The title of this post is taken from the title of one of my favourite songs and the album it’s from. Stevie Wonder the aptly named Miracle, penned and sang the song in 1985 – a couple of years before I was born. I listened to the song as I typed the bulk of this post and I’m just discovering on Wikipedia that Earl Klugh strummed the guitar for this song.
Before this post turns into a music adoration post especially because two of my absolutely favourite musicians collaborated on a song I’d loved even before knowing either of them was on the song. I’ll stop here and go to the body of the post.
Let me start by blowing out the cobwebs that have settled on this blog, it’s been ages since I created content specifically for the blog. These days it seems I just copy and paste my facebook posts here and I find that quite sad, I have far more latitude to express myself here than anywhere else.
I noticed something pretty interesting – shaking off my inertia about updating the blog is easier when I go through really tough times. I was looking at my posts for the year and realized I updated more frequently this year after hospital visits and spells of PCOS induced crises. My life isn’t all gloom and sadness; I’ll try to make more lighthearted content specifically for the blog.
Last week I was worrying about my hair, I guess it was my mind’s way of shielding me from the horrors PCOS was wrecking on my body via the dysfunctional uterine bleeding that went on for weeks. It didn’t quite work, I considered parking out of this body several times but as always, knowing my parents would be devastated if I offed myself, kept me from transferring a hefty number of certain tiny tabs from palm to mouth.
Anyway, back to my hair. Women in my father’s family have gone bald in the past and it’s gone from nagging worry to fearful certainty that I would go the way of those women. When my youngest brother was very little, he had stumbled on my grandmother’s hair in its bald glory before it was done up in her signature braided chignon. No, you wouldn’t have guess she was bald unless the chignon was loosened in front of you and the braids removed.
One day, she came to our house (her house was less than 200m from ours) and he climbed into her lap as was his custom – he was her youngest grandchild and they were very close. He tapped her hair and whispered.
“Mama, why don’t you remove this thing and become a man.”
She nearly collapsed from laughter and until she got fell victim to a stroke in 2010 and left us on the tenth of August 2015, she never failed to tease her grandson about it and tell him she was about to become a man. She turned eighty today, she was born on the fourteenth of July, 1939. She should be having a fab party in heaven right now.
This morning while I was looking at my facebook memories, I saw a picture of me from two years ago. I had scrolled past it when it hit me that in that picture, my hair was still pretty low. I had done a big chop on the last day of April that year and as I shook my head and the plaits my mother made last week, hit both sides of my head. I was reminded that my shoulder length hair was awesome and I wasn’t going bald just yet. And if I was, wasn’t it a good thing that I was born in this era of the wigs and hair extensions.
I got a call from a close friend this afternoon, she has been going through a bad patch and I asked her how things were going. She told me she had decided to stop looking at her problem and focus on being grateful for life and opportunities instead. She reminded me about our classmates at university who died in our third year.
It was a painful year really – 2008. I lost my grandfather on the eighth day of January and as we resumed for the first semester of our third year in Febuary, news filtered in that we had lost one of our classmates – a brilliant young man whose name was Anthony. A few months later, we lost Israel Tima to cancer after we had hoped and prayed he would win that battle. He was a straight A student and hilarious too, you couldn’t spend five minutes with him without bursting into uncontrolled laughter at least three times. Grace died during the end of session holiday, she and the child she was giving birth to.
We were quiet for a while as the memories washed over us and MTN cashed out on our shared pain. She reminded me of other people who were gone, young people like us whose families would give anything to have them back even if they ended up as underachieving adults, at least they’d have them to hug and touch and love.
“Adaeze, as long you’re alive know that God has a plan for you. If he has no purpose for you anymore, then he’d call you back one time.” She said quietly.
I hadn’t realized I had given up on the future until she said those words, not even when I answered “I just want to survive” when I was asked what my plans for the next half of the year were, only a few days ago. Sometimes you need a huge mirror in front of you before you can see what’s perched on your nose.
So I’m gonna ask the one who’s still keeping me here what the plan is, why am I still here? What’s the grand purpose?
The guitar riffs of Overjoyed strum answering chords in my heart’s strings. It’s amazing really, finding that Earl Klugh did this song. There’s a song I had been in search of for very many years, it was the background music to a show I loved on radio. After my grandma died and I was bereft, I was in the car with my dad one evening when the song came up. I shazamed it immediately and downloaded it and wrote about it HERE
I must have played it a thousand times a week back then, it helped keep me sane. Now I find today that the same Earl Klugh was part of another favourite song, the same day my grandma would have turned eighty. And yes, my grandma loved Earl Klugh.
In keeping with my new decision to write about other parts of my life and not just the gloomy parts, I’ll share pictures from one of my favourite trips. It’s from my trip to the suspended lake at Ado-Awaye, one of the only two in the world. I don’t know why I have failed to make a full post about it, yes even if it’s more than a year late.
I had been wondering why creating content for the blog and writing fiction has been especially hard this year and it took a random facebook post for me to understand why. Thankfully, it isn’t my village people in Umunawiri village of Ife in Ezinihitte-Mbaise LGA who are after me and my writing, it’s my laptop that’s the problem.
I should write a whole post on this but in case I forget to update it, which is rather likely, let me put the blame where it belongs- It’s my computer’s fault. The old lady has become so notoriously slow that setting her up is a chore and half. To make matters worse, she developed a charging port problem that makes working on her become a game of chance, a matter of twum-bum twumbum. Or for my non-Igbo readers, eeny, meeny miny moe 😁 I had to ask aunt Google the correct spelling.
She’s served me well for years though. While it’s sad that arthritis and dementia are setting in, I salute the machine that has accompanied me on several adventures across the country.
I’m going to run a fiction series here this week, hold me to it😜 Don’t worry, I’ll borrow the Big Kahuna’s laptop. One day I’ll share the story of Daddy’s reaction when he realised that he was the TBK we kept whispering about.
Have a fabulous new week my lovelies.