Oh well. The courts are on vacation, so everybody at the office has been pretty jobless. I picked up last week’s Encomium from the front desk and on page 7, the General Overseer of the Redeemed Christian Church Of God allegedly ordered church ministers nationwide, to bring the number of parishes to 1000 before the Annual convention which usually comes up every August.
Can anyone think of any country in this world with more churches than Nigeria? There are two mini churches on Femi Kila street alone (Isolo, n trust me, its not a very long street). From Alliance Française, Yaba, where I had my French lessons last summer, I could look out back and spot two churches, and in front just across the pedestrian bridge was another! Let me not even go in on Akute traffic on Sunday when the churches close, you wouldn’t believe!! If you’re getting on the 3rd mainland bridge from Yaba, squashed between shanties, around Legacy Club House and Chelsea Fans Club, I count three churches every morning! In one plaza near BRT Fadeyi, there are three churches! Must be some holy noise on Sundays!!!
Before I go on, I must make this clear: I am a Christian too, and I am not opposed to evangelism, or the mission of the RCCG which is: “To make heaven, and take as many people as possible with us.”
When most people come round, evangelizing, I have found that it is no more enough for them to know that you are “saved”, and already have a church or worship centre. Rather than encourage you to grow in your faith, and your church, and okay, if they must, maybe saying you could drop by theirs anytime, many would rather try to convince you to come to their own church.
I’m Catholic, and for some evangelists, hearing this makes them all the more set to win me over. Sometimes, I even get the feeling that they have been sent to win the Pagans, the Muslims, the Jews, and then, the Catholics.
I have no patience for such people anymore, and someday I might have to point out to one of them that they are missing something. It’s not supposed to be about you. It’s supposed to be about Jesus. You want to encourage people to come to church, good. You also want there to be a church (yours) within every 5 minute walking distance. Why? I do not see any reason why there should be a church on every street though, but still: Is it not okay that there is already an inter-denominational church on the same street? And it’s a 5 minute walking distance from both ends of the street? Is the point not for people to hear the good news?? Why choke up our streets, why not just move on, and establish yourself, if you must, on another street that has not been graced with your gospel? My village is not a small one; it was even in the Atlas I used in Secondary school! It has a bank, and a Mr. Biggs, yet how many parishes are there???
Whenever I see this multiple encroachment, I think of Mr. Biggs and Tantalizers; or Zenith and GTBank. At least, those are businesses. But churches today, remind me of the same: stiff competition, franchise. Why else would a church’s security guards puncture someone’s tyres, just because they parked in your church’s compound because their own church’s space was full? We are all members of the one body of Christ, no?
Anybody that wants to vex should vex. I don’t know about you guys, but I too, I haff vexed! Living in Lagos is pretty crazy, and I can’t see ANY reasons why anybody should make it the tiniest bit worse. Prayer is key, I must agree, but still, give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar. My parents pay their taxes. And so do many people in this beautiful city: Christian, and non-Christian. My main grouse is not the indiscriminate sprouting of churches, but the effects. I wonder why nobody has sued the prayer cities built along the Lagos/Ibadan and other expressways for the public nuisance tho, that’s a matter for another day.
But then again: give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar! Why put up structures in the wrong places, and make no provision for parking, making your members have to double-park on the road? Or at least, for those that build within 5 minutes distance, beg your members to walk to church, at least, in appreciation of the efforts you’ve made building a church next to them? Why put up those blaring, obnoxious speakers outside, especially when your entire congregation is inside? Yes, it’s Sunday, and you want everybody to hear the Good news, but why so noisy? It’s a legal wrong: sometimes civil, sometimes dangerously leaning towards criminal. Christians are not in any way exempted from civic duties, express or implied. I wonder where the government is, in all this; even Fashola is approaching this with great caution. Well, our government is almost always on the road to nowhere so…that’s another day’s rant. Nobody wants God to vex for them, but I’m convinced He’d take my side on this one.
Surely, there must be a better way of spreading the good news.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Okay Okay, I Confess... -^_^-
Most of the time, I try to act like I couldn't bluddy care less about all things romantic. Corny, cliched, sometimes empty, largely ceremonial... iSay Valentine's day is just a day like any other, n love itself is a seemingly impossible concept. Nobody seems to be able to agree on what it really is. But to be honest, somewhere deep inside my intotos, m a sucker for mush, albeit qualified.
I don't like corny ass lines, n m very suspicious of the nikkas that use them; my inner critic always wants to jeer at people that believe in love at first sight. Point at them n laugh, like Deedee in Dexter's lab. You dont even know half of a person's story, n u say ure madly in love with them. A few times, I am tempted to say "Love Gbawasi-oku" ...for my non-Igbo brethren, it means "love, burn", or better put: "Fuck love". As cynical as I try to be, fundamentally, I am an appreciater (for lack of a proper word) of Romance.
Not just any romance. I shall never be caught dead acting like Emeka Ike and Ini Edo, or any other romantic couples in Nollywood movies. bleh. I doubt the feminist in me would ever let me go on shopping sprees with men, under the guise of love or romance, v also seen that in Nollywood so I assume its relatively commonplace romantic behaviour. The first time my ex-boyfriend (he was a darling tho) said he loved me, he didnt even say it. He sent me a text n it read "...luv ya". Count one. Joo o! In my world, a written "I Love You" makes more sense when written correctly. Yes, m a little headmistress, but for me, it shows more seriousness.
Before I die, I want to REALLY love :, fiercely, truly, without reason. I would also love some romance. (with or without the love, m not yet sure) Real romance: heady, passionate, consuming, almost out of control!
We have all been blessed with brains, and been given the liberty of having ideas. Romance should be a series of unlikely events, spontaneous, simple AND complicated, thoughtful, strategic. I mean, wouldn't it be lovely to have my lover-lover build a house exactly as I want it, even though we haven't spoken in more than ten years, just like in "The Notebook"? It was not really about the house tho, but that he remembered what she said (in passing) about the house ages ago when they were only 18 (or so)... see guys, its really not that complicated. You dont need to be an advertising guru to figure all that out, but m sure a romance with an advertising guru would be pretty amazing! Those guys are too mush jo...the way they think! Kai!
*sigh* I can almost hear some bad-belle person calling me a dreamer, but oh well, let me dream! I know the girls know what I mean, n guys, guys, please try to show your lady some romance more often, thank you in advance, xx.
I don't like corny ass lines, n m very suspicious of the nikkas that use them; my inner critic always wants to jeer at people that believe in love at first sight. Point at them n laugh, like Deedee in Dexter's lab. You dont even know half of a person's story, n u say ure madly in love with them. A few times, I am tempted to say "Love Gbawasi-oku" ...for my non-Igbo brethren, it means "love, burn", or better put: "Fuck love". As cynical as I try to be, fundamentally, I am an appreciater (for lack of a proper word) of Romance.
Not just any romance. I shall never be caught dead acting like Emeka Ike and Ini Edo, or any other romantic couples in Nollywood movies. bleh. I doubt the feminist in me would ever let me go on shopping sprees with men, under the guise of love or romance, v also seen that in Nollywood so I assume its relatively commonplace romantic behaviour. The first time my ex-boyfriend (he was a darling tho) said he loved me, he didnt even say it. He sent me a text n it read "...luv ya". Count one. Joo o! In my world, a written "I Love You" makes more sense when written correctly. Yes, m a little headmistress, but for me, it shows more seriousness.
Before I die, I want to REALLY love :, fiercely, truly, without reason. I would also love some romance. (with or without the love, m not yet sure) Real romance: heady, passionate, consuming, almost out of control!
We have all been blessed with brains, and been given the liberty of having ideas. Romance should be a series of unlikely events, spontaneous, simple AND complicated, thoughtful, strategic. I mean, wouldn't it be lovely to have my lover-lover build a house exactly as I want it, even though we haven't spoken in more than ten years, just like in "The Notebook"? It was not really about the house tho, but that he remembered what she said (in passing) about the house ages ago when they were only 18 (or so)... see guys, its really not that complicated. You dont need to be an advertising guru to figure all that out, but m sure a romance with an advertising guru would be pretty amazing! Those guys are too mush jo...the way they think! Kai!
*sigh* I can almost hear some bad-belle person calling me a dreamer, but oh well, let me dream! I know the girls know what I mean, n guys, guys, please try to show your lady some romance more often, thank you in advance, xx.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
For The Invisibles
This is a Short story by my favourite writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie...the person that mailed it to me didnt put in the title, so lets just call it "Technicolor" Its a beautiful, slightly sad story, and if you've ever felt invisible, I'm sure you could relate. Enjoy! :)
"TECHNICOLOR"
I lay in an uncomfortable position, my head at a strange angle so that it stayed on Victor’s shoulder and my body curving back so that it tucked into him. He was sleeping, his breathing as even, as unhurried, as everything else about him. In contrast my thoughts churned, though I didn’t allow myself to think about my lost virginity. He had looked faintly surprised, probably because I had offered no resistance, required no coaxing. He wanted to apologize, but I wouldn’t let him. He didn’t know what he had done for me. Instead I thought about my tummy swelling with child. I would get pregnant, I was sure of it. I was the sort of person who never got away with wrongdoing. If everyone was skipping classes, the teachers would only come looking on the day I followed suit. But I had slept with him anyway, knowing I would be caught and disgraced. Caught, disgraced, and noticed. I would be seen.
In a family of nine it is easy to be overlooked, even easier if you hold no position; first-born, last-born, only boy, prettiest, most intelligent. Every time I told someone how many children there were in my family, they joked, “You’re Catholic, right?” It had never really amused or annoyed me. I’d just gotten used to it, the same way I’d gotten used to people mispronouncing, then forgetting my name. My family called me Kamsiyonna, and it had never occurred to me to shorten it; to what? Few other people called me anything at all. In a family of swans, I was an albatross. I always felt like people were looking through me, around me, for my prettier, more conventional-looking sisters. Short and thin, I combined my mother’s dark skin and delicate bone structure with my father’s heavy, angular face, and the combination of my father’s strange eyes with my mother’s reticence unnerved most people. My grandmother joked that I would have been dubbed a seer in older times. I just wanted to be seen. So when one day during the long vacation Victor came to sit on the uncomfortable wooden chairs on the verandah, I took little notice of the fact that I was the only other person there.
He was very tall, and the process of folding himself into the chair was fascinating to watch; I didn’t realize I was staring. “You have remarkable eyes.” He said it offhandedly, looking straight ahead, so that it took me a while to realize he was talking to me. I was a shy person, or maybe I was just unused to people talking to me for no apparent reason. Either way I could think of no reply, especially since I disliked my eyes intensely. I wanted Ifesinachi’s grey, or Lotachukwunna’s light brown. Mine were the generic almost black dark brown, the pupils much wider than average so that people stared, then quickly looked away. The silence stretched like a humid afternoon until he said, “You are Kodichi’s sister.” I didn’t know if it was a question, but I hated being referred to as So-and-so’s sister. I said, quietly, “I’m Kamsiyonna”, and wondered why he was still here. “I live two streets away. Your grandma is very hospitable; she often sends me food after Mass. I have seen you around many times.” I had tuned him out, but I heard that; I ran errands for grandma whenever we visited. I felt otherwise I would fade into the walls and my family would forget I was there, and only realize they had left me behind after school started back home and my uniforms remained unworn. But he had seen me around many times. I looked up. He continued, in his matter-of-fact way, “You’re quiet, but you see things. Your eyes look like they have plenty to say.” He smiled.
Everyday after that, we sat on the verandah and let the time slip by, and I listened to his offhand, matter-of-fact postulations, hardly responding except to laugh at his dry wit or nod. He had an opinion on everything. I no longer noticed when no one asked where I’d been at bedtime. He seemed only to want an ear, and I was glad of someone who would talk and not expect replies. So instead of speaking I looked carefully at him, etching every detail on my memory so that I could recall them after he left. He noticed everything about me too, and I fancied that he could hear my thoughts, so I answered him in my head, disagreeing sometimes, contributing sometimes, but always, always delighting in the sound of his voice that was directed at me, his eyes that were looking at only me. He wrote beautiful poems, said I inspired them. He said I had an old soul; an artist’s soul that felt things deeply and transcended human forms of communication. Sometimes I believed him expressly, other times I thought he was full of sentimental crap. But I was always on the verandah, waiting for his serious eyes to appear far above the perimeter wall, eyes that looked like they were missing something because he didn’t wear glasses. He would go inside and greet my grandma, then come out and sit. I didn’t think about my siblings when he was around, didn’t compare myself to them, didn’t mope over my shortcomings. The only other things that could do that for me were books or cake and custard.
One day he came by, and asked me to go and wear a dress. I wondered, but I didn’t say anything. When I came back out he led me outside the house, opened a car door, and walked around to the driver’s side. I was perplexed, and felt stupid for it, but the truth was I had never thought of his existence outside my grandma’s before. He’d always been, to me, like the teachers in my primary school who ceased to exist after the bell, and then materialized again the next day for assembly. “I didn’t know you drove.” The inanity of it struck me as soon as I said it. Of course he drove; he was old enough. I realized then that I didn’t know his age. I blurted out the question, “How old are you?” a long while later, after testing it on my tongue, wondering why I should ask at all. He looked puzzled, and smiled. “That’s strange. I’ve seen you everyday of the last two weeks, and we barely know anything about each other.” That evening, at the beach, I learned about his family, his work, his past. And words poured from me like from a long-unused tap, rusty and uncertain at first, then with a speed and a force of conviction that surprised me even more than him.
“People will take notice of me one day. I’ll make them. I’ll become a superstar, like Beyonce.” I said it firmly, even though I didn’t know how that would happen. I was nothing like Beyonce. He gave me an indulgent smile, one that said you’re young yet. I smiled too, and then he kissed me. It was not my first kiss; I was sixteen after all, but I had never been kissed like that before. It made me feel far taller than my 5’3”, and strong and beautiful and there. I thought about what I was doing, kissing someone as old as Munachi, our second-born, and then I felt daring as well. That was when I knew, the way I sometimes know things, that I would sleep with him when he asked, and get pregnant for him. Beyond that I didn’t know. When he broke the kiss I felt the wet sand irritating in between my toes, and heard the small waves, and saw the dark sky. I might be late tonight, but it would not be an issue. “I should get home.”
After that day he took me all over Lagos, and I heard my own voice more and more, stronger each time. So when he took me to his house five weeks later, and stood behind me, and started to nibble on my earlobes, I moved in closer. And as he guided me to his bedroom and undressed me, as I instinctively protected my nakedness from his eyes, as he gently pushed into me, I felt myself becoming more solid, more real. I thought about how people back home poured sand on ghosts to make them disappear, wondered what they did to bring them back. Afterwards, as he dreamed, I thought about going back home, wondered when my mother would know. She would see me then, really see me, and never be able to stop. I knew my father would be unable to look through me when I brought my baby home. I thought about them saying my name, in hushed tones; Kamsiyonna this and Kamsiyonna that. I would never be black-and-white again; I would be Kamsiyonna in full Technicolor. I smiled, and slept.
If you enjoyed reading this story, and would love to read another, here's a link: http://www.guernicamag.com/fiction/1527/quality_street/
"TECHNICOLOR"
I lay in an uncomfortable position, my head at a strange angle so that it stayed on Victor’s shoulder and my body curving back so that it tucked into him. He was sleeping, his breathing as even, as unhurried, as everything else about him. In contrast my thoughts churned, though I didn’t allow myself to think about my lost virginity. He had looked faintly surprised, probably because I had offered no resistance, required no coaxing. He wanted to apologize, but I wouldn’t let him. He didn’t know what he had done for me. Instead I thought about my tummy swelling with child. I would get pregnant, I was sure of it. I was the sort of person who never got away with wrongdoing. If everyone was skipping classes, the teachers would only come looking on the day I followed suit. But I had slept with him anyway, knowing I would be caught and disgraced. Caught, disgraced, and noticed. I would be seen.
In a family of nine it is easy to be overlooked, even easier if you hold no position; first-born, last-born, only boy, prettiest, most intelligent. Every time I told someone how many children there were in my family, they joked, “You’re Catholic, right?” It had never really amused or annoyed me. I’d just gotten used to it, the same way I’d gotten used to people mispronouncing, then forgetting my name. My family called me Kamsiyonna, and it had never occurred to me to shorten it; to what? Few other people called me anything at all. In a family of swans, I was an albatross. I always felt like people were looking through me, around me, for my prettier, more conventional-looking sisters. Short and thin, I combined my mother’s dark skin and delicate bone structure with my father’s heavy, angular face, and the combination of my father’s strange eyes with my mother’s reticence unnerved most people. My grandmother joked that I would have been dubbed a seer in older times. I just wanted to be seen. So when one day during the long vacation Victor came to sit on the uncomfortable wooden chairs on the verandah, I took little notice of the fact that I was the only other person there.
He was very tall, and the process of folding himself into the chair was fascinating to watch; I didn’t realize I was staring. “You have remarkable eyes.” He said it offhandedly, looking straight ahead, so that it took me a while to realize he was talking to me. I was a shy person, or maybe I was just unused to people talking to me for no apparent reason. Either way I could think of no reply, especially since I disliked my eyes intensely. I wanted Ifesinachi’s grey, or Lotachukwunna’s light brown. Mine were the generic almost black dark brown, the pupils much wider than average so that people stared, then quickly looked away. The silence stretched like a humid afternoon until he said, “You are Kodichi’s sister.” I didn’t know if it was a question, but I hated being referred to as So-and-so’s sister. I said, quietly, “I’m Kamsiyonna”, and wondered why he was still here. “I live two streets away. Your grandma is very hospitable; she often sends me food after Mass. I have seen you around many times.” I had tuned him out, but I heard that; I ran errands for grandma whenever we visited. I felt otherwise I would fade into the walls and my family would forget I was there, and only realize they had left me behind after school started back home and my uniforms remained unworn. But he had seen me around many times. I looked up. He continued, in his matter-of-fact way, “You’re quiet, but you see things. Your eyes look like they have plenty to say.” He smiled.
Everyday after that, we sat on the verandah and let the time slip by, and I listened to his offhand, matter-of-fact postulations, hardly responding except to laugh at his dry wit or nod. He had an opinion on everything. I no longer noticed when no one asked where I’d been at bedtime. He seemed only to want an ear, and I was glad of someone who would talk and not expect replies. So instead of speaking I looked carefully at him, etching every detail on my memory so that I could recall them after he left. He noticed everything about me too, and I fancied that he could hear my thoughts, so I answered him in my head, disagreeing sometimes, contributing sometimes, but always, always delighting in the sound of his voice that was directed at me, his eyes that were looking at only me. He wrote beautiful poems, said I inspired them. He said I had an old soul; an artist’s soul that felt things deeply and transcended human forms of communication. Sometimes I believed him expressly, other times I thought he was full of sentimental crap. But I was always on the verandah, waiting for his serious eyes to appear far above the perimeter wall, eyes that looked like they were missing something because he didn’t wear glasses. He would go inside and greet my grandma, then come out and sit. I didn’t think about my siblings when he was around, didn’t compare myself to them, didn’t mope over my shortcomings. The only other things that could do that for me were books or cake and custard.
One day he came by, and asked me to go and wear a dress. I wondered, but I didn’t say anything. When I came back out he led me outside the house, opened a car door, and walked around to the driver’s side. I was perplexed, and felt stupid for it, but the truth was I had never thought of his existence outside my grandma’s before. He’d always been, to me, like the teachers in my primary school who ceased to exist after the bell, and then materialized again the next day for assembly. “I didn’t know you drove.” The inanity of it struck me as soon as I said it. Of course he drove; he was old enough. I realized then that I didn’t know his age. I blurted out the question, “How old are you?” a long while later, after testing it on my tongue, wondering why I should ask at all. He looked puzzled, and smiled. “That’s strange. I’ve seen you everyday of the last two weeks, and we barely know anything about each other.” That evening, at the beach, I learned about his family, his work, his past. And words poured from me like from a long-unused tap, rusty and uncertain at first, then with a speed and a force of conviction that surprised me even more than him.
“People will take notice of me one day. I’ll make them. I’ll become a superstar, like Beyonce.” I said it firmly, even though I didn’t know how that would happen. I was nothing like Beyonce. He gave me an indulgent smile, one that said you’re young yet. I smiled too, and then he kissed me. It was not my first kiss; I was sixteen after all, but I had never been kissed like that before. It made me feel far taller than my 5’3”, and strong and beautiful and there. I thought about what I was doing, kissing someone as old as Munachi, our second-born, and then I felt daring as well. That was when I knew, the way I sometimes know things, that I would sleep with him when he asked, and get pregnant for him. Beyond that I didn’t know. When he broke the kiss I felt the wet sand irritating in between my toes, and heard the small waves, and saw the dark sky. I might be late tonight, but it would not be an issue. “I should get home.”
After that day he took me all over Lagos, and I heard my own voice more and more, stronger each time. So when he took me to his house five weeks later, and stood behind me, and started to nibble on my earlobes, I moved in closer. And as he guided me to his bedroom and undressed me, as I instinctively protected my nakedness from his eyes, as he gently pushed into me, I felt myself becoming more solid, more real. I thought about how people back home poured sand on ghosts to make them disappear, wondered what they did to bring them back. Afterwards, as he dreamed, I thought about going back home, wondered when my mother would know. She would see me then, really see me, and never be able to stop. I knew my father would be unable to look through me when I brought my baby home. I thought about them saying my name, in hushed tones; Kamsiyonna this and Kamsiyonna that. I would never be black-and-white again; I would be Kamsiyonna in full Technicolor. I smiled, and slept.
If you enjoyed reading this story, and would love to read another, here's a link: http://www.guernicamag.com/fiction/1527/quality_street/
Here Goes...
It really pisses me off, that I have so much to say, to express, yet most of the time, I cant find the words. Not because I'm retarded, or because I went to Gbagauned schools. I really dont know what my problem is, but nonetheless, I'm trying to solve it. Starting today, with this blog. Baby steps :)
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