Something might seem to be a weed in your field or a weed in your life….when you look closer and really have a chance to study on it…you may just find that “weed” serves a purpose you had never thought of.

The Chicken Grandma

IMG_5368

It has been a little wet around here lately. The old saying, “When it rains…it pours” is pretty true in this part of the country lately. After waiting…for what seemed like a long time and wishing for rain…it now seems easy to come by.

I wandered around the other morning with my camera in hand as I couldn’t get in my garden (due to rain) and I couldn’t mow (also due to rain). It seemed a logical choice to go and see if I could capture some of the beauty left by the rain.

IMG_5370

It was fun to try get a photo of the raindrops  dripping from the flowers and leaves.

To be very honest it was also a great opportunity for a blog post as the idea well seems a bit drier than the weather for this Chicken Grandma!

Later that afternoon my husband called for me to join him behind the…

View original post 262 more words

Advertisements
Uncategorized

Thistles and Rain

Gallery
Little things, Musings

Give and take? Receive and give

Benjamin Enekhai started a blog some years ago and he called it ‘Cogito ergo sum’. I think therefore I am. I got an invite to the blog and I was bemused with the name. Descartes had coined that phrase in latin before latin was left to only the Catholic church. And Benjamin has always been a latin freak [at least for my almost non – existent level of latin].

I think therefore I am. A going from the subjective to the objective, from one’s reason to the tangible world. It’s what we call rationalism today. And we are the products – all of us! because we are children of our time. Don’t we try to fit reality to our own way of thinking? Look around you; see and appreciate the widespread individualism. I think – it’s I, me, myself. I’m not only in the centre. I’m the centre!

So Java, aren’t you exaggerating? I am. Each one bears the individualism in varying degrees. I know and I live with many people who are more selfless than individualistic. Or who are at least trying to be. My friend Benjamin belongs to that category. That’s why I was bemused. And I told him so – ‘I know you, my bro. And I think this title is not the best for a blog owned by you’.  He accepted. The blog was renamed – Nemo dat quod non habet. No one [can] gives what he doesn’t have. That phrase stuck with me – so simple yet so profound. Active voice, present tense; easy to remember. I can’t give what I don’t have. Neither can you. It’s that straightforward.

But I want to. I want to give time, an open ear, joy, hope, peace, smiles, encouragement, understanding, faith, Christ. The spiritual intangible goods are harder to give. It’s a paradox. They don’t diminish by being given; yet we rarely find them given.

Let’s go back to cogito. I think, therefore I am. I’ve tried it before. We’re a self – sufficient bunch right? Add to that a strong choleric temperament and you have me. I’ve tried it before. I’ll do this by myself – when she come in, I’ll smile at her. I’ll not nag him. I’ll try to see things from her point of view. I’ll share her joy instead of being envious [the bad envy eh!]. I’ve tried and I have failed.

Existentially speaking, cogito ergo sum didn’t take me far. Until I met Cogitor. I found it in a theology manual. Cogitor ergo sum. Passive voice, present tense. I am thought of; therefore I am. It thrusts me back to objectivity. I am not the centre. I don’t have to do everything. I also have to receive. I have received my being, my existence from something, from someone outside of me. I can receive time, an open ear, etc., from someone, from others. And then I’ll have.  Then I can give. Better still, if I’m open to constantly receive, I can also constantly give out of my overflow.  Without this, nemo dat quod non habet. You can’t give what you don’t have.

 

Standard
Musings

‘Deatheaters’

What do you do when you lose 4 members of your family in a space of less than 2 years? First your aunt, then grandma 1 followed by grandma 2 and now your uncle.

What do you do when you know that your dad is hurting so much over the death of his brother and the only thing you can tell him is ‘has the burial date been fixed?’ When you want to hug him so tight but you can’t ‘cos you’re thousands of miles away?

IMG-20170912-WA0010

2 crazy friends posing as VOLDEMORT and L. MALFOY in a HP’S themed dinner

What do you do when you realize that despite your mum’s brave front, she’s so devastated by the turn of events? So much so that she has asked her prayer group to pray over her and cast away the spirit of death.

What do you do when your sister is so upset because she thinks that some family members are partly responsible for her uncle’s death? Because as she has judged, they failed to take adequate care of him while he was sick.

What do you do when the answer to ‘has the date been fixed’ is ‘no o. We’re waiting for money’? And you know that it’s just a polite way of saying ‘my dear, we’re still recovering from the burial of your grandma last October’.

What do you do when you want to cry out ‘enough? Why do we have to do expensive burials, depleting savings and even up to the point of borrowing? Why can’t we do simple but dignified burials?’ why do we have to give a banquet, to throw a party when we know that we can’t?’

What do you do when these thoughts accompany you throughout your day but you hold your peace because you can only think ‘will my people understand?’

Standard
Fiction, Musings

Lights and shadows

My friends on Facebook put up all sorts of posts. I thought to share two of the best marriage posts I read some weeks ago –

sometimes we get crazy at each other instead of being crazy about each other, yet we soldier on as God’s grace sustains us. Need to believe there’s God? take a look at us. (Darlington Iriogbe on his first wedding anniversary)

… I PRAY that God continues to bless us (would have said ‘you’ but we are one now *winks*). (Georgette Ezechukwu on her husband’s birthday)

Life is not perfect – thanks Oluoma Udemezue for the reminder. But I’m pleased to add this opinion that we both share – that there are many, who like my friends, give their best to make their marriage work.

But then there are some who don’t. Sometimes not out of bad will. But because life is richer than we can ever imagine and sometimes things don’t just work out despite everything. Oluoma sent me a well written story that kind of illustrates this. Or maybe not.


 

Enugu was lonely at that time, and a handful of cold-dry wispy breeze charmed the dust off the earth to a revolt adding some verve to the lonely road. It was New Year’s Eve. A time to discard stuffs you don’t intend to carry into a new year: sins, guilt, long-suffering, burden….

A 2016 Range cut through the cold unnoticed; it made straight for a restaurant down the road.

The scarcity of life on the road gave Chioma food for thought; she roamed in her deep thoughts, of what not to carry along too, into a more promising year; she kept on rubbing at her silver and gold crested wedding ring, as though they weighed down on her searching thoughts. It was a wedding that drew reputation to the open. No, she didn’t want to think straight; to think straight is to make her a rational being and to become a rational being is to be human. No, humane. Yes, that was the right word; to become what she wasn’t would only cause her to forgive, but could she afford to forget? She gazed upon the band that had fisted on her finger: ‘ten years was no common joke.’ She remembered the stern look her eccentric mother spat at her before she walked out on her decision. She wanted only one thing out of the present: to feel her own presence beside him.

The ride from Agbani road to Nise suddenly turned pale orange –just like the street lights of Lagos. Lagos was a dreamer. She felt hot and nasty all of a sudden and gazed out through the clear glass, while the space between them itched to be filled by some soothing. She left her ringed finger, and led the idle hand to her right ear lobe. All of a sudden, she turned pink and felt some flakes of guilt, and suddenly returned the roaming hand where it belonged, on her laps; covered by a short shimmering silver gown; it came home in a gift pack, back with Obi in order to spoil her silly. A shy smile lit up by the corners of her red lips, but her eyes caught the stained back seat, through the review mirror and the smiles indulgently faded away the way they came. Little Kodilichukwu would have been eight that day, had she not been in so great hurry to get to work. The truck would have got her, and not him. She died each time her eyes caught that spot and Obi knew it, but he had decided not to change to car seats, just to punish her.

Obi had already hit the headlights on: it was as though he was not present. They threw silence at each other with uncanny circumstances. He had his full weight on the car seat, too comfortable in his red and white isi agu –his people had given him a title after helping out with a bore hole, one out of too many attentions he had gotten that year. His sight was fixed on the road, but less, fixed on her. But those firm hands he gently placed on the steering wheel could be quick tempered at times. They bumped into a pothole; he grunted and finally slowed the car in front of Calabash restaurant. She couldn’t actually punch a fist at what impregnated the silence between them; nurtured it and purged it out to haunt their marriage. They actually existed in a lake of purgatory, paying for what they actually have no idea about. Obi was different, but she couldn’t let go. Lagos; the subtle memories wouldn’t go away –it stuck close like a bad smell, a bad old habit. But Obi; through his rimmed double lenses, couldn’t see the guilt that was written all over her; the moment she stepped through the door, after Lagos. Or did he? The sea salt mixed with champagne and the luxuries of his yacht still hung about her; the feeling repelled and rebelled everything that walked in her way since she came back, but Obi.

They stepped through the door of the restaurant after Obi locked the car door. He smiled down at her, a quaint smile –Obi was much taller– before they jammed hands to service stray eyes.

Luxury was the best word to describe the restaurant. They walked into a band led by Oliver De Coque junior; he delighted the guests with Biri Ka Mbiri, it was as though they were the ones the music was meant for –Obi just received a transfer letter to Paris from the oil company—so, it was their music, the others knew he got the transfer, including the smudge of red lipstick on the collar of his white crispy shirt that bade her welcome immediately she walked through the door from Lagos. So, they couldn’t wait for her to turn her back before they went in for the kill: creeping mice.

Obi knew virtually all who seemed too eager to meet his handy wife while they had cleavage display icons by their sides. While he generously made his way around their tables, she felt out of place as always, drew back and left him on the spotlight, the way it has always been. Later, a very young waiter –she noticed for the first time in ten years- led them to a quiet corner, presented the menu in a thick leather bound file and waited with a generous smile that smeared all over them like hot butter on bread. Chioma gazed through the menu, but all she saw was the guilt of Lagos. Obi held the menu in his hands: those hands that cut through wood to see him through the university, it was still those hands that plotted the proposal that won him a good position at the oil company, those hands held her fingers –when he went about in a pair of woollen shoes– while the other made her wear a diamond stud for ten years and counting. Her hands went back to her ear lobe, but this time, it could not miss the spot, the one very close to her ears, where she had to mould with unending Mac foundation, in order to hide her blood that already congealed. It hasn’t gone down yet, she thought. It would have been nice to stay back in Lagos: on Yinka’s yacht, his mansion and his world, where they could do nothing, but frolic on old school days. She had only gone to visit her sister, but he appeared, out of nowhere and swept her off her feet.

“You are not hungry?”

She was gently snuffed away from her day dream by Obi’s concerned voice. She looked at the hairy hand he casually placed on hers –they were cold and strong. Cold from working too long and too hard at the rigs, his wife had to make do with the overflowing and suffocating benevolence of the oil company. She looked at the raised knotted inquisitive browse of a total stranger: Obi.

“No.”

At that instance, they heard loud crashing of plates held by a waiter that even interrupted the band that played.

“No.”

She said again, but this time around, it was forceful, not like the first time. It was as though air was trapped in her tracks, but she forced herself to push beyond it. Her mother’s stern look came at her for the last time, but she found the will to brush her aside, because she knew that theirs was a family, broken.

 

Standard
Fiction, Musings

Pamela’s Patina

Seeing that she was quiet, he left the room. He was upset and needed to calm down; upset and disappointed that his granddaughter could lie to his face like this.

True to his expectations, her sadness had continued. Wednesday passed – the same. When on Thursday, she was still depressed, he became alarmed. Brooding had become her god over the past three days and a jealous one at that. To serve him well, she had embarked on rigorous fasting, barely touching her food and pushing it away. As such, she was fast losing body weight. The irony of it was that it would have been a most welcome development, had circumstances been different. With each passing day, he became more and more afraid for the health of his frail grandchild.

“Is it so difficult for you to confide in me?” he asked again that Thursday afternoon.

She had some notebooks and a Mathematics textbook on the table. She had intended to finish her assignments but brooding got the better of her. She remained there, seated, looking at the books and into space at the same time.

“Pamela, what’s eating you?”

She got up and went to stand by her favourite spot – the window overlooking the small garden, the tears streaming down her face. At once, he followed suit.

“I don’t deserve all this agony, Pamela.” He said, breaking the silence.

“What agony?” asked a surprised Pamela, quickly wiping off her tears with the back of her palms. She had not heard him approach.

“The agony of watching my grandchild, fight a losing battle with an unseen opponent, and not being able to help her. It breaks my heart, Pamela. It really does.

“What losing battle? What opponent? Oh! I wish my problem could be solved by the good use of English Grammar.” She turned to look at him. “I love you, grandpa and I care very much about you. I do not want to hurt your feelings or see you sad and heartbroken” she was beginning to feel guilty. “And that’s precisely why I’m trying to shield you from the knowledge of my problem.”

“But you are making a mess of it” he retorted “You’re not hiding it well as you claim. If that was your intention, then ab initio, you should have acted like your normal self, as if all was well. Then I would have gone about my business, deceived into thinking that nothing was wrong in the first place” he said angrily. Then his tone became gentler

“But that would have been impossible, Pamela. You’re a bad actress…” She smiled for the first time in days.

“And I’m your grandfather. I know you and I know you very well because I love you very much, ok.”

He put his arms round her. “Your heart is heavy. At your service  is someone who cares, who is ready to listen. Besides, he’s not just someone, he’s family. I tell you, it’s not every time that one is lucky enough to find a listening ear ….”

“‘Class’” Pamela said quietly, dry-eyed; there were no more tears to shed.

“Class?” he repeated, surprised at what the word class had to do with the problem.

“Yes, class. I was as puzzled as you now are when I first heard it.” She proceeded to explain “One needs to be from the upper class to qualify for the contest and one must be able to prove it.” She stopped. It was her turn to be surprised as he slightly threw back his head and exploded into raucous laughter.

{Excerp from Miss Turris by Amaka Anozie}

———————————————

I have given this post a ‘forced’ title. Patina is not exactly the word to describe Pamela’s attitude. But it’s the new world I learned today thanks to wordpress and Merriam – Webster dictionary. I find it very interesting that ‘patina’ comes from ‘paten’. The paten – a small but very important tray – is at the highest point of the Holy Mass in the Catholic Church. There, the bread offered is transformed totally into the body of Christ. And we partake of it. We do so to feed our souls, hoping in the eternal life while living fully this present one.

Standard