For Soji I Crave . . . With Niran, I Weep

And because the excitement of posting is much too heavy to bear, let me do a Throwback Tuesday because I’m too excited to let it wait another day, and put up one of the old, old ones. And let me have those comments people, I want to know what you think ;).

A whimper in the empty room . . .

It’s mine.

I raise my head to stare in the mirror and I step back, startled at the horrific image I see.

Blurred kajal in my darkened eyes, runny mascara, flowing foundation, smudged brown powder; all these come together to make up the bride-of-Frankenstein look I now wear. And worse, the tears that have caused this make-up mayhem are still running loose, down my cheeks in rivulets, and past lips parted to grasp some breath of air to soothe my aching throat.

Soothe my heavy heart, if they can.

And they flow on, ignorant of my inability to understand why they flow now or what has caused my lachrymatory glands to release the early spring rain at a time when I should be happy, rejoicing, celebrating.

My fists clench at the thought.

I am six weeks along, pregnant with my first child, by my wonderful husband. He is the love of my life, the joy of my existence, the wind beneath my sails, the wings of my love; he’s all these and more.

He’s loving and caring and thoughtful and generous and kind and, he’s a great guy, with a great sense of humour and a long chiming laugh that makes my breath catch in my throat.

And it catches now, like always, as air clogs my trachea and threatens to choke me, the tears welling in my eyes again, pulling at my arteries, threatening to burst my capillaries and kill me with this pain. I sob uncontrollably, head falling forward onto weak arms now supported by the bathroom sink I’m standing before.

I’ve got all I ever wanted. So why this pain?

“Honey, are you okay?” I hear my husband ask gently as he comes up behind me, one tenderly placed hand resting on my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, unbelieving of how strong and different I sound. “I’m okay.”

“Are you crying?” he asks now, his other hand now resting on my other shoulder. “Come on, baby; talk to me. I’m here for you.”

I sniffle loudly and lift my head slowly to meet his eyes in the mirror.

His look of concern is so great, I begin crying again.

“Awwwww, darling; come to me.” He turns me around quickly and holds me to himself, my head against his chest, my ear listening distractedly to his heartbeat. “Let me hold you,” he whispers quietly.

I let him.

And he mutters sweet words to me; he tells me he loves me and he cherishes me. He goes on and on, muttering, stroking my head. I hear him, like a voice from deep down in a tunnel, far away, some echo fading to nothing on my mind’s mists.

Until: “It’s just your hormones, baby. You’ll be fine.”

And the tears begin again; because now, I know just why this April shower has come at all.

And I wish it was just the hormones.

But it’s not them.

It’s me.

And it’s him.

It should not be him telling me this. It should be Soji, whispering in my ears, telling me he loves me, holding me, kissing my forehead so softly, slowly, here, with me, having this baby with me, building this family with me, standing with me and . . .

But it’s not him. It’s Niran, standing with me, holding me, that I’m having this baby with, that’s whispering in my hair how much he loves me, kissing my forehead, gently, slowly.

And it’s Niran I hold on to tightly, weeping for the love I lost in the winter of ’78 and the love I’m losing to its hovering memory.



It’s been too long

Hello world.

I’m here again; dusting cobwebs off this door, coughing at how heavy the dust is, the silence thick enough to slice through with a machete.

I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus, and I haven’t felt like a writer for so long.

Got a couple of nudges last month to try again (thank you Mofe, Deinma, Kunmi Owopetu, Randi Rogers), and I’m willing to start again.

I’ll share as much as I can about what had happened in the past 3 months without boring you, and share what’s happening now as succinctly as I can.

And of course, there will be stories to make you laugh, or cry, or think.



Hello world.

Glad to see you again.

It’s good to be home.

❤ ❤ ❤


Hello everyone. It’s another #FLSHBCKFRIDAY.

And, boy, have I got something for you today.

Now, I know it seems like this cat only comes out to play on Fridays – and it’s true most of the time – but believe me, I’m working on a structure that’ll have me playing with the yarn at least most of the week long.

So here’s today’s post. I hope you enjoy it.

❤ ❤ ❤

The Wild West . . .

People in their houses, standing at the windows, some pull their blinds shut, while others stare in wide-eyed horror. Time is high noon and the place is deserted.

Except on Straight Road . . .

Two men stand, legs apart, arms akimbo, hands resting ever so gingerly on their holsters, eyes low, hats dusty from their rides from different sides of town, burrs on their boots clicking as they tap their feet ever so slowly, in anticipation for this.

The showdown.

A dust ball rolls across the road, between them and they each take two steps; their tension is almost palpable.

Wily-looking and covered in what seems like century-old soot, the man on the right smirks, his lower lip curling upward in disdain for his opponent. Old Nick Black is what they call him and he’s the dirtiest sort, most devilish in his approach. He stands in at almost seven feet, with a back bent so low, it seems his spine is twisted into an ‘s’, his form wiry and his eyes hollow. He’s known to have battled against the worst and best of them, coming out victor in more fights than can be recounted, even though his losses are not quite forgotten either.

On the other side is a naive-looking young man, almost 5ft6. Sir Saint, he’s called. Clean clothes and innocent round eyes make you wonder how he came to be up against the devil on the other side. His mouth is set in a straight line, and every once in awhile, he glances up at the sky with a smile that seems to irk his opponent.

“Well, what are ya looking at? Ya really think something’s gonna drop out the sky and flatten me against the ground? Not gonna happen.”

Sir Saint is unmoved and digs his feet deeper into the dust. It’s about to begin.

A bell tolls in the distance, and quick as lightning the guns are out of the holsters. A dust storm rises and blows over the scene, keeping it from their sight. Now, even the ones that drew their blinds have their noses pressed against the glass to see. But all anyone can see is a haze of reddish brown and bright sparks from the middle of the storm.

They whisper amongst themselves, the spectators, and wonder who’s going to win. Bets are placed, most rooting for Old Nick, the few rooting for Saint even unsure of the decision they’ve made. They are waiting, fingers drumming on tables, legs nervously tapping the floorboards, for what seems like an eternity gone by, when someone shouts, “Look, look y’all, the dust, it’s clearing!”

They all rush back to the windows to see the dusty walls begin to fade, the wind blowing out the haze; and only one figure left standing in the middle of the road, with a heap at its feet.

“Sir Saint!” a whisper echoes in the room and there are hushed expressions of wonder at how he has won.

Then it erupts, the praise for this brave man, who’s walking down Straight Road to wherever he’s headed next. He doesn’t even look back.

This is a metaphor.

One that can be explained as long as you know where I’m headed. But one that sure beats the air out of you wondering how in the world Sir Saint, the young and innocent, beat Old Nick Black, the wiry, cunning, and extremely good at it.

One word – JESUS

And it happens all the time.

I can’t explain how He does it exactly. But I can assure you of one thing.

I sure as heck want to be that guy that’s standing on the straight and narrow road, in a face-off with whatsoever I’m facing, not ready to do battle, but always looking up to the heavens, sure I’ll be delivered, and sure enough getting my deliverance.


Because I trust in Him; And because of this, “Ye are of God, little children, and have overcome them: because greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world.” [1 John 4 4]

So I dare say it, bring it on, all of y’all whingey, long-toothed, dirty, ugly, stinking, sorry-faced, no-good, bound-to-hell, down-to-the-trash and useless things y’all call yourselves.

He’s ready for you.

My weapons are not carnal but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of my God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ; And having in a readiness to revenge all disobedience, when my obedience is fulfilled [1 Corinthians 104-6]

So, bring it.

But don’t say I didn’t warn you.


with bagels and a latte to go

the coffee shop on the corner sits halfway between both our streets, lending an air of cosiness to the entire Fifth Avenue. the coffee drinkers, and jelly-livered tea sippers, sit in front of wide baskets of baguettes and loaves of other sorts of bread they can nibble on as they order their poison and enjoy it in either quiet solitude or warm conversations.

you’re a regular at the late breakfast hours and i enjoy the shop at lunchtime. we never meet on any other street, in any other shop or in any other form of meet.

it’s just the coffee shop.

your eyes are hazel brown and your skin is the colour of fine dark chocolate. your voice is what tone i forget now, and the pitch of it equally escapes me. but i don’t forget the way you say your hi, or hello, or goodbye.

they are sweet, sweet, slow slurs of words mixed together in a beautiful and clean accent that sometimes sounds like it’s tinged with a slightly South-Western Nigerian tip to its fine edge, but seems to slip as easily into an American accent or an Indian one. it’s the same with all our conversations really.

and your laugh?

i don’t forget your laugh. it is short and fleeting and sounds almost fake, even though you try to convince me it’s real. i believe you. it is real. it is you. and it suits you.

that, along with other nuances of your funny behaviour and your characteristic eyebrow wiggling that makes me laugh most delightedly, like i don’t want to stop laughing, knowing that you know that i don’t want to stop laughing, and that if you ever found out i didn’t want to stop, you wouldn’t let me stop.

and we have our poison; for you, a cappuccino and for me, a latte, both our poisons accompanied with bagels slightly dusted with sweet and salty sunflower seeds that lend a crunch to our tasty bagels, made fresh every morning by le chef DuPree.

and i like it, these late in-between-hours-and-time-frames meetings, meetings that don’t meet on any other place or street or meet, meetings not planned, but meetings that happen to so happen so i can be lent a joy that makes my day seem a little brighter as i gaze into mischievous hazel-brown eyes and smile and laugh, and end my time in the shop with a bag specially packed with bagels and a latte to go.