Without stalling, this is not a pretty post with fancy words or anything. I’m going to use cliches and weary statements as they come, because I feel like those old people we dream of becoming who do not care anymore what people think of them, of what spectacle they become in front of people. Rules burden me. Maybe not rules, but living like I have to do so and so and be like this and that, after a while, it all just crashes. I just feel this severe vexation in my soul and I’m like hold on, just wait a minute. I’m a resilient person, I can endure things, pretend I don’t mind, but one day, when I feel the bland taste from my soul, I just stop and I stop right there and drop everything. By everything , I mean everything. I have been cynical and feeling internally sarcastic, and just upset about things that are strange to be upset about. Things like the fact that I don’t have much to be upset about and yet I felt unhappy. I was unhappy because I should not be unhappy for not being unhappy. I know, it doesn’t make much sense.
Today, I feel at peace with myself. I feel like a different person. Like I wore someone else this morning, or maybe I have become a future version of me. Again, doesn’t make so much sense, but this post is not to make sense, but to write just what I want. Pardon the in depth indulgement of myself. Its all about me. Just in case, anyone wants to comment at this point, please don’t. Maybe another time, as I will not be responding to anything under this post. I really can’t and don’t want to engage except on my own terms and time. I felt I was giving too much of myself, and I am in some ways. I am sharing bits of myself, wisdom I have gathered, ideas, and it feels like I am not getting any in return. It doesn’t feel right. If no one is intentionally investing in me, I don’t see why I should have any kind of regret if I relegate them to places on my priority list that I can attend to when I feel i need a supplementary hobby. Again, pardon what must sound like a bitter complaint and a terrible way of summarising persons. It’s just one of those reality checks as I evaluate well enough the kind of things I have allowed to camp out on my limited time. So dearest people, I will be generous and know that my reward is in heaven, but I will do that with wisdom, no vex. If I get sparsely, I will not invest either. I need to grow. Can’t expend energy on things that don’t bring any returns. Can’t and won’t take crappy talk downs because I am tired . I am honestly tired. People are afraid of you when you’re tired. You become an alien and they run from you like you’re a masquerade. They don’t understand you then and this is a good thing. If that is the authentic you, or the you of the moment, they are not worth your limited time.
Someone might wrongly think this has to do with problems, or too much work or whatever. Please don’t do that. I am fairly annoyed just thinking about it. I am fine in those areas, but when you forget your email address, the one you use so frequently and spend an hour plus trying to remember, and suddenly remember it again the next morning. Also, when you forget where your hair salon is, even after taking the right bus and trekking to the right place, you know something is up with your brain and if you feel you need time to be on your own, to drop all your projects and pretend you have nothing to do, pretend you have no business with the activities in the world, and just not talk to anyone unless you really feel like it, you really should listen and do just that.
You belong to no one.
She was, as they say, crucified with Him. As it is written, the girl is one of a kind, loved, beloved, the apple of her Fathers eyes. A wanderer, an idol worshipper, she has lost sight of Him. Loses sight many times, a dissenter, but loved, loved by Him. She was.
She was crucified. She has everything. She owns the world, yet she staggers. The angels are for her, the demons are underneath her. The lands, the entire world, she is not a stranger. Her father owns it all, yet she makes herself small, invisible, and her surroundings scare her. It doesn’t work the way it should.
She thinks. I dare not make a mistake here and in this place, if not, I will have nothing. She forgets that she cannot have nothing. She Is rich, a jewel, a powerful and elevated bride, unforgettable, very important. There’s a file of her sealed with blood. The blood of God Himself.
She runs, she stammers thinking she is called to represent the people she has been called to serve. She thinks she is part of them and that this is very prestigious. She is in awe of them, forgetting that there is no time to be in awe. She is a servant, but not theirs. Her allegiance is not for this world. Hanging too tightly, she loses grip of the one who is as close as her breath, the very one who remains with her in the dark, the one who has her life in Him.
She loses her peace for crumbs of bread. She forgets her position in the army of saints. What is my number again, please tell me? Why do I stick my hands so often in the can of worms, please explain to me? For I do the things I do not want to do, and the things I want, I cannot do.
For I formed this oath of love for my pleasure. For I made you to love me with all your heart and mind and strength and nothing less will do. All things were made for me, He says to her. All things belong to me. Who can stand before me? It disturbs her that she is not as dedicated as she should be to Him. He troubles the waters because He wants her back. He wants her completely and will pursue until she returns.
To the oath of love who fears, who will not trust completely, to her, He says, it is time to repent of your fears, for all things belong to you whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all are yours,
Do you sometimes wake up to the truth about life in general etcetera? Days when you do not want to go to work because we will all eventually die, so what’s the point prolonging the days to the event? Do you repent thereafter when you remember that we are not our own and must live this life until the one who made us decides it is time to come home? Do you then wonder how to go ahead with living this life when you realise you are stuck between agreeing to not take your life but not living it in a way that would please the one who made it, and taking your life and still not pleasing the Lord? Do you feel overwhelmed with all the things you feel you need to do before the day closes and end up being overworked with little visible progress? Then this post is for you and you must think I am a good advertiser.
I am a perfectionist is some areas of my life. I have timetables I don’t follow, even though any enlightened person would see how well structured my life would be if I gave them a sincere try. Instead of dividing goals into smaller chunks, I throw caution to the wind and immerse myself in an activity, hoping that before the end of a day I would have become an expert in it. Experience has proven to me that I am just elegantly insane with the habit, but habits are hard to kill, so, I eat very late, I don’t sleep on time and when I finally hit the bed, I still think about the numerous things I have to accomplish. This means , I don’t have a true balance, as I neglect my health, exercise, and even prayer time just to work on things I feel are important, and this is bad. Having too much to do can make you lose your motivation and excitement at work, meaning that by the end of the day, after a particularly bad burn out, you could end up not working for many day s on a project, and are more likely to give it up than if you took breaks from it and stopped when you felt it was becoming a horrible chore.
My advice is simply this: stop trying to live in the future.every effort counts. Do something small each day to draw you closer to your goals/targets, but not everything. You cannot possibly do everything at once. Little by little is the way to go. Step by step 🙂
This verse in Colossians 3 is such a good reminder:
For you have died and your life is hidden in Christ (ESV)
There is no other way to live life that to find where it is and Christ holds it. He holds our purpose and the next step. To know , we need to ask Him and to be able to do that, we need to spend time with Him.
Verse 24 of the same chapter states plainly :
You are serving Christ , and verse 23 reminds us that when we do everything for His sake, we will be rewarded. This is especially useful for those of you who feel like no one at work appreciates what you do, that your earnings do not correspond to the amount of work you put it. Sometimes you even work for free. Remember, that even then, it counts. Recession and minimal wage have got nothing on you. Inflation cannot deflate your reward.
Finally, verse 15 says: let the peace of God to which we were called rule our hearts.
What I understand brethren, is that we have been guaranteed peace, life and rewards for living this life for Christ’s sake. What better way is there to start a day, where everything you do has been guaranteed to be a gain when the Lord is involved?
Now that we’ve gotten past the dramatic topic, and past the paint on the floor that looks like blood but isn’t really blood,except that it is quite the stuff blood is made up of, which certainly means it is blood. Might not be period blood, because hey, how far can you go already, but still,
you know wah I’m saying? .
Following the demystification of communication and interactive conferences surrounding the topic of menstruation, whereby an army of female sufferers, bonding over unpleasant and bloody circumstances have decided that it is about time we spoke about this thing that has been plaguing our nether regions( you did not hear me right), I have decided to contribute my own quota, as I am an able member, quite proficient in the art of embarrassing my behind. Well,maybe not as proficient as some people, but I have had my own share, is all I am saying.
So I understand quite well, even without that gentle nudge on the head with a shovel in the intelligence upgrade department, that the majority of people who read my blog are of the male community and so are quite clueless as buzzfeed videos tend to show about what a woman feels like when she is on her period, I still think a little education would not hurt. Also, entertaining the possibility that not all women are the same( a hypothesis of faith obviously) , this would mean I am a bit clueless myself about other women and their periods.
If you’re familiar even at the sense level with the idea of karma, you’d know that a person reaps what he sows, which means that as one of those spared by the gods of period pain who does not suffer this frightful thing as many of the female community,a part of me if not all rejoices at the sheer amount of favour that must be falling on me for me to experience this in such large amounts but the other part( how it left the whole to stand on its own, I do not know) says that someday I will pay for it. Maybe I will give birth to twins or have a really painful childbirth .Yes, this is Karma ,according to Elizabeth.
Well, just yesterday I was counting all my blessings pertaining to my female anatomy and i was still drunk with the wonderful impression and vibes the body I own was giving me when sometime in the evening , I got those reality checks. Quite literally in my head. Yes, I had a headache, the unique period headache which made me nauseous to the power of oh my God, I knew I would not get away with this pain free period life forever. So brethren, I don’t have a great appetite, and going by menstrual stereotypes, I am just waiting for the unlucky person who has been destined to irritate me and get some claws in their throat( but I am a wonderful soul , so this is definitely untrue now, isn’t it. I mean, I can’t do that, right?)
Who am I kidding anyway? I did not write all these just to mention minor things as such. The thing is women have horrible blood leaks in public places in this life, and the internet is a great place to comfort yourself anytime you experience such. Since I’ve pretty much squandered my Sunday in petty and quite useless activities because I cannot do anything with the mind fog, I’ve decided to add mine to the list, blog about it and call it a productive day. Brethren, period stains are the worst, the metallic smell of blood is so ugh! And we get embarrassed many times in the course of our female existence when we misjudge, when our underwear plays games with us and when we have long days that compete with out need for sleep and less auditory torments. In other words, on such days ,like yesterday 😣😣😣😣we sometimes find ourselves flying from one extreme to the other as our hormones have a field day. In other words, we dream of a day when it will all end.
Nobody ever thought I’d commit suicide. I never thought I’d get to the point where available hope wasn’t worth looking forward to. People think those of us that get here are devoid of hope. We aren’t. We aren’t starving. Or dying—least not literally. There is a chance i could put up with this—these daily losses of my crumbs-for only-God-knows-how-long. But I’ve reached this decision, to use the exit, and beat these things to killing me.
I used to think I had absolute control over my bodily functions—thought the guys shot in movies were weaklings who hadn’t mastered their bodies or lacked the ability to control it. I was thinking under the influence that, I’d witness my own murder and could pull out of it or get help if need be. But I actually pulled it off at my first try—something I never achieved my whole life. So, no college, no jobs besides menial labour, no friends, no family.
I think my brother will be hurt the most. Fuck! I know. Reading this will make him cringe but the last two words in the previous paragraph will rip his heart into smithereens. I know I owe him, if nothing else, exoneration; from the repercussions of my demise—catering to ferry my body to our hometown for a small funeral attendants will be indifferent about. The attendants, mandated by our similarity in surnames, will feel devastated. Because, they have to put on nice dresses and waste petrol to arrive at an occasion where I’m the subject. I can imagine the whole scenario, and its distaste. I wouldn’t be there if I could. They wouldn’t be there if I could stop them. But I can’t do anything. The same powerless life I detest, I lead.
Then, the incessant references to that “wayward, lazy relative who ended up very badly” will ring in households as deterrent to my cousins ‘ recalcitrance. Did I really kill myself in spite of putting all of this into consideration? Well, if you’re reading this, chances are, I’m already cooling off my heels in hell. Since I’m still a Christian, and from what I gather, your soul is put to death as recompense for putting your body to death. The irony. You never asked to be born, nor can you live YOUR life the way you please, any more than you can die when you deem fit. Yet, you’re made accountable for the life and come under fire over its perceived misuse. Natality is a tight rope I’ve always regretted walking.
None of this would ever have happened.
I hope never to see your faces ever again.
I didn’t feel much better after writing that, but there were minor improvements. I didn’t feel tired, just this massive body weakness that looms. I felt raw, like I was regurgitated by a fed up monster. This note I wrote was to be my last bullet—the panacea that would suffice if all else failed. Not as though all else hadn’t failed yet but you get the idea. So I dropped it off somewhere only accessible when I’m done here.
Mahmoud—one of those guys always smiling and playing nice; jovial nature withering away under the slightest inconvenience to his person—first came to mind. I called him,
And convinced him to post it to his blog under the guest author category—tag it horror, fiction—whatever he could come up with. People will only ‘read’ it when it becomes ‘non-fiction’, maybe a year later. Say, there is an atavism of my terminal illness which will check me out before I can do so myself.
Today, I left for Dar es Salaam—a city I haven’t been to since I was in the single digit age range—because they’ll say,
“You were a soft black boy—a misfit—better die troway!”
Going to Dar es Salaam with no definite refuge lying in wait, I knew what was in store for me. When we got past Kibaha, I happened to see these amputees by the roadside, making jokes, in spite of the pessimism shrouded future hanging above their heads. Their teeth acutely discoloured due to lack of maintenance. I just thought of it; they cannot even masturbate. I thought,
“Certainly, they’re not alone. Someone at home loves them. Even if they were descendants of Job, God will definitely give them that one reason to smile, as they waddle about like penguins.”
“Well, maybe they’re so jolly because they’ve never known better, nor seen better. They aren’t intoxicated by the coveting spirit of competition, to thrive, succeed, make a name for themselves. I mean, they see the flashy cars scurry past every waking hour, but they’re satisfied knowing they’ll never be in those. Or scared of speaking bad grammar and getting laughed at.”
How come I feel worse than they do? I appear so far away from them, can sound intelligible at times, but not intelligent enough to make any tangible produce off the so-called intelligence. What type of intelligence is that?
I’ll say, they don’t feel embarrassed because, success is relative to the launching platform. For people without much education, they’re probably doing great. I have received much more, and its painful when it doesn’t reflect in my output.
All of this might seem absurd to you: what sort of redundancy will cause someone not to want to survive, or struggle for life, even now in 2009 when the world is full of opportunities? Case in point, your world may be full of opportunities, your friends’ too; you only realise how hard it is for me when you’re faced with hiring me, or having me as a colleague.
Bus dropped us off at Ubungo terminal a few minutes ago. Passengers starting to disperse like ants interrupted from a sweet spot by a nosey finger. There isn’t any sign of my uncle Simkoko yet. He alone do I know in this city. My mom was sceptical when I told her I’ll be lodging at his place during my stay. She said he’s wily and highly susceptible to disappoint. What if he never shows up and stops taking my calls like he did when my father’s body was brought back to the village and he fervently assured us he’ll be there to receive it? Maybe that is how some beggars became inducted into the profession. Might just end up amongst them; and you’ll be none the wiser. Maybe, become the first suicidal roadside beggar; but you’ll be none the wiser. Say, it becomes a fad across the whole Tanzania. Then when this pioneer receives deserving media recognition, that blog post I sent Mahmoud will get read.
Written by my friend,Raheem Sadiq
I can remember some very distinct moments in my childhood and teenage years connected with the question of what I was to become. For a long time, I’d said I would grow up to be a doctor since it was the choice smart kids who did well at school seemed to choose without even thinking much about it. It was prestigious and made me proud to say it.
My mother bought me dolls and even once a whole box of toy medical supplies for my doll. A neighboour saw me playing with them one of those few days when I was still bold enough to go outside and let people watch me without feeling the need to hide, and he asked me if I wanted to be a doctor and I said yes. When I was about eleven years old, I sat outside in the evening with my mother and someone I called aunty who was living with us at that time, even though we were not related in anyway, and I realised that I was about to get into the interesting world of secondary schooling. I was giddy and kept on repeating so many times about how I was a big girl. I still wanted to be a doctor then. In secondary school, my classmates kept slum books where we wrote down our hobbies, best friends, ambitions, likes and dislikes.
Last year, one of the most troublesome in our set shared pictures preserved from her slum book of us and shocked us all. Keep in mind that we left secondary school in 2010, so that’s a really long time to keep a book in great shape. We saw what we had dreamt for ourselves. This was before I removed myself from the whatsapp group created for us , because it had become toxic. Like big brother Africa, its only a matter of time before tension builds up. In most of the slum books, I wrote that I wanted to be a doctor, I might have added that I wanted to be a writer in some and in others I wrote I wanted to be a pastor, and on a particularly ambitious day, I wrote that I wanted to be all of the above.
I did not get the cut off mark in the aptitude the first time I wrote to get admission into medical school, maybe because I was unprepared. I was in ss2 at the time and in my first term. So I skipped many classes and went for lessons with ss3 students instead and joined them to write waec and neco. I was the only one the principal allowed to do this. Others who wanted to try in my class had to go to different schools to write. If I had wanted, I would have gotten admission to study a different course, but I decided to return and complete my year and retake the exam in my ss3. I got admission and my name was second on the list at the university of uyo, akwaibom. This was about the time my mum died leaving me with a shattered psyche and I dropped out three months later. I have since lost the desire to do medicine or anything related to science. I realise now that I am more art inclined even though for a long time , I’d inwardly seen my fellow art students as less intelligent and useful. This is the result of a Nigerian education where more rewards and competitions are available for science students, leaving those interested in the arts to feel like second class students. I have since moved from this limited way of thinking and surprisingly, I find science inclined people who are not as equally interested in arts and culture boring.The tables have indeed turned.
I am currently studying linguistics Aweblue, after many failed attempts at getting admission which I don’t have time to go deep into, and unlike Medicine or any kind of very specialised course, it can be fairly ambiguous what one is to do with the degree upon completion. If you Google this up, you will definitely see a lot of places where a linguistic degree is useful, but it is this very wide spectrum from which you can choose from that can make you undecided about the next step and makes you ask yourself the questions ‘So, what next? What do you you want to do with your life?, and the famous stale question of the century about what ones purpose in life and passion is.
Aweblue, being a huntress of solutions and believer that they are not hiding from me, I went to look for information. From learning that we should do what we have a passion for, to being told that passion is highly overrated and just a feeling. Feelings pass and so what was once a passion might not interest in five years and so on. That passion should be what follows one and not what comes before. Also, that a purpose in life is not some rigid fixture, never wavering and malleable. It should be flexible and ready to confirm to the needs of modern world. I learnt too from another lady on tedx that we should always study what motivates us, people who have lived in situations that were far from ideal have always pushed themselves to work hard to never be like their mums or dads and so on, but after realizing a moderate and stable level of financial protection and stability, they feel useless and wonder what they are living for. It is necessary at this time to choose a new reason for working, a new set of motivations and maybe a new career that engages you and allows for more self realization.
All this is fair and sweet to learn, Aweblue. To say I don’t know what I like doing is a lie as has been pointed out many times by people who have secret knowledge of passion and purpose. Yet, there is also a differentiation between these things and ones hobbies. I like writing and even when I have lost readers and loyal people as I would call them, I write still, even when it is me who remains at the end of the day to be faithful to. This is one thing I have a passion for. Maybe I am yet to discover the rest, maybe I have already discovered them but do not want to mention them yet to you, but the thing that worried me a lot until recently, when I got to study for myself, is not passion or purpose per say, but privilege and just plain luck.
Humans of New York has been in Argentina for days now, and of all the pictures I’ve seen so far, this one left me thinking about the things I have mentioned. Here is a woman who could have been someone else, who works harder than many people, has the constant weight of feeling she is not enough because of how bleak the prospect of getting out of this limited way of living and she wonders if she can accomplish her dreams.
This happy slogan and others equally like it has been used by proponents of the positivity religion to make it look as if dreaming enough, and hard enough with regularity can somehow shoot you to the top. It’s a feel good drug and a selling point for advertisers who want one to reach for the stars, become great, and standout. It is possible, many people have somehow, in spite of terrible and immeasurable obstacles become persons we look up to as physical embodiments of the word ‘ miracle’ . But this number is a small number out of the millions who strive to get out of their current situation. Rarely do we hear, as HONY commenters rightly pointed out, the fact that not everyone has the same starting point, not every one is privileged, and most times, the great people in life have been strategically placed by some force controlling history to be just who they were at certain periods. If not, how would you explain the existence of people like john the Baptist and Judas who betrayed Christ. It is an argument for destiny, for an appointment that makes no allowances for hard work so much as it does for chance, luck and must pure destiny I have stated already.
I can’t say that people in situations like the woman in the post were created with no thought about their destiny however. In fact,as I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about this, I see places in her story and indeed in the lives of people who are living lives where they wonder how to get out from the persistent gloominess and dissatisfaction they are living under. I am not an expert and also am trying to see just how not to live a life where I get blurred out of the relevance scale. I do not want to be irrelevant, but for whom? For what reason do I want to be useful?
I’ve come to accept that there are things we just cannot change.I cannot for example bring my mother from the dead, or make my father young, or create some wise older siblings to help me make better decisions, create a rich and connected extended family, a magic wand to bring back the years that seem like wasted years or pay for tuition at Cambridge. I may not now be able to pass some examinations and be known as a genius and a young one who has made her country proud in so and so area. There are many things I could list if I was in the mood to be more imaginative. So, yes, I do not have lots of privileges that the people who will rule our nations someday currently have, and who might earn more than me have etcetera. These are clear facts, yet unlike people who might not know about the other fact that our steps are ordered and we do not live lifes rules by arbitrary factors when we become Christians, I have this knowledge and this in a sense is my privilege and going back to the Hony story, this is what I finally noticed was lacking in all the comments about chance and luck and how it was not the woman’s fault that her life was that difficult.
There are questions one needs to ask and make sure that one lives according to those answers. I believe that we need to know why we ultimately work and for whom. The bible says here
Work To Please God, Not People. “Whatever you do, work at it with allyour heart, as though you were working for the Lord and not for people” (Colossians 3:23 TEV)
I believe that anything God touches becomes powerful and no matter how much competition there is, and no matter how many people are doing the same type of work, if every person dedicates his work to God, He is able to take away their anxieties and make them equally unique and hard to replace, because they would not be working for an organisation or themselves , but will be doing things as a service to Him and God knows how to replenish and make things, in this case people special.
Aweblue, it is easy to say and saying this makes me feel more optimistic about the future, but I also have enough experience with forgetting and it is for this reason that I am recording this for the days I might be prone to wander away from truths about my existence.
I believe the feeling of shame we notice in us whenever someone close to us( physical proximity); an acquaintance or a plain stranger does something embarrassing is common to all kinds of people. Just as my text book on the history of the English language states that the ability to speak IndoEuropean languages is not something the genes can take credit for, but as a result of culture, this feeling of shame is just something human, we don’t need to learn it. In Ibibio, there is a saying that it is the mad man’s friend who feels the shame the most, and not the mad man.
Yesterday, and don’t ask me how, since I am off social media, I still managed to come across a post by an on air personality where she stated that she hated her father. Once upon a time, when she was still a little girl who trusted in adults to protect her, an uncle and a saint by all means, since he was well known for holding dearly unto the title of pastor, came to visit them and a bed was brought into the same room where this girl slept, for him. Night came to meet dear uncle pushing his hand into the girls legs as he threatened to kill her if she screamed. She resisted and finally said she wanted to pee. He let her go and that was how she spent her entire night in the bathroom. Morning came and her father asked her why she was in the bathroom and she told him. Surprise, surprise, her father flogged and ‘ disciplined’ her for being the victim of the saintly uncle who for some reason had not felt the great conviction to find his holy self in heaven and was still pilfering on earth.
As with every story told, there will be reactions, and there will be some that will make you think some people have their heads far too much in their arses, but of course those ones have been consecrated ones, because the stench of superiority is overwhelming. And this is where the problem begins. As a Nigerian, I can say that I have found the way our people console to be crude and primitive and if I want to generalise this, I will. There is very little preventing a religious man with supposedly good intentions and little emotional intelligence from coming across as slightly imbecilic with his pity and advice on how to move forward.
Back to our story. First, as a Christian, which right now must be hard to tell since I am obviously not supposed to be angry, I believe in forgiveness and restitution with all my heart. I know that in the heat of the moment, this is the last thing any hurt person wants to do, but I know that in the light of all Jesus has done for us, we have been forgiven more than we have been wounded and so this is the way to go especially if we want to be partakers of everlasting life. Also, I know that if you see a mad bull, the dumbest thing you can do at that moment is to keep waving at it with a red flag and maybe dancing salsa as you send kisses its way with your painted red lips. Frankly, you deserve whatever bad thing happens to you and I don’t care if you were doing it for fun or that you are an elderly perzin with five children in that moment. You deserve whatever the bull shoves in you.
This of course is what some Nigerian sympathisers do not understand. We believe that the best thing to tell someone who is filled with hate and hurting and who has picked the courage to share this with people, is to type lots of lol and tell them hmm, ha, don’t even try it o! You better forgive. You better forgive and that a lot of time has passed since then.Some even mentioned that she must have had a bad reputation! ( as usual putting the blame of the promiscuous victim. Mtchew)Nigerians believe that when Jesus said forgive, He meant bully with the fear of hell or is this a defect of the way we speak our English? Never have I felt so infuriated at the use of our very popular addition of letter o at the end of sentences. What annoys more is the realisation that a majority of these awon great forgivers in the lord cannot forgive one another over little wrongs, but they somehow are able to specialise in the great evil done to other people, no wonder C. S. Lewis in mere Christianity says that everyone is happy until they have something to forgive( paraphrasing) . Forgiveness must be funny until its your turn, I would say. How many of these people would not rush to say that if anyone, I mean anyone desecrated their sisters or daughter bodies, that they would not gladly go to jail for killing them. How do I know? Are they not Nigerians again? Do I not know how hypocritical we are?
Why am I taking this matter so close to heart? One, I know What it is to say you hate and want to kill your father. I know how much I wanted to choke people who came to my house to ask me barely two weeks after my mother was buried if my father now had a wife. I remember how much I wondered just how possible this could be, and if one married wives like they bought toilet paper. Did these Christians not realise that if such a thing happened so quickly, it would mean that the new ‘ wife’ was not really a wife but someone living with my father and in our religion mean a sin? Did they not realise that I was still jealously guarding the memory of my mother as a wife and that each time they asserted she could and should be so easily forgotten, I died inside and wanted to take them along? Even now, I hate questions like this and people who ask this take a bit of my hate, but as anyone who gets convicted, I learn to forgive and let go of my hate. I would not however, judge another person for holding on for so long. As a Christian, I would long for forgiveness, but I know that we don’t even forgive all at once. We do this gradually, something many sympathisers in the lord do not realise.
So, I was madly pissed off yesterday. Another reason why I am glad I am not on social media with such people. Sometimes fear grips you at just how skewed and selfish people’s pattern of thinking can be and I was ashamed at this.
Now is the perfect time to say I don’t know just yet what you’re about to read. All I know is I’ll be reading this for the first time myself. I’m as confused as you are about the choice of the goat picture, but I know with time, it’ll all eventually make sense. Have you listened to Jones’s cover of ‘ how deep is your love by Calvin Harris?’
I want you to breathe me in
Let me be your air
Let me roam your body freely
No inhibition, no fear
How deep is your love?
Is it like the ocean?
What devotion are you?
How deep is your love?
Is it like nirvana?
Hit me harder, again
How deep is your love?
In my head, as is wont to be in Christian heads, this song makes me think about God instead of a lover.Music is universal and you can interpret it however you want :). It’s a lot more plausible that this sort of relationship should exist between God and girl( I feel so little reading this line), so how deep is my love?
I’m not feeling very inspired to write this blog post because I’ve just had it on my mind to make a thanksgiving post after watching Dephne madyara talk about praise, and sitting here I realise I don’t exactly know how to thank God in writing,maybe because I have this idea that it should sound very impressive and jumpy, all over the place as I halleluyah-see-what-dah-Lord-has-done-for-me high five myself into a frenzy, but it really is still in my heart to make this post about praise( and I said I didn’t know where this post was headed).
So, I am thankful to God for the opportunity to thank Him again today, and for all the things I keep learning daily, and the way He’s been leading me inspite of myself.
Do you know, fam, that one of the best ways to test out how much of someone’s company you really enjoy without the highlights and the noise to add flesh to the setting, is to actually take out those fleshy helpings away and see if you will wilt or not. How much do they enjoy talking to you when you’re not a celebrity and on an that euphoric high, because look at some of the comments underneath worship songs and you’d be surprised at the number of people going through things right now. Like yea, its not all fun and games, a dollar is now 500 plus naira. Not funny. There’s Ukraine and her war. Depressing.And what were those comic sketches about Putin and Germany? Trouble brewing. Cosmic joke. Sorry, won’t pull that one off easily because I don’t read the news anymore.
There’s this funny joke however about people who do not reply their texts. Something along the lines of ‘ I don’t reply my messages because I have no heart’. As someone whose discovery that she could initiate conversations occured not long ago and is still basking in the power of the delusion of control ( cus when man leads, man controls smh) and who thinks that could have been ‘ in the delusion of having the power to control’ instead, I went on quora, since I’ve learnt that they specialise in the essentials, like bread, life and butter( I’m trying to be funny and can’t even make myself laugh) , and people who have been hurt by unreplied messages, I have come to the conclusion, that they, myself included, do not have hearts when we do not reply people. Which led me to question the act of snobbery and the essence of life and where to draw the line between being a snob and just feeling disinterested and in no hurry to engage in disaffected and non genuine conversation.
Ceteris Paribus, and quite unrelated to an ave maria but close to the thin line before making a howler, I know for sure that relationships are give and take most times, and out of respect for yourself and for them, do stop communicating with such people and like I tell people ( well, used to. Back in the days when I knew people, if I ever do this to you, please leave with your dignity still intact, cus I definitely do not have the monopoly of being the one allowed to treat you like a less than)
But thank the Lord always. One of the lessons I learnt last week was on limitations and why we should thank God for them. This was from desiringgod.com, where it was mentioned that our capacity to show and receive is because we are limited.people provide things we cannot provide ourselves and they partake in that wonderful orchestrated dance of love and we do same for people with the things we’ve been given in abundance. I realised them that the only reason why limitations are so frustrating for people and hard to cope with is because we are not loving as we should. We have and we do not share.
Here endeth the blog post.
As someone who packed up her bags and travelled to a new continent when she was seventeen. Never been away from home by herself without groups of people with subgroups and their leaders keeping in touch with her mother at all times, this was one of the most extreme acts of defiance that an otherwise safely living just within the borderlines girl like me had ever attempted and succeeded in doing. Naturally, and judging by my unwavering perseverance to travel to my late mother’s side of the family—people I’d never met since we left Ukraine for Nigeria when I was still a baby, whose language I did not speak, faces I did not know because I had no recent pictures of them, you would assume that I am an infamous go-getter, a bulldozer, the sort of girl to strike terror into hearts and stomachs, but I am not all that.
My travel abroad was borne from a sense of urgency at the state of my safety, it was the difference between life and death on many levels and like choosing between a sea where I was already beginning to drown and a new place where for some long hours to where I was going, I could be submerged in a new kind of reality. This is what gave me boldness and fired me into action. Fast forward now, and I wonder just who I am, and where my confidence has gone to. I wonder why I am afraid of a simple interview where my life is not at stake, I am afraid of getting lost on my way to a new place- a thing that can of course be easily rectified, when I wasn’t afraid to get lost in between continents, I am afraid to pick phone calls because I am afraid to give the impression that I am not all that great as the resume must trick them into thinking, and that they should save the stress of hiring me, and so forth. My confidence levels have gone down the roof.
According to YouTube videos of yesterday , as I searched through alternate videos of how to prepare for an interview, how to decline one graciously to avoid being black listed, I noticed that most videos on how to be confident were made by females. Does this mean girls struggle more with this? The things I learnt are practiceable, but before I mention what they are, there was a statement made which makes me realise that no matter what steps I list here, if I never use any of them, I’ll not get any result.
First was to put a pen in my mouth and happily so because a pen in the mouth stretches the face into a smile, unplanned for as it might be, but smiling makes one happy and a happy person is on her way to becoming more confident. Also, there was the power stance because we can always trick the mind,using the body by ridiculously posing like a self lover who can’t get enough of her awesomeness . This is very helpful as the body releases the appropriate hormones which make you feel confident. Next was practicing your confidence in front of people that you have nothing to lose from. Someone like a clerk as you make small talk and joke with and maybe annoy, but the point is they can’t do anything but remain polite because it’s their job. Daily do one thing you are afraid of and with time you will get used to it. This implies making a concrete list and pursuing them like a crazed fellow who likes to live dangerously, but they all promise to work and I believe they will.
I also began to write fiction again after a long while and want to send to a magazine that I think I have more chances of being accepted by.No pay, but it might just be a boost to me writerly. I also have asked myself just why I want to write and be great enough to be published because I want to make sure I am not trying to be impressive, even though the act itself is one that comes from the desire to be found impressive. So many paradoxes, so lets leave all that there to untangle. Beautiful writing, have you noticed is usually broken writing. Beauty as we call it is made up of words, sentences all constructed in a way to push forward as clearly as possible, imagery that most times have been smeared with pain and darkness and dirt, and yet, it is beautiful and the author a genius.Our beauty is broken.
There’s the unrelated quote I came up with yesterday:
Maybe the beauty of life is that it is not meant to be lived all at once , but in parts.
It helps to remember that I don’t have to do everything within 24 hours, if not I’ll be dead, because what then will I do tomorrow when I have accomplished everything? Maybe it is the mercy of God that I cannot accomplish everything so soon.