All her life Ini wanted a prince. The castle. The medieval ball dresses. The glass slippers too, however uncomfortable they might have been to walk in.
There was Tola, Chuks and Kelvin. Ahmed, Dele and Nonso. Let's not forget Nuel the Ethiopian. Coming and going, like an Abiku they went, until at 28 there was only her left.
28. Two years away from the big thirty. The age most single ladies dreaded. The age where the parents' subtle "meet my friend's son" turns to "can your son meet my daughter, she's single".
This afternoon, Ini found herself missing Nonso. Her chairman as she fondly used to call him. He was her most recent ex. The one. Or so she thought. He oozed class and sex appeal and always seemed in control of every situation however daunting it seemed. Their relationship promised to be every romantic fantasy. Every youthful daydream, every dazzling fairy tale come to life. And just as she was beginning to feel comfortable in her make belief castle, she was brought to the shattering reality that life was more than the storybooks told. It brought with it unexpected twists and curve balls that hit you right where you least expect them. Smack in the centre of your heart. Curve balls like the sudden news of a fiancée tucked away in the Netherlands who returned home to claim her man.
Men!
She'd since then given up on them. They were all the same. Or perhaps it was just the type of men she was attracted to. The dashingly handsome types with the body of an adonis, all cut in the right places. Not that she was shallow, but you see appearance had always been important to her. It counted for significant percentage of the mark, but 7 ex-boyfriends later, she knew better.
Snapping out of her revere, Ini turned her mind back to the present. She had a flight to catch and heaven forbade that she missed it on the account of some senseless private pity party.
Safely buckled in her seat on the plane some three hours later, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's wives was open on her laps. Barely had she begun reading when a baritone voice asked, "Is this seat taken?" causing her to snap her head sideways. She smiled quickly to cover up the disappointment she felt when she saw the face that bore the voice. Forgive her overactive mind for linking the voice to a tall dark and handsome fellow only to be faced with a chubby averaged height young man in a fitted polo and stonewash jeans. "No it isn't", she politely replied and returned to her book.
He did smell nice though, she thought to herself as the scent of his cologne wafted by her nostrils. Just as she brushed the notion aside, her concentration was interrupted by the same baritone voice. "When do you reckon you'd put me out of my wait?", her seat companion asked.
" Your wait?", Ini replied with a confused look. ''What exactly were you waiting for?"
"Your name of course, the saying did go 'ladies first', didn't it?" He replied with a cheeky smile.
Never one to pass up on a good natured sparing, "if I told you, I'd have to kill you", she replied with an all too sweet smile. To which he gave a hearty laugh.
Pressing on "you certainly look Yoruba so if I were to guess, I'd say your name was Arewa, for obvious reasons of course", he said with mock seriousness.
"Does that line ever work on girls?", Ini countered with raised eyebrows.
"Nope, but u can't blame a brother for trying", he replied with his now familiar cheeky smile.
''So Arewa is it?", he probed.
"We both know that isn't my name", Ini replied rolling her eyes.
"What is it then?", her nameless seat partner persisted.
Relenting, "It's Ini", she replied.
"I'm Tare, nice to meet you" He said with a smile. And Ini couldn't help noticing what nice set of teeth Tare had.
xxx
Granted, we all have our types and that's not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes we get so carried away by the physical that we fail to realize there's more to an individual if only we got to know them despite the lack of our preferred qualities . There's wit, and kindness and patience and an endless array of more endearing traits. What am I saying? Give the friendly Segun Arinze dead ringer a chance...what do you know, he just might be your prince :D
Mar 31, 2012
Feb 22, 2012
Off with Okafor
So here I am, fine wednesday afternoon, still in my ex's over sized tee shirt turned nightie and ankara shorts chatting away to an old friend, and naturally as it's a custom when girls talk (not gossip mind you...like I'd ever stoop so low *straight face*), the topic of the opposite sex creeps up. Today we are talking exes. You see Karen* thinks an ex is still sweet on me and I'm determined to prove otherwise.
Karen: Exes can't be just friends.
Me: Say's who?
Karen: Its just normal. It's just like the Okafor's law says. Once u've been physically or romantically involved with someone, even when you're over, residual feelings remain, such that "having something" is not ruled out.
But wait o, who is this blasted Okafor and who died and made his law a given?
Why can't exes be JUST friends???
The other day I was with a male friend and his argument was that after a breakup, one partner is bound to still be physically or emotionally attached to the other. In other words, if I'm still friends with my ex, he is either emotionally attached to me or he (still) wants to jump my bones or vice versa.
I'd concede to his argument in cases where parting ways was solely one person's idea or circumstances beyond their control caused a breakup. But what about cases where the breakup was a mutual decision. "What stops my ex and I from being just friends like any normal opposite sex friendship?", I asked. Only to be informed that guys and girls "can't be friends". To which I say...bollocks!!!
I'm friends with loads of guys (exes inclusive) and they are friends with other girls too. Do they want to get with US all? C'mon!!!
Of course sometimes, we might still have feelings for an ex or they with us, but what of those that we are well over? Surely nothing stops us from being platonic friends, right? RIGHT?
Yes I care about my exes' welfare, like I do with all my friends. No I don't have feelings for them neither do I plan on getting physical with them nor do they necessarily want to do the same with me...off with Okafor's head!
Karen: Exes can't be just friends.
Me: Say's who?
Karen: Its just normal. It's just like the Okafor's law says. Once u've been physically or romantically involved with someone, even when you're over, residual feelings remain, such that "having something" is not ruled out.
But wait o, who is this blasted Okafor and who died and made his law a given?
Why can't exes be JUST friends???
The other day I was with a male friend and his argument was that after a breakup, one partner is bound to still be physically or emotionally attached to the other. In other words, if I'm still friends with my ex, he is either emotionally attached to me or he (still) wants to jump my bones or vice versa.
I'd concede to his argument in cases where parting ways was solely one person's idea or circumstances beyond their control caused a breakup. But what about cases where the breakup was a mutual decision. "What stops my ex and I from being just friends like any normal opposite sex friendship?", I asked. Only to be informed that guys and girls "can't be friends". To which I say...bollocks!!!
I'm friends with loads of guys (exes inclusive) and they are friends with other girls too. Do they want to get with US all? C'mon!!!
Of course sometimes, we might still have feelings for an ex or they with us, but what of those that we are well over? Surely nothing stops us from being platonic friends, right? RIGHT?
Yes I care about my exes' welfare, like I do with all my friends. No I don't have feelings for them neither do I plan on getting physical with them nor do they necessarily want to do the same with me...off with Okafor's head!
Jan 9, 2012
A Piece
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Way past the sunny smiles, from deep within
A place where everything agrees
Beliefs coexist and religious extremists didn't hit the streets
Where youths are not wasted in service to their nation
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Of leaders who aren't filled with greed
Of offices which seek to please
The very masses who vote them in
Where opinions are freely given
And criticisms just as easily taken
Of policies made and followed through
And budget spent on more than a costly meal.
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Not the type we hear on TV
From lips of glorified illiterates
Promising heaven yet ensuring hell
Forgetting their lowly beginnings
As they bring an end to their brothers' dreams
Corporate thieves!
Opportunists!
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Where tsunamis and earthquakes belong in books
And loved ones return safe from school
Where families go for holiday in the Middle East
And Katrina remains another pretty face
Never famed for causing pain
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Of a world that never did exist
Of summer in December and springtime in August
Where fear is foreign and violence a myth
Where laws remain unbroken, but I guess its time I awoken
To write a piece that speaks of peace
Of strength where it should fail
Of tears that flow without shame
Of guts and victory
Of sacrifice and pain
Of redemption
Of love
I write a piece that speaks of peace.
Way past the sunny smiles, from deep within
A place where everything agrees
Beliefs coexist and religious extremists didn't hit the streets
Where youths are not wasted in service to their nation
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Of leaders who aren't filled with greed
Of offices which seek to please
The very masses who vote them in
Where opinions are freely given
And criticisms just as easily taken
Of policies made and followed through
And budget spent on more than a costly meal.
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Not the type we hear on TV
From lips of glorified illiterates
Promising heaven yet ensuring hell
Forgetting their lowly beginnings
As they bring an end to their brothers' dreams
Corporate thieves!
Opportunists!
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Where tsunamis and earthquakes belong in books
And loved ones return safe from school
Where families go for holiday in the Middle East
And Katrina remains another pretty face
Never famed for causing pain
I write a piece that speaks of peace
Of a world that never did exist
Of summer in December and springtime in August
Where fear is foreign and violence a myth
Where laws remain unbroken, but I guess its time I awoken
To write a piece that speaks of peace
Of strength where it should fail
Of tears that flow without shame
Of guts and victory
Of sacrifice and pain
Of redemption
Of love
I write a piece that speaks of peace.
Nov 23, 2011
As Sure As Blood
I'm a thousand miles away from home.
The orchestra is playing in the very near distance.
It's a private show.
My senses are alive as the sounds wash over my very soul.
The guitar. The melodious chords seducing my eardrums.
The bass. The drum. The rise and fall...beating to the rhythm of my heavy heart.
The harp. The instrument of angels.
Lifting me off my feet. I'm as one with wings. A celestial being.
The clang of the cymbals. Goose pimples. The hair on my back stand in ovation.
The cello. The trumpet. The violin. Each distinct sound blending into one beautiful symphony.
I'm in a gallery.
Somewhere on Despair Street
It's a private show.
But something is missing.
The canvas is empty.
The artist is set to paint but there are no brushes.
Then the unimaginable happens.
At the "twang" of the guitar, a purple streak appears.
The "bang" of the drum, a black splash.
The "hum" of the piano I see white.
There's Green. Blue. Yellow too.
Each instrument producing a colour of its own.
There's one for Joy.
One for Pain.
One for Pleasure and one for Redemption.
And as the Orchestra reaches a crescendo; As the final chord is strung, there's an explosion.
It's Hope. It's blood red.
It's everywhere.
On the walls and the floor.
On the door fame and my white tee.
Slowly I open my eyes.
I'm on my bed.
The orchestra has since stopped playing.
The gallery is but a distant memory.
The tears have since ceased.
I'm not alone.
I've got my music lifting me from the clutches of gloom;
Bringing me the sweet assurance of Hope that runs as sure as blood through my veins.
The orchestra is playing in the very near distance.
It's a private show.
My senses are alive as the sounds wash over my very soul.
The guitar. The melodious chords seducing my eardrums.
The bass. The drum. The rise and fall...beating to the rhythm of my heavy heart.
The harp. The instrument of angels.
Lifting me off my feet. I'm as one with wings. A celestial being.
The clang of the cymbals. Goose pimples. The hair on my back stand in ovation.
The cello. The trumpet. The violin. Each distinct sound blending into one beautiful symphony.
I'm in a gallery.
Somewhere on Despair Street
It's a private show.
But something is missing.
The canvas is empty.
The artist is set to paint but there are no brushes.
Then the unimaginable happens.
At the "twang" of the guitar, a purple streak appears.
The "bang" of the drum, a black splash.
The "hum" of the piano I see white.
There's Green. Blue. Yellow too.
Each instrument producing a colour of its own.
There's one for Joy.
One for Pain.
One for Pleasure and one for Redemption.
And as the Orchestra reaches a crescendo; As the final chord is strung, there's an explosion.
It's Hope. It's blood red.
It's everywhere.
On the walls and the floor.
On the door fame and my white tee.
Slowly I open my eyes.
I'm on my bed.
The orchestra has since stopped playing.
The gallery is but a distant memory.
The tears have since ceased.
I'm not alone.
I've got my music lifting me from the clutches of gloom;
Bringing me the sweet assurance of Hope that runs as sure as blood through my veins.
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