Bored

5 May

Being married is overrated, Lilian thought to herself. They tell you just how awesome it is to wake up each morning to the love of your life, how amazing it is to spend the rest of your life with the one you love, how you fight and make up in the cutest and most romantic of ways, yada, yada, yada. Bullshit. Lilian was bored. Her 4th year wedding anniversary was in 3 weeks and whether she chose to admit it to herself or not, she was bored.

It wasn’t that Dapo was boring. To say the least, he was a great guy. Smart, handsome, funny, hardworking and a few other things single girls had on lists either in their head or on a paper tucked in the pages of a bible. It wasn’t that she had stopped loving him. She still loved him with all her heart. She just couldn’t place a finger on what it was but put simply, she was a bored 30yr old wife.

Bored of waking up on the same side of the bed every morning, bored of making breakfast which mostly turned out to be another inventive session with eggs, bored of coming home after work to the same three-bedroom living space they called “home”, bored of making dinner and doing the dishes, bored of sex on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, bored of Dapo’s friends who came over almost every sunday to watch what it seemed like they couldn’t watch in the comfort of their respective homes, bored of having to make small talk with their wives and girlfriends, bored of playing the perfect wife and hostess whenever Dapo’s colleagues from work came to theirs for dinner and just plain bored of being Mrs Fashanu.

Her boredom reached its peak when she was on her work leave. If boredom could kill, she would have died from it. Dapo always wanted to tell her about his job at the bank and the irritating customers he dealt with on a daily basis. She couldn’t care less. One evening, all she heard from his one hour long rant was “fat…yelling…manager…annoying” as she allowed her imagination enlarge his ears and nose and widen his forehead. It’s not like she didn’t try, she did. But one way or the other, she couldn’t shake off the fact that she was bored of a less than 4yr old marriage.

It was part of the reason why she hadn’t gotten off birth control. She didn’t want to bring any child into the mix just yet. Dapo thought she had been off birth control for at least a year now and she didn’t care to let him know the truth. It’s not like his bedroom game had improved. It was still the same ol’ same ol’ rump in the sheets. She was bored of it too. Bored of her entire life.

Or was she? Was this whole ruse of boredom really because she was bored or just an excuse to make her feel better about herself? She sat up on the bed causing the covers to fall to her belly exposing her breasts and lightly tapped Alex who had fallen asleep.

“Alex, get up and get dressed. My husband will be home in an hour.

Alex reluctantly got up and did as he was told. He kissed her and left. She smiled as she watched him walk out of her bedroom. She had met him 3 weeks ago when her car had broken down on her way back from work. He had offered to help and had shamelessly flirted with her which she enjoyed. Her hair wasn’t perfect, most of her makeup had cleaned off after a long, hard day at work but he made her feel really pretty. She knew his interest had something to do with the length of her skirt but she didn’t care. When he asked for her number she reluctantly showed him her wedding ring but he acted like he didn’t see it and asked her again. Then just like that they began an illicit affair which had become the most exciting thing in her life. She didn’t love him. All she loved was how he made her feel which was better than anything she had felt in a long time.

She got up and put on her robe then slid on her engagement ring and wedding band that she had taken off right before the best twenty minutes of her life. It would’ve been disrespectful to have had it on. She made her way to the kitchen and decided to whip up something new and different for dinner. Dapo had said something about his brother coming over. She didn’t care. She had just had mind-blowing sex with a 19yr old and didn’t feel so bored anymore.

Advertisements

Re: My Vows To You

29 Dec

*removes cobwebs* Haven’t been here in ages!

Anyway, I the link to this post–ยป was posted on my TL and I read it and it was hilarious. You should check it out. I wrote a somewhat reply and decided to share it here.

Enjoy!

Without you, I am as non-existent as the gist of Rosewood Bailar.

It’s okay if we don’t go to expensive restaurants. I won’t compare you to my friend’s man so long as the food is good.

We can spend perfect days playing video games and talking about football together.

I’ll LOL at all your jokes; the ones you tell in person, over the phone, in our chats & on twitter even when they’re not funny.

I’ll never ‘K’ your tweets or IMs.

I won’t demand that you pay for my BIS. You’re not my father.

I won’t ask you to buy me Brazillian, Indian, Peruvian weaves or any of that nonsense. Give me the money, I’ll buy it myself.

You’re always the better driver, ALWAYS.

If your car breaks down on the way, I’ll push.

I promise.

It’s okay for you to check out other girls, as long as we do it together.

On date nights, I’ll start dressing up an hour or two before you start, so I won’t keep you waiting.

I won’t get mad if you doze off 7 minutes after sex (that’s enough time to cuddle and for you to tell me how awesome I am). Stallions need rest.

I won’t pretend to have a headache or body ache when you’re in the mood and I’m not, I’m here to serve you.

I don’t mind role-playing. I can be your french maid, cheerleader, naughty school girl or naughty nurse; if you’re into that kind of stuff.

If you suck in the sack, I won’t make you feel less of a man. Just know that the pages of Cosmo & GQ with areas circled in black marker that I leave around the bedroom did not fall out accidentally.

I’ll never grow a fro down there. I’ll shave, I’ll wax, I’ll even do laser.

I’ll never wear granny panties. I’ll only do lace & silk. Victoria’s secret.

I’ll do all I can to get my body back after giving birth. I won’t get all “thick” on you just because I’ve had kids.

It’s okay if you grow a small belly. I’ll rub it untill you fall asleep.

If my vegetable tastes like suffering and struggle, I won’t take it personal when you complain. I’ll make it again and again until I get it right even if I have to call my mum for help.

I’ll never ask you to choose between me & any of the women in your family. Just remember who you’re sleeping with.

I will never wear a hairnet to sleep. I know how much you dislike it & the look it gives me. Bendy Rollers? Ok.

Whenever a Man U game is on (You best be a Man U fan), I won’t just disappear. I’ll be sitting right next to you, cheering when Rooney scores and yelling when De Gea misses.

I won’t get annoyed when you obsess over the release of a new FIFA, I’ll pre-order it online for you.

No episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians compares to a re-run of a Man U match.

I’ll never say you have enough gadgets. As long as it’s not coming out of the kids’ fund.

With me, it’s okay to squeeze the toothpaste from the middle. I’d even do it too.

If you forget to put down the toilet seat, we won’t have issues. I’ll just do it myself.

Because I’ll love you with every ounce of my being.

You dare not fail to come to me. I am the very bane of your existence. I am your The One. You are nothing without me.

When we’re married, it’s ride till we die. Divorce is a not an option. If you like pull an Ashton or pull a Mel Gibson, my Jesus is not asleep.

“It Wasn’t Working”

23 Jul

You’re not thinking about me anymore…about us
You said it yourself, we’re done…perfect cue for an applause

You’re moving on to happier things
The excitement and laughter I failed to bring

You’ve done your best, you put in your all
Now is the perfect time for you to let the curtains fall

The signal to you of the end of a love story
The beginning to me of a tale of unending misery

I look back each day asking the same question
Never finding answers to this dilemma, my situation

In everything I did I sought to please
You, the one for who my heart bleeds

It didn’t matter what others felt or had to say
You were my all, I was content that way

Your kisses, your hugs, your laughter, your smile
Your love, your heart, all of you was mine

We were perfect together or so I thought
But then it is said that things are never as they ought

I’ll still love you for God knows how much longer
What I feel for you only time has the power wither

I don’t know what hurts most; the loss or not knowing
You never explained you just said “it wasn’t working”

*********************************************

Irene In Italy

1 Jul

“Work it, work it, work it. Now stop! Smile. Turn. Work it ladies, work it. Give me attitude! It’s runway, girls! Work it. Now stop! Turn. Smile. Now do that again…”

Italy.

She had read about this country. Might have been in a romance novel. Yeah, it was a romance novel, “The Italian Affair”. She had lent it from a friend. She remembered that it had beautifully described Italy. Well-known for its fine wine and lush country side. The food was described to be exquisite. Then the cities. She loved pronouncing the names over and over again as she read the novel. Rome, Genoa, Florence, Verona, Venice, Bologna. She almost felt like she had been to all these cities. And the men. The novel had described Italian men to be romantic and good-looking. She liked that.

Now she didn’t have to imagine anymore. She was here. In Milan, in Italy. One of fashion’s central cities. She couldn’t believe she was here. She had been going through the motions. It still felt surreal. She still couldn’t believe it. It was nothing like she had read, nothing like she had imagined. It was nothing like it.

The other girls seemed to have been used to it by now. The cameras, the lights, the endless catwalk rehearsals, classes on posture, speech, mannerisms. She was sick of it. She had had enough of it. She had seen some of the other girls sniff the white stuff to get by, to forget, but she couldn’t do drugs. Not now, not ever. She wasn’t brought up that way. There was nothing she could do about it. Not even if she tried. Nothing. Her mum had signed the dotted lines. She had signed them too. Pages and pages of words with dotted lines. They didn’t pause to read them. They were too excited. After suffering for three long and hard years since her father’s death, they felt like fate had finally smiled at them again. So they both didn’t read the dotted lines and now she was bound to ‘them’ for 5 years at the end of which ‘they’ could at ‘their’ will exercise the option of keeping her for 2 more years. She was only 3 months into her first year. Her journey had only just begun.

She cried when she first got here. She cried because the cold, harsh reality had hit her. It had hit her hard. Mrs Okorie had failed to deliver on her promises. She got her to Italy in one piece but that was it. She handed her over to one Miss Sylvia and every other thing she had promised her had gone with the wind. She was alone. A young, aspiring model. A young, disappointed, heart-broken, aspiring model.

This wasn’t the plan. No. She wanted to be a doctor. An obstetrician. She loved kids. She hated seeing them in pain. She wanted to make it all go away. That was her dream ever since she was 10. Her parents had supported her. They loved her. She was the only child. Her mother had lost her womb after giving birth to her. That’s all they said. No one ever gave her the details. Then her father died. He was a policeman. A very hardworking one. He just came home from work one day and said he was having a headache and needed to rest. The next morning, he was dead. Just like that. No heads up. No warning. Her ‘papa’ was gone. The breadwinner was gone. Her mother was a petty trader. Her business never did make much. Then the elders came. The men she had called ‘uncle’. Some she had even called ‘nnanyi’. They came and they took everything. Everything they owned. From her father’s rickety V-boot to the very house they lived in. Everything. They were left with nothing. She managed to finish secondary school but she knew that merely thinking of going to the university was like asking a dog to fly. It would if it had wings but it doesn’t, so it can’t.

Then came Mrs Okorie. They’re supposed angel sent from God. Mrs Okorie had relatives who lived down the road and so she passed her mother’s store every time she came to the village which was every month. She had seen her and that’s when she convinced her mother. She convinced her mother that she would make a beautiful model. She was tall, slim, light-skinned and pretty. She told her mother that she knew a modelling agency based in Italy. She had said that the owner was her best friend. All they had to do was sign some documents and they would soon start receiving payments in euros. Their signatures on a few dotted lines and she would be paid to take a picture, her face would be on the cover of every magazine, her name would be on everybody’s lips and she would make enough money to make her mother forget the last 3 years. That was all it took.

She remembered the first time they asked her to strip naked seductively in front of a camera. She had stiffled sobs all through. She had asked Miss Sylvia “Is this part of modelling?” She had answered “Yes, now open your legs wide so the camera can get a good look. And smile.”

She was allowed to call her mum once in two weeks. With a gun to the back of her head and Miss Sylvia sitting across from her, staring at her with those cold eyes, she read the words on a piece of paper. Each time describing an event she had never experienced. The first time, she had read out to her mother about being selected to be the face of an Italian perfume. The last time she called her which was 3 days ago, she read out to her that she had been selected to be part of the Runway Shows for the Milan Fashion Week. Her mother had no idea what that meant but that didn’t stop her squeals of joy. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she heard her sing “Thank you God” in Ibo. Her poor, unknowing mother. She was told that 100 euros is sent to her once in two weeks. She was also made to take some kind of pictures. Good ones. These were the ones that were sent to her mother.

Her mother must be so happy. She must have told everyone that cared to listen. Her daughter was a model in Italy. She was the face of an Italian perfume and now she was going to be in the Runway Shows for the Milan Fashion Week.

How sad.

She was still a virgin so she was of a very high value. She couldn’t be sent to work the streets yet. She was still a virgin. But she might not still be by the end of the week. She just hoped he wasn’t obese and mean-looking. The “runway show” was a bidding show. The members of an exclusive club were going to bid for a night with each of them after they watch them strut their stuff. They were all virgins so the bids were going to be high. It was in 2 days. The rules were simple. “Run and you would be hunted down and shot!” In the last week, 6 girls that she knew met this fate. It made no sense to try.

“Irene! Irene! Irene!”

She heard Miss Sylvia’s voice. She remembered that she was supposed to be Irene.

“Are you deaf?! What the fuck are you thinking about?” Miss Sylvia yelled.

She quickly wiped away the tears that had started to trickle down her cheeks. “Nothing, ma’am” She answered as she had been taught.

“Get in line and join the other girls for the walk!” Miss Sylvia yelled again.

She nodded and walked briskly to join the other girls.

My name is not Irene.
My name is Chinonye.

I’m not a model in Milan.
I’m a Nigerian Prostitute in Italy.

Quitter

22 Jun

Today’s post is inspired by a memory.

Here is Lily’s Story! Enjoy!

I wonder how you’ll make it in life.

I wonder how you’ll become the man of your dreams.

I wonder how you’ll fulfill your heart desires.

How you’ll get that dream house, dream car, dream job, dream wife, dream life.

I wonder if you’ll die happy.

I wonder if you’ll die fulfilled.

I wonder.

I wonder because all you do is quit.

All you do is give up.

All you do is let go.

“I hate stress”; “I can’t stand this”; “It’s too much for me”; “She’s not making this easy”; “Her wahala is too much”

“Her wahala is too much”…that’s the funniest one.

You said that about the last girl.

I laughed in my heart when you said it. Because I know. Because I’ve been in her shoes.

You were the one everybody liked. I didn’t like you.

Not that I hated you. Not that you weren’t likeable. It just never came up.

Then you showed your interest in me. I was innocently busy and content with being on my own. With being unnoticed. With being by myself.

I didn’t beg you. But you came.

You showed your interest and you turned my world upside down.

I love aggressively.

And so I gave us my aggressive best.

It was beautiful.

It was fun.

But it didn’t last long.

You gave up.

Someone else showed his interest in me.

Someone else that stood a good chance.

Someone else that loved me too.

I admit that he distracted me.

He listened. He intrigued me. He made me laugh. He said all the right things. He was unusual. The kind of unusual I liked.

But I was with you.

No matter how amazing he was, I was for you.

I was committed to you.

His love for me didn’t change how I felt about you.

I loved you.

You forgot this.

You let all the “what ifs” haunt you.

You became afraid.

You questioned “us”.

You questioned what you meant to me.

You gave up.

You didn’t even wait to find out what he meant to me.

You just said you were done.

You couldn’t go through the “stress”

Stress?

What stress?

That’s like Messi giving up in a football match because Iker Cassillas is the opposing goalkeeper.

Cassillas is good at what he does. Messi is the best at what he does.

Simply put, You Quit.

I would have fought.

But what’s the point of fighting if only one person is willing to fight?

If only one person is willing to try.

You walk with two legs not one.

No matter how willing your right leg is to walk, if your left leg is paralysed you aint walking to nowhere!

You can hop. But walk?! Hell no.

Love is a battle. Love is a war.

You fight for it.

You fight everyday.

You fight because you love that person.

You fight because you want them to be yours for as long as possible.

You don’t just quit.

You don’t just give up.

You don’t just let go.

You keep fighting.

Life isn’t a bed of roses.

There’s a thorn at almost every turn.

That doesn’t mean you quit on life. No!

You work around the thorns. They might prick you. But you work your way around them.

Getting a degree isn’t easy. No!

On some days, reading might interest you as much as watching Foyle’s War on The Universal Channel.

But you know you have to read. You know you have to get that degree. And so you read. Its annoying but you read anyway.

Getting a job isn’t easy. (At least not for everybody). Sometimes its interview after interview after interview.

You don’t just stop looking for a job (unless hunger is your favourite feeling). You keep trying.

You hear about the next interview scheduled for 9:00am and you get your behind out of bed friggin’ early and get there by 7:00am!

Nothing comes easy.

Nothing.

You have to work for stuff.

For some things you have to work harder than you would for others.

Bottom line is you have to work.

At least try.

You don’t just give up.

You don’t just let go.

You don’t just quit.

So yes, I wonder.

I wonder if you’ll fulfill your dreams.

I wonder if you’ll get that girl. The girl for you.

You said the next one you’re interested in lives far away but you’ll try.

(laughs) You quit on all the ones that are close to you. This one lives far!

Goodluck.

There’s a saying that “Givers never lack”.

From it I coined,”Quitters never die happy”.

They don’t die happy. They just quit.

And then in a couple years, they sit on the wooden rocking chair, on the porch outside their married first son/daughter’s house, with grey hair, wrinkled skin and knees too feeble to move much…thinking…wishing…immersing themselves in the misery of the “what ifs”.

What if I didn’t give up?

What if I didn’t let go?

What if I didn’t quit?

Well, if you didn’t quit on us, I might not be telling this story.

Our first son would be 5 and our daughter would be 3.

Its 2:00pm. Now, they would’ve been done with school. I’d be on my way to pick them up.

But you gave up.

You let go.

You quit.

Quit quitting quitter!

Fight for something today!

Box of Knives

20 Jun

Hey there!
Today’s post is…I don’t even know how to describe it. One of my Alternates shall take it from here. Call her ‘Isabelle’. Enjoy!

I wore a red dress. Red has always been your favourite colour. You said it made you feel alive. On a woman, you said it made you stop dead in your tracks. It was a boob-tube. You loved to see a woman’s shoulders. You said it oozed confidence in herself. In her skin. It was sinched at the waist. My small waist. You said you loved that too. It wasn’t too short. I was told that could mean desperation. It stopped right above my knees. It was Alexander Mcqueen. Occasions & Events let me have it for #45,000.

My shoes. Leopard-print shoes. You have many times called me your “wild cat”, it is most appropriate. 6 inch-heels. You loved a woman in heels. You said it was sexy. They were Christian Louboutin. Part of his 2011 Fall Collection. Mobo’s let me have it for #60,000.

Chanel Leopard-print clutch to match. I’ve always had it. Never had a chance to use it. Today I have the chance.

Lorraine Schwartz necklace, earrings and bracelet. My older sister’s. The one with the filthy rich husband. It was her Valentine’s gift for this year. It took three days of non-stop begging and a promise to babysit her twin boys for a whole weekend for her to finally agree to let me have it. *sighs* What a bargain!

Red CoverGirl Lipstick. Got it for #2500 from my usual cosmetics store. You loved red on a woman’s lips. You said it turned you on.

Not that it mattered. Not that anyone would ask. But just incase someone did. Just incase someone asked who I was wearing or how much it cost I wanted to say it with a proud smirk on my face. Would have settled for less and then lied if I was asked but that’s where we’re different. I hate lies. When I find myself telling a lie, I hate myself. I hate to lie. I hate liars.

I HATE YOU.

You lied to me. You promised me you would never lie to me. I’m sitting here at this darn table with four strangers I don’t care to know looking at you sitting across from me, hating myself for believing you. For believing every word that you said. For believing your lies.

You said you loved me. You told me you loved me each day for the past three years. I believed you. I believed every word. I swallowed your lies hook, line and sinker. And so I gave myself to your love, to your lies.

I gave you my heart. All of it. I gave you my soul. Every bit of it. I gave you my body. Every inch of it. I gave you my love.

My love for you wasn’t a lie. It was real, it was deep, it was honest, it was sincere, it was agressive, it was passionate, it was burning. It still burns.

You were everything I could ever want. Everything I could ever hope for. You were smart, funny, clever, witty, intuitive, decisive, strong, determined, responsible, good-looking. Yes, good-looking. Your dimples sat perfectly on both cheeks. Your brown eyes were………I could never say no to those eyes. Your smile. It made me feel like everything was right in the world. In my world. I refrain from describing your body. I might forget what this is all about. All I can say is, you have sent one too many shivers down my poor spine.

You were perfect. Perfect to me.

You were everything. Everything to me.

I loved you. I still do.

I remember the text you sent me this morning. “Hey baby. Work is hectic. Been busy as hell. Miss you loads. Would call you as soon as I can. I love you.”

BASTARD!

Three weeks ago you said you had to go to Abuja (again) on business. I believed you (as always) afterall, you’re based in Abuja. You only come to Lagos for me. I even asked you not to forget to buy me kilishi. *laughs*

A week later, Thelma called me. She was serving in Abuja. She had met someone who knew someone who knew you. She found out. She told me. My heart shattered. I almost died. I had to come see for myself.

I have replayed this scene in my head over and over again. What I would say, how I would act, what I would do. What would be most appropriate. I came prepared. I was determined to be civil.

Today, I’m here. Sitting at this darn table with these four strangers.

Sitting at your wedding reception. You should thank your ancestors that I missed the wedding. I might not have been able to control myself.

I’m going to make sure you see me. I’m going to make sure you know I’m here. I look beautiful. Four guys have told me that already. I’m going to make sure you see that.

BASTARD LIAR!

I brought you a wedding gift. I addressed it. My name is boldly written on it. I hope you open it yourself.

It’s a box of knives.

There it is people. Isabelle’s story. Hope you enjoyed it. Ladies, what if you were in her shoes? What would you have done? Guys too. I believe that almost every scenario is possible and I’m sure that there are women who do this too. What would you have done?
Feel free to use the comment box.

My SUPERMan

19 Jun

Hey there!

Today’s post is long overdue. I refrain from using an alternate today. This is all me. Better late than never. Enjoy!

It is often said that God created two of the same person but I’m yet to find any quite like you. This is the part that scares me…that I may never find any quite like you.

It is often said that there is no such thing as a perfect human being. To this I say that you’re almost perfect, it’s perfect to me.

It is often said that no one can love me more than I love myself. In this I have failed. In this you have surpassed me.

SACRIFICE. I’m familiar with this word and I have a deep understanding of it. Not because you have told me what it means or tried to make me understand what it means but because you have shown me.

You have shown me what it means to sacrifice your life for the one you truly love.

What it means to forfeit the things that you want for yourself for the one you love.

What it means to put yourself last for the one you love to be first, not so that you will be worthy of being first at the end of the day but just because you love that person. Maybe even more than you love yourself.

LOVE. *smiles sadly* How mediocre it has become today is unbelievable.

I hear them. People. The ones that think they know what this word means. They say it a lot over the phone at the end of a conversation. They insert it at the end of a text. This they do without a true understanding of its depth, its meaning.

I would not claim to know what love means. I only know the meaning you’ve shown me.

You’ve shown me that it means forgiveness, even when I’ve surpassed the ’77 x 7′ limit.

You’ve shown me that it means compassion, even when I make a foolish decision and ought to bear the consequence.

You’ve shown me that it means trust, because I can always trust that you’ll always be there for me.

You’ve shown me that it even when you’re mad at me, it’s cause you care not because of the thing I did to upset you.

You’ve shown me that it means fighting. Fighting against the odds of the world. Fighting so it can be better for the one you love.

PERSEVERANCE. This you’ve shown me too. No matter how many times the door is slammed in your face, you still go back to knock. You still go back for me.

DETERMINATION. I don’t know the name of the dictionary of your life but I know that ‘giving-up’ is a phrase that does not exist in it.

Some days, I find myself wishing it wasn’t you…wishing it was someone else because of something that they have more than you.

Something that they can give me that you cannot.

But then I stop myself. What can they give me that would truly compare to everything that you have given me? Everything that you give me. Everything that you will still give me. Nothing.

I LOVE YOU from the bottom of my heart because you loved me first. You fell in love with me the first time you saw me.

Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t I the first proof of your manhood.

Some call you ‘dad’, some ‘daddy’, some ‘papa’, some ‘popsy’, others ‘father’.

I choose to call you SUPERMAN. My very own SUPERMan.

Signed, Your little girl today, tomorrow and always. HAPPY FATHERS’ DAY.