Niqui Anekwe's Blog

There's a cue from an award-winning movie titled Dry and a TV series titled Jenifa's Diary. I know this is really very mainstream, especially for the latter but I'd still write anyways.

Dry is a movie about a female gynaecologist/obstetrician who found her closure by confronting her fears of going to Nigeria to fight the war of Vesico-Vaginal Fistula in teenage girls in the northern part of Nigeria and to also confront her rapist (never mind that I am still pissed that they referred to Africa as a country, pfft!!)

Jenifa's Diary? Well, we all know about Jenifa - that crazy and razz girl from Ayetoro with a forgiving heart who strives to carve a niche for herself in Lagos.

One of the common messages to learn from these two is forgiveness. I've been able to understand how forgiveness gives one closure after confronting one's fears, how forgiveness gives a certain kind of inexplicable relief psychologically.

There are some things, words or acts which are unforgivable in a moral, social or character context and can never be reversed once the act has been carried out. Many of us are victims, myself included. However, I like to think that time and distance are great tools which provide the much needed closure for forgiveness, although time is the most essential of the two. We may or may not forget, but if we could forgive, we are assured of the mental relief we would feel.

We may get hunted by our past every now and then. Those flashbacks are what they are - flashes of pain and soreness and hurt that would tempt us to go back in time and put a gun to the heads of those who put us through hell for no just cause. Those flashes are there to remind us that we are stronger than we think. We have been able to wipe our tears, dust our feet and move on. We have survived and are better off. We have learned our lessons.

A forgiving heart helps us find and gain closure once we confront our worst fears, but a grudging and malcious heart drives away peace, love and happiness and paves the way to become dark shadows of who we are - always afraid, wary and restless.

Let us gain insight and perspective from the main characters in Dry and Jenifa's Diary, Zara Robins and Jenifa, and open our hearts out to close up the pain even if we don't ever want to have anything to do with the causes of our pains.

Niqui Anekwe
Imaginations Run Deep (August Cover).

There is something that peppers my intestines with alacrity - people who are too proud at heart especially when they know something and think they are too good at it and are therefore, irreplaceable. It is peppery and discomforting. It is highly irritating to my senses. You have to understand the gravity of the situation when I place emphasis on "highly irritating", the degree to which I cannot categorically qualify or quantify. This is the honest truth. Let me gist you this incident that happened two months ago.

There was a certain young lady, N, who needed the services of a graphic/web designer. She wanted to "upgrade" her blog and create traffic for a business she hoped would thrive well. Her longstanding friend, S, knew someone who could be of help to her. S gave her Mr Designer's number with strict instructions to "contact him via Whatsapp and tell him what she wanted" and to "endeavor to mention that she is very closely related to S, so that she can get the benefit of a discount price for the job."

N, a very keen lady, followed the instructions to the letter and contacted Mr Designer. She sent him a message on Whatsapp. It delivered, but there was no reply. The first reply came a few hours later. Without wasting any time on frivolities but standing firm on formalities, N introduced herself and told him what she wanted him to do. He had acted like someone who was ready to do the job on her blog, get a personal domain for her. He asked a few questions, to which she replied with the ease of a brush scrubbed against canvass. This was business and business only. She knew what she wanted and she was out to get it. Money was not an issue because she was prepared to pay the associated costs for the job.

N went ahead to ask him the cost of this job but he did not reply. She asked him the next day and the day after that but she got no reply. Apparently, Mr Designer had seen the Whatsapp messages but did not reply. Not even a simple "Hi, I am sorry I am very busy and you caught me at a bad timing. I will get back to you." Nada! She decided to brush away the no courtesy stunt but was more concerned that he had agreed to do the job - or so she thought - but wouldn't mention the cost for her to effectively plan herself.

Two weeks and some days passed by and she still did not hear from Mr Designer. Neither did she text him after seeing that he did not reply her previous messages. She was vaguely concerned that this designer guy she initially assumed was going to help was the same person who acted wierd. He had a customer, N. It was supposed to be straight forward. Discuss what she wanted, discuss and agree on the price, weigh the pros and cons and make a decision. Simple. Very easy, right? If only humans were that easy to handle.

She made up her mind to scratch him out. As long as she breathed, she was sure there were a thousand and one web designers willing to do the job. She remembered her classmate from Unizik who was now a computer scientist. During her NYSC period, her classmate once mentioned that he was into web design and IT related stuff. She had not taken him seriously until she recalled every word he spoke to her.

Without further ado, she contacted him and explained what she wanted him to do. Her classmate was excited, willing and ready to help with a solution. The typical igbo man was so happy he had got a customer. N was ready to pay him after he gave her the details of what was to be done. She decided there was no need informing S or Mr Designer about the recent developments or change of plans. Her instincts confirmed that Mr Designer was incapable.

Out of the blues and reds, Mr Designer waltzed into Whatsapp with a troll-ish set of messages, referring to her as sweetheart. He had given her number to a complete stranger and stated that since he was the expert, he could decide on who to help or who to refer to. That grated on her nerves. The nerve of that niggar whom she had never met physically and never seen! Immediately she intercepted the messages, she automatically expressed her annoyance at calling her a name other than her name since he was nothing to her but a complete stranger whose services she wanted. She was annoyed that he had lied to her, played her for a fool, misled her into thinking he was going to be of help and then had the audacity to give another stranger her number without her permission. After carefully expressing her annoyance, she did not wait for a reply. She silently blocked him from Whatsapp and deleted his number. Then she went ahead to narrate the ordeal to S. Her irritation was heightened when S told her that he is a proud fellow and lies a lot like there is no tomorrow. For the love of humans, she could not understand why S did not tell her this at the start. But she was all done for.

Within an hour, N's irritation had subsided to minimal levels. She could care less since she had found a replacement who had started the job without wasting time. So she focused on paying up the first installment price to get him gingered.
***
My people, do you know that pride is a disease? Just because you think you know something and call yourself perfect, so you decide to dash your common sense to pride?

Now, listen to me carefully. You don't know jack shit, my friend, sit down and shataapu! Will you please mechie onu gi there!?!
If you know something and you are in a position and capacity to profer a solution, instead of acting like a proud Boss Voltron, why don't you humbly render your services? If you are incapable but know someone whom you can refer to, inform the person.
That thing you think you know, a thousand and one people will know it better than you do. Tomorrow, a million and one people will become experts at it while you sit there, rotting away with pride like maggot-infested carcass for the vultures. You are not irreplaceable!

Help someone if you can and stop being proud hearted.

Humility is a priceless virtue. Put some ''respeck'' on it. Apply common sense and save us all the trouble of breathing in rotten pride.

During my time as a Batch B youth corps member serving the fatherland in Edo state, I witnessed a very dramatic situation I learned a thing or two from.

While I was serving in Edo, I lived in a 5 bedroom shared apartment with other fellow 'corpers', some of them were my 'seniors' in Batch A while others were my 'juniors' in Batch C. I lived in my own self contained room space so the only thing I shared with others was the kitchen. I met and became friends with a young lady, Nkiru (real name witheld). She was about the same age as I was and in the same Batch B. She lived in the bigger shared masters room with two other girls. Mary, 29 as at the time, was one of those girls Nkiru shared the room with and the three of us are from the Igbo tribe (Mary's real name also witheld).

Nkiru and I shared similar traits and values that made it easy for me to relate with her more than I could with Mary. She was a devout Catholic like myself who always strove to attend masses and always woke me up in the wee hours of the morning to pray the Rosary with her because she firmly believed in the part of the Bible where Jesus said, "Wherever two or three are gathered in my name, I am there in their midst..." We always topped the devotions with Catholic hymns and all those praise and worship songs that got us into the mood, after which I jejely went back to sleep until the day got brighter.

Between December 2014 and February 2015, Nkiru privately and occasionally began to table concerns about Mary's sudden behaviour before our local CLO, listing a bunch of examples, such as grumbling and nagging on a regular basis and never being satisfied with herself or with anyone, especially the rest of the corps members in that lodge. Alas, it turned out that she was not the only one who had made complaints. A handful of the corps members had even taken the matter up to our boss in our PPA. Nkiru categorically stated to the CLO that she was not comfortable sharing the same room with Mary and needed her own space. Mary would always just as easily find fault with any one of us and bear a grudge as she would walk into a store to purchase sachet water, then expect us to come prostrating before her in apology when there was no bone of contention. In a short time, every corps member had come to realize Mary as someone who always found it very easy to take but difficult to give. If she ever did give out something, there was something that was bound to happen. Actually, something was going to happen. I had noticed the kind of person Mary was but I kept my observations to myself. I told Nkiru to be wary of this room mate and to never, never accept or ask anything from her (Mary had previously given her food to eat when she had nothing on two occasions and stressed that she gave it from her heart).

By March 2014, Mary had began peddling slanders around the entire community, stating that Nkiru was a user, a thief and a wicked soul who came to Edo to finish all her provisions and food. She also called all the corpers in the lodge - including me - wicked souls who did not want her progress or happiness in life. She had seen and tagged Nkiru and I as idol worshippers because we lit blessed candles to invoke the Holy Spirit and the Holy Trinity whenever we prayed the Rosary. Hence she had began to snob us and all the corpers in the lodge and with the intervention of our boss, she moved out into another apartment where she continued scandalous slanders against us - the corpers who remained in the lodge she previously lived in. Word got around my ears faster than the speed of light and after a private confrontation with Mary in order to ascertain the root of the problem and seek out a solution, she embarrassed me in the public glare of the community. To say I was highly ashamed before a whole community of people I had never known before the time of Adam and Eve was an understatement with a classic degree. However, I could care less, knowing full well that I had nothing to do with her and she had nothing on me. So I couldn't be bothered by the false accusations. The one who was most emotionally and psychologically distraught was Nkiru.

There were days when Nkiru would come running into my room, crying like a hungry child and swearing before the heavens and earth of her innocence. There were moments where, drenched in tears, she swore upon her life that she was not a user or a thief, that she had never asked for the food and never asked to serve in Edo and be falsely accused over frivolities, that Mary was the one who was the first to approach her and "willingly" offer her food when she had nothing to eat and was too broke she couldn't afford to even buy Indomie from a provision store. I knew my instincts were cock sure when I intercepted the first signs of Mary's misdemeanor. It felt like a déjà vu then, almost as if I had seen this coming prior to the time the incidents occurred. Nkiru had fallen victim to a cold case of character and personality defamation and she couldn't bare to face the public community.

Whenever someone swears upon his/her life, it has be a serious case of will power of the mind to free itself from the threat it has perceived. We all did our best to placate her. One of the male corps members suggested that Nkiru act like Mary didn't exist in her world and continue to live normally, without giving a hoot of a regard to what the community was fed with.

At the end of May 2015, I noticed that Mary had waltzed back to normalcy out of the blues and reds and resumed talking to everyone she snobbed, especially Nkiru. Later on, I got to understand from Nkiru that Mary turned off her switch and started talking to Nkiru.
When I asked her what she did, she said she did absolutely nothing but act like Mary didn't exist until she came crawling out of the shit hole she buried herself in. I asked her if she confronted Mary or did anything fishy to which she replied, "Why do I need to confront her when we both know I'm innocent? This issue has already confirmed how immature and lonely she is battling with multiple personality disorder. Not everyone can take the shit I did. I don't have the strength to fight either so I couldn't fight her, otherwise I still wouldn't have had my peace of mind. Sometimes, it's not all about gra gra, gra gra. Sometimes one just needs to sit back, relax and let the truth overshadow stupidity and shallowness. Sometimes, silence is both golden and diamond-like."
***

The calmness and ease with which Nkiru took hold of the situation as opposed to open challenges and physical fighting of this present day marveled me despite the emotional faux pas and drama that came with it and this is where the central focus of the message lies.

The way and manner in which one is able to comport oneself and accurately take charge of a challenging situation in the midst of trials and temptations goes a long way in establishing one's character and attitude to problem-solving. My point is that sometimes, it is not necessary, useful, helpful or wise to exhibit aggression as a problem-solving skill. An aggressive attitude does not help, neither will it ameliorate the situation in question.

Have you ever been falsely accused and your character and personality defamed? Fighting the antagonist and acting with gra gra will not vindicate you. Instead, it will only place you neck-deep in frustration such that you become afraid of that person.

Who is that antagonist? Is it not a mere human being? Why should you let yourself fall beneath a mere mortal soul who cannot do jack to you? The antagonist is meant to be scared of you. He/she cannot face you fair and square and that gives him/her the leverage to go behind your back in order to gain attention and spotlight, leaving you befuddled and overwhelmed.

Be calm. Take charge and act like an adult with tact. Use your common sense to turn things around instead of aggression and violence. Let the truth vindicate you such that the antagonist will end up being the stupid one.

Be calm.
***

Niqui Anekwe (June cover story)
Imaginations Run Deep.

5 MOST IMPORTANT LESSONS I HAVE LEARNT IN THE PAST
ONE YEAR.

1) YOU ARE NOT DESIGNED TO WORK FOR MONEY.
Yep! I said it. Go to school, get a good paying job and slave away till you die.. Fa fa fa….fowl!!! You are not designed to work for money. You are designed to Provide Value. Whatever you are doing now, business or otherwise, if it does not; Challenge Your Purpose, Demand Your Intellect And Improve your Skills, find something else to do.
The reward you get from providing value (especially Cash), don’t spend it, send it to work. You will get tired of working but guess what, money never gets tired of working. If you don’t find a way to earn money while you’re asleep, you will work till you die.

2) YOU CANNOT CHANGE YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES
I know this sounds ridiculous, unfortunately, it’s true. Here’s what I mean; You cannot directly change your circumstances because they are an ‘effect’ coming from a ‘cause’ The manifestation theory states that: Your THOUGHTS produce your FEELINGS which cause your ACTIONS which in turn produce your RESULTS and eventually your CIRCUMSTANCES. Stop struggling to change the ‘effect’ when the ‘cause’ is still unattended to.
It’s like trying to console a crying baby whose diaper is extremely wet, Change the d**n diaper and watch the baby smile at you. Remember the expression, “Fighting Against Circumstances”? Exactly!!! If your thoughts don’t align with the circumstances you want to create, forget it! You’ll just keep fighting.

3) YOUR ‘TITLE’ COULD BE DOING YOU MORE HARM THAN GOOD.
For someone who spent 7 years in school becoming a Doctor, saying this must take some guts!! Tying yourself down to a title (Dr. Barr. Pharm. Arc. Engr e.t.c) is shutting your eyes and mind to the boundless opportunities available to you. Try this experiment; For the next 24 hours, forget you have a title and default to your ‘factory’ mode. Assume that you can create whatever you want to create, no matter what, you will be shocked at the ideas that come to you. Titles do not make the man, the man makes the title. “Who title don epp?”

4) SCHOOLING AND EDUCATION ARE NOT THE SAME THING.
Just because you went to school, doesn’t mean you are educated. Schooling ends with a certificate (Clap for yourself!!), Education is forever. So, the only books you have and the ones you have read, are all about ‘your field’? Stop that right away.
If you haven’t picked up a book to read since you left school, you are in trouble o! The moment you stop learning, you start dying. Forget this ‘certificate’ thing and start educating yourself biko! The world is too loaded with information to limit yourself to books about ‘what you do’.

5) THERE IS NOTHING RIGHTEOUS ABOUT POVERTY
Your first responsibility in life is ‘Not to be Poor’. So, tell me, when you are poor, how will you help poor people?
A slave cannot save slaves. Even Moses had to be born into the royal family and be raised with a royal mentality before God could use him to free the Israelites. The best gift you can give to a ‘poor’ person is Inspiration. How? Get Rich yourself and prove to them that they too can be rich.

JUST ONE EXTRA:

5A) THERE IS A SHORTCUT TO SUCCESS
It is called Mentorship. There is no wisdom in failing where someone else has succeeded. A mentor will reduce your mistakes and accelerate your success. Find a mentor and let him/her take you by the hand and lead you to where you want to be.

Written by: Dr. Chisom C. Ibe
Cc. Dr. Chudi Godson.

Source: Facebook

In life, there are some things that pepper my body. I mean, they give me wild shivers down my bone marrow, such as the sounds of a baby's cry or little children suffering for the mistakes their parents made. These things pierce my senses like a jagged edged sword and I end up feeling so sorry that I want to hug and peck them and make them feel better. Let me explain a scenario.

About two weeks ago, on one fine afternoon, I was on my way home. I was seated in a bus, jejely minding my own business and busy writing my stories in a draft. You see, in this country, Canada and especially in Alberta, you have to learn how to jejely be on your own and mind your business every step of the way. This place is not Obalende or Oshodi or Mushin where you can just open your mouth carelessly and vomit whatever you feel like because a good number of fellow Nigerians do not know how and when to keep quiet at things that don't concern them. This place is not even close to looking like Houston or Atlanta where you feel you can say anything that comes to your mind because you are in America where everyone believes in that popular slogan, "America is a free country!" It is a lie! You must always, always jejely be on your own and mind your business when you are in Canada so that you will live longer. However, in this case, I was really touched by the situation in question.

So, I was concentrating on constructing a story plot when the bus got to a terminal adjacent to a high school and stopped for school children to get in. Before I could open my mouth and say, "Jack Robinson!" a young boy threw his body on the seat next to mine. This boy could not be more than 18 years old, even if he had eaten all the fertilizers in this world that made him look like a 30 year old man, with all the fatty and adipose tissues clinging mercilessly underneath his skin. He was carrying a baby in a roller carriage and he had positioned the carriage in front of him before he sat down and made me uncomfortable with his weight. Apparently, his weight could not contain one seat so he ended up putting me in a tight position because part of his body was already occupying my seat.

I took one look at the baby and lost my focus. A very cute little tot she was, with eyes as blue as the waters of Bora Bora, skin as pale as nude beach and lips as pink as deep fuchsia. While I was busy admiring the baby, the boy, who appeared to be the father, received a phone call. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, a female was shouting at the top of her voice from the other end of the line. I literally heard her yell at the boy and threaten to report him to the police for attempting to kidnap "their" baby.

My curiosity shone brighter than white light this time as I turned to look at the boy. The female's shrill at the other end was too distracting. This boy was almost in tears as he tried to ask the female to calm down, explaining to her that he was only taking their baby to his home because she had told him earlier that she didn't want to have anything to do with their baby and she didn't want to see the little tot. She would have none of his explanations as her ranting took a new level, similar to a wild banshee.

I watched his face become contorted with frustration, his eyes became red and if not for the semblance of control he was trying effortlessly to put up in public glare, he would have actually shed tears right there in the bus. The female deftly hung up on him and left him too flabbergasted to speak. He sniffed and wiped back tears with the back of his hand. Then he made a couple of other calls to people, asking them to help him and protect him from the police and explaining that there was no way in heaven, hell or on earth he would kidnap his own baby and keep her away from the mother.

Just then, the cute baby made a few gurgling sounds and immediately began to scream and wail simultaneously, flailing her arms up in the air. It was the kind of cry that signaled hunger and it was not just an ordinary kind of baby's hunger. She could've yearned for baby food or breast milk, maybe. Paying attention to the pain and discomfort in her eyes my mind aptly suggested she wanted something more. A mother's cuddle would have worked like magic. He took his baby and tried to placate her on his chest, cooing and making goofy baby sounds and kissing her head. His efforts went as fruitless as vain as she continued to wail. This kind of wailing really, really pierced my senses, even more than a jagged edged sword. A certain kind of pityful feeling enveloped me as I stared at the frustrated boy and his crying baby, not knowing what to do or make of the situation.

Soon enough, the boy pushed for a stop when he got to his destination and carefully carried his baby and the carriage out of the bus. I watched them until the bus drove so far away that I couldn't catch sight of them again.

***

I sit, in my moment of solitude and introspection, and wonder why and how it ever got to this. A lot of youngsters claiming adulthood are not even interested in getting to know what adulthood is about. These days, many people are not interested in building viable relationships that could last but are only interested in what, how, and when to satisfy their carnal desires. It is always all about the sex. When do we do it? How do we do it? Who do we do it with and what position do we have it in?
Apparently, I understand that this is not new for someone who is used to commuting publicly both at home and abroad.

I would normally reserve my comments whenever I am asked my two cents about this. But I would stand on a neutral position, without putting as much as any remnant of religion or bias to this.

If anyone wishes to fulfill the desires of his/her flesh, that's his/her problem, not mine. It doesn't even concern me. After all, people will still end up claiming to be adults who know what they are doing and know what they want. If anyone wishes to do it a million times before he/she turns 25, or before or after marriage, I could less and "jejely mind my business" because I am not going to live his/her life. Still, people will claim to live their own lives and tell you to live yours. I am not even wasting my mind or my energy judging anyone.

Whatever you do, it doesn't hurt to apply common sense, logic and conscience. Don't be so selfish and/or wicked as to bring a child into this world to suffer when you are not ready to take on the responsibility of parenthood. It is so unfair to that child. Stop being an architect of your misfortune. The world already has issues dealing with desolate, homeless and abandoned babies and children. Stop adding more flames to a fire that you cannot quench.

I live in a part of the world where the average African is stereotyped as everything bad and negative, as one who is unproductive. You mention the word African and they start to think of voodoo (juju).
Being the only black person in a class of 20-something overgrown babies who I am forced against my volition to regard as "supposedly mature" graduates, is tough. I am being watched everywhere I go. Every move I make is monitored. Yet, I am not paranoid.

To them, as far as they are concerned, I don't know anything and I am not supposed to know anything. I am supposed to be the academic fool they already perceived.

I answer a question in class and they tell me it's wrong straight up. But when they answer, it is the exact same thing I said. They just used different words interchangeably. People of colour cannot know anything. They are not afraid to tell me I do not know anything. They are not afraid to rub it in my face.

They try to mark me down and when I try to fight for my grades they tell me I didn't give them the answer that was suitable enough for them as with their fellow "pale-skinned" people. They call me to tell me they are watching my grades and hoping that I fail so that they can use that as justification to prove that I do not know it.

I work in a team and contribute ideas and suggestions. I write up summaries of research. They trash it and say it is not suitable. They put theirs instead, only to find out at the dying minute before presentation that they could actually fit in some of my contributions.

They tell me that I am from a "developing" country where the standard of education cannot beat theirs because my developing country is still struggling to gain grounds whereas theirs sits on a golden pedestal. So I have nothing to offer.

I meet my "fellow peers" to ask questions and share ideas and they tell me they will not share what they have and will not tell me what they know because it is a competition and I am not supposed to know more than they know. Whatever they know, they keep to themselves so that no one else will know.

I stay up burning thousands of candles upon candles, trying to quench my thirst and they get surprised. They begin to ask but rather than being stingy, I give what I have and tell what I know because I know that I can only grow and move forward by sharing. They will not be caught dead burning candles.

I ask a question to cure my ignorance and they are outraged that I had the audacity to ask them what the others couldn't think of, so they answer it in an unsatisfactory way. But when they ask a question, they are being given the best of explanations I would never have dreamed of.

I try to answer a question and they see me as competition they can't handle. They think I am trying to challenge their intelligence and they are not happy.

When I don't answer a question and decide to keep quiet, I am deliberately being picked on and forced to answer it because according to them, I should know it. I know it. I should talk and contribute and stop being quiet.

I make a seminar presentation and they deliberately find every possible way to "rattle" me and tell me to my face that they want to rattle me. According to them, they want to see me involved, but I know they don't want me to be more involved than they are because they want all the glory.

They are not happy when I beat their wildest imaginations because it is not what they expect of me.

They smile at me to make me feel comfortable and get me to talk by all means. Try as hard as they might it's a fruitless effort they can't handle. Behind me, they try to snitch in every possible way they could and even make up false stories and lies to add unnecessary flames to the fire they try to create. Oh yes. Tell me which African has not been snitched on in this part of the world and I would tell you that the person is trying to be hypocritical.

I am not angry when I am discriminated against. Sincerely, how can anyone deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It is beyond me.

I felt a sharp pain on my waist and jumped up with a start. It was that common, consistent pain I felt from my waist down to my left leg which was severely bound in a cast for quite a long while. The pain was so indescribable it left me numb all over. When I opened my eyes, I didn't recognize where I was. Everywhere was so strange and unreal that I began to fret and fidget. My eyes turned from narrow to wide as I shivered violently and flailed my arms. I wanted to run away but my legs failed me. So I shrieked out in fear, my breathing so laboured with each movement while my heart pounded mercilessly that I could hear my beat and liken it to a pestle hitting cassava in a mortar. The novel, Under Bridge by Immanuel James, which lay on my chest fell to the floor with a loud thud. My whole body hurt all over, including my head which was heavily wrapped in a bandage. I couldn't move because I couldn't feel my legs. I didn't know why my left leg was in a cast or why my head was bandaged with bruises on other parts of my body covered in brown and white plasters. I was restless and terrified. I screeched for dear life.
***

Someone started to hold me still. It was a woman, an extremely light-skinned woman with a face covered in make up. I didn't know her. She wore a red turban on her head that matched the fitted red sequined mermaid gown on her body and red lipstick on her lips. Her hands were as strong as a vice gripped on my shoulders and with each forced movement forward, she pushed me back to the soft couch to keep me locked in. Her long, gold earrings jingled loudly as did her bangles. She was a complete stranger to me.

"My child... It's alright. I'm here," she said after a pause, still clutching my shoulders in a firm grip. I pushed her arms away, then held my waist and screamed out. My waist hurt terribly. It felt like a sword sliced my body apart. She tried to placate me by holding me close to her bossom and rocking me back and forth, saying all kinds of things to bring my hysteria down.

"Be still," she continued. "Be still. It's me, your mother. It is me, Onyeka. I'm here."

I stopped wrestling and stared at her face while she sat on the small space left on the couch beside me. I was struggling to catch my breath and heaving violently while at it. She started to breathe slowly and loudly with her palms on her chest, demonstrating for me to do the same. She placed her hands on my chest and she measured her breathing with mine. I was totally confused. I didn't know why she called me her daughter or who Onyeka was. I placed my bandaged right hand on my chest and when I thought my breath had slowed to a steady pace, I moved my hands to my throat. It was dry, as were my lips. She moved over to a small side stool I didn't know was beside the couch and brought a glass cup filled with water that lay on top of it. She brought the cup to my lips and urged me to drink the water.

After I took two large gulps she paused for a moment and then put the cup away. I cleaned my wet lips with the back of my bandaged hand. I groaned as I tried to balance my sitting position. She began to fuss over me, placing the back of her palms on my forehead, my cheeks and my neck, drawing my hair backwards, adjusting my left leg and helping me to get into a sitting position. She was just touching and inspecting every part of me that had an injury, an act I found absolutely ridiculous. I did not like her doing that to me.

"Onyeka," she started to speak after heaving a sigh. "You know me and recognize me, don't you?" I continued to stare at her blankly as her long eyelashes fluttered with anxiety. She was too beautiful to be true.

"Your name is Onyekachukwu Okafor and I am your mother," she spoke mechanically like a robot trained to answer in a specific way to its master. "You were involved in an accident five months ago at Allen Avenue, Ikeja. A young man ran into you with his car. You sustained injuries on your leg which is why there is a cast on it. You also sustained other minor injuries on your body and hands. There was a major contusion on the right side of your forehead from where your head bashed into the windshield of the car and you also suffered a concussion in your head. The doctor said your brain went into a state of traumatic shock such that when you woke up you couldn't remember anything and he was so surprised because you had been in coma for two weeks. We had hoped you would make it alive. Now we have to deal with the amnesia which is way better than death. He said everything will be fine because you are recuperating fast and gradually starting to remember things quicker than expected. My own daughter is a lucky survivor.
"I brought you home after the surgery. The doctor assumed the shock affected your mind and made you slightly crazy. But you are not. As a matter of fact, you have been responding to treatments. You're alive and doing well. You know me, Onyeka. I am the only one you've been able to allow feed you, the only one you've attempted to speak to since the accident."

I watched her as she spoke. She looked exhausted and worn out even with the make up on her face. Her eyes got watery and she seemed a tad bit too desperate to prove herself. Out of nowhere, she automatically flashed a picture on her mobile phone right across my face and pointed to an older woman who looked exactly like her which she identified as herself and a younger woman who looked like the younger version of herself she identified as me. I stared long and hard at the picture. The faces seemed to appear familiar and after acquiescing it as a striking resemblance, I nodded my head at her. She breathed out a sigh of relief.
I looked at the floor to see Under Bridge lying carelessly on the marble floor atop the long pair of silver crutches meant to support my foot steps. Its holder had fallen off at another angle underneath the crutches. Mother bent over to pick them up and hand them back to me.

"I'm so sorry, darling. You just had a trance," she continued after waiting for me to speak with no response in return. "I should never have left you on your own. I was almost scared out of my wits here. You're probably still experiencing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but you are fine. We are going to get through this."

She sniffed and stared down at her long, manicured fingernails. Everything she said didn't make sense to me - the accident, the injuries, the amnesia, the cast. I couldn't fathom out anything plausible save for my name. I turned away to survey the room instead and gather my thoughts together to recall the little that was revealed. It was annoying to think that I could not remember anything. The room was well furnished with large, abstract paintings hung on light cream walls and black couches arranged in an L shaped format. There was also a loveseat at an adjacent position to where I was seated. The two windows had what looked like taupe Parisian eyelet curtains with floral gold embroidery that were spread out and held by gold holdbacks on either side to reveal light curtain blinds with the sun's rays streaming through. A large, flat screen TV was fixed to the wall directly opposite where I sat with the CNN channel on but at a very low volume. A large Victorian chandelier hung at the very center of a sparkling white, complex POP ceiling with it's bright orange light glinting in the daylight. The room was somewhat too serene and too neat, with the air-conditioning on at close to room temperature.

"Where am I? What time is it?" I asked Mother in a very low and quiet voice.

"At home, in Lagos. It's 5.30 pm." she responded in an even much quieter tone. I focused my thoughts on the television before me. Anthony Bourdain, whose name and whereabouts I only knew because it appeared on the screen, was walking about the streets of Ankra in Turkey, talking to some people as he did. The area looked like a desolate village with very narrow streets and walkways.

"Onye," Mother resumed, breaking into my thoughts. "There's someone here to see you in the main living room. He's been here awhile now and many times in the last few months. Now, I know you've said you didn't want to see anyone other than me or the doctor who comes to check up but it's been 5 mo--" I shook my head rigorously, interrupting her speech. She looked at me in disbelief and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"It's been five agonizing months!" she continued sharply, her artificially drawn eyebrows slightly moved down together in a small frown. "For God's sake, Onyeka, you have to break even. I know you can speak. The young man is insistent on talking with you and he won't leave until he sees you. So, just... give the benefit of doubt even if you don't know him and get yourself together."

She touched her palms to the bandage on my head, drew them down across my face and with a salient kiss on my forehead, she smiled and stood up. After adjusting her gown, she carefully walked out of the room, her flip flops slapping carelessly on her heels one after the other with each measured foot step. I felt dazed and light headed. I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want anyone having some kind of stupid pity for me for being in this kind of unfortunate state.

"In case you didn't know," she stopped and turned back to me at the doorway. "He's the one who came to your rescue minutes away from your death and paid for the surgery and all the hospital bills down to the penny. A little appreciation would do." She closed the door behind her.

I reluctantly grabbed my crutches from the floor and having set them to standing position, I tried to stand up myself to head to the main living room. It was a laborious effort not to scream so I groaned out and gritted my teeth instead. Gently rubbing the left side of my waist with my palms, I had made up my mind to tell this Mr. Charity guy off. I didn't need pity or the likes of it. I didn't need anyone looking down at me or trying to fuss over me. I hated myself for being in this condition since I couldn't remember how I got myself into this. I had taken the first three agonizing steps forward, my underarms pressed against the crutches as I held the handle on both sides, my left leg raised while my right leg did the walking and wobbling. I began to sweat in my underarms and pant like a dog taken out for a run when someone walked into the room.
***

"Hi," a young male voice spoke up. I looked up from the ground to stare at the stranger who was now standing a few inches away from me. He was beaming with a bright smile when he said "Hi" and was still smiling even after. I was struck with surprise and transfixed that I didn't reply back.

My eyes took in extra effort to drink in this stranger. He was taller than 6 feet that I practically had to raise my head up to look at him like I was looking onto the heavens, which made my 5'8" feature seem dwarf-like. He wore a very dark navy blue - almost black - double-breasted suit that was unbuttoned. A couple of buttons of his white shirt beneath the suit jacket were undone, leaving behind a small patch of hair on a muscular chest. His skin looked like glazed caramel, a very striking colour of light brown glinting under a mixture of daylight and the chandelier light on the ceiling with an even creamy tone and his beard game looked so deftly shaved and thinly carved across his chin. He had narrow, smiling, brown eyes with a slightly pointed nose. His perfectly sculpted lips were a daring colour of nude beach it set my hormones on a wild rage. My stomach began to do a silent lap dance while the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end. My pulse worked it's way into a steady rising beat and I vaguely became too conscious of how exposed I was before him in a sleeveless tank blouse that barely covered my breasts with a generous amount of cleavage and mini shorts that revealed a lot of flesh on my thighs. His physical appearance was unnerving and brought tingly sensations of adrenalin to my spine and my down below.

"I am Jesse. How are you doing, Onyeka?" he continued to smile with his eyes but I could not concentrate on his words. I stared at his lips for a while, vaguely wondering where I had last seen them, whether it was in my wildest fantasies or in reality. I knew I had seen such lips before. I just didn't remember where or how. I couldnt remember much of anything, as a matter of fact. He stretched out his right arm to shake mine but I left it hanging and continued to stare. I was short of words. His rigid presence seemed to intimidate me.

My gaze shifted to the rest of his face. There was something wrong about this man I couldn't quite place even though he appeared too smart or dapper with a pretty face. He stared directly into my eyes this time. Instinctively, I knew I had seen this man before. The mesmerizing heat waves from his brown eyes were so piercing I could scarcely bring my thoughts into focus. They arrested the faculty of my brain with reckless abandon. There was a small, round, dark spot just inches away from his left eye and an identical spot on the right side of his upper lip, very close to his nose. My head began to throb harder as I looked at the birth mark while he searched my face. It felt like some invisible electric sparks were shooting across from his end to my end and vice versa. The longer I stared at that particular birth mark above his lips, the more my mind got automatically transported into a flash of oblivion.

"You... Stay away from me..." I blurted out. My heart beat was steadily rising to its crescendo. I had just noticed the small gold necklace resting on his clavicle. The layers of the necklace were intertwined into an intricate design with a central piece that bore a set of initials. I struggled inside my head to figure out how familiar that necklace looked to me. He took a step forward and placed his right arm on my shoulder but I moved back away from him and raised my hand up to stop him. One of my crutches gave way and fell to the floor as I held my head and reeled myself into my past.
***

He was saying something but it sounded like a faint rap to my ears. My mind spun as I shook my head and shifted on my right leg to steady myself. Images and scenes began to jar up in my head, creating a kaleidoscope of colours that rapidly flashed before me faster than the speed of light. Different series of white and neon lights appeared and disappeared rapidly. Everywhere became so noisy on Allen Avenue with cars honking, people screaming and police sirens screeching. Just then, I noticed the bright yellow head lights of a car flash right before me with a loud horn. The tyres forcefully scratched against the road surface as the car effortlessly tried to come to a halt but it was too late for me to move as I lifted my hands to shield my eyes. Something sharp and metallic hit my waist and then I saw myself rolling over the hood of the car.

I screamed as I saw my head forcefully collide head long into the windshield of the car and bounce back, leaving behind a broken windshield with red liquid dripping from the wide hole in the glass. In the twinkle of an eye through that hole, I noticed a striking gold piece of necklace on the driver's neck and a dark spot above his lips. The rest of my body followed suit and rolled over the windscreen, this time increasing the magnitude of the cracks and breaking more than half of the windscreen. The back of my head hit the outer rear view mirror on the driver's side and like a log of wood dumped into a lumbering factory, my body rolled and fell face down onto the hard, tarred road surface. I tasted my warm blood as it flowed from my head to the ground in a pool of red.
***

When my mind eased itself back into the present and the scene behind my predicament became crystal clear, I did not know when I screamed and lost my balance. In a monumental flash, I fell backwards, hitting the back of my head on the edge of the sofa. I heard the sound of the cup break unceremoniously on the floor.

Just as it was on that ill-fated day of the accident, this man with the pretty face and a gold necklace held me up and shook me in a hopeful attempt to revive me. I watched him forlonly as he called out words which sounded like a faint echo to my ears. As he checked my pulse just beneath the central focus of my clavicle, I tasted my warm blood again dripping from my nose. Only this time, it was warmer because the heat from his body intoxicated all my senses. It was this heat that managed to keep me awake long enough against my volition to stare into his eyes.

He hunted my senses just before I passed out.

Memoir from a puzzled mind...

On a certain cold and bleak winter morning, my sights were set on sail to Alberta's Number 1 Hall of Fame, that popular school where many proud hearted 'overgrown babies' carry their faces like expired shit that refused to be flushed down the toilet. As feeble as I was that morning, I was all strapped up and ready to leave, looking like nothing short of a sorry excuse for an Eskimo. No thanks to the freezing weather which had a way of forcing me to look uber goofy like the rest of the population at that particular time of the year. I took a bus down to the train station and got on the next available train going to my destination.

I got into the train and began to walk down the aisle slowly, looking for an open seat very close to the window so I could easily doze off. I saw a young, dark-skinned lady in one particular compartment which had an open seat by the window. She had just taken her seat when I decided to take the opposite seat. In a matter of moments we were both seated facing each other, waiting for the train to depart. She looked a tad bit uncomfortable, like there was an insect biting her buttocks. So she kept shifting carefully from side to side and adjusting her back pack that was also seated beside her with her hands unceremoniously placed over it.

From the corner of my eyes, I watched her open and close her bag a number of times, searching for this or that, bringing them out and sliding them back in. It was as if she was trying every effort to make sure she didn't lose something when her composure looked like she actually misplaced something. I do that too, sometimes when I'm not sure I have this or that or even my ID with me, I usually fret a bit until I find it and stow it away safely.

There was a white, blonde middle aged woman seated behind her, backing her in the next train compartment. This young lady hadn't the slightest idea that in those moments of shifting and minor fidgeting, her elbows brushed the woman's shoulder across a couple of times. Clearly a case of an unconscious state of action, I didn't expect her to know because her winter jacket was so thick and fluffy that I, for one, wouldn't have known it if I brushed someone. I wouldn't feel the effect. In this case, she didn't feel it so she didn't know.

"Get your hands off my shoulders!" the woman shouted aggressively at the girl in a very loud high pitched voice, a voice loud enough to make a bird freeze during flight and draw upon the attention of the entire passengers in the train cabin. She turned back abruptly and faced forward with a heavy frown, mechanically fixing her earpiece back in her ears in a classic bad ass style likened to a hit man acting undercover. Those words electrified my senses to the marrow. Few seconds of shock registered on my face and the faces of nearby passengers but the one who had the greatest 3D bone cracking effect was the young girl.

My eyebrows pointed toward the sky as I watched her closely after the woman faced forward. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought that the woman had had a previous grudge with the girl. This girl was so innocently embarrassed she could hardly speak. She didn't even utter a word, not even as much as a 'Sorry'. Her medulla must have been placed on a brief paralysis for she stared a little longer at the woman, apparently not knowing what to say. Then she sighed deeply and turned away to meet my eyes. I gave a sincerely weak smile. One that said something like, "Don't worry about her. She's not worth your salt."

She did not smile back. Instead, she rolled her eyes to the roof of the train and turned away to face the outside through the window, obviously nonplussed and outraged. She blinked her eyes forlonly and gave a very deep sigh, then a small hiss. I caught that hiss very well. It reminded me of those frustrated Yoruba women at Balogun market in Lagos Island who made a meager profit at the end of the day. After puckering her lips in a comical, old fashioned manner, she pushed herself forward a little bit, leaned her back and placed her head by the window, then closed her eyes. I did not know if the rough stunt was still affecting her senses or if she had decided to let it off her mind. I could never tell.

Introspecting silently, the only question I could ask myself was, "If this young girl was also white, how differently or not differently would this woman have reacted, or was it that it was in her nature to be unnecessarily cold?" I did not have an answer. I would never know. However, one thing was certainly crystal clear. Based on the nature of the woman's reaction which was totally unpolite and uncalled for, the girl didn't think an apology was a necessary sine qua non for validation and that was final for her. This was a quintessential example of what the phrase 'Tit for Tat' meant.
***

MORAL: Never transfer your aggression for an unjust cause because the unlucky victim of your aggression is not the cause of your issues. Do you realize how much of a bad impression you inflict upon yourself by doing that?

Do you think you are the only one with issues in this world? Please go back to your mat and continue sleeping!

The world needs humanity and we all need love. To treat with love is to be humane. To be humane is bliss. Find it. Learn it. Develop it.

Memoirs from the Cave....

When I was much younger, I used to see myself as being the vibrant albeit quiet city girl that was born, bred and raised in a suburban city setting far away from the East. I was also deficient and handicapped and worse, ignorant of the fact that I was deficient and handicapped. I could count the number of times I was taken to my hometown during long holidays save for Christmas festivities - it was either Abuja or Lagos or an excursion to a different place organised by my Alma mater in order to get that much exposure. So, when people would open their mouths to talk about Nnewi, Alor, Awka, Oraukwu, Abia, Owerri, Enugu, Uga, Igboukwu, Ihiala, even the rowdy Onitsha and it's neighboring sister Nkpor, I humbled myself by looking and acting like a dunce. I didn't know shigbain about that supposedly popular Cave City in Anambra. My Igbo-speaking skills back then were nothing short of a sorry excuse for a half-baked Easterner. I understood it perfectly but I couldn't speak it well without infusing some form of English.
I didn't exactly fit in, at first, with the majorly razz lifestyles and shenanigans of some of the razz folk which were plainly evident in my first year at Nnamdi Azikiwe University. But as time went by, the circumstances opened my previously blinded eyes properly and I began to see things in a different light. I had the biggest break when several people supposedly from Cave City repeatedly baptised me with satirical punch lines to my greatest chagrin, such as, "Nya, etu a I chagolu anya nwaagbo na-emezi ka ndi obodo, I maghi uzo be gi ofuma, I maghi etu esi a ga ogba di na be gi; ifele megbukwalu gi ebe ahu. Lijukwa nsi! (So, you claim the city life but you don't know your home and you don't know the cave, shame on you!)"
Only the Igbos would understand how deep it gets when one is told to "lie nsi".
My perspective changed completely after I was bound, tied and unceremoniously dumped in the East some years later...
***
11 YEARS AGO...

On a cold and dusty Harmattan morning shortly after Christmas day, I set my sights and began a hitch-hike from Umueri-Umudioka axis with Emeka. Emeka was my close cousin (still is) and he brought along a few of his paternal cousins and a tour guide. There was no car that could take us all so we arduously trekked the 1 hour journey along an uneven, untarred and hilly road to a destination that was hidden amidst a thick forest of trees, down in a valley. Conversations sprung up along the way and jokes were cracked, those kinds of jokes that could only make you entertained when it was spoken in Igbo, rather than English. I have never in my entire existence trekked for 1 hour on foot save for NYSC endurance trek which was even less than 1 hour, but I'll be damned if I complained about being tired. I could not stand to be jabbed in my native language as a weakling.

The tour guide alerted us when we approached the cave. I expected to see a gate of some sorts but all I could see was just an expanse of trees, a stretch of forest that seemed to follow the topography of the hills. Nothing looked closely related to an underground hole to climb into. There was a vast expanse of land behind me, even behind the endless horizon across, very evident in an undulating fashion. It felt like I was in an entirely different world and an entirely different time than the present. The wind blew across my face and cooled my senses and the pores underneath my skin, making the hairs at the back of my neck stand on edge. The sweetest part of this breeze was where it soared over my underarms and armpits, attempting to dry off the beads of sweat but giving me a sensational feeling of excitement at the same time. Apart from the voices of the tour guide and Emeka trying to urge the local securities to beat down the cost of touring the cave, together with the subtle gossips coming from Emeka's female cousins, the only other sounds coming from the place were the sparrows and robins of the air, screeching and tweeting as they flew in a colony from tree to tree, their sounds echoing as they flew graciously overhead. 

We were finally let into the vicinity and had to trek for another kilometer to get to the stairs. It felt quite easy climbing down more than one hundred steps into the down below, shaded from the sun's rays by the tallest of pine trees I ever saw. Easy because it didn't feel like one of those workout sessions being displayed on TV. Easy because talk wasn't cheap and talking overshadowed the anxiety born out of a desire to go inside the ground, something I had never thought I would do because I had always assumed that a cave was where primitive people lived, if there were any of those still alive in that cave in Ogbunike.

I was still reveling in the mixed and unknown scent of the trees whose leaves and branches swayed here and there intermittently as the wind ruffled them when I saw it from the corner of my eye. That open hole into the down below. A very large one indeed with a million and one scratch markings on its walls. It looked like an ancient tomb without a door, wide enough for a crowd of people to easily get into the darkness. The large boulder just a distance from the main entrance had so many scratch markings of names and nicknames of people who had been there and left their impressions on a monument of some sorts. Some people had been into that cave and never came out. They had gotten lost among the mazes or swallowed up by sink holes along the floor, left to their fate in the hands of bats and wild animals. My skin crawled with goosebumps at the thought of that. I peered into the darkness ahead and saw many inner open entrances. I could almost have sworn that a lion could come out from any one entrance when the tour guide mentioned wild animals that took refuge there at nighttime. I would never know if it was a myth or the truth.

With torches and lanterns we followed our tour guide straight into the darkness, into the mazes ahead like local warriors off to battle with the king, carefully avoiding sink and swallow holes and bats. At some point we crawled underneath the earthen roof which was too low for any human straight enough to walk, or we laid flat on our stomachs and crawled over earthen ground filled with mud and water. We were too dazed by eagerness to worry about our clothes getting dirty.

After what seemed like an eternity climbing walls, crawling over openings and dodging attacks from wild bats within, we got out to the Nature Waterfall somewhere at the back of the cave. The most beautiful part of the cave was this waterfall, guarded surreptitiously by large pines with moss-green leaves on either side. It was the peak highlight of my tour. I sat down on one of the large boulders by the edge of the crystal clear stream and stared at the waterfall in all of its magnificent glory as it poured endlessly from the summit of a hill down into the stream, creating a laminar flow along the stream a short distance away. Without thinking, I removed my sandals, folded and drew my jeans up to my knees and placed my feet into the stream. I wanted to feel the sheer beauty of it. I wanted to touch it.

I wanted to take off my clothes and just lay there in the water and imagine that I was in a tub, to let Nature pet and caress my skin as I looked on at it. Instead I waded my feet in the water, enjoying the way the water tickled my legs and feet. I scooped water off the stream and splashed it on my face, my hair, my hands, even my back and on my clothes. I could see my reflection from the subtle waves at the surface. Nature is a very beautiful thing, I thought to myself.

Sometime later, it was time to leave Nature Waterfall and the Cave and head back home as the afternoon progressed into evening. By then, I had seen and felt enough of the waterfall and as a token, the waterfall decided to take away my wristwatch which was initially a gift. I didn't really care. I thought it was tit for tat. It gave me a magnificent and unspeakable view and feeling and then still took my watch away because it knew too well that I could easily get a new watch even if I didn't come back to look for it. I would always, always remember it in many more years to come. I would never forget it.
***
11 YEARS LATER...

It has been eleven years and not just eleven years right on but eleven years and three months since I visited Nature Waterfall and the Cave for the first time. I still have the various scenes invariably etched like a fitted jigsaw inside my brain. That place is too beautiful to ever forget. Amongst the various places around the world on my wishlist to visit, The Cave and Nature Waterfall are one of them. I want anyone who cares to visit to see what I saw and feel what I felt practically. I want them to have the experience I had and live to tell the tale again and again. Maybe someday, the Anambrarian and Nigerian government would finally look at it and turn it into a world class tourist destination.