! F e i s t y P e n !

Revival for Dummies - Dr. Ogunwale Abayomi

2011-12-23T15:26:00.000+01:00

Hey!! Merry Christmas to you all! I hope you have been well. I have been on a blogging break for about 3 months; a break necessitated by a change of focus. It has been an interesting September- December and I'm glad to say I’ve learnt many important things. I would start a new blogging season again in January, but until then, I want to share with you something a dear friend of mine wrote on Facebook recently.

This is particularly important as we are starting a new year in 8 days and you know as the name implies, "new"... the plan is to make all things new. Read this and be made new even as the year become new.

Love.

Akan

Prologue:

Sometime last year, I hit rock bottom, spiritually that is. It was an inevitable, and totally logical but ugly finale to a decline that started some two, three years earlier. I had finally stopped struggling to stand - this race is not supposed to be a struggle in the first place by the way-, and slowly, the death that comes with sin had its jaws all over me. Looking back now, I can easily trace my decline to Sin, -read death- from the grey days of house job through service year, and later, residency. As the burden of medical practice gradually bore on me, the temptation to let go of some parts of my old, ‘safe’ life was overbearing. And piece by piece, I traded away my walk with Jesus, and plunged headlong into the stifling embrace of compromise, Sin and Shame. This Is not exactly a memoir of those dark days –for those of you who were looking forward to the juicy details of my fall; a chance to measure yourselves maybe, a little self justification perhaps, or the Ha! I knew that Zuma guy couldn’t be so straight speech . Well, I am sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps a one-on-one meeting may produce that pleasure, but hey this is Facebook, I can’t exactly put all of my filth out there you know.

Somewhere in the middle of my struggle for life, I retraced my way to the word in desperation, and Genesis one opened the floodgate of grace...

This note is written first in gratitude to a God that never forgets. And secondly, it is for the child who has missed the way –again-, the pastor who has ‘crossed a line’, beyond which men say there is no returning, and for the prodigal child who longs for the embrace of the father. This is him, calling out your name.

SOURCE SCRIPTURE: GENESIS ONE verses 1 -29

The entire book of Genesis is generally viewed as the book of beginnings. Well, it is not exactly that alone. It is actually the book of re-creation or revival. It is the elaborate story of God taking another shot at world-creation 101. In Genesis one, God took a second chance -auto-awarded no doubt-, and jump-started his pet project one more time. We must therefore understand that God indeed knows all about starting all over. The God of Moses, the failed Prince of Egypt; God Of Abraham, the seventy year old man in search of an ill defined destination; God of Peter, of Saul turned Paul, Of Jonah, Of Rahab and Rehab, Of Mary Magdalene, ...There is something infinitely powerful and Divine about starting again. Something exciting, something energizing maybe. Jehovah is the God of all those who apply for second chances. We have not a high priest who is not touched by our suffering...

Genesis 1:1 opens with a declaration of some sort; an outright and absolute statement that showed us clearly who was in charge.

Verse 1. In the beginning, GOD created the heavens and the earth, fullstop.

So be careful to trace every change that follows this point to the fact that: hey we are talking about God’s world here; his world, his problems, his yawaa mehn!

Note too that In between verses 1 and 2 are unreported millennial of the rebellion in heaven, and the casting away of angels.

...The Post cosmic-war years thus ended with the earth being void, empty, bottomless...Yeah God’s world was without form, jagajaga, upside down, a vacuum of needs, empty (barren, worthless, stripped) ...

Verse 2 b ..and the spirit of God brooded over the face of the waters...

LESSON 1- There can be no re-creation or revival without meditation.You must confront your mess from within. It is in the place of meditation that inspiration can visit. Brood over your peculiar situation till anger moves you; Or guilt, or shame does. Sometimes we must face the emptiness of our lives, and imagine a way out. God could have left the earth so, but he did not. So also we, despite our faults and our histories of recurrent failings, must never be afraid to start again. God took another chance; so can you.

Verse 3. And God said, Let there be light!!!

Lesson 2. There can be no revival without Light; for light is a metaphor for all kinds of illuminations: Maybe truth, a confession perhaps. Revival is impracticable without an honest assessment of the chaos that lies before and within. We must honestly confront the carcass of our failed lives and extract a commitment for change.God asked for light first! ‘'Hey, let’s see what we’ve got here’’,he must have bellowed. This first step is often the most difficult for most. We may also interpret the light as a call for confession to God, to a friend, or a pastor maybe. Sometimes God asks you ‘where are you’ not because he is blind to your predicament, but because he needs you to say it yourself. You must be able to articulate the co-ordinates of your plight, and if you are serious about getting a new life, you must be courageous enough to summon the lights!

Then, God began to speak more...

Lesson 3

There can be no revival without words. It is amazing how so many people think that the change they desire will come with only good intentions. Meditation is good; illumination, even better. But we must take the hunger for change further, and speak change. Release the word, let it work. We must be labile, and harness our creative faculties for the change we desire. John 1 revealed the creative potency of God’s word. And all through Genesis one, God constantly deployed his most creative element: His word, Jesus! We must let Jesus –the living word- loose into our situations. The rest will come naturally.

Verse 6-8

... And God separated the light from the darkness... He separated the water above from that below...

LESSON 4

Re-creation is an extensive study in separation. There must be separation for revival to proceed. Separation from all forms of factors that may inhibit change. There can be no new order, without separation. The story of genesis is all about a God who was dissatisfied with the world he had made, and who took up the gauntlet and confronted the issues at stake. You must take Charge!

Finally...

VERSE 26

And God said, let US...

The process of revival sometimes calls for conferencing, a pooling of virtues, of abilities, of grace(s). When it was time to make man, God called a conference. A divine ''lets-form-Voltron'' rally I imagine. It is therefore funny how men think they can effect sustainable change alone. You need at least one more partner: God.

We could also look at that call to make man from another angle.

Perhaps God, sensing the enormity of the task he faced, practically summoned himself. He called forth every resource , from every faculty that he had. Maybe he was trying to let us understand the need for total Focus. God changed the world with a fully made up mind: body, soul and spirit.

I will stop here because my fingers ache from typing from my diary.lol.

But as I learnt recently: little is much, when God is in it. (GT et all 2011)

We must never be afraid to start all over. As 2011 ends, we must run our fingers through the hair-locks of our lives, and where loose ends exist, we must set out to make them right again. The devil often tries to keep us in our old lives by suggesting how difficult it would be to start all over again. Start again Abeg, Ain't no shame innit !!!

There must be a reason why God created days and nights. I suspect he wanted to rid us of the fear of starting all over, and instill the courage for change in each of us.

Merry Xmas Y’all. Have a wonderful 2012.

It's Berry FeistyPen's birthday and that of her pen too!!

2011-09-23T16:06:00.000+01:00

It’s my birthday today. I feel very grateful to God for his grace and mercy in the past year.

All the afflictions and disappointments the devil intended for evil, the Lord turned around for good and for his purpose.

Interestingly also, this is the period Feisty Pen was conceived, although the first set of blog posts were put up around October last year and I've gone on to write over 70 pieces.

I look forward to a better year, increased creativity and more feistiness in my writing. Thank you to all who have encouraged through this writing journey; even complete strangers. I am grateful.

I’ll just like to add that life is richer when there’s a sense of purpose.

Bless!

My Juvenile muse - Potty training

2011-09-07T13:48:00.001+01:00

Hi everyone, I've been away for a few weeks and I did miss you all. I missed writing here. So I wrote this. Read and tell me what you think. It is creative non fiction inspired by my potty training experience. Of course I am the trainer. Not the trainee. ;)

18 months is a good time to want to be environmentally conscious. Americans tell me that I should try not to clog up land fills with non biodegradable diapers. Potty train the little man and let the poop go down into the toilet, flushed down into a dark abyss inhabited by Excreta Anonymous.

My reason is no less noble, but a bit self serving. Diaper money can become maintenance money for mummy and you know, a happy mummy is a happy baby, oh well and vice versa too.

So we will potty train. I will go to Ikota Shopping Complex and buy a po’. Yes, a po’. A potty. A small popo-ing basin for small people.

“Please can I have a potty”, I say to this lady sitting smack in the middle of baby paradise. Red, blue, yellow and green struggle to project an image on my retina. Retina only registers splendour. Toys, supplies and baby gear. Maybe if I had all the money in the world, I would buy all these for my child and hopefully we can all just lie in the middle of it and breathe in the air and surely we wouldn’t need food again.

“I’ll be right back”, she says, interrupting my reverie.

She returns with a large box. On the carton, there are all sorts of inscriptions, but I look for the one that concerns me. It is ‘potty’. Is this a potty?

Ah yes, I see it. Potty training made easy. Enjoy training your infant. We make it fun. He will drag you to it every morning. We guarantee no accidents in your home. Yes, trust dramatic Americans who call angry winds Katrina and Irene to call a simple discharge from a child’s buttocks an accident.

“How much I ask?”

4, 800 naira.

“You have to be joking”, I say, but no, there’s nothing on her face to suggest a joke.

“Alright”, I say and with a sigh, I count the money. I am wise. If diapers cost that much, surely I can spend 4,800 to ensure I do not ever need diapers. A fixed asset to prevent recurrent expenditure. Yes, a mother must have an accounting background.

I take my purchase home.

“Hey son, here it is. This will save your life and mine. Deliver you from accidents and me from bankruptcy.”

Slowly we open the box and we reveal a shiny red and blue house. Yes, a potty house. In this house is where you find the basin. In this house there is also a battery operated stereo. They say that as soon as the lid is put up, music effervesces from the sides of the basin. Welcome to potty time, it sings in a high pitched melody. Relax and have fun. And also, as any pressure is applied on the seat as the pressure of a child’s buttocks, the rubber flap on the seat inflates and gives a whoosh feeling which should entice the child to want to sit there longer.

“We shall see”, I mutter. “We start tomorrow by not wearing any diapers and allowing 4, 800 to work on my behalf.”

Tomorrow arrives and I lead my child to it as soon as he awakes. We lift the lid and the squeaky voice- over explodes into the room. Child is amused. I push his bum to it and mimic little groaning sounds. Rubber inflates and tickles said bum. The place becomes an amusement park.

I return later to see a lone poop in the bowl. “Nice, the ministry is moving.”

After few days of half successes and full failures, I arrive home one day to a spectacle. A string of excreta line the tiles from sitting room into toilet. Where is this child? Where is the potty?

Potty is in the child’s hands. Opening and closing the lid is nice amusement. Mechanical energy is translated into sound energy and that is cool. Pressing down the seat flaps with little fingers leads to rubber inflation and whoosh.. nice. He is grinning.

This plan that I and the potty manufacturers had was our plan. This is baby’s plan. To be amused . Popo-ing occurs only as a side attraction.

4, 800 naira is the price for amusement. A plastic potty basin worth 480 naira is an asset stripped of delusional fantasy. A mother must have an accounting back ground.

Humor In My Bible; The Feisty Pen of God

2011-08-24T14:36:00.000+01:00

Hello all,

I haven’t written in over 2 weeks. Please bear with me. There is a book I read and enjoy so much. It is the Bible. Apart from the fact that I draw the inspiration for my daily living from it, it excites me to see and know that God is the creator of humor and utilizes it to bring us closer to him. You know the Bible was written by men of God who wrote as they were moved by the Holy Spirit, which is why it is called the word of God.

Just yesterday, I remembered that in Proverbs 19: 24 the Bible said, “the slothful (lazy man) buries his hand in his dish and will not so much as bring it to his mouth again”.

I read it and laughed hard. Do you realize the degree of laziness it will take someone to not be able to complete the task of feeding himself, short circuiting it at the return leg of bringing his hand back to mouth? Extreme laziness, I tell you. I decided then to jump up and complete the tasks I have procrastinated so that I would not be like this man who cannot even lift his hand back to his mouth.

Another funny thing I saw, and because I’m a parent, it resonated with me.

In Prov 22: 15 it says, “Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction will drive it far from him.”

Notice the use of the word ‘bound’. If you studied Chemistry you would know that binding between elements occurs as a result of a chemical affinity, so Sodium (Na) binds with Chlorine(Cl) because Na has an extra electron in its outer shell and Cl needs one and so they bind. In short they are in love and they form NaCl (common salt)

So that would mean, that the heart of a child has an affinity for foolishness so the only thing to do is to break the bond (Doesn’t all this just sound funny)

So just maybe it’s saying that before you get to the point where you begin to bind and cast to rid your teenage or adult children of perceived demonic manipulation evident by their foolish ways, it’s best to apply the rod of correction early so that the demon (foolishness) will go far from them and keep applying the rod so that the demon stays at a safe distance, eh... J

Tell me if these Scriptures make you laugh or smile in the least, and do you as a matter of habit enjoy the feisty pen of God? Watch this space for more of these.

10 things Nollywood has taught me

2011-08-04T12:08:00.009+01:00

Today, Nollywoodhastaughtme is trending worldwide on Twitter. It was No 4 thirty minutes ago. Here are 10 lessons that Nollywoodhastaughtme. Add yours in the comments and follow me on Twitter @chocberry.

1. Nollywoodhastaughtme that it is unfair to discriminate against the blind, if you can’t see there’s no reason why you can’t watch via the sound track.

2. Nollywoodhastaughtme that the middle class doesn’t make for exciting film making, people are either very rich or very poor, or inevitably hurtling to either extreme.

3. Nollywoodhastaughtme that while in their homes, real people are never in a state of undress, looking dishevelled or just browsing on the internet. They must be either going or coming or having a meeting.

4. Nollywoodhastaughtme that you should never stand in your parlour and talk. As a wife, you must sit on the farthest side of the couch from your husband and interview your prospective riff-raff son in law who is at the farthest end of the room. And yes, you must wear your gele and have your arms in your lap.

5. Nollywoodhastaughtme that rich people never eat food from plates while sitting on their couch and watching TV, only poor men do that and they always eat ‘swallow’, all rich people eating is done at an imposing glass dining table with matching plates.

6. Nollywoodhastaught me that a two year courtship is equivalent to a five minute race along the beach.

7. Nollywoodhastaughtme that nothing happens by mistake. If Patience Ozokwor shows up, someone is going to die.

8. Nollywoodhastaughtme that a piano thump is a substitute for artfully built up suspense, just like ten- years- after in cursive font covers a multitude of sins.

9. Nollywoodhastaught me that child actors must look like they’ll rather be anywhere else.

10. Nollywoodhastaught me that pastors are complicit in making a faithful wife stay and endure her husband’s extreme philandering and eventual spousal abuse. She is always praying while he is getting his groove on!

And a quick one to crack your belly culled from Twitter, Nollywoodhastaughtme that it is possible to skpe through a calabash!

Beauty Is In The Eyes Of The Beholder

2011-08-01T12:56:00.003+01:00

You walk into Beauty Is In The Eyes Of The Beholder Salon down the Road with high hopes and aspirations of a harvest of compliments all week long. It is Saturday and your upkeep day. After walking a few kilometres, you happen on to the salon because it is the only one that has a generator. A group of girls mill around the front. They are all busy. But you know salons always have space to take one more. You appraise quickly and see Madam in a corner. You know her because she is different. Her hair is well done and she is smiling. You smile back, hoping she has time for you. But someone shows up from behind before you have a chance to speak. The first thing you notice is her bad hair.

"Madam, wetin you wan do?"

You look at her with a side eye. Your heart is slamming against the sides of your ribs.

"Ah, she fit do hair, the Madam calls. She will handle you well well".

You do not believe that but you submit your hair and the prospects of your admiring week long glances to the mercy of this ghetto queen. You follow meekly as a sheep led to slaughter to the wash basin.

From the start, you find out this is going to be a tough ride. Once your head has been plonked down into the basin, you know there will be trouble.

W-H-A-M, W-H-A-M comes the ice cold water and trickles down the side of your Mac powder.

"What is this", you scream.

"Sorry madam", she whispers, wiping your face and glancing furtively at her real madam.

And she proceeds to wash. The stimuli of the sharp acrylic nails scraping at your scalp bypass your brain and send a direct message to your neurones. You bite your tongue and squeeze your eyes tight to stifle your rage. And after another W-H-A-M, W-H-A-M, water trickling down face and a hasty sorry madam, the bath err.. wash is over and your hair is wrapped up in a towel, turban style.

Now to locate a seat. You want one that is in full sight of Madam. You figure if she keeps an eye, not much can go wrong. You get one. Madam smiles. Your reply is weak. Your stylist asks for your style. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. A two hour internet browsing session has prepared you. You tell her what you want. Layered look, tapered at the temples, volume at the back, side bang swept off the face. Taraji. P. Henson. You tell yourself that if she doesn’t understand, that surely she will say so. And so, when she proceeds to start without another word, you relax.

She hands you a magazine. Beauty Is In The Eyes Of The Beholder salon does not stock Vogue, Glamour or Essence. A frayed three year edition of City People will do. You glance at the headlines. Turai Yaradua’s assets are worth twenty million? Snort.

Occasionally, you look up to see how things are going but your hair doesn’t seem to be taking any recognizable shape or form. What was it you said again... layered look? Do you keep quiet so that nobody will say you are a noise maker or do you say your mind? You decide to say your mind. She is ready for you. She has seen your kind before. Mind sayers.

With a smile, she tells you to be calm. It’s all working together for your good. You think that has to be a Scripture, but well...

Madam glances your way every now and when you try to catch her eye and give a pleading look they move on before any information can be passed.

At last, you see that all the weave is gone and there is no space on your head.

You look up to behold yourself in the mirror and ... and ... you feel the tears at the back of your throat.

For three hours lost. For human hair already shredded. For 2, 500 you know you must pay. For, for... Because not that it is particularly ugly. You see, you are pretty and you cannot possibly look so bad. But.... But... There is that but... and only you understands.

There are no layers, nothing tapers, nothing bangs to the side. And then, it hits you. Beauty Is In The Eyes Of The Beholder.

The cries of ‘Madam, your hair is fine’ fills the air.

Twitter Hall

2011-07-26T14:46:00.007+01:00

I tried to write a short illustration of what happens on Twitter using Whizy, Teman and Blaze as major characters. They are birds, mind you and they tweet constantly. I hope you'll read it and give me your thoughts.

It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was shining outside. Whizy and Teman were perched on the window sill of the large Twitter hall, and because they were the earliest students to enrol, they were able to secure the choicest sill in the hall. It was located right in the corner, so they did not need to crane their necks. They had a bird’s eye view of everything that was going on.

An interesting variety of plummage was displayed across various ends of the hall. Birds of the same feather flocked together. And there was the constant din. Raucous laughter pierced the air ever so often. A tiny bird lay in the corner. She tethered on death’s door, after an episode of rolling on the floor. With eyes wide open, she struggled to remember the joke.

Beaks moved incessantly. Blaze, a Malabar grey hornbill who was across the hall was holding a discussion about why he would miss Amy Winehouse. Someone asked for the name of any of her hit songs. There was silence. His big ever friendly friend; Google helped fill in the blank. “A dull fan is a famz”, somebody said. He was called a hater.

Blaze, eager to keep the conversation going continued by saying that the living must go on and introduced the subject of his new I-pad. This bit of news was re-echoed by his winged friends. Prayers of thanksgiving laced with personal supplication were added along the way. One of them claimed he didn’t believe the story. A picture materialized quickly. The nay-sayer was quick to conclude that thousands of such pictures could be obtained from the library of Blaze’s altruistic friend. He was called a hater.

Whizy who was listening to Blaze, whispered to Teman that he wished the result of the US visa lottery would come out in his favour. That he wanted to quit college in Nigeria, fly over and take up music as a profession. Whizy said one of his mentors didn’t go to college but was rolling in $. Anything Whizy said was shortened. Teman only laughed. Coarse, fitful laughing. Teman tried to say something meaningful but couldn’t and so he just kept laughing and rolling on the floor. Whizy hissed and called him a hater.

From the corner of his eye, Whizy sighted a lone figure at the far end of the hall. Her feather pattern was one he rarely saw. A few birds passed by her and when they couldn’t spot the expected hues, they moved on and refused to sit with her. Her beak was pursed, opened only occasionally. Her eyes roamed the hall taking in the sights and sounds.

Whizy thought she might make a good friend. He flew over and caught her in a moment of silence.

‘You look out of place, beautiful one, what are you doing?

‘Thinking’, she replied.

‘Don’t think, Whizy said, just tweet’.

The Politics of the Nigerian Blog Awards

2011-07-18T13:14:00.003+01:00

While on my blog rounds one morning three weeks ago, I got a message on Facebook from a fellow nominee that Feisty Pen had received 7 blog nominations at the Nigerian Blog Awards. The tone of that message set the pace for my perceptions towards the ensuing campaign.

“You go fear fear. 7 nominations??!!! Only you.! Na you biko!!!

I laughed. Indeed, na me biko, I thought, and now I have to prove that.

Let me clarify by saying that the 7 categories were the ones I asked folks that I be nominated in. They were the categories that I felt my blog fit in and I would have a good chance of clinching. My blog is new; less than 1 year, I am Nigerian Based, I write humour, I inspire from time to time, I have a unique voice to my writing, and of course it was nice to expect to take the World Cup home; Nigerian Blog of the Year.

So, I set about campaigning. I did a blog post, notified certain friends who read my blog on Facebook, posted on Twitter a few times, set up an event on Facebook; although people kept ‘attending’ rather than voting and had to be subsequently reminded.

My thinking then was: if you asked to be nominated, the least you can do is give it a fair shot.

I understood what it was all about. There was an emotionally charged thread on the Nigerian Blog Awards site, and someone was disparaging the politicising of the awards and another responded that it was a case of Oscars vs MTV viewers choice awards.

The former being an award to reward excellence based on certain tangible parameters outlined by the Academy and the latter based on popularity and the ability of the artiste to mobilise fans to vote.

The Nigerian Blog Awards is like the latter. Fullstop. And I knew it. I am not deluded into thinking I am the best writer in Nigeria because Feisty Pen won Best Writing Blog. Infact I laugh just writing that. Tolu Ogunlesi does have a blog, after all.

Are there better writing blogs in Nigeria? There may be. But, they did not subject themselves for the voting process.

I know I'm not the only one who has said that the Most Beautiful in Nigeria is simply the most beautiful girl among the contestants because of one girl down the street who looks far better than this crowned queen.

I have learnt a few things from this awards.

First I got an aha moment about my long time amazement of how the PDP has been able to rule Nigerian since 1999. Were Obasanjo, Yaradua, and Goodluck the best leaders in the country? Subjective responses are expected. If the appointment to Presidency was given by an Academy of Leadership set up by God himself, would these guys have won? Note that this God is the God of all creation and is.. ahem .. de-tribalized.

We never really know and I do not believe that God installs all leaders. I know he leaves certain things to us.

Secondly, rigging aside, why is this behemoth able to lay hold on the largest chunk of the voting population. Resources! Of all kinds. Financial, human, etc.

Take the Nigerian Blog Awards as an example. What resources will one need to win in many categories?

In this case the typical voter is one with a valid email address irrespective of color, race and creed. So, the person who can reach the largest number of valid email address owners is the winner. You will need to spend lots of time near your computer or phone, be unashamed in soliciting votes from family, friends and enemies, be creative in attracting attention to yourself and the blog and be resilient all the way.

This is precisely why the pure technocrats in this county may never rule us. They simply do not have what it takes to go this route and will at best be appointed to head ministries which ... er... in some ways is still politicised.

So Goodluck is now President of Nigeria after elections that were adjudged largely free and fair, and all speculations as to the truth of that belong in another post. Not this one. In this one, I am saying that the expectation of Nigeria is, well, as you are now President, show us that we can at least show you off and not feel ashamed about it.

The onus is on Goodluck to prove himself. The onus is on Feisty Pen to prove a point. By writing better and better.

Anybody who has won an award and does not recognize the honour and the expectation of improvement must simply lack understanding.

Your integrity is at stake to prove that you have not become like all those political career men who are round pegs in square holes and which we are all too happy to criticize.

So since Feisty Pen is voted Best Writing Blog by the NBA 2011, it is my request that all subsequent posts from this period on are judged as if the reader were reading a book, a short story or an article.

And oh, last lesson, I do after all have a political bone.

Nigerian Blog Awards 2011

2011-07-16T12:43:00.004+01:00

I am very grateful. This is a very special award because it is what I am about. Thank you.

Creative Planker Award; In the Lagos Flood

2011-07-11T11:42:00.002+01:00

Planking; [verb] To lie down flat with arms to the side mimicking a wooden plank and usually in unusual locations. Activity not completed until picture posted on the internet and friends ooh and aah or hiss! (Feistionary)

All month long, it has clogged my news feeds; Twitter and Facebook (follow me on Twitter if you aren’t @chocberry). I’ve seen all sorts of pictures.

Like Funke Akindele’s suliaish pose

or Dr Sid’s extreme silliness.

or @Lagoshunter who is perhaps showing us how he would like to lie in his grave with that dangerous 3rd Mainland bridge stunt

Oh well, at least it was voluntary. But consider involuntary planking. A situation where you have no intention of planking but find yourself planked. Like the one we’ve been seeing all week long. A man is plonking knee deep in flood water and all of a sudden , he misses his step and plonk, er actually plank ...in the water. Now, that’s a creative plank. Picture an Olympics swimmer, only that the water all around is brown, muddy hyacinth infested water.

The rains in Lagos this year have been out of this world. I have to bite my tongue when I want to complain because I really do remember that I learnt seasons in Geography. Did y’all learn it? Yeah... they said the rainy season in Nigeria is April-July, then August Break .. rain resumes till Nov, dry season begins December till March. So, I might as well save my breath for things I can change.

The only planking I’ll really be doing now is planking before the Lord and there can be no pictures because God is a spirit (You knew that , right?) J

I plank before thee, Oh Lord of the rains.

I plank before thee, Oh Lord who answers the prayer of farmers in abundance.

Me and all of Team Feisty plank before thee, oh Lord, Rain your blessings upon us! Amen.

What I would do if I was deployed to Borno or Bauchi

2011-07-08T13:35:00.003+01:00

Find out what Berry would do if she were deployed as a youth corper to these regions.

I will NOT go ! :)

The Lagos Hawker; An Ode to Smelly Armpits

2011-07-04T17:27:00.002+01:00

I am hungry. I’m in traffic on my way back from work. The cars crawl; every car has to brake at a certain water puddle in front. Causes a chain reaction. Traffic stretches for miles. My thoughts on traffic mechanics are interrupted by noises from my stomach. Then I sight him. He is carrying a carton of Gala. UAC’s Gala is faded glory but I will make do. I stretch out my hand and signal to him.

I see him look up in delight and make a head start. Just then the car starts to move. I am not quite as relieved that the traffic is moving because I’ve just set a grown man on a wild goose chase. I search for him in the rear view mirror but he is nowhere to be seen. I sigh. Maybe another time.

Two minutes after, the car sputters to a stop. And then, he materializes as if from smoke. He is huffing and panting, the gala outstretched in his hand. I fear he is going to have a heart attack. I decide that I would abdicate the responsibility of CPR if that ever happens.

He smiles like he’s achieved an incredible feat. All he wants is my fifty naira.

I put out my hand to take the Gala and I see it over my head; a dense mass of nappy hair strands struggling to find a place in an already overcrowded lot. They are many. They look like they’ve been there since they first got there. It distracts me momentarily. My eyes dart from armpit to Gala, Gala to armpit.

He appears a bit impatient. His eyes are constantly roving; careful not to miss the nod from any other Gala buyers.

When I make the move to retrieve the Gala, the odour hits my nostrils with a ferocious force.

Instinctively, I hold in my breath. But not before I know what it smells like. Like day old sweat and stale Gala.

But he seems at peace with himself and the world. Smelly armpits are a part of his world. And so while he sorts out my change, he whistles like one who has just won a jackpot. One who has competed with the god of failure in a race and beat him. One who has smelly armpits as his trophy.

I think to myself that surely hawking cannot be for mere jokers or for dudes who are authorities on the merits of Botox. For what does Sure have in common with hawking. In a contest between aluminium chlorohydrate and hawker’s perspiration, the latter would swallow the former within minutes.

I sit back and eat the dried Gala. It tastes like cardboard but it does the job for which it is made. It calms the voices in my stomach but awakens new ones. The ones that remind me of my Lagos hawker with his smelly armpits. I look round for him and I see him; in a race with another colleague in the direction of a Jeep. He won. A woman puts out her head.

Will she smell it? What would she think? I am overly protective of him now. No one must ridicule him. This guy is in the right job. No soldier of hawking concerns himself with the affairs of civilians. Sure and CK One.

This is an ode to smelly armpits. With each whiff, you get a dose of hardwork and perseverance. A defiance to the sun and stares of Lagos.

A toast to the Lagos hawker. To your smelly armpits.

What's on your mind? Tell the Truth!!

2011-07-01T14:14:00.001+01:00

Facebook asks you what’s on your mind. You type the first thing that comes to mind, but forget what is truly filling you up. Like you’re planning to kill your wife or you plan to cruise the United States with boarding passes that are not yours.

A few days ago, it was reported that a man, Arowolo Akande murdered his wife in cold blood and cut up her body, attempted to flee but was rounded up by the police. Everyone eventually looked him up on Facebook and gleaned all they could from his profile. They said his page was full of Bible Scriptures. I didn’t check because by the time I got to it, the page had been taken down.

Yesterday, a Nigerian man was caught aboard a plane in Los Angeles and has been charged with being a stowaway and being in possession of 10 boarding passes, all of which did not bear his name.

The recent Facebook status on his page include many Bible inclined updates including this one

“Your God is for you and he has filled you with his precious Holy Spirit.”

“When I told God to use me i didn't know he'll take me serious. Here I am. Use more of me..."

Is your faith all there is to you or are you much more?

Do you feel like you want to kill someone or even yourself? You need to TALK to someone. Do not keep it to yourself. Don’t go ahead and update your status saying “Life is beautiful with Jesus” when you are battling incredible rage at the next person.

And also, tell someone if you notice that someone close to you is acting crazy. This includes husband, wife, mother, father, friend etc.

And lastly, when in public, be careful who you talk to and how you talk. Who knows who has a dagger in his shirt. *sigh*

Why I Blog

2011-06-29T13:32:00.000+01:00

Hey,

How do you feel today? I have been wrapped up in the euphoria of the blog nominations but snapped out of it when I realized that it is posting truly interesting and inspiring blogs that got me here in the first place.

I took up blogging in Oct 2010 amidst calls from my friends on Face book. I had written my first flash memoir on my birthday 23 rd Sept and some people thought they heard a voice there needing to reach the world. I've gone on to write these amongst many others.

Short Stories

Cold Feet,
Cock Crow At Dawn,
For The Love Of BlackBerry,
Kini,
ButterFlies In My Stomach,
Familiarly Pushy,
Small Pikin,
My Three Patients,
Living,
Mad World,
Choir Blues (1)

non fiction pieces

How Not To Be A Rat In My House
Dear N
Of Legacies And Remembrances
You Need Me To Feel Good
The Fragility Of The Artistic Ego
Humor's Limit
Association of Witches and Wizards... Seriously??
Correspondence Between Berry Feisty Pen and Mr Aliyu Umar
This Is Some Bizarre Stuff; Like Seriously?
The Perfect Church; How Perfect?

Pilgrim Progress on Ynaija.com

How Not To Be Spirit Filled
Will You Really Walk Past?
Who Do Men Say I Am
Let's Paint This Town Red
The Fourth Man In This Furnace
Too Young For A Legacy?
My Mess, My Growth
New Beginnings; Starting All Over Again
Thou Shall Not Compare

Opinion Pieces

Our Apathy, Our Undoing(Sahara Reporters, Bella Naija)
What Exactly Is Your Colour (234 Next)
Madam, Your Hair Is Due (234 Next)
Fela, Not Without Honour ( Bella Naija)
Lives; Not Federal, Not State (234 Next)

I blog to

Keep my creative juices flowing- It is incredibly difficult to keep getting better at writing if you don’t write. I mean, it’s really that simple and I owe whatever more I know about writing to the blogging experience.

Find an outlet to encourage and inspire- Sometimes, there are just words in my head that I feel I shouldn’t be the only one hearing so I blog to let out the voice.

I do not blog:

For popularity- I am not moved by the number of followers, the comments etc and certainly not blog nominations. Encouraged by it, but not driven by it. I simply love to write.

To belong to a certain clique or group- I actually cringe at the thought of being herded into some kind of clique. The group effect never quite got me. I am a professional writer and take what I do very seriously.

For financial reward- When I write my novel and get it published, then I would expect people to buy it and of course earn money as a result but this blog is sacred; like a scrap book of sorts and a repository of all I’ve ever written that makes sense. I will not blog just anything to get a certain number of hits or reduce quality so that the Google ads can be clicked on.

The 7 nominations are well deserved in my opinion. I would have felt like a fraud any way else.

Read this blog and then VOTE if you think Feisty Pen deserves this

I love you for free sugars

Vote FeistyPen for the Nigerian Blog Awards

2011-06-28T15:15:00.001+01:00

Hi,

How are you doing today? Voting for The Nigerian Blog Awards has started. Feisty pen had 7 nominations!! *Drum Roll Please* Thanks to you lovely people out there who nominated me. The categories are

3. Best Blog by a Nigerian Based Blogger

4. Best Book, Poetry or Writing Blog

14. Best New Blog

26. Most Humorous Blog

28. Most Inspiring Blog

29. Most Unique Voice in a Blog

30. Nigerian Blog of the Year

All you do is enter your name and your email adress (a valid one) and click beside Feisty Pen to vote in each of these categories.

They will send a confimation link to your email adress so that you can confirm that it is indeed you sending the vote. Thank you guys as you vote for me.

Here is the

VOTING PAGE

Please drop a comment if you have any problems with this process. Please and please vote and vote and vote and tell your friends and family. I am very grateful.
Bless!

Lives; Not Federal, Not State

2011-06-22T17:03:00.001+01:00

The recent road accident involving the deaths and injury of school children along the Lagos Ajah-Epe Expressway is a failure of government, especially at the local and state level.

The driver of the Corner Stone school bus was said to have been speeding while trying to negotiate a bend, thereby running into vehicles coming at breakneck speed from the opposing lane.

Parents have lost their heirs; one woman lost the two children she had after waiting for years to conceive. Wait or no wait, they were her babies.

The Ajah-Epe Expressway is no stranger to accidents. Just two days after the school bus incident, a mangled saloon car was seen at the side of the road, along with a bus and another saloon in different states of ruin. The fate of its occupants are unknown. God help them if they were rushed to the chronically inept health facilities that line the corridor.

The government of Lagos State has failed the users of this expressway in many ways.

Actually the use of the word express is an oxymoron. Expresses exist out of town, where they link metropolis to metropolis, and are usually not located in heavily-populated areas.

The Epe Expressway was once an express. It no longer is. Many people now live on either side of the road. From the Ajah but stop to Epe, houses, businesses and churches line the aisle, with citizens, including small children, walking unguarded along the road.

When you then consider the speed at which drivers (who are still of the illusion that they are driving on an expressway) use, it is not hard to imagine why there are so many accidents.

The government and its relevant parastatals have not carried out any public awareness campaigns concerning the speed limits that should be obeyed on this road. Mobile accident units like those available on the Third Mainland Bridge are visibly absent. The road is being treated as a no man's land, when it is actually home to thousands of Lagos' nouveau riche.

Another major contributor to the incessant accidents is the large number of trailers and tankers that ply this route. They carry the materials for use in constructing the many buildings sprouting up in areas along the corridor. From Sangotedo to Awoyaya to Lakwe, the trailers and tankers zoom past, despite being heavily laden with materials. One tanker driver once confessed that after working back and forth, day and night, he gets so exhausted that he places a large rock on the accelerator, so that his leg can get some rest.

What time will this man have to awaken from his stupor to kick that rock out of the way when he is seconds away from a head-on collision with a bus filled with school children?

By now, the Fashola-led government of Lagos State should have threatened these trailer and tanker drivers with a ban from plying this route if they fail to comply with simple common sense safety measures when driving on this ‘express'.

The driver must be of a certain age, chosen as an indicator of maturity, must not drink alcohol, must be of even temper and must be able to drive!

Hidden dangers

On my way back from work the other night, our cab driver suddenly let out a loud yelp. A form had just whizzed past the front of the cab, which had been moving ‘expressly'.

We missed the man by a hair's breadth. He was wearing black and looked no different from the area around him. There are no street lights. Of course, this is not a Lekki-Epe problem alone, but it is a problem and it is costing lives. One may argue that the street lights can not be put up now, because the Hi-Tech construction workers are advancing the work towards the area and may eventually pull out any light poles when road expansion begins.

But, something must still be done before a large number of citizens for whom the road is being made die from invisibility related accidents.

Floodlights, reflectors and speed breakers and are some of many short-term interventions that may be used by the government to ensure that drivers can notice things and persons on the road. Encouraging people to wear brightly-coloured clothes when walking on the road shoulders at night is a public safety strategy which the locals must be made aware.

The construction of the road also needs to be hastened because of the importance of the proposed extra lanes where the vehicles turning into the other lanes can signal and wait without causing accidents and traffic.

It is interesting to note that when all the noise was on about the presidential elections, I held it close to my chest that the local and state government elections of the executive and the legislature were more important because they affect the daily lives of the citizenry much more than the government at the centre. And the argument that the road is a federal Road, and should not be part of the state's burden does not hold any water. Our lives are lives. Not federal or state lives.

Hi guys, this opinion of mine was published in the Next Newspapers print and online edition in May 15 2011. It didn't get much coverage because I only knew it had been published a week after. But I would like you to read this and tell me a few things. I have written and published no less than 7 opinion pieces since I began serious writing in 2010. I have always favoured the humorous, conversational style. I would like you to read this and offer your opinion not only on the content but also on the style and if you found it engaging. Gotta know if I should be publishing any more opinions.

Thanks much.

Berry

Choir Blues (1)

2011-06-21T17:47:00.003+01:00

You might want to read this first: SMALL PIKIN

Mrs Effiong last sang in the choir in Secondary School. When she moved with her parents and siblings to Lagos in 1989, she was quickly enrolled into Form 2 and when the school choir needed a replacement for the Carol Service, she was called on to try.

She had done well at the time. Her singing voice had proven to have the texture and pitch absent in her speaking voice. So when her husband, Udoh Effiong suggested to her that she pick a department in the church where she might serve the Lord, she replied, with a cheerful certainty- Choir.

They were sitting in the parlour after they returned from church. Nsese was on the floor, playing with her rag doll. The windows were open, the curtains pulled to the side; there was no power.

Mrs Effiong threw down her head tie revealing her hair net under which her bob was wrapped.

“I enjoyed the preaching today, she said. I bought the tape for you. They were doing buy- one- get one- free, so I bought you today’s and last week’s. Very cheap, just 100 naira, she said.

“But I gave you 200 naira apart from Nse’s offering, why didn’t you buy all four for the past month? he asked.

“How many can you listen to at a time, next week I’ll buy jo, no use tying down money”.

Udoh didn’t bother replying. He could never win. So he changed the subject and landed on the issue of what department to join.

Since Nsese’s birth a year and a half ago and throughout the ten months of the pregnancy, Mrs Effiong had been in what Udoh and his Presbyterian leaders would call ‘visitor in God’s house’ mode.

The Pastor had once preached a message: They that dwell and they that visit. The punch line of the sermon to which several of the congregants all chorused ‘Preach it’ was that people who dwell in homes have the responsibility to clean and take care of it but visitors were exempt as they were going to leave soon after they came.

So, it was understood that the message was an allegory castigating those who didn’t do anything to help in the church but were obviously not visitors. Mrs Effiong was one of them, so while her husband taught the Sunday School children, she became wracked with guilt and dredged out of her memory her choir singing days in Greater Heights Secondary.

“So you will attend the rehearsals on Tuesday, Mr Effiong said.

"Yes", she replied dragging Nsese to the bedroom to change her soiled diapers.

Presbyterian Church was located on the intersection between Salvation Army street and Macaulay way on the Mainland Bypass. As Mrs Effiong alighted from the bus and crossed the street, she couldn’t help admiring the tall glass building stained with gold and bright green hues. She thought it was beautiful even though slightly outrageous but the church had loved the final creation after what seemed like years and years of sowing and sacrificing.

She met Ijeoma outside alighting from the bike that had brought her. Ijeoma was an extremely light skinned lady who sang lead especially in songs that required a knowledge of Igbo and when she saw Mrs Effiong, she cut her speech to the quick. ‘Are you mad?’ and other such questions were on her lips to ask of the bike man who had just splashed brown, muddy water on her skirt. But as a lead singer, she figured it would be bad example to a young worker.

Mrs Effiong smiled. A look of understanding passed between them. These guys can really be mad, her eyes seemed to be reassuring.

They greeted and walked in together. A man was at the piano at the far side of the hall and a group of men and women were seated along rows of chairs at the front. Mrs Effiong could see a woman slapping at her weave so hard, her head bobbed from side to side.

Although she was already known by most people because of her husband, she still needed to stand up and say her name and what part she intended to sing. After the introductions came voice training. The choir master who introduced himself as Mr Ben said that she needed to justify her claim by singing the alto part to a popular chorus.

It was to be call and response. When Mrs Effiong sang it exactly how he had sang it; straight melody and without the barest hint of a harmony, someone at the back sniggered. Mrs Effiong raised her eyebrows. You must not know ‘bout me!

We'll continue tomorrow. Did you enjoy how this started? Tell me in your comments.

Bless! :)

Father's Day: What My Father Taught Me

2011-06-20T17:10:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was Father’s day. I dropped a line for my father on Facebook (amazing isn’t it), because he was out of town and I couldn’t reach him by phone.

I started to think about what having him as my father meant to me.

I remember being six in the 80’s and attending Christ Chapel meetings with him. Tunde Joda’s baritone and the sharp punk he sported are my earliest memories of my Christian faith. My father got an earlier start on the evangelical, way before my mum and introduced me to a world of speaking in tongues, a ferocious appetite for Bible reading and a love for singing husky alto/tenor hymn parts.

He taught me to read and to love language. My mother (of sweet, blessed memory) was always the one who taught me Maths, and my father got the part as English teacher. He helped me construct those English essays, and with his characteristic cursive flourish, he would scribble the biggest words my seven year old mind could appreciate at the time.

He taught me hard work and diligence. Growing up, I watched him like clockwork, up at 4, on the road by 5.30 for that Government job that helped pay our bills.

He taught me laughter and I know that this is where I got my love for humour. He would regale my siblings and I with tales of the same ‘Fatima’ story, and each time with a different punch line. He would repeat the jokes his father had told him in that unique way an Ibibio man gurgles his words.

He sowed the seed for journaling. I remember that he scribbled everything. The diaries that came in each new year were his best presents. I once stumbled on a page where he wrote all the years up until 2020 and how old his children would be and what he hoped they would have accomplished. He kept all our report cards and school fees invoices (yep you read right) from Nursery School till High School. Of course you know that means he had all the Nepa bills and receipts.

As I grew older and began to romanticise my childhood less, I began to see my father as the man that he was and not the godlike figure I had earlier on adored. It changed me. In more ways than one. But a deeper change superseded all others. And that was a deep, abiding love and appreciation for the human that he is. Strenghts and weaknesses and all. So Instead of waiting until his funeral (which is still far, far off, I hope) I chose today to celebrate my father, my sire, my friend. And in realizing that it took the unique qualities of two people to make me, I chose to celebrate the man as I have celebrated the woman.

To you, daddy, Happy Father’s day, you did better than most.

P.S Take your time today to celebrate the one you choose to call Father. Don’t wait much longer.

What Knowing Can Do To Your Life

2011-06-17T12:28:00.003+01:00

In my previous post, I was talking about making choices and how difficult that can be. I ended by asking you to think about what was good for you.

You’ve heard the phrase; ‘make an informed decision’, which presupposes that critical information is the bedrock of quality decisions.

This applies in little things as well as in big things. Do you know that the difference between looking like an old bag lady and looking like a queen (which everybody is capable of) will simply depend on the information of what your body looks like and how you can bring out the best from it?

The decision to order shrimps at Cactus will depend on the information of your stomach’s predisposition to sea food. If you are not informed about your allergies, you could end up with swollen eyes and itchy throat on an emotionally charged first date (like Will Smith in Hitch) and we don’t want that, do we?

So, we need to be informed about ourselves, our dreams, our aspirations. Choices become easier to make when there is information. What information do you have about that man/woman, or that business, or that academic program?

I will also not try to assume you should want what everybody wants you to want.

Deep down in your heart, you may really not feel like being successful. I think you should be though, successful that is. But it’s not my choice after all. You may just be content with being mediocre. But at least, it will be your choice. So when you’re sixty and you look back at your life, you can say, with no regret, “this is what I wanted.”

Statistics tell us that the No 1 regret among the top five regrets of the death bed is: I wish I had the courage to live a life true of myself, and not what others expected of me. Bitter is the man who arrives at a destination he does not remember aspiring to reach. So if YOU want to be successful, please be by all means.

I know you may be wondering about all the “informed choices” you’ve made in the past that took you to places you did not intend. I’ll say, are you pretty sure they were informed? The right information? Ok, maybe.

Which brings me to my next point. Since you are not the only one in the world, and you have to interact with countless others and exist in relation to the forces of life, animate and inanimate, there is a high probability that the choices of others may affect the results of your own choices. So what do you do then, you ask.

Make a fresh choice, baby! And each time, keep asking yourself, “what do I want”. Every moment is a choice and choices come together to form your life.

We’ll talk more soon. Remember to make a choice to nominate this blog http://www.berryfeistypen.blogspot.com/ for the Nigerian Blog awards at www.nigerianblogawards.com/register.php . An informed choice, I’ll say.

Bless!

Is This What You Want?

2011-06-15T11:24:00.001+01:00

I used to hate choosing. It's the reason why I hated shopping. Going up to department stores and looking at racks and racks of clothes, my mind would go numb because I couldn't get myself to make a decision.

I was the kind of person who would say "anything" with a wry shrug in response to "what would you like".

So I usually got anything. Bought any clothes. Let the stylist do anything with my hair. Ordered anything at the restaurant. Because, I simply had a problem with choosing.

Another thing I used to do well was let people make decisions for me.

"Oh, Akan, which one would you take?"

"Just pick anyone you like, I'm fine with your choice", I would respond to my current choosing contractor.

I abdicated the responsibility of decision making because I thought that as long as I didn't make the choices personally, I couldn't be held responsible for the fall out. But I was wrong. I was. It was my body, my life after all.

In making what you would call big decisions, I've always been a bit impetuous. I reasoned that by deciding quickly, I could get over the stress of thinking and wondering and analyzing. The what ifs. Argggh. I really hated those. It didn't always work out. Sometimes it did. Like when deciding whether to pray or not. I just did. It's always good to pray. But sometimes, not thinking through my decisions have landed me in hot soup. But at the time, I didn't know I turned on the temperature by not thinking through.

I. Am. Now. A. Changed. Person.

I realise now that we are all products of our daily choices; big and small. What that has meant is that I've had to learn the art of decision making. Ah, yes, it's an art apparently.

One of the most important aspects of this is knowing and clarifying what is best for you. So, essentially, everything you do is deliberate because you have a set of guidelines in front of you. Of course flexibility is needed, but even that is within predetermined limits. So you keep asking, "how far am I willing to go?"

If you decide to become the third wife of an Alhaji, it had better be what you planned to do. But I digress.

All I'm saying is you must know what is good for you. So what is good for you? Think about it. I'll continue this in a rejoinder. Stay with me!

First Lady of the Federal Republic of Nigeria- O ga ju!

2011-06-09T13:34:00.001+01:00

One picture equals a thousand words.

Onobello.com (Photographer is TY Bello)

Total Charge: Spirit, Soul and Body (2)

2011-05-27T16:01:00.001+01:00

Hello everyone. In my previous POST, I had declared that I was taking charge of my spirit, soul and body. In that post, I talked about taking charge of the spirit and explained that our spirits were our core.

In this post, I’ll be talking about how I intend to take charge of my soul.

The soul/mind is the seat of the intellect, will and emotions. It is that part of you that connects to other human beings and specifically gets nourished when you have loving, peaceful relationships with other members of the world.

These are the areas I need to get on lock down.

Intellect- For about three months now, I have been reading extensively and I’ve found it so rewarding especially since it has been the one period where I have not been studying to pass any exams. I have been learning about slavery, African American history, the Holocaust, Anti Semitism, racial stereotypes, King Jaja Opobo's role in the slavery era, the hsitory of the church, the British Monarchy and a whole lot of minutae and believe me, it’s been pretty exhilarating. Reading, pursuing knowledge does nourish the soul and I encourage more of that for you and I.

Being well read and informed increases self esteem and it ensures that you never run out of conversation fodder. That in turn guarantees more connections because people really do love to hang out with people who know.

Play- Yes, you heard right. Play! Someone once said, that somewhere between childhood and adulthood, people forget how to play. Play involves recreational sports and games, competitive sport and games, hobbies and stuff like that.

Apart from requiring you to think, they encourage healthy competitiveness which builds self confidence and promotes a team spirit. So, I’ve decided to take my play regimen more seriously and be more proactive about my recreational endeavours. This has included watching TV and doing back flip with my son. lol (I intend to get more sophisticated)

Vibrant relationships- All relationships are important to an extent. Wife- husband, mother- child, sister- brother etc. Are your relationships in the doldrums? Do you go through the day without pursuing any form of friendships. When last did you call your dad? Your sister serving in Kano?

I intend to take family and friends more seriously, because I’ve realised I’m happier when I’m at peace with all the people that matter in my life.

Career accomplishment- Do you know that a change in your job could make you happier? That getting out and pursuing your dreams could maximally increase your joy? How do you explain that ever since I started serious writing in September 2010, and getting my pieces published all over, I have been ten times as happy as I was before. Defintely not a coincidence. Time to ramp it up.

De- toxifying and de- stressing- The truth is taking charge of my soul may well involve removing certain toxic habits, relationships and any thing that really does give heart ache. If you are involved in a habit or an activity that constantly makes you unhappy, then it is time to DELETE. No more toxicity.

Other stuff I'm planning is trying never to get broke ( By living within my means) lol. Believe me, it's important. If you aren't rich, you can at least be happy is my new mantra.

Next post, we''ll talk about taking charge of the body. Leave your thoughts in the comments.

Bless.

Total Charge: Spirit, Soul and Body

2011-05-24T18:11:00.000+01:00

I once said to you that we are spirits, who reside in bodies and possess souls. Tripartite beings, that's what we are. You knew this? Oh well. But do you take of 'yourself'; as in every part of you?

I recently made a fresh commitment. Fresh is an apt qualifier in this case because there'd been lots of attempts. I'm taking charge of my life again. Taking it back from the reins of purposelessness, mindless, routinous 'living'. Is that even living? Okay, it sounds pretty dramatic. If you know me, you would know that it appears as if I have it all under control. Not one to be living a purposeless life. Maybe, it's because I have a different opinion of purpose.

A life of purpose is a life that acts, not reacts. And that is what I've been doing a lot. Reacting. It's time to start acting. Doing what I do because I planned to do it. I welcome you to my experience.

SPIRIT- I'm going to take care of my spirit from now on. You see, the spirit needs to eat. It deserves the right to be nourished so that it can remain robust and alert. My spirit, my inner core needs to be constantly hooked up to the source from which he came.

"And God breathed into man and he became a living soul".

So in short he gave spirit to that soul. So, I'm hooking back up again. To a direct connection to the blast of that nostril.

I intend to achieve that by;

1. Praying everyday; really every moment. You know keeping in touch with he who made me. Oh. by the way, I believe I was made. I'm too intricately put together for anything else. I have to have been made by something that wasn't made. You get?

2. God, who made me said somethings, yes he spoke about what he likes and doesn't like. I have to read those daily (the Bible) and the word spoken from the mouth of people who walk with him. Wouldn't want to offend the life giver.

3. Doing what he wants. With each successive act of rebellion, I've undertaken in the past. I deadened my spirit. So, sin hurt me eventually. I need to reverse that trend by a conscious reminder to live up to the 'calling'.

4. Giving. Not of money alone. But of essence, time, talents to help the world. That soothes the spirit. The knowledge that it has a purpose.

I'll tell you about how I'm handling the health of my body and my soul in a follow up post. Join me in this journey and tell me what else can help you and I.

Living - Short Story

2011-05-10T13:21:00.001+01:00

“I’ll be in Lagos soon. I’ll stay only a few days. I can’t wait to see you”, Tricia, my old friend says.

She lives in Abuja, and is just out of a two year relationship with her boyfriend.

“We’ll go to the mall. I’ll take you to dinner. It’ll be a blast. It’s been like... what... five years?”

“A blast”, I say, thinking as I get down to this business of marriage, surely single ‘blasting’ friends are important.

Connections are important. She’ll take a cab from the airport, bring a ‘few’ things.

“We live in a small flat”, I tell her. So you have to sleep on the couch in the parlour, because Tony and I would be sleeping in our bed while the twins sleep on their cots. Not that you can sleep there”, making a half hearted attempt at humour, my confidence slipping.

“Not to worry, she says. Can you believe we’re thirty already. We’ll talk, talk and talk.There’s so much to talk about.”

Uh huh, I say, thinking she’s always been interesting and she’s an Abuja babe. So for sure we’ll have lots to talk about.

Wednesday arrives. I put on my jeans and tie my braids in a pony tail and make room in the kid’s wardrobe. Tricia always was a clotheshorse.

There’s a knock on the door. I rush outside to the cab. There she is looking as chic as ever; flawless, fair skin, perfectly done weave parted down the side of her face and falling down in waves down her shoulder. She is wearing thin True Religion jeans and white gold jewellery.

We hug and shriek and gurgle all at once. It’s like ‘yesterday’ and what best friends we always were. We don’t dare mention that we had a terrible fight in the University and ended up not speaking to ourselves for several years.

“You look fabulous, I say. So hot.”

“So do you”, she says, her smoky eyes scanning my homely outfit. My C- section won’t let me wear my ‘skinnies’.

I carry two of her bags up the stairs and she carrying the smaller bag, murmuring that her ankle aches her when she carries heavy stuff. She is wearing four inch Louboutin shoes.

“Here we are, I say, opening the door and leading the way into the flat. My nanny carries Tami out to meet us in the parlour. Timi, my son, is still asleep.

“Very nice”, she says, when she views my flat. “So cute”, she coos at Tami.

She proceeds to unpack several gorgeous outfits and hangs them in the closet space, pushing aside Tami and Timi’s few Sunday pieces. Her Clinique makeup and bottles take up the entire bathroom top. I am wondering what Tony would think.

Over juice we talk a while. She tells me about her former boyfriend, Ahmed. That she’s “out there now. I have to live”

“Let me make semo for you and then we’ll watch Africa Magic”, I suggest, feeling already exhausted.

She looks horrified. She doesn’t eat “like that”. Nor should I. “Fat”, she repeats several times. She wants to eat out at Halchz, in the mall.

“Oh well, she’s paying”, I assure myself.

I call a taxi and at the restaurant, she floats from the car, rushing ahead while I fumble in my bag for the fare.

In a high pitched American accent, Tricia orders Merlot and a delicious dinner. We talk about Abuja and her travels to London, Dubai and New York and she says offhandedly that Ahmed took her to Europe for the weekend many times.

She is interesting and informed on many levels. She then goes on about her need to find a new man. “Gotta live”, she says. The bill arrives on a steel tray. It sits.

“Well, it was a wonderful dinner”, I say.

She waves her bejewelled fingers. “When you visit in Abuja, I’ll reciprocate”

“Reciprocate?”

She nods. “Yes, I have to teach you to live. Look at me, I learn, look, live”

“Wow”

I pay the high bill on my already empty debit card. I assure myself that this is once in a lifetime.

She talks about the few dates she snatched up since Ahmed. How depressing she found it. “They just aren’t ‘it’. Hausa guys know how to treat a woman; I’m not sure about these other guys.”

The following three days, she drags me to the cinema, a comedy show, the dainty shops that line Awolowo Road, and the Clinique shop where the bottles are replenished. She stays up all night watching E!. She loves Kim Kardashian’s buttock job. I’m exhausted.

In the morning, I’m changing Timi’s diaper when she says I have to get my nails done. I say it’ll be dangerous because I may poke the twin’s in the buttock when I insert their suppository.

“You’re too fearful of everything. You have to live”, she replies.

Finally it’s the last day. After slipping into her heels, Tricia insists her ankles are aching her, so I carry her luggage downstairs. We hug. We cry. We promise to go to London together sometime and definitely we’ll call every day. What fun we had. She blows a kiss and we wave until the taxi disappears down the street.

Back at the flat, I put a pot of water on the cooker and pour semo powder in, turning it over so vigorously, sweat pours down my face. I wrap it up and put it in a warmer. For Tony when he returns. I live.

This story of mine was published on Bella Naija today. The plot was inspired by a piece by my 73 year old new writing mentor. Picture credits are Bella Naija's.

419 - A Young Woman's Experience

2011-05-05T14:54:00.001+01:00

I usually take a bike to a certain stop before I get a cab to work. Today, all eight bikes I stopped wouldn’t agree to take me (weird!). I decided to cross over. After waiting 5 minutes and flagging down two more bikes, I eventually stopped a cab. He said he was going my way. I got in the front seat. A well dressed guy got in the backseat.

Fast forward two minutes, the driver stops the car and the guy at the back gets off. He did not pay. The driver and I call his attention (He was already half way across the street). Guy returns. Hands over a note to driver (Fare is 50 naira). On opening his hand, driver realises it is ... wait for it... 5 British pounds!! Driver and I look askance. I ask bewildered, “na fake money?!” Driver says, “no na real!” Driver calls him back.

Guy returns. And after muttering some indecipherable language (maybe French), he hands over another note to driver. Guy hurriedly leaves. Driver opens hand and viola.... it is a 10 dollar note and a 5 dollar note. I am gobsmacked! What is going on? Driver calls him back and says to me, sombre faced, “Madam, I’m a Christian, I have to tell him the money is ‘over’. Guy is called back.

Driver- “Oga, this money you gave me is too much. My money is 50 naira. Are you a foreigner?”

Guy- Mutters gibberish. Gabon and Francais decipherable.

Driver- "Where are you going? Or do you want me to take you to Gabon embassy to change the money?"

And this is where FeistyPen bolts, calmly and very dignified.

I turn around, to see just if my sensors were merely in overdrive. But alas they were right on target. Car and driver and man are nowhere to be seen. I look further down the road and all I see is a cloud of dust. The speed is toh badt!

I shoulda known or should I have?!

1. I have been travelling this route every work day for the past year or so. No more than 2 bikes refused to go to my stop. Today, it was a record eight!

2. After crossing and waiting to flag down a cab, a convoy of ten cars stop in front of me as if trying to hit me. A mere coincidence? Maybe, but it sure was unusual.

3. Cabs do not normally ply that route especially if it isn’t ‘drop’. Today’s was a first. Definitely unusual, but I was running late.

4. Guy at the backseat never actually said a word or told driver where he was going. But driver ‘knew’ and stopped.

5. Driver sounded so sure when he said, “The money na real. Must have been to sow the seed for later use!

6. When driver asked man if he was a foreigner and would like to be taken to the Gabon Embassy to change the money, my typical Las gidi response should have been, “Wetin consign you?” and by the way is the friggin Gabon Embassy on the way to Epe?!

This is what would have happenned if I stayed:

If I was still in the cab after guy acquiesces to go to the Gabon Embassy, driver would have made an effort to drive a few more metres towards my final destination. On the way, either driver or guy would have asked, the“madam, you fit help us change some of money?” Notice the use of 'us' . This is some two-man gang squad! Driver would have brought out some of his own naira and changed a small amount to get me to relax. Then I may have brought out some of mine, since the driver was changing his too. As soon as my naira touches their hand and their ‘dollar’ mine, it is at this point they say, the “jazz transfers”.

The jazz in question is capable of instilling in you an uncanny desire to change naira, yours, your father’s, your friend’s, your company’s...... into dollars and that is when your dilemma begins. You may need to sell your house!

I escaped. Thank God. Yes, I thank him. It is interesting to note that the decision to get off the cab wasn’t really much of a decision; just my hand moving to the door knob in a split second and the rest of my body following suit.

Guys, I had 70, 000 naira in my bag, and it is just the fifth of the month. Some starving there eh!

And oh yes, the first bike I flagged down after the incident, carried me with no incident. Go figure!

Have you had any experience like this before? What do you think made you escape if in fact you did?