Monday, July 25, 2016

My Gambia Travel Experience (2): Traveller turned Beggar

Continued from last week

After checking in, sitting at the boarding gate, and being delayed for one hour, in the process of talking to my friend on the phone, I realised that I had forgotten my wallet at home. That was the beginning of trouble for me, as all my naira and dollars were in my wallet. A ray of hope flickered when I confirmed to check that case where I keep my electronic cards was in my bag. That was before Olamide (a friend I had made at the boarding gate, who would later become the angel God sent to rescue me) told me that Nigerian cards don’t work in Gambia.

At this point, I was crushed. Basically, I couldn’t withdraw, but could only use PoS, but PoS machines are not common in Gambia. We decided that I should ask an airport official to take me through back access so I could withdraw and change to dollars. This was a less preferred option for me, as it meant I had to withdraw about N70,000, which was all the money I had in the account associated with the card I had with me.

I talked to one of the airline officials, and asked him to help me call for my checked in bag, that if the wallet wasn’t in the bag, then we can go to the ATM to withdraw money. He called for the bag, but delayed me for about one hour, after which we had to board. When we got to the entrance of the plane, I checked my box in faith, and my wallet wasn’t there. He then told me I would have to go to Gambia like that, because it was too late for him to take me to the ATM. I was shocked at him because he was the one who delayed me for one hour.

Anyway, by this time, I didn’t know what to do. I was going to another country, and I had no money. Even the hotel bill being paid was a gamble on whether my hotel would have PoS machine. I was just loitering at the entrance of the plane, confused. I asked one flight attendant if she could give me dollars, and I would transfer the cash equivalent to her, but she said she didn’t have.

At this point, I had caught the attention of one of the baggage handling guys, who was just looking at me in pity, and trying to reason out how I could be helped. He eventually got his colleague who was also loading the plane to loan me N5000.00. I asked the guy why he’s trusting that I would return the money since he’s not aware of my integrity. He said if I like, I shouldn’t keep my word to return it, that it’s all good. After all, it’s just N5000. I was really touched, because I know those guys are paid peanuts.

And that’s how I flew out with N5000.00. On getting to Banjul, I gave the lady who I assisted, her bag. She asked what was wrong, and I told her I didn’t have my wallet. She said she would get her ‘father in the lord’ to take me hotel, but they took her to one corner to search her bag because she had a lot of luggage. I went to the bureau de change guy, but he said he won’t collect naira, but dollars only.

At this point, Olamide (who had lost her laptop because a passenger who stopped over at Dakar mistakenly took hers instead of his) came to my aid by changing more of her dollars to dalasi, and collecting my N5000 and giving me the dalasi equivalent. Then she refused to leave me at the airport, as both of us and some other lady took a cab together, and she covered my own cab fees cos I needed the 700 dalasi she gave me to survive for 2 days.

We left, searched for my hotel for almost 2 hours, without success. And then Olamide was thinking of just taking me to hers, when I finally saw a hotel that accepted PoS payments. Though the only person who knew how to operate the machine wouldn’t be around till 8am, and it was 5am, they allowed me to lodge. I slept off immediately,  not having any idea if the card payment would go through.

I woke up later in the day, a bit refreshed but still tired. I freshened up, and went about the business that took me to Gambia, something I did all day. I ate, moved around, made enquires, etc. I was left with a little over 300 dalasi. Transport was really cheap, but food consumed the most.

By the time I returned at night, Olamide had checked up on me twice. The next morning, I woke up to a silly text message from Arik saying they had moved my flight that night to the next day. Imagine having to pay an extra night unplanned. By this time, I had very little money left. I was almost crying. I went to the reception to settle my bill. Thankfully, the card worked, but they mistakenly charged me 3000 dalasi instead of 2000. It was a very fortunate mistake cos I got the extra 1000 in cash, and it sustained me for my extra day in Gambia and get me back to the airport. At the point I was getting my change, I had just about 40 dalasi left, cos I had eaten and bought biscuit and water to sustain me the next day (Note, I was eating just one meal per day).

The next noon day, I checked out, and did some sightseeing with Olamide. Later in the day, I went to her room to rest till almost midnight, and then off to the airport, I went, ready to leave my beggarly lifestyle in The Gambia, never to experience it again.

And that my people, is how I survived with a N5000 loan in another country. Thank God for sending an angel called Olamide my way.

Next edition, I will upload the sites, views, and few facts about The Gambia.

Monday, July 18, 2016

My Gambia Travel Experience (1): Narrow Escape from Jail

For the first time, I travelled to a West African country that is not Ghana (Ghana has become a regular that it doesn't even qualify as travel anymore). I was spending just two days so my luggage was as light as can be. The only reason I checked it in was because of one creams I carried that was more than 100ml

Immediately I found my queue, one of the logistics staff approached me. Seeing how light my luggage was, he asked why I wasn't carrying it as hand luggage and I told him why. Immediately he weighed my luggage, a lady approached me from nowhere and said she overheard me saying I was going to Banjul and noticed I didn't have any luggage. She explained how she had excess luggage and I should assist her in carrying one of them

At that point, pictures of me locked up in jail because I had luggage containing hard drugs flashed in my head. I became very cautious but I didn't want to turn her down. So I asked her what was in her bags. She said clothes and food items. I told her the only way I would help her was that I would make sure she ransacked the bag in my presence cos I don't want anyone to put me in trouble.

She agreed but started explaining how she's a student and had no ulterior motives. I said “it doesn't matter. Lemme check your bag.” She opened a bag that had dry fish, our and very local food items with strong odour. At that point, all I could think of was drug dealers masking cocaine with strong odours, and a picture of my mum visiting me in jail, asking how I could have been that stupid flashed through my mind.

To top it up, she said I shouldn't worry, she's a member of mountain and fire ministries. In my mind, I was like who cares, I'm talking about my destiny here, you are playing the religious card with me. But all I told her was that "it doesn't matter what church. This is my life we are talking about. Open your bags." Yes, I really said that to her, after which she said she understands because there all kinds of people in church now.

The food items in her bag were cause for worry so I told her that if I carry that bag, she would follow me and pay the customs officials whatever they are asking for because of what was in her bag. I didn't care how she would do it or the fact that they'd know the true status of the bag. I just wasn't going to pay bribe for someone else's dry fish and ogbono.

One of the logistics officers told her not to give me the bag with food but the one with clothes cos the customs officials would know she's the owner and turn it back.  It was then she decided to give me another bag containing clothes. I told her to open it and ransack it in my presence. All her brazier was on top and I felt pity for her but brazier pity won't save me from jail so it didn't matter. I finally took the bag. And then she still had another bag which she was looking for someone to carry for her

After talking to the first logistics officer, I realized that they had marked me right from when they saw me. So once they see you with little or no bag, they mark you and start asking questions just so you can help a passenger carry excess baggage

At this point I wondered why you would come to the airport with 90kg on a 30kg allowance without wanting to pay for excess baggage considering the fact that excess baggage across West Africa is very cheap.

Thankfully, I’m home now, and the good news is that I'm not in jail… but not before I face a problem of my own.

Monday, July 11, 2016

We have a new baby!

Yaaayyy. I am extremely happy. After so much back and forth, and delays due to The Excision, African Naturalistas has finally but to bed, a new set of babies this year.

I am talking about a new product range on the African Naturalistas line.

Here is a short breakdown of the our new babies

1. Hair Growth Oil Elixir (250ml)

African Naturalistas Hair Growth Oil Elixir is made with pure and exotic butters, carrier oils, essential oils, and antioxidants to stimulate hair growth. This product has been manufactured with the health of your scalp and hair in mind, to regulate sebum production, while at the same time giving your hair shine, and creating a safe environment for your scalp to thrive.

Directions and Ingredients can be found here

2. Daily Hair Mist (500ml)

Moisture is every hair’s best friend. That is why African Naturalistas Daily Hair Mist has been manufactured specifically to meet your moisture needs. With infusion of herbs, humectants, hair shaft-penetrating oils, and exotic lavender, our Hair Mist leaves your hair strands feeling refreshed and smelling great all day long.

Directions and Ingredients can be found here

3. Anti-Dandruff Herbal Spray (500ml)

African Naturalistas anti-Dandruff Herbal Spray has been manufactured to help fight stubborn dandruff and itchy scalp. It minimises the risk of the sebaceous glands overacting. Using the finest blends of dandruff-fighting herbs, it is sure to leave your scalp feeling healthy and clean.

Directions and Ingredients can be found here

4. Liquid Black Soap (500ml)

African Naturalistas Liquid black soap is original black soap, liquefied to make washing and rinsing easier. Because it manufactured with abundant in emollients and moisture, our liquid black soap is suitable for washing both hair and skin.

Directions and Ingredients can be found here

5. Twist and Syle Gel (473ml)

African Naturalistas Twist and Style Gel is made with pure Castor oil, Olive oil, and Aloe Vera extracts to give your hair maximum shine and strength while holding your desired style in, and attracting moisture at the same time. Suitable for twists, twist-outs, and Wash and Gos.

That's all for now. We have other new products like the Vitamin E Oil and co, but we would keep releasing them to you one after the other. 

So to purchase any of these new products or our other fabulous and effective products, click here. We would be expecting your order.

Let's keep our fingers crossed for our next babies. One thing I know for sure, this 2016 is a very productive year for me, just like 2015, just like 2014, just like...

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Cutting your nose to spite your face

As you all know, I run African Naturalistas, and one of our major materials are the plastics we use to package the products. Lately, the prices have been soaring so high like a kite in the sky, that it was becoming outrageous.

There's a particular set of plastics I have been looking for in small quantity (hundreds), which had completely disappeared from the market. So I went to the company that manufactures it, which is the company I actually buy my plastics from. The only issue was that I'd have to buy the plastic in thousands even though I didn't need that much.

On getting to that company, I noticed the whole place was empty. Everything was dead. There were no vehicles packing plastics or offloaders working. There were no people at the reception, waiting to see the sales personnel, etc. I began to suspect that something was wrong.

When I got to the sales office, only one person was around. I told her the plastics I wanted to buy, and she said it was finished, that I should come back in two weeks time because there's something wrong with their power, and they couldn't power their machines. I asked about some more plastics, she said they weren't available. I drilled down further, and realised there were no plastics of any king available.

It was at this point I started to suspect something was wrong. If it was a small company having issues, I would have understood. But it was one of the biggest plastic factories in Lagos, moulding for giant cosmetic companies. There was no way they would accept power generating issues to shut them down for over a month, with no hope in sight. Moreover, Indians don't joke with labour and money.

So in my course of interaction, I found out that it was the blowing of the gas pipelines in the Niger Delta region, by the Niger Delta Avengers that shut them down. Apparently, many companies, including this one I deal with use those gas to power their factory. So something that happened far in the Niger Delta is affecting us here in Lagos.

Now, here is the irony. If you know anything about the local plastic market in Lagos, the trading aspect is run by the people of the East, Niger Delta, and that region in general. That is their source of livelihood. They buy these plastics from Asian manufacturers in Mushin and Sango, and sell to small businesses who can't deal directly with the manufacturers because they can't afford to buy in thousands.

So you decided to show the Federal Government pepper by bombing gas pipelines, thus affecting a lot of businesses, thus crippling the source of livelihood of your fellow townsmen in other parts of the country, so they begin to go hungry. And you think it is the Federal Government that is suffering?

Who are we really kidding? When we do things, in form of revolution or protest, we better think about who it is really going to affect in the end. We might as well be stabbing ourselves in the chest.

This is just a typical example of cutting your nose to spite your face


Monday, June 27, 2016

Just honestly baring my heart out

I honestly don't know what to write, but I know it is Monday Morning, and I must put up a post. I might just bare my heart out a bit in this post, and give an honest rant.

Sometimes, I get really tired, with the workload coming at me, left, right, and centre.


I serve on so many leadership positions, and it can be overwhelming wearing several hats. I thank God for having several teams of wonderful and selfless people though, if not, I'd have been dead by now.

The African Naturalistas staff I work with are just the bomb. They do all they do with a good heart, and expect nothing in return. The African Naturalistas cosmetic production staff are so effective and get the job done, but mehn, the workload is too much for us. The bad part is that I can't seem to hire more people till we move out of where we currently are. The space is just too much for the amount of work we are currently doing, and we are still expanding despite that. I can't wait to get out of that space, which should be later this year by God's grace. I will tell you the reason later.

The Rhyme and Reason team is going strong. To be honest, I don't think they need my energy anymore. They extracted it a long time ago, and multiplied it. Now, they are just on another level. We a starting a special academy soon, and that too will take it's chunk of time.

Speaking of Spoken Word, I am getting more work lately, and I am happy about it, but it is putting me in more tight corners. Everyone seems to be wanting special themes, which require that I write and rehearse new pieces in just a few days, which would have been nice if I wasn't previously encumbered with so much work. Still, I can't reject these jobs, because they are jobs many of my Spoken word colleagues would kill for, and to be honest, I don't charge small money. I'm not saying I charge millions of naira o, but compared to my colleagues, I know my fees are far more. So what I am saying is that I have to go for these events despite the fact that I am busy, cos they are the kinds of event I want, and they pay the bills!

I have paid my dues, by making sure I hone my skills, and strive for excellence, so now that I have been elevated, I have no need to complain. I should up my skills, busy or not busy.

I was not happy yesterday morning. I had taken time out to do a spoken word video shoot for a program, and it basically took two whole days of my week, only for it to be struck out of the program because of some reason that didn't make sense. This was a video whose script I wrote in three hours, under intense pressure, after writing it two previous times, and they kept changing the brief. I took two whole days to do this shoot, and African Naturalistas suffered for it. Yet, it was cancelled.

The bad part, I was not informed. I found out only when I went backstage to find out when it would have been aired. If not, I would have been sitting in the audience like an idiot.

The worst part, they got a guy to read my script out, who did a terrible job, reading it like a newscaster. This is exactly why I hate releasing my script. You can't just interpret the voice intonations and mid rhymes. And they even removed some sentences, and inserted theirs.

Till now, no one has called me to apologise. And all these, I did for FREE. But it's all good sha, God dey.

One thing was that I made sure I left the event with a heart free of offence, cos I need a clean and clear heart for Thursday, to perform something I have no idea of. I have not even started writing, and it is a very big event, and they are paying me, so lack of excellence is not an option... even if they were not paying me.

I honestly don't know how I would go through the week. So many products to make, so many orders to fulfill, and personal goals to achieve... plus I have a photoshoot this week, and my hair is currently a mess. I know that I would not go to the salon this week, cos I want to let my hair out for the shoot, something I hardly do in reality.

I have never done this kind of post, where I would just come and rant real time, on the blog. But you know what? I feel better doing this. Not everytime superhuman superwoman... sometimes, we just have to be real with ourselves and with the world.

Monday, June 20, 2016

Optimist vs Pessimist. Who is right?

An extreme Nigerian optimist and extreme Nigerian pessimist happened to be very good friends. How they could stand each other without strangling each other was really a mystery to everyone. The optimist believed that nothing was really wrong with Nigeria, and every bad thing currently happening in Nigeria is actually a good thing in disguise. His personal national anthem was TY Bello’s song, The Future, which he listened to every morning and night.

The pessimist on the other hand, saw nothing good in Nigeria. In fact he spent all his waking moments talking about the impending doom of the country, such that everyone wondered why he had not found a way to bail out, even if it was just to the neighbouring country of Benin Republic.

The irony of it was that both of them were on the same social standing, jobless youths, struggling to make ends meet. This is an example of how their conversation usually goes, when they happen to be together.

Pessy: I am telling you Opty, there is nothing good about this country. Every single sector is in a rot. I am jobless right now, and doubt I will be getting any job anytime soon. The unemployment rate in Nigeria is something else. Imagine I went to look for job. After going through 10 stages, can you imagine? 10 stages! I was told that I couldn’t get the job because I was over-qualified. Didn’t they know I was over-qualified right from the very first day? Why waste so much of my time?

Opty: Take it easy, Pessy. Remember that when one door closes, another one will open.

Pessy: No, I disagree. Whenever one door closes, another slams in your face.

Opty: Just look at you. You need to always look at the bright side of life. You still have a chance to do something for Nigeria. Even if you didn’t get a job, you can think about a good idea, and become an entrepreneur. Don’t you know that today is first day of the rest of your life?

Pessy: The rest of my life, you say? With Boko Haram in sight, today should also be seen as the last day of my life so far. Don’t you also see those terrorists in Jos, roasting people, with all the smoke rising in the air?

Opty: I think Jos is the place to be. Haven’t you thought about it that wherever there is smoke, there must be barbeque and asun ?

And the optimist-pessimist banter continued…

Opty: Think about it well Pessy. They are doing it so they will build our fighting spirit. They are actually doing it intentionally to help us. They planned all these problems happening to us. They want us to be so frustrated that we won’t be able to take it anymore, and then we fight for change. So you see, the government is actually working for the interest of the Nigerian populace, contrary to popular opinion.

Pessy: But by the time we get so frustrated, as you claim, we would have started self-immolation.

Opty: I can see that you refuse to see the light.

Pessy: I see the light. It is a very bright light, the light of the Nigerian Armageddon.

Opty: Okay, let me tell you a true life story, something that happened in Delta State, just to let you know that you can achieve something in this blessed nation of ours, should you ever put your mind to. An Urhobo orphan was living with his uncle’s family. His uncle’s wife maltreated him, and made him work like a slave. He ran away from the house at the age of sixteen to Sapele, where he became a street trader, sleeping under make-shift sheds. Piece by piece, step by step, he persevered and made something out of his life, and is now one of the biggest and richest business men in Sapele. All these happened in this same Nigeria you complain about. Now what is the morale of that story?

Pessy: Well… the morale is that Urhobo relatives suck.

Opty: Gosh Pessy, you so incorrigible. I am tired of your banter. I need to go now. Please, can I borrow some money from you?

Pessy: I think I have a little extra change here. Take, though I doubt that you will pay back.

Opty: Well, that is why I am borrowing it from you. I knew you wouldn’t expect it back. You should always borrow money from pessimists. They don’t expect to get anything back.

Monday, June 13, 2016

The Success called The Excision

Right now, words fail me to describe how I feel. It has been six months of pain, sacrifice, extreme sacrifice, sweat, doubts and fear, hard work, running from sponsors to sponsors, Friday night prayers, and so much more than I can begin to mention. In the end, God came through for us.

The Excision was a success!!!

It was all God.

At a point, we went down, things were not going as fast as we wanted, but we forged through in the midst of darkness, while putting on brave faces, and God came through in the end. I had the best team in the world. Mehn, those guys were great. The quality of the artists was great.

Will you believe even when you do not see? Will you have faith? Be encouraged. If it is from God, He will see you through it.

We did a live stream of the event, and you can watch the event by clicking here. The whole event was about three hours 30 minutes, so it is safe to scroll forward.

See some pictures below

Ezekiel singing Nigerian worship

Or.Raw.Day doing 'That Girl'

Janette...Ikz live

Preston Perry and Jackie Hill Perry in 'The Fall'

Ezekie and Janette..Ikz in 'Ready or Not'

Me and Plumbline performing 'St Jones Gospel'

Plumbline performing Bloody Kingdom

Gaise Baba thrilling the crowd. I love this guy

Jackie Hill Perry doing 'My life as a Stud'

Me and Plumbline

The crowd: Can you see me on stage? Lol

Cross section

Preston Perry doing 'Jesus is God'

Cross Section

Ezekiel performing 'Letter from Satan'

IBK Spaceship Boi performing 'Sticks and Stones'
The hall... before it started getting filled up
DJ Mordu. DJ with a good heart

At the press conference a day before the event

A reporter asking questions
Answering questions from the reporters
For more pictures and information on how the event went down, you can follow us on Instagram here, Facebook here, and twitter here.

Monday, June 6, 2016

Rhyme and Reason is finally here!

Have you heard? That come June 11, 2016, We would be having our second Rhyme and Reason concert in Nigeria, tagged The Excision.

Now, this is not a hype post or campaign post. This is my own event, as in the one graced me to do with hands and intellect. In short, na my event. So you must to come, lol.

As you know, I am only associated with quality, so we are bringing world-reowned Spoken Word artists, Janette...Ikz, Ezekiel, Preston Perry, Jackie Hill Perry, and quality domestic acts (me included). You do not want to miss it. 

Please see the trailer below.

You like it right? The good thing is that attendance is free, but you have to register to attend by going to Venue is The Dome, Freedom Way, off Admiralty way, Lekki, Lagos. Time is 4.00pm

For more details about the event, you can check our website here, hit us up on facebook, follow on Instagram, or follow on twitter

See you all there. And when you see me, please shout my name, and say hi to me. Thanks.

Monday, May 30, 2016

My True Life Runaway Story (3)

Continued from last edition...

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...

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.


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.

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…


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.

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?

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

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
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.

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 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.

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
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