My Dad: The greatest dad on the planet, earth! 100%

I write this in celebration of father’s day. So, its basically about my dad. I promise not to write too long but if it is, kindly bear with me. My Dad is not the typical kind of Nigerian dad, in-short, he acts completely different from what you assume. I hardly write about him, cos sometimes I still have this fear he has inscribed in me as a child. While I was growing up, his toes were the last I wanted to step on. He was so strict that sometimes I wonder if I was adopted. I went so far as looking for my birth-certificate in his room, one day. I never found it,but saw all my siblings’ certificate, so you can imagine the thoughts that went through my head. In my current state of mind I wouldn’t trade my dad for anything in the world but back then, I thought otherwise. I doubt if there was anyone back then, who didn’t fear my dad, well maybe, only, my mum. He had this special whip called “koboko”. My goodness! You wouldn’t want to taste it. I think among all my siblings,I was the one who saw the strictest side of my dad. Back in the days, his anger was something you would never wish to bargain with, as his child or just as an acquaintance. As a teenager, my dad and I never saw on an eye to eye level. Gosh, those days were the worst in my life. I shiver as I remember, when my dad first discovered the love letters a guy wrote to me in SS1, I received the beating of my life to which I still bare marks to this day. He once ran after me with acid in his hands, all because of this same SS1 letter-writing boyfriend. He has also once pursued me with a gun. Yes, a gun! That’s the kind of person my dad use to be. The gun episode is a story for another day. I somehow think that all these is responsible for why I am still single, or why I might remain single forever. As a teenager, the kind of picture I had of my dad is one of a soldier, whose wrath, you never pray for.

However, as I child, I had a completely different picture. Between the ages of three and ten, to me, my dad was the best man living on this planet. He use to be so dotting, yet firm. Interesting, I didn’t fear him then, although he would punish my siblings and I occasionally, when we erred. He was so witty then, that we never had a dull moment when he was around. While still in primary school, I hardly saw my dad, due to his busy schedule. I remember while in Primary 3, our class teacher told us to say something about our dad, and the first thing that came to my mouth was, “my daddy has bear-bear” (beards). The best image I had of him then, was his big portrait in our livingroom. The fondest memories of my childhood, were moments when he would carry me on his neck anywhere we meant. I had problems with my legs then, I had bow legs that were so bad, I mostly fed on biscuit-bones.I have faint memories of our hospital visits. Although,I was very young, memories of him carrying me on his neck as we walked down the streets, are forever implanted in my heart. I know my dad spent not just money but his valuable time on me and my leg challenges, that’s one of the reasons why I don’t take likely to anyone making fun of my bow legs.

I was born into wealth, but it slowly disappeared while I grew up. Our years of lack somehow were happy years to me. Although they were years where we hardly got food to eat, years of concoction rice, garri-flakes and fried fish as main meal, ila-asepo as regular soup, etc. Yet, they were years in which my dad instilled in us all,core values to which we owe our success stories. I got my knack for stories from my dad. He would always tell us stories of his encounters at the war front, stories of his notorious growing up years in our village and his Romoe and Julliet stories of himself and my mum while they were in the University. My dad is a great story teller. One other thing that stood out during our years of lack, was his selfless giving. He never had enough, yet my dad would still give things out. My best Christmases, were the ones in which my parents couldn’t afford to buy us Christmas dresses as was the practice then, but my dad donated his beautiful agbadas to be made into dresses for my siblings and I.I had a happy childhood, though money was scarce but we had happiness in our home. When it was time for my elder sister to go to a secondary school, my dad sought out one of the best schools then. The fee was so much that my dad sold his last and only car inorder to pay my sister’s school fees. We all cried that day, cos the buyer took advantage of the fact that my dad needed the money urgently and payed a ridiculous amount. We waved to the car as it was been driven out of our compound. Then, the time came for me to go to secondary school as well, although our condition wasn’t any better, I had a father-daughter meeting with my dad, where I begged him that I wanted to attend my sis’s school. My dad complained that he couldn’t afford it, but I pleaded with the line “God will provide”. My dad obliged and I joined my sister in her school. God did provide and things got a little bit better. Our school was on Broads-street on the highland, while we lived in Alagbado, transport-fare was a challenge, yet my dad never missed a single visiting day. Sometimes all he could afford to bring would be smoked corn, but he would still come. My dad is a Pastor, so Sundays are his busiest days and our visiting day was the last Sunday of the month. The school relocated to Ikorodu, the permanent site, that was a longer route from our church in Ikeja, yet my dad always made it. Several times, he was the last parent to visit but I always knew deep down in my mind that no matter how late, daddy was going to show up. Things got really better, so he didn’t come with only smoked corn anymore, he came with real provisions and could even afford to come with my mum and sometimes, my two other siblings.

Funny enough, my dad was more involved with our school runs than my mum was. It was always strange for my friends in the University, who would marvel at the rate in which my dad visited. Averagely, he visited us in the University every other week, no matter how tight his schedule was. I had no reason to open a bank account, cos I was sure my dad would always come in person to give my sister and I pocket money and provisions. One of my dad’s strange traits is that he would never allow his driver drive the car while his children were on board. He never said it, but I noticed it myself. Private University in Nigeria is quite expensive, and although we weren’t poor anymore, we were just on the average, yet my dad ensured that all four of us, attended a Private University. As far as he is concerned, his children would always have the best he can afford. He was always involved in our academics, more than a typical dad. He personally took my kid sister to all the venues for her fieldwork while writing her undergraduate project. Unfortunately, they were involved in a car crash, while returning to school during one of those trips, but God rescued them alive.

My dad loves academic success. Whenever our results were delivered through the DHL man, my kid sister and I would start praying all kind of prayers, cos we knew what awaited us. On one of such occassions, my dad shed tears when he saw my school result, and instantly I hated myself for making him cry. You see, my parents had delay at child birth, so in the real sense of it, my dad is old enough to be my grandfather. His children are therefore the most sensitive part of him. I remember, when I was about twelve years old, I went to the market with my parents, and while they were prizing some tubers of yam, a street tout came towards me and hit my bombom. I was angry because he smiled back at me with a face that said, “you can’t do anything to me”. I ran straight to where my dad was, and told him. Before I could say Jack Robbinson, my dad ran after the guy, pulled him from behind and gave him the beating of his life. it became a scene as several market women gathered around to plead with my dad. I stood back smiling with a face that said, “if I can’t do anything, my dad can do everything.” There are several occassions where my dad beat up people for trespassing. He told me recently, that if I ever get married to an abusive man, I should know that his door is always open for me to come back home. I am happy I have the kind of daddy I have, cos it means no man can mess with me.

Now, that I am an adult myself, I understand better why my dad did the things that he did during my puberty years. We are now so close that I think I can tell him anything. He watches my back so much that I would hide things that hurt me, just because I don’t want him to feel bad. I have recently scaled through a mid-life crisis and my dad proved more supportive than I could ever have thought. I had a nasty break-up in my relationship and my dad was doing some James Bond things behind my back to try to mend the relationship. I give him a 100% for being a total father. Interestingly, he is now my defense in the house, when my mum starts with her talk on why its not healthy to be fat. My dad is so yuppy that sometimes I forget he is actually as old as his age. About three years ago, a friend was telling me of how herself and her sister always wished death for their dad while growing up, due to his level of strictness and I cringed. I was speechless, cos as stern as my dad was during my teenage years, I always knew deep down that he loves me with a passion. Like a typical dad, he hardly says it but now, he says he love me more often and I believe him. I have never wished him ill and I will never. My prayer is that he lives so long in good health, that he will see my children’s children and tell them stories like he told my siblings and I. My dad is my soft spot, although, I am not the first daughter, but I just know that I wouldn’t be where I am today if I don’t have my kind of daddy. He is the definition of a true father. If it were possible to choose our fathers in the world to come, I would pick my daddy over and over again, removing the hardship he went through just to make us all happy.

As I write this final lines, I shed tears because this is the first time I would ever write out my feelings about my dad. I am glad I summoned up the courage to do it, while he is still alive. My greatest fear while growing up, had been that I might loose my dad, but now I am not scared anymore because I know that the Greatest Father in heaven is watching over my father for me and keeping him even when I am not there. Daddy, if you get to read this to the very end, then I am super proud of you, cos I know it means sitting still in one place for a long time, which you hardly do. Daddy, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for all the times I caused you pain, and I wish with all my heart, to give you reasons to be happy more than I made you cry. Daddy, please don’t over work yourself, cos you are no longer as young as you use to be.Listen to mummy and take your drugs regularly, also rest more,please. Anything mummy says you should not eat, please don’t eat it. When she says you should sleep and not go out attending to other person’s challenges, please listen to her. You still have a long way to go,cos weather you like it or not, you must work me down the aisle and you must walk Ife as well, You must also be there when Philip, your only son is getting married. I need you to always stay strong. You are the only father I have and the only one I have ever known, I appreciate all the sacrifices you have taken to make my siblings and I great. May God continuously shower you with good health, sound mind and long life. You have just started reaping the fruits of your labour on us, all you have seen is intro, the main enjoyment is yet to come. Fasten your seat belt daddy and get set for the remaining part of your life being heaven on earth.

I love you, Daddy (Rev. Hezekiah Olugbenge Ewejobi)

and Happy Fathers Day to my real life Hero!

NB: My dad is also super handsome, ask my friends they will confirm this! 🙂

Happy Birthday,Mami!

 

It’s been over three months since I wrote,here! The pressures of daily living I must say. It’s been a witty ride returning to Nigeria and settling down, the rigors of which will be shared in my next write-up. I decided to break this stretched silence on a day that means so much so me. The 5th of June is not just my Maami’s Birthday, it was also the day I was Christened; in line with the Yoruba Christian tradition, the eighth day after birth. I’m dedicating this short write-up to the lessons I have learnt from the actions, words and character of my Mum,(Olurotimi Ewejobi). My strong bond began with this incredible woman, not the day I was born but the day I was Christened. Herself and my Dad didn’t just decided to give me a first name that to some, sounds strange, but she also celebrated her Birthday,along with my Christening. Everyone claim to love their mother, sorry, maybe not everyone, but majority do. I will however be fair in my description of this woman, who I call mother.

First, I have learnt to celebrate my loved ones while they are alive and not wait to write fascinating stories in their condolence registers because age has thought me that no-one ever gets to read his/her condolence register.Many who know Mrs Olurotimi Olubukunola Ewejobi, will agree with me that she has this air of difference around her. She is best described as quietly loud, which invariably means that, to you she is VERY quiet, but to me, hmmmmm, she can talk. In short, she can so talk, that she is capable of making a very strong willed man change his option just to please her. My Dad attributes that to her teaching profession. My siblings and I always marvel at the way she makes us do things without necessarily saying it explicitly. On one occasion, I had on a dress, which she felt was not befitting for a godly lady. My interesting mother, did not say “Iranwo, go and take it off.” like most mothers would. She just said, “Iranwo, don’t you think, this dress is too tight for you?”. I replied and said, “Mummy, no, it’s not”. Two minutes after, she came to my room again and said, “Are you sure, you can even walk in that dress?” Being as strong willed as ever, I smiled and said, “Mummy,I can walk.” She went on and on, talking about the different short-comings of the dress, I eventually gave in to her wish, I took off the dress and wore something else. That is just how my mum is.

She is a woman who loves prayer. Those of us around her know that she has only one wish and goal in this world, which is TO MAKE HEAVEN. Sometimes, I personally, feel that this goal contributes to why people take advantage of her nature. No-matter what you do to her, my mum hardly gets angry and when she does, even if you are wrong, she comes to apologize to you. This often makes me laugh. My mum has an amusing relationship with my Dad, staying with them is like watching a movie. I guess their acts and scenes made up for those days when we didn’t have DSTV.

My mum is a teacher by Profession and myself and my siblings all turned out the way teachers’ children do. Don’t tell me to explain that, cos I really cant. Growing up, I often referred to her as “old school” and for real, she is. She does not really know how to beat, so her beatings were never dreaded the way we dreaded my Dad’s. But talk about *abaras*, my Mum is a special consultant. Haa, her *abara* is no rival! She starts by twisting your two ears so tightly, that you feel as if hot pepper is being poured on it, then after getting the two ears to maximum twist, she lifts you with them and lands a powerful *abara* on your back. Men! Receive my mum’s *abara* and your life will never remain the same. Even as I write this, my ears tingles from memories of those pre-abara acts.

I must not forget to say that my Mum is a great cook. People generally give the fallacy that their Mum is the best cook in the world. I would not say she is, cos I still hold a grudge with her on this cooking issue. I vividly remember that before I turned ten, my Mum did ALL the cooking in our house. It was really tedious combining that with her Vice-Principal job in a Federal College. But then, shortly after I turned ten, she came home, one day and announced that she was going on a “cooking strike”. Please, have you ever heard a mother say that? Well, at that time, we never did, so it wasn’t just strange to us, we all believed it was impossible. I mean, what  will we eat, if she goes on strike? We had cousins and several relatives living with us, so there were indeed many mouths to be fed. That day, she announced that her reason for going on this strike, was because she wasn’t well appreciated. Understanding the kind of drama series that often takes place between my Dad and my Mum, we all thought it was a joke, everyone on the dinning table, laughed about it and then, we went to bed. The next day came, Mummy as usual went to her place of work, while we, children went to school. We got back home, we waited and waited and waited. My Dad and my big brother got back, still, no trace of Mummy, we all waited for her as was the then custom. Our shock was reverberating, when she returned and announced that she had commenced her cooking strike. That was how I became a cook at the age of ten. She was kind enough to give me detailed recipes, as to how many cups of water to include in the meal, how many spoons of salt, spoons of oil, how many minutes each section should spend on the heat before moving to the next. Those days were something else, days when I cooked rubbish, we all ate it like that. My Big sis was in a boarding school at that time,so I only got help from the guys in the house. That help was fantastic! We ate *great meals. Interestingly, now, it looks strange to me, when I visit home and see my Mum cooking. She called off her strike when we all graduated from the house and she was left with my Dad 🙂

My mum is Reverend Mrs, you get to know that the first few seconds you spend with her. She carries her natural hair and uses no make-up and no jewelries, she wears wrist-watch,sha. That one is not a sin. My mum, over time has grown to be more accommodating of our nuances. I guess we also got used to her way of life and met at the equilibrium point. For instance, I avoid wearing big ear-rings when I know she would be visiting. I try to make decent hair-do’s knowing that she can pop in at any time. My  Mum doesn’t hide her feelings, I guess I learnt that from her. She also doesn’t keep grudges, I’m yet to learn that. She dresses well. but sometimes I fight her on her combos 🙂 those times, she wins the battle with the word, “ephemeral”

Did I forget to say that she is my number one fan. She reads everything I write, even when all I knew how to write was gibberish. I have therefore tried to describe my Mum is this short write-up because I know, IF NO-ONE READS THIS, SHE WILL!

Happy Birthday,Mummy!                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Sing the Hymn                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Meditate on that Psalm                                                                                                                                                                                                                       For The Lord Has Been Super-Eminent

From the Deepest Sit of My Heart                                                                                                                                                                                                        I bubble with Gratitude                                                                                                                                                                                                                         To The Most High                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Who has given me the Perquisite                                                                                                                                                                                                      To Call you- MOTHER!

Shrove Tuesday,D Way It is Celebrated in Germany!

I woke up this morning to the pangs of hunger and the shouts of pedestrians just outside my window. I knew it was pancake day,all thanks to Facebook but I didn’t know why it is called pancake day until today. In the Christian calendar, Shrove Tuesday also known as Pancake Tuesday, is the day preceding  the Ash Wednesday;which signifies the beginning of Lent. You see, it is generally believed that  Shrove Tuesday is a day of indulgence with fatty food and rich eating. It is a way of enjoying all the liberties which one will be exempted from in the coming forty days. This special day is celebrated in the United Kingdom, Ireland, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, with the eating of pan-cakes. It is believed that Pan-cakes are highly fatty foods, so it suits the idea behind the celebration of Shrove Tuesday. This celebration is not celebrated on a fixed day but determined by Easter. It is celebrated exactly 47 days before Easter Sunday. The day is called “shrove” because it is derived from the word “shrive”, an old English word, which means “to confess”. Christians are expected to confess their sins on this day and make themselves pure in preparation for the fasting period that commences a day after.

Although, people in the United Kingdom, which is quite close to Germany, spend the day eating pancakes, their German counterparts celebrate with candies and chocolates.

Germans flock the streets to celebrate this great day of penitence.

The celebration also includes the wearing of masks,costumes and body colours. Prior to Shrove Tuesday, stores sell costumes at discounted prices.

In each city, people troop out to the main streets to either watch or partake in the city procession.

What baffles me the most is that Germany is a 70% atheist country, yet they partake in Christian  celebrations with so much elaboration. It is a public holiday in Germany and like other public holidays, no store opens. So for a novice, who doesn’t get his or herself prepared, he/she is set to go hungry.

I must add that I personally feel that Germans should celebrate this every week, it might just held to reduce their cold and rigid nature; I haven’t seen a happy German crowd in a long while,like I saw today.

 Candies were being thrown out from the vans in the procession. So, everyone had to hurry to catch them.

The children were the smartest. The candies and chocolates are specially for them. Many of the kids came prepared and had big bags, in which they collected their candies.

The people sure had a great time. With the kids proving super smart and grabbing all the chocolates and candies that came out of the vans; and the mothers putting on their best costumes, sharing joyful moments with their friends together with the fathers getting high on “cheap” beer;It sure was a pleasant evening.

The procession was great!

 

 

 

 

 

Interesting crowd turn-out, leaving behind a dirty street.

Although,I spent most of the time taking pictures and recording videos,I was lucky enough to get some candies. Yipee!

I didn’t expect to have so much fun. However, at the background of the enjoyment laid a layer of pain; if only these people truly know the reason for their celebration. I wish above all things, that Germans will take a moment to reflect on the essence and the genesis of all these dancing and singing. If only half of the people who came out today to celebrate Shrove Tuesday, truly know that without the death of Jesus on the cross of Calvary, there would be no “Pancake Tuesday”, no “Shrove Tuesday”. One important lesson I took home from all the dancing,singing, jumping, shouting and candy catching, is that “Without Jesus true joy is a mirage“.

Have a pleasant evening, laced with unspeakable joy!

The black Egg :Righting the Wrong

Vicky knew her body was saying no,but she had to. She had been with four men,just in one week.She liked telling herself that she was on a good course and so, she continued. She had come to Germany on a house-girl visa, the first family she worked with were Nigerians. She was made to sleep in the kitchen and was treated worse than house-helps were treated back in Africa. Vicky spent the first sixteen years of her life living in Moyale, a small village close to the Ethiopian border in Kenya. Her Aunt, who lived in Nairobi had called her mum and informed her of the good fortune that was to befall her; a distant cousin, who lived in Germany had sent message home that house-helps were needed in her district. The night before she left for Germany, her parents called her into their small corner. Their house was made of one room and a toilet. Herself and her six siblings shared the room with their parents. Her father began the talk, “My daughter, Vicky, I thank the Almighty for giving us the opportunity; Ha! That a seed of mine will go to the white man’s land! My daughter, please don’t forget us when things become well for you.We need a better house, your younger ones need to go to school, I need the white man’s equipment to work on my farm, your mother needs to start a trade. I know very soon Mungu will smile on us and we will be the envy of others. Please, join them to do whatever they do there to make money. Mungu kuwa na wewe, he said in Swahili. Her mother cried all through the night and refused to sleep. When her Aunt arrived early in the morning to take her to Nairobi, her younger siblings ran after her; each chorusing what she should bring back for them. “Sister, bring me big boots”,one said. Another shouted, “Please, I need a big phone,those ones that can connect to the internet”. Her four older brothers folded their hands staring into thin air,saying nothing.

It’s been six years, looking back Vicky knew she has scaled through the worst. She had avoided being deported twice. In fact the last time was the worst. She denied being Kenyan, so the immigration officers were confused on what to do with her. Like many others, she had thrown away her passport. She was made to go through a speaking test, the test confirmed her Kenyan lineage but her face looked Ghanaian. Although she claimed to be a Cameroonian, the Cameroon embassy rejected her. So, rather than deporting her,she was sent to prison, where she did strenuous jobs and was paid 1Euro per hour. Life was indeed cruel to her. it was while behind bars that she decided she was going to give it all it takes to make it in Europe. “Those who sent cars home do not have two heads, neither do those who have fat bank accounts. As long as I am alive,I will make it in this Europe“, she said to herself one evening. Unfortunately for her, most of the German men she met refused to marry her, to them marriage was to complicated. They preferred having her as a live-in girlfriend. She often thought, “if only I could get pregnant and have a German baby, then all my life problems would be solved, I would be able to process my German papers and life would be less complicated“.  Vicky got to a point where she lost count on the number of men she had been with. Her breast looked as sagged as a 70 year old woman’s,even though she was still in her early twenties. Her body ached so badly even night, but she kept consoling herself with the thoughts that life was better for her family back home, all thanks to her hard-work.

So far, Vicky pays eight of her nieces and nephews’ school fees. She had built two houses for her parents in the village and sent three cars to Africa; one for her dad and two for her brothers. Yet, no one ever bordered asking how she made the money. To them, Europe flowed with milk and honey and all she had to do was pick and send. Her mum kept asking for more money to stock up her shop, she often said, “Since people know that my daughter is in Germany, I have to meet up with the set standard”. Vicky slaved herself and sold her body just to put smiles on the faces of her relatives back at home. There were days she wished the cup would pass over her. There were nights when stingy men visited her bed and refused to  pay a dime, she would cry her eyes out. These men knew she had no power or legal right to persecute them,so they took advantage of her. All the encounters she had ever had with these men,have been pure tortures, but they were the quickest way through which she could take care of the numerous needs back at home. She has had encounters with all forms of men; thin,fat, short, tall, crippled, blind, just name it. She usually willed herself through these hideous encounters by replaying in her mind how much money she would be able to send home once her pay was converted to shillings.

Just last week a friend had told her about being born-again. she had smiled cos she had been a Christian all her life. She even attended the Neckar Baptist Church, she payed her tithe regularly and never missed her morning prayers. Her friend, Jane, had emphasized on the difference between being a church goer and being born-again, but Vicky didn’t think she was ready for the born-again journey. She was sure of the challenges she would face once this life decision was taken. It meant she wouldn’t be able to sleep with German men for money, which would result into her not being able to send money back home. Her nieces and nephews might have to stop school cos no one would be ready to pay their school fees. Her mother’s business would go down and her younger sister, Caro, might not be able to have the elaborate traditional wedding she had always dreamt of. As Vicky sat on the motel bed,waiting for her client to come out of the bathroom, she weighed her options. It was not as if she enjoyed her lifestyle but it brought comfort to many people. she thought about this born-again deal Jane told her about. Jane’s words rang in her head, “Vicky, try getting faithful with Jesus and see if He will disappoint you. Cast all your cares on Him and see if He wouldn’t lighten your burden”. Vicky took a deep breathe and wondered if this was a risk worth taking. Vicky was sure of the fact that spending the night with this client would make her 1,000 Euros richer, which would give her a whopping 110,000 Kes(Kenyan shillings); although what she didn’t know was that her client was HIV positive. She didn’t know this, cos the client didn’t, either.

 

…An excerpt from my novel, German Pass.

As I Return Home…

Like Ifemelu in Adichie’s Americanah, friends have questioned my decision to return home. I met a group of Kenyan friends over the weekend, who felt my decision to go back to “Africa” was strange. Infact, one of them said,”why is it that all the  Nigerians I know always love to go back home”. I smiled and replied, “that’s why it is called home“. To say I am surprised that most people feel that living in one of the so called western countries is the best thing since salvation, is an understatement. My aim of writing this short post is to share with you a few of the thorns in the “Rosy, oyinbo land”.

I am a Nigerian, who has lived in Germany for the past two years. Don’t get me wrong. This post is not a way of me saying that I am proud to be a Nigerian, in short not less than ten times;I have wished I wasn’t a Nigerian.Howbeit,I was born in Nigeria by Nigerian parents, I grew up in Nigeria. All my values and preferences are anchored on the Nigerian sphere. So, to deny being a Nigerian will only be a futile effort. My American Pastor sees returning to Nigeria as a curse rather than a blessing. Well, he is American,so I don’t blame him. I told him a couple of days ago that:

“Nigeria might be a jaundiced country, reverberating in sempiternal  quandary and ricocheting in perpetual imbroglio; it is still  home to Nigerians. Home doesn’t have to be the best, home is HOME.”

Have you ever admired the beauty pictures your friends in Europe and America share on Facebook and wished to have their life? My dear, that’s a great mistake cos I can tell you 80% of them wish to have yours as well. On several occasions,I wake up feeling depressed and frustrated in winter and I crave the “sweet” Nigerian sun. I guess you probably need to spend seven run-on days in a foggy winter to appreciate the sun that rises every morning in our beloved Africa. I lived in a house for two years, where I couldn’t recognize our next door neighbor not to talk of knowing the name of the person living just one step away from our entrance. I could count months when we had not a single visitor knock at our door.Cos, you see, in this so called western world, everybody is busy and visiting is based on appointment.

Have you ever wondered why Nigerians are said to be the happiest people in the world? The reason is founded on three words: fellowship,communality and solidarity. Back at home, there were days when I ran out of cooking gas or salt and my next door neighbor was a sure aid. I remember similar occurrences happened here in Germany and the only succor was accepting fate. For the past few days, I have been in dire hunger for garri and g-nut,but my Kenyan flatmate doesn’t even know what garri is. Should I begin to explain how I took a 1hr:30mins train ride to my Nigerian Pastor’s house all because I needed dried pepper to make spinach?

Here are some of the strains of living in our Paradise.Trust me,I’m not making them up:

You ration the amount of water you use in bathing cos you are scared of water bill. You bath only three times a week because you no wan die for winter cold. You literally bribe your children with money to go on errands for you within the house and would never dare raise your hands to spank them because you are scared of the government taking them away from you. You work like a monkey and yet have 25% of your income deducted as tax. You come to Europe believing that you might find some suitable husband material, only to discover that there has been a famine of husbands in Europe since 1960. You rush to buy an item that you find cheap in the store, thinking that the price might hike up, only to return in two months to discover that there is a 70% sale on the same item. You pick every Nigerian call preparing yourself for the worst; because CNN ain’t helping matters. You see every African person as your cousin; empathizing with them when they face the  law and boasting in their success as if it were yours. You do the meanest jobs in a bid to survive; and console yourself by converting your pay to Naira. You strategically develop a tough skin for every form of racist act,cos it bounces on you when you are least prepared. You sudden wake up in the dead of the night and start crying for no reason. You un-consciously begin to like and appreciate Nigerian movies,although you were once a critic. You become addicted to Facebook because it’s your only link to far away Africa.

I miss Nigeria,I miss home and I wish Nigerians will learn to appreciate their home because every tiny nuance noticed in our home country is a blessing in disguise, which we will one day come to miss.

Sweet home-coming!

An Open Letter To God!

Dear God,

For a while,I have always wanted to write You this, but the various activities of life kept preventing me.I’m not so sure if I should thank You for a new year,cos really,I don’t feel like its a new year.Pastor said we should count our blessings and be grateful to You, but I don’t think I have any blessing.My Saviour,You know I am not an ungrateful wretch;so if You have actually done anything good to me,I probably would have started this letter by saying ‘thank you’. I asked for a car but instead You gave me a bicycle. I wanted to be a size 8 but now I am a 12+.I asked  for wisdom to surpass my Professors but instead I have to re-write one of my essays.I asked for money but instead I get a dry bank account.I personally asked that You make me a lady with a quiet spirit but You haven’t.I still get angry at the slightest thing. In 2013,I begged You to take bad news far away from me but You know how many bad news You brought close to me. I felt bad,Lord,that You didn’t grant these requests. I was depressed and down.I wanted to look into Your eyes and ask why You hate me so much. But then,I knew that I would tremble at just the sound of Your voice,not to mention Your face. Lord, You watched as the trials,pressures and challenges of life weighed me so down,that I even discarded the importance of life.I craved to be in heaven with You and far away from the woes of this earth.

At the deepest point,You reminded of the words my Uncle said at Thanksgiving Dinner, last year.

“Looking through our lives, we shouldn’t dwell on the things that we don’t have,neither should we focus on the prayers that God hasn’t answered;but keep our eyes laid on the great things He has done for us.We should appreciate what we have and bless His name for the prayers He answered.”

Father,You know the right word for the right moment.You caught me with that.I had no more excuse to be unhappy or ungrateful. Looking at it through my Uncle’s perspective, you have indeed done so much for me. You loved me when I least expected or deserved it.Those times when I was so broke, you specially sent help to me.You made men go out of their way to favour me.You protected my family and gave them all good health, through 2013.Even my aged Grandma didn’t fall sick.You heard the cry of my family when my sister was in labour and gave us Oloruntose. You granted my parents journey mercies to and fro Germany.You provided a job for my kid sis,who was jobless for a long while.You miraculously provided my flight tickets to the US,twice in 2013.You settled my hotel bills even when I traveled on both occasions with no dime in my purse.You knew I had no health insurance in Germany,so you kept me healthy.You gave me the best supervisor any student could ever ask for,although I often take him for granted. Should I forget to mention the number of times I boarded the train in 2013 and the trains never collided? I remember an occasion when a senior friend saw a glimpse of your hand of favour upon me and told me to ask my parents if they did “ogun awure”(charm of goodwill) for me.It was You all the way.

I might not have all I wanted,but Lord, You gave me all I ever needed.I might not be where I wish to be,but Father, You placed me where You want me to be.I might not be who the world expect to see, but Daddy,you moulded me into what You want to see.Haba Father! Why You love me so much,I might never know.But may my soul,constantly praise Your name.I’m alive today because You kept me.Glory to Your Name!

In that dark hour,You brought this song to my mind.Although I didn’t know why, then; but I do now and I sing it to Your praise

• Mo mu ope mi wa oh,Baba wa gbope.Mo mu ope mi wa oh, omo wa gbope.Emi mimo wa gbope mi,mo fiyin fun meta lokan (I bring my thanks to You,Father,accept my praise.I bring my thanks to You,Son,accept my praise.Holyspirit come and accept my praise.I present my praise to the Trinity)

Lord,I’m sorry for those time I complained, for those times I grumbled,for those times I doubted the efficacy of Your might.I’m sorry Lord! With an heart full of praise,I say Thank You,for 2014 and the hope that it brings.

Happy New Year,Jesus! I know its coming late but I’m sure U understand!I super duper Love You!

Your Once Stained but Now Saved Daughter,

Iranwo

Perfect Finisher

It was Christmas day and Oga did it again. Madam had been busy attending to the guests since we arrived at the villa. You know villagers and the way they troop in when they see distant relatives arriving from big cities. We live in Malete in Ilorin. We had traveled four hours, thirty minutes, through the bumpy express way. Immediately we got to the villa, I had to unpack our things and get the children ready for Church. The village Baptist Church was full to the last pew. Oga and Madam sat in the front pew as usual. Who says money does not answer all things? Considering the number of fat envelopes Oga usually sent to the Bishop, it’s no surprise that no-one had ever mistakenly sat on Oga’s seat,even when he is absent. We sang the hymns; “Joy To The World” and “Oh Come Let Us Adore Him”. Auchi is a mixed community in Edo State, although Oga’s village is at the outskirt, where most of the dwellers speak Hausa. The lyrics of the hymns were so bastardized that I wondered why they weren’t sang in the local dialect. As the Bishop mounted the Pulpit and instructed the congregation to have their Bibles opened to the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 2, Oga turned and stared at me. I knew that look so well that I could recognize it in my sleep. Oga was going to do it again today.

Not one word of the Bishop’s message got into my ears. I kept wondering why God wouldn’t act like the deities; ogun and sango, who were quick to action. Sometimes I wish I could  see Him, I needed to ask why He hadn’t killed my Oga eight years ago,when he de-flowed me. I needed to know why God remained silent while Oga paraded himself as the holiest man that ever walked the surface of the earth. Just then the Bishop said the phrase I hated most,it was as if he read my thoughts and was bent on pissing me off. He said “God is a slow worker but a perfect finisher”. I didn’t catch the words he said before nor after. I didn’t need the Bishop to tell me how slow God was,I know it myself. I have experienced it live and direct.Anyone who didn’t know how slow God could be should come and ask me. Right there and then,I made up my mind to take actions. I was no longer going to wait on God to avenge me. Although I didn’t know what the action would be,yet.

I started working as a maid with Madam eight years ago. I was then twelve years old. I was born an orphan, they said my mum died while bringing me to the world. I lived with an Aunt who had eight children of her own,so life became the survival of the fittest for me at an early age. Madam was my sixth employer, my previous employers had all been brutal but they were nothing compared to Madam and Oga. Madam had searched my load the day I arrived and numbered all my dresses,she was going to make sure I leave with exactly the same number of dresses when she relieves me. For five years, Madam insisted on perceiving my panties, on my return from every errand to the market. In her mind, she was smart,vigilant and mean, but her husband already beat her to the game. He abused me the very first night I slept in that house. I wiped my own blood with my cover cloth, my tears spured him on. It became a regular thing, a nightmare that I never woke up from.

Yesterday, I turned twenty, still a maid.

After church service madam spent all her time attending to the guest. Oga came and dragged me from the children, pulled me into the goat shed behind the house and did it. While Oga was on top,my strings of thoughts flowed to the years before. Years when I read all the books madam bought for Junior and his sisters. Years when used Newspapers served as my novel. Years when I still had hope. Then my thoughts moved again to the thousands who have it all for Christmas and yet aren’t grateful. The thousands who have rice and chicken but yet complain that they there was no wine. The thousands who feel it is their right to receive a gift on Christmas day but care less to give any. I thought about the Christmas gift Oga was giving me and I wanted to give him one, then I prayed my last prayer. While he thrusted in and out with his heavy breath,I looked to the heavens and challenged God to move. I said, “Oh God! Yes I know you are slow but You are also the God of the sudden. You have been quiet all these while. You might not like me cos I don’t pray to You everyday, but I’m sure you dislike what Oga is doing to me. Cant you do something? wouldn’t you do something? You are a perfect finisher,please finish my story perfectly and finish it now! Please Go..” I was about completing my prayer when the door to the barn opened. The Bishop, the elders and Madam needed a quiet place to meet and discuss some church issues. I guess they decided to proceed with their meeting since they couldn’t find Oga and they thought the barn would be quiet enough for a brief meeting. Oga was on top, his eyes were closed so he didn’t see them as they entered but I did.

Germany and Geschenk! :-)

“Geschenk”, that was one of the early words I learnt in Deutsche; along with “danke schon” and “gute  morgen”. I learnt how and when to use the word “Geschenk” even before I knew the meaning. “Geschenk” can be used inter-changeably with the English word, “gift” or “present”. It can also be used in place of the Nigerian, “jara” and the Yoruba “fisi”. I guess by now you know why it was one of my early vocabulary in German Language. I often patronize the open market, also known as “Flohmarkt”, where you can beat down prices and  get “jara” or “geschenk” 🙂

One thing I will sure miss about the Germans is their giving character, however Germans do not believe in free gifts. I know that sounds paradoxical. Nothing goes for nothing in the German world. It works this way, you can’t just walk up to a German and tell him to give you “geschenk”, he/she will ask you what you would give him in exchange for the “geschenk”. It is customary in Germany that when you go and visit a friend,you shouldn’t go empty handed. If you expect to eat in his/her place, you have to go with some drinks and some snacks. If you attend a party, don’t go empty handed, in your own interest.

Foreigners in German have also imbibed this trait and I feel it is a good one. For instance, if you plan to have a birthday party as a Nigerian who lives in Germany, your friends will ask what you need them to bring along. So if Miss A takes care of jollof-rice; Mrs B, will provide the chicken; Uncle C, will arrange for the drinks and Sister D will make small chops. Item 7 is complete! 🙂

Back to the way “geschenk” works; provided it’s your lucky day,the word can be magical. I once bought a pair of shoes at the open market. Although, I tried beating down the price, the lady selling them vehemently refused  coming down on the price atall, so reluctantly, I paid. After paying, I asked for geschenk and she gave me four pairs of shoes. 🙂 I doubt if I would ever understand how the German brain works. A friend told me that once upon a time, when you buy one car from a German, you get another one as “geschenk”! That was a long time ago, before civilization came into the world. 🙂 So, don’t go looking for a geschenk car,if not the next thing you will see is Polizei. 🙂

Have a Geschenk filled Christmas and per-adventure you visit Germany one day,don’t forget to ask for geschenk,you might just be lucky! 🙂

The Most Dehumanizing Experience I ever had – Immigration!

I knew something was up, the moment the black lady ahead of me started looking at me strangely. I didn’t notice her on the line before,so she must have been far ahead of me,but as she packed her luggage and adjusted her dress,she kept looking at me in a strange manner, as if saying, “my African sister, get ready!”. I should have decoded those words earlier but I didn’t. So, as the security lady told me to walk through the scan monitor, I did it smiling. I raised up my hands and had my legs spread wide as the scanner did it’s job. The horror started the moment the lady said, “Maam, pls step forward”. The scanner did not beep,so it wasn’t as if there was room for suspicion.  The security lady told me to raise my hands as she moved her hand scanner through key points on my body. This action wasn’t un-usual, in fact I was use to it, but when she moved her hands towards my breast area and started pressing down really hard, I knew they was a cause for alarm. I raised my eye-brows in a questioning manner and she responded saying, “Maam, I’m doing my job. Pls, stay still. This is a security check.” The elderly German woman standing next to me looked at the security lady in a questioning way but didn’t say anything. After-all,I am black and the security lady had to do her job to protect them.

I lost all sense of human dignity when the security lady moved her hand scanner towards my lower region,but rather than swipe it over my body in the usual manner, she concentrated on it and spent quality time,there. She pulled my trousers forward, pulled my panty hose and then I felt her gloved hands rumbling through my undies. We weren’t in a private area, infact, other travelers both men and women had a great show. While some smiled,others shook their heads in disapproval but no one said a word. I should have said something,Yes! But what would that earn me? Things would have only gotten worse. So,I chose the only option I had,I smiled. The security lady turned to my booms and did her job, which included ridding me of all privacy. When she was satisfied with dehumanizing me,she told me to sit down and take off my shoes.  I obeyed her, she was only doing her job. She took my shoes away for more inspection. Then, she came back and examined my feet thoroughly. By the time she was done,I had missed my flight.

I guess the African lady that kept looking at me earlier,had been treated the same way, so she was preparing me for the crazy ordeal. You know what?,I smiled all through the in-human security experience; but as I ran through the large airport, to the gate where I was to board my flight,tears dropped down my checks. I didn’t cry for what I had experienced,I cried because some other Nigerians caused this experience. I cried because the security lady felt she had the right to treat me the way she did, she was in her home country, doing her job; while back in my own country, her people are treated with respect and dignity. I wish Nigerians will one day treat Americans and Europeans the same way they treat us in their own country.

 

Travelling with a Nigerian Passport;a Bitter-Sweet Experience!

You see, as much as I love Nigeria,I dislike this  green passport with a passion! It might be difficult to understand my plight if you are not a carrier of this ever green passport. For those of you, my brothers, wey don port from carrying a green passport to a red or blue one, 🙂 you know what I mean; God knows your name. I envy you in some ways. 🙂

On a serious note really, something has to be done about the way immigration officers treat those of us who are still “patriotic” enough to use our Nigerian passport for international travels. The Nigerian Passport is only valid to grant entry into ECOWAS nations. To even go common South-Africa, we must to collect visa. To enter Europe, Canada or the United States, is a different story on its own.

I have had my share of bad experiences with immigration officers abroad, all because I am a carrier of the Nigerian Passport. I once traveled to the State and at the point of entry where travelers have to put their boxes through the machine for animal check; ( the aim of this is for the machine to detect food products, seeds and so on, that are contraband or that might pose dangerous to the country),one of the officers spotted me and my Nigerian Passport 🙂 . He decided to give me preferential treatment and politely he said, “Maam, pls move over here, you require a special check.” In fury I followed him, while the eyes of the other travelers were on me as if I had committed a crime. The officer politely told me to open my boxes, then, he picked them up one after the other and turned them over, pouring the entire content on the floor. Trust me,I felt like screaming but my Nigerian Passport wouldn’t let me. The guy then wore a pair of plastic gloves as if he was about to touch something filthy. After about 15 mins of surfing through my stuff, he looked up and said, “Maam, sorry for the in-conveniences, pls put your things together and proceed through the door.Welcome to the United States!” I cant put to words how I felt that day, but I looked into his eyes and quietly said, “You didn’t have to do this. I am no different from the others.” He dusted my words off his shoulders, smiled and walked away.

To be frank, the guy’s action was a blessing in disguise. Previously, after I had noticed the animal check machine, I prayed a silent prayer under my breath saying, “God I need a miracle.” I had to pray that prayer cos I had items I didn’t that might be seized. You see, I was going for a conference and a student like me must plan herself well. I had packed garri, fried fish and fried meat into my luggage. 🙂 I guess we Nigerians give room for the treatment melted at us. I’m sure the guy must have had several encounters with interesting Nigerians who had funny food items in their luggage. While he turned my boxes upside down,some of my books miraculous covered my garri,fish and meat,so he didn’t see them. But if he had seen me as being the same as others and allowed my items go through the scanning machine, then my items would have been detected and seized and I would have gone hungry for at-least two days. 🙂 Although I was angry with the officer’s action, I was also thankful.

If you are a proud user of the Nigerian Passport,please shout Hallelujah! 🙂 🙂

NB: Kindly read the next post for other immigration experiences!