Under Pressure.

I do not know now where I got the impression from, that Lawanson market was the market with highest priced goods in the whole of Surulere and Idi-Araba market which is barely 500meters away was the cheapest. I think the women who own stalls in the market are more serious than those in other markets with a wider variety of goods and that is why this morning, I took my body to Lawanson to buy the plantains and vegetables I needed to make the meal my spirit had been craving for nearly a month.

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Beneath the Iroko

I’m watching cars snarl and drivers curse at Lawanson bus stop while I’m getting series loaded into my Iroko TV app. I’m the last customer of the day, well not a customer- I have an active subscription and it means Success the agent, will get no commission from me.

I am not Wife Material… And It’s ok.

This post has been sitting pretty in my drafts since June 30th, I wrote it at a time I found myself writing about marriage a whole lot. I decided to shelve it until another time and I guess that time is now…

 

Recently, I was having a conversation with a much older man about marriage and a woman’s place in the home. If you know me well- or at least read my blog regularly, you’d know that I do not believe in having specific gender roles in a marriage.

I Get Place to Borrow

This morning, I heard Collabo somewhere and I realised that I had forgotten my erstwhile favourite Nigerian song, since then I have played it back to back twenty-four times, it’s playing now as I type. It’s a song I can listen to for a whole a day without getting tired – I’ve done it several times before.

Heart Gone Rogue.

She had often been accused of lacking a heart. While her haters and detractors had never gone as far calling her heartless, even they had to agree that she was kind and a little selfless but they agreed that she was incapable of being straightforward in the affairs of the heart. It puzzled her that they all said the same thing of her, they didn’t even know each other, the fuckers.

Nothing Do you.

You suspected she was a stranger to Lagos the second you bent to enter the keke marwa and saw her already seated, waiting for other passengers to complete the required number of passengers. Each of you sits at either side by the entrance to the keke, she chose the cooler end while your butt slowly roasts from the heat the seat had absorbed earlier. There was something about the angle she tied her scarf that reminded you of the girls you had seen in Abeokuta and Ibadan and Iseyin, on your travels. This one just come Lagos, your mind which never shuts up, quips.

Nearly Swindled.

Last Thursday, I noticed that my tablet’s screen was dead. It was on, I could hear the beeps from notifications but it refused to come on. I called the airtel number on it with my phone and it rang, in the dark. I was slightly worried but tried not to let it affect my evening even though I scouted the room for a place to charge it, even though I knew the battery was at more than 60%. Before we left for home that night, the light came on and that was that.

Trust the Process.

Two days ago while I worked on a photo from a writing workshop organized by my friend, I had a conversation with my brother on the process of getting the image I wanted from the raw photo which was dark and nearly useless. The picture went from drab to fab in a few minutes. Yesterday morning, I woke up with the thought that the process of getting that picture ready was a lot like life and how God arranges our lives.

What Went Wrong Majek?

So Abiodun reminded me about Majek Fashek this evening and I’m listening to him right now. I have been a hardcore fan of Majek for as long as I’ve been alive, maybe even before I was born. I have Majek songs that he’s forgotten he sang and that man has no bad song, all of them are amazing. I don’t have a favourite song of his but Mother always makes me smile.

Taking On Aretha.

We hadn’t spoken in more two weeks, it worried me slightly because while we had intervals when we wouldn’t speak, this one seemed colder than all the previous gaps. We often spoke for hours, about nothing, about everything, about God and antimatter and all the things between heaven and earth. But we could not speak of Aretha Franklin.