The Squaaa’

“I hate that it had to end like this.”
I hate when I put in 100% and you only put in 10.
I hate that it took you 10 months to figure my pain.
I hate that you have to sit and bitch and regret but dismiss the thought like it was nothing at all.
I hate how one-sided you think.
How you strive to be so open-minded but yet you are so closed.

I hate that I drink to wash away my pain,
That drink that leads me to meaningless kisses from strangers
I hate when I try to do what’s right,
Then get shot down by the one that did me right.
How dare you call me a cheat?
How can you say that I would hurt you so easily?
Remember that you did the same to me.

Running back to their ex’s when things go wrong or because of nothing at all.
So, where is she now?
Where is she now?

The company you keep make you.
When you’re surrounded by hungry nude lovers who-ain’t-gettin-no-pussy
And a flock of idiots
It’s a wonder you are not the same,
Alas, as I have found,
You are.

I hate that you’re a pussy
Make your own decisions, speak up, think on you own two feet and stand your ground, that’d make you man.

I hate that your pain gives me joy,
Like karma has run her race and caught up fast.
I hate that even after all of this
I cannot hate you.

I love that at 12.08am there is an overflow of emotion overcoming me as I lie in bed, listening to my boyfriend’s soft snores over Skype and watching the features of his face relax into a deep slumber…

The twelve-year-old bride

Hey guys. This is a story i’ve been working on and reworking virtually all summer but for some strange and rather upsetting reason I cannot get it right. It doesn’t feel perfect or finished, like there is something missing but i’m tired of looking and attempting to rework it so here I go.

Just look at him. Look at the way he stands scanning the crowd before him with those dark squinted eyes that tell the most terrifying stories, but are still able to capture the attention of every living soul in the room. They bore deep into you like he is able to read your thoughts and uncover your deepest, darkest secrets, yet there is light; a glimmer, that draws you in, that makes you feel safe and at home with him, that makes you open up to him willingly. His dark skin has aged badly; the wrinkles on his face seem to move as he concentrates on finding what he is looking for. He has a gash on both cheeks that identify him as a Yoruba native; the thick vertical lines run down the sides of his nose to his mouth, they may frighten a young child but he has a smile that can win even the most hostile people over. There is something I love about the way he can seduce anyone into loving him, but I hated that he had chosen me, I was a strong girl and such a man will not seduce me.

I was only twelve. Baba had died when I was very young, leaving Mama and I with nothing. We lived on the streets, we slept where we could, and ate when we had gathered enough money to share a loaf of bread. Some days we were lucky and the nice men and women in their flashy cars would give mama more money than usual, we would buy some bread and stew and a piece of chicken which mama will save for a rainy day. Life was difficult, difficult beyond explanation, but we were able to see the next day and that made us grateful.
Mama had been in touch with Baba’s relatives after he died, they came to take Baba away but they refused to help us, they blamed Mama for Baba’s death, claiming she could not take care of him and was an unsuitable wife because she was too young and had only produced a female child for him, they chased us out of their house, hurling terrible names at us. Mama became a different person that day, she became what Yoruba people call “oloju kokoro”, all she wanted was wealth and she would stop at nothing to get it, even if it meant selling her only child off to get married to a wealthy sixty-seven year old man, as his ninth wife, at the age of twelve.

‘The twelve-year-old bride”, that’s what they called me in the newspapers. Mama was pleased, the happiness in her eyes could not be hidden, her frown lines had disappeared, her eyebrows were raised high in amusement, her loose skin folded at her temples as her cheeks rose and mouth revealed two rows of brown stained teeth, pure joy. Finally, she was living her dream vicariously through me, I was in the spotlight, soon I would be wealthy, soon I would be dressed from head to toe in the most expensive, beautiful clothes I had ever seen, but, I didn’t want any of it.
His ways are traditional, women are not to speak unless spoken to, women are to remain in their quarters unless called for, we would take it in turns to sleep by him unless told otherwise, we are his queens and he is our king, we must obey him.

At the front of the crowd, separated from the rest, sat nine women, they sat in descending order, from the oldest to the youngest. All except the youngest had experienced the joining of a new wife to the family. The eldest wife, Abike, was the kindest of the lot, she welcomed me like a sister the day I arrived, she showed me around the grounds, helped me unpack what little items I had, she made me something to eat as I arrived very late and the kitchen staff had left for the day, she introduced me to the staff and the other wives, she braided my hair to prepare me for meeting the man that would soon be called my husband, she gave me advice and told me stories about her time as his only wife. This was a woman in love with a man that did not love her anymore because he was greedy, a woman that had endured the pain of seeing him bring home a new wife eight times already and was about to make it nine. She would die in a few months from now and she would leave her jewels in a box under my bed for me to find and keep.

He was an ugly man, he was too old, he could not speak proper English, he was a proud man and he was a jealous man. He would tell the guards never to look at me for more than a minute, he would not let me out of his sight unless it was time for me to bathe or sleep and even then a guard would remain outside my door, but during meetings with the council he would show me off, make me parade myself dressed with all sorts of embellishments in the courtyard. The councilmen would lose concentration at the sight of me. My iro was cut short so you could see as my waist beads danced to the swing of my small hips and was made tight to enhance my small twelve year old breasts, and my buba tied tightly around me ensuring my small curves and big backside was on full show, so that if I bent down only the strongest men could turn their heads away. My husband-to-be loved every minute of it; he will wickedly smile at his new trophy before shrieking vehemently at the councilmen to concentrate on the meeting or he would threaten their lives and that of their wives and children. He was a proud and evil man.

I had lived with him for five years now. Somehow he was convinced that it would not be right to marry me at such a tender age and he must wait till I was eighteen. So the date was set, and six months to this day I was to marry him.
The old man died, only two months after our wedding and my mother swiftly followed.Ọ̀kánjúwà baba àrùn. Greed is the worst illness

A year before, I met Akanni, the youngest member of the council. He would bring me gifts when he came, new waist beads in an array of colours, cowry shell jewelry, and my favorite, some delicious hot akara from my father’s town. He would be the man that would teach me to read and write, he would be the man that will encourage me to write a diary on my experiences with my future husband, on how he beat me when I refused him in my bed, on how he will make me parade myself barely clothed in front of his guests, how he would humiliate me and degrade me when he felt like, the emotional and physical pain I endured with him, I wrote it all down. Akanni will be the one I will fall madly in love with, he will be the one that will marry me after the old man dies and he will be the one that I will have my first child with.

Mọrírì

Appreciation in my mother tongue, Yoruba.

I believe there is a Chance the Rapper song for every emotion I feel and that’s what makes him one of my favorite rappers today. I feel ‘Wonderful Everyday’ and that’s what this post is about. I want to show appreciation to everyone who has made this blog a success, to everyone who has retweeted, to everyone who has clicked the links, to everyone who has read the posts, to everyone who has referred anyone to my blog, to anyone who has ever spoken about my blog, to everyone that has commented or messaged me with feedback, to all my guest writers, to anyone that has argued with me over any of my posts, and most importantly to those that have inspired me whether you know it or not, I thank you!
I am grateful for the joy I feel when I write. To me it’s like a release of whatever stress and emotional turmoil I may be experienced. It is my outlet, I don’t write particularly for people to read but it feels great to know people actually read my stuff and have a thing or two to say about it. It is difficult to remain passionate about writing I must admit, when everything seems bad or you have no words to write you lose hope that you may never write again, that you may never have anything to say, we call it writer’s block but I have come to understand that it isn’t “writer’s block”, it’s just me being scared to write how I really feel because of what people might think or who it might offend or whether or not I sound like a bitch or a slag or whatever I can think of in order to convince myself that I have ‘no words’ because those are words. I wish I didn’t self-defeat just as much as I wish I didn’t care so much about what other people think or feel, but I’m working on it.
I get inspiration from the people around me, my friends, my ex-friends, my family, my boyfriend, my ex-boyfriends, strangers I happen to follow on my TL, people I have random conversations with online and in person, the barista at Costa Coffee, the vendors in the streets of Lagos, I am inspired by these people and I wish I could thank every one of them but what good would that do, so I write about them and my experiences with them and what they have taught me because I feel I’m doing good by doing so.
It is hard to describe how this blog has helped me become the person I am today but I genuinely feel grateful for every person that has been involved no matter what kind of relationship I have with them presently, without them I won’t be me. This has been a wonderful journey so far and will continue to be.

Thank you!

I am very very lonely

Maybe it is writers block, I’m not entirely sure I just haven’t been ale to write for months now but I think it’s coming back to me because something just sparked within that urged me to open up my QD page and begin this post. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s a lot of stuff going on in my life currently, with the move to university, having to meet new people, self development, relationships and relationshits, self actualization and self esteem, or is simply writers block. Anyway, I’m here now so I might as well go on.
I’m going to kick it off with how I’m feeling this very day, at this very moment, September 15th at roughly 8’o’clock pm. I feel very very lonely, the type of loneliness Chance croons in the awesome song “I am very very lonely” currently playing loudly from my speakers. The kind of loneliness you feel in the midst of people, in the middle of the room at Sankeys in Manchester on Afrobeats nights, the kind of loneliness you shouldn’t feel in the most beautiful relationship with the most amazing person, with the most incredible friends and wonderful parents that always want to talk to you about whatever you’re thinking and would never judge you no matter what because they love you. That kind of loneliness. I don’t want to talk to anyone; I want to be alone yet I crave the love and tenderness that my boyfriend wraps warmly around me constantly. I want to go out with my friends, laugh, gist and cry with my best friends, both of which are not in the same country as I am so I can not physically do that. I want to get absolutely wasted but what would be the point. I will still end up in my room, feeling the same loneliness I felt when I left it.

“Shoulda had ya when I had ya, now I wish I got ya tonight”

Sometimes I feel like maybe I made the wrong choice in becoming who I am, but then I look at the people I left behind and I’m grateful I do not live such a reckless life anymore. I grew up. I quit the childish “games”, the dumb shit that I used to enjoy that may or may not have an impact on my future and I decided to grow up. Took me a while but now I wish to disassociate myself with people of that time and with people that will bring me down to their level, the level I have risen above. Yes, yes I am proud, I’m a proud motherfucker, but if I wasn’t I would succumb to the pressures that society, friends and even family will put on me which may have a negative impact. People seem so small and simple these days, I aspire to be around people that are above my level, which will only bring up to their level not people that will shoot me at my knees.
It isn’t about being proud though. Don’t go around judging and dropping people out of your life, I just speak from my experience.

“Loneliness is a complex and usually unpleasant emotional response to isolation or lack of companionship. Loneliness typically includes anxious feelings about a lack of connectedness or communality with other beings, both in the present and extending into the future. As such, loneliness can be felt even when surrounded by other people.” – Wikipedia
talk to someone, share your emotions, don’t keep things bottled in. Just remember that it’s alright, and it will be alright.

I remembered a quote that i had to search to get the exact words from one of my favourite books “My Sister’s Keeper” – “Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

Tose

With my little brother’s 15th birthday approaching quickly I feel I should dedicate this post to him specially.
My brother has been my best friend, the cerelac stealer, drink finisher, driver taker and my worst enemy in the 15 years of his life, but I honestly could not have asked for a better brother. Actually, that’s a lie, I could have asked for one that did not eat all the food in the fridge, but he has done a good job so far.
When I look at my kid brother now I honestly can’t help but let my mind wonder to the days when I could place my chin on his head, when I could steal his toys and watch him cry, when he didn’t sound like my dad, when he didn’t have girls flocking around him and when he had nowhere to go with the driver. My little brother is no longer little and as proud as I am of him today for the person he has turned in to, I worry a lot about him because at 15 I was something else. I now realize that I have to be a good role model, well, at least someone he can come to with any problems he may be having at anytime no matter what, whether it’s girls, drugs, money, faith or work. What I can’t believe is that I am only just realizing the importance of our sibling bond today!
Now my brother walks ahead of me on Oxford Street so as not to be seen with me, now he towers over me when I take his iPad or his phone, now there’s always some girl calling him on Skype, now my own friends tell me of my brothers antics, and all I can do is laugh it off because “he’s at that age” I tell myself. This is nothing new to people with younger siblings, you look at them and reminisce, you remember yourself at that age, how little you knew back then yet you thought you had it all figured out. I remember that I once went through that period in my life, so when I get angry at my brother I just think about how silly it would sound when he’s looking back on arguments when he’s my age.
I know I can be a difficult sibling, but I love my little brother with everything I’ve got and will defend him with everything I’ve got no matter what. We only really want the best for our siblings no matter how much we tease and bully them. I only hope to inspire my brother as he does inspire me. And with that I wish my favorite little rat a happy 15th b’day!

Skits IV

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.

 

unfinished

Fat Belly-ism

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.