Things We Lost in 2016

I have this light wooden table that I use as my office workstation. I designed it somewhat in the vein of those desks at the Apple store, or in a coffee shop in Emoville, USA. It's rustic chic and sits high on top of which holds my Apple iMac. Because it’s plywood, every time I move which has been a lot in the past 3 years, Nigerian movers with no sense of moving, don’t cover it, don’t guard it, they just toss it, throw it around, smack it, and it arrives at my new home, looking filthy dirty brown, not even the rustic kind of brown. After having to shine it each and every single time I get to my destination and dealing with a lot of other moving BS in Naija (how many times can I install and uninstall my AC, please) I have come to the simple solution:

I will not move for a job again. I will not move for a job again.

I will not move to take a job in a different city just because my lover thinks it’s a great idea and a "wonderful opportunity." Then the second I move he goes off and marries the next woman he dates and takes her on some exotic vacation wherein he proposes and by the next Christmas he's clearly domesticated and a "couple." He just lured me the heck out of his way so he could do what the eff he wanted.

I will not move for a job again. Men do not move for jobs. As a matter of fact they advise against it. A woman will never take a job in a different city from her family. So why should I, single lady?

I will not move for a job again. Especially if it’s in a city that is known for being violent, and clearly lacking a social life, or some sort of life. The gyms are 10 miles apart. 

You make roots where you live. Every time I move, I uproot myself, tearing up my roots, and that means that when I return I have to carve out roots again. That takes time, it takes patience, it takes a whole lot to rebuild a network that you worked on establishing. Once you leave, you’re soon forgotten, you have to constantly remind them of your return into the ‘scene.'

I am done doing that.

Unless the job is in Palo Alto or Paris. Two wonderful cities that begin with P, I am not moving. Even then I have to be sure the job is covering relocation willingly, even then, if I happen to be with a current lover, I will not leave him to take said Palo Alto or Paris job. Said lover is coming with. This is ridiculous. If I am uprooting, so are you? Let’s both sacrifice. I am not going through this emotional torture again. I feel like Hannah in Girls when she moved to Iowa (or some place) for grad school just to come back and find Adam shacked up with Jessa, one of Hannah's best friends. One of her best friends!!! They couldn’t have written a better script. This only hurts less because this is not one of my friends, but either way, in Hannah’s case there’s hope of reconciliation with Adam, in mine…

I will simply not move for a job again.

Things We Lost in 2016 - My Waistline and My Love

Love Rules

L O V E

You follow all the rules of love hoping they work. Hoping at least one of them will stick, even the ones you don't truly believe in but somehow they've worked for others so, why not, if not.  

1. Love him 

2. Love him unconditionally 

3. Show him you love him 

4. Make him your King 

5. Be submissive to him

6. Let him tame the "shrew" in you

7. Say Yes even if you mean to say No 

8. Give him everything he wants 

9. Give him everything he wants AT ALL TIMES

10. Tell him everything he wants to know, BARE YOUR SOUL

11. Make him the King to your queen 

12. Support him 

13. Support him always (good or bad)

14. Make him feel like he is the King of your life...(still working on that King theme)

15. Don't get angry when he offends you, as a matter of fact, pretend as if he didn't 

16. Even if he does...still profess that he is the (what?) King 

You follow all these rules...you follow all these rules...some more ridiculous than others...you follow the rules regardless...blindly...hopelessly...but still...STILL...love...so evasive.

..And just when you decide this one time to follow the rules, you look over your shoulder, and there  it is, Love visiting an unwilling participant.

An Unconventional Love

In the movie, My Old Lady (2014), a man who inherits a Parisian apartment from his estranged father is shocked to discover that the apartment is a viager - an ancient French real estate system with complex rules pertaining to its resale - and the feisty Englishwoman who has lived in the apartment with her daughter for many years is the live-in tenant, who must be paid rent until her demise.

As the plot thickens and he discovers more about the apartment his father owned and left for him, he finds old photographs inscribed with "my only love" which depict the live-in tenant and his father from a younger age. When he confronts the old lady he soon discovers that the one reason his dad had taken on this viager apartment was to provide a permanent home for his love, the old feisty Englishwoman. His father had spent his summers in Paris in the home and they had carried on this affair for a great many years.

I don't know why this movie I watched quite casually during my unemployment phase, suddenly came to me last night. Well, I do know why. I am just glad that it came to me. It was one of those European sensory alternative love stories that underlie main plot lines that are not plausible in real life. Or are they?

The main character's dad carried on this affair so intently, without leaving his wife, so much so, the sadness that this instilled in his wife caused her to commit suicide. She probably felt there was no point living with a man who would rather give his love and devotion outside the marriage.

To my head and to my heart, I would like to say, "Anita. I wish I knew what to do."

I respond to tales of love in unconventional spaces like these. Perhaps because I lean towards an alternative somewhat bohemian lifestyle, or I just watch way too many foreign movies...but unconventional love stories like these give me hope, reason to believe that love wherever you may find it is available, and you should never discard it because it doesn't show up wrapped up in a bow.

Anita - I don't think this one is wrapped in a bow. 

As We Chip Away

Over the weekend, I was talking to a girlfriend of mine and she mentioned quite judgie that "Girl, you need to work on yourself...I see so many flaws."

Whenever people say, “Oh you need to work on yourself?” I tend to agree. But then in my mind I am thinking, “Don’t we all?” Are you saying you’re perfect? Are you saying you’re a better person than myself? Or you’re better in some areas? So am I bad in all areas? And you are not bad in any area whatsoever?

They say it as if to imply, "Work on yourself and the husband (or true love) will come."

So all the people who worked on themselves and achieved an average high score (score in the 90’s) in the individual rector scale are the ones with true love, spouses, what have you? And those of us who average scores, probably in the 60’s, are in search of ourselves and our better versions so true love is evading us until we “improve our score.” Improve your score Anita and Voila, he will show up!

I tend to disagree in general. We all need work. We are all works in progress. We are rolling hills in search of the truth and perfection in life. When I was younger I was more selfish, as I grow older I become less selfish, maybe years from now I will become less talkative, more reserved, less vengeful, striving towards the best version of me. That’s why we go to church, some of us daily. So we can brush up on our faith and our individuality. That’s why some of us read self-help books, to help us learn more about ourselves, to go inward to that truth we’ve been running away from and to direct our growth to those areas. So I refuse to agree that if you find that elusive husband that means your individual score is much higher than mine so your prize for the improvement in yourself is…ding, ding, ding….the husband. I believe your prize for improvement of yourself is knowing and loving yourself more so much more that you don’t rely on anyone or anything to give you that joy. The joy comes from within and of course, in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Those people with husbands or spouses just found someone who was more accepting of them with all their imperfections and they decided to work on themselves together. His selfishness matched her selflessness, and vice versa, his quiet matched her crazy, her Becky matched his Jay-Z, her virgin a$$ matched his f*^k boi (or vice versa) or maybe their crazies matched in all areas, and one day, just maybe, my imperfections will match someone else’s.

So as I continue to work on myself regardless of the existence or lack thereof, of true love, I shall keep renewing my faith, fine-tuning the flawed parts of me, sharpening that chisel to chip away at the rough pieces. It is a work in progress and the blessing from all this, isn’t a husband, it is me, my deeper love of myself. And of course, salvation in Christ Jesus.

When His News Means Nothing

In the pulsating critically acclaimed drama, Queen Sugar. In the premiere episode, one of the sisters enraged by her discovery of her basketball husband's lies, approached him mid-game in the basketball court, tearing and screaming at him repeatedly, "What did you do? What did you do?"  

Every time I tap into myself that image captures my mood so adequately. 

It's not cause I have a husband who's been lying. Far from it. Because...it's because I'm trying to get a grip of what's going on right now and it's like spinning out of control. My head, my heart, my entire being. I just wanna grab it mid-spin and yell, "What are you doing? What would you want me to do? Can you stop spinning?"

I could break dishes. I would. Would that make the pain feel better? If I could scream maybe that would but I'm not much of a screamer and loudness only goes so far. I could pray. Which I have and I continue to do so. But sometimes I feel like that just makes it worse. There are so many options that have been presented still...still none can stop what's happening or the hurt from cutting even deeper. 

I simply don't know what to do. I can't fully understand or appreciate what is transpiring instead I'm supposed to accept it and somehow be okay with it and then at some point, celebrate it (or let it go). Consequent to that I'm supposed to pretend that it's SO OK that this is happening right now and that my mind is not completely warped by it, that I somehow would want this to happen and that this is just a phase that will pass and that there's a future, and in that future everything makes sense. Does it? And I should look forward to that future...really? Did I look forward to this time in the past?

I cannot do any of these things. Not one. Or maybe I've just chosen not to. My feeble mind is strained by the hopeless circumstances of the world that's spinning around me. And all it wants to do is feel. And what I feel, what this feels like is...like sitting still in a throbbing bowl of hurt...which is...nothing like I've ever felt before.

Black women go through a lot in this life. We go through it and we somehow manage to come out strong, a little dented and bruised maybe but we still power through it. It's the going through it that's the rub. How do you avoid stepping into that hurt? How do you shield yourself from the hurt? How do you survive the hurt? 

Sometimes Hot Chicks Have Boring Weekends

Had an utterly boring Saturday. B O R I N G. 

Stayed home all day. Didn't drink, just lounged and sweated out my weave with sporadic power. It was utterly boring. No phone calls. No exotic food. Fed on leftovers. BLAH - ALL CAPS. 

I say this so that the few weekends I manage to have fun and send out pictures of me taking in some life, you won't think, "Ah na so so enjoyment for this girl." No be so. Sometimes, due to extreme budgetary constraints, I have to sit home, sweat out my weave with no electricity in 90 degree weather, and live vicariously through those who have the luxury of doing this with a loved one. 

At times, I reach out to a few folks in the outside world just so I don't feel that closed off, at times they do the same. But in the end, it always ends up being a subdued way to spend the weekend. Particularly, a weekend in December. 

Life is not all sunshine and rainbows. Don't let people make you think it is. Don't hate on people when they do take in a slice of life. That may be their one chance. 

Run Away With Me

Everything meant for you will gravitate towards you, organically.

You will never need to overextend yourself for what's already yours.

The Death of King Negro

Every day without the use of sleep aids or antihistamines, I tend to wake up between 2:30 and 3:30 am. I remain awake in this sleepless state until 5:30 am. I get to work with bags under my eyes and understandably irritable. When you wake up that early in the morning, you question everything. Every life choice you’ve ever made. From kindergarten to present day, right down to what you ate for dinner, asking yourself if for some reason it contained energy or multivitamins that have caused you to stay awake.

Of course, my thoughts always go to the inevitable. I ask myself what did I do wrong? What am I doing wrong? What do I need to do better? What conviction can I make and be sure to keep it? You remember that text that you sent once upon a time, and sending it doesn’t seem like such a good idea at 3:30 am. Then, you think of some other text you need to send, and sending it seems like such a wonderful idea at 3:30 in the morning. These random thoughts continue to wrestle with you until sleep finally comes to your rescue.

I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean. What is it about? What am I supposed to grasp from the 3:30 am wake up call? And am I supposed to use it to get to know myself better. I know myself enough and some parts of myself, my decisions I don’t really like, some decisions that I’ve made that have affected myself, I don’t really know why I made them. Then, I make “better” decisions but I find it hard to keep to them.

What did I hope to gain from everything?

I don’t know. I do know. So many reasons. I try to rationalize those reasons to myself and maybe the more I do, my impulses will make sense. Maybe those reasons have caused me to wake up daily at 3 am.

All I know is simply this:

I am someone who is looking for love. Real Love. Ridiculous. Inconvenient. Consuming. Can't Live Without Each Other. L O V E. That's the future I am looking for that I hope one day, God willing, I will attain. And I want that person to describe me with such youthful enthusiasm that his face glows just remembering how much in love with me he is.

They say, when you lead with love and light, you can expect nothing but good results. Well then, my love and light is earnestly seeking...L O V E.

All Saints Day

I read the paragraph below sometime this weekend while sifting through some of my old work in my hard drive. I came across this paragraph I had culled from a book I was reading about 15 years ago. I assume the paragraph spoke to me so I added it to my document of extracts. I had to read it over and over to reconcile what it said, with what I was feeling. With everything that's been going on lately, the state of things in my personal life and some decisions that came to a head recently, I just decided that maybe it's time I do things different.

And that's the decision I am taking today, November 1, 2016, to do things different.

This Time Last Year by Douglas Hobbie...what depresses her sometimes: the idea that she could live her whole life without ever knowing what it's like to be herself. Alone. She knows everything about being lonely, she says, but nothing about being alone. Yes, if she's sick of anything, she's sick of being lonely but that has nothing to do with being alone...She wants to evolve, she couldn't bear to think she's struck with some inescapable self she despises half the time. But: you can't escape that person, that awareness, even though your life changes, your circumstances, behavior, priorities change...But you don't.

I ask that this is a good month for me Lord. That the next 60 days sees God work His miracle in my life. They say when you ask with humility God responds, dear God I am giving it all I got, I know only You can get me out of this. With everything I've got, I'm putting it in Your Hands today, please guide me safely to everywhere I need to be. I pray that my miracle is on its way and that even if it not this week that I shall observe the Lord's teaching as I carry out my life this month as I await it. I pray for forgiveness, mercy, restoration and for the Lord to inspire my 'truly original" idea. Protect me from all evil and lead me through life's turmoils with Jesus steady hand guiding me through. In Jesus name I ask this of you O Lord in my life always. Amen. 

Social Media in Africa

"Someone who truly loves you sees what a mess you can be, how moody you can get and how hard you are to handle at times, but still wants you."

I read this quote from #Twitter last night and it spoke to me. This quote and another one previously posted on Facebook (taken from #Tumblr), about not having a handle on your life's track, were taken from other social media sites where I've found people can be open, raw, ditzy, and vulnerable and instead of judgment, they get retweets or likes and comments. Their posts posit off-color remarks, happenstances, not straight lines coloring but coloring outside the lines into a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. That's what I loved about social media (before FB), the more vulnerable you are to your readers, the more they can relate to you, come back to your words.

Not sure if this is the African way of doing social media but it's the social media that I know and love. And it's not politics every day or salacious gossip about what this celeb is doing to whom, or man/woman relationship sensationalism - it's everyday people living everyday lives finding a way to get by and dealing with its struggles and their shortcomings.

I'm going to try to get back to that and shun all the noise to edit my content or to make it conform to my current society (Nigeria) and their ubiquitous moral platitudes that are restrictive and strangely only applicable to women. And the women in their adaptation of the moral framework learn to ostracise anyone who doesn't live their life by the rules - color inside the lines. In the end this infestation of the liberal mindset leaves you without words that can be not misinterpreted  or misconstrued by your immediate environment. In other words, indirect censorship. This is Africa, and I am indeed sad, this is now my creative space. 

Why don't we, instead of just judging, sit back to enjoy the words, and allow them to move us. We might learn a thing or two about ourselves. 

 --#AnitaWrites

Love Energy

"Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time .... "

Maya Angelou

Let's say based on your current situation, you suddenly find yourself filled with love, warmth, tenderness, softness and this feeling just overwhelms you almost. You get touched by love, warmth, positivity and this abounding love energy in you is asking you to share it with everyone, touch everyone with it, let them know that you are no longer angry, bitter, because you've seen what love is and it feels good, like this calming soothing elixir, you know. 

Let's say in this euphoric feeling, you are mesmerized into making amends with everyone, even that one person you haven't spoken to in months whom you stopped caring about, but it doesn't matter today because today you know peace, love and the value of friendship, today you are in love with yourself and the earth around you. 

So you pick up the phone and make that call, saying, this is only going to be a 2 minute phone call to catch up. You hope that person, with time, like all the others, is filled with this great love energy and won't be as insensitive or sound as vile as you both left things. That the love they've found just like yours will put them at peace with the earth and then, you can have your 2 minute chat and you can talk about the fact that you no longer work and that even though at times it gets upsetting and scary you have found some sense of resolve in the situation. 

The 2 minute chat ends and everything is fine. You hope that when the person calls the next day, if at all, the tremendous love energy that you shared will spur this person to say: I heard about this your problem yesterday and let's put our heads together to solve this. I am at peace with my life, in love and overwhelmed with its goodness, but I want to spread it to everyone especially you, who once girded my loins, you deserve to be at peace. It is not fair that you have been put in this situation without work, I want to help you solve it, it's the least I can do. 

You wait and wait. But they don't say it. They instead call to get work from you. They are eager for the new business that you just asked them about, that has perked their interest. So after waiting for this person to clue in, still fresh from the euphoric glow and believing that love connects all of us, especially some of us who were once connected at the hip, you ask: So you heard I was out of work and you couldn't call to ask how I was? All I wanted was to hear from you but you didn't call. 

Then, the bitterness, disdain and sheer resentment that this poor soul has harbored for you comes gushing out. At this point you are still euphoric, in fact, you've experienced kindness at its extreme, all you want to do is hug the world because you didn't know this level of kindness, softness and love still existed in it. To get it from someone you least expected even makes it more profound. So you turn to this misguided soul, who you had expected to show you the meaning of kindness and softness but instead they showed you the meaning of aversion, regret and spite, you instantly admonish their actions saying: I wanted you to be the man in my crazy life, this love and kindness I am getting, I expected to get it from you. I expected you to be there for me, be my ride or die,  but instead you found every excuse not to be. 

So when you come off that euphoric high and start to get infected by the hate, smog and stupidity in the world, your eyes get clear and in the light of day you realize, reaching out was such a mistake. You had been overwhelmed by the love energy from your situation, you were sensitive and tender and for one second, you thought being in love had touched him too. You were wrong. 

Love. It is such a delicate thing. If everyone were to be in love there would be no time for grudges, resentment and hurtful words. We would all want to touch everyone with the abounding love we have inside in hopes that it will rub off on them. Sometimes, unfortunately, we touch the wrong person. That's okay. 

Learn to accept that. 

Lagos...in October

Spent 8 days in October visiting Lagos. 8 Blissful days. Kissing that wonderful city softly with my poetic sensuality.

In the 8 days, there were some cold, dismissive moments, some admittedly stupid moments, some lonely moments, some hilarious moments, some unrivaled friendship moments and some "my eyes to God" moments. There were many me moments, and there were moments where I saw the face of kindness, glimpses of softness, weakness and, in some ways, love, which is rare to find in Lagos.

Overall it was a good trip, very colorful and revelatory. 

It gave me a chance to connect with old lovers and make new ones. 

I found out that the one connecting link between these very different men I have been involved with is me, their affection for me and their heart, they all have such big hearts. That's what I fell for. 

When men feel...it reminds you that they are not just tools, makes you regard them more, as human beings and not just instruments of hurt and pain and neglect and manipulative selfishness. 

It's more representative of them being the other sex - there's man and there's woman. And we have been put on this earth to co-exist together which includes caring for one another's wellbeing. 

It's a superb rare feeling when men feel. Almost something to celebrate, relish. 

Sunday Morning Preacher

Got awakened this morning, this Sunday morning at 5.11 am, by a town crier preacher.

He was on his bullhorn screeching religious songs of some sort into his inaudible loudspeaker tool. 

At first, I didn't know where I was. I had recently returned from a metropolitan city where days like Sunday mornings are sacred, and are instead spent qualitatively sleeping off your hangover. I proceeded to the restroom, awakened further by the intrusion of the light bulbs and the cold air on my skin. Upon my return to my bed, I became fully aware of my surroundings, but still unable to decipher the voice over the speakers or his mission this morning. What did he hope to achieve? To convert non-believers, by disrupting their slumber this early on a Sunday morning? He must have assumed, "What better day to get their attention? What better medium except for a call to action? Arise sinners, and by all means, do repent."

The gramophone sounded overworked and grainy, or maybe that was just in my head from being rudely torn from my slumber a mere 2 hours after falling asleep. As I wrestled myself back to sleep using the hum of the air conditioner to drown out his wails, I wondered how I got into this mess - living my life in the suburbs where people neglect the sanctity of the weekend, especially Saturdays. What are Saturday mornings for? Do they even know. Saturday mornings are to say embrace that hug that is your consolation for having survived yet another chaotic humdrum work week. Do they even know? What about Sunday mornings? Sunday mornings are brunch mornings where you get to relive the debauchery of the weekend over cocktails and pancakes that somehow have a way of comforting you as they energize you for the week ahead. 

In my current environment, can they respect that this is my one 24 hours to escape into single person bliss and pretend to be "non-suburbian" aka normal? Since I don't have the Saturday morning overnight visitor or the elaborate Sunday brunches, all I have is a goodnights rest, can they at least give me that moment of solace.

Eventually I fell asleep, and when I awakened 30 minutes later, he was done with his 'sermon on the roadside' and I was left wishing, hoping to end up in a place that respects the sanctitude of weekend abyss.

As a single person, what do Saturday and Sunday Mornings represent to you?

Life is Unfair

Funny how certain people who trample on everyone in this life still manage to succeed, excel even, while the rest of us, no matter how much positive energy we emit still end up unemployed, lonesome, middling through our days and missing the assholes in our past - who have long moved on.

 --File this under Life is Unfair and He was not a good person (everyone said so, signs were there but I chose to ignore them and trust in the good in all of us)

When The Other Woman Calls...

As a follow up to my "Adult Backpacking" story, I wrote the piece below, loosely inspired by real events. I know it is rare that I put up short stories on Anita Writes, however, there are some events that are better captured in prose style to create the scene, to put the reader in your shoes when the event occurred, and to also help me write not just about parties, and food and wine, but also about life, in all its colorful glory.

I hope you read through everything. I dedicate this to that my one friend:
Thank you for introducing me to my soft. I hope we both stay soft because it looks a heck of a lot better on us. 

She comes in on Sunday night. Fresh faced, young with a smile greeting me as if I’m her big auntie. She drops her bag on the dining table with a plop and sashays into the kitchen like she owns the place, completely oblivious of the pre-existence of another woman in this home.

I cleaned that kitchen today. I cooked, then carefully washed up all the pots, pans and loose food on the kitchen and the kitchen floor. This is not her problem. She wants to establish her presence in this home, show me who’s boss, regardless of my pre-existence, she wants to show me she’s the superior being, like man showed the dinosaurs. She washes her hand in the kitchen sink, washes off those outside germs from sitting in her car waiting for him to come home. She nabs one of my bottles of water from the fridge and proceeds to the living room sofa, grabbing a seat by the corner she crosses her legs comfortably and beckons him to sit beside her and keep her company during her cosy visit. 

I bought that pack of water that she has so care freely grabbed a bottle of. I bought and carried it home, my Uber and I, sans personal vehicle. Does she know that? Or does that even matter to her? Does that matter to him?

They proceed to spend quality time on the couch, talking in close whispers and giggling at their jokes. He has said no more than 2 sentences to me in the past 3 days since I’ve been in his home, but for her, he suddenly has words, plenty words, multiple words that come in sentences, oft-humorous sentences that get her to laugh and throw her head back as she sips from the bottled water. They ask each other questions in whispers and she nods in empathy, sharing his point of view on some nonsensical matter or the other, which would have mattered to me if only he had shared them with me instead of the odd words and grunts I have been continuously served. He confides some more, obviously the sharer that he suddenly is, he talks about his weekend, his adventures and they laugh without reference, inclusion, or recognition of me or my presence. She takes a break from the conversation to ask to use the restroom. He stands up to check the state of the restroom before he ushers her in. I pretend not to be insulted. Do you know what the state of that restroom was before I shed my womanly virtues nurturing it? There wasn’t even any toilet paper. No bathroom soap and toilet paper. I hurled the toiler paper, my Uber and I, along with the bottled water. And I dispensed my expensive bathroom gel into the empty dispenser so I could have luxurious soap to cleanse my hands each time I do my business. But that doesn't matter to her. None of this seemingly insignificant details are her problem. 

They go back to their cosy discussion on the couch. I toss, turn, feel the darts of insult gently prick me on my dining table chair. I try to write but the words do not find themselves, they sound just as empty as his words to me in the last 3 days. I try to do anything but seem bothered by this girl child in my home. I cannot seem to focus on anything of importance. I call everyone I know and care about. My mom, my aunt, then I call a good girlfriend from Atlanta - big sister always has a solution to every Negro problem. I proceed to have the girlfriend conversation loud and proud in the living room, hoping the noise of my exuberance will deafen and eventually quench the sensitivity of their moment. We talk for 30 minutes and as I end the phone call, this girl still exists, on my couch, in my living room, drinking my water, with her bag on the dining room table right beside mine. This, I sense is a problem. 

I try to imagine if I were her what would I do. Will I sit there on the couch sharing a supposed tender moment with this guy while another woman’s in the room? No. I would leave, greet the other woman, acknowledge and respect her presence in the home and then, politely excuse myself on my way home. I don’t want to share my intimate living room conversation with another girl in the same room. She don’t know me. I could be crazy, I have been known to be crazy. I could have grown madder with each intrusion into the home I had managed all weekend, with each step, I could have shown her the way out. I could have said, “Don’t step into the kitchen I spent my Sunday cleaning, don’t open the fridge I cleaned out, and certainly don’t drink the water I hurled over here, my Uber and I.” 

Instead I remained quiet. With my phone in hand, and the voices on the other line pleading with me to remain calm, to cage the “Atlanta Housewife” in me and to wait for the anger to dissipate into the Sunday night air. So I did. 

For that I write. For humiliating experiences like these and many more. I shoulder the pain so I can have words, that turn into sentences, colorful sentences that make sense and hopefully, empower. 

Why else would that be, me, on a Sunday night?

Nameless, Faceless, No Good Anita

In Nigeria, when you don't have a job, you might as well be invisible.

You are quickly ostracized, discarded and disregarded as if you don't matter in the greater sense of things. They want to introduce you with a tag line:

Here is Anita, she works for such and such company, or she is the such and such.

I am fine with being introduced as me, and I am a lawyer. I will always be a lawyer but I may not always work for such and such or hold such and such title in a certain company or government. They think that it defines you in society when you can claim your stake in your job or probably in your marriage. If I am not working for such and such, I must be married to such and such and that is just as important. And if I have neither then I fail to matter, simply non-existent. They may or may not introduce me, as a matter of fact I won't even be in their space enough to be introduced to anyone. 

I remember 2 years ago, asking someone if I'd be more attractive if I had a job. He replied point blank: Yes. I am pretty sure if I had asked this same person if I'd be more attractive if I was slimmer he probably would have replied the same. Pure dick that guy was. 

I remember talking to someone at the latter stages of said job (that I actually hated by the way), in between the phone call I told him, my contract with subject company ends in a couple of weeks, and before I knew it this person hung up the phone. I imagine that as soon as news goes round that I've found another gig, that I now work for such and such as such and such, this same person will randomly remember my phone number out of the blues and start calling me up, just to say hi. Pfffttt...then I will suddenly have a face and title then. 

The point is, a job defines you and gives you a face to society. Without a job you're just one of those nameless, faceless (and dare I say it, jobless) Nigerians that are lost in the 170 Million rubble. They want you to join the 1% who have risen above society to gain jobs, societal status, power and are somebody. If you're not somebody, the 1% doesn't as much as remember your phone number. 

It's this mindset that suckered me into taking that shit job in the first place. 

I remember telling this same terse gentleman, that I don't do well in an environment I do not like. The job and the location have to be a good fit otherwise I start to crumble. He replied simply: Are you married to Lagos? 

I also remember thinking during my interview that this is probably a job no one else wants.

I asked their eager faces as they welcomed me to the company:

Is this a revolving door? Is this a position where people come in and as soon as they get in they are looking for the exit door. They gave me some PC answer which I pretended to swallow but in my mind, I kept repeating, I bet you no one else probably wanted this gig so why not give it to the girl who currently  doesn't have a job. 

Three months, in I realized that I had made a big mistake and I was itching for a way to get out of it. 

In hindsight, I regret it. I regret it completely.

What am I doing in PH, stuck in the armpit of Nigeria?

I regret it and would definitely not have done it.

Make your own decisions, Anita. Not decisions people talk you into making, but decisions guided by your gut and your personal experiences. Make those decisions for yourself, because the only person who can get you out of your problems is you, the only person who experiences your problems firsthand is you, so make them for you having you in mind.

And for the rest of Nigeria who ostracizes people just because they are (i) jobless,  (ii) without a spouse, and (iii) without a name with some clout, I feel sorry for them. Now I understand why God never stops punishing us in this country. We stopped being "good" and just became plain ole "greedy."

Serendipitous Fairytales

I extracted the post below from my first online journal and reposted it on September 13, 2016.

In need of creative content, I had rummaged through my online journal for material that would inspire me to write, failing to find new words to say, I instead chose to rehash thoughts that had spoken to me years ago. 

I had spent that week catching different scenes from the iconic (to me anyway) movie, Seven on cable. I eventually decided it deserved to be viewed in its entirety so I DVR'd. I spent the morning of September 20 (the day of) watching Seven and coincidentally I had scheduled, The Break Up to be recorded on that day as well. It was probably recording as the news broke.

What does this all mean? Nothing probably. In the post below I had just dreamt about Brad (in those days when he occupied my daydreams) and just happened to watch his movie. Cut to present day and there are images of him everywhere, of his work and then of course, now of his private life and they all seem to occur just at that very moment I happen to think of him. Serendipitous, huh?

I am saddened by the news and I can't get over how it all turned out. We all want to see happy endings because it helps us believe in the truth, in the reality of their fruition. When they crumble, shatter into delicate little pieces that merely reflect what once was (a mere crack would have been sufficient) even though we scramble to assemble the pieces, our belief in the fairytales of life disintegrates with it.

How are we to love, if it's obvious that love does not exist?

Taken from my journal on October 14th, 2001

I happened to catch Legends of the Fall on cable this evening. It was uncanny because I had just thought about Brad Pitt. I rarely watch TV, and I can't remember the last time they played that movie. When was it made? 1994. Creepy stuff. The moment I talk about someone or dream about them I see them in a movie...weird. A couple of scenes at the end of that movie always bring tears to my eyes. It did then, and it still does now.

When the 2 brothers buried the one woman that had come between all 3 of them, and the elder one said to Brad (the middle defiant one), "I obeyed every rule, that of God and of man's, and you broke every single one of them. Yet they still loved you more than they loved me." I asked myself that same question but rephrased. Why do people who break life's rules still turn out with every wish of theirs granted?

For Brad’s character, it was simply because he loved with his heart...he loved from his heart and he loved passionately and obsessively to the point of compulsion. Maybe that was why he found it in him to break every possible rule that conflicted with that love inside him... But for my own question...honestly I do not know why life's disobedient members succeed abundantly. I guess I should probably add it to the long list of questions you may get to ask God when you see Him. Like the song says, "What if God was one of us...what would you ask him?"

I will ask Him this.

The Face of Young Love in Africa

The other night in between my TV binge watching I overheard some loud screams.

I paused the TV so I could investigate the source, as I looked outside, I saw what appeared to be my gateman beating up his live-in girlfriend. Mind you, I am not for certain that she is his girlfriend. At most, she is his live-in companion, especially as he has denied her as his girlfriend on several occasions when I've referred to her as such. Nevertheless they live together and have been known to share some flirty glances. Hence, for the sake of defining such an indeterminate arrangement, I chose to categorize her as his girlfriend.

On this night, they seemed to be having a very violent altercation, he yelled at her and she yelled back. With each stroke from her, he responded with male bravado, sending her several slaps and kicks to her body. Her screams had cut through my TV show, causing me to pause the DVR to listen closely. I looked at them from my balcony, shocked at the deplorable state of their interactions and once he caught my stare, he greeted me warmly as if nothing was happening: "Aunty, Good evening." I asked him to kindly not beat a woman in my presence. But just as soon as he seemed as if he was about to succumb, she responded with a shove to his chest of which it was only the man in him that felt the need to reciprocate with additional slaps and blows. This continued for awhile so I decided to remove myself from the situation and not observe this blatant physical abuse. Passers by stopped and stared, some asked him to stop, some just stood there stunned at how violent this altercation was getting. I eventually heard a man's voice, somewhat a Mallam (Aboki), yell at them authoritatively to take it down several notches. They, to my dismay, complied. I silently thanked this concerned citizen.

Days later when I saw him, I asked, in front of his fellas, if his girlfriend had moved out. They laughed before he smirked in response. I assumed that would be the end of her and their unassuming arrangement.

Cut to early this morning, a lady knocked on my door to alert me to a mailman looking for me. When she knocked I did not want to believe it was her. She said repeatedly: It's me. As I opened the door I was greeted with her presence. After attending to my matter, I felt like turning to her to ask: Why are you still here? Didn't he beat you up the last time? Haven't you had enough? But I decided to simply mind my business.

According to divorce papers, Brad and Angie were separated on September 15. 5 days later (or less) she filed for divorce. How mad and intolerant of your man's B.S. do you have to be that it takes you just 5 days to decide, enough is enough of this B.S. I am outta here and he can go fuck himself.

When you contrast that with my gateman and his inconsequential girlfriend, you realize that African relationships are a bag of tolerable ills compared to the Western World relationships. What my gateman did to his chick has probably been passed down to him from generation to generation - Yeah, smack the girl around a bit it will get her to act right, it will get her to respect you. And after the girl acts right, puts her attitude in check, she crawls right back to her man, humble and atoned. When you think about it as young lovers they are supposed to be in the throes of passion, at the honeymoon phase of their romance not exhibiting inexplicable public violence towards each other.

Love in Africa. Why are we more tolerable of relationship transgressions? I am not saying cut off circulation after 5 days but however, if your partner does something grave enough, so utterly despicable, maybe not only cut ties, sever them completely.

Adult Backpacking

Spent 8 days in September "backpacking" in Lagos.

I am of age, not exactly young and sprightly, with a big old suitcase, and a lot of work/life experience behind me. But here I am, starting over. And in this starting over campaign, homes are not made readily available to you. Sometimes you have to take them. Not forcefully, but impose yourself on the homeowner. This means crashing on their couch, even when they scream that they don’t have space for you. You offer to take the couch, offer to take any available space, offer not to be an inconvenience, offer to leave when they ask you to and escape early in the morn with your suitcase, on to the next destination, ready to do it all over again, suitcase in hand.

So after 8 days of what seemed like adult backpacking across Mainland, Lekki and then, the (Eleko) Beach, I am happy to return to my own home and bed. Even though that home happens to be located in a city I abhor, I'll take my own space, bed and couch (maybe not my own cooking) anytime.

I found myself explaining what “backpacking” means to a young friend of mine, who falls squarely within the “I backpack across Europe” age. Yet she had no clue what it meant or the sense of adventure and self-discovery this seemingly selfless act represents. I had to consult Wikipedia for the complete overview of what I was trying to explain, which seemed like this Western World altruistic concept. Even then, to me, Wiki still failed to aptly paint the actual scenario of the experience garnered from backpacking.

According to Wiki, "the average age of backpackers has gradually increased over time, and it is common for people in their 30s, 40s and older to backpack during an extended career break." Or a career slum.

Those older folks must want to invade other people’s space, or have their own alone adult time invaded as well, temporarily rattled, no schedule, no structure just living that loner looser austere lifestyle while they wait out the next direction in their lives. Much rather like I am right now.

I want to thank all the "host families" (LOL), aka friends who opened up their homes and beachside resort to this lovely energetic but sometimes moody young lady to crash while she conducted her monthly business visit in Lagos. Capping off a trip that started quite tumultuously at the beach gave it an exhilarating touch. The ocean is truly a blessing from God.

It's always reassuring of life when you can give love and receive love back. It's one of the few joys of life that mankind can be their brother's keepers in their time of need. I often pray that no matter how bad the economy gets and capitalistic (and often greedy) we all become, that as we chase the almighty Dollar (Naira) that we never loose sight of what's important, giving back, paying it forward, and sending some positive energy to the world. It's what makes us human.

Until next month, I hope I can get some more "host families" volunteer to take me on this adult backpacking adventure.

The Personal and The Professional

I once knew this girl.
Pretty, somewhat attractive, refreshing.
She loved to laugh. To Live. Loud.
And all she wanted from this life
Was to be happy.
Simple wish.
Happy.
Professionally. Personally.
The merger of the two.
Peaceful union.
So difficult to attain.
Of which we all aspire.
So she hoped. Prayed. Wished
On impossible things.
Waiting for that moment to come.
When she could achieve the balance.
Merger of the two.
As the years went by
She slowly realized
No matter how hard she hoped
Prayed. Wished.
On impossible things.
Of which this seemed the most impossible
She could never really achieve
This equilibrium
This attainment of balance
Was beyond her reach
She couldn't even get half
Of the whole
They both seemed to always
Slip Away
Never close to even a grip
So she hoped, Prayed. Wished
She could learn to live
In the void
Their absence created.
Until the day they'd show up
She made herself comfortable
In the void.

Of Obedience and Love

Locks of Love in Paris

I happened to catch Legends of the Fall on cable this evening. It was uncanny because I had just thought about Brad Pitt. I rarely watch TV, and I can't remember the last time they played that movie. When was it made? 1994. Creepy stuff. The moment I talk about someone or dream about them I see them in a movie...weird. A couple of scenes at the end of that movie always bring tears to my eyes. It did then, and it still does now. 

When the 2 brothers buried the one woman that had come between all 3 of them, and the elder one said to Brad (the middle defiant one), "I obeyed every rule, that of God and of man's, and you broke every single one of them. Yet they still loved you more than they loved me." I asked myself that same question but rephrased. Why do people who break life's rules still turn out with every wish of theirs granted? 

For Brad’s character, it was simply because he loved with his heart...he loved from his heart and he loved passionately and obsessively to the point of compulsion. Maybe that was why he found it in him to break every possible rule that conflicted with that love inside him... But for my own question...honestly I do not know why life's disobedient members succeed abundantly. I guess I should probably add it to the long list of questions you may get to ask God when you see Him. Like the song says, "What if God was one of us...what would you ask him?" 

I will ask Him this.

Envy.

Look at you

So much awesomeness in one body

The look, fierce

The walk, determined

The gaze, feminine and approachable

Oozing of confidence

Pride

Hope

Defiance

Selfish Beauty

It's a crime to be this well put together

Especially in our time, in our now

Anywhere

That's why you're the envy

Of everyone

Who can stand this intense fierceness

Certainly not they?

They misunderstand it

What else can they do?

But try to tear it down

Brick by brick

Hoping it will shed it of its beauty

It's hold.

It's poised exterior.

It's confidence.

But this gal is unshakable

God crafted this masterpiece together

With grace and love and faith

Made it smolder with perfection

So go ahead...envy

What else can you do?

Stay Woke. Always

My favorite hashtag of all time (so far) = #StayWoke

Stay Present. Stay Alert. Stay Tuned. To Everything. Anything. To our lives. To our community. To our Society. To the injustice. To the inequality. To everything that asks you to sit at the back of the bus. Be Still. Be quiet, look the other way. Pretend. That it didn't Exist. That it didn't happen. Every thing that requires you to speak when needed, every wrongdoing, ill will, misgiving, omission, everything about you, your family, your children's children. About this life. Your job. Your home. Your people. Everything about this crazy unfair world we live in. Stay Woke. Speak When Needed. We need every word with us. Every Word. Woke.

#StayWoke Honey Child Where Else Would You Rather Be...

Internationally Speaking...

What certain people don't realize is...there's national experience, and there's international experience, but underneath all that, there's local experience, and this, is the one that's dying to take center stage, even though in it's heart of hearts it knows it can never compete with the other two. 

I've been privileged to have national and international experience. And if given the opportunity I would revel in going back to working in both those stages. It's an eye-opener, it's a juxtaposition of cultures and not just the subcultures who don't know what Africans are like, but the cultures who have that exposure as well, and know what to expect, know how to speak, read/write English, most especially "know how to act." 

The local experience is.. simply not something someone who has been exposed to the national stage should come to be meddling with at any point in time in their career. It's the one who supposes to know it all, envies your exposure to the international stage, and looks for every opportunity to point out how it's done. Albeit, locally. 

I struggle with that every day. It's a struggle I am not used to but a struggle nonetheless. An immeasurable eruptive culture clash for someone with international experience to come and plop themselves right down into a place filled with insurmountable local experience. It's an unfathomable morale debilitating experience. 

Ever since I have known myself I have had issues with work. Some people get jobs and it's the perfect little havens of work - great company, great colleagues, wonderful location. Perfect little haven of work. But me. Sometimes none of those things work out. The only highlight is the pay. And that's just not enough. 

Don't know how long you can pray for something and have to sit and wait and still don't get what you asked for. Is my exposure to local experience supposed to be a humbling experience? Am I supposed to learn something from this whole thing? When I learn it, can I quietly move on from this experience, into something better? Preferably one of those perfect work havens that I see nestled somewhere. I deserve it, don't I?

Dear God, I know you can hear me.
I have written this dream down on paper, in print, in my heart and now, it is in yours.
Please give me one of those perfect little work havens where a job won't seem as such but a career.
Where I feel like I am a part of something. Where I look forward to it everyday.
I know it's possible because I have seen it happen to some.
I pray that it is possible for me.
In Jesus mighty name I pray.
Amen. 

My Summer Vacay - 2016

It's August already.

Can you believe it?

This occurred to me as the "On this day" posts from this time last year beckoned on Facebook. Daily. 

By this time last year I was in The Hague. Summer course. Private International Law. Hit with a head cold as soon as I landed. Inundated by the non-English speaking factor. And Walking. Everywhere. So I complained. I drank a lot of European beer. Ate some good food. Traveled quite a bit. Bought a lot of drugs to counteract the cold (that just did not want to go away). Was introduced to Google Translate (my new best friend for Euro travel). Still complained. 

In between my complaints, a friend of mine told me to stop, and just enjoy the moment. So they don't speak English. Big Whopping Deal. My American self was just peeved by it all. Enjoy! But I did not enjoy the 'fleeting' moment. 

This year. I am here. Working my job. Love working. But no international travel. No Euro beer. At all. No imports, actually. Nigeria is on a scarcity binge. We are being deprived of luxuries. Don't know if it's the new look. But it's not looking good on anybody. Misery is never a good look. 

I remember once when my sister was pregnant and we couldn't travel that Summer. She was due any moment. So we picked one weekend in the Summer and turned that into our vacation weekend. We shopped. Dined. Went to the movies. Lounged. It was fun. The baby came. We reminisced of our summer vacay and that kept us going during the late nights with the baby. 

The point of this is: make the best of what you've been given. Live in the moment, and make that moment, the present = your moment. It may be in Nigeria. It may be in The Hague with everyone speaking Dutch and riding around all healthy on their bikes while you suffer a head cold. Or it may be in PH. Just make that moment the best it can be. Live in it. Make it yours. 

Here's hoping this scarcity Nigeria is suffering is only temporary. 

Just saying...I miss my adventures...

Eat Dessert First

My friend from Nigeria called me one morning at 6am. 

She has a hunky husband and an adorable baby girl. She's bored with life, nothing to do except mind the job, the husband and the baby. Nothing else. Sometimes I wonder why married women tell us these stories. As if to say, "I wish I were you." You, with all the time on your hands, the freedom, the no-schedule, no commitments. You. The Single Person. But you have no idea what I am doing? 

It just made me think of something that my mum used to say to my brother right before he got married: Have all the fun now, with the women, the booze, everything because one day the music will stop. As it was said in one of the books I am reading: Eat Dessert First. And I'll like to add: Make sure it's a wicked dessert too. 

A basic fact of life is that when we make certain commitments to ourselves, the truest test of our strength isn't only based on the initial step, but rather the strength of our endurance to see those commitments through till the end and to get the most out of our experiences while they're happening. The whole of the big picture requires certain sacrifices and those sacrifices play an integral part on making the final destination worth every step.
--- Excerpt from a very informative article.

Been out of focus. But I'm back now. #AnitaWrites

Battle of The Bastards

I've been missing The Bastard.

As Bastards come...this one kinda stuck.
With Me.
In Me.
I promised myself I'd never again write about him.
He doesn't matter he who thinks you don't matter.
So I let it dissipate. Like that gust of wind that ushers in the Fall.
In the fictional Battle of the Bastards
The good, upright, noble, brooding, often handsome Bastard won.
In our battle...all that's left is the cold empty air.
Even the pin would choose to drop elsewhere.
Somewhere less quiet, sterile, more woke, more sublime.
Dear Bastard...when you love as you most often do.
Hope it's nothing quite as warm, dear and riotous as me.
So you can miss me quite as much as I do you.

Life of a Blogger and Lawyer

Working and blogging is so hard.

I sneak out time for myself.

Can't imagine doing this married. The marriage will just crumble. Like the stock market.

The last weekend I took out for myself was my birthday weekend. Even at that it was hard. So hard. Normally if my birthday is on a Monday I'd be gone from Thursday. I had to leave on the Saturday. Even at that it was still hard to tear away. "Umbrella group" intended to file a joint action against the government and the suit itself was filed on my birthday...June 6. So we had to put the pieces in place that weekend.

I already knew about it as it had slowly bubbled over the preceding weeks but as it came to a head that weekend I had to break away, I was like "Yo, I know this ish is going down but I only turn 42 once in a lifetime so forgive me if I want to have one weekend where I pretend not to give a shit."

Folks were asking so why didn't you travel, why did you sit and dine solo on your birthday, which was sad, cos 42 is such a great sounding number. I kept thinking: Girl it was hard to just have this one 24 hours to myself, where else could I go with just 24 hours. Don't know...had to make it the best I could. Midnight, I still had to review the lawsuit...is that grown up enough for you?

The Better Half

Today is the last day of June.

June.

My birthday month.

Last day.

To send it off I hope to take myself out for drinks. Or two.

But that's nothing new. I often take myself out for drinks. But even more so I've done on my birthday month. This month has been crazy. Trying. Fun. Challenging. Scary. Introspective. Someone asked me what I gave myself for my birthday. 

I gave me a new apartment. My own space. The most precious gift of all. I couldn't travel because I was busy with work and I still haven't been able to tear myself away from it. Instead I chose space. 

My creation Anita Zone. 

It helps to have that own space where you can retrieve to at the end of the day. To be you. Never underestimate the power of that. 

Hopefully, I can get to writing again. 

So June 30. End of my month. A toast to fresh starts. 

#ToAnitaOnHerUmpteenthYear

When I'm With You

I hate that when I go to Lagos, I have to stock up on items (food and otherwise) that you can't seem to get in PH. 

eg: Brown rice, whole wheat pasta, linguini pasta, Gelato, waffles, MAC makeup...so many. It just pains me, like I'm doing some peace mission in a 3rd world country - I come home and stock up before heading back to the peace mission.

The sad part is I cannot seem to get a job that pays me as much as my current company in Lagos, so I can eat my cake and have it. Those simple combinations evade me. Those simple combinations you pray for and God just finds it hard to answer you. So here I am. I travel to Lagos at the drop of a hat, used to be once a month, now bi-weekly, just so I can deal with life, take a breather, inhale, and then of course, feel like I am not doing a peace mission in an angry part of the 3rd world country I ended up in. 

It's my birthday in 2 weeks. I think of what usually transpires during these final 2 weeks before my birthday. I plan my birthday vacation. For the last 3 years birthdays I haven't been able to really do anything...fun. The big 4-0 was spent with people I no longer speak to, and same with the big 4-1. Now I am asking myself what do you do when you just moved back to your country, now live with your depressed somewhat clingy single aunt in an angry 3rd world country in a job that's [insert my feelings here] and you're about to turn 42, and your last couple of birthdays have been spent in cities like San Diego, Santa Barbara and of course, Vegas. 

This is the hard part of living. This year..I suggest spending my birthday with me. Not with all those people that I don't talk to years later. Me. Because I'm my best friend, and the best birthdays have been blessed with me.

When I'm With You
I Hear A Song That Makes Me Laugh
And Smile To You
When I'm With You
I Feel So Free
I Feel That Love
Is Going To Take Control
When I'm With You
It's For Real
What I Feel
When I'm With You