Welcome to My New Writing Blog

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken.

— Oscar Wilde.

This is the first post on my new blog. I’m just getting this new blog going, so stay tuned for more. Subscribe below to get notified when I post new updates.

To Twenty-Nineteen

You walked into my life at a time when I was confused. At a time when I didn’t know how to go on. I’d just been given a big decision to make, and for reasons I couldn’t quite grasp I had hesitated and let confusion drown me. But you walked in with your face a mix of emotions, a stranger that grew more familiar. New year resolutions were made and I doubt I followed them, but I know that I experienced so many things that changed my life for the better, putting me in the course that was meant for me. You stayed for 365 days. 365 days of so many emotions. Of so many memories. How then can it not be hard to say goodbye?

Would it be weird if I confess that you were more of a living thing to me than just a cumulation of time?

Or was I the only one who felt so much in your presence?

Today is the last day that you’ll be around, but I doubt that your impact can ever be forgotten. I’ll always remember blue skies, flowers, new people, new friends, new goals. . . I’ll always remember all the things I felt with you hovering in the atmosphere.

Twenty-nineteen, at this very hour I am slowly letting you go. I am standing at the edge of the cliff, with you at the foot of it, ready to jump. If I could hug you, I would and never let go. You aren’t jumping to your death. No. You lept into blooming branches.

I’ve got my best ball gown ready. And I hope that twenty-twenty will come, walking in like a fine gentleman in his best tuxedo.

December

It’s a cold December morning in the South – South part of Nigeria. Children are hurrying off to their various schools, teachers too. But there are some who are yet to awaken. They’re making last minute preparations for their Christmas party. Some have already closed.

The year is gradually coming to an end, like a bellowing storm that suddenly halts.

The country has housed so many events, both good and bad, the world has too. And as the end of the year approaches, little children, with their innocent and naive minds hope for Christmas clothes.

“Daddy, aren’t you going to drop me off at school today?” A little girl shouts somewhere in a compound that has too many cars in front. She’s eager to run off to school, for she holds a lead role in her school’s Christmas play.

“I said no! I’m late for work already,” came her Dad’s reply.

It might not have been the first time he had said this to her, for she later walks out with a masked face. She would walk to school this morning.

So many persons in the country, workers especially, have already saved up for Christmas. Many would end up spending all of their money just to ‘show off’ in their respective villages as they go to visit their family homes for the end of the year celebrations. Many would also end up being broke when the new year begins.

In a land that reeks of many emotions, many will feign happiness this end of the year season. “At least let me enjoy the fruits of my labour,” would be their excuse. This statement will even be said by overfed housewives who do nothing but stay at home and get fat, then drive their husband’s flashy car to and fro their children’s school.

December, the last ’ember’ month. The last month of the year. Soon, the harmattan season will begin, it might have already began in some parts of the country, and you’ll find people wearing nose masks or holding up handkerchiefs to their nose, in places the dust will be unbearable.

So many things to look forward to, like Christmas-special fried rice and chicken. And church programs. A time when churches will be filled up. People will come to thank God for the year, even those that have never stepped foot in a church all throughout the year.

It will/is a time of feasting, but is that all?

“The perfect guide to becoming an annoying human”

Step One: Exist. This one is the most important one. If you don’t exist, how can you be annoying?

Step Two: Don’t. I repeat, don’t greet anyone. Walk down the road with your head held high, neck slanted towards the heavens and your nose pointed to the north sky.

Step Three: Never smile at kids. Instead, buy a packet of sweet and wave it at them. When they try to reach for it, swipe it back and lick it with a smug look.

Step Four: Wear twenty inches tall heels. For the ladies only. People tend to tag annoyance with heels. Don’t ask me if it’s true. Don’t browse it either.

Step Five: Be smart. If you’re a dummy, people won’t find you annoying. So you gotta be smart. Genius level smart. Then rub it in their face, like being smart is a girl’s guide badge you never want to take off.

Step Six: Make lots of friends! This one is very important.

Step Seven: Cut all ties with your friends on WhatsApp and block everybody. Now that you’ve done that, they’ll tag you annoying, with a big A!

Step Eight: Slink into the shadows at every party and swipe at meals from the high table.

Step Nine: If you are a student, openly scream at the top of your lungs, like you are having a panic attack. When people come to rescue you, laugh in their face and boo at them.

Step Ten: If all the steps above don’t seem to work for you, buy a long rope and go around forcing people to call you annoying.

P.S. The author of this piece will not be blamed for any misconceptions.

Read and understand according to your will.

Under The Rain

She stepped out,

Into the rain,

Umbrella in hand,

But she chose not to use it,

She desired to be drenched,

To be filled with the raindrops,

She was numb,

Maybe the rain would clear her head,

Maybe then she’d think straight,

One, two, three,

Nothing happened,

Stooping down,

Her knees touching the ground,

There in the middle of the street,

She allowed her saline tears to mix with the rain,

Breaking every part of her body,

Shattering her over and over again,

Yet under the rain,

She felt a feather– like touch,

On her shoulder,

Slowly, she opened her eyes,

Looked up into the heavens,

She could feel His presence,

He was wrapped all around her,

She could feel Him like a blanket,

Slowly, a soothing warmth rose through her body,

As she stood up steadily,

Shouting ‘Hallelujah!’.

He had taken away all her sorrows,

He had come to rescue her from the stifling weight of her sins.

OLD SOUL

I dance and I move
I sleep, pray. . .
Do all the things a human does
But I don’t feel like a normal person
My soul seeks things for me
It tells me things from time past
Gives me directions nobody has thought of in my time
Tells me to be that special someone
I call my soul old
Old soul
I savor the way it sounds
It seems so smart to me
I seem so smart
But at the end of it all
I’m nothing but an old soul
Stuck in the body of an Introverted teenage girl.

Paint A Picture

For as long as I could hold a crayon, I began to scribble, to draw. I began to paint. To create world’s on paper with just the swift curves of my hands.

But my Papa wanted me to be an accountant. A professional person. A woman of color- painted by academics. He wanted me to be who I never saw myself as, his favorite painting- devoid of my preferred hues.

Standing in front of the local supermarket, my eyes catch a leaflet pasted on the left pane of the glass door which read: “Paint a picture of depth. Winner gets one hundred thousand naira.” I stay affixed to it for a quarter of ten seconds – contemplating. And at evening I finally resolve to participate in it as I send the required details with a shaky click on the mouse.

The days run freely alongside my brushes and strokes; without my desired depth.

“I’m doing this for fun”- I tell myself- but I’m also doing this for Mama.

The day comes in a blur and I turn my painting in, awaiting the results.

“Paint a picture, baby,” Mama said to me on that cold rainy night. With the wind blowing and the rain pelting on the roof in a sort of soothing rhythm.
Mama always believed in me when no one else did; she saw something special in me.

“And the winner of this year’s paint a picture of depth is… ,” I could hear my heart palpitate within its cage, “…Miracle Williams.” I stilled. Then I stood, and in a sort of ethereal way, I walked up to the stage to get my plaque and take a picture with the person presenting it.

Going back home, I was still stoked- with a smile I didn’t wish to unfreeze. I actually got something out of art. Out of my passion. It felt too good to be true. But Mama had known this, oh I wish she were here, she’d have been so proud of me.

Slipping into my pyjamas, I slept and I dreamt of Mama, seeing the signs she gave me of my abilities. And I felt peaceful.

A verse of the scripture from the Bible came to me just before I drifted to sleep: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” And indeed it was true.

Damsel In Flight

One. Two. Three. You can do this.

My brain is in an overdrive, traces of adrenaline, I’m sure, can be found in my bloodstream. I’m running, fighting in my mind at the same time. I’m stalling the light that’s creeping in. I don’t want to catch it. Don’t want to hold unto it. I’ve been in the darkness for so long that the light leaves me feeling naked. Leaves me feeling scared.

My vision is blurry and I stumble on the rough cobblestone, hitting my head as I fall on the floor. I can smell the blood, taste the blood in my mouth from biting my lips too hard. I try to stand up, but my whole soul goes numb inside, then my body follows suit.

Blue. That’s the first thing I see. Such pure blue eyes. As my sight comes to focus, I see the eyes – his eyes –sparkle and light up as I gain consciousness. My knight in shining armor.

“Hello, Liv,” he says.
And I realise that it’s all real, that my fiance never left my side. That I still have him. But when he touches me and places a kiss to my forehead, I remember what it feels like to be in the dark, and I shy away from him, running once again from the sliver of light that he is. From the traces of feeling that courses through me everytime he touches me.

I am cursed never to see the light without it hurting me, burning me. At least I think I am. Because he is too kind. Too good to be true. And I always get hurt when good things happen to me.

As soon as I get better, I’ll leave once again, I’ll run away from him. I know I can’t run forever, but I can run till one of us gets tired.

I’ll be his stubborn as hell damsel in flight.

Deep Inside

You know that part where you love,

It’s deep inside in a hidden place,

A place so strange and unexpected no one will look for you there,

It’s filled with gore and assorted slimey creatures,

No one with sophisticated grace will step a few inches close to it.

But that’s where you always find solace,

The only place you find solace,

In the inner parts of your rotten soul,

Because your baggage is better than that of the world.

Nineteen

Nineteen, the last year of her teenagehood. Staring at the messages flooding her phone she smiled and clutched her Infinix Hot 6 phone to her chest.

All through the day she smiled. Cutting the mini cake she bought to appease the bellies of her hungry course mates, she still kept that smile intact.

Even when the first satchet of water was thrown her way by her hyperactive roommate, she brushed the yell at the tip of her lips aside as she was determined to be happy on her day.

Smiling till her cheeks hurt, she replied the messages and sent “thank you’s” to those that gave her gifts, ‘I never knew I was so loved and cherished’ she muttered to herself as she read another eulogy of a birthday text message.

But like the night always comes after the day, like a theif come to steal and destroy, she has lost all atom of happiness. It was so sudden and overwhelming, she’d wished the feeling of happiness could last forever or at least a little longer.

Waking up the next morning, she spent minutes to find a dress to put on for her lecture, finally she decided on a purple knee – length gown. Standing in front of her full length mirror in the crammed room that she shared with her roommate, she gave a loud sigh at her slightly big stomach.
“Is my tommy not too big?” She said. She turned with a pout to look at her roommate who was tying up her sneaker laces.
“Ada, it’s not big. Have you seen Tomiwa’s own?” Her roommate, Clara replied sarcastically. She stood to inspect Ada’s stomach and gave out a lengthy hiss as if to say, “You wan look like model, abi?
She’d already said it over and over that Ada didn’t need her to say it to hear it. She didn’t want to start her day with such statements, she was already very insecure about herself and she didn’t need to hear such.

“Why be so self conscious? And oh so insecure?” She could almost hear her best friend say, in that advicer’s tone. She never had an answer to it.

Ada took the school shuttle at the school park and walked the rest of the way. She stuffed her stomach with snacks during her in – between lecture break, but it was never enough. She couldn’t explain the emptiness that she felt inside her. Couldn’t explain why she stopped seeing it needful to make out time for church services. It all just happened so suddenly and it felt so normal that it almost seemed like it had always been like that.

Month after month, nothing changed.

On this fateful Sunday morning in which she eventually made it to church, during the sermon, “Just talk to Jesus”, the preacher said with a solemn face, “He won’t bite” he continued as he let go a smile that Ada always thought was the kind of smile of someone who felt truly loved, not the kind she often put on and put off like one will a mask. She wanted that smile. And she strived to get it with all her might.

Sitting in her bedroom after dusk, when the wind was chilly and the sky was becoming frugal with its light,
“I just want you to fill up the space in my heart, Lord.” She whispered in agony and in a desperate plea. It had been so long she’d heard from God.

After kneeling for a while, she stood up and set her bed to sleep, wrenching the sheets out and wrapping it around herself, her roommate was already fast asleep.

Closing her eyes to sleep she was awoken by the wind swaying the curtain in the room, And there in the darkness, twinned with the waves of the wind, there came a still voice which spoke so clearly, straight to her soul.

Her facial muscles tickled as the words greatly pacified her, as they made their way deep down her heart. Tears rolled freely down her face, she couldn’t believe it, she just heard her Maker speak.

Finally, she smiled geniunely, not the mask of a smile she had on her birthday, but one divinely imparted. One that she was sure would last forever.

~This was originally written for a Christian magazine.