I met Col. Ben Gbulie!

            Hey fellas! How you doing? *in Wendy's voice and hand thing* lol.
            So, today was an exciting day for me😆 There's a new museum to be built in Enugu. A museum for Ndi Igbo, to preserve their culture, history and stories. A centre for memories of sorts. Daniel, a guy in my faculty, told me about it and invited me to join them in doing the background work of researching, organising meetings and interviews and just curating information, generally. And well, since my summer was already looking a bit bleak and uneventful, I said yes. Plus, I really wanted any reason to be able to leave the house. Legit reasons though, not just to gallivant around town. And also on the plus side, I'd learn too. I figured I've been too passive about this whole Biafra, Civil war history thing of ours for too long. So I said yes. And frankly, it's been as fun as it's been educating. Although on the down side, some of our interviewees are like the most boring people on the face of the earth. And there are also those of them who just can't seem to stop talking and digressing, just like I'm doing now. Lol.
      Anyway, so today, we interviewed one of the big shots in the Nigeria-Biafra Civil War. We interviewed Colonel Ben Gbulie. He was one of the top plotters of the first ever Military coup in January 1966, what most people know today as the 'Igbo Coup', which was later sabotaged. He has met and worked with all the big names like former President Olusegun Obasanjo, the late Major Gen. Odumegwu Ojukwu, the late Gen. Nzeogwu, and several other movers and shakers. He is a small but witty old man. He is still quite coherent, his memory is intact and he did not seem to talk endlessly like most old people are wont to do. Ben Gbulie is a pleasant man and he made the interview feel very easy-peasy. I remember feeling a bit nervous before meeting him because we were told to go do our research on him first and Google had a lot to say about him.
       But when we met him at the Sports Club today around noon, he seemed like an easy old man. He was dressed in a short sleeved, stripped shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of black trousers, and was seated at the reception lounge, talking with a friend. When we introduced ourselves, he quickly excused himself and led us into another room (he called it 'the cold room' ) for the interview. I will not bore you with all the details, technicalities and information we got about the war today but I will tell you one thing though, and that is that war is a terrible thing. There's so much more to it than meets the eye. The only people who agitate for it are people who have never witnessed it before. Do not listen to all the hogwash, do not let anyone play on your ignorance. You don't have to have all the details before you know where to stand. Peace is a better option. It will always and forever be.
         Col. Gbulie took his time to listen to all our questions and he tried his best to answer them intelligently. Unlike, some of our previous interviewees, with him, there was no classified or coded information. Before the interview, he gave us his word to give all information to the best of his knowledge and I think he did a pretty good job at it. During the interview, I was sitting at his immediate left and Mercy flanked his right, next was Emeka, then Daniel our camera guy and then, there was Miss Nneoma, our guide. I remember looking at his skin and thinking of well fed babies. Col. Gbulie's memory is so good that he even gave exact dates of events and people's names and hometowns. He went further to show us a big scar on his leg which he got from a war injury and he kept repeating,
      "...the only man who dies is the man whom God has destined to die. There is a greater Force behind the things we see..."
         And I believe Him. All these recent ruckus about Biafra and the need for secession has left me feeling all sorts of ways. Personally, I'm sitting on the fence. I just really want peace and calm. If secession without bloodshed and violence will bring that, then by all means, let's secede away! But if unity and tolerance and coexistence is the only way peace can reign, then please, let's choose unity. There's really no need for all the noise and trouble.

What are your thoughts?
Have you ever been interested and/or involved in the fight for Biafra, past and present?
How much do you know about all that we've been through? How do you feel about it?

Please, do leave me your comments. I want to know what you guys think.
Sadly, Daniel hasn't sent me the pictures we took of and with the Colonel today. But when he does, maybe I'll put one up on Instagram.
How are things with you?
Have a good night 💞💞

I met Col. Ben Gbulie!

            Hey fellas! How you doing? *in Wendy's voice and hand thing* lol.
            So, today was an exciting day for me😆 There's a new museum to be built in Enugu. A museum for Ndi Igbo, to preserve their culture, history and stories. A centre for memories of sorts. Daniel, a guy in my faculty, told me about it and invited me to join them in doing the background work of researching, organising meetings and interviews and just curating information, generally. And well, since my summer was already looking a bit bleak and uneventful, I said yes. Plus, I really wanted any reason to be able to leave the house. Legit reasons though, not just to gallivant around town. And also on the plus side, I'd learn too. I figured I've been too passive about this whole Biafra, Civil war history thing of ours for too long. So I said yes. And frankly, it's been as fun as it's been educating. Although on the down side, some of our interviewees are like the most boring people on the face of the earth. And there are also those of them who just can't seem to stop talking and digressing, just like I'm doing now. Lol.
      Anyway, so today, we interviewed one of the big shots in the Nigeria-Biafra Civil War. We interviewed Colonel Ben Gbulie. He was one of the top plotters of the first ever Military coup in January 1966, what most people know today as the 'Igbo Coup', which was later sabotaged. He has met and worked with all the big names like former President Olusegun Obasanjo, the late Major Gen. Odumegwu Ojukwu, the late Gen. Nzeogwu, and several other movers and shakers. He is a small but witty old man. He is still quite coherent, his memory is intact and he did not seem to talk endlessly like most old people are wont to do. Ben Gbulie is a pleasant man and he made the interview feel very easy-peasy. I remember feeling a bit nervous before meeting him because we were told to go do our research on him first and Google had a lot to say about him.
       But when we met him at the Sports Club today around noon, he seemed like an easy old man. He was dressed in a short sleeved, stripped shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of black sandals, and was seated at the reception lounge, talking with a friend. When we introduced ourselves, he quickly excused himself and led us into another room (he called it 'the cold room' ) for the interview. I will not bore you with all the details, technicalities and information we got about the war today but I will tell you one thing though, and that is that war is a terrible thing. There's so much more to it than meets the eye. The only people who agitate for it are people who have never witnessed it before. Do not listen to all the hogwash, do not let anyone play on your ignorance. You don't have to have all the details before you know where to stand. Peace is a better option. It will always and forever be.
         Col. Gbulie took his time to listen to all our questions and he tried his best to answer them intelligently. Unlike, some of our previous interviewees, with him, there was no classified or coded information. Before the interview, he gave us his word to give all information to the best of his knowledge and I think he did a pretty good job at it. During the interview, I was sitting at his immediate left and Mercy flanked his right, next was Emeka, then Daniel our camera guy and then, there was Miss Nneoma, our guide. I remember looking at his skin and thinking of well fed babies. Col. Gbulie's memory is so good that he even gave exact dates of events and people's names and hometowns. He went further to show us a big scar on his leg which he got from a war injury and he kept repeating,
      "...the only man who dies is the man whom God has destined to die. There is a greater Force behind the things we see..."
         And I believe Him. All these recent ruckus about Biafra and the need for secession has left me feeling all sorts of ways. Personally, I'm sitting on the fence. I just really want peace and calm. If secession without bloodshed and violence will bring that, then by all means, let's secede away! But if unity and tolerance and coexistence is the only way peace can reign, then please, let's choose unity. There's really no need for all the noise and trouble.

What are your thoughts?
Have you ever been interested and/or involved in the fight for Biafra, past and present?
How much do you know about all that we've been through? How do you feel about it?

Please, do leave me your comments. I want to know what you guys think.
Sadly, Daniel hasn't sent me the pictures we took of and with the Colonel today. But when he does, maybe I'll put one up on Instagram.
How are things with you?
Have a good night 💞💞

'They are better'

       There are periods in my life when I seem to zone out of everything, when I stop 'feeling' the things I used to 'feel', when I generally stop writing, when I consciously stop creating stuff, because it's starting to feel too much like stress. These times are often accompanied by a social media hiatus as well. I stop putting stuff out there, but then, I never really go offline. I'm always there, looking at other people. And thinking I'm the sorriest excuse for living ever, and thus, worsening my creativity freeze. Times like now.
        One of the things that can push me into this unplanned hiatus is self doubt and comparison with others. Do you do this too? There are times I come on social media and all I can see are friends and strangers looking more beautiful than ever, achieving amazing feats, trying new things. And the natural reflex action is that I look back on my own life, see its seeming 'staleness' and start to feel bad for myself. I stop putting content out there and for days, I stalk and obsess over other people's pages, whom I feel are doing 'better'. I know what my mom would say if she read this, I know what my sisters would tell me:
"....You're wonderfully and fearfully made. You're a masterpiece. You're a king because a King lives in you. You are you, you're not them..."
I know all of these things. But frankly, do we all feel like kings everyday?
I know feelings are fickle things and nothing should ever be based on them. Especially not our self worth. But can I be human today and confess to you that there are times it's a bit of a struggle? Can I? Will you understand?
Is there anyone out there who is feeling small?
Am I the only one who is feeling 'not-good-enough' today?
Is there anyone who looks at others and thinks they're better sometimes?
Is there anyone struggling with self doubt and comparison?
You are not alone.

Easter. And by the way, why are bunnies and eggs attached to it?

Happy Easter!

       Well, today was a good day. There was a lot of chores doing, house cleaning, food cooking, food eating and movie upon movie watching, going on down here. It was a great day. Plus, my elder brother's friends came over to eat Easter lunch. My elder brother is huge and his meals are the same way. So, imagine feeding seven extra human persons of that size and appetite. Yea, it was that major. Plus, anyone else ever notice how noisy boys get when they're together and there's food? It was like a party over here today. Good thing we were pre-informed, so we were ready for them.

Side Note: These guys got us a really huge carton of fruit juice, though! Whoop!! Whoop!! 😋🙌

         So, Easter it is. Easter today is. Reminding us, sorry, reminding Christians, of who we are, what we have, what that cost and just what Love truly is. You know, on another note now, there was a time I was completely certain that political correctness was bullshit. If you didn't like or support what I believe in or stand for, well that's too bad, because I'm really sorry for you. And don't come at me with your beliefs or faith, either. Nah, don't you dare. You can shove it down your throat, stick it up your a** or just do whatever it is that works for you, with it. Just don't bring it at me. Well, right now, I'm not so sure about that. (And for the record, I'm Christian. Always has been, still is and hopefully, always will be.)
      That doesn't mean that I'm less of a christian than I was when I believed in Political Correctness, though. No. It just means that right now, I'm not sure. (And I'm worried because I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing.) Life has taught me not to be so sure. To never be too sure. Right now I know that nothing in life has sharp edges, not even this world we live in (It's a circle. Or no, a sphere. Or is it a geoid? Well, you get my drift). And so is life and the things we find in it. There are round edges, smoothened edges, roughened edges, curved edges, broken edges, not-so-straight edges. But never, never a sharp edge. No. Growing up has taught me that.
        Life is like music. I really don't know how to explain that to you, but that is an analogy that just popped into my head as I was writing this. And within me, I know what I mean. I may not always feel or think this way, though. Ten, five, or maybe even two years from now, I may read this, scoff and think, "What rubbish was I writing here?"  But right here and right now, that's what I think. That's how I feel.
         And I know our faith, the Christian faith specifically, should be that one unshakable, steady, immovable place and thing we have in this life. Well, it really is. I know it is. Or rather, I believe it is. I only feel that maybe, we humans have somewhere and somehow along the line, started to define this Thing and many other Things within it on our own terms. And maybe we don't even know we're doing this. So perhaps, sometimes we have to stop and think. And pray. And meditate. And listen to God, while we try as much as it's possible, to block out every other noise or knowledge we may have gathered prior to this time. And seek His Truth. The Truth. And not our 'truth'.
        Now, I don't know this for a fact. I am no theologian. I am anything that is the opposite of a professional. But I do know that I am God's child. His favourite child. And if I were to start to tell you some of the things we explore and learn and experience together, you may not entirely believe me.
        But today is Easter and I am not going to be doing that. In the morning hours of today, I wrote this brief but really tacky and gaudy essay about Easter, Love and Sacrifice.
(Now, I call it 'tacky' because I wrote it and I feel like it's too full of sticky, gushy emotions and stuff, and not because it actually is. And this is something I do a lot; Look down or belittle myself. Well, because self-doubt and insecurities and stuff, you know? 😏
Which is something I'm working on, by the way!)
   But well, I'm not going to put that up. At least, not today. On a good ol', random, love-bereft day, perhaps I will. Today, I just wanted to talk about my day, how it went, what I'm feeling. Just a really, simple, real-life kinda post. How was your day? Are you Christian? Did you celebrate the Easter? Why do you believe what you believe? Why do you think the Easter is worth celebrating?
        I wanted to go out today with a friend but he never called and my data subscription was finished so I couldn't check if he left me IMs online. And also, today, I realised yet again, that my baby sister is growing up. And I don't know how that makes me feel. Well, it makes me feel a ton of ways but I'll talk about that another day. Last night, she helped me braid my hair into cornrows;  four to be precise. It's cute and neat and comfy and I like it. Plus, each time I see my reflection, I feel like an Adamma in one of those really soppy, melodramatic Nollywood movies with village scenes.
       And yes, one of the movies I watched today with my family was The Wedding Party ( for like the tenth time now, I think 😏🙈). And yet again, I was reminded that I have a crush on Olubankole Wellington. Well, not a full-on, serious crush, though. That was before. Now, it's more like a pseudo, semi, made-of-plastic crush. But a crush it still is, right? Lol!
    Lots of love and light to you and yours!
Ciao!!! 😘😘

PS: I feel like I really suck at making up captions for these posts, you think?  😳
Well, it's something I'm working on.
Or rather, it's something I hope to work on.
But for now, you have to take what you see and don't judge me, okay?
Okay!

Deuces!✌

Birthday Behaviour and Stereotypes.

  Last week Saturday was my birthday, y'all!  Yaaaaaaayyyyy!!!  Has God been awesome or what??! Whoop! Whoop!! 🙌💃💃💃🎊🎉🎉🎆🎂

     You see, I have this ritual (or tradition of some sorts) of always trying to do something new for my birthday; Something or anything I've wanted to do for a long time. Like a gift from myself to myself...you know, you know...😉😉😎 Lol
      I haven't always had this tradition, though. But growing up and seeking to find my truth or at least to understand myself better, I adopted it. In 2015, on my birthday morning, I woke up, went down to the Park and boarded a bus for Port Harcourt. I remember deciding to do this just before I went to bed the night before. I got into the town around 2pm, spent the day with my then boyfriend and his friend, and the next day, I came back. That was 2015.
     Last year, I decided I was going to get henna tattoo. Henna tattoo is the beautiful body art thingy the Hausa and Arabian women use to decorate their arms and feet for special occasions like weddings and festivals. The dye is extracted from the flowers of a plant known as Lawsonia Genus. The 'tattoo' is temporal as it lasts for a maximum of 3-5 weeks. The dye can be used not only on the skin, but to colour the hair, the fingernails and fabrics such as wool, leather and silk. Prior to then, I had always been curious about henna and I admired it. So when my birthday came around, I thought, why don't I get it for myself? And I did. I remember my friend Chuma went with me. It was a lovely, windy evening. We went to the Barracks (because lots of Hausa folks live there) and we asked the women where I could get my henna drawn.
(Side Note- Can I just say how friendly and open-minded the Hausa's are? Lord! We Igbo's sure have a lot to learn from them when it comes to people relations.) We were directed to a Mama Aishatu's home. When we got there, she was surprised that an Igbo girl wanted to get henna tattoo, but she was pleased too. She put aside everything else she was doing, wiped her hands on her skirt and sent her daughter to go buy the dye. I think the dye cost like N50 or so. It was in a really tiny container. When the dye was bought, she proceeded to draw one of the most intricate and beautiful floral patterns I had ever seen on my two arms. She drew a floral 'chain' round both of my ankles too. It was beautiful. I'll put up a picture so you'll see. The drawing took her like 2 hours to complete, because it was dark by the time she was done. I really loved it😍. I remember she asked for N300 or N500, I'm not quite sure now, but it wasn't more than N500.
Again, can we talk about just how nice and simple and free-spirited the Hausa's are? I bet if that lady was Igbo (Now, my dear Igbo's, this is not shade. Y'all know I gat mad love for you. But the truth has to be told), firstly, she wouldn't attend to me just then. Uh-uh. She'd tell me to come back later or some other day..."Couldn't I see she was doing stuff before I came? And that besides, that her house isn't a shop..." Secondly, she'd probably talk me to death while drawing the henna- Endless lectures on how henna is such a big deal, how I should consider myself a 'special girl' for getting it, how it symbolises some really deep ish or something.. (Which the sweet Hausa lady didn't do. She only asked why I wanted henna and I told her it was for my birthday and then, she smiled and said that that was lovely). Finally, coming to the price now. Lol.. Y'all know Igbo's and money. I'm pretty sure the least I would have paid for that henna will be three thousand. The very least.

(Disclaimer-  Now, I know all of those are stereotypes. And since this post is about the silliness of stereotypes, I feel it's only right that I establish that not all Igbo women are that way. At least, I know my mom isn't)

    Anyway, I got the henna on the 7th of April 2016 and the next day was my birthday. I remember waking up the following morning, looking at my arms and beaming widely. I felt brand new, thankful, powerful and like I could do anything in the world. Needless to say, it was the perfect birthday gift to myself. However, when people saw it, some of them felt otherwise. My hostel Porter saw it, frowned, and said it was not befitting to me; that she did not see me as that 'kind of person'. What kind of person exactly she was talking about, I wasn't sure. A random lady who works in my school saw it and asked me if I was in a secret cult. Like openly asked me. It got me thinking why she thought I would tell her even if I was. Did people just freely and openly ask other people if they were cultists these days? Wow. Well, if I had never gotten henna, I wouldn't have known that. So, thank you henna. And thank you too, random uninformed lady. 😒 
      I wish I had taken the time to carefully chronicle and record the different types of reactions I got from people within the space of the three weeks that I had my henna. Some of them were annoying, some hilarious, and others, downright silly. That experience opened my eyes to a lot of things; To how our society thinks, people's value system, how Outcasts and people whom society has labelled 'not-good-enough' for whatever reasons, feel and experience life.
      I remember one day I was in a keke and there was this elderly man that was sitting beside me. He kept staring and staring at my arms and wouldn't look away even when I looked at him. When he was getting close to his stop, he felt he had to speak up. He asked me what I drew on my arms and I told him it was henna. He heaved a deep sigh and asked me why I had done it. I was getting close to my stop already and I was in no mood for an exchange so I just told him that it was because I wanted to. He then started what would be the longest advice session I have ever been in. He said he didn't want to talk before but that he felt he should, seeing how I look like such a marketable young girl.
{Please, my brothers and sisters, how and what makes a young girl marketable? I need to know because before then, I didn't even know I was 'marketable'. Plus, I also need to know the extent of my 'marketability' in order to know how best to harness and maximise this rare, special gift. So please, if you have the marketability gauge, could you be kind enough to let me know in the comment section? Thank you in anticipation and may God bless you 🙏}

    The man went ahead to ask if I was a Christian and if I didn't know it was ungodly to make marks on the body...and not only that I even got marks on my body, I got the marks belonging to the people of another religion... He asked me if I've prayed since I got it..that how was my christian walk with God with this kind of mark on my body...does He answer my prayers?   Meanwhile, that time, I was having the time of my life with my Saviour. Of course, I had told Him before getting it and He didn't object. But I didn't feel the need to explain myself to this strange, keke preacher man. By the time he was done, I simply said thank you and got down. It felt like all the strength in my body had been sapped out and I just wanted to go home and lay down and sleep. I was more upset with the keke driver who, instead of asking us to get down when he got to the last stop, kept quiet, turned off the ignition and joined in listening to the elderly man, preach. When I got home, I was so tired. I just threw myself on the bed, covered my face with my pillow, and thought about my dear country, Nigeria. Nigeria is a funny place. Nigerians believe that all the old people are wise and should be respected, just like all the poor people are humble and should be pitied. The Nigerian society is a laughable place. Except of course, if you're here and you're one of us and you feel the tiny, intense aches and pinches. We Nigerians, encourage pretence and hypocrisy, but we don't know it. Or maybe we do and we pretend we don't. May God help Nigeria. And I mean this sincerely.
   When the woman who had a shop in front of my hostel then, saw the henna, she asked me if my parents had seen what I 'did' to my arms. I told her they had and she shook her head sadly.  And now, speaking of my parents, they were quite cool and accepting about it ( I would like to think they are progressive African parents).They only asked if it was permanent and I told them it wasn't. 9th, the Saturday after my birthday, was my cousin Chizoba's traditional marriage and I was in her aso-ebi. We went to her hometown and it was dramatic. All hell was let loose! Cousins, aunties, uncles and random old people quizzed me non-stop about why I got a tattoo. And why was it so big? Had my mom seen it? What did she say?  To make matters worse, a few young boys who felt they knew 'what's up', came around saying, "Nne, okwa tattoo gi a oo". Translation: "Girl, this your tattoo is dope". And I'm like, "Please, for the hundredth time, it's not a tattoo!" I was out of breath the whole time, explaining to everyone that henna wasn't a tattoo. That it wasn't permanent. And that no, it wasn't occultic. I literally did nothing else throughout the event but explain and explain.  When it was finally time to dance into the arena, I was put in front to lead the procession. And then, the MC had to add salt to injury. He picked up the microphone and announced, "Yes, they are coming. And the girl with the tattoo is in front. Oya, young men, come and make your choice. But leave the one in front o. She is for me because I have a tattoo too." I was furious. But I had to keep dancing and smiling and pretending that I really wanted suitors. And by the way, where did that silly custom come from? Or is it even a custom? The belief that bridesmaids are in search of grooms and therefore, had to condone all sorts of nonsense from aspiring 'husbandmen' on the day of the event. Maybe someday, I'd tell you the story of yet another silly and embarrassing experience I and my sister had at another wedding where we were bridesmaids. But please, if you're male and you're reading this, next time you go to a wedding, don't think that the bridesmaids are 'hungry' for a groom. Don't go harassing or groping them shamelessly. If she doesn't want to give you her number, she doesn't want to give you her number. If you try flirting and she doesn't flirt back, please young man, hold your peace. And also, she is not for sale. Regardless of whatever nonsense the MC says or any stupid stunt he pulls..(where they get these MCs from is what I don't even know. What country do they come from, abeg?)
    Anyway, needless to say, in my sister's words, they 'finished' me that day. My sister was like my bodyguard that day, following me everywhere. But anytime we were left alone, she'd laugh and laugh herself to stupor. She even made up a song for me that day:
    "Person wey draw henna come village,
     I'm sorry for you, I'm sorry for you o
     Your own don kpomee!"
Translation:
     "Here's to the person who came to the village with henna,
     I feel really sorry for you,
     Because today you're dead meat!"

I was exasperated. I noticed how even my mom became uncomfortable, giving me side eyes. I can't blame her, I'm sure they were quizzing her too.
      But that was twelve months ago. My henna faded before 1st May even and to most folks, I was automatically a 'good' and normal girl again. Smh.
Isn't it funny how we label people?
Don't we see how really silly and ignorant stereotypes are?
Take a moment and think about it.
        Well, this year 2017, I thought I would get extra piercings. I already had the normal one-piercing-per-lobe most girls get at birth. But for a while now, I've wanted more. Nothing crazy or wild, but a few more piercings on each ear. I told my sister Chinasa and she was like, "Hmmm. That I should kukuma get tattoo na." But I didn't want a tattoo, I wanted piercings. And I had already decided I was going to get it. My girlfriend Ekamz, have a few extra ones so I asked her where she got them. She said she got some in Abuja and the others in a beauty parlour in Independence Layout, here in Enugu. So I got the address of the place from her and on the 4th, last week Tuesday, I went there.

My Natural Hair. The Genesis.

           So natural hair is a 'thing' now, right? Everyone, both guy (considering that I haven't seen plenty boys perming the hair on their 'hawk' hairstyles for a while now) and girl, wants to have natural, unaltered, kinky hair. Well, I on the other hand, have been a natural for years now. Long, long before it became a fashion statement or a 'thing'. And no, this is not an "A-haa! I-told-you-so!" post. This is just me trying to articulate the reasons why I've had kinky, coily, natural Afro-textured hair on my head for virtually all my life.
        And side note, it's been a while since I had a hairstyle that hurt my scalp, but right now as I write this, my hair which was freshly braided this afternoon, hurts a little at the edges. But not in that intense, 'you-should-be-worried' kind of way; But more like in that friendly, slightly, it-hurts-cos-its-still-new-and-its-only-bringing-out-your-face, this-hurt-will-be-gone-before-tomorrow-morning kind of way. I'll put up a picture of my hairstyle now at the end of this post.

And so, why I have natural hair:
     Well, I've had natural hair for 6 years (when I started growing my hair) and what inspired me to stay natural and not perm it were two reasons:
A, being Allison, my sister's friend, who at that time had the most beautiful, black, luscious natural hair which I lusted after. I had just finished secondary school and my hair then was what Naturals today would describe as a TWA (Teenie Weenie Afro). I think it may have been an inch or two long. But being the hair fanatic I've often been told that I am, I fussed and fussed over my really short hair all of the time. I told everyone around me how I had 'natural hair' (which I'm pretty sure just looked like an ordinary low-cut to them but Lord bless their souls, they sweetly bore with me), and how I was going to have beautiful, black, long natural hair like Allison's. I believed it. So everyone else did. So strong was my conviction and obsession that I mysteriously creeped into my sister Chinasa's dream one day and in there, I had the longest hair ever! She said it was so black and thick and long that it flowed down to my waist and I banded it like 5 different times in between. This dream was like rapture to me. It became my future, hope and dream. I grabbed it ferociously from her and held it tightly with my both hands, refusing to allow anyone make me let go of it. Not even my mom, who was the sole unbeliever then, and who kept saying to me, "Don't worry, relaxer di. When you are tired of all these your gra-gra, just tell me and I'll give you a jar of relaxer to go and perm your hair. I che na natural hair di easy". Or no, she said 'virgin hair'. She must have definitely called it 'virgin hair', because that has always been the native, commonplace name of the kinky hair in contemporary Nigeria, before it became "what's up" and it went to church and was christened with the posh 'natural hair' name it bears today.
By the way, Allison has since permed her hair though and broken my poor, little heart. RIP, Allison's beautiful, black,luscious natural hair. You'll forever be in my heart.
         Anyway, reason B was the sincere, simple fact that I like being different from the lot. I have always been a non-conformist. Well, sometimes. Most times. The Road Not Taken always holds this special appeal and wonder for me and a lot of the time, I find myself trudging stubbornly and sometimes, even foolishly down it. So I wanted to be natural because I liked Allison's natural hair and because it would make me different. That was 6 years ago. And please, don't come at me with all the "Girl, your hair is 6 years old??!!!! Why is it only that long?  Did you cut it? What happened?!!" No,I did not cut my hair. (Even though sometimes, I tell people I did just so I can save myself the stress, plus embarrassment too. Yes, I admit that second part because there are humans who have that rare, special ability of making you feel shame over the most natural of things). Anyway, my hair is one of those ones who like to take their time, you know. I won't use the word 'slow' cos that's too sensitive. And mind you though, my hair is not short. My hair is far from bring short, even. With the length of my hair now, I can do any and every style I want to and I'm quite satisfied with that. Would I like for it to get longer though? Why, yes of course! But gone are the days when I used to worry, complain, over-treat and fuss over it. Uh-uh. Health is the way, Baby! The health of my hair is what matters the most to me now. While I wait for it to grow down to my waist shaa. Sorry, scratch that. To my feet. I've always loved Rapunzel

Lessons having natural hair have taught me.
       Having natural hair has been like a journey for me. I've learned and re-learned a lot, I've made mistakes and found ways to fix them (thank God) and I've also gotten to see myself in other ways.
Patience. Endurance. Trust in your process. Self love and acceptance. Celebration of life's small victories. Self discipline. Redefinition of beauty. Unconventional outlets for creativity. These are few of the lessons and virtues having a head full of nappy hair have taught me.
     For the first four years of my journey, I almost never wore my hair out. I always had box braids or Senegalese twists or faux locs or Marley twists. I did ALOT of protective styling. And I did them commercially. If you've ever lived in Nigeria or in Africa in general, you'll know how commercial hair braiders never listen to you, are always impatient and always braid too, too tightly. So this caused me a lot of hair damage and loss. As at that time, I didn't know that was what was wrong with my hair. But I noticed my hair wasn't growing. I would be concerned for a while but then I'd get another twists or braids and I'd forget all about my hair again. Then, I used to have these attachments in my hair for as long as 6-8 weeks. Dandruff has always plagued my hair and so, this will get to the root of each braid or twist and concentrate there and then, when taking them off, I'll have to yank off some of my hair, thereby leading to hair loss. I come from a hairy family however, so hair has never really been a problem for me. No matter the amount of hair I lost due to poor hair care, I always had a bountiful amount of hair on my head. It was not until mid 2015 before it dawned on me that I could actually twist and braid my own hair without using attachments and it'll still be pretty. Plus, my sister who does my hair a lot of the time now was done with school by then and was home most of the time. So now, she does my hair almost all the time. She or my baby sister does. I still use attachments, but only occasionally, and not as much as before. So far, my hair has felt healthier, grown a lot more and is softer. I really love having just my hair on my head, feeling the wind in my natural, God given tresses and having my scalp breathe freely and easily. I feel like my truest self when I have only my hair on my head. To touch my head accidentally and actually feel my own hair on my head, that's pure bliss and joy for me.
   Someday maybe, I'd tell you how I take care of my natural hair, what I've learnt so far and what I've dropped.
But for today, Ciao.
And thank you for reading this really long post. May your hair grow long and be healthy!


Love, Pain and Us.

It is afternoon, a few minutes past 3pm. I am going upstairs to bring my bag. I meet Onyinye at the staircase and I tell her Mr. Oruigoni is in class downstairs and I ask her if she's seen Peace. She says yes, that she's upstairs crying because her uncle just died. I climb the stairs quicker, jumping two at a time, grab my bag from the seat close to the door and I look around to find Peace. I see her leaning out of a window down the hall, holding a half full sachet of water and crying. I walk to where she is, lean out of the window with her, listen to her cry and I say nothing. I think of pain. The pain I've known. The pain she's known. The pain we all know.                                                                                     It is early morning, a few minutes past 5am. I am in my underwear on my bed, trying to be quiet and concentrate enough to say my morning prayers. Somebody starts crying in the hostel. Loud, clear, proper crying. The kind of crying people talk while doing; "No... No... My mummy lied to me. Mummy m agho gbu go m. No... Not now..." And for a second I thought she lost her mother. It turned out to be her brother who died. Her brother who's been sick for a while now and had been hospitalised. Her mother had lied to her, telling her he was getting better. Not being able to pray anymore, I lie in bed that dark,early Friday morning and listen to the girl's heart-tearing cries, and again, I think of pain. The pain of disappointment. The pain of losing people we never imagined we could lose. The pain of losing ourselves. Pain beyond the physical tinge or hurt we feel against our bare bodies. That real pain that sobers us up and steals some of our sparkle away. The pain of dashed hope.                                                                    Pain makes me think of love. Pain is the aftermath of love. All different shades of pain. All different permutations of love. Think about it. Last week was Valentine's Day. And as usual, we were engrossed in the celebration of love and our lovers. But if there's anything I know, it's that loving a human person only opens you up to hurt, fear and pain. You're going to lose that person someday. To death, a breakup, or to something or someone else. What would you do then? Where would you run? To love is to risk. To love is to willfully die, willfully give up a part of you to die. To love is to embrace pain. To anticipate it. But still, what are we without love? To love is to be whole. We all love because we all need love. We thrive in love. We do not plan to love these people. My girlfriend Peace never sat down and consciously planned to love her Uncle. I never planned to love my Mummy. My Daddy. My sisters. But I do. Oooh, I do. And seeing people who lose their loved ones cry and get broken in pain, it scares me. I've loved and I've lost. I've loved and I've won. But none of it is forever. Someday, I would lose my Daddy and Mummy. Nasa would be far away, Osy would be unavailable, Tobe would be busy, Buoke would be married and live somewhere else, Mimi would be in college and be occupied. There are several people who mean the world to me, but I cannot control what happens to them or how they feel or where they go. All these deaths and loses and tears around me lately have forced me to think on love. Human love. All human love, however sincere and true and  devoid of self it may be, is temporal. All human loves have an expiry date. And being the helpless romantic that I am, I cannot find the words to tell you how this tears at my heart so. I wish it wasn't that way. But we are only ordinary people. And pain is a part of us. We all know pain.                                                                               Pain is that lingering emptiness and loneliness you carry about for weeks. Pain is that confusion, never understanding why. Pain is that new burst of sadness for each time you remember the times you laughed with them. Pain is that feeling of being naked, lost and entirely alone. Pain is that dread you recognise when you think of the future you want for yourself and their absence in it. Pain is dreading everything and everyone. Pain is that indescribable rush of hurtful emotions that hits you every now and then, like the oceans waves against a rock.                                                                             And love does this to us. Loves opens us up to this kind of pain. Your parents will die someday. Your boyfriend could get shot. Your wife may leave you. My friend Michael Okoro says to be careful who we give our hearts to, because for each love that works or fails, each love that lives or dies, we sacrifice and throw away a part of us we can never have back again. When my Mummy goes, I can never really be a child again. She will leave with that part of me. And each morning I wake up and try to count the number of human persons that I love and all of the things that could happen to them or to that love, my heart freezes and I just stare at my bunk. What would I do if I lose my Mummy? My Daddy? Osy? Tobe? Mimi? My vulnerability scares me.                                                                        But pain makes me think of one Person..Makes me want one Person: Jesus. Pain brings Jesus closer to me. Jesus Who's always loved me completely, regardless of what I did or said. He is True Love. And True Love is always there. There've been times I felt His love so strongly, it was almost physical and I could have sworn He was hugging me then. When I'm in pain or when I lose someone I love, I run to Jesus. And it's not always easy. I do not see Him. I cannot place my head on His shoulders. But I know He is there. So as terrible as love may seem sometimes, Love still is the answer. Think about it. If we run away from love, to where then do we run? We were programmed for Love.                                                                                And so today, and all the days after it, let us be thankful and celebrate all the different loves we have, while they last, because one day, you're going to look out a window and not find them anymore. One day, you're going to wake up and not have them anymore.                                                      Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not jealous or envious. Love is not boastful or proud. Love is not selfish or rude. Love does not insist on having its own way. Love always believes.