Inadequate

Some times we feel like what we offer is not enough. Offering our love, our time, our loyalty even. It begins to feel like there’s just something extra that should come in from our end, but it’s not there.
I’ve been feeling that way of late about my mum. She will be 50 on the 16th of June, and for the first time, I feel like just loving her sincerely, being her best friend, being a good daughter- making her proud and being an example to my younger sisters- is not enough.

It pains me deeply that she isn’t even thinking of anything spectacular for a spectacular 50! All she wants is to get a new dress to wear to work. But she gave my sisters the money for that when school was about to resumeShe has constantly gone without so we’d be comfortable, and now when it matters most to me, I can’t reciprocate.

I feel like, being the first, I should make something happen, anything at all, no matter how small, on behalf of all the girls in the house, but nothing’s coming. No dinner, no spa treatment, no weekend get-away, just another ‘happy birthday!’ at 12am. That is not enough!

It does not feel good to not be able to  give my mum something different, something extra, for all the days I’ve said ‘I love you, mum’ or for all the sleepless nights we have had because I was crying over the most useless things. I want to say thank you mum and present her with something, just something different from word of mouth. 

I’m scared that I won’t make this one count, and my heart is beating faster at the realization that it’s not looking like I will make it count.

God is in control.
Have a great day.

Much love,

Your Girlfriend.

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Romance Novels

I started reading romance novels from junior secondary school. At the time, I read them because it filled my lazy hours, then I read them because there were many of them available and I was a fast reader.

When I got to senior secondary however, I started reading the novels because I wanted what the characters had: the fiery chemistry, the love story, the happily ever after.

Nora Roberts became a fairy god-mother, she could make any story possible: between a warrior and a debutante; between royalty and peasantry; between an idealist and a realist; between two people of totally different worlds. Knights in shiny armours and damsels in distress.

And so I began to dream.

That somehow, I would find a teenager like myself that would sweep me off my feet. As tomboyish as I was, I chose to believe that there was someone who would be interested in me enough to make me want to exchange my bounce for a swirl.

I moved from Nora Roberts to Harlequin to Mills and Boons to every other name possible. I began to look for books by certain people instead of the publishing company. It became a sacred duty to read a romance novel with awe and reverence.

Years after, as I write this, I’m reading a romance Novel by Nora Roberts, one of her ‘two-in-one’s. It strikes me that the stories can be so different, yet so the same: there is always a meeting point, then a conflict, then a resolution. 

I take it upon myself now to wonder if they ever make it to the end or they join the statistics of divorced couples in the world. But of course, I’ll never know.

I don’t know when I lost the reverence for romance novels, maybe it was when I raised my head and decided to write one for myself: one with more realism than dreams.

Or maybe it was when I decided that my Knight had to be excellent for me, and not just one whose character was tailored after a ‘Hunter Brown’ or a ‘Shade Clyde’ or some other name that had no connection with the roots I constantly try to relate to.

I will write my own romance story. After all, I have started writing letters to my future husband.

She Was Not Beautiful

Hi! I’ve noticed that I’ve been doing a kind of ghost mode…When I just pass that school entrance like this, everything else just goes on strike. 

It’s been a while- as usual these days- I posted. I want to do the three day quote challenge that my friend Purple Butterfly tagged me in, but I want to brain boot before posting quotes…my quotes have to CHANGE YOUR LIFE!

I’m always happy to open my WordPress, today I’m posting a poem I wrote in honour of mothers. I love my mum, she’s my best friend and I was inspired to write it, not just because of her, but because there has begun to be a norm of unappreciativeness and discontent in the world.

She was not beautiful,

You could not see fine skin.

All you saw were spots

And stretch marks

On stretched skin

That stretched to bear you.

But you could not have known.

She was not beautiful,
Her hands were rough.

You preferred soft hands

That made you want to hold them

whenever you felt them

Those hands held hot coal

To keep you warm in the cold.

But you could not have known.

She was not beautiful,
You could not see fine skin.

All you saw were spots

And stretch marks

On stretched skin

That stretched to bear you.

But you could not have known.

She was not beautiful,
Her hands were rough.

You preferred soft hands

That made you want to hold them

whenever you felt them

Those hands held hot coal

To keep you warm in the cold.

But you could not have known.

She was not beautiful,
Her eyes were twitching.

You felt better with cute eyes,

That made you want to damn it all

And lose yourself in them.

Those eyes saw pain

And decided to see it all

So you never had to see as much.

But you could not have known.

She was not beautiful,
Not really on the outside.

She had made sure that

Even if she didn’t appear refined

She had taken the filth

So you never had to look dirty.

And whenever you threw a tantrum

She only smiled. 

It was not your fault.

You could not have known.

She was not beautiful,

Her eyes were twitching.

You felt better with cute eyes,

That made you want to damn it all

And lose yourself in them.

Those eyes saw pain

And decided to see it all

So you never had to see as much.

But you could not have known.


She was not beautiful,

Not really on the outside.

She had made sure that

Even if she didn’t appear refined

She had taken the filth

So you never had to look dirty.

And whenever you threw a tantrum

She only smiled. 

It was not your fault.

You could not have known.

I Write Letters To My Future Husband

For the past couple of years, I have written letters to my husband- whom I don’t know, haven’t met (or maybe we have met, I don’t know) and have no clue about. I would tell him what is happening to me, what I feel, and how I think I would feel when it’s over.

I think of names to call him that are not usual, maybe something Hispanic *abeg+eye roll* or French- what with French being synonymous to love. If a name could be worn out, I think Nigerians would be on the A-list of ‘wear-out’ers. 

From Darling, sweetheart, honey, to mama Amaka, papa Amaka, that has been the norm, I tell my husband I would like to call him something different, and hope that he calls me something different too.

Not like: ‘hey, something different, come see this’ sic.

I want him to know me from when I’m growing up, I want him to feel the difference in my thoughts as I grow, evident in every letter I write. 

I let him know about my devotion to him, because I love him. Because he’s my friend.

I number the letters too, so that he’ll know the sequence in which I write them.

In every one I write, I’m honest, no disguises, no pretence, just me: stripped of all the mind decoration, so that I can say what is on my mind as it comes, after all, we would be together for the rest of our lives.

I write letters to my future husband, and I always end them with ‘yours, always’.

I Fell For An Ozor

​I fell for an ozor,

Ozogburuenyi: 

the one who tramples an elephant.

It was not his muscles that thrilled me,

You see, he was quite skinny,

And wasn’t really favoured

When it came to the gift of hairs.

But his mouth, 

oh, that mouth,

He used it in all the right ways;

He called me a kween,

I could swear ‘kween’ sounded better

Whenever he said it.

He called me Nneamaka,

And all I could hear was music.

He had a husky voice,

It never really did him much good to sing,

But when he kissed me,

I could swear I sounded just like him.

He said things to me that made me shiver,

‘You are a kween, Nneamaka. You shall not call me Sir,

Or the gods will be jealous, and my harvest suffer’.
I fell for an Ozor,

A Yoruba boy, who made me laugh

He didn’t know much of ibo,

But the little he learnt,

He learnt because of me.
My ozor taught me about Neruda,

And Giovani,

And Brain Pickings,

And Medium.

He said Hemingway talked about me

In one of his books,

And that wandering is an art.
I fell for an Ozor,

A Yoruba boy who called me Kween.

Love Letters

Je t’aime

Hello friend,
How are you doing? And the weather? It was quite sunny today, but the rains have been first class over here. Lectures have been tight, and make up classes have been demanding. I didn’t tell you, I’ve gotten my accommodation for the session. If you remember, I told you about how I was having issues with that but I was staying hopeful. God answers prayers and he listens to a faithful heart. Don’t you forget that.

I have been bitten by a serious writing bug; everything inspires me! And you, NY dearest friend, will be privy to the results of all the inspiration.

I would love to know you, really, I see my blog becoming a little community, as in the words of Ra- whom I have come to respect as a very strong woman. We all like to be strong, or be seen as strong, right? Correct me please.

See you soon,and please remember always that I appreciate you, for taking time to read whatever it is that I post on here, you boost my confidence :). 

Much Love,

Amie.