Lost Dreams 2

Lost Dreams 2

“I will wait till I’m a bit older, before I start to pursue my dream. I still have time, let me wait small, I don’t think this is the right time” Then you end up waiting for a year, two, five, ten! And is not yet the right time. Is not yet the IT moment when you feel you have everything you need to achieve your dream. And then you grow grey hairs without achieving even the smallest of your ambitions. You want to know why? Yes, because procrastination has always been the thief of time, and as far as the sun keeps rising there will always be new problems that arises, that will delay whatever perfect moment you have been waiting for. Now let’s see if our dreams can actually get lost or fade away. You know what happens when you get a favorite tool you need to work with, for instance, an expensive sewing machine? The tailors in the house will relate to the excitement and giddiness that comes with it. Then, because it’s expensive, you decide not to touch it or use it, until the perfect time when you feel you’ve learnt everything you need to learn as a tailor. You stay a month, two, six, a year without using the machine. One thing is bound to happen!  That beautiful, expensive sewing machine that made you very excited will certainly start getting rusty, and maybe when you finally feel like it’s time! It will have start to malfunction. This analogy applies perfectly to our dreams. You conceive them while growing up, and they make you feel very excited. But because you didn’t act on it, even with the little resources you have at your disposal, which could be a way of refreshing and keeping that dream alive, it eventually fades away. Just as the sewing machine will rust away due to lack of service, if you don’t use the little knowledge you have about sewing to keep it working. Therefore, that big dreams of yours need to serviced, fed and put to work consistently even when the results are not very appealing. If you keep servicing it, it will definitely make sense and might even hatch into a bigger dream for you, providing you with more resources gained from experience.   ALSO READ Lost Dreams {1}

Lost Dreams {1}

Lost Dreams

This article tries to portray how our dreams get lost as we advance in age and our confidence in those big dreams begin to diminish to a point where it fades. “Oh! I want to be a doctor, an engineer, a lawyer, or a teacher…” These and many more big ones were our answers as kids whenever we were asked, “What do you want to be? We all had big dreams. Our little minds imagined us doing great things, inspired by role models, fueled by innocence and hope. It all felt possible that we were cut out for greatness. But then, we grew. Life happened. Reality shifted. Our dreams shifted with it. Now, the question “What do you want to be?” feels heavy, like a chore you don’t want to deal with. You hesitate. Doubt creeps in. The big picture, the dreams you once envisioned as a child fades–still there, but distant. Yet, you summon courage and still say, “I’ll be a doctor, an engineer, a lawyer…” But deep down, something shifts. You’re unsure. Then comes the moment when you must make a decision. A decision that would define your entire path, and breathe life, turning into a living portrait, your childhood copy of you, your future. But then, The childhood vision has become blurry, tucked away in a corner of your mind. You try to retrieve  it, your dream, to focus your lens, to sharpen that big portrait, but your mind is an opponent, and the tools aren’t within your reach. And when the question comes again “What do you want to be?”. Your silence is loud. Maybe it’s due to lack of resources. Maybe it’s self-doubt. Or maybe… It’s Nigeria, oh! Nigeria! the thief of dreams, the breaker of ambitions. Now, you are scared. Scared of the future. It grows dimmer, and bleaker with each passing day. So different from the vibrant, colorful dream you once had. That question, once your favorite, now brings a sigh and a frown. Why is it so? Could it be… you’ve lost it? Could it be… you’ve lost you? ALSO READ A LETTER OF HOPE TO TOMORROW

The Tortured Youth Diary (entry 1)

The Tortured Youth Diary (entry 1)

The following is a fictional diary entry of a ‘tortured youth’ that represents the mental state a young person dealing with trauma. Margaret’s first Diary entry… I have a recurring dream where I stood in front of that dreaded panel, at the end of my time in school and I had to defend the thesis that I single-handedly chose to research on. I had prepared for hours and hours and hours and hours. I had cried for hours longer than I had prepared. But I walked in there, fairly confident and ready to be over with the 10 minutes that I had been assigned. Then I stood to open my mouth and I choked. Not a word came out of my mouth. Not a single sound was able to be produced.  The time on my watch ticked, mirroring the sound of my heart thumping and thumping. And the 10 minutes elapsed. And was handed a fail grade. I wake up from that dream with my breath labored and covered in sweat. I fear for the lack of time I’m faced with on a daily basis. Social anxiety and literal anxiety, laced with an innate fear of failure that could classify me as a perfectionist. Someone once told me that I didn’t want to accept my own flaws because I didn’t believe that I deserved to make mistakes, and they might be right, but somehow, there’s a comfort I get in holding myself to extreme standards that are unattainable. It’s almost like being wrong is a crime punishable by death and death was worse than a sauna. If I were to compare my life to a movie, it would be “The Breakfast Club” and not just because of Judd Nelson, but because of the shared parental trauma these 5 kids shared. They bonded over blunt whiffs and emotional and physical abuse alike, silently forming an alliance against the big bad that was Richard Vernon. They agreed to remain his stereotype, while maintaining that each other were the sum of the stereotypes bestowed on them altogether.  But where am I going with this? The fact that John Hughes is a wonderful director and everyone should watch his films and that the life of a tortured adolescent stems from many things and ends in many things. Like extreme anxiety, fear and an intolerance for failure. Sometimes I disassociate from myself and look at how far I’ve come, and I get the darkness spurs like Adam Petrezelli in “Words on the Bathroom Walls”, except I’m not schizophrenic. Somehow I’m unable to see the achievements and just see the failure, because maybe my glasses are blurred, or I’m repressing the good things or I’m expecting to remain a tortured youth because I’m more comfortable in the chaos of my mind…I know, so quirky right? It’s nauseating sometimes. That isn’t to say I don’t have the good things that I do accept. I’m very keen on my politics and my feelings. I enjoy life in the wildest ways and I celebrate my authenticity with the roar of a thousand Latino people. I’m sure the film references even have you in a frenzy…don’t even get me started on Matt Damon. I always get tired of the way my mind spirals. It can be exhausting hearing the ticking clock even when I’m supposed to be asleep. Insomnia is basically only a few blocks away from arriving at my doorstep. But I don’t know, whether it’s the lack of healing or the lack of trying to heal from my trauma, something is holding me back and keeping me satisfied with the sadness of my youth. I’ll grow one day, or maybe I won’t. It’s just my first diary entry. I might not even write another. I’m very inconsistent. But things will change one day, I know it. I see it happen everyday. I see it in my extended family saying they miss the smile I used to have when I was a kid. I see it in the before and after picture I have of my closet and the descent into my grunge/emo/goth aesthetic. Maybe it’s obvious that I got sad. But people don’t seem to tell me that I’m sad. They just say I seem shy. I’m anxious, I’m young, I’m angsty, that’s what it is. That’s all . Signed,  Margaret A tortured youth. READ ALSO: MENTAL HEALTH: 10 PRACTICAL STEPS TO HELP YOU PRIORITIZE YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

A LETTER OF HOPE TO TOMORROW

pexels sasha kim 8484224

Dear tomorrow, I will cling on to hope. They say tomorrow is too far, but I will patiently wait for the day you come. I tell mother and father that when tomorrow comes, our lives would change. Father will leave the dilapidated oil factory, Mother will leave the market, and I will finally be in school. But every time I remind them that you will come, Father smacks my head and says, “Oghenetega wake up from your dreams and face reality. The tomorrow you should look forward to is when a rich man comes and marries you off.” I get disappointed, but every day that passes by, is a silent promise that tomorrow will soon be here. Mother will leave the Market Women Association. Those rowdy, untidy women that sit all day and complain of the sad wages their “lazy” husbands bring home every day. Men that have been victims of resource exploitation and poverty. I watch with silent disdain and wait for the day Mother will leave those uneducated women and be part of the exposed and educated women we watch on our box television. Father also prayed I will stop rejecting the men who came to ask for my hand in marriage. I was beautiful, and graceful in manner, a contrast to the rugged nature of the Delta women in my community. I was stubborn, a common trait of delta women. Although, I was different. I desired a change in environment and wished to marry one of the European men that waltzed with their wives, took them to fancy dinners, and wore elaborately designed dresses. The life I wanted, I watched daily on our box television, when the cable channel showed European shows. I had memorized the shows and the days they aired. Unfailingly, Monday was for politics, Tuesday was for Sports, Wednesday was for Fashion, which was also my favorite day of the week. Thursday for music and entertainment, Friday was for children shows, where children were taught the letters of the alphabets, numbers and simple sentences. I had learnt new words and knew how to construct simple sentences every Friday. The well-structured grammar that rolls off their tongue with ease, when they say big words like, “Adulterously”. I had heard that word when one of the chairladies was addressing a young girl on the Television. “You ought to behave adulterously in the 21st century.” She had said. I was fascinated and wondered when I would become part of the educated elites who spoke polished English seamlessly. All I heard in this Delta community, was the familiar pidgin English spoken with ease, and of course, the undiluted Urhobo language. Often times, I attempted to speak polished English and said some new vocabulary I had heard from the Television. One day when my father had brought up the discussion of my prospective suitors, I said, “Father, I will not be subject to this unfair treatment if you do not give me a listening ear.” I was proud of myself but was put off when my father laughed heartily in my face. “Small madam, you too don dey speak big big English like Queen Eli abi? Dey there, na Urhobo man you go still marry.” He said, as he walked away. I was not discouraged. I kept my hope high for I knew I was waiting for tomorrow. Today was Wednesday, and I was eager to see the latest fashion the European women would wear. I wondered when I would wear those elegant dresses and feel like a princess. Fashion was declining rapidly as people focused on what to put in their bellies, rather than what to wear on their bodies. I thought of both, and I knew that made me different. Maybe the day after or next week, I would live the life I had only hope for. I was not sure, but I knew that, one day tomorrow would come, even if it felt too far. Yours sincerely, Tega. Check out more articles like this! Feminism and Balance- Should We All Be Feminists?  

A few choice words that don’t lack

a few choice words

The following article contains a group of words containing a coherent thought on matters pertaining to Nigerian behaviour. I remember that night like it was last night. Truthfully, it was. Pitch black in all its glory. Not a sound could be heard for hours, and I was in a dreamless state, unwilling to rejoin the waking world and its responsibilities. Out of nowhere, it jolted me. I didn’t know the time, it could’ve been 2am, 3am or midnight. I’m a directionless being even wide awake.  The sound began as a piercing scream. I recognized its origin instantly, it stemmed from the house right next to ours. Normally, these kinds of sounds aren’t odd or new, it has dawned on us neighbours that the mother in the house’s mode of discipline is the strong use of hand or whip. And although I am uncomfortable with it generally, I pass it off as just another morning with the wailings of Uju. But this time was different. It pierced, it stirred, it troubled me. It was a male voice, and I heard nothing from the doer of this action, but the recipient was loud and terrifying. It began with shouts and yells, obviously a reaction from the faint whip sounds. Actually, I didn’t know what was causing the shouts. It was dark and silent and I couldn’t make out the source of the wails, maybe that’s what troubled me the most. That the sound seemed origin-less. Nonetheless, the shouts pierced through me. I felt my empathy rise as the sounds got louder. I had never been a fan of the African mode of discipline, especially when it happens in the middle of the night. It made a plausible argument for insanity and absurdity, but I assure you, no one is ready for that conversation. Back to the sounds of hades’ victim, the shouts accelerated and travelled. I recall a small passageway which served as a porch for the house. It occurred to me that the wailer was being chased down, and eventually cornered. His shouts turned to screams, which was when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, my brother wake up and turn his head toward the sound. Soon after he went back to sleep. He was only 14 and could sleep through a blizzard maybe. I realized that it bothered me how there was a single stirring from anyone. Noise polluting the silent night and my fellow Nigerians didn’t move an inch. The culture of abuse disguised as discipline ran deep and has been so a long time.  After 5 minutes or so, the sound died down. I tried to picture the poor soul. He was curled up at the edge of the passageway, tending to the pain and his wounds. Soft pants were all I heard afterwards, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. Not yet. I was annoyed. Annoyed that a human being was beaten up like a thief and no one inquired. Because it didn’t affect them, or he deserved it. The cycle of abuse was endless. I hated myself for not being able to do anything either. Now I’m typing this at 7am in the morning. There’s gospel music playing out of the scene of the crime. I hear the mother, most likely the culprit, singing along, her conscience probably clean and proud of herself.  I’ve heard no child sounds yet, which is unusual, but I wouldn’t blame them for being silent after the events of the night before. The culture of instilling fear into children at young ages and swearing they turn out well. Spoiler alert – they never do. This takes me back to a few days ago. My phone screen brightly lit against my face, navigating between my texts and twitter, sorry – X. the discourse of the day on +234 twitter centered around a celebrity wedding. The maid of honour, specifically. He was male, and incels and misogynists alike expressed their disdain for the concepts. No worry though, they were drowned out by the hardcore scum male population that threw a hissy fit over the sight of the man of honour in tears as his best friend got married. They swore that he was mourning the sex that they probably never had, and they contradicted themselves by calling his crying ‘feminine’.  Between tweets about WWE and AEW alike on my feed, the discourse trickled down into their problem with effeminate men and gay men alike. They accused the man of honour of being gay and swore they’d prefer their likely nonexistent children to mechanics and agberos, rather than the probability of them kissing someone of the same gender. They boasted of the violence they’d commit to ensure their boys remain ‘masculine’. One user mentioned being interested in breaking bottles on his son’s head when he got to 10 years to build his tear threshold, and got over 13 thousand likes. Another, a patriarchy princess, boasted of the methods her husband used to revert her effeminate son, praising the random squats and excessive gym memberships and kitchen bans her husband undertook. Saviors of mankind, or feminists, expressed their concern for the son and mentioned that the methods would only make their son a good liar, rather than a changed person. Warning her to enjoy his time with her son now, they were sure that eventually, they’d live out their days in a home for the elderly and never see their son again. As I spectate in the social media debacle, and the events of the night before, one thing is certain to me. There is an unhealthy obsession with conservative culture within Nigerians and Africans alike, a culture that irks me from within, as they cosplay as servants of God, while in reality they couldn’t be further from what the teachings of their Lord and savior spread. The religious psychosis, coupled with their ability to pick and choose what kind of religious teachings they want to align themselves with, would make … Read more

Almost Is Never Enough

Almost is Never Enough

The article you are about to read covers a fictional depiction of Domestic Abuse in a Nigerian household and how sometimes, almost is never enough to gain freedom.   She ran. The trees zipped past her as she did, wind in her face, freedom within her grasp. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her and more.  She pumped harder now, pushing and pushing. The sound of feet close behind her. She had to make it. It couldn’t catch her again, she didn’t come this far just to come this far. She looked ahead of her now, the trees starting to fizzle out, a stream of light ahead of her. It was there, she could just taste it now, freedom. Her throat ached to scream but was sore from shouting a ways back. She would make it. Run to the light, do it for yourself, move your feet. It was mere meters away now, her freedom. The footsteps behind were gaining but she daren’t look back. It wouldn’t follow her into the light. She just needed to make it, and she was going to.  Then a voice cried out, distracting her. A child’s. Why now? She whipped her head towards the sound, her steps faltering. Then, silence. It made no sense, where could it have come from? Why now? She remembered her mission. She readied her feet to move. The footsteps had stopped now. She turned to check for it. It consumed her. Adah’s phone buzzed on the table. She’d get to it later. She focused on the document in front of her, putting the finishing touches as her fingers hit the keyboard with intensity. She hit the full stop with a thud and sighed, satisfactorily. She was finally done with it. Edith had convinced her to work on a portfolio, and she realized the life of a housewife wasn’t very appealing now that she was one. She spent her days sitting at home, switching from channel to channel, and cooking. She didn’t even do the house cleaning or go to the market because her husband made sure to employ services to keep her indoors.  Her only avenue to leave was Sundays, where she had joined a number of church groups in order to keep busy and make some friends. That was where she met Edith. They had hit it off instantly, Edith’s blatant honesty pairing nicely to Adah’s silent compliant self.  Edith was very critical of Adah’s housewifely duties, and urged her to indulge in something worthwhile. They came to a compromise that she would create a resume and portfolio and they’d go from there.  She shut her laptop and glanced at her phone. Her eyes widened in shock, she only had so much time to get dinner ready before her husband got home. He liked his food hot and waiting as he came in from the day’s work. Adah had mastered the art of managing her time, depending on the meal being prepared, and getting it ready just in time. She dashed to the kitchen and the sound of pots and pans filled the empty house. Peeling, cutting, pounding, dicing, picking, boiling, frying. The aroma filled the whole house, inviting all that could smell it. Unfortunate that no one but Adah could be graced with its scent.  An hour and a half later, Adah turned off the gas cooker, and dished out the food into its serving bowls. The sound of the gate being opened caught her attention, David had returned. Jamiu, the gateman, saluted his boss, and David waved him off. He drove the car into the compound and parked it, grabbing his briefcase and locking the car behind him. His suit jacket was slung over his arm as he walked into the house.  The door flew open revealing Adah, a wide smile on her face, ushering her husband into their home. His face however, failed to mirror hers. The second the door closed behind them, he started, “I called your phone this afternoon Adah. why didn’t you pick up?” She searched her mind, then it hit her. The call she got while she was finishing the portfolio, “My love, I’m sorry. I was finishing up some things so I forgot to call you back.” His voice thundered through the empty house, bouncing off the walls and into Adah’s ears, “So you’re saying you saw my call and ignored it? This stupid woman. What nonsense were you doing that you couldn’t answer your phone? Entertaining your lover in my house abi?” Adah shuddered at his tone. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she daren’t show them. She readied herself for the reprimanding she was about to get.  He pulled her by the ear, his jacket and case long forgotten on the floor, and tossed her about the living room. She landed by the wall, banging her head in. her eyes spun in its socket and she just focused her mind on the finished document that had put her in this predicament.  It was a regular occurrence though. Little human errors that caused her to get sprawled out on the floor or pounded into the chair ever so often. She thought back to the first time it happened… “You want to go where? Why? Is my house not good enough for you? Oh, it’s those witches that you used to gather and see that fill your mind with useless ideologies that you want to see ehn? You’re not going anywhere!” David spat out, barely even sparing her a glance. She was shocked by his response. David was never mean to her. It was three months into their marriage now, and she had begun to see a side of him that was carefully concealed for the 2 years they had been dating. But this one was new, blatantly refusing her requests and insulting her friends.  Annoyed, she scoffed, “David why would you say that now? Those are my friends and I haven’t seen them since … Read more

Feminism and Balance- Should We All Be Feminists?

feminism

Absenteeism and Recognition- Due to the rising calls for gender equality, many Feminists have been challenged to adopt traditionally masculine roles- to prove their worth. To justify their claims. Meanwhile, 48% of men (and counting) are adjusting, softening, reshaping their ideologies to accommodate a new era where women stand beside them, not behind them. Is this how we redefined Feminism? Feminism is not just a doctrine demanding equal rights for women; it is, at its core, a plea -a cry to be seen, heard and acknowledged. It is a fight for visibility, for women to occupy spaces that were once locked behind invisible gates. It’s a movement for parity, yes- but it is also a battle to untangle the complexity of womanhood from the world’s insistence on simplicity. Feminism is not about becoming men- it’s about being allowed to exist fully. As Gloria said in the 2023 Barbie movie, women are expected to walk on the tight rope of contradictions: “You have to be thin, but not too thin. You can’t say you want to be thin; you have to say you want to be healthy- but you also have to be thin. You have to lead but not be too bossy. You have to be smart but not intimidating.” Gloria, (America Ferrera) breaks down how women are constantly forced to balance extremes- to be strong, but not threatening, nurturing, but not weak, independent, but not too distant, pretty but not vain. The world keeps moving in chaos, and yet, contradictions live in the heart of this fight. Feminism is also an unbridged war of women fighting for opportunities on par with men, and the right to be seen beyond stereotypes and perfection. It is a desperate plea for society to stop asking us to dilute our existence just to fit into the systems not built for us. At the same time, as women elevate, men are being forced to shrink themselves to meet halfway. Standards are shifting, sometimes not for better- but for balance. Men are now adjusting their convictions, their responsibilities, their identities- to accommodate the rise of equality. That is not weakness, it is the reality of a changing world. But if we are demanding elevation for women, we must also acknowledge what men are letting go of in return. If a woman dresses like a man, it is called, “Fashion Forward” but, when a man adopts feminine traits, he is often mocked or even ostracized. Why is the shift one-sided? A woman in a suit is praised, but a man in a dress is ridiculed. The irony. Even Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in We Should All Be Feminists, was also a victim of adjusting to the standards of men just to be heard, while downplaying what really matters to us. She once wore an ‘ugly manly suit’ for a lecture, because in her words, “I was worried that if I looked too feminine, I would not be taken seriously.” Is this what equality really costs? We want women to rise to the same heights as men, but are men allowed to stoop into traditionally feminine spaces without losing their societal worth? They say a man’s duty is to protect, provide and offer safety. But how does he uphold those duties when women, in pursuit of equality are told to dull the very attributes that define him? Are we rewriting masculinity in our quest for balance? When women lead, they are called aggressive. When men show emotion, they are called weak. Equality should free both, not trap either. The Gender Equality we are fighting for should accommodate the needs and desires of both men and women when given leadership roles, not just a one-sided quest for power, where men are offered the leadership roles on a gold platter simply because they are males. The Emotional Labor plus the invisible work carried on the back of a woman is often undervalued and overlooked by some ignorant men and husbands in the society. Women have fought for equality with men in their jobs and the home management. If women are fighting for elevation in the name of equality, then men are inevitably forced to descend- not out of weakness, but to the level of playing field. Equality in this sense, becomes a negotiation where men dilute deeply ingrained roles and responsibilities to accommodate a societal shift that redefines gender dynamics. Some men have also used this as an excuse to dodge their core responsibilities. Should women complain, when they fight tooth and nail for their additional responsibilities? Men who were raised to provide, protect and lead are now being told to step back- to share, to be soft, to not assert. In adapting, many have had to unlearn pride, suppress dominance, and embrace vulnerability- not because it is natural to them, but because society demands it. Thus, the irrational creation of the 50:50 bill sharing, the demand for women to take financial responsibility, assume leadership positions, and ideally become the man, even in situations that screams her desire to be a woman. Let’s be clear, Equality is not a reason to become lazy. It is not an excuse for emotional absenteeism, nor is it a hall pass for ditching the weight of protection, provision and presence. If women are stepping into the battlefield of boardrooms, politics and home leadership, men cannot retreat into the background and call it “balance”. That’s not an evolution- that is ESCAPE. True Feminism doesn’t strip men of their strength- it asks them to redefine it. It doesn’t ask women to “man up” it asks society to “Woman up” too. In the end, Equality isn’t a race, but a fight for recognition without reduction- for both sides. And if we truly believe in the vision of a fair world, the men must rise just as women rise- not by doing less, but by doing more. So, the question is no longer Should We All Be Feminists? It’s can we afford to be Feminists? If we … Read more

WHEN FASHION BECOMES A WEAPON FASHIONED: THE BATLLE AGAINST PURITY

When Fashion becomes a Weapon Fashioned

Fashion is meant to be an expression of beauty and creativity, but in today’s world, it has become a weapon—fashioned not only to present people in both good ways, but also to present people in bad ways causing many to be lured into immorality. We are all in a battle; the battle of staying pure in this dark and corrupt world. Whether young or old, so far you live in this world, you must find yourself on this battlefield. Who is the enemy behind it? The devil. The Bible calls him “the god of this world,” and he has carefully designed different weapons to draw people into sin. Among these weapons are greed, lust, covetousness, and most significantly for this discussion—indecent dressing. The devil has so influenced the minds of clothing industries and individuals that many outfits are now designed to reveal what ought to be covered. In this current world, we have a higher percentage of ladies who wear bum shorts on the street, expose their stomachs, cleavages, and feel comfortable in stepping out without a bra. They do this all in the name of fashion; what is trending. Young men are not also left out. Some of them sag their trousers, wear shirts that expose their chests or shorts that even expose their thighs. The reason is the same: “It’s fashion. It’s the trend.” But imagine this: fashion itself has become a weapon, fashioned by the devil to drive people into immorality and to stir up lust in the hearts of others. So, what is fashion really? Fashion is simply a popular trend, especially in the clothing industry. But then we must ask: How did revealing clothes become a popular trend? Who started it? Where did it come from? If you cannot answer these questions, why should you join a trend whose origin you do not know? Is that not living a confused life? And if you truly knew where it came from, you would not want to participate in it. For such trends do not come from God but from the devil. By embracing them, people unknowingly give the devil influence over their lives. They either fall into immorality themselves or lead others into lust and sin. This is why we must open our eyes. Indecent dressing, disguised as fashion, is nothing but a trap. It may look attractive for a while, but the end is destructive. No matter what fashion indecent dressing is, it can never qualify a person for a standard job. This is another reason why we must open our eyes. Imagine someone posting a picture of themselves on an indecent dress and goes to apply for a standard job,some years later, where they have to check out their activities on social media. Do you think such person would receive the job? To clothing industries and designers, I make this appeal: let us build a society that upholds dignity. Let us design clothes that cover what should be covered. No amount of money made from indecent fashion can compare to the value of lives being lost to immorality. Do not become the blacksmith forging weapons for the devil by promoting indecent dressing. The devil is working tirelessly to make many fall in this battle for purity. Do not yield yourself as an instrument in his hands. Stand for righteousness. Thank you. ALSO READ Family Traditions: The Importance of Christmas Clothes              

A PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT TAUGHT ME FINANCIAL DISCIPLINE

A PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT TAUGHT ME FINANCIAL DISCIPLINE 600x400

A painful experience I had of recent made me finally stick to the principle of spending money wisely that I learnt years back from Robert Kiyosaki and Sharon Lechter’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad. Let me share how it finally cured me of financial indiscipline. It was a very painful experience. So intense. I pushed and I pushed. It felt like I wasn’t going to leave that place alive. I had exhausted all my strength, but if I dared to rest, what I was pushing would crawl right back inside. No nurse, no drip, no one at home to help induce anything. It was just me — me and this pain. To aid my delivery, I tried different postures, shifting and adjusting, just for what was disturbing me inside to come out. But nothing worked. In that moment of struggle, I wished I could rewind time. If I had known, I would have rejected everything they offered me at Yemi’s wedding party, my former classmate. I just didn’t want her to know what I was really passing through. I wanted to show her that I had also “made it” in life. Imagine paying ₦250K for Asoebi. Then renting the latest Lexus for ₦150K — just to show off. And yes, I still sprayed money at the party. I know you’re thinking that I’m rich, but I’m nothing close to it. Everything I spent to appear “big” at the wedding was borrowed. After spending all that, how could I allow any plate pass me by untouched? I ate everything. Everything. I mean… I tasted Asaro (yam porridge). Then, what’s the name of that other thing sef? Ehen! Abacha (African Salad)! I mixed them together. My stomach was saying no, but my mouth kept saying yes. I didn’t leave one thing untouched. And now, here I am. Honestly, it’s high time I stop living this fake big-girl life. Borrowing money for parties, just to “belong.” I’m not big anything. I dey use shalanga (pit latrine) for my side. Na one room I dey live. Wetin dey do me sef na how I wan take pay the money back! God abeg! it’s just very painful that I  borrowed this  money from LAPO. I told them I wanted to start a small business. But I don’t even know how the money vanished — until it remained just 50k. How I wan explain this one naw? That I spent 450K at a three-hour party? Omo… I just have to work hard to… Knock knock knock! “Aunty Bimbo! Come out now. Are you giving birth ni? You’ve been inside since. Na only you wan shit? Come out o!” Ah. It was like the thing inside heard the knock. It started coming out. I could see its head… black. It was coming, it was coming! Woof! Finally, it came out. Long, multicolored; black, yellow, some green, and red pepper flakes. So this was the demon troubling my stomach. Relieved, I washed my bumbum and quickly stepped out. “Aunty Bimbo! Come back here! You’re very wicked. Very very wicked! You no give me out of the food wey you chop o, but you leave your shit for me.” “Sorry, I forgot.” This girl does not even know what is on my head. How am I going to use 50k to start a business and pay my 500k loan in just a month? “You always forget to flush, but you never forget to refill your belle. Abeg, go flush joor!” Dear Lord, I promise not to waste my money just to please people again. So help me, Lord. Amen. ALSO READ Stress Management and Virtual Assistance: Keys to Triumphant Business Management