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My Definition of Success

Published by Osemhen

I’ve started, and discarded many posts over the last week. Laziness, ennui, hormones, sleeplessness, blasted writers’ block (thank God for whoever coined this term) took over and had me all sorts of cranky. This week, however, sanity prevails. Maybe it’s the prospect of Lent (starts tomorrow for Catholics). Maybe it’s the realization that the end of March marks the end of the first quarter of 2011 and my resolutions are on a downward slope. Need to tighten that belt, let’s go.

One of the things I wanted to blog about was the definition of success. I’ve always balked at the automatic association some people make between success and wealth: to be successful is to be rich and if you’re not rich, or if you’re poor, then you’re unsuccessful. I can’t quite put my finger on what exactly doesn’t ring true about this definition. Maybe it’s the fact that it makes success too mercenary. I mean, if I’m a thieving senator, am I successful? (Don’t tell me I’m a successful thief!) If I inherit a billion dollars when some distant, childless relative dies, do I automatically become successful?

I think about this question a lot because I want to be “successful”, whatever that means. And even though I fancy I might like it, I don’t necessarily want to have an annual income that has me “smiling next to Oprah and the Queen”. Is there a point where a person can say “I’m successful enough”? Come to think about it, should a person identify herself as successful? Wouldn’t that be tantamount to “liking” your own status update? To help clarify, I came up with a list of my top ten role models. I figured, hey, if I can find what it is about these people I like, then I’d have some idea what success looks like. Right? So here goes.

1. My Dad. I admire his dedication to his kids and hope to be half as dedicated to my own children someday.

2. My mentor, Dolapo. Amazingly focused, intelligent and dedicated. She’s a teacher, administrator and director of a centre for young girls. She’s my role model for dedication to duty, cheerfulness no matter what and almost 100% efficiency. And she’s stubborn in a good way. 🙂

3. My cousins, AK and Aletor. Business role models for how to do business in Nigeria against all odds, and enjoy it with no apologies to anyone.

4. My cousin, Yemyem. Role model for her dress sense, her simplicity, and her dedication to family.

5. Chimamanda Adichie. For writing beautiful fiction. ‘Nuff said.

6. My friend, Bodunrin. She will have a heart attack if she ever sees this! Role model on how to be unapologetically Christian and how to love God with all my heart, soul and might.

7. My brother, Okha. For how to get back up when life deals you hard knocks.

8. Auntie Data and Uncle Jeye. For making marriage look like paradise.

The result? I decided success is about doing something, achieving something that people can/would applaud if they knew about it. Something you can be proud of. Stuff like taking a stand on issues that matter, like being true to your conscience, like doing your best whatever you do, wherever you find yourself. Basically, about doing stuff and living your life such that if it were to get into the local newspaper, you’d be more likely to blush with pride than with shame.
It’s a tall order, but hey, there are tons of ordinary people doing extraordinary stuff. Have you seen the maiden edition of the digital magazine, Klorofyl? Now that’s extraordinary. Art. Pure art. Tolu and his team may just have invented a new genre. Urban. African. Christian. And whether they know it or not, they’ve successfully awakened dormant talents in and shaken up the mentalities of a lot of young people.

Yours truly included.

p.s. if it’s not too much trouble, please list your top ten role models (living) and why. You can do it anonymously 🙂

Clearing Out My Head…

Published by Osemhen

I’ve started, and discarded many posts over the last week. Laziness, ennui, hormones, sleeplessness, blasted writers’ block (thank God for whoever coined this term) took over and had me all sorts of cranky. This week, however, sanity prevails. Maybe it’s the prospect of Lent (starts tomorrow for Catholics). Maybe it’s the realization that the end of March marks the end of the first quarter of 2011 and my resolutions are on a downward slope. Need to tighten that belt, let’s go.
One of the things I wanted to blog about was the definition of success. I’ve always balked at the automatic association some people make between success and wealth: to be successful is to be rich and if you’re not rich, or if you’re poor, then you’re unsuccessful. I can’t quite put my finger on what exactly doesn’t ring true about this definition. Maybe it’s the fact that it makes success too mercenary. I mean, if I’m a thieving senator, am I successful? (Don’t tell me I’m a successful thief!) If I inherit a billion dollars when some distant, childless relative dies, do I automatically become successful?
I think about this question a lot because I want to be “successful”, whatever that means. And even though I fancy I might like it, I don’t necessarily want to have an annual income that has me “smiling next to Oprah and the Queen”. Is there a point where a person can say “I’m successful enough”? Come to think about it, should a person identify herself as successful? Wouldn’t that be tantamount to “liking” your own status update?
To help clarify, I came up with a list of my top ten role models. I figured, hey, if I can find what it is about these people I like, then I’d have some idea what success looks like. Right? So here goes.
1. My Dad. I admire his dedication to his kids and hope to be half as dedicated to my own children someday.
2. My mentor, Dolapo. Amazingly focused, intelligent and dedicated. She’s a teacher, administrator and director of a centre for young girls. She’s my role model for dedication to duty, cheerfulness no matter what and almost 100% efficiency. And she’s stubborn in a good way. 🙂
3. My cousins, AK and Aletor. Business role models for how to do business in Nigeria against all odds, and enjoy it with no apologies to anyone.
4. My cousin, Yemyem. Role model for her dress sense, her simplicity, and her dedication to family.
5. Chimamanda Adichie. For writing beautiful fiction. ‘Nuff said.

6. My friend, Bodunrin. She will have a heart attack if she ever sees this! Role model on how to be unapologetically Christian and how to love God with all my heart, soul and might.
7. My brother, Okha. For how to get back up when life deals you hard knocks.
8. Auntie Data and Uncle Jeye. For making marriage look like paradise.
The result? I decided success is about doing something, achieving something that people can/would applaud if they knew about it. Something you can be proud of. Stuff like taking a stand on issues that matter, like being true to your conscience, like doing your best whatever you do, wherever you find yourself. Basically, about doing stuff and living your life such that if it were to get into the local newspaper, you’d be more likely to blush with pride than with shame.
It’s a tall order, but hey, there are tons of ordinary people doing extraordinary stuff. Have you seen the maiden edition of the digital magazine, Klorofyl? Now that’s extraordinary. Art. Pure art. Tolu and his team may just have invented a new genre. Urban. African. Christian. And whether they know it or not, they’ve successfully awakened dormant talents in and shaken up the mentalities of a lot of young people.

Yours truly included.

 

p.s. if it’s not too much trouble, please list your top ten role models (living) and why. You can do it anonymously 🙂

If I Had A Life Philosophy…This Would Be It

Published by Osemhen

I have Tarela Ghomorai to thank for introducing me to this essay/musical. It’s titled “Everyone’s Free to Wear Sunscreen”. It was first written by Mary Schmich, wrongly attributed to Kurt Vonnegut and then recorded as a song by Baz Luhrmann of Moulin Rouge and Australia fame. If I had a philosophy of life, it would be this I think. It aptly summarizes and, at the very least, dismisses some of the problems that come with being at the stage of life that I presently find myself.

Also, because I have been told I give pretty useless advice (Tarela again), I recommend this song to everyone who’s ever asked me for advice. If this doesn’t work…shrug.  😀

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfq_A8nXMsQ]

1. Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’99… wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be IT.

The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

I will dispense this advice now.

2. Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.

You are NOT as fat as you imagine.

3. Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

4. Do one thing every day that scares you.

5. Sing.

6. Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

7. Floss.

8. Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

9. Remember compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

10. Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.

11. Stretch.

12. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.

13. Get plenty of calcium.

14. Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

15. Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself, either. Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.

16. Enjoy your body, use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

17. Dance. Even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

18. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

19. Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.

20. Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good.

21. Be nice to your siblings; they are your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

22.Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography in lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

23. Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

24. Travel.

25. Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

26. Respect your elders.

27. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.

28. Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40, it will look 85.

29. Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

30. But trust me on the sunscreen.

Hashim's Story

Published by Osemhen

She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

Hashim approached the counter holding a loaf of bread and a can of insecticide. Yesterday, it had been a bottle of bleach and a six-pack of Imperial Leather. The day before that, a year’s supply of candles and two tins of Kiwi polish. Tomorrow? Detergent, cereal…and maybe, maybe he’d work up the courage to ask her out.

‘Nicole’ her name tag said. She looked … like a Nicole. Artful make-up, perfect manicure, caramel complexion, thin braids that cascaded down her back. When his turn came, she flashed him a quick grin. “Hello.” He decided he liked the lilt in her voice.

“Hi.” Say something more, you doofus! – Like what! – Like… say something! “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Seriously? Are you kidding?!! That the best you could do?

“Yes, it is.” She scanned the insecticide, arched a perfect eyebrow. “You were here yesterday, right?”

“Uh.” Great! Now degenerated to muttering grunts. Perfect, Hashim! “Yes… Nice shirt.” Dude! –  It’s a blue shirt! I like blue!

“Thank you.” She gave a mock bow. “It’s my brother’s.” She squinted at the computer screen, then pronounced with a smile. “Four hundred.”

He paid, took the plastic bag from her.  “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The next day, as planned, he bought a 5kg bag of Omo and two boxes of Fruit n’ Fibre. This time, she complimented his blue shirt.  He informed her he was a Chelsea fan. She was an Arsenal fan. They got into an argument over the better team. He enjoyed it so much, he forgot to ask her out. Oh, well. Tomorrow, then.

The following day, she wasn’t on duty, her mother was. Hashim decided he liked her mother too.  She wasn’t as pretty as her daughter but the quick smile seemed to run in the family. Mama Nicole informed him she was writing university entrance exams. He bought six tins of Titus sardines, and a pound of Blueband margarine. At this rate, he wouldn’t need to buy anything for the next one month…

He didn’t see Nicole for a week. Her exams were right across the country; and she had decided to make a holiday out of it. He searched for her on Facebook. No show. He mentally kicked himself for not getting her number.  I can ask her mom – No, you’ll look like a wimp!

He changed his route home from school so that he’d pass by the supermarket every day. It was a longer route, sure. The supermarket was one of the most expensive in the neighborhood, true. But the chance that he might see Nicole was enough motivation. He thought out loud about becoming an Arsenal fan. His flat-mates thought he was crazy; but didn’t razz him. There was after all a plus, all the stuff he kept buying…

It had been a month.

Her mother said Nicole had been admitted into the university. She wasn’t coming back; she would stay with her older sister. The butterflies in his stomach blossomed into a solid ache in his chest. Crazy. He missed her, this girl he’d spoken to twice. He skipped classes, they were no use. He didn’t hear a word the lecturers said, and every time he opened a book, he saw her face. He stayed home and played sorrowful chords on his guitar. He found himself watching Arsenal matches and hoping they won because somewhere, Nicole was watching too and flashing her delightful smile every time the Gunners scored.

He wondered if she thought of him like he thought of her. Every waking second.

He wondered if he was going crazy.

He decided to forget her. It was irrational, this obsession. And he was a level-headed, clear thinking fellow. Right? Right! He reverted to his old route. He called up his ex, a Chelsea fan. His flat-mates grumbled that the detergent had run out, muttered under their breath that they liked the smitten-Hashim better. He roundly insulted them.

He saw her immediately he entered the store. Her braids were replaced with an Afro and she looked even more beautiful than ever. His heart did a little cartwheel. If he was white, he would’ve been blushing. It was six months since he’d last seen her, six months to get over his infatuation. Six months that now seemed like a minute. Oh, boy. She was talking animatedly with some guy, throwing her head back in laughter, shaking her head in amusement. With something akin to despair, he watched the guy kiss her forehead before he left. Her boyfriend. I’ve lost my chance.

He took the giant bag of Omo off the shelf and trudged to the counter. Will she remember me? Probably not! The shop was a busy one; she probably attended to hundreds of people daily. He would be friendly but cool. Isn’t that an oxymoron? – Shut up! I’m gonna ask her! – No! You’re late! That other guy –I don’t care! I can’t stand this indecision anymore…

“Hello!”

That lilt again, and had he imagined the extra sparkle in her eyes?

“Hi.”

“It’s been ages. Don’t tell me you’ve gone over to our competitors.”

He shrugged, not trusting himself to speak and, in all likelihood, blurt out that he’d come every day when she’d left but stopped when he couldn’t stand the psychological torture of the hope-despair cycle anymore. He wanted to ask her if she liked university life, and how long she’d been back and how long she’d be staying. Instead, he stood mute as she bagged the detergent. When she told him the total, he handed her his ATM card.

“Oh. Hashim.” She read his name from the card, smiled up at him. “Nice name. What does it mean?”

“Uh, Destroyer of evil.” He liked the way she said it. He liked everything about her full stop. Tell her! – That other guy… – Tell her, dammit!

“Nice.”

He took the card when she was done, took the detergent, opened his mouth to confess undying love.

“Hashim?”

“Yes?”

It all came out in a rush. “Okay, so I think you’re kinda cute…and I’ve had this insane crush on you since the first time I saw you…you have really nice hair, has anyone ever told you…Gosh, I’m blabbing…and I was kind of thinking, hoping…Have you seen The King’s Speech?”

“No?” His heart was dancing a little jig in his chest as his mind whirled dizzily. WHAT?!

“Would you like to go see it tomorrow? Please?”

A lifetime of sitcoms and he couldn’t resist.  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Her eyes narrowed in a delighted grin. “Sort of. Yes?”

“Yes!”

A Note on Christmas…

Published by Osemhen
Holy Family, Mary, Joseph, and child Jesus

Image via Wikipedia

I’m unbelievably self-absorbed.

Not content to simply ‘feel’ emotions, I poke and analyse my feelings in a quest for further meaning, implications, deductions and failing all that, at least a rational explanation. It is not enough for me, to say, “I loathe XYZ.” I have to ask myself, “Why? What exactly do I loathe in XYZ? What could change in XYZ that would make me loathe him/her/it less? More? What does it say about me that I loathe XYZ? Why do I care sef?” etc. etc.

That said, you can understand why it is not enough for me to merely ‘feel’ exasperation at Christmas. Not at the event itself, o. Good Lord, no! I love the Christmas Story, adore the carols. What I can’t stand is the urge/need/push to bend over backwards and do financial gymnastics just to celebrate Christmas. Caveat, I make no attempt to dictate how people should/should not spend their money. But, I need to reply a few people who have tried to impose on me certain ‘obligations.’

For instance, why does my hairdresser stare balefully at me when I reply her, “Auntie, you won’t make Christmas hair?” with a simple “Nope.” What is ‘Christmas Hair’? Do I look a hag? No? So why am I expected to plunk down money to look different from how I look the rest of the year?

Then there are the myriad of Christmas shows and Christmas parties and visits to Santa’s grotto. Christmas clothes, Christmas shoes, Christmas bags. And what is with the hampers? Over-priced, junk-filled baskets, the sight of which provoke my aunts to fretting. “Ai, I didn’t buy hamper for our society chairman, oh. Ehn!” And off they go! Back into Balogun Market to shoulder, elbow and upset their way to the hamper section, yours truly in tow. (Just so you understand what a harmless, self-serving rant this is, I adore proper hampers; the ones with original Danish cookies not Cabin biscuits).

On a serious note though, I don’t think Christmas is about all these things. I really think they don’t matter, in the final analysis. Christmas is primarily about Jesus’ birth, and by extension the love shared by the Holy Family. A love we are called to imitate in our families.  My earliest memory of Christmas brings to mind buffet lunches at my grandparents with my cousins, siblings and I wasting all our pocket money on fire-crackers that the adults pretended to be annoyed at. (Then they’d come ‘show’ us how to hold the stick while it exploded without burning our fingers!) It was always a grand reunion. We’d dance, take pictures, sing, eat till we couldn’t breathe. I looked forward to Christmas, primarily because I’d see everyone. I actually resented my Christmas clothes because my mother would never let me really play in them so I’d secretly pack play clothes…

I’m older now, most of my cousins are married and family reunions are harder to organize. The buffet is less appealing because I do a lot of work to get it prepared, kind of blunts my appreciation. For me, most of the outer trappings are gone. What remains is the core, the Love. People show it in different ways. Some write personal, hand-written notes to loved ones (Simon Elvin and Hallmark, eat your consumerist hearts out!). Others help out in leper colonies (Big Ups to Uncle T, my inspiration!). Others pack their old clothes, old toys and hand them over to orphanages. Some prepare food and share to beggars. And all make some personal sacrifice. Like I hope I will once I figure out what to give up…maybe after I write this.

There is of course, the argument that we shouldn’t wait till Christmas to do charity or be nice. Completely valid. But like my sister says, “If you can’t do it at Christmas, then when can you?”

 

p.s. while writing this, I read something on a friend’s blog which in turn led me to another, super cool website! Enjoy!

 

Book Review: The Secret Lives of Baba's Segi's Wives By Lola Shoneyin.

Published by Osemhen

The first time I heard of Lola Shoneyin, it was in an interview she gave where she stated that she wrote because it beat ironing! I wish I could make a similar choice… ‘No, Daddy. I can’t iron your shirts, I want to write.’ Haha!

Lola’s first novel, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives, chronicles the history and happenings of a polygamous household. I started the book expecting a Fuji House of Commotion kind of scenario; lots of humor, petty jealousy, and cat fights between rivalling wives. Well, check on all counts. Except that the humor arises from the author’s amusement at her characters, the jealousy is more virulent than petty, and there are no cat fights, no physical combat. Just deliberately hurtful (very hurtful) words.

Ok, I thought, a serious book.

Lola tells the story of the Alao family with highly evocative descriptions and with an elegant plot. Baba Segi, the head of the household, is married to four wives, Iya Segi, Iya Tope, Iya Femi and Bolanle. As the story progresses, we learn about the history of each of the wives, the reasons they married Baba Segi and most importantly, how well they accept being a part of a polygamous family. The characters could easily be people we know in passing, the story timeless.

Lola knows her story and sticks to it, mercifully resisting the temptation to digress into interesting (but ultimately pointless) sub plots that are hinted at in the main narrative. Each of the main characters (Baba Segi and his wives) could easily stand as main characters in their own novels but it is Bolanle, the youngest wife whose story, it seems, this is. She is young, a university graduate and has chosen polygamy to escape, to heal away from her world. My first thought, People actually do this? My next thought, Would I do this?

The novel keeps the questions coming, challenging our choices and perceptions of everyday events. I ask myself, at the end of the novel, would I have done what Iya Segi did? What she encouraged her fellow wives to do? On moral grounds, no. But if I was in her shoes in every sense of the word, semi-agnostic, uneducated… Hmmm.

The fact that the narrative switches from the 3rd person to the 1st person means that the story keeps its momentum well, delivering its climax and then elegantly dancing away to pare its nails, totally indifferent to the bombshell just dropped. The resolution is bitter-sweet. We are left with the classic Nigerian response ‘Eh ya’ to the tragedy, and a ‘Bravo!’ to Bolanle’s decision. Lola delivers.

On a more subjective note, I personally feel the story could have worked just as well without all the sex scenes and genital descriptions. I truly didn’t see the point and had to skip quite a number of paragraphs and pages. So, if you’re like me, and like your stories clean, then this is totally not the book for you. If you can stomach it though, it tells a darn good story and once again announces that Nigerian writers are finally losing the Nollywood mentality and coming into their own.

My Dad's Will

Published by Osemhen
Human Nature / Logo

Image by Ars Electronica via Flickr

I found this while searching for my birth certificate. My Dad can be pretty wry at times, but this just cracked us up. He wrote this in university, way before he met my Mum. Her name’s not Marianne, by the way. Or Elizabeth!

To my wife, Marianne, I leave her lover and knowledge that I wasn’t the fool she thought I was.

To my son, I leave the pleasure of earning a living. For twenty-five years, he thought the pleasure was solely mine. He was mistaken.

To my daughter, I leave N100,000. She will need it. The only piece of business her husband did was to marry her.

To my chauffeur, I leave my cars. He almost ruined them… and I want him to have the satisfaction of finishing the job.

…And upon the death of my wife, Marianne, the executors of my will should in no way bury her in her rightful place in the family vault next to me. I want to rest in peace.

To one Elizabeth Parker, whom through juvenile fondness I made my wife, without regard to family, fame and fortune, and who in return has not spared (most unjustly!) to accuse me of every conceivable crime regarding human nature, except highway robbery, I bequeath N50.

How To Blow Your Budget Without Even Trying…

Published by Osemhen

Every now and then, a twinge of conscience, an account in red or a well-meaning (or not!) adviser – friend, relative, busybody article, banker – will prompt you to do something meaningful about your budget, or rather, your inability to stick to a budget. Don’t do it! A budget is a dumb idea, it always makes you feel bad. And me? Me, I’m on your side! Blowing budgets is art; a form of self-expression… (and I am Picasso, TRUST ME!) You ready to take this leap of faith into previously unplumbed depths of poverty? Let’s do this!

  1. At the beginning of the year, in true I’m-serious-about-this fashion, make a resolution not to blow your budget.
    This is the easiest part, and made easier by the fact that the holiday season has depleted all monies and driven you seriously into debt. Plus, it’s the beginning of the year! Time for new beginnings and all. So by all means, go ahead and resolve to budget. It makes blowing it that much more bitter-sweet!
  2. Then, using one of those fancy Excel templates, draw up a budget.
    Another easy part, unless you’re completely computer-illiterate. MS Excel provides templates that take your every need into account. Need for entertainment, hairdos, gifts for friends on their birthdays, the works! So go ahead, budget!
  3. Listen to Baz Luhrmann’s ‘Everyone’s Free to Wear Sunscreen’ over and over again.
    Pay special attention to the part where he says, With a precious few (of your friends) you should hold on, working hard to bridge all geographical differences etc. etc. If you don’t have the song, let me know. Nothing can stand in the way of this noble endeavour.
  4. Use the above as an excuse to meet up with your friends at the cinemas, Debonair’s Pizza, Icecream Factory, Chocolat Royal etc.
    You’re maintaining your friendship!
  5. Succumb to those snazzy ads and apply for ATM cards from all (ALL!) the banks you patronize, for all the accounts you operate.
    Another easy…hell, all these steps are easy. In less than the time it’ll take you clip your nails, you can fill out forms in any new generation bank for an ATM card. Some don’t even need you to fill anything, they hand you the card immediately you open an account. So, get the cards! Makes it easier (notice how the word ‘easy’ keeps popping up) for you to literally have all your money in the world in your wallet. That way, ‘I’m out of cash’ can never be an excuse to deny yourself anything.
  6. Sign up to receive updates from boutiques and shops you like.
    That way, when they have those mega sales you get alerts…and therefore a ready excuse to buy yet another Ralph Lauren polo tee-shirt (It’s on sale!)
  7. Carry your ATM cards wherever you go.
    You never know where you’ll find that ribbed sweater to die for!
  8. Console yourself with the fact that your richer friends spend far more than you do.
    Yeah, you’re the real thrift queen/king!
  9. Oh, yeah, I forgot. Make it a habit to roll with richer friends.
    That way, you absolutely have to whip out your ATM cards so you don’t get left out of the action. And provides a ready excuse for No. 7. Not like you need an excuse, right?
  10. Scour the magazines for spring trends, summer trends, middle-of-August trends, just in case, you know, you have to buy something.
    This is of course so that you can shop relevantly. And then as you browse through shops (window-shopping every weekend is a must!) and sight some item, remind yourself that Style swore it was an absolute must-have this season. And use that as an excuse to buy it.
  11. Find a reason to give yourself a little treat.
    It’s my birthday, it’s a whole week since I had a cigarette, I worked so hard today, It’s Happy Hanukkah in the Jewish community, it’s three years since I graduated high school, it’s Wole Soyinka’s birthday, it’s Sallah (never mind that you’re Christian), it’s Easter (never mind that you’re Muslim), it’s hot, it’s cold, it’s a perfect day etc.
  12. Never, ever check your account balance. Never request a receipt from the ATM.
    Only makes you feel bad. And that’s not good for the plan.
  13. And then,  be sure to console yourself that someday, you’ll get a higher paying job and then, you’d be able to increase your budget and stick to it… 🙂

The Question

Published by Osemhen

(I wrote this at the writing workshop I attended recently. It was inspired by the most intelligent company ever, their intellectual discourse *straight face* and a bus ride :D)

They sickened you.

You couldn’t explain your visceral recoil at the sight of the IBB posters; your mood soured, your emotions plummeted and you lost your train of thought to a brief desire to kill.  It didn’t help that the campaign posters were everywhere.

The aftertaste lingered curiously. Why are you angry? – I don’t know. You were not particularly politics-inclined. You had not been old enough to appreciate the evil the Genius had perpetrated. You weren’t zealously patriotic; the country could bloody burn and you would fiddle! Why did you care so much you lost your peace? And why was the fact that it made you lose your peace so upsetting?

The Question haunted you as you circled the city on a bus. It fixed itself in your mind as you ate the sugarcane you filched from a farm. It cooed as you conversed with your family on everything and nothing. It perched on your shoulder as you stopped to sketch the blue hills that are the permanent backdrop of the city. Why are you angry?

The first answer was easy. He’s coming to steal again. And your mind rejected this answer as too crude; such a reason could not provoke such strong emotion from you. I don’t know this man personally, you reasoned. I care nothing for politics; I think they are all bloody thieves. One’s the same as the other. You finished a roll of film in a photographic frenzy at the Millennium Park as you watched the children play. Something about their ecstatic abandon evoked déjà vu. And then you saw another IBB poster. There was no denying your flinch this time.

In a moment of lucidity, you understood. You understood that your distrust and dislike of IBB wasn’t yours. It was a shade of your parents’ as they read in the news, way before you were born, that Dele Giwa had been assassinated. It was your uncles’ as they absentmindedly handed you a coke, discussing Abiola’s imprisonment in hushed tones at your sixth birthday. The thought was unpleasant; I hate his guts strictly because they do?

Then you wondered exactly which of your creeds, faiths, opinions and beliefs were personally yours. You wondered as you slowly walked home, kicking up red dust from the dirt road, you wondered if perhaps all your thoughts were not someone else’s planted innocently enough over time. And if this were so, then maybe your motives weren’t so much yours as they were programmed into you. It was a fascinating moment, this self-realization. And then, generously, you extended it to your fellow Nigerians. If this could happen to you, it could happen to anyone. It Could Happen To Anyone. It Could Be Made To Happen To Anyone. Your steps quickened. You had found your calling.

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My All Time Favourite Beauty Tips

Published by Osemhen
Clean drinking water...not self-evident for ev...

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  1. Drink lots and lots and lots of water. Water is, usually, free. And it does this whole detoxifying and rehydrating thing that just makes your skin glow from inside out, something all those $437 creams can’t.
  2. Black eyeliner and clear lip-gloss are so in! Don’t ask me how or why but I think they give you a timeless exotic-ness. So go easy on the rest of the makeup, keep it simple.
  3. Exfoliate your face once or twice a week. Any good scrub will do,  just make sure you read the label to confirm you don’t react to any of the ingredients (I react to alcohol, for instance). If you aren’t sure, why not go natural? Mix a little oatmeal (a tablespoon) with hot water to form a paste, add a dollop of honey, spread on your face and massage in for  about a minute. Voila! Clear skin.
  4. Lose the expensive facial washes. Mild soap works best for your face. I recommend baby soap, or Dove or Ose Dudu (black, native soap).
  5. Avoid using your body towel on your face. I don’t understand the philosophy behind this, all I know is my acne reduced drastically once I got a dedicated face towel.
  6. Eat healthy as much as you can. I love fried plantain, but hate my spots. Guess what I hardly eat anymore?!
  7. Don’t pick your zits. Apply a little shea/cocoa butter on them when they appear till they completely heal over. That way, you avoid those awful scars.
  8. Follow relaxer/conditioner directions faithfully. To Hades with what the salon girl says, she won’t be there when your hair falls out!
  9. Wash your hair at least once a fortnight, steam your hair at least once a month. This automatically means you really shouldn’t keep your weaves for 6 weeks. And you can steam your hair at home; one egg yolk, a spoon of honey and two spoons of olive oil makes a cheap, hair-steam application. Wash your hair, apply the mix, slip on a shower cap and rinse out an hour later.
  10. Smile. Like you mean it.

So which is your favourite? Which doesn’t belong on the list? And which suggestions have I missed? 🙂