I am a regular reader of your column and i almost always agree to your summations. I am a 26 yr old guy, and here’s my question.

To begin and write the whole story would be a chore, and most of it would be my rantings anyways. Is it possible to be in love with somebody, you dont really like? is it possible that there exists no puppy love in any relationship (as in that period where you guys cant get enough of each other)?

I have tried to run from this situation (you know the deleting of contacts and all…..always worked in the past), but this babe would come back and say she’s not cool with the arrangement and all that. This has happened about 3 times within the past year (all of which represents how long i have known her). What is most baffling is that when it come to talking seriously about what it is she wants, she’s shifty on it (i am from the school of thought that most women like to define their relationships very early).

In a most recent development she took me to see a pastor (who doubles as one of her mentors) all because the man asked her whom she was in a relationship with. In this case, it might have been foolish what i did, but i just didnt want her to look like a fool if i told the guy that we hadn’t defined what was going on between the two of us. It was just after us getting back together and me asking what she wanted and she saying she has to go think about it. I also may have thought that this was the validation she needed before committing to anything long term. so i told the guy that we were teething.

I dont like the merry go round as am a more straight forward guy when it comes to relationships (like to define what they are and in situations where one party wants what one cant offer, i pack my bags and never look back). However, how do u deal with someone who wouldn’t just leave and who wouldnt say what she wants. And per adventure she says she wants to be just friends and that i cant be, how best do i tell her to keep her space, because i have said this two times and just when i think its all over, she pops up again. (We attend the same fellowship by the way) 

I really have to move on and i have come to accept that it might be without her.

 Femi

Hello Femi

You have found yourself in one of those relationships I call ‘special’.

You have a girlfriend who isn’t very talkative yet will make adjustments to accommodate your needs and the needs of the relationship. They are the most difficult to break up with because no matter how hard you try, you’ll find very little grounds for a break. I dare say, they make the most loyal girlfriends, even when you are hurting them, they’ll say nothing and do nothing.

With regards to not knowing what she wants, it is typical, if she’s not very expressive verbally, then it is unlikely that you’d have read other nonverbal communication cues from her.

So to tell you understand her better, I am going to summarize the 5 Love languages below.

-Efe

Your emotional love language and that of your partner may be as different as Chinese from English – no matter how hard you try to express love in English, if your understands only understands Chinese, you’ll never understand how to love each other.

Seldom do two people in a relationship have the same primary love language. We tend to speak our primary love language and become confused when our partner doesn’t understand what we’re communicating. Once you identify and learn to speak your partner’s primary love language, you’ll have discovered the key to a long-lasting, loving relationship.

Determining Your Own Love Language

You can discover your own love language by asking yourself these questions:

• How do I express love to others?
• What do I complain about the most in my relationship?
• What do I request/expect most often from my partner?

Speaking in your partner’s love language probably won’t be natural for you. Dr. Chapman says, “We’re not talking comfort. We’re talking love. Love is something we do for someone else. So often couples love one another but they aren’t connecting. They are sincere, but sincerity isn’t enough” Thus, some effort will be required.

#1: Words of Affirmation

Actions don’t always speak louder than words. If this is your love language, unsolicited compliments mean the world to you. Hearing the words, “I love you,” are important—hearing the reasons behind that love sends your spirits skyward. Insults can leave you shattered and are not easily forgotten.

Verbal compliments or words of appreciation are powerful communicators of love.

Encouraging words: “Encourage” means “to inspire courage”. All of us have areas in which we feel insecure. We lack courage, which often hinders us from accomplishing the positive things that we would like to do. Perhaps you or your partner has untapped potential in one or more areas of life. That potential may be awaiting encouraging words from you or from him.

Kind words: If we’re to communicate love verbally, we must use kind words. That has to do with the way we speak. The statement “I love you”, when said with kindness and tenderness, can be a genuine expression of love.

Humble words: Love makes requests, not demands. If we’re to develop an intimate relationship, we need to know each other’s desires. If we make our needs known in the form of a request, we’re giving guidance, not ultimatums.

If this is your partner’s love language: Set a goal to give your partner a different complement each day for a month.

#2: Quality Time

In the vernacular of Quality Time, nothing says, “I love you,” like full, undivided attention. Being there for this type of person is critical, but really being there—with the TV and your Blackberry switched off, will make your significant other feel truly special and loved. Distractions, postponed dates, or the failure to listen can be especially hurtful.

This means giving someone your undivided attention. I don’t mean sitting on the couch watching television together. What I mean is taking a walk, just the two of you, or going out to eat and looking at each other while talking. Time is a strong communicator of love. The love language of quality time has many dialects. One of the most common is that of quality conversation – two individuals sharing their thoughts and feelings. A relationship calls for sympathetic listening with a view to understanding the other person’s desires. We must be willing to give advice, but only when it’s requested and never in a condescending manner.

Here are some practical listening tips:

• Maintain eye contact when your partner is talking.
• Don’t do something else at the same time.
• Listen for feelings and confirm them. Ask yourself, “What emotion is my partner experiencing?”
• Observe body language.
• Don’t interrupt. Such interruptions indicate, “I don’t care what you are saying; listen to me.”
• Quality conversation also calls for self-revelation. In order for your partner to feel loved, you must reveal some of yourself, too.

If this is your partner’s love language: Ask your partner for a list of five activities that he or she would enjoy doing with you. Make plans to do one of them each month for the next five months.

#3: Receiving Gifts

Don’t mistake this love language for materialism; the receiver of gifts thrives on the love, thoughtfulness, and effort behind the gift. If you speak this language, the perfect gift or gesture shows that you are known, you are cared for, and you are prized above whatever was sacrificed to bring the gift to you. A missed birthday, anniversary, or a hasty, thoughtless gift would be disastrous—so would the absence of everyday gestures.*

Almost everything ever written on the subject of love indicates that at the heart of love is the spirit of giving. All five love languages challenge us to give to our partner, but for some, receiving gifts, visible symbols of love, speaks the loudest. A gift is something you can hold in your hand and say, “Look, he was thinking of me,” or, “She remembered me.” A gift is a symbol of that thought. Gifts come in all sizes, colours and shapes. Some are expensive and others are free. To the individual whose primary love language is receiving gifts, the cost will matter little.

There is also an intangible gift that can speak more loudly than something that can be held in one’s hand. Physical presence in the time of crisis is the most powerful gift you can give. Your body becomes the symbol of your love.

If this is your partner’s love language: Keep a “gift idea” notebook. Every time you hear your partner say, “I really like that,” write it down. Select gifts you feel comfortable purchasing, making or finding, and don’t wait for a special occasion. Becoming a proficient gift giver is an easy language to learn.

#4: Acts of Service

Can washing the dishes really be an expression of love? Absolutely! Anything you do to ease the burden of responsibilities weighing on an “Acts of Service” person will speak volumes. The words he or she most wants to hear: “Let me do that for you.” Laziness, broken commitments, and making more work for them tell speakers of this language their feelings don’t matter.*

People who speak this love language seek to please their partners by serving them; to express their love for them by doing things for them. Actions such as cooking a meal, setting a table, washing the dishes, sorting the bills, walking the dog or dealing with landlords are all acts of service. They require thought, planning, time, effort and energy. If done with a positive spirit, they are indeed expressions of love. I’m not saying become a doormat to your partner and do these things out of guilt or resentment. No person should ever be a doormat. Do these things as a lover.

If this is your partner’s love language: What one act of service has your partner nagged you about consistently? Why not decide to see the nag as a tag? Your partner is tagging this particular task as a really important thing to him or her.

#5: Physical Touch

This language isn’t all about the bedroom. A person whose primary language is Physical Touch is, not surprisingly, very touchy. Hugs, pats on the back, holding hands, and thoughtful touches on the arm, shoulder, or face—they can all be ways to show excitement, concern, care, and love. Physical presence and accessibility are crucial, while neglect or abuse can be unforgivable and destructive.*

Holding hands, kissing, hugging and sex – all of these are lifelines for the person for whom physical touch is the primary love language. With it, they feel secure in their partner’s love. “Love touches” don’t take much time, but they do require a little thought, especially if this isn’t your primary love language or you didn’t grow up in a “touching” family. Sitting close to each other as you watch TV requires no additional time, but communicates your love loudly. Touching each other when you leave the house and when you return may involve only a brief kiss, but speaks volumes.

If this is your partner’s love language: While eating together let your knee or foot drift over and touch your partner.

http://www.5lovelanguages.com/

Welcome to another Saturday of sharing. Do you have a personal story to tell? 

Send an email to saturdayconvos@thenakedconvos.com and I will treat it discretely.

It will only be published with your permission.

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As always, any . Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

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From the poll, we had the following answer.

72.04%: Bare my soul but ‘mistakenly’ omit information…

72? Y’all are professional white liars. You can review the results Here.

****

Last week, I boarded a bus after work, and after struggling to get into a comfortable position, I was prepared to drown myself in my thoughts during the long ride. The passengers annoying lot decided to become very friendly with themselves and… gist. In my mind, I kept imagining how it’d feel to just toss all of them over the bridge, one after the other. I mean, it was close of business, they should be tired!!! But no they had to feel familiar. When I could no longer ignore their  voices, I decided to listen to their conversations.

Major topic was Nigeria and all our many problems; the corruption, boko haram, kidnappings, bad governance etc.. I’m not about to go all political and all but yeah, yall know  the issues. They cussed and ranted about how much they hated the country and wished death on all the leaders..

Interestingly, in the midst of all the rants, one man maintained that he loved this great country and would  come back as a Nigerian if he had the chance. He talked about natural resources and the entertainment industry (shalla to Wizkid, Vic O , Tonto, 2face, Mercy Jay etc). At that point I laughed, not at his statement but at the deadly glares he got from the other passengers.

LOL epic…Naturally, a fight ensued and people hurled insults at eachother. Highlight of my day to be honest.
Now to today’s poll.. If you had a chance to be born again, will you like to come as a Nigerian?

Before we begin, the Alchemist has been gone from the corner for a while but you can read his most recent story ‘Embers’ on Bellanaija by clicking HERE.

Now, on to today’s offering. This is an experiment started last week that touches on many themes – Love, Loss, Hurt and Familial bonds. It comes in form of letters. One came last week – written by myself, the response come now – written by Valerie @ritzyliciousme.

Read. Enjoy. Share your thoughts. See you on the other side.

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LETTERS (2/2)

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Ed,

Who are you?

I want to start this letter with my dearest, or dear, or any of those endearments that you use off handedly for someone you love, or care about. Or someone you know.

But the thing is, I don’t know you. You are a stranger. You do not have the lopsided smile my Ed has. There is a slouch where my Ed stood tall. A bitterness and a rot in the eyes that housed warmth, richness and love. Love for me. Love for us. pure, unbridled love. And passion.

And stranger, you reek. It is not the cheap alcohol and the stale sweat that you reek of. You reek of failure. Failure, defeat, bitterness. And loss. It’s these that make me want to throw up all the food that I have not been able to eat until my throat is raw.

It was okay.

It wasn’t a great thing losing our parents. It was hard. We had no food. We were lost. But I wasn’t alone. I had you. Everything was okay. We were okay. It was okay in the times we had nothing. It was okay when we had nowhere to stay. It was okay in the times we thought we’d die of cold and I’d hold you tight and try to fill you with the warmth I barely had.

It hurt.

When he stuck the metal inside me. It hurt but I didn’t mind, because I was doing it for us. It would have hurt more but the roughness of your palm, squeezing my hand was enough to reassure me. To let me know that I’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay.

It hurt.

When I saw the way you looked at her. A part of me knew I had lost you. It hurt but I numbed it, pushed it aside the way you’d push away the wilted vegetables on an unfinished plate. It couldn’t be true. You were my soulmate. I hadn’t seen clearly. You couldn’t have looked at somebody with so much want in your eyes. But it was true. I hadn’t seen clearly. The sheer want I had seen in your eyes was there, only it wasn’t want, it was need.

Need that I had never seen in your eyes. This stranger with her knowing eyes and wide hips had found her way to your heart, lodged there, kicked me out and there was nothing I could do to sway you. Nothing but hope against false hope that I was wrong.

I was crushed.

When you finally told me you were leaving. That you had found love. That she was a dream. I was angry. I screamed. Reminded you of all I had done for you. All we had been through together. I called you ungrateful. Insensitive. Heartless.

I reminded you. I sat down and I let the tears flow. Hot tears. And I threw my pity party; party packs and all.

I recounted, detail by excruciating detail, How I was pounded and pummelled and pounded again. All for you. Just so you could have a bed and warm food.

How the cold, rusty metal stabbed me, ruined me, ruptured my womb.

I said everything. You had drawn first blood, it was all I could do.

And then after that, I begged. I begged and begged and knelt and clawed at your legs and crawled till my knees were scraped and they had drawn a crimson trail a million times the length of its width, the temple to my devotion. You looked at me with sadness on your face and tears in your eyes and still you left. You walked away and you left me.

What you don’t know is that the minute you walked away, you walked away with every ounce of feeling I had left.

And then you came back. Like I knew you would. She had left you. And so you had come back. Only this time, you weren’t my Ed. My dearest. You were this Ed. The one I address this letter to.

I wanted to turn you back out. To leave you to the dogs. To desert you like you deserted me. But I couldn’t.

You needed me. I liked you needing me. So I welcomed you and I tried to help you put the pieces of you back together. The more I tried, the more you fell apart, and the more you fell apart, the more the feelings I wasn’t supposed have anymore were crushed. The more the heart I no longer had broke.

And so even now, now that I have fallen to the floor like my pride, my love and my dignity. And my composure is shattered and I spit out the words and I cry.

I cry, not because of the pain in my side from your elbow as you flailed and viciously struck at me when we fell. But because I have hurt so much that I just can’t feel anymore.

And because I won’t believe that I have lost my will to feel, I recount our tale of woe and I blame myself, I pick the dagger of our sad story and I stick it in my middle and I twist. I twist and twist but there is no blood.

I cry and scream harder because I’m desperately trying, trying to get to my Ed, he is somewhere somewhere lost inside this stranger that stares but never really sees.

I scream and I fight because the fight for you is all I’ve ever known.

Stranger, please bring my Ed back.

I need him back. He is my family, my brother. My lover, my life.

Please.

                                              Valerie.

****

EPISODE 8:

Double George Wrappers

—–

From the moment Mohini kissed her husband goodbye earlier that morning, her stomach began to develop sickly knots. She had tried to ignore the growing discomfort that exaggerated the watery guilt she felt every time she told a lie, but by the time she boarded the flight to Abuja, she was certain that her nervousness was a premature reaction to future occurrences.

She widened her round eyes and found her composure as she watched, in what seemed like a slowed down version of real time, Zino step out of the elevator with a smug expression. It was as though he was expecting to see her.

“I just had a feeling,” he said calmly, albeit with enthusiasm as he arched his back and leaned forward for a hug. In near synchrony, she leaned away from him and opened her mouth to let out her disapproving surprise when she caught the high traffic around them from the corner of her eyes. She bit the inside of her lower lip and slid herself out of the incomplete ring his arms had made around her waist. She contemplated going past him and into the elevator as she noticed the door drawing close behind him, but the pounding in her head that was threatening to deafen her seized her innate dislike for confrontation. She grabbed his right arm and marched towards the lobby’s exit, her slippers slapping on the marble floors without mercy.

“Mazino Wright o! Sebi you want to see my madness? You will now tell me why you’re following me around. What is it now?” She managed to control the volume of her voice as her irritation poured out of her. Her arms were now folded underneath her breasts and her eyes stayed elevated, darting across the face of the light-skinned man before her. Zino started to smile but the smile faded just as quickly as it appeared when he noticed her body was vibrating with anger.

“Mini, can you be calm, please?” he said, stroking both her shoulders. She let out a sharp, irritated hiss and shrugged his hands off, her eyes still fixed on his face.

“Why on earth will you think I’m following you around?” he sighed. She made an incoherent gesticulation with her hands as she struggled to fuel the anger that was dying out with every word he calmly spoke.

“Listen, Mohini. Granted, I really need for us to sit down and talk, but stalking you?” he chuckled. “It’s me o. Zino. Your Zino. Not some creep that wants a strand of your pubic hair for juju.” He smiled when he saw her fail in her attempt to suppress her laughter. She was amazed and ashamed at the effect he could still have on her. The faint music reaching her ear made her realise that the pounding from her head and heart had subsided, and her body felt calmer. He was right; he was not a creep, he was Zino. Her heart skipped a beat. Yes, he was her Zino but she knew for a fact that her Zino was capable of doing anything under the sun.

“So why are you here?” she asked, the sternness in her voice was now replaced with friendly curiosity. Her eyes trailed from his face down to his left hand. She smiled.

“Business. You?” he asked with a hint of confusion at the smile across her mouth.

“Nothing important.”

He raised his left eyebrow and nodded slowly. “Mini,” he said as he took her hand, “I really do want to talk. Can we go somewhere? One of our rooms, maybe?” She started to decline but then she realised that if she did, she would be giving him the opportunity to continue to pop up in her life at unappreciated times.

“Fine.”

***

Back at the hospital where Anita has just swallowed a bitter dose of her own medicine…

With her jaws wedged separate by the shock of the last couple of seconds, Anita’s eyes roamed the confines of her office space, as if searching for the person that had received the brunt of Mr Avazi’s words. There was a spell that accompanied the way he dismissed himself that left her body paralyzed to her mind’s instruction. She glanced at the black court shoes shielding her feet, and then out the door at his slightly curved back in motion. In seconds, she had tried and failed to recall the last time she had heard that tone in his voice directed at her. She snorted and began to slowly make her way back to the case notes waiting on her table. ‘Who made you this cynical?’ she repeated to herself before each involuntary snort. There were quite a number of qualities she had been working to possess; and walking away from unnecessary confrontation was one of them. She gave herself a mental pat on the back when she accepted that her body was moving in a direction opposite to where her mind was. A series of possible ‘comebacks’ danced around in her head and as if suddenly thrown into a trance, she stopped and turned around, midway between the office’s door and her swivel chair.

She dashed out of her office and filled the reception area with the fast-paced rhythm of her heels violently colliding with the ground. The nurse that had been enjoying a conversation with the receptionists all but ducked underneath the reception booth on sighting a visibly ticked off doctor. Anita rolled her eyes in the nurse’s direction, sending a loud message that could not have been conveyed any better with words. She continued to march towards the hospital’s exit, ignoring the incoming man that her right arm briefly impacted.

“Anita o!” she heard the familiar voice interrupt her by pulling gently at her wrist. She turned sharply towards him, feigned a smile and signalled him to wait with her left index finger.

Bami circled his hand around her wrist again causing her to lose her balance slightly. “Who are you going to beat?”

“Bami, abeg I’m in the middle of something. My office is open. Wait for me,” she replied, clearly irritated.

“I have brilliant news,” he announced and gave an exaggerated smile, exposing a set of perfectly structured teeth.

She dropped her head, inhaled deeply and looked up at him, “See Bami, your news is not what I need right now. I need to put somebody in his place and you are denying me the time!” Her voice was getting louder now.

“Whoa! Madam cool it. Kilode? Who worked you up like this?”

She moved the fringe away from her eyes and narrowed her eyes. Just then, she heard the sound of a car engine a few meters away from them and she knew that she had lost her window.

“Damn it, Bami!” she nudged his side with her elbow. “You’re so annoying!” she clenched her teeth.

“Hey! Hey, woman!” he started with false anger lacing his tone, “first you don’t want to hear what I came to say and now I’m annoying? Anyway, I came to take you to get some food since you’ve been here since 4… oh and on a completely irrelevant note, my promotion fell through,” he finished without breaking a smile.

She widened her eyes and in that moment, she could not remember why she was angry before. She screeched in excitement and threw herself shamelessly in his embrace. In the beginning, she had attributed his career stagnancy to his selective carefree attitude but after years had passed and his glaring commitment and hard work earned him only extra pats on the back, she concluded that he was just unlucky. She pulled away from him and adjusted his tie knot.

“Awww! Bam Bam!!! I’m so proud of you!” she cooed as she watched his face light up with more enthusiasm than he had met her with. “I can’t eat out today though. See how I look like a badly upgraded Ekaete.”

“Who cares? I don’t,” he laughed heartily, infecting her within milliseconds. “Please I’m hungry. Drop your lab coat and let’s go!”

“Bami o! First and last time. I’m only indulging ‘cause we’re celebrating o,” she smiled and turned into the building before stopping in her tracks. She sensed that she was the first person he was sharing his excitement with and glad as she felt, she was still curious about his supposed love interest. “Ahn ahn, where’s your babe?”

“What?”

“The new girl. Isn’t she why we’ve not seen your brake light in recent weeks?”

“Oh! Her,” he smiled. “She’s okay.”

Anita raised her eyebrows and swallowed the question that was at the tip of her tongue. “True sef. When do I get to meet her? I don’t even know what she looks like.”

Bami smiled and pointed at the face of his watch before replying, “I’ve not had time. You’ll meet her soon, b.” He sighed when he noticed that Anita had changed her course of movement and was now walking back towards him.

“Oya let me see a picture, and then I’ll go drop my coat.”

“This woman o!” he threw his hands in the air as she forced them out of the pockets of his grey trousers, pulled out his phone and stretched it towards him. He shook his head continuously as he searched the picture folder on his phone. After what seemed like a long minute, he laughed and held the phone in front of her face.

Anita’s smile faded. She stared at the picture longer than expected as she barely struggled to recall why the woman’s face looked painfully familiar. Since their brief encounter at her nephew’s naming ceremony, the face of the gap-toothed lady had stayed imprinted in her subconcious. For some reason, she was certain that she would run into the lady soon and make her explain why she had not only stopped at embarrassing her in public but continued to send her threatening messages. The skin of her forehead creased effortlessly.

“She’s pretty!” Anita managed to exclaim convincingly. She looked up at a confused Bami who she was certain had read through her little act. “So when did you say you met her again? Recently?”

“Christmas time last year but nothing got serious until very recently. Why? Do you know her?” Bami asked, a tad worried.

“No. Not really. No. Well, I don’t know her know her, but I know enough to tell you that she is a nut job and from one good friend to another, I don’t think you should be with her.”

***

In Zino’s hotel room, Mohini has settled down and thanks to old memories and some alcohol is now in very high errmm… ‘spirits’

“Wow! That has to be the most shocking thing I have heard all year. Jai and seminary? Two things I would never have imagined in the same sentence.” Their laughter filled the room the way it had almost an hour before.

“He even insists on being called Nathaniel oh. He says since our parents, rest their souls, named us because of their Hare Krishna religion, he doesn’t want Jai anymore.” She slipped her feet out of her brown embellished slippers and stretched her legs on the bed. The last couple of hours had been a healthy mixture of nostalgia and revelations. They had exchanged a lot of truthful words that she could not now remember. It took her a great deal of willpower to refrain from stating to him that her feelings towards him all those years were supremely dwarfed by his for her. She could not deny though, that the aura that attracted her to him in the past was not locked in the past, and even now, she could not think of any other place she would rather be.

“Thanks for this, Mini. I really needed it,” she heard him say through the new silence. She turned her head to the man lying beside her and smiled. “I still can’t get over the fact that you’re married though,” he continued. She remained silent and shuffled to sit up, her back against the headboard.

“Are you happy?” the question cut sharply through her. It felt as though a curious hand had found the key to her insides and let out a stash of doubt and uncertainty for her male companions to see. It was the first time she had been asked the question since Jaiyeola had asked the night of their wedding. Then, the answer came very easy to her; one would have thought she had been waiting eagerly to be asked. Zino sat up and moved closer to her. She looked at him and forced an exaggerated smile before replying, “My marriage has been a happy one. Yes.”

He continued to stare at her and she allowed herself to get lost in her reflection trapped in his clear brown eyes. “You know if you want out of that marriage, I’m here with wide, open arms,” he winked.

“Zino!” she protested, leaning away from his face.

“I’m playing! I’m playing, Mini,” he chuckled and tickled her calf lightly. “Does that still do it for you?” he continued to tickle. She screamed and flapped her legs to evade his fingers until she successfully bit his arm. Their laughter returned, this time richer than before.

“Seriously though, if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you,” Zino watched her catch her breath and allow her back rest on the wooden headboard again. She batted her eyelashes uncontrollably as she smiled, turning her face to the opposite direction. Just then, he felt a rush of activity trail down his spine, contained in a thin line, and without hesitating, he grabbed her jaw, drew her face to his and pressed his lips firmly on hers. As if rehearsed, she threw her arm around the back of his head and allowed herself to get lost in the sensation building up in the pit of her stomach. She was lost somewhere in the past where they were still together and there was no Jaiyeola. He pulled away and buried his face in the croon of her neck, planting soft kisses as his right hand felt for the hook of her bra. As she felt the grip on her breasts come loose, she snapped back to reality, her eyes flung open and she pushed him off her. What was she doing? She hit him hard across his cheeks with both palms. She held the hem of her dress in one hand and jumped off the bed, rushing into her slippers.

“Why the hell did you do that?!” she yelled without looking at him as she searched for her phone. The pounding in her head was beginning to return in pumps.

“I love J for chrissake! He is your boss! You shouldn’t have done that.” Her eyes were welling up now as she headed for the door. She stopped before turning the lock and then turned to look at him with all the authority she could find. His hands had formed a cradle for his head.

“The day J finds out you ran into me in Abuja,” she started, her anger growing with each word, “that will be the day you lose your job.” Her eyes found an empty tub in the bin next to the door and flung it at him. “I did not need another secret! I really did not!”

She turned the door knob and with her back to him said, “henceforth, the only reason you know me is because I am your boss’s wife. No more past, no more Mini.” She looked over her shoulder and caught his confused eyes.

“Mr Wright. I am married… and happy.”

With that she let herself out and quietly shut the door behind her.

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Next Week on ASO-EBI:

EPISODE 9: Gele To Le

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Aso-Ebi is written by @Rohke_E and @Kimeclectic

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You can read all episodes of Aso-Ebi here

They have all responded to this abuse in different ways. Some have let it define every relationship they have had with men, others have shrugged it off like it was nothing and some have made their peace with it and long since moved on. Even though I stand firmly against castration or any other form of penile mutilation in general, for these rapists and molesters, I think I would make an exception. The victims are the primary concern.  I have never been a victim of abuse myself so I am in no position to say much about it except to express my disgust with the perpetrators in a Rant which would not be very useful to anyone.

However,  I have something written by a friend who was a victim of abuse herself. She has grown to be a remarkably strong young woman and I believe she has risen above her ordeals (mostly). She shares her stories  and opinions on abuse. When she sent this to me I knew I just had to share it.  So this is for everyone…

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…Trying To Mend the Broken.

———–

“I remember the rocking game uncle and I used to play. Both of us would take off our underwear and I’d sit on the stick on uncle’s laps. Then he’d tell me to rock back and forth like I was on a horse, hitting me to go faster sometimes. I’d go fast and fast, as fast as I could go, then his eyes would behave funny and his head would fall back. When I became about 9 or 10, I would feel some sort of excitement when I sat on uncle’s stick. I’d go faster even before he asked. It was when I went to university at 16 that uncle and I stopped our private game. It was also while I was at university that I understood what uncle’s little game was and that none of my friends had played this game with their dads or uncles. I cannot understand how I didn’t get pregnant or get HIV all these years, guess I was just lucky.”

These are the words of a very close friend as told to me.

Every time I remember this particular conversation with her, I relive the pain, the hurt, the sorrow over a childhood gone, an innocence stolen, a trust betrayed. Statistics have a lot to say about women who have been or would be sexually abused sometime in their lives. Personally, 50% of the girls/women I know have been sexually abused somewhere between the ages of 5-21. By people close to them; fathers, uncles, house maids, drivers, aunties, teachers, sisters, friends, brothers.

So this is for everyone (male and female) who has ever been a victim of sexual abuse/assault. First of all, trust me, It wasn’t your fault. Many of us are quick to blame ourselves. “Maybe I was giving off the wrong signals”, “maybe I seduced him”. “Maybe I was in the wrong place”. Trust me; none of it was your fault.

In the same way, you should never let sexual abuse define you. Never let it indicate what you become, what you would use your life to do. Of course ‘something’ has been taken from you, but you should, in no way, let it determine the course your life would take. You should not feel dirty or defiled or less than anyone else. It’s a setback, yes, but it doesn’t stop you from being whoever or whatever you want to become.

I also believe you should get tested, properly. You dont know much about the other sexual habits of the person who molested you and it would be prudent to have a proper exam to make sure you didnt get infected with anything that may hinder chances of having a normal life afterwards.

Please give yourself some allowance to forgive yourself for and let go of whatever you believe you may have done to contribute to the sexual abuse. Then the next step is to forgive the person. This is probably the hardest step to take, but it’s the best thing you’d ever do in my opinion. Forgiving the perpetrator says ‘this has happened, it is bad, but I’m going to put it behind me and move on with my life. It’s important to realize that most of the time, the perpetrator is also a human going through some private storms (which may include, but is not limited to their own sexual abuse). You can start by saying ‘I forgive …(Insert name)’ … every day and gradually work up to a point where you feel you can let go.

Let me add here, that forgiving a person doesn’t say that you should not report the incident to the appropriate authority. That’s a personal choice, and that brings me to the next point. Talk to someone about it, whoever you feel comfortable talking about it to. Personally, the first person I ever opened up to was a complete stranger. I felt at peace with it. I don’t think I can ever tell my parents or some of my friends about it because I don’t think they can handle the hurt that accompanies such things. It might fracture them and their carefully constructed view of me.

Let me also mention that in making the decision to report the incident or not, you may want to consider how much of your life you want in the public eye. If you decide to report the case, you must be ready for the storm that may follow in its wake, especially in a country like ours. Going to the police station, writing a statement, talking to family, hiring a lawyer, maybe being on the witness stand and even being blamed for what happened (true talk).

Allow me to reiterate that sexual abuse is never your fault, and you have not lost any value by being a victim of it. It is very possible to have been sexually abused and recover from it.

I did.

*******

Post from: Theatre of my Mind

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It’s a wet Wednesday here in Lagos, maybe just the right day for some introspection and this kind of discussion. What are your thoughts on the subject of abuse? Do you think its less or more prevalent now than in the past? Do you agree with the observation at the beginning that a very large number of girls in Nigeria have been sexually abused in one way or the other? What about boys? Have you been abused yourself and perhaps have any experiences, tips, points or even contact details of people and organizations who can help to share? You may comment anonymously if you wish. Use the comment box to express you.

Today, a fast-paced tale set in the dark, rambunctious world that is the midnight scene as can be seen almost anywhere. Coupled with some digital art I whipped up just to go with the story. Please enjoy…

Stealth, subtlety, patience… All that is out the window now. Now, everything relies on spontaneity, improvisation, wit, charm and good old luck. Oh, and precision; that’s the only thing still necessary from the old plan. Way too much has been invested in research, time, energy and resources for this to go south now. I have discovered a snag but I have to move forward. I hadn’t anticipated the laid-back Akins calling in sick and being replaced by the sharp and alert Babs at the door but the show must go on. Carefully laid plans will work still. They must… or the undoubtedly dangerous and regrettably anonymous man that has hired me will slice me open from throat to dick. Yeah, he actually promised that during our last phone call.

Ten seconds. That’s all it’ll take. I carried out many simulations on- and off-site, mostly off-site, of course. Timing is key. Nine seconds or less, impossible to achieve as it may seem, would be unacceptable. I would be the scampering rat and that is not a good look for a pay-back mission such as this. Eleven seconds or more, and the likelihood of a lockdown that will put all of the plan to shit occurring would drastically increase. I would be caught and hung out to dry like a dead rat as example to anyone bold enough to ever try again to do what I am doing.

Every millisecond counts. I glance at my watch, pick the tray and make my way through the kitchen doors. Even as I reach out and push the door open, my watch vibrates against my wrist- a small pulsation- as it would repeatedly within the next nine seconds, one for each, keeping me abreast of how much time I have left every step of the way. The countdown has begun.

00.10

I immediately take in the expanse of the club, all is as it should be. I do not need to see Paddy to know where he is, but I glance in his expected direction just the same and spot him among the milling clubbers- well, not him exactly, he’s too short, more like his body guard towering over him- making his way to his special spot in VIP, right on schedule. They have come in through the discreet side entrance reserved for celebrity and influential patrons.

00.09

The glass of gin and tonic that would give me direct access to Paddy in about four seconds is waiting for me on the bar. Leaving the bartender the order three minutes ago before stepping into the kitchen ensured it would be ready right on time, but would not sit too long on the counter and attract suspicion. I have had exactly 33 of his gin and tonics in the recent past with the sole purpose of pinpointing how long it takes him to mix them. Once the order is being attended to and without interruption, two and a half minutes, give or take 3 seconds.

00.08

Without so much as a break in my stride, I sweep up the drink, balance it on the tray and keep walking straight at Paddy’s party. As expected, he doesn’t have an entourage… yet. It’s a Thursday night. He starts small on Thursday nights.

I am about six strides out when the bodyguard notices me and my trajectory and begins to move directly into my path to intercept me. I look the part in my borrowed waistcoat but my face is not one he’s used to. Paddy cannot possibly know all of his staff but as his ‘chief security officer’, Shortie is expected to. He’s already reaching his spread out palm to my chest to stop me- I’m not slowing down, I won’t have to- when Paddy walks right around him to meet me…

“You need to chill sometimes, Shortie. What, now you want to keep my starter away from me? You forget it’s Thursday night? I start small.”

Paddy reaches for the drink he would not end up having and once he takes a hold of it, remains still and rooted to the spot. As planned.

00.07

00.06

It takes him all of two seconds but Shortie finally realizes something is amiss. My eyes have never left his round, pocked face and as he looks up at me in alertness, our eyes meet. He immediately tries to push his boss out of what he has perceived to be harm’s way before dealing with the threat fearlessly staring him down. That move, which is reflex and is the only reasonable one for him to make, is his mistake. He remains just as rooted-to-the-spot as Paddie presently is.

00.05

I reach forward and using my body and Paddie’s as shields from any less-than-likely prying eyes, reach my heavily gloved right hand into his blazer and retrieve the envelope that I have been assured would be there. Ordinarily, I would first verify that the contents I expect to be in it are there, but this is no ideal situation for such meticulous scrutiny… [00.04]… Once it is securely pouched in my back pocket, I slip my other more heavily gloved hand out from beneath the tray, leaving it seemingly suspended in thin air and begin to walk away, leaving my beautifully dangerous work of modern art behind me. Any passers-by who come upon the strange sculpture and try to decipher, dismantle or deface it would only be added to the masterpiece, courtesy of the flat, round million-volt generator attached to the bottom of the metallic tray.

00.03

As I cover the few feet between my art piece and the exit, removing and discarding of the little waist coat I borrowed only about a minute ago from one of the staff of this fine establishment, I sense a little kerfuffle ensuing behind me. It would appear my lender and the sad state in which I left him have been discovered. Glancing around now is a gamble that may attract much unwanted attention to me, but I cannot but steal a peak.

Through the corner of my eye , I see the head waiter has come out of the kitchen in a fluster, having very likely just discovered one of his waiters in a heap at the entrance to his kitchen and is now in cohorts with the bartender who is gesturing animatedly in my direction. Of course, above the loud music, I cannot hear them, and neither can Babs, who is still stationed at the door, as he should be. But the two behind me can catch his eye before I make my exit, and this can make or mar my getaway. This here is the part where all of the plan cannot but be left to lady luck.

00.02

I am only two steps behind Babs when, in turning to put aside the rope divider to let in customers, he spots the animated duo. I know because I can see it all in his eyes. I see him take in their gestures incriminating me, I see him realize his boss standing unmoving in the middle of his club, then I see his eyes settle upon me, all this within a split second. Babs is the sharp one. Akins, the not-sharp one, the one with whom I had made an arrangement, really should have been the one on duty today. Were this Akins in front of me, the distraction behind me would be the very reason I would be able to slip out while his mind is still trying to unravel all he would be taking in. But Akins is not the one on duty today, Babs is. Reflex says I should stop and address my adversary, but training makes my legs keep moving while the stare down occurs.

00.01

Babs doesn’t move as I make to walk right past him. My every nerve is a jangle and recoiled in alert for any sudden moves but nothing happens. He just, from all appearances, allows me walk out even though his eyes clearly tell me he knows. He knows.

00.00

I’m only two steps beyond him now…

“Hey.”

I pause briefly without turning around. I know now.

“Get the package to Akins by midnight, tonight, or else… Throat to dick.”

I nod slightly and keep walking.

She carried two Ghana-must-go sacs, one predominantly red and the other mostly blue, although each both them possessed some of each color. The bags contained all that she had and she didn’t have much.

A day before, she had waved goodbye to her family as she boarded the big bus that went to the big city. She was anxious and excited and at the same time she felt sad about leaving her family but she killed the sadness with a quick childhood song as one would kill a mosquito.

She was fifteen and this was an event she had been prepared for, it would have been odd if she had not because as a girl in her village there was only one dream and it was to leave your family to be a ‘house girl’ in the cities in exchange for education and a little money to send back home.

Although, in recent times there had been a slight decline in this trend. Some parents who thought that the fates of their daughters had already been decided insisted that they remain on the cocoyam farms and wait for husbands. Some, having one infirmity or the other were ineligible and so helped the others on the cocoyam farms. They too waited for husbands, but most times, death came first.

Her sister did not remain on the farms and neither did she have an illness of any kind.

Adaora was what her people called Ada Ugo which translated to English meant: Daughter of an Eagle, because she was very beautiful.

To be referred to  as an Ada Ugo  was germane to being ordained a priestess, you said the title the same way you said words like ‘earth’ and ‘fire’. With pulsed reverence and frugal delivery. She had been sent to the city much earlier, while Chinonso still climbed guava trees with the other adolescents. Her tale is a famous one.

She had been sent to the home of Mr and Mrs Coker, one of the most prominent families in that part of the country. She had only stayed there for six months and her family had already begun to reap from her absence. Her parents were able to send Chijim and Tobenna to the only school in their village – it was a big school and it had a zinc roof.

When elder Uloma – the ever-smiling negotiator of many services from the village – returned from her mission to Lagos with a dark face, everyone knew she came bearing bad news. The news was that Adaora, plagued with some kind of madness, forced her Oga,Mr Coker to sleep with her, on several occasions. She was thrown out a month later, with a child crying noisily on her back. The bodies were found six weeks later, both mother and child had died of starvation. That was the story as narrated by Mr Coker. The collected manner in which he told it had troubled Elder Uloma and after a long silence, she had asked to see the bodies. This, of course was waved off by Mr. Coker as a foolish Endeavour. Instead, she was advised to go back to the girl’s family and grieve.

The confusion on the parents’ faces had been apparent, they were utterly confused. They wondered what kind of man Mr Coker was but most importantly they wondered how their child, the Adaora they fed and bathed as a child would do such a thing. They wondered how their fish had flown and perched on a tree for it was not in her nature to behave in such a manner.

After whispering to himself for several seconds, Chinonso’s father spat violently and shook his head before spiting again, as though the validity of the story depended on how much spittle he retained. It is not my Adaora was his verdict. The verdict was followed by weeping, heavy and strained, and it did not stop until much later.

Adaora’s death was what caused a decline in the trend so it was a huge surprise when her parents decided to send their one remaining daughter to Lagos.”But things are harder now than they were then” said one woman,after no response came and no indication that one would come she spoke again ”we can both agree that we would do the same thing if we had the same lot”,the woman whom she addressed only nodded,unsure of what to reply as she lifted her basin which was full of water,trying to balance its weight on her head,she stooped and bent her neck so that she was able to place the container on the rags that sat on her head,it was a trick that was learnt during ones childhood.It was said,by the old women that girls who learnt it after childhood grew up to be only half-women.As they walked back to the village,she tried also to balance her friend’s assertion.

When Chinonso alighted the bus,she was greeted by the heavy scent of roasted plantain and she realized she had not eaten a thing since she left the village,and her stomach grumbled in agreement.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the paved streets,the contiguous row houses that held her in a thrall with a magnificence they seemed to wear all over.The shiny cars seemed to have little patience and were at the mercy of the traffic light’s caprice.She wondered why the okada riders found it necessary to put their lives at risk by maneuvering precariously through the angry,impatient cars.

They had okadas in the village but she dared not call them the same name.That would be abominable,these were a dignified breed.Didn’t her people say that when the pond sees the river at the market it cannot think of itself as water too?.

She made it a point to find out the names of the glorious machines.

Speaking her own dusty variant of broken English,it was difficult getting directions from the pedestrians so she relied on the hand gestures of a tall dark man that looked like he had been fighting sleep all his life.

She had walked a mile from the bus stop and decided to sit on the pavement for a while,she wiped hot sweat from her brow and folded her arms across her chest.Unable to fight the hunger that clawed at her stomach any longer,Chinonso crossed the street to buy the roasted plantain that had been playing games with her nose.The girl at the stand was Igbo,and they exchanged warm pleasantries in their tongue.The girl then advised her to buy some Ube along with her plantain or bolly as it was popularly called.Chinonso took her advice and felt relieved to be able to speak her language again.Seeing her chance,she asked the girl about the glorious machines that looked very much like the ones in her village,the answer she got was not the one she wanted,she saw the need to remonstrate but thought better of it.

Mildly annoyed at the girl’s ignorance,she returned to her seat on the pavement.She must be another village girl,from an even worse village Chinonso thought.Satisfied with this explanation,she forgot about the girl and unwrapped her roasted plantain.

A small crowd had gathered around a policeman and a taxi driver.They were arguing heatedly.

The driver said something that made the policeman squeeze his face until it looked like a mound of fufu that someone had left over.Without so much as a warning,the driver was hauled out of his car.

The policeman dispersed the crowd and kicked the driver who was still recovering from the fall.The policeman brandished his handcuffs,and the driver protested.Seeing that this did no good,he turned his protestations into pleas,rubbing his palms together and bending his knees feverishly as if to squat.Seeing that this also did no good,he brought out his wallet and a dirty hundred naira note vanished into the policeman’s pocket.

All this happened in less than five minutes.

The driver was allowed back into his car,he saluted the policeman and sped into the afternoon traffic.

Chinonso sat on the pavement for another two hours but she did not know that two hours had passed.The deafening blare of a car horn brought her back to reality.

She gathered her things and scurried off,cursing herself for her carelessness.

It was evening when Chinonso arrived at No. 26 Olawunmi-Nelson street,Ikoyi.She was nervous now and terribly hungry but the nervousness outweighed the hunger.

She stood at the huge gate for several seconds,taking in the size of the building.It was like nothing she had ever seen.The palm trees that could be seen through the holes in the gate seemed to mock her,shaking their branches in disapproval.

For the first time that day,she looked at herself,she was sweating and her clothes were a testament to her rough journey.Summoning some courage,she knocked loudly on the gate.

‘Ey Ey Who be that?!,You no see bell?’ Came the response.

She did in fact see the bell and after careful examination,rendered it useless.

The voice had a face,it was a wrinkled face and it assumed a smooth appearance at seeing her.

‘Ah sorry o’ the voice said.She wondered why he apologized but did not say anything.

The man was in uniform,and he opened the gate like a man in uniform would.The heavy clang rang in her ears.

The palm tees were in full view now,they were scattered about the large compound,she tried not to look at them but she felt their glares hot on the back of her neck.

The man introduced himself as ‘John’,and he was the gateman,he normally refrained from calling himself a gateman,instead he called himself a security guard as it sounded better,less of a man who only tended to gates – which was in fact all he did.But for the purpose of this visitor,he was the gateman.

She looked at the strange man who spoke like one who had chewed kola nut before a wrestling match and did not know how to close his mouth.Watching him only made Chinonso more nervous,she clutched her bags tightly and whispered comforting words to herself.

They stood in silence as Chinonso engaged her eyes in dalliance with the ground.

”Wetin be your name,abi you no get mouth?!”

The way he said mouth amused her and she tried desperately to swallow the laughter that crawled up her throat.

The man hissed and walked away,muttering something about village girls,”wait here,I go call Madam”.

Madam came an hour later,her perfume violating Chinonso’s nostrils and forcing her to cough coarsely.Madam was a round woman with a long neck.Her face was emotionless,and she reminded Chinonso of the frozen plastic human beings she saw at the shops and boutiques,she had felt sorry for them and wondered what they had done to warrant such a curse.

But the plastic men and women were thin and slender,Chinonso could not help but be amazed at the sheer size of the woman.Then she remembered what her father had said about the big men and women in the cities who ate the country’s money,she had always wondered how they managed to swallow the notes without choking,she also wondered how the money they ate tasted,although she was sure it tasted good she was also quite sure that it did not taste better than her mother’s oha soup,for the simple reason that nothing tasted better than her mother’s cooking.

”Are you Chinonso?” The woman asked with a listless look,that she seemed to always wear.Chinonso knew the woman called a name,but she didn’t think it was hers,it didn’t sound like hers but she nodded anyway.

“Come” the woman said as she led her through a maze of giant vehicles,they stopped at a wooden door.

“Take a bath and change your…clothes,I have visitors,and there are things to do”.She said ‘clothes’ like it was a rebellious word that just did not go well with the rest of the sentence and had to be spat out.Chinonso watched her disappear through another door.

She pushed the wooden door open and entered the small room,it was plain and dusty,with a large bed and a tall wardrobe.

She said a quick,silent prayer and began to survey her new room.

She sat on the bed when the cupboards were checked,they were empty.She had made it,she was finally in Lagos,she remembered her sister,Adaora,and wished she had lived long enough to see her board the bus with the rest of her family.

For her safety,Chinonso’s parents had decided against telling her the circumstances of her sister’s death,instead they claimed that she was killed by some rare skin disease.Chinonso,having no reason to doubt her parent’s words believed them and mourned the departed.

From her window,she could still see the palm trees billowing in the distance,they still had the look of disapproval,but now it seemed mixed with something else,something like pity.

 -Joshua S. Lean.

The other group are the Orobo girls that can hold their own but have developed low self esteem because of what they’ve heard. They are usually with skinnier friends, very flirty and are looking for validation. They want to be more than just the fat, pretty-ish friend. They want to for once be the center of attention. For those ones, If you give them that, you’re halfway to getting in their pants. Meanwhile their skinny friends will be doing shakara. So basically what my guy was telling me was that, if you can locate these types in the club and give them your attention, you can easily get some Friday night lovin for half the effort as long as you don’t mind a little extra beef in your woman burger.

He also said that girls do the same thing with guys. Free the fine boys and go for the not-so-nice looking friends who sha have money and tend to be more like gentlemen. They tend to be easier to get to date and will appreciate any woman that shows them attention. Not exactly the same as orobo lovin’ but still the same idea, sorta.I’m not sure this theory is entirely valid but man go try im luck for club next weekend. Afterall, who no like easy woman lovin’? And as some of our people say… orobo na im sweet pass.

Watching the Lagos night go by through the car window, his hand in hers, she hoped it was not just the friendliness of alcohol. It couldn’t be. He had bought her a charming necklace on his recent business trip. She was getting dressed for the Williams’ when he snuck it on her neck, and whispered in her ear, “I love you my Lollipop.” Turning her round to face him, he looked softly at her and said, “this necklace symbolises my undying love for you”. It made her swoon. His promotion wasn’t so bad after all. “I l-ooo-vee you Lol-li-popp”, he slurred now like he could hear her thoughts. Maybe there was no danger in believing that this fresh hope would outlive the flips of calendar pages. “Samson, increase the AC. Oga is sweating”. Her driver had been quietly trying to get them home. Lolade stared hard at the night. They were still so far away. “Samson, which way did you take?” “Madam, there was a block on our normal road, so I took corner-corner.” Lolade always felt uneasy whenever she was out this late. Her husband didn’t seem to mind, as he snored softly against the car seat. Suddenly, Lolade felt a strong and forceful jerk that threw her husband into a confused consciousness. “Samson, why did you brake like that?!” Lolade leaned forward menacingly to confront her driver, but Samson was looking straight on with his palms laid flat against the steering wheel.  “What is wrong with you?!” She was tapping him furiously now. “Answer me!” Samson was oblivious to the threat of his angry madam. He started, through trembling lips and a pin-drop voice, “armed…” That was enough to throw Lolade’s heart out of her chest, and slap the alcohol straight from Dare’s system. “Where?” Dare asked hurriedly. It was hard to see beyond the heavy blanket of night through their tainted car windows.

Tap. Tap. Tap. They turned to Dare’s side to make out the shape of an object meeting the glass. Dare wound down the window through sweaty shaking hands to be confronted by a gun. Lolade felt the fear in Dare’s murderously tight grip. The stranger wasn’t there for small talk. “Give me everything! Now!!!” It would be fine as long as they cooperated. “Yes sir!” Dare shouted. He began to scramble around; taking out his Ferragamo wallet… his Cartier wristwatch…Lolade’s Chanel bag…Samson’s wallet…Lolade was trying to breathe calmly. Everything would be fine. They would get all they wanted. Her breathing was interrupted without warning when her husband reached forcefully for her neck. “What are you doing?!” she shouted. “Lolade shut up!” He glared at her. “I need the necklace!” She hadn’t considered that. “Must you?” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. “It’s a fucking necklace Lolade! I will buy you another!” She couldn’t believe that Dare let them take something so precious.

“Abi you have everything now?!” Lolade shouted, almost asking for a problem. Dare held her hand tight, and gave her a dangerous look, as if to control her. “No, not yet”, the man behind the tattered mask said through dark laughter. Tap. Tap. Tap. Their heads swung to Lolade’s side to behold another man wielding another wicked thing. “Open the door!” He shouted. Lolade looked into her husband’s eyes. What was she to do? Dare nodded slowly, tears streaming down his face. She opened it. Suddenly, the man forced it wide and reached for her. “Dare!” He was trying to carry her out, touching her in places she’d imagined only Dare would when watching him dance…back…and forth. “Dare, don’t let go!” She pleaded, trying to hold on through sweaty fingers. She could hear Samson crying now. “We fit retire on your ransom”, the vulgar man said, trying to yank her. She looked into Dare’s eyes and saw something alien. It wasn’t the sweat. Dare’s hand slipped from her grip and it wasn’t the sweat. Lolade stopped thrashing around as she took it in. “I love you Lollipop”, she heard him whisper through a broken manhood. He let them take her. She spat forcefully to the ground as she looked at him through tear-filled eyes, making a special resolution that if he paid for her, she would pay him back with a divorce. “Happy fucking new year!!” she shouted as they melted away into the Lagos night.

****

Phinc! : {finkk!} (Verb). Building the sort of character that ensures that you remain strong regardless of setbacks.

Have you ever lost something or someone you fully depended on? A parent, a sibling, a friend, a job, money, a set of values, documents, an organ, a device …. a pen? It never is the same as loosing other things. If you had your way, you would choose some other item to get lost in its place. Sometimes it is not really about the item but about the timing of the loss. A few years, months, weeks, days or even hours more and it might not have seemed to matter this much. At this point we often begin to question where to go from here.

We are amazing beings. Unlike other information we receive with our senses and store in our short-term memory, these get stored in our long-term memory in more than one dimension. We store enough elements of such experiences that literally transport us to that exact moment whenever we remember them. We feel the heavy heart, the anger or disappointment, hear the sounds, see flashes and sometimes even smell things. What’s worse is, as a result, most times we begin to experience the same handicap we had at those moments. We cannot function at full capacity till we get out of that frame of mind.

I am no expert on loss however I want to attempt to reach out to the few who might be reading this and are at that point now. Follow me carefully!!!

They say life is a journey and I agree 100%. If life where to be captured, only motion picture will be able to do it justice.  Still pictures only let you live in a moment forever. A journey is about movement from one location to another. It has a start point and end point. A journey only ends when the “journeyer” either gets to the desired destination or does not continue the process anymore. If a journey where to be represented mathematically, it would include two constants in the expression amidst lots of variables; Start Constant and End Constant. However this would be the sort of mathematical expression where everyone working it out would have to choose the end constant for himself or herself. When the end point is chosen, it becomes clearer the type of path to follow and the ones not to follow.   As it is with physical journeys, there is often more than one route that leads to a particular destination. They might require the same amount of energy, or resources or mindset or time but they will  get you there.

Hence, I have come to realize that the most important part of any journey is being able to determine the end point. The ones who are end point minded are resilient. They never are crippled by roadblocks or by potholes. They are hardly ever distracted and always travel light. Where are you going? What is your end point? Who is determining your end point for you? I have also noticed that a lot of people either have disillusioned ideas of the end point they desire or do not properly define the parameters. When you get there, what things would you see to prove you are there?

I sympathize with everyone who has experienced one form of “loss” or the other. I have been at this place recently and I sincerely know how you feel. I wish I could say something to make you smile and lift your hearts. However, I would like to encourage you to be end minded. Have you believed you would head a type of company or pursue a particular career or have a sort of family, or be a kind of person or make a set of achievements? I encourage you to STILL BELIEVE regardless! Be end minded. Consider that all you have experienced is a slight detour and the end point remains the same. Great things are ahead of you and am beyond certain that you would lay hold of it with your hands.

I hope this got you to PHINC!