The Lady in Red Shoes...

It wasn't a regular Monday, I didn't have to snooze the alarm clock over and over, matter of fact I woke up before it rang. I kicked off with 150 push-ups and a 30 minutes burn session on the thread mill, in and out of the shower, dressed and sanctified with a few shots of creed. The drive to the office was however very typical, everyone was in a rush this morning with kekenapes and taxis stopping square in the middle of the road to drop off and pick up passengers.

My Yanni album has always helped me maintain my cool in traffic, within minutes I was heading to my car park and that was when it happened, the earth stopped for a moment and everything faded away, every single thing except her, everything except the lady in red shoes. Her steps were so graceful, she looked lost and was without a care in the world, it felt like a scene from your favorite Spanish soap opera. The moment lingered and by reflex my foot was already on the brake pedal, I have seen beauty in it's purest form in time past but this was different, before I could arrange my thought train, I was brought back to reality with the honking of the murano behind me. I caught a glimpse of a smile on her face as she walked away..

Will I ever see her again?
Will I ever see you again?

The lady in red shoes...

A pen. A pad. A scarf. My glasses. The clock.III

Part 3.

"Anita talk to me. Who wrote you those letters? If he's not a coward why would he let you take the heat alone. Hian!" Dumebi pressed on and on. He's not a coward.

He just told Sister Nela he wrote those letters. Will Dumebi believe me? "I'm in pains Dumebi, I will give you the gist when all this is over, just tell the matron I need something for the pain. Oh how I hate the smell of this sick bay!"

Two weeks passed and I did not hear from Sister Nela or any of the teachers or prefects. All I got were piercing stares from the senior girls.

It appeared as though they wanted to search my soul and find out if their boyfriends had wooed me.
Oh well!

It seemed forever to me then. Oh how I feared. I could not go for mass without feeling awkward.
News flying around was that Father Henry had left the seminary. Nobody seemed to be sure of the reason why. Some speculated that he had found the love of his life, others said his father finally forced him to find a wife. If only he could send me one more letter. Explaining what he told Sister Nela, why he left, if he would truly marry me and whether he felt bad for betraying God.

Things were beginning to return to normal, I started participating in the debating club again.
A competition with another school was on the way and all hands were on deck to select the best students for the d-day, I really wanted to be part of them. I slowly began to forget Father Henry.

I got to my dorm one evening only to find Dumebi with her face in her hands. I gently probed her to tell me what the issue was.
"So it was the head boy all this while?" she asked. I did not understand. Neither did she.

A pen. A pad. A scarf. My glasses. The clock. II

Part 2.

Saint Mary's Secondary School was a school for the rich and for the gifted. Automatic scholarship was given to applicants who could pass the entrance exams, while the others had to pay N200 per term. In the 70's, this was pretty exorbitant, hence only the rich folks could send their wards there.

You see, my school maintained strict codes of conduct. For example, junior and senior students were not allowed to communicate informally even if blood related them; opposite sex relationships between seniors and juniors were a taboo; inability to make 18 distinctions per session would ultimately lead to withdrawal and so on.

"Give her 24 strokes of the cane," screamed Sister Nela. "Until you say who wrote you those letters, you won't be allowed into the dormitory till Monday evening. I'm not going to expel you, I promise. Just tell me who wrote them to you. It's clearly a senior student judging from how he tells you not to be afraid. Anita, you can trust me. Don't force my hand to sign your expulsion letter. You are one of our best students...Anita..."

My back ached. The sting from those lashes was unbearable. Should I just talk and let the worst happen? I can't. I just can't.

I could hear whispers from the assembly ground. "It's Senior Ugo,he's been eyeing her since... no jo..it's Kenneth, I overheard him praising her beauty at the dining hall the other day..."

Just as the principal was about to dismiss the students, Father Henry walked up to her on the podium to say something.

"This new fada no know say nobody dey allowed to interrupt Reverend Sister abi? She go soon handle am. He no know say today na Friday, make him no delay us jo", hissed the Assembly Prefect.

Wait! Oh my God! Did he just confess to her that he was...

As soon as the cold water hit my face, reality dawned on me. I realised I needed to faint again. I couldn't handle this. If there was one thing I was going to do before I die, it would be to kill Senior Amaka!

A pen. A pad. A scarf. My glasses. The clock. I

Part 1.
He was the torch bearer of the school's legacy. He was the brightest in the galaxy. He was the Senior prefect.
I am old and gray. I am the mother of his dead child. I am the victim of Adam's fall.

"It's break time Anita, let's go to the dining hall". Dumebi never understood why I couldn't join her for lunch. I had to always cover up on some subjects. I just could not read during prep.
I told him I wasn't interested but he would not let me be.

Two weeks earlier, Senior Amaka had created a scene at Makama block. She called me horrible names chief of which was "boyfriend snatcher"! She read out the anonymous love letters she found in my box to the crowd gathering around her. I was finished!

Where is My Khaki?

‪#‎memoirsOfAKopa‬

It was supposed to be a good day. The state coordinator had told us to be happy and feel privileged for the opportunity to serve our nation.

He made a first class in Architecture from OAU. Despite the strikes and killings, he escaped only to be a victim

of the government's indiscretion.

"Tk is dead. He died last week. He was posted to Bauchi under the NYSC scheme, the bomb blast killed him. Yes Aunty, he is dead."

Obioma take it easy o! The khaki is threadbare and poorly sewn. Just shape it to my size that's all i want! The one I am wearing na borrow I borrow am o.

I am in this village! After being duped of the N40, 000 to "runs" my posting to Lagos, I still landed here sha. I am neither pregnant nor sick so there's no way to escape. To say the least, i feel neither happy nor privileged. I feel angry.

Its Christmas and I can't travel by road back to Lagos. The aeroplanes are bad. the Federal Minister of aviation just blamed God for the last disaster.

So what do i do? Its not like the N19,800 the government pays per month can even afford a "church-rat" class ticket. Oh well.

They have finally signed my cds card. *phew* Now i can go to rest. Oh no i cant rest because the mosquitoes and snakes in that compound will not let me be.

At least I can kill the mosquitoes sha. Bloody native folks!

NTA news: ASUU goes on strike...

Did Tk really deserve to die? Did those plane crashes mean we had offended God? Is it our fault that our leaders

are just plain stupid? Has the NYSC outlived its purpose or are we just fooling ourselves? Why would a tribalistic government still push for national integration

among youth who do not give a damn about the scheme? Isn't it meant to be voluntary??? We are forced to serve. I apologise, the poor corps members are forced to serve before

gaining any employment within the country while the kids of the rich leave their ghosts to serve.

"Obioma,where's my khaki? "

"Sorry customer, my pikin dey play with candle nayim she mistakenly burn the leg part. Shey u fit manage am like dt?"

It was supposed to be a good day!

One Week, One Trouble

So I have been able to reach different people and sell this blog idea to them. So far, everyone seems to love it! But guess what, that's just the beginning of more work.

The fact that I've started the work is a great step in the right direction but then there's a whole lot of "more" required to make this a success. Talent, as observed in every walk of like, is never enough. You must work it.

In fact, a good slogan is "One Week, One Trouble", what do I mean? The more you surpass challenges and life's problems, the more you move forward. People who shy away from issues would sooner than later realise there's no prize for the coward. 

So instead of praying for peace and quiet on the outside, pray for the grace to realise you can pull through all that comes your way, stronger. :)

Man in The Arena

“It is not the critic who counts; 

Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, 

Or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, 

Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; 

Who strives valiantly; 

Who errs, who comes short again and again, 

Because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; 

But who does actually strive to do the deeds; 

Who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; 

Who spends himself in a worthy cause; 

Who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement,

And who at the worst, if he fails, 

At least fails while daring greatly, 

So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls 

Who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Theodore Roosevelt

Obalende

The fumes from the Keke Marwas almost choked me. Chaos seemed to be the order of that day, and every other day as I soon observed.

As the akara woman suddenly dropped her tray, I stepped backwards almost hitting the person at my back. She muttered some curses under her breath, I was torn between giving her a knock on the head and screaming at an impatient driver whose horn was blaring so loudly.

Still I marched on with my high heeled shoes spying out of my bag. The gathering crowd waiting for the Falomo bus reminded me of how late I was going to be for work. Still I waited. I could not afford a cab. I could not trek also, my shoes already had holes.

Finally a bus came. My taekwando skills helped out. So many mean, violent people tried to snuff the breath out of me, but God pass them. I made it finally into the bus. Just as the fish seller beside subtly pushed her second child onto my laps, realised there was an oil stain on my shirt! I almost screamed for help. I thought I had had enough until heard the conductor announce the fare. N100! I almost stood up as I screamed "For what?!". I eventually left the fight to angrier passengers. We ended up paying N50 amidst curses and exchange of punches between an otherwise charming man in suit and the conductor.

I had to figure out the lie to tell my boss as I changed my flats to heels.

That evening, I had to walk a very long distance given that the Keke Marwa guys had hiked their fares from N30 to N50. I wasn't ready for another fight.

As I got to the apartment, I placed my shoes under the spotlight of my soon-to-die blackberry. The holes had widened. I knew I had to get another shoe from the night market.

When my little niece asked me how my day was, all I could mutter was "Obalende".

Hello World!

I don't have the luxury of a camera and free time, else I would be the next Brandon Stanton. However my passion for writing has not died down, writing narratives I mean.

So here's a blog open to diverse authors, to contribute opinions, share experiences or narrate chronicles of their everyday lives.

I currently have on my list of proposed authors a perky movie critic, a very intelligent, confident savvy lawyer (yea, I wish I had more space to express how much I really appreciate her!), a smart, eloquent fine-boy engineer and then yours truly!

In due time, you will get to meet them.

My name is Anonymous. It's nice to meet you.