Dear Mr. Bright Adawisi: Three things…(3)

This is the final part of this 3-part letter. Read the first part HERE (1) and the second part HERE (2)

…

The third event was in SS 2, my penultimate year in secondary school. A bunch of us were going to the Nigerian International Secondary Schools Model United Nations (NISSMUN) conference and you were our designated chaperone. I was 15 at the time and the ‘juices’ were on a high, rebellion was knocking at the gates.

We had spent many weeks preparing for our different roles as model delegates of different countries to the model UN, but when we got to the city of Abuja and I found myself with a little change in my pocket, hotel lodging and amongst all those pretty girls from far-flung parts of the country, my focus changed. I decided that the NISSMUN conference business would be secondary while I spent most of the trip having fun.

And so when there was a call for interested candidates to contest leadership positions, my hand stayed down. I was on vacation, remember? Errr…no, not on your watch!

Just before the window for candidacy submissions ended, you assembled our school entourage at the back of that massive hall in the International Conference Centre and you proceeded to give us a vivid tongue-lashing. IK was the only one who had indicated interest in running for Secretary General (that guy never lost focus for even a minute in this life) so he was exempt; the rest of us got a scolding so bad that I called myself before the parole board of “Me, Myself and I”. Immediately after, I threw my hat in to contest for Chairman of the Security Council of the Model United Nations.

This picture was taken during my manifesto speech; I remember using my words to paint a picture of a future that we could all be proud to say we were part of making. I remember looking out at the crowd and feeling completely in my elements, even while butterflies ran amok in my belly. I remember feeling grateful for even the chance to stand there and talk to all those brilliant people.

We won the election and under my Chairmanship, the Security Council did exceptionally well. We did so well that I was specially celebrated after the conference ended. When my name was called as ‘Best Male Delegate’ on the award night, I remember walking up to the podium wearing Kenechukwu Okudo’s shoes. Kene had come with a spare pair and even though it was a few sizes too large for me, the shoes felt better than mine which had been too tight and almost crippled me. Shuffling through the crowd of applauding people, towards the stage to claim my award, I had whispered thanks to you under my breath. For pushing me.

Three major people had made sacrifices for me to go on that NISSMUN trip: both my parents had made a sacrifice to pay the hefty entrance amount; and my sister who was in SS 3 at the time and should have gone (since the folks could only pay for one) had given up her spot for me to go. Even knowing all of this, I had forgotten what a privilege I’d been given and I needed a sharp kick in the butt to remind me. Thank you for being that foot. That conference, the things I learnt there, and the people I met have not stopped blessing me till date.

Oh, guess what else I won from that trip…a girlfriend! You probably don’t want to hear it; heck, the word ‘girlfriend’ for a 15-year old surely has you cringing but I can’t help you there, sir. 😊 It was a good TRIP…all of it. 😉

P.S. I went digging and found this picture on a website. Some of my friends will kill me for digging this up but I wanted you to see. You look so young here that you could have been mistaken for another student…except for that big folder in your hand.😁

…

I shared this letter on social media in three parts (a part per day) and by day 1, many of your former students with whom I’m still in touch reached out to share their stories and fond memories of you. Some of the attributes their stories bestowed on you are strict, funny, patriotic, passionate, intelligent and the most recurrent of them all – fair. You were a fair man. Seeing as you were quite the disciplinarian, I bet you don’t get to hear a lot of these testimonies. The way I see it, you had choices and instead of going for ‘most loved’, you elected to be the strong arm of the law we needed. I surely needed that strength – the rebukes, the punishments, the whippings – all of it.

I am still quite the distance from being the man I was meant to be but if I have ever steered the right way on this ongoing journey, I hope you know that you were – are – one of the key reasons why. I hope that the life I have lived, am living and will live, proves to be a worthy ambassador of the best parts of you.

I may never attempt teaching as a profession because experience has taught me that behind its FAÇADE (read /FA’KAYD/) of ease lies high degrees of toil and sacrifice. You – and all your colleagues – are simply heroes for taking it on, for taking us on.

I will still call you from time to time, so you can holler ‘OOOO-JH-UKWU!’ and guffaw in my ear 😊. If I ever get the chance though, I shall like the opportunity to tell your children how their father with the squinty stare and seemingly perpetual bunch of jangling keys in one hand, impacted my life.

Thank you, sir.

 

OJUKWU, Martin.

 

 

By Chisom Ojukwu

 

 

By Chisom Ojukwu

Dear Mr. Bright Adawisi: Three things…(2)

This is the second part of this 3-part letter. Read the first part HERE

 

The second event was still in JSS 1, it was maybe the second or third term, just after I joined the Debate team. I can’t remember the name of the opposition school now but they were one of the few key ‘competitors’ we had. The debate was also slated to show on NTA, so major stakes!

You shared all the debate club members into Speaker groups – first, second and third – and whomever performed the best in each group would represent the school as the first, second, or third speaker. I was the youngest and newest member of the club so I was in the third speaker group. That group also had one SS 3 student so I didn’t even fancy my chances – heck, nobody fancied my chances; we all just assumed I was there to ‘earn my stripes’ and be prepared to represent the school in later debates.

The first thing you did that impacted me was insisting that we all write our arguments. I had been in a few debates in primary school but we never wrote our arguments; instead, all we did was cram scripts that had been written by our teachers. Because you insisted however, I was forced to research and write it down – not bullet points – all of it. And when we submitted our arguments, you led us in point distillation sessions and eventually, you edited and supplied us with final drafts of the arguments…for ALL 3 speaker groups. Even for you, that was a LOT of work. This was my first taste of speech preparation and it taught me the vital skill of writing it all down; a skill that since then, has seen me ace countless debates, speeches, and MC/Hosting gigs.

Then you picked me as third speaker!

I remember the tension in the Physics (or was it Chemistry?) lab after we each presented, on the day final speaker selections were slated to happen. I knew I had done a good job but I was not the popular choice – I was too new, too young and too small. Tope was in SS 3 and there were weighty reasons to give him the slot, even if I had performed better – it was his last year in school and that was his last shot, whereas I still had six years to do many more debates.

But for a man who flogged us incessantly for not abiding by the rules, you, Mr. Adawisi, didn’t play by the ‘rules’. You picked me. You also handled the unconventional decision so well there was no bad blood between Tope and me. As I exited the recording booth at the NTA studios after we lost the debate, I was in near-tears; I felt we had been robbed of our victory and I was scared the blame would fall on me – the unconventional 3^rd speaker – even though I had done my lines perfectly. It was Tope who first came up to me and wrapped me in a bear hug so soothing that till today, I remember the itchy texture and perfumed scent of his sweater. He told me, “I am so proud of you!”; it meant everything.

Tope is a good man (I have run into him in Lagos a couple of times) but you helped him be good in that moment because of how delicately you handled the whole selection business. Apart from slapping on another layer of reinforced concrete on my self-confidence, that entire experience helped point out something I was – am – exceptional at – speaking. Too many people today live out their lives and die without ever discovering their special gifts; you helped me find mine at age 11. A gift I could never repay.

P.S. Do you remember this line from the third speaker script: “…but behind the façade of their religiosity lies a high degree of hypocrisy…”? It has been 19 years and I still remember your ‘big big’ grammar!

Speaking of, how come you never told me the word is pronounced /fəˈsɑːd/? You allowed me to be shouting /FA’KAYD/ up and down. On National Television! Smh. Just know that the two of us will share the embarrassment…in fact, no, the embarrassment is all yours. My excuse? I was a minor. 😊

 

This is the second of a 3-part letter. To be continued…

 

By Chisom Ojukwu

Dear Mr. Bright Adawisi: Three things…

Dear Mr. Bright Adawisi,

I am writing this letter because I have wanted to do so for the longest time. To thank you for the influence you had on me through six years of secondary school – arguably my most formative years – but particularly, for three events that I have never forgotten.

I wanted to thank you publicly too, because our teachers are just never celebrated enough and you were a bloody good one. I will try my best to write this as prim and properly tucked as your shirts and trousers used to be back in the day. But seeing as I already used ‘bloody good’…tsk tsk tsk. Also kindly ignore all misspellings and grammatical blunders, I know you see them all.

The first event I have never forgotten was my first personal encounter with you in JSS 1. It was our first day in school, I believe, and we had just written the placement test that would determine who ended up in the ‘first class’ and the ‘second class’ (we should talk about the logic behind this separation though, I have some interesting arguments against it). I had submitted my paper and was already packing up to go home when I remembered that I hadn’t written my name on the answer sheet I turned in! I dashed out and caught up with you at the landing of the staff staircase…do you remember?

I remember that while I stuttered through my pleading for a chance to write my name on my script, you just stood there, piercing me with your customary slit-glare, all the test papers in one hand and your bunch of keys dangling from the other. “My friend, that’s your business…” or something like that was your answer before walking away.

It was a Friday and results were expected on Monday. I knew I had done well in the test but of what use is a good grade without my name to identify my script? That weekend, I died many times. I could barely concentrate on anything else. Now I think about it, I am amazed at how important it was to me to pass into the ‘first class’, it felt like life or death. I blame you and the other teachers for selling the ‘first class’ dream so well. 🤣

Anyway, I got to school on Monday and true to fashion, results had been posted on the notice board. I checked and of course, I didn’t see my name on either list. But in the list of names that had made it into the ‘first class’, there was a line with no name and a score – a high score. I can’t say that I thought about what I did next because I don’t remember thinking it through, but I picked my bag, walked into ‘first class’, and took a seat. And waited.

If it was your intention to torture me throughout that day, you succeeded because I was a mess the entire day; every flash of movement outside the window caught my eye. Is it time for my ultimate disgrace? Have they come for me? Will I be kicked out now?

You eventually came just before the last period in evening lessons; swaggered into the class with your arms swinging and – “Where is Ojukwu, Martin?”

Dang! I died one last die…then I raised my hand.

“My friend, follow me.”

I followed you outside to the corridor where you asked me what I was doing in the ‘first class’ when my name wasn’t on the list. I tried to explain, at least I think I must have tried. But I have no idea what I said because the whole time, I was replaying a script in my head where I would go back in that class, pack up my stuff and be escorted, by you, to the ‘second class’. The thought would have been easier to bear if it had been earlier in the day, but alas, I had carried my big head to the ‘first class’ and had just spent most of the day sitting and learning there. What a way to start out in a new school!

I stopped explaining and waited; I remember vividly how my legs shook violently hidden by my trousers. The next time my legs shook that viciously, was five years later at a police checkpoint when I got flagged down while driving without a license and in a car with expired registration papers.

Then your verdict came. Sternly, you gave me a small speech about being careful and allowed me go back in the class. Just like that.

You also never brought up the matter again. Ever.

Why did you do it, sir? I wish I knew. I hope you tell me sometime, but even if you never do, you should know that that incident taught me a big lesson in perseverance and self-assurance.

You will be disappointed to learn that I made that mistake again – I know! 😒 In first year of university, I wrote Math 101 and submitted the script without shading ‘Paper Option II’. I remember it was Paper Option II because for the next two years, I wrote a ton of letters trying to get my paper graded with the right answer scheme, and the F reversed. Perhaps it was the perseverance and self-assurance you taught me that sustained my drive to get that paper remarked, even after having to rewrite the course. After marking, the F became a B; B for Bright. 😉

This is the first of a 3-part letter. To be continued…

 

By Chisom Ojukwu

Winie says … ‘Hook ups’ and their ‘mess ups’

‘Babe dat your friend na correct catch oh, abeg na, hook me up’

I absolutely love Mercy, but in the middle of stirring a happy pot of Nsala soup on a beautiful Saturday afternoon like this one, her constant whining about my other friend, Daniel was irritating me to tatters.

Painstakingly, I gathered the last shreds of my patience. “I take God beg you,” I pleaded, “leave me alone!”

Her face changed and she stormed out of the kitchen, stomping my fragile wooden floor like a pissed off hippopotamus. This routine had been going on for the past three months, and I have absolutely no objection to her either dating or getting to know Daniel better. But as their mutual friend, I choose not to get involved; in fact, I shall not be found a thousand kilometers near the reason they choose to be together.

Who does that?! Right? Who in their right mind would pass up on the opportunity to ‘hook up’ two good people who might be meant for each other? I mean there are all sorts of perks to it: the sparkly toast they’ll make to you at the wedding reception; you get first shot at godmother to future offsprings, and don’t forget bragging rights – “I hooked them up ;)” It’s a juicy package, so why not? Well, don’t search too far; the answer is ‘Winifred’. Yes, me. E duro! Sit back and let me tell you a story.

It was a couple of years ago, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, much like this Saturday only without Nsala soup; I dey my side jeje when my good friend knocked on my door and would not stop ranting about my other friend and colleague. “Winie abeg, put in a good word for me,” were his words, “I really like her”. I interrogated him, and part-time psychoanalyst that I am, I determined that he was serious and had good intentions. So I obliged him and two months later, they were in a relationship.

Let’s just say that a few weeks down the line, some major kata kata burst and it was the messiest pre-marital divorce I had ever witnessed. Since I was the relationship initiator, I was the grass when the two elephants fought. Comments like, ‘how could you let them date?’, ‘Winie, you are wicked shaa’, ‘what made you think those two would ever work out?’, ‘how dare you let this happen?’ etc. were thrown at me. By-standers, other friends, acquaintances and gossips all had words of rebuke and advice for me. Everybody became self-acclaimed relationship experts.

All the while this nightmare was going on, my greatest fear was losing either of my friends to it. But I seemed to be the only thing they unwillingly had in common and even though I felt intense pressure to pick a side, I couldn’t. My friends’ pain tore me apart and no one was having a swell time. These two people couldn’t have been more wrong for each other, but somehow it hadn’t been as glaring initially. I struggled to find meaning, peace or even a way to move forward. What’s the right thing to say? Or do? I blamed myself for ever getting involved in the first place and would have done anything to undo it. But as it turned out, the only (sane) way to ride out the storm was to wait and see.

Eventually, waves of anger subsided and I picked up the bits and pieces of what was left of my friendship with both parties. Till date, these friendships still have some sore points; I still struggle with what to say or do whenever that experience comes up.

Back to my Saturday now, I watched Mercy as I set the table for lunch. She was sulking and staring at the TV. I reminded her again that she was too valuable for me to play ‘hook up’ games with. “If you like someone, go talk to him or wait and hope he notices you. But for the sake of our friendship which I hope to preserve, keep me out of it.” I gave her a big side hug and proceeded to tickle the frown off her. The explosive laughter that followed was a relief;  the only way to eat Nsala soup is in peace.

I know some very beautiful relationships have come out of ‘hook ups’, I also know about their ‘mess ups’ and how terrible they can be. I know that intense feeling of wanting to help a friend out and being unable to. If you ever find yourself being boxed into such a corner by a friend, here are a few things I have learned that just might help:

1. Take a mirror, look in it and repeat these words ‘I AM NOT GOD’. It helps calm you down when you think you have the power to control or influence people’s lives and choices especially in relationship matters.
2. The fact that someone is a good friend to you doesn’t mean that they’ll be a good romantic partner to you or someone else. As a matter of fact, the emotions that are specifically for romantic relationships, complicate things way more than you’ll ever anticipate. I say this to mean, your matchmaking MIGHT be a wrong fit. You never really know how a person will behave in a relationship regardless of how long you’ve known them as a friend.
3. Let people choose for themselves. I mean the WHOLE process of making a choice. Let them convince the other person that they are good enough, without your own ‘few good words’. So that peradventure things don’t sail smoothly, no one will look at you and say ‘but you told me …’
4. When your friends are dating, DRAW THE LINE. There should be that place where your friendship stops and their intimate private lives continue, especially when you know the two people involved. This is because, once you share that intimate space with them, it becomes CROWDED and heads start bumping. Take it from me; you’ll be the grass under two elephants.
5. Finally, if and in the event kata kata burst, always remember your FRIENDSHIP is way more important than picking sides. So practice yoga if you have to, but you must straddle the thin line. After all is said and done, the people you meet and get to know are the summary of your existence. Every valuable friendship is worth keeping and maintaining.

That’s all I have to say. Your comments on COBIL were very enlightening, so let’s have more of that sunshine here. Have you had any experiences similar to mine? Do you have battle scars from meddling in ‘hook ups’ that we all can learn from? The Comments section is just a short scroll away, so hit it and share with us.

While you’re at that,

 … Have a Winning-Day.

For past editions of this column, click HERE

WAW

Winie says … Coulda-been-in-laws (COBIL)

Coulda-been-in-laws are family members of your significant other whom you get very close to over the course of your relationship but get stuck with even after the relationship ends. It’s painful to form relationships with them, prepare financially, emotionally and mentally to be part of their lives, and then experience a break-up with the person that brought them into your life. It also becomes very complicated trying to analyze, what kind of relationship to maintain with them when you are no longer with their son/daughter, uncle/aunty, brother/sister, niece/nephew, etc. How do you introduce your ex’s sister to your new beau when you run into her in the mall? How do you relate with your ex’s mother that took you in as a daughter or son? How many of these awkward relationships do you want to have in one life time?
Some relationships fail after a long time which might make meeting and knowing each other’s family almost inevitable. Sometimes, you unintentionally, meet the person through their family member which might give you the pre-in-law status very early in the relationship. But there are some very unnecessary acquisitions of COBIL. COBIL might make it difficult for you to move on; constantly expressing wishes that things had turned out differently or bringing back memories that you may be trying to suppress. In my opinion, the more of those we have in our life, the more complicated relationships we acquire too. I have observed three common situations that lead to unnecessary acquisition of COBIL.

Helpers: Very early in relationships some people begin to run errands, buy items for the other person’s family, attend intimate family functions etc. Sadly, some people see it as a way to secure their place in the other person’s life. While it’s unrealistic to have set time when these things should happen, it should be when the two people involved have decided they are part of each other’s future, not when the relationship is new with uncertainties.  As nice as it is to help the family of someone you care about, when it happens too early, you only endear yourself to the family and vice versa without taking enough time to build on the relationship that actually counts. If you two end up together, you have the rest of your lives to buy gifts and help each other’s family. If after you advertise yourself as a ‘helper ’and the relationship doesn’t work out, all you have is a family that loves you and a man/woman who doesn’t. You would have acquired COBIL.

One Chance: There are those bad-belle people who look for people to date because they see a gap in their family that only that kind of relationship can fill. They have no long-term plans for you or the relationship, just the service they want you to offer. A few years back, one of my girlfriends entered a relationship. After a few weeks, the young man asked her to travel alone to another state during her free time to help his elder sister that just had a baby. (Bros!! how far?).  So, he found a girl that he thought was good enough to send for Omugwo. My friend is sharp; she didn’t go. They broke up a few months later; you can imagine. The list goes on: for women who turn young men to their family bank, or the guys that find a girl and promise her heaven and earth just so that she can help his mother when he travels abroad.  Sadly people fall for this plot and enter one chance. When they realize what’s going on, it’s too late, the relationship has gone too far, and someone has dashed them COBIL.

Back Door: These are the people who on purpose go through family members in an attempt to win a person’s heart. This is called using the ‘back door’.  In this case the people either have unsuccessfully tried to approach the person directly or believe using a family member is a surer and faster way. They get close to the person’s family members, buy gifts, inject themselves into their lives, and use them as weapons or use their own family members as baits and tools to lure the person to themselves. There’s a high chance of not winning the person of interest through the back door; this might equally earn you or make you give someone COBIL.

On the part of the family, it’s not also fair to introduce someone to them, and yank that person out of their lives when the relationship fails. I’m sure some of us that grew up with uncles and aunties know that feeling of pain when the person that supplies you biscuit and sweet stops coming. I mourned the end of some relationships of my relatives. Not just because of the goody-goody, but the connection that was made with these people was lost and I missed it.

Bringing family members very close at the beginning of a relationship has its downsides. They make decision-making and building a relationship a little tougher. I’ve witnessed situations where family members like a person more than the other part of the relationship duo. Hearing your mother’s voice in your head about how awesome a man or woman is, when you don’t feel the same, might just mess up some things for you. Of course if the opposite is the case, the hatred or dislike might not allow you make a right decision on what to do.

Finding a life partner is not easy; I’m absolutely convinced that family plays a huge role in the decision.   I support discussing the person of interest with family, talking about qualities, asking questions, etc. and hopefully having someone in your family that you confide in and get guidance.  But a face to face meeting, I believe should come later, because personal interaction is a different ball game. The marriage will be between you, the person and God. Those are the only people who should matter at the initial phase. I like to think of it like building a house. You start with the foundation and you make it as strong as possible. Get to know each other to a certain extent; at least be sure to a point that a future potentially exist. Then you can build the ‘house’ further by bringing in family. A strong relationship foundation can withstand a lot, peradventure you have issues with family acceptance but a weak one won’t stand a chance. When that foundation is strong, family love and acceptance will strengthen it and not complicate it. You also minimize the pain of a break-up when it’s necessary and save your family the trouble.

For those of us that are still yet to tie the knot, I suggest we avoid coulda-been-in-laws (COBIL) so there would be space for the real ones.

These are just my thoughts. Who agrees? Who has had an unnecessary COBIL or an encounter that might have led to one and how did you handle it? Who has a different opinion on when family should be involved, at what point and why? Do not hesitate to share in the Comments below.

While you’re at that,

 Have a Winning-Day!

WAW

Deliverance

Bro Hygi dipped his thumb in the bowl of olive oil and leant over her supine body. He traced small crosses on her forehead, lips, and cleavage; he got to her palms but they were tightly shut. He tried to pry them open but the girl clenched them even tighter.

“Aha!” Bro Hygi yelled, “See her hand. See it!” The entire prayer team paused to stare down at Emem. Somebody moved the rechargeable lantern closer and as the full glare hit her hands, the group broke into excited chatter. Both palms were clenched into ferociously tight balls and the veins stood out defiantly, intertwined around them.

The prayer warriors scattered all over the room that was deliverance arena for the night – they had found the abode of the demon. Some of them knelt in supplication, in preparation for the coming battle, the younger ones did little dances and high-fived each other with their bibles. Through the frenzy, Bro Hygi stood calmly in the centre of the circle. His large head was bent low over his chest and his legs stood slightly apart, as leader he had to stay calm. Soon he signaled and the rest of them quieted down.

Suddenly a willowy stem of a lady jumped into the centre of the circle and began swaying violently in all directions. Sister Miracle had sweated through the sheer material of the cream work shirt she had on, her tiny bra and their surprisingly generous twin occupants visibly jumped with every move. Nobody ever interrupted Bro Hygi but this one had to be an exception because he only smiled and waved her on. The spirit was moving.

“Prai-prai-prai-prrrrraaaaaaiiiiiiiiizzzzz jiiiiiizes!” Sister Miracle sang.

“Alaluyah!” they responded.

“Praaaaaaiiiiiiiiiizzzzzz da lawwdu!”

“Alaluyah”

“Alaluya?”

“Amen”

“Oya clap ya hans, ya hans!” And so began the next hour of songs and dance.

***

Emem was bored stiff. Literally.

Her back and buttocks felt dead against the floor, her entire arm weighed tons from the strain of clutching her palms so ferociously. That Sister Miracle had really taken her sweet time with the praise session, starting one song, working herself – and apparently every other male in the group – into a frenzy, before switching abruptly into another song. They were done with that, Bro Hygi now led the prayer session. Each time Emem sneaked a peak beneath her eyelids, she was impressed anew by their energy. They pranced, danced, flung their arms as energetically as the words left their mouths; it seemed each prayer warrior tried to outdo the next.

It was this over-zealous energy, and its stark contrast with their hypocrisy that had forced Emem into pretending to ‘fall by anointing’. Since Aunty Nkpa joined the prayer unit of the new church, her home had become a point of weekly rendezvous for the group. During each visit, Aunty Nkpa always had the prayer warriors well fed, and entertained, sometimes until the next morning. In return, they occasionally held impromptu deliverance sessions for the family. Emem and her older cousins played the roles of attendants during these visits. But as the prayer warriors left in the early hours of the morning, it was Emem alone who woke to open the front door for them and hand them packs of food and canned drinks as they each went through it. It was also Emem alone who noticed the pencil-thin Bro Justin exiting the visitors bathroom just seconds after a dishevelled Sister Maggy waddled out; it was Emem alone who constantly fought off the groping hands of Bro Jero, Bro Faith and Sister Chika with the dreadlocks and happy eyes; it was Emem alone who saw the tiny cigarette butt floating in the toilet bowl after Bro Tom-tom left; and it was Emem alone whose acute nostrils picked up the scent of alcohol on Bro Hygi’s breath as he wished peace on her one last time before leaving.

She never cared for any of it; in fact, Emem was usually in high spirits enough to at the antics of the prayer warriors. But she was not in the best of the moods tonight. It had been a very tiring day, and worse, Bro Faith was on demon-casting duty for the night. He held her still with one firm hand at the back of her neck while almost boring a hole in her forehead with a finger on the other. The whole time he was yelling into her face: Out! … Out in da name of jiiizes … Evil principalities and powers, possessing spirit, gerrout of her! … holy ghost fayaaaa … Emem did not budge.

When he grabbed her at the shoulder and roughly ran his hand down her arm in a brush-off motion making sure to brush her breasts, Emem was shocked. She knew Bro Faith’s inclinations but that he was brazen enough to grope her in the middle of a prayer session? She was repulsed. He brushed her other arm down too, then he knelt, apparently to repeat the action on her legs. She could not take anymore, so she did the next thing that came naturally to her.

She shut her eyes, screamed and fell on her back, making sure to knee Bro Faith in the mouth on her way down. She trashed around a little, drooled some saliva, and then lay still as the entire army rallied around to her.

That had been over three hours ago; now Emem was bored stiff. She was quickly tiring of the pretense, plus she really felt sorry for her family in the room. Poor Aunty Nkpa, how frightened she must be.

Emem knew that after the round of prayers, someone would bring in the holy water; that was when she planned to let herself be ‘delivered’ of the possessing demon. When the first blast of water hit her, she would scream, roll around on the floor, maybe speak some gibberish and abruptly lay still; then she would allow herself to be slowly revived. And when she would eventually open her eyes and sit up, her poor Aunt would be brought to hold her and walk her through the redemption prayer – her oath as an ex-possessee to never again allow a demon possess her body.

She was tired, but she had to finish what she started. So she waited.

…this is the first part. A final sequel is coming soon. Watch out!

Chisom

The Lectern: Impossible is nothing

I do not know about you, reader, but this past month has been both a trial and a blessing for me. I gave up many times – numerous nights when it was just hisses and ta-hell-with-it’s. But none of those dark moments was ever for too long at a time. Every time it seemed impossible to pull through, someone/thing came through – family, friends and/or that aged belief in my own strength.

Imagine my delight then when Chizzy knocked on my door this early morning with ‘Impossible is nothing’ … as if she knew! Thanks to this month’s edition of ‘The Lectern’, I have found belief afresh. I hope you do too.

Have a sweet July 🙂

…that we might be read

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IMPOSSIBLE IS NOTHING

I recently saw a picture of Africa’s richest man, Aliko Dangote on the cover of Tell magazine. On the far end of his mahogany desk sat a plaque on which was written, ‘impossible is nothing’.

Many times I have heard that phrase repeatedly used by motivational speakers, and I often roll my eyes in response. Never did I take time out to find its application to me.

One day, I went to buy some shoes at an ‘OK’ store. If you don’t know what ‘OK’ shoes are, you are not Nigerian; it means okirika shoes, a code name for fairly-used imported shoes. Fellow Naija babes will agree that ‘OK’ shoes are more durable than the acclaimed ‘foreign’ ones, most of which are made in Aba anyways.

But I digress. I entered the shop and asked the shop attendant to pick out black ballerina shoes for me. Rather than do as I requested,  the man brought out a writing pad and began to scribble on it. I was too curious to even be vexed, what was he writing?

After he was done, he handed the pad to me and I saw that he had written on it: “what do you want to buy”. The guy was deaf and dumb!

What on earth is a deaf and dumb fellow looking for in the business of buying and selling?, I thought to myself. I know quite well what trading entails – a lot of talking and haggling and more talking. So saying that I was shocked is an understatement. I bet you are too.

I was amazed. At that point I remembered the phrase, ‘impossible is nothing’.

Here was this guy, probably already written off as a mute, as something headed for nothing. He was disabled, but he refused to be disadvantaged. He rejected the limitations placed on him by his physical condition and rather chose to see ability in his disability. Plus he handled the sales so well that I even forgot to haggle – and you know we love to haggle.

This experience made me pause for a minute and think. I thought about how at several points in my life I had abandoned projects and plans because I felt they were impossible feats. Oh nobody has ever done it, I would often lament; the last person that attempted failed woefully.

Many times I catch myself holding on to a past hurt, obviously stuck in a rut, but refusing to let go. And other times, I feel like my best days are long over and I can never live a happy and fulfilling life again … the list is endless.

However after my experience with that shoe salesman, I began to see hope. I see now that I am fired up to succeed like I have never been before. I see now that life can throw anything at me, but I, and I alone determine what to make of it. I see now that ‘impossible is nothing’.

Dear friend, if nobody has ever done it, be the first. Challenge the status quo and reach for new frontiers. Who said you cannot be the one to break that old record and set a new one? Nobody.

If you still think it’s impossible, maybe because you have tried so many times and failed every time, then you need to visit Thomas Edison. He will tell you that 999 feels like 1 million to someone who has lost all hope, and one more trial to a passionate soul. Nobody every moved forward by keeping their eyes fixed on the rear view mirror. The past is past and those who dwell on it pass away with it.

The shop attendant in my story wrote out his words in well-articulated English, his lettering was bold, neat and legible. Evidently, he took time to learn to read and write. Even in his disability, he stands tall and makes much more money than many who are perceived as ‘able-bodied’.

Is there an area of your life which isn’t quite playing out according to your plans? I suggest you stop planning for a minute; take the time to show gratitude to God for the areas that are working. Then you may think about ways to make the problem areas work. And when you are done thinking, stand and start doing – very important. Because it is often in the ‘doing’ that our strength fails us. And if in trying you fail, I urge that you try, try and try again. Do not bother who has written you off, never write yourself off.

Losing your eye is not the worst thing that can happen to you, losing your vision is.

Decide today that nothing shall be impossible for you. Whatever is conceivable is achievable. The greatest battles are fought in the mind, win them. And you shall soar like the eagle, because indeed, nothing is impossible if you believe.

By Chiezugolum Odilinye

Chizzy Odilinye is a chemical engineer who is driven to challenge status quo and add value everywhere she goes. Her pleasures are photography, chess and cooking.

Don’t forget to share with your friends and enemies; also take a minute to tell us in the Comments what you’re thinking about this one. If you have written something which you would like our readers to enjoy from ‘The Lectern’, attach and send it in a mail titled ‘The Lectern’ to ojukwumartin@gmail.com. If you are unsure about a subject matter, still reach out and we can work up something appropriate for you. It does not have to be right or left, right or wrong…only your opinion.

Chisom

The Lectern: Africa is a continent, not a country

For us in Nigeria, this past month of May was very eventful – mosquitoes; fuel scarcity of such potency that saw prices triple, shops and services shut down; scant electricity; then NO electricity for days on end; more mosquitoes; and but all turned over by the inauguration of President Muhammadu Buhari. 

Riding with the optimism that we cannot help but feel in this new dispensation, Thia takes to ‘The Lectern’ with a message of identity, of pride and ultimately, of hope. She admits that this is no new subject for discourse, but she also insists that we must not tire of preaching it until we first, then the entire world, learns it.

And so, we welcome the month of June.

…that we might be read

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AFRICA IS A CONTINENT, NOT A COUNTRY

This topic is not a peculiar one.

The first time I heard of it was on a TEDTalks video of the Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie titled “The Danger of a Single Story” where she jokingly recounted how a Virgin flight she was on mentioned their charity works “in India, Africa and other countries.”

The second time I heard of it was also on a TEDTalks video of another Nigerian, Cobhams Asuquo titled “The Gift of Blindness.”  He also mentioned again rather jokingly that an announcement on a flight he was on mentioned the charitable works the British airways was doing in the UK, Africa and other countries.

Until recently I saw this as inconsequential or rather just unnecessary. I am a fan of great music and one of the songs that I doubt will ever leave my playlist is “We are the World”, both the original and the remix for Haiti. I am sure I have listened to both of them over a hundred times.  Weirdly until recently I never really listened to the lyrics; I merely enjoyed the melody and the rare freshness of many celebrities coming together in one song.

So today I listened. Towards the end of this very awesome song I discovered something I am sure I will never forget:

“…remember Katrina, Africa, Indonesia

and now Haiti needs us…”

It shocked me. Hurricane Katrina was one of the worst natural disasters in the history of the United States of America. The earthquake in Haiti was another really horrible natural disaster. And at about that time in Indonesia, multiple earthquakes and a tsunami at the Mentawai Islands including volcanic eruptions at Mount MerapiI had shaken the Asian country. Seeing as it was a string of natural disasters that hit the above mentioned countries, I began to wonder what natural disaster has hit the whole of Africa.

In all my instances above, Africa was put on a list of countries. In the last one in particular, it was put on a list of geographical areas smaller than many countries. The whole of Africa is not sick. Africa is a continent not a country thus it deserves recognition as such. People make it seem like Africa is a country with South Africa as its capital because in pictures of Africa in most books and magazines, the Safari of South Africa is what is captured as Africa.

Komla Dumor in another TEDx talk stated rather brilliantly that we tell both sides of the story. Yes! Africa is rich naturally. Yes! Africa is still developing. No! We are a continent, a conglomeration of various countries spread across a wide geographical location with various value systems, cultures and languages interwoven rather very beautifully. The moment we start to appreciate this I think it will put things in greater perspective for those doing “charitable works in India, Africa and other countries.” Maybe then Nigeria as a country will become a beneficiary of their benevolence as well as Ghana, Mali, Kenya, Somalia and other AFRICAN COUNTRIES.

This seems confusing at this point and I am asking myself what the whole point of writing this is. Maybe my point is just that this message be passed along so that it is not said anywhere that xenophobia occurs in Africa. Nigeria is not xenophobic and I am sure Benin republic isn’t also, neither are many other African countries.

Africa is way too big to be disrespected so often. Even smaller continents get more respect.

Africa is a continent not a country

Proudly African! Proudly Nigerian! Proudly Igbo!

P.S: This is my identity not just a chant. I should be identifiable by my specific origin not just a random over-generalization. I feel we all should.

by Thia Mbajunwa

Cynthia Adaugo Mbajunwa is a Christian Igbo Nigerian African female. She loves, as wholly as possible, and looks to make a difference no matter how little. She is sarcastic and shy, a bold feminist currently studying to become a lawyer.

Don’t forget to share with your friends and enemies; also take a minute to tell us in the Comments what you’re thinking about this one. If you have written something which you would like our readers to enjoy from ‘The Lectern’, attach and send it in a mail titled ‘The Lectern’ to ojukwumartin@gmail.com. If you are unsure about a subject matter, still reach out and we can work up something appropriate for you. It does not have to be right or left, right or wrong…only your opinion.

Chisom

The Lectern: My Sketchbook

The mellow is upon us yet again in this month’s edition of ‘The Lectern’. The ‘crazy architect’ we will be reading today is Hope; if you asked her, she would say that she only writes from a moist mind. After reading this, I was astounded by the moistness in mine.

As an aside, can we get some dudes with the ‘hammer-n-mortar’ write-ups please? Some fire-brand religious mojo, profanities, and hardcore life lessons abeg…any more mushiness here, and these writers will have me dripping eye-sweat all over #Nuffsaid

Aaaaaaaaand so, for the month of May, of sketches, sketchbooks and…well, moisture (what?!), WAW brings you…Hope!

…that we might be read

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MY SKETCHBOOK

I gave it to you…my sketchbook. My most prized possession.

You said you’d sketch and draw for me

Flowers, trees and parks,

beautiful pictures of sunsets and sunrises, buildings too.

So I gave it to you, kept nothing back.

 
 

The first sketch was nothing but scribbles

Ugly ugly scribbles…like the markings of a demoniac.

And so I took it from you. I took my sketchbook back

Even though I didn’t want to.

 

Then you came back.

You were sorry, and you wanted to make it right

I forgave. Just like God taught me

I forgave. And I gave it to you again, my sketchbook.

 

But when I got it back, I saw worse markings

Very bad ones.

Each stroke tore at me like the claws of a fiery dragon

And sunk beneath my skin

Like a vampire’s fangs.

 

My heart broke again.

I took it from you. Again.

But you wouldn’t stop coming. You came back, each time

Looking more contrite. And I believed you, each time

So I gave. Again and again.

But I believed. Just like God taught me

I believed. And I gave it to you. Again and again.

 

Until

There was only one page left.

 

You came again. For pardon

For one last chance

I had only one page left. I could not risk that.

Then you promised. Like God taught you

You promised. To make it up to me.

For all the ripped pages, the discarded ones. For my broken heart

To make everything alright.

 

And I gave.

I was hungry, searching for something beautiful. Vulnerable…what can I say?

But I gave. My very last page.

Because I believed.

 

You were a leopard. On the backdrop of your pale sincerity

Your spots shone…dark and unrepentant.

You did not just scribble this time. You neglected

My sketchbook.

My heart.

 

I found it drenched in the rain, scorched by the sun.

The little boys in the street played with it

Drunks fought over it…prostitutes spat on it.

Then you came along. And with your very hands

You tore it up into tiny bits and pieces…

…and the wind carried it away.

 

Then you came back

One more clean sheet, you wanted…even if only a scrap.

But I had none to give. I gave all I had to you.

So you left…sad.

And I cried.

Again. I cried.

Because I was hurt and heartbroken.

Because I had no beautiful sketches

Because I had no sketchbook.

I cried.

 

By Hope Eboh

 

Don’t forget to share with your friends and enemies, also take a minute to tell us in the Comments what you’re thinking about this one. If you have written something which you would like our readers to enjoy from ‘The Lectern’, or you just wan show yourself, attach and send it in a mail titled ‘The Lectern’ to ojukwumartin@gmail.com. If you are unsure about a subject matter, still reach out and we can work up something appropriate for you. It does not have to be right, left, right or wrong…just your opinion.

Chisom

 

The Lectern: Illusions

For a change from all the adrenaline zipping all over the place recently, this month’s edition of ‘The Lectern’ is mellow. With a sober almost sorrowful tone, this new writer bares it all unrestrained, and in the same one stroke, takes it all. It is a WAW hope that this message reaching you from ‘The Lectern’ does for you, more than it did for us.

Nuff said, have a delightful rest-of-April.

…that we might be read

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ILLUSIONS

 

You stand there crumbling everything around me

Weakening my defences as you saunter into the room

My heartbeat rapidly increases as I realize

You’re going to ask for something I’m not fully willing to give

But would give willingly because you asked for it

 

My shoulders shake as I weep uncontrollably

As you tell me you’re not going to do it again

You tell me you love me and nothing can ever change that

In my heart of hearts, I wonder if any of it is true

It was easier to believe it back then when the relationship had just begun

 

An uninvited question crosses my mind

‘How long can we continue in this illusion of a relationship?’

I shiver because I don’t know what tomorrow holds

Yet I hold onto you desperately praying it wouldn’t hold the pain of betrayal

And your eyes would never stray

 

You touch me and all my insides melt

You hold me in ways no one has ever held me before

I continue to cry, wishing I wasn’t so hopelessly in love with you

Wishing I could walk away from you without a sick feeling of emptiness and loneliness

 

My mind tells me this is all an illusion

“He can’t be with you forever, he’ll soon move onto the next girl

You can’t possibly hold on for much too long’

I know I should walk away but my legs can’t carry me

My heart can’t handle this onslaught on its emotions

 

I try to imagine life without you

Life without your smile to experience and your hands to hold me

And it seems so dull and dreary

I’ve been in this relationship for so long

I’m not sure I can find myself anymore

I’m not sure I can see me except through your eyes

But this illusion would end one day and I would be forced to walk away

 

Rather than wait for that day to come, I will now helplessly turn to the One

Who can give me the courage to walk away from you and find myself again

 
By Ifeanyi Omoike

Ifeanyi is a focused project manager who believes in God, and the beauty of human relationships. She loves shoes…LOTS of shoes.

If you have written something which you would like our readers to enjoy from ‘The Lectern’, or you just wan show yourself for the helluvit, attach and send it in a mail titled ‘The Lectern’ to ojukwumartin@gmail.com. If you are unsure about a subject matter, still reach out and we can work up something appropriate for you. It doesn’t have to be right, left, right or wrong…just your opinion.

Chisom