Will You Ever Get It?

Words which you can never understand their effect. You say what you want without an ounce of care. The hairs on your back are never moved by the callousness of your lips.

But you just don't see it.

Everything is right from your point of view. Even when you're wrong, telling you that you are wrong would be the the greatest way I could go wrong. But you want a relationship with him?

Now you want to reap the fruit of a seed you never took the time to sow. But it's not there for you to pluck. The idea that you could have gone wrong terrifies you. You can't bear the thought. So you set up an aggressive defense. It's everyone against you. You are the besieged one who did nothin wrong. I am obviously at fault.

The irony of it is, he's never claimed to be without fault. A dysfunctional child of parents who were never in conjunction, but he took the unction on himself & attempted to do something sensible. As patchy & incorrect as his methods may have been. But you've never attempted to see that. All you see is what you want. Your ideas of what should be ideal have blinded you from what the reality is, & so you can't even see that despite your early inability to do the right thing, he has survived, & attempts to make something of himself.

Will you ever get it?

Location : Bahiru Shittu, Lagos,
Posted via Blogaway

The Morning's Musings.

My words are mine alone for me to speak, or to write. And for what's mine, i always fight. I see the truth & say it whenever I can. Whenever the fear in my heart can be pushed away by a sense of what should be and what should not. By a refusal to accept the bullshit that's usually fed to us on a golden spoon. Because I've come to see that that golden spoon, like an Olympic gold medal, is actually 95% silver, which is 95% bollocks, 95% lies, and 95%,  might as well be the whole thing. And the slow sin which we commit by letting the shit slide be as we on our idly lie is unacceptable to me.

I said I wasn't gonna write about this, but I really can't look around anymore. We as a nation are gonna be 50. A professor of mine described this county as a man going on 50, a man who had managed to move out of his parents' house, & away from their rule, & has become "independent", but still wets his bed.

There is something structurally wrong.

There is something structurally wrong with us commiting  84 billion naira (yes, billion...with a B) to the elections nect january, yet PHCN staff are going on strike & plunging the nation into a deeper state of darkness, because their been owed hundreds of billions in salary arrears. I mean, really? N84B? On a fricking election? What the bloody hell for? As if we don't already know this election is gonna be rigged. I mean, if Babangida can be allowed to even run for presidency, isn't that indicative enough of what we should expect?

There's something structurally wrong with spending 1 billion naira on independence day celebrations. Frankly, we as a nation have totally nothing to celebrate about. Yes, I said it. At 50 years old, we're still a 3rd world country (please don't gimme that developing country bullshit) even though we have every single resource necessary to be a super-power nation.

Kai...I said I wasn't gonna rant  about this nation...but the pen wants what it wants. But I'll stop here for now. Speaking of the pen...I have a bit to tell you about him...

Okay, bath time!

I'll be back in blogsville a bit later..

Location : Bahiru Shittu, Lagos,
Posted via Blogaway

Insomniac Ramblings

I'm just rambling right now… sleep decided she was gonna be late, but forgot to send the memo. So…don't pay me any mind…

 

Why I do the things I do, may never be understood.

I do not require your forgiveness. Because, for you to forgive, you would have to understand me first.

And that I cannot permit. To let you into the sanctums of my soul, to give you a glimpse at what I feel, would be my undoing.

Would be our undoing precisely. & I shall not be undone. I have gone too far now.

I have laid my hand on the plow now, I will not turn back.

And in your mind you may forge all possible kinds of attack.

You may console yourself, saying all the things that I lack.

My unwillingness to try, is fostered by my unwillingness to cry.

To see my soul blown to every corner of the globe, I will no longer condone.

So I will do what I must. I don't expect your forgiveness.

Maybe one day, you'll understand. Maybe. But I won't hold my breath.

I will accept the weight of my actions, until the final time of my death.

There is nothing more to say…

This is the end.

When You Get Back

Boredom sometimes begets poetry….lemme keep this one short.

 

When You Get Back

When you get back, the first thing I'm going to do is kiss you, to show you how I've missed you, and words cannot fully pass this message to you so I'll take them directly from my lips and imprint them on yours in the way I know you know that only I know how to; soft, slow and full of every inch of passion possible.

When you get back, you're going to lose your way with words. You'll tell me stories about all the places you got to see, all the people you got to meet and hang out with. You better have pictures to back up all these stories as well though…I'm a big fan of 3x5's…you know that.

When you get back, we'll share those simple pleasures that we both value so much. We'll go watch a movie at the cinemas, and throw popcorn at the people sitting in front of us. Or we'll cuddle in bed and watch a movie on my laptop…amongst other things we could do in bed…

When you get back, I'll make you taste that new dish I learned how to make while you were away. You'll tell me how it's wonderful, you love it, you're proud of me…while crossing your fingers behind your back. I'll catch you later that night throwing it away, & in the middle of apologetic laughter, you'll promise to teach me how to do it right the next day.

When you get back, I'll play those songs you love to listen to when you're with me, cos they make you feel a little bit closer, like the melody of the music can weld our souls together and keep them like that for the 4minutes & 12 seconds each track plays for…

When you get back, you'll laugh and tell me how much weight I've put on since you've been gone. But you know you like my frame so you'll just rub my belly and smile. I'll tell you how you put on some weight as well. We'll be shedding it together tomorrow…or we could start tonight… (smiles)

When you get back….I'm gonna kiss you. Cos you know how much I've really missed you…

The Morning’s Musings

I've heard a saying, that "time heals all"

Does it really? I have no idea. People go through their whole lives with deep buried and unresolved issues that don't ever get resolved. Carrying resentment or hatred deep within them, transferring the aggression to some poor, unsuspecting party who then goes on to become filled with the same pain…and the cycle continues. But that really isn't what I'm talking about right now.

A lot of mistakes have been made in the last month. Some of them by me, and some by other people. I don't think I'm at liberty to talk about it, but at least on my part, I acknowledge that I probably screwed up majorly. And I can honestly say that, so did the other person…

My sister and I had a fight last week, over my…conduct. She got on my nerves, I said stuff that either pissed her off or hurt her, long and short, we had a fight. We didn't say more than three or four words to each other for…days. But today, she walks into my room to ask a favor. It's not something that I can help with, so she leaves. Then she comes in again, and drops some Nutri –C on my bed. As possibly insignificant as it may seem, I recognize it for what it is; peace. It took some time, but she got over her anger, and decided to make peace.

So that's why I'm wondering, will time actually heal all wounds? Will it heal the wounds that we so inconsiderately inflict on people? I'm not innocent either. I've hurt someone, and realized what I've done. I just hope it's not too late to heal…I just hope time will really heal.

Maybe we should be a bit more considerate…try not to inflict pain in the first place…instead of giving "time" all this work…

Have a nice day y'all…

She Understands, Now That She's Older.

She sits and she cries. She thinks back and wonders to herself, why?
As I think about her, far away, but always nearby, I remember how I told her, that she would understand one day, when she was older. And even though I was the younger one, I never stopped telling this sister or singing this song. About how her self-centered nature would one day leave her forlorn.
I could never understand where it stemmed from. Maybe the death of her mother early when she was 8 years old caused her to only think of herself, so no-one would ever desert her again. Maybe she was simply just born a selfish little girl. But whatever the reason, Chinelo was definitely a grown selfish woman. Her thoughts surrounded majorly by herself. Her dreams, her ambitions, her comfort zones….her life. She did what worked for her, never caring much what people thought. Apparently, even caring more for friends than family. “A friend sticks closer than a brother”, so she was closer to her friends. Caring more about their welfare than people who’d been with her all her life.
She gave nothing but expected to be given. Forgetting that relationships are of the “quid pro quo” nature. A two way street which she turned into a one way highway, expecting things to come down to her without sending anything out.
And this was her great sin.
I tried talking to her. But as always, being her kid sister, I was never right. Everything I could ever say would cause a fight…No-one seemed to be able to get through to her. The special men in her life could never quite figure out what the rest of us were talking about, cos she was forever doting and caring for them. What they couldn’t see was that in her mind, “Chinelo and her man” was one person. So she wasn’t being doting towards them. She had simply widened her circumference of “self-centeredness” to include them. Thus, still only caring for her.
*sigh* I warned her. About how her self-centered nature would one day leave her forlorn. But she wouldn’t listen. But now, it finally caught up with her. A fifty six year old woman who cannot understand why her siblings have walked away from her. Stubborn past the age of forty, she went past the age of reasoning, left alone with everything that she sacrificed her relationship with us for. A friend loves at all times, but a brother is there for adversity. She realizes that having friends is simply not enough…
But we were tired. Tired of caring and worrying and going all out for a person that couldn’t see why she should do the same. So, like we learned from our mom, we washed our hands off her.
Always hoping I would be proven wrong, I always told her that she’d understand when she got older…She wouldn’t listen.
Now, she’s alone…

Please note: The names in this story are totally fictional. And if we know anyone that reminds us of “Chinelo”, I really hope they learn before it’s a bit too late… I just wanted to try my hands out at writing a different story. – The Panda.

Memories Race By

This is my very first ever attempt at writing a short story. Hope you like it.

Memories Race By

“Ladies and gentlemen, Runner Number 8! From Nigeria, Dagogo Jacob!!!

…I look up from my crouched position as I’m attempting to stretch out my tendons for a moment. Enough to look around for a bit, smile at the roaring crowd and wave. Although they’re rather far from me, I can see the faces of my personal supporters’ team that came all the way with me from Lagos to South Africa among the crowd. My mother, my girlfriend Tori, and my coach Big Balo. The sound of the crowd may be picking up the sounds they make and swallowing it without choking, but I feel like I can hear every word of encouragement that mama and Big Balo are screaming out to me. Mama shouting out that I can do it. Big Balo is shouting at me to make sure I stretch properly.

I remember the first day I went to the National Stadium to find someone to train me to run professionally. I was thirteen years old, and unruly as any new teenager could be. None of the coaches would work with me. It seemed like when they all saw me, they saw that unruly glint in my eye which can usually be easily recognized as rebellion. Mama and I walked around the stadium all day, looking for who would take me, but we just kept getting shaking heads, and doubtful looks. Stares that said how unwilling they were to invest in such an obviously volatile individual, without them ever having to utter a single word. Finally, we met Big Balo. He looked at me long and hard, scrutinizing my defiant glare. Finally, he simply looked up at mama and said “Oya madam bring am come track”.

“Runners! Take your positions!”

As I walk to my place, I can see Balo telling me about the importance of limbering up properly. How not to stretch a muscle so as not to lose the race before I’d even started. “A badly wound muscle can ensure that you not only lose the race, but that you may never race again.” I spend days at a time, simply learning how to stretch properly. It was very frustrating at that point, but now I methodically work out every kink in my body, from toe to shoulders. Making sure that my entire body is in consonance with my feet.”

“On your mark!!!”

I drop to a semi – pushup position. My feet settling firmly on the plates behind me from which I will propel myself immediately the gun goes off. I remember Balo flogging the back of my feet every time I’d position them wrongly. Forcing me to find a position which would offer complete comfort, without sacrificing major efficiency for that comfort. My head is nestled into my shoulder blades like a lioness preying on a pack of zebra. Tensed to move at an instance’s notice.

“Get set!!!”

My back arches like a cat that’s been harshly startled from a position of complete comfort. Poised to bolt at a moment’s notice. I see myself poised outside Balo’s window at the age of 14. Watching him have his fill of a young, very beautiful lady friend of his whom he picked up when we were passing through Sanusi Fafunwa one evening on the way back from his friends place. He called her his “Business Lady.” I remember standing outside the window watching him pound into her as she screamed like a well trained actress. At some point she looked up and saw me watching and gave me a small wink. I’d never run as fast before.
The gun goes off.

At that split moment before my hands leave the ground and I break into a sprint, I remember Balo’s call gun Toni, which he shot right over my head, again and again. In order to get me to stop being frightened of hearing the pistol go off, so I’d be able to run immediately it went off. I remember hearing him shout out “You hear the pistol, move you ode!!! Would you hear someone shooting at you and freeze for a moment??? You hear that pistol, run like someone’s shooting for your legs!!!”
I barely even recognize how harsh that sound is any more. Now it reminds me of a lover whispering in my ear to make me move faster.

I’m off the bases.

My feet are moving at a blinding, but very even pace. The cords in my muscles bunching up as I move along the track. I may not have the natural speed that my immediate opponent obviously has, but I most definitely have the power. As I run it’s almost like you could measure the kilo joules of energy my feet and calves are producing. While my ankles desperately try not to snap under the pressure I seem to be putting them under. But all the years of training can’t be for nothing. My ankles are fine.

We pass the 100 meter mark.

I remember Balo running with me. Teaching me how to breathe properly. My lungs expand as I gulp air needed to power my heart to make my whole body move. Every single part of my body needing the energy to move faster. Two years ago I finally beat him in a race. I guess that was when I’d finally learnt how to feed this machine with the air needed to keep it intensely and properly oiled.

I remember my mom bringing me to the Stadium on Saturday mornings, looking at me with pride and knowing that one day, her little boy would do well.
I’ve started to outdistance Runner Number 4 from Egypt. He may have had that natural fluidity that comes with God given speed, but the 200 meter run also requires a lot of energy as well to maintain speed right to this point, and I obviously have more energy than he does

By 150 meters, the race is mine.

I see my girlfriend smiling at me. She’s never been one to scream out encouragement at me. All she simply needs to do is to show her unshakeable belief in me by smiling. I’ve had to stay off her for a few weeks ‘cos of training. Tonight is going to be a winning celebration in more ways than one.
30 meters to go.

I suddenly remember my very first pair of training shoes. Balo made me lace them up really tight all the time. Hitting me if I didn’t tuck the laces into my shoes properly. “Shoes badly laced may cost you a race” he always screamed into my ear….
The lace which I forgot to tuck in pulls out, tripping me up as I tumble at full speed and slide across the rough synthetic track, only to stop 5 meters to the finish line, Runner Number 4 dashes by me to win the race.

Right now I’m sitting by the sidelines, watching the Egyptian wrap himself in the flag of his nation as he does the victory lap. Mama sits beside me, mumbling something that sounds like "better luck next time", while my girlfriend rubs my back in condolence and Balo is screaming at me “HOW THE HELL COULD YOU FORGET TO LACE YOUR SHOES PROPERLY!?!?!?!?!”

I shake my head…I remembered. It was simply too late when I did.

The Sum of My Fears

In the last couple of years, one of the reasons for which I’ve sunk into some horrible mood swing, has been fear. A fear which for some reason I could never explain…and whenever I’d try to put these fears to words, it just never worked…anyways, tonight, I read a blog by a chic called elmerhassan. She wrote about some of the fears she had…fantastic piece by the way. And after reading it…I decided to write about my fears. So here goes:

The summary of my fears, is that I will never be.

That my dreams and aspirations will never see the light of day, & making hay while there is a shining sun is something I will never find because the sun will never shine on my day, and these words with which I play will one day be used as ammo against me.

I fear that I may never grow up to be what my mother dreamed when she sacrificed a lot of her dreams by superseding my needs over hers and the scars that stand as proof of her hard work will never be wiped away.

What if I’m never able to make my dad proud? The look of disappointment never leaving his gaze for the rest of his days, and what if I turn out to be just like him? A patron saint of perfectionism and attention to detail, turning the love of my life from a devoted wife to an unhappy woman. Never thinking about my family’s feelings before I open my mouth to speak, alienating myself from everyone with a perfectionist attitude, all to simply end up as a torn page from a list of all the things which my children hope they never have to grow up to be like.

Speaking about my dad, the man is 67. And for some reason or the other, his family still depends heavily on him. I fear sometimes what would happen if he should just suddenly die, before we’re able to stand on our feet. Or that he may not live to see any of his children.

And about children, I’m not really afraid that I won’t have any, I simply fear that I may not be a good father. That I may hurt them in my efforts to raise them right. I fear that I may end up with dysfunctional kids who’ll have to go through counseling and some other shit just to re-write their psyche just ‘cos their old man couldn’t be a good father.

I fear that all my struggles in uni may all go to waste. Like after the sleepness nights, and the lack of a social life during the semester, I may still not graduate first class. And the worst part is that I fear that after all the shit I’ve put myself through, I may just graduate first class, but find myself unable to contribute anything worthwhile to my society.

I fear that my thoughts and words which I put on paper may never be appreciated. That I may never grow as a writer. That my words will someday stand as a testament of simply being a waste of time and efforts that could’ve been put to better use.

I fear that my heart may never heal. That I may never be able to glue the pieces of my broken soul together and once again love without fear of being hurt. I fear that I may never find the woman that is meant for me. Or even worse, that I may have found her, but let her go…never to get her back again because of my firm and maybe one day very stupid belief…

And if she’s not the one for me, I fear that no other woman will be able to make me feel the way she does. That no one will be able to make me smile the way she used to, or bite my neck and send sensations running through my spine the way she did. Or make me feel so good just by saying…Adeyemi.

I fear that I may lose myself on this road on which I find myself.

I fear that I may never make my peace with God. That one day I may go to meet him and find that there is nothing to stand in my defense.

I fear that I may one day become like everyone else. That all the talk about being different from the crowd may be just talk, and I may turn out to be like every other Nigerian who doesn’t know right from wrong, or knows the difference, but refuses to stand and fight for what he believes in.

The summary of my fears, is that I will never be.

Sadness begets needs...

Sadness seeps through my soul like heroin flowing through an addict’s blood stream.

And it would seem like my analogy is unseemly but really it seems like these days pain is what obtains…

Happiness comes only for a minute and in it or rather on its heels come the wings that take me gliding right above the streams of melancholia…threatening to drop me right in.

Would I rather swim within this deep and very thick body of pain?? Would it better?
I gain some altitude sometimes only to find myself right back where I was, no matter how long the time.

The lines of words which I write seem to be my only respite from this shocking plight.

What is its cause? I seem to remember a time when it was all good. The occasional mood swing was easily understood and swiftly overtaken by the love I felt. I smelt like Bvlgari BLV but the TLC which I had made it seem like so much more…

This has been torn away and now…I simply seek to be reborn. To live my life without regrets where doing as I wish is not a threat to another’s existence and the persistence of the bullshit would cease and I would be able to be at ease & maybe even find closure with this state I’m in….

The truth lies within they say so I desperately search my soul. My goal is to gain some understanding. I’m demanding a resolution from myself. If I could I would reach up onto a philosophical shelf and pick it up, shake it but not stir. Throw in a lemon and drink till every last drop was down my throat, & my thirst for an understanding of me quenched.

Yes. I’m beginning to think this is part of the problem, my lack of understanding…me.

I need to live for myself for a bit. Not to sit and say “fuck the world” [please pardon my French] but to establish and fully understand my place in it.

I need to kiss a woman and again taste the plush sexiness that resides between the warmth of her lips, instead of remembering the taste of…….sugar…..*sigh*

I need to once again listen to City Love & Not Like Crazy, and remember what it felt to love those songs for the pleasure they brought me….& hope that maybe one day, they’ll hold that same extraordinary attachment once again…

I need to make my peace with my maker, no matter how long it may take. For God’s sake! I think I need him more than he does me…

I need to scream at the top of my lungs, all of those songs I like to sing in private. Get my neighbors all totally irate.

I need to get my fat arse back into some form of fitness… (lol)…

I need….I need…

Here’s the summary: I need to understand again the freedom of living life to the fullest…whether I do it alone, this is as yet unknown.

Memories of Childhood and Teenage Years Lost: Sins of the Parents

Vodka by my side, resentment in my mind…

In the last few years, my old man has been going on about decay in the standards which he and my mum used to have in the house. Whenever my sister or I do something that he disapproves of, his favorite statement is: "can you do that if your mom was around??" among other statements. Years back, he would complain that there was no relationship between the two of us, and he'd say to me: "if someone from the streets was to ask you, what sort of relationship you have with me, what would you say??"

See, those kinds of questions always made me think… My father was at one point, a big bank MD and when I was a kid. He used to leave the house at 6AM, and come home sometime around 10PM. At the weekends, he'd be off for some church meeting or the other. The only times I really ever saw him, was either when my mom would force him to spend time with me, or when he'd swoop down to instill corporal punishment for some crazy acts of folly which I'd carried out…. And by golly, did he know how to beat… At some point, I was always afraid to just be around him. I never wanted to be in the same room with him. I always went to my mom for whatever it was that I wanted…SMH…if I ever wanted something that I had to get from him, I'd write a note and place it in the bathroom where he'd see it in the morning before he had a bath or something. This fear & feeling transferred into my latter years…I still feel uncomfortable when I'm around him. The fact that I hate asking him for things has propelled me into trying my best to find my own way. To get things for myself….

Most sons want to make their fathers proud of them. I want to succeed for a few reasons. 1 of them being that I want to be able to take care of my mother in her old age, 2^nd being that I want to be able to look my father in the face & know that despite his disbelief & lack of moral support for anything that I've put my hand to, & his constant putting me down, I'd have been able to make something outta my life…

Someone reading this blog may just think to themselves that I'm being unreasonable & that he can't be this bad…really??? Lemme give you an example. In my 2^nd semester of my 2^nd year in Redeemers Uni, I hit 7 A's & 1 B…. A GP of 4.91… everyone was so happy for me, my sisters were screaming, blab la blah… what did my father say?? "Why are you getting B's???"

That's what he said…I shall say no more.

The point of this blog isn't to paint my old man out to be a wicked person. In his defense he has a lot of qualities which I actually admire. The point of this blog is this; he constantly complains about a lack in standard, and the fact that the both of us do not actually have a good father-son relationship going on. My question [which I'm yet to ask him] is always, "who was supposed to establish the relationship??? Me or you???"

At the time of my childhood when he should have established the relationship which would have become the foundation for a strong one now, he was either too busy with work, or too busy with church. And I'm making sure that I emphasize the point about him always being in church, because there's a common statement that I've heard all my life; "Na pastor pikin dey spoil pass". Now, I've come to understand the reason why this is so. This is so because, fathers & mothers who are so deeply involved in church activities and in "serving God", sometimes sacrifice things that are quite important, such as raising their children properly. I don't know whether they imagine that the "anointing" that supposedly flows over their heads will run down their beards and teach their children how to behave.

I failed my way through secondary school, because I never studied. & in as much as I could say that it was obviously my fault, I've come to realize that part of that blame lies solely at the feet of my parents. They both simply assumed that, because nobody needed to prod & push them to study, that I would be the same way. That I'd easily overcome the distractions around me, and put my head in my books… I had to punish and beat myself into cultivating the habit of working in uni.

My point for telling you all this, is that I hope that when we have our turns at being parents, we don't screw it up. I hope we don't neglect our children to pursue something else which we consider more interesting, & then wake up one day & realize that they're all grown up and want nothing to do with us. I hope we never have to put ourselves through such nonsense…

I'm sick off this…I think I'll go back to this Vodka…

Panda out…