Retirement
How will you end everything you’ve started?
Author: Osemhen
When I Say I Love You
So I listened to this interesting video today And the rabbi essentially makes the point that many times, when we say we love someone (or something), we actually mean that we love what that person (or thing) does for us. E.g. I love fried chicken. So I kill a chicken and fry it. Does that sound like love of chicken or love of the taste of fried chicken? He extends the analogy to “falling in love”. When a woman falls in love, does she love the man or she loves how he makes her feel? It sounds cold, doesn’t it? I love this man because we make (or people say we make) a cute couple, and we share mutual interests, and have compatible life philosophies, and it makes financial sense to me to split living expenses and child-rearing costs? Bonus points for the fact that I enjoy his company and the gratification that comes with being married in a society that places value on these things. Fish love. And I’m wondering if fish-love is such a …
What’s In A Name? Living Two Lives.
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Romeo & Juliet. Someone called me “Jennifer” today. It’s been a long time since I answered to that name. It’s been a long time since I introduced myself as “Jennifer”. 14 years to be exact. It’s typical to have a first name and a middle name. In my family, we took our Esan names first, and then our baptismal names. Odd, when you think that our parents did the exact opposite. Their baptismal names first, and then their native names. My husband’s family did the same thing. Baptismal names first, and then native names. It’s a thing of curiosity how we choose which takes priority. For the first 9 years of my life, I used both names interchangeably. Osemhen. Jennifer. At home I was mostly Osemhen, except for a few aunts who preferred to call me Jennifer. In primary school, it was a 70/30 split. The teachers called me Jennifer. Some of my classmates called me Osemhen, especially …
That Time I Went On A “Blind Date”
Early 2011, one of my aunts (not so much aunt, as friend of an aunt but everyone is an aunt) called me to find out how I was doing and what my romantic prospects looked like. At the time, said prospects were zero. I was 22, right smack in the middle of youth service and obsessing with what my future would be. I was neck-deep in applications for Masters programs, scholarships, writing residencies. I had a crush or two and the feeling might’ve been mutual but I was more concerned with becoming an independent adult. To Auntie, however, I simply remarked, “No.” She’d found someone for me, she said. A relative of her husband. Let’s call him Julius because I can’t remember his name. He was “eligible”, meaning he had a job and she thought we’d be a good fit. She suggested I attend a wedding the following weekend so she could introduce us. “I can’t come, I have other plans with my Dad.” Okay, she said. Why didn’t I come over to her house the …
The Unglamorous Life of Working Parents
You make it seem all glamorous. It being “working motherhood”. I was chatting with one of my friends and we were discussing my prayer intentions. I admitted being overwhelmed by my life and asking for God’s help with work-life balance. And she said, “You make it seem all glamorous but I’m sure it has its iffy spots.” “Iffy spots”? Understatement. Parenting. Drool. Dirty, drooping diapers. Reading said diaper contents like they’re tea leaves, foretelling your child’s health. Why so orange? Right, he ate carrots last night. What’s that?? Is that an almond? Oh, Lord. Half-eaten bowls of oatmeal on the kitchen counter. Torn classics because the kid likes my books better than his. Nonsensical nursery rhymes I’d never heard before 2016. Daddy finger, daddy finger, where are you? Toddlers that tumble off beds. A subscription to Baby Centre. Hospital emergency room at 6 am on Saturday morning because the child ran an overnight fever so severe he glowed bright red. Motherhood. Forgetting your laptop at home but arriving work with your milk pump bag. Because…priorities. Work. …
Short Story Excerpt: Family Matters
When Renate checked, she saw that Preye had left a single message. Call Me. It was like her sister to be cryptic and annoying. Whatever it is, why didn’t she just text the entire message? Her hand hesitated over the green call button beside Preye’s name. What was the matter now? It was early evening still. As promised, Adeun had brought her to Freedom Park for the monthly Afropolitan Vibes. The band was still setting up and it wasn’t crowded, yet. Adeun had compared it to a concert gathering but it still seemed rather tame. They sat on a raised porch, facing an array of food bars and she’d ordered ofada rice; one of the few cravings she remembered from childhood. Adeun had tried to convince her the ofada wasn’t all that here. “I’ll take you somewhere else. They grind the pepper by hand.” “I’ll take what I get. When did you say they built this park?” “I guess 2010? I first came here in 2011 and…” He was interrupted by a squeal, “Deun!” He turned, …
A Thing For Lent
It’s almost cliché, isn’t it? My first post this year is on the first day of Lent. I think it’s safe to say Lent is my favorite part of the Catholic calendar. Does that sound weird? Lent is ash on my forehead. Lent is fasting and abstinence and purging my soul. Lent is haunting hymns. Lent is sorrow and pain and deprivation and all the things that are considered ugly about human existence. Lent is death. But Lent is also hope. It’s the reminder of everything this world is. Drought. Then rain. Aslan dying. And then resurrecting. Death. And Life after. Lent is honesty with God. Look, Lord. It’s just me here. With my flaws and imperfections and I’m unworthy, Lord. Many times, I even forget to pray. Did I ever tell you how I sometimes envy Muslims their dedication to prayer? Seriously, good Muslims are #dedicationgoals. I see them stop conversations abruptly so they can go pray. And I think with shame of all the times my phone buzzes that it’s time for my prayer, and …
Story of a Bleeding Heart
Kosidinma, my friend’s son passed away last week. His mother, Ehimemen wrote this for him. Words cannot express the pain I feel at your demise. You entered my life and made me feel like finally I had a purpose. A purpose that was mine only. Suddenly I knew I owed someone, I knew I owed you a responsibility to raise you as God wants. You gave me sleepless nights but it was all worth it because the look and satisfaction you gave after each feeding was priceless. We had a connection which no one understood. Whenever I heard you cry, even when I knew you were having your bath, I jumped out of bed to watch just to make sure your crying was not for something that could have been avoided. When people came to congratulate me, I was proud of the child I had begotten and created; bright, tall, independent and a whole lot more. I looked forward to your growing up because I felt you were going to be the next Albert Einstein… …
28.
I turned 28 two months ago. Usually, I’d write a blogpost to commemorate but I wasn’t in the right place mentally at the time. I am now. What does 28 mean to me? It’s a question I’ve struggled with but also a question that’s very easy. 28 is familiar, like an old sweater. Like I’ve spent all my life waiting to be 28. Like I was born to be 28. I’ve never felt this way about any other age. Does this make sense? Physical identity meant a great deal to me when I was 28 years old. I had almost the same kind of relationship with my mirror that many of my contemporaries had with their analysts. Don DeLillo, Americana 28 is… The age of “unlearning”. The age of courage. Of being able to unpack the baggage, the myths, the cliches, the “home training”. They were useful…once. When we were younger and life was easier with a playbook, a rulebook. But life’s so much complicated. And it’s so much work to be likable. And how …
5 Ways You Can Make Your Home Safer Today
We hardly ever think about these things except to say, “It’s not my portion.” But events can blind side us on any given Tuesday and emergencies don’t discriminate between creeds or beliefs. The difference between an accident and a fatality is often the emergency response. Don’t even dull. 1. Buy a fire extinguisher/fire blanket. For N5000, you can get a decent fire blanket from your nearest fire station, hardware store (Game, for instance) or online. A fire blanket can be thrown over a small fire or wrapped around a burning person to starve the fire of air. You know those kitchen fires that start with a burning pot of oil? You need a fire blanket. Any old blanket won’t work; fire blankets are specially made with fire-retardant material so they won’t burn. In this country where fire fighters are practically unicorns (non-existent), you also need a fire extinguisher for those bigger fires that you can’t throw a blanket over. There are different types of fire extinguishers but industry experts recommend dry powder extinguishers for homes. …