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.

Stone The Vagina

Yesterday morning, I was looking at my blog stats for the year 2016 and Na Man You Be! jumped at me. I wrote the post when I lived in Benin-city, not long after my ex-boyfriend had to claim we were engaged just so I could rent the flat I was living in (yes, he was ex at the time and still one of my closest friends). I shared the post to some friends on WhatsApp, I didn’t even read it until Nnamdi asked me about the post, so I went to read it.

Off its Rocker

Last night I was scrolling through Facebook and came across a post asking men to wear cameras or something to avoid being falsely accused of rape and other sexual impropriety. I was too sleepy to react to the post and for the life of me, I can’t remember who made the post. My last thought before I closed my eyes was, if you fitted women with cameras, the world might just tilt off its axis from the weight of revelations.

Beauty shouldn’t matter.

For millions of women across the globe, one of the most defining moments of their lives is usually when they accept that they actually are beautiful or when they choose to not allow themselves be defined on the beauty to ugly spectra. Looks are important to women, it is the easiest way the world categorizes us, it can be a visa to a better life or the condemnation to a mediocre one. The arrangement of her nose, lips and eyes are a better expression of her worth than the product of the grey matter imprisoned between her ears.

Antidote: Wisdom.

Recently, someone on Facebook made a post about a man who had bought a car for his wife and his mother would take the car without the wife’s permission. His wife had issues with the whole thing and complained to an internet agony aunt. As expected, many of the male respondents sided with the mother-in-law and the husband, and saw nothing wrong with their actions while the females instinctively understood the woman’s point of view.

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.