Monday, May 30, 2016

My True Life Runaway Story (3)

Continued from last edition...

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By the third day of my stay in my friend's house, my brother started calling her NITEL land line , and asked if I was there, which she answered in the negative. A day later, he called back saying he knows I was there because there was nowhere else I could go since all my other friends’ parents won’t allow me to stay in their houses for so long without trying to settle the rift between my parents and I. She stood her ground.

My brother would keep calling from time to time, pressuring my friend, but she didn’t yield. There was nothing anyone could do because they didn’t know her house, and people were not that traceable in Lagos as they are now when technology is sophisticated.

Anyway, by day 6, my uncle called, instead of my brother. I don’t know how he did it, but he cajoled my friend to admit I was there. After she did, he begged me to come back home, that nothing would happen, bla bla bla. His mouth was so sweet, that I agreed. Anyway, I was already getting tired of the constant fun and a life without challenges I was having in my friend’s house. So I left, and went to the office, where my uncle, mum and dad, all worked.

My mum was in the other branch, my dad didn’t say anything to me, and my uncle took me home. The next day, my parents called me, talked to me for nothing less than two hours, with my dad saying how my mum is the best woman in the world, how he met her as a virgin, and I should emulate her, and all that.

In my mind, I was rolling my eyes, thinking “what is all these? Do these people actually think I’m a bad girl?” won’t it have been nice if my dad were alive today to find out that I am actually getting married as a virgin, so they should have cooled their horses then.

Anyway, after the plenty lecture, they let me go, and I never ran away from home again. Four years later, my dad died.

Now that I am older, anytime I remember that I used to be a runaway girl, it gives me more insight into the kind of person I am. This experience is just testament to the fact that I am was trying to carve myself into who I really wanted to be.

It is not news that I am highly choleric, and I have no respect for norms that are not progressive. I challenge status quos. I have been a leader right from my mum’s womb, and I am the person who gets called to come and put administration in place when something is not working well.

If I am among a group of people trying to achieve something, and things are not being done in efficient and effective ways, I would talk. I would ask them to give me the work, and I would try to demonstrate how it should be done, by carrying out the task, no matter how voluminous.

I make no bones about the fact that I do not like many parts of the African tradition, and because of this, I am very private and introspective, just like my dad. A lot of times, I keep my mouth shut amongst extended family members, and remain polite. If they become too much for me, I go to my room, lock my door, or leave the house.

I cannot thrive in an atmosphere of strife. Anytime I find myself in one, I always try to make peace, or I leave it behind completely.

I do not subscribe to the notion of a woman staying in a house where she is constantly beaten. I have never seen it happen before, and I pray to never see it. I only read about it in the newspapers and hear about it from friends.

And yes, if I am being physically battered and oppressed in my own house, I don’t think it needs to be said… As an adult empowered woman, I will run away.

Monday, May 23, 2016

My True Life Runaway Story (2)

Continued from last edition...

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The second time I ran away from home was when I was about nine years old. I was on holiday from boarding school, and I was of the opinion that my mum was making my life miserable. So I decided to run away. When she asked me to empty the thrash, I took it out, emptied it, dumped the bucket somewhere, and ran away…

…to my grandmother’s house, which was about 45 minutes’ walk away from my house. When I got there, my grandmother wasn’t around, but I met my uncle, who was just leaving the house. I can’t remember what I told him vividly, but it must have been something like I didn’t want to go back home again because I was being maltreated. The guy just looked at me, and asked me to enter. He didn’t have the keys to the front door, so I went through the back door, and he locked me inside, and asked me to wait for my grandmother to get back from work.

Seeing how peaceful my life had suddenly become, I slept off. Hours later, at about 10pm, I heard my grandmother’s voice at the door, and what sounded like my parents’ voices. She was saying something like “she can’t be inside this house. There’s no way she can be here since no one has been in this house since.”

Next thing, the door opens, my grandmother sees me lying on the chair, and screams “she’s here! How did you get inside? How long have you been here? Why are you here?” I told her my uncle let me in, and answered her other questions.

My parents took me home, and didn’t say a word. The next day, my mum didn’t go to work, and it was just both of us at home.

Let’s just say… SHE BEAT THE LIVING DAYLIGHT OUT OF MY WHOLE BODY. CHAI!

Six years later, I ran away from home again. This time, it was much more thought out since I was older and more calculative. I was 15 years old, out of the secondary school, just about to enter university, I was now a big girl, so the normal African parents beating had stopped, or so I thought.
I can’t remember what exactly happened, but I know it bordered around them getting worried that I was going to end up being a bad girl, buttressed the fact that I had asked a guy at La campagne Tropicana to take his picture.

Anyway, it ended up in me getting thrashed, and up till now, I still think it was unfair because I did not do anything wrong. So I refused to stand still. All through the period, I kept shouting “what did I do? What did I do? I didn’t do anything.” And this kept angering my parents, so the thrashing continued.

This was such an embarrassment to my teenage big girl reputation, getting beaten just as I was about to enter university. Even my siblings thought it was unfair.

So late at night, I packed some clothes, told my brother and sister I was running away, for good this time, and they must not say a word till the next morning. They asked where I would be going, I told them I didn’t know, but I was going.

About 12 midnight, I left the house. Everywhere was so dark, and I was scared. I didn’t really have money on me, but the will to leave my woes far behind me was greater than the fear the darkness of the surrounding created. On getting to the major street close to my house, I realised I wouldn’t be getting far that night, cause the major streets were gated, and there were no buses by that time.

So I walked into one of the streets, and kept walking till I saw a hausa security guy guarding one duplex. I begged him to allow me sleep in the compound because I was kicked out of my house and I couldn’t go far that night. So he laid cloth for me on the bare ground of one of the balconies, and I slept off. I thank God for that guy because I could have met a monster instead of him. What would have been my story by now?

Very early, the next morning, I was off. I went to my friend’s house, and explained the whole situation to her. We were classmates in secondary school, and were both waiting to enter university. She was alone with her brother and sister in the house, because their parents had been out of the country for quite some time.

Life was now very good. Free food, free bed, no parents bossing me, and beating me for what I didn’t do, no chores, nothing! And my parents could never find me… ever. There were no mobile phones then, and internet was not even common.

Day 1, Day 2, Day3… And then the drama started…

To be continued...

Monday, May 16, 2016

My True Life Runaway Story

This true life series was inspired by Judgejudyjudy on her struggles with suicide at some points in her life. While I never tried to commit suicide because I love life too much, I did another thing to leave my own struggle behind. This trend started from my early years into my teenage years. I’m sure you would enjoy it. Read on.

Source
The first time I ran away from home was when I was about 6 years old. My mum had brought out a pair of scissors and threatened to cut off my earlobes. Seeing the sharp and shiny object approach me, I took to my heels, and ran to my neighbour’s house. Prior to this, my classmate had forced the blunt end of HB pencil into my earring holes, saying she wanted to make my holes bigger, and so days later, I ended up with terrible sores in my earring holes. On seeing the sores, my mother stuck very tiny short broom stick inside the holes, so that when they healed off, the holes wouldn’t close up, and that was how I had been going everywhere. Due to my carelessness, the broomstick fell about two or three times, and my mother would scold me, and reinsert another one immediately, in which the holes were really threatening to close up.

So one day, I was playing around the house, and she caught sight of my ears, and the broomstick was gone. She started screaming, took hold of me, and told someone to bring her scissors, that she was going to cut off my ears since I was careless enough not to take care of my ears, and prevent it from closing up. I assumed she was joking, but when I saw the scissors in her hands, and she brought it close to my ears, I managed to free myself from her, and that was how I ran away.

At my neighbour’s house, I told them what happened, and that I’m never going home again. Later, they asked my brother to start looking for me everywhere. He came to where I was about 2 or 3 times, but they kept telling him I wasn’t there. I was there till about 10pm when I heard my dad’s car drive into the compound. By this time, everyone had slept, both at home, and in my neighbour’s house. I had never been happier to have my dad come back home.

So I left my neighbour’s house, and went to meet my dad. He was surprised to see me outside by that time. I told him I ran away from home because my mum wanted to cut my ears. So we went in, and he served my dinner, and added one full fish. Wow. One full fish? It was such a bonus from running away from home, because we only got half fish as children.

The next morning, life was normal. Everything just went on automatically like the incident never occurred. Now that I think of it, my neighbours must have found a way to tell my mum that I was with them, which is why everyone, except me, had slept soundly that night.

About three years later, I ran away from home again. This time, to a farther place, but it wasn’t as palatable as the first.

To be continued…


Monday, May 9, 2016

How I almost lost track of my mind

I’ve been wearing a tracker for about a year now, and I don’t see myself ever stopping it. Anyone who knows me well knows I’m strongly into fitness, healthy diet, and living a good lifestyle (took after my dad in this). So using a tracker was just good for me to maintain my way of life. So I got a fitness band, not a fitness watch, even though the functions are the same. But a band allows me the opportunity to wear a watch on my left hand, and then the band on my right. I love watches… quality ones. If I had gotten a fitness watch, it means I would have had to ditch my original watches, since I can’t wear two watches, and that is not acceptable because…

I NEVER EVER TAKE OFF MY TRACKER

The only time it goes off is when I want to switch it from the left wrist to the right or vice versa. And when I do this, I am on one spot, not moving, so I don’t lose step counts.

Two months ago, I went for a meeting at the US embassy, and along with my phone, one of the things I couldn’t take in was my tracker. It was the only time I had ever taken it off since I started wearing it. I felt so naked, living the next one hour of my life without it. Funny enough, when I just got it, and realised I might never take it off because I needed it while sleeping for tracking purposes, I was slightly irritated.

One or two times, I have noticed the band snap open, due to my carelessness. In fact, the second time, the band snapped open, and fell on the floor while I had taken a few steps before I noticed what had gone wrong since my hand felt bare.

That is why yesterday, when I lost my tracker, I almost went insane with confusion. I rushed into church to organise service with my kids, and immediately I removed my handbag from my right wrist, I knew something was wrong. I tried not to panic. I started retracing my steps all the way from where I was standing to the gate. I even checked the thrash can I had dumped tissue into. I found nothing.

Source
I was saying to myself, all these wouldn’t have happened if I had just brought my car to church. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t drive to church, cos I had to attend an interview session with someone, after which we had to get to some places, so I decided I would cab in order to make commuting easy after church, which was a huge sacrifice for me, since it meant inconvenience.

Now, the cab…

Getting a cab on Sunday morning in a residential area wasn’t a walk in the park. I had to walk far far away from home to find one. As I approached a makeshift taxi park, suddenly another taxi approached me, and I flagged him down. I looked in to start bargaining, only to see that it was my neighbour. By this time, one of the drivers in the park said the guy shouldn’t be lifting passengers near the park, and I explained that he was my neighbour.

Anyway, my neighbour didn’t even allow me bargain, he just said I should enter, and he took me to church, which is very far from home (Gbagada to Lekki).

On tracing my steps back to look for my tracker, I called my mechanic neighbour, to send the number of my neighbour who had brought me to church. He did that, but by this time, I was already walking back into church, having not found the tracker. I was going to the information desk to ask if anyone had dropped my tracker there, cos it definitely wasn’t on the floor in church. I couldn’t just imagine that someone would see my tracker on the ground, and want to pocket it. I mean why would someone want to steal another person’s tracker? So I was sure someone must have dropped it off there. Just before I got to the information desk, I got my neighbour’s number. I called him to search his car for something that looked like a rubber watch. And voila, there it was!

Obviously, the band had snapped due to my carelessness when I was wearing my shoes, and forcing the zip closed. I had not noticed till I got into church cos the weight of the bag on my wrist was covering up the bare wrist. Now, I have learnt. I will always cover up the lock key area with the extra covering provided, which I used to slide back before.

So yes, tracker was found, and my sanity was restored but I had lost about a thousand step count record, which could never be recovered again, and I was sad I was going to lose all my step counts for that day. But I was elated when my neighbour said he could turn back to come and give me my tracker in church, cos he hadn’t gone so far, which was surprising cos this was about 20 minutes after he had dropped me. I took him on his offer, he brought my tracker back, and my step counts continued.

I started wondering, what if I had found a cab earlier when I was in a hurry, and I didn’t have to walk all the way to coincidentally flag someone down who ended up being my neighbour? The truth is that if I had taken any other taxi driver apart from that guy, my tracker would have been lost forever, not necessarily because the person is dishonest, but because the person would not be able to reach me, since he won’t know how to extract info from the tracker to get my details – and that’s if he even knows what the device is.

So yea, everything worked well in the end, and no, I won't be taking cabs again. Even if I must, I would make sure it is one I can track, even without a tracker, lol.

Monday, May 2, 2016

How do bleating marriages survive?

Source
I hear that for two people to survive in any kind of relationship, if one is a goat, the other must be a sheep. So what happens when two people have a strong inclination to being goats? It invariably means one of the goats must consciously shed his goat personality and be a sheep.

If this happens continuously, then the goat-turned-sheep begins to resent the goat-remained-goat. So how are they to truly survive in this relationship? Not the kind of survival where everyone is just there doing their own thing, but pretending to the whole world and on social media that everything is fine, and they are the best couple in the world by displaying their well painted horns online. But the kind of survival where both goats are truly happy as a couple and individual Bucks and Does

My question is can two people who have very strong personalities have a good marriage... truly good marriage void of resentment?

I have never been married before, so I would like to hear from you all, both married and single.


Monday, April 25, 2016

Now that you've killed me... The big question


The Beating Goes On (2013)
by Sigi Kolbe

With bitterness in your heart, You looked me in the eye, Thought of the government that failed you
Stabbed me in the chest after you tightened the noose you wrapped round my neck
Pulled the trigger that took my life, But took your soul in turn, and now that I’m gone
Does it make you a better person

You came home drunk, met me happy
Looked me in the eyes, but my excitement filled you with spite
You dragged me down the stairs
Ripped my fragile strands of hair off my scalp, the look on my face now that of fear
My head continuously bouncing off the descending steps like a Bball in the hands of Larry bird
Like an iterative step, you repeated the process over and over again
Cos stupid me was ready to stick with you over and over again
Till my life refused to stay one last time
And in protest, it said goodbye the final time
Now that I’m dead, with no more human bags for you to punch without reason
So tell me, has it made you a happier person?


This was a piece I wrote as part of a script for one 'Stop the Violence' spoken word video campaign I was involved in two years ago. We were 6 artists involved in the project. As usual, everyone wrote about why domestic violence is bad. I chose to flip mine, and write it in the voice of the abused, specifically when she was already dead.

I did this because, I know of men that beaten their wives to death. My friend never grew up with her mum because of this. The last memory of her mum she had was of her giving birth to twins in the labour ward after the husband beat the living daylight out of her, and the woman just gave up. Maybe she never wanted to return to the man alive anyway. My friend was about 10 years old, now left with 4 younger siblings. She became a mother very early. 

I have another story of my friend's aunt whose husband beat to death also. A former friend of mine also almost choked his wife to death. He was not remorseful. She still didn't want to leave him after that. He was even the one who kicked her out, with two kids that were less than 3 years old.

My question is how do these men feel, knowing they are the cause of their wives death? Are they remorseful, are they relieved? Do the faces of their children send them constant reminders, and cause them to repent, or are they happier? 

I don't have the anwer to the above question, but that was what inspired my part of the script.

So do you know anyone that has killed his wife in the process of wife battery? If yes, can you let us know, in the comment section, how he felt long afterwards?

You can watch the video project below.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Heat vs Cold. Which kills faster?



I spoke to someone who told me what she had been doing to cope with the heat. It is not news that the global warming is fast becoming a global warning, and it is not smiling with us in Lagos again. To make things worse, situations like this that would have been a non-issue by people sorting themselves out with their generators has now become a big deal because people don’t have fuel to power their generators. This season has become a leveller, and the number of people who can now form ‘status’ have drastically reduced.

Back to the story, she said she couldn’t sleep, no matter how much she tried. No amount of baths or manual ‘fanning’ could stop the heat. So she took her cover cloth, dipped it inside water, and squeezed it. In its damp state, she laid it on the bare ground, lay on it, and immediately, she was able to sleep.

I saw the sense in what she was trying to say. I was hot, so I created a soothing situation for my body, and it cooled me down. But alarm bells rang in my head. Was that even healthy for the body, especially the bones?

Is sleeping on something wet the way to go? Wouldn’t that lead to hypothermia or anything similar? I understand adjusting the temperature of the environment to regulate the weather and our bodies’ reaction to it. But sleeping directly on wet cloth?

Maybe some have tried it in the past, and it has worked. I am not a medical doctor, so I can’t give a definitive answer to this. But it doesn’t sound like something healthy for our body.

What do you think?

Monday, April 11, 2016

The making of Yoruba Demon(ess)es



The pressure on young ladies to get married is real. It is like if a man doesn’t find you, then do yourself a favour and find a man. Many women therefore hustle to get this done, and once this is achieved, Hallelujah, we can now move to stage two.

This stage is where things get comical, where the ladies have to insert themselves into their boyfriend’s families, especially in Yoruba culture. I have seen demons turned to angels, stingy girls suddenly become Santa Claus, introverts turned extroverts, just to make sure they are accepted at first. The ploy to spoil the in-laws is very real.

In Yoruba community, the communal culture and respect is very important. In-laws seem to have so much power. They can make or mar the woman’s marriage if the man is not strong or mature enough to shield his family from external influences.

I therefore see the fake smiles plastered on young girl’s faces when they are with in-laws, the unwilling courtesies bestowed on every family member, the loads and loads of bribes disguised as gifts. The thing is the in-laws know these things too, in many cases. But what do they care? After all, they are the beneficiaries of these things.

Coming from a very small and private family, I have always wondered I would be able to fake my way through this process. Thankfully, my mother always told me to be myself, and not to start what I can’t finish. There’s no need going to a man’s house, and fawning over your mother in law if you are not a natural fawner.

You hear Yoruba ladies who sight their in-laws, and they go “Oh mummy, you are looking so young, your skin is glowing o, mummy. This your hair, where did you make it? Ha, you like fixing? Don’t worry, when next I’m coming, I will buy Peruvian for you, bla bla bla.” They say all these, knowing 90% of everything is a LIE. She isn’t glowing or looking younger. In fact, her hair isn’t properly made.

I have seen a situation where there was a lot of fake fawning. It was so bad that I just had to walk away in irritation.

The unfortunate thing is that such acts cannot be sustained. After a while, the real person comes out, and the in-laws feel cheated because they feel the initial actions were just a front to get into the family, and they start saying things like the woman is a pretender. They might even tag her a Yoruba Demon who is just showing her true colour.

One of my closest friends is from a family of 4, i.e. she has just one sibling, her brother. She got married into a royal family. When she was courting, she used to tell me of how they used to be at the family house every weekend, cos there was always one party or the other. She would enter a room, and there could be as much as 50 in-laws seated in a circle. The bad part was that you couldn’t stand in the middle of the circle, and greet them all at once. Each in-law would require his/her own greeting. Even though my friend was a natural fawner, it was just too much. It was at that point I knew I could never get married into a royal family.

My friend has been married for 6 years now, and they don’t go to the family house or buy aso ebi every weekend anymore. They don’t do all those greeting of 70 people. In fact, they stay away as much as they can. It just wasn’t sustainable.

My opinion is that if you are a naturally polite, friendly, respectful and well-raised person, there won’t be need for fake smiles or shady compliments whenever you have to meet in-laws. Even if you are quiet and reserved, your character will shine through and speak for you. You will naturally understand that there are some places you shouldn’t go empty handed the first time. It won’t be bribery or effort to win people to your side so you can get the man to propose, it would just be second nature.

The main thing is just to be yourself, and people would love you for you.

Monday, April 4, 2016

The strings that connect Everyone

Hi people. How is everything? So much has been happening in my life lately. I'm tired, I'm overwhelmed, hardly getting sleep. And still, work must continue, Rhyme and Reason is this June. The thing is we still can't afford to drop any ball cos excuses don't get the job done. My life is changing rapidly before my eyes, and I don't feel prepared for this transition.

Because of this, I can't even cook up a proper blog post for you all, so please, enjoy the piece I have posted below. It is about what everyone, irrespective of who you are, rich, poor, sinner, saint, tall, short, white, black, handsome, ugly, will go through. Please read till the end, cos there's a climax.

Everyone is born
Everyone lives
Everyone hurts once in a while,
no matter how rock hard everyone tries to be or how everyone tries to hide it with a fake smile
Everyone feels pain
Everyone feels their problem is peculiar to them alone
Everyone feels isolated sometimes
whether rich, poor, kind, wicked, short, or tall
Because Everyone knows no one is immune to life’s rise and falls

Everyone feels loved at least, once in their life time
Everyone loves to live a lovely life, receive love, even though not Everyone might be able to reciprocate the lavish love on the one who loves them

Everyone has experienced insanity cos at a time
Everyone has taken an action
For which no one could offer a sane explanation,
but it doesn't matter because eventually, Everyone meets with the consequences for their actions

Everyone knows what it means to genuinely smile,
still Everyone knows what it means to cry from a heavy heart when love walks away by a thousand miles

Everyone has felt happy, sad, loved, disappointed, betrayed, angry, burdened
But Everyone knows that these emotions are unique to no one, so Everyone is not sympathetic since Everyone feels it is not a big deal

Everyone wants to live a good life,
have a yacht or two, and a house by the lakeside,
inexhaustible money in the bank, servants at their beck and call, anything to make this hard life worth living
Even though Everyone knows not Everyone will be willing…
or able to pay the shilling
it takes to get this life Everyone craves for so they could be chilling

Everyone has an assignment, a purpose, a destiny to fulfil
But sadly, not Everyone fulfils their dreams or understands their calling, and they get carried away by life’s deceptive thrills

In opinions and matters, Everyone thinks they are right
Which really is not bad, if at least, Everyone would learn to respects one another's rights
And then Everyone won't be facing potential danger caused by religious spite
And some who push their belief down everyone’s throats like peer-pressured high school drinkers forcing down their rum
resulting in so much intolerance which Everyone is now suffering from

Everyone says no one should be a quitter, and even quote quotes about quitters never being winners
But if Everyone thinks of it, in this, Everyone has been a hypocritical critic, because at least once, Everyone has quit something
Everyone fails at something, so Everyone shouldn’t feel bad if they fall, because of what Everyone will say,
cos the truth is Everyone can rise up again

Everyone has regrets, something they would erase if they could turn back the hands of time or repress
Everyone has secrets, something Everyone would gawk at
if they found out what scar Everyone was really hiding underneath their clothes, or the truth about the itchy scalp
covered by Everyone’s skull caps

Everyone doesn't want to grow old
But eventually Everyone grows old
Or at least Everyone prays to grow old
Because sooner or later Everyone realises that even though they didn't want to grow old, the only alternative would be to die young, and that is worse than growing old
Which, if Everyone really thinks of it, might not matter
Because at the end of the day,
Everyone dies

Monday, March 28, 2016

What do you do when witches are eating your hair?

(This post has appeared on africanaturalistas.com)

When I was in senior secondary school, I had a close friend who had a coin-sized patch at the left side of her head. That patch made her look very strange and weird, and she sometimes came late to school because she was having to attend one appointment or the other, in order to seek solution to her hair problems

One day, she confided in me and said they had seen a white garment pastor who said it was witches eating that part of her hair and anytime the hair tried to grow, witches would keep eating it.

She told me this in all seriousness, and so I took her very serious

But even at that age and exposure, I knew there was something a bit off about blaming witches for one’s hair loss. I mean, we have heard of witches drinking and sucking blood, and because of that wreaking havoc on human lives and hair, which I don’t even want to get into since this is not a religious or metaphysics blog.

But witches eating hair???

What exactly do they want to use the hair to do? How does the hair increase their power? It’s a different case if the seer said they were plucking it with their hands, so my friend could look unattractive to guys, and should affect her chances of marriage. But he said they were eating it. Oh puhleeaaassseee.

Oh Please
Source
Anyway, about a year or more later, the witches decided to stop eating my friend’s hair, and her scalp completely filled back up. Maybe they had done a lot of deliverance and anointing services, and the witches couldn’t resist the pastor’s powers anymore. And that was the end of the story.

Fast forward to this year, I suddenly remembered my friend, who is now a runway model, and I laughed. My career as a Holistic Practitioner of Trichology has exposed me to several cases of hair and scalp disorders.

So I began to replay the whole situation of my friend’s hair loss in 1997-1998. She had nothing more than Alopecia Areata. This is a form of here loss caused by an auto-immune disorder, where the body wrongly recognizes cells of part of the hair as harmful. And then, it begins to attack that area, and kill off all the cells, just like what chemotherapy is supposed to do to cancer cells.

Since it’s an auto-immune disorder, nothing can be done about it to treat it internally. In many cases, after a while, it corrects itself, and things go back to normal. The length of time it takes for it to correct itself varies from person to person. This condition, in many cases, is triggered by severe stress with a combination of other things.

Source
Of course, my friend and her family didn’t know this. They saw a very strange, inexplicable patch of her hair that wouldn’t fill up. They had no explanation for it, and the next thing was to resort to a white garment pastor who told them that witches had been eating her hair, thus sending them on a wild goose chase of anointing and deliverance. To be honest, I don’t blame them. We know that people fear what they don’t understand.

So the question now is… what do you do when witches are eating your hair? The answer is simple. Just see a trichologist!

Atilola Moronfolu (HPT) is a certfied hair care expert and a holistic practitioner of trichology certified and accredited by the American Association of Drugless Practitioners and Mahogany Hair Revolution, Los Angeles, California. You can visit her Hair Clinic website by clicking here. To book a hair clinical appointment with Atilola in Lagos Nigeria, send a mail to hairconsult@africanaturalistas.com or call 07061141501.

Monday, March 21, 2016

Please help me determine the next direction of my life

Where's everyone?

For sometime now, all the blogger oldies have been disappearing one by one by one, like water leaking from a bucket with a very tiny hole in it.

This has translated to the fact that if I still want to remain on blogger, I have to start deliberately making new blog friends, and accepting the fact that the old ones might never come back again, or would just come once in a six months to update us.

Making new blog friends isn't exactly a walk in the park. You have to DELIBERATELTY reach out to new people, drop blog links, etc. I also feel like the randomness of my blog style and op-ed write ups was what made sense to my old blog friends, but might not cut it for the new blog friends I want to make. This might also be evidenced in the fact that the kind of phase I'm entering into soon would not allow for such randomness.

This now means I might have to serious evaluation about this blog now. I mean at some point, I used to rake in 60 to 100 comments every week. Now, we are just doing 15 to 20. This goes to tell me that the Nigerian blogosphere has evolved. And what do they say about businesses that refuse to evolve with the times? They go under.

Another option would be to go under, i.e. shut down the blog. But I refuse to do that. Almost every (99%) blessing I enjoy in my life now i.e. career, business, marriage, travels, spoken word deals in and out of the country, etc. is directly or indirectly as a result of my presence on this blog. So shutting down the blog would be like killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. Also, writing is my life. If I'm not writing for people to read, I'm sure I would just die.

Source
Another option would be to keep writing, but not consistently, so I don't feel any pressure. But knowing me, this would never happen. I'd just die of self guilt because consistency is what keeps me going in every area of my life. Either I'm in or I'm out. NO MIDDLE GROUND.

So how do I get this blog back to level it used to be before, and even surpass it? It means it has to evolve. Content wise, and audience wise?

And that brings me to the most difficult part. How? How do I evolve? A lot of people are now blogging about lifestyle, the places they go, review about the food they ate, etc. but that's not me. I want to be more intentional than that. I want people to come here, and not leave the same, I want people to look forward to visiting the blog every Monday

So what do I do?

Do I change the theme to entrepreneurship (That's not the only thing I am, and writing about business weekly seems like a boring thing to me)
My life as a spoken word artist (This is so limiting)
My life as an author (Too seasonal)
Do I stick to the randomness and just focus on finding new friends? (I think it has gotten me this far, but won't take me forward)
Do I have to do a minimal blog redesign?

So in short, I'm confused. You guys are wise. Can you give me suggestions on what to do, how to make this blog evolve? I've been feeling this burden for almost a year now, so give me that opportunity to bounce my ideas off you. Please don't look at the reasons I stated in the list just above, just advise of your own accord. Thanks

I'm eagerly looking forward to seeing what you would say to me.

Monday, March 14, 2016

Am I the legitimate daughter of my father?

As a child, I used to watch as my father jumped ropes. He did it with so much fluidity that it was like magic. It was as if his feet never left the ground, yet rope kept going over his head again and again and again. He was like the proverbial cat with nine lives, whose feet never landed, just his toes.

We all had our own jump ropes but ours was tattered with broken handles and worn out ropes. We skipped clumsily, bent our knees and jumped so high like we were trying to prove to the world that we had the potential to grow taller than our infancy would allow.

My dad was a fitness buff. Even in our days of living in flat, he bought table tennis boards and kept it in the compound for everyone to use, just so he could play on it, considering the fact that he couldn't put it in his apartment.

Even though I admired him, I never wanted to be like him because he called me a lazy girl. Every Saturday morning, he made me and my siblings lie down and do sit ups and crunches, something I detested and still do. He pinned my ankles and knees down and shouted “sit up, you can do it. Don't let your legs move.” And I replied loudly “I can't, I can't. I can't sit up if my knees don't move. When he saw that I really couldn't sit up, he will say “Ati, you are a lazy girl” and move on to my other siblings who were blessed with better fluidity than me.

You see, my father's definition of lazy girl was a lady who wasn't agile, active and nimble, who couldn't hold her head amongst men, especially in the career world. My mum's definition of a lazy girl was someone who couldn't hold her own in the kitchen and take care of the home. Between both of them, I obviously had no choice but to turn out to be superwoman if I didn’t want to fit into their differing standards of a “lazy girl.”

Fast forward to my teenage years, my dad tried to teach me to swim. By this time, I had changed my mind. I really wanted to be like my dad. I pleaded with him to teach me how to swim. “I'm traveling out this Sunday.” He would say. “I'm going to the gym by 7pm. If you can meet me at the office, we would go together and I will teach you.”

And so I would move mountains to make sure I was at his office by 7pm on a weekday, and off to La’ Campagne Tropicana we went. He would hold my stomach try to make me float and teach me. It was so difficult. After about 5 times of this kind of trips, I gave up. I had become a lazy girl once again. So every Sunday we went to La’ Campagne Tropicana. He did all his gyming and all while I just played around and watched him. But I guess watching him was the only training I needed at that time.

Thankfully, my father had been blessed with another daughter when I was a teenager. I guess he didn't want to make the same mistake of her turning into the same lazy girl I had become. So he started her fitness training while she was still a toddler. To the gym they went every Saturday. To be honest I couldn't be bothered with his new companion. He had found a new play child, and the pressure was now off me.

He taught her to swim, a feat he couldn't achieve with me. They danced together, raced around the house together, a bigger house this time. Together, their reality was different from mine, growing up in a flat, and my dad pinning my legs down and screaming “sit up sit up.” They were best friends.
On a Saturday, they went to the gym together, did their swimming lessons. That was his last day on earth. No he didn't die while swimming. I wish he did though, it would have been far better than the way he was gunned down. She was 6 then.  I doubt she remembers him much .

I used to be a dancer, and we would rehearse all night like it was nothing. I had the energy of twenty people compressed into my small body. But someday in my mid-twenties, I danced rigorously to 5 songs and got tired. At this point, I knew I had to take all my dad’s earlier warnings and get my fitness game on. I couldn’t be one of those women who in their forties looked like they were really in their forties, and would reminisce on how they used to be so agile and youthful before marriage and kids took their toll on them.

And so I picked up my skipping rope, dumbbells, shoes, fitness gears and all. Now every morning, I jump ropes with nimble feet and fluidity. I do more than my dad ever did. I squat, I lunge, I push up, I crunch, I kickbox, I do everything I’m challenged with. I am no more a lazy girl. I am now the daughter of my Dad.

A week after my 6th birthday, and
my Dad was 33, celebrating
his master's graduation. Although he
lied to me that the party was for both
of us when I kept pestering him.
Gosh he told me so many 'lies'. Lol

P.S: I really need you guys to help me with a good title for this post. Something that would instantly grab attention and make you want to read the post. Thanks

Monday, March 7, 2016

InterTribal Marriage can get you into trouble

First of all, I want to say a big thank you to everyone who volunteered to read my novel. You guys are far too kind. Even though I gave two weeks window for feedback, I already have two in already. At a point, I had to stop sending out the novels because I had already sent to 12 people, without counting. I might still send out to more people, if I don't get the feedback I require from others. Thank you. You pipu are just three mush, lol.


I was hanging out with my friends yesterday evening when something happened to inspire this blog post.

My friends (a guy and a lady) are engaged to be married this year.

Guy has been my friend for 14 years, since 2002. At a point, we were very close because we were in the same class and fellowship in university.

Girl has been my friend for about a year. We have ended up becoming extremely close friends. We work in the same department in church, with the teens.

Both are on fire for God. Girl is Yoruba, guy is Igbo, and they really love each other.

Again, they are getting married in a few months. Since it was Mother's Day, guy decides to call girl's mother to wish her happy Mother's Day.

So guy calls girl's mother and they start gisting and laughing. Girl's mother complains about something and next thing guy says "eeya, pele" obviously trying to commiserate in Yoruba.

Girl and I turned to look at each other and then look at guy. We shake our heads and say "see this one, he doesn't know what blunder he just committed."  Guy is oblivious and keeps on shining teeth with girl's mother.

Immediately he dropped, we didn't hesitate to school him about Yoruba and the culture of respect. In Yoruba culture, to talk to elders, you have to put 'e' in front. You can't just say "pele"

Thank God girl is from a sane family. In many Yoruba families, that single blunder is strong enough to get a marriage cancelled, that is if they ever allowed intertribal marriage in the first place.

We told guy that it would have even been worse if girl was the one who was Igbo and guy was Yoruba. Imagine girl going to her Yoruba in laws and telling her mother in law "pele". Heaven would fall after they've called family meeting on her head.

So people how do you do it? How do you respect people of another culture when you don't even know what parameter of the language is considered polite, and what is rude? Or should we just stick to our own tribe and not bother intermarrying? If you choose to intermarry, how does one avoid getting blamed for a blunder one doesn't even know exists?

What is your take?

Monday, February 29, 2016

If you can stomach this love affair, you can help me

Hi dearies. How are you all doing? Hope you are keeping your heads above water, and steering of random and idle words.

That time has come again, when I would ask for your help, lol. I never cease to ask for help, right? Well, I am humble like that.

It's been a while since I talked about books, writing, etc, on this page. In fact, I have not talked about book publishing since 2013. It was very intentional. Even though I did a lot of marketing of my books in 2012 and 2013, it was very tiring, and I decided I wanted to take a break from the whole self-publishing thing, and go the way of traditional publishing if I had the opportunity. As we all know, traditional publishing is almost non-existent in Nigeria. But then, when has something or the lack of something ever stopped me.

All I am trying to say now is I think I want to self-publish another book. In fact, the book is ready. It has been ready since the year 2013. No, it is not a collection of poems, short stories or comic write ups. It is a proper novel.

And this is where you guys come in. I need 10 people to read this book of mine, and assess it, giving their honest opinions, no holds barred.

I don't think it is a boring book, I think it is a page-turner, but there's a comma in this book...

It might rub some people the wrong way.

It features an affair between a young man and a teenage girl.

You see why it might be too sensitive for some people. Read the first paragraph of the book below.

Some people say loving a child the way one should love an adult is either a sign of mental illness or just plain depravity, but I beg to differ. There was definitely nothing sick or depraved about the love I had for (...). One thing about my love for her is that it is real, which is more than I can say about the ones many adults have for one another.

Anyway, I need 10 people to volunteer to read my novel. and then I would decide what to do next about this book of mine. I need book lovers to help me finish this beta reading in 2 weeks. Don't be scared, it won't be boring, lol.

All you need to do is put your email address in the comment session if you want to read this novel, or send your email address to hattylolla@yahoo.com, so I can mail the soft copy to you.

Please help me o. I need to earn in dollars this year, abeg. I gotta publish this book. Help me read this book, so my market can sell.

Monday, February 22, 2016

The Dummy's guide to making money during the Economic financial crisis

(Making the Inversely proportional equation work in your favour)


Do you know that every single second naira falls against the dollar, the monetary value of everyone who earns in naira drops. This means that if you were rated 40% poor last year, you have automatically become 80% poor now.

I am not here to trend-blog or complain about the economy. I just want to open your eye to some facts, and if possible, encourage you with some thoughts.

Before I start, I need to mention the fact that I am not an economist or financial expert. I am just a young business woman who understands mathematics very well. So we won’t be plotting supply and demand graphs, discussing 10 steps to wealth acquisition in the time of recession or spewing economic jargons that frankly no one likes to read. We would not be talking about the government, how to attract investors, diversify the economy, or all the things you have been reading and hearing since December 2015.

We would be talking about just one thing, and that is YOU. In fact, the whole of this article is going to be simplified into just two basic points that even the most simple-minded educated person can understand.

Firstly, to put it straight, this is the worst period to earn in naira, and spend in dollars. The more you do that, the poorer you become. So for now, if you want to buy foreign products, use the money you have earned in dollars. If you haven't earned dollars, please buy Nigerian products. It's that simple.

Now, that’s the first level, which is the most basic way to survive in these times. Earn in naira, spend in naira. The bite of the fall in naira will be reduced on you. But there’s a higher level.

If you are very observant, in this period in Nigeria, there are three categories of people. Firstly, the ones who are all over social media, schools, work, churches, mosques, etc. complaining about how terrible the economy is. I call them the victims.

Secondly, we have the decision makers, who are either trying to salvage the economy or sabotage the economy, depending on the divide you fall into. They are mainly people in the government, who get blamed for everything, ranging from why the naira has descended to a level lower than Jesse Pinkman did in Breaking Bad season 2, to why the cockroach we sprayed in our rooms last night with insecticide refused to die, to why we are having the 7th daughter in a row after trying to have a male child in vain. I call them the villains

And lastly, there are the wise people. They are the ones who at this moment are very quiet. They are not complaining. In fact, they are hiding undeground. They are taking advantage of this situation, and making serious money. That is what they do. They take advantage of every situation you drop them into, and turn it around for their goods. I am in this third category, and you can also join it.

Remember I said when you earn in naira, and spend in dollars, you become poorer. This is an inversely proportional equation. Therefore, the reverse is the case. When you earn in dollars and spend in naira, you become richer.

So you would think that in situations like this, many people would wake up to this reality, and take advantage of the situation, instead of complaining about how Buhari or Jonathan has ruined the economy.

The world is now a global village, so don’t think you cannot earn in dollars. Not only can you export products, you can export services and intellectual properties. When you write a book and sell on amazon, do you earn in naira because you are a Nigerian? No, you earn in dollars and pounds.
Google adsense pays bloggers in dollars. As an editor catering to writers all over the world, you would get paid in a foreign currency. There so many services you can sell on fiverr.com. The common factor here is that the market be international.

There are so many services you can sell all over the world without leaving the comfort of your room. You don’t even have to take your bath if you don’t want to. The days of people rushing to work every morning as the only option to earn income are fast plunging into oblivion. If you are still stuck in that era or mindset, get ready because the moving train is about to leave you behind.

This is the time when any idea you are developing should cross the boundaries of Nigeria. And if you are exporting physical products that are in wide demand, lucky you, it is your time to get rich while others are crying.

As a one-liner bonus, I’ve said this and would keep saying it. Watch your tongue. Don’t spew careless words this season. If you don’t have anything good to say about the economy or your situation, don’t say anything!

In essence, what I am saying is that it is not all gloom and doom that everyone seems to think it is. Don’t believe the inverse hype, people are getting rich. You can choose to join them or sing the bandwagon canary song. It is your choice. The question is “are you willing to put in the work it takes?”

Monday, February 15, 2016

I think there's something wrong with me

Please, don't be fooled by the title of this post. It is not as serious as it sounds.

But seriously, I think there's something about me. This is a secret I have never shared with anyone before. So it means the matter has reached the level of code red.

So I want to take about 5 minutes to lay my bed at night, but I end up spending 26 minutes because I am using 21 minutes to dance in between.

Yes, I dance in my room, alone, lots of times. So I am wondering... Is this normal?

On Saturday, while scheduling some blog posts, I had to restrain myself, to finish writing the blog post, before jumping up and dancing. It was like my body was just pinching me to get up and dance.

Please, is it normal? Lol.

And it is not just normal move body dance o. It is serious stepping, jumping, twisting, mad moves, Lol. And I always always always dance in front of the mirror. And no, it's not work out (I already work out vigorously every morning). I'm also not trying to lose weight (I have no weight to lose)

I used to be a professional dancer, but never a partying person like that. So I was basically a stage dancer. But never make the mistake of inviting me to a party when 70% of the attendants are my friends, then we gonnn burn the dance floor. Anything less than 70%, I won't even attend.

Now, I don't really dance again. I'm just all by myself. But still, I dance all the time, during worship session, just walking to the bathroom, etc. And I do it alone, where I am seen by no one.

Anyway, is it normal? To just be dancing anyhow, just be getting up and be dancing, in the middle of serious work.

One more thing, my dance craze starts anytime from 7.00pm.

Another thing, please someone should help me interpret this one-liner poem of mine below. It's so simple, but no one has given me the answer.





Monday, February 8, 2016

When God cursed me

There's a church opposite my house that conduct services every day. Yes, you read right, every single day. The worst part is that the service holds in the evenings at the same time I'm doing bible study. The church is very small, really small but their loudspeaker is indirectly proportional to the size of the church. And guess the direction of the sound… straight through my window.

As outrageous as the above is, that is not the point of today's post.

Seeing the sound architecture of this church described above, it is therefore expected that I hear every single word uttered in their service, every praise and worship song, every off beat music, every prayer point and the whole sermon. Seeing as this is my current reality, I've learnt to block out the whole thing and just treat it like the noise pollution it really is. But sometimes I can't help but hear some things being said

And so it was that last Wednesday evening, doing my bible study as usual, this prayer point straight from this church loudspeaker, bypassed the word I was studying and hit my brain straight.
"Everybody say father, if I've done anything to deserve your curse, please forgive me in the name of Jesus." 
I immediately looked up, arched my back straight and stretched my ear lobes. I listened intently as the person giving the prayer point repeated it like 3 more times after which the whole congregation started praying.

I instantly became very worried. I kept screaming in my spirit “God doesn't curse people.” In my mind, I was crying for the people.

What kind of church is this? What kind of word is this? Don't people read their bibles? Doesn't the pastor/prayer warrior read his bible? Who will tell these people? Who will show this people the truth?

We are Christians. We are seated in heavenly places in Christ Jesus. We have the same authority that Christ has. All principalities and powers are under our feet where it has been since the work was finished 2000 years ago. God can't curse you because you sinned. That was the whole essence of the cross. If you have sinned, you can come to the cross, obtain the forgiveness which has already been a done deal since ages past, and go and sin no more.

God cannot curse you! In fact, the devil cannot curse you. Yes you read that right.

Can we live under curses as Christians? Yes we can.

We can live under curses due to ignorance of what has been done for us. But once you know your right and the authority that was given to you when Christ resurrected, you place yourself in the position you truly are and begin to command things the way you want them with the mind-set that you already have the victory. You are just going to enforce your right.

Let me stop here on the issue of the believer’s authority because it is deeper than this.

The main things you should know are that…

God cannot curse you. He doesn't curse his children. Don't let someone put something on you that God didn't put there.

Read your bibles abeg. Or how else would you know that someone is spewing nonsense on the altar if you are not educated in the word?

Watch the church you go to. Honestly some pastors are not educated. I have a friend who was made pastor of a parish after spending few months as a worker in that church. He's a fellow blogger so he knows what I'm talking about.

I really don't want to do this but I'm sorry I have to so that the word will get to the ears of the right people. The church I'm talking about is one of the franchised redeemed churches. Maybe someone will tell Pastor Adeboye that regular inspections need to be conducted on their franchise so their members would not leave worse than they came in the first place

Source

Monday, February 1, 2016

If only they stayed this way forever

One of my students is mixed race

Nigerian mother, Indian Father

Her personality is like the sunshine

She lights up every environment she steps in

Always smiling

Extremely extremely extremely sanguine

She never stays down, even when you try to curb her

On Saturday, she was 45 minutes late for the class

Because her parents did not leave home on time

She was the last to come in to class

I did not interrupt the class for her, as I continued

When done with the other student, I turned to face her

She was tense and red

Her unhappiness was like a glass you could see through

My heart broke at her sadness that I took time to explain what she had missed

I continued teaching, and later stepped out of the class for bit

When I got back, she had become the sunshine again

She had done an imagery on my earrings, and nailed it

After the class, I asked

When you got to class, I noticed your face was red

Her brother responded

She was crying on our way

Why were you crying? Because you were late?

Yes. My brother made me late.

"You were crying because you were late?" I couldn't believe my ears.

Well, thank God you didn't really miss anything since you were able to catch up fast

"Yes, and I did an imagery on your earrings, and you didn't even know the object was on you."

At that point, I wished that 10 years from now, she would still remain the same.

I wish I could take her innocence and sunshine, and bottle it up

And then someday show her

This is the way you used to be

Don't let anyone tamper with it

Monday, January 25, 2016

Dangerous Sex

So one night, I unlocked my door, and walked into my room. NEPA was on their usual duty, so I shined the torch of my phone.

What did I see?

Two creations of God… having sex… in my room.

The worst part? They didn’t even flinch when I entered. My presence did not matter to them. They just carried on like no one had entered, and it was their territory.

I was so angry.

How dare they do this to me? How dare they have sex in my own room? Didn’t they know how I reacted to their colleagues trying to do the same thing by my window?

My room is a spinster’s room, and no sex… ABSOLUTELY NO SEX should go on there.

First thing I did was calm down, turned on my camera, took several pictures of them at far and close range, so I could use as evidence in case anyone ever accused me of wickedness in future.

And then in my pious rage, I took my insecticide, and sprayed them. I sprayed and sprayed in anger.

Evidence in the court of law
BLOODY COCKRAOCHES.

Then and only then did they flinch, and then they fell down from my wall.

Do you know the worst part? As they were dying, they did not disengage. They were still joined together, as they continued to have sex even in their final moments on earth.

These roaches were gangster. They would rather die together than allow anyone separate them. Well, if only humans would learn from them.

Anyway, when they get to their next life, they would warn their mates, and tell them to keep away from @ilola’s room because any sex that goes on there is a DANGEROUS SEX, and it would only lead to death

Monday, January 18, 2016

Monitoring Spirits on BBM


Happy new year my people. Thank God for seeing us through 2015. It was a great year for me, and I enjoyed the peace that surpassed all understanding. I never shook, through any storm. I never even felt any storm, lol. 2016 will be a greater year for us all in Jesus name.

If you are my friend on BBM, you would know by now that I am of strange ways when it comes to BBM updates. I might not upload a picture or status for a whole year, then update for 2 weeks, and disappear for a whole year again.

In my opinion, BBM is more personal than facebook, Instagram, blogger, and the likes. Anyone on your BBM is supposed to be closer to you than the general gbogbo ero. I have noticed that some people add you up on BBM not specifically because they want to get closer to you, but they want to have their noses all up in your business.

My BBM friends have no advantage over my blogsville friends. In fact, I say absolutely nothing on BBM, and if anyone wants to ‘monitor’ me, the best way to do it is to read my blog, of which the update would come weeks or months later, anyway.

When I first got a blackberry, I used to update status and pictures regularly, but sometime in February 2012, I stopped. I just wished the whole world would go away and leave me alone. But then, I published my first book, Antonyms of a Mirage. People started putting the picture of my book cover on their DP, in order to celebrate me. So I was shamed into coming out of hiding, so I started updating pictures again, mostly with my book cover.

By 2013 ending, I stopped again, mostly because I wanted the world to just leave me alone… again. I noticed that anytime I change my DP, people would start chatting with me. And I didn’t want to chat.
So I started updating DPs at about 1am or 2am when I wanted to go and sleep, when I know people would be too asleep to chat me up.

But then, I would wake up the next morning, and see some chats waiting for me. *sigh*

It was as if they were monitoring me. I couldn’t even upload a DP in peace. I started getting scared of uploading DPs, lol.

People would be greeting you, asking directionless questions, trying to strike up chats that go nowhere, just because you changed your DP. So I left my phone totally blank. It was time to start chatting with people who remembered me regardless of whether I change my DP and status or not.

At this time, I had started losing taste for my pictures. For over two years, I had stopped displaying my pictures, not even on my birthday. People hardly knew my birthday (which was intentional, as I took it off all social media pages), and for the people who knew, they won’t put up my picture on their DP, since mine is blank, and they get the message that I don’t want to be acknowledged. For the ones who actually go out of their way to put it up (like old time friends), I reach out to them, and tell them to take my picture down. And till now, that’s how it has been.

I don’t celebrate my birthday, anyone’s birthday, new year, new month, Christmas, Easter, Salah, trips, or anything on my DP.

So it got to a point I asked myself “why should I be afraid of uploading anything on the DP of the phone I bought with my money?”

Anyway, I am no more afraid. I have learnt that when people chat you up, you don’t have to reply immediately, you can wait till you have time. And if you don’t want to chat, you can end the conversation by giving answers that leave no room for dialogue, in a very polite manner. Eventually, people get the message, and just leave you alone.

For the past one month now, I have uploaded about 5 DPs of the quotes I make for Instagram, and the few responses have been positive, yet not intrusive. I really want people to learn from the quotes, which is why I braved up the courage to start uploading again. I think people just get the message after a while, and leave you alone.

I have been a good girl for the past one month. If BBM monitoring spirits start manifesting again, I might be forced to go back into hiding.

Is there anyone who feels my plight, or am I the only strange one here?

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