knew I would get caught, I would do it anyway because I knew my brother will save me some and give them to me as we sat outside on the steps leading up to our castle, watching the starry night and luminous moon reflect off the leaves of the palm oil seedlings whilst he told me stories of how big the seedlings will grow, just like I would. I stood by the gates of our castle low-spirited as I waited for my brother to come out carrying a large suitcase that meant we would be apart for a very long time. I couldn’t turn around to look at him as he walked down the hall in front of our parents, I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face, the features so similar to mine, look so sad and scared as he walked closer to the car parked outside waiting for him. I could hear his footsteps get closer and closer, the stride I admired, so confident and animated, was now lethargic and spiritless. My brother would walk with energy, his footsteps would be melodic, making a beat to dance to, but this time, they were dissonant. They suddenly stopped, and I was brought out of my thoughts by movement beside me. My brother knelt beside me, we did not look at each other, but he took my hand and gave it a tight squeeze before speaking. He said, “Look at the palm oil saplings, look how tall they have grown, just like you. When I return they would be mature, just like you, a bright intelligent mature young woman. Always remember that.” He got up, kissed my forehead and murmured something incomprehensible, then walked to the car. As he got in, he caught my eye and smiled the smile of the brother I loved, that enjoyed running around with his friends and talking about the palm oil trees that decorated our castle, the one we called home. It was the season in which the gold mounds would pile up under the palm oil trees. I would let them become mountains before clearing them up as mother instructed, that was my brother’s favorite job. He would take his time picking up each piece, rolling them around in his palm before placing them in the bag mother would have sent him out with, then tie the bag and place it by the firewood that lay at the far end of our castle, close to fathers shed. I will sit quietly by the steps, knowing that in a few moments my brother would come running round the corner to catch me with his oily palms, and I would shriek and laugh as he grabbed me and covered me in oil. Today, my brother would not be running round that corner. He had said he would return when the saplings had matured, but now they were almost as tall as the castle, providing enough shade for mother and I when we did the washing. The trees were almost twice my height now, the childish chest I once had was now the home of two rather large lumps my friend Deji had once called jugs from which milk would one day flow from, my body has changed, I am still slim but my thighs are wider and my backside sticks out like a sore thumb, I kept my hair virgin like my mothers and so it is full, untamable but long and healthy, I look more and more like my brother everyday. He still has not returned but I pray for him every night. It is almost my turn to leave home. It is almost time to leave my castle behind. It is almost time to be given away to a man that vows to love and cherish me forever. It is almost time. As I sit in the main parlor waiting for my father to come in and take me by the arm, I peer into the mirror, looking at the bright intelligent mature young woman that I have become, paying my way through university, earning my degree, getting a well paying job, getting married to the only other person I feel completely at one with and I’m carrying a little secret beneath my beautiful dress. A knock on the door brings me to reality, familiar steps walk through the door, I almost feel the urge to dance to the steps that walked down the hall, such melody, such charisma, and the striking similarity to the footsteps of my brother was bittersweet. He had left us for so long, with no word on his whereabouts, my father had already recognized me as his only child, I had given up hope of being reunited with my brother, but the voice that spoke made the hairs on my skin stand erect, “you’re just as beautiful as the palm oil trees that stand so majestically in the garden of our castle, you have grown up to be the woman I had always envisioned. Your dress is speckled with real gold, not the palm kernels we played with, they shine just as beautifully as you do amongst everyone here today, I can not explain to you how proud I am to be your brother.” The tall man I am staring at, whose eyes, nose and lips are almost identical to mine, who had grown a thick beard, who wore a well cut suit made from fine material, who’s smile resembles my mothers and stature of my father, was my brother.
The problem with being a young adult is that we tend to feel too much, it’s all about the emotion, the feelings, what’s going on inside.
To me, love is a strong emotional bonding felt between two people, it’s a kind of magnetic attraction that just makes you feel you should be stood by that man, being his wingman (woman) 24/7 through thick and thin, but the issue with that is sometimes we get confused between love and lust. It is that same hypothetical magnetic attraction that causes you to want to get that girl alone all for yourself. You don’t want anyone else having her (him), you want her (him) as yours to do with, as you want and when you want, but that’s also how you feel when you love someone too. It’s difficult to decipher and so you end up telling that guy you love him when really you just want to feel what he’s got under those jeans. And you wouldn’t even notice. You put all these feelings you’re having together and decide it’s love, and after a little while you find that the feelings you thought you had begin to fade and you’re wondering how that could be, love doesn’t fade that quickly does it? You’ve already been into her panties, you’ve rolled around on his bed, you’ve made-out for as long as you could, you’ve talked about things that you want to do, you’ve also said you love her, you’ve blushed at his every word, you’ve behaved like a love-sick child but it’s going away now. Why?
It’s gone now. Your body has been satisfied, maybe your mind hasn’t, you’re in a state of confusion and you start playing up, you can’t focus, you can’t seem to understand why things are happening like this and it’s making you angry, all that emotional investment just to satisfy your bodily needs.
Why weren’t you satisfied with the guy you regularly see to satisfy yourself?
Why did you need to invest emotion into this one, all for it to fade because it was just lust?
I know, it’s weird, I don’t have the answer this time guys. I actually don’t know, and I wish someone would explain it to me. It’s something I’d never get my head around. Lust in disguise as love, how do you figure it out?
Hey guys, it’s been a while hasn’t it. Well, I’ve been stuck in Nigeria and haven’t had much time to write since I have been working super hard on revision for my exams coming up. Today I just felt the need to.
Sometimes I wish nobody knew my name. Sometimes I wish that I could do whatever I wanted and nobody would even bat an eyelid my way. Sometimes I just want to be invisible to the world. On the occasion I get a question like, “if you had a super power, what would it be?” I always answer with having an invisibility coat and/or teleportation. The thing is I probably won’t do anything exciting with my invincibility coat. Code named, “Invisi-Girl”, I won’t rob a bank, because I have a guilty conscience that I can never get rid of, I won’t mess with unsuspecting random people because I’d feel terrible afterwards and I definitely won’t do anything as adventurous as get on a plane and travel to anywhere I want to go, because I probably won’t have a seat and I get really air-sick. So, I would probably sit in a lonely corner by myself somewhere busy, where I can people-watch all day because that’s what I like to do. I like to imagine everyone else’s life, are they happy? Are they sad? Is she a psychopath or a sociopath? Is he a lying, cheating, walking whorehouse? I wonder what their kink is? How different are they from me? Every one of these people is so different, yet so similar to each other, but we all think we are so different from each other. We are all looking for a “uniqueness” that isn’t really there. We want to look different, talk different, act different, be different, but the truth is your difference doesn’t really make you different it just makes you a part of the different group. Because of this want to be different, nobody seems to be himself or herself anymore, but there are some people who can claim to not want to be different, they are different in this way.
To be honest, I don’t think anyone is really himself or herself. Most people don’t even know who they are deep within them. They have too many faces, too many personalities; they have lost who they really are. I have lost who I really am. I don’t know which face is the real me. So I reinvent, and I reinvent again till I am comfortable in this face. A face that represents the kind of person that I want to be, the kind that I feel I should be and living in that face makes me behave in that way. It is, however, necessary to change faces, you can’t be emotional, and open to everyone, sometimes you just have to be that stonehearted witch because it fits the situation. The issue is having too many faces because you forget which one you really are.
I wish people would stop being so overdramatic about the issue of everyone wanting to be different, but really aren’t different because they all want to do it. Be different, dye your hair, get rings in half of your face, plastic surgery, cut your hair, dress like a gypsy, do what you want to do a long as that is the face you choose and you are comfortable in that face alone without too many other faces that would allow you lose touch with the you, you want to be.