I’m conducting this for my youngest sister and her friends. They start university, hopefully, in September.
What Do You Know Now That You Wish You’d Known Before You Started College/University?
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I Will Be Young Forever
I will be young forever.
We. Us.
Just listen to our raucous laughter, our gist, our stories. We are forever cool, Forever 21. Does it seem possible that we won’t be young forever?
That we won’t always be strong, alive, effervescent, fiery? That we won’t always be this indolent, sprawled on sofas, straddling dining chairs, peering at screens that reflect in our nerd glasses?
That our bellies won’t be taut forever?
How won’t we be like this forever?
And we will never be bald. Our hair will never grey or fall out. Our eyes will never wrinkle, our flesh will never sag. We will be young forever.
Don’t speak to me of Paradise. Don’t speak to me of hell. Don’t speak to me of purgatory. Don’t speak to me of death.
This is what I know, this is how I feel. I am here and now and present and I will be young forever.
My Dirty Little Secret :)
Disclaimer: this blog is rated G.
That said, here’s my secret.
I’m a pretty slow learner. (Don’t tell my bosses!). S. L. O. W. I never understand anything the first time and this used to break my heart because, you know, I’m supposed to be smart. And you need to add, “I’m a fast learner” to your CV else no one will employ you. I’d go for career fairs and hear the company reps say things like, “You need to be able to think on your feet, adapt to changes, deal with uncertainty, learn fast…” And I’d think, I’m hopeless. I hate thinking on my feet, I’d rather sit and muse with a pen and paper. But this is the 21st century, with its obsession with speed, fast, now! No one has time for musing!
I tried to be a fast learner and thinker. I used MindMaps and all sorts of gimmicks. Nothing. I wished I could be like my quicker-minded friends. I wanted to be a genius, effortlessly brilliant. The fear of being stupid was so real, I began to have self esteem issues.
My moment of truth came when I sat down and admitted the facts. I was a slow learner. (If I was abroad, they would have a proper, exotic name for it. Something ending in -syndrome). I was so slow, I needed to study something 3-4 times before I got the hang of it. Yes, I said it. *sob*
It was a moment of deep anguish, by the way. (Yes, I’m vain like that).
But that awareness helped me pace myself. If I needed to read it 3-4 times, I needed to. There was no shortcut. I couldn’t “fire fight” a day to my exams; cramming a semester’s worth of notes in a couple of hours. I had to read it all painstakingly. Everyday of the semester. Over and over and over.
This self-knowledge still stands me in good stead now that I work. A lot of the information is new. Sometimes I worry that I’m not learning as fast as my peers, as fast as I should. But I remind myself that I’ll get it eventually. The faster I read it, the faster I can get to my 2nd and 3rd and 4th reading. I just need to discipline myself to read.
Just thought I’d share this today. Sometimes, you may look at someone and feel you’d never be as smart as them. But it’s okay. Maybe all you need is to rinse and repeat, right? Who knows, they just might be doing the same thing!
Random Picture of a Buddha
Vacation Chronicles: The Summary
I unpacked yesterday.
Finally. A whole week after I returned. I unpacked my clothes, and my shoes. My trinkets and my creams. I unpacked memories. Early sunrises, late sunsets. Cold. Sushi. Solitude. Privacy. I unpacked.
It felt weird going on a vacation alone, at first. A guy at Madame Tussaud’s asked me, “Haven’t you got any friends?” I gave him the easy answer, “No.” I didn’t tell him I had spent the previous week with some of my friends, including my best friend. I didn’t tell him that at the end of my sight-seeing, I would return home to the house in Camden where my cousins and grandparents were. No, I have no friends, I’m an alien in London and my time is my own. It was a very, very good feeling.
I got lost many times. Thank God for Google Maps. I sprained my ankles, and had to wear Ace bandages on both before I could walk. I ate ravioli and hated it. I ate sushi and loved it.
It was a spiritual retreat. I woke up each morning with the knowledge that I was only responsible for myself. I forgot work, and family. I concentrated on me. I reintroduced myself to myself. Hi, I’m Osemhen. And my reflection would beam back at me.
There was no hurry. I walked, I read, I prayed. I visited cathedrals, and museums. I visited galleries. I bought baubles. I wondered at shop girls and sales assistants who took immense pride in doing their jobs, who bent over backwards to be helpful to me.
View of London from the London Eye
I could get addicted to it. To lazing through town while everyone was in such a hurry to get to work, to school, to appointments. But that experience is only worth it when you’ve been that harried citizen hurrying to work, school, appointments…
Pemi & I
I got a lot of breaks. Shout out to Uche, Tarela and Pemi who put up with me at different times in Manchester, Sheffield and Lincolnshire, and were such gracious hostesses. Then there were the nice people who helped me with my luggage when I struggled (one of them a schoolboy of about 11!). On my very last day in the country, I won one of those promos that shops advertise where you don’t pay a cent for everything in your shopping basket. I didn’t take it seriously till I was at the till, and the cashier announced I had won! I’d bought stuff worth £88, and didn’t have to pay anything. Cool, yes?
It wasn’t all laughter and champagne. My 9.55 am flight out of London got delayed, and then cancelled. The airline offered to route me through Nairobi to Nigeria, on a Kenyan Airways flight that would leave at 8.00 pm! I nearly cried. Lol. I opted for a Qatar Airways flight through Doha though. It was leaving at 9.15 pm but I figured it would be a more comfortable flight, and I wasn’t disappointed.
As a fitting end to all the vacation drama, I left my Kindle on the plane that took me from London to Doha. Yes. I forgot it. And I didn’t remember till I was airborne on a different plane to Lagos. Again, I almost cried but was too tired to. And the joy of being back home overshadowed my sadness. I did register a “Lost & Found” enquiry on Qatar Airways’ website and to my surprise, they replied that yes, they’d found it and they would send it to Lagos ASAP. Those guys are officially my favourite airline!
I don’t know when next I’ll go on a solo vacation, if ever again. But I’m glad I went on this one. I recommend it to anyone who needs to pause life, and recoup. Save up and just go. Just go.
Osemhen's Vacation Chronicles: Day 1
Hey!
So I’m finally on vacation. It’s many firsts. My first vacation by myself, no family or anything. My first trip to Europe. My first trip to the UK. Honestly, I wasn’t excited about it till about an hour ago. I didn’t plan to vacation alone, for starters. But I’d already booked my ticket when I discovered I’d be going alone. Oh well.
The trip was boring and sleep-filled. I arrived Manchester about 9 am and reported at the hotel I’d booked still sleepy. To my chagrin, the receptionist announced I couldn’t check-in till 2pm. Plenty English has been spoken but nothing for me. So I dropped my luggage with her and I’ve gone sight-seeing. As I type, I’m in Gatley. It’s cold (12 degrees C) but not half as bad as I imagined (n.b. I’m wearing 5 layers of clothing and I’m indoors :))
In my short walk, I’ve counted half a dozen barber shops. Hair cutting must be lucrative. I can’t find any bookshops yet, though. I’ve bought 2 coffees just so I can sit in the warm cafes. An oyinbo fella just bobbed his eyebrows at me. 😐
I bought a SIM at the neighbourhood Tesco. The cashiers, Emma and Dube (Kenyan/South African, I think) were so nice. I mean, I forgot my debit card there and Dube traced me to the first cafe I entered. They gave me scissors to cut my SIM to micro-size so it’d fit in my phone. I’m proud of myself for doing that successfully 🙂
Right now, I’m waiting for my friend to come take me to the city centre. We plan to shop a bit, sight-see and visit a museum. Will keep you posted. Wish me luck! 😀
Feminism. Ay or Nay?
Feminism.
A dirty word in some circles. When I hear the word, I think of fiery black women with dreadlocks or white women in badly fitting suits. Don’t ask me where these images come from; I don’t know. I do want to know: what’s all the fuss about?
I am a Nigerian woman. I am educated. I hold a job that pays me the same as my male colleagues. I voted in the last election. I can drive. I can own property… Now that I think about it, what exactly does being female forbid me from?
I can’t be out by myself late at night. Common sense. I could be robbed and/or raped. But that isn’t feminism’s war. That’s a function of security. A guy would be vulnerable too. Well, being female puts you at a disadvantage in the corporate world, some say. You can’t be a top-level executive. And they have stats to prove it. I’ll get back to that in a bit.
There are societal norms about how I should interact in society as a woman. But I think that those norms are shaped by the family I grew up in. I was told I was intelligent. Not relative to a boy. Intelligent in my right. The world was my oyster, the sky my limit, my life was charmed. My future was placed before me in pragmatic terms. I could be a career woman like my mother, keep a store close to home like both my grandmothers or be a housewife like many of my cousins. Each was a valid option and growing up, I was exposed to the pros and cons of each.
And this is the thing. A woman should have choices. We may not always agree with those choices (to stay with an abusive husband, to never marry, to take up a job, to become a housewife, to drop out of school) but they’re hers.
I was taught to respect men, to honour the man I would eventually marry. I like to think that my future husband was taught to respect women, like my brother was taught, like my sons will be. But I was also taught to pay for my drink. To be content with what I had. To earn my money without selling my dignity.
Society didn’t teach me this. Family did.
Yesterday, I took a male friend out to dinner. I called the waitress over. I requested the menu. I ordered. And when we were done, I requested the bill. When she got to our table, the waitress made to give it to him. I stretched out my hand to take it. She ignored me, and still pushed it to him. He smiled and handed it to me. The look on her face as I counted out the money from my wallet was priceless. Was I offended? No. Amused, more like. And frankly, I considered it too small to hold a grudge. I don’t blame society, I understand that it’s a function of her family and upbringing.
And then, there are bars/restaurants/clubs who refuse entry to unaccompanied women. On one hand, I find it amusing that a public establishment would seek to make moral choices for its patrons. On the other hand, I would boycott such an establishment. If you don’t want my custom, why would I force it on you? My own money? But I also think that this is a petty battle, and one I wouldn’t waste effort on.
What battles would I be interested in? Poverty alleviation. I hear of families that send only their sons to school because they think their daughters could do no better than to marry well. But often, these families can’t afford to send everyone and so they have to make a choice the best they know how. But what if they could afford to send them both? Would they still refuse? I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. And so our battle should be getting them across the poverty line. I know a mother who runs a small kiosk to support her family. Getting a bank loan to expand her business would be difficult. But that’s not because she’s female. Her husband is a vulcanizer (Nigerian term for a person who fixes tyres), and I daresay getting a loan would be difficult for him as well. It’s not really a gender problem, but one of class distinction.
Gender equality battles aren’t complete if we don’t fight for men’s rights, as well. Does this sound odd?
Back to the corporate arena. I overheard female colleagues complain that we aren’t well represented in our company’s leadership. They insist that D & I should be brought to bear. I differ. Leadership should be given to the most capable, not shared between the genders. If I want to be manager (as a male or a female), I have to work harder and longer than my peers to develop the right competencies faster. That’s easier when I’m unencumbered by family commitments. However, if after getting those competencies, I was turned down and the job given to a less competent male, then I would cry foul.
If I have a family, it gets harder. Some jobs are inherently incompatible with raising a family. With a family, I simply will not have enough time to develop those competencies faster than my peers. As a parent, I have a responsibility to raise my child. I can’t balance this with working long hours unless I have a very supportive husband. Let’s say he supports me 100% and he’s willing to take responsibility for our child. If he’s a house-husband, this is easy. But house-husbands aren’t common. Men have not been wired by their families to be house-husbands. So he has a job. Will his job let him close at 3.30 to pick our child from school? Will his job allow him take the afternoon off to take our child to hospital? Or his school’s soccer game? No. Women get those breaks in some companies, men hardly ever. And so this is what I think should be feminism’s cause. Flexible working hours for both sexes, so that each spouse can choose to support the other. Not just women, but men too. My husband should get paternity leave as long as mine so that if I choose to return to work a week postpartum, he can stay home to care for our infant. Amen?
There is the aside that even with these perks, some men would not support their wives’ ambitions. A shame, but that’s all it is. Society (or a movement) cannot force a man to support his wife, it’s a personal choice. The same way it’s a wife’s personal choice to support her husband.
But don’t hand me a promotion because it’s the politically correct thing to do. It’s an insult to my intelligence, and tells me I wouldn’t have been good enough otherwise.
I fear I may have gone off on a tangent. So back to my original question? What’s all the fuss about feminism? Honestly, I’m interested in hearing a feminist’s or anti-feminist’s thoughts.
Religion vs. Spirituality: It's in the Latin.
It drives me nuts when people say they’re spiritual and not religious Christians or anyone who claims to be any kind of theist, says they’re spiritual and not religious. The implication being that “religion is bad” and “spirituality is good”.
Eh?
The word “Religion” comes from the Latin word “religio” which means “respect for what is sacred, reverence to a God (god)”. Religio is also said to come from the word “relegare” which means to “bind fast” or “place an obligation on” or “bond between man and a God (god)”. Cicero held that religion also comes from “relegere” which means to “treat carefully”. Catholic history actually defines religion as the “voluntary submission of oneself to God”.
Do you believe in the existence of a higher power? Do you submit to Him? Do you consider yourself bound to Him in any sort of relationship: father-child, master-servant, creator-creature? Do you resolve to live according to His rules, as spelt out in some book or by divine inspiration? Do you work daily at improving your understanding of and relationship with Him?
You are religious, my friend.
Spirituality, on the other hand, comes from the Latin “spiritus” which means “of the spirit, of breathing.” This is also the origin of the words inspire, respiration and perspire. So when you say you’re spiritual, what do you really mean? That you breathe? So does every other living thing. That you have a spirit? So does every other person.
Most people claim to be spiritual in the sense that they have a “personal” relationship with God outside of a church or institution. But based on word definition, it would seem that they actually mean they’re religious. But here’s the thing. You. Can. Be. Religious. Outside. An. Institution. Stop with the false semantics already.
You’re welcome.
Lol. You can tell this is a rant.
Sometimes…
Sometimes, she lost herself.
In the world, and it’s noise. In opinions and perceptions. In work. In the internet and its distractions. In Nigeria and its problems. In gossip. In gist. In caring about things that you’re supposed to care about, or at least act like you do. Because everyone else does. Because some people do. Because it’s the right thing to do: to care about those things. Like I care.
Sometimes, she found herself.
In books. In art. In laughter, real laughter with friends not mere LOLs. In quiet. In silence. In a dark movie theatre with her head on his shoulder. In prayer. In falling asleep cheek-to-cheek with her sister. In arguing dress patterns with her aunts. In research. In writing. In rain. In fear, fear like she’d never felt before, fear that reminded her she was alive.
And then she lost herself.
In pain, love and loss. Behind smiles that threatened to split her face. In zeroes. In the knowledge that this, all of this, is vanity and still…we press on, afraid to face the truth. This doesn’t mean anything. This means everything. This is everything. This is what this is. This is what it is. This. And a promise of something more means nothing if you have no faith.
And she found herself.
Outside herself. And her thoughts. And her selfishness. And her pride. Outside her ego, and her opinions. And her fears, and her wants. She found herself in her Christ. She found her strength. She found the peace.
How To Make The Perfect Jollof Rice
O.,
How do I make the perfect Jollof Rice?
R.
Dear R.,
Are you expecting a recipe? I have none. I do have a few tips I don’t mind sharing.
Cook for at least 4 people. Invite your friends/family. Or invite the strangers that you met at the bus-stop the last time it rained so heavy, you got to work at noon. Do you remember? You exchanged numbers with the guy and his sister and eventually hitched a ride with them when her fiance came to pick them. You’ve never gotten around to calling her. You should.
Blend a lot of onions into the tomatoes, don’t use tinned tomato puree. Add a quarter of a ginger root. Monitor the water, add it a little at a time.
Pretend you’re on a cooking show. Maybe Maggi Kitchen ( is that show still on air?) or Shokoyokoto. Say each step to yourself out loud. “Now, I’m adding a dash of Cameroon pepper.” It’s a lot of fun and no, it doesn’t make you look crazy. Everyone does it, they just don’t admit it.
Add crayfish liberally. Use thyme and curry sparingly.
Sliced Onions (Photo credit: sweet mustache)
Play music. Play Shakira as you slice the onions and imagine that you’re in the La Tortura video. No, do not drag yourself face-up on the countertop.
At the very end, add the carrots & green peppers you’ve sliced julienne. Add a bay-leaf for good luck. Be sure to take it out when your guests arrive.
Serve with a smile.
When the brother compliments the Jollof rice, and offers to reciprocate your gesture by cooking you his world-famous Indomie noodles, accept with a laugh. Pretend not to notice his sister and her fiance chuckling 🙂
Love,
O.
2 Last Things and A Happy New Year
It’s been a tumultuous year. In a good way and in a bad way. Good in the sense that I was always busy, meaning that I was never bored. Bad in the sense that I rode many emotional highs and lows, and I was often too busy to blog.
But not too busy to sample bottled Palmwine... *smdh*
But I’m here now at 19.52. Typing this on my phone, hoping it looks just as good on a PC.
I want to talk about two things.
First is what I call the “obligation of good manners” to one’s family. I was sounding off with one of my friends the other day and he said something along the lines of “If I can’t be comfortable and be myself at home with my family, then where can I be?” It was a pertinent question.
Home is where we relax, we chill, we let our hair down. It’s where we’re accepted for who we are. But too many times, it’s where many of us display behavior we wouldn’t be caught in in public.
We’re brought up to not disgrace our parents in public. But I think disgrace in private carries even more weight. I know people who are kind and solicitous in public to their friends and acquaintances and even strangers! But they are brash with their siblings. They are polite in public but at home, they are demanding.
We all do it to some extent. And the question is why? Why do we think the people who love us deserve to see our baser self while outsiders enjoy our better side? Who exactly should we be working harder to impress? I’m not saying that we should go home and be pretentious. But if we would be courteous enough to not dominate a conversation in public, for instance, we should definitely be able to lend an ear to a younger sibling’s opinion, no matter how nonsensical it might sound!
Moving on. How was 2012? Did you achieve everything you wanted to? I didn’t. Achieved some, yes. Fell woefully short on others, yes. If you’re feeling brave enough, you could share in the comments’ section, one of each. One thing you’re glad you achieved in 2012, and one thing you didn’t achieve that you’d hoped to. I’ll go first.
I’m glad I finally learnt to drive on the highway! Yay!
I’m sad I didn’t stick to my resolution to read one book a week. And I’m crushed I didn’t finish writing my book. No yay. (Yes, that’s 2 but it’s my blog ;-))
Et tu?