On a more serious note

I am a christian.

These four words don't come easy. Oh its alright to say you're a christian, especially in passing. When you're asked if you're a christian or a muslim, its easy to answer, affirming the former and immediately move on to tell the guy you were just hooked up with, how you're 5ft 7", you're slim and chocolate complexioned, and your favourite colour is green; you may even proceed to tell him your shoe and bra sizes, your account number and even your atm pin; every little solicited and unsolicited detail is given in the excitement of the hour (Oh yea I'm talking to myself as well, I am 5ft 7" after all). And when we eventually find out that the person on the other end is christian as well...we breathe a sigh of relief (that's if you're like me who believes that a relationship thrives better when both partners have shared religious beliefs and of course the rest...attraction, understanding...etc).

Note: All this is before homeboy has even stated his intentions. For all you care, he might already be in a relationship.

But today isn't about relationships, how I went there, I don't even know. Today its about being a christian and what it means. To a lot of us, christianity is just a label. Its ok as long as much is not expected of us save for attending church every sunday, tweeting religious lines and updating our statuses with biblical quotes from time to time. Its cool as long as we are given free reign to run our lives the way we want, ignoring the guilt when we feel we have erred. Now that's the word that struck me, GUILT. From experience this has been a major challenge. As a young "soji" girl, how much free reign do I have as a christian especially in a world where we have ready-made accusing fingers ready to well....give you the finger? How much compromise can I make under the guise of "times have changed"? How far do I go in a relationship without warning bells ringing? How can I have the right proportion of christianity and "cool" at the same time? How much can I stay on the fence without being termed hypocritical?

And when I fall short of my expectations as a christian, I try to justify my actions, after all I'm not perfect...that's why there is such a thing as forgiveness, isn't it? Sometimes I ask myself, who even determines what is right or wrong? If it isn't spelt out in the bible as being wrong, surely it isn't then...right? RIGHT??!

Truth is, being a christian is much more than saying the words. Its a life, a work, a journey. It doesn't promise to be cupcakes and cookies, oh it sure has a lot of bumpy roads, but at the end of the day its worth it (you can quote me on this). I'm not saying that I have it all figured out, I have my own fair share of questions, doubts, and concerns, and even though I aim to be Christ-like, I am human and sometimes I stray, but like Paul I keep on pressing on to the prize of the high calling of God.

I'm not perfect. I'm a christian.

Womanhood

I looked up and saw the blade coming down.

Nne-anyi's brows were creased in concentration.

Sweat dripping from the folds on her forehead.

Down her cheeks they coursed.

On to her lips they went, as she licked on the salty water till I could see it no more.

Then I felt it.

On my knees.

Trickling down my thighs.

Goose pimples.

Traveling down my wide-spread legs.

The hair on my skin pricking.

Standing at attention.

"Mama", I called out in confusion, as she hushed me up.

What was going on?

Why was Nne-anyi, who was always so jovial, frowning so severely?

Why was I being held down?

Surely they knew I wasn't going anywhere.

I understood fully what was about to be done.

I had looked forward to my 16th birthday all my life.

And now it was time to be a woman.

To do right by my people.

Oh what pride I felt!

Why then the somber looks? I wondered in confusion.

And I noticed a movement ahead.

Nne-anyi was coming closer.

Blade in her right hand.

The closer she came; so did the blade.

Closer.

Closer they came; as I watched on.

Then I felt a nudge on my shoulders.

It was time, Mama whispered.

Time to go to that special place we had talked about.

Where the white light awaited me.

I had to look long and hard she had said, lest the white light faded off without performing the rites.

Cleansing me.

Ushering me into womanhood.

I smiled with understanding.

I had prepared for this all my life.

I stared into space.

Looking without really seeing anything.

And then I saw it.

The white light.

It was brighter than Mama had described.

I concentrated like my life depended on it.

Beckoning it closer.

Reaching for it.

Finally I touched it.

It engulfed me and I welcomed it with open arms.

Lost myself in it.

Finally I was being cleansed.

What joy I felt!

The corners of my mouth curling up into a smile.

UNTIL I felt it.

The pain.

So unexpected.

Snapping me out of my revere.

The pain.

OH THE PAIN.

Sharp.

Continuous.

I searched for Mama but my vision was blurred.

I tried to scream but the sounds never made it past my tightened throat.

The silent noise, deafening.

Ringing in my ears.

My face awash with tears.

My head banging, about to explode.

OH THE PAIN.

I couldn't take it anymore.

The pain.

So this was how it felt.

Loosing one's life.

And just when I was sure I had given up to join my ancestors in the great beyond;
It was all over.

No more could I feel hands peeling on my womanhood.

All that lingered was the soreness in my groin.

The blood stains on my thighs.

The glistening sweat on my skin.

Where was the light Mama had promised would give me peace?

Where was it?

I closed my eyes and concentrated really hard.

Hoping for some reprieve.

But all I could see was Darkness.

Darkness so bright; It was almost blinding.

Mama had failed to tell me this part.

That the light will leave, to be replaced by a great void.

Mama didn't tell me about the void.

Mama had lied.



x x x

This post was inspired by a lecture I heard on female genital mutilation last week. It came as a surprise to learn how rampart female circumcision still was, in a seemingly developing country like Nigeria. Did they know the implications, I wondered? My heart went out to the victims as I pictured the scars, imagined the terrifying labour they were sure to have, some losing their lives in the process. How about infections? HIV and AIDS from unsterilized blades. It sickened my heart. And so I thought to share this. Make my stand known in however small a forum like a blog might present.

My name is Tomiwa Oladele. And I stand against female genital mutilation.

Dear Diary

Dear Dairy,

Its barely 1pm and already so much has happened. I've been to Maryland and back during which I was saved from being swindled or whatever that vile fat smelly pig and his fake "Camerounian" partner had in store for me; I endured an endless conversation a cab man was bent on having with me much to my chagrin; I was given directions to the "Traditional Indus Power Temple"; and was exposed to show of a conductors behind thanks to his "ARSEnal" boxers which rode low on his hips.

Within this period I had also gone for an interview which looks positive and met a brilliant young lady I could learn a thing or two from. Now as I sit putting my morning experience to writing on my blackberry,a cold can of Malta Guinness in hand, I have a myriad of expressions on my face, as my sister has pointed out. I'd tell you what I told her, the tale of an eventful morning.

The morning began with family devotion, after which I showered and got prepared for my interview. You know what that means, 30 solid minutes in front of the mirror, preening and prepping, styling and combing (I have my natural hair on so it takes extra time), and putting on my make-up which was basically, blue eyeliner for my upper eyelid, black for the lower, Iman powder and a swipe of red lipstick. Sprayed on my Burberry Beat and as an after thought my sister's CK 212 Sexy which was staring longingly at me on the bedside table. I looked at the final result in the mirror and was content with my reflection. A beautiful, confident and well put together young lady stared back at me wearing a cream lace blouse tucked into a black and white polka dotted skirt and black ballet pumps. Yes I was ready to face my day. I walked to the bustop and after flagging down 2 taxis, I finally settled for one (the cheapest one of course). The time was 8:30am and by my calculation I was to reach my destination in record time, traffic and all. And so the story begins with "Alhaji Talkalot" as I termed him in my head. Heavily tribal marked with what sounded like an Oyo accent. The dude just dey yarn sha. First it was about the bad road, then the government, then the police. Bros just dey yarn dey go...I taya!

Got to my destination at about 9:30...and I must confess, there was a little praise and worship going on in my head. I was ushered into the waiting room and after about 30mins...I met my interviewer. The first thing that caught my eye was her smile. Brief but genuine. She was pleasant too, even though she put me on the spot a coupla times....but hey, what's an interview without those moments. The whole session went well enough and all protocols observed it was time to go home. I had to get out of the estate to be able to take a cab or a bus as was the plan from the get go, since the journey back home was pretty straight forward.

It was then that I heard a guy calling for "Oshodi" which was where I was headed to from what looked like a neighborhood cab. It looked safe enough so against my better judgment I boarded the cab. About 10mins into the drive, the passenger at the back seat signaled his wish to alight from the cab. When it was time to pay the cab fare, he paid in dollars. At that point warning bells started ringing in my ears. The cab man called his attention to the fact that he was given dollars instead of the regular "N50" only for the guy who had previously been speaking normally to start talking incomprehensibly...forming Camerounian. By now, the warning bells were playing a loud symphony in my head and I got down from the parked cab. The driver was trying to reassure me to get back in the cab, saying he just wanted to drop the "Camerounian" at the Cameroun Embassy around the corner after dropping me off in Oshodi (wait first, is there a Cameroun Embassy in Lagos?). I was not interested. All that was in my head were kidnap stories and my mouth was filled with songs of praise for my narrow escape. I entered the next bus that called "Oshodi" and even then I still had a prayer on my lips. I had finally calmed down, as the worst seemed to be over. Until I noticed the passenger beside me staring intently at a poster stuck to the side of the bus. I took a peek to see what was so interesting and Viola!!! It read "Traditional Indus Power Temple". I shook my head at the ignorance of people (yes I was judging the passenger intently studying the poster like she was preparing for JAMB). If they could make people rich and had all the answers to ALL peoples' problems as they claimed...why were there still troubled people around? I shook my head again and turned my face to the other side only to find myself staring at the butt crack of the conductor all thanks to his "designer Arsenal" boxers almost falling entirely off his hips. I snapped my head in the opposite direction immediately. Only me all these unpleasantness in one day?!!! Who did I offend?

And that was how my morning went. I'm back home safely and yes I gave my mum a big hug before regaling my experience to her. Right now I'm about to start sewing and I'm still so grateful for God's protection. Forget what you heard, prayer does work!

Oops its 1:45pm already?!!! Duty calls.

xoxo...gossip girl!!! LoL (well technically this was no gossip. It did happen to me. Today!)