My hair loves honey,
coconut milk and aloe vera too
She’s a richer bitch than I am
and a bad habit to break
My hair loves honey,
coconut milk and aloe vera too
She’s a richer bitch than I am
and a bad habit to break
WARNING: This literary work contains sensitive words that some may find triggering. It is not meant for everybody.
Pearl drop on a plantain petal
mama rains down a storm
baby’s temperature is too high
red pustules and crusts marking her skin
something we’ve never seen before
Take her to holy grounds!
only fools trust in western medicine
we will cast and bind and spray and fast
till she is released from demonic schakles
a Doctor will do no good
They say the west is nearly bezirk
men flaunt in colourful robes
women flaunt like men
children flex like adults
anorexia is in vogue
O’ dear African Daughter
our daughters should eat when hungry
eat when satisfied
eat when exhausted from food
eat more and look good
Our daughter must be robust
exercise endangers the organs
Fitness repels the suitors
Your dress should drape on curves
A skinny bride is only half beautiful
And what is a woman without a husband?
She went to school and got a degree
we’re proud of her but where’s her man?
She read too much and forgot to cook
Her place is in kitchen playing suburban wifey
God forbid you live your life
god forbid you ever speak up
if you’re not under a curse
you will be cursed
watch the sun fade with blind eyes
Our children never live long enough
to bury their parents
I wonder whose sins they hawk around
whose shadows chases them underground
whose horrendous voices echos cohesively in their mind
Children carry on the sins of ancestors
It is only an open secret
children musn’t speak in the midst of elders
look in the mirror carefully and point your wrongs
be mindful of the silhouette of profanity
No one wants to be the first
fear tallies us together
hatred segments us into aliens
we stand alone facing a highfalutin coven
admiring the crumbling foundation of many ignoramus generations
You ought to have to have seen her
Black body paint dripped from mane down to ankles
styled with a latex jacket and thigh high boots
A cigarette pressed lightly between her lips
You ought to have seen her
Her skin coalesces with the golden shy sun
She metamorphosed into a shade of deadly night
Belladonna like the devil’s berries
Honey coloured eye reflecting jewels
shea butter dripping from endless tamed lush kinks
Authentic she is, a goddess to behold
Belladonna like death cherries
Her footprints spirals in desert sand
Causing confusion wherever she trod
Posing for the cover of blacknvogue
Nubian temptress to the very end
And to think she had to scream her lungs
to break through a forcefield of deafening silence
they said she ought to behave whiter
Seemingly she was black enough
she was stunting on cloud bursting lilac skies
One could build a dam from her tear droplets
she lined a path from where she’d been
was forbidden to tango with ethereal solace
She was a drifting butterfly
perching on a fallen crimson leave
bejewelled by virgo’s decadent virtue
paradise cradled between her bosom.
You’ll remember her by her acerbic glances
the confidence that’s apparent through her melanin glow
they said she was black enough
to which she replied, “I didn’t chose it, I got lucky”
Breaking news, beautiful people, I’m back!. If you’re wondering what I mean by that, I honestly have no inkling. But today, I too have something to say regarding cultural silence and violence towards women.
The other day, My dad posted something about why women’s modesty is equal to virtuousness on our whatsapp group. My sister challenged the post with some strong feministic views. Now if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s ignoring conflicts. I’m not proud of it. Albeit, this banter did trigger something almost like a primal defence system in me, Much unlike any conflict. This may have a positive association with an issue I’m still dealing with.
If you’ve followed this blog for a while, then you may remember that I was raped at about age 7 by an uncle. I don’t like to bring it up, and it’s not a ploy for sympathy. I thought that was in the past, but apparently it resurfaces when a women virtues is questioned.
Permit me to derail yet again. Y’all know Nigeria right? the country that I’m rumoured to be from. We tend to be late, however the first feminism movement completely flew past us. Todays, several Nigerian women are what I call “Quasi-feminist”.
I simply do not value gender roles. I don’t care about whose submissive or who makes the most money. So, why did this simple harmless post about women’s choices of outfit churn my tummy into chucks? Then it hit me, this had nothing to do with the post, and everything to do with my father. I can’t come to terms that my father much like many Nigerian men still believe that rape is either partly or wholesomely the victim’s fault. Much like he may have not come to terms with his step-brother’s action. This is a conversation we need to have but I can never see it happening. Maybe in my next life, maybe.
The #MeToo movement bellowed the voices of women that were living in silence. Rape has been an epidemic in Nigeria for years but it has never been brought up as a societal concern because women are silenced against their violators and programmed to believe that it is a consequence of her promiscuity while the offending gender are left on the bench .
Many victims will venture through life never reaching their finest, most distinguished potential, because conflict especially with the opposite gender sets them back to the moment they got assaulted and they are crippled with a need to be submissive in order to survive.
As a writer, I feel like something has been stolen from me every time I want to connect with my childhood experiences and find blocks rather than creative flows. This doesn’t mean I’m bad, I’m acknowledging that there are seams of my memory that I don’t have access to and that really sucks.
My final point is harsh but there’s no polite way around it. I’ve probably penned it in poetry. They say children grow up to be their parents, and that is my biggest fear. I intend to triumph all the many different ways I am messed up, really because my children deserve to not grow up around the same personalities I did.
Thanks for stopping by for one of my self-therapy sessions, but I have to disappear again. I hope you endure my sadistic poetry for another week till I get back to creating real content.
Dear future daughter,
Your existence will neither be easy nor transitional
because of where you were born
On a community soil dampened with ancestral woes
far humungous baggages will be place on your delicate shoulders
luggages you can’t escape, linked by earth and blood
seen and unseen forces will work against you
men will dismiss you because of the colour of your skin
You will have to work for everything you believe in
where it takes men 10x to succeed, it will take you 50
in the world of humans, you are at the bottom of the pedigree
you will be downtrodden and dragged like a Mathyr
But GET UP! You are not a victim.
You must find yourself
you must wipe ur face bare
wash your hands clean
dare to walk the path only few footprints are imprinted
Once you were slaves, betrayed by your own kin
dear African child, you will walk a lonely part
your family is not you friend
your friends are not your family
and your country will hate you
Slavery was not forced on us,
we enabled it.
The truth hurts. and it only runs deeper.
power is the game the nations of the world play
scramble for Africa, haven’t you heard?
Darkness rules the hearts of men, both home and far
in chains they led them off the port in Calabar
They were branded like a feeble mammal
people became the ritzy currency of humanity.
But Get up! You are not a victim
not then and you are not now
The world wanted to do away with you but here you are
fighting tooth and nail till your last drop of blood feeds the earth.
Your greatest gift was never brute strenght, dearest
it is your mind they want, your willpower they crave
if slavery didn’t destroy you then nothing physical will
your precious african mind, stronger than the diamonds exploited in Congo
Now the rules have Changed, the game is different
the system, even at home is meant to suppress your willpower
your voice shall not echo through four walls with iron bars
you can sense them purging out willpower into the abyss of non-existional stillness
But Get up! you are not a victim
let my voice resonante in your head, for as long as you live
the moment you even consider victimization, is the day you lose
Ancestors, slave traders, governments alike will mock you dearly
If you are still breathing, understand you have won
don’t turn your head or reminisce on black history
understand that from now on, you create your own history
understand than when the world will end
you will be the last man standing…alive.
I’m not a prophet, but every now and then I have a prescient, a message that weighs heavy on my heart.
But first I have a confession.
I grew up in a christian household. My father being a minister meant for us church once or more times in a week. This was fine at first, I enjoyed being in the children’s choir, but with time I grew less infatuated with the routine.
I hated not having the choice of going. To worsen things, I was involuntarily a part of the Youth’s fellowship, Hence, I started to rebel .
One day in high school while our economics teacher was singing a tune, I hummed along, completely unaware. It was a song from a popular christian group. By the time I realised how inappropriate I was acting, he was already searing through his thick rims at me. I apologised, wondering how mad he must be. Instead, His grim face brightened up and he says, ” One day you’ll be able to sing out loud and not feel ashamed,”.
During my last year of High school, a preacher was praying for the graduating students. He later calls me aside and says; “promise me that you will not forget God in the future,”. I had no idea what he was talking about as I made no plans to leave the tropical shores of my country at the time.
Leaving Nigeria was an exciting period for me. On one hand, I’d never been so far from home. Secondly, it meant freedom, not just from my parents but ultimately from God. I tried to maintain church going for about four months, then I folded up my Bible and forgot about that life. I was 16 at the time.
It was fun not living under any rule of conduct, but eventually loneliness surrounded me.
Med school was more bloodcurdling than I anticipated. As a result, I spent 2 extra years, which I never publicly complained about, considering the number of students that drop out each year. Because of this, I always prayed during the exams period.
In 2017, I reconnected with an old high school friend. We reminisced on old times, on when we’d present the news every Friday. We also got paired up a few times for Bible hour, I’d say the prayers, and he’d preach.
I told him, I don’t do that anymore, and he seemed genuinely sad to hear it. That Christmas he sent me an ebook titled, “the prayerful woman”. I was swamped with final exams and thesis work, but I made out time to read the book, and it made me reflect on my life choices.
2018. I rededicated my life to Christ, and relinquished the control I thought I had. I’m akin to a new born in the kingdom. Now I learn everything again. I would say that first, there was, and still is, a purge of Pride, selfishness and jealousy. I’ve also been getting lessons on God’s love and wisdom.
But today, I have something different in my heart, and it says;
“I will turn your weakness into strength, I will turn your enemies into allies”.
I’m sharing this Good news because of the slight chance that you, or even a nation (Nigeria’s election, America’s midterm is coming up) may need it too.
I’d also recommend you read Psalm 139, if your heart leads you to.
So there it is people. I am not a preacher, neither do I want to be! I am but a new born in a 24 year old woman’s costume searching for a her purpose through Jesus christ.
Happy Halloween. God bless you!
but sometimes I have prophetic dreams
from battles hurt
as It should”
Way back when waking up every morning was a struggle (honestly not too long ago), I used to write into my Journals aka my ugly notebook. I sometimes browse through them when I feel stuck.
My first journal is actually really depressing, I can’t believe the state of mind I was in back then, but there are some OK memories in there too.
This week I decided to reedit one of my poetry from it to prove to my readers who battle mental illness, and to myself that life can indeed get better. It is a journey, I still struggle and flop. However, I am no longer that person, yet it is my story of which I’m proud 😀
reaching into the darkness
of my soul,
A faux without doubt
Another life I’ve lived
stringing cords of distrust,
the definition of toxic
screaming out someone else’s pain
like kolanut lingers
on my tongue
masking the chamomiley one
the ones before left
from battles hurt
as It should
yet I must separate the truth
dysmorphia is crippling
oodles of bubbles ripple
through a heavy
let the legs sink farther
quaking in unison as they bite dust
again and again
my soul will find your
For in solitude, I live
I will dine.
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” Love alone is the plug”
I’ve been dealing with a lot as of late. As a result, I have been meditating more to get me through. This phrase have helped me this week to counteract negativity, that’s why I decided I’d drop it for anybody who needs to be empowered as well.
“There is no condemnation.
There is no judgement.
There is only love.”
I suppose the quote came as a result of the fact that I have been too hard on myself. I want to speak perfect Deutsch and I want to speak it yesterday. It has been stressful on me because I held myself to a deadline that I think I may not meet.
On top of that, my sister got a tattoo. I tried to be as supportive as I could be when she told me she was getting one. Full disclosure, I didn’t know how to react or what to expect. When I saw the tatt, I kinda wished we would go back in time so I could tell her that it’s an absolute no from me.
For me that means that whether I meet my deadline or not, I can’t kill myself, in fact I ought to be proud of myself, and my sister. She’s young, maybe she will perhaps make terrible mistakes as I have, but she’ll bounce back even more so, as well.
For you, it could mean anything from self-love to world peace, whatever it is, I pray God’s guiding hands pull you towards the direction he wants you to go.
I was twisting up my hair the other day. It was the end of a wash day routine, and I randomly asked my boyfriend to help. He says yes much to my surprise meaning I’d actually have to trust him with my hair. I gulped, sectioned a portion of my hair for him.
This got me reminiscing about the time we met, I had the faux locs then. He was in love with my hair. Months later, I decided to cut my hair as it lacked lustre. I was anxious and self aware, I didn’t know how he would react. But I trusted him. Three years later, I find myself still trusting him.
I’ve also learnt quite a bit about what Europeans think about African hair;
Three years since going natural, and two big chops later, I have to say it’s been an exercising journey. There has been up ups, down downs, and safety breeches, but I’ve loved and nourished my hair (and self) through it all.
If you’re wondering why I dedicated a whole post to talking about hair, it’s just because I think that black women, and our rights as a whole have come a long way, from doing everything necessary to have our hair look like our caucasian counterpart, and consequently destroying it in the process, to just letting ourself be loved as we naturally are. I don’t know who started the natural hair movement but I’ll use this opportunity to say thank you.
Now, let us flourish!
Perhaps it’s is glaringly obvious that I’m a tad fascinated with the occult.This time I decided to focus on communities like the illuminati in an aboriginal perspective with a short story of an oracle. This takes place in the Urban tribe of Asaba in Nigeria.
Share your lovely thoughts, how do you think it should play out, Should my protagonist accept her fate or confront it?.
Cheers to the long weekend!
“Be keen on your decision” said the hag to Chioma, “there’s no turning back from this”.
Chioma’s mind was in pieces, she couldn’t stop wondering how she got into this predicament. She was hoping that the hag was only trolling her.
Eyes ever so intently fixed on the entrance.
“Chil—,” The hag snapped her fingers in an attempt to get the girl’s attention.
“Where’s the camera?,” Chioma was frustrated. “Is it in that deplorable head wrap of yours? I— I mean, what is your game here?”
“THIS IS NOT A GAME!,” the hag spat. ” I’m offering you a resolution.
“This is hardly a solution,” Chioma spoke in a fear-gripped tone, realising that there is all too real. “Taking one part of my life to replace another is not fair”
“The spirits are never fair, silly girl, You must accept your fate with dignity. Only one man has dared to challenge the oracle and lived to tell.”
As Chioma sat there deep in thoughts, she began to reminisce of what a beautiful life she was having until this moment. She started her week in such high spirits, Entertaining others have always been a dream of hers. She was determined to challenge pending adversary.
It was while she was on her way to her betrothed’s, that she saw the tent. She had shrugged it off and continued her trip when she stumbled across the witch who said to her;
“Do you believe I can make your heart desire come to pass?”
She had followed the hag back to the tent and attempted to pay her for a prediction.
The woman spat; “Your coins are worth nothing to the spirit. This is no prediction child. What you surely ask, the oracle will generously deliver…. but be forewarned for the price is heavy. Do you accept?”
The hag continued to recite the incantation and then proceeded to mark Chioma’s temple with a coal talisman.
“The spirit invite you to say your wish”
“I want to be the greatest performer of all time”.
The hag whistled for damn near 30 minutes.
“What you wish for is done, in return, your first child will the son of the oracle.”
Chioma argued, “I’ve given myself, isn’t it enough?”
“You are merely the down payment. Give up your first child, this is the deal the oracle is willing to make.”
“Then you may choose success or save your child”.
” Or what?” she frowned
“You will lose your life in a fortnight,” cautioned the witch.
Before midday, she was going to cross the first of many rivers.
The woman wasn’t clever telling her that the oracle had been defeated. She must convince this warrior to do it all again, or become a victim of circumstance.Whether she liked it or not, her purpose has been changed forever.