I’m usually the one grabbing change by the horns and riding it at full throttle. I love change, and I’m an advocate for it. But one change that hit’s me hard every now on then, is the change in my beloved second home, Blogville.
I miss the excitement of hitting the refresh button hoping to find an update from one of my favorite bloggers. There was an amazing variety and depth as well as the challenge that came along with it-as not-so-long ago as last year.
I miss The Last King of Scotland: a fellow music lover who always got my weekend on to a good grove with his TGIF’s (Thank God it’s Friday’s) posts. I miss Naapali with the constant mythology lurking around in everything he wrote. His was always brilliant, and causing you to pause and think-if only for a minute. I miss the ever lively Bobby Taylor, who always cracked me up with her stories from back in the day or the hubby and pikin. I miss Naija Fine Boy and Babaalaye who could both make any not-so-great day end with a fit of laughter. I miss Omosewa who got me hooked on wedding websites and then left me high and dry (if I catch you eh!). I will forever miss LondonBuki, who reminded us of the importance of life and gratitude, as she made us privy to her mother’s fight for her life. And of course, I miss my blog bff, Zephi, both honest and funny…she reminds me of a day in blogville when we felt we knew each other, just through our words.
There are the people who are still here, but not really, and I miss them too. I miss Carl who seems to have been usurped by Angel Mourinho…his wit was evident even through his comments which I relished. And there is my soul twin, the Overwhelmed one who wrote Mummy Sunday’s and Life in a Song’s (bring her back babe). Yet, I cannot deny that maybe, I belong to this group in some ways…
Blogville has gotten much younger, and some times I can’t relate. I think the vice-versa is true in this scenario as well. My sister (who now blogs) said to me “Men your blog has too much grammar. It’s too serious and political for me. I feel like I have to open dictionary.com any time I read your posts.” LOL! That being said, I’m still here, and I won’t be going anywhere soon. It’s just a fit of the blues…
There are so many blogs (old and new)that keep me running back for more, and blogville is like family to me. I’m constantly inspired by people like The Headmistress and Bella Naija who have been here for ages, and continue to be relevant and to take blogging to new heights. The proverbial constant wind of change will always exist, and this one I will embrace, even if it sweeps me kicking and screaming.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Almost Famous
I'm a celebrity y'all! Well almost...
Check out my interview with the fabulous Standtall here
*Photograph used is from Deola Sagoe's Ready-to-Wear collection*
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Dear Daddy,
I wanted to whisper that first “I made it” in your ears. I made plans to write this last week when for the first time, my heart finally made sense of the light my eyes caught at that exit sign labelled ‘graduation’. But I got caught up in hysteria of family flying in from all over, final papers to turn in, and exams to study for and well...I choked on guilt.
Sometimes, I cannot help but feel that in some ways, I have betrayed you or at least your memory. I can’t fight the fact that you have become a forgotten memory... a half finished phrase remembered only amidst questions that I ask myself like “who will teach my brother to become a man?”, as I help him knot his tie and smack him for putting his feet in my high heels. And then there are the random moments when fluid memories of you flow through my mind...like when I’m driving home and hear a Kenny G song from that Breathless album you loved. Most of the times though, I regret the fact that I do not remember you . . . that I made peace with your parting way to quickly and freely . . . that the fragments left of you in my spirit are images of sickness and vomit, of frailness and hairlessness.
I wake up some mornings wondering if some parts of me will forever be lost with
the parts of you I buried...
But last week, I received a graduation gift that I will forever cherish. A college friend of yours gave me pictures of you in your judo uniform from your martial arts days. And for the first time in a long time, I remembered you. I remembered you strong. Remembered you proud and beaming at PTA meetings and prize giving days. It made me hope that God parted the clouds and allowed you to see me walk across the stage at your Alma mater and receive my B.A. - Summa Cum Laude. But most of all, I hope you saw all of your friends who came for my graduation-from Abuja to Atlanta and from Dallas to D.C. As much as I would like to pretend that they all came for me, I know that most of them came because they felt they owed it to you and because in one way or another, you had touched their lives. Someone told me last week, “your father always told me I would make it...even when I didn’t believe it.”
As the future curves before me like a question mark, forcing me to make important decisions (like deciding between going to law School in D.C. or N.Y.?!); I hope that at the end of the day, I can become half of the person you were. Just like you, I want to be known and remembered as kind, forgiving and focused. Maybe even revolutionary.
Until then, I wanted to send a ray of sunshine your way and let you know-I MADE IT.
Love,
Me.
I wanted to whisper that first “I made it” in your ears. I made plans to write this last week when for the first time, my heart finally made sense of the light my eyes caught at that exit sign labelled ‘graduation’. But I got caught up in hysteria of family flying in from all over, final papers to turn in, and exams to study for and well...I choked on guilt.
Sometimes, I cannot help but feel that in some ways, I have betrayed you or at least your memory. I can’t fight the fact that you have become a forgotten memory... a half finished phrase remembered only amidst questions that I ask myself like “who will teach my brother to become a man?”, as I help him knot his tie and smack him for putting his feet in my high heels. And then there are the random moments when fluid memories of you flow through my mind...like when I’m driving home and hear a Kenny G song from that Breathless album you loved. Most of the times though, I regret the fact that I do not remember you . . . that I made peace with your parting way to quickly and freely . . . that the fragments left of you in my spirit are images of sickness and vomit, of frailness and hairlessness.
I wake up some mornings wondering if some parts of me will forever be lost with
the parts of you I buried...
But last week, I received a graduation gift that I will forever cherish. A college friend of yours gave me pictures of you in your judo uniform from your martial arts days. And for the first time in a long time, I remembered you. I remembered you strong. Remembered you proud and beaming at PTA meetings and prize giving days. It made me hope that God parted the clouds and allowed you to see me walk across the stage at your Alma mater and receive my B.A. - Summa Cum Laude. But most of all, I hope you saw all of your friends who came for my graduation-from Abuja to Atlanta and from Dallas to D.C. As much as I would like to pretend that they all came for me, I know that most of them came because they felt they owed it to you and because in one way or another, you had touched their lives. Someone told me last week, “your father always told me I would make it...even when I didn’t believe it.”
As the future curves before me like a question mark, forcing me to make important decisions (like deciding between going to law School in D.C. or N.Y.?!); I hope that at the end of the day, I can become half of the person you were. Just like you, I want to be known and remembered as kind, forgiving and focused. Maybe even revolutionary.
Until then, I wanted to send a ray of sunshine your way and let you know-I MADE IT.
Love,
Me.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
He loves me, He loves me not.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
He hit me.
He begged me.
Black eye.
New Bracelet.
Swollen lip.
New ride.
Threats.
Promises.
Blood.
Kisses.
He loves me.
He loves me. Not...
He loves me not.
He hit me.
He begged me.
Black eye.
New Bracelet.
Swollen lip.
New ride.
Threats.
Promises.
Blood.
Kisses.
He loves me.
He loves me. Not...
Monday, November 24, 2008
English 101: Notes from an Unexpected Teacher
A noun is a person, place, animal or thing.
A noun is a person. This person was a friend with whom I shared time and space, a friend who taught me lessons she will never know, a friend whom for now, I will leave nameless.
A noun is a place. The place is the toilet she went to after every meal like clockwork. A ‘meal’ could be a piece of candy, a bowl of cereal, a salad, it never really mattered. She would go in and turn on the tap, thinking it drowned out the sound: the sound of her liquid pain- her vomit.
A noun is an animal. A butterfly is what I hope she will evolve to become. She lived her days like a caterpillar, constantly searching for the things that were already in her. She was searching for wings, searching for beauty, searching for an array of geometric color.
A noun is a thing. There are the things she hid behind: like alcohol and the size 0 jeans that could no longer fit. There were the things only she could see: like globs of flesh where I only saw bones and skin. Call that thing dysmorphia*. A noun is the untangible things she wanted: things like love. Assurance. Acceptance. Stability.
It will always be my regret, that all that time I waited too long to tell her about the one thing that the English lesson of her life was missing-Adjectives. Adjectives are not as straightforward as nouns- they modify nouns.
I wish she knew adjectives like beautiful. Beautiful woman.
Loved. Even when not shown by the father who left her, the boyfriend who was never there. I wish she knew she was loved in unquantifiable ways by One who saw it all. Her vomit. Her pain. Her laxatives. Her tears. Loved woman.
Enough. Skinny enough. Pretty enough.
Beautiful enough loved woman.
* Body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) is psychiatric disease that causes several women with eating disorders to obsess about their appearance and see themselves with flaws they do not have. It is often called ‘imagined ugliness.’
**7 million women in America suffer from either Anorexia nervosa or Bulimia nervosa. 6% of those with serious cases die.
***A Nigerian study by two professors from the University of Benin found that 60% of girls studied between ages 13-17 induced vomit after eating meals and regularly used laxatives/diuretics.
A noun is a person. This person was a friend with whom I shared time and space, a friend who taught me lessons she will never know, a friend whom for now, I will leave nameless.
A noun is a place. The place is the toilet she went to after every meal like clockwork. A ‘meal’ could be a piece of candy, a bowl of cereal, a salad, it never really mattered. She would go in and turn on the tap, thinking it drowned out the sound: the sound of her liquid pain- her vomit.
A noun is an animal. A butterfly is what I hope she will evolve to become. She lived her days like a caterpillar, constantly searching for the things that were already in her. She was searching for wings, searching for beauty, searching for an array of geometric color.
A noun is a thing. There are the things she hid behind: like alcohol and the size 0 jeans that could no longer fit. There were the things only she could see: like globs of flesh where I only saw bones and skin. Call that thing dysmorphia*. A noun is the untangible things she wanted: things like love. Assurance. Acceptance. Stability.
It will always be my regret, that all that time I waited too long to tell her about the one thing that the English lesson of her life was missing-Adjectives. Adjectives are not as straightforward as nouns- they modify nouns.
I wish she knew adjectives like beautiful. Beautiful woman.
Loved. Even when not shown by the father who left her, the boyfriend who was never there. I wish she knew she was loved in unquantifiable ways by One who saw it all. Her vomit. Her pain. Her laxatives. Her tears. Loved woman.
Enough. Skinny enough. Pretty enough.
Beautiful enough loved woman.
* Body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) is psychiatric disease that causes several women with eating disorders to obsess about their appearance and see themselves with flaws they do not have. It is often called ‘imagined ugliness.’
**7 million women in America suffer from either Anorexia nervosa or Bulimia nervosa. 6% of those with serious cases die.
***A Nigerian study by two professors from the University of Benin found that 60% of girls studied between ages 13-17 induced vomit after eating meals and regularly used laxatives/diuretics.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Come...
Come. Come disrupt this world of earrings matched to shoes, of color coded files, measured spoons and ruled lines. Come bringing with you chaos, unbalance and untested theory.
Come like water, rejuvenating this throat parched with sense and sensibility. Come like star dust, sprinkling madness; signalling the return of a normalcy that never was.
Come be my tree that grows crooked, my car that speeds past the limits, my rich decadent indulgence. Come feel this heart beating, this soul aching to be freed of the accepted and expected.
Come be my Picasso, painting with unconventional brush strokes and irrational paint splatter. Paint rage, paint desire, paint animalistic, paint soft.
Come, and this time I promise to not seek immediate definition. Come and this time I will let heart roll out of tongue without pre-thought or post-fear.
Come like rain, quenching this burning; this desire so counterintuitive yet as natural as dessert sand. Come and grease this mechanical heart.
Come like hunger,
Come like fire,
Come, and
...stay...
Friday, July 11, 2008
Shades of Gray: Life from an Amateurs Lens
I have a thing for life's non-post card moments, for I am convinced that therein lies the truth.It is in these shades of gray, that the majority of the populace often color their existence. Sometimes my words are intimidated by the realities of these gray areas, so I am learning to drop my pen, and speak through my camera..
Home to the Eiffel Tower, and the homeless:
High Fashion:
Another Day, Another Euro:
“All I wanted was to connect my moods with those of Paris. Beauty paints and when it painted most, I shot.”
Ernst Haas
**Note: Please do not use any picture without my permission. Thank you!**
Home to the Eiffel Tower, and the homeless:
High Fashion:
Another Day, Another Euro:
“All I wanted was to connect my moods with those of Paris. Beauty paints and when it painted most, I shot.”
Ernst Haas
**Note: Please do not use any picture without my permission. Thank you!**
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
