Friday, April 4, 2014

You may loose brain cells after reading this..... Lol

Last night, I dreamed that an old secondary school friend who is Muslim took me to a seminar about Islam and social issues in a mosque. My head was covered with a hijab and I was dressed like a Muslim girl. As soon as I stepped in the mosque, I was delighted to find that the guest speaker was a queer Muslim Naija Tumblr blogger who I have a crush on in real life. I don’t recall anything she spoke about, but at the end of the seminar I was making out with this girl. Somehow we started fucking and it felt SO real. She was moaning and moaning and moaning. And then I woke up, and i was like, "oh oh oh, why did i wake up now, mschew." I closed my eyes and tried to dream the dream again, but it no gree. I was sad that I woke up. I wanted the dream to last forever.   The dream has been replaying in my mind since I woke up and making me smile #creepy #Even-more-creepier-considering-that-she-sometimes-reads-my-blog-and-will-know-im referring to her. Once upon a time, I would have instantly rebuked the dream as soon as I woke up. Me no want no spiritual wife/fucker tinz. 

Speaking of which, at one revival meeting i went to one time in an African church, during the deliverance section, the pastor called one woman forward and said that she has been sleeping with a giant spiritual husband; that he appears physically in her room by 2:00 pm every night. He asked the congregation to stretch forth our hands and pray for her. The woman fell to the ground and was rolling and rolling all over the place. She also vomitted something. That night i slept with one eye open. 

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

4 Years Don Go Like That + No Longer Anonymous + ask me anything

Last month marked the fourth year that I have been blogging. Make una follow me pop champagne, Henessy, ati gbo gbo drink ti Naija celebrities mu. I want to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone.  I'm thankful for all your participation on this blog and the friendships and relationships that have developed as a result. It means a lot to me. 

To celebrate the occasion, I have decided to no longer be anonymous..lol. Jk. Well, I guess this picture makes me only partially anonymous now..lol. 

For the first time, i'm doing an "ask me anything" thingy.  Pls feel free to ask anything u wish for me to answer. 




Ngwa by by  o (I say make I throway the "e" for bye bye since we no dey say am. We fit use him space do something else).

Saturday, March 22, 2014

The Randoms are Back-ki-o

So much of life in America can be too synchronized and orderly that the disorganization at some Nigerian weddings, even the African time, is sometimes a welcome change. At the wedding I went to two weeks ago, there were not enough seats for all the guests. The MC had to repeatedly tell all the parents who brought their kids to "lap" their children. If I had forgotten where I come from, those words and the seating situation would have brought back all my memories at once. There was something oddly rejuvenating about the MC shouting, "parents lap your kids, please" through the microphone. The invitations had clearly stated that it was an "adults only" event, yet all my Naija parents brought their strollers, diaper bags, and at least three to four kids in tow. 

As usual, my favorite part of the wedding was watching everyone pretend that we are back in that familiar place where we learned to say come and play Tinko. I also enjoyed seeing all the colorful traditional attires on display-- from the outdated styles, to the girls in velvet knotted wrappers who looked liked they just stepped out of the wedding section of Bella Naija, to those whose outfits looked like they were sewn by an RN who decided to use the sewing skills she learned 20 years ago in her JSS 3 Clothing and Textile (C and T) class to earn extra income. Despite the differences in the outfits, the authentic cultural pride and appreciation that the wearers exuded was a unifying theme. Somewhere on everyone's faces, you could see that we were all thankful for the safe space where all the traditional clothes could just be clothes, not elaborate costumes, not something to be admired with a patronizing gaze or the type of amazement that is felt when you see an artifact at a museum and suddenly feel that you've become privy to an ancient civilization's top secrets.

This my cell phone video from the wedding made me laugh. Ignore the bridesmaid. Watch the grooms man and his "Azonto" dance. He no try at all. Also watch the elderly men in the background dancing. Azonto get different kinds of K-leg sha. (Video removed)

While I was busy eating Jollof rice like someone who never chop before, i had no idea that something i never expected to happen to me was lurking around the corner.....

(look out for part 2) #Nollywoodtinz #distributedby51IwekaRdOnitsha. #Thisisn'tarandomspost. #Thenextonewillberandoms

Monday, March 17, 2014

The Epitome of Africans Abroad Whom I Find EXTREMELY Annoying


I just saw this YouTube drama series on Bella Naija about the lives of some Ghana girls who returned to Ghana after living abroad. While I appreciate the creativity and effort of those involved in making the drama, I found myself rolling my eyes so many times because of the accents. Africans who have lived in Africa for a long time yet don't know how to /willingly refuse to switch to an African accent when talking to other Africans are one of my biggest pet peeves. Please save the accents for when you are communicating with non-Africans who may otherwise not understand you. But when you are talking to your fellow Africans, abegi, park the accent for road and just talk.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Some posts have no titles

Spring is finally here, but I am not as excited as I usually am when it gets this warm. Spring feels like an irresponsible father who abandoned us, like he folded his arms wherever he was chilling and watched as this harsh winter pummeled us day after day, chapping our lips, drying our skin, and leaving us running for the closest warmth.  And so even though it feels like spring is here, I don’t trust it. I know that it would soon run off again to that unknown place where it feels young again, where it lives as if it has no responsibilities.  The weather app told me that it will not be here for long; that winter, with its chill and dullness, will return by Wednesday morning, dictating our clothing, our movement, and our feelings, like an angry babysitter who hates her job. So I’m bracing myself even as I take in all I can of this spring weather.

Earlier in the day, I drove with the car windows down while running errands. I had Tuface Idibia crooning about his African queen through my speakers. With the soft nostalgic music playing, it felt like I set old memories free to fly as they wish in the refreshing gust of spring breeze that filled the car. Even the streets looked like they too were taking part in this release of old memories, like they were replaying old home videos of a time when I was a teenage girl in America.

The McDonalds on Elden Street was no longer the McDonalds that I never go to. It looked like the McDonalds where I had my first bite of burger in America, and affirmed that I was really in America. My street corner was once again the place where I used to walk to with sleepy eyes by 6:40am every morning to wait for the school bus; the place where I would sometimes chat with Ama, who joined the military immediately after high school and was shipped off to Iraq and later Afghanistan. I used to go to the same African church with her mother and throughout Ama’s time away, she came to church every Sunday looking as if she wore worry as makeup. When Ama finally completed her duty and was honorably discharged from the military, her mother had a big thanksgiving celebration. She cried while giving a testimony in church about how God had specially shielded Ama, enabling her to return unchanged despite the brutal wars.

But to me, Ama was no longer the Ghana girl with beautiful mahogany skin, or the girl who used to carry a purse with her backpack; the girl who boys said had seductive eyes. She was now a woman who told stories of waiting impatiently with other soldiers for that final flight from Kuwait back to America. The youth, vibrancy, and sexiness in her eyes were gone. There are times when i think that she deliberately left them behind as a token to  the survivors in Iraq and Afghanistan, who have no America, no family, no job prospects to run to like she did. She no longer smiled that her broad lingering smile that revealed straight teeth and there was a new quickness to everything she did.

When Tuface finished his hit song, I pressed the play button again. The traffic light turned green and I drove past the Burger King that I always walked to after school to buy fries. Sometimes I bought a whooper and milkshake with my fries, but I mostly went there for the fries. I always went at a specific time because I had a bit of a routine when I was in high school – come home, eat lunch, do homework, watch porn, watch one of those useless MTV Cribs, Room Raiders, Next, TRL, or Made type shows, then go to Burger King for my fries fix. I no longer remember the last time I went there. I drove past the fast food chain, relishing all the old memories. 

Tuface was now singing about how he would sacrifice his whole life for his African queen. I remembered the Nigerian wedding I am going to later this evening. I now see myself somewhere down the line. I am not sure how old I am, but I see myself singing along with Tuface about my African queen, who is blushing a little shy by all the attention on her. I see us laughing and dancing and eating. I see us carrying wine to each other. She hands me a calabash bowl of palm wine and I hand her a calabash bowl of palm wine. Her family has brought yams and bags of rice and beans for my family, and my family has also brought yams and bags of rice and beans for her family. We are celebrating our traditional wedding. 

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