The Woman in the Mirror

Has anyone ever died from a broken heart?

I saw a movie a long time ago where a lady died from a broken heart. I mean her heart literally broke in two. I think of it and it’s funny.

Lately I’ve been thinking about decisions – the big ones. Like where to live, who to marry, what career to focus on for the next ten to twenty years. And somehow in all these thinking, I may have made mistakes, possibly some I am yet unaware of.

My natural instincts is often to wait and be absolutely sure before moving. But I’m always learning that inertia is the bane of progress. So, I move. Then suffer anxiety pangs from moving too soon. And then suffer further panic attacks from thinking I moved too quickly.

It’s a strange cycle.

What I do remind myself everyday is this: I am in a constant state of becoming and God loves me too much to let me wander unguided.

Today, I’m undergoing a learning process of unlearning. Unlearning the past and how they’ve shaped my thinking and attitude. Relearning what it means to be a child of God, covered in the shadow of His wings and finding rest in knowledge far beyond me. And I’m learning to be quiet. Quiet isn’t the natural state of my anxious mind.

I’m more aware than I have been in a long time. I’m in a state of self-reflection, getting to meet myself again. It’s unsure where all of this is going, but I am believing it’s already good.

I sincerely hope, hope against all odds, that I will fall in love again with the woman in mirror when it’s over.

Of listless weeks and Unexpected Wins

When I awoke to 2018 all I wanted was to go back to sleep. You see, I liked a boy and taking things to the next level seemed so promising with a small exception—within the past weeks it suddenly felt like I didn’t know him anymore. Maybe I never did. The whole episode left me in a bad emotional state that I ended up telling myself, whenever someone asked about my annual plans, that I’d get to it before the month runs out. I never did. 

February should have been better. I was with my girls and having fun but things went south so fast. I got robbed in a public place. Devastated doesn’t begin to explain how I felt. My brain wasn’t processing as fast as I’d like and the missing bag contained my phone, WiFi, ATM cards. I jumped into damage control mode, calling for accounts freeze. Then I sat there and stared into space, while my girls threatened hell, mentally taking stock of lost items. That’s when it hit me. If you ever keep a little notepad with you and a pen for ‘brilliant’ random ideas, then you know how important those are. I cried and wished I’d get that little book back. Just it. My words are like an extension of myself—my mind, and I felt so violated. How would I get it back? What if the thief had no idea what it was and threw it into the trash? I wrote to the company and got tossed around. I went to the police and learned how unhelpful they could be. I sought closure online by writing my story.

Finally, I was ready to let it go. I replaced my lost items and felt better. A minor setback wouldn’t put my life on hold. I was on a roll to the future. Or maybe I wasn’t.

In the next few months I understood what it meant to be frustrated, taken for granted and hopelessly depressed. Progress wasn’t a word I knew existed. I turned to God. I met new people—some who saw my February debacle online and broke protocols for me. During the wedding of an online friend I met some of the most amazing people, got added to a group where I felt out-of-place for a while, left and came back again because I never run away. Not entirely.

Amazon proved to be a pain in the ass. I couldn’t place an order for a laptop I needed because they kept declining my debit card for reasons I didn’t understand. Multiple mails, faxes and complaints later and I gave up on them. It sucks to come from a blacklisted country where the actions of a few determines the fate of many hardworking, honest people. Eventually, I had to use a third-party logistic company that misrepresented themselves, took too long to deliver and messed up part of my order. On the plus side (because positive vibes are shooting fireworks off my fingers) I learned how incredibly polite and patient I am. It became apparent I’d rather suffer for incompetence than vent my frustration on sales agents. 

This was meant to be a post about nasty weeks and gratefulness that it’s over, but writing this has forced me to really think about my experience in details by reliving it. In retrospect it wasn’t all bad. I met new people who proved to be supportive; people who responded to a whatsapp status cry for help. I’m thankful for these.

My fellowship team made our daily devotional in print. I mean we wrote a book and self-published! That’s big. Heck, it’s huge. I have over a hundred copies in my house for distribution and when I pause to think that I wrote at least twenty daily scripture readings for young people, some drawing from my life experience, it makes me proud. Like, hey you over there, we wrote a book!

You know, it’s fine to not have it together. Sometimes life hands you sour grapes and you can’t get a decent juice out of it even with sweeteners. It’s all right to fall apart and rant. A new friend and potential business partner died and I mourned for weeks. Weeks that managed to complicate my life further with stress at work, more man drama and partial blindness. For real, I couldn’t see for some days from staring at a computer screen.

My aim isn’t to inspire anyone here. For the most part, this is more like a rant than anything I’ve posted on this blog. I awoke this year without a plan, with hurt and confusion. I woke up today, the 31^st, with a song in my head. I’m listening to the same song as I write this. It’s been a terrible year with so many downside, enough to drown whatever wins existed within.

But, right now, I’m forced to confront my wins. I’m starting a company doing what I love. Somehow in my frustration I got some clarity of everything wrong with my world and all I want to do is fix it. Opportunities abound and I’m grabbing them as they come. I’m going to school again. I met someone who has been so amazing I feel like it’s a dream. Old relationships that ended without notice have been rekindled.

I found my voice again. In a time when it seemed like I was failing, I learned what it meant to be me. I am smart and beautiful and inspire people. Excessive modesty has been the hallmark of my existence for so long. In the last few weeks I’ve sat in panels, questioned and asked how I’m so confident that I talk like someone older than my age. I smile, but what I truly want to say to them is I have lived. I sense more than most; I feel more than most; I question more than most; I experience the world differently. And that’s a good thing. I know I will change the world and my words, heart and charisma will be the tools I use.

This new journey of rediscovery is something I want to share with so many people. I’m taking a chance and placing a bet on myself. I’m refusing to let other people’s fear define me because in a moment of clarity I opened my bible and saw this: If you are not firm in faith, then you’re not firm at all and I want to stand for and believe in something. I want to hold on to that belief with tenacity. So, this is me and whatever comes next, I’m standing and saying, ‘Go girl, you’ve got this.’

And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer

After reading Fredrik Backman’s “A Man Called Ove”, he’s become my new obsession.

There aren’t many writers out there who draw your soul into a story like he does. You see the characters. You root for them. You feel their sorrows and hopes and triumph. You sit in bed at 2am weeping for them, and smile when things finally begin to work for them.

Because deep inside, these stories mirror yours. Your story is buried inside words and you recognise this. So, it stops being about the characters really; it’s about you. And me. Hoping we’ll get a happy ending eventually.

I read Backman’s novella “And Every Morning The Way Home Gets Longer and Longer”.
It’s a very short complete-in-one-sitting kind of book that tells the story of a man searching for the best way to tell his son and grand son goodbye.

His greatest fear isn’t death; it’s not remembering. It’s waking up each day knowing your memory will fail you. That you’ll stare at the people who meant the world to you and have no recollection of who they are. That you’ll pick your favourite book for 10 years and not know why it was so perfect for a decade. That the words you loved so much, or the numbers that excited you means nothing.

I would fear that. Not death. Never death. Not going grey or wrinkled. I look forward to it. I would fear forgetting; looking into the mirror and not knowing. Scratching at the surface of consciousness and not being able to dig within. It’s frustrating today to have a word right there at the tip of my tongue and yet my mind betrays me. It’s frustrating to feel like I need to recall something and yet can’t access the file. But to know that one day it’ll simply be a natural reaction to aging…

Noah, his grandson, takes this in strides. He’s a child who loves numbers like his grandpa. But he also understands adult complexities because his grandpa always spoke to him like an adult.
Ted, the son, likes words and music. He never got along with his father. He taught himself to ride a bike.

… Grandparents dot on their grandkids because they’re trying to apologise to their children for being bad parents.

I can live with this.

Backman weaves an emotional, compelling story of family, love, regret and hope. All fundamental themes familiar to us.

………………….

There’s a hospital room at the end of a life where someone, right in the middle of the floor, has pitched a green tent. A person wakes up inside it, breathless and afraid, not knowing where he is. A young man sitting next to him whispers:
“Don’t be scared.”
The person sits up in his sleeping bag, hugs his shaking knees, cries.
“Don’t be scared,” the young man repeats.
A balloon bounces against the roof of the tent; its string reaches the person’s fingertips.
“I don’t know who you are,” he whispers.
[…]
“You look different, Noahnoah. How is school? Are the teachers better now?”
“Yes, Grandpa, the teachers are better. I’m one of them now. The teachers are great now.
“That’s good, that’s good, Noahnoah, a great brain can never be kept on Earth,” Grandpa whispers and closes his eyes.

Operation Andrew

The Cathedral Church of Christ, Marina (CCC) is the oldest Anglican cathedral in the Church of Nigeria. The foundation stone of the first building was laid in 29/3/1867 and the cathedral established in 1869. While the construction of the current building began 1/11/1924 and completed in 1946.

But this isn’t about the church as we know it. Much of what the Anglican communion is today traces its origin to Church Missionary Society’s work (CMS). Little wonder if you spend some time in Nigerian villages, you’ll hear the oldies refer to Anglican churches as CMS or Mission rather than their given names. You’ll also see that the CCC sits at one of the most popular bus stops in Lagos, Nigeria called CMS.

The church exists because some people took up the call to bring the gospel to all of us. From the Apostles who died for the sake of Christ, to people who drive the CMS, and Christians today who remember what it means to be true disciples of Jesus.

Much is said about Apostle Peter, the Rock as Christ called him, but not many remember it was Andrew, his brother, who first saw Jesus and told Simon, “We have found the Messiah.” Then he took Simon to Jesus (John 1:35-42)

Today, as we remember the death of Christ on the cross and what it means to Christians all over the world, think about what His love and the Church unity is truly about.

It’s not in interdenominational bickering –whose church has the grandest design or who’s keeping with traditional doctrine or whose pastor performs the most miracles. We stray too far.

It’s in Mission. Being Andrews. Telling someone about our Jesus, what he’s done this Good Friday by becoming a willing sacrifice and what that means to anyone who will receive him.

So, will you be an Andrew?

One Year Older

Anniversary Reblog.

It was my birthday a few days ago. I read this post again and realise just how much of it still holds true for me.
I’ve made new friends, fresh relationships and met awesome people I’m fortunate to call ‘family’.

I’m still in shock from all the cake I ate on Tuesday lol, and cringe at the extra hour of work I need at the gym to get all the calories off my hips. But it was a good day– the very best, and I look forward to everything this new year brings 🙂

Honest Conversations

This is in response to the daily prompt Cake. I’m doing this as a free-writing exercising after abandoning us for over two months. Coincidentally this is one day of the year when I’m allowed to eat lots of cake without thinking about calories.

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Questioning the Right to Life and Death

The question of death is a universal one. The question of who owns life is a bigger one. What exists beyond our consciousness, and how do we determine the existence of the afterlife? However, there is another issue I’m more concerned about and it is the quality of our life and how much control we exert over it.

If man was made to inhabit the earth, should he not also rightfully acquire a certain quality of life that makes his stay, or existence as many might put it, worthwhile. I have long maintained that our happiness and satisfaction are moving targets, ever-changing the older we get. As a subscriber to the Christian doctrine, and a believer of the utmost lordship of God over a man’s life, I am also pressed to agree with the position that the one who gives life also holds the authority, alone, to take it.

Despite, I find myself questioning this authority, and the laws of the State to protect the lives of her citizens from danger—including danger to self. This danger apparently includes taking one’s own life.

“Why does a man destroy himself or what destroys him? I would have to judge that suicide is mostly the tool of the thinking man. The right to suicide should be the same as the right to love.”
― Charles Bukowski

The question of a right to wield power over one’s own mortality pose an ethical and moral dilemma. On the one hand there is the issue of creationism, and on the other the question of choice. Should a person who has been brought to this world without their permission be granted the choice to stay or leave it?

Parents have an obligation to provide for their children and give them as fair an advantage as they can afford. They are also expected to give the best quality of life within their reach. The State is sworn to protecting that life, too, within the ambit of the law. As a result we have balanced individuals, matured and capable of deciding at some point in their lives what quality of living, made available to them, suits them most. Some aspire to live quietly; others look forward to an adventurous life. And some prefer a balance of both.

So what happens when this choice is threatened? Should the individual go on living a life below the quality they desire? Should they adjust their preferences, and perhaps, play at trying something new to satisfy the State’s responsibility to keep people alive and at no danger to themselves? Should people keep on living because their loved ones insist?

“There is a certain right by which we many deprive a man of life, but none by which we may deprive him of death; this is mere cruelty.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

I am aware that within some states in the USA, laws have been enacted that legalize physician-assisted suicides, in so far as the individuals involved are capable of making the decision on their own; have been given a six months prognosis or less, and are capable of administering for themselves a lethal dose. This is quite similar to what Swiss’ Dignitas offers: an opportunity to live with dignity and die with dignity.

It’s everything I believe life should offer—the choice to live as you want and enjoy the most of it while here. Death comes soon enough, and there’s no saying we’ll know when that will happen. But in a world filled with many uncertainties with little within our control, every man should be allowed, at the very least, a chance to live with dignity and die the same. Not ravaged by sickness, or abject poverty, or a life that appears to head nowhere.

While I understand the need for people to live with hope in their hearts; the unwavering belief that someday, somehow, things will get better, should the peculiar minority who don’t feel that way be subjected to the whims of the majority who do?

To whose benefit is it when we attempt at shoving our moral compasses on others who do not share our views on death and the right to it?

Again, I am a Christian, but over the past few months I have found myself pondering this. I don’t have the answers, and I know this is a difficult topic, but if the legislative bodies all over the world are beginning to reconsider their stance on assisted suicide in medical cases, perhaps it’s also time that we as a people began considering it, too—outside our current ethical and moral boundaries, above our fears of questioning the norm, and beyond the medical bracket.

 

Further reading (links open in new tab)

Physician-Assisted suicide: Legality and Morality

Assisted-suicide: A right or a wrong?

Should I help my patients die?

Quotes

Photo credit: Tumblr

Thirty Years Later

Because this is everything I would say to myself ten years ago, and everything I need to hear today.

The Weight of Struggle

It was few minutes past 8pm when I boarded one of the loading vehicles for the night before drivers called it a day. I rode shotgun, squeezed between the driver and a middle-aged man. The engines kicked to life as the light overhead cast its dim glow.

“Your money please.”

Hands stretched forth clasping wazobia notes. I helped him collect the monies so his hands stay on the steering wheel.

“Sister, your money.”

He was referring to me. I took my first look at the inside of his cab. Layers of dust coated the dashboard. I suspected the dust on the fake brown fur placed just below the windscreen would choke the occupants of the car if anyone bothered dusting it off. The stereo system could barely be called that, considering all it sported was a gaping hole—a testament to a vehicle that once was. The only thing that appeared in fairly decent condition was the seats. But then, wasn’t that all we really needed in a vehicle anyway. Every other addition, from the stereo to the air conditioning was for comfort and another excuse to attach ridiculous price tags.

The car wheeled into a pothole and I braced myself for impact as the hand brake dug into my thigh.

“I should pay half the fare.” I’m not sure what response I expected. It had been a lousy day and even the best of the people in this State would have lost their quip.

“My sister, no vex. I get just 250 naira per drive and in a day I might go only three times.”
That’s an average of 750 naira per day’s work. Take the mandatory 50 naira ‘tax’ to the garage administrators per trip and the total take home pay drops to 600 naira. That’s less than $2 per day. His family lived in the outskirt of the city and he got to pay them a visit once a week.

“No money in this business at all. When I pay my debt, I’ll carry my car to another place.”

The journey from the bus stop to my home is about five minutes and within that time I reconsidered everything I’d thought about my life. Earlier in the day I’d done a bit of mental cataloguing and brain whipping. I needed to raise money for a certain project to kick-start the next phase of my life, but too many projects in the pipe tend to drain resources—including the emergency stash.

Helen Keller once talked about lacking shoes and realizing the next man had no feet. I have my reservations about this eternal wisdom because while it asks that we be grateful for what we have, it also attempts to diminish the weight of our struggle by drawing a rough comparison with the next man’s. I don’t have to wonder where my next pay check will come from. I’m neither in debt nor have family miles away depending on me for survival. However, I understand this struggle, not because I live that life, but because in my little world I feel hard pressed to make tough decisions and find solutions, too.

A few months ago I would have felt shame for feeling the way I did. Here I was without shoes staring at another without feet. But whether shoes or feet, our needs were different and not in any way diminished by their size. What mattered was the value we placed on them, not some invisible measuring line deciding if our struggle measured up to a community standard.

If I learned anything in that old beaten car, it is that to share in another’s story isn’t to make mine of worth; it is the understanding that struggle is universal, irrespective of our destination, that expresses true community.

 

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Wazobia—Nigerian slang for 50 naira note. Derives its name from the pictorial representations of the major ethnic groups. 

 

Hello, I’m Alive! (and ten lessons learned)

It’s 2017 and feels like I got the memo when everyone’s already having a good time. For the first time since I started this blog I didn’t write a New Year post. I’ll tell you why, alongside the beautiful things that happened in 2016.

1. My spiritual life became richer. I’ve always been an always-have-your-feet-on-the-ground kind of girl. If something does not make sense, the chance of trying them out is slim to none. In 2016, I learned that faith isn’t very logical all the time and the lack of sense does not make it an impossible feat.
2. Forgiveness came easier. Ever felt like you lack the capacity to forgive someone who hurt you? I felt that way for a long time. I was hurt in 2015 and wondered how I would survive the year with all the anger and grief. Then I learned forgiveness isn’t a feeling; it’s something you do and then do again every single day after. It wasn’t my love I had to give; it was my consent to hand over the offender to the author of love. Life became easier after that.
3. Studying made me almost mad. I’d say literally mad but that wouldn’t be true. I did feel almost mad though trying to pay attention to other things aside the pile of books staring me in the face every day, lecturers reminding me to read at least two hours daily and colleagues oppressing me with all their knowledge. But I realised with constant practice and discipline, everything becomes a tad bearable.
4. We got stuck in a recession and Trump blew the world away. Typing this made me chuckle. Imagine waking up every day to the new fall in the value of your currency, going to the market to learn your favourite brands have doubled in price, searching for alternatives and hating them, dealing with the fear of unemployment and a pay cut, and knowing Trump is the president of America. Conditions will always change and everything bends to accommodate it.
5. Ideas! That’s what happens when you know things may never be the same again. I spent a lot of time thinking of alternatives, which led me to considering the things I love most in the world, which further led me to research and now I’m a step closer where I want to be in 2017. Change can be a good motivator to realign priorities if it does not paralyze you.
6. Learning to let go. Not everyone is meant to remain in your life. I heard that once and never gave it another thought until I had to let go of someone special to me. It was not an easy decision, but it had to be done. How did I feel afterwards? Terrible. But terrible is only a feeling and feelings change.
7. Life hangs precariously on a very thin thread. And could be gone in a puff! I mourned the loss of a blog pal (you’ve probably seen Archaeopteryx here). But his demise made me think about life a little more deeply. Death comes for all like a long-lost friend; we can either embrace him with joy or regret.
8. The past never goes away. I dream of him knocking at the door. Sometimes I look out the window and he’s there, bidding me to come out. But I don’t; I don’t invite him in nor do I go out to say hello. The past never really goes away; he’s there in our subconscious, but no one says you have to give him audience.
9. Set manageable goals and keep them in sight. Goal setting have been a tradition for many. Some never see past February, and others can quite simply be termed ‘rolling plans’. I’m not sure why some goals never see the light of day, but studies suggest the reason for failure may be tied to our sharing. The logic is the brain feels gratified when goals are shared with others, hence reducing the likelihood of accomplishment. Mine has never tanked like that, but then I’m not a goal-sharer until I hit the mark. Perhaps it’s time to try a new approach (?) Write it down, keep it in sight, ask for help, but otherwise keep it to yourself.
10. Victory! Comes sweeter to those who labour the most. I don’t know if I heard that somewhere or if it’s original. A week ago my final results were released and I’m happy to say this girl is an official holder of a professional certification. I had to let go of things I loved (like this blog) to get here, but I’m glad it was worth it. Although the journey may seem long and weary, the joy when it’s over will exceed every effort put into the task.

I like to begin each year with a general theme. In 2015 it was hope; 2016 was a time to tear down and reconstruct yesterday.  This year I’m trying out things that scare the crap out of me. I know it will probably feel stupid sometimes, but like an advice I read on another blog said, “if you wake up one morning and feel unhappy with where you are, have the courage to do whatever is necessary to make a change in your life.”

So here is to taking bold steps.

Happy New Year

 

Image: Pixabay

 

 

 

Authenticity and The Social Epidemic of Happiness

The image of happiness is laughing eyes and tongue sticking out in a picture frame. My mobile camera goes click-click, balanced on a selfie stick held at an angle that flatters the errant jawline of my cheek. Eyebrows on fleek… click. One-eyed wink… click. Kim K’s pout … click. Goofy squint look… click. Two dozen pictures and filtered edits later, instagram is ready for my awesomeness.

The image of happiness is a facebook post; pre-wedding shots overflow feeds boldly captioned ‘save the date’. Wives flaunt husbands. Husbands flaunt wives. Parents share pictures of kids at every stage of their growth in a surprising wave of media parenting.

Yet, the paradox of our existence is with all the happy media frenzy, there are many out there who suffer bouts of depression.

Last month I had an emotional breakdown. I had spent the early hours of my birthday thinking where my life might be headed, and days on social media binging on everyone’s happy story, wondering why my life wasn’t cool enough. And inasmuch as we’re told never to compare our journey with that of other people, we can’t eliminate the lines of our individual existence that crisscross and overlap, nor can we deny its existence. So may be this comparison is a natural response to our shared reality.

I’ve been thinking about this, our social epidemic of happiness. The unicorn moments we love to create for the pages; the frames of laughter we hang on our wall or store in our mobile phones; moments of bliss we are all too happy to share with the world. Then there’s everything else either dialed down they are barely noticeable, or completely tuned off—and that’s the part we wish remains undiscovered.

In her Tedtalk, Brené Brown speaks about the power of vulnerability; the difficulty in letting ourselves be deeply and vulnerably seen by others; our need for connection and erroneous belief that being vulnerable is akin to weakness. We think that to belong means to put up a happy front for everyone… even ourselves. And so we try to numb those feelings, but we cannot selectively numb “[because] when we numb those, we numb joy, we numb gratitude, we numb happiness… and then we’re miserable.”

So I went through an emotional breakdown and cried and deleted my evil social media apps and shut out all my friends. But the thing is I didn’t feel any better. I still walked around trying to stop my cracks from deepening, and I struggled with it long enough to know my way wouldn’t work until I brought back the evil apps and talked to someone. And that’s exactly what I did. By opening up to someone else, I revealed another part of myself and learned a bit more about them. My feelings weren’t abnormal. My sadness was shared by many others. In my vulnerability I had connected. In connecting I allowed myself more joyful emotions.

Put into perspective, we can begin to appreciate the masterpiece that is Pixar’s Inside Out. Our mantra may be simple: sadness is negative emotion; happiness is positive emotion.  So when the photographer asks us to stare at the camera, he demands a smile before clicking the shutter button, adding to our belief that to immortalize this emotion is better than to do the other. But in truth sadness need not be the opposite of happiness; sometimes it could be another path to happiness.

The most interesting image I have of myself is an ‘accidental’ photo over three years old. Clad in a red tank top, hands clasped beneath jaw and eyes staring down a table, I’m the perfect image of disappointed. It’s still one of my favourite pictures, not just for its authenticity, but because every day it reminds me that we are a ball of emotional energy—not just happy ones, but sad, vulnerable, weak, crazy energy, and it’s okay to share those too.

 

Image: Instagram @Anapuzar

 

One Year Older

 

This is in response to the daily prompt Cake. I’m doing this as a free-writing exercising after abandoning us for over two months. Coincidentally this is one day of the year when I’m allowed to eat lots of cake without thinking about calories.

Happiness Through The Hour-Glass

If you had asked me what happiness meant a decade ago, my answer would have read: it’s finally coming home to good food and a warm bed. You see, I was in a boarding school that availed me only the basic luxuries—as basic as they could get. When I posed the same question to a group of friends, answers differed with each person defining happiness as best he could, given the prevailing circumstances of their lives.

I used to think this was a one-definition-fits-all thing; that you could tell people what should give them lasting happiness, and that the sum of one’s feeling would be their dreams, both short and long-term, fulfilled. I may have been wrong.

It explains why a person living in luxury would consider suicide when they can afford everything they ever wanted. Why a mother would kill her own baby if children are God’s gift to man. Why certain people suffer spousal abuse, if the call to marriage is the highest union that two people can find. Why privileged children run away from home, when there are less privileged that would die to have just a bit of their part. Or why some go into crime even when provided for by the State. The paradox is that people want happiness but do not understand why their desires, now fulfilled, leave them feeling hollow still.

The much I’ve come to know is that our personal and collective definition of happiness changes the longer the sands pass though the hour-glass. It was Heraclitus who said that no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he is not the same man. If human character was subject to time and experience, one’s perception of happiness is also subject to the same prevailing influence.

It brings some perspective into this ever elusive definition. In fact I am willing to bet that if I threw open the same question, obvious as the answer(s) may seem, it will take some thoughts to offer one that pleases you.

So I asked myself again: what does happiness mean to me?

Over time it has been so many things, but the passage of time has helped to refine my perception. The more sand has escaped from the hour-glass of my life, the clearer I see through it. Whereas happiness used to mean getting as much as I could within the shortest possible interval; now it is knowing that happiness is not in achievement itself, but in the journey between how soon I want it and when I eventually get it.

Raped Twice

This touched me in so many ways I do not have the courage to explore.
We’ve talked about rape so many times, but we can never talk about it enough.

 

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The Off Key Of Life

Statistics tell us that one in five women in the United States have been raped in their lifetime.

One in five women.

The next time you’re in a room filled with people, take a look around at the women in that room and think about those numbers. Disturbingly, since rape is underreported in this country, that number is higher than statistics indicate.

When I started this blog I wanted it to be a place I could go to and just write what was on my mind. Whether it was funny or serious, it was going to be my place to vent. The Stanford swimmer’s rape trial and verdict that has been in the news recently is so disgustingly obscene that even though I wanted to write something, I couldn’t find my way here to rationally articulate any reasonable thoughts. But I have to say something.

A young unconscious girl was…

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Thinking About The End

Death comes to all of us—eventually. Unless you’re of the biblical school of thoughts, then maybe you’ll live to see the rapture. Otherwise, death comes and it’s an end we all have to face.

I find the thought of this mortality amusing—I’ve said this before and got called a weirdo, but think about it. If we get to think about where we will like to be in the nearest or farthest future, if we are advised that the most effective way to ensure that we reach our dreams without giving up is to see where it all ends every time, then why shouldn’t we pay attention to our ultimate end which is guaranteed?

Yet people fear death. It’s the reason so many out there want to be immortalized in their children… I think it’s a biological order. Man forms community, chooses a mate and procreate to ensure that his genetic line continues to live long after he is gone. Animals—Lions in particular—kill off the cubs of the former leader of the Pride to ensure his offspring repopulate the feline nation. In life we’re still thinking about living longer than our mortality will allow. It’s like some kind of contingency plan against the inevitable. It’s the reason we feel remorse for one who has passed away, offering respect to the deceased we never knew like we’re appealing to Death to come for us at a much later date.

But death shouldn’t be something we dread; on the contrary we should encourage active discussions. And by discussion I don’t mean talking about it when we’re old and tired of this world; I mean thinking and talking it when we have everything to live for. We should take living everyday like it’s our last quite literally. We should even discuss the various means by which we could leave this world—as dreadful as some of it might seem. But most important, we need to think of the people we will leave behind and our legacy when it’s over… whenever it’s over.

A week ago I woke up to news of the death of a vibrant young man who allegedly slipped in the bath and died. I am privileged to have worked with him in the past and if there was something I loved, it was his jovial nature. The news got out and there was nothing but love from those who knew or were opportune to have read something he’d shared. I spent the rest of the day thinking of what will happen if people learn of my death. You should think that, too. Hopefully you do. Then I asked my sister what would happen if we both knew I’d die that night and she said, “We’ll spend the night awake; no sleeping for you.”

So there are a number of reasons for our fear of the inevitable. We fear the life we’ll have when the people we love are gone; we fear the life they will have when we are gone; we fear we will never be the person we want to be if we die now. We fear we haven’t lived enough. But we don’t have to be afraid, or death has the upper hand. We just have to embrace the truth of our very finite existence so it takes away the element of surprise.

How?
Think of the end. Talk about the end with people you love. Live well. Leave good. Perhaps this is a better contingency plan.

On First Impressions and Seconds

Do first impressions matter?

A week ago I was walking home from work, down a busy Lagos street, exhausted and barely keeping the adrenaline pumping when I stopped to buy bread. Bread because I don’t know how I’ll survive in my house without it for a whole weekend.

The woman was rude. That was my first impression. She spoke like I was interrupting something and shot daggers when I tried inspecting the bread. I asked if they were fresh. Yes. They all say yes, but you ask anyway hoping someone will say it’s a day old. Or two. Or maybe a week. But asking buys you time to block out the rest of your senses and use just the nose. If you’re lucky the pleasant aroma of freshly baked bread will fill them in no time.

She looked irritated by my presence and I regretted stopping in the first place. Naturally I’d walk away, but I didn’t. I stayed, allowing our mutual irritations overlap. For a moment I wondered how she managed to keep any customers at all.

Three days later I walked past the same stall and heard someone call out. When I turned it was the bread seller, waving and asking if I wanted to buy more bread. I’m not sure if I succeeded in hiding my surprise, but even before thinking I could feel my lips returning the smile. This thing betrays my emotions.

The next day I stopped over to buy bread. She called me her friend or something like that. I don’t mind, I’ve been called many things by women ranging from darling to sweetheart to love and my baby. It’s all the same to me.

Everyday I walk past my eyes do a quick search for her. We lock gaze. Smile. And communicate a silent good night. Yesterday I stopped to buy bread. Two? Yes, two. She remembers I bought two loaves the first time. She remembers the brand I like. I don’t even inspect it. Don’t take too long to eat this one. I nod.

I’m surprised she recalled my face since we met on a dark road illuminated by candles from other traders. Maybe I have one of those faces you don’t forget; maybe I look like one of those customers you know will always come back.

Should first impressions matter?

I don’t know. I met a bread seller who was rude the first time, I was sure I never wanted to do business with her again. A week later and we’re exchanging secret smiles. There are many things that could have been wrong that day. She could have had a bad day, and yet all I could think of was how I deserved a nice, cheerful person serving me… even when I wasn’t feeling so cheerful myself.

What does that make me?

I don’t know. But I hope that someone out there will be more generous with a second impression of me.