*Sigh*


I’ve started this post in my head and on paper many times. I tried funny, philosophical, nonchalant, apologetic, etc. I have finally decided to just be straight (although I like girls too.)

I’m sorry.

I’m back.

I think I’m better.

I’m definitely bigger (I gained 10 pounds.)

I really am sorry.

I’m hoping to see y’all around here again.

I promise never to disappear like that again.

Welcome back to Thatifygirl.

(I thought that would make for a dramatic ending. Forgive me if it just sounded corny.)

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Damaged Goods.


I still see him. His features are set and his eyes refuse to meet mine. A man determined on his course of action. It will happen, and my opinion on the matter is secondary, no, irrelevant. Because I am a woman. And so, if he wants to have his way I cannot stop him.

“Stop! Stop it!”

Please.

Rough hands tear my blouse away. His stubble grazes my nipple. I push him away harder, until I feel the sting of palm upon flesh. Desperate hands work feverishly at my jeans. My teeth find skin, and I clamp down hard. Again, palm connects with flesh. I am tired and I have no more fight left in me. Have your way.

I am only just a woman.

“Come on. I’ll even use a condom. Just this once.”

Outside, a leaf falls. It makes its way slowly to the ground, letting itself be carried on the gentleness of the wind. Even the elements care for the falling leaf. Birds are not singing. The sky is not a magical blue, and the sun is not warm and bright. There is no beauty here. Only pain, and ugliness, and hurt. There is only fear and the unmistakable odour of sweat and  the brightly coloured sheets. And there are no tears.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Why did you come to visit me?”

Because you invited me. You’re my friend.

But my throat will not work, and my brain will not function. There is another grunt on top of me, as I am turned over and violated again and again. My eyes hurt. The paint on the wall is peeling. Someone should get that fixed. I wonder if Mummy has gotten back home. Cold, calloused hands knead my breasts like dough until they cannot feel; I cannot feel.

But I can hear. I can hear the springs on the bed creaking with the rhythm. The same rhythm that my heart is beating to. I can hear the wind outside. I can hear the person on top of me. Making sounds like a woman who has gone into labour. I can see. I can see the fan whirling round. And around. And around. Someone needs to clean the blades. I can see my blue jeans tossed carelessly on the floor like a sack of potatoes gone bad. I’ll burn them when I get home. I can taste his sweat running into my mouth. I can smell the sex. It’s in the air, and the air is carrying it gently around the room, like a proud mother would show off her newborn.

But I can’t feel.

“Hey. I’ll drop you at home.”

I’ll walk.

“Come on! Don’t be acting like a kid.”

But I am.

I pick up my clothes and my purse, but I leave my dignity on the floor. Because it is broken into a million pieces and I cannot put it back together. I cannot hold my head high. My neck cannot do such a tedious job. I am broken, and violated, and he that I called friend has stolen from me. Head bowed in shame, I leave his room, but his room will never leave me.

I still see his face. You see it too. He sits across you on the train. He rides the bus with you. He takes your order at the restaurant. He helps your kid cross the street. He goes to church with you.

I am not the voice of them that refuse to speak. I am not the shining beacon of example. Do not follow my lead. Do not do what I do. I am the one cowered away in the corner, afraid of my shadow. Afraid to make a new friend. Afraid to be put in such a position of vulnerability again. So, I laugh at your jokes. And I smile at your attempts at flirting. I will even flirt back.

But I am damaged and I am broken. And there is no repairing this amount of damage, no remedy for this injury. With a friend like this, what do I need enemies for?

There is no relief for my pain.

The Good Wife


So, it’s exactly a month since I put up a post. I was going to use the “writer’s block” line, but a wise man told me and I paraphrase: “You can’t have writer’s block if you’re not having sex.” In other words, one comes at the expense of the other. Great sex or great writing. And since I have been celibate since I was born (some people prefer the term ‘virgin’,) I guess no writer’s block for me. 😦

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It is a dark and gloomy day. The sky is grey and it’s drizzling softly. I look up at the angry clouds and I’m slightly amused. As dark as they are, they have nothing on my heart. Silly clouds. Bah! As I walk into the church and down the aisle, I can feel their eyes on me, their stares. I can see the looks of pity, hear the soft whispers, “Kai! Such a beautiful woman! O ma se o!” I ignore them and press forward, my gaze is fixed on the coffin in front of the bema. I walk to my place on the first pew and sit between my mother-in-law and my father. Bami takes my hand and squeezes tightly. I turn my face to him, and smile at him to assure him that I’m fine. My mother-in-law has, as usual, refused to acknowledge my presence. I don’t care. Service is about to begin anyway.

The hall is quiet. I sit very still as the priest begins the requiem. It doesn’t take long, however, for me to tune out his monotonous drone and shift my attention to the flowers. Madonna lilies. I have never cared much for flowers, but Wale loved them. And the white lilies had been his favourite. Knowing how much of a perfectionist he had been, he wouldn’t be too pleased to know that the flowers that lie atop his casket are fake. I almost chuckle out loud at the thought. I am drawn to a time 11 years before…

I was 19. I was broke and in between jobs, a position I was quite used to finding myself in. I couldn’t afford university and frankly, I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t too brilliant and I had never liked school. But I had a pretty face and the body of a goddess. And that’s what had attracted the very suave, wealthy chief that was currently on my one bedroom apartment doorstep. He was holding flowers…. madonna lilies….

“A small token of love for the beautiful Asake.” His eyes sparkled. He was way too old for me – 52 – had been divorced twice, and knew the world in ways I could only imagine. I was smitten. Bami didn’t approve though. “Your mother would roll in her grave, Asake!”

I am brought back to present by shuffling of feet as we rise for a hymn. I smile wryly as I remember those days with Wale. My mother-in-law is looking at me with distaste. She cannot understand why I’m smiling at my husband’s funeral. She doesn’t like me very much. She says it because I’m childless. I think it’s because a poor lowly girl like me had the effrontery to snag her darling son’s heart, even if only for a while. She probably thinks I jazzed him. I ignore her. The hymn ends and we take our seats again. Chief Folawiyo is speaking now. He’s talking about Wale’s kind heart, his gentleness. Gentleness? I quickly turn my fit of giggles into a cough. Everyone is looking at me weirdly now. I should compose myself. My Wale is dead.

It was our 2nd year of marriage. I was a 23 year old house wife and I was enjoying it. Well, apart from the fact that Wale was not the same person anymore. He was never home, he never paid attention to me, he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend. That night, I’d made up my mind to confront him. As he walked into the room, I jumped from the bed, ready for a show down. 

Chief, what is this?! What self-respecting family man comes home at 3:00 am?!?”

I do not wish to recall the remaining details of that night. Suffice it to say that after that night, my jaw has never quite been the same. My Wale? Gentle? Yeah, right! I scoff.

One by one, they all come to make their speeches, each one more effusive than the last. They speak of his kindness, his generosity, how he gave them money to save their dying business or child. How he rescued them from the hand of the law. Yada yada yada. They didn’t know him. I did. He was my one true love. The one that made me. Got me from my one bedroom apartment to the stylishly furnished 6 bedroom town house that I have called home for 8 years. During our honeymoon, I received more jewellery than I knew existed. He showed me the world. He was also the one that destroyed me.

You see, for every nice story they have to tell about Wale, I have a dozen more heinous acts that he committed. Is it the time he locked me in the doghouse for 2 nights because I had given a male old school mate a ride? Is it the time he broke my arm because I threatened to report his shady business dealings? Is it the countless occasions I had to sleep in the guest room because his mistress had come a-calling? But I couldn’t leave. I had nowhere to go. Bami was in a nursing home and could hardly even take care of himself. I had no relations; I was the only child of my parents, who were both the only children of their parents. I didn’t have any friends. Besides, I had nothing that was in my name. Wale laughed at my threats to leave him. He knew I couldn’t. I was weak. And for every new bruise, I had a new pearl necklace, for every broken bone, a diamond watch. I was the trophy wife. Beautiful and silent.

I had tried to run away once. Perhaps, sell all my jewellery. Wale’s “boys” caught me… I walked with a cane for 7 months. I also got a new Range Rover. Wale had me right where he wanted me. And he knew it.

But now, he is dead and these…. ugly people want me to eulogize him because that is my role as a wife. Smile, Asake. Be a good hostess, Asake. A good wife never leaves her husband’s side, Asake. No good woman would speak ill of her husband, Asake. I scoff. I should tell them who Wale really was. Wouldn’t that be a shocker. Hmm…

It’s my turn. I stand slowly and walk to the altar, passing the closed coffin. I wish it was open, I would love to see his face. But Wale’s mother wanted it closed. She’s paying for the funeral, I can’t argue. I stand behind the podium and look into the faces of the 500 odd guests that have come to pay homage to Chief Adewale Babatunde Williams. My husband. There are wealthy business partners, pot-bellied corrupt politicians, family; those that have partaken of Wale’s wealth and those that still wait in hope of the remnants from his table. I can see Otunba Samuel, the dirty old pervert once tried to put his hand under my skirt. I told Wale, but he said he would deal with him after their business deal was over. I look at my mother-in-law, Mama Felicia, regal and elegant despite her years. Her back is ramrod straight and she’s looking straight ahead, stubbornly avoiding my gaze. I feel a little pity for her. She is burying her 3rd child. She is probably waiting for death. Perhaps, it will come sooner than she expects.

I take a deep breath and look at the speech written for me by some writer on  Mama Felicia’s payroll.This person does not even know Wale. He has just written what a good wife should or would say. But I am not a good wife. I’m even better. I’m a perfect wife. I smile a little as I begin:

“My husband, Adewale, was a truly, truly terrible man. Indeed one of the most dishonest, callous men to walk the planet…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mama Felicia fall to the ground, hand on her chest, a look of horror on her face, eyes wide with shock. The crowd is in a chaotic state. Bami is shouting for help, holding Mama Felicia as she struggles for breath on the floor. Father Nwachukwu, the priest, is looking at me, a mixture of wonderment, disgust and fear on his face. I watch as her hand knocks over the glass of water beside her in her struggle for air. The glass of water I had poured out for her. This scene is all too familiar. Only last month, Wale had died like this, after drinking the water I gave him too.

Oh well…. I smile as I continue my speech, even though no one is listening.

In The Nick Of Time


Hi guys, how I’ve missed you!!! I feel like a vampire that’s been without blood for days. (Sorry, I just recently started watching True Blood, so forgive my new found love for all things vampire-y or Eric-y.All my ladies in the house, can I get an Amen!) I know, I haven’t posted anything in a while, this is entirely not my fault. I resumed school and so… (you know how this story ends; I curse, you get preachy, and I curse some more.) Well, I’m cleaning up my life, and my mouth. OK. I’m done apologizing. Here’s my story, enjoy:

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Agatha was excited. She could feel it in her bones, in her soul, in every fiber of her very being. She knew this it. The One. OK. So, she sounded a bit corny saying that… the one. After all, it wasn’t as if she had found the man of her dreams. But, she had found the job of her dreams. And about time, too! She had waited so long for this. And she knew she was going to get this one. This is the one, Agatha, this is it.

She had always wanted to be a teacher. Since she was little. And finally, she was being given a chance. Tomorrow was her interview!  She thought of how much she had wanted this. Since she was five. How she had worked so hard to get this. How she had been disappointed over and over. How she’d worked odd jobs everyday because her parents couldn’t afford to send her to Teachers’ Training Institute.

Agatha was jarred from her memories by the whistling kettle on the stove. She moved to the kitchen and began fixing dinner. After she passed her exams and got a license to teach, Agatha had sent in application after application to various schools and educational institutions, but they were all total busts. It was always about not having enough experience (which was a catch 22, seeing as nobody would giver her a job if she didn’t have experience, and she couldn’t get any  experience if she didn’t get a job.) But it was all about to change. She sat down, with her toast and coffee, but she was too excited to eat. She tossed the toast, took her coffee and headed upstairs, turning out all the lights. She had prepared all that she needed for her interview tomorrow. She knew she shouldn’t get so excited for just an interview but she couldn’t help herself. As she prepared for bed, she mentally ran through her checklist. Suit, check. Resume, check. References, check. Everything else was in her bag. She looked at the time, it was 4:15 am. She’d better get to bed, since she had to be awake in the next 3 hours. She set the alarm clock on her silly phone. Immediately, she got her first paycheck, she would walk into the phone store and get that new smartphone that everyone had. She smiled as she drifted off into a deep sleep.

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She was just in time. As she walked into the hallways of St. Thomas Junior High, she looked at her watch: 8:50 am. Her interview was by 9:00 am. Thank God she’d made it in time, her house was over an hour away. She made her way to the administrative office.

“Hi,” she said, perhaps a bit too cheerfully to the receptionist sitting at the front desk. “I’m-”

“Miss Benedict. Hi, I’m Jane. They’re expecting you,” the receptionist said with a smile.

“Umm.. OK.. Thanks,” Agatha could hear her heart beating through her chest.

“Not to worry, everyone here is very nice. I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” the receptionist led the way. “Just come right this way.”

As Agatha followed her into the office, she couldn’t help but think about a sheep as it was led to a slaughter house and could do nothing to stop it. Right now, she TOTALLY empathized with the sheep.

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Forty minutes later, Agatha’s straight face belied the emotions that were threatening to erupt from her insides. She wanted to do a jig. She had gotten the job! It was simply too good to be true. She smiled at the receptionist with a small, “See you on Monday.” She skipped out of the office quickly, before they could call her back to tell her there had been a mistake.Not only had she gotten a job, St. Thomas was one of the best schools in the county. She was so pleased. She couldn’t wait to call her mom and tell her. As soon as I get home.

Agatha was crossing the street when it happened. She heard a noise. It was that silly cell phone, ringing. She searched for it in her bag, not looking at the oncoming traffic anymore. As her fingers located the buzzing phone in her bag, she pulled it out and pressed the green button.

Nothing happened.

It kept on ringing. Agatha hit the button again and again. The car was moving so fast. She watched as it moved towards her and then went right through. She was a bit more concerned with why her phone wouldn’t stop ringing than with the fact that a car had just gone through her. She hit the green button again…

Agatha was still hitting the green button when she woke up. Her eyes snapped open as she looked at her vibrating phone in her hand. Her eyes were automatically drawn to the top right corner. 11: 25 am.

Oh shit!

Author’s note: This story is based on a recent personal experience.

The London Riots: Message to the youth.


Over the past few days, we have witnessed as what started as a peaceful vigil in London has turned into a senseless ruckus. It is quite shameful and disheartening. I saw this post, and it made a lot of sense, so I decided to share it. I did not write this. However, it portrays my feelings completely. You can find the original post http://youngthatiam.tumblr.com/post/8690695849/the-london-riots-message-to-the-youth. Enjoy.

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I just went down the road to the local ”high street” (if you could even call it that..it hasn’t got that many shops) and never in my life have i felt the way i did as i went there. I live in South London, and as ‘luck’ would have it my area is sandwiched between 5 of the worst hit places in the south. Everyone is suspicious of each other, particularly if you’re a ”youth.” Fast forward past me walking speedily past a group/gang of young men and them attempting to stop me, past the creepy man with his massive dog, past the empty side streets to finally, the high street.

What did i see? No damage…not yet. But the atmosphere was heavy with tension. Shops are closed/closing, crowds are gathering as people queue to get into supermarkets and stock up. Mothers clutch their babies to their chests, their faces straight and eyes glaring. Everybody, it seems, is looking over their shoulders. Whether you live in a ”nice” area or not, you aren’t safe. The attacks in Ealing, West London, are evidence of that enough. I’d just left the high street when I got a phone call that police have now ordered that all shops there be shut.

It’s a damn war zone. And what are we, the youth? The damned. And through our own means.

People are losing their businesses, their homes! And this afternoon it’s been confirmed that a 26 year old man shot in Croydon has died and an injured boy was helped up by rioters and then robbed as he bled profusely. I am fuming as i sit here writing! I have never felt as strongly about violence as I have this! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?

I’m a youth, i don’t live a flashy life. So should I go and freaking torch an entire electrical store? We are what we make of our generation. We have the power to build, to destroy. Just remember that with every foolish act, there are consequences. With every foolish act, you lose any chance you EVER had to have your voices heard! So you’re unhappy, fine. NOBODY NOWADAYS IS HAPPY. Do they go loot your mother’s business? Do they break into your home and terrify you? WHAT IS IT with all this crowd following??! And if you have issues, BE THE CHANGE for heaven’s sake. There are people who’ve grown up in absolute dumps and dire consequences but made something of themselves! Remember that the world you destroy today will be the one you will have to live in, work in and raise your own kids in tomorrow.

What pissed me off the most was footage on Sky news showing looting in Croydon and there were girls laughing amidst all the chaos. LAUGHING. If our generation is the sort that can laugh at suffering then i’m sorry but we’re done for. And that isn’t me being pessimistic. It’s me being realistic.

There is pure injustice in society, and sure there are root issues that need to be addressed. Racism, unemployment, poverty, bullying, social inequality. My heart goes out to Mark Duggan’s family and friends, and i’m sure this was NOT at all the plan they had when they started their peaceful vigil after he was shot. The police should have responded to the family’s pleas and none of this would have happened. But they didn’t, and look where we are. There are lessons that will be learnt.

BUT. Youths! Get your acts together! All this terror is making you just as bad if not worse than the perpetrators of the human rights we all believe we have entitlement to, including getting help from police regardless of our backgrounds and status. (I noted that in David Cameron’s address he made no reference to the original issue and the wrongful way in which Duggan’s family was treated by police. Bloody typical!). Things have gone too damn far. And the effects of what you’ve done, the people you’re hurting…all are going to pass on and leave you behind with the mess you have created. The destruction from our own hands.

Father forgive us for we know not what we do.

Whoever you are, wherever you are. Stop what you are doing and pray. Pray for our generation. Pray for those that mislead us. And pray for the strength to keep on praying! If you’re doing this and think you deserve a pat on the back, you’re a fool. So go ahead and do that, but be prepared for the slap that will hit you after as your life goes downhill. Buck up and be mature! STOP THE VIOLENCE.

God help us all.

Mark 13:7-8 But when you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be troubled; for such things must happen, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be earthquakes in various places, and there will be famines and troubles. These are the beginnings of sorrows.

My heart goes out to everyone across the UK affected by these riots. I’m off to watch more of the news now, as police sirens continue to be heard in the distance.

“The worst violence in decades in England,” they all say. We should all be ashamed.

email: sanieakwetey@yahoo.co.uk

twitter: @youngthatiam

Gratitude


This post will not be long or witty or even funny. However, the one thing it is is sincere. So, here goes:
I am SINCERELY grateful for all the birthday wishes that I received yesterday on my birthday. It was very hard not to feel loved when text message after FB message after Twitter mention kept pouring in. I feel very….. humbled by all your messages.
So, thank you to every one who took those precious 5 seconds to 5 minutes of their time just to say, or type “Happy Birthday.” Even to those of you that said “HBD”, I still appreciate you. Even though I haven’t the faintest idea what “HBD” means, nor am I remotely inclined to find out. Still, your 3 seconds were dedicated to typing out these 3 letters to me and if you have bad internet connection, let’s add another 3 seconds. I am very grateful for this kindness. God bless y’all.

Now, I have received some death threats because I haven’t posted anything in a while… Y’all know that was a joke, right? Although, while death threats are hardly my cup of tea, I can’t think how awesome it would be, if my blog was so widely read that the day I didn’t put a post on time, CNN would carry it. Highly unlikely, but well, I will not stop praying for that day. 🙂
I am writing exams, so, it is hard for me to blog on a regular. I will be done next week and then, y’all shall be tired of me. Once again, highly unlikely, seeing as I’m so interesting and shit. B-)

So, thank you, people!!! And I shall see you soon.

P.S. I totally dozed off typing this (it’s 3 am) so, if you come here and gbagaun me or something, I will rain curses on your generations. 🙂

Increase the Peace.

See me see wahala o!!!


OK, this thing has been disturbing me since, and I have decided to talk today. I have nowhere else to rant, might as well take it out on my computer keys. What is IT with hugging guys??????????? Biko, help me someborri!!!!!!! Why will you want to hug me after our first meeting???? I said, meeting o, not even a date!!! I mean, I met you at the bus stop or when I was crossing the road! Why will you want to hug me? I don’t know you, you don’t know me. What is the reason for all the famzing, mo fi Olorun be!?!?!

A friend of mine told me that I was overreacting, that that is how people are in this part of the world. I almost agreed, but because I am very intelligent, my mind toppled that nonsense “western culture” argument. You don’t just hug people like that. Even in the “Western world”. See, I’m from Nigeria. In my place, there is this thing called “juju”. Juju, is “remote control” or “do as I say” or you can call it voodoo, whatever appeals to your less fine sensibilities (OK, I don’t even know if that made sense). -___- Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that if you go and hug every Julie or Suzie you see on the street, chances of you disappearing or losing your genitals are very high. #ThatIsAll.

I know we’ve all had that cousin of ours that came to us to beg for money for Penis Replacement Surgery because he hugged one too many girls. Yes? No? No. Oh, I thought it was… usual. *blush*. Anyway, you can see how it is uncomfortable for everyone involved.
Consider this scenario:
You: Ahh.. family wassup??
Hugger cousin: 😦 My brother, I have a little problem oo!!!
You: *concerned* Ah, tell me naw, hope I can help??
Hugger cousin: Ah, I saw this girl at the galleria, she was too fine, her boobs were very scintillating (or whatever) omo, I gats hug this girl o! And as I hug am, she disappear and I no come find my “pee pee”.
You: ROFL!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then it gets awkward when your cousin drops his pants and he’s NOT lying. 😐

I don’t care what any one tells you. No matter how big and inviting the boobs look, (and we all know how konji is a bastard), but please, keep your arms to yourself. Especially, if they smell underneath. 😐 See, the importance of personal hygiene cannot be over emphasized. Girls talk. That is their main talent in life. They talk to anything, their pets, husbands, girlfriends, colleagues, their hairdresser, their tomato seller customer. Everybody. So, the fastest way for news to get around is to tell a woman. I am a woman, but this is the truth and we know it. So, if you smell underneath and you go around hugging…. well, nothing is hidden under the sun. God and His host of angels will catch you soon, through His able instrument: the mouth of a woman. And then you shall reap what you have sown.

I understand trying to cop a feel. I mean, it’s nice to have soft boobs pressing on you… not that I would know if it’s nice. Like , I don’t hug women because their boobies feel nice….. OK, this is awkward. Moving on… but really though, control yourself. A hug is an invasion of private space. You are stepping into marked, clear cut boundaries. Everyone deserves their personal space. Stay in yours, I’ll stay in mine. If I invite you in, good. If not, good. Stay away.

If you are a guy that hugs every girl he meets, then comes up with that stupid line, “I don’t shake hands with girls,” may Amadioha use you as his vibrator. Do you hug your female bosses, especially the one with “The Rock’s” twin brother as a husband??? No. You don’t. Because that is the day you will meet your maker. And your maker might not be able to receive you because you have been so panel beaten, you will be unrecognizable.

That’s how I met this guy at the bus stop. Good looking guy and all… used a few nice lines on me. He was smooth, right? But I wasn’t really interested cos he was below my standards in physical vertical terms (all prospective boyfriends, husbands etc must be at least 5′ 11″ for preliminary consideration). We got on the same bus and everything and we kept talking. When he got to his stop, he stood up, and I was just saying goodbye, when all of a sudden, I was assaulted by arms and neck and chest. He just grabbed me and hugged me like we were best buds from grade school or I had just agreed to marry him. I mean, Shuu!!! And I was sitting, so imagine how awkward that was. Another time, this guy in my physics class saved me from sitting up front for a test by giving me a calculator. And then after class, as we were leaving, he just hugged me. Like, stood and hugged me, like I dashed him coupons for iced water or something.
No, you can’t hug me cos I used your calculator. You can’t hug me cos we’re on the same bus. Hell, you can’t even hug me when I tell you you’re cute. Don’t hug me. Leave me the hell alone.

Signed,

Ifunanya.